Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Belle-Etoile

“A bridge to an alliance that could offer real resistance to the forces threatening this world.”

JADEN

Ezru Plains
Beyond Westwood Forest
Diamond (April) 26, 2013

Morning was only a pallid specter when Malcolm left the command tent. The sun was distant in a sky piled thick with clouds, but heat stood like a sticky haze on the skin. The faint ringing of steel on steel reached the bowman’s ears as the camp’s smithies began their relentless work.

Creed paid it no mind at all as he strode toward some unknown destination.

For Malcolm, the moment brought a wave of nausea. He could imagine Pierce lurking close at hand, eager to feed the rumors that would surely arise when he was seen – not merely on his way to Creed, but here in the general’s company. As few others ever stood.

Even the man’s own aides had grown accustomed to following at a discreet distance.

Malcolm launched himself into motion three or four steps behind the general, feigning respect but finding his legs would not obey at first. Old Blue Light would have none of that – he paused at a crossroads and waited without ever really casting his gaze backwards.

The bowman felt like every eye in the camp was upon him—

But when he looked, he could see only two pairs: The twin giants who’d been lounging not far from his accustomed shooting range. They saw Creed before Creed saw them, and were standing at attention; yet they knew from the general’s face that no bellow of announcement was asked.

In his mind’s eye, Malcolm imagined every soul they passed taking stock of them and stopping to salute. He was soon surprised to notice Creed was staying off the well-worn roads, his boots losing their customary sheen as he cut a decisive path through the mud.

Instead of troops standing at salute, the general left expectant multitudes in his wake: Straining and staring like a playhouse audience at intermission, trying to get some peek behind the curtain.

This glimpse, it seemed, was for Malcolm alone.

He was relieved to know he would not have to say anything to anyone.

But that feeling was short-lived.

At the edge of camp, Creed halted before a battered supply depot. No doubt it had been one of the first things thrown together when the legions took up residence here; now, the mad scramble of footprints leading to and from it had begun to fade.

Creed elbowed the door aside when the handle wouldn’t respond.

Inside: A few sparse pieces of furniture and a lungful of chalk dust, suddenly stirred to life from floor and walls. Traces of it were smeared everywhere. As the general straightened his back, he took care to wipe out one line with the toe of his boot before stepping over it.

Ghostly outlines hung suspended on the half-seen walls; Malcolm’s breath caught at the sight.

It suddenly occurred to him, when he saw the scorch-marks covering the ground, exactly where they must be standing: Where Jace Dabriel had made his stand. The scars he’d left on the earth were plain to see, black smears where nothing would ever grow again—

The fact they were still visible – that there were no floorboards to cover them – meant this place was a holdover from the original camp. The buildings there were meant to be temporary; the ones in the new location stood stronger, looking out over the legions’ new horizons.

Why would they cart an old shed so many miles across the plains?

Malcolm was just about to voice the question—

But Creed was looking somewhere else entirely.

“Are you familiar with this implement, Mr. Hawkins?”

At first, Malcolm was unsure what he meant: The place was like a mausoleum, a passing shade of the days when the enemy army seemed ready to descend from the darkness in the blink of an unwary eye. In due time, he felt his vision adjust to the gloom and fix on a shrouded shape.

He shared a glance with Creed, who nodded for him to press on.

Gingerly, Malcolm pulled the cloth away.

Before him was a great longbow of the finest redwood. In the misty glare of a lingering dawn, it shone with a deep rose glow – nearly crimson as it captured the light from the lantern Creed had just struck. Malcolm bent forward, forgetting himself in an instant.

His hands moved, then stopped in the air. He squinted, finding—

Carvings, on back and belly that could only have come from one source.

“Yes, sir,” Malcolm said at last. Awe overtook his voice as he straightened.

“As you well know, then, it has been left in the Republic’s care for some time,” said the general, coming a pace closer to stand at Malcolm’s side. “Our recent guest brought it from the Military Archives in Winterwine, where it has been well looked after. Not to mention looked over.”

Malcolm’s mouth quirked.

“This isn’t much of a place to display it.”

“Young man, this is no artifact to be displayed – it is a tool to be used.”

