Agent of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

One of the other soldiers groused, “Can’t even see my own horse’s hooves, much less tracks.”

  Grisham heard another bleat. Except… it wasn’t right. He heard a similar sound from another direction, and then again from yet a third direction.

  It must have been loud enough for the others to hear as well, because Nicholas laughed. “I guess we’re surrounded. That makes finding them easier.”

  Grisham’s heart thumped in his chest. “Those aren’t real sheep, Nicholas,” he whispered. “Those are people imitating sheep.”

  Nicholas pulled his sword. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Nicholas turned his horse toward the other soldiers. “Be careful, boys. Let’s get out of here.”

  At that moment, the hiss of blades being drawn echoed in the fog, and gray silhouettes coalesced out of the mist. They were not only surrounded, they were vastly outnumbered.

  “Halt!” shouted the soldier nearest Nicholas. “Or suffer the consequences!”

  A half dozen nets dropped from the fog and landed on top of their group.

  Grisham’s pony panicked, immediately getting tangled with the nets. Grisham was thrown to the ground in a jumble of flailing legs, and a sharp blow struck him on the head.

  The murky gray of the fog dimmed to black.

  The pain in Grisham’s head was excruciating. He was emerging from a cloud of unconsciousness, only to realize he was on the hard bed of a wagon bouncing over a rocky trail. Every bounce was agony.

  He cracked open one eye to assess his situation. It was even worse than he feared.

  He was bundled within a cage, chained to it by a collar around his neck. After a few brief months of freedom, he was once again a prisoner, chained up like an animal.

  His cage was on a large flatbed wagon along with two others. The cage nearest him housed an immense swamp cat with amber eyes. It smelled of infection, and indeed, pus oozed from a gash on its right haunch. The cat gave a low rolling growl—a cry of pain and frustration.

  The third cage contained one of the other soldiers who had accompanied Nicholas. Grisham didn’t even know the man’s name. He, too, was wearing a collar, and Grisham groaned when he saw the construction. It was identical to the collars he and the slaves had worn in the mines.

  Perhaps he was going back there again. To the very same mines he’d once escaped. Perhaps he would even be brought before the priestess.

  He shuddered at the thought.

  But now he knew what to do about it.

  He closed his eyes and imagined a megapede. He reached within himself for the inner power he knew was there. He groped for the pool of energy, found it, grasped at it—

  A blinding pain in his head took his breath away, and he felt nothing more.

  A Warning from Kirag

  Arabelle watched as her Father tore a piece of bread and scooped up another bite of her spiced lamb in brown sauce with raisins and nuts. He chewed slowly, expressionless, and she waited expectantly.

  But instead of giving a pronouncement, he took another piece of flatbread and reached for yet another sample—now his fourth.

  Arabelle could wait no longer. “Father! Can’t you tell me what you think? It’s driving me crazy.”

  The tips of his mustache shook up and down as he exploded with laughter. “I’ve never tasted better, my dear.”

  She swelled with pride. She knew he wasn’t simply saying so to please her. Father took his lamb very seriously, and didn’t hesitate to be critical of poorly executed meals that involved his favorite meat.

  “What about the bread?” she asked. “You seem to prefer Madam Mizmer’s flatbread.”

  He handed her the loaf she’d prepared. “Have you tried it?”

  “No, but it looks good. It was perfectly browned, and I think I used all the right ingredients.”

  Father smiled gently. “Taste it.”

  As she took the loaf, she noticed right away that the weight was oddly distributed. And when she ripped it open, she found that it was soggy on the inside—a dense, bready clay within a nicely browned crust. She took a nibble of the crust, and her lips puckered. Way too much salt.

  “Eww.” She grabbed a glass of goat milk and washed the salty taste out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to almost poison you.”

  He chuckled. “My heart, I love that you’re learning new skills. Keep it up. You’re well on your way to being a fantastic cook.”

