Chapter 2
"They told me he was a wicked traitor, the man I saw executed today. The worst sort of anarchist malcontent. Yet when I asked for a list of his specific crimes, vacant stares were the only response."
- Quendon Franklin, 28 Joolie 1787 AC
The pitch darkness swirled, and Aidan found himself lying on a cold cement floor surrounded by a misty winter fog. Shapes moved behind his dark, cloudy surroundings, some small as rodents scurrying in the dark, and others monstrously lumbering about, impossibly large. This is a dream.
"I'm disappointed, Aidan." He recognized his father's voice without needing to see his form. He emerged from the shadows, his finger tracing words in a large, dusty tome. "Did I teach you nothing about choosing your fights?"
"Father, I-" "You assaulted the King's Deputy!" He slammed the book shut and dropped it to the ground. "Do you think King Ethan is in the habit of forgiving such offenses?"
He stalked around Aidan like a leopard waiting for the right moment to strike. He was dressed in his usual dark colors: Brown leggings that fit baggy and a heavy stitched black doublet over a white undershirt that puffed out at his wrists. Over his heart was House Franklin's Crest, an encircled tulip. Before Aidan's eyes, its white lines turned red and started bleeding steadily.
"You don't understand, Lord Meadows-"
"Meadows is not your enemy; he is mine." Maroon Kannitick Plate suddenly sprouted onto his body, the helm spreading from the back of his neck until it curved over his head and covered his face. A thick longsword emerged from his wrist, and he held its two-handed hilt in an attack posture, as though he meant to duel with Aidan.
"HE KILLED YOU!" Aidan screamed. The room suddenly swirled with murky smog, concealing his father then swallowing him. He remained visible just long enough for Aidan to see the plates of his armor shed itself like lizard's scales, the neat skull braids that bound his hair close to his scalp undoing themselves and his black hair frizzing into a tangled, ratty mess about his head. He spoke his last words with tired sadness.
"Then he has won. To the victor... "
"No! Father!" Lord Franklin was gone, in his place there was only emptiness and despair.
"You never could think beyond today," the voice was behind him; his brother, Troy, "that is why I always beat you at Kahess."
The blackish smog suddenly retreated as if blown by a powerful wind. The floor was covered in red and black Kahess squares. He was standing in one of the Knight's spaces. His brother transformed into a Wizard, adorned with thick purple robes and a small conical hat. The other pieces were carved likenesses of household members, all stone, their expressions grim and despairing.
The opposing pieces were also carved into human form and seemed menacing despite being faceless. The other Knight on his team resembled old Sir Klein with his knuckled eyebrows, split chin, and flared nostrils. He lifted his lance high in the air and gave a mighty battle cry, which was echoed by everyone else on the House Franklin side. Aidan wanted to shout as well, to drink deeply of the battle fervor that surrounded him, become intoxicated with its heady flavor. But more than that, he wanted to understand what was happening.
"Are you ready to play, Aidan?" His brother spoke from the far end of the ranks, but he heard him as though he were next to him in a quiet room.
"Troy, I don't .... why are you doing this?"
"You think I'm in control? This is all you, brother."
The pieces began to move, but it was not the turn-based slog of a regular Kahess game. This was a battlefield - pure chaos wrapped in blood and fire. Aidan charged the enemy lines, sweeping aside the long spears of the Pikemen and slashing at the unarmored Soldiers with a beautifully carved stone short sword. Hunks of rock flew through the air as he hacked their arms and heads, and they spewed blood and despite not having mouths managed to scream with men's voices. An opposing knight charged, lance aimed at Aidan's throat.
Aidan parried at the last possible moment, the lance scraping the air just in front of his throat and sliding harmlessly by his head. He urged his stone horse forward a few quick steps and gave his enemy a solid punch, which nearly knocked him from his saddle. As he reeled back, Aidan carefully probed the point of his sword into a narrow space between his opponent's shoulder pauldron and breastplate, and thrust the isosceles blade into his gut. Blood waterfalled over his enemy's rocky armor and steed as the stone knight gurgled. Aidan looked to his flank to see the enemy ranks in disarray, blood-burbled screams erupting from its Queen and Pikemen. It felt like he was winning.
