The Complete Enslaved Chronicles

by R. K. Thorne

  Eventually, though, they’d tired enough to pick a larger cave and head inside. A complex latticework of interconnected caves stretched out beneath their feet, and they began searching for one that was relatively cut off from the others.

  She stopped still. Had she heard something? Thel had frozen too. She listened harder.

  Voices echoed in the caverns around them. They were coming from the road that ran alongside the caves, the one they’d just left.

  “This way,” said Thel, gesturing in the direction of the voices.

  “No, c’mon. Let’s hide.” She pointed in the opposite direction, further inside the caves.

  “I want to see who it is. Maybe they have Kae.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Fine.” She didn’t want to abandon Kae. But she didn’t see what good they’d do him that he couldn’t do himself.

  Thel did an admirable job of creeping quietly up a sharp ledge and out onto an overhang. She was less quiet but further back, and when she lay down beside him, she could see more mages, including another dressed in a blue tunic and cloak like the leader of the last group.

  “Let’s take him back! Easiest. Then we can interrogate him.”

  They were arguing. Over a prisoner. Apparently these people needed better orders as to what to do with prisoners once they found them.

  “Let’s just kill him and be done with it,” said another.

  “But they might want to know—” Voices broke out, talking over each other, none of them making any sense or listening.

  Thel rose to his knees and took the bow from the pack.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed even as he pulled an arrow from the quiver.

  “Trying to help him, what’s it look like?” he whispered as he inched forward, raised the bow, and lined up an arrow.

  “Stop it, Thel. They’ll notice us.”

  He dropped the bow slightly, easing the tension in the string, and turned to glare at her over his shoulder. “You would rather cower back here and watch him die, then?”

  She glared right back. “Your foolhardy bravery will be the death of you.”

  “Sounds look a good death. I could do worse.”

  “We don’t know that that’s Kae. We can’t see anything.”

  “And we don’t know that it’s not Kae.”

  “And I don’t want to die trying to save some stranger. Please, Thel.”

  “No. Go hide from danger. I can’t take that path.”

  “Thel—” She wanted to say more, but the words caught in her throat. “Thel, stop—” Still they hovered there on the tip of her tongue. I don’t want you to die either. Whoever had raised him had either given him an extra helping of courage or a very strong aversion to injustice. Possibly both. But beautiful as it was, she couldn’t thank them now if it got them both caught by these mages.

  She reached up and put a hand on his upper arm, the rough linen warm, as though she could feel his heat just below. His gaze caught on her fingers, staring for a moment.

  Then he shook her off and gestured with his chin. “Go on. Head back a few outcroppings, and if they come, they’ll find me and not you. You can head back to Anonil, and you’ll be all right. Take the pack but leave the arrows.”

  He turned away and focused on his target again. She didn’t move.

  “Well? Are you going or not?”

  She sighed. “No. Go ahead and shoot.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  He squinted at her. “Fine. Think of a way to help. Or hide quickly when they come in here. Hold the pack and be ready to run.”

  He pulled back the bowstring again, much more easily than she had and further too. He let the arrow fly. Something in a tree far on the other side of the men thunked to the ground.

  “What was that?” she whispered, as the men’s cries of alarm went up.

  “Bee hive,” he said. “Sorry, bees.”

  “Someone’s coming—just do it!”

  “No, by the goddess—”

  A gurgling sound made her clutch Thel’s arm, and he hung his head. The men surged forward toward where the hive had fallen.

  “They killed him anyway,” he whispered. “Faster because of me. Maybe they would have decided not to if I’d—”

  “Stop. Just stop. You tried.” She couldn’t stand for him to regret doing the right thing when she’d urged him not to. “C’mon. Let’s get further inside. This is as good a place to camp as any, right?”

  He said nothing, just turned and led the way inside, head hanging.

  Aven crouched behind a large thicket on the edge of the mage camp. Muffled voices drifted toward him, the smoke of their fire on the wind. It blew toward him, the wrong direction for the spell he was about to undertake. Fortunately he could take care of that.

