Chapter Three
"And the Augurs growled with anger and accused her of many things. And Emperor Crasa asked again, 'Have you no answer? Do you not see the charges brought against you?'
And Elbaroda said, 'Do as thou must. Let the scriptures be fulfilled. But verily, I say unto you: I am the Daughter of God, and no man nor woman nor any child should fear me. But after my day shall come the Son of Man, and every man and every woman and every child should fear him, for he shall unleash dark arts. The winds shall stink of brimstone and abominations shall march the Earth. Lo, the lands shall be blighted and nations be put to the flame. Let him be called the Harbinger, for when the Son of Man comes the Day of Judgment is nigh.'
But the Augurs and the Senate and the Emperor laughed and shook their heads. For they did not understand, and their hearts were hardened."
Gospel of Nom, 17:7-14, Passion of Xof Elbaroda
Winter, Year of the Daughter 872, 18th Year of the Reign of Grand Knezar Piotyr
Southern Serja-jan, Vemos Bridge
The rearward dawn splashes green across the cloud-swept sky. A cold south wind buffets the sheepskin walls with rhythmic drumbeats, delivering through the seams the reek of manure and massed Meer. Horse clops and marching feet whisper so faintly as to seem half-imagined. But slowly, indomitably, the sounds grow louder, the smells stinkier.
Crouched in a row, the four wait in silence.
The pine is many tails tall, and here near its top it sways gently as if cradling a babe. The wicker ledge beneath her feet wobbles and creaks, and beside her Kyle shifts uncomfortably. Ksenia is not afraid. Kyznec helped built this hunting blind, and he's never fallen from one yet. This one he even made special, tripling the straps and ropes to bear not only three Sarl, but Kyle's greater weight.
To reassure Kyle, Ksenia curls her tail around his ankle and strokes his fur-wrapped shin. He looks down, offering a smile, but she knows him well enough to see the worn flint in his small eyes. But his are worries beyond personal danger. This is his plan, and others take the risk.
"You feel responsible because this was your idea," she says in a whisper, though the others can still hear.
His laugh is more a sigh. "I'd be a bad man if I didn't."
"I bet your General Connor felt the same way."
"He did, I think. He had to. I'll tell you this: I never envied him."
"It'll be all right," she says. "I believe in you."
Kyle doesn't quite look reassured.
Wordlessly, Dvorayne Poloso hands his spyglass to Kyznec, and Kyznec to Kyle, who raises device to his eye before passing it to Ksenia. It's only two carved glass discs on the end of wooden tubes, the thinner sliding into the wider so as to adjust its length. Poloso's father bought it from a merchant in the Far South. Kyle says he knows how they work: the glass bends light to make things look bigger. But Sestra says light can't bend. It's obviously water fairies.
Either way, it works. Through the glass the morning snow is so bright Ksenia must squint. The long tube shakes in her hand, jostling the captured world in a swirl of gray and white until she steadies and pulls back slowly on the bigger tube, sharpening the fuzz to a crystal specked with tiny bubbles. Two miles away, she sees the Vemos Bridge.
They say it was built a thousand years ago, when Meer ruled the world. Except they weren't called Meer then. The Meer are only a fragment. Once, they were the Empire of Mern, and their lands stretched from the sacred forest of Hanka to the sun-scorched wastes of Venda-Ra. Kyznec says their armies were bigger than cities, their cities bigger than countries. Through lost stonecraft they carved fortresses into mountains and dug rivers through deserts and scarred the world with so many roads and bridges that one could walk from one end of the empire to the other without touching bare earth.
But Kaa watched from the Moon and shook her head, saying, "It is not good that beasts should have great works." And so she dimmed the sun and made the winters long. And when the Mernen's crops died and their empire fell, the Sarl moved from the north to the country of Serja to feast upon those that remained and make sacrifices to Kaa in thanks for the land she had delivered.
These days the Mernan are a shattered race, with each shard slashing against the other. Even now, far to the south, they fight in a great war for reasons Ksenia neither knows nor cares to understand. Beasts fight beasts. That is their way.
