Ossard's Hope: The Ossard Series, #2

By Colin Taber

Ossard has fallen.

The wealthy city state of Ossard has fallen amidst blood, rioting and flames. Through the chaotic aftermath, Juvela leads the hopeful to safety within a set of mysterious ruins, but are they already claimed?

Whilst leading them, the divine addiction is taking root within her, something she's triggered in her flight from doomed Ossard. The deep hunger of soul feeding has overwhelmed and enslaved every god it has touched; how can she, only newly into her own godhood, possibly beat it? And if she can't, what of the divine war she was born to trigger?

Yet hope remains...

Ossard's Hope follows the unique tale first begun in The Fall of Ossard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thought Stream Creative Services
• Release date: Dec 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781498926485

Colin Taber

  Colin Taber was born in Australia in 1970 and announced his intention to be a writer at the innocent age of 6. His father, an accountant, provided some cautious advice, suggesting that life might be easier if his son pursued a more predictable vocation. Colin didn't listen. Over the past twenty years Colin's had over a hundred magazine articles published, notably in Australian Realms Magazine. In 2009 his first novel, The Fall of Ossard, was released to open his coming of age dark fantasy series, The Ossard Trilogy. The second installment, Ossard's Hope, followed in 2011 and was supported by a national book signing tour. Currently Colin is working on the final book in that trilogy, Lae Ossard, and his new series The United States of Vinland. Colin has done many things over the years, from working in bookshops to event management, small press publishing, landscape design and even tree farming. All he really wants to do, though, is to get back to his oak grove and be left to write. Thankfully, with an enthusiastic and growing readership, that day is coming. He currently haunts the west coast city of Perth.

Book preview

The Truths of the World

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Three races of man separated by the ages;

The high, the Lae Velsanans;

the numerous common-men of the middling nations;

and the lowly Saldaens.

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Three branches of magic, each with a league to control them;

Mind, governed by the women of the forbidden Sisterhood;

Soul, wielded by the priesthoods of the faiths;

and Heart, regulated by the Cabal of Mages.

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Three realms of existence;

Ours of soil;

the Celestial of souls, gods, and magic;

and the Elemental.

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Three stages of godhood;

Avatars, seeds within mortal shells;

the New-Born, awakened gods upon our world;

and the Elevated, those matured and raptured to the next.

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And all in a world forged by the goddess, Life,

in partnership with her husband, Death.

Yet now they are estranged and waging divine war,

a war that promises doom for us all.

Maps: The City-State of Ossard

Maps: Northern Dormetia (west)

Maps: Northern Dormetia (east)

Maps: Ossard & The Northcountry

Fletland & Environs

A Prelude In Two Parts

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Part I: Falling Ossard

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People fought; men, women and even children; Heletian and Flet; Loyalist versus cultist and the followers of the New Saints. Doom was coming. Weapons swung to cut and stab or just to crush and kill. Blood ran free in Ossard’s gutters, with all of it lit by fire, flaring as the city’s buildings began to burn, while embers rose to carry the fury and condemn whole streets to a future of ash.

Grandmother looked into the living world from the black and blue celestial void. Her soul was strong enough now to do more than she would have ever dreamt possible when she’d first been condemned to her ghostly existence after being burnt at the stake by the Inquisition. Back then, weak and frail, she’d begun eating morsels of soul stuff so as to grow in strength, until she could devour whole souls. Now, she was strong enough to finally deliver on the curse she’d cast against her murderers that had so marooned her.

And she couldn’t wait for the chance!

Back in the mortal world, over ten thousand were dead in the city, with more to join those corpses before the coming dawn was through. Grandmother planned on taking as much power from that feast of souls as she could get away with, a feast not meant for her, but the very gods. Yet, she’d risk stealing from them because of the gain in power.

With power came opportunity!

The opportunity that loomed was the chance to cross back into the realm of the living, the unfolding chaos bringing the two realities closer, blurring the boundaries between worlds. Once there, by possessing a discarded mortal shell, she’d make her lone dream reality; a dream of vengeance!

The Inquisition would bleed a river!

Grandmother had two faces; a warm, maternal half built from her living past, and the colder creature forged in the void by her hunger for revenge. As she grew in strength, so did her disharmony. Usually she wore the face of whichever personality dominated at the time, but now she began to split amidst her boiling power.

Like a conjoined twin, for the first time, the dead grandmothers could face each other.