  The thicket provided some cover, but he still needed to be able to see those in the camp and their reactions—if this worked at all—so it wasn’t a complete block. He also needed somewhere with a clear sky above, which limited his options further. He studied the traitors and Kavanarian mages and prisoners for a few more moments and then took a deep breath.

  He turned his eyes to the sky. Casel winked at him, and he caught sight of Erepha’s sparkle just above the tree line. It was lucky these trees weren’t taller, or he might not have been able to see the star.

  Miara might hate him for what he was about to do. Might never forgive him. Much as his chest ached at the thought, he swallowed and steeled himself. He was one man against two dozen, maybe more, and he was going to have to use this magic if he was going to win this war. Or even get out of these woods alive.

  If he could win this war and she never forgave him, at least she’d be alive. And free.

  It was a risk he’d have to take. Gods forgive him. Balance protect him.

  He reached out to Erepha. Similar to Casel, a cold, delicate energy wormed into him, twists of white smoke swirling down. He pulled it down, urging it beyond its initial wisps into its true form.

  The energy pouring into him expanded, multiplied, like a river overflowing a dam. Except where Casel flowed like a stream of water, Erepha was more like a gale off the ocean. Which figured, he supposed.

  He needed to direct this energy somewhere before he drowned in it. No time for analysis now.

  He twisted to peer at the camp and pulled the energy along with him, trying to force it into the air around him, into the wind. The wind blew, but the energy in him stayed the same, filling dangerously fast.

  He gritted his teeth. Think, Aven, think. Casel had been marked with a salve, a healing icon. But he hadn’t had to literally find a salve and imbue the freeing energy into it. He’d simply reached out with his mind.

  Maybe he didn’t need to put the energy into the real wind, but to simply move it like he moved the wind.

  A breeze blew against his face, back in its natural direction, and he smiled, feeling as if the air itself was agreeing with him. He closed his eyes now, simply willing the energy out and over the encampment, spreading it like that same gentle breeze, a fog drifting in to hopefully calm those before him and give him some way to negotiate, to talk, to rescue Dyon and Siliana.

  The frigid, powerful wind blew out of him, leaving him empty. He opened his eyes.

  The camp at first was so still he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. All of them had utterly frozen, and he blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  The first sign of movement beyond the blazing of the central fire was a man who sat on a log near the fire; he tipped over and fell to the ground. Aven stared, unsure what to make of that. A loud snort and then a string of snores rang out.

  The man had fallen asleep?

  Indeed, another few fell over as the next few heartbeats passed. Cautiously, Aven scooted around the thicket, moving closer to get a better look. The silence of the camp made his twig-cracking footsteps seem even louder. He couldn’t avoid one or two in the darkness, no matter how carefully he trod. Still, no one glanced his
way.

  As he neared the edge of the clearing, they all came into view. Jenec and one of the mage leaders, in a blue tunic and brown cloak, had been talking in front of the one tent that had been erected, and even they stood silent, as if paused in thought but facing each other.

  Aven crept closer, and then, at the edge of the clearing, he risked standing up.

  No one moved.

  He took a step forward, then another. The whole scene was entirely frozen. More like dolls than real people. Except they were real people.

  He glanced around nervously. He hadn’t exactly expected this. What did he do now? The most important thing should be getting Dyon and Siliana and anyone else held prisoner freed. That would give him allies, no matter what these people had planned. They could execute their prisoners at any time, though thankfully they hadn’t yet.

  At that thought, though, he stopped cold. These people were either traitors or outright enemies. Plenty of laws justified the deaths of every one of them, and as their king, he had every right to make that decision.

  A knot of dread twisted in his gut. Their own Dark Days indeed. He swallowed, trying to imagine himself slaughtering these people while they sat here like docile lambs.

  The sight of the smoking dead strewn across the road came back instead. Good men and women, butchered like cattle going to market. He found Jenec in the crowd and glared. Maybe he could slaughter one of them.