But though the empire is passed, their works remain, and despite the Mernan's wicked pride Ksenia can't help but marvel at the way the Vemos seems a part of the landscape, as permanent as a mountain. Wide as two oxcarts and long as an longbow shot, the bridge sprouts from steep snowy bank to steep snowy bank like an outgrown root of a granite tree. A dozen sturdy pillars hang along its expanse, their bases hidden by the frigid black waters of the Naya River.
They say it was built a thousand years ago. Today it will fall.
"Even if this works, it won't change anything," Poloso says bitterly. "Piotyr's still a fool."
Kyznec grunts. "So you've said. Best not say it too loudly."
"Or what? Meer hold half of Serja while he hides up north. I have more to fear from them than him."
"You should fear Kaa," Kyznec says. "Piotyr is our sovereign in her eyes."
"Do you deny his father was the greater man?"
Kyle sighs. Kyznec snorts. Old arguments are like river valleys: once grooved, words tend to flow through them deeper and wider.
Ksenia can hear the bitter humor in her uncle as he replies, "Alekse was a great man."
"Alekse was the greatest," the dvorayne agrees. "He would never have gotten involved in this wretched war. And if he did, there would have been no defeat like that at Zalka! You should have seen it! Routed by an army a fifth our size! The Mernan call us, 'pagan rabble.' It's a sad day when you find they are right."
"Piotyr has made mistakes," Kyznec cedes darkly. "But you should watch your—"
"I see them!" Ksenia hisses.
Through the lattice of a dozen treetops, she catches the bobbing gallop of cavalry. They're not near the bridge, but across the river early sunlight twinkles on steel. Ksenia's hand shakes, her sight wobbles.
With a warm, gloved touch, Kyle pries the spyglass from her fingers.
He watches for a long moment before deciding, "Reconnaissance, but the main body won't be far behind. I don't think they're expecting resistance. Get the horn ready."
Ears twitching at the tightness in Kyle's voice, she rummages through the leather satchel until she finds the curved ram horn. It's banded with brass, and ornate battlefield pictures are carved along its pale skin.
She hands it to Kyle, saying, "It's in Kaa's hands now."
Poloso laughs. Ksenia's ears flatten.
"I hope we have more than that," the dvorayne says. "I don't know if you've been paying attention to the war lately, but Kaa's been a real fickle bitch."
"I remind you, sir," Kyznec says, "you speak to my niece—a Moon Lady in waiting."
"Oh, how impious of me," Poloso says with a chuckle. "Now, this powder's some clever alchemy, I grant you, but it doesn't go 'boom' when wet, right? Where are the sappers now? Oh, right. In the river."
Ksenia leans forward and bares her fangs at the dvorayne. He looks at her with mock aloofness. His snout holds a refined slope, and though sleeted silver, his fur is still a smooth green. She might find him handsome if he weren't Kyznec's age—and if it weren't for his irreverence.
"My kin are in that river," she says bitterly. "My betrothed is in that river. 'Boom' or no 'boom,' some are likely to die. Do you have no faith? Are you not one of us?"
He has the grace to wince. "I . . . apologize. I'm just a bitter old knight speaking my wretched mind. But you're right: despite our differences, we're all Sarl here—well, except for you, First Man. But truly, Kyle, upon the blood of my slain son, I hope your black powder plan succeeds."
In truth, the plan is Kyznec's, though Kyle conjured the details that made it possible. In the weeks since that night in those castle ruins, her kin had not only worked hard but pooled the labors from other refugees. They smoked wood into charcoal, burned fool's gold for its brimstone and scraped white scum from a hundred stable walls. And Kyle mixed and tested, refining the art of his magic powder.
Word had spread of Meerish reinforcements led by none other than Prince Buldvin, Marshal of Meerland and uncle of King Ludolf. The prince won great victories in the south and now marched north to relieve his reckless nephew.
In mere minutes, his host will reach the Vemos Bridge. They will not cross.
The rising sun whittles the trees' shadows. The gentle rumble of hoofs and feet grow until the morning air seems to shimmer with sound. She hears Meerish voices. They are singing.
