ZERVAKAN

by Rob Steiner

 

Chapter 11

Taran sat in a chair next to one of the broken windows in the Speaker’s car, his wool overcoat buttoned to the top against the frigid mountain air blowing through.  Unfortunately none of the other car windows were intact, so there was not a warm place left on the train besides in the locomotive.

The train had reached its highest point in the Perla Mountains, and was descending into Edellia.  Beyond the fir-covered mountains below, Taran saw the Edellian foothills begin not five miles away as the sparrow flies, though the train still had to make a serpentine route down mountain passes, making the entire journey more like twenty miles.  He had traveled this route twice before, in failed expeditions to the Beldamark.  He would have enjoyed the breathtaking view just as much this time if he had not been so nervous about what they would find in Kaneta.

When the train reached the Edellian plains and approached Kaneta, the Shadarlak checked their revolvers and made sure their sabers were easy to find on their hips.  It was not long before Taran heard the locomotive’s engines die out after burning the last of its coal.  All he could hear now was the creaking and rumbling of the train, and the screeching of metal as the engineer applied the brakes all the way down the mountain tracks.

When the train finally rounded the last jutting mountain, Taran saw the scenery change from walls of rock interspersed with fir trees, to rocky hills, to rolling hills covered in a carpet of lush, emerald grass.  The engineer let off the brake a bit more, allowing the train to pick up speed in a straight sprint down the Edellian foothills.  It was faster than Taran ever remembered traveling in a train, but they would need the speed to coast into Kaneta.

After almost fifteen minutes of watching the grass and hills blur past the train, the conductor entered the car, a relieved smile on his face.

“The station in Kaneta returned our flash signals.  They’ve welcomed us to stop for fuel.”

The easing tension in the car was palpable, and many of the aids smiled at each other.  The Shadarlak, however, maintained their grim watch despite the apparent good news.  Taran was inclined to feel the same way as the Shadarlak, and judging from Edoss’s furrowed brow, the Speaker’s tension had not eased either.

A twinge of fear returned when Taran saw the outlying homes of Kaneta.  The town sat on the edge of a small lake called Dacava Lake.  The last time Taran had traveled through the town, children and adults sat on their front porches gaping and waving at the train as it rumbled by their homes.  Now every window was boarded up with fresh lumber.  Many homes had broken windows, and a few had recently burned to the ground.  There were no fishing boats dotting the lake, as Taran had remembered on previous trips, and a large number of boats were haphazardly beached on the gravel shores as if blown there by a storm.

The train soon approached the tall stone walls of Kaneta proper.  Occasional raids by migrating Cossop horsemen from the Komenda Steppes were a fact of life out here, and sturdy walls meant you could keep safe supplies for the winter.

And for the first time since leaving the Calaman region, Taran saw actual people outside the train.  A cluster of seven men watched them from horseback on the road leading to the town gates—closed, though they were open the last two times Taran had been there.  The men wore coats and breeches made of gray and brown wool, and all wore wide-brimmed hats.  Each one had a musket strapped to his back, with rusting bayonets that looked older than the Perla Mountains.  The men eyed the train warily, as if they were not sure they wanted to rejoice at the sight of it, or begin shooting out the remaining windows.

When the train finally stopped, Taran remembered there was no way to get it going again unless they refueled.  If they could not get fuel in Kaneta, they were walking back to Calaman.  And Taran did not relish going back the way they came.

The Kaneta station, which sat outside the walls of the town, was no more elaborate than the Compact stations they had passed.  In fact, it was less so.  There was not even a raised platform, nor a covered waiting area with benches for passengers.  Two Kaneta men stood on the hard-packed dirt road next to the tracks.  Though their clothes were relatively the same as the cluster on horseback, they at least looked a bit cleaner.

The conductor disembarked and talked briefly with the men, who shaded their eyes as they stared at the train.  Taran knew the conductor would not tell them who was on board, but he knew Kanetans were not stupid.  Shadarlak Armsmen stared at them from the broken windows of each car.  Anyone on the continent would know there were important Compact officials on board and that they had been through a fight.

The conductor finished talking with the men, who eyed the train a few more moments before returning to a small red-tiled wiretype office next to the tracks.  Taran noticed more people peeking at the train from the open town gates a couple dozen paces away.

The conductor entered the car, frowning.  “The station manager has agreed to sell us some coal, but not as much as we need to get to Sydear.”

“Why not?” Cursh asked, wincing as he inadvertently bumped his wounded arm against the table.

