The Long Journey
a redemption story
by
Robert Luis Rabello
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This book is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
Smashwords Electronic Edition
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License Statement
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Copyright 2006 by Robert Luis Rabello. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4523-2244-5 (e-book)
Cover art by Pamala Harrison
27jewel@bellsouth.net
I would like to thank Tim Polmear for helping me understand how to lay out this book’s cover.
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This book is dedicated to the glory of God,
and to my sister, Leilane:
You are the beat of my heart,
the breath of my soul
Robert Luis Rabello
Sardis, British Columbia
July 2006
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Acknowledgments
No creative work of this magnitude comes to life in a vacuum. I am grateful for the patient and consistent help of my previewing readers.
I would like to thank my colleague, Kelly Schmalcel, whose fearless commentary sharpened my focus in the affective realm, kept me honest about my characters, and encouraged my aspiration toward excellence.
Alan Petrillo, a veteran whose knowledge of the minutiae of military life has solidified my story into something a warrior can read without suspending too much disbelief, is primarily responsible for transforming my ideas about soldiering in the Tamarian army from rough outlines into finely tuned concepts. I’ve appreciated the ongoing and selfless dialogue he’s maintained with me concerning all aspects of my work.
To Julian Gray, whose expertise in psychology has proven invaluable as I’ve processed how my characters respond to the events in the narrative, I offer my sincere appreciation. Julian also has an excellent eye for grammatical and syntactic errors, which has made final proofreading and editing far easier than it would have been without his sharp analysis. Thanks also to Julian’s wife, Annette, whose advice and guidance on map creation will make the story easier for every reader to follow and understand.
And finally, to Shannon Ward, who was a complete stranger to me when I approached her for assistance. I express sincere gratitude that she took time out of her busy life to assess and comment on my story. I have been affirmed and challenged by every word she’s written. Thank you!
More information on the author and the milieu of Devera, including character images and full color maps, can be found by visiting the New Adventure web site:
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Betrayal
Kindness betrayed them. Their gentle tones of voice, expressions forever bordering on a smile, and the subtle and soft glisten of longing gazes proclaimed their compassion in a compelling manner. They did not touch in public, yet often sat close enough that only a paper leaf could pass between their shoulders. Never did they refer to one another in terms of endearment, preferring first names spoken in Southern Vulgate, a tongue native to neither, but one they both understood.
Hearing the girl’s meek voice speaking the enemy’s language might have aroused the rightful suspicion of many Tamarian citizens. However, the dark-haired maiden looked nothing like the fair daughters born within the high, alpine valleys, along rushing rivers or bright, glacial lakes, and because of this fact, native Tamarians extended her a measure of linguistic grace, even as their eyes narrowed and suspicions arose. Yet as long as she accompanied the young soldier of whom she’d become so fond, the common contempt reserved for tourists, exchange students, enemies and other undesirable aliens remained unspoken.
Still, people stared. Natives whispered to one another in phrases just above the hearing threshold, so that their displeasure might be accurately perceived, only to stop or avert their eyes if the pretty girl glanced away from her companion.
The young soldier sensed this ever-present tension. No action on his part could amend the low regard his countrymen held for visitors in general, and Lithians, like the girl sitting next to him, in particular. He’d learned that with time, most people set aside their initial scorn for an attitude approaching tolerance, but resolutely far from full acceptance. The girl seemed unable to merit respect.
However, most of the warriors from his former unit had grown quite fond of her, not simply because she looked lovely–for that reaction often constituted a large part of anyone’s initial response–but for the civility with which she, a wealthy warlord’s eldest daughter, regarded even the poorest among them. The foreign girl earned their trust with consistent benevolence and clear forgiveness over her initial mistreatment. They didn’t know that she’d only been able to muster such grace by spending time in prayer. Yet her petitions to God changed nothing in other people; by praying she became changed.
The Lithian girl had proven her worth during combat. She seemed utterly fearless and never hesitated to lend medical aid to a stricken soldier, even if he’d fallen under direct enemy fire. Such bravery earned this foreign mercenary the right to wear four silver lions, coveted citations for valor worn on the left collar of her dress uniform that testified of her exploits. The medals could not explain how faith inspired her calm demeanor, but secular soldiers didn’t concern themselves with the religious explanations she offered. Though they privately scoffed at her faith, every warrior wanted her nearby when the shooting started. Edgy infantrymen sought her comfort after combat, while their sergeants developed confidence that whenever she accompanied them into battle, the fight would follow in their favor.
Nonetheless, few Tamarians beyond this intimate circle of soldiers extended any kindness further than basic courtesy toward her. The bond between her and the young, grey-eyed veteran sitting at her right hand could not easily be concealed, despite their mutual effort, and the relationship itself, though it should have been lauded for its chaste and noble selflessness, inspired deep disdain instead.
Private Garrick Ravenwood, now on a civilian train taking him northward to Officer’s Training School in the Tamarian capital, reflected on the latest incidents underscoring the division his culture wished to impose between him and Brenna Velez, the girl he loved.
The week after Garrick’s birthday, the Tamarian Defense Force finally succeeded in pushing an invading horde from the far south–the dreaded Azgaril Northern Liberation Army–across the Tualitin River, Tamaria’s southern border. After months of fierce winter combat, Garrick’s unit rotated for a deserved rest to the sprawling military base adjacent to the ancient city of Burning Tree, located along the western shore of Broken Wing Lake.
Winter’s fading influence lingered on a landscape where spring remained a whispered promise. Brown grasses, flattened by snowfall, lay exposed along the lakeshore. Storm-driven waves pounded the graveled beach and the resulting spray flew on the wings of wintry wind, coating three-foot thick walls with fine mist until the dull, plastered finish gleamed in even the weakest light. Naked tree limbs reached into the endless cold rain descending from an overcast sky.
Not a soul lingered on the wide avenues, nor did the crowds that casually mingled on fairer days near military monuments appear. The base lay empty, save for its skeletal staff, awaiting battle-weary warriors returning in gradually increasing numbers from the southeastern front. Thus the compound appeared graveyard silent to the young couple whose scandalous love simmered in secret.
