Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (32 page)

Owein sat up.

The platters were empty.

Chancellor Eridanean was smiling broadly.

All around, the elves rose and formed a procession toward one of the fatter tree trunks.

“Now,” said the chancellor, “we ask you to join us in celebrating the rise of Aelmuligo to its highest point in the sky. It is tradition amongst my people to ascend to the tallest limbs of our tree-city to pay homage to the House of the Gods. It will be the closest we ever come to them in this life.” He gestured to the throng of elves issuing up the tree.

“Well, Owein, shall we?”

He turned around. It was Fulo, indicating the queue. Vrei was already well along, with Levwit and Cavada. Shazahd and Audim had disappeared.

“I’ll be all right,” Owein said. “You go ahead.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Nah. I think I’ll just… go for a walk.”

Fulo and Gor’m left him to join the others.

Owein noted the various directions people were taking to head skyward, and chose a different one.

In the topmost branches of the great tree, thousands of elves perched themselves into the nooks and arcades of the western side. Whole families sat together, lining spindly boughs as far as could be seen. It was a communal affair, and the city’s entire populous was out to take part in it.

Shazahd and Audim climbed a little higher than most, and found themselves a secluded area obscured by a burst of leaves. It was open to the sky above, and the first of the night’s many, many stars were beginning to twinkle as the sun’s light faded.

They lay down along the tree together, with Shazahd wrapped in her fiancé’s arms. She could feel the warmth of his heartroot necklace pressed against her back. They were still for a long time.

“Shazahd,” Audim whispered into her hair. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in years.”

“It’s been three weeks.”

“I know. But I’ve had to say goodbye to you so often these past few Quarters… I don’t think I could bear to see you leave again.”

“I won’t.”

“Let’s marry.”

She laughed. “That is the plan,” she said.

“Let’s do it tonight. Right now.”

“Tonight?” she lifted her head to look at him. She could see that he was ready to spring to his feet.

“Why not? Tonight’s the perigee. The gods are so close we can almost touch them.”

They looked out at Aelmuligo climbing across the sky. It was enormous – consuming the western horizon. They could see the squiggling ridges of vast mountain ranges, the dark-blue waves of tectonic plates beneath oceans, and the fuzzy green carpet of continental flora. Swirls and splotches of pearly white clouds wrapped all the way around it.

“I could find a cleric in two minutes,” Audim went on, “we could –! …What’s the matter?” Shazahd didn’t know what to say. “You …haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“No. No, I haven’t. Of course I haven’t.” He was about to say something else. “Audim,” she said, “I pledged my love to you years ago – and I meant it. I meant it then and I mean it now. But there’s no rush. The world will still be here tomorrow. For now… let’s just be. Okay?”

“Be?”

“We are together. That’s all that matters. Why think of anything else?” She squeezed his hand and laid her head against his chest.

He reclined against the tree.

“
Be
…” he echoed.

He watched the stars above. They were growing brighter and more abundant as the sky darkened. The oncoming night painted purple streaks across its face.

Owein crossed one of the Inner City’s many suspended footbridges and noticed it was getting very dark. Distant windows, lit from within, glowed like fireflies all around the tree. The leafy canopy above blocked what little skylight remained.

The bridge turned into a thin ledge that circumscribed a fairly narrow, vertical trunk. The platform wound around the tree in a spiral, leading down. It was too dark to see how far.

Owein followed it, since his only alternative was to double back.

After a short time he heard the clinking of someone bustling below. It sounded like they might be working in a kitchen. A little lower down he encountered a hole in the side of the trunk, a window. There was a fire burning inside, which flooded the tiny room with rich, orange light. He saw the form of a dark-haired woman bent over, tending to the fire. She hummed to herself.

Owein continued along the path until he found a door in the wall of the tree. As he passed it, he heard the woman inside call out.

“Well, you might as well come on inside, then.”

He froze.

Was she talking to me?
Owein thought.

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” she said aloud. Then the door behind him opened, spilling orange light everywhere. Her sharp, blue eyes cut right through him.

“Tea’s almost ready,” she said, and disappeared back inside.

Owein faltered for a moment. Then he ignored the voice of reason inside his head and followed her in.

Her puny one-room living space would’ve been a broom closet in New Gresad. A semi-circular couch followed the curvature of the tree and served as both a sitting area and, Owein guessed, sleeping area. There was a small table opposite that, beside an upright stove, over which hung a steaming kettle. The diminutive woman took the kettle off its hook and filled a clay teapot.

“My name is –”

“Forget it,” she said. “Names aren’t necessary. Please, sit down.” She motioned toward the couch. Owein sat.

“…How did you –?”

“You needn’t bother asking me any questions. I don’t have any good answers for you.”

