They followed him, N’vonne, and Amarian into Telenar’s hut without comment. Telenar was not known for his social skills, but they could tell that he was agitated beyond his usual brusqueness. Even so, they made him wait for a few seconds while Chiyo demanded a bowl of warm soup and Vancien insisted that he stretch his legs. A three-day journey on an Ealatrophe was no casual matter. Finally, both men settled in enough to ask what was bothering the priest so much.
After looking hesitantly at Amarian for a go-ahead, Telenar began. “As you might guess, Amarian has been to visit the fennels in the southern woodlands in order to feel them out as allies.”
Chiyo nodded. “We knew that was in the works before we left.”
“Well, I didn’t meet with any success,” Amarian took over. “But one of the fennels—a kit—sought me out privately. She told me that she likes to go out exploring, often far afield from her new home.” He fixed his dark eyes on his brother, and though they held no trace of cheer, the shadows around them were disappearing. Despite his complaints, life at camp had been good for his constitution. “Vancien, the armies of Zyreio’s dead have risen. They’re preparing for battle.”
Vancien almost laughed out loud at such an absurdity, then he looked again at his brother, then Telenar and N’vonne. The looks on their faces told him that they were serious enough. But what they were telling him was impossible. Kynell had won the battle, albeit by unorthodox means. Zyreio was to be stilled for the next ten thousand scores of mornings and evenings. The only “enemy” they had now was that duped Corfe.
While he was still processing the news, Chiyo spoke. “How did you say you found out about this? A fennel kit?”
Amarian nodded. “As unlikely as it seems, yes.”
“Why would you trust a fennel informant, even a young one?”
“Hang on.” Amarian jumped to his feet and went to the door. Opening it a crack, he looked outside. Soldiers were wandering here and there, going about their chores. Some wives who had chosen to join their husbands at camp were doing laundry in the distance, outside of the ring of rude buildings. The voyoté were stabled in a large pen to his right. One of them was fixing an intent gaze on an adjacent woodpile, giving him the clue he was looking for.
“You can come out, Bedge. Come over here.”
Two eyes peered out from the shadow of the logs. Then a streak of brown and tan raced toward his feet.
“Bedge did not run for long. Bedge saw great big wings and was scared. Bedge followed Sir.”
“It’s all right. I want you to come in. There are some people who would like to meet you.”
He opened the door wider and allowed her inside. Bedge instinctively went to sit by N’vonne, who began to pet her.
Chiyo looked displeased. “What in Rhyvelad persuaded you to bring back a kit?”
Amarian shrugged. In his mind, the only person whose opinion mattered was Vancien’s. “She insisted on coming. Her parents are dead.”
Chiyo grunted but said nothing.
Vancien was fascinated, never having spoken with a fennel before. “Do you speak Keroulian?”
Bedge had started purring under N’vonne’s ministrations. “Bedge knows Keroulian.” Again, the long “oo.”
Vancien nodded. She must have been born in the Eastern Lands, where Keroulian had been spoken ever since Varrin, himself a Keroulian, had taken up residence there. He realized with a start that he didn’t know the nationalities of the other Advocates. Were they all from Keroul? Surely not. He had a dim memory of Tryun and Grens being from the West. . .the fennel kit stretched, bringing his attention back to the present.
“What’s your name?”
“Her name is Bedge.” Amarian interceded before the fennel could answer. Well-meaning as she was, her introduction of herself went on too long. “She followed me because she heard I served Kynell, or ‘the light-god,’ as she calls him.” He turned to her. “Tell them again what you saw in the windy place.”
Although originally terrified of recounting her expedition into the Eastern Lands, Bedge had begun to warm to the tale. Amarian noticed that the fennels had turned more eerie, the humans had become extremely violent and vicious, and the eyes of the Sentries were now red. Still, the meat of the account was the same.
Vancien had started pacing as she spoke. When she finished, he didn’t bother restraining his frustration. “How is this possible? Kynell won! He
won
. Zyreio can’t—”
He was cut off by his brother. “Zyreio can, Vancien. And if he can, he will. Think of it from his point of view. He was betrayed and now he wants vengeance. In his mind, the next ten thousand scores are his.”
N’vonne resumed stroking Bedge in the hopes that the fur would hide her shaking hand. “Forgetting that it shouldn’t happen, if we assume that it
did
happen, what do we do now?”
Amarian’s response was much the same and this time he had Chiyo to agree with him. “After all,” the general observed, “we don’t even know how to fight this type of enemy.”