"Aidan!" Troy screamed, from way at the back of the board. Aidan screamed in horror as he saw his family lying on the ground and bloody from slaughter at the hands of an enemy Knight, Wizard, and Fortress. His father, who had before appeared so fittingly stoic carved in stone, was now heaped lifeless on the ground, blood flowing from his head and chest. His mother had been trampled by the Knight, and Troy was shrieking as an enemy Wizard spewed liquid fire from his hand, searing a hole straight through his chest.
Aidan charged, his fingertips pulsing with adrenaline, and swung his sword at the neck of the faceless Wizard who was killing his brother. His stone head, still adorned with the small wide conical hat of the Wizards' Guild, rolled on the ground, and his body crumbled into a mess of gravel and blood. The enemy Knight rode up fast, his sword aimed at Aidan's eyes. Aidan reared his horse and it kicked his enemy right off his mount where he lay helpless as Aidan's own steed stomped him into dust and blood. The enemy Fortress fled, its miniature Archers loosing their arrows wild at him. He was about to pursue when he again heard Troy's voice.
"You're too late," he said, coughing up blood and wheezing, "we're dead."
"I'm sorry .... " Aidan said, the sounds of his weeping echoing mercilessly in his helmet.
"I know." Troy's conical hat fell from his head and revealed his curly, bushy dark hair beneath. "We're still dead. What are you going to do now?"
"I don't know." The game board, the savage bloody pieces, and his entire stone-carved family were quickly swallowed up by rolling black smog, which returned as though Aidan's response were magic words. His own mount was suddenly gone from beneath him, and he was standing alone in the thick, dark mist.
"It's not your fault."
Whoever had spoken was definitely female, and he was embarrassed when he turned and realized he hadn't recognized the voice of his own sister, Katisha. She approached him in a flowing, silken dress, smiling gently just as she had every time he suffered the humiliation of a tournament loss.
"I know," he answered. "I was away; there was nothing I could do."
"So stop blaming yourself."
"I don't."
She laughed, a gesture that usually inspired him to relax and mimic her own gentle, graceful nature. Instead, anger welled up from the pit of his gut, a raging fire that demanded more fuel. He glared at his sister and shouted.
"Stop laughing, damn you! Katisha, I am in no mood for your silly games!"
"You're the one playing games." She made a motion with her hands as if moving a Kahess piece, reminding him of the horrific scene he'd just witnessed. "But life is not a game, Aidan. Treat it like one, and you'll lose. Just like we did."
"What are you saying? Speak plainly, Katisha, your riddles spin my brain!"
"Find us. Then you'll understand."
"Find you?" Aidan was more confused than ever. "You weren't buried in Barrowdown?"
"Our bodies feed its soil. But we are not our bodies, Brother. You may still find us. If you hurry."
She vanished, swallowed by the blackness, and he ran after her, finding only moist air and soot particles where she once stood. He wept and wept until he realized he was staring not at some dark misty emptiness, but wood grain.
He sat up quickly, his head muddy and spinning. Ambient light from the fog-filtered Caledonian sun filled the tree hollow with a subtle glow. He stood, at first confused by his surroundings, but as his memory returned regret filled his gut and ches
t. He flexed his left hand, shook his right leg a few kicks, and took several deep breaths just to make sure. Physically, at least, his pain was gone.
He cursed himself for acting rashly, playing right into the Deputy's hands. The man was insulting him, spitting "Sir" as though cursing and telling him that his family's estate had been given to another, some cowshit about a preemptory claim that Aidan knew had been settled in House Franklin's favor nearly two hundred years ago. But none of it excused his actions, grabbing the Plaz pike from the absent-minded Royal Guard nearby and blasting a space on the wall where the masonry had been overused in a patch. The room suddenly thickened with a fog of white dust, and the other Guards hastily discharged their Plaz pikes and thickened the air with more dried mortar as the purple fire struck the walls.
In the confusion, he put on his helm, hoping to use its visual function to better see in the dusty room. The helm connected to the armor and had just powered up when Lord Meadows, ever crafty, appeared suddenly before him and shot him directly in the faceplate. The faithful armor protected him, but used most of its energy absorbing the impact. He was lucky there was any power left at all when he'd leapt from the window. Self-recriminations echoed in his mind, threatening to consume him, until he remembered the item he held in the hidden place on his right gauntlet - the letter from Lord Deumar. He was not without a friend in this world.
