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A.R.Yngve
DARC AGES
Book Three
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Chapter 54

Weeks passed.

The autumn month of Vemba was already deep into an early winter, when Tharlos Pasko received news from his southern allies: their search for Darc's secret radio transmitter was finished, its location triangulated.

Tharlos went to his father's study, where a painted world map covered one entire wall. There it was, slightly west of Northern Awrica - a puny ring of volcanic islands, so insignificant one might never notice it... all defenseless and without allies.

But before Tharlos could attack, he thought he should prepare the ground; this territory lay beyond his family's established trade routes.

According to the map and the court geographer, the biggest city-state near Kap Verita was Dakchaor - a savage place, where rogue merchants and commoners were allowed to travel by sea along the coast. Lepers had the habit of avoiding seas and coastlines, so the region was safe for a fleet strike.

When he considered it, Tharlos thought he might make it easier on himself. If the city lords of West Awrica were properly informed, they might agree to provide a necessary beachhead.

Heartened by the idea, Tharlos called for his agents and communications officers. His ally in South Castilia would provide the laser link to Dakchaor, and then...



Hiding his radio receiver in his own tiny bedchamber, Awonso was tuning in to hear Darc's latest broadcast - when a much stronger, clearer signal broke in, and sent another familiar voice crackling through his headphones.

"This is the voice of Lord Bor Wyan Damon the Third, lawful ruler of Damon City. I address all free, honest, pious men in the land of Castilia..."

Awonso could not believe his ears. How was he going to tell the high-priestess this? And on top of that, the whole city was talking about the mysterious message painted outside the church. Inu had asked him about it several times, but Awonso had truthfully denied any knowledge of who was guilty.

Exhilaration and frustration filled him. These were times of action, and perhaps he should have been that wall scribbler - doing something to help the tide of change.

His loyalty to the ruling family and to the Church was still strong... yet he sensed that a greater cause was calling. Above all he wanted to break free.

And Darc, in his latest speech, had given him the words to express that desire for a world without walls. It seemed now that even Lord Damon was taking this message to his hardened heart.

"’A world without walls,’" Awonso repeated in a whisper as he locked the radio set inside the chest under his bed.

He was already thinking of where to find some paint, and a suitable wall to write on. Then it struck him: the biggest wall of all - what else?



In the day that followed, throughout the fortified city-states of Castilia, secret receivers took in Bor Damon's new radio signal.

He was the first nobleman in centuries to address others than his own class in matters of government. At first, the noble families were shocked to hear what was being broadcast to their subjects, without their permission. Tharlos's allies called it an insidious attack and requested Tharlos to assault Damon City without delay.

Their reaction came far too late. Darc's messages had paved the ground, and Bor's broadcasts - though the two had no direct connection at all - were taken as public calls for immediate change.

The citizenry began to look for new leaders who were more prepared to take on the changing times.

But Tharlos Pasko, now commander of his father's 1,500 men and jet fleet, head of a new military alliance capable of sending out scores of armored knights and soldiers, reacted with indifference to the pleas of his allies.

He was strangely reluctant to attack Damon City again, for reasons he failed to clearly explain.

In his own deluded mind, though, the reasons seemed clear: Fools! Running around like scared children, when someone shouts from your window! I have no need for Bor Damon's head. It is that voice of Darc I must silence, he is the real threat! I must see him dead, before I can feel safe.

I shall have my revenge on Dohan, too. He will be begging for death, when I'm finished with him.

When Dohan is out of his city, his luck will end.

His luck lies in the city.

Behind Tharlos's outward resolution hid a deeper fear, his terror of the city where he had been defeated three times - twice in tournaments, and once in his first great battle. Of course, Tharlos denied this fear even to himself.

And thus, in his madness, he gave Bor Damon the respite he sorely needed.



An envoy from the high-priestess visited Bor's castle that same day. Bor was preoccupied with the mobilization, and not really interested - but he accepted the messenger.

The envoy, a distinguished priestess in her mid-thirties, asked him: "Have you heard of the blasphemy that was written on the inside of the outer city wall last night, my lord?" Bor shook his head; complaints about wall scribblings had poured in during the week, but he had left the matter to the city guard. "There have been messages, offending the Church, and now this..."

The priestess handed Bor a note.

He read the transcript: "'A world without walls.' What does it mean?"

"It can only be a call for destruction, for chaos, my lord!" The priestess, a class of person who rarely raised her voice or showed fear, betrayed her deep anxiety. "'A world without walls.' It means: destroy the city walls! It means: let in the Unclean, allow the wild beasts, the winds of the Wastelands! Her Holiness is not pleased."

Bor held up his hands and smiled reassuringly, almost amusedly, at the panicking priestess.

"I implore you, Your Graciousness - be calm. As long as I protect this city, there will be an outer wall. The Paskos caused a breach in the wall during their attack, and what happened? Our people rebuilt it, stronger and better, in no time at all. This - this crude jest, it means nothing."

