The Chimaera Regiment (18 page)

Bronwyn laughed before she could contain herself. Her brother glared at her. She snapped, “Doc, you’ve never wielded a blade in your life.”

“Oh, come on!” he retorted, “How hard can it be?” Emphasizing his point by gesturing with the sword, he said, “You just stick the sharp end in the other guy!”

Aneirin was amused. “I won’t dispute that, Doc,” he said, “but your task is to reach Hector and give him a message for me.” Pointing to the east, he explained, “If we are attacked, you must take your sister and Fornein, and reach the coast. You’re the only one who can. Lord Novamic and I shall distract the enemy, giving you time to succeed.” The Guardian looked meaningfully at Novamic, who nodded understandingly; his complaints were past. In the event of an attack, the enemy would pursue rulers and lords; hopefully, the Regiment would unwittingly let Fornein and the youths go free.

Caradoc nodded, liking the sound of that plan. The group moved forward again while he thought it over. “Alright,” he said at last, “I’ll do it. What’s the message?”

“You must tell Hector,” Aneirin replied, “to challenge Derek to a Duel of Lords. That is the only thing to stop the Regiment from attacking after he kills Derek.” He smiled reassuringly and proceeded another thirty paces.

Caradoc glanced at his sister, who had been unusually quiet since leaving the river the day before. Aside from shouting at a few people, she had barely said two words. It unsettled the younger Alkimite, who was unaccustomed to her silence. “What’s wrong, Bron?” he asked her.

She looked at him and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry I yelled at you before. That wasn’t fair.”

Caradoc laughed. “Come on, sis,” he teased her, “That’s not all. I know you better than that. You haven’t been like this since Mum.”

Her smile faded. She answered softly, “I’m worried about Hector.”

Doc frowned. “We all are, Bron,” he said, “That’s why we’re out here.”

She drew her lips into a tight line, shaking her head. “It’s not the same,” she returned, “I mean, none of us want him hurt, but it’s more than that. I don’t just want him to be okay. I don’t like... being away from him. I don’t—I don’t know how to explain it, except to say—” She trailed off, afraid that vocalizing her feelings to anyone but herself would make her sound silly and foolish.

Doc had no intention of letting her off easy. He wanted to hear her say it. A small smile creased his face as he pressed her, “Except to say... what?”

She took a deep breath. “I love him, Doc,” she admitted, “I don’t know when it happened, really. When we started all of this, he was just a kid, like you. I loved him like a brother, or a friend—but that was all I could see in him. But then...” She gnawed on her lip, unsure how to continue—but as she recalled their adventure, an easy smile brightened her face. “But then I watched him become something more. Whenever we stumbled, he picked us up. When we were in pain, he comforted us. And then we were captured. Fornein told me what the Keldans did to him, how they treated him—he endured all that, not because he had to or because he had a quest to finish for Lord Aneirin, but for us. He did it to free us from our chains. He fought for us. When they sent him to the Termessians and the Emmetchae, he could have escaped, but he didn’t. He came back for us.”

Caradoc resented being called a kid, but he would get back at his sister for that later. For now, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as he corrected her, “Not for us, Bron. He came back for
you
.”

She smiled and looked away, as if embarrassed. “I thought I loved Gregory. I promised to marry him. But he released me from that, and Hector... After all he’s done, he never asked for anything in return.” She laughed, looking incredulously at her brother. “He even made it sound like diving into that river was the first important thing he ever did.” Her face turned solemn again. “He loved me even if I was never going to love him back.” She glanced at him again. “I don’t think I could help myself.”

Ahead of them, Aneirin hissed and waved for them to be quiet. When they looked up, he held a finger to his lipless mouth. Using two fingers, he tapped his right aural receptor—his replacement for a normal man’s ear—and pointed to the next intersection. He had heard something, Doc realized.

The Guardian darted forward, his metallic feet making nary a sound on the cold, black road. He crept toward the edge of the building, then peeked around the corner. A troop of Leonites marched obliviously onward, about two hundred feet to the north.

“So Captain Cassus found a tunnel in the river,” one soldier was asking, “and thinks that the kid went inside?”

“That’s what Captain Geapp heard from Captain Brosne,” another replied, “A scout gave that report to Lord Derek right before Brosne started toward the stronghold.”

“Crazy idiot,” the first returned, “But if the whelp’s in the tunnels, why do we have to traipse through this place? Can’t we just wait at camp for the mighty Cassus to do his job?”

