“Can we steal that next?” she joked before realizing he might take her seriously. She had no interest in being ennobled. She had no parents that she knew of, no family connections, and she’d been fine living that way her whole life.
“It’s on my list. And don’t worry, this is a merchant caravan with a guard or two. No way they’re going to try anything too nefarious.”
“Easy for you to think while hiding behind a rock.”
“You’ll be fine,” Whitney assured her. "When the time is right, you know the plan.”
Sora took a deep breath and let it out. She could take care of herself. She drew a thin line of blood along her leg with her knife which once belonged to her late teacher Wetzel.
Then she slapped it into Whitney’s waiting hand, harder than she needed to. Not only would the cut help with the illusion of being a damsel in distress, along with her purposefully ripped clothes, but it provided ready access to a font of sacrifice which would allow her to tap into the magic of Elsewhere.
Blood drawn is never wasted, she told herself. Power from sacrifice. That was the main lesson Wetzel imparted in his teachings. The image of him crushed and charred under the roof of his shack after the Shesaitju raided Troborough flashed through her mind. She did her best to force it away.
She stepped out onto the Glass Road which connected Yarrington, the capital of The Glass Kingdom, and Yaolin City in the eastern region. The further from the capital they got, the less impressive the road grew until it was just a narrow line of dirt skirting the cliffs and a peppering of gravel for footing. She scraped away the thin layer of snow with her hands, always gloved when in public to cover her blood mage scars, then lay across the road as if she’d been beaten and left for dead. She tore the shoulder of her tunic a bit more after she got comfortable, just in case, then closed her eyes.
A few minutes later she was shivering. As she lay there, alone and vulnerable, she realized how much a gamble this was so far out in the middle of nowhere. The Jarein Gorge wasn’t safe territory for anyone, let alone a young lady. It was the quickest route to Winde Port by land and Sora remembered talk back in Grambling about bandits who nestled up in caverns along the bluff.
She thought about building a tiny fire in her palm for both warmth and protection when she heard the creaking of wagon wheels and the thumping hooves of the leading horses.
A harsh voice cried out. “Whoa!”
The wagon rumbled to a stop. The horses snorted in protest, metal clanked, and footsteps approached.
“She dead?” one voice asked.
“She’s a pretty little thing,” said another, then added, “for a knife-ear.”
“Knife-ears shag as well as the next, I say,” said a third.
She could imagine the disgusting man’s grin as he spoke, but she held her tongue. Although she’d only been outside of Troborough a few times, she wasn’t naive. Her small village had its fair share of traveling bands and troupes passing through the Twilight Manor over the years, the kind of people who thought they were better because they’d seen things, who thought every woman in town was theirs, ripe for the plucking.
Sora much preferred stealing herself away into the hollow below Wetzel’s shack, reading the dusty old tomes on magic he’d gathered throughout his long, friendless life.
“She dead?” repeated the first one.
“Dun’t think so. She’s breathing.”
Sora moaned, putting as much desperation into it as she could muster.
“Well, don’t just stand there, help her into the wagon!” Hands fell upon her, sliding and groping around unnecessarily. Her muscles tensed involuntarily but she relaxed them and stuck to the plan.
She cried out in mock pain. The men backed off. “Don’t move me, p-please. I-I think I’ve broken s-som-something.”
She made believe the noon sun was blinding her like it’d been ages since she’d opened her eyes.
“What happened, my dear?” asked a portly fellow in orange silks. He had the look of a trader—combed gray hair under a feathered cap and a calming smile. His accent reeked of Old Yarrington arrogance as he annunciated each syllable of every word.
Two hunks of muscle and armor stood off to the side, whispering and grinning with one another. They were nearly identical. One made crude gestures toward Sora, the other snickered. Another man with ash-colored skin and a scaled leather cuirass knelt beside her. A Shesaitju... a Black Sandsmen like the ones who had ravaged her hometown.
