by Aaron Bunce
“No!” Kida argued, ducking his head under the man’s arm and pulling away. “I told you I have urgent business with Lord Thatcher. The coin I gave you is worth double your normal rate.”
The carriage driver pulled his head wrap off, exposing a tangled mess of grayed hair. His smile faded as he reached up to wipe the accumulated snow from his face.
“Yes, young sir, you paid us well. But we have pushed our horses hard to get you this far this fast. We have made your trip as comfortable as possible under such trying circumstances. But your coin cannot widen the road. It cannot open up the heavens and sweep away this cursed snow, and it cannot lift the trees blocking our path. If your business with the good lord is so terribly urgent, then I suggest you collect your things and finish your journey on foot. Silma is just a short distance beyond that hill,” the carriage driver said.
Kida turned from the gray-haired man’s face to stare out into the dark, swirling snow. When he turned back the driver was tromping towards the carriage. He pulled open the door and gestured to the interior with an open palm. Kida felt his face flush, despite the bitter wind. The man was treating him like a petulant child.
His jaw set, Kida pushed through the snow, trying hard to avoid the older man’s gaze. He didn’t need to look to see the sneer pulling at his lips. Kida hefted himself up into the carriage, not bothering to tap the snow from his boots.
“That’s a good lad. You just get nice and comfy, and we’ll take care of you,” the driver said behind him.
Kida leaned forward and scooped his bag off the ground and slid back out the door before the older man could shut him inside. He thrust his arms through the straps and pushed by the driver without a word.
“Wait…come back!” the carriage driver called out halfheartedly, but Kida ignored him.
The horses whinnied behind him as a whip cracked in the air. He crawled up onto the log of the felled tree, turning as the carriage moved off, quickly engulfed by the chaos of the storm. Pulling his hood down to shield his eyes, Kida turned and crawled over the tree. He pulled the snow-burdened branches of the next pine tree apart and crawled through, stopping and starting several times when his pack snagged.
Free of the downed trees, Kida trudged up the roadway, which was distinguishable only as a gap in the surrounding forest. He bent forward, leaning into the wind as he made his way up the gently sloping hill. The wind bit at his skin like icy daggers.
Kida instantly started to question every decision he’d made in the last few moments. He’d given up the carriage Brother Dalman’s coin paid for, as well as its warmth and security. But they couldn’t pass the downed trees. The roadway was blocked. Yes they would have taken him back to the inn, but it would likely only be a night or two. Maybe just until the storm passed and strong men could get the trees cleared. Or maybe it would be longer.
Kida slapped at his head and shook away those thoughts. Of course he couldn’t afford to sit in an inn and wait.
“The truth should never wait,” Kida whispered breathlessly. He couldn’t wait a few days. Hell, he couldn’t wait a night. Brother Dalman made that much clear.
The initiate monk pushed forward, arduous step after arduous step, fighting both the deep snow and the slope of the hill. A gust of wind rose up before him, picking up the loose snow and engulfing him. He thrust his hands out before him as if he were pushing against a door, accepting the sting and refusing to stop.
Kida pumped his legs, his eyes pressed tight against the biting wind. He moved forward blindly for moments beyond count. He wasn’t even sure he was moving, until the grade of the hill changed suddenly and he tumbled forward.
Kida picked himself up as the wind swirled, changing directions. In that moment the blinding clouds of snow cleared away and for a heartbeat the world rematerialized. The roadway stretched out below him, moving in a twisting, turning fashion. Silma sat a ways off, the stout, stone buildings and sweeping roofs a welcomed sight.
The wind howled back in, blinding him once again, but he’d seen it. Kida set off determinedly, pushing down the road until he finally passed beneath the city’s northern archway.
He ran through Brother Dalman’s instructions, starting at the very beginning and stopping when he came to his next task. “Pay for a horse in Silma, and ride to Castle Astralen. A horse. Yes, he said a horse,” he said, his teeth chattering and his face numb.
