The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  Before Elyas could withdraw his blade, the second man hit him hard in the ribs with a shoulder, driving him away, the hilt of his dagger slipping from his grasp. A fist grazed his jaw, and then a third opponent with a dagger struck him from behind. He felt the burn of a gash opening up across his back. He spun and delivered a backhand blow to the side of his attacker’s head. The man stumbled away, backing into Harlan’s reach. The lean man, who remained on his hands and knees, grabbed the armed slave by the ankles and heaved, throwing him off his feet.

  The crowd’s raucous cheers battered Elyas’s eardrums as he glanced around, noting Foyal was down and bleeding from a neck wound. Burge and another man were grappling a few paces away.

  Elyas’s unarmed opponent withdrew the bloody dagger from his fallen comrade’s chest and came at him. Instead of retreating, Elyas lowered his head and rushed forward, knocking the smaller man’s stabbing arm wide, and drove his shoulder into his foe’s midsection. He lifted him up and slammed him into the wall of the pit. Ribs cracked, and the man cried out weakly. The dagger fell from his hand. Elyas backed up and slammed him to the wall again. More bones snapped, and this time, the man spewed up a gout of blood. Twice more, he slammed his foe to the wall before letting him fall, broken and convulsing, blood covering his face. The man’s blood was warm, running down Elyas’s back. He recovered the fallen dagger and looked around to discover the fight nearly over.

  Harlan was lying on his back, trying desperately to hold his opponent at bay, the man straddling him with a raised dagger poised above his chest. As Elyas watched, Harlan’s arms trembled, and the dagger inched closer to his chest, his larger foe bringing his greater weight and strength to bear.

  In three strides, Elyas was upon them. His dagger punched deep into the middle of the slave’s back, and as his blood leaked out of him, so too did his strength. Elyas gripped the man by his greasy knot of long hair and dragged him off Harlan then stabbed him in the kidney a couple times for good measure before casting him aside.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  Foyal and Burge lay on the ground in pools of blood. The former was dead, his neck slashed open. The latter had a ragged hole in his gut and another in his chest and wouldn’t be among the living for long. Harlan had a broken ankle and gashes on his forearms, brow, and chest, but none of the wounds appeared serious. Their four foes lay where they had fallen, the last two bleeding out quickly.

  Elyas stared at the dead and dying around him, breathing hard and shocked by the desperate violence. The entire fight had only lasted a couple minutes at the most. After a few moments of the crowd’s cheers and jeers ringing in his ears, he realized Dirich was beckoning him over, a wide smile on his scarred face. A ladder was lowered into the pit, but Elyas ignored it, instead helping Harlan to his feet. He aided the wounded man to the ladder, which Harlan clumsily tried to climb on one good foot. Shoat seized one of his arms and hauled him up. A moment later, Elyas followed Harlan up out of the pit and then was being clapped on the back by Shoat and several of the house guards, the latter having made favorable wagers on the outcome, he suspected.

  “You’ve got some potential, lad,” Dirich told Elyas, all smiles now. “Even though you belong to another, Lord Pasikos will be happy with his wagers tonight, I reckon, for he still comes out victorious, and his reputation stays intact. And your friend there survived, which says something, though he would’ve been dead without your aid. Mayhap he’ll prove trainable.” He looked at the wounded man dubiously. Harlan was seated on the back of a nearby cart, getting his ankle bound and splinted by a healer.

  Elyas didn’t hear much more of what was said around him, nor did he care. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he felt a sudden weariness. Much of the crowd was already breaking up and wandering away into the night in small groups. Some were talking excitedly, others cursing their ill fortune. He glimpsed the nobles climbing into carriages, which swiftly departed, their servants remaining behind to tidy up.

  Shoat beckoned Elyas to climb onto the cart, and he did so, joining Harlan. The healer, a handsome woman of roughly forty summers, tended to the gash in Elyas’s back. The woman wasn’t particularly gentle in cleaning and stitching up his cut, nor was she rough. She was competent at her work, however, as a journeyman might be when given an onerous task beneath her, eager to be done with it as swiftly as possible. She signaled Dirich when she finished stitching his wound.

