Read the story of Seven at the River Shining from the beginning.
Results of Last Week’s Poll: Do the defenders destroy the bridges in time to stymie the beginning of the orcs’ attack? (6 votes)
Yes (83%)
No (17%)
Naraleth was gone.
Evie couldn’t quite believe it. Even though she had been under its influence for mere weeks, she could scarcely remember the feeling of a quiet mind, the natural state where the only voice in her head was her own. Until now, until she could feel the absence of the spirit, Evie had not realized how much Naraleth had bent her around its will. She really had been its puppet. The more magic she had tapped, the stronger its hold on her had become.
And yet…
The stronger the hold, the more Evie had resisted. First Naraleth had made her feel special. Then, when it had its hooks in her, it had tried to make her feel worthless apart from its influence. But Evie was a daughter of Valokun. She knew her worth, and it did not depend on the estimation of a lying spirit. Her people, the Heronshoen, lived in the Material World, yes, but their lineage hailed from another place, another plane of existence. Fifteen hundred years ago, a planar convergence ripped a remnant of the Heronshoen from Valokun and deposited them in Lanesanya. Evie and Starr were their distant descendants, but Evie knew of no legend or tale of a Heronshon ever returning to their home plane. The diaspora of Valokun had made a life in Haven, allies of the people of Akarios, safe behind their mountains from the Velderisan Empire.
And yet…
Here Evie found herself. Out of the frying pan of the Blue Slash and into the fire of the Kronix Orn. Evie would never have predicted any of this when she stowed away on Starr’s ship. She desired adventure, and adventure had found her. She didn’t think she could stomach much more.
And yet…
The Olonkin of Morrin needed help. She wasn’t much good without the magic, but surely there were jobs she could do: deliver ammunition, run messages, tend the wounded.
But for the moment, Evie was one of the wounded. She touched the bruises on her neck, closed her eyes, and allowed herself time to luxuriate in a bed, the first one she had slept in since leaving home. This particular bed was twice as long as she needed it to be, and she had to jump to reach the top of the mattress. But it was soft, and it came with a piece of spiced cake that might have been the best food Evie had ever tasted.
Lark’s mother had taken one look at her and Starr and sent them both to bed after they scarfed the meal she had placed before them. Evie looked over to the bed on the opposite side of the room. Starr lay there, asleep, and Annaliese Cavendish held a cold compress to her forehead. Evie did not think Cavendish could ever be tender, but there she was, gazing upon Starr with what Evie could only categorize as compassion.
Her people taught that compassion was a fundamental response to pain, that even the most hard-hearted had the capacity for compassion. To be sure, Evie had never given much thought to her peoples’ teaching, but now that she saw Cavendish playing nursemaid, perhaps there was something to The Memories of Valokun. The only legend that had ever captured Evie’s attention was the saga of the Soul of Light, and upon this she dwelled as she lay abed.
The Memories of Valokun taught that Valokun had once been a place like the Material World, a plane where creatures of all shades of morality lived together in uneasy community. But when one being of immense power decided to rally others to its banner in order to subdue the rest of the people, the Soul of Light stood against the infernal menace. A great duel split the plane in two. Half sank into the devilish depths. The other half was sundered into countless islands floating in the ether. The Soul of Light grieved for the brokenness of the plane, for those lost to the depths, even the one who had begun the fight, who had been kin. The tears of the Soul were so heavy, their sorrow weightier than a collapsing star, that the Soul was able to make gravity from their grief and thus bind Valokun the Broken into a celestial dance, spinning around its own being.
This all happened long before the convergence that sent Evie’s ancestors to the Material World. The Memories of Valokun spoke of an idyllic world where all was light and love and kindness and peace. If only there were a way to return, to bask in the radiance of the Soul of Light…
A memory stirred, and Evie sat up abruptly.
“What is it?” Cavendish asked.
“I’ve just remembered something,” Evie said. “Something I, uh, told myself.”
She rolled out of bed and dropped to the floor.
“The matronly half-giant advised you to stay abed,” Cavendish said.
Evie coughed and realized how hoarse her voice was, how much it hurt to speak. But she said, “I’m fine,” and hurried from the room. Cavendish did not try to stop her.
Evie wandered into the kitchen where she found Milly standing on a stool, up to her elbows in flour. Lark’s mother Estyra stood next to her. “Now, roll the dough into a ball about the size of your thumb,” Estyra said. “Well, my thumb. Let’s say your fist…ah, hello Evie. Are you feeling well?”
“As good as can be expected. Shouldn’t we be preparing for the orc attack instead of cooking?”
Estyra tut-tutted and said, “Troops need to eat.”
“I do not require food,” Arrow-10 said. He stood in the corner opposite the door through which Evie had come. She took a step back. It was unnerving to hear sound come from his body even though he had no mouth. “Greetings, Evelana. I am glad that my unwilling attack did not damage you permanently.”
“Just bruised,” she said, trying for an air of confidence that she did not feel in the Spark’s presence. “I’ll live.”
“I hope that you remain alive after the orcs have completed their assault.” Arrow-10 moved toward her, but stopped when she shrank back. “Along with my hope, I will endeavor to keep you alive as restitution for nearly killing you.”