“…Well, thanks for –” Owein cut himself off. “Let me guess,” he said. “Don’t say thanks either?”

She gave him a toothy smile from over her shoulder.

“My. You catch on quick, don’t you?”

“No offense, Mistress,” he said, “but you don’t look too much like an elf.”

“Don’t I?” she said, tinkering with the tea set.

“Well, your hair for one thing. And you’re pretty short, don’t you think?”

She turned around. Owein, seated, was still taller.

“Well, we’re not all half an
entil
tall, if that’s what you mean.” She pulled back her wiry, brown hair and showed Owein one of her pointed ears.

“See?”

“Ah.”

“Here we go.” She offered Owein a miniature teacup.

“Thanks,” he said, smelling it. The steamy aroma was not like tea he was used to. It was tangier. The liquid was dark red, and its scent prickled his nostrils.

“It’s a special elvish blend,” she said as she took a seat next to him.

He took a baby sip, only wetting his lips. The flavor from that tiny amount exploded across his mouth in a flash. He inhaled, and inadvertently bathed his nasal passages with it too. He felt his entire head warming from the inside out.

“You like it?”

“Yes… yes. It’s very good.”

“So tell me. How are you enjoying your stay here?”

“Well, I like it very much. You elves are awfully hospitable. Case in point,” he raised the cup, then took another sip. She smiled back at him. There was something peculiar about her appearance, but Owein couldn’t put a finger on it. Her features seemed a little too squashed together.

“We find that treating someone well is like making an investment in that person. An investment that tends to pay back very high returns.”

“I can see that.” He took another sip. His dinky cup was almost finished. “This is very good, by the way, really,” and he finished it off.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Somewhere in the distance, music from an eerie chorus crept into the little room with Owein and the elf woman. It was a choir of a thousand ghostly voices.

“What’s that?” asked Owein.

“That’s the Aelmuligo Hymn. A paean to the gods in heaven. Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, please. Aelmuligo Hymn?”

She got up to refill Owein’s cup.

“We elves are a very musical bunch,” she explained. “We find all sorts of occasions for song. This one, one of the most special, we sing only once every twenty-two years – when Aelmuligo reaches its perigee. Here you go.”

She handed back his cup, and he brought it immediately to his lips.

“Thank y– oh, right. Sorry.”

“Of course,” she said.

As the elven matron slid back on the couch, she muttered something so quietly Owein couldn’t quite hear. The music from outside was growing louder. She either said, “Everything is safe here,” or “Anything for the Savior.”

Captain Vrei stood upright, holding onto a sprig for support. The horde of elves sang out all around her, softly at first. She saw that their eyes were closed. They held hands. They held each other. And they swayed gently to the rhythm of their music.

It was a spooky melody, haunting, and she found it more enchanting than the sight of the giant, glowing planet that dominated the star-speckled sky.

Audim hummed softly to Shazahd in their secret place at the top of the tree. She sang back in perfect harmony. Their two parts were separate and distinct from each other, but fit seamlessly together. Music danced all around them, low and hypnotizing.

She clung to him, and soon they lost the sound of their own voices in the building roar of the song.

A thick wall of incredible noise overwhelmed Levwit Balkenthron. Just behind him a thousand-strong choir of elves was gathered along a wide branch, and they sang together with impressive gusto. He was showered with voices, and had to close his eyes. Once he got the hang of it he began improvising his own part, picking out harmonies on a whim.

On the deck of
Gilderam
, obscured in leafy shadow, crewmen who had been relaxing were now riveted in place. Cups were held un-drank, and mouths hung open in mid-conversation as the hair-raising chant swam over, around and through them.

The only movement was the occasional shudder of a chill running down someone’s spine.

Owein came to.

He hadn’t fainted. He hadn’t slept at all, he was sure. But he did suddenly become aware of his surroundings as though he had.

He was still in the tiny, orange room with the strange elf woman. She was still sitting beside him.

“I… I – uh….” He tried to say something, but no words would come to him.

“It’s all right, dear,” said the elf. “Just relax.”

She took his cup, which was empty again.

Owein couldn’t move his arms.

I’ve been drugged!
his mind shouted.
No
…
not drugged, exactly.
He was sure he could move if he wanted to, but… for some reason… he lacked all desire to do so.

Consciously, he told himself to get up.

But his subconscious wouldn’t allow it.

The elf-song grew louder in his ears. The rising and falling of it captivated him, enthralled him. It was so beautiful….

How could any song be so bewitching?

The last thing Owein saw before his eyelids fell was the back of the elf woman as she busied herself with the tea things. She was humming along with the Aelmuligo Hymn.

Then the world went black.

