The Freetown Bridge E-Book

LG Surgeson

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Any who believe the Freetown Bridge to be a monument to freedom have sadly misjudged the dark intent of the Frisian Inquisition. Thousands of slaves have been snatched to help with its construction, and the fears of its purpose are building across the continent.

Shrouded in mystery and heavily guarded, the Bridge nears completion. A small group of adventurers from the renegade City State of Aberddu seek to join those who would destroy it. A ragtag gang of mercenaries, priests and greenskins, they prepare to stand up to the might of the Red Inquisition.

But is the enemy closer than they realized?

Leseprobe

The Freetown Bridge

The Black River Chronicles Book III

LG Surgeson

Copyright (C) 2015 LG Surgeson

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To Freemonte, Derek and Josephine, without whom there would have been no story.

Prologue 1: 791ac - Frisia

The bitter cold morning sun shed watery light into the wide gully at the foot of the granite cliffs. Sickened by the run and bone-weary from days of forced marching on few rations, the soldiers flung themselves into a single rank stretching out more than a mile. It was a sight to behold, such a mass of bodies standing shoulder to shoulder on the Frisian border, blood running high.

Caught up in the sour, pungent musk of the foot soldiers, Tal Daris quivered. A juvenile whim had led him here. He had been almost in Aberddu, safe and free, when he had seen Belandrus' mighty army marching towards him. They were led by a battalion of heavily-armed Cloud Elves, riding proud on pure white warhorses with gold-armoured Belandrus himself, a blue plume rising from his helmet, at the very point of the formation.

To a displaced surf like Tal Daris, it seemed like a carnival. It was too much to bare. He had little left to lose now: Marial, his father, his home were all behind him. He had flopped tearfully on the side of the road, unable to fight against this overwhelming tide of traffic. All he could do was watch as they passed.

Thousands upon thousands of elven warriors marched in arms, both on foot and horseback, under liveries of all colours and creeds. Some wore the shining engraved armour of the proud Elven nations of Aragon or Alendria, others in mottled leather and more muted colours of the Elven Forest and Woods. Then came the human armies, dragging siege engines and cannon the like of which Tal Daris had never seen. After these smart regiments yet more thousands of ordinary men, women and children wielding whatever they could carry. Many were as shrivelled and dirty as Tal Daris, wild eyed and alive for the first time in weeks, some still carrying the packs they had fled with. They too must have lost everything, flung out from their homeland by pure-blood forces; starving and hopeless, and yet they held their heads high. After nearly two hours, he saw the end approaching, turned on his heels and raced into the back ranks.

General Belandrus galloped down the line, his proud mount making resonant thuds on the frozen ground. Behind him rode his commanders, colours streaming. He had noted with gloating satisfaction that the Frisian border garrison had withdrawn almost the moment that his army had arrived. They had not been expected. He had been prepared to meet troops head on at the border but so far nothing had come. All they could do was hold their ground and wait.

The sun climbed higher, bringing no extra warmth to the chilly border valley. Still no army came to meet the troops. The boiling rage of arrival had subsided, many of the soldiers had slumped to the ground; hungry and no longer fuelled by adrenaline. General Belandrus rode out once more, but his presence barely stirred them.

At noon, tired of waiting, the General mustered his troop once more and ordered them to move forward into Frisian territory. As one, the line charged with full fury towards the gruesome border markers: twisted skeletal creatures grimacing at them as they approached Frisian land.

Then, as they set foot across the border they began to fall.

Doubled with agony, Tal Daris fell to his knees, flinging his axe down as he clamped his hands across his belly. It felt as though someone had driven hot iron rods into him. All around him, he could hear the yells of others struck by the same invisible assailants, rendered helpless. More distressing perhaps than the cringing cries of pain were the guttural screams of the pure-blood soldiers overcome and enraged by the same force that now tormented their elven comrades. They lashed out in all directions unable to control themselves, beating the elves who were no longer in a position to resist.

Tal Daris must have been unconscious for several hours. By the time he came to, the sky was darkening and the field was all but empty. Dragging his tortured frame through the grass he could see the dead, twisted lumps of other elves, eyes still gazing in horror up at the empty sky. Fallen back in defeat, the Elven commanders seemed small. Their armour was smeared with their own blood and their eyes shaded with the horrors in their heads. Tal Daris heaved himself to standing and joined the haunted clusters where the rank should be.

As the sun set behind the slopes they had never managed to climb, a hundred or so riders appeared on the cliff top. Weakened by their ordeal, the army did not draw arms at the first sight of their opponents. The riders showed no signs of descent.

In the dimming light, it was impossible to see the faces of individual riders. None stood out as the leader. When a voice rang out across the valley, crystal clear reaching every ear, no one could see who the speaker was. Tal Daris remembered only the hatred and fear that overwhelmed him as the crimson glow of the sinking sun cast a shining red halo around the riders and the voice said,

“This land is for those who have earned it, those who deserve it. The pure blood. It will be cleansed, it will be washed with the blood of the unworthy. So is the word, so is the law, so sayeth the Inquisition.”

Prologue 2: Summer 1100 ac Frisia

Braced at attention, every boot polished, every back straight, every head held high, ten thousand Frisian soldiers waited. The scarlet tabards of the lower ranks interspersed with the sharp black shirts of their commanders made an awe inspiring sight as they stretched back rank on rank, filling the parade ground of the Inquisitorial Palace. Rumour had it that every soldier that could be spared was here. It was an unprecedented gathering in the history of the Red Army. Silence is somehow thicker when there are so many people not making a noise. The controlled breath of the ten thousand barely registered as it misted in the chilly half dark of early morning. Each soldier listened to their heart pounding in their chest and wondered what was about to happen.