  These mages, these soldiers, and Jenec would fight against him and against all of Akaria if he let them live.

  He had no choice but to end this, here and now.

  Not the mages; they were slaves. It wasn’t their choice to fight this battle, just like it hadn’t been Miara’s. He should be freeing them, not enslaving them. The thought was even tempting, but alone he was too at risk of an imbalance and passing out. The spell was too difficult. Erepha’s calming had been easier, really.

  Panar flashed through his mind, its subjects sitting sullen and comatose in the streets like these people. Ripe for slaughter, abuse. He shook his head. Miara was right. This was a truly horrifying spell. A single air mage could murder dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands if they so chose.

  On the other hand, he was right too. It was a powerful weapon, and he’d have no hope of freeing the prisoners without it.

  He shook off his thoughts and strode toward the group of prisoners, eying the people around him warily. Eight traitors guarded perhaps twenty prisoners. So few had survived. And less than a dozen traitors had taken down a thousand men—with the help of mages, at least. He shuddered.

  His footsteps sounded loud as felled trees falling, but none of them moved. He found Siliana first. She was bound at the wrists to his surprise, and a rock hung from a thin chain around her neck. But she looked up and met his eyes.

  “Aven!” she whispered. “What’s going on?”

  He quickly stepped past one soldier standing guard and untied her wrists. She rubbed them, glaring down at where the rope had been. “I could ask you the same thing. Can’t you just shift out of that?”

  “This rock,” she said, pointing at the stone before she pulled it off over her head. “It suppresses magic, so I couldn’t. But what by the gods is going on?” She gestured at the prisoners, all also still and really, really, excessively calm.

  “It’s a long story,” Aven said. “I tried another kind of star magic we found in our research. It seems to have worked… surprisingly well. Here, help me with Dyon.”

  Together they untied Dyon and pulled him to his feet. At the physical movement, his eyes cleared slightly, but not all the way. He looked around himself in a daze. “Aven? Is that you, my boy?” He reached out as if to tousle Aven’s hair, like he had when Aven was little, barely hip-height, but Dyon faltered and ended up resting his hand on Aven’s shoulder and squinting hard into his face. Some unseen film clouded his vision.

  Siliana let go of his arm to let Dyon stand on his own, but the lord immediately stumbled, almost into the wall of soldiers around them. They both caught him and straightened him, but he was clearly going to need help, at least until the spell wore off.

  Great. Aven glanced at the other prisoners. No way they were getting them all out of here if they couldn’t walk. “Untie them,” he told Siliana. At least it would give them a better chance. “While I figure out what to do next.”

  Glancing around the frozen encampment, he struggled to think. He could tie them up, but what would he do with them all? Leave them here to starve or freeze? Even if there were more loyalists than just Dyon and Siliana, they would still be vastly outnumbered.

  He guided Dyon out of the prisoner area, then stepped away from him. The man stayed put, waiting patiently for direction. Gods. This was a dangerous spell indeed. He guided Dyon the rest of the way to the edge of the clearing, then returned.

  Siliana was nearly done untying all of them. He walked up to one of the Kavanarian soldiers and gripped the man’s sword hilt. No reaction flickered in his eyes. Slowly, Aven drew the sword free. Aven still had his own sword, but the escapees would need ways to defend themselves. Eventually.

  Aven kept glancing around the encampment. The spell should wear off sometime, shouldn’t it? They couldn’t be like this forever… could they? Would he need to apply the opposite star’s energy to make them snap out of it?

  Maybe. Except the next two times he glanced at Jenec, he could have sworn the man’s head had moved. Had swiveled toward Aven.

  When they’d fully armed all the prisoners with two swords each and strapped more weapons to Dyon’s and Siliana’s hips—and a second sword for Aven because why not—he headed to the wagons and hastily dug out some supplies. He set Siliana the task of waking up the remaining prisoners and getting them walking as quickly as she could. The spell had to weaken sometime, and they needed to be gone by then.

