by Kim Wedlock
But all concern for the passage of time left him when his eyes focused at last on the backs of two semi-armoured figures standing a few paces away.
His heart leapt into his throat.
Quietly, he spun around to discover Rathen, Garon, Eyila and Aria grouped around beside him. Rathen and Garon were each awake, sitting in silence, though the latter bore little outward awareness, while the mage watched the two figures with a measuring gaze. Aria sat huddled beside him, burying herself in the crook of his arm, while Eyila lay curled up with her back to them, wrapped tightly in a blanket. He couldn't tell if she was awake.
Rathen's eyes brushed him momentarily, but there was no message nor signal within them. Anthis realised then that he wasn't as alert as he seemed.
He turned back to the men and stared at their clothing. His first conclusion was discarded almost immediately. If they were Aranan hunters, they wouldn't still be sitting out there. They probably wouldn't even be alive. Though he entertained his second thought a while longer, it didn't add up, either. He doubted that tribals would wear such expertly crafted leather. The cut, fit and thickness were too strong and precise to have not been made with professional tools. It was true that he had little experience with the tribes, but this didn't seem of their make. And again, if the tribes had caught them, he doubted that they would still be sitting out there.
But his deduction that the garments were made for both stealth and combat brought him slowly onto another thought. His eyes began scanning furiously. The bearing, the arming, the patience - but none of the green and ivory of Turundan colours.
Only then did he notice that there were no bars or fencing to contain them, only an earthen wall at their back and trees all around. There was nothing but these two men to stop them from leaving.
He looked to the others again. Garon had been disarmed, but he doubted he was in any state to use a weapon, and Rathen's hands lay limp in his lap as though his nerves had been cut. It was clear that he'd been magically bound. He suspected the same was true of Eyila.
His own moved to the hem of his shirt, but his hope sank even before his fingers brushed his abdomen rather than the hilt of his dagger. The ceremonial blade was in his bag. The other...he'd left behind in his distraction. He'd never had it to begin with.
He looked about quickly and spotted a cluster of steel nearby, a collection of blades set upon a blanketed rock maybe two or three times his distance from the guards. It was close enough to chance.
Slowly, he rose to his feet and tiptoed across the snow, eyes fixed to the weapons and ears tuned sharply to the guards. Carefully, one step at a time. Finally he reached out towards them, holding his breath against the impending scrape of shifting steel. But it didn't come.
A hot flare of spidering light spread through the air where his hand struck an unseen barrier, and he recoiled with a hiss of surprise. His eyes shot back towards the guards, his heart in his throat, but they spared him only the briefest glance over their shoulders before continuing to ignore him. Their faces were dark umber.
His plan thwarted, he slunk cautiously back to the others, and Rathen's calm, dead eyes drifted back onto the guards. The faintest glint of life soon touched them, however, and he sat a little straighter. Anthis turned and watched two more dark-skinned, leather and steel-clad men approach, one of whom Rathen fixed a little more closely, while the other, with a more ornate single pauldron and plate vambraces, drew Anthis's eye.
This one nodded to the two guards as he approached, and the pair promptly stood aside. The other who trailed behind him then stepped forwards, and with a twist of his dark fingers, a line of gentle light sank from twice head height and down to the floor like a long, drifting feather. Then he, too, moved aside, and the decorated man strode through the de-spelled space.
Dark eyes bore down on the five of them, but whatever degree of intimidation was intended, Anthis suspected that it fell short. Rathen stared back with eyes now tainted by hatred and disgust, Aria watched them warily, Eyila, who must have been awake all along, stared back with a deadly challenge, and Garon seemed entirely untouched by it, barely rousing from an open-eyed doze. Anthis found himself also fairly unimpressed.
The soldier barked something in Doanan, at which the guards turned and moved in around him to begin pulling them all to their feet and corralling them towards the invisible doorway. They kept close to one another and followed them out, and though the plated soldier took the lead, Rathen's eyes again drifted towards the mage who had taken up position behind them.