Evie considered the Spark. He had such an odd manner about him. He was proper. He was deadly. And somehow he was innocent at the same time. Evie made up her mind to give him another chance. After all, he had thrown off Naraleth’s influence in a matter of minutes. He would make a fierce protector if the orcs reached this side of the river.
“Whatever you’re making, I’ll eat Arrow-10’s portion. I’m famished.”
“That’s good,” Estyra said. “You need your strength. The metal man gets his from somewhere else.”
“The sparkstone core in the center of my chest generates energy for my systems,” Arrow-10 said. “I can describe the –”
But Arrow-10’s offer was cut short by the front door opening. Estyra called out, “Lark?”
“It’s Tynik,” a voice said from the hall. “Lark’s organizing the bridge demolition. He’s hoping our visitors could come and help.”
The speaker walked into the kitchen. It was an –
“Orc! Alert! Alert! Orc!” Arrow-10 whirred into motion and was across the kitchen before Evie could even get a look at the newcomer.
“No! He’s a friend!” Estyra shouted.
Arrow-10 halted with his armblade an inch from the orc’s chest. “Query: How do I distinguish between friendly orcs and enemy orcs?”
“Tynik is the only friendly one in these parts.”
Arrow-10’s eyes flashed. “Are you Tynik?”
The orc nodded, but seemed unable to speak.
The Spark’s blade collapsed into his arm. “Greetings, Friend Tynik.”
“G-g-g-greetings,” Tynik managed.
Estyra made introductions, and Tynik gave a short account of his story. Evie couldn’t imagine how a parent could be as cruel as Tynik’s father. She had run away from her parents to have an adventure. He had run to survive. And now Tynik’s escape from his brutal father might mean the survival of the entire Sunmount Kindred. But what could Evie give? The small voice she had heard within herself while battling Naraleth’s influence came back to her again.
“The Soul of Light shines across the planes.”
_______
Lark stood by the central bridge over the River Shining and sniffed the air. The fresh, springtime crispness filled his lungs, but at the edge of the inhalation he smelled something else. Something fetid, like pus oozing from a punctured sore.
“They’re coming,” he said to the demolition team.
“We’re working as fast we can, Visionary Lark,” said the foreman.
Lark decided not to correct the title. With the orcs this close, he needed all the authority he could get in order to speed his people on. “The southern bridge fell more quickly than this one.”
The foreman gave him an incredulous look and pointed at the obvious size difference between the two bridges. Indeed, the central bridge was twice as wide with twice the reinforcement. “I see,” Lark said. “Do your best. But we might need to be less surgical with the last bridge.”
“We’ll have it down one way or another.”
Lark nodded in a way that he hoped would convey both urgency and respect. “Thank you for your diligence,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
As he walked north toward the third bridge, the odor grew. He had smelled it before, when the Kronix Orn had imprisoned him, but then it had been so overwhelming that he had to force himself to adjust to the foulness. Now, as it slowly replaced the fresh air of Morrin, the stink announced the orcs’ arrival more clearly than any battle cry.
Lark had to know how much more time they had. If the wind was blowing the odor ahead of the orcs, the defenders might have hours. If not, then minutes. The difference meant dropping the bridges in a way that allowed for salvage and destroying them in a less retrievable manner. But how could Lark do reconnaissance when the path over the river was soon to be gone?
As he asked himself this question, a raven cawed in a nearby tree, and Lark realized he could understand him. “It reeks! It reeks! It reeks!” he called.
Lark spotted the lustrous black wings on the lowest branch. “I know it does,” he agreed. “A bad sign.”
“No, a good one. The stench of death.” The raven glared at Lark with his dark, piercing eye. “A feast comes.”
“Not if I can help it,” Lark said. “Will you aid me?”
“Aid you in preventing a ready meal? Why would I do such a thing? Find a berry eater, Large One.” And the raven took off, cawing out an invitation to his fellow carrion birds.
Lark scanned the trees for other birds. Many had not yet returned from more southerly regions, but he knew not all birds were migratory. If only he could find a sparrow or a cardinal.
“There!” he shouted, startling a small female with a beige breast, gray wings, and a tuft of red feathers atop her head.
The cardinal opened her short beak and chirped at him. “Why are you disturbing my survey?” she asked. “I am in the serious business of contemplating nest sites.”
“I’m sad to say that this might not be the best place,” Lark offered. “There will likely be a battle here before long.”
“But I have always nested in these trees,” the cardinal said. “This is my home.”
“Mine too. Will you help me defend it?”
The cardinal cocked her head to one side and cheeped thoughtfully to herself. “How can I help one so big as you?”
“Be my eyes across the river. I need to know where the danger is.”
She hopped from the branch and alighted on Lark’s outstretched finger. “I will do this if it means safety for my eggs.”
“I can’t promise safety, only the ability to struggle for peace.”
“That is all there ever is,” the cardinal said. “What are you called?”
“I am Lark. Do you have a name?”
“I am called Rill. What do you need me to do, Lark?”
“Fly to far side of the river. Search for the mass of creatures.”