The stables sat just inside the city’s short wall. The building was squat and long, it’s heavily banded doors all shut and barred. Kida dug around in his robes, fumbling for the last bit of Brother Dalman’s coin with stiff fingers.
He reached up and pushed on the stable’s door, but the portal resisted him. Kida tried again, this time putting his shoulder into the stout wood, but it refused to budge.
“Hello!” he hollered, wincing as he rapped his knuckles against the door. It felt like he pounded his hand against solid stone.
Kida waited, his breath fogging the air. Nothing happened. He knocked again, this time slapping the wood with an open palm. Leaning forward, Kida pressed his ear against the door. Something was moving inside. He stepped back and waited for the door to open.
“What do ye want?” someone yelled from the other side. Their voice was deep and gravelly, and they sounded more than a little irritable.
“Hello. My name is Kida. I am the junior of Denil Brother Hobart Dalman. I am in need of a horse,” he said, and then quickly added, “I have coin.”
The room beyond the door was quiet for a long moment. He held his breath and hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep the warmth from abandoning his legs and feet completely.
“A horse? And where do you mean to be riding?”
“I have urgent business at Castle Astralen with Lord Thatcher,” Kida said, trying and failing to sound confident. He was shaking so badly now that his voice warbled when he spoke.
“I don’t care if yer meaning to ride to the heavens to seek council with Mani herself. You’d get lost, and that’s only if you could pass the road, and you can’t, because the castle approach is dwarf-high with snow. You’ll freeze. The stables are closed, come back another time,” the man hollered.
Kida turned on the spot, slapping the air angrily before he realized what he was doing. He was acting like a child.
“I will be fine. I am a strong rider, just let me pay for a good, strong horse. I’ll pay you double…no, triple!” he said after taking a deep breath, knowing full well that he didn’t have the coin.
There was no response however, not even when he pounded angrily on the door. Kida turned and paced back out into the lane, first turning north, and then south, to look out over the lake. Somewhere out there in the swirling black, over the freezing water, was the castle. He was so close, yet had never felt further away.
Kida started walking west, towards the other end of the city, and the road that would lead him around the lake. Perhaps there would be another stable. He could promise them more coin when he reached the castle. He didn’t know how he would get the coin, but he would have to try. Or maybe he would walk there. His traveling cloak and boots were warm and he was young.
Kida shook that foolish notion away as a gust of wind bit at his exposed cheeks. A strange noise drifted on the wind. It was a bell, echoing eerily off in the distance. He turned and considered it for a moment. It rang again, and as the wind died down, the docks and its many anchored ships came into view. Masts jutted into the air, rising above the roofs, swaying like bristly branches in the storm.
Kida’s feet started moving, and before he knew it he was running down the alleyways towards the dark water, a crazy idea forming in his mind.
* * * *
Balin the rogue, masked and faceless, now a living shadow, strode through the frozen garden, the doors to the former Council’s chamber parting before him. The deceased rulers rose up on either side of the hall, the marble statues cracked and broken. He stopped before the towering likeness of his former master, Gladeus DuChamp. The ston
e was soiled and broken, like the abused plaything of a spoiled child. Ropes hung around the statue’s neck, further evidence someone had tried to pull it down.
A surprising mix of emotions flowed through him. First, he felt loyalty and loss. After all, this was the man that lifted him out of the squalor, gave him purpose, and his voice, power. But then he felt shame and guilt. He had killed for Gladeus, ruined lives, and broken apart families forever. The weight of those lives still lingered inside, a scar upon his heart.
Balin’s mask tingled, the metal fused to his skin ringing with the magic of his new master, Nephera, the Evermother. Her will flooded into him, washing his tormenting emotions away.
Runes glowed gently in his vision, her thoughts instantly latching onto his own. She wanted him to serve another, if only for a time. The thought was revolting, for more than one reason, but he no longer possessed the will to refuse. He continued on through the hall and into the sprawling chamber.
