The Freetown Bridge

Chapter Two: Arrival-1

Chapter Two: ArrivalDerek unrolled the maps again; it wouldn't hurt to have one more look. The brittle parchment of the world map curled at the edges, although he did his best to smooth it flat, resting a stone on each corner. Then he placed the smaller more detailed maps around the edges as he had done five or six times before and weighed them with more pebbles. Finally he opened the rough schematics he had been given just over a month ago, a crude drawing of the road to Freetown with a tell-tale doodle in the corner, a tiny outline of the construction they were now calling the Freetown Bridge.

This time he was going to see the clue, the key to this whole thing. Carefully, he examined every inch of every document. Then, he walked around the table, and examined it all again upside down. Still, he couldn't see it. He kicked the table leg and walked out of the room, cursing under his breath. Who had died and left him in charge of this mess?

Wincing, he remembered with horrific lucidity the great man who had been the previous Guild Master, who had in fact died and left him in charge. Then he sighed and sat down on a log. It was a far cry from home certainly, but in his heart he knew he would not want to be anywhere else. The barn was in the middle of nowhere, an abandoned farm house nearly two miles away was the nearest building, and he could barely see that across the rolling landscape. Behind him, a thick pine forest raked up the hill side, giving way to the mountains that lead to the Frisian borders. In the far distance he could pick out the cart track that wound along the valley bottom towards the Borders. It was empty and the air was nearly silent.

He couldn't imagine why anyone would have built a barn here in the first place; it wasn't arable land, and nothing had grazed this grass for quite some time by the look of it; there wasn't even a particularly reliable track. From the smell of the place it was possible that the previous owners had been llama herders, but it could have been goats, cloth storage or liquor running for all Derek knew.

This much, however, was obvious: it was perfectly positioned for his purposes. He had been here since early the previous evening, and he had seen no one at all. At one stage he had wondered if he was in the right place, before he had realised that he was just doubting for the sake of it. Even so, the sensation of being alone in the valley was an odd one.

He looked up at the sky, at the grey clouds that formed a seamless blanket over the sun. It was difficult to know what time it was on days like these, away from the temple bells and the Mages' Library with its peculiar time keeping devices. He guessed it must be late afternoon by now, although it did not seem to be turning towards dusk yet. By his calculations, the others should start arriving soon and then time would start to tumble away once again. He might have time for one more look at the maps. Sufficiently calm again, he wondered back inside the barn.

Iona convulsed, wretched and vomited again, then she wiped her mouth with a scrap of cloth and stood up. Purposefully, she straightened her tunic and doublet; she tightened her belt and rearranged her collar. Dipping her hand inside her leather tunic, she produced a polished metal mirror and checked her hair and face. Then she stepped out from behind the rhododendron bush and walked back to Gerard.

“Are you feeling better?” he said, timidly. She just looked at him, eyes heavy with contempt.

“If you tell anyone about that, I'll kill you,” she said without looking away and Gerard had no doubt that she meant it. “We need to move now, it's going to start getting dark soon and I want to be there before it does.” With that, she turned and began to stalk off down the track, leaving Gerard yet again scuttling behind her.

He would be glad of a rest he thought, when they finally reached the meeting place. It was not in him usually to walk so far or so fast. Years of scholarship had left him underdeveloped and flabby. He could not help feeling anxious about the coming few weeks in that respect, even if he did survive the horrors that lay before them, what of the blisters and the aching and the hunger that were pretty much his sole memories of the only other battle he had ever been to?

He also doubted that he would hear a civil word spoken to him for the whole of his time there. He had come to expect little but terse brevity from the kind of people who spent their lives chasing one war after another. It seemed to him to be a sort of chicken and egg conundrum. Were they brusque because they spent their whole life in a state of flux or was it their boorish manners that drove them to find this the only life style acceptable to them?

Sometimes he wanted to go home and leave them all to die, but something in his heart prevented him from doing this. They were not after all bad people, for all their rudeness their intentions were always of the highest order. He also suspected, much to his own personal shame, that he actually quite liked them. Although looking up the hill to see Iona balanced on an outcrop, arms folded, tapping her foot impatiently, he couldn't for all the tea in Kchon work out why. With that thought, he stilled his contemplation, gathered the last of his energy, hitched up his robe and began to run.

When they reached the barn, they were greeted warmly by Derek, although Gerard was wheezing too much to say anything and went straight inside to sit down. Derek embraced Iona affectionately.

“You were sick again weren't you?” he said, a mocking twinkle in his eyes. Iona looked at him for a moment reprovingly, and then softened. It was a waste of time to try and cultivate an aura of sudden violence with Derek. He knew her far too well.

“You know I can't handle magical transport. It does it to me every time,” she said at last. “See what I do for you?” They both chuckled and breathed out.

“Have you looked at the maps?” asked Derek after a minute or so of companionable silence.

“No, not yet. I haven't had a chance. It took me nearly a week to find that great big drip in there,” she said bitterly, waving to the barn.