Rill chirped an enthusiastic affirmative and took off, her red beak flashing in the sun. Lark watched her soar across the water until she was a mere speck in the cloudless blue.
“I wonder,” Lark said. He breathed deeply, ignoring the fetid odor, and settled within himself. “Rill,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “My mind to your eye. My sight to your sight.”
He opened his eyes and staggered, the vertigo rushing upon him, causing his stomach to lurch and his head to swim. He could see the ground rushing by far below him, even though he knew his feet were planted. The Visionaries’ Journal had mentioned this ability, but Lark had not tried it with Reynard or Tasso. He reached out for something to steady himself and found the nearest pillar of the northern bridge. But while his body remained in Morrin, his sight was elsewhere. The trees passed beneath his wingtips – Rill’s wingtips. His vision darted this way and that, conscious of predators as she flew out in the open in broad daylight due to his need.
And while no hawks were present, predators abounded. There they were. The furthest advanced arm of the Kronix Orn horde was running for the River Shining. Their scouts must have alerted them to the bridges’ destruction, for they were racing at an angle towards the northern bridge.
Minutes it was.
A hand on Lark’s shoulder startled him out of Rill’s vision. A metal hand. Lark spun around to find Arrow-10, Milly, Tynik, and Evie standing beside him.
“Quickly,” he said. “Help me!”
“With what do you require assistance?” Arrow-10 asked, his voice maddeningly even.
“We need to destroy the bridge! The orcs are almost here!”
“Do you have any black powder?” Evie asked.
“My people do not use firearms.”
“What about fire?” Milly suggested.
“Too slow.”
“Axes,” Tynik said and he rushed off to a nearby woodpile.
Arrow-10 stretched his arms across the double-trunked pillars holding up the bridge. “I estimate that hewing through these thick supports will take between eight and twelve minutes, depending on the strength and precision of the wielder.”
“The orcs will be here before then,” Lark said.
“Then I shall procure for you the necessary time.” Arrow-10 marched down the bridge and took up a position at the center of the arch.
“What can we do?” Milly asked.
“Archers,” Lark said. “We need as many archers as you can gather.”
“Got it,” Evie said, and she and Milly ran back toward the town green.
Just then Tynik returned with a pair of axes. As one, Lark and his orcish friend swung the blades into the supports at either side of the bridge’s near end. But the wood was old and hard, venerable trunks that resisted the bite of the axes.
“It’s going to be more like twelve!” Lark shouted to Arrow-10.
_______
<Tactical Assessment> The water is too wide and swift to allow quick passage. The foe must approach via the bridge.
<Tactical Conclusion> Create a bottleneck at the far end.
Arrow-10 powered up his hand cannons and waited.
_______
“The orcs are coming!” Milly yelled at the top of her lungs. “We need archers at the north bridge!”
She heard Evie shouting the same warning across the green.
A small brigade of Olonkin gathered, their longbows strung. Their faces were tense, apprehensive. Milly doubted that many of them had shot at anything but game in all their lives. The face of the Velderisan agent she had killed rescuing Arrow-10 flashed across her mind. Rarely a night went by when the sound of the bullet hitting flesh and bone did not assail her dreams.
Milly shook off the memory and watched Evie running across the grass, followed by a pair of Olonkin holding quivers full of black-fletchd arrows.
“To the bridge!” Milly called, once the archers had each grabbed a quiver. They loped off far faster than Milly could ever hope to run.
Evie remained with her, jogging at an easy pace. “Do you think we’re going to win?” the Heronshon asked.
Milly thought about the decades long war – sometimes hot, sometimes cold – that Titanstep had been waging with the Velderisan Empire. “Once a shot has been fired, there’s no way to win,” she said.
Evie had no response for this grim reality.
They reached the bridge at the north edge of town as the archers began loosing arrows across the river. A mass of orcs crowded the opposite bank, but they were unable to mount the bridge. Milly peered across the span and saw the reason why.
Arrow-10 stood there, his hands glowing, a dozen or more orcish bodies stacked up across the width of the bridge.
Suddenly the wood shuddered as a huge double crack rent the air. The bridge dropped away into the rushing river, taking the dead orcs with it. But at the last instant, Arrow-10 leapt. Pointing his arms straight down, he fired his hand cannons, and the lift carried him back across the river. The Spark landed between Lark and Tynik, who were mopping their brows, axes on their shoulders, and surveying their handiwork.
“Thirteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” Arrow-10 said.
Option 1: The orcs shoot flaming arrows, setting Morrin aflame and killing dozens of Olonkin.
Option 2: One of our non-Spark main characters (Lark, Tynik, Milly, Evie, Annaliese, or Starr) is killed.
Come back on Friday to see what happens next in the story Seven at the River Shining. You can also listen to this chapter on the podcast side of the Trail Blaze Fiction Substack or your favored podcast app. While you’re waiting for the next installment, head over to AdamThomas.net and sample Adam’s fantasy novels.
“Once a shot has been fired, there’s no way to win,” she said.
True words… there are no “winners” in war. I am thoroughly enjoying your work, Adam. Thank you!