"Why would you want to return to the mortal world; our place is here?"

"I’m yet to get my revenge, not just on the Inquisition, but also on that bastard Anton!"

"Revenge has its place, but it’s no reason to go back. This is a decision for both us, not you or I, but we, for we are bound, despite how much we have grown in difference."

The celestial about them, normally a cool and calm void of darkness marked by soothing washes of indigo, was now a place of white hot sparks and blazing waves of electric blue. Hundreds of thousands of life-lights flared in the chaos of the city’s fall and were further stirred by others who disturbed the void’s normally placid currents as mortals called upon divine blessings, power for cabalist castings, or worked ritual magic. Yet, all of that was dwarfed by the squalling interest of the very gods, whose gaze caused the void to seethe.

Amidst it, circled by scores of enslaved souls, the two factions that made up Grandmother argued over their single fate. One side, the kinder but weaker, couldn’t compete with the bitter half that had grown so strong on soul-feeding as she’d basked in her hatred.

I want this chance, not just for revenge, but for justice!

And what will you do with it? Claim Inquisitor Anton and then be marooned in the mortal realm?

I will take more than him, for the Inquisition will come to claim back the city, and when it does, I will bring them crashing down!

How can you know?

They’ll come, they’ll have to – or they’ll lose part of their precious Heletian League!

Our concern should be Juvela. We should be working to see her through her awakening.

The bitter half glared at the maternal side. You can look after her if you will, but I’ve had enough! And with that she grabbed at the nearest of the enslaved souls and drained them. Blinding light flared, and for a moment a way opened, a way that led back to the mortal world.

A Prelude In Two Parts

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Part II: Rising Yamere

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The Lae Velsanan, tall and lean, ran his fingers through the congealed blood that had puddled on the stone steps. The obscene pool lay dark in the night, but showed off its vivid scarlet whenever the wild fires around Market Square flared. Forwao stood before the Malnobla, the grand building from which all power in Ossard had flowed, but now, all around it, the city fell only into riot and ruin.

Ossard was falling – just as he’d foreseen.

Beside the Lae Velsana, despite the late hour, a small abandoned girl played next to the pooled blood. Above them, warm drips of the rich fluid fell from the strung up body of Benefice Vassini, his twitching form dangling from the Malnobla’s grand balcony, half burnt and stuck full of arrows.

Forwao had come to witness the fall and was now almost ready to leave. He was only waiting to see her. As he waited he decided to work one small mercy, one of the few to grace Ossard on this most terrible of nights.

From above, the Benefice moaned; he’d been kept alive by a curse that refused to let his soul break its link with his ruined body, stopping him from finding peace. The cultists had so bound him to make him witness not just the fall of the city whose spiritual well being he was responsible for, but to do so in slow agony.

Forwao rubbed his bloodied fingertips together, spending power to counter the cultist curse. Above, the Benefice sighed and found his release. At the same time, Forwao also sensed her arrival, for he was the Chronicle of Yamere and was here to fulfil his divinely appointed duty to record history.

He could have used the powers gifted to him as part of his office to have seen this from afar. Instead, he’d chosen to come and bear witness, for he knew this was an important dawn coming. This wasn’t just history, but an Age’s turning point.

And there she was!

She was so powerful – and turbulent!

She glanced at him and the horror about her, but was resolute as she marched from the chaotic square, bodyguard in tow, heading for the Malnobla’s doors as she went to secure the freedom of her family. The only distraction to her determined mission was her roiling hunger.

And that was exactly as it should be!

Forwao dipped his head in respect, but once she’d passed he didn’t linger, making his way down into the chaos of the square where the city’s factions brawled.

It was his job to know things, and he’d been graced with the tools needed to record everything that would shape Lae Velsanan history – even if it were sourced from a middling. Right now, he used those tools to walk through a yawning portal, seeing him leave the bloodstained cobbles of Market Square behind.

His next steps landed on the marble of his garden courtyard half a continent away: He was back home at the heart of the Fifth and Final Dominion.

Forwao took a seat on a carved bench that overlooked an ornamental pond, as he pulled his cloak about himself against the cool of the night. Here, he gazed up from his courtyard, a place unlike so many others in the surrounding pillar-city of Yamere, the towering capital of Lae Wair-Rae. This was a private place, a space walled not for boastful show, but instead for quiet reflection.