The sight of him made her lose her train of thought. She could feel the cut on her leg burning as if Elsewhere were begging her to draw on it and turn the man into crispy flesh like his kind had done to Troborough.
Stick to the plan, she told herself. She’d felt terrible about robbing a group she knew nothing of, but a part of her now considered how nice it would be to ride south on two horses instead of one.
“My wagon’s h-horse got sp-spooked,” she said. “Drove off the ledge. I-I barely… I barely j-jumped in time.” She eyed each one, in turn, looking for signs of suspicion but found none.
“Over there?” asked the old man in silks, pointing toward the ledge which emptied into the gorge.
Sora let out a soft moan and nodded.
The twin brutes stopped joking long enough to walk with their leader toward the ledge. Their plate armor was impressive, but unmarked, meaning they were swords for hire keeping the wagon and its owner safe. Which also meant there might be something worth taking inside.
Sora cursed herself for thinking like Whitney.
The Shesaitju stayed by her side. He inspected her, eyes pale and gray like the sky after a rain shower. He said nothing, but Sora nearly shuddered under his gaze.
“I see nothing at the bottom!” one of the mercenaries called back. “Nothing at all.”
“H-how could you?” she asked. “’Tis only shadow down there.”
“Oi, you know what it looks like down there? What’d you first crawl to the ledge to see the remains of your cart before you flopped over, girl?”
The big men laughed.
“And pray tell, what was a knife-ear wench like you doing out here all alone so far from your home?”
“Looking for a real man, I say,” said one of the guards with a grunt.
“Pick her up,” the trader ordered. “We can’t leave her here in this state.”
Sora began to sweat more than she already was. The Shesaitju continued to stare, silent.
The armored men grabbed her and yanked her to her feet about as gently as if they were hefting a dead warthog. She maintained her composure and groaned, even though her blood was beginning to boil.
She could hear Whitney’s voice in the back of her mind, “Lesson three: never give up the grift until the grift is done!”
She swore silently, wondering what he was waiting for.
“Another member of our merry band?” one of the mercenaries said to the trader.
A large hand slid over her breast and squeezed hard. She whimpered, experiencing real pain this time. Her eyes fell toward the cut on her leg. She imagined what it would be like to light the man on fire starting from his boots.
“Something funny, girl?”
She hadn’t realized she’d been grinning at the thought.
“P-please,” she begged, “I’m just trying to get to Winde Port. M-my cart went over—”
The mercenary squeezed her jaw and tilted her head up to get a better look at her like she was a prized steed. “You already said that.”
“Enough,” the trader said.
“Why? You think a pretty little thing like this wound up out here alone? What’s your game knife-ear?” He turned her head again, this time more forcefully. Instinct kicked in, and Sora bit down on the soft bit of flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He howled, and she broke free.
“You wench!”
The other twin grabbed her and threw her down near the wagon. Her head bounced off dirt and gravel and had her seeing stars.
> “Stop this, now,” the trader said.
“You hired us to protect you. The way I see it, knife-ears on the road are nothing but trouble.”
One of the twins placed a knee against the small of her back to hold her down. She heard the other’s belt clasp come undone. The trader protested but neither listened. A familiar tingle ran through her spirit as she felt a hand against her thigh. The area around the cut went simultaneously cold and hot. The rest of her was disembodied. Numb. She felt fire crackling on the tips of her fingertips when the cart shook and down stepped a stocky, little, red-haired dwarf. He held a mug in one hand, ale dripping down his scraggly beard.
“What in Meungor’s Axe is goin on out here?” He looked at Sora, his eyes each looking in different directions, then at the mercenaries. “Pull yer pants up, animal.”
He shoved the mercenary in the chest, and even though the man towered over the dwarf, he backed down. As Sora rolled over, she noticed a strange sort of a hat topping the dwarf’s shaggy hair. When he got closer, she realized it wasn’t a hat, but a half-broken circlet made of blown glass.