As the sun rose, a red ball slipping above the horizon, it's fresh rays caught the stone. A thousand facets twinkled and bounced a soft pink glow over the waiting army. It was a glorious metaphor for the new dawn that was ahead of them, but even as the adrenaline coursed through their veins not a single soldier smiled. Just as the sun crept up directly behind the stone, so that every ray of its light was now streaming out from every facet across the ten thousand, the High Inquisitor appeared on his dais with the head of the Inquisitorial Guard and several aides behind him.

He wore a plain red floor length robe and hood, not dissimilar from a demonic incantor. In fact, there was little way of distinguishing him as the most important man in Frisia. The head of the Inquisitorial Guard looked more important. He might not have dressed the part but, as he stood on the dais the rays of the crimson sun shining out of the stone behind him like a divine nimbus, no one could deny that he made an impressive sight.

He did not need to wait for quiet, he did not need to, he merely began to speak to the eager ten thousand who were ready to hang on his every word.

“I welcome you all, loyal soldiers of the Motherland, to witness this. The new and glorious red dawn.”

Chapter One: Summer 1103 ac Departure

Sitting on the hillside, Iona watched the thick mist curl up and across the valley floor obscuring the trees and the river. She tapped her fingers on her thigh and waited patiently, sure it would not be long. After less than two minutes her patience was rewarded by a shrill tribal cry and a wail of surrender. She would have to make a note of that feminine scream, and mock Gerard mercilessly for it later. Once she had saved his life for the second time in one day, she considered that she would definitely have license to mock him.

Carefully, she picked her way down the sodden grass slope and walked slowly into the fog. She could see barely three feet in front of her. It was an effect that was immensely disorientating but she was damned if she was going to be caught floundering. Slow sure steps, feeling for the edge of the river with her toes, were her only choice. Ducking and dodging the surprise tree branches that leapt out of the mists, she listened intently. In her left hand she clutched her bow so tightly her knuckles had whitened, an arrow nocked and ready to draw. Her right hand darted between grand balancing gestures and the hilt of her knife, primed to snatch it free of its sheath at a moment's notice.

She did not have to prowl about in the fog for too long before she found what she was looking for. Against a towering birch tree that protruded out of the cloudy canopy, Gerard was pinned. A sleek elven woman, who appeared to be at least a foot taller than him, held a short staff at his neck, and from the look of her stance, her whole body weight was resting on it. She was bent forward, her nose to Gerard's ear and her lips curled in an unpleasant leer. Clearly, she was reciting some kind of trespass warning embellished to intimidate all those who were unfortunate enough to receive it.

Gerard's face was scrunched and skewed to one side, as he strained to distance himself from her. From her sharp features, the jewels in her ear and the markings on her chin and cheeks, Iona could see that the woman was of Clan 'Il Taran', and by the look of it, quite a high ranking member of the Clan Militia. From her stance and body language, Iona could also tell that as high ranking as she maybe, this woman was so intent on intimidation that she had yet to notice Iona's presence. She could hear her mother's voice still whispering in her ear; 'always press an advantage'.

Breathlessly Iona slipped forward, barely moving her feet, until she was less than two feet from the woman's back, her hand on her knife, her bow still ready. Then, in an instant, she lunged pushing the woman forward onto Gerard, crushing him against the birch bark. She ignored his pathetic wincing. Without hesitation, she leant forward until her mouth was below the woman's ear and began to hiss and jabber in elven. The woman's face contorted in anger, and for a second she made to retaliate but one more hiss from Iona changed her mind and she began to loosen her grip on her staff and on Gerard.

Not wishing to hang around to have her pride further damaged, the woman stalked away into the mist and Gerard looked at Iona.

“Thanks,” he said limply, “thought I was a goner then.”

“S'alright,” said Iona, dryly, “any time.”

“What the heck did you say to her to make her let go?” he said, rubbing his neck and smoothing his robes.

“Oh, just an old elven word or two,” said Iona mysteriously. “I called her the mother of a whore.” Gerard just gaped at her.

“And that made her let me go did it?” he muttered, in grudging awe.

“No, that was this,” she said holding up her small steel blade. “I had it pressed onto her kidneys. I could have killed her with a twitch of the wrist. That was what made her let you go. She knew she had been bested.”

“Oh,” said Gerard, his eyes not leaving the glinting blade. “Sometimes, you're terrifying you know that? Not that I'm complaining of course,” he added quickly as Iona turned to walk back up the hillside. Haplessly, he stood and watched her ascend for a minute. Then, as she disappeared into the mist, he realised that she hadn't bothered to check that he was following and raced to catch up with her.

“When you said 'you don't know what's down there in that fog,' ” he gasped finally level with Iona again, “What you meant was that I didn't know what was in that fog but you did, wasn't it?”

A scornful smirk curled across Iona's face as she turned to look at the flushed cheeks of the wheezing wizard.

“Glad you've finally worked that one out,” she retorted, “Now perhaps we can get to where we're going without getting ourselves killed.”

“Absolutely, right you are. You lead on then, madam,” said Gerard, trying to sound cordial whilst still flushed and panting. Fire flashed in Iona's eyes, as she turned on her heels, started back up the hill and growled

“And don't call me Madam,”

Iona could tell it was going to be the longest ten miles of her life. She had picked Gerard up in a tavern on the turn gate and was supposed to escort him to the transport circle on Skal Ferra. It was a good ten mile walk, through the mountain pass across Elven clan territories, a route Iona knew well. It should have been easy; Iona was of a local clan and had walked the pass a hundred times in all weathers. Even with a human in tow she should have been safe enough. After all he was only a wizard, and a practically unarmed one at that.