  Dirich and the guards mounted up, and the cart lurched into motion, the guards riding alongside as earlier.

  “Your laceration was fairly deep, but I applied some salve and stitched it shut,” the healer told Elyas without meeting his eyes. “You’ll have some tenderness, and the muscles will be stiff a day or two, then you should be fine.”

  “I thank you, ma’am,” Elyas said. “What is your name?”

  The woman frowned at him for a moment, briefly meeting his eyes, but her look was not without pity. “You’d best refrain from addressing me or any others from the manor, lest it go badly for you. But if you must know, it’s Edara.” She promptly turned her attention to the fields passing by and ignored him the rest of the way.

  They arrived back at the villa and were returned to their cell. Shoat bade them get some sleep before he returned at sunup for training. With just Elyas and Harlan in the cage now, they had enough space to lie down. A troubled sleep quickly followed.

  Chapter 19

  Three days out from Mitterwel, Taren and his companions stumbled across a gruesome scene in an open field. He smelled the stomach-turning stench of rot well before they encountered the corpse. The Ketanian scout had been dead for some days, but the manner of his death was truly puzzling. His headless corpse appeared to have been dropped from some great height, the bones in his body shattered and the abdomen ruptured, causing the swollen corpse to look more like a formless blob than the shape of a man. Yet for all the fleshy ruin, the corpse was lacking in blood. Such a mess would’ve ordinarily stained the ground for quite a distance around.

  Creel discovered the man’s head about a bowshot away, near an old firepit, and there a spurt of blood stained the ground. Hoofprints had stamped the grass flat and left impressions in the soil nearby.

  “Whatever attacked him must’ve spooked the horse and caused it to run off.” Creel gazed into the sky as if his icy-blue eyes alone could see some sign of what had attacked the scout. “The poor bastard was hoisted aloft, his head struck from his shoulders and carried a ways off. Whatever did this must have drunk his blood before casting his corpse aside.”

  “Like a drunk popping the stopper of a wineskin and sucking it dry,” Ferret remarked.

  “Aye, something like that.”

  “Must be one of those winged fiends those soldiers spoke of,” Taren said. His stomach squirmed at the sight, but he managed to retain his breakfast.

  They had stumbled across a survivor camp a day outside Mitterwel. The half dozen Ketanian men were wounded and starving, skittish at their approach and reluctant to talk at first although they eventually shared their camp and tales when offered some food by Creel. Their story might have sounded outlandish had Taren not seen the demon in Ammon Nor with his own eyes. They spoke of winged demons among the Nebarans, including a female who’d claimed to be their warlord and had command of the troops. King Clement was slain and the army routed shortly after, their morale shattered. A nobleman, Lord Lanthas, led the remnants to fall back to Carran to try to regroup, but these men lost their heart, having homesteads to protect in the southlands. After learning what they could from the deserters, they had wished the men well and gone on their way.

  “So those wounded men spoke true,” Mira said.

  “Seems so,” Taren replied.

  Ferret and Creel took an interest in the scout’s equipment, which had lain undisturbed by scavengers of either the animal or human variety. Inside a light pack was a change of clothes, a couple days of dried rations, flint and steel, and other sundry items. Ferret handed Creel a flask.
He shook it briefly then popped the stopper, sniffed at it, and tossed it back with a grimace.

  Creel transferred the items of use to his own pack. “You said you can handle a bow, can’t you, Taren?”

  When he nodded, Creel gave him the scout’s unstrung short bow, which was in decent condition, along with a couple of gut strings wrapped in oilcloth to protect them from the elements, as well as a quiver of arrows. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and carried the bow in hand.

  “Should make hunting easier if nothing else,” Taren said.

  They continued onward in silence for several hours, disheartened by the grim discovery of the scout’s remains. The day eventually warmed up, and the rolling countryside allowed for a steady pace. The foothills of the Sundered Peaks slipped away behind them, and Creel said they’d make the Llantry Woods in another day, two at the most.

