Apprentice

by Nicholas Hale

  The others—three more men and a woman—were in roughly the same condition as Olaf.

  Their crime: resisting capture by the fearsome nomads. She had heard tales of them back in Simea.

  Slavers. They never killed. They always captured.

  And with them mounted on their large horses, Olaf didn't stand a chance. Even if he was a Rhial knight. She could only stare in silence as their curved scimitars sliced at his legs. He had managed to unhorse one of them and kill another rider's horse from under him, cutting away its legs.

  But there were twelve more remaining. And they were angrier for his resistance.

  They fell upon him with renewed fury and beat him into submission. They wished to kill him, but their leader overruled them. She knew it wasn't out of mercy. She could see it in his eyes. He wished to hurt Olaf more.

  There were no other children, though.

  At eleven, she was the youngest in that cage. As ruthless as the men had been with Olaf, they were surprisingly gentle with her. Of course she had seen no point in resisting them. It would only cause unnecessary pain. Or worse.

  The others in the cage appeared to be from various tribes that scattered the Deckan plains. She peered through the bars and saw the campfire. It was late in the evening. She counted about fifteen nomads at the campfire.

  She could easily squeeze through the bars. The thought had crossed her mind, but she knew there was no way she could survive on her own. Even if she were to escape with Olaf, it would be for naught. They would be recaptured. The leader. He would make sure that his men found her.

  She had been observing them closely from her cage while they traveled. They had an uncanny ability to track, even on desert sand and rock. They had captured three more before the day was done and they started to set up camp.

  Three days since they had been captured. Olaf was unconscious the first day, in agony the next. Whenever he was lucid, he would sit still with his eyes closed. At other times he would keep muttering to her that he was sorry. Today, finally, he seemed to have fallen asleep. Or unconscious.

  She had been giving Olaf whatever little food they gave her to eat. But she knew that Olaf might not live. His calf, where one of the scimitars had cut deep, had already festered and was beginning to smell. There was another captive, a man who had a similar festering wound near his hip. He was burning up with fever. Brie knew he wouldn't last the night and only hoped Olaf would not suffer a similar fate.

  She heard noises. She turned and saw that there were more people come to join the campfire. Another dozen, it looked like. These weren't dressed like the nomads, though. Their leader appeared to be dressed in much finery, and was larger and unarmored except for a short sword in his belt. The rest appeared to be his guards.

  The new leader embraced the leader of the nomads.

  Words were exchanged and there was a lot of laughing. In a few minutes the newcomers too had joined the campfire to eat.

  She noticed though, that the new guards were seated separately from the nomads. Although their leaders appeared to be the best of the friends, the guards and nomads kept to their own kind.

  She had the strange feeling that somebody was looking at her.

  And then she saw him. He appeared to be dressed a little differently from the other guards. His armor was finer. And he had a long sword on one side of his belt and a shorter one on the other.

  He wasn't eating his food.

  While the other guards had only given a glance to the cage, this one seemed to be absorbed by it. She couldn't tell what was in his eyes from this distance. He seemed more delicate than the rest of the men at the fire as well. He might be unused to seeing a cage. It was probably pity in his eyes, she thought, and turned to check on Olaf again.

  Chapter 36

  Azrael was trembling with rage. He pushed back the anger that he felt. This wasn't the time. There was nothing he could do right now.

  It had been a long time since he had seen a sight like this. Back when the Deckan campaign began. He felt his promise of not betraying his countrymen dissolve. He had been far away from it for too long. He understood that his feelings were nothing to be ashamed of.

  He tore his eyes away from the cage and started picking at his food. He didn't have much of an appetite left. Jamaal was sitting right next to him. Rennar had already busied himself with talking with Khamis. He didn't bother introducing Azrael.

  "I left as soon as I heard about the trouble at the mines," said Khamis.

  "The remaining men left for the slaver port?" asked Rennar.

  "No. Trosz is continuing the raid with his men. I shall join them after we're done at the mines."