Gerard was clearly no danger with a weapon, except perhaps to himself. Unfortunately, it did not stop him from trying. Keeping him on the right track was proving to be like trying to herd frogs with a teaspoon. The problem was that he was fixated by the fact that she was a woman. He had somehow got it embedded in his head that he would have to escort her; a thought that would have offended Iona had it not been so laughable. She took a deep breath and pressed on to the peak of the mountain.

Tariqa gazed one more time at the endless yellow grasslands in front of her and sighed. Stretching out to the soft blue horizon without so much as a single sapling to break up the sky line, it was truly breath taking. The wild wind whipped through the grasses, making fleeting paths and eddies and throwing ripples on to the otherwise still river. Above her, the cloudless sky seemed to mirror the vastness of the veldt below her. Turning around, she looked back where she had been. Far in the distance she could see the silhouettes of the huts in her village. Straining to make out the shape, and half imagining it, she fixed her gaze on her mother's house in the centre of the village. Next to it, the tavern and on the other side the bell tower. The squat hut of the village shaman; the forge and the tanners' workshop with its strange bitter smell stood in a triangle by the river. The baker's house, with his rosy wife who had slipped her buns on the sly when she was tiny. The bald ground in the centre of the village, the indaba tree and the well with its pure sweet water. A jolt in her stomach reminded her that she did not know when she would see all this again or even if she would be back at all. A warm tear snaked down her nose.

The air was heavy with humidity, so that it clung to Tariqa's face and clothes and left a familiar warm taste in her mouth. Mercilessly, the sun beat down baking the earth hard and crisping the grassland. The game lay listless in any shade they could find, which was little and patchy. Even the crickets were too hot chirrup. Slowly, she turned her head taking in every last detail and holding the picture in her mind's eye. Her heart raced; maybe this would be the last time she ever laid eyes on this beautiful country, this home that was more than just a land to live in.

Impulsively, she reached down and snatched up some blades of tall grass, and as she had ever since she could remember, weaved them deftly into a little ring, taking care not to pop the seed heads. When she finished it, she tucked in into her coin pouch slightly embarrassed by her sentimentality and knotted the pouch tightly closed. At last, she could put it off no longer. As hard as this was, there was no other choice in the matter. Some things were worth leaving kith and kin, hearth and home for. Reluctantly, she turned her back on the village, closed her eyes and rubbed the small bronze ring on her left thumb. Cold wind rushed past her face, and when she opened her eyes again the veldt had gone.

The bedroom was murky when Josephine opened her eyes. A shiver rushed over her, part cold, part anticipation. She had barely slept, her whole body churning with adrenaline and her brain buzzing with sights and sounds that would come. Warm breath tickled her neck and ears. William's head rested on the pillow next to her, his rough face oddly serene with sleep. In the gloom, she stared at his pale cheeks, his soft eye lids, the contented smile on his lips. She stroked his course black hair gently and turned away from him, her heart knotting in her chest.

Deftly, she slid out of the bed, without waking him, and crossed the room to the window. The hot orange sun was peeking over the shimmering horizon. A cool light wind wafted towards her from the sea, a hint of salt in the air. The streets below her, shrouded in the grey of the pre-dawn, were mysteriously silent. Restlessly, she left the window and went into her lady's chamber. The maid, whose name she was ashamed to say she could not remember, had laid out her adventuring clothes as though they were a gown and stays for the state ball. She splashed water from the jug into the wash stand and hesitantly washed her face.

Every movement was deliberate, as she divested herself of her nightgown and began to dress. Steady, studied motion might stretch time out and delay the inevitable. The sun rose, forcing bright summer light along the streets of the town, into every crag and alleyway. Figures scuttled about on their early morning business, not stopping to socialise with each other. Thoroughly, Josephine checked her packs and pouches, and fastened on her belt, crunching the buckle as tightly as possible. She bound up the long golden brown tresses of her hair in a strip of blue cloth, making a thick sturdy knot. Then she moved on to her braces and grieves, pulling each strap tight, securing each buckle, trying to hold back time somehow. Then she crept back into the bedroom, where William lay softly snoring, his head and arm now on her side of the bed.

She stood for a while and watched as he slept, and then she moved to the dresser. The last thing she was going to put on was there, its dark shape shining against the polished wooden surface. The jewelled pommel of her knife decorated with a deep blue gem, glinted in the dawning light as she picked it up and made to secure it to her upper arm.

Just as she fastened the last silver buckle, the bell from the Law Temple Tower chimed out across the city, marking the morning six-hour. The heavy, sonorous peal called the faithful to the dawn service at the temple and stirred the rest of the city people in their heathen beds.

William stopped snoring and rolled over. Sleepily, he opened his deep brown eyes and looked soulfully up at Josephine, who was standing at the end of the bed, one foot resting on the bedstead as she adjusted her boots again. He blinked and smiled at her, and said with reproachful humour,

“You're ready early, you weren't going to leave without me where you?”

Josephine looked at him with sad eyes, her face still hidden from him by the morning shadow and shook her head.

“Of course not,” she said, as a silent tear squeezed itself from her eye.

It was strangely quiet thought Jacob as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the barracks for the last time. The chill of the early morning crept over him and he got up and went to the bathhouse. He looked at the faces of his sleeping comrades, peaceful for the moment. They did not normally sleep so soundly without the aid of strong spirits. They had seen too much not to dream and it was not uncommon for men to cry out in their sleep.

He lingered for a moment looking at the beds of the new recruits, many of them so young that they were not able to grow a beard, a few had called out for their mothers in the night. Why they had come to this squalid life he did not know. They learned quickly that it was not the heroic endeavour it first seemed. Perhaps they stayed out of shame, unable to return home for fear of mockery or rejection. It was a churn of mixed emotion he felt this morning.