During the long train ride around the lofty Angelgate Mountains to Burning Tree, Sergeant Harold Krebes, under whose leadership Garrick had served during the war, wrote a commendation letter concerning the young soldier to their platoon commander, First Lieutenant Oskar Kohler. This officer, awaiting final approval of a battlefield promotion, subsequently summoned Garrick into his untidy office several days after their arrival.
The lingering, musty aroma enclosed by windows shut tight against the cold didn’t seem to bother Lieutenant Kohler at all. Garrick eyed the file folders littering his commander’s desk, the partially eaten lunch lingering on a side table, stepped over an ammunition box filled with scented letters from Lieutenant Kohler’s fiancee and stood at attention, out of custom more than respect.
“Before you get too comfortable here,” the lieutenant began, “I’m recommending that you transfer out of my unit.”
Garrick felt panic surge in his soul. “Why?” he queried, struggling to control the emotion evident in his response.
“Sergeant Krebes has been watching you, soldier. He sees that you’re a natural leader, and I agree with his assessment. I’m sending you to OTS in Marvic.”
“Thank you, sir,” Garrick responded, somewhat, though not entirely, relieved. Being an officer merited better pay and prestige in an army that consistently rewarded effective leadership. Garrick, who earned a gold lion for his own combat exploits, felt grateful that he’d been found worthy of this honor.
A long silence followed, during which the lieutenant carefully considered a change in his discourse. “But, before you go, there’s one more thing. I don’t think you’ll like hearing what I have to say, but I’m going to tell you, anyway.”
Garrick constrained his worry. “I’m listening, sir.”
“Take this as good advice from someone who knows how skilled a soldier you’ve become. Your career will never move forward as long as you maintain such cordial relations with a foreign courtesan.”
The young soldier flushed. “Sir, how can you say that? Everyone loves Brenna! She’s upheld high standards of moral conduct while serving in this unit, and you know that!”
Lieutenant Kohler glanced at the young woman’s file, smiling as he recalled his first encounter with her, but he did not back down. “I’m not disputing her character. I’m offering you a dose of reality, soldier. What everyone else believes about the girl is far more important than whatever it is you think. As long as the two of you cling to each other, whispering like a pair of insurgents, your career will go nowhere.”
“She’s not the enemy, sir. You of all people should know that by now.”
“Mark my words, Ravenwood. No one cares that your little friend is still a virgin. She’s a foreigner. She’s Lithian, and few of us hold those people in high esteem. Listen to me and find yourself a nice, Tamarian girl. You have a bright future in this army. If you make it through OTS, you can take your pick from the best of them!”
Garrick seethed at the injustice, feeling powerless. “Your views are noted, sir,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice steady and only barely managing to do so.
“Good! You’ll see the light.” Lieutenant Kohler returned Garrick’s salute. “Pick up your ferry and train passes from my adjutant. You’re dismissed.”
Garrick left the office in a foul mood. The harmonic, polyphonic interchange of an ancient melody soothed his soul and drew him toward the base chapel, where he found Brenna practicing one of her favorite compositions on the pipe organ. Something in her muted delight softened his demeanor to the extent that he couldn’t summon the courage to tell her everything his lieutenant had said.
An hour later, they braved the wind driven rain and scurried across the empty base to a nearly deserted wharf, arriving–cold and wet–at a closed ticket counter. A small, paddle-wheeled steamer ominously named Queen of Deception Creek lay silent at her berth, buffeted by the billows rolling down from the north; her double stacks remained void of any rising heat that might suggest a boiler ready to work against the waves.
The two friends sought shelter beneath a covered porch, relieved to remove their heavy packs. Brenna felt cold, and Garrick, taking pity on her, zipped his waterproof poncho together with hers and huddled close. They sat with their backs to the wind until an employee spotted them, checked their passes, and out of forced courtesy offered shelter inside the building.
“Everyone has to wait until this wind dies down,” the skinny man remarked, posturing to improve his view of Brenna’s softer features when the young couple took off their ponchos. “No sense in trying to cross if we’ll only wind up at the bottom of the lake!”
Garrick found no humor in the remark. Brenna ignored the man, settling with her handsome soldier onto a quickly vacated bench in a gloomy, stuffy room. Five other travelers–two of whom had moved away to permit the young couple room to sit–lifted their eyes, a few of them grunting a half-hearted greeting. A small boy prattled restlessly, standing on his toes to gaze outside, not understanding why he and his mother couldn’t board the ferry right now.
A kindly old woman approached and offered the young couple a printed religious tract. Garrick knew that it outlined the supposed benefits of adhering to rigorous meditation, of respect for local spirits, of transcendent holiness attained by denial of desire. The young soldier politely, but firmly, declined. He steadfastly held to his own, eclectic and rational view, and knew that Brenna, who couldn’t read the Tamarian language and devoutly believed in only one God anyway, wouldn’t find a treatise on pantheistic musings particularly interesting.
Hours later, long after any discussion among the passengers had faded into languid silence, the wind and waves slackened. With black smoke belching from its twin stacks, the paddle wheeler’s boiler coughed to life. The small boy pointed and jumped up and down with delight, calling his weary mother to the window, then repeating the same question he’d asked 137 times since Garrick and Brenna arrived: “Can we go now?”
At this stage in her career, the Queen of Deception Creek had worked the waters of Broken Wing Lake for nearly thirty years, and her battered condition attested to rough but faithful service. Crafted from fir and powered by twin, triple-expansion steam engines, she measured 150 feet from stem to stern. Fully laden, this vessel could carry as much as 200 tons of cargo, usually iron and copper scrap destined for the recycling foundries at Burning Tree, or Vengeance on the Desolation River; bauxite for the big aluminum smelters in Marvic, or seasonal fruit shipped to more distant markets linked by rail.
Garrick led Brenna up to the dining saloon, a large room with cafeteria-style services and forward-facing windows. They sat together, taking no particular notice of anyone else when a middle-aged steward approached the young couple, his face brimming with apprehension. “I’m sorry,” he said to Garrick in a whisper. “We don’t serve her kind in the saloon. She’ll have to eat downstairs, in the cargo area.”
