CITY OF BRIDGES

7

Attack in the Night

Feiron slowed Argus and steered him towards a clearing by the side of the road. Even though they were only a short distance from the bridge, they remained out of sight from the riders behind a raised mound surrounded by trees.

“What is it?”

“Before we go any further, I better check your wound.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Feiron ignored her and moved to the rear of the cart.

Leonie was tired and sore. Sighing, she examined the wound in more detail. In the fleshy area below her armpit, a piece of wood had embedded itself between her ribs. Any deeper could have been serious. Feiron need not know that, she decided. Extending a claw, she gingerly prised the splinter out, needing to cut a bit of skin to extract it. Hissing at the effort and nauseous with the pain, sweat matted her fur and trickled down her neck and back.

Feiron returned with a small ceramic flask stoppered with a waxed cork, a bowl of water and some cloth. He rinsed the matted blood from her fur then gently smeared the wound with an ugly, grey-coloured ointment. It was thick enough to slow the bleeding, but smelled hideous, reminding her of dead fish rotting in the sun.

“The Lyhosians call it miwalli,” he said. “I’m told it does wonders for almost everything.”

“I reckon I’ll call it fish-rot. It certainly clears the lungs, though.” She winced as he wrapped a length of the cloth around her ribs. “Why do you have it? I didn’t think your type got cuts?”

“I try to prepare for every possibility.”

Leonie carefully swung her arms around, turned and twisted to check her manoeuvrability, testing her limitations. “Those riders were in a hurry. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“What and admit to my paranoia? That bridge is down for good. I think we’re safe for now.”

“Being paranoid has saved me before. I’d better check. I won’t sleep if I don’t. And you know how irritating I can be without sleep.”

“Even with slee—”

Leonie cut him off. “Don’t get too comfortable in case we need to leave in a hurry. Another run like that won’t be good for Argus.”

Slinking into the trees, she was nothing more than a whisper, using the foliage to keep out of sight. She reached the clearing in a matter of minutes, careful not to strain her wound. Across the ravine, Leonie saw the men between two fires. By their mannerisms, they were arguing, but the rumble of the water and distance proved sufficient to drown out any details. They had erected tents; the horses unsaddled and tethered to one side.

Maybe I am too paranoid. Leonie waited, pulling a face as the dampness seeped into her fur. The men were settling down. They wouldn’t have bothered setting up a camp in the first place if they were intending to pursue tonight. Satisfied, she returned to Feiron with her news. Her injury had scabbed over while she watched, but the movement caused it to bleed again. Feiron won’t be happy.

“You’re sure they’re the same ones from the River Inn?” Feiron asked when Leonie returned with her news.

“Positive. I recognised the one that spoke out last night. When I left, they were bickering around a fire. I think they’ll wait for first light before they attempt to cross. Since they can’t see in the dark, it’d be suicidal for them to try.”

Setting up camp became routine. Fed and watered, Feiron gave Argus a good rub down while Leonie looked for firewood dry enough to set alight. By the time she returned with a meagre load of wood, Feiron had almost finished setting the tent. She dumped the wood in a pile, sorted out the kindling and larger pieces, then started a small fire with a minute dose of power. The damp wood hissed and steamed in protest as the flames licked around them.

“Let’s keep this fire small and douse it as soon as we’re finished. It doesn’t feel right, knowing those mercenaries are so close – even if they are stranded.”

They set a pot to boil; the fire put out straight after. Soon, with steaming cups of tea, nut-loaf and cheese from the inn, they had time to rest in relative comfort. Both relieved the rain hadn’t spoiled it.

The small amount of powershaping earlier had wearied her more than she expected. She decided she might not be thinking clearly. Leonie leant back against a wheel of the cart and tried to get comfortable, but couldn’t settle down. Faint background noises kept intruding; Argus munching on leaves, his feet breaking twigs as he moved, his tail dragging along behind; Feiron’s movements; the clink of cups, the swish of the tent flap opening and closing…

The clatter of tin pots woke her. She sat up, wincing at the twinge in her side, realising she had dropped off to sleep.

“Sorry to startle you,” Feiron said. “More food, perhaps?”

She nodded, rubbing her eyes. While she nibbled, she recalled dreaming of the River Inn; images of patrons in farm attire eating. Robed figures, with a hint of metal armour underneath, burst in and set the place ablaze. Men and women ran screaming, but couldn’t get out.

She described it to Feiron. “I can’t shake this feeling. Am I tired or still being paranoid?”

“About those men? We can assume the search in Delta failed; they’d have to try somewhere else. They’re looking for a half-rrell… and here you are.”

“But why didn’t they grab us at the inn? Why wait until now? Why this mad dash across the country in the dark? And why,” she finished, “are they wearing those cloaks with no insignia? What are they hiding?”