  A commotion erupted outside the tent. Soldiers yelled profanities until Tabor yelled for silence. Father had just stood to see what was going on when Tabor stuck his head into the tent.

  “One thousand pardons, Sheikh, but Azazel’s lead enforcer insists on talking with you. Are you willing to see him?”

  Father grunted his acquiescence and motioned for Arabelle to stand behind him. She had barely moved into place before Azazel’s man pushed his way into the tent. Tabor and two of his men flanked the brute.

  He was truly a giant, so tall that his head scraped the top of the tent, and his menacing yellow eyes scanned the area like a predator. He took in the remnants of their meal, then faced the Sheikh.

  “What a pity,” he said, his booming voice dripping with sarcasm. “Have I interrupted your meal?”

  Father was gracious enough to greet the intruder with a smile. “Nothing that cannot be restarted. Would you care for some?”

  Kirag snarled. “I didn’t come to exchange pleasantries. I have an issue with how you are administering your agreement with Azazel.”

  Father paled. “Whatever do you mean? Have I not fed your soldiers from my supplies? Have we not been circling through the Trimorian wastes on the prescribed path and schedule?”

  “Bah! There has been treachery. One of my soldiers was attacked by someone whose tracks led back into the tents of your people.”

  Arabelle’s stomach knotted when she realized what the giant soldier was referring to. He was talking about her. She was the one who had attacked one of Azazel’s men.

  Her instinct was to run, but she willed herself to remain still.

  Father shook his head. “I know of no such attack. Are there witnesses? Have you presented the soldier to Tabor to file a complaint?”

  The enforcer’s fist tightened, and his knuckles made popping sounds. “The soldier is unable to remember what happened. In fact, he cannot even recall his own name. But the tracks of the attacker do not lie. They lead back to your tents, which means the attacker is one of yours.”

  The man didn’t even recall his own name? Arabelle felt a pang of guilt. In her panic, she’d blown not just one, but all four of her straws of the ground Tishkakh leaf that was supposed to cause short-term memory loss. That was far too much—and she might have caused permanent harm to the soldier.

  Then again, he had intended to kill her. Had she not acted, his dagger surely would have been buried deep within her.

  Her father shrugged impassively. “I will have Tabor ask among my people to determine if anyone has seen anything. I see nothing else I can do to help.”

  “Honfrion…” the enforcer spat.

  That was Father’s name, and to use it to his face showed an egregious lack of respect. One of the soldiers hissed, and Tabor had to place his hand on the soldier’s weapon arm to remind him to stay calm.

  “Any other unfortunate incidents will be reported directly to Azazel,” the enforcer continued. His yellow eyes alighted on Arabelle, and his mouth curved into a wicked smile. “You will recall that the last time Azazel’s attention turned toward your family, it didn’t end well.”

  Arabelle involuntarily took a step backward.

  With a malicious grin, Kirag reached into his armor.

  Tabor and the soldiers immediately launched themselves between Kirag and the Sheikh and princess. But the enforcer did not remove a weapon from his armor.

  He retrieved a bloody hand.

  A hand with six fingers. Hassan!

  With a sneer, Kirag tossed the hand on th
e ground. “You know, Honfrion, that Azazel is seeking strangers that have arrived in Trimoria. I am sure your man has told you this. Azazel expects full cooperation from your people—and that cooperation includes notifying us of any so-called ‘Nameless,’ or any others who cannot be vouched for. It’s truly a pity that my soldiers had to find such strangers hiding among your people themselves. I expect better. And I assure you, Azazel expects much better.”

  With that, Kirag turned and walked out of the tent.

  Arabelle couldn’t tear her eyes away from the severed hand. She was relieved when Tabor instructed one of his soldiers to remove it from the tent.

  Her father put his hands on her shoulders. “My heart, are you okay?”

  She nodded silently. She couldn’t form words.

  He pulled her into an embrace. “Don’t be frightened. Nothing will happen to you, my flower. I will make sure of it.”