Heliographs flashed a silent storm of communication between the ships, blinking like little stars across the fleet. Five hundred vessels comprised the armada, and orders for every single one of them came from the flagship
Vacthor
.

They had left New Gresad in a spike formation, but found that the trailing exhaust compounded and concentrated until the air was wholly unbreathable for the posterior half of the fleet. This many ships had never flown together before. Afterward the formation had been changed so that the ships fanned out across a wide arc. Now the choking fumes were free to disperse into a dirty, yellow haze that trailed behind them in the sky.

They had crossed twelve thousand
itthum
of scenic Gresadian plains, hills and prairies, villages, pastures and farms. The armada finally came to a halt before the mighty forest of Divar. Potholos, the Empire’s southernmost city, peeked over the hills behind them, barely visible from this distance. The tiny sliver of land between that settlement and the forest was the area of contention known as the Memdian Marches.

The border between Gresadia and Divar was distinctly drawn by an abrupt line of trees that marched from east to west. The trees formed a wall of bark against the grassland, with trunks growing so thickly clustered together that a human body couldn’t hope to squeeze between them.

The tightly packed forest was enormous, and cut across the land as a cohesive whole, never breaking or dispersing. The placement of the forest beside the flat geography of southern Gresadia provided a freakish and unnatural looking contrast.

The fleet was divided into twelve admiralties, and each of those was further divided into four or more battle groups. Captain Holth commanded a battle group of six vessels: his own destroyer, two galleons, a gunship, and two frigates. His ship, the
CH Mogcor
, flew halfway down the eastern arm of the armada. The Empress’ flagship, the vast floating citadel
Vacthor
, led them from dead center.

The
Vacthor
ground slowly to a halt before the forest, and signaled for the rest of the fleet to do likewise. Holth watched the flagmen on deck, who received the message from the
CH Atrac Ainené
,
and relayed it to the bridge using semaphore flags.

“Full Stop,” called out Helmsman Rodroth. He adjusted the engine order telegraph.

“Full Stop,” echoed the pilot.

A bell rang out. A second later, and they felt the ambient drone of the engines die away as the
Mogcor
gently lost speed.

“Just look at that,” said Emdun, the other helmsman. “Trees forever.”

“They say the elves have no need of airships,” said Rodroth, “because the forest takes them wherever they want to go.”

“What, they just walk there? It’s so huge….”

“The forest has magic. So they say.”

“People say a lot of things,” said Captain Holth, crossing to the front of the bridge. From there he could see the front end of the
Vacthor
a few
itthum
away. The rest of it was blocked by the shiny, bluesteel hull of the
CH Atrac Ainené
, one of Gresadia’s prized battleships. “But they won’t need magic to go where we’re going to send them.”

The hulking battleship was covered in armor. It boasted four primary gun decks and rows upon rows of cannon hatches. Its regal bow thrust proudly forward like the beak of an eagle, and atop its spine rose a sleek, stately conning tower. Two of the largest turbines ever constructed rested on either side of the vessel, and were responsible for making it the fastest ship in the world – despite its heavy armor plating.
Gilderam
had yet to officially demonstrate a superior airspeed. However, while escorting the lumbering fleet, which is only as fast as its slowest ship, the oversized jets were supremely wasted.

Admiral Marmod commanded it, one of only three in the fleet. Next to the
Vacthor
, the battleships were the largest vessels ever built, and marked the latest addition to the Empire’s already impressive aerial arsenal.

Holth surveyed the thing enviously. A blinking heliograph snagged his attention. The tiny, flashing mechanism was communicating with his ship, as well as with the other battle groups in Marmod’s admiralty to the east. Holth tried to decipher it, but his coding skills were more than a little rusty.

“Battle group… one…” he muttered under his breath, counting the flashes. “Three ships… advance.” He was proud he got that much. Then, as the reality of the order dawned on him, his pride vanished. It was replaced by an awful wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Battle group one,” Rodroth called out, reading the flags from the deck. “Send three ships forward.” Then he turned to Emdun, the other helmsman, and asked, “We’re battle group five, aren’t we?”

“Still are, yeah.”

“Maintain position,” said Holth, strolling to the front to look ahead.

“Maintaining position,” came the reply.

Holth situated himself between the two helmsmen, standing determinedly with his hands behind his back.

“Captain,” Rodroth asked. “Why are they ordering just three ships to move out? Seems like a strange tactic, doesn’t it?”

“Just thank the gods it wasn’t us,” he said as three puny airships, two sloops and a caravel, floated past the rest of the fleet toward the forest. “These guys are cannon fodder.”