“Lord Derek’s more interested in keeping this place locked down tight,” a third interjected, “I heard there were two lovers that escaped the patrols and headed north. He wants us out here to catch any other runners, so he’ll have some bargaining chips against that big fortress.”

“Yeah,” said a fourth, “look at the bright side. At least you don’t have to stand around there, waiting for an arrow.”

“Don’t worry about that place,” said the second, “I heard that Brosne and Sharian are using the last of the boomer to open up a new door there.”

“Really?” asked the first, “Didn’t we finish that on the Thuites?”

“That’s what everyone said about the Konites last time,” said the third. “Maybe nobody knows exactly how much there is.”

The second said, in a tone that implied a shrug, “Sharian said it was the last batch.”

“Nuts,” replied the first, “Now I’m even sorrier to be out here instead of back there. We’re gonna miss the show!”

At that, Aneirin stopped listening. He returned to his companions and reported in hushed tones, “Bad news. Derek has troops patrolling the city, looking for anyone who has escaped from the stronghold. Worse, Drystan opened Hentel Cave for Derek—now he has weapons that can breach the fortress walls. We have to get back—immediately.”

Caradoc was concerned. “What about us?”

“We’ll draw them away,” Aneirin explained, “You three run for the coast. Don’t stop to fight them—don’t even look back. You have to reach Hector.”

Fornein was a wise man, but he knew nothing about this city. He asked, “Where will we find him?”

Aneirin pointed, answering, “At the city’s easternmost point, there’s a jetty. If Hector has surfaced, there will be a structure at its end.”

“And if there isn’t?” Fornein asked, voicing their fears.

Aneirin forced a hopeful smile. “Wait and pray,” he suggested. Setting his face south, he beckoned Novamic to join him. The Sidian lord took a deep breath, then nodded to Aneirin. “Alright,” the Guardian said, “Let’s go.”

Aneirin and Novamic took off at a sprint, headed south. There was a brief moment of surprise for the approaching troop—and then they charged in pursuit.

Fornein held Bronwyn and Doc back from the corner until all ten men had passed. Cautiously glancing both ways at the intersection, he gestured for them to go. The three travelers hurried east, trying to minimize the noise they made.

The urgency of their goal pressed them onward, without regard for scouting ahead or watching behind. As they tore past another intersection, by chance, they came across another of the Regiment’s patrols. The troop immediately gave chase; their training and ability kept them hard on the heels of the old hermit and two youths.

As they neared the coast, Doc shouted to Fornein through ragged breaths, “What’s a jetty look like?”

Fortune favored them. Fornein pointed almost directly ahead at a long embankment built of the same material as the roads, surrounded on all sides by small boulders, rubbed smooth by centuries of surf. “That!” he answered.

Within a minute, they had reached the jetty and started down it. They only had fifty feet on their Leonite pursuers. The jetty was shrouded in a thin, hazy fog, blocking their view of its end.

Bronwyn could not see any structures. “Doc,” she called warily, hoping that he would have an answer for her.

Caradoc yelled back, “If Lord Aneirin said that it’d be there, then it’ll be there!” He only hoped that they would not have to wait long.

The very end of the jetty was extended six feet by a wooden pier. The three travelers halted, almost tumbling over the edge into the water below. They peered past the fog and the spray, searching for their friend.

But there was nothing there.

Bronwyn called her brother again, impatiently now, “Doc!” She desperately wanted him to come up with a solution, an escape of any kind.

But he could not. “He’s supposed to be here!” he complained, as much to the gods as to anyone else. “He’s supposed to be here!”

The soldiers behind them had slowed their pace, confident in their victory. Caradoc turned, drawing his sword. Fornein stood beside him, armed with Brynjar’s other sword. Bronwyn dropped to her knees, staring into the water below as if it were intentionally hiding Hector from her. She whispered earnestly into the deep.

“Where are you?”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The fourth of the month of Dekamen

At the turn of the fourth hour

Across the city, Fintan and Einar were led in chains to the wide stone bridge that crossed the river, granting the Regiment access to the southern half of the city. The Sidian stronghold stood not a hundred feet from the opposite end of that bridge.

Brosne had placed Sharian in charge of delivering the boomer to the stronghold. As before, they would carry the brick to its target in the turtle formation, plant it, and retreat. Fintan had not yet figured out how they planned to activate the explosive without Drystan, who had the ability to set it off from a distance.

If Sharian knew the solution, he was not telling. He prodded his two favorite prisoners forward with the haft of a spear; he even delighted in tormenting them with the spearpoint.

As they neared the bridge, three troops began to assemble into the turtle formation. Sharian produced the boomer and thrust it at Fintan. “Ready to go again?” he taunted.