Anthis followed his gaze and realised that the man looked long broken. Void of all passion and will. It was clear from his dull eyes, the forced rigidity and false pride in his movements, as though it was the armour that enforced the posture and that the man within it was little but a doll being propped into shape.
Anthis thought he saw some small semblance of pity in Rathen's eyes as he turned away. It was well known that Doana did not look fondly upon mages, and was said that they were as good as slaves. Denied free will, thrown into the army, taught only battle magic under the tightest security, and had been beaten into believing themselves too low to attempt to do anything about it despite their unique armoury. Suddenly, Anthis doubted that they were the only prisoners here.
They were steered through the camp like cattle, following long, straight paths pounded into the frozen grass by frequent patrols and hemmed by an embankment on one side and the face of an escarpment on the other. A natural trench, thickly wooded and well-concealed, and occupied by surely no more than fifty men. But the numbers meant nothing, for those few soldiers they passed, all clad in leather, showed not a trace of weariness or defeat. On the contrary: they appeared as though their goal was within sight despite the absence of classic warfare.
Anthis turned his eyes to their surroundings, and moved closer to Rathen. "I thought Garon said Doana didn't have a camp in Greentop anymore."
"Clearly, he was wrong."
"And I saw a kvistdjur right before someone knocked me on the head."
"They tend to live in forests."
"I mean it didn't do anything."
"Why would it? it's not their problem."
He wasn't in the mood for conversation, so Anthis left the matter alone and took to absorbing as many details of their surroundings as he could. His eyes weren't trained for tactical observations, though; instead they began to seek out unusual prints on rocks and deliberate shapes sculpted into the ground. He caught himself a number of times and redirected his focus. He was very glad that Rathen had roused, if only a little.
They were drawn to an abrupt stop outside a long, narrow opening in the cliff face, where the mage and two guards promptly encircled them while their leader stepped on into the darkness. Their eyes adjusted as they stared in after him. There were boxes and crates stacked along the walls, blankets, medicines - supplies to last a good number of men for a few months - as well as a few larger tents erected beneath the rock ceiling, and a broad table strewn with maps, surrounded by a number of other semi-armoured figures.
The soldier approached them, and they all turned as one to look back towards the captives. A few words were spoken, and the soldier came back. They were then roughly escorted inside.
One man broke away from the group. He wore leather, like the rest, and a few choice pieces of steel, but his were even grander and more numerous than the last, as though they served as badges of rank themselves despite the choice of subtlety; while others wore engraved vambraces, his were paired with rerebraces, and while they had one elaborate pauldron girding their shoulder, he had two, each of which extended lower over the shoulder and were inlayed with traces of red steel, as were the half-breastplate, cuisses and greaves. There was no doubt at all that this man was the commander of the entire camp, even without taking into account his elite bearing and the speed at which the others stepped respectfully out of his way.
He turned his head towards the soldier and spoke low and studiously in his native tongue while his eyes dr
ifted over them.
Aggravation rumbled behind Rathen's teeth. "Of course we're not spies."
Anthis winced as the commander broke off and fixed the group directly. He turned from his subordinates, the importance of his conference forgotten, and approached them with slow, ominous footsteps. But his menace, like the first soldier's, only grazed them.
He stopped and drew himself up against Rathen's impudent gaze. "What are you doing out here?" His voice was rich, thickly accented, but it draped across his words rather than strangled them.
"I'm not sure it's your place to ask that question."
A shadow of a smile flickered across his lips, one either amused or contentious. "Perhaps." He looked across the five of them for a moment, evaluating each in turn. Finally, his eyes returned to Rathen. "You were sent here."
"What?"
"Well you're not here by chance. There is a notable...grimness in all of your eyes much too close to the surface, and it's not one of hatred but purpose."
A toxic smirk pulled at Rathen's lips. "You think so, do you?"
"It's one of the more likely reasons," the commander replied indifferently. "So why are you here?"