  "Where did you find those? They don't look like southerners," said Rennar, pointing to the cage.

  "Near the edges of the desert. Picked them up three days ago. Stragglers. There are a large number that are fleeing from your armies at the Deckan plains. Cow herders. Caught between the Aegeans and Jurtha's men. Most of them get captured, but a few manage to slip through. Trosz's men will catch them."

  So Jurtha, the self-proclaimed 'king of the tribes', still stands.

  "It's very easy to find them. They keep moving along the edges of the desert, fearing to venture into it," he continued.

  "It should be over in a month or two at the most. I'm surprised it's even taking so long," said Rennar.

  You would be, thought Azrael. At one point, Jurtha was even open to negotiating with the Aegeans. If they'd allied with Jurtha, the Deckan campaign would have been over two years ago. And they would have been planning the conquest of the northern kingdoms.

  They were interrupted by a scream. One of the men in the cage appeared to be yelling. One of the nomads standing by the cage thrust the butt of his spear into the cage, prodding him threateningly and telling him to shut up. It had no effect. He continued screaming.

  "What's the matter?" asked Rennar.

  One of the other nomads spoke.

  "He's dying. He took a spear to his hip and the wound seems to have festered."

  The man appeared to be delirious from fever.

  "Well, shut him up then," said Rennar with a look of frustration on his face.

  Before Azrael could say anything, Khamis went straight to the cage with his dagger drawn. He pulled the screaming man's head toward the bars and drew his blade across his throat. The screams ended abruptly with a gurgle.

  Another scream followed. From one of the women in the cage. But it stopped as soon as it started, replaced by soft sniffling. Khamis returned to his place without looking at the cage again. Azrael could only stare as everyone returned to chattering among themselves again.

  "T'was a mercy, m'lord," whispered Jamaal at his side.

  Azrael nodded.

  He knew how fatal such wounds were. The man would have died an agonizing death, delirious and in pain till his last breath. What bothered him was how it had happened. The casualness with which Rennar barked the order, and how easily, and even eagerly, Khamis did it.

  The body was still in the cage. A woman, who could only be his wife, appeared to silently weep by his body. Azrael saw that there was even a young child in the cage. Couldn't be more than ten, he thought.

  Night fell, and everyone prepared for sleep. The men had tended to their horses. Azrael could do without sleep now.

  He was staring at the clear night sky, thinking, when he heard a faint noise from the cage. He looked to see that there wasn't any motion. At least not as he could make out in the dimness of the night.

  Seconds later he heard it again.

  It sounded like a muffled cry. One of nomads was guarding, but he didn't seem at all bothered by the noise. Slowly it grew louder. Azrael got up and walked to the cage.

  It suddenly fell incredibly silent.

  All the eyes inside were on him. The nomad, too, was looking at him curiously.

  Azrael ignored him and tried to figure out the place it was coming from.

  He saw it then. One man had his han
ds wrapped tightly around his calf. Azrael walked around the cage to get a clearer look. The man was biting down hard, resisting the urge to scream.

  "Show me your leg," said Azrael as quietly as he could.

  The camp was well asleep. The only noises were from the wind and the occasional horse.

  The man didn't respond. Azrael reached in and pulled his hand. A grunt escaped the man, and Azrael noticed his neck tighten. The hand had no strength, and Azrael felt it burn.

  He saw the wound.

  It was a cut that appeared to be from a sword. It had festered. Azrael knew the smell. He had seen enough wounds like this in the war. The man would not make it through the night. The fever would spread and he would die in the night.

  "Please don't hurt him," came a soft whisper.

  Azrael was taken aback. The tribes did not know common that well. Azrael saw it was the little girl. She wasn't crying but he could see her eyes welling up.

  She wasn't of the tribes. She was covered in mud, which was why Azrael couldn't make it out earlier. The man as well.

  "I won't," he said as softly as he could. "When did he get this wound?"

  "Three days ago," she said, still sounding afraid.