Malcolm looked from the bow to Creed and back again, his mouth agape for a moment more before he remembered himself. “So it really was him,” he spat, gaze downcast as he thought. “The one who was creeping around your tent, armed. He – brought this ...?”

“Indeed,” said Creed. “Tribune Duchenne prevailed upon his colleagues in the Winterwine moot to release the item in question. With steel again plentiful, we’re hardly in want of equipment here – but no bow like this one has been crafted in more than sixty years.”

“I know,” Malcolm said, gazing down on it with a distant expression. “I know.” He wasn’t sure how long passed before he turned to Creed again. Duchenne knowing his name – that was a thought that simply could not take hold in his mind. Instead, he asked: “Why now?”

“You shall understand more this evening,” said Creed. “The tribune – among others – now make ready for a journey you may well join. Should you decide to do so, this weapon will fall to you.” Creed paused, coughing once in a closed fist. “Not just for this mission, but henceforth.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Malcolm countered flatly. “Of course.”

“It will be worthy of the responsibility set before you.”

“What until then, sir?”

A wry half-smile found its way to Creed’s face as he rubbed his bristly chin.

“Until then, rest. Sleep is the golden chain that ties health and our bodies together.”

Malcolm tilted his head, a smoldering expression of disbelief on his face.

Then why wake me in the first place, ?

But he only said: “I could do with some more sleep.”

“Indeed. In any case,” said Creed, “the journey mustn’t be undertaken until after nightfall.”

Malcolm turned slowly on his heel to take a final look at the bow. Its luster was unreal—

Slick, bright blood. Arterial blood, straight from the heart—

Malcolm closed his eyes, forgetting the looming presence of his commander. Even in the midst of the sudden, stabbing pain, he yearned to take that ancestral bow in hand. The decrepit shack was now its shrine. There was surely some reason this space had been chosen.

He could not imagine why. But, of course, it was something the general knew full well.

“It dreams of more,” said Creed. “But do you?”

Malcolm faced him, tired eyes meeting the general’s own.

“My dreams ...”

Creed raised his chin, alert to anything the young man might reveal.

“I dream of sleeping, sir. Kind of makes things a bit mixed up, sometimes.”

Creed’s face betrayed nothing, but to Malcolm the change was like an eclipse.

“Dismissed, senior bowman. See me at the eastern edge of camp. Twenty-two hundred hours.”

Malcolm saluted and left him, white footprints trailing across the floor – then gone.

Creed stood a moment more in thought, peering down at the legend crafted in wood.

In Malcolm’s dream, the world is waiting for his shot.

Days have passed, even weeks, and the man called Malcolm Hawkins has melted into the sick, wet earth. He is aware of everything, now: Every passing bird, every breeze that stirs a blade of grass, every scuttling rabbit or creaking bug. He remembers all, but he dares not think.

His muscles ache at first, then his bones – then nothing.

Beneath his watchful eye, the rotting remains of the train station stretch on forever. He has seen every inch: Seen the enemy slather the crumbling walls with crude slogans. Seen them hanging gaslights above the long gouges in the earth that were once tracks.

The tunnels are below: An endless abyss. A void that makes his blood scream.

He has been here long enough to count the enemy – long enough to see them reinforced, relieved, replaced. Like ghosts, they have no faces and no flesh. Fire and smoke seep from their mouths when they breathe, and their footsteps are silent while his echo a thousand miles.

Two or three dozen have passed beneath him, but there is one he must wait for.

He can feel the one, waiting down below where he can’t follow. Now and then, the dismembered husks of trains start to shriek, taunting him from their underground prison. Still, he waits. Every breath he takes anchors him to the spot. Too shallow and he might float away.

Too deep and the pain will flay his every nerve—

The trains seethe in their pitiless darkness, hating his soul.

Something has changed at last: The smell of fresh rain invades his nostrils.

Soon, he will have to move—

A flash of something paler than sun-bleached bone rouses his muscles to action – but, though he senses it even before he sees it, it is already too late. By the time a face is fixed in his vision, the twang of a bowstring is already on the wind.

Malcolm Hawkins falls.