His long blonde hair hung past his shoulders to occasionally be caught by a dull breeze. It blustered weakly, but in every direction, and in that it reminded him of the chaos unfolding where he’d just been.

Doomed Ossard...

He’d walked those bloody streets, them littered with the dead. Now, in peace, he sat a vast distance away, moved by the divine aid that his office bestowed.

He’d even seen her; Juvela.

Just the thought of her brought tears to his eyes, born from both grief and joy.

There would be such suffering, and so much of it hers to bear!

He shook his head at the thought, trying to free himself of the melancholy that would claim him if he dwelt on such things. Simply, not all lives could be fair, just as they couldn’t all be long and prosperous. Sometimes people were fated to teach others through their suffering, just as sometimes souls were there to be sacrificed for the world’s sins.

Forwao dragged his thoughts away from such darkness: Soon it would be time for him to speak of what had happened, to tell of it to his High King. His message would be backed up by reports magicked at speed from the Dominion’s colony at Quor.

Later today, the High King would send his own message. In the end, it was the most important of the many messages being sent as Ossard burnt, for it was the one that would carry a threat.

The threat of war!

The message would go to the Holy Benefice of the Church of Baimiopia and would be solely concerned with events in Ossard. It would see High King Caemarou threaten to take the city-state himself and make it a Lae Velsanan colony if the Heletian League couldn’t reclaim it from the cults by the first day of spring – a timeline that would give them just over a season.

With that message many would fall, not just people, but in time, cities, kings and nations. Today, an age of the world began its end.

And, Forwao the Chronicle, despite his divine talents, couldn’t see anything for certain beyond that. Such a truth gave him cause to smile, for in that lay all kinds of possibilities.

By My Own Hand

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A Second Belated Introduction

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There are many things in the world that we can’t understand – even for an awakened god. So here, in an effort to make your understanding of this record smoother, I intrude to explain how I have structured this second volume.

During the chaos of those dark days, as Ossard fell, it was hard to follow all that was going on. Consequently, some of the knowledge I recount here actually came to me later, or more so, its clarity did – long after its first arrival as rumour, whimsy or intuition.

Back then, some guidance came to me in visions and dreams, but a good portion of it – most of it, in fact – came via the celestial bond I’d established at my parting with Sef. Originally, I’d set that link to feed him the strength he’d need to survive Kave’s trials. Over time the bond changed. Quickly, it also became a link between our minds and even grew to include those closest to him.

That window on his life came at the same time I began to wrestle with my own failing health. My unfortunate turn was caused by the first stirrings of my rousing addiction to soul feeding, for that curse moved to strike at me very early on.

Too early.

None of the three tomes in this series about blighted Ossard have been easy to write. Most of all, this, the second, has been the most difficult, for this is where I, the Lady of Hope, came to fall low.

If my first volume is called The Fall of Ossard and tells of the ending in advance, so too does this tome give some hint, but Ossard’s Hope didn’t come from me – it came from another.

Thank all the gods for heroes, most especially the humble!

We take up this record from where we left off; as Pedro, Maria and

I left the burning city at dawn by riding a smoke ladened breeze.

Part I

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A Vale of Ruin

Chapter 1

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The Flight From Ossard

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Pedro held Maria in his arms beside me, her body limp with exhaustion, as we drifted under my celestial control through the blustering air high above beleaguered Ossard. Beneath us, the city’s fall worked towards its inevitable end amidst blood, chaos and fire. Our passage through the heavens saw us heading towards the city’s wall, while Pedro’s sleeping parents lay wrapped in front of us in their bloodstained shrouds. All the while, the wind whipped about, becoming brisk and chill despite the rising sun that cut through the haze, the breeze so strong that it infuriated the city’s leaping fires. Here, at last, was Ossard’s fall – and nothing could stop it!

Only one thing ignored that blasting wind; the turning column that loomed above the port. The twisting pillar stood woven in two parts, of physical elements such as dust, ash and smoke sucked into its vortex, but also of an overflow coming from the celestial, showing as a blaze of violet sparks. It was approaching its own climax, just as events were back at the site of the closing ritual in Market Square.

Doom was coming!

Ahead, on the road that led up the south side of the valley, and still with their tail coming through the Newbank Gate, our people fled a city doomed. Crowds also spilled from Ossard’s other gates: Those passing through the River Gate were guided by the ghostly forms of St Marco’s priests, while those at Market Gate seemed leaderless and consequently more frantic. No doubt both of those groups considered themselves Loyalists of the Church of Baimiopia.