When they finally appear, Ksenia realizes she has never seen an army before. Not all at once. Evergreens block her view of the far bank, but even through the crisscrossed branches, even without the spyglass, she can tell there must be thousands. Distant skirmishers like tiny ants ride along the snowy flanks of the main body as it serpentines along the empire's stone road. She watches with a thrumming heart, and though the breeze no longer blows, in her soul she smells the Meer, tastes their blood.
The skirmishers cross first, followed by the infantry. "Can I see the . . . ?" she asks. Kyle hands it to her before she can finish.
The spyglass brings the Meer closer as if they were only a thousand tails away. Most are dressed in white padded armor that nearly blends with the snow. Sunlight glints off kettle hats, and the great, long halberds the Meer hold erect as they march. Rank after rank cross the wobbling circle of her sight. She can almost make out the fur of their faces. Their song sounds of howls and barks.
Some carry crossbows and wide, flat shields. Some ride horses and wear leather and chainmail. The magic powder is already stuffed in chisel-holes and behind loose stones. Beneath the bridge her cousin Dyril and others are under the cold Naya waters with wax-sealed tinder boxes. Breathing through straws and spared from freezing only by their blubber-lined suits, they cling to the pillars and wait for the horn.
A mad plan, Kyznec had called it. Mad enough to work, but . . .
"How do we know which one's the prince?" she asks.
"He's third in line to the Meerish Throne," Poloso says. "You'll know him when you see him."
And so she does. Flanked by tabard-clad infantry and knights in full plate, a silver-maned Meer rides a white horse. He holds his head high and wears a golden cuirass over a deep blue doublet, a cape the color of spring clovers blanketing the rear of his horse. On either side of him, mounted standard bearers wield two great banners: one a dancing blue wolf, the other a white tree with a spreadeagle woman nailed to its trunk—the sigil of Meerland and the sign of their crucified goddess.
"Got him," she says. "He's on the bridge! Blow the horn! Blow it!"
"Yes, General Ksenia," Kyle says dryly. Kyznec and Poloso chuckle. Kyle holds out his hand and Ksenia sheepishly relinquishes the spyglass.
They each take quick turns peering through. "That's him, all right," says the dvorayne. "He was in Raglov a few winters ago, something to do with a naval treaty."
Ksenia scowls. Before the war, she had seen Meer, but only as caravaners from Zapaport. They traded with her people, but only outside the village, and they only dealt with Kyznec. The idea that they would be allowed into the sacred city . . .
"Did Pioytr accept the treaty?" Ksenia asks.
Poloso waves a hand at the crowded bridge as if to say, Does it matter now?
"If it's him, by all means, blow." her uncle says. "He's a quarter of the way across already."
Since the horn belongs to him, Poloso has the honors. He takes a deep breath, protruding an old-man gut, and Ksenia flattens her ears and cups them with her hands as the long, forlorn bellow pierces the air.
"Hohlee-shit!" Ksenia can barely hear Kyle say over the high-pitched ringing. The First Man rubs his fingers in his funny little earholes.
Kyznec holds the spyglass to his good eye. "Ah-ha! They don't like that!"
She can't make out individuals, but the Meer clearly stall in their march, no doubt scanning the forest for the call's source.
"Now we wait," Poloso says.
Over excruciating moments, the Meer's hesitation passes and they move once more. Crowded so close together and seen from so far away, the army looks like a centipede inching along a stretch of rock.
Under the bridge's slender pillars the sappers battle time in a quest for fire. As soon as the skirmishers reached the stone walkway, they would have climbed above the water with iron hooks and unwrap their watertight tinderboxes.
Kyle wanted to be there too, but Kyznec said he was too vital to risk. And so Kyle chose volunteers and practiced them through the steps again and again until they could dive and swim and light slow burning matches without thought or fear.
And now comes the moment of climax, and Kyle bares his teeth in a nervous grimace. His eyes are a bloodshot green. She takes his hand in hers. He doesn't look down, but his thumb rubs over the fur of her knuckles.