Balin slipped down the center aisle, row upon row of highly polished benches spanning on either side, the tread of his supple boots almost silent against the ground. Straight ahead loomed the raised dais where Denoril’s former masters held court. A single seat sat there now, constructed in morbid fashion from Gladeus and the other councilmen’s bodies – a gift, from Nephera to Djaron Algast, the deposed but returned king.
Approaching the dais, the rogue swept into a curt bow, and waited silently. Djaron stirred on the macabre throne, his fingers absently picking at something Balin could not see. Infinitely patient, he waited. The king shifted again, his attention still fixated on the same spot. A young woman huddled on the dais just beyond the throne, diligently scrubbing the wood floor. Balin noticed several other small figures working in the large space, all cleaning or tidying up in one capacity or another.
Finally, after a lengthy pause, Djaron sat up, a clump of dark hair falling over his face. His sword leaned against the throne.
“Approach, dog,” the king said, his voice dripping with condescension and loathing.
Balin straightened, ignoring the slight. He strode forward and leapt onto the raised platform.
“So you are it, heh? The army she promised me all those sunrises ago,” Djaron said, falling back into the seat. He instantly resumed picking at something, his face puckered up in obvious disappointment.
Balin looked down to the king’s hand. He could see it now. A face stuck out of the tangled limbs and body parts, Djaron worked methodically to peal the nose free. Balin cringed, his hand sliding imperceptibly through the heavy cloak toward his agtite dagger. He caught himself, however, and let his palm settle against his chest, resting on the scar over his heart.
“Yes,” Balin replied, his voice harsh and broken.
Skin tore, and the king flopped over, overcompensating as the nose finally pulled free. He sat up, his mouth turning up into an excited smile. But there was still cruelty in his face. Balin could see it, a malice living in Djaron’s eyes.
“What task can I complete for you,” Balin asked.
Djaron lifted the nose up in the air, inspecting it, and then held it against his chest, just under his chin. “I think for a necklace. Don’t you think?” the king asked.
“A necklace?”
“A necklace, you fool. I want to peel the noses off their faces and then wear them around my neck, so that all can see that those pompous, deceitful bastards will never look down their noses at me again!” Djaron screamed, flying into a sudden and violent fit of rage, the severed nose flying from his hand and landing on the floor between them.
Balin backed away a half step, his hand sliding the rest of the way to his dagger handle. Nephera’s will bubbled forth again, however, and his hand pulled free of the weapon.
“A necklace will be perfect,” Balin said, stooping into a bow.
“Yes, it will,” Djaron snarled, and threw his body back fully into the throne. He pulled the hair out of his face and let out an exaggerated breath, his eyes dropping to the lump of flesh on the ground. “Well…?” he asked, expectantly.
Balin looked from the severed nose to Djaron, his voice catching in his throat. He wanted to tell the foul, petulant child of a man to slide off his lazy ass and fetch it himself, but the words wouldn’t form. Nephera’s will bound him to Djaron, just as the mask bound him to her.
“Well?” Djaron repeated, slapping a palm against the fleshy armrest.
Slowly, Balin leaned forward and plucked the jagged lump of flesh off the ground, holding it gently between his thumb and forefinger. Then, he stepped slowly forward, and dropped it lightly into the king’s extended palm.
“What do you need me to do?” Balin asked, as Djaron closed his fingers around the nose.
“An old man escaped the city…aided by a young woman, a dirty lecher. She pulled him free before the Nym could capture him,” Djaron said, dropping the nose into a pocket in his fine shirt and standing. He lifted his sword and motioned Balin to follow.
“Yes, I have heard the same,” Balin acknowledged. The Evermother knew of the man and the girl that saved him, and thus, he knew as well.
“I saw him, in this very chamber, hiding in the balcony like a lowly rat. He probably didn’t even realize that I knew he was there, but I see everything.”
Balin hid his surprise with practiced grace, assisted by the expressionless mask burned onto his face. He followed the king around the throne, making sure to give the wretched construct a wide birth. He eyed the dark blade hanging at Djaron’s side warily, as he started circling the young woman scrubbing the floor.