"We were passing through our territory--"
"Oh, no, not your territory." He pointed a straight finger towards Eyila. "This one is Ivaean."
"Yes. Well done. Her tribe was killed, so she came with us. It's no business of yours."
Anthis watched something awful flash through the commander's eyes. "Her tribe was killed, you say? The whole tribe?"
"By another."
"Mm. I see..." Rathen didn't deign to turn his head as the middle-aged man began to slowly circle them, but his awareness was pinned onto him. "And you saw it happen, did you?"
"No."
"No. Did she?"
Rathen's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "No..."
"No. But the evidence suggested--"
"It can mean nothing else!"
He paused at the abruptly savage tone as his dark, slate-grey eyes slipped onto Eyila, who stared back at him in reckless outrage. But he straightened as he resumed, and inclined his head courteously. "I apologise, of course, young lady. There have been many conflicts all across Arasiin. Many losses. These are...very troubling times. And yet," he turned ever so slightly towards them, "Turunda has been largely untouched by it all..."
"We've been fortunate," Rathen replied icily. "Up until the point that you, Skilan and Kalokh all attacked."
"Ah, yes - three armies. Very unfortunate, that. And yet, somehow, you've managed to fend us all off. Hold us at bay. It's remarkable, really, even if one of those armies was decimated before it started. Kalokh were hardly prepared for another fight, and yet..." He sighed a touch dramatically. "Yes, troubled, troubled times."
He circled onwards, and the apathetic contemplation suddenly dropped from his tone. "Of course, when one really thinks about it, it becomes notably less alarming. Well, there's not a war-bug going around, at least - that's how you use the phrase, isn't it? A 'bug going around'?"
"What do you want with us?"
"So you won't deny it, then. There's nothing in the water at all, no maddening illness that drives kings into a blood rage. We thought that unlikely. No, it turns out there's quite a simple explanation for it - an explanation that was confirmed when we found three Turundan spies within our own military, feeding information back to your king, and others in the palace attempting to strain existing animosity with Voent and send us both into war!" His voice rose as accusation burned brighter in his eyes. The guards suddenly closed in around them, and in a single rapid movement, drew their daggers and pressed them firmly to their throats. "And why?!"
"What are you talking about?" Anthis tried not to yelp.
"The Arana..."
"Yes," the slate eyes bore into Rathen, "the 'Arana'. What does your king intend to gain from all this subterfuge and sabotage?"
"Why would we know?"
He stormed towards them, clearing the distance in three powerful strides. "You aren't as innocent as you seem. This child? The Arana uses children. It doesn't mean anything towards your innocence. Now tell me: what does your king stand to gain?"
"We are not with the Arana."
"Of course you're not - you were captured far too easily. But you're up to something yourselves, and you're meddling with magic to do it. Now tell me of your king's plans!"
"We have nothing to do with the king!"
He moved quickly. The guard pressed the blade harder against Rathen's throat as the commander wrenched Aria out from his tightened grasp, filling the cave with a panicked wail as she reached desperately back to her father.
Anthis had seen what was coming. He looked sharply towards Rathen and found the rage already manifesting in the darkening of his eyes and the paling of his skin, and he heard the shortening and cutting of his breath as it infused with a wrath and agony he made no attempt to suppress.
In his own apprehension as he thought furiously for a solution, the movement behind him only just caught his eye. With the briefest twist of his fingers, the Doanan mage subdued Rathen as though he'd physically struck him. All ire melted as his blackening eyes suddenly clouded, and he slumped briefly against the soldier threatening him, addled and disconnected even as he struggled to regain his bearings.
Aria sobbed in fear, for herself or for her father, and Anthis suddenly found his own lips moving.
"The chasms," the words came out in a panic, and the grey eyes shifted weightily onto him. "You've seen them, great big rips in the land - there's one cutting this forest in half, and I'm sure they're spreading into your country from the mountains, yes?"