On the edge of camp, atop a slope just beyond Creed’s tent, Malcolm watched.

The rest of the encampment had fallen into its wary nighttime vigil, but not here: Dozens of people were hard at work, so many that Malcolm had decided to challenge himself by getting as close as he could without being noticed. Now, he had the high ground.

Malcolm likes the high ground. He likes that very much, indeed.

Down below, in the midst of the flurry of activity, were four carriages. Torches lit the diligent work of coachmen and quartermasters, searing the night with a defiant brand of warmth and brilliance. Most everyone he saw below had a faint sheen of sweat on their cheeks.

He recognized the man from before – Tribune Duchenne, he had to remind himself, and finally let himself feel a twinge of shame at his oversight. The other two men: They were all smiles, with a hardness underneath that said Outrider! even before he glimpsed the gray.

The woman, the one Creed stays so close to, is a stranger.

Malcolm watches as Duchenne shares a last word with her. He still carries his cane, but always in the left hand now, furthest from her body. He smiles too much and she favors him with a laugh; Malcolm suspects it’s not very funny. Then, he makes his way to the rearmost carriage.

When he is quite sure the politician can’t see, Creed looks after him like he has two heads.

Several steps behind the action – silent, but present, like a ghost – stood Cleo Bright.

Just an instant too late, she glanced up to the ridge where he had stood.

Circling back around to the path, Malcolm made his way up to the convoy.

Cleo glanced his way as he approached. Only her cheeks aren’t glowing.

“Well, this is new,” he said idly, casting a gaze over the assembled party.

“Top priority,” Cleo said. “We should both be alert.”

Malcolm shrugged one shoulder as he considered.

“Yeah.” He looked to her. “This is certainly the best chance the enemy has had to kill us yet.”

She was about to answer him – he could see that from the horror on her face – when Creed looked their way and motioned for them to come across. He seemed far more comfortable now; was talking with the woman, whose polite smile suggested they had things to agree on.

The sight of her was cheering, somehow, and Malcolm took a big breath of fresh air.

“—is Senior Bowman Hawkins,” Creed was saying, his arm outstretched to catch the bowman’s shoulder once he was close enough. Malcolm nodded, meeting the woman’s violet gaze. Creed went on, giving him no time to offer a greeting. “Malcolm, allow me to introduce Jaden.”

She was beautiful. The word ravishing invited itself to Malcolm’s mind, and he hadn’t even known he’d known it until then—perhaps one day, putting on airs, Pierce had said it. Jaden’s eyes glittered, a more joyous light than the torches around them, as if she herself held the sun.

At length, with a clap on the shoulder from Creed, Malcolm reached out to offer a handshake.

“You’re a wizardess,” he said with some astonishment.

“I am,” she said, sliding her grip down gently to his fingers. She ran her thumb over Malcolm’s ring. “And you must be a very good shot to have earned this. Refresh my memory. Is the ring worn on the hand that grips the arrow,” she released his fingers, “or the bow?”

“Bow,” Malcolm answered softly, his eyes meeting hers and freezing the words in his throat.

“Ah,” she said, her voice oddly soothing. “A lefty.”

Malcolm was sure he meant to speak, but found he could not. He looked to Creed.

“Mistress Jaden has been a liaison of ours since we first managed to push back the enemy’s advance at Fairlawn.”

“Six months,” Malcolm said, raising his eyebrows. “That long.”

The general narrowed his eyes on the young bowman.

“Her contributions to our shared cause have saved many, many lives, Bowman Hawkins. Your own included. In places, and in ways, you could not conceive.” Creed turned back to Jaden. “It has been only six months, also, since Malcolm traded the sash of an archer for the ring of the sharpshooter.”

Jaden smiled.

“And his service, too, has been invaluable, general.”

“Thank you,” said Malcolm, shifting his weight with discomfort.

“It is true. Even if it has been but a short time,” Jaden added, waiting a moment until Malcolm would meet her eyes again. In the wake of it, he was soothed; his nameless anger began to recede, and he felt like he was coasting on the surface of a cool wave.