His last day with the Aberddu City Militia should have been cause for celebration. He would walk free and sleep soundly, except that he would never forget what he had seen, never stop dreaming and he had chosen to walk freely into another battle.

He washed and shaved himself as regulation demanded and returned to the barracks where he put on his civilian clothes for the first time in five years. It felt strange to see his green uniform tunic lying on his bed, his neatly pressed trousers still folded in his trunk.

In the mess, he looked around at the sleepy faces of the other men eating sloppy tepid porridge as though tomorrow there would be no food. He couldn't bring himself to eat it anymore; he just pushed it around with a spoon before giving it to an eager lad on the next table who guzzled it greedily.

When the warning bell rang for parade, he had to stop himself from running to the yard. Instead, he returned to the now deserted barracks, picked up his pack and looked around at the cold whitewashed walls for one last time. He would not miss them he told himself. Then he went into the bath house and gazed around at the metal buckets and the pottery drains. He would never see these again, he mused but he just couldn't make himself think 'thank Gods'. He scolded himself for this sentimental gesture and turned to walk towards the heavy gates of the compound.

As he approached the parade yard, he could see the whole of battalion lined up. It was strange to see Fleetfoot standing where yesterday he himself had stood, at the head of his patrol. McLaren, his bunk mate, a good four inches shorter than the men either side, was as usual not at full attention. The drill sergeant, Weller, had never noticed, because McLaren was a dwarf and the sergeant had assumed that it was the best McLaren could do. Jacob smiled. Stupid old fool.

Sergeant Weller was barking orders at the parade, his pasty cheeks flapping as he bellowed, spit flying into the faces of the front ranks. Jacob tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible as he moved across the compound. He was nearly at the gate when there was a horn blast and a bellowed order.

In a single united motion, the militia men stood to attention, the sound of their boots hitting the ground echoed around the parade square. As one, they turned to face him and saluted.

“Good bye, Corporal Cooper and good luck,” bellowed Captain Daventry, saluting smartly.

“Go get 'um, Jacob,” cried a small voice from the back rank, and Drill Sergeant Weller delivered a swift thwack to the back of McLaren's legs with his stick. Unsure of the civilian response to such a greeting Jacob just waved weakly. Then, overcome by the inadequacy of his response, snapped to attention and saluted them all.

There was general cheering from the ranks and Jacob smiled. He turned smartly on the spot, the gates swung slowly open and he stepped out on to the street without a backward glance.

The wench giggled as Tollie winked at her and tipped his hat. She made her way through the swarming alehouse towards him, curving magnificently, a large stone ale jug in one hand and a steaming plate in the other. She turned her stunning head, eyes twinkling and smiled warmly at the drunks and revellers. Grasping hands reached out towards her as she passed crowded tables. Filthy fingers curled around her waist and tried to pull her onto shabby laps. Without losing balance, spilling a drop or breaking stride, she delivered a swift kick with a sturdy but pointed boot and continued forward toward Tollie.

Bobbing gently, she placed the steaming plate of stew in front of him, and the jug of ale to one side. Then, reaching into the voluminous folds of her skirt, drew out a spoon, polished it sardonically on her apron and handed it to him with a tiny bob of a curtsey.

“ 'Ope you enjoy your dinner sir,” she said brightly, flashing another warm smile at him, and giving him an indulgent wink. “Will there be anythin' else?” Tollie looked her up and down and smirked.

“You've been busy, Sylas,” he whispered, unrolling a piece of parchment on the table. “You almost had me fooled then.” Suddenly, the wench's grin faded, and somehow her jaw became harder, squarer, more masculine and Sylas looked down at the paper. It was a reward notice for a highwayman wanted alive or dead, bounty 40 gold pieces, and he had to admit it wasn't a bad likeness. All the same, a man doesn't like seeing his own wanted notices. He looked up at Tollie with cold eyes.

“Come to collect the reward have you then, Tollie?” he hissed with an edge of hostility in his tone.

“I'm hurt,” said Tollie, half-mockingly. “That you think I'd ever give you up.” Sylas' eyes narrowed. “For anything less than a hundred.” Tollie grinned with crocodile teeth.

“What have you come for then, you bastard?” Sylas spat indignantly, “If you don't want my life?”

Tollie smirked at the look of indignation; it was hard to take Sylas seriously with a bow in his hair.

“Believe me,” he said, smiling enigmatically, “I've come for something far more important than your life.”

Sylas gave him an inquisitive look for a moment and then returned to his annoyance. This was one of Tollie's little games, and he wasn't going to be sucked in by them anymore. He refused to be.

“What are you talking about Tollie,” he snapped, “I'm working and you might have just completely blown my cover.”

“Will you relax,” said Tollie, in a hushed voice, suddenly aware of the busyness of their surroundings. “Sit down for a minute will you and I'll explain.”

With a look of scornful amusement, he offered Sylas a perch on his knee. Curling his lips unpleasantly and scowling, Sylas pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, tucking his skirt out of the way.

Tollie reached inside his jerkin and retracted his hand clutching something tightly in his palm. Slowly, as though he was trying not to disturb whatever it was, he lowered his hand to the table and then opened his fingers. When at last he took his hand away, there was a shard on the table about the size of his thumb. It appeared to be glass, clear as fresh water. Except that it twinkled too much to be glass and in the centre of the stone was a tiny blood red droplet. Sylas stared at the stone, eyes wide.

“It's time,” said Tollie, his face suddenly serious.

“Meet me out back in ten minutes,” whispered Sylas and stood up.

Tollie made straight for the door, and walked into the alley behind the tavern. He stood with his back to the path, facing a wall as though he was relieving himself.