“Then what kind do you serve?” Garrick inquired, not bothering to lower his voice.
The veneer of feigned courtesy vanished from the steward’s face. “You know very well what I mean, young man,” he replied in a menacing tone.
Brenna closed her eyes and muttered a brief and frustrated prayer; her words inaudible as breath streamed through drawn lips in a plea for freedom from this kind of humiliation, or at least, the grace to overlook such a callous affront. She stood and gestured for Garrick to follow, understanding the steward’s intent, if not the words he uttered. “Let’s go,” she whispered, knowing that Garrick, who sincerely loved her, brokered little tolerance for the steward’s attitude. Wisdom informed her milder response, for though the indignation of her younger friend represented high principle, Brenna realized that nothing could be gained from escalating the conflict further.
Garrick arose slowly and glared directly into the steward’s eyes. He sniffed, then wrinkled his face as if inhaling something foul. “I hate the smell of your kind,” he sneered. After uttering that remark, the young soldier walked away, fantasizing about how satisfying it would feel to slam his left fist into the steward’s smug face. The vessel shuddered as its steam engines began turning the aged stern wheel. As they approached a staircase, Garrick turned toward Brenna and said: “I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry about what?” she replied, her dark blue eyes innocent, imploring, “You feel bad about what the rude man said, or do you regret your equally impudent response to him?”
Sometimes Garrick wondered why Brenna objected so strongly to his protection of her honor and felt mildly hurt by her rebuke. “I’m only trying to defend you,” he said, suppressing a more biting remark that urged expression.
She smiled, pleased beyond words with the strength of his character. “I need you to love me, not defend me,” she responded. “You know full well that I can take care of myself.” Then, glancing furtively around to ensure they were not being watched, she placed her right hand behind his head, lacing her fingers through his wavy blonde hair, leaned up and planted a brief kiss on his lips.
Garrick felt his wrath melt away, replaced by a surge of desire that he struggled to control. He let his fingers slide down her arm and linger for a moment on the back of her hand. “I don’t know how you can stand being mistreated,” he told her. “I don’t know where you find strength to put up with it.”
Brenna raised her eyebrows, laughing lightly. “I pray,” she said. “I pray a lot!”
In truth, though she never complained, this ongoing reproach hurt Brenna badly. Raised in an affluent family where she’d always felt love and unconditional acceptance, Brenna had never endured systemic prejudice prior to arriving as a refugee in Tamaria. Exposure to unearned loathing came as a shock, at least initially.
Handsome and well-regarded Garrick moved among his own people with ease, yet ironically, his pleasant company increased her exposure to bigotry. Brenna admired his social grace and longed for him deeply, resolving to forgive any prejudicial offense his countrymen committed. Additionally, her personality preferred avoiding conflict altogether. Compounding this natural reticence, the Lithian girl aspired to protect her favored warrior from the social consequences arising whenever they encountered discrimination. Thus, she remained quick to overlook any trespass and willing to comply with every demand for segregation these Tamarian natives imposed on her.
Garrick disagreed. Long ago the Tamarians fought a lengthy, bloody war to rid themselves of oppression. They’d overthrown the brutal reign of giant kings, proclaiming liberty with their victory, yet enslaved themselves in ignorance, religious superstition and mistrust. In Garrick’s mind, Tamaria would never be completely free until she buried the chains of intolerance and jingoism.
Confined to the cargo bay, where open portholes provided both a view and a means for cold air to flood the compartment, Garrick and Brenna searched for shelter. Near the bow, in front of the boiler room, they found a dry spot where sweet-smelling, recently cut hay bales from a warmer clime had been loaded for transport. Heat from the wood-fired boiler radiated into their space, inspiring the young couple to remove their winter parkas, spreading them out to dry on a nearby bale. The damp freshness of the lake, the aroma of warm hay, the familiar, comforting scent of their close proximity mingled with traces of wood smoke drifting through the open porthole, creating a safe and pleasant refuge like a secret childhood hiding place. They shared memories–he of his younger, twin siblings, and she of her three younger sisters–until they became hungry. At that point, Garrick mustered courage to brave the galley and inquire for some food.
He returned a few minutes later, finding Brenna deeply involved in her daily hair combing ritual. She always began over her right eye, very gently and slowly pulling the comb through the top of her raven locks, distributing the preserving oils from her scalp through the ends of her waist length hair with increasingly rapid strokes. Garrick loved the way light played over her tresses as she combed, the deep base color reflecting grey highlights as she separated a long braid strand with her left hand and methodically stroked the comb all the way down to its ends. He lingered quietly for a moment, watching as she moved further back behind her head, pulling a handful of hair over her shoulder. Brenna quietly murmured an old hymn while her body swayed slowly and gently in a worshipful rhythm. This ordinary act displayed docile, comforting femininity, a part of her that seemed delicate, strangely exotic, and yet familiar as daybreak.
When she paused, noting his presence and wondering why he simply stood there without saying anything, Garrick revealed his provisions. “I bought some fresh bread and cheese,” he told her. “The guys in the galley had better manners than the steward. They also gave us some raisins, and a jar of apple juice.”
The Queen of Deception Creek leisurely crossed the 25-mile distance to the far shore of Broken Wing Lake at an angle that took the vessel toward the southeast. Garrick became quiet and reached for Brenna’s hand as the ferry neared the shore, an indication, she’d learned, that something troubled him.
Brenna waited for him to speak, but he didn’t.
Evening approached as the ferry docked along the eastern lakeshore. Here, placid water reflected dark images of the towering, snow-clad Copperhead ridge line. One prominent peak, known locally as the Necromancer, loomed high above the tiny village where Deception Creek spread its lively, rippling waves into the glassy lake surface.
The train that should have taken Garrick and Brenna northward had already departed, forcing them to wait until early morning. Initially, Garrick seemed strangely reluctant to leave the station, but Brenna felt hemmed in and wanted to walk. In the absence of the ever-ubiquitous wind, outside air felt cool and pleasant, scented with pine oil, fragrant with wood smoke and burning incense. A few other warriors, heading home for leave, along with pilgrims traveling to the sacred Temple Elsbireth in Marvic, moved through the small town streets looking for refreshment and amusement. Native townsfolk milled about, some hawking their textiles and handmade jewelry, others gathered in small groups around scattered tables playing cards or socializing. A lamplighter worked the gas petcock and ignited a streetlight, smiling from his high perch at friends and neighbors, inquiring of their health and prosperity. Many people recognized Garrick, but the reception he received from them–while polite–seemed somewhat unfriendly.
