Beyond The Vale Read online

  Gymal was just finishing his lunch in the kitchen, and Hanna was washing the dishes. “I’d have done that,” said Drake.

  Hanna smiled over her shoulder. “You do enough. You wouldn’t want me to get bored, would you?”

  In the week he had been there, Drake had tried to make himself useful by cleaning the house and running errands. It had given him the opportunity to learn the layout of the city and form the beginnings of a plan.

  Gymal let out and exaggerated groan. “Do I have to do this?” Hanna answered with a scolding frown.

  Drake enjoyed the way Hanna could silence Gymal with a single look. Through their days of conversations, he had found her to be witty and open-minded. It was hard to imagine she was from the same people that were slaughtering the Nelwyn.

  Gymal, on the other hand, behaved like a spoiled child most of the time. His father had procured him a supervisory position, overseeing the production of ammunition. According to Hanna, it paid well, and despite the implication of its title, bore very little responsibility. Still the young man remained dissatisfied. He’d wanted to serve with his father, to be celebrated as a war hero, and complained ceaselessly on the subject.

  Gymal wiped his mouth and rose from the table. “Let’s get going, then.”

  Drake followed him out and into a waiting wagon. “I appreciate you doing this.”

  “If you think I’m getting you a job, you’re wrong. This is just a tour to make my aunt happy.”

  “I understand.”

  They could have walked the short distance to the Imperium. But Gymal had his own wagon and driver, and made a point to let Drake know this.

  “Remember that you’re my guest. Keep your hands to yourself and don’t talk to anyone.” Drake nodded. “Don’t worry.” He had known people like Gymal in Troi. Nobles of lower standing mostly, whose insecurity caused them to put on overstated displays of wealth and power. The Imperium was an impressive building. Polished black stone, with narrow rectangular windows, it stood more than fifty feet high and covered four entire city blocks. Broad stairs led to a tall colonnade that was flanked by white stone fountains. It bore no ornamentation on its façade, and it was in fact through this simplicity that it projected a certain air of power and majesty. The

  massive double doors were flung wide, guarded by a pair of soldiers carrying long rifles.

  They were dropped at the foot of the stairs, and Gymal instructed the driver to return in three hours.

  Dozens of people were entering and leaving in a steady stream, mostly dressed in what reminded Drake of the coveralls back home, though held up by two shoulder straps and with a shirt worn underneath.

  Gymal showed the guard a silver coin from his pocket. “I’m showing my companion the research facilities.”

  The guard did not appear impressed. “Have him check in before you leave.”

  Given that no one was being asked for identification, Drake thought showing the coin was likely a display for his benefit. Still, he needed to humor Gymal. “So that coin gets you in anywhere?”

  “Most places,” he replied. “I can’t get into the palace. But then not even my father can, without begging an audience with the Emperor. Nothing really to see there anyway, unless you like art.”

  “Not particularly.”

  They passed into a large gallery supported by thick columns that climbed to the twenty- foot-high ceiling. The walls were decorated with various tapestries depicting the city as well as several of forests and the mountains. Benches were set in a row along the left side, in front of a massive raised counter, behind which milled half a dozen or so men and women in tan shirts with a black symbol of two crossed swords stitched on the chest. People were packed in three lines, mostly holding handfuls of papers and all looking unhappy to be there.

  Bureaucrats, thought Drake. That’s one thing any world could do without.

  To his relief they did not join the lines. Gymal led him to an open door on the opposite end and down a broad corridor. The floors here were tiled white and gray and doors were evenly spaced on either side.

  “What’s in this section?” asked Drake.

  “Offices, mostly,” said Gymal. “Workers have to enter from another part of the building.

  But supervisors like me can take the short way. Saves twenty minutes of walking.”

  Drake tried to look impressed. He took note of the lack of security to this point. Getting into the Imperium might not be as much of a challenge as he’d feared.

  After a series of turns, they ended up at a set of metal doors where a lone guard was reading at a small desk. “Did you check in?” she asked, barely looking up.

  “I’m not working today,” Gymal answered.

  “If you’re bringing a guest, you still have to check in.”

  Gymal looked quickly over at Drake then back to the guard. “We really won’t be long.” “You know the rules.”

  “Can’t you make an exception?”

  The guard closed her book. “You know there are no exceptions.” Gymal flushed, clearly embarrassed. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  As he hurried back the way they had come, the guard picked up her book and shook her head. “Just because his father is somebody, he thinks he can get away with whatever he wants.”

  Drake wanted to strike up a conversation, perhaps learn something useful, but her sour expression dissuaded him.

  It took more than half an hour for Gymal to return, during which time the guard did not utter a word. Gymal showed her a copper disk, which he then handed to Drake. Engraved on either side was a triangle with a star in the center.

  “I need this back before we leave,” said Gymal.

