The Freetown Bridge

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The Freetown Bridge - book excerpt

Prologue 1

791ac - Frisia

The bitter cold morning sun shed watery light into the wide gully at the foot of the granite cliffs. Sickened by the run and bone-weary from days of forced marching on few rations, the soldiers flung themselves into a single rank stretching out more than a mile. It was a sight to behold, such a mass of bodies standing shoulder to shoulder on the Frisian border, blood running high.

Caught up in the sour, pungent musk of the foot soldiers, Tal Daris quivered. A juvenile whim had led him here. He had been almost in Aberddu, safe and free, when he had seen Belandrus' mighty army marching towards him. They were led by a battalion of heavily-armed Cloud Elves, riding proud on pure white warhorses with gold-armoured Belandrus himself, a blue plume rising from his helmet, at the very point of the formation.

To a displaced surf like Tal Daris, it seemed like a carnival. It was too much to bare. He had little left to lose now: Marial, his father, his home were all behind him. He had flopped tearfully on the side of the road, unable to fight against this overwhelming tide of traffic. All he could do was watch as they passed.

Thousands upon thousands of elven warriors marched in arms, both on foot and horseback, under liveries of all colours and creeds. Some wore the shining engraved armour of the proud Elven nations of Aragon or Alendria, others in mottled leather and more muted colours of the Elven Forest and Woods. Then came the human armies, dragging siege engines and cannon the like of which Tal Daris had never seen. After these smart regiments yet more thousands of ordinary men, women and children wielding whatever they could carry. Many were as shrivelled and dirty as Tal Daris, wild eyed and alive for the first time in weeks, some still carrying the packs they had fled with. They too must have lost everything, flung out from their homeland by pure-blood forces; starving and hopeless, and yet they held their heads high. After nearly two hours, he saw the end approaching, turned on his heels and raced into the back ranks.

General Belandrus galloped down the line, his proud mount making resonant thuds on the frozen ground. Behind him rode his commanders, colours streaming. He had noted with gloating satisfaction that the Frisian border garrison had withdrawn almost the moment that his army had arrived. They had not been expected. He had been prepared to meet troops head on at the border but so far nothing had come. All they could do was hold their ground and wait.

The sun climbed higher, bringing no extra warmth to the chilly border valley. Still no army came to meet the troops. The boiling rage of arrival had subsided, many of the soldiers had slumped to the ground; hungry and no longer fuelled by adrenaline. General Belandrus rode out once more, but his presence barely stirred them.

At noon, tired of waiting, the General mustered his troop once more and ordered them to move forward into Frisian territory. As one, the line charged with full fury towards the gruesome border markers: twisted skeletal creatures grimacing at them as they approached Frisian land.

Then, as they set foot across the border they began to fall.

Doubled with agony, Tal Daris fell to his knees, flinging his axe down as he clamped his hands across his belly. It felt as though someone had driven hot iron rods into him. All around him, he could hear the yells of others struck by the same invisible assailants, rendered helpless. More distressing perhaps than the cringing cries of pain were the guttural screams of the pure-blood soldiers overcome and enraged by the same force that now tormented their elven comrades. They lashed out in all directions unable to control themselves, beating the elves who were no longer in a position to resist.

Tal Daris must have been unconscious for several hours. By the time he came to, the sky was darkening and the field was all but empty. Dragging his tortured frame through the grass he could see the dead, twisted lumps of other elves, eyes still gazing in horror up at the empty sky. Fallen back in defeat, the Elven commanders seemed small. Their armour was smeared with their own blood and their eyes shaded with the horrors in their heads. Tal Daris heaved himself to standing and joined the haunted clusters where the rank should be.

As the sun set behind the slopes they had never managed to climb, a hundred or so riders appeared on the cliff top. Weakened by their ordeal, the army did not draw arms at the first sight of their opponents. The riders showed no signs of descent.

In the dimming light, it was impossible to see the faces of individual riders. None stood out as the leader. When a voice rang out across the valley, crystal clear reaching every ear, no one could see who the speaker was. Tal Daris remembered only the hatred and fear that overwhelmed him as the crimson glow of the sinking sun cast a shining red halo around the riders and the voice said,

“This land is for those who have earned it, those who deserve it. The pure blood. It will be cleansed, it will be washed with the blood of the unworthy. So is the word, so is the law, so sayeth the Inquisition.”