"You--"
"No! No, we have nothing to do with them, we're trying to stop them and the magic that's causing them! Look, we have an elven relic, a spell vessel, and we've been using it to break up the spell chains and stop the magic from spreading and reacting and cracking the land any further."
The commander regarded him with unvarnished suspicion. "Or are you drawing the magic up in preparation to unleash it against the rest of us?"
"No," he urged quickly, "no it doesn't work that way, but I don't know why--look, the Arana, yes? They're not working with the king, they're working against him. Salus, their leader, he's deluded, he thinks everyone is working against him, he's paranoid, and he's got this mad idea that we're working with elves! Elves! So he's--"
"Where did this magic come from?"
Anthis blinked. "Well it's elven, and it leaked out of...a place they built in Dolunokh. But, Salus is--"
"Why is it cracking the land?"
"...Because..." Desperately, he forced his mind to slow into cohesion. "Because...magic is unique - like an element - there's nothing else like it, just like there's nothing else like rock, or water, or fire, or air, the things that make up the world - but it's...not an element, I don't know why. But the magic is a mass of spell fragments and some of them are just complete enough to keep working, and they're using the other elements in place of a subject--I don't know the details, but it's imperative that you let us go!"
The commander shook his head and folded his plated arms. "Forgive me if I don't seem convinced, but there seems to be an awful lot you 'don't know'..."
"It's not my field!"
"Oh? And what is?"
"History!"
"History... Yes, you don't seem like much of a leader."
"I'm not."
"Who among you is?"
He looked towards Rathen, who had yet to reclaim himself, and Garon, who still appeared passively indifferent to their situation. Anthis felt his hope deteriorate even further. "One of those two."
"And why are they not speaking up while you dig their graves for them? Did I use that phrase correctly? 'Digging your own grave'?"
"What? Yes, I suppose so, and...well, you've...Rathen is..."
"Mm. And the other?"
"I don't know," he lied. Suddenly, he found himself disinclined to explain.
Th
e commander's cold eyes fixed him directly. "Why are you here?"
"We were passing through - heading to the coast--"
"You were heading north."
"We were trying to lose a tail--"
"Why were you being followed?"
"Vokaad give me strength," he growled desperately, trying his hardest to control his hysterical urgency, and failing. "I've told you, haven't I?! The Arana is after us! Salus thinks we're working with elves and he's more than prepared to kill us because of it! Whatever you want to know, we can't tell you! All we're doing is trying to stop him from breaking the land away - I don't know what he's thinking, but he just wants us--"
"Breaking the land away?"
Anthis howled in frustration, and the guard moved in closer. His eyes flashed viciously up to him even as the blade drew a bead of blood from his neck. "If you come any closer to me, I swear I will kill you."
"You are unarmed."
"I don't need a blade."
But the soldier then stepped back, retreating at a single nod from his commander. When Anthis returned his attention, he found him looking back with a suddenly more critical eye. He finally noticed the twist in his brow that had been deepening slowly throughout the exchange, and read another kind of suspicion there - a curiosity rather than any kind of belief.
His eyes drifted then across the others, and that curiosity began to clear.
He nodded to the soldiers. Each looked back doubtfully even as they obeyed, lowering their blades and taking a step away. "Get them blankets," he said without switching tongues, "it's a cold night." Then he looked back towards Anthis and gestured deeper into the cave. There was a table with several vintner's crates and ale casks nearby. "We will speak more, historian."
Chapter 61
The cave was bitterly cold. Icicles hung from the ceiling, water frozen mid-run from channels in the rock above, and what little breeze passed outside hooked in through the low, wide opening to throw wicked shadows from tormented flames. The torches and candles were the sole illumination to break the stiff blackness, itself made deeper by the glowing snow outside. Blankets warded off the worst of it, small sheets of wool the colour of granite, but thick, soft and comfortable - a fact that surprised, until one considered that a well-rested soldier was an alert soldier, many of whom were already fast asleep in preparation to demonstrate the fact. Only about five were seen to be up and patrolling in the snow.