  A plan hadn’t entirely formed in his mind—where should they go, with the stronghold in flames?—but if they had food and horses, they’d have time to figure something out.

  When Aven stepped away from the wagon, his eyes caught on Jenec. The lieutenant’s head had fully turned and was staring at him.

  “You,” Jenec whispered, the word slurred and seemingly loud in the utter silence. Siliana looked up from where she’d been shaking one prisoner’s shoulders and patting his face.

  Aven casually slung the sack of supplies over his shoulder and smiled at Jenec. “Didn’t think you’d see me again, did you?” He gave Siliana a subtle nod, hoping she took that to mean she needed to keep going. They might have even less time than he’d hoped.

  “Curse you.” Jenec spat on the ground. “You’re going to lead our land to ruin for your own selfish purposes.”

  “Selfish? Trying to defend us from Kavanar is selfish?” Aven swaggered toward him, taking his time, emphasizing that he wasn’t affected by the calming spell.

  “Selfish. You’re just under the spell of that mage. You’re doing whatever she tells you, including putting a mage on the throne.”

  Aven snorted. “A mage is already on the throne, if you hadn’t noticed. And magic doesn’t work like that.” At least her magic didn’t. “And this war has nothing to do with her.”

  The war would have happened with or without Miara. Wouldn’t it have?

  Just then, Aven caught a hint of movement by Jenec’s belt. His hand had found its way to his sword pommel. Aven had been leaving that group for last to disarm because if the mages woke up, it would change the situation dramatically.

  Aven stopped about five feet short of the group. Siliana had made her way closer and stood at the tent’s far side, eying Jenec warily.

  “This war has everything to do with her. I don’t think you’d be fighting it if it weren’t for her. All those dead are her fault and yours.” Jenec was trembling now. Aven wasn’t sure if it was from rage or because he was fighting against the calming spell or something else altogether.

  “Her fault?” Aven whispered. “You have some audacity to blame you
r treachery and betrayal on a woman who’s not even here.”

  “You’re the traitor!” Jenec hissed, succeeding in drawing his sword an inch from the scabbard before stopping. “Evil, filthy mage scum—” As if he was heaving a great weight, his neck muscles strained and his face contorted as he forced his arm to move and his blade to slide from the scabbard. He staggered a step toward Aven.

  Aven shook his head, not moving. “You sold us out to Kavanar. Death is the least you deserve for all the lives you’ve taken.”

  He tossed the pack aside, drew his sword, and rested the blade against his shoulder, staring Jenec down. Waiting.

  Jenec started forward, at first halting and uneven, then growing more certain. Aven steadied his breath. The footfalls sped up.

  The lieutenant’s blade flashed, and Aven caught it, blocking and twisting it aside. Jenec countered with a slash upward, and Aven hopped quickly aside as he easily brought his blade to bear again. He heaved a gust of wind forward at the same time, knocking his opponent back.

  Jenec’s wide eyes hardened to a scowl. “Fight fair, you bastard.”

  “Like you fought the thousand who lie dead in the road?” Aven snapped. “Was that fair?”

  Growling, Jenec surged forward again, sword raised overhead for a powerful blow. Aven’s blade hovered at eye level, and he shifted, expecting a feint, but no. Down the blow came.

  Aven caught it near the cross guard and bound the two blades together, the two of them nearly eye to eye. He could feel Jenec’s breath—breath stolen from a thousand others who lay rotting on the road.

  Lightning flickered up his sword, unbidden, and he twisted, driving down, forcing Jenec’s wrist back and the blade toward his feet. The flash of lightning charged down the length of Aven’s blade and up Jenec’s, and the sword fell from his hands, even as Aven continued the twist and drove the point of his steel into the traitor’s gut.

  The lieutenant froze. Hands burned black hung limply for a moment before clutching at his stomach. Blood, dark and red, soaked through his gambeson and peeked out along the blade’s edge. Aven drew back viciously at an angle. Jenec groaned and collapsed to his knees.