Prologue 2

Summer 1100 ac Frisia

Braced at attention, every boot polished, every back straight, every head held high, ten thousand Frisian soldiers waited. The scarlet tabards of the lower ranks interspersed with the sharp black shirts of their commanders made an awe inspiring sight as they stretched back rank on rank, filling the parade ground of the Inquisitorial Palace. Rumour had it that every soldier that could be spared was here. It was an unprecedented gathering in the history of the Red Army. Silence is somehow thicker when there are so many people not making a noise. The controlled breath of the ten thousand barely registered as it misted in the chilly half dark of early morning. Each soldier listened to their heart pounding in their chest and wondered what was about to happen.

As the sun rose, a red ball slipping above the horizon, it's fresh rays caught the stone. A thousand facets twinkled and bounced a soft pink glow over the waiting army. It was a glorious metaphor for the new dawn that was ahead of them, but even as the adrenaline coursed through their veins not a single soldier smiled. Just as the sun crept up directly behind the stone, so that every ray of it's light was now streaming out from every facet across the ten thousand, the High Inquisitor appeared on his dais with the head of the Inquisitorial Guard and several aides behind him.

He wore a plain red floor length robe and hood, not dissimilar from a demonic incantor. In fact, there was little way of distinguishing him as the most important man in Frisia. The head of the Inquisitorial Guard looked more important. He might not have dressed the part but, as he stood on the dais the rays of the crimson sun shining out of the stone behind him like a divine nimbus, no one could deny that he made an impressive sight.

He did not need to wait for quiet, he did not need to, he merely began to speak to the eager ten thousand who were ready to hang on his every word.

“I welcome you all, loyal soldiers of the Motherland, to witness this. The new and glorious red dawn.”

Chapter 1

Departure

Sitting on the hillside, Iona watched the thick mist curl up and across the valley floor obscuring the trees and the river. She tapped her fingers on her thigh and waited patiently, sure it would not be long. After less than two minutes her patience was rewarded by a shrill tribal cry and a wail of surrender. She would have to make a note of that feminine scream, and mock Gerard mercilessly for it later. Once she had saved his life for the second time in one day, she considered that she would definitely have license to mock him.

Carefully, she picked her way down the sodden grass slope and walked slowly into the fog. She could see barely three feet in front of her. It was an effect that was immensely disorientating but she was damned if she was going to be caught floundering. Slow sure steps, feeling for the edge of the river with her toes, were her only choice. Ducking and dodging the surprise tree branches that leapt out of the mists, she listened intently. In her left hand she clutched her bow so tightly her knuckles had whitened, an arrow nocked and ready to draw. Her right hand darted between grand balancing gestures and the hilt of her knife, primed to snatch it free of it’s sheath at a moment’s notice.

She did not have to prowl about in the fog for too long before she found what she was looking for. Against a towering birch tree that protruded out of the cloudy canopy, Gerard was pinned. A sleek elven woman, who appeared to be at least a foot taller than him, held a short staff at his neck, and from the look of her stance, her whole body weight was resting on it. She was bent forward, her nose to Gerard’s ear and her lips curled in an unpleasant leer. Clearly, she was reciting some kind of trespass warning embellished to intimidate all those who were unfortunate enough to receive it.

Gerard’s face was scrunched and skewed to one side, as he strained to distance himself from her. From her sharp features, the jewels in her ear and the markings on her chin and cheeks, Iona could see that the woman was of Clan ‘Il Taran’, and by the look of it, quite a high ranking member of the Clan Militia. From her stance and body language, Iona could also tell that as high ranking as she maybe, this woman was so intent on intimidation that she had yet to notice Iona’s presence. She could hear her mother’s voice still whispering in her ear; ‘always press an advantage’.

Breathlessly Iona slipped forward, barely moving her feet, until she was less than two feet from the woman’s back, her hand on her knife, her bow still ready. Then, in an instant, she lunged pushing the woman forward onto Gerard, crushing him against the birch bark. She ignored his pathetic wincing. Without hesitation, she lent forward until her mouth was below the woman’s ear and began to hiss and jabber in elven. The woman’s face contorted in anger, and for a second she made to retaliate but one more hiss from Iona changed her mind and she began to loosen her grip on her staff and on Gerard.

Not wishing to hang around to have her pride further damaged, the woman stalked away into the mist and Gerard looked at Iona.

“Thanks,” he said limply, “thought I was a goner then.”

“S’alright,” said Iona, dryly, “any time.”

“What the heck did you say to her to make her let go?” he said, rubbing his neck and smoothing his robes.

“Oh, just an old elven word or two,” said Iona mysteriously. “I called her the mother of a whore.” Gerard just gaped at her.

“And that made her let me go did it?” he muttered, in grudging awe.