“These two gentlemen, I’m sure you know,” Creed motioned to the men beside him. Both wore the open gray cloaks of their rank, revealing the deadly twin crossbows at their hips. “Outriders Ferris Lang,” Creed waited for Malcolm’s first handshake to release, “and Darvin Nash.”

“It’s an honor,” Malcolm said to them both as he clasped Darvin's hand.

“Likewise,” said Darvin. “You’ve garnered quite a reputation for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm replied.

The general nodded agreement.

“Darvin and Ferris assisted in scouting out your destination, and created the map you’ll need to perform your task. You can expect that it is worthy of the task.”

“Naturally,” Malcolm said, casting a final glance at the two Outriders.

“I do believe it’s high time we’ve come to that task,” Creed finished.

“Yes, sir.” Darvin motioned toward a wagon. “If you’ll follow me, Malcolm.”

The blades of grass beneath their boots were crusted with evening frost, crunching with each footstep on the way to the center wagon. The wrinkled old coachman wrapped the reins around his hands with the ease of long practice, calming the horses with a faint twitch of his hand.

The carriage they stood before was a lavish symbol of comfort, utterly unlike the others.

On the side hatch was a gold-laced emblem; a rune symbol Malcolm had never seen before that swung out of view as Darvin Nash opened the hatch. The Outrider reached up for a parchment scroll that sat atop one of the plush crimson seats. Glancing over to ensure Malcolm was close, he used the bottom of the carriage as a table.

“Tell me, Malcolm. Bryce Valley. Ever been?”

Malcolm shook his head just slightly.

“No.”

Darvin followed the bowman’s line of sight down to the map.

“Know anything about it?”

“Not much. It’s the gateway to the Kingdom of Sindell, if it’s even there anymore.”

“Indeed,” Darvin nodded, lowering his hand so that he was touching the map. He dragged his finger across the parchment, stopping at some point of interest. “The edge of our territory, for obvious reasons,” he said, looking to Malcolm again.

Malcolm nodded acknowledgement, expecting more—

But Creed spoke up, capturing his attention at once:

“The fifteen lives you’ve ended over the course of the past six months have been very carefully and meticulously planned. Each one a singular stepping stone leading to the very particular opportunity we must take advantage of right now.”

“Opportunity for what, sir?” Malcolm asked, and as he looked around he had the distinct impression he was the only one who didn’t know. It was a disquieting thought – as much so as his dawning realization that everyone in Ciridian seemed to know his name.

“To build a bridge,” Jaden answered.

“A bridge?”

“A bridge to an alliance that could offer real resistance to the forces threatening the continent.” Malcolm stared the wizardess in the eyes again, but this time his stomach churned. “Veil’driel has opened a window of opportunity,” she went on. “But it will not stay open forever. Your foes have underestimated your nation’s—” she paused, gaze floating over the Outriders and back to Malcolm, “—tenacity in the shadows, but they will not be held at bay much longer.” She exchanged a glance with Creed. “An accounting is not to be postponed indefinitely.”

“You would certainly know,” Malcolm said. “All about our enemy. Wouldn’t you?” Nash and Lang exchanged a glance. “With all respect, sir,” Malcolm went on after a half-turn to Creed, “I’m not sure I understand what‘s going on here. And to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.” He took a step toward Jaden, all self-consciousness gone, driven out by a torrent of emotion. The general held out a hand to halt the young bowman in his tracks; a caution unnecessary, as Malcolm stopped of his own accord. “You speak of this … enemy as we do, but you’re clearly one of them. I know the enemy when I see one. I’ve killed enough of your kind to know.”

“Malcolm!” Creed bellowed.

Malcolm did not stop, found that he could not stop, but only stepped closer. His commanding officer may as well have been speaking from deep within a ravine, a distant echo the young bowman ignored except for a dismissive jerk of the head.