“He says their supply train from the Perla Mountains never arrived last week, so they’ve had to use coal from the train depot to heat their homes.”

“Have there been other trains?” Edoss asked.

“We’re the first one to come from the south in three days.”

General Myndehr asked, “What is their security situation?”

“They didn’t say much,” the conductor said, “but they’re afraid of something.  They’ve been attacked the last three nights straight.  They said it was by Cossops, but I don’t think that’s true.  Cossops wouldn’t put the fear in their eyes that I just saw.  Whatever it was, they lost eight men so far and they’re frightened about more attacks tonight.”

“These are plainsmen, as tough as they come,” Myndehr said.  “For something to scare them that bad…”

Edoss asked the conductor, “Have they received any wiretypes from the south recently?”

“I didn’t ask, Excellency.”

“Lee, draft a wiretype message explaining what’s happened to us, then send it to the first Compact train station that answers the ring.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Lee said, then called Flynt over, who furiously wrote down Lee’s message.

“Captain Latish,” Myndehr called out.

Latish holstered his pistol and stood at attention before Myndehr.  “General.”

“Escort Mr. Flynt to the nearest wiretype office.”

“Yes, General.”

Taran asked Edoss, “May I go with Mr. Flynt?  I’d like to get information from the locals on what they saw last night.”

It was not the only reason Taran wanted to go into town.  He also wanted to wiretype Adhera to see if all was well in Calaman.  Taran did not think a request like that would be granted, given the secrecy of their mission.

Edoss hesitated a moment, but nodded.  With a stern look that would have done Taran’s mother proud, he said, “Do not stray from Captain Latish.  You’re rather important to this expedition, Dr. Abraeu.”

As Flynt copied down Cursh’s message, Taran took off his overcoat but kept on the lighter brown jacket he wore underneath.  The air was warmer on the plains, but a chill wind still blew down from the Perlas.  Once Flynt was ready, Latish and another Shadarlak named Teol escorted Flynt and Taran off the train and into Kaneta.

They first stopped at the wiretype office next to the train station, but the grizzled ticket agent said the wiretype had been damaged and that they might want to try the public wiretype at the town’s only tavern, the Grand Steppe Inn.  With a fearful glance at the two men the conductor had talked to—who stared at him with hooded eyes—the agent refused to say how the station’s wiretype had been damaged.

The four Compact men entered Kaneta through the open gate.  The thick, heavy logs that made up the gate had fresh gashes in them, and the yellow clay walls around them were streaked with black spatters, as if someone had swung a brush dripping with black paint at the walls.

Most of the town’s buildings were made of yellow clay, and roofed with either red tiles or thatch from the brush near Dacava Lake.  The main road into the town was hard packed dirt that looked as if it had not seen rain in years.  Men and women sat in separate clusters watching them pass, whispering to each other, making Taran feel like he was part of a carnival act.  The mood of everyone he passed was either fearful or tense.  Taran rested his hand on the butt of the old revolver at his hip.

They found the Grand Steppe Inn, a two-story clay building, in the middle of town.  Inside the dark tavern room, two men sat in a corner staring at an eches board, their muskets leaning against their table.  Two more men sat at a table near the door eating a hot soup with a savory smell that made Taran remember he had not yet eaten breakfast.  A barmaid stepped out of a back kitchen carrying two pints of frothy liquid, and started when she saw the Compact men standing in the doorway.

“Welcome, sirs,” she said, in a thick Edellian drawl.  She put the pints down in front of the men eating soup, then wiped her hands on her apron.  “What canna get for you?”

“Good morning, madam,” Flynt said, bowing his head.  “Do you have a wiretype?”

She pointed to a hall in the back of the small tavern’s common room.  “Straight back and turn right.  Mr. Gwynder should be on the wiretype right now.  He’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” Flynt said, then proceeded to the hall.

When Taran went to follow, Latish put his hand on Taran’s shoulder.

“I thought you wanted to talk to the locals, Doctor.”

Taran turned and said, “I do.  And I figure the wiretypist might be a good person to start with.  They always know all the gossip in town.”

Taran then looked at Latish’s hand, and Latish removed it, but followed Taran into the wiretype room.

A short, round man with a balding head sat in a chair before the wiretype machine studying a sheet of paper.  He must have also been the Grand Steppe’s owner, for he wore the stained apron of a tavern keep.

“Mr. Gwynder?” Flynt asked.

The man jumped, turned wide-eyed, but then looked eager when he saw potential customers.

“Ah am, ah am.  Do yous need to send a wiretype?”  Gwynder reached out his hand for the paper Flynt was holding.