  He was lucky, thought Azrael. If it had festered sooner, he would have died. Yet, for all the smell and decay, he seemed to be restraining himself quite well.

  Azrael applied a little pressure to find out how bad it was. The man gave a violent jerk, arching his back and grabbing at the wooden bar. Azrael saw his mouth redden and blood flow down it. Either he had loosened a tooth or bitten his tongue. It didn't matter because the wound on his leg was fatal.

  Azrael had seen similar wounds treated with boiling wine, but at much earlier stages. Right now, the wine would do nothing. Except maybe cause him more pain.

  "Anything wrong?"

  Azrael turned to see the nomad guard standing by him. Azrael would have told him to mind his own business, but he had no intention of waking up the camp by starting an argument.

  The cage entrance was chained. He knew this guard had the key. He debated asking the guard for the keys but realized he knew how it would turn out. He would refuse. The fact that this man was dying would not mean anything to the guard. If anything, Azrael knew the guard would simply suggest he slit the dying man's throat and be done with it.

  Even if he could convince the guard to somehow let Azrael take a better look at the man's wound, it would reach Rennar's ear the next day.

  "Nothing," said Azrael. "Just making sure he won't start screaming and wake up the whole camp."

  The guard appeared satisfied with the answer. Azrael got up and went back to his place to lie down.

  He was thinking for nearly half an hour and he made up his mind.

  He got back up and checked his belongings. Among them was a bag containing most of the medicinal herbs that he used frequently. Some of them were far stronger than the others because Azrael had no way of knowing when his hallucinations would suddenly return.

  They often came without warning and for no apparent reason. When that happened, he needed the strongest ones. He often burnt them on a flame, and inhaled the fumes. He would be asleep in a few minutes. The sleep was dreamless and Azrael would never have any memory of what happened. He clutched a small bunch in his hand and hoped that the camp would remain asleep.

  He then got up and walked in the opposite direction of the cage. The guard or anyone else who had seen him would think he went to relieve himself. After he went a short distance, he circled around the camp as silently as possible. He had his short sword in his belt.

  He desperately hoped he wouldn't need to use it. He crept up behind the guard as silently as possible. The guard had no reason to expect any trouble. He was hardly paying any attention, and was half asleep.

  In a swift motion Azrael grabbed his face from behind, crushing the herbs into his mouth and nose. They were not as effective as when burnt. This was why he took a large quantity of them. The man struggled at first and tried to scream. But in seconds his body went slack. Azrael held the herbs to his face for a full minute to make sure they did their work.

  The body was now on the ground and limp. Azrael had no idea how long he would be out. For half an hour, an hour or even the rest of the night. But he decided to work fast. He searched the man and found the keys.

  He suddenly heard sounds. The captives. They were murmuring.

  "Shut up!" hissed Azrael. "If you make any noise and wake up them up, they'll kill you. All of you."

  The murmuring slowed, but he saw some of the sleepers stir. He unlocked the chain as silently as possible. Slowly to make sure there wasn't any sudden noise.

  He had taken an enormous risk and he would now need to see it through. He opened the door of the cage slightly and kept it wedged open. He leaned in and pulled the wounded man out slowly.

  The captives in the cage started making noise again.

  Idiots! Did they think he was setting them free? As soon as the man's body was out, Azrael moved to remove the wedge and close the cage.

  One of the women moved toward him, speaking something in her tongue. She took no care to be silent. Damn her, thought Azrael.

  "No. Don't do that. Get back inside!"

  She tried squeezing out through the gap. The other captives too began to move, sensing an escape.

  In a calm, smooth motion Azrael drew his short sword with one hand. With the other he grabbed a handful of the woman's hair and stuck the sword underneath her neck. He pressed just hard enough to draw blood and make her feel the cold steel. With a gasp, she fell silent. The other captives too became silent. Good.

  "If you make one bit of noise. I'll slice your throat open," he lied.