“I was not going to allow it, Grint.” The voice came from beside Sora. She hadn’t even noticed the soft-spoken Shesaitju standing beside her with his scimitar drawn in defense of her. She instantly felt sorry for wanting to torch him.
“By the look of it, ye were outnumbered.”
The twin mercenaries had their hands hovering over the grips of their weapons. Grint and the Shesaitju stepped in front of her.
“Fellows, I do believe it’s time we moved along,” the trader said.
“Just leave her be an’ get yer horny hinds back aboard,” Grint growled. “Ain’t helpin her, nor hurtin her. Just move along.”
“We’re tired of listening to you, dwarf,” one of the mercenaries said, his belt still undone.
“Too bad. I made better men shut their traps than ye, Dorblo.” He spat the name like it was an insult. “And I be in charge of keeping this here caravan safe.”
Grint grabbed Sora by her ripped tunic and shoved her aside without even an attempt to be careful. So much for her savior.
“Get inside!” he barked.
“You’re not paying me,” Dorblo said. “He is.”
The old trader stammered over a response.
“Plenty more gold to go round if we lose the two of ye.” Grint stroked the battle axe hanging from his belt.
“I dare you,” Dorblo said.
“What ye be, is needin to get in the wagon.” They stood face to face, the dwarf up on the balls of his feet. To his credit, he made himself nearly as tall as the man, but Sora hadn’t seen a battle of testosterone like this in her entire life.
“You ain’t worth my time,” Dorblo huffed, finally backing down. He nudged his twin, and they stormed off together toward the ledge and away from the dwarf. The old trader dripped with sweat, eyes darting back and forth between them. By the looks of his carefully manicured fingers, he’d never been in a scrap in his life.
Sora went from wanting to burn them all, to feeling like she was watching a play performed by the school children in Troborough.
Whitney where the yig are you?
“She needs help, Grint,” the Shesaitju said, his sword still drawn.
“We ain’t a charity,” Grint said.
“We aren’t monsters either.”
“We got no room for another. ’Specially not her kind.”
“You know it’s not safe here after dark. That’s why we were hired.”
“I said, there ain’t room. Ye be wantin to walk all the way to Winde Port?” The dwarf gave the gray man a shove.
“Do not strike me,” the Shesaitju man said.
“Don’t make me, then.”
The dwarf shoved him again, and the Shesaitju retaliated.
Sora crawled back slowly and was about to run when she heard someone whisper her name.
The horses snorted, and the wagon creaked as it lurched forward, causing Sora, and all five men to stop bickering to look over. Whitney Blisslayer sat at the reins of the wagon. The armored twins and the trader were far enough to be of no concern, but the dwarf, nose now bloody and probably broken, and the Shesaitju, in far worse shape, were both close enough to be trouble.
Sora scrambled to her feet. Whitney grabbed hold of her hand and yanked her up beside him.
“Took you long enough,” Sora bristled.
“Take the reins!”
“What?”
“Just take the reins!” Whitney said as he gave them a vigorous snap and the horses shot forward. He let go, and Sora fumbled to grab them. Heavy flakes of snow stung at her cheeks and arms as the carriage was pulled along.
Whitney rose and leaned over the side of the carriage. The dwarf took a swing at him with his battle axe but, dizzy from his fight, missed. Whitney reached out, plucked the half-crown from the dwarf’s head and pulled himself back up.
“All right, on the horse and we’ll cut the carriage free,” Whitney said. Sora glanced back at the men chasing after them and remembered how they’d treated her—a lost soul on the road in need of help. Even if her state was a ruse, she couldn’t believe strangers would treat a person in such a way.
She said nothing, only snapped the reins and propelled the entire carriage around a sharp turn on the cliff-side trail. It tilted onto one wheel and drifted on the icy, slick path. Sora closed her eyes, fearing they would suffer the fate of her own lie, sliding off the edge and into the canyon below, but the horse whipped around the corner and yanked the carriage down so hard Whitney almost lost his Glass Crown.