Fintan’s stomach turned. If he had eaten a meal in the past day, he would have lost it. Looking at the gray material, complete with metal switch and black circle, brought back every wretched memory of the battle with the Thuites. He paled at the thought of being responsible for more innocent life.

Einar stepped in front of him. “No,” he said, “I’ll take it.” He grabbed the boomer from Sharian, who laughed.

“That works for me!” he joked, “Watching you squirm for killing all your friends will be just as good as watching him.”

Fintan was horrified that Einar would volunteer for this. He grabbed the man’s arm as Sharian stepped away to coordinate the troops. “Are you mad, man?” he demanded, “You can’t take this over there for them! It’ll kill hundreds of these people!”

Einar ignored the question and asked one of his own. “When they gave this to you before, they told you not to touch anything on it, right?”

Fintan was baffled. “Uh,” he stammered, “I suppose.”

Einar smiled mischievously. “I’m wondering what would happen if I did.”

Their conversation was cut short. Sharian grabbed Einar by the shoulder and dragged him into the midst of the turtle. The formation closed up, and started across the bridge. Fintan could not tear his eyes away as nearly thirty of the Chimaera Regiment’s best marched toward the Sidian stronghold.

Nearby, two Leonites were discussing the plan. “Well, you remember what it looks like, right?” one was saying, “With the switch and the circle on the side? That switch preps the boomer, which we know, because it always had to be flipped before Lord Drystan could set it off.”

“Right,” the other agreed.

“Well, now, Drystan ain’t here. So it has to be set off some other way.”

“Yeah,” the other agreed again, “But how do we do that?”

“Well,” answered the first, “after they flip the switch, we shoot an arrow and hit the circle. It’s pretty simple: once the boomer’s prepped, you push it down, and—boom!”

“That’s all it takes?”

“That’s all it takes.”

The turtle was halfway across the bridge when it exploded. The fire consumed the whole formation. Fintan shielded his eyes from the sudden flame. When he looked again, not a man was left standing, and the bridge was broken asunder. It began to crumble into the river.

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The fourth of the month of Dekamen

Early in the fourth hour

After Cassus died, the glass doors into the Library had opened, admitting Hector into the vast repository. He had taken arbitrary twists and turns, but his intuition told him he was making his way to the center of the room.

The Library was very faintly lit. Shimmering skylights weaved patterns of bluish light across the towering rows of shelving. It was too dark to read any of the titles, but on the end of each aisle were signs, written in the same script he had seen on the obelisk. He had no idea what they meant, but Fornein would be able to identify them.

Ahead, he glimpsed a golden glow, amplifying the pale glimmer from a skylight above. Hector wondered whether this were natural light, unlike the beams he had seen in the cave; he tried to determine the time of day, hoping that was the case, but all of his calculations were little more than supposition and imagination.

The golden light was shining down from the ceiling like a pillar of fire onto a dais. That raised platform sat at the top of ten steps. In the center of the dais was a small spire.

Hector climbed the steps slowly and cautiously. As he neared the top, he made a careful examination of the dais and the light that poured over it. He felt warmth radiating from it, but he could not sense the intensity that he had before. He had no idea what made the beams in the cave dangerous, but he imagined that this illumination was from a safer source. He reached out to wave his hand through the golden rays, jerking it back rapidly; when it returned without injury, he moved closer.

As he looked, he saw a gleaming reflection at the base of the spire. “To finish your quest,” he recited aloud, “pick up the ring.” Bolstered by the command, he stepped onto the dais. He felt no ill effects. Respectfully, he knelt beside the spire and withdrew the ring.

It was gold, set with silver in an intricate and indecipherable pattern. He did not see any script or text, but only the weaving and swirling of the inlay. As if afraid that the ring might possess some mighty power—and after all he had seen, who was to say that it didn’t?—he gingerly placed the ring on his right forefinger.

He quickly glanced around the dark Library, searching for a sign that he had done the right thing. He had expected something to happen.

Then, suddenly, it did.

A burst of blue, like lightning, sprang from the top of the spire. It twisted across the dais, then down the stairs, forming the exact pattern that adorned the ring. He glanced at his hand to compare them and saw that the ring, too, burned with an electric light. A loud hum sprang to life; Hector was so startled that he nearly fell from the dais.

Sconces throughout the Library were lit, not with fire or sunlight, but the same blue radiance. The whole prodigious complex was illuminated in a matter of seconds. Hector marveled at the size of it all; there were more books here than he could read in a dozen lifetimes, even if he knew the language.

