Chapter Six: Brightmarket
Meridian burned.
A halo glowed along the southeastern horizon, outlining the city's jagged silhouette in flickering orange. The young soldier watched as gouts of bright gold splashed, revealing the contours of its buildings and marketplaces. The firelight cascaded down the great elevator and hungrily ravaged the royal maizelands below.
How he wished he was there. Charging through the rippling explosions and billowing smoke, the stink of blaze turning his stomach. He wanted to feel his arrows fly from his fingers, each one devouring a dream. A future. A life. He wanted to collide with the Oseram invaders pressing into the city. To experience the red raid from the other side, and then crush them for their hubris. He would destroy them for believing they could take his home after two years of him stealing theirs.
But that implied he had a home to begin with.
So, he sat on the stony lip of an abandoned well and envied them instead. He was surrounded by the burnt-out husk of an old homestead. Moss and vines blanketed its charred skeleton, the jungle rebuilding it in its own image. It rebuilt him, too. Stripped him of the heavy fur layers and armor that had kept him alive in The Cut. A half-unbuttoned undershirt, pants, and his boots were all that remained.
And his proud headdress.
It fit better now. When he had first put it on, it had been so big and cumbersome. It bit his ears and leaned to the side, like a cap too big for its bottle. He'd changed since then. Grown. And now it sat perfect, as if it had waited all these years to finally become his.
A stampede of heavy boots thumped down the nearby road, and he watched as a fresh troop of Oseram soldiers marched towards the city. He could see their bulky bodies clad in leather and studded with steel. Hammers and broadswords glinted in the lanternlight. Their brash ignorance about their surroundings begged for an ambush.
He eyed a stone on the ground and nudged it wistfully, imagining it pegging one of the soldiers in the head. Then he kicked it away, denying himself the temptation. The sealed orders were for him to report to Brightmarket and avoid engaging with the enemy. Even if it looked like the best kind of fun.
He tapped his lip thoughtfully. What did it mean to avoid engaging with the enemy in this situation?
Movement along a far hillside caught his attention before he could parse his orders for loopholes. His night-attuned eyes narrowed in on trailing shadows slinking through the tropical vegetation. The figures froze when the Oseram soldiers passed by. But the enemy's ignorance persisted, their lanterns blinding them to anything but the road winding its way towards the burning city.
Once they were gone, the shadows moved again, heading for the lakeside village. He hopped off the well and dusted the seat of his pants. Then he followed behind them, keeping his distance.
Brightmarket seemed at odds with its name. He walked past dark windows and unlit streetlamps. An eerie silence weighed down the air. Loud like the riot he could hear rumbling afar in Meridian. There were people here, huddled in the corners of their homes, waiting for dawn. Waiting for it to be over and hoping the specter of war will pass them by. He imagined the homes as Utaru huts and Banuk tents instead. It felt the same, and it filled him with unexpected pleasure. As though it was comforting to know that the universe was consistent when it came to terror.
The shadows wove their way towards the northside and its normally bustling wharf and market. There were no vendors hocking their wares tonight, but it was far from quiet. Carja soldiers in black armor patrolled the perimeter, weapons drawn without an enemy in sight. They paced constantly, passing a kind of electric tension between them. The same terror imprisoning the villagers inside their homes. The fear of discovery.
A figure among the shadows whistled a soft, rhythmic pattern. A password without words.
The soldiers stopped pacing, their eyes searching the darkness until they found them. Then a captain appeared among their ranks. He was a big man, his powerful frame contrasting with a graying beard and weathered features. He pinched his lower lip and whistled a return call.
The shadows and the soldiers relaxed, weapons sheathing. Then the shadows approached, transforming into people under the market's lanternlight. The young soldier noted more men clad in black armor and feathered with red. There were two women among them. One of them wore armor as dark as her skin. And the other was clothed in royal silks and cradled a small child against her breast.
The young soldier's eyes narrowed when he saw the last figure emerge from the shadows. The man was tall and thick with muscle, and he wore a vest, its cut like crossed bandoliers with a wreath of spent ammunition shells draped around its collar. He hadn't known the name of the sun-king's champion when he first attended the royal court two years ago, but he knew it now. It was popular in the camps for affluent soldiers to boast about fabled battles with him.
The young soldier hadn't believed any of them.
"Uthid," Helis greeted the captain, then he gestured to the two women and the child, "Please escort our queen and the rightful successor to the boat. We'll be pushing off for Blazon Arch immediately, and from there, we journey to Sunfall."
Uthid glanced at distant Meridian, its skies still burning, "And Sun-King Jiran?"
"He's dead," Helis said bluntly.
The young soldier took a few steps forward, listening intently.
Helis continued. "The treacherous Avad, and his consort breached the palace with their rebel and freebooter forces. The soft-hearted son abhorred our righteous sacrifices, but he apparently perceives patricide as virtuous before the Sun."
Uthid frowned, the fleeting shadow of indecision passing over his expression.
"Is there a problem?" Helis asked.
The soldiers turned to Uthid, some with their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The tension returned, though the nuance coursing through it changed. The terror no longer stalked the darkness, waiting to strike, but instead rotted from within them like a cancer.
"No, sir," Uthid said coolly, his gaze never wavering from Helis. "But without Jiran, we have no sun-king. No claim over the Sundom and its people. No mandate to act."
"We have a sun-king," Helis snarled, and he stabbed a finger towards the queen and the boy in her arms. "He's the rightful successor. Avad relinquished his birthright when he abandoned the Carja for the Oseram. He renounced it with his cowardice when he slew his father."
"This is a child. Not a sun-king."
"His blood is the only thing that matters. The rest will come later. Understood?"
