Godfang: Ch. 07 Fertile Fantasy Epic

Keema sat by herself in the royal bed chambers, staring numbly into the dying embers within the hearth. The castle was quiet but for the tolling of the hour drifting with the moonlight through her window. She had spent the last hour looking out that window, gazing down at the sprawling city below. Oil lamp light and lives twinkling for the realm over which she now presided.

The weight of the day's ceremonies had left her as drained as she was despairing. Her prison offered power and purchase as far as the eye could see. But not freedom. She had uttered the solemn words that put the final stake through her dreams.

In relocating to the chaise by the fireplace, she'd hoped its warmth would summon drowsiness and let her put at least one day of her life sentence behind her. Instead, she stared fixedly at crimson rivulets seething through blackened knots of tatterglum wood. They were like the molten ravines of Lovinja that she'd once fantasized about beholding. Strangely, thoughts like these no longer poured fuel into her melancholy. Had she surrendered so quickly to her fate? Or could it be that something else vied for her attention? Something that nagged at her.

Rather than sending an envoy, the Queen of Ladd'ar had come herself. Keema's advisors had been in a dither when word reached them that their new ruler was nearing the gates. The realm's lesser Houses had come several days before, but the castle grounds abruptly became a tempest of activity. Keema soon met the Queen and understood. Tagyia proved to be a fastidious woman. She arranged for a private audience with her new vassal, and set about counseling Keema as though she meant for the young woman to be a mighty ruler. Odd, indeed, considering the proclamation preceding her arrival that stripped all governing authority from the royal House of Vulgaht.

But Keema had managed to surprise the Queen. The only victory Keema had seen was the one that prevented her from visibly trembling through the course of their conversation. If that was enough to impress the woman, perhaps her benchmark was not very high. Whatever the case, Her Highness later announced that she would rescind her decree and name Keema a High Seat of the realm. Even Keema's High Song had been shocked at the announcement. He'd practically prostrated himself on the floor of the Great Hall of the Gods. He was, after all, seeing himself elevated by the Queen's decree.

Keema wondered if the proclamation and subsequent decree were not simply a bit of political subterfuge. Let her think House Vulgaht was worthy of trust after meeting its newly risen heiress. Did she think Keema had already forgotten the deaths of her mother and sisters?

What troubled Keema was the need of the House of Blue & Gold. Ladd'ar needed grain for a rapidly growing population it could not itself feed. Needed gold to replenish its war chests and pay its loans to the sword guilds. Needed blacksmiths and armsmen to replenish its ranks and weaponry. Needed shipwrights, though A'nterfall had not engaged the Ladd'ar fleet before the war's conclusion. To Keema, this did not speak of a realm whose wealth and power had let them crush their neighbor. She would have to seek more wisdom from her High Council, but this fall of the realm's fortune seemed to say more of A'nterfall than it did of Ladd'ar. It seemed to suggest that House Vulgaht should not have lost. Perhaps the wounds were self-inflicted.

Keema was inclined to dwell more on the subject, but at that moment she sensed she was not alone in her bed chamber. She could not say for certain what it was—there had been no sound—only the sudden feeling that someone was watching her. If they'd gotten past her guards to reach these most private rooms, it could only mean one thing. Never mind surviving as a prisoner of her royal lineage, never mind discovering how they'd lost the war. Keema Vulgaht would not live to see another day.

"Have you come to kill me?" she asked, surprised at how calm her voice sounded to her ears.

"On the contrary," came the answer on tones as rich and ancient as the wind. "I am here to set you free."

***

The wagon's axles needed greasing. The pitch of their groaning sounded to Anton like the squeals of the banshee trees in Linhollow, upriver from Ta Glen. Dawn was an hour away yet, but through the iron bars of his cage, he could begin to see the silhouette of buildings in the distance. Their caravan had taken to skirting towns and now traveled along the massive river Danube, the added precaution owing to troubles that started two nights ago.

Queen's Soldiers or not, it turned out some folks didn't fancy seeing caged men suspected of fertility being driven through their villages. What began as a few lone cries shouted from curtained windows grew into a seething mob. After appealing to the armsmen, townsfolk, led by a wild-haired mayor and his stout wife, traded curses with those escorting the wagons. Anton had allowed himself a surge of hope. Until the fighting started. By the end of it, three guards lay in the thoroughfare. But ten villagers, including the mayor, had been felled by crossbow bolts. From then on, the Diviners ordered the wagon drivers to keep clear of towns where possible.