“He is a very important drip,” said Derek soothingly, “We do need him.” Iona looked at him through narrowed eyes, she wanted to hope he was wrong but she knew in her heart that he wasn't.

“I would have been more use here,” she insisted, trying to look stern but Derek just smiled.

“It couldn't be helped; there was no one else around. I know you're not particularly fond of Gerard, but I didn't think you hated him that much. I only got here last night anyway,” he paused and continued before Iona could speak her next question.

“I was with my family, on the farm. We had a family dinner and I cleaned out the pigs.” Iona chuckled as Derek had intended, he knew how much she detested farm work, and had always found his joy at the simplicity of his family hilarious. He did not laugh with her. A shade of melancholy had crossed Derek's twinkling green eyes and Iona put a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was that deeply painful sense that it was the last time you were going to do something or see someone. Instantaneously, Iona felt the same wave of melancholy running over her, but she managed to push it away.

When Derek looked up, his eyes sparkling again, and said

“So, do you want a drink?” They went into the barn.

Gerard had flaked out on a harsh straw mat in the corner, his pigeon chest rising and falling rhythmically. Derek produced a stoppered stoneware bottle from his pack and sat down on a hay bale; Iona sat opposite him and watched as he let the bottle settle slightly

“I remember this bottle,” she said, smiling. “It's not the same stuff is it? That must have been nearly as old as me from the smell of it. How the stopper stayed in I'll never know.”

“Same bottle, different stuff,” said Derek gingerly removing the plug with his teeth. A pungent aroma that might once have contained a hint of fruit filled the air. “Same still.”

He took a deep swig from the bottle, swallowed hard and handed it to Iona. “My brother found it in the hay barn in the top field and got it working again,” he continued to explain, “It's not had quite the same time to mature obviously, but I think it's a lot smoother.” Iona swallowed and then nodded, passing the bottle back again.

“S'okay, by the smell of it, it should have the same effect,” she said, and then burped loudly, “If I sober up properly before next week I shall be very disappointed.” Derek snorted with amusement, and took another gulp.

“Exactly,” he said. “And there's always the other bottle.”

Crouching behind a pine tree, Saran could see the back of the guard hut clearly. In the panic of first arriving, she had thought that she had come down on the wrong side of the border. On further investigation, it seemed that she was on the right side of the border, but just barely and she had arrived about 100 yards from an army outpost. At that moment, the hut appeared deserted, but she was sure this would not last for long and she was right.

As she shifted her weight from knee to knee, she saw a flash of red and then a man came around the corner of the hut, carrying a black iron halberd in both hands. The man was about six foot and dark and he was wearing a tabard that marked him out clearly as a Red Army Guard. From this distance, she could see the rank stripes on his shoulders, but she couldn't make out enough detail to tell whether he was a corporal or a sergeant.

Chances are, if he was a sergeant then there would be upwards of 20 men stationed on that outpost, and they were probably all patrolling the woods right now. With breathless poise, she stood up straight and turned around. If she could find the southern tree line, then she was safe. Stepping as lightly as she could, she picked her way between trees and bushes, towards the pale light that seemed to be filtering in from the south. Her heart pounded in her chest and the blood rushed into her ears.

She didn't hear the guard as he stepped out behind her. The first she knew about it was the rough hand that clamped over her mouth, and the sinewy arm that snaked around her waist. Then he lifted her clear off the ground, leaving her kicking futilely in the air.

“Priestess of the Chalice are we?” he sneered into her ear, his rancid breath sticking to her neck. “You're a long way from home.” Saran thrashed about in his arms, and tried to bite his hand but she couldn't get purchase with her teeth. “Wonder what the sergeant will say about you?” he continued, as Saran squirmed and wriggled like a freshly caught fish, “shall we find out?”

He began to walk back towards the outpost hut, not even remotely hampered by Saran's slight form. Several times she lashed out at him with her feet, trying to kick his knees or groin, but she failed and all he did was laugh derisively at her, spraying her ears with more of his foul stench.

After a minute or so of struggling, she gave up and went limp. She would have to wait until he put her down and it was pointless wasting her energy now. The guard took this as apparent resignation to capture and leered unpleasantly again that the sergeant would be very pleased to see her.

He carried Saran all the way back to the outpost she had seen before, and into through a side door. The inside of the hut was sparse and utilitarian, stone floor and walls, a table and some chairs and a row of straw mattresses. The room stunk of sweat and rotting flesh, Saran guessed that there was no bath house in the outpost.

The guard carried her through what were obviously the living quarters into another room beyond. Like the living quarters, it had stone walls and floor and a particular foul stench. It was partitioned in to two sections by a row of iron bars that stretched from floor to ceiling, one side of which was clearly a gaol cell. Heavy, rusted manacles hung from the walls, and there was a pile of sacking flung in the corner. In the other half of the room, was a desk, with a chair either side and at the desk sat the dark man she had seen earlier.