Already, I could see that my people were not just going to be competing with the coming winter, but also with those refugees for what comforts the Northcountry might give. The season ahead would be long and hard.

Yet, for now, all of that meant little to me, for it was something of tomorrow. Today, under the light of this cold and blustering dawn, I could only think of my good friend left behind; beloved Sef.

What would his fate be?

I could sense a crowd gathered back in Market Square, and at its centre a huge pyre of oiled wood freshly raised. The tower was nearly ready for the final souls of their grand ritual.

What barbarity!

Thankfully, Sef wasn’t there. I’d linked our souls and could sense him: Right now he was being dragged down stairs to the lower levels of the Malnobla to be locked away. He was dispirited and pained, but also – in a mind groggy from a beating – still hopeful. He could feel me as I could him, the celestial link I’d forged strong and complete.

Keep hope, Sef!

As he was thrown into a cell to land hard on its cold stone floor, I pulled him into a deep sleep. I’d help soothe his hurts and spare him the misery of his dark and damp prison by feeding him some of the power I held – the little that I still claimed from my forbidden soul feeding.

It would help him – and, by all the gods, I didn’t want it!

His fate was to do his penance for Kave, and that was something he wouldn’t be free of until it was done or he was released. Then he could return to me.

If he survived...

The thought stirred my anger; damn it, I’d give him the strength to complete whatever trial Kave demanded, and then I’d have him back.

My Sef, my Keeper!

The wind whipped up, growing stronger as it dragged my attention back to this terrible dawn.

The ritual was drawing everything to Ossard for this moment, this last motion, as it came to spend all of the power fed to it in such a bloody and gleeful way. Ossard’s unholy beacon, that which had been sparked into being what seemed a lifetime ago, was about to come into full life ablaze.

And the world would scream!

I could feel it as we flew above the River Gate towards the Cassaro, our people beyond on the road that ran not far from the southern rivershore. The power about to be unleashed would not be something as simple as a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke.

I sped our progress. Something’s coming.

What? my husband asked.

The climax to their ritual.

Pedro didn’t understand, but in so many ways neither did I. We’ve got to get down to the ground, we’re not safe up here.

Where are we going, to those people?

Yes, our people. I’ll explain later.

Alright, he said, but it wasn’t. His discomfort at being ignorant of all that had happened and was still happening frustrated him.

Please, trust me.

He nodded and took a deep breath. I trust you. And then he turned back to have one last look at Ossard as we crossed the river.

I also turned to take in that wasted scene; smoke blew about as fire raged, all rising from the city’s ruin as the metropolis all but died. At the heart of it lay Market Square, marked by leaping flames as the pyre there was lit.

And that was it, their grand ritual almost complete!

We crossed the river as our people leaving Newbank started to slow. They were excited by my arrival, but oblivious to the coming danger.

I brought us lower.

We passed over the reed-edged rivershore, speeding towards the head of the column. On both sides of the ditch-fringed road were small fields, one side ending in the grazing pasture of the steep valley-side, the other in narrow fields that ended at the river.

The building ritual behind us was going to unleash a rough and ragged burst of power, something my people would need to shelter from. The sense of its brewing force only grew stronger with every one of the last of the eight souls that the ritual claimed. They were dying on the pyre, quickly now, first one, then another, then two more. We only had moments.

I yelled to those we passed, Take shelter in the drainage ditch! And rushed us forward.

Another died.

Only three remained!

Our people moved to do what I asked, but with confusion; they couldn’t see any threat.

To my alarm, some of them headed for the ditch closest to the rising valley-side. I didn’t want them there, worried that whatever was going to happen would stir the wind, anger the river, and shake the mountains. Rock might fall, tumbling down to crush them. They’d be safer in the riverside drain. I yelled my message again, this time repeating it in the celestial, emphasising what I meant. Get into the ditch for cover, away from the mountainside!

Back on the pyre, two more passed on.

Only one more to go!

Ahead, I could see Baruna. She waved at me as she headed for the riverside ditch. Likewise, the whole column moved. In that motion, people abandoned their belongings on the road, the lucky few in carts and coaches dismounting as they also made for cover.

As we got lower, closing on Baruna, I looked back to see the last of our people pass through the Newbank Gate. They were running.

Finally, my boots found the road’s gravel. I guided Lord and Lady Liberigo’s sleeping forms into the waist-deep drain, as I cried out, Get down! My tone saw none delay.