“But we can’t just sit here and do nothing.” Vancien objected.
“So what do you suggest we do? Fight Zyreio with a handful of Cylini?” Amarian certainly believed his own protest, but he would have been lying if he said he had no ulterior motive: the thought of going back to the Eastern Lands made him almost sick.
Vancien turned moody, so Telenar took over. “To respond to Chiyo’s point, there is no recorded means whereby living soldiers can defeat Zyreio’s, er. . .” He stopped, wondering how to describe them. .” . .shall we say ‘reanimated’ army. This type of conflict has only happened once before. The battle between the first Advocates, Tryun and Grens, is the only struggle that lasted long enough for both forces to form and be deployed. Varrin and Heptar, Nejona and Erst. . .one brother was dead before either could raise his own followers.”
Bedge yawned. N’vonne shushed her but Telenar took the hint. “There must be something we can do,” he concluded lamely. “There are still Kynell’s own faithful to consider.”
All heads turned to Vancien, who looked as helpless as they felt. “I haven’t tried because I didn’t see a need. Surely Kynell will hear me now, though.”
Telenar nodded, happy to seize the hope. “Kynell responds in his own time. The point is, we no longer have any reason to stay here. We must head toward the Eastern Lands. Perhaps we can confront this army before it does any damage. ”
Later that evening, Vancien caught up with his brother as he was walking outside the camp. Bedge was hunting a little distance from them.
“Do the fennels know she’s gone?”
Amarian nodded, then cursed as a gust of wind blew chaff into his eyes. He dug at his face with the corner of his coarse sleeve. “The Chasm take these plains!” Then he looked at his stained and dirty clothes; the exquisite wardrobe he had brought from the east so long ago was stored away. “We live little better than beggars here.”
Though itching in his own clothes, Vancien had to disagree. “Not better than the beggars I saw in Lascombe. It’s wretched to be poor in the city, surrounded by people who don’t know how to help or else don’t want to. ‘Ian,” He put a hand on Amarian’s shoulder. “Did you know that they’ve started a slave market there?”
“A slave market?” Amarian had, of course, possessed slaves of his own in the Eastern Lands—mostly unwanted children or people kidnapped from the Ulanese. He still cringed when he thought of their misery. How did Kynell ever manage to forgive him for the things he had done? “I thought those abominations were outlawed in Keroul.”
Vancien shook his head, grieved by what his country was becoming. “It started this past breach. Apparently things are bad enough that people are selling their families. Now they’ve started selling Cylini captives.”
“I wonder how our friend Corfe justifies these new developments.”
Vancien had been wondering the same thing, too. A Prysm Advocate had never sanctioned slavery before; it was understood as a sign of man’s distance from Kynell. “I think he means well—in that he thinks he wants what Kynell wants. But so many things can get distorted when you think you’re an Advocate.”
Amarian grunted. Nobody knew that truth as well as he did. “When do we leave for Donech?”
“Do you think they’re still there?”
“It’ll be even worse for Rhyvelad if they’re not. Better that they stay close to home.”
At that moment, Bedge came bounding up, to the considerable relief of both men. It was hard to dwell on the negative with someone like her around. After dropping the gift of a dead bird at Amarian’s feet, she sat down.
“Nice hunting, Bedge.” Vancien commented, watching his brother’s reaction with amusement. Amarian was torn between retaining his gloomy dignity and acknowledging the gift with the warmth it deserved.
“Thank you, Bedge,” he prevaricated. “But you know that this is not enough to feed a man.”
The little fennel purred loudly. “Bedge knows. But Bedge’s other kill is too big to bring to Sir.”
Amarian and Vancien exchanged looks. Other kill? What exactly were fennel kits capable of? Curious, they followed her a little further into the meadow and were astonished to find a dead bohide—a large, slow bison-type that had killer instincts when cornered. Bedge gripped its tail in her teeth. “Bedge cannot carry slow-cow on her own.”
The entire camp ate well that night, with enough meat left over to salt and carry with them on the journey. The cooking team both grumbled and rejoiced at the provision, while Bedge instantly became the soldiers’ mascot. They took turns talking with her, petting her, and offering her choice tidbits. Amarian thought that such displays were unnecessary but the kit glowed under the attention. As he watched her preen, he had to remind himself that she had lost her mother at a very young age. A little extra attention surely would not hurt her. Even so, he was gratified that she still came when beckoned. He was jealous, though he would never admit it.