He began to hatch a plan as he walked his horse out of the narrow black entryway between the gap where the trunks had grown together, House Franklin's Tulip carved on the arch of their union. He blinked a little as his eyes adjusted to the bright morning fog, and then realized his healing had taken all afternoon and an entire evening. He guessed it was midmorning, no later than the tenth hour, from the position of the blurry yellow orb in the sky.
He waited at the entrance for a moment, deeply breathing in the fresh morning air and thanking his gods for preserving his life. He considered donning his helm, but the feeling of the forest mist in his hair and against his face was too pleasant to impede. Holding his helm by its chin with his newly-rebuilt left hand, he took a few steps toward the Deumar Estate, which lay about fifty kilometers southwest. He froze, his battle-tested senses screaming that something was wrong, terribly completely horribly wrong. Dropping the horse's reins, he drew his mace, and looked suspiciously at every giant tree within his view.
"Come out, lads," shouted a voice from the tree directly in front of him, "he's onto us! May as well come into the open!"
The voice's owner stepped into view from the right of the tree, holding a crossbow loaded with a glass canister-tipped bolt, its contents swirling cloudy and white. The Archer's boots were cut as though made from soft leather, but their leather had hardened with age and neglect. His hair was long and matted beneath a green, wide-brimmed Archer's cap, his beard a wreck of tangles and frizz. Two small deep-set green eyes glinted beneath the generous shade of large bushy eyebrows. His dark-green jerkin made him difficult to discern from the surrounding bush and scrub.
Another man appeared immediately to this leader's left, wielding a homemade bill-pole. Its head was formed of broad, irregular metal that split into two points; one which made an almost right-angled forward point and the other thickly hooking back toward its owner. The monstrosity of a blade was tied haphazardly onto a termite-eaten pole, which Aidan immediately assessed had perhaps two more fights remaining in its dark, oaken soul. Its owner was similarly ramshackle, outfitted with a white leather chest piece that was round, but not pointed in front. Aidan surmised that it would serve as neither a sufficient, nor proper, breastplate.
"I think he's a beggar wearing a dead man's armor," said a voice to Aidan's right, a brown Mardoni boy of twenty summers, probably less, with a tight-bound knot of hair tied at the top of his head. His armor was rounded, hardened leather, more useful than his companion's but only by half a step.
"I am Sir Aidan Franklin of .... " he said, stumbling over whether to bluff about his estate. He decided to leave it out, for now. "If any of you hope to live, put away your weapons."
The crossbowman's eyebrows suddenly arched like two startled caterpillars. Aidan marked the footsteps of the youth to his right, trying to be sneaky. Something glinted in his hand, probably a dagger. The Billman simply stood with his weapon pointed, his bottom lip coming firmly up in a look of defiance.
"Yanprit!" yelled the crossbowman, placing his weapon gently on the ground. "Stop your creeping before he makes a crater of your head!"
The young man stopped, and Aidan, feeling more confident now that the crossbow was grounded, risked a glance. The man was young but clearly experienced at least in receiving violence. Starting from the middle of his forehead, weaving somewhat around his nose and cutting sharply through his mouth all the way to his jaw line was a long-healed scar. His nose was lumpy from repeated breaking, and he weaved as he walked like a brawler, one whom Aidan was sure knew his way around hand-to-hand.
Yanprit held up his hands, nodding with what appeared to be deference. Aidan looked back at the Archer, who had taken a few steps forward. His muscles tensed at the promise of violence, but something about the bandit's eyes, his voice, his walk, felt familiar. His instincts were telling him to trust this man. The Spearman was now leaning on his upright weapon, his mouth twisting with boredom.
"That's far enough," Aidan snapped, ignoring his senses (which he knew could be deceptive), "identify yourself, or I'll bash your skulls in, all three of you!"
"Of course," said the bearded bandit, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace, "it's been a long time. Men call me Rodrig."
Aidan peered into the man's broad, brown face, recalling the jolly, kind horse master of Barrowdown and comparing him to the jaded, battle-tested bandit who stood now before him. His hair and beard had always been a little unkempt, but now appeared chaotic and animal like. The middle-aged man Aidan remembered had a face marked with smile lines, now there remained only scars and pockmarks. His heart was deluged in sinking sadness at the appearance of his old riding tutor, whether from the heaviness of the man's evident miseries or Aidan's own pathetic condition he wasn't certain.