“No, that was this,” she said holding up her small steel blade. “I had it pressed onto her kidneys. I could have killed her with a twitch of the wrist. That was what made her let you go. She knew she had been bested.”

“Oh,” said Gerard, his eyes not leaving the glinting blade. “Sometimes, you’re terrifying you know that? Not that I’m complaining of course,” he added quickly as Iona turned to walk back up the hillside. Haplessly, he stood and watched her ascend for a minute. Then, as she disappeared into the mist, he realised that she hadn’t bothered to check that he was following and raced to catch up with her.

“When you said ‘you don’t know what’s down there in that fog,’” he gasped finally level with Iona again, “What you meant was that I didn’t know what was in that fog but you did, wasn’t it?”

A scornful smirk curled across Iona’s face as she turned to look at the flushed cheeks of the wheezing wizard.

“Glad you’ve finally worked that one out,” she retorted, “Now perhaps we can get to where we’re going without getting ourselves killed.”

“Absolutely, right you are. You lead on then, madam,” said Gerard, trying to sound cordial whilst still flushed and panting. Fire flashed in Iona’s eyes, as she turned on her heels, started back up the hill and growled

“And don’t call me Madam,”

Iona could tell it was going to be the longest ten miles of her life. She had picked Gerard up in a tavern on the turn gate and was supposed to escort him to the transport circle on Skal Ferra. It was a good ten mile walk, through the mountain pass across Elven clan territories, a route Iona knew well. It should have been easy; Iona was of a local clan and had walked the pass a hundred times in all weathers. Even with a human in tow she should have been safe enough. After all he was only a wizard, and a practically unarmed one at that.

Gerard was clearly no danger with a weapon, except perhaps to himself. Unfortunately, it did not stop him from trying. Keeping him on the right track was proving to be like trying to herd frogs with a teaspoon. The problem was that he was fixated by the fact that she was a woman. He had somehow got it embedded in his head that he would have to escort her; a thought that would have offended Iona had it not been so laughable. She took a deep breath and pressed on to the peak of the mountain.

Tariqa gazed one more time at the endless yellow grasslands in front of her and sighed. Stretching out to the soft blue horizon without so much as a single sapling to break up the sky line, it was truly breath taking. The wild wind whipped through the grasses, making fleeting paths and eddies and throwing ripples on to the otherwise still river. Above her, the cloudless sky seemed to mirror the vastness of the veldt below her. Turning around, she looked back where she had been. Far in the distance she could see the silhouettes of the huts in her village. Straining to make out the shape, and half imagining it, she fixed her gaze on her mother’s house in the centre of the village. Next to it, the tavern and on the other side the bell tower. The squat hut of the village shaman; the forge and the tanners’ workshop with its strange bitter smell stood in a triangle by the river. The baker’s house, with his rosy wife who had slipped her buns on the sly when she was tiny. The bald ground in the centre of the village, the indaba tree and the well with its pure sweet water. A jolt in her stomach reminded her that she did not know when she would see all this again or even if she would be back at all. A warm tear snaked down her nose.

The air was heavy with humidity, so that it clung to Tariqa’s face and clothes and left a familiar warm taste in her mouth. Mercilessly, the sun beat down baking the earth hard and crisping the grassland. The game lay listless in any shade they could find, which was little and patchy. Even the crickets were too hot chirrup. Slowly, she turned her head taking in every last detail and holding the picture in her mind’s eye. Her heart raced; maybe this would be the last time she ever laid eyes on this beautiful country, this home that was more than just a land to live in.

Impulsively, she reached down and snatched up some blades of tall grass, and as she had ever since she could remember, weaved them deftly into a little ring, taking care not to pop the seed heads. When she finished it, she tucked in into her coin pouch slightly embarrassed by her sentimentality and knotted the pouch tightly closed. At last, she could put it off no longer. As hard as this was, there was no other choice in the matter. Some things were worth leaving kith and kin, hearth and home for. Reluctantly, she turned her back on the village, closed her eyes and rubbed the small bronze ring on her left thumb. Cold wind rushed past her face, and when she opened her eyes again the veldt had gone.

The bedroom was murky when Josephine opened her eyes. A shiver rushed over her, part cold, part anticipation. She had barely slept, her whole body churning with adrenaline and her brain buzzing with sights and sounds that would come. Warm breath tickled her neck and ears. William’s head rested on the pillow next to her, his rough face oddly serene with sleep. In the gloom, she stared at his pale cheeks, his soft eye lids, the contented smile on his lips. She stroked his course black hair gently and turned away from him, her heart knotting in her chest.