Fiddle music wafted from a nearby tavern. Drawn there by the lively sound, Garrick and Brenna stood listening outside when a group of older, veteran soldiers walked by. One noted the young couple and tersely inquired why Garrick and his foreign companion were attired in combat uniforms.
Garrick stiffened respectfully, explaining that he was en route to Marvic for Officer Training School.
“You?” the thick-limbed master sergeant inquired, incredulously. Embroidered, cloth versions of their valor citations had caught his eye and raised personal misgivings. “You’re just a boy! And she looks like she ought to be at home with mommy. What’s going on?”
When Garrick related that he had fired the first shot against the invading Azgaril, the veterans laughed. As his story unfolded, however, the other soldiers grew intrigued, listening with increasing wonder. The young warrior described unfolding events in vivid detail he could not have known apart from personal experience. He revealed that Brenna had served in the medical corps of his unit, but avoided any mention of their commendations for bravery.
These older men had been deployed in the hills above Sutherlind, overlooking the great Saradon plateau. Heavy casualties had characterized the conflict in that region, and two of these soldiers remembered hearing stories about a lovely, long-haired Lithian nurse with mysterious healing power working at a firebase on Dead Hand Ridge. The fact that the very girl responsible for saving many lives actually stood before them gave further credence to Garrick’s testimony, though they openly questioned how such a young-looking couple had seen action in the war.
Interested in hearing more from the young officer candidate, the older veterans invited the two friends to exchange anecdotes and enjoy a few beers in their company. Garrick shrugged. His father struggled with alcohol, and he didn’t want to develop his father’s problem. “I don’t drink,” he said, “but let’s go inside. I’d like to hear your stories.”
Brenna followed, smiling politely but offering no comment. As they entered the nearly empty pub, its proprietor warmly welcomed the prospect of new business. One of the soldiers bought Brenna a glass of sweet mead, which she accepted with gratitude and sipped ever so slowly, but she declined a subsequent offer to dance. Since Brenna could speak very little of their language, the men said nothing more to her.
Garrick drank apple juice mixed with soda water, even when the evening turned dark and the warriors’ recollections blurred in alcoholic haze. He thrived in the spotlight of their attention, controlling the ebb and flow of storytelling with questions, quick-witted additions to the bawdy jokes each soldier exchanged, as well as anecdotes of his own. Garrick’s skill in conversation ensured that the evening remained an engaging experience; he employed a charisma so natural the older men willingly followed his lead.
Very late that night, the couple bade their new friends farewell and Garrick fell into silence again. Since neither of them had enough money to pay for a place to sleep, they returned to the train station and settled on separate benches for rest, using their knapsacks as pillows. Other travelers, who had done the same, already lay fast asleep. In this quiet space, where rhythmic breathing prevailed as the dominant sound and Garrick’s troubles remained unspoken, Brenna approached, knelt next to her friend and finally implored: “Garrick, please tell me what’s bothering you.”
The young soldier didn’t answer right away, but reached for her right hand and squeezed it in affirmation. “This is my hometown,” he admitted. “My family’s orchard overlooks the lake, a few miles up Deception Creek. Everyone who lives here knows me, and my family has a rather unflattering reputation.” The young warrior paused for a long time, thinking. “I’m worried about my brother and sister. I haven’t seen them in more than three years and I wonder if they’re ok.
“Also, my dad should have pruned all the trees by now. That’s a big job, and this has been the second year in a row I’ve not been there to help him.”
Brenna knew that Garrick had left his father’s farm in fear and disgrace. This train station, she realized, must have been the first stop on the trip where he’d smuggled his frightened younger siblings toward safety in Marvic. His return to the town where he’d betrayed his own father likely brought vivid and unsettling memories to mind. She knew Garrick didn’t touch alcohol because he’d seen Cyrus, his father, drink too much, and watched in deepening despair as the man he loved and admired steadily lost control of his life.
“I’ll pray for you,” she promised.
Garrick sat up. “Thank you,” he replied. “But if you’re gonna go through the trouble, can you remember my parents and siblings too?”
Brenna nodded, touched by the endearing vulnerability he shared only with her. “I will,” she assured, though when she prayed she did so privately, because he didn’t share her faith.
After this, she lay quietly on the hard bench, fingering the sacred blessing from a Lithian psalm delicately engraved upon an enchanted silver and turquoise locket. It had been given to her by her trusted friend, Woodwind. The locket opened with a whispered word, revealing her own, three-dimensional image, softly illuminated in dark blue light by an obscure charm Brenna appreciated, but didn’t fully understand.
The day after her arrival at the Burning Tree compound, Woodwind’s frustrating, second search for her ended. They’d talked in private and at length, mostly about their wartime experiences and respective plans, never venturing to discuss the important issue that separated the two of them. She returned the sword he’d lent to her, insisting that he take it, and asked him to deliver a letter she’d written to her parents. Woodwind gave her the enchanted locket containing her portrait, a trinket he’d carried with him for many months. The engraved blessing spoke of Allfather’s protection, yet every time she considered it since their departure, these words reminded her of Woodwind.
“I will always love you,” he said in farewell.
“And I remain your friend forever,” she replied.
She remembered Woodwind’s brave smile, but his expression revealed the bittersweet pain of unrequited love. Brenna could not bring herself to heal that hurt; yet strangely, in the darkness of the train station, she felt a pang in her heart, wondering if she would ever see him again. Brenna longed for a private place to pray. A whispered phrase welling up from within her wounded spirit among strangers would simply not suffice. She desperately needed seclusion to pray.
