Epilogue
Black-and-Tan, Protector’s hand,
Keep yon eyes on the two-tone band.
T’was they who built our Groven home,
On fallen bits of forest loam.
Soon their thoughts, they turned inland,
Rapacious, hungry, northern ice and southern sand.
And what’er they sought,
Where’er they clove and where’er they fought,
They only sinched the binding knots,
Our trees they ashed in av’ricious plots.
And so they bend that o’erarching hand,
Our fine Protector and their blessed Groveland,
Those grim and silent Black-and-Tan,
That dire, disastrous Company Courlan.
-Pyrean School Rhyme
Recorded by Storymaster Setonix, A Child’s Grove
The slip of paper was still in her pocket; it hadn’t left its home in her coat since it was given to her in Avium all those years prior and even now, her hand rested against it as she reflected on her short time with Company Mellivora and the family she had found there. She missed Fourth Squad, the camaraderie and protection of Pica and Simen, the stoic leadership of Tacca, the joviality of the Triplets…well, Sily and Rusa; she remembered all of them fondly despite the distance that had grown in her heart in the intervening years.
It seemed that her very world had ceased that night in Heartwood, all the dreams of a new life dashed away in a single moment of senseless violence. And that was only the beginning as, within days of the ambush on Company Mellivora, the terrors had begun within the grand citadel of Avium in earnest as the Unitary flexed its might upon the shocked population. Then there was the plague, a hemorrhagic fever that over-flooded the newly finished walls of Heartwood ghetto and within days of first reports, leaving tens of thousands dead, their stiff corpses scattered around the streets of the common districts and the now-abandoned old docks. There seemed no way to stop the spread of the sickness, the city teetering on the edge of complete chaos for days and the Imperial Guard collapsing completely before the Protectorate sent the Shields from their cliff-top barracks to intervene and enforce order upon the populace alongside the already beleaguered unitarian troopers spread desperately across the city.
The brutal efficiency for which Sinea is renowned was demonstrated in full for the city and their peers as they, gathering the sick and rebellious alike, rebuilt and expanded the enclosures to concentrate them once more into the increasingly desperate Old City ghetto. The Unitary didn’t stop with insurgents or the unwell either and soon any crime or indiscretion could be, and was, severely punished as the military assumed complete control of the policing functions of Avium in its entirety. The poor souls devoured one another within the walled lower-city as the Shields watched from above and held the gates closed against the desperate pounding from within.
Pellia remembered the stench; some nights she would awaken with the depraved scent fresh in her memory after once more reliving her last hellish weeks living among the chimneys of the Milkmaid’s Quarter. She could still taste the thick smoke that threatened to blacken the sun as the Old Market burned in a pitched battle between under-armed, desperate citizens and the elite troops of the Protectorate. The cries and screams as people burned, the sharp silence that followed as war horses trampled anyone caught in their path. She had escaped during the Summer Riots in the market when the populace, frustrated with the continued lockdown of the Citadel, the restriction of goods between districts, and the naval blockade slowly starving the lower-city, attempted a peaceful march onto the Forest of Heroes.
What was intended to be an expression of dissent by the common people turned into carnage as the newly consolidated Unitary, supported by heavy weapons fire from ships in port as well as from the cliffs of the northern districts, suppressed the citizenry with shocking effect.
The naval airships, Parotodus and Tabulata, were employed as well, clearing blockades using small barrels with sparking wicks dropped from the belly and sending infernal ballista-fired ‘star-darts’ to erupt in white fire above rooftops deep in the Old City. The day that followed had consumed entire blocks under flame and steel; thousands of shops, stalls, and homes were erased in hours, the firestorm feeding eagerly on old timber and insistent easterlies from the sea. Tens of thousands of people would face the same fate over the following month as the fighting transitioned from pitched battle to vicious street fighting by Unitarian guards-turned-occupiers.
‘We need to leave.’ A voice interrupted her reminiscing, making her start imperceptibly as she was wrenched back into the grim present. Her eyes focused back onto the sea stretching for what seemed like infinity before her from the clifftop campsite they had been posted on for the last couple weeks.
There it was! A vessel was visible just under the thick mist that hugged the water tightly and roiled above it as if mirroring the waves it submerged.
‘They’re here?’ Pellia looked over her shoulder at the aged figure who stood behind her and stared down at the wooden ship that bobbed lazily toward them. It appeared abandoned and without direction, as if it had lost all crew at half-mast and had since wondered the waves as an aimless ghost.
‘Yes, that’s them. We need to get to the beach.’
The man turned, pulling a deep, crimson hood over his head and heading down the almost invisible goat track that hugged the cliff face to the beach below.
A small boat, a sort of covered rowboat, was resting gently on the sand when they finally reached the beach far below. It bobbed slowly as the waves pushed against it, digging its hull deeper into the ground and settling there. It appeared abandoned to Pellia’s eyes, she assumed that was intended. The small sail, half-dropped, was torn and fluttered ashamedly from a splintered yard on the tiny mast. Hairline cracks could be seen in the splintery hull and a slight sound of sloshing water could be heard in its belly as it moved under the influence of the sea to its back.
A creaking sound accompanied an opening hatchway near the fore of the deck. A head poked out. Covered in a thick grey wool hood, it was impossible to see the face hidden therein. The old man beside Pellia pulled his own covering back and stared at the figure pulling itself from the hold before offering the passphrase.
‘Silver light follows the true.’
Silence responded as the cloaked figure froze on the deck and began searching deep pockets. Finding what it sought, a small round object flew from its hand and landed at the feet of the two on the beach. Pellia looked at it in confusion. It was a green apple, slightly withered and small, it sat in the sand, gleaming slightly in the watery sunlight of the morning. She bent down and grabbed it, holding it away from her as she inspected the fruit uncertainly. She turned it slowly, stopping as something became clear across the waxy exterior. Carved almost invisibly in the thin skin was a single word, a name that had signed the note given her in the hospital so long ago.
Atratus
She gasped, letting go of the apple and letting it fall from her small hand in shock. The old man beside her reached out and plucked it from the air before it had a chance to fall more than a few inches, looking it over briefly before taking a large bite from it. It snapped as if fresh as his teeth ripped the tart flesh. He released a moan of contentment as he chewed, relishing the sharp acidic flavor of the fruit before taking another bite and fishing out an object lodged into the core as he chewed.
Handing the remains of the apple to his young companion, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and opened the small cylinder and to shake a tiny slip of paper from within. He read it twice, looked at the man on the ship, and popped the message into his mouth, washing it down with a long pull from his water bag. He waited a few moments as Pellia wolfed down the remainder of the trojan apple with obvious glee and hunger, stopping for only a moment to flick a seed from the core before shoving that too into her mouth.
‘Welcome home friend, been a long time. Pellia, this is Atratus, he will accompany us to the east and help us get in contact with the resistance in the City-of-Three.’
The young woman’s heart pounded, she brushed dark hair from her face and looked at the strange figure still standing as if a statue on the deck of the grounded vessel. Slowly, long-fingered hands reached out of ink-speckled sleeves and rose to the hood, the thick woolen cloth pulled back to reveal a wide, smiling face. Sad, sage-green eyes framed by long black hair stared back at her.
‘Scribe?!’
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