  Drake shoved it in his pocket, jogging for a few feet to catch up as Gymal angrily flung the door open and started off at a rapid pace. This led to another long hallway. Though most of the doors were shut, a few were not, allowing him to glance inside as they passed. Some were being used for storage, stacked with wooden crates and boxes, while others were occupied by men and women in long red coats working at metal tables, though on what, he did not have time to see.

  “I work at the far end,” Gymal informed him. “But being a tinker, I suppose you’d like to be where the transports are being built.”

  “Actually, I was interested in what you do.” Gymal creased his brow. “Ammunition? Why?” “I like weapons.”

  “We only make the bullets. The weapons are on the west end. Don’t worry. I promised my aunt I’d give you a complete tour. I’ll take you by there.”

  “You know, there’s a rumor going around about a new weapon,” Drake remarked casually. “One that will end the war.”

  Gymal halted and locked eyes with Drake. “Keep your mouth shut about that.” “So it’s true?”

  Gymal looked both ways and then said in a low voice, “Do yourself a favor and don’t go asking about things like that. Unless you want to spend the next three days in a cell being questioned.”

  “I don’t really know anything. It’s just people at the frontier are noticing the soldiers pulling back. They think it means a new weapon’s coming.”

  “People in the settlements need to mind their own business.” “So it’s true?”

  “Yes. But it’s not ready.”

  He risked another question. “Can we see it?”

  “Are you insane? Not even my father could get in there.” He straightened his back. “Now if you’re finished with stupid questions…”

  The facility was impressive. The train manufacturing center was enormous. Hundreds of people were hammering and shaping the various parts on row after row of tables. Many of the tools were familiar, though rudimentary in design. Gymal explained that the cars and engines were taken to the first town beyond the desert for assembly. They spent quite a while there, Gymal explaining the different stations and what the parts were for. He had a quite impressive degree of knowledge on the subject, actually. It was Drake’s guess that he had worked here at some point, though fr
om his attitude, it was a safe bet that it probably had not been to his liking.

  From there, they moved on to a foundry where they spent only a few minutes, Gymal complaining he couldn’t stand the heat.

  Over the course of the next hour they moved from area to area. The scope was mind blowing. From wires to lumber to springs and gaskets, there seemed to be a workshop for everything. Some were little more than a small office, others as spacious as where the train parts were made. By the time they reached the ammunitions factory, Drake was hopelessly lost.

  Gymal didn’t bother with a tour. Instead they enter a room at the far side where his office was located. It was decent enough, furnished with a sturdy wooden desk with a pair of cushioned chairs in front, a few filing cabinets, and a book shelf.

  “That’s enough walking for today,” said Gymal, plopping down behind his desk. Reaching into a drawer, he removed a silver flask.

  Drake took one of the chairs. “I do appreciate you taking the time.”

  Gymal opened the flask and took a sip. “You didn’t look as impressed as most people when they see it for the first time.”

  “I guess it’s a bit…overwhelming.”

  Gymal offered Drake the flask, which he politely accepted. “If you’re a tinker, why do you want to work here? I doubt you’d make much more. It’s hot. It stinks. And unless you’re from a good family, you won’t get far. At least as a tinker you’re outside, free to work wherever you want.”

  Drake sniffed the flask. Whiskey. He took a sip and returned it to Gymal. “I’m not sure I do. It was your aunt’s suggestion.”

  Gymal let out a groan. “Of course it was. I love her, but she never could mind her own business.”

  “Is that why you want to be a soldier? So you don’t have to come here?” Drake needed to keep the conversation focused on Gymal.

  Before answering, he drained the flask and retrieved another, tossing the empty on the desk. “I don’t care about being a soldier. I just want to get out of here. The Imperium is miserable. You see it, don’t you? Our world is dying. Once we defeat the Nelwyn, we can start over. Now is the time to stake a claim. My father surely won’t do it. So it’s up to me.”

  “Why not just go?”

  Gymal coughed a irreverent laugh. “And do what? Here I have a certain position. Without my father’s help, I’d be no better than any other man.”

  It was difficult for Drake to keep his disapproval from showing. “So what will you do?” “Keep pressing him to allow me to join. Nothing more I can do.”

  Before him was a man afraid to be his own person. A common enough failing, but one he had never been able to tolerate. Gymal would be miserable in wealth rather than risk poverty to have a better life. Worse, he was paralyzed and useless without his father’s name to prop him up.

  “I’m sure he’ll help you if you keep asking,” said Drake. Though begging was more like

  it.

  The door opened, and a young man in a loose black shirt and pants entered. He had short cropped blond hair and his well-muscled frame was obvious even in the baggy attire.

  “I thought I saw you wandering around,” he said. “Thought you might be interested in a match.”

  “I don’t have any other clothes,” said Gymal, his eyes darting over to Drake.

  “That’s not a problem. I have a spare set.” He turned his attention to Drake. “And you are?” “Drake.”