"Are you injured, Master Aidan?" Rodrig asked. "We heard moaning coming from that hollow, thought someone had been gutted by a boar."
"That was me, I'm afraid." Aidan nearly told him the entire story, but his instincts urged caution. A lot could happen to a man in three years, as he could well attest. Plus, he didn't know the two companions at all, or what they might do with such knowledge. So he spun the first tale that came to mind. "This damned horse threw me."
The black steed that he'd stolen from the Guard stables snorted at him as though she objected to the story. Sorry to slander you, friend.
"Did ye break anythin'?" Yanprit said, sounding unconcerned.
"Thought I did." He wished he'd had time to think of a better cover story, but this would have to do, even if it gave away more information than he liked. "Turned out it was just a bruise. A good night's sleep was all I needed. Wasn't expecting a welcoming committee waiting outside the hollow."
"About that," Rodrig said, scratching his neck and looking around as though trying to find a hiding place, "I am sorry. Run into some tough times, I have. You do know about your family, don't you, my Lord?"
"I know. I'm sorry for any harm you suffered as a result."
Rodrig scratched his neck and examined the dirt. Aidan assumed it was embarrassment, Rodrig going on about his hardships to a man who'd lost his entire family. "Listen, Sir Aidan, I feel terrible about the ambush. Won't you join us for lunch?"
After an uncomfortable quiet, he replied, "I am rather hungry. And I have questions."
"I imagine you do." Rodrig sighed, his eyes welling slightly as he looked upon Aidan's face. "Gods, but you do have the look of your father, no mistake."
Aidan nodded politely, but his stomach suddenly screamed at him for food, no doubt ravenous from the Rebirth. He trusted Rodrig, but the other two still seemed dangerous. As
if reading Aidan's thoughts, the old horse master gave a few quick hand signals to their companions, who promptly and quietly moved into the forest and out of sight, the one called Yanprit removing a bowstave from a long cloth bag slung on his back and stringing it as he disappeared into the trees packed thickly around them.
"Camp is this way." Rodrig waved his hand in the general direction the two men had scouted and began briskly stalking through the moss and underbrush. Aidan fell into step next to him, working out which questions to ask. Luckily, his old friend decided to ask his questions first.
"How long have you been back, exactly, Sir Aidan?" Rodrig asked, putting Aidan on his heels.
"This is day two. Not exactly the return I dreamed of while getting shot at on that sandy hellhole the Mongolians call home."
"I can imagine. I've heard a few stories from veterans about the War in the Heavens - is it going as badly as they say?"
"Worse." Aidan's heart was enveloped in remembered darkness. Battles raging for months only to be lost in a single calamitous encounter. His men's fortunes hinging on incompetent commanders who were too far removed from the field to be practically effective. Charging up a bunkered hill and losing three quarters of his platoon to support an attack, which succeeded by only the barest of standards. "Still years away from a conclusion, though. Things could still go our way."
"We've been waiting for things to go our way here for a while now." Rodrig's voice was small and sad, a barebones shadow of the boisterous, jolly horse master he'd known through his youth.
"Much has been taken from us, Rodrig, but as long as we are alive, there is hope."
Rodrig teared up a little bit and wiped his eyes before the streams could fall. "Some of us more than others, M'Lord. I don't mean to cheapen your own losses, I can't imagine what it would be like to return to a dead family. My own wife was taken from me by that gods-cursed scourge."
"I am sorry. Truly, I wish I had been here." Katisha's words echoed in his head. It's not your fault.
"Nothing to be done for it, Sir."
"'We who live must speak and act for those who die.' My father said that once."
"He was a great man, your father!" Rodrig became animated, waving with his arms the way Aidan remembered he did when telling a story. "Took a chance on me, he did. And don't think I'm not grateful."
"Rodrig," Aidan nervously asked his question, afraid of the answer, "does anyone loyal to my father remain at Barrowdown?"