Cobblestone rang under the metal-braced wheels and Anton lifted his head. At first, he thought the caravan must be braving a town that could not be avoided. But at a glimpse, he saw that they'd begun to cross the wide river. That meant a turn to the south... and for the last time. In the distance, he could see the peaks straddling Ladd'ar Harbor. He sighed to himself and let his head fall.

But a moment later, someone grabbed his foot. Anton jerked upright and saw a man in the cell next to him, his arm reaching through the bars to his shoulder. Anton tried to squirm away, but having got his attention, the man sat up and shook his head. With a hand close to his chest, he shot Anton a wild-eyed stare and then tossed his head to the right. Frowning, Anton followed the man's gaze. Looking out over large whitestone pilings, he tried to see what the man was gesturing at, but couldn't begin to guess.

A grease-blackened face popped up for just a moment before ducking back down. Anton blinked, unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks. Someone was hanging outside of the pilings. The wagon rolled slowly past. A moment later, two hands appeared farther along the bridge span. Between them, resting on thumbs, was a thin piece of iron. In the dim light, it looked to Anton almost like the same bars on his cage. The hands closed on the bar at either end and shook as though trying to wring water from the iron. Then disappeared. Anton's gaze flicked from the guards walking alongside—they had not seen the apparition—to the cellmates crowded on the wagon. All eyes were watching and alert now.

Uncertainly, Anton had the urge to grab hold of the bars of his cell and cling. Great urge told him to hold tightly. To his surprise, the other men followed his lead. They'd figured it out just in time.

Rope-tethered iron hooks flew over the pilings, sailing in from both sides. The clank of metal caused their escort of arsmen to think the wagons were under attack by assailants with bows. Men threw themselves onto their bellies. Anton watched the hook that had landed on his cell slide over his iron bars. He willed it to find purchase, and a second later the hook set and bit. The rope went taut and Anton felt himself leave his feet. Half a dozen cells were ripped out of their wagon beds. Weightless, Anton saw the side of the stone bridge rush past and disappear. The river was the only thing below and it was rushing toward him. Gritting his teeth, he clung to the bars and uttered a prayer to the water god. Instead of slamming into the river, though, the cell continued on its arc along the end of the rope, swinging like a morning star, skimming the water, and flying up to smash against the belly of the bridge.

Down he swung, dazed, shoulder on fire with pain, wind roaring in his ears. And up he went. At the apex, Anton found himself staring at his startled former captors. They peered over the side of the bridge, no doubt searching for whoever had pulled off such an unlikely rescue. Of course, it wasn't over yet. Swinging precariously over the rushing river, Anton looked frantically to the other cell-bound. A few had seen their doors dislodged when they'd smashed against the bridge. Those men were slowly freeing themselves, dropping into the water and swimming. Good, Anton thought. At least they aren't firing on us. He saw others, still trapped in their cells, vomiting their breakfast, and he was grateful his own had not been taken by what appeared to be violent spinning.

Looking up, he saw a man slip hand-over-hand down the rope. When he reached Anton's cage, he smiled behind his grease-blackened face, a row of white teeth beaming with a light to send Anton's heart soaring.

"Have you out in a wink," the man said. He freed a wench bar strapped to his leg and wedged it between the bars. "The door lifts off its hinges. But it's heavy. Just need a little leverage. Two of us should do the—" His words were choked off and his eyes were wide with surprise. When he turned his head, Anton saw the arrow sticking out of his neck.

The man fell and Anton lunged. He fumbled the wedge bar and it slipped through his fingers. His heart dropped through the bottom of his stomach until he heard the clank. Miraculously, the bar landed crosswise on the slatted floor of his cell. He reached down just as it began to slide, snatching it up and holding tightly. Climbing to the place where his ill-fated savior had set out to wench the door, Anton ignored the shouts overhead. He wedged the bar and pulled. The door wouldn't budge. The man had said it would take two of them. But what if—

He held on tight and jumped from his perch. The door lurched free of its top hinges with a groan. The bar slipped out and Anton crashed to the bottom of his cell. Then the gods-cursed rope broke. It couldn't have been longer than a breath, but freefall felt like an eternity. Then his iron cage hit the river.