As dawn encroached upon the lakeside train station, a Model 12 steam locomotive rumbled slowly down the tracks. This elegant machine, one of Tamaria’s “pure” steam designs, far outnumbered the newer, more efficient vapor-electric hybrid and pure electric engines working the rail lines across the nation. A pair of radial steam expanders powered this uniquely Tamarian locomotive. Each expander consisted of a compact, sleeved cartridge containing six axially configured cylinders, with a steam injection head mounted on both ends. As superheated steam worked against the double-acting pistons in each cylinder, the cartridges spun on a roller bearing cam drive, like the chambers of a revolver pistol, exerting tremendous torque directly to the drive shaft upon which they were mounted. This simple engine produced full power every thirty degrees of rotation, enabling a wide range of operating rpms and higher efficiency than traditional steam engines. In addition, the Model 12 produced a unique sound, like the purr of a giant cat, that rose and fell in tandem with engine speed.
Great clouds of vapor filled the passengers’ galley, accompanied by a deep, throaty growl as the locomotive entered the station at Deception Creek and stopped for fuel. Sleek, aquiline lines blended art and bright aluminum alloy into an aerodynamic shape eerily appealing from every angle. Its battered, sloping nose, polished by wind borne dust, shone in the glare of loading deck lights. This machine looked fast even when standing still.
Garrick awakened as the train approached and quickly found a toilet to relieve himself. As was her early morning custom, Brenna had wandered off alone, leaving him anxious for her arrival as the car doors opened to unload and admit passengers. When the conductor announced his final call Garrick raced to the station’s door, scanning the street with increasing anxiety as the train began moving down the tracks, until he saw Brenna emerge from the creek bed and run toward the station. She moved with the speed and grace of a gazelle as she leaped from the loading platform onto the moving train.
By the time Garrick joined her, the Lithian girl had completely recovered her breath. She smiled in a shy and endearing manner, an expression frequently employed when she had some delicious secret to reveal. Brenna could tell that he’d been worried, but felt confident that her tidings would bring him needed relief. Watching his anxiety melt away at her appearance pleased the Lithian maiden beyond words.
“Your parents' trees are pruned,” she told him.
Incredulous, Garrick inquired: “What? How did you even know where to look?”
Brenna pressed her forefinger into the name tag on his uniform. “I saw this on the mailbox,” she replied. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”
Garrick wanted to kiss her in gratitude, but didn’t. Brenna’s kindness touched his heart, as her benevolence often did, soothing many emotional pains and settling troubling memories. She had a way of discerning his needs and offering comfort without demanding anything in return. “Thank you,” he responded, wishing he had something better to say.
The young couple drifted to the rear of a passenger car older than the sum of their respective ages. They hooked their weighty backpacks onto a stylized, spearheaded shaft that protruded from the window’s aluminum shutter, then seated themselves into a pair of well-padded seats that were upholstered in worn velveteen fabric.
Passenger comfort never rose to the forefront of design criteria in most Tamarian rolling stock. Aside from soft seats, the unheated cars boasted no other amenities. The narrow center aisle fit only one adult, requiring courtesy most economy-class passengers had long since developed out of necessity.
This car carried four people who had crossed Broken Wing Lake, along with eight soldiers and a sprinkling of poor pilgrims. Garrick did not see who occupied the first class coaches and expensive sleeping berths to the rear, but the brief length of time required by the conductor to reach his section of the train suggested that it wasn’t very full.
Sheer boredom and the previous evening’s restlessness inspired sleep. Brenna rolled up her parka and used it as a pillow against Garrick’s left shoulder, gradually lulled into a slumber by the gentle, rhythmic, side-to-side motion of the car rolling swiftly down the track. Since they occupied the last two seats and no one could see them, Garrick enjoyed the pleasant sensations of Brenna’s thick, black hair brushing against his cheek, the weight of her soft body on his left arm, the warmth of her breathing on his skin. He felt content, savoring the moment. Garrick let his girl sleep in peace, reflecting on her experience among his people, wishing silently that other Tamarians could recognize her sweet, selfless temperament and value the woman as he did.
Moving at top speed, the Model 12 locomotive required three and a half hours to traverse the 144-mile length of Broken Wing Lake. The tracks departed the lakeshore and meandered into the Copperhead Foothills, passing through rolling pastureland, orchards, vineyards and long abandoned mining claims. The train crossed over a myriad of fast flowing streams, through forest groves bristling with giant cedar and redwood trees, then gradually descended toward the lake when the Copperhead ridge line again thrust its lofty, snow-clad peaks beyond the cloud cover.
Brenna awakened with hunger rumbling through her belly. The air within the train car had grown colder with every mile it traveled further north, until passenger breath began condensing on the windows. She remained quietly close to her friend, sharing his warmth, tracing the contours of his face with her eyes until they settled on the lines that formed his mouth. Her hand gently squeezed the firm swell of his upper arm and felt him draw closer. She savored his masculine scent in silence, longing secretly for more intimate contact, though never daring to articulate her desire.
Several minutes later, when the train tracks returned to a bluff overlooking the lakeshore, she sat up, cleared the moisture away from the window with her sleeve and studied the passing landscape. The waters of Broken Wing Lake marched southward, driven by the returning wind. “What am I supposed to do when we get to Marvic?” she asked. “Why did the lieutenant send me with you?”
Garrick had been worried about this from the moment he’d received orders for officer’s training. “I don’t know, but as of now, you’re still a civilian specialist employed by the army,” he replied. “Lieutenant Kohler included you in my orders because he had no reason to dismiss you, he’s up for a promotion, and it might not have looked very good to request your discharge without cause. This way, he got rid of both of us and left the formal decision concerning your disposition to the base commander in Marvic, who doesn’t know you at all.” Garrick paused, thoughtfully. “That leaves your continuation on the army payroll at the mercy of someone who didn’t witness your contribution to the war effort. But if all else fails, you have a bursary for university study that you’ve earned for your service.”
The girl crossed her arms, continuing to stare out the window. “I can’t read your language, Garrick. How does anybody expect me to learn anything?” A nagging doubt, one that would have surely broken Garrick’s heart had she expressed it, persisted in Brenna’s mind. Had she been fooling herself by not returning home with Woodwind?