“Yes, sir.  And it is a private message.”  Flynt motioned to Gwynder’s seat in front of the wiretype machine.  “May I?”

“Ah have to count the words to know how much to charge you.”

Flynt took several gold han coins from his pocket and put them in Gwynder’s outstretched hand.

“That should be more than enough to send a book over your machine.  I only want to send a half-page…and I don’t want any questions.”

Gwynder’s eyes went wide at the coins in his ink-stained hand.  He pocketed the gold, and then relinquished his seat with a smile.

“Of course, of course, sir.  Can ah get you any drink?  Food maybe?”  When Flynt shook his head, Gwynder said, “Your friends maybe?”

Latish and Teol just stared at the man, but Taran said, “No thank you.”

“You folks off the train, ah take it?”

Flynt looked at him with impatience.  “Yes.  Now, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Gwynder nodded, apologized, and then left the room.  Flynt said to Latish, “Make sure no one comes in here.”

Latish glanced at Taran, then nodded.  Latish and Teol went to stand in the hallway.

Flynt shut the door, then said to Taran, “You have two minutes to send a wiretype to your family.”

Taran tried to look confused rather than startled.  Flynt said, “Latish may think you’re a security risk, but I know if I had a family, I’d want to make sure they were safe.  Especially after last night.”

Taran murmured a thank you, then sat in the chair as Flynt went to stand near the door.

Taran suddenly had no idea what to say to his wife that would not violate the secrecy of the mission.  He decided on a brief message, just to say that he was all right and that he missed her and Mara beyond measure.  It was short and simple, but hopefully enough to get her to respond right away if she was at the house.

He typed in his wiretype number, then waited a minute for the switchboard operators further south to reroute his message.  The bell next to the wiretype rang two short bursts followed by a long one.  Taran slapped the desk with his hand.  The call had not gone through.

Flynt sighed.  “Let me try Vigilance.  It was the last standing town we passed before Doare.”

Taran stood and leaned against the door, disappointed and worried.  He should have expected this, but it was a frustrating nonetheless.  After Flynt entered the number for Vigilance, the same “message not received” bell rang.

Flynt shook his head.  “I’m going to try our embassy in Sydear.”

Message not received.  

Flynt stood.  “No way to warn anyone coming from the Compact and no way to tell the north what’s happening.  And that greedy bastard knew the lines were down, yet he took my money anyway.”

Flynt and Taran passed Latish and Teol, who fell into step behind them as they left the tavern.  Mr. Gwynder smiled, said, “Until tomorrow, sirs,” the traditional Edellian good-bye.

Flynt stopped before Gwynder.  “The wiretype lines are down and you still took my money.”

Gwynder looked shocked.  “The lines are down?  They were up just as you walked in.  Ah’m sorry sirs, there’re no refunds once you try to send a ‘type.”

Taran saw the men who had been playing eches now had their hands on their muskets, eyeing him, Flynt, and the Shadarlak.

Flynt noticed the rising tension, and mumbled, “Better get those lines fixed.”  He turned and walked out of the tavern.

Gwynder smiled, two bottom teeth missing.  “Of course, sirs.  Until tomorrow, sirs.”

Taran exhaled when they exited the tavern and followed Flynt down the hard dirt road back to the train.

When they rounded a corner, a man carrying two large bags over his shoulder blocked their path.  Behind him was a small woman wearing a head scarf, holding the hands of two girls who were no more than five years old.  A pre-teen boy carrying several more shoulder bags stood next to his father.  All five looked at Taran and Flynt with pleading eyes.

“I’ll give each of you five Compact han for your tickets on that train,” the man said desperately.

Someone from a nearby cluster of men with muskets strapped to their backs called out, “Bariam, you coward.”

“That’s right,” Bariam shouted back.  “After what we seen the past three nights, ah want out of these here walls.”

Another man in the group, this one older, said, “Hold your tongue, Bariam.”

He said it with a quiet voice, but a voice used to being obeyed.  It made Bariam pause for a moment, then he turned back to Taran and said, “Six han, for each of you.  Please, ah must get mah family out.”

“Why?” Taran asked.  “What happened here?”

Bariam paused, gave another fearful glance at the men with muskets, who were now walking over to him with warning glares.  He was about to say something, when someone behind Taran shouted out, “I’ll give you ten han.”

Taran turned and saw another man rushing up to him, his wife behind him holding an infant.  Both parents looked just as desperate as Bariam and his family.