Sylas swept around the room, collecting up empty glasses and tankards and smiling charmingly at all the customers. Then he put the empties on the bar, helped himself to a handful of silver from the cash box, took his cloak from the peg behind the door and left, leaving the publican gazing after him in astonishment.

Rangien smiled. The bird hopped across the tree branch and nibbled at the juicy black berry it had found. “Blessed be the Morning, and Blessed be Life,” Rangien said, louder than he had intended. Overcome with joy for a second, he had forgotten where he was. A sharp whip crack broke his thoughts and the startled little sparrow into frantic flight.

“Keep moving priest,” bellowed a derisive, sonorous voice. With a weary sigh, Rangien picked up his step and followed the others towards the work yard.

A diminutive man with little physically to recommend him, Rangien had few advantages over the others here. He had survived the work detail by faith alone. Hours and hours of hard labour had made his once wiry frame more muscular but no less slight. The work detail had been arduous. For weeks they had carved stone blocks to precise specifications and then they had pulled the carts that had transported them to the construction site. Then, for a week or so there had been nothing. Now, this morning they had been ordered back into the work yard.

Rangien didn't mind, he was bored. The idleness of imprisonment didn't suit a priest well used to an active ministry. Any task would be welcome and the morning was glorious. Capture may not have been a blessing, and he had seen atrocities to last him a long life time in these past weeks, but did that mean there were to be no blessings at all?

Arriving in the work yard, he fell in to rank lazily his face upturned to the pale sun. Looking from face to face, he could see few others were delighting in the warmth. Under his breath he offered a swift devotion, his heart thankful for his faith and sorrowful that these other men did not have what he did. He had prayed very hard since his capture, trying to understand the Goddess' plan in bringing him here. Her hand had guided his every step and those he trod on Frisian soil were no different. It had taken him several days and nights of almost constant intercession to comprehend.

Those enslaved in this camp had an even greater need of spiritual guidance than those still in his home village in the Elven Hills. All life belongs to the Lady, even that which has been stolen by the evil Inquisition. In this place of hate and indignity, he could bring comfort to them. It was the duty that the Lady had chosen for him, to save these souls from despair. He would not fail her. He was lost in this reverie when the sergeant had started to bark his orders. He did not hear the first words and was therefore taken by surprise as the sharp leather of the Corporal's whip stung his shins leaving shards of iron in the lash marks to fester and burn.

Opening his eyes, he saw that all the other prisoners had turned a quarter turn left and now formed five neat files. At the head of the chain, five guards were clamping iron shackles around the ankles of the men at the head of each column.

Saran felt uneasy, sitting in the finely carved chair on the dais in the sanctuary. Usually the High Priestess sat in this chair and even then only on days of Holy importance or celebration. However, the tradition of blessing journeyers was one that Mother Angelina refused to overlook in such a case as this.

Barefoot, Saran had walked up the centre aisle of the sanctuary, watched in silence by all the other sisters. Once at the dais, she had been presented with a simple leather belt from which hung a small pouch with a few copper coins and an empty scabbard. She had also received a canvas pack containing a loaf of bread, a flask of pear cider, a pewter chalice and a book of devotion. These were the standard items given to any sister of the order who left the Temple to go on a long or significant journey. If they required a knife or suchlike to fit the scabbard they were charged with collection of that after they had left the shrine. Even on occasions like this, weapons were not permitted in the sanctuary.

After the presentation, Saran was required to sit in the chair on the dais as one by one, the sisters came forward to offer prayers and kiss her feet in blessing. It was bizarre to watch them step forward, clutching beads and cups in their hands, muttering devotions under their breath, brows furrowed in earnest. It made her uneasy too, to see the fear in their eyes that for some bordered on almost hysterical panic. Saran knew that some of these women had not left the Temple since they had been accepted into the order, and they always found partings such as this to be traumatic.

She also knew that today was no ordinary departure for them. There was an uncertainty as to when and if she would return. After the tragic event of the Summer of Fire less than 12 months in the memory, it was not difficult to understand the consternation of these gentle women. It was beyond their comprehension that she had chosen to seek out more adventure.

Even so, she was still shocked when she looked down into the kindly, weathered face of Sister Vonda, mother of novices, and saw that the old woman actually had tears in her eyes.

Gazing out of the sanctuary windows, she could see the red gold sun light slowly fading over the city and she sighed. There was no turning back, a calling such as this could not be denied. The Goddess would go with her and if she died, it would be in the Goddess' sight, and at the Goddess' choosing. She would live on in hope and happiness, in the next life.

At last, the blessing was over and the sisters went about their business, leaving Saran in solitude for one last hour's devotion.

It was with great apprehension that Saran left the sanctuary in the last few minutes of day light, knowing that she must collect her travelling pack and be at the fore-gate well before the chime of the evening nine-hour, when the Temple gates would be barred against the outside world until the following noontide.

Chapter Two: Arrival

Derek unrolled the maps again; it wouldn't hurt to have one more look. The brittle parchment of the world map curled at the edges, although he did his best to smooth it flat, resting a stone on each corner. Then he placed the smaller more detailed maps around the edges as he had done five or six times before and weighed them with more pebbles. Finally he opened the rough schematics he had been given just over a month ago, a crude drawing of the road to Freetown with a tell-tale doodle in the corner, a tiny outline of the construction they were now calling the Freetown Bridge.

This time he was going to see the clue, the key to this whole thing. Carefully, he examined every inch of every document. Then, he walked around the table, and examined it all again upside down. Still, he couldn't see it. He kicked the table leg and walked out of the room, cursing under his breath. Who had died and left him in charge of this mess?