“You’ll learn,” Garrick replied. “I’ll be in Marvic for twelve weeks, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”
A long silence ensued as the train labored uphill against gravity and the waxing wind. Landmarks Garrick remembered from his previous journey, such as a large ethanol facility that combined pressure and ammonia to convert pulp waste and straw into fuel feed stock, came into view as the train turned west and descended a steep incline, toward an industrial town called Mercenary Hill. Here the bright waters of the Weeping Widow River plunged into the northern shore of Broken Wing Lake. Paper mills, cold storage warehouses and an ore smelter lined the docks. Beyond these, a rail yard sprawled toward the river front.
Many massive wind machines, planted firmly on a low ridge line north of town, turned gracefully in a bitter breeze, supplementing hydroelectric power for industrial activity. Their calm, mesmerizing motion belied the brute force of freezing wind twisting through their blades. Snow and ice crusted a landscape that only approached warmth during the height of summer. For this reason, people living in this region built their homes along the lakeshore, where deep water acted as an effective thermal sink. The population here remained small and devoted to sustaining the industrial base in an area where very little agriculture, other than raising small cattle herds on the lush summer grass and imported hay from lower elevations, could be practiced.
The locomotive slowed to a stop on a siding, where it remained for nearly twenty minutes as a long southbound train passed. Cold air swirling around the aluminum passenger car swept any warmth away, until the windows became hopelessly glazed in ice. When the train finally pulled into the windswept Mercenary Hill station, Garrick and Brenna sought food at the cafeteria, only to be told by a woman in authority that Brenna had to eat either in the kitchen at the staff lunch table, or outside in the cold.
Garrick didn’t voice his displeasure, heading for the staff room with the same resignation Brenna had long ago adopted. This area turned out to be a cozy, warm environment where hot bowls of soup, fresh bread and creamy, spiced tea, served by an indifferent, ageing waitress who couldn’t remember how to smile, made for a hearty, satisfying meal.
Mercenary Hill served as a switching point for rail traffic. The shortest distance between the regional capital of Burning Tree and Tamaria’s national capital, Marvic, cut through Traitor’s Pass, in between the towering Widow Glacier and the northernmost peaks of the Angelgate Mountains. The source of the Weeping Widow River lay at the apex of a steep valley where the Great Widow Icefield slumped from jagged arêtes into a series of lakes gouged into the rock by retreating glaciers and fed by a myriad of subterranean eskers and surface streams. Glacial melt overflowed from these features and poured into the swollen river, sweeping downslope in tandem with an ever-present wind. The combined sounds of wind and water gave the stream its name.
Walking slowly with hardly a word exchanged between them, the two friends passed through the Mercenary Hill train station to a small waiting area on its northern side. There, a cogwheel rail line led up the angular valley through Traitor’s Pass and down the Hangman River on the windward side of the Angelgate Mountains. The engines serving this line were purpose-built Model 12 E pusher locomotives, featuring cog drive wheels mounted on a vertical axis, with teeth engaging from the edges of the rack rail, rather than the top. Thus, the twin rotary steam engines were mounted upright on either side of the center rack rail. The locomotive cab “floated” on an adjustable air suspension to keep the boiler level as the grade increased to its maximum of nearly 50%, and the tender it pushed carried extra fuel and water for the trip.
Laughter echoed from the waiting area. An arrogant officer named Major Gretschel puffed a pipe while relating a story of his heroic logistical exploits. Nine other soldiers of various rank, most of whom remained too intent on a card game to listen, occupied benches near a window, while their comrades slumped along the outside wall reading novels, writing letters or sleeping. The twenty-odd civilians crowded into the room kept to the other side, as if repulsed by the vulgarity of their nation’s warriors.
Major Gretschel stopped abruptly when he saw Brenna walk into the room, her face and figure derailing all other trains of thought. “Nice rack!” he said, admiring her. This remark inspired laughter and approving whistles from the other men.
Brenna felt the fire of many eyes settle uncomfortably upon her and self-consciously slid behind Garrick for shelter. He, however, merely smiled, stiffened respectfully, and took a big risk by responding: “I know I’m handsome and though I appreciate your admiration sir, my preferences go the other way.”
Major Gretschel accepted the remark with laughter of his own. “Well said, son! Come over and join us.”
For the next several minutes, Brenna endured overt leering that made her feel uncomfortable. Two of the men tried unsuccessfully to engage her in conversation. Garrick handled the situation admirably, deflecting attention away from Brenna with great skill, but eventually resorting to holding the girl’s hand as a signal that she belonged to him. She feigned complete ignorance of the Tamarian language, never responding to a word spoken in her direction. Brenna fully understood that touching her in public crossed a certain social threshold she and Garrick had learned to approach with great reluctance.
The tactic proved effective. Every soldier who might have thought Garrick too young to command the Lithian girl’s affection witnessed her sentiments expressed in the lingering embrace and gentle caress of interlocked fingers, and ceased his thinly veiled lechery.
When the locomotive moved into position on the loading dock, a sense of anticipation rose within the assembled Tamarians. For many of them, this would be their first trip on the slow train ride up to the Traitor’s Pass station, an excursion renown for its breathtaking scenery. However, with only a few hours of daylight remaining, most of their nearly eight-hour journey would take place in the dark.
A portly conductor, his face reddened by the cold, opened the door leading out to the loading platform, allowing a blast of glacial wind entrance to the stuffy room. While fresh air brought relief from stale pipe smoke, the freezing wind warned of plummeting temperatures worsened by the twin dangers of approaching night and a rapid rise in altitude.
Thirty-two passengers boarded a pair of cars, separating according to the value of their tickets. Those with more expensive seats would experience an unhindered view of the upcoming ascent from a glass-domed car at the head of the train, while the economy class passengers filed into a basic model behind them.
The Tamarian army never paid for luxury transportation when moving its enlisted soldiers around the country. Garrick, Brenna and the ten warriors who’d waited in the lobby moved rearward, along with a farmer, a businessman working in the concrete industry and two mature, white-haired nurses. Finding a spot at the rear of the cabin, Garrick and Brenna hung their backpacks on the same kind of stylized, spearheaded shutter shaft ends found on all rail cars within the Tamarian Republic. Unlike the unheated second-class coaches common to most domestic rail lines, this particular car had been fitted with condensing coils in the floor, and comforting warmth rose from below.