He looked to Azuch Fache, who just happened to enter the room. "Lord Fache!" Bor asked confidently. "Is it not true, that our cities are going to remain safe and guarded by our outer walls, until the end of time?"

Azuch made a bow to the priestess, and hesitated a little too long.

"'The end of time'," he said in his deep, thoughtful voice, "is an expression I would not use too lightly."

Azuch excused himself, suddenly concerned, and his reply lingered in their minds like a bad omen.



Night fell on Damon city, and most of its citizens stayed indoors. The city guard was out searching for vandals, and no one wanted to risk arrest: the punishment was a huge fine, or five years of prison labor.

Almost no one...

Awonso sneaked out of the house through his father's trapdoor, carrying a bucket of paint beneath his hooded cloak. An early, dense snowfall suffused the night; it was just the cover he needed to dare a raid on the city wall.

As he stalked the silent streets, he nearly stumbled into a patrol of guards - their steps muffled by the fresh snow, like his own, he hadn't noticed their approach. He darted into an unlit alley, and stumbled on something. The noise alerted the militia.

"Halt! Who goes there?" a guard shouted.

Awonso panicked, slipped on the snow, and ran into more debris. The urgent rhythmic stomping of soldiers' boots approached the alley.

The fleeing boy saw no escape, when... at his feet, something clicked open. Unseen hands snatched his feet and he slid down, tumbling along a smooth surface. He bumped into someone, who groaned at the impact - there were shuffles in the dark, and a passage clicked shut. A candle was lit.

Awonso glimpsed three faces in the flickering candlelight. They were in a windowless cellar; he had entered through a chute.

Before Awonso could open his mouth, a man put a firm hand over it. Above their heads, they heard the muffled steps of the city guard, rummaging through the alley.

A very long minute passed. The guards found no trapdoor; they walked away to continue the search elsewhere. The man let go of Awonso's jaw.

"Thank you, sir," he gasped. "Who are you?"

"It's unwise of you to ask too many questions, Awonso," the man replied.

He seemed to be a well-fed, bearded man of nondescript age. Under his rough coat, a fine silken collar was partly visible - but the sparse lighting made it hard to distinguish much about Awonso's three saviors.

"You know me?" Awonso asked in a low voice.

The man grinned; the candlelight made his grin resemble a ghostly leer. "A small world, this city, is it not? Everyone knows everyone. Let's just say you have friends who wish to remain anonymous for now."

Awonso calmed down, but not much. "Are you with the Guild?" he asked suspiciously.

"Your father's guild? I cannot answer that."

"You're from the Merchants' Lodge, then. You talk the way they do - like the saying goes. 'If you see three merchants standing together...'"

"'...they are plotting a cartel,'" the bearded man filled in. "You're bright, boy. And influential, too. Got a radio somewhere, they say. Received a blessing... the highest kind, they say... from Her Holiness herself."

The other two men smiled knowingly; Awonso felt himself blushing, though the others could hardly see it. The man continued in a business-minded tone:

"You are destined to become a man to whom important doors are opened, know what I mean? Now, what are your plans for the future? Before we decide whether to back you or boot you, we'd like a statement of sorts... a declaration of loyalties. Who are you with? The nobility, or the guilds?"

Awonso felt a reflex pulling at his brain - the feudal impulse to obey, to surrender to raw power. Something else happened. Let's Rokenrol, he thought. He laughed at the conspirators, and they seemed taken by surprise.

"Ha ha... plans?" he laughed, and raised his voice. "What plans? Who said I have a plan? My plan is... to live and learn. Yes, that's it - live and learn. How's that for a statement - you money-grubbing weasels?"

The man grabbed Awonso's collar and raised his fist, but his friends pulled him back. They retreated toward a door, glaring at Awonso who stood trembling with fear, cold and excitement.

"We'll get back to you, upstart," the man threatened. "And when we do, you had better made up your mind - this city shall belong to us!"

They disappeared out through the door, and locked it. He was alone in the dark, and could hear the slow dripping of water nearby.

I am in the ancient catacombs, Awonso thought. We took shelter down here when the Paskos attacked. Now the Merchants' Lodge is using them for secret meetings and plots. They're scheming to seize power from the city lord. How long has this been going on? Maybe the merchant was right - I ought to make up my mind soon.

He managed to pry open the trapdoor, climbed back up to the street, and found his way home to safety.



Tharlos's ally in Kibralta sent a laser-borne reply to his request for contact with the Awrican cities.

The reply stated that communications with Awrica had mainly been shut off for the last two hundred years - for reasons of feuds and mutual hostility which no one bothered to justify.

The city lord of Kibralta suggested, with a veiled threat, that his own city remained the safest takeoff-point for the planned attack; no alliances with Awricans were necessary.

Tharlos could not risk losing the beachhead in Kibralta; and so he buried all further attempts to contact the Awrican city lords. Kap Verita was to be attacked directly from the mainland of Espa, in one coordinated move across the sea.

He had made yet another strategic mistake; it was not going to be his last one.



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