Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (8 page)

“Ah. The strong, silent, murderous type, I see.”

“Are you guys noticing something?” Owein asked as he shouldered past another person squeezing to get by him.

“It’s a bit crowded, eh?” said Fulo, blatantly elbowing someone out of his way.

“Not just that. We’re headed this way, but everyone else seems to be headed
that
way.”

The others saw it, too. They were going upstream. The entire population of Erand seemed to be moving in one direction only.

“Excuse me,” said Owein to a passerby. “But do you know where everyone is going?”

The two stopped amid the throng, and the stranger cocked an eyebrow at him. Judging by his expensive clothes and clean hands, Owein guessed he was a merchant.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” said the merchant.

“Just passing through.”

“Well, word has gotten out that Councilor Thalius was killed in the night during a hijacking gone wrong. You know, Imperial Councilor Thalius?”

Owein looked back to the group. They were still moving. Shazahd was easy to spot, being taller than the others and leading the pack in a bright white dress and hat. She stood out like a beacon against the dark, earthy colors of Erand.

“Yeah, I know. So what?”

“So
what?
So the Empress is going to declare war on Divar. He was the only councilor to oppose it. We’re heading to the Cathedral of Geithoron to hear the announcement.”

“What announcement?”

“My, you really aren’t from around here, are you? The Church is about to excommunicate the entire country. You better hurry – you won’t want to miss the show!” And the merchant vanished into the crowd, leaving Owein standing like a rock in a turbulent sea of bodies.

“
Excommunicate
…” he echoed to himself, then ran to catch up with the others. “Shazahd!” he called out, pushing his way past the denizens. “Shazahd! We may have to cut this trip a little short.”

“Short? Why?”

“Nonsense,” said Pawl. “We’re already here.” He indicated the storefront.

Owein rejoined them just as they were about to enter a five-story machinery shop. They had to wait for a deluge of customers to exit before they could get near the doors, and when they finally did, a clerk appeared with a “Closed” sign and hung it up.

“Sorry, Lords – My Lady,” he said, seeing Shazahd. She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped when he added, “We’re not open today.”

“Not open?!” Galif exclaimed.

“Today’s not a holy day,” said Pawl. “Why would you be closed?”

“Holy day?” the clerk said. “Today’s the exact opposite. Boss told us to close, so now we’re closed. Sorry, My Lords. Lady.” Before they could protest any further, the clerk slammed the doors in their faces.

“Of all the rudeness…” said Pawl, flummoxed.

“I don’t think we’re going to find much help here,” Owein said. “Councilor Thalius’ death means that the Empress is free to declare war on Divar, and the Church is about to excommunicate the country.”

“
Bacar
…” Fulo swore.

“Everyone’s gathering at some cathedral to witness the announcement,” Owein said. “We should probably head back to the ship. Things could turn ugly.”

“Not yet,” said Shazahd. “There’s one more place we can try. This way.”

They turned around, but a small group of young men was blocking their path in the street.

“
Threithum corumuligo!
” one of them yelled, raising a fist in the appropriate salutation.

“Pardon us,” said Shazahd, and tried to move around them. But the one who spoke stepped in her way.

“Did you hear me?” he asked brazenly. “I said
threithum corumuligo
. Don’t you know the response?”

Shazahd shot him a fiery look.

“Every follower of the Book of Teric knows what to say…. You’re not a
roccrash
, are you?” He leaned sideways to get a better look at her ears.

Owein stepped in front of her and said, “
Thos shenwemu
. Now get out of our way.”

“Easy, my brother, easy!” the young man said, laughing jovially. “I meant no offense. This is a trying time for our nation.” He patted Owein on the shoulder. “I had to know if you were a believer or not.”

“Touch me again with that hand,” said Owein calmly, “and I’ll take it from you.”

The boy tried not to recoil too obviously. His entourage stood a little straighter. Cavada noticed their hands were on the hilts of their swords.

“Now get out of our way,” Owein ordered.

The young man looked Owein up and down. Then he forced a meager laugh.

“You know that damnable Empress is about to draw a line in the sand,” he said. “When it happens, she’ll split the Empire in two.” He took a step nearer Owein. “They’ll be those loyal to Her Majesty… and those loyal to the Church. You’ll want to be on the right side – the
holy
side – when it happens. Won’t you, friend?”

“I’m not on anyone’s side.
Friend
.”

“You’d turn your back on your gods? The Empress is about to sentence this entire nation to perish in the fires of Underearth! Are you going to stand by and let that happen?”

“You better run along, kid.”

Gor’m and Fulo took up position beside Owein. Cavada, caught up in the moment, was the last to realize what was going on, and hopped to Gor’m’s side. The young man hesitated before them, with an unsettling gleam of maniacal thrill behind his eyes. His posse was tense yet still, like a bunch of coiled springs.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, the young man laughed out loud.

“Very well!” he said. “You’re a good Follower of the Book, I can tell. May the gods favor you.” He started to lead his group away, but turned back abruptly. “Just one bit of advice,” he said. “You might want to keep your pointy-eared friend out of sight. Her kind is going to get a lot less popular around here.” And they left, though not without a few lingering stares. Fulo wiggled his thumb at them, an extremely offensive gesture between swordsmen.