  He would never do it, but it was important she believe him. She and the rest of the captives. He held the blade for a short while to make sure everyone got the message. When he was sure they would remain silent, he removed the wedge and closed the door.

  He could hear a soft cry.

  He felt bad thinking he had given them hope and then taken it away, but there was nothing he could do here. They weren't thinking clearly. If he set them free, Khamis would hunt them all down. Even with horses and food, they did not know the desert like the nomads did. And as for the reason, Rennar would be very quick to point out it had been Azrael. None of the nomads would have a reason to do it. Neither would his guards.

  He slid his arms under the wounded man's shoulder and lifted him. He felt a soft touch on his arm just as he was about to move away from the cage.

  "Please don't hurt him."

  Azrael could feel the fear in her voice. This time, she had tears streaming down her eyes. Her lips trembled.

  "Don't worry. I won't," he said, and carried him away.

  The man fumbled each step. But he seemed to understand the need for silence. His leg was probably killing him, but he was gritting his teeth and trying to keep pace. Azrael felt the man's arms tremble as they tried holding Azrael tighter.

  He was too weak. Azrael was trying to understand how he was even living. Till now, saving this man's life was only a desperate gamble. But it appeared there was a good chance now.

  "What's your name?" he asked the man. The man tried saying something through the teeth and the blood dribbled down his mouth.

  They took five steps and reached a stone against which he leaned the man. Azrael used his sword to cut away the tunic around the wound. He noticed the man's dress for the first time. He was from one of the northern kingdoms. He used to observe the northerners riding past the encampments while in the army. Sadly, Azrael did not know which kingdom he belonged to. He took a closer look at the wound after the tunic gave way. It was all below the knee. That was good.

  "This wound will kill you if it's left like this," said Azrael softly. The man nodded. Good, he was still in his senses. After taking a long look at the leg, Azrael spoke again.

  "Do you want to live?"

  Another nod.

  "Look
at me. You appear to be a soldier. Do you know what I need to do?"

  The man lifted his face up. The eyes were bruised, but Azrael noticed the slits widen to show his eyes. After a short stare, the man nodded and turned his head away.

  "It doesn't need to hurt as much," said Azrael, gathering the same herbs that he had used on the guard. There were still plenty left.

  "Eat these," he said, stuffing them into the man's mouth.

  He swallowed down the herbs half chewed. He also appeared to be praying in some strange tongue.

  No. Not praying.

  Azrael did not know exactly what the wounded man was doing, but he felt a strange warmth beginning to flow from the man's body. In a few seconds it felt as if the man was glowing faintly. His mutterings were incantations of a sort. Azrael heard them echoing through his head even after the man stopped moving his lips. The echoes grew louder and louder.

  No! The encampment! They would wake up if they heard the noise!

  He then realized that the echoes were coming from inside his own head. This was worse. Azrael felt fear. The voices and visions. They couldn't be back now. Not at this time. He'd been taking the herbs regularly. And they always worked. After a few seconds he calmed down as he realized the voices weren't the same. There was something different about it this time. He felt the sweat on his own body disappear as a cool breeze began blowing.

  The voices stopped and the warmth subsided.

  He turned and saw that the man had fallen into a deep sleep. The body was quite weak even though his spirit was strong. He had taken a huge risk feeding him the herbs. Eating them was deadly and the quantity was too much. There was no way of knowing if he would get up again once Azrael was done.

  Azrael stuffed the rags of the torn tunic into the man's mouth just to be on the safe side. Steeling himself, Azrael placed one knee on the man's thigh. He jerked suddenly, twisting the lower leg completely, breaking it at the knee. The noise was a sudden and sharp crack. He gave a second twist with all his strength. Azrael knew it was easier this way.

  Once the joint was completely broken, Azrael pulled his belt above the man's kneecap as tightly as he could. Azrael took his short sword and sliced through whatever skin and muscle still remained. Azrael was glad to hear only silence. He half expected the captives to scream again. He obstructed the bloodier part of his work from the cage, blocking the view with his own body. It was done very quickly.