“Who knows? They might be mercenaries working with the Deltan guards. Maybe they received a message. There are spies in Delta, you know.” He winked at her. “Those assassins certainly knew about the book. If we find who they were working for, we may find who our real enemy is. And not forgetting, south of Qelay, most guards answer to either Zander or one of the temples.”

“Tell me,” she said, gathering the tin plates, “you’ve been studying the book. What could it possibly say to get Zander, or anyone, so concerned? Assuming there’s any truth about him being this ‘high one’. It’s just a book.”

“The future and the past.” He put his cup down and picked up the book, flicking through it with a small tentacle. “One entry mentions the arrival of the eternal high ones, as I mentioned earlier, strangers who arrive on a pillar of fire. It says they are eternal and will bring with them great secrets far beyond our understanding, bestowing blessings and good fortune on those who follow them and believe in them. The interpretation is ambiguous.”

Feiron quoted from the tome. “… ‘and a great light shall fall through the sky, bringing new wisdom and magic in a sky-vessel. Within lie those with great secrets that will enable the Chosen to return to their own origins.’ Another entry, dated a century later, also mentions the arrival, but declares the strangers are not what they seem and will eventually bring ruin and damnation on those who follow. The more devout the worshipper, the further the fall.”

“I bet that part isn’t taught to them.”

“There are several entries, all differ slightly.”

“That’s the way with all predictions,” Leonie argued. “They say so many things – and none of it makes sense.”

“Ah well, the essential details are similar. They do all agree with people coming from the sky. Perhaps the discrepancies are due to the amount of time between the different foretellings. The phrases are in differing styles and handwriting, an indication the book had been passed around a lot. We will have to ask Styx; to confirm the origins of the city and the rumours surrounding Zander, Dianah and Bren.”

“Who actually wrote it? How old is it?”

“There is no mention of any specific author, but the earliest entry here is,” he paused, flicking through the pages, “in 223. There’s a century between some entries.”

“That’d make the book over a thousand years old.” She came over after cleaning up the dishes, wiping her paws on her loose shirt.

“Remarkable yes, and durable. I’m intrigued to know from what the pages are made.”

Leonie considered this while she banked up the fire. “All this is about the past; does it mention anything about now or the future?”

“There’s a reference to the races returning to their origins… and also a mention of the departing of the high ones from this world.”

“They die? You said they were eternal.”

“Depends on your interpretation of ‘eternal’. It might mean ‘eternal life’, as some religions preach, which still involves death, but ‘departing from this world’ does not have to mean dying. Remember, they were from another planet or world. I’ve heard sages speak of the theory of other worlds. They say the stars are like our own sun, though very distant.”

“But—”

“It’s only theory and far beyond my understanding. No need to lose any sleep over it I should think. It’s not as if we will ever know the truth.”

A few drops of rain began to fall, so they moved the conversation to the tent.

“Do you think other worlds would be like ours?” she persisted as they made themselves comfortable inside.

“Who knows what they are like? I’m no scholar, but I’ve been around, and a few things have occurred to me. All the races have their own unique mythology. We are all so very different; humans, rrell, voriens, seleth, glins’ool and hroltahgs, yet there is one thing common to all, hints that in the distant past we were not of this world. None of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“For instance, in a lot of the legends from several races there is no mention of twin moons.”

Leonie turned to him, waiting. “And?” she prompted.

“That’s it. Only a mention of one moon; we have two. Where are the legends including both moons?”

“Myths and rumours,” she muttered from the darkness. “Maybe bad translation …” she yawned, “or just make-believe stories for the young.”

“Ah yes, but all rumours and lies – at least the best ones – have an element of truth.”

“So, you believe them?”

“Until I know for sure either way, I wouldn’t discount them completely.”

Leonie’s ears twitched. Her head came up sharply.

“Hear something?”

She nodded. “Stay here,” she whispered. “I’ll take a look.” Crawling under the rear tent flap, Leonie skirted the edge of the camp, avoiding the light from the fire. She made her way in the direction of the noise; her dark figure blending with the shadows of the underbrush. To her right, she heard Argus snorting and chomping on leaves, undisturbed.

Halfway to the tree line, her hackles rose. Deep within her being, she sensed a familiar tug – someone drawing power. Leonie gazed about anxiously. There – a faint glow off the trail where the trees were thickest – she saw a dark-robed figure raising an arm.

Running across the sodden earth and dodging trees, her injury prevented her from using all four paws. Maybe it was the images of the dream haunting her, but she had a sense of deja vu. As she closed the distance, she was both concerned and relieved to make out only the one figure. Where are the others?

Her best chance was to get him as he stood in concentration. Leonie recognised it before it happened; the releasing of the power. She was too late. There was a blinding flash followed by a thunderous explosion. Flames engulfed the tent.