“Forget it,” said Shazahd. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a bad feeling about this place. We’ll have to make repairs in New Gresad.”

Along the way back to
Gilderam
,
traffic in the street dwindled until, eventually, there was no one left in sight. The periodic roaring of a nearby crowd told them that something was underway at the cathedral, and from the sound of it the entire population of Erand was in attendance.

The deafening clatter of feet, hooves and buggy wheels pounding the cobblestones earlier was replaced by the lonely footfalls of the eight travelers pattering along the empty avenues. The change in atmosphere made the hair on the back of Pawl’s neck stand on end. The group hurried across abandoned boulevards and down quiet alleyways, impatient to return to the safety of their waiting
vessel.

Their route back to the hotel Vavishna led them across a wide street, and down one end of it they saw the edge of a crowd. They were cheering something loudly, almost riotously, but faced the other way. Whatever caused the ruckus remained a mystery to the wary visitors, who rushed quietly to the other side of the street.

“I think we’re nearly there,” said Shazahd. “Should be just around this….”

They followed her around the corner of an office building and stopped dead in their tracks. An overturned carriage lay directly before them. The horses that drew it were dead on the cobblestones. Shop windows were shattered along both sides of the street, and goods from inside were spilled and broken all around.

“
Threithumé!
” Cavada gasped.

“By the Sledge of Sor’nan…” said Galif.

The rioters responsible were just a few blocks away, smashing windows and kicking in doors, shouting and cursing. Just down the street, on the other side of the chaos, was the bridge that would lead them to the hotel Vavishna.

“Come on!” said Owein, and pulled the group onward through the wreckage.

Whatever had taken place at the cathedral was now over. The proclamation had been made, and crowds were dispersing throughout the city as violent mobs.

Teams of young men, like the one they had confronted earlier, rampaged with swords drawn, screaming about the monarchy or the Church. They threw their fists in the air, calling for allegiance to the gods or the Empress. Owein, Gor’m, Fulo and Cavada formed a shell around the others and shuttled them through and around the rioters. The threat of their drawn weapons kept the locals at bay.

At the crest of the bridge that crossed the Vulc Muri, a Terical priest in a white alb stood on the parapet professing to a small gathering. His sermon was spirited, and he spoke of the arrogance of the Empress and the rashness of her decision to go to war. In the calculated lulls of his speech, his audience cheered their affirmation.

The bridge wasn’t small, but Owein led the convoy as near to the opposite side as possible anyway. More people on the banks of the river, attracted by the booming rants of the priest, wandered closer. As they crept innocuously by, the priest became suddenly hushed.

“…the price of disobedience is oblivion, my brothers,” he preached. “It is clearly written in the Book of Teric that the gods…” and he trailed off. The swelling crowd was enraptured, waiting with bated breath for the next word.

But there was none.

The priest’s eyes were locked on Owein, tracing his progression over the arc of the bridge. His mouth hung open, and his finger hovered meaninglessly in the air. It was as though his mind had been erased mid-sentence.

“You…” he breathed at last. His finger followed Owein along the bridge. “
You!
” this time he shouted it. “Owein Maeriod!”

Every head whipped around, and Owein froze.

They were all looking at him.

For the first time in a long time, Owein didn’t know what to do. He felt paralyzed by the staring faces. Now the priest seemed to have found himself again, and he gestured deliberately in Owein’s direction. His eyes were glowing blue.

“You… you are the
One!
” he exclaimed. “You are the Will of the Gods!”

Owein felt extremely uneasy. He saw in each gawking face a kind of primal hunger, as though they were starving animals and he was a juicy hunk of raw meat. But it wasn’t actual hunger. Owein realized what that look was. They were
crazed
.

“Come on,” he said to the others, and hurried them toward the other side of the river. He didn’t notice that he’d taken hold of Shazahd’s hand. The rest scurried after them.

“Owein Maeriod!” The priest shouted again. “By the light of Aelmuligo it is made clear!
You
are to be the salvation of us all! You will bring this war to an end – in this world and
beyond!
”

The crowd’s murmuring rose to a roar behind them, but Owein kept moving. A few people got in his way and he shoved them roughly aside. One of them was a matronly woman brandishing a finger, and Shazahd gasped as Owein threw her to the ground without hesitation. The others followed closely as they made it off the bridge and wound their way around a clump of onlookers, darting for the nearest side street.

The priest back on the bridge let out a wail and doubled over, clutching his face.

“The…
Chosen
…
One!
” he yelled, rocking back and forth on the parapet. He dug his fingers into his eyes and let loose a terrific scream. The crowd’s attention turned back to him. So did Owein’s, just as they were about to round a corner.

The priest shot to his feet again, and blood shined on his face in wet streaks from his eyes. He dropped two little, gory orbs from his hands.

“
Savior!
” he cried, pointing directly at Owein. Letting out another wail, the blinded priest fell backwards off the bridge and into the Vulc Muri. Owein tore off down the side street, ignoring the shouts from behind. The others were right on his tail.

