The Akalian gave him a small smile. “A rest would be good, I think.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The day, when it came, came like any other. The sun rose slowly into the sky, once more chasing the moon and the shadows away. Animals of the forest scurried through the trees, and birds sang their morning song. But this day, Aaron knew, would not be like those that had come before it. Today, the fate of the world would be decided, for good or ill.
He passed dozens of tents where soldiers were doing last-minute checks on their gear and weapons, preparing for the final march, the one that would lead them to Baresh.
Seeing them all as he walked, feeling the nervousness that covered the army camp like a shroud, Aaron had to resist the urge to bring his own sword out again, to test its edge. He’d done so at least a dozen times already during the sleepless night just passed. He had more important things to do just now.
The Speaker of the Akalians walked beside him, and despite the dangers they faced, soldiers paused in their preparations to stare at him warily as if some wild, ferocious beast had been brought among them, displaying a distrust that had been bred into them since childhood. But if the black-garbed man noticed, he gave no sign, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
The command tent was bustling with activity when they arrived, a flurry of messengers and scouts coming and going with reports. Aaron stepped inside to see a harried-looking Brandon Gant speaking with a messenger. He said something, and the man nodded before hurrying past the sellsword and the Speaker without a word. “Any news?” Aaron said.
“Oh, there’s all kinds of it,” Brandon said. “Just none that’s of any use.”
Aaron nodded. “Still no sign of Baresh’s army?”
Brandon grunted, shaking his head. “None. It’s as if the bastards just up and vanished.”
“I doubt we’re that lucky,” Aaron said.
He glanced at Adina where she stood at the table with General Yalleck, watching him. They’d spoken little the night before. There had been a thousand things Aaron wanted to say, things he needed to tell her, but somehow every time he’d opened his mouth, nothing had come out. So instead they had lain in the small bed they shared, holding each other, and taking comfort in that. Some things, after all, didn’t need to be said to be known.
“Well, I’ll show you what we’ve got so far,” Brandon said, motioning to the table where a map of the area surrounding the city had been laid out, spotted with small pieces representing the separate sections of the army.
As he followed the captain to the table, Aaron noted the suspicious glare Yalleck shot the Speaker, fingering the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. “Good morning, everyone,” Aaron said. “I apologize for the earliness of the hour, but now that the Speaker and his brothers are here, we need to discuss strategy.”
Brandon grunted. “Wasn’t sleepin’ anyway.”
“Right. Now, we need to gather the bulk of our forces at the gate.” He glanced at the Speaker who nodded. “Once the Akalians open the gate, we’ll need to drive through as quickly as we can. That should—”
“If.”
General Yalleck was looking at the Speaker, his lip curled with distaste. “You have something to add, General?”
“Yes, I do.” He glanced around at the others. “Oh, come now. You have heard as well as I—these Akalians don’t even number twenty men. And somehow, we’re supposed to believe that they are going to manage to sneak into the gatehouse and get the gate open? I doubt that Baresh’s soldiers will just sit back and let that happen. And even if they could open the gate, I would not feel comfortable trusting such a scheme.”
What he meant, Aaron suspected, was he didn’t feel comfortable trusting the Akalians themselves. “Well, then that’s good news, General. It’s a war, after all—you’re not supposed to be comfortable. As for the Akalians being able to open the gate…” He turned once more to look at the Speaker, and again the man answered him with a nod. “If the Speaker says they can, I believe it. We will march on the city today. Tonight, the Akalians will make their move, and so we’ll need to bring the army close to the gate. Now, we will need all of the Virtue-bearers waiting near the gate and—” He cut off as Yalleck made a sound that was something between a laugh and a growl. “Is something else bothering you, General?”
Yalleck looked around the tent incredulously. “Gods, but you’ve got to be kidding, right? Not only does our strategy rely on these”—he gestured at the Speaker—“these…men to do what is essentially impossible, but we intend to keep all the Virtue-bearers in the same place? And what if they are needed elsewhere? Would it not be wiser to conduct a slow siege operation? If the fleet of ships we sent manages to take the docks, then we can starve out our enemy. There is no need—”
“Yes, there is,” Aaron said. “Understand, General, this is no normal war, and our enemy is no normal man. We march against a mage from ancient times, one who has had weeks to prepare for our coming. He has spent that time growing stronger and terrorizing the innocents inside the city’s walls with his abominations. We will not, on top of all of that, starve them. As for the Virtue-bearers, it is necessary they be close to the walls, along with the Ghosts, and the best troops that Captain Gant has already picked from the other armies. Once the gate opens, we must push through as hard as we can, as fast as we can. As you say, I doubt Kevlane will sit back and let us walk in without a fight.”