A clattering sound, coupled with the rhythmic shudder characteristic of cogwheels locking onto the rack rail made all forward progress sound like the endless, uphill climb of some great roller coaster. The train crawled slowly along the precipitous grade, following a path blasted to create narrow ledges above the swiftly descending Weeping Widow River. A steady purr of rotary steam power, the whine of turbo fuel pumps and the dull, consonantal chatter of conversation mingled with the restless rush of glacial wind.
As the train crossed a magnificent, concrete and steel trestle high above the river, Brenna could see the valley floor widen as it dropped all the way to Broken Wing Lake and the snow-clad foothills on its western shore. Stunted pine trees clinging to cracks in the talus gradually gave way to low grasses, lichen, rock and ice. She turned toward Garrick, noting a shadow of stubble on his chin for the first time, and smiled. Brenna unsheathed her boot knife and with a mischievous grin, feigned a move to shave her friend with it. “I can take care of that facial hair for you!” she teased.
Knowing how effortlessly her custom-made, crystalline-edged blade trimmed hair or pared through flesh and armor, Garrick recoiled. “I’ll do my own shaving, Brenna. You can keep the business end of that blade far away from my face, thank you!”
Brenna pretended to pout, but a smile curling at the edges of her lovely mouth betrayed a different emotion. Sitting back on the padded bench, she pulled out a comb and began inspecting the ends of her long, dark locks as the comb’s ivory teeth parted through them. Any hair shaft end that did not meet her approval, she deftly slid across the boot knife’s edge, slicing off the offending split with frightening ease. “Those men don’t seem interested in talking to you,” she remarked.
The unconsciously adroit manner in which Brenna switched tools with a single hand unnerved Garrick initially. Though she did not flaunt her dexterity, the girl frequently performed complicated motor tasks with such agility Garrick found himself enchanted, watching. This time, when she stopped and made eye contact, as if waiting for a response he should have made already, the boy shrugged. “They’re logisticians. I’m a combat soldier. I guess we don’t have much in common.”
How much of that remark was actually true Garrick couldn’t accurately determine, but Lieutenant Kohler’s warning haunted him. He meditated on these thoughts as the hours passed and the train trudged uphill through the deepening gloom. While Brenna performed her personal grooming routine, he let his gaze linger on her face in the fading light, following the sweep of thick, dark hair down her ivory neck, noting the gentle pulse of life in a blue-green vein. He admired the manner in which her long locks fell and gently spread across the graceful curve of her bosom, only to tumble again to the girl’s slender waist and land in her lap.
Aware of his arousal, Garrick turned away, striving to contain a strong, physical desire for the girl he loved. Brenna privately admitted feeling distressed whenever she experienced a similar yearning for him, knowing that out of respect for her chastity, Garrick always restrained his ardor. With a glance she noticed his change of posture and wistfully dreamed of the day when they could share the full measure of their mutual passion. On this occasion, as was often the case, the two friends suppressed what they really wanted to say and remained silent.
Shortly after passing one of the ubiquitous, military firebases that guarded the valley against attack by mountain giants, the train slipped into heavy fog and all outdoor visibility vanished. After climbing several hundred additional feet, the train broke free of its concealing cloud cover and appeared underneath a cold, star lit sky.
Brenna’s Lithian eyes gleamed in response to the deep, ultraviolet glow filtering down from her world’s lofty, spangled heavens. Ablated glaciers, reflecting light invisible to her companions, glistened brightly, magically casting shadows across a bleak, stony landscape that ascended along narrow arêtes and thrust rocky horn peaks high against the dark blue sky.
Garrick, whose human vision caught none of this, noticed an orange glow several hundred yards distant on the track ahead. He stared at it, curiously, then nudged Brenna and pointed. “What do you suppose that’s all about?” he inquired, nervous tension evident in his voice.
Momentarily blinded by the orange light, Brenna squinted until her eyes adjusted and she could see flames. “It looks like a bonfire,” she responded.
“That’s what I thought, too.” Garrick felt his heart quicken. “Major Gretschel!” he called. “We have a serious problem, sir!”
The Tamarian officer, alarmed by the urgency in Garrick’s voice, stood from his seat and moved back to inquire about the cause of the young soldier’s anxiety. “So,” the officer replied, initially annoyed that he’d been disturbed. “It looks like a fire on the tracks. This is a problem for the engineer, not us.”
“Who would build a fire on a railroad track in the middle of nowhere?” Garrick inquired. “And, more importantly, why?”
“What’s your worry, soldier? Fire is a natural phenomenon.” The major backed away, his facial expression dismissing the blaze as irrelevant.
“Someone wants the train to stop, sir,” Garrick continued, rising out of his seat. “Someone wants us to stop in the middle of the mountains, in the dark.”
Major Gretschel thought for a moment, then his facial expression changed. “Giants,” he realized, arriving at the grim conclusion and comprehending the reason for Garrick’s concern.
The young warrior nodded nervously. “Nobody else lives here.”
That remark inspired a pause and a deep breath. “Do you have any weapons?” the major inquired, profound worry now evident in his voice and agitated body language.
“Brenna carries a bow and a boot knife,” the boy stated. “I turned my rifle in back at Burning Tree. What about your men?”
The major shook his head, completely rejecting any role the slender girl might play in an armed conflict. “We’re all unarmed. Can you use that bow?”
“Sir, she’s a far better shot than I am, and the arrows are measured to her draw length.” Garrick reached for his backpack, and then Brenna’s, placing them both on his seat. “Maybe we can pull these things off,” he said, referring to the shafts upon which the window shutters had been mounted. As he worked to disconnect them, other soldiers followed his lead.
Garrick’s warning stirred several nearby passengers. Soon, Brenna could hear many voices chattering with a tension clearly underscoring their rising sense of fear. She could have run away, knowing that her superior night vision and speed would serve well to preserve her own life. However, she loved Garrick and watching him prepare for a fight steeled her resolve. After helping him remove the window shutter and reassemble its shaft into a rudimentary spear, Brenna stood near the back wall and strung her bow.