Wincing, he remembered with horrific lucidity the great man who had been the previous Guild Master, who had in fact died and left him in charge. Then he sighed and sat down on a log. It was a far cry from home certainly, but in his heart he knew he would not want to be anywhere else. The barn was in the middle of nowhere, an abandoned farm house nearly two miles away was the nearest building, and he could barely see that across the rolling landscape. Behind him, a thick pine forest raked up the hill side, giving way to the mountains that lead to the Frisian borders. In the far distance he could pick out the cart track that wound along the valley bottom towards the Borders. It was empty and the air was nearly silent.

He couldn't imagine why anyone would have built a barn here in the first place; it wasn't arable land, and nothing had grazed this grass for quite some time by the look of it; there wasn't even a particularly reliable track. From the smell of the place it was possible that the previous owners had been llama herders, but it could have been goats, cloth storage or liquor running for all Derek knew.

This much, however, was obvious: it was perfectly positioned for his purposes. He had been here since early the previous evening, and he had seen no one at all. At one stage he had wondered if he was in the right place, before he had realised that he was just doubting for the sake of it. Even so, the sensation of being alone in the valley was an odd one.

He looked up at the sky, at the grey clouds that formed a seamless blanket over the sun. It was difficult to know what time it was on days like these, away from the temple bells and the Mages' Library with its peculiar time keeping devices. He guessed it must be late afternoon by now, although it did not seem to be turning towards dusk yet. By his calculations, the others should start arriving soon and then time would start to tumble away once again. He might have time for one more look at the maps. Sufficiently calm again, he wondered back inside the barn.

Iona convulsed, wretched and vomited again, then she wiped her mouth with a scrap of cloth and stood up. Purposefully, she straightened her tunic and doublet; she tightened her belt and rearranged her collar. Dipping her hand inside her leather tunic, she produced a polished metal mirror and checked her hair and face. Then she stepped out from behind the rhododendron bush and walked back to Gerard.

“Are you feeling better?” he said, timidly. She just looked at him, eyes heavy with contempt.

“If you tell anyone about that, I'll kill you,” she said without looking away and Gerard had no doubt that she meant it. “We need to move now, it's going to start getting dark soon and I want to be there before it does.” With that, she turned and began to stalk off down the track, leaving Gerard yet again scuttling behind her.

He would be glad of a rest he thought, when they finally reached the meeting place. It was not in him usually to walk so far or so fast. Years of scholarship had left him underdeveloped and flabby. He could not help feeling anxious about the coming few weeks in that respect, even if he did survive the horrors that lay before them, what of the blisters and the aching and the hunger that were pretty much his sole memories of the only other battle he had ever been to?

He also doubted that he would hear a civil word spoken to him for the whole of his time there. He had come to expect little but terse brevity from the kind of people who spent their lives chasing one war after another. It seemed to him to be a sort of chicken and egg conundrum. Were they brusque because they spent their whole life in a state of flux or was it their boorish manners that drove them to find this the only life style acceptable to them?

Sometimes he wanted to go home and leave them all to die, but something in his heart prevented him from doing this. They were not after all bad people, for all their rudeness their intentions were always of the highest order. He also suspected, much to his own personal shame, that he actually quite liked them. Although looking up the hill to see Iona balanced on an outcrop, arms folded, tapping her foot impatiently, he couldn't for all the tea in Kchon work out why. With that thought, he stilled his contemplation, gathered the last of his energy, hitched up his robe and began to run.

When they reached the barn, they were greeted warmly by Derek, although Gerard was wheezing too much to say anything and went straight inside to sit down. Derek embraced Iona affectionately.

“You were sick again weren't you?” he said, a mocking twinkle in his eyes. Iona looked at him for a moment reprovingly, and then softened. It was a waste of time to try and cultivate an aura of sudden violence with Derek. He knew her far too well.

“You know I can't handle magical transport. It does it to me every time,” she said at last. “See what I do for you?” They both chuckled and breathed out.

“Have you looked at the maps?” asked Derek after a minute or so of companionable silence.

“No, not yet. I haven't had a chance. It took me nearly a week to find that great big drip in there,” she said bitterly, waving to the barn.

“He is a very important drip,” said Derek soothingly, “We do need him.” Iona looked at him through narrowed eyes, she wanted to hope he was wrong but she knew in her heart that he wasn't.

“I would have been more use here,” she insisted, trying to look stern but Derek just smiled.

“It couldn't be helped; there was no one else around. I know you're not particularly fond of Gerard, but I didn't think you hated him that much. I only got here last night anyway,” he paused and continued before Iona could speak her next question.

“I was with my family, on the farm. We had a family dinner and I cleaned out the pigs.” Iona chuckled as Derek had intended, he knew how much she detested farm work, and had always found his joy at the simplicity of his family hilarious. He did not laugh with her. A shade of melancholy had crossed Derek's twinkling green eyes and Iona put a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was that deeply painful sense that it was the last time you were going to do something or see someone. Instantaneously, Iona felt the same wave of melancholy running over her, but she managed to push it away.

When Derek looked up, his eyes sparkling again, and said

“So, do you want a drink?” They went into the barn.

Gerard had flaked out on a harsh straw mat in the corner, his pigeon chest rising and falling rhythmically. Derek produced a stoppered stoneware bottle from his pack and sat down on a hay bale; Iona sat opposite him and watched as he let the bottle settle slightly

“I remember this bottle,” she said, smiling. “It's not the same stuff is it? That must have been nearly as old as me from the smell of it. How the stopper stayed in I'll never know.”

“Same bottle, different stuff,” said Derek gingerly removing the plug with his teeth. A pungent aroma that might once have contained a hint of fruit filled the air. “Same still.”