I looked out over the ditch’s city-side lip, as the last life to seal the ritual expired.

The air prickled.

The city lay before us, the low valley wall spreading like an incomplete dam, only broken by the river and marked by its three gates. The wind failed, and in the silence that followed, plumes of thick smoke began to billow upwards into a sky still heavy with haze.

And then it happened.

Like the deepest clap of thunder, something made part of force and part of sound, an overflow of the ritual’s power rushed out. The ground shook, kicking up dust from the soil. In an instant, the fresh plumes of smoke that had begun to climb over the city were smeared across the sky, and with it came rubble raining out against the sides of the valley. Most of it was small, if but lethal, yet amongst it were also larger objects; burning roof timber, loose stones from the city’s wall, and even a few unfortunates that were thrown from the heights where they’d been caught out in the open.

A smouldering beam came spinning towards us, leaving a twisting trail of smoke behind it until it came to a stop as it crashed into a nearby cart. One side of the cart collapsed amidst a blaze of splinters and sparks as those nearby cried out in fright, and its horse, now free, whinnied and bolted.

On the far side of the Cassaro’s frothing waters, those fleeing the city from the other gates were knocked off their feet. A moment later, a greater horror rushed amongst them; the speeding shot of debris. Scores of them were cut down.

And then a great cheer arose from the city.

Turning back to it, I couldn’t see why until I realised that the air was no longer being soiled by fresh smoke. It seemed that the city’s fires were out. Then, in that clearing sky, a purple light blazed above the port, something that shone in both this world and the next. The glow faded, but like a slow heartbeat, came back to flare again, if but now only visible in the celestial.

The beacon marked the city, a place now sanctified.

In that moment, the sky above Ossard darkened, falling under a bruised shadow sour and ripe. The chill spread, seeing the clovers and herbal brush alongside the drain falter; green shoots lost some of their lustre, older leaves began to wilt, while some flowers blackened to die.

The coming of Death.

Ossard was part of his kingdom now. He claimed it and maimed it.

More than ever, it was time for us to go.

The wind arose again, weaker this time, colder and mournful, too.

Time to move, indeed.

I climbed out of the drain, brushing dirt off myself while I looked about. Others followed suit.

Further along, a group of people rushed to the crippled cart with such vigour that I realised they weren’t searching for salvage, but for someone who’d been in its tray. They were frantic, so I went to help.

Behind me, most looked to the other side of the river where the wail and cry of the wounded and bereaved rose afresh. This new misery proved that the suffering that had seeped from Ossard during its fall still lingered.

And, I feared, would for a good while yet.

I arrived at the cart to find members of an extended family trying to drag an old woman from its smoking remains. She was wrapped in a smouldering blanket, covered in ash, with scratches on her arm, a great bruise to the side of her head, and a gash carved into her shoulder. She was unconscious and in a bad way.

A man took her into his arms, looking up at my approach, Our Lady, can you help my mother? She’s infirm and told us to leave her to her fate, yet still lives? He lifted her up to hold her before me.

Fatigued as I was after all that had happened, I had to at least try. Let me see.

I put one of my hands to her bruised face and the other to her ruined shoulder. I could feel her lifeforce fading, leaking away. At the same time her thoughts raced garbled and confused. In that moment, the link between her body and soul flickered, leaving me certain that I was witnessing her end. She was dying.

But then, surprisingly, her soul rallied and blazed.

The link between it and her body strengthened, so I said nothing, instead uttering a blessing over her physical wounds. The gash on her shoulder closed while the bruise on her face softened to become subdued.

Her eyes fluttered open, as she let out a soft moan.

Her son said, You’ve brought her back!

She never left us, she just needs rest. I said, and then excused myself as I turned from their thanks to seek out Pedro and Maria.

My husband stood in the crowd that had gathered as people climbed out of the drain. When I arrived, he put an arm around me, although his gaze rested on his parents, still wrapped in their bloodstained shrouds.

His parents needed their wounds tending. I’d brought them back, and in so doing healed the worst of their bodies’ injuries, but they were still bloodied and bruised. And, I wondered; what of their unseen hurts? They’d gone to the next world, and not through a natural passing, but through ritual magic – and I’d dragged them back. Would they be the same?

I’d have to watch them.

Baruna looked to Pedro, before saying, I’m Baruna.