The rest of the armada watched, poised on the literal brink of war, as the three little ships sailed loyally out over the lush trees of Divar. They were privateer vessels, paid mercenaries, enlisted in Her Imperial Majesty’s service. The naval strategists weren’t foolish enough to send their own ships in first.

Once they were a full
itth
into Divaran territory, the order was given for them to proceed with bombardment. Kegs of powder were primed, their fuses lit, and they were rolled overboard. The eyes of every sailor watched intently as the first handful of bombs fell into the trees.

There was a moment’s pause before they saw the upper canopies quiver from the explosions underneath.

More flashes from the
Atrac Ainené
.

More bombs fell from the three ships.

After another volley, dark smoke began wafting up through the trees and seeped into the sky. Still more kegs rolled off the deck. Branches rattled again and again from the bursting of bombs. The smoke grew thicker and blacker.

After another merciless round of bombing, tongues of flame began lashing up through the leaves below. The massive trees were burning below.

And more bombs fell.

“Well,” said Emdun, relieved. “Seems as though there’s not mu–”

But he was rendered speechless by what he saw ahead. A gargantuan bolt – the size of an elder tree – sprang from the forest. It flew with uncanny speed, propelled by a mysterious and extremely powerful force, and tore right through one of the sloops. The bolt, being a little larger than the ship itself, obliterated its target. Another one appeared just after the first – and a third – all from different locations.

There was no time to react.

No opportunity to evade.

The other two craft were skewered just like the first, smashed to pieces and completely destroyed. Their splintered remains rained onto the forest and disappeared into the trees.

The helmsmen gulped.

“…You were saying, Lieutenant?” the captain asked rhetorically.

“Uh oh,” said Rodroth, looking out the starboard window. “Here come our orders.”

He was watching the flashes from the deck of the
Atrac Ainené
. Now the whole bridge was watching. Captain Holth was doing his best to interpret them before….

“Battle groups one, two and three,” Rodroth translated. “Proceed forward and engage.”

They watched as over a dozen vessels from all around them chugged through the air over the forest. The smoldering patch where the initial attack took place was still smoking healthily. They could see more ships from the other side of the fleet were moving too, another dozen and a half.

“So that was just a test,” someone said. “This is the real attack?”

“Looks like it,” Holth replied gruffly.

And they watched.

Knowing what was waiting for them, this wave wasted no time. They started dumping bombs almost before they were over the forest, and generously. The ships bunched together and proceeded slowly in a tight formation. These aircraft weren’t privateers, they were professional Imperial Navy men – bluejacks.

Their heliographs flickered madly, communicating a nonstop, frenetic shouting match. They coordinated their attack to make sure every tree they flew over was burning before they passed it.

Working in tandem, they systematically cut a path of fire straight across the forest. When it appeared that they might have figured out a way around the elves’ defenses, chaos erupted.

The same elephantine bolts that had decimated the first wave came flying from the forest floor. Maybe twenty of them – in the space of a heartbeat. And every single one hit a target.

It happened so fast that had Holth blinked, he might’ve missed the pulverization of half the attacking ships. The surviving half went wild.

The formation broke apart. Pilots veered unpredictably to shake off elvish artillery crews. Some rammed into each other since they were so closely packed at the onset of the assault. That took care of another four ships.

Many more cleared their ballasts to seek haven in higher altitudes. A few, the most cowardly, turned tail and fled back for the safety of Gresadian skies.

That strategy, as it turned out, was the least effective of all.

“
Threithumé
…” Emdun cursed. “They’re… they’re actually firing on our own ships!”

It was the Empress’ flagship herself, the
Vacthor
. Iron-tipped bolts soared from her forward gun decks in long arcs at the fleeing ships. A couple hit true, and sank cleanly into varride balloons. One pierced a deck like a pin, standing on end.

They had the perfect view from the bridge of the
Mogcor
.

“They should know better than to disobey orders,” said Holth. “No one sounded the retreat.”

Three ships made it close enough to get within cannon range and were quickly dismantled. Holth and his men could hear the bangs a few seconds behind the action. They watched with grim fascination as heavy iron shot peppered the hulls and balloons of the traitors’ ships.

One was smart, and turned back around to return to the forest, heavily damaged but still flying. The other two went down in short order.

“It’s just not right…” Rodroth reflected out loud. “That attack was suicide. They didn’t stand a chance.”

The wounded vessel returned to the fray where the others were still circling precariously, dropping bombs sporadically. Every so often another elvish projectile sailed up from the trees, its origin always unguessable, and struck another ship. The hit was always direct – always straight through the hull – and always fatal.

“If they don’t,” said Holth, “…then neither do we.”

Emdun noticed his captain wasn’t watching the battle, but was staring fixedly out the starboard window.

The heliograph was blinking again.