Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

Kurt took us around more tight bends, and dodged other crowds, before finally turning a corner to come within sight of the bridge across the Cassaro. He cursed loudly as he brought the horses to a stop.

Over the river, Newbank spread under a pall of smoke. A dozen fires dotted the district, the biggest flaring from the city-end of the bridge where flames ate hungrily at its old timbers. Between it and us spread a mob of Heletians praying for the flames to spread.

Sef said, “We have to get away from this.”

I nodded.

Kurt slid open the port and suggested, “If the city gates are still open, we can get out and head up the valley to cross the river at the old Goldston bridge.”

The round trip would take most of the evening, but we didn’t have much of a choice. “Do it,” I said, and Sef agreed.

By the last light of dusk, we passed through unmanned gates and up the valley road, heading for the ancient bridge.

For most of the trip I watched Ossard recede behind us. The city was lit in several places by the glow of fire, and above it all climbed great plumes of smoke. The terrible columns twisted as they rose, catching the garish glare of the fires’ orange light.

The city was dying…

It would be hard to get back to Maria and Pedro without the Cassaro Bridge, but not impossible. Regardless, I’d have to try.

A cold wind blew in from the sea to blast smoke up the valley and fill our approach. It haunted the scene with an aura of fire-lit haze, the stinking exhalation rushing up and over the city’s wall aglow in orange, red and yellow. Through it loomed the dark silhouettes of a handful of towers, one itself ablaze. It looked like the end of all things, and I could only guess at what horror unfolded beyond in the fire-ravaged streets of my home district.

We followed the road up to the gatehouse, but could see that the gate stood shut. Kurt slowed the coach.

Amidst the crackle and roar of the flames came little else, but we realised that while such sounds did rumble on they seemed distant. Kurt offered, “If Newbank was doomed, the gate would be open to let our people out.”

Sef agreed and climbed onto the roof of the coach. “Ho Newbank, open the gate!”

A moment of silence followed, only to be broken by a thankfully Flet voice, “The gate is closed!”

Sef replied, “We’ve come from the city and are trying to enter Newbank. The bridge across the Cassaro is down, so this is our only way home.”

The voice came again, and this time the silhouette of a head could be seen. “Home you say? Name yourselves!”

I am Sef Vaugen, in the employ of Lady Juvela Liberigo – once Van Leuwin – who awaits entry with myself and our driver, Kurt Baden.”

The clink of chains sounded as more figures appeared atop the wall, this time lantern-lit. “Come through, but be quick!”

Before he finished, the gate was already opening.

We passed through only for it to groan closed behind us.

A team of guildsmen manned it, and waited for us on the other side. One of them, the man who’d questioned us from above, appeared beside our coach. “Lady Juvela, Newbank is under siege. The Guild and others, such as your father, are making plans as we speak.”

“What’s happened?”

He shook his head. “I can’t be sure, things are very confused.”

Sef asked, “But Newbank burns?”

“It looks worse than it is. The Guild moved to block the bridge, but not before the Inquisition got some men across – they tried to close the Guild. When we moved to stop them, they began torching buildings. Some have died, dozens in fact.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Guildmaster Kurgar feared that they’d try again so he ordered the bridge torched. Many are glad and feel safer, but we know that won’t be the end of it.” He looked me in the eyes. “I fear what tomorrow may bring.”

Sef asked, “And what of the fighting across the river?”

“We don’t know much, only that there’ve been riots. Many take comfort in seeing the smoke rise from all across the city and not just here.”

I nodded. “Thank you for admitting us, but we should be on our way.” My thoughts were on Maria and Pedro and the time we’d already spent.

We travelled slowly through crowded streets.

Many of the people about carried burdens of bagged and wrapped belongings – they looked to have fled their homes on the far side of the river. Wherever I looked, I saw people confused and fearful with their lives forever changed, and all in the space of a single day. I realised then how vulnerable we were, not just individually, but as a people. What had stood as the most prosperous Flet population in all of Dormetia now cowered: If the Flets of Ossard were lost it would leave nothing but besieged Fletland.

One day the genocide would be complete!

We headed near to the ruin of the Cassaro Bridge. Its timbers still burned, the fire now only sparking and smouldering compared to its earlier incarnation. People also watched the spreading flames that flared along the opposite riverbank, while over there, mobs of Heletians looted and torched abandoned Flet homes.

Many of the owners of those properties stood in front of us, wrapped in the night, as their tears caught the light of the fires that consumed their worldly wealth. The looters showed as silhouettes against the glare of the flames. From the safety of the far shore, they, Heletians all, jeered and laughed at the Flets of Newbank.

Sef hissed, “They’re bastards. Look at them, look at how they tear our people’s lives apart!”

I agreed. “They’re cowards.” I could feel the hate amongst them.

“I didn’t survive the battlefields of Fletland to watch such a thing. If you’re not going back tonight I’ll have to be excused, for my sword hungers for the blood of cowards!”

“I share your anger, Sef, but I will need your help. I can’t leave Maria and Pedro over there. Please come with me and bring as many of your friends as you can. Once I have my family back, I’ll ask nothing more of you for the evening.”

A smile lit his face, and in his eyes I saw death – not his, but of a hundred fools. My perception dipped into the celestial to deliver the realisation that Sef was not only a follower of Kave, but also one of his priests.

The Guild’s compound was made up of various structures from warehouses to stables, dormitories, and of course the Guildhall. It sat along the riverfront by the bridge, its water-facing windows now shuttered closed. Guildsmen hid behind a hastily prepared stockade that also lined the river’s side, the defences already covered in a crop of spent arrows.

Guildsmen waved us off from approaching the main entrance by the water, obviously worried about archers. Instead they sent us around to the rear gate that led to the stables and courtyard. We left our coach there in Kurt’s care and headed straight for the main building. The courtyard was crowded and chaotic, and it looked like the Guildhall would be no better.

Inside people rushed about and talked the place full of noise, their hectic energy balanced by sobering clusters of refugees. One of the groups we passed talked of taking a boat and leaving Ossard. Again it seemed my people might be forced to try their luck at sea.

The idea haunted me. I could picture myself weathered and sick for lack of food and water, while clutching Maria to my sunburnt breast. It wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to run. I wanted to survive the fall of Ossard – and my people with me.

Sef and I found an attendant who led us up some stairs and down a passage, the building like a maze. Soon enough we rounded a corner to find my father waiting in a small lounge where he studied a map of the city. He looked up. “Juvela, Sef, did you find anything?”