Deftly, she slid out of the bed, without waking him, and crossed the room to the window. The hot orange sun was peeking over the shimmering horizon. A cool light wind wafted towards her from the sea, a hint of salt in the air. The streets below her, shrouded in the grey of the pre-dawn, were mysteriously silent. Restlessly, she left the window and went into her lady’s chamber. The maid, whose name she was ashamed to say she could not remember, had laid out her adventuring clothes as though they were a gown and stays for the state ball. She splashed water from the jug into the wash stand and hesitantly washed her face.

Every movement was deliberate, as she divested herself of her nightgown and began to dress. Steady, studied motion might stretch time out and delay the inevitable. The sun rose, forcing bright summer light along the streets of the town, into every crag and alleyway. Figures scuttled about on their early morning business, not stopping to socialise with each other. Thoroughly, Josephine checked her packs and pouches, and fastened on her belt, crunching the buckle as tightly as possible. She bound up the long golden brown tresses of her hair in a strip of blue cloth, making a thick sturdy knot. Then she moved on to her braces and grieves, pulling each strap tight, securing each buckle, trying to hold back time some how. Then she crept back into the bedroom, where William lay softly snoring, his head and arm now on her side of the bed.

She stood for a while and watched as he slept, and then she moved to the dresser. The last thing she was going to put on was there, its dark shape shining against the polished wooden surface. The jewelled pommel of her knife decorated with a deep blue gem, glinted in the dawning light as she picked it up and made to secure it to her upper arm.

Just as she fastened the last silver buckle, the bell from the Law Temple Tower chimed out across the city, marking the morning six-hour. The heavy, sonorous peal called the faithful to the dawn service at the temple and stirred the rest of the city people in their heathen beds.

William stopped snoring and rolled over. Sleepily, he opened his deep brown eyes and looked soulfully up at Josephine, who was standing at the end of the bed, one foot resting on the bedstead as she adjusted her boots again. He blinked and smiled at her, and said with reproachful humour,

“You’re ready early, you weren’t going to leave without me where you?”

Josephine looked at him with sad eyes, her face still hidden from him by the morning shadow and shook her head.

“Of course not,” she said, as a silent tear squeezed itself from her eye.

It was strangely quiet thought Jacob as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the barracks for the last time. The chill of the early morning crept over him and he got up and went to the bathhouse. He looked at the faces of his sleeping comrades, peaceful for the moment. They did not normally sleep so soundly without the aid of strong spirits. They had seen too much not to dream and it was not uncommon for men to cry out in their sleep.

He lingered for a moment looking at the beds of the new recruits, many of them so young that they were not able to grow a beard, a few had called out for their mothers in the night. Why they had come to this squalid life he did not know. They learned quickly that it was not the heroic endeavour it first seemed. Perhaps they stayed out of shame, unable to return home for fear of mockery or rejection. It was a churn of mixed emotion he felt this morning.

His last day with the Aberddu City Militia should have been cause for celebration. He would walk free and sleep soundly, except that he would never forget what he had seen, never stop dreaming and he had chosen to walk freely into another battle.

He washed and shaved himself as regulation demanded and returned to the barracks where he put on his civilian clothes for the first time in five years. It felt strange to see his green uniform tunic lying on his bed, his neatly pressed trousers still folded in his trunk.

In the mess, he looked around at the sleepy faces of the other men eating sloppy tepid porridge as though tomorrow there would be no food. He couldn’t bring himself to eat it any more; he just pushed it around with a spoon before giving it to an eager lad on the next table who guzzled it greedily.

When the warning bell rang for parade, he had to stop himself from running to the yard. Instead, he returned to the now deserted barracks, picked up his pack and looked around at the cold whitewashed walls for one last time. He would not miss them he told himself. Then he went into the bath house and gazed around at the metal buckets and the pottery drains. He would never see these again, he mused but he just couldn't make himself think 'thank Gods'. He scolded himself for this sentimental gesture and turned to walk towards the heavy gates of the compound.

As he approached the parade yard, he could see the whole of battalion lined up. It was strange to see Fleetfoot standing where yesterday he himself had stood, at the head of his patrol. McLaren, his bunk mate, a good four inches shorter than the men either side, was as usual not at full attention. The drill sergeant, Weller, had never noticed, because McLaren was a dwarf and the sergeant had assumed that it was the best McLaren could do. Jacob smiled. Stupid old fool.

Sergeant Weller was barking orders at the parade, his pasty cheeks flapping as he bellowed, spit flying into the faces of the front ranks. Jacob tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible as he moved across the compound. He was nearly at the gate when there was a horn blast and a bellowed order.