He nodded and gave her a tired smile, something I shared. Maria stood beside him, her arms wrapped about one of his legs. I’m Pedro, and this Maria.

My daughter looked up with frightened eyes. No smile lay there.

Oh, my poor daughter!

I couldn’t yet know if Lord and Lady Liberigo might somehow be changed, but she was. She’d seen too much suffering, blood and death.

I’d have to watch her, too.

About us, people finished moving back onto the road.

Some men helped Pedro lift his parents’ sleeping forms and place them inside a covered cart. I arranged for the driver to move to the head of the column, with Kurt bringing our family coach up behind it. My parents were there as well, following in their own coach with their maids and driver. We then set off, getting our people moving.

As we started rolling, coach wheels rumbling on the road’s hard-packed gravel, Baruna turned and asked, What of Sef? I felt something, yet he’s not here, but I feel he’s not dead?

Pedro put an arm about me. He’d never liked having Sef about, but accepted the need because of the kidnappings – and also knew how much my old bodyguard meant to me.

With tears stinging my eyes, I told her what had happened.

-

We set a good pace, something needed to get us to Goldston Bridge first. I wanted to stay ahead of the Loyalists on the other side of the river: We had to be the first to pass through the valley’s villages so we could buy what we needed, for, despite all that had happened, right now the coming winter posed our greatest threat.

Our destination, Marco’s Ruin, might offer us shelter, but it couldn’t feed us. We had to arrive with as much food, grain and livestock as we could gather.

-

Our first morning’s travel into the Northcountry was easier than expected. I think, despite our exhaustion, we were all just relieved to be on our way. Even the treeless landscape of the valley, with its pastures perhaps no longer so green, couldn’t lessen the relief we felt: We’d survived the fall of Ossard and escaped.

We passed through some small hamlets and by many more lone farms, buying all we could from those who would sell.

A few hamlets we passed were deserted, others just sad places of burning homes and dead animals. Most were still peopled, if their inhabitants were both defensive and bewildered by what they saw of the smoke-haunted vale, including our exodus.

My parents remained distant and kept to themselves as they rode in their coach with their maids. Pedro’s parents slept in the covered cart, now cleaned, with their wounds bound after Pedro and myself had tended them. Their slumber was celestially deep, something I would later have to rouse them from.

Baruna had done a grand job of mustering our people, and now she sat with Kurt atop our coach. The two of them were quite engaged with each other. For her I was pleased; she deserved some joy. Watching them, their smiles and shared glances, I suspected something was being forged there, and all in the shadow of Ossard’s ruin. It reminded me of what had carried me through my own trials; hope.

Pedro surprised me by finding reserves of strength to carry on despite his own ordeal. So, as Kurt drove us, we finally found ourselves alone in our coach – well, almost – Maria sat asleep between us.

He asked, Where are we going, to this ruin I hear of?

Yes, Marco’s Ruin.

Marco?

A friend, if only for a short time, but a good friend who gave his life so I could find you and Maria.

He paused and then shook his head. So much has happened.

Yes. I looked to beloved Maria, asleep, but not at peace. She shivered. I wondered what horrid nightmare plagued her. 

Tell me, he invited.

I shrugged, at a loss. Where to start?

I know there’s much to tell, and of so many different things, but perhaps start with these ruins. How long will we stay there, how big are they, and are they to be our new home?

Marco told us of them, but it was a Lae Velsanan officer, Felmaradis, who spoke of them first. Felmaradis plans to meet us there later, and to bring us news of Ossard and hopefully its future liberation.

Pedro stretched. And the ruin is what, an old mining town?

No one seems to know.

What do you mean?

Marco knows them from his childhood. He described them as being old, saying that his father believed them older than Ossard.

Older than Ossard?

Yes, built by another race’s hand. He said that they might’ve been Lae Velsanan because they’re scaled for a bigger people.

Scaled, in what way?

From steps, to doorways, to windows; he said everything’s oversized. It’s all bigger.

Pedro looked to me with surprise.

I went on, We’ll find out soon enough. It’ll take three days to get there, but it’s said to be solid, by the water, and large enough to house thousands.

Pedro turned to look out of the coach window, to the road behind us as it curved, a road filled by a long and wide column of people. They numbered well over ten thousand. He smiled and said, Let’s hope so. You know, I think I’ve heard of these ruins; aren’t they supposed to be haunted?

Marco thought it a myth. In any case, we’ll soon know.