The ground beneath him shook violently, as if awakening from an ancient slumber. He heard the sound of stone grinding against stone, and he realized that the dais was rising. He leapt from it, stumbling down the steps until he was sprawled across the floor. He struck his head on the stone and stars danced across his vision.

When the spots faded, he found himself in a wooded valley, surrounded by majestic and peaceful mountains. It was midafternoon. There was a village in the distance; its cottages spouted smoke from their chimneys and laughter from their windows. This was the Valley of Kyros, he realized, the home of the Alkimites. They were rejoicing and celebrating life. He looked to the south, and he saw the Pass of Anthea; just inside it, graves had been dug for fallen warriors of both armies.

Then the sky darkened. The mountains towered above him, like judicious and vengeful spirits. The trees stretched out their bare limbs, trying to claw at him. To the south, the graves were gone; there were only bodies now, piled high by the Regiment in its haste. Many were still decomposing; most had been half-devoured by scavengers and crows. Some of the remains were already skeletal, their hollow faces mocking him with gaping, eternal grins. To the northwest, the village burned. The flames danced across the mountains and the cliffs, rejoicing in the destruction. The whole valley was bathed in the red light. Hector looked at himself, his own hands, and saw that he was a corpse among many; he was mere bones and rotting flesh atop a heap of bones and rotting flesh.

Then it was gone again. The valley was quiet and dark, and he was alive and well. The village neither burned nor celebrated, but faded from sight; the graves were not yet filled, but no bodies littered the fields. In the west, a favorable wind blew over the cliffs and a bright light descended. Hector looked, and he saw a woman, tall and strong and beautiful, unlike any woman he had ever seen. She saw him, and She knew him, at his best and at his worst. He knew Her name: Ariane, goddess of clarity.

“Hector,” she said, her voice booming out across the valley, “You stand at a crossroads. Make your choice. The gods will stand with you.”

Then She was gone, and Hector opened his eyes. He was in the Library of the Ancients. Sorely, rubbing the fresh bump on his head, he got to his feet and turned back to look at the dais.

The sight took his breath away. There was an alcove where the dais had once been. In that place, resting gently on wooden supports, were the symbols of his heritage. Three blades, exactly as Lord Aneirin had described them. Reverently, Hector ascended the stone steps and knelt beside the display. He examined each blade, beginning with the smallest, the curved dagger. It sported a black leather-bound hilt, which ended in a jeweled pommel that sparkled in the overhead light.

Next was the
gladius
, a short sword designed for foot-soldier combat. The leather wrapped around the hilt was dyed red. The oblong pommel at the base of the weapon was gilded, no doubt with the purest of gold.

The greatest was the
spatha
, the longsword favored by horsemen; this one had a lengthened grip, so that it could be wielded with two hands by a man on the ground. The leather grip had been dyed a royal purple. The guard and pommel gleamed like polished silver, though Hector thought it might be made of steel, stronger and purer than any he had seen.

He was reaching for this blade first when he saw the words emblazoned on the wall behind the display. It was a brief message, written in five different languages; one was the old language of the obelisk, and three more were in scripts that Hector did not know. The last was in the modern tongue. He read aloud, “Behold the Blessed Blades of the Emperor. Only the one in whose veins flows the blood of the Empire may touch these weapons. Damnation awaits all others.”

A small part of Hector was still terrified that all of this had been a terrible mistake, and he was no emperor. That part wanted him to turn away, run back the way he had come, and drown himself in the pool, where his shame could be hidden forever.

But only a small part.

He recognized his destiny when he saw it. Reaching out, he took the
spatha
from its stand, holding it up for a second look.

To the great relief of his fearful part, nothing bad happened.

The alcove must have included a pressure plate, because a few moments after he retrieved the longsword, a drawer extended from the top step of the platform. It contained three scabbards, each of simple brown leather, perfectly sized to fit the Blessed Blades. He took each in turn. Sheathing the longsword, he tightened its straps across his back. He took the
gladius
and strapped it to the belt at his waist, on the left side. Finally, he took the dagger and its unique sheath; storing the weapon, he attached the sheath to his right boot.

As he adorned himself with them, Hector realized that the Blessed Blades were excellently weighted, for weapons of that complexity and style; they were also perfectly balanced. Whoever built these—Aneirin had said the priests of Aulus had done it—was certainly an expert weaponsmith.

Hector figured that he could spend the rest of his life in that Library, reading about his ancestry and the Wrack and the history of his people, but Ariane’s words were still fresh in his memory: he stood at a crossroads. He had to choose between staying hidden or returning to the battlefield above. The image of his own village burning haunted him; there was really no choice at all.