It took a few days, and some convincing, to get the small force ready to leave. The question that plagued them was whether it was better to inform the troops of their unsavory mission, thereby risking mass defection, or to keep their undertaking secret. Telenar, at Vancien and N’vonne’s urging, decided that it would only be right to tell the Cylini what they were in for. Chiyo could do with his own men what he chose, although once the word was out it would be impossible to contain.
The reaction among the Cylini was dispiriting. Telenar told them the news in their own language. As he did so, they began to murmur, then fidget, looking anxiously back over their shoulders to the trees. Many of the warriors had wives and children in those marshes and were unwilling to travel far from home to combat a mythical undead army. In the end, a handful remained—predictably, the ones with no dependent loved ones. Chiyo’s men had a little more time to decide. Their route would take them through the marshes, then south of the Duvarian Range, before crossing the Trmak desert and drawing near to the Eastern Lands. In a little over a week, they would be directly south of Lascombe. Those soldiers who wished to return to the city could do so at that point.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The mood was sober as Vancien and his companions broke camp one wet morning, packed away what was transportable, and made their start. By afternoon of that day, they were back in the marshes, moving swiftly in Cylini boats. The air was still as the boats glided through the murky waters. A few creatures in the trees made their calls, but the large number of vessels forestalled any more ominous interruptions. Rather than reassure them, however, the placid environment only added to the tension. It was as if the marshes were taking satisfaction in leaving the humans to their morbid imaginings.
Chiyo had his share of dark thoughts, though his concerned the past, not the future. He clenched his jaw as he remembered the last time he had entered this territory. His best lieutenant, Hunoi, had been killed during a Cylini ambush, felled by the first arrow of the assault. He had not even had a chance to bury him properly. Now they were gliding over the same waters that covered his friend’s body, aided by the same people who had taken his life. What a funny, horrible place the world was.
Telenar watched Chiyo with concern. The general’s commitment to Kynell was absolute, but sometimes Telenar wondered what he thought of their unusual circumstances. Chiyo had, after all, come from the West to serve Relgaré and the House of Anisllyr. Now the king was dead and Chiyo had broken ties with the throne—what was worse, he was leading a small force that could potentially become hostile to the House of Anisllyr, should Relgaren make as many unwise choices as his father had. Telenar was not a soldier, but he understood the importance of loyalty, and in some ways Chiyo was showing more loyalty to the throne by opposing it. He could always have returned home to the West and let the Keroulians deal with their own problems (however short-lived an illusion that would be, since Zyreio was everybody’s problem). Yet here he was, in a Cylini boat, ready to lead a tiny group of men and women against a massive and unpredictable enemy. Telenar shook his head. The general may not be a scholar of the Ages, but he was committed to the right things.
The observation brought Telenar some comfort, but not much. There still remained the problem of how they could possibly confront Zyreio’s army. He had spent the past few days studying not only the Ages, but the few books of history he had brought with him. As always, the Ages had proven more useful: those histories written under Relgaré’s reign were worthless for his purposes. According to them, the Advocates existed only as figurative representatives of moral epochs, whatever that meant. But the Ages were refreshing in their bluntness. The struggle between Tryun and Grens had been bloody and drawn-out: Grens’ reanimated Obsidian forces collided with those of Tryun in the Battle of the Knuckle, which turned out to be a complete disaster for the Prysm. The theater of war at that time was the Trmak Desert, which had once been lush rolling hills—the most sought-after land in Rhyvelad. Grens had held the high ground, a ridge running north to south called the Knuckle, so named because of its uneven, undulating surface. Although Tryun’s army was large, it struggled to capture the ridge. At first, the Prysm Advocate had forbidden his living soldiers to participate in the fight because of the danger from Grens’ reanimated forces. Only when his own reanimated soldiers had been cut down by Obsidian did he command his living men to flank the Knuckle on the north and the south. They did, and although they caught the reanimated troops by surprise, they discovered that living men could not prevail against dead ones. Tryun ordered a withdrawal, but during the course of the retreat, a flaming arrow pierced him in the eye. He was killed instantly and with him, the Prysm’s chances of overcoming Obsidian. It was said (not by the Ages), that the despair of good men and women was so great that it turned the rolling hills of Trmak into barren desert. Telenar thought it was a fitting legend, but subscribed to the belief that a dramatic climate change occurring about a hundred cycles after the battle accounted for the Trmak’s fate—he had the history books to thank for that.