Pedro nodded and then gave into his own need for sleep.

I was also tired, but didn’t want to surrender to my exhaustion. For now, I was content to watch over my family.

-

Before noon we reached Goldston, a market town built around an ancient bridge known by the same name. Much of the townsite was a place of old and abandoned stone buildings, many without their timber framed roofs that had long ago been sold as salvage. The town had come close to death with the ending of silver mining long ago, but now served as a farming hub. Well past its glory, it had settled into its new life, but its past still haunted it by way of the surrounding empty streets and tumbled stonewalls. Goldston was a glum place.

The townsite on the southern side of the river had been completely abandoned, with much of it – including its streets and ruins – turned over to small fields and livestock pens. What was left of the living Goldston was to be found on the northern shore. There, the ground was higher, and so escaped the mild flooding that came with the spring thaw, the same flooding that occasionally inundated the low-lying parts of Ossard and Newbank.

We crossed the Cassaro by way of the old stone bridge, one that despite its age was strong and wide, if weathered.

The people of the town, almost entirely Heletian, stopped to watch our arrival, stunned not just by our numbers, but also by our grave air. Silence fell, with only the sounds of rumbling wheels on the town’s paved road and the movement of so many horses, donkeys and feet, the latter both booted and bare.

From the townsfolk came not a word, even as more and more of them came to their windows or doors to see what the valley had delivered. Their own livestock lifted their heads from troughs and yards to also stare. Finally, a grim old man stepped onto the road to block our way.

Kurt brought our coach to a stop, stilling everything behind it.

The man asked, What tidings do you bring, and we know you must have them, for we’ve seen the smoke and heard the crack of the most terrible thunder just after dawn?

I opened my coach door, and after a pause, jumped to the ground. A shiver ran through me at my actions; how many times had Sef so helped me down?

But now was no time for melancholy.

In a loud voice, I said, Ossard has fallen into chaos. More follow, all fleeing the doomed city.

He shook his head at my news.

I went on, We’ll not stop to burden Goldston, aside from looking over your market. And my words brought something of a smile to him and some of his fellows, but didn’t dispel my previous words’ gloom.

Another voice answered, Yet, the sky’s smoke clears, so the fires have been doused – and still you run? A middle-aged priest stepped forward, his eyes full of suspicion. Who rules Ossard now?

I looked to him and answered, Heinz Kurgar.

A Flet? Impossible!

He does it in league with heretics, both Flet and Heletian.

And what of the Benefice and this Inquisitor Anton we’ve heard so much about?

The Benefice is dead.

Dead?

His body hangs from the balcony of the Malnobla.

Gasps and cries of dismay arose from the gathered town folk.

What!

"And our enemies also tried to murder the Inquisitor."

Tried?

We were separated, so I can’t be sure if he survived, but I did see him wounded. Many think him dead.

I could see that this priest was no friend. He didn’t like Flets, and the news of a Flet like Kurgar coming to rule over Ossard only fed his bigotry. With a grim nod, he accepted the news and offered, Why don’t you let those of your people who need to go to the market do so? The remainder can pass through town and wait beyond, but with you, Juvela Liberigo, I wish to speak some more.

He knew my name, so wasn’t as ignorant of events in Ossard as I’d first supposed. A good suggestion. I looked up to Baruna, who still sat next to Kurt atop the coach. I asked, Please, can you see to it?

She nodded.

My people moved on under her direction, while a small delegation from the town was led along with me to the local church.

-

Like so many things in Goldston, the church stood as a grand old building that had seen better days. Yet, unlike most of its neighbours, it’d had some effort put into keeping it maintained. A soaring bell-tower gave it a reputation as the tallest building in all of the Cassaro Valley outside of Ossard, but after the city’s fall, perhaps it now stood above anything that remained of that sad place.

Standing outside of it, I could feel a rising tension, almost as if Krienta himself watched and waited to see what I might dare. I was spared any test: The priest directed us to the side of the building where we followed a path along its walls until we reached his adjoining residence.

He opened a solid door of oak and then led us into a room furnished with a wide fireplace and a long table sided by benches. Please, take a seat.

The four of us did amidst murmured thanks.

Settled, he looked straight at me and said, I know who you are.

His fellows fell into quiet confusion.

Well, you have me at a disadvantage.

He said, I was warned that you might come my way.

I’m not the one to be warned of.

I’m supposed to stop you – and the danger you represent.