He took a deep swig from the bottle, swallowed hard and handed it to Iona. “My brother found it in the hay barn in the top field and got it working again,” he continued to explain, “It's not had quite the same time to mature obviously, but I think it's a lot smoother.” Iona swallowed and then nodded, passing the bottle back again.

“S'okay, by the smell of it, it should have the same effect,” she said, and then burped loudly, “If I sober up properly before next week I shall be very disappointed.” Derek snorted with amusement, and took another gulp.

“Exactly,” he said. “And there's always the other bottle.”

Crouching behind a pine tree, Saran could see the back of the guard hut clearly. In the panic of first arriving, she had thought that she had come down on the wrong side of the border. On further investigation, it seemed that she was on the right side of the border, but just barely and she had arrived about 100 yards from an army outpost. At that moment, the hut appeared deserted, but she was sure this would not last for long and she was right.

As she shifted her weight from knee to knee, she saw a flash of red and then a man came around the corner of the hut, carrying a black iron halberd in both hands. The man was about six foot and dark and he was wearing a tabard that marked him out clearly as a Red Army Guard. From this distance, she could see the rank stripes on his shoulders, but she couldn't make out enough detail to tell whether he was a corporal or a sergeant.

Chances are, if he was a sergeant then there would be upwards of 20 men stationed on that outpost, and they were probably all patrolling the woods right now. With breathless poise, she stood up straight and turned around. If she could find the southern tree line, then she was safe. Stepping as lightly as she could, she picked her way between trees and bushes, towards the pale light that seemed to be filtering in from the south. Her heart pounded in her chest and the blood rushed into her ears.

She didn't hear the guard as he stepped out behind her. The first she knew about it was the rough hand that clamped over her mouth, and the sinewy arm that snaked around her waist. Then he lifted her clear off the ground, leaving her kicking futilely in the air.

“Priestess of the Chalice are we?” he sneered into her ear, his rancid breath sticking to her neck. “You're a long way from home.” Saran thrashed about in his arms, and tried to bite his hand but she couldn't get purchase with her teeth. “Wonder what the sergeant will say about you?” he continued, as Saran squirmed and wriggled like a freshly caught fish, “shall we find out?”

He began to walk back towards the outpost hut, not even remotely hampered by Saran's slight form. Several times she lashed out at him with her feet, trying to kick his knees or groin, but she failed and all he did was laugh derisively at her, spraying her ears with more of his foul stench.

After a minute or so of struggling, she gave up and went limp. She would have to wait until he put her down and it was pointless wasting her energy now. The guard took this as apparent resignation to capture and leered unpleasantly again that the sergeant would be very pleased to see her.

He carried Saran all the way back to the outpost she had seen before, and into through a side door. The inside of the hut was sparse and utilitarian, stone floor and walls, a table and some chairs and a row of straw mattresses. The room stunk of sweat and rotting flesh, Saran guessed that there was no bath house in the outpost.

The guard carried her through what were obviously the living quarters into another room beyond. Like the living quarters, it had stone walls and floor and a particular foul stench. It was partitioned in to two sections by a row of iron bars that stretched from floor to ceiling, one side of which was clearly a gaol cell. Heavy, rusted manacles hung from the walls, and there was a pile of sacking flung in the corner. In the other half of the room, was a desk, with a chair either side and at the desk sat the dark man she had seen earlier.

“What do we have here Warrington?” said the sergeant looking up from his paperwork, his voice and eyes were both calculating and cruel. Saran felt her captor stand to attention before he spoke.

“Priestess of the Chalice, sir,” he said triumphantly.

“Well put her down, corporal,” said the sergeant, “let's see what she has to say for herself.”

Saran felt herself being lowered to the ground, and then her feet made contact with the stone and she was standing again under her own power. Immediately, she dropped to her knees, and the corporal lunged to stop her, but the sergeant waved him off. Interfering with a priestess of the Chalice whilst she was in prayer was widely recognised as a very foolhardy thing to do even for a Red Army Guard.

Saran reached inside her vestment, and clutched her tiny pendant. Her heart still racing, she prayed fast to the Goddess and then focused all her thoughts on to her physical form. The muttering of her prayer became the muttering of a spell, and then even as the guards watched her, hunched over and rocking on her knees, she disappeared.

Safely in the realm of her Goddess, Saran fled like a fox in the hunt. She could scarcely hear the cursing and yelling of the corporal and his sergeant as they dashed about trying to find their prisoner. She ran through the wall of the building, out into the night and towards the pale light, no longer worried about making a sound. She could not be seen or heard or even touched in the material plane for now. This was expediency itself, but she had hoped not to have to squander her magic on the journey, not entirely aware of what she was going to be facing when she arrived.

Iona was wet with dew when she awoke on the grass outside the barn. The fresh smell of early morning tantalised her, but her head pounded. Derek was nowhere to be seen. Gerard strolled out of the barn looking bright eyed and alert, much to Iona disgust. He handed her a tankard of what appeared to be fresh water and a chunk of journey bread so solid that Iona could have bounced it off the floor.

“Where's Derek?” she managed, taking the cup with a quivering hand. She looked up at the smug face of the wizard towering above her and tried to avoid attempting to bite the journey bread.

“He went down to the road to meet the provisioners. The cart should be here before lunch provided there has been no hitch. He said to tell you that they're on the table if you want a look, and that you would know what that means.”

“Thank you,” murmured Iona, still not sure she was actually awake, maybe she was dreaming.

“I'm going for a walk,” said Gerard haughtily, “There are supposed to be rare orchids in those woods.” Iona could only groan in response to this. He stopped and turned and looked at her with a superior sneer, “You do know that you were howling at the moon last night, don't you?” Iona just looked at him, groaned and then passed out again.