“My task…Rogue, is for you to track down the old man and his lecher, and bring them back to me,” the king said, slowly, lifting the dark blade and letting it come to rest on the young woman’s shoulder.
Balin bowed and moved to turn away, but Djaron continued, and he was powerless to resist.
“Run them down in the snow, like the mongrels they are. Find them before they can scurry away to Laniel or Silma and hide under the Earls’ skirts,” Djaron said, his voice dropping to a threatening hiss, the sword turning over so its blade could cut through the servant’s clothing.
Balin watched the sharp edge slice through the young woman’s blouse and bite into the skin beneath. He felt and heard the sword wake, its insatiable hunger pulling on the air around them. The servant gasped in pain as the king slowly traced the cutting edge across her shoulder, her arms spasming against the ground. Balin wanted to rip his dagger free and plunge it into the man’s heart, but like the girl, he was powerless to stop him.
“You will not let them ruin my surprise. I will cut the old man and his lecher apart, piece by piece, and when Nephera’s army is ready, we will sweep south over every village and town. Then, Rogue, all of Denoril will share my pain, and curse the day they failed to love me,” Djaron finished, his voice barely a whisper.
He pulled the blade away, the young woman slumping to the ground, her body jerking and twitching. Balin simmered, more concerned with Djaron’s threat and power over him than the young slave.
The king turned to regard him, Balin’s mask exposing the truth of the man. Djaron’s body glowed with the young woman’s stolen life, his eyes swimming with barely contained madness.
“Do you understand?” Djaron asked, quietly.
“I do,” Balin said, nodding.
“Then hurry along. Your prey has a head start,” the king said, and turned, the young woman now trying to push shakily off the ground.
The Evermother’s will washed over him and he turned, leaping off the dais and sweeping down the aisle. But he stopped at the door to the large chamber, powerful emotions rising up from below. Anger and fear cut through Nephera’s control as he turned. Djaron stood over the trembling woman, his sword bouncing in the air just over her head. She fumbled the brush against the floor, her will driving her to clean, but her strength and body failing her.
Balin’s last thought was of driving his dagger into the wretched man’s heart, or else on
e day, he would be in the young woman’s place. He turned and swept out into the cold, the Evermother’s presence pushing everything else away.
Chapter Two
The Race
The frozen river surged and bubbled, the blue-green water crashing in violent, white-capped waves all around the small boat. Julian dropped an oar into the water to his left, twisting the head to steer the boat as best he could, but the current was too fast. Julian toppled to his left as the boat struck the ice crowding the right bank. He jabbed the oar into the ice, the boat shuddering and accelerating as he pushed it back into the current.
This route will not be faster if the boat breaks apart and we freeze to death in the water, Pera said, his voice ringing out in Julian’s mind.
“The boat will… hold,” Julian grunted, his attention directed singularly on keeping the boat away from the ice. He’d never been on such a small craft before, and if his family did book passage, it was on a frigate manned with crew and servants.
Julian could feel the Nymradic’s apprehension, its doubt, and fear. It had been feeding off of his joy and optimism since escaping the Yu at Spear Point. But that joy quickly turned toxic for the dark creature. The only thing it feared more than death was the loss of their newfound freedom. That thought seemed to drive it singularly now.
We have put enough distance between us and the Yu. It would be wise to abandon the boat and move over land, Pera pressed in, bludgeoning Julian with the same argument it had been using for some time.
Julian clenched his jaw, but did not respond. Instead, he flooded his mind with his anger, impatience, and frustration. Pera met his onslaught of emotions with one of its own, the Nymradic’s strength twofold what it was before it fed. Their battle of wills came to a stalemate, with neither able to dislodge or dissuade the other.
Julian’s vambrace rubbed against his rope-burned wrist, the sensation effectively snapping them both away from the conflict. Pera shrunk back, just as aware, and even more repelled by the idea of bondage. It conceded the point, silently agreeing that the speed of the boat was worth the risk. He took solace in the dark creature’s presence, but more importantly, its power.
