The Radiant City

The Trudge

The rain drummed rhythmically against the ground, careening into massive puddles and carrying with it the dripping-wet heat of a humid summer afternoon. Even though it would be hours before the sun went down, the thick layer of clouds ensured that Alkanion could hardly see the mud in front of his horse, let alone the miles of forest path ahead. Behind him, a long, single-file line of horses shuffled along, carrying on their backs men slumped over and exhausted from a long day's journey. But they couldn't stop yet; not until sundown. Otherwise, they'd never make it to Rhesch in time.

Alkanion sighed, the almost gagged on the thick, soggy air. His hair stood out at all sides and his limbs felt like bags of bricks. He fiddled with his bracelet, but not even the sliver of orb seemed able to heal him from the stifling heat. Like the men and like the horses, he struggled even to keep his eyes open.

For many miles they trekked on in that manner, sloshing across Ithwon in the middle of the hottest season of living memory. Alkanion gritted his teeth and grumbled under his breath, but he made no public complaints. As king, it was his duty to be strong even in the face of great trial.

The terrain was unchanging; they wound their way southwest towards Maranthall, wisely skirting the corners of its capital city. There, the few surviving refugees had refused to vacate and, according to rumors, lay in siege for any of Ithwon's or its allies' troops. If there was any truth to the hearsay, none had survived to bear conclusive witness.

Even as they approached it from the south, the closer they came to the Ithwonian-Maranthallan border, the more tense Alkanion grew, and the more he searched behind every shadow, every wisp of fog. He kept his sword clutched in hand almost continuously, but never had reason to use it.

None of the men, including the officers, ever dared to approach him without being asked, and less and less as the journey continued did he feel inclined to do so. To avoid his wrath, they took to slinking quietly around camp, avoiding his eyes and going about their business as if under a shadow of destruction. Every once in awhile, when a young boy flinched beneath its gaze or an officer's orders died on his lips, Alkanion felt a pang of guilt, but it was easily suppressed and offered him little trouble, so long as he refused to dwell on it.

In this way, they made it through Ithwon and the southern half of Maranthall, cutting along the lush, green border of Loprena without ever actually crossing it, and worked their way to Rhesch. The trip, involving as it did so many people, so many carts, so many animals, so many rations, so many supplies, was the work of a few tedious, miserable months. Horses died and men were forced to walk until new ones could be found (usually either running wild or plundered from some unfortunate village); a few men caught flu and were left behind to recover before rejoining the group in Rhesch; once, an officer shot a man in the dark for stealing rations, and no one came for the corpse until the following day—it reeked, and they disposed of it on the side of the road.

In all that time spent travelling together, Alkanion couldn't remember learning a single one of his company's names. If they ever told him, he just as quickly forgot. Better, he reasoned, not to get too attached to men whose responsibility it was to die for their country—or, if they were foreigners, as many of them were, to offer their blood as repayment to their liberator.

Maranthall was one never-ending patchwork of meadows with little else to recommend itself except a dying legacy of commerce and political acuity. The only joy Alkanion had to look forward to each day as they crossed it was predicting which color of flower would crop up in the next patch of field: would they be red? Purple? Yellow? Or perhaps, if he was very unlucky, green. An entire day had once been spent crossing nothing but green fields, and Alkanion thought he'd go mad from the monotony of it all. Every waking moment he spent in the miserable nation was one he couldn't wait to reach Rhesch, despite what troubles almost certainly lay ahead.

Then, finally, after weeks and weeks of forcing one foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other, someone caught glimpse of the first lake. Soon enough, they all saw it, and it was such a sight for sore eyes that half of the men let out a roar in spite of themselves, in spite of the danger they were headed for. The officered screamed for order immediately, but even Alkanion couldn't blame them for their excitement: at long last, they had found the promise of a break in the unbearable routine.

Still, as the lakes grew more and more numerous, so did his concerns. Any one of them could house a lake dragon waiting to attack. The kharii could be endlessly loyal when called upon, and if they chose to fight for the Rheschans, the battle would be bloody indeed.

Alkanion absent-mindedly fingered his bracelet as he pondered this, gazing across the lake where they had set up camp for the evening. He flipped it over and allowed a burst of warmth to seep through his skin: a necessary pleasure where once there had been only excruciating pain. He watched the shadows dance on the water in the beating sun, and in their giddy steps he imagined even the waves might one day rise up against him.

The sun set, and the moment passed. Even if it did, he decided, glancing back at the troops, who were quietly cackling over some lewd joke or other, he would come out the winner. Even if it came down to the last man, he would not lose to wind nor wave nor dragon—and especially not to the whims of lesser men.