  She tilted her head back to look up at her father. “What did he mean about Azazel? What has Azazel done to our family?”

  Father gave Tabor a meaningful look, and Tabor and his man departed the tent, leaving Arabelle and her father alone.

  He cupped her cheek with one hand. “Come. Sit.” He took a seat away from the now-trampled dinner dishes, and motioned for Arabelle to follow suit. He then poured her a cup of steaming tea, which she held in trembling hands.

  “Arabelle,” he began, clearly struggling to find the right words. “You’ve grown up knowing me as a merchant, and a very good one. Ours is a family of merchants. We have long been known for our ability to eke out a profit when nobody else could.

  “But we have also been known for another ability. The ability to foretell the future. Before the tragedy of the demon war, we prided ourselves on counting at least one wizard or seer in each generation. It was because of this latter ability that we drew the attention of Azazel.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “My grandfather told me this tale when I was but a child. A tale that occurred when he was but a child.

  “Azazel visited our people—specifically, my grandfather’s father. Our family gathered together for Azazel’s arrival, as it was believed that he was coming to negotiate an agreement.

  “Azazel came with no escort. He needed none. He simply appeared within our family’s midst from a ball of black sparkling magic. He demanded that our people assist him in seeking out those who had magical skills, even if those people were our own, and to bring them to his tower near Cammoria.

  “Naturally, my grandfather’s father refused. As you know, the Imazighen are not ones to assume the yoke of obligation or slavery to anyone. And my grandfather’s father certainly wouldn’t betray his own people.

  “Azazel’s response was immediate—and merciless. With a wave of his hand, he incinerated our entire family, all except for the youngest among them. My grandfather.”

  Arabelle gasped and covered her mouth.

  “Grandfather was only a boy. Ten years old. What was he to do in the face of such power? So for the sake of our people’s survival, he did the only thing he could do. He swore that we would assist Azazel. He agreed that we would provide escort for his agents through the Trimorian wastes, and that anyone we encountered who showed even a hint of magic would be reported to these agents.”

  Father looked away, as if he could not bear to face his own daughter.

  “And now, I continue that contract which Grandfather agreed to. I serve Azazel. For the sake of our people.”

  Arabelle didn’t know how to respond. Shame and anger warred within her. Their people had been subjugated by this horrible wizard for two generations. And they had allowed it. She herself had benefited from this arrangement, living in privilege at the cost of those who had been betrayed.

  Men like Hassan.

  Fury washed over her, and she pointed at the spot where the bloody hand had lain. “How dare we let them do that to one of our people? Even a Nameless. That man was under our protection, Father!”

  He nodded. “My heart, sometimes we must tolerate things that are… intolerable. Try to put this behind you. We will persevere.”

  The look on his face was one Arabelle had never seen before. Her father, the greatest man she had ever known, the Sheikh of her people… was haunted by shame at what he had done. At what he continued to do.

  He was, Arabelle saw for the first time, only a man.

  As Arabelle stomped back to her tent, furious and frustrated, she heard the gruff voice of Oda.

  “What you mean they be long past due? Where did you send Grisham?”

  Arabelle turned at the mention of her friend’s name. She scanned the area and saw the fiery dwarf speaking with a soldier. A few other men had gathered around them, including Khalid.

  The soldier pointed to the west. “The party was tracking some escaped sheep. But they haven’t been seen since this morning.”

  Oda stomped his feet. “What’s wrong with you? It don’t be takin’ a full day to find lost mutton.”

  Khalid held out a calming hand. “Take it easy, Oda.” He turned to the other soldiers. “We need a scouting party. No less than a dozen soldiers. Let’s find our lost men.”

  “And dwarf!” Oda added.

  “Oda,” said Khalid, “I assume you’ll join us for the search?”

  Oda raced away on his short legs. “I’ll get my pony and meet ya at the west gate!”

  Arabelle felt Tabor’s hand on her shoulder. “They’ll find him, Princess.”