She hurled herself at him, glimpsing the surprise on his face before they both went down in a ball of fur and robes. A cry of agony punctuated the brief struggle. At first, neither of them moved, and then slowly, the robed figure stood up and staggered off into the woods, back towards the chasm. The crackling of the burning tent was drowned out by the frightened di’anth as its bellowing cut the night.

Leonie lay unmoving in the long grass. A large snake slithered up to her through the underbrush, its tongue darting in and out. There was a brief blurring as it transformed into the illios. He flattened his body and oozed underneath, lifted and carried her gently back to the cart. Placing her on the ground, he splashed a small amount of water on her face.

After a few moments, Leonie regained consciousness. With his help, she sat up slowly, ruefully rubbing her head. There was a large lump already forming behind her left ear. “So much for landing on my feet. That’s the second time tonight I’ve fallen flat on my face.” She scanned the campsite noting the smoking ruins of their tent, then back up to the path. “Where’s that bastard? I could’ve sworn I got him.”

“You did, but it took a while. He collapsed a little beyond the tree line. Take it easy for a few minutes and catch your breath. Where do you hurt the most?”

“Everywhere.” While waiting for her head to stop spinning, Leonie examined her bandaged wound. The brief tussle had reopened the gash, and it was bleeding again.

“I will get more bandage,” Feiron offered, seeing her bloodied paws.

“Don’t worry. This blood’s not mine,” she said.

“We better see to that at least.” He pointed to her ribs.

“What happened? I left you back in the tent?”

“Your hearing is superior. If you think you heard something to cause alarm, that’s all I needed.”

“The book?” Ignoring the throbbing in her head and side, she stumbled to where the tent had been, and searched the smouldering debris. She straightened up with the blackened tome in her grasp. The leather cover was charred. Thinking the book ruined, she thumbed through the pages. They were undamaged.

Feiron joined her. “An unusual material indeed.”

Now that they had found the book, Feiron insisted she sit down to allow him to dress her wounds and examine her head properly. She complained, but kept still long enough for him to attend to the minor injuries.

When he finished, they went to examine the attacker’s body. They found him face down amongst the underbrush.

“Thought so. One of the fellows from the inn.” It was easy to see the manner of death; he had lost a lot of blood from a severed artery in his thigh.

“It would have been good to ask him some questions.”

“He wasn’t in a talkative mood.” Leonie crouched to search him for some indication of whom he really worked for. “A ‘soaker’; he’s removed his chain mail otherwise he wouldn’t be able to cast. Metal interferes with drawing power,” she explained. “Channelers cast using the power from within, so can wear armour.”

“You seem to know a bit about powershaping,” Feiron said. “I’m curious how you knew to cast the fire spell earlier.”

“I didn’t really cast anything.” She brushed back some of her fur and showed him the ring on her finger. “I ‘found’ this in my travels and managed to learn a bit about it. I thought you’d know more.”

“We illios have no ability to cast; something to do with our body; the way we are formed.”

“Yeah well, like I said, I’m no powershaper. I can see it, but only know the one trick, and that’s purely because of the ring.” She looked at the body again. “He was taking a risk to fireball us – unless he knew the book would be safe.” She continued with her search, finding a belt-pouch containing several coins. Some were Deltan, but others were from Reenat, as indicated by the etching of a rampant gryphon and crown, the emblem of the Royal House of Athglenn.

“This chap’s been on the road for a while. I wonder what he was doing all the way up there.” Feiron pointed out the coin’s origins.

“Spying perhaps.” Leonie noticed a medallion with a motif of a flame under the robes. “This certainly explains a lot.” She reached for it, but the moment she laid her paw upon it a flash of scorching heat assailed her. Dropping the disc with a hiss, she whipped her singed paw to her mouth. “You know what this means?” she asked, sucking her fingertips.

“More bandages?” Feiron recognised the Fire temple motif on the round metal disc. “Indeed. The Brotherhood of the Flame. We have a group of Woorin zealots after us.”

“This could be bad,” she said.

“The Woorin temple has been trying for decades to oust the Watchers – those worshipping Eternix – from being Zander’s pets. Maybe this book can do it for them, or perhaps a force to be taken more seriously. But then again, perhaps Zander’s still behind this. I hear he can be devious, pitting one group against the other.”

“Let’s hope other sects aren’t in on it, otherwise we’ll have a religious war on our paws.” Leonie stood up and brushed the dirt off her knees. They turned to go back to camp. Halfway there, Leonie stopped abruptly.

“Idiot,” she muttered. “How’d he get across?” She glanced at Feiron. “And where are the others?”

Both turned as one to the path and raced back to the cliff.

* * *