Prince Buldvin's banners cross the Vemos' midpoint. Poloso curses under his breath. Hurry, Ksenia thinks. The banner is two-thirds across and then three-quarters. Her uncle sighs. Ksenia chitters; her tail swishes with strung anticipation.
Stupidly, she thinks the noise is thunder but then sees the white cloud billowing from beneath the bridge. Poloso still holds the spyglass, but the Meer's panic is evident as their cries harry the air. They scurry to and fro like rats, and as the banners tilt Ksenia catches a glimpse of Buldvin's white horse. The prince is charging onward, his bodyguards wedging a path through the mass.
The Vemos still stands.
"It was a good try," Poloso offers.
She sees the bridge teeter before she hears the crack. The Meers' terrified cries arrive a moment later. As thousand year stonecraft shifts and lurches and slides, Ksenia thinks it looks like a thing alive, writhing as it decays before her eyes.
For a moment she fears Buldvin will yet make it across. But the whole length of the walkway tilts and tumbles out the tiny ragdolls of the Meer and the prince and his pretty white horse. She sees the bright green cloak spill thirty, forty feet into the steep, snowy bank and slide amid the falling stones of the dying Vemos. Most splash into the Naya; rubble and bodies congeal the waters. The royal banners, little more than thick string in the distance, are tangled among them. Terrified howls echo on scattered wind.
There once was a bridge. Now there are only rocks.
Poloso claps his hands and laughs. "If that doesn't kill the bastard, I'll eat my ears!"
"Praise Kaa!" Kyznec says, slapping the dvorayne on the back.
Kyle grins, but there is emptiness behind his eyes. Ksenia knows this isn't his fight. He wants to belong but cannot.
For her own part, she thinks of Dyril. Her supposed betrothed is a good swimmer, but could he—could anyone—swim away in time? They'll find out soon enough.
"Let's move," Kyznec says. "Skirmishers may be here any minute."
Ksenia uses her claws to climb down the trunk's rough bark, while clawless Kyle and the older, more rotund Kyznec and Poloso use the rope ladder. By the time they reach the snow-swept foot, the wind stinks of brimstone.
After dousing their furs in elk urine to mask their scent, they hurry east into the woods in a single file until they find the trail. Though Sarl archers cover them in tree blinds, no Meer follow. Ksenia is not surprised: the Meer are pack animals. Kill their chief and they scatter.
They follow deeper until the pines edge out the morning sun and point-leafed shrubs scratch them from the sides. Soon they arrive at the clearing. In the pre-dawn twilight, after prayers and tearful bids of good fortune, twelve brave Sarl strapped on their packs and thick blubber suits and swam out into the dark waters of the Naya.
Only six are waiting.
Ears flat with exhaustion, they have already peeled off the suits, though the greasy reek of smeared fat still soils their fur. With a disappointment that both shames and surprises her, she sees Dyril is among the living. He looks to her longingly, and she forces a sad smile.
"Aifan and Earmol drowned," her cousin says. "So did the two from Janji-Majet. We saw Isay and Nylar, but they must have died from falling rocks."
In the weak, deep-wooded light his tears shine like little stars. Dark green blood dribbles from a cut lip. "You should have seen it," he says. "It was . . ."
"It was beautiful, nephew!" Kyznec exclaims. "Six Sarl for, what, six hundred Meer? And the Marshal Prince among them!"
The survivors give a ragged cheer. Kyle only watches. Ksenia sees he wants to say, I'm sorry, but those are not the words for the occasion. This is a happy time, for victory is nigh. She has heard Kyle speak of new uses for his magic powder: long spear tubes which spit lead balls, great iron barrels which belch boulders. Against such engines, how can the Mernan stand? Surely, they will be slaughtered to the last, and all the land from the sacred forest of Hanka to the sun-scorched wastes of Venda-Ra will belong to the Sarl.
Ksenia takes Kyle by the hand and says, "Don't grieve our dead; they are with Kaa now." She hesitates for just a moment and adds, "General Connor would be proud of you."
Kyle seems not to know what to say to that, and so she embraces him and smiles when she feels his arms across her back. And pays no heed to Dyril's dark glower.