  Taren glanced over at Mira, noting she was clutching her necklace, idly toying with it as she walked. He’d noticed the necklace before. It obviously had some significance to her even though it looked like something a child might wear, fashioned with colorful beads and a leaping fish carved of silver.

  “Did your parents give that to you?” he asked curiously, for she’d never spoken of her past or family, other than the monastery.

  Mira blinked and glanced down at the necklace in surprise, as though unaware she’d been holding it. “No, it was found with me when I was an infant. I like to think your mother may have given it to me.” She smiled.

  “My mother?” After a moment, he remembered she’d been rescued as a child. “She found you abandoned as a baby, did she not?”

  “She did. My town had been destroyed, the residents slaughtered. I was the only survivor, plucked from a hovel at the edge of the village. My mother placed me in a box with magical wardings that protected me from harm. Neratiri found me, and eventually Master Dagun claimed me as an initiate.”

  “What’s the story between your master and my mother? She performed a service, and in turn the monastery pledged their support?” He’d heard the story of the fighting part from Wyat before but not the rest of the tale, it seemed.

  Mira nodded. “Neratiri arrived with some companions to investigate the slaughter in Lakeshore, a town near the Illuminated Path Monastery. They tracked the source of the killings to the monastery, where I’m ashamed to admit some of our elder brethren foolishly disturbed a tomb and unleashed a curse, causing an angry spirit to inflict such great harm. Neratiri and her companions defeated the spirit and lifted the curse. Master Dagun then sent some of our brethren to repay the favor a few years later when the Weave guided her to retake Nexus and prevent another Planar War, which would have gravely upset the Balance.”

  Taren noticed Ferret and Creel were also listening with interest.

  “And your mother rules Nexus now?” Ferret asked, clearly impressed.

  “The Lady of Twilight?” Creel’s eyebrows rose.

  “She does indeed,” Taren replied, feeling a strange pride for a mother he’d never known.

  “And now your master sent you to protect the Lady of Twilight’s son?” Ferret glanced at Mira.

  “Indeed, I am honored to be chosen to serve the Balance in such a way.”

  “I’d wager there’s a ballad waiting to be told about you all. Surely, the hands of the gods must be at work. Right, Dak?”

  Creel grunted noncommittally although he seemed to regard Taren and Mira in a new light.

  “Odd how events are tied together so,” Taren said. “That’s the essence of your Weave, I take it?”

  The monk bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Just so, Taren, for it influences all things in the multiverse. Our lives are truly bound together, not only the present and future, but also the past.”

  The Weave… or the hands of the gods. He wondered which was at work, for he had begun to feel as though he were being pushed along on a path that had been foreordained.

  “A grim future awaits you, thaumaturge, one filled with much anguish and strife,” the old seeress had told him. “In your hands rests the power to break the world… or clutch the broken pieces together as the tides of war seek to sluice it all away into chaos. The path you tread is perilous… One small misstep, and all could fall to ruin. Death and tragedy shall follow close upon your heels, vultures eager to feast upon the fallen. Of those who you love best, one will die willingly, another a sacrifice unwilling, the last seduced by evil.”

  The day seemed to have taken on a sudden chill, and he lapsed into silence, alone with his thoughts. He hoped to find the answers he sought once he reached Nexus.

  Chapter 20

  Sianna was cold and miserable. She and Iris clung to each other in the bow of the small rowboat, cloaks pulled as tightly about themselves as was possible. Rafe sat in the stern and rowed although his strength was flagging after hours on the run.

  They had fled through the woods for what felt an eternity but in all likelihood was but an hour or two until they encountered the stream Rafe had spoken of. Sporadic sounds of pursuit could be heard from the forest, and on one occasion, they were forced to hide, lying flat beneath a cluster of tall bracken when they spotted torchlight. The Nebarans were sweeping the woods, yet they were able to evade them for the time being.