Yalleck shook his head. “Madness. And if the gate doesn’t open? If they fail? Then what?”
“It will open.” They all turned to look at the Speaker, even Yalleck seeming taken back by the certainty in his voice. “My brothers and I,” the Speaker went on in a soft voice, “have been fighting this evil for longer than you can imagine, General Yalleck. We have been here since the beginning, doing what we could to stop the harm that he would cause. We have dedicated our lives to this, to protecting the world from the magi and his evil. We will not fail.”
They were all silent then, even the general who seemed to have no words to answer the conviction with which the Akalian spoke. Aaron glanced around and gave a final nod. “Alright then. We all have things to do—let’s get them done.”
***
“Do you really believe they can do it?”
Aaron looked up from the map of Baresh to see Adina standing beside him. The others were gone, seeing to their own tasks so, for the moment, the two of them were alone. The Akalians?” he asked. “Yes, I believe they can. I have to believe it, Adina. It’s the best way. If they don’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I know,” she said, coming close and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I believe you. Where is the Speaker now?”
“He’s meeting with Caleb,” Aaron said. “They’re going over the gate mechanism one more time, making sure everything is in order.”
Adina nodded. “Aaron, there was something else about what you said. If the Virtue-bearers are stationed at the gate to help force the army’s way through, then you’ll be among the first into the city.”
“Yes,” Aaron said. “I know, Adina, it’s dangerous, but it has to be done.”
She opened her mouth to say something else, but suddenly the tent flap was thrown open and the young giant, Bastion, peered inside. “Forgive me, General, Queen. But Captain Gant says to tell you the army will begin marching within the hour.”
Adina nodded. “Thank you, Bastion. We will be ready.” The man left, and she turned back to the sellsword. “Aaron,” she began, then paused, swallowing hard.
“I know, Adina,” he said. “Me too. But everything’s going to be okay.” She gave a nod and walked out of the tent. Aaron watched her go, surprised by how easily the lie had come. Whatever else happened, things were just about as far away from okay as they could get.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Simon lay in his bed, pretending to be asleep while his mother opened the door of his room and peered inside to check on hi
m. She did so every night, as if he were still a kid like his little brother, Everett, as if he were the one who woke up crying from nightmares about monsters under his bed. Ridiculous, of course. Simon was eleven years old—practically a man grown—and everyone knew monsters didn’t hide under the bed. What would they even eat?
Still, he made sure none of his annoyance showed as he waited impatiently, his eyes squeezed shut, until his mother finally left. Once she was gone, he remained unmoving, listening to the hushed, frightened sounds of his mother and father speaking in the hallway outside his door. Though he couldn’t make out their words, he thought he knew well enough what they would be. Something about the army camped outside the city walls, that was sure—it was all they seemed to want to talk about since news had arrived early in the morning.
The army this and the army that all in hushed, frightened tones. It was the same reason Simon’s father had refused to let him play outside with his friends and, when Simon had argued, had sent him up to his room. It wasn’t fair but, then, parents were never fair. Simon‘s eleven years had taught him that much, just as it had taught him that monsters didn’t hide under beds, but in dark alleys where they might chomp on anybody that walked by. But Simon wasn’t scared of them, just as he wasn’t scared of the army outside the city walls.
Simon considered himself a risk-taker, a warrior. He had long since lost the count of the bandits and monsters he’d slain over his eleven years of life, but he was confident it was in the thousands. Big or small, scaly or slimy, they had all succumbed to his sword—a sword that, at the moment, was a long stick with the twigs trimmed away, hidden carefully under his bed. Yet it was a sword for all that, just as the monsters he fought were dangerous even though they didn’t, strictly, exist.
He heard the door to his parents’ room shut and risked opening his eyes to look around. Satisfied they wouldn’t be back, he pulled the coverlet aside and crept to his room’s small window, careful to avoid the parts of the floor that might creak and give him away. The moon was high in the sky, bathing the dark city in its pale light, and Simon was reminded of a story his father had once told