Turning away from the alcove, he went back the way he had come. His route was easier now that light pervaded the Library. He knew that he had entered the Library by a secret way, but his path out was not clear; he hoped that by retracing his steps, he would find an exit.

When he reached the entrance to the tunnel, he tried not to look at the gruesome corpses. They reminded him acutely of his nightmares. Even so, he happened to glance that way, and he saw a man standing beyond the doorway. He was bathed in the same blue glow that had been such a beautiful sight to Hector.

The man turned his head this way and that, as if peering into a void. He wrung his hands nervously. Hector saw that he wore the same clothing as the other soldiers, but he was unarmed. In response to Hector’s presence, the glass doors to the hall slid open. The stranger realized that he was no longer alone. “Hello?” he called out. There was a plaintive tone in his voice, pleading for help.

Pity led Hector to answer, “I am here.”

Relief seemed to wash over the man. He took a step toward Hector’s voice. He tripped on one of the bodies left by Cassus, and stumbled closer to the door. The man stammered, “I’m—my name is—Bregdan. Can you—where am I?”

Hector did not answer right away; he did not quite know how. Instead, he asked, “What happened to you?”

The man stepped a little closer; Hector still did not trust him, though compassion urged him to stop Bregdan before he was killed alongside Cassus. The soldier replied, “Captain said not to touch the beams. Said it wouldn’t end right.” He held out his hands as he stepped again, as if searching for a wall in a dark room. “I can’t see. Who are you?”

Hector paused. He doubted whether he could really trust a man who followed Derek. At last, he said, “I am the one you’ve been hunting.”

The man came closer. “Hector?” he asked; the Alkimite was surprised that his name was commonly known. “Forgive me!” the man begged, “I have done terrible things—killed men, women, even children. The gods are taking their vengeance on me. I am blind, and my skin burns. I fear I will die soon. Forgive me, and take me in. Take pity on me, and the gods may follow you.”

An intense hatred of Derek and everything he had done—everything his soldiers had done in his name—welled up inside. They were murderers, not warriors; they had slaughtered even the families of their enemies. Hector glanced from Bregdan to the corpse of Cassus; it would be easy to kill this man for his crimes. Yet it was not his duty to execute repentant men; it was not even honorable.

And Bregdan suffered greatly with every breath. It would be a far more just punishment to condemn him to a long life of pain—but he would be alive, able to put his wrongs away and live in peace.

But in all of his authority, Hector was incapable of doing the one thing the man asked: take him in. Should he lead Bregdan to his death, or force him to face his crimes in life? Hector was not sure. And when it came down to it, he never quite knew whether it was mercy or spite that made him answer, “Turn back, Bregdan. There is no place for you here.”

“Wait!” he cried, “It hurts! Please, draw your sword and kill me if you cannot take me in!” Hector ignored him, backing away; the glass doors to the corridor closed. As he left, he could still hear the man’s cries for death.

Hector walked aimlessly. His only goal was to get away from the cave. Eventually, he came to a small chamber with a central pillar. The pillar was about half his height, topped by a dark orb. As he examined it, he realized that this chamber was not illumined by the same electric light as the rest of the Library; instead, the pale incandescence he had seen before gyrated and swirled across the whole room. Hector looked up; there was a skylight, and beyond it, he could see the sun—through water!

He laughed, and could not stop laughing. He had found the exit—he was going to return to the surface, challenge Derek, and save his people. He was going to save Bronwyn. Intuitively, he placed his right hand, still wearing the imperial ring, on the dark orb. Electric light exploded across the orb, dancing over its surface in a thousand different patterns. It swirled, faster and faster; the solid orb seemed to ripple from the power that coursed through it, brightening the whole chamber.

And then the quake began.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The fourth of the month of Dekamen

Halfway through the fourth hour

Caradoc looked from his sister to Fornein to the advancing foe. The Leonites were confident of their victory; they drew out this moment, taking slow, methodical steps closer. Wicked grins revealed broken, yellowed teeth; they menaced their prey with spears, playfully nudging them closer to the water.

Doc and Fornein stood between the villains and Bronwyn, who was still scouring the water for some sign that Hector would come. Doc looked at his sister again. He was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been. He feared death in a way he had never known—not even when the wolves bore down on him in the forest, nor when the Keldans threw him into a pit in chains, nor when the Regiment attacked them at the river. Worse, he feared not only his own death, but his sister’s and his friend’s. He was no warrior, he decided; he was not made for this.