  Perhaps. But they could use my help.

  Arabelle closed her eyes and brought to mind an image of the little dwarf, complete with sad brown eyes and scraggly beard. Her inner sight responded immediately, and she turned to face the direction it pointed her.

  She opened her eyes. She was facing north of the caravan, not west.

  “Princess,” said Tabor, “have faith in our people. With Khalid leading the search party, they will find him.”

  No. They won’t. Because they’re going the wrong way.

  But Arabelle couldn’t explain that to Tabor, or to anyone else. She couldn’t tell anyone how she knew that Grisham had gone north. Besides, she had no interest in talking to anyone at the moment. She was still tense with the emotions churned up in her father’s tent, and now those emotions had blended with the fear she had for her friend.

  She could do nothing for the situation her people were in. She could not end their subservience to Azazel. But she could do something for Grisham.

  “You’re right, Tabor,” she said. “Khalid will find him.”

  She walked back to her tent, trying to appear unconcerned. She gave a large yawn and told her escorts goodnight as she entered.

  But she had no intention of sleeping.

  Tonight, she was going to find her friend.

  Arabelle ran north of the caravan, crossing the dusty plain in complete silence, following her inner sight to Grisham. When she sensed that she was getting close to his location, she slowed and crept cautiously forward.

  She came upon a small camp set up in the wilderness, centered around a wagon. There was no fire burning, but with her gifts of vision and the enhancements from the tincture, she could easily take in the scene.

  One man stood guard. Several others were asleep on the ground. And three more were on the wagon itself. She couldn’t see the directly over the sides, but she could see their outlines. One of them was Grisham.

  Underneath her headwrap, she smiled.

  She knelt in the grass and picked up a small rock. She flung it high and far, so it landed on the opposite side of the tiny camp.

  When the guard moved to investigate, she crept toward the wagon and peeked over its side.

  Her heart broke at the sight of her friend. Grisham sported a bloody gash on his forehead and a collar around his neck chained to the inside of his cage. There were two more cages lined up beside his. The next one over contained the largest swamp cat she’d ever seen in her life, and the third contained a caravan soldier, as
leep or unconscious, also chained with a slave collar.

  Arabelle poked the bottom of Grisham’s foot.

  The dwarf moaned loudly.

  Arabelle cringed and looked over her shoulder, but the guard was apparently out of earshot.

  She nudged Grisham’s foot again, but he wouldn’t budge. That’s when she remembered her straws. She pulled out the one loaded with powdered stimulant, leaned forward, and blew the powder as close to Grisham’s face as she could.

  The dwarf gave a shuddering breath. His eyes fluttered open and he reached for the gash on his head with another groan—this one even louder than before.

  Arabelle once again ducked and turned. The guard had settled back into his watch. Surely he’d heard that; he just didn’t care.

  Arabelle gave Grisham another poke on the bottom of his foot. This time he blinked his eyes open to look. His eyes widened when he saw her, but she put a finger to her lips and climbed softly, nimbly up onto the bed of the wagon beside him.

  Grisham spoke in the barest whisper. “Not worth risking yourself. Please go.”

  Arabelle shook her head. “I plan to get you out,” she replied just as softly.

  The question was how.

  If only I’d thought to ask for lockpicking lessons.

  Not only was the cage locked, so was the collar around Grisham’s neck, and there was no sign of a key anywhere on the wagon. She turned to the lone guard and sighed.

  He has the keys.

  Grisham must have read her mind because he hissed, “Don’t do it. He’s a trained soldier, and vicious. He’ll think nothing of dragging a princess to the mines.”

  “Are there other guards?” she whispered back.

  “No, they departed to retrieve additional slaves. But Arabelle—”

  “Why are you in a cage and not with the others?”

  “We’re in the wagon because we’re injured and unable to keep pace. The others are chained together and were drugged for the night. Arabelle, don’t get any ideas. The other slavers will be back at dawn.”

  Then I’d better act now.