The engineer, riding in the isolation of the locomotive cabin, noticed the fire on a flat section of the track ahead and began slowing in time to halt forward progress before his engine pushed the passenger cars into the blaze. As his train came to rest, the engineer disembarked with his fireman and walked forward to inspect the tracks.
A low whistle, followed by the crash of shattered glass and the shudder of the forward observation car deepened Garrick’s heartbeat to a strong pounding. Passengers screamed. Another impact rocked the train. All sense of social order disintegrated as men and women desperately sought escape through the doors and windows. The young couple found themselves pressed against the train’s rear wall, unable to move.
A rapid series of smaller impacts splintered west-facing windows and thudded against the train’s outer, aluminum skin. Flying shards of glass mingled with wind-driven dust and snow as sling-propelled ice bullets and atlatl darts the size of a strong man’s forearm slammed into the train cars. Wintry air flooded the passenger compartment as doors and windows opened, allowing people outside. Instantly, the temperature within the economy class car plummeted dangerously.
Brenna winced, flinching as something stung her cheek. Touching it, she felt warm, sticky liquid on her fingertips and removed a sharp shard of glass from her face. The Lithian girl kissed her left index and middle fingers, then pressed them into the injured flesh, believing that Allfather God would give her power to heal the wound.
Garrick controlled his own sense of panic, hearing Major Gretschel repeatedly call for a calm evacuation. Strict training and battle experience suppressed fear, until the familiar, pre-combat adrenaline rush the young soldier experienced inspired focused determination for the imminent fight. As sub-freezing air flooded the cabin, he thought of the gloves, scarf and headgear packed in his knapsack. While he waited for the cabin to clear, another pair of heavy impacts slammed into the forward train car, rocking it dangerously. Garrick began counting.
The cabin finally emptied. Garrick pulled Brenna toward the door but motioned for her to stay inside and keep low. While he counted, the young soldier slid Brenna’s backpack toward her and untied his own, reaching for winter gear to shield his skin from the extreme cold. Brenna followed suit, then grabbed Garrick’s binoculars.
When he reached 86, Garrick heard two more large projectiles coming and felt the train rock as they slammed into the forward car. Picking up his makeshift weapon, Garrick led Brenna outside and found Major Gretschel organizing the civilians near the locomotive.
The Tamarian officer sent half a dozen women and children inside the engineer’s cabin, where they would be sheltered from the cold and hidden during the upcoming battle. He arranged injured passengers, most of them suffering glass cuts or crush-related damage trying to get out of the train, into groups on the ground, allowing the two elderly nurses to perform triage. They began tending to wounds, but one of them vigorously shooed Brenna away when she offered to help.
Since the officer was busy, Garrick found a sergeant named Henkelmann while Brenna crept around the train and peered westward with Garrick’s binoculars.
“It’s a small group,” Garrick told the sergeant. “They’re firing two onagers, each of which needs a crew of four. The rate of small projectile fire suggests half a dozen others on foot. Brenna will scout them and let us know for sure.”
“Ever fought giants, boy?” Sergeant Henkelmann asked in a wistful tone.
Garrick shook his head. “Not yet. But that’s about to change, isn’t it?”
Sergeant Henkelmann clasped Garrick by the shoulder. “Let’s hope we live to fight another day. If the giants don’t kill us, the cold certainly will.”
Major Gretschel arrived and pulled the sergeant aside, conversing with him in low voices before he turned his attention to the soldiers and citizen volunteers waiting for his leadership. “Lightweight spear shafts are not ideal for engaging giants,” he began, “but they will have to do. The engineer has a rifle onboard with one magazine, so we have seven rounds to work with.” Major Gretschel pointed to a young soldier, then continued: “Private Hansen, I want your hands on that rifle. Make every shot count.”
“Yes sir!” the warrior replied.
Garrick felt mildly hurt that he, the only combat veteran among them, had not been given the gun to fire, but he said nothing. In the midst of his mental meandering, Major Gretschel barked out his name. “Yes, sir!” Garrick responded.
“You say that girl of yours can handle a bow. I want her on the left, opposite Hansen. Where is she?”
Brenna suddenly appeared, as if summoned. She spoke excitedly to Garrick in vulgate, though it turned out that Major Gretschel understood her. “There are fourteen of them. They’ve just come over an esker about a hundred yards away.”
“How do you know that?” the major inquired.
The Lithian maiden turned to face him, her bright eyes shining eerily in the deep blue, nocturnal light. “I can see them,” she replied. “We need to hurry!”
Major Gretschel gave his final instructions, then ordered the fourteen soldiers and civilian volunteers into a crouching position on the western side of the idling train. By staying low, they would minimize visual contact until the giants–who could see into the infrared spectrum–came close.
At a range of less than 50 yards, the giants stopped to fire another volley with their slings, hurling ice bullets the size of softballs and frozen to granite hardness, against the train. The metallic song of yielding aluminum and the crack of fracturing glass swept over the shivering soldiers.
Private Hansen squeezed off a round, its bright flash blinding, and the deafening discharge from his big rifle echoing across the smooth, glaciated rock, reverberating from the distant arêtes as if answered by other guns far away. Though startled and alarmed, every giant remained standing. Hansen had missed.
“Hold your fire!” Major Gretschel spat, his ears ringing.
The giants paused. Brenna could see them conversing, their flattened facial features disfigured by war paint. Suddenly, the immense humanoids raised a frightful battle cry, then broke into a dead run, their long strides powerful and purposeful, their iron spearheads black against the snowy landscape.
“Steady! Steady!” Major Gretschel warned his nervous troops. “Set your weapons on my mark!”
At a distance of thirty yards, Brenna could see angry, savage facial features clearly. Menacing expressions of ill intent sprang from dark eyes widened in battle lust, while ritual scars displayed rank and skulls boasted of human warriors slain. “Allfather God,” she prayed, “deliver me!” Brenna took aim and fired into the open mouth of the leading giant. More than twenty years of archery experience that melded skill, faith and the multiplied power of Brenna’s recurve bow tipped the survival odds into the Tamarians’ favor. Her arrow slammed into the giant’s soft palate and pierced through the conduction pathway for all nervous activity.