Now, his townsfolk looked not just confused, but frightened.

Anton asked this of you?

Inquisitor Anton, yes. Not in person, but by letter that arrived just yesterday.

I see.

He nodded.

Anton couldn’t stop me, and I won’t let you. I want nothing more but to lead my family and friends away.

You have a lot of friends.

I gave him an honest smile, letting my words carry the threat, Yes, enough to see us outnumber the people of Goldston. We’ll leave when ready, but that’ll be soon enough.

He gave a slow nod. I’m not in a position to hinder you.

Thank you, and in return I’ll share the truth of the Fall of Ossard – if you’ll have it.

Please.

So I did, speaking of cults and kidnappers, a corrupt city split three ways, and how it all came to fall apart.

To my surprise, he listened, seeing me realise that this man might be a bigot, but he wasn’t a fool. He was of the Church, and I’m sure was faithful to its message, yet he wasn’t stupid enough to try and stop me.

Afterwards, I asked, What of Goldston and the hamlets of the Cassaro?

What do you mean?

We’ve already passed some razed by fire, others abandoned, but most just in a state of shock. You’ll need to be ready for what will come up the valley, be it refugees or perhaps cultists.

He nodded, his face tight. We will do what we can to keep ourselves safe.

It won’t be pretty. Don’t let the refugees live in town unless they’re known, perhaps let them settle on the southern side of the bridge in the ruins of Old Goldston. I’d also get your people to harvest what they can and bring in their livestock.

Not a bad idea.

If cultists come from the city, I’d suggest you hold them off and refuse them entry. You’ll need a militia for that, one you can captain from your own people, and fill with volunteers from amongst the refugees. Offer to pay them with food and shelter.

He arched his eyebrows. What does our welfare mean to you?

Haven’t you heard? I’m branded a witch of Life. In truth, I’m just trying to save it.

-

Our people did what deals they could to secure supplies of feed, grain, livestock and carts. Not long before the arrival of the first Loyalists, we were again on our way, now on the northern side of the valley and looking for the path that would take us up the steep ridgeside.

I hoped we’d have time to start the climb tonight, camping somewhere along the beginnings of the trek’s high trail. That would get us off the main road and out of the way of the Loyalists. Regardless, tomorrow would be a long day of ascent and descent, and the hardest part of our journey. We’d almost certainly lose some of our livestock, perhaps a cart or coach, and maybe even some people. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but following it would be a relatively easy day of walking along the shore of the next sound towards the ruin.

-

That night, despite my exhaustion and the fact that we’d only gotten a little way along the discovered trail that zigzagged up the ridgeside – barely far enough to get our people off the road – I still had work to do. With everyone settling down, I sought out Baruna. To my surprise, she was still atop my coach sitting next to Kurt, the two talking in soft tones.

Baruna?

She stood up in the last of dusk’s light, embarrassed, as if caught doing something wrong. Yes?

Sorry, I was...

What was I doing? She’d already done so much for me...

She blurted out, No, I’m sorry. What do you need?

I smiled, and even in the dim light I could tell that she blushed.

Kurt began to chuckle.

I said, You don’t need to apologise for taking some time for yourself. Kurt reached to take her hand.

Embarrassed, she batted it away, which only set Kurt to laugh.

I couldn’t help but join him. 

Baruna gave in to her own laughter, something that came soft and bashful. I’m sorry, I thought we’d finished for the night?

We’ve finished our march, but there’s still a little more to do.

Can I help?

Please, if you could just arrange one thing for me?

Anything. She took Kurt’s hand. For I’ve someone to help.

I smiled. I want you to rest and enjoy some of your own time, but before then, can you find some volunteers to sit as a watch?

Consider it done.

Thank you, and you can thank your helper, too.

What will you be doing? Is there anything you need help with?

In the dim light of the young night, I lost my smile. I’m going to put Maria with my parents before Pedro and I work to rouse his own. It’ll be a long night for us – and not easy.

She nodded. If you need anything, just ask.

Thank you, both of you. If you can just see to setting up a watch. With that I turned my attention to my family in the coach.

I opened the door to find Pedro slumped in sleep with an arm protectively about Maria, who lay curled up against his side. By the dim light of the stars, the bruises and grazes of their captivity were lost. Instead, they looked to be so much at peace. The sight was heavenly.

How I wished I could just leave them.

I reached across to Pedro, putting one gentle hand to his shoulder and the other to his