Flynt said, “Our tickets are not for sale.”

Then Flynt pushed past Bariam.  Taran and the two Shadarlak followed, but Bariam walked beside them, pleading, “Ah’ll give you all the han ah have.  Please!”

Two more families joined the crowd now gathering around Taran, Flynt, and the Shadarlak, blocking their path to the train only a hundred paces away.  The Kanetan musketmen tried to push back the crowds starting to gather, calling them cowards for not staying to defend their town, threatening them with a bayonet in the gut if they did not back off, but nothing worked.  Men and women materialized from out of the buildings around Taran, all screaming for passage on the train.  People were even running toward the train and trying to climb aboard.  It was turning into a full-fledged riot.

A gun shot exploded next to Taran’s head, and the crowd hushed.  Latish was pointing his revolver at the sky, then leveled it at the crowd, as did Teol.

“Stand back,” Latish shouted.  “Make way!”

The crowd in front of them immediately backed away, fear and anger on their faces.  A dangerous combination, Taran thought.  Fear would make them do something desperate, and anger would ensure that desperate act was violent.

When Taran, Flynt, and the Shadarlak were fifty paces from the train, another shot rang out.  Flynt grunted next to Taran, then slumped to the ground.  Taran reached down, turned him over, saw a pool of blood spreading from a neat hole in his black coat right in the center of his chest.  Flynt stared at the sky with dead eyes.

After that, chaos.

The pleading families disappeared into nearby buildings, while other Kanetans began firing their muskets at the train.  Latish and Teol grabbed Taran and dragged him toward the train, leaving Flynt behind.  Bullets whizzed by Taran, striking the ground, taking chunks out of the train.  Shadarlak on the train fired back at the crowd from already broken windows.  The train’s locomotive had already started moving, and Taran, Latish, and Teol leaped onto the last car as it moved past them gaining speed.  Inside the car, they stayed low to the floor.  Bullets slammed into each side of the train, breaking windows that had not already been broken from the nightmare attacks in Doare.  The shooting leveled off as the train picked up speed, passing the town’s walls and the sporadic clay dwellings beyond.

Taran and the Shadarlak made their way to the Speaker’s car, passing several wounded men being tended to by other Shadarlak.  Most had flesh wounds on their arms or past their temples, but Taran saw one man on the floor with blood flowing from his neck and mouth.  He gurgled and grabbed at the Shadarlak trying to patch the hole in his neck.  Taran looked away.

When they entered the Speaker’s car, Edoss’s eyes were afire.

“What happened?”  He looked past Taran and asked, “And where’s Flynt?”

Latish saluted the Speaker, then said, “Mr. Flynt was killed during the mob’s attack, Excellency.”

“What?” Cursh asked.  “How?”

“He was shot,” Taran said before Latish could report.  He gritted his teeth over the memory of the bloody hole in Flynt’s chest and his dead eyes.  “These people were terrified, desperate to get out of Kaneta, so they mobbed us, trying to negotiate their way on board.”

General Myndehr asked, “Is that how the shooting started?  We heard two shots, and then a bloody battle broke out.”

Latish said, “I fired first, General, but only into the air to disperse the crowd.”

Taran admired Latish’s willingness to take responsibility for possibly starting the riot.  Latish held his head high, ready for any discipline the General might hand out.

Taran said, “And it seemed to work, too.  Until Flynt was hit.”

Edoss slammed a fist on the table.  “Bloody fine mess, firing on citizens of the Compact’s closest ally.”

He sat down, put a hand over his eyes and rubbed his temple.  Then he asked, “What about the wiretype, did Flynt get that through?”

Taran shook his head.  “The wiretype lines were down.  To the north and south.”

Cursh said, “At least news of this won’t reach Sydear before we do.”

Edoss snorted.  “Small consolation.”  Then he turned to Taran.  “Did you find out anything about what made these people so frightened?  Was it fear of the same things that attacked us?”

“Absolutely,” Taran said.  “They were terrified about the recent attacks on their walls.  There were some who tried to bully the others into staying, but it wasn’t working.”

“Bloody Edellian pride,” Myndehr said, shaking her head.  “They never talk about their own troubles to outsiders, even if they need help.  Perfectly willing to help others, but won’t take it.”

The conductor entered the car and said to Edoss, “We took on enough coal to get two-thirds of the way to Sydear, Excellency.  We will have to make one more stop.”

Edoss nodded as he stared out the window at the passing plains of emerald grass.  Then he looked at Taran with a pleading glare.  “These Mystics better be worth all this.”