Tollie wiped the blade of his knife on the guard's shirt front. The guard wasn't going to have much use for it now anyway. The guard's suddenly unemployed horse, now tethered to a nearby tree, beat its hoof on the tree roots impatiently and shook its mane. Sylas rifled through the contents of the dead man's belt pouch and grunted at his findings.

“Typical, bloody typical, these soldiers never have anything interesting on them. Just papers and potions, not even any money,” he grumbled, picking through the mess of papers, looking for identity documents and filling his own pouch with the potion vials.

“I'll have to wear this uniform, it's far too big for you,” said Tollie, unbuckling the dead man's belt. Sylas didn't look up,

“No bloody wonder you made me wait for a biggun,” he muttered as he sniffed the contents of a small red bottle and pocketed it and grimaced.

“Looks like we're in luck though,” continued Tollie, panting from the strain of bodily handling a man probably three stone heavier than himself. “He's got his cuffs and rope with him.”

He held them up, two rough leather cuffs with rusty iron buckles and heavy loops attached to a long length of thick rope. The design was ingenious in that when the cuffs were secured on to the rope and the rope was pulled, they became tighter and even harder to escape from. It was standard issue kit for any Red Army patrol guard who might make a capture and then have to walk a hostage more than a few yards. The cuffs were invariably made with iron buckles because of the extra pain this caused to elves.

Sylas looked up this time, but didn't say anything; he just scowled at the grubby cuffs and went back to the documentation, clearly he and Tollie had different definitions of the phrase “we're in luck”.

A few minutes of concerted effort and Tollie was dressed in the tabard and gauntlets of a Red Army Patrol guard, Sylas was strapped into the cuffs and tied on to the back of the horse and the unfortunate guard had been booted until he rolled to the bottom of a nearby valley. Another two minutes, and 'Private Marcus Duvall, 21st Scouting Division' was back on his mount and heading for Freetown with a prisoner in tow.

An hour or so late, on the outskirts of Freetown, as the sun was setting, Private Marcus Duvall 21st Scouting Division tethered his horse to a great oak and released his prisoner.

“Next time, we murder a little one,” complained Sylas, rubbing his wrists. “Then you can walk miles behind a farting horse.”

“Whinge, whinge, whinge,” retorted Tollie, adjusting his trousers. “Ouch,” he said, and staggered backwards as a pebble hit him on the forehead. Sylas beamed vindictively and made a move towards the towering oak that they had stopped beside. Sylas was not much different from a human size squirrel, Tollie considered as he watched him shin up the giant trunk. He even had a worrying tendency to find valuable things and then bury them. This thought amused Tollie and he snorted.

He was not at the top of the tree long; in fact he shimmied down even faster than he had gone up.

“We need to get closer,” he said abruptly, his face devoid of expression.

“Couldn't you see anything?” said Tollie, preparing to mount his horse again.

“Oh, I could see all right,” said Sylas, still emotionless and clearly distracted trying to strap himself back into the cuffs. “That's why we have to get closer.”

Freemonte left the tavern, tucking the key carefully under both his doublet and vest. This was the last town on the Dwarven side of the border with Aberddu, and the last place they could sell the horses before they became a burden. They would be no good once they reached the meeting place, and they would only become a drain on supplies. It meant the remaining 20 miles of the journey would have to be done on foot but the weather was beautiful and it would give him a few hours alone with his wife.

He could still scarcely believe that such an incredible creature had consented to marry him. Her crystal blue eyes and soft golden curls were everything he had ever dreamed of. She was fiercely passionate and quick witted, easily a match for him intellectually. And above all that, she was clearly besotted with him, although he couldn't understand why.

She was the only daughter of the De Beaujolais', an Old Albion family of standing, brought up among the great and the good in the best circles of Albion society. Her father, like Freemonte, was a former Captain of the Queen's Guard, but unlike Freemonte, was highly thought of among military and aristocratic circles alike.

As a young soldier, Freemonte had idolised Captain Jacques De Beaujolais for both his skill as a swordsman and tactician and his fair minded humanity. It was an example that the young William had aspired to, in the days when he still thought that way. Times, and Freemonte, had changed but it still shocked him to think that this great man was now his father in law.

Freemonte's shock at his open acceptance into the De Beaujolais family was compounded by two things. The first being that he was nearly twice as old as Josephine. In fact he remembered her as a tiny girl of three or four visiting the parade grounds in a little Albion Blue shift dress and a white cardigan, her hair in neat little bunches. She had stood next to the gargantuan Staff Sergeant Ruddock, gazing up at him as he bellowed orders with fear and wonder in her eyes.

The second was that unlike Captain De Beaujolais, Freemonte had not retired from the service; he had been dismissed for alleged insubordination. There were few men of rank in the Guard, and in fact the rest of Albion, that were still prepared to freely associate with him for fear of what it may do to their social standing. It seemed that the good Captain was not so squeamish; he was a man of strong character who preferred to make his own judgements about men. This only led Freemonte to respect him even more making it very hard for him to address him as anything other than Captain De Beaujolais or Sir.

For her part, it seemed that ever since she was a little girl, Josephine had adored all the guardsmen and in particular, Freemonte had been shocked to learn, him. When she had come to Aberddu just after her sixteenth birthday, she had headed like many for the Adventurers Guild, only to find it populated by among many others a number of former Queen's Guard. A kind woman with long black hair whose name she could not remember had introduced her to the dashing Captain Freemonte, even though the introduction was unnecessary. He had taken her hand, kissed it and bowed deeply and she had been enchanted.

The paradise that Freemonte presently found himself in might well be short lived he realised. They had been married less than a month, barely back from their honeymoon tour of her relatives in Albion, when a messenger had arrived with a note that had lead them here.