“Thanks for the carriage!” Whitney shouted. “And Grint, Whitney Blisslayer thanks you for the crown!”
Sora tightened her grip on the reins as if somehow she knew he’d take his attention off the road to offer his usual bow and flourish. One hard bump or sharp turn would have sent him flying off the cliffside. And after leaving her with those rotten men, a part of her wanted to pull back on the reins.
“I thought you just wanted to take a horse?” Whitney said as he climbed back to sit beside her. She squeezed the reins so hard her knuckles went white as a corpse. “What? I’m not complaining.”
“You’re a bloody pile of shog, you know that?” Sora snapped. “How long were you going to wait? Those men were about to...” She couldn’t even get the word out.
Whitney, on the other hand, grinned ear to ear. He had the broken circlet in his hands and marveled at it. Now that the dwarf’s messy hair didn’t cover it, she realized it was much more than a circlet. It was a crown—half of one—with flawlessly cut gems set into every point. The glass was so pure it caught the high sun and painted an area of his leg with a prism.
“Are you even listening?” Sora said.
“Of course, I am,” Whitney replied. “I knew you had nothing to worry about.”
“No, you had nothing to worry about, watching me get tossed around from five hundred paces away.” Now that enough distance had been put between them, Sora allowed herself to take her heated glare off the bumpy road and back on Whitney.
“I watched you single-handedly stop one of the most powerful warlocks in the known world. You know what that makes you?”
She didn’t answer.
“The most powerful blood mage in the whole world. Huh, how about that? ‘The World’s Greatest Thief’ and the ‘World’s Most Powerful Blood Mage’ riding together into the sunset.”
“It’s noon, you fool.”
“It’s a figure of speech.” Whitney placed the half-crown over his head and leaned in front of her. He bobbed back and forth, trying to get her to say something.
“You should be grateful you know,” he said.
“Are you serious?” she asked, incredulous. “For what exactly? You using me as bait? Forcing me to play along with the stupid games of a child looking to prove himself greater than a father long past? What? Tell me.”
“Wow, that hurt,” Whitney said, but his smile told a differe
nt story. “Look, we just scored something big. Really big. And what’s best about it is who we stole it from.”
“They were just a couple of… of… there’s not a harsh enough word for them.”
“Except the Black Sandsman, he looked like he had a little crush on you. First, they destroy your town, now you’re falling in love with one.” Whitney shook his head in mock disappointment.
Sora’s cheeks went hot. She wished Whitney wouldn’t have noticed even though she could tell he did. It wasn’t that she found the ash-skinned man attractive. She just felt terrible for grouping him in with others who looked like him, like all the sorry men who’d cursed her simply for being a knife-ear since she left home.
“At least he was willing to stand up for me,” she said.
“Like he stood up for Troborough?”
“What?”
“That sorry lot. They were there in Troborough the day it was burned down.”
Her brow furrowed and for an instant, curiosity replaced her anger, then a sharp turn in the road drew her attention back to the horses. The way grew so narrow that there wasn’t half a meter alongside the carriage separating them from certain doom. And on the other side was a sheer cliff, the rock as red as blood. She was grateful the horses seemed to know the way.
“That’s how the dwarf had what’s left of the King’s crown I stole.” Whitney pointed to his head. “They all fled the place when the Shesaitju attacked, including your would-be-savior. I think I remember seeing him kick a helpless woman begging for a ride so they could speed away.”
“And you knew about this?”
“Came up with the plan the moment I spotted their wagon across the gorge. I never forget a group that deserves to be robbed.”
She took her hands off the reins to slap him on the arm with the back of her bandaged hand. “This partnership isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me.”
A thousand different answers flickered across his face, all of them probably warranting another slap. Sora was glad he took his time. “You’re right,” he said, finally. “I’m sorry. I thought it would be better if you thought it was just another mark. I didn’t want you to go all, you know, explody because these men might have been responsible for…”
The Redstar Rising Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set 1: Books 1-3) Page 37