  “Well, Drake. I’m Buraro. How would you like to see Gymal here get a beating?” Before Drake could answer, he added: “Last time there were tears. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss that?”

  Gymal averted his eyes. “We need to be going. Next time, maybe.”

  “Don’t be a coward,” Buraro taunted. “What would your father think if you turned down a friendly match?”

  There was nothing friendly about this man. As much as he didn’t like Gymal, Drake hated

  bullies.

  “What kind of match?” asked Drake.

  Buraro raised an eyebrow. “Why, swords of course. Are you interested?”

  Drake looked over to Gymal who was staring down, humiliated, at his desk. “Absolutely.” “Drake, don’t,” said Gymal.

  “It’s all right,” laughed Buraro. “I won’t hurt your friend…too badly. Just send him home with a few scrapes and bruises.”

  Drake grinned. “Sounds good to me.”

  “At least someone Gymal knows has courage.” He looked Drake over. “But I don’t think I have anything that will fit you. So as long as you don’t mind getting your clothes bloody…”

  “That’s fine. I have more.”

  “Then I’ll be waiting.” He turned to leave, then paused. “You do remember how to get there? You were rather…upset the last time.”

  “I think we can find it,” said Drake.

  The door shut, and Gymal sprang from his chair. “What is wrong with you? Why did you do that?”

  “He needs a lesson in manners.”

  Gymal threw up his hands. “He’s the captain of the Imperial guard. He’ll beat you senseless.”

  Drake cocked his head. “The captain of the Imperial Guard, you say? Sounds like fun.” “You really are insane, aren’t you?”

  “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

  Gymal took another drink and shoved the flask in his pocket. “Suit yourself. I warned you.”

  Drake realized this might not be the best idea, but it was too late to back out. And perhaps seeing the man who’d humiliated him beaten would open Gymal up enough to gather crucial information. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to get it done. Though being in too much of a hurry was a bad idea, getting back to Lenora before Salazar could set his plans in motion was crucial.

  They exited the office and passed through a narrow corridor a short distance away, that ended in a descending staircase. At the bottom, the passage curved left for about a hundred yards

  and then straightened just before ending at a narrow archway, where a lone man stood, clad in identical attire to Buraro.

  He smirked at Drake and Gymal and ducked inside.

  Drake could hear the clacking of wood on wood, along with a flat smacking sound of fists on flesh, and the excited hoots and cheers of spectators. He was almost disappointed. Practice swords. It was for the best. At least he wouldn’t risk killing someone accidentally.

  He found himself in a round room about fifty feet in diameter. Five men and three women were lined up at the far end as two men exchanged bare-knuckled blows in the center. By the entrance, two more men were practicing with the wooden swords, though not in earnest.

  Buraro was among the spectators, and he let out a high-pitched whistle the moment he saw the newcomers. The combatants ceased, breathing heavily, one bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth.

  “I was getting worried that you weren’t coming.”

  Drake pulled off his shirt and tossed it by the archway where an assortment of wooden swords of various lengths were piled. There were a few real weapons among them as well, but they looked disused and poorly maintenanced.

  He selected one that had the approximate length of his own sword, though it was considerably lighter. Buraro approached and chose one a bit longer, then moved over to where the others had gathered and began talking to them in hushed whispers.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” asked Gymal.

  Drake looked over to the amused and overconfident grin of his opponent. “More than I was before we got here.”

  Still, Drake knew better than to underestimate an unfamiliar adversary. He hadn’t been impressed by the skill of Bomar soldiers thus far, but he likely hadn’t fought the Bomar’s best. Those in the forest he’d encountered when first departing Vale were adequate fighters, but not exceptional by any measure. Buraro was sure to be better, given his position.

  The group spread out along the wall. Gymal remained near the exit, shifting from side to side, hands clasped at his waist.

  “Are you r
eady?” called Buraro, twirling his weapon repeatedly in one hand.

  Drake nodded, feeling the weight of the wood. It was not well-balanced, but it would do. Looking at Buraro’s feet, he took note of the long, calculated strides as he made his way toward the center. Aggressive, but practiced. Every movement a foe made could tell you something about them. Sword training among the royal guard was a tradition, and Drake had only lost twice in training matches, both times when he’d been in the guard less than a year.

  Drake held his sword just above his waist. Buraro was slightly bigger in build, though not so much as to be necessarily slower, and about an inch taller. The length of his weapon would give him reach. But Drake was unconcerned about that. Always fight with what you were comfortable using, if at all possible. Give someone a longer blade when they are accustomed to one shorter and they’re put at a disadvantage.

  Buraro’s eyes were fixed on Drake’s chest. His mouth twitched with a smile as he slowly eased to the left. Drake matched his steps.

  “You were a soldier?” asked Buraro. When Drake did not reply, he lunged. Drake parried and then shifted back a pace. “Let me guess. You served with Gymal’s father. Is that why you’re taking up for him?”