Uthid stared at him, his jaw working.
Helis waited, his eyes hard.
The soldiers shifted, sidling into position, each ready to draw.
Then Uthid's shoulders relaxed, and with it, the tension eased from everyone like a long sigh. "Understood, sir."
"Good," Helis said, giving him a sharp nod, then he turned aside, searching the night.
"Is there something wrong, sir?" Uthid asked.
"No," he replied, his lips pursed pensively. "I just expected one more to join us. Good steel ready to be pulled from the forge and worked into an exquisite weapon."
Uthid raised an eyebrow.
"So, to speak," Helis added, his eyes still scanning. He peered down the open market and pored over every shadow.
The young soldier felt his unseeing glare pass over him in the darkness. As a Carja soldier, his official orders were to report to Brightmarket. Now that his superior officers were here, it was his duty to step forward and assume the new role asked of him. This was the discipline that had been drilled into him for years. He was their arrow. All that changed was who held the bow.
Eyes passed over him again, and still he remained hidden. He thought about the villagers cowering in their homes, praying to the Sun for amnesty. Shame tightened in his chest and his hands clenched into fists. The terror of being discovered would not be his to suffer. And he felt himself press forward, abandoning the shadows for the light.
The soldiers drew their swords when they saw him, the blades flashing gold.
"Hold!" Helis commanded, and he raised a hand, ushering them to stand down. "He's one of ours."
The young soldier approached. There was a casual quality to his stride, unhurried despite the flickering orange sky behind him and the distant din of the riot.
Helis looked him over, then snorted. "You've grown, boy. You're at least a whole head taller than when I last saw you. The headdress suits you now."
"Yes, sir," he agreed, his voice brimming with amiable pride.
"Suppose Fashav was right to let you mature before granting you kestrel status. Would have left you longer but events are progressing rapidly in new and unexpected ways. And our sun-king needs all the kestrels he can get for these battles to come." He nodded towards the wharf. "We'll be launching a skiff for Blazon Arch in a moment. I expect you to be on it."
Helis turned on his heel, his attention on his men and the royal guard.
"About that, sir," the young soldier said. "Which sun-king would I be serving?"
Helis pivoted back and glared at him, his eyes more silver than the young soldier remembered. "There is only one sun-king."
"That's not what it looks like from where I stand," the young soldier said.
"And what does it look like from there?"
"It looks like there are two Carja now. Each with their own sun-king."
"No, there is only one sun-king," Helis said, waving his hand emphatically. "The other is a usurper. A murderer who stole his father's throne. He has no legitimacy."
"That could be true," the young soldier said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "But the one you offer has not been inaugurated or blessed by the priests. He has no education or training on being a ruler. He is just blood in a beating heart. To be his kestrel is to be wielded by a child. Not by a sun-king. How low and depraved would I have to be to place that responsibility on him? My every kill would also be his to bear."
"What is it that you're getting at, boy?" Helis growled, his eyes narrowing.
"It's simple really. When I joined the Carja army, I took an oath to serve the sun-king. To be the Sundom's Arrow. But now the sun-king is dead, and the land is split by civil war. Each side will swear the other is illegitimate and their authority to rule is false."
"The Sun's will is with us—"
"Ah," the young soldier sighed, waving a finger, "That doesn't work for me. I'm afraid I've never been good at worshipping our solar deity or engaging in rabid fanaticism. I have no compulsions beyond my purpose. No moral compass other than that which belongs to the Sundom. And its compass right now is guideless, spinning uselessly."
"We don't have time for this, so if you're not with us…" Helis said, and he finished his sentence by drawing the sword at his hip. He slowly stalked towards the young soldier, twisting from side-to-side to stretch his muscles. His joints crackled, and when he was finished, he twirled his weapon once in his hand. There was a smirk on his thin lips and an eagerness in his silver eyes. So much bloodletting in one night, and it seemed the mad sun-king's champion hadn't gotten his share yet.
Pity for him it would stay that way.
Helis lunged, driving his sword towards the young soldier's cleaved chest. He was quicker than he looked, slicing through his shirt and tender muscle, but only a trickle of blood stained his blade. The young soldier sidestepped and grabbed him by his wrist. He then threw his body against champion's outstretched arm, stopping his swing long enough to plunge a dagger into his spine.
The young soldier leapt back.
Helis staggered, his face flush with pain and rage. A roar surged in his chest, and he turned on the young soldier, his sword menacing.
"I'll kill you," he snarled, saliva spattering his lips.
"You're welcome to try," the young soldier said pleasantly, "But I wouldn't attempt it right now if I were you. That dagger isn't in a lethal spot, but it is lodged right next to your spinal cord at a frustrating angle. If you keep swinging your sword, there's a good chance it'll slip, and you'll lose your legs… along with other bodily functions."
Helis reached around his back, his fingers seeking the dagger's hilt.
"Un-uh," he clucked, "I wouldn't do that either. There's a reason why I said it was a frustrating angle. You see if you try to pull it out yourself, you will inevitably draw the blade across your spinal cord. And trust me, I have nicked a few spinal cords perfecting this move, so it's best to go with my word on that. No, to survive this, you need an ally."
Helis glared at him.
"It's a bit of a predicament. Almost a riddle when you think about it. You need an ally to pull it out, but not just any ally. You need someone knowledgeable enough to remove it without cutting the cord. Is there someone like that here? Someone who is both wise and trustworthy? The captain maybe? Tough to say. It would be so tempting to accidentally cut it, reducing you to crippling impotency. The nightmare would end for them and they would be free."
"You're dead," Helis growled.
"Oh, certainly. But not today."
And the young soldier melted back into the shadows, leaving Helis to make his decision.