The midday sun peaked between mountainous puffs of white clouds as
Gilderam
set sail. Her shadow was cast straight down into Erand, and slid effortlessly over slate rooftops, sharp spires, and looting rioters in the street. A few buildings were on fire, and columns of smoke wafted high into the air. A slight breeze pulled the plumes gently southeastward.

Crews of other airships had the same idea, and the airspace above Erand was flooded with traffic. They left in every direction, headed away from the turmoil on the ground.

From the Cathedral of Geithoron, in the heart of Erand, massive bells rang out. They sent the message for
itthum
around that Gresadia was in trouble.

The afternoon sun above Val was torturous. Heavy, hot sunlight scorched Jerahd and Havlah as they plodded slowly atop their beleaguered camels. The beasts wore the heat like a cruel mantle that sapped their strength and weighed them down.

In the southwest region of Val, the ocean of fine, golden sand that was their home had transformed into a landscape of cracked clay and rock. In a few places, massive outcroppings of red, chalky stone exploded skyward in structurally curious forms, like daubs of dripping clay left to dry upside-down, then inverted and set into the earth. Though vegetation was still rare, it was growing more frequent, and they would occasionally pass a sickly tuft of bush or a withering stump of cactus. Far off to the west, the faintly rippling horizon hinted at the colossal mountain range beyond.

Ahead of them stood a tall sheet of crumbly rock bending over to one side. Jerahd signaled for them to stop there and rest. They tied the camels and then sat in the shade against the rock, undoing their headscarves. Jerahd pulled out a waterskin and doused his dry throat with several big gulps, then handed it to Havlah. Sitting in silence together, they surveyed the desert around them.

“There,” said Jerahd, pointing due west, “are the Sarian mountains. They are part of the largest and most magnificent mountain range in the world.”

“The largest?” said Havlah between glugs. “I can barely see them.”

“If that is so,” said his father, “then it is because you are only looking with your eyes. Try looking with your heart.” Havlah handed the waterskin back, and Jerahd took another swig before returning it to his pack. Though they were both still parched, they couldn’t afford to drink any more. They had at least three more days of riding ahead, and water would be scarce the whole way.

“And look!” said Havlah, pointing. “You can see Aelmuligo.” Toward the southern end of the mountains, the round edge of a smoky marble was just cresting the horizon. By nightfall it would be high overhead.

“The gods are watching, Havlah. Now more than ever are we called to live up to their expectation of us.”

Havlah looked down into a crevice in the ground. “Father,” he said. “…Do you get frightened before a battle?”

Jerahd stared at the faraway planet. “No,” he answered.

“Why not?”

Jerahd drew in a deep breath. He didn’t take his eyes off Aelmuligo. “We all know fear, at some time or another,” he said. “But fear, like any other emotion, should be considered before it is indulged. I do not fear battle because I value my honor and my country, and I know that these things can only be protected if I fight for them. There is no place for fear in that equation.”

Havlah toyed with a pebble on the ground. “Aren’t you afraid of death? Isn’t every man afraid to die?”

“When you get older, Havlah, you’ll learn that becoming an adult means coming to terms with the way things are in the world. I will die someday. I cannot stop that. Nor would I want to, even if I could. The illusion that one’s own life is significant is something we must all free ourselves from before we can truly mature. I do not fear for my own safety or well-being; I know Votoc will see to that.”

Havlah dropped the pebble down the crevice. It fell a full arm’s length. “What do you fear, then?”

Jerahd was silent for a long while.

“…I fear for you,” he said at last.

Havlah looked to his father, whose gaze shifted from the horizon to meet his son’s eyes. Then it was Havlah’s turn to look off into the distance.

“How come you never told me any of your stories about war? About the Disciples?”

“Because I wanted you to grow up with stories of glory and valor.”

“Glory and valor? But wars are full of stories like that.”

“Oh? What makes you think so?”

“Well… what could be more glorious than dying in battle, fighting for your country or your god? And what could require more valor?”

“How about living a very long life, Havlah? One in which you worked tirelessly to convert thousands to your cause, instead of killing a few and, in so doing, solidifying the rest against you? How much more courage would that trial require? Remember the proverb of Votoc, ‘Which requires greater strength, to fling a sword or to finish a book?’ There is valuable wisdom in these words, Havlah.” 

“But you are a warrior! A
Rariji!
A Disciple of Votoc!”

“A man can be many things, Havlah.”

His son mumbled an indistinct reply.

“You are young,” said Jerahd, “and are still finding your way. Don’t let it worry you not to have the answers. As Votoc says, ‘the wisest man is he who claims nothing, the wealthiest is he who has nothing, and the happiest is he who wants nothing.’ Think on this.” Jerahd clapped his son’s leg. “Come. Let’s keep moving. We have much ground yet to cover.”

The pair hauled themselves to their dusty feet. Havlah shuffled slowly to his camel.

Jerahd watched him for a moment before saying, “Tonight, when we set up camp… I will show you how to use a sword.”

The boy turned around, astonished. A big smile stretched across his face. He wrapped up his tagelmust and hopped onto his camel.