  Fortunately, a mist had crept up near the languid stream in the waning hours of night. They walked along the stream for a ways, and Sianna worried about the tracks they were leaving in the soft earthen banks. She was relieved when they came across an old shack with a creaky fishing boat beached on the bank. The boat proved fit to carry them, sparing their weary legs and Iris’s injured ankle, although their progress was slow and getting slower with Rafe’s exhaustion. At least being on water made tracking them more difficult, although one wouldn’t need to be a master tracker to decipher the footprints and scuff marks on the bank where they’d launched the boat and to realize they’d taken to the water.

  Sianna kept glancing overhead in fear of seeing the fiendish Nesnys gliding on her black wings, waiting to strike and pluck one of their heads off with her infernal whip. Sol must have been watching over them, for they saw no sign of her when daybreak dawned.

  Maintaining her composure under such duress proved trying. The knowledge of her mother’s death broke her heart—Sianna was now the last of the royal family and the rightful liege of Ketania. No pressure on me now, she thought bitterly.

  Sir Colm had spared her the sight of the queen butchered in her chambers. The thought of the deaths of her mother, Sir Colm, and Brother Horst brought tears to her eyes.

  Sir Colm’s loss struck her particularly hard, due to her actually witnessing him courageously facing his death, a sacrifice so that Sianna could escape. For her whole life, the solid presence of the captain of the guard had always been there, particularly in recent years as her trainer and mentor, and she missed him more than she’d thought possible.

  Trainer, mentor, and friend. A pained smile spread on her lips as she stroked the hilt of the fine sword he had gifted her, purchased with much of his own coin. You served my family with great honor and distinction. You can rest easy in Sol’s blessed halls. Farewell, my friend.

  “Princess, are you well?” Rafe asked, startling her from her bleak thoughts.

  “Queen,” Iris mumbled.

  “Come again?” The guard let the oars rest for a moment and stretched his weary arms.

  “She’s the queen now, Rafe, and you’d do well to remember that,” Iris said tartly.

  The big guard flushed. “Aye, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I… uh…”

  “It’s all right, Rafe. Don’t worry. I’m not much of a queen without a castle or a kingdom anymore.”

  “You still have a kingdom, Your, uh, Majesty,” he replied. “Once we’re safe, we’ll link up with Lord Lanthas and the army and clear the scum from our lands.”

  “Lord Lanthas and Sir Edwin,” she said, her thoughts drifting.

  “Aye, I reckon so. If Sir Edwin is alive.” Rafe took up
the oars and began stroking again.

  Sianna blushed, unaware she’d spoken aloud. Iris patted her knee sympathetically.

  They floated down the stream until midmorning. All of them were exhausted, badly in need of rest. Rafe told them he knew of a safe place they could rest and hide. He assured them they would reach his village in another half day, perhaps even that evening. Sianna felt nervous about moving around in broad daylight, expecting the assassins combing the woods to spot them at any moment.

  Rafe eventually guided the boat to shore, and it crunched against the sandy bank. He splashed out into the stream and graciously assisted the women out of the skiff so that they didn’t have to get wet. Sianna supported Iris while the guard shoved the boat back into the slow current, where it would lead pursuit away from them, they hoped. He offered to carry Iris once more, but she refused, embarrassed at being carried like a babe. Sianna thought the guardsman’s chivalry might have outweighed his fortitude though, for he looked every bit as exhausted as she felt.

  They walked through the woods for about an hour, stopping occasionally while Rafe got his bearings. Sianna used to love riding her palfrey, Lady, through the forest in summertime, enjoying the cool shade and the shafts of sunlight streaming through the branches, as well as the fresh, clean smell of plants and earth. Iris and some other ladies of the court would accompany her on her rides, along with a few guardsmen. But now, every shadow seemed to hold danger, every rustle in the bushes a potential assassin.

  “Here we are, Your Majesty. Wait a moment, and I’ll take a look to make sure no critters have holed up inside.” Rafe barged through some undergrowth and disappeared in a clamor of crunching leaves and breaking twigs.

  Iris squeezed Sianna’s hand as they waited nervously, eyes darting around for signs of their pursuers. The forest, a riot of orange and red fall colors, was filled with the music of birds chirping. Dry leaves rustled overhead, and a squirrel raced nimbly along a tree branch and disappeared into the foliage.