"Ferguson is still Chief Overseer, running the farms like always. Sir Roger was replaced as Castellan, of course, but he still serves as a Keep Guard, last I heard. Might be a few more, I don't know. But Nadya's gone, accused of stealin', too."
"Ridiculous." Aidan didn't need to see evidence to know she was innocent. Stewards were supposed to be tied to the estates and loyal to whoever had claim, but Nadya was loyal to House Franklin through and through. "Wait, gone meaning left, or meaning .... "
Rodrig looked at the ground, his eyes sad and old. "Seems likely."
Aidan hung his head for a moment, a gesture of respect for the woman who practically served as his nanny. He couldn't bring himself to say the words out loud, so he changed the subject. "How have the people taken to their new Liege?"
Rodrig laughed, almost the full measure of the belly laugh Aidan remembered as a boy. "Not well. People generally don't like being reminded of their poverty by example of wealth."
"He flaunts his riches?"
"Him and his worthless progeny. Did you ever meet Sir Dietrich Kiefernwald in a tourney?"
"Not that I recall."
"Neither has anyone else." Rodrig looked suddenly to their left, where a bird took flight, but said nothing. "He's craven as Meadows is powerful, so they say. And his sister's not much better. They say her father squanders Barrowdown's wealth on fancy clothes for her, trying to attract a suitable husband."
Aidan tried to force a laugh, but it came out sounding foreign and wrong. Katisha liked beautiful clothes, too. The real question, which had been burning in his mind since he received the message from Deumar, now muscled its way onto his tongue. "Do you think my family really died of the plague?"
"No." Rodrig looked Aidan in the eye, serious as murder. "Not for a minute. Whatever foul potion they used, it was in the soup."
"The soup?"
"Aye, Sir. Your father was in the habit of sharing leftover food with any house servants who fancied it." His voice crackled, and he choked a little on the bitter words. "My wife brought soup to our chambers that night, but I went out and had a meal with some of the boys at the Goose and Musket. Three days later, she died of the plague. And so did the two maids who also ate of that soup."
Aidan considered this, his skin burning with anger. He wanted to blame Rodrig for keeping silent, but he knew it was wrong. His old friend would only be placing himself in danger by making noise, and would just as likely be framed for the poisoning himself by whatever agent Meadows hired to do the job in the first place.
Aidan was about to ask another question, when Rodrig held up his hand in alarm. They stopped, and Aidan's right hand crept to his left hip where his flanged mace was slinged and waiting to be used. The forest that had been so filled with the sounds of insects, chirping birds, and chattering lemurs was suddenly bathed in silence - a sure sign of an imminent attack.
Out of the hedge to their left, five men holding crossbows loaded with deadly glowing-white bolts all stood with menacing expressions. They were dressed in ramshackle patchwork armor, and Aidan recognized one as the Pikeman who had been with Rodrig. Aidan knew he would be dead before his fingers even touched the head of his mace, much less draw it from its sling and have a chance to use it on the Archers. The leftmost bandit spoke, not yelling or shouting, but simply giving an order.
"Yield." He was pale even for a Saukasi, his long, brown hair tied straight back into a tail, which appeared to run down to the base of his neck.
"Hans, what in the hell-"
"Shut up, Rodrig." Again, not yelling but still commanding. "Don't think I'm going to keep your part in this from the Queen. You know the orders as well as the rest of us."
"Better, even." Rodrig spat, stepping away from Aidan and standing next to the bandit in charge, his back still turned. "You don't understand-"
"Not my job to understand. Now get some vine and do your job."
Rodrig sighed and reached into an inner pocket of his green cloak, pulling out a long cord of woven sequoiavine. He walked slowly to Aidan, who grimly held out his hands. Aidan's hands itched at being bound, escaping one trap to fall into another. Rodrig looked at him with sorrowful eyes.
"Sorry, Sir Aidan. Orders. You understand."
He couldn't understand why, but Aidan suddenly had a vivid memory from his campaign on New Mongolia. They had taken an entire cohort of the enemy prisoner, twenty-five Anarchist Soldiers whom they hoped to trade for Feudalist prisoners taken from their own ranks. But the battle was swaying against them, and the orders came down. Aidan obeyed, drawing his Plaz pistol and executing the prisoners, one by one.
"Believe me, Rodrig," Aidan said, his eyes dark and grim, "I definitely understand."