“That Veil’driel hasn’t fallen,” he went on, focusing solely on Jaden’s violet stare. “That this is a war being waged in shadows is a lie! I’ve been scared to death and almost killed on every mission I’ve been on. A lot of my friends never came back.” He nodded over to the Outriders. “It’s cost Outrider and sharpshooter blood to maintain this stalemate; human blood and by the bucketful! We keep the wizards like you in our outer provinces, away from the first of our cities, from Fairlawn. Our lives aren’t cheap. You make it sound so effortless, but it’s not!” Malcolm looked back to the general. “And frankly, sir, I’m not entirely sure why you seem so willing to─”

The general lunged—

Pushed Malcolm hard against the carriage with strength undimmed by the advancing years. The bowman let loose a ragged grunt as the air was forced from his lungs. Before he knew it, Creed was in his face, his finger stabbing the air. Malcolm was dazed, his eyes unfocused.

“You listen to me, boy, for I am only going to say this one time.”

“Wh—?”

He shook Malcolm hard as he shouted: “One!”

The bowman's head lolled, snapped up toward his accuser again.

“I don’t know when you got it into your head that you have either the authority or the insight to speak on strategy, but when I tell you to do something, or trust someone, you damn well do it!”

He pointed to Jaden without looking.

“This woman was preparing for this war long before the enemy set foot on this continent! Her life is at risk every moment of every day for what she does to help us, and whether you can understand ... or appreciate that is irrelevant! You cannot fathom what is truly at stake here, and if you insult her again, I promise you Hawkins, you will regret it for the rest of your life!”

Malcolm gulped air, still trying to catch his breath.

“Might not ...” he gasped. “Might not understand it, sir. Sure can die for it, though.”

There was an unnatural silence. Absolute and excruciating.

Cleo was shocked to hear anything other than desperate apology tumble from Malcolm's mouth. That surprise, however, paled in comparison to what happened next, and the sight of it made her mouth tumble open just so. Creed pulled Malcolm against him and into a strong embrace.

“Malcolm, you will be the death of me,” he said.

Jaden watched the general put his powerful hands on the boy’s shoulders and whisper something under his breath, something only for them. It was only now, when she saw the youngest Senior Bowman in Veil’driel history for herself, that she began to understand all that Creed had told her.

He was honest and strong.

Maybe as strong as they said.

“I, uh …” Malcolm looked down to the ground and ran a hand back through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up to Jaden. His anger was anger melting away, replaced by weariness, resignation, and the first inkling of what he had done. He hung his head as he collected his thoughts. Then he returned an earnest gaze. “Please. Just tell me what I need to do. Tell me who you want me to kill.”

“No one,” Creed said. “There’s no killing on this one. Not if it goes as we expect it.” The general crossed his arms and began to move, interweaving slowly through all present as he spoke. “And now we’ve come to a crossroads,” he said, stopping as he reached Malcolm again.

“Sir?”

“You can go on leave right now. At this very moment,” Creed nodded over to Cleo who held the papers up at her side, tightly rolled as she’d had them in her pocket. “Signed, sealed, and ready to go. For a month, Malcolm, back in Fairlawn City.”

The general paused, studying the kid’s reaction.

There was none that he could see.

Not yet.

“There’d be no shame in it. Hell, Fairlawn’s very safety is due in no small part to your bow.” There was no change in Malcolm’s expression. No indication which way he might be leaning. “Or you can take on one more mission before you go. And with it, the item we discussed.”

Now the general diverted his eyes to Jaden.

She was as aloof as a statue.

“I can offer you no more incentive to do so than that,” Creed said, and then he looked back to Malcolm, waiting until the bowman's focus was on him again. “But I promise you … this could very well be our only chance at a step towards victory.”

Malcolm only smiled, staring down into the frosty grass at his feet.

“I’ll go and get my gear, sir,” he said.

Creed clapped him on the shoulder.

“I knew I could count on you. Miss Bright?”

Cleo stepped forward.

“General?”

“If you would be so kind as to go with Bowman Hawkins and assist him with whatever he needs,” then he turned back to Malcolm. “Jaden will brief you both upon your return.”

Creed turned on his heels, a man who apparently had more on this evening’s agenda.

“Sir, it really isn’t necessary for her to—”

But the general never turned back as he went to join Jaden.

Malcolm sighed, turning to find Cleo now standing at his side.

STATIC

Chapter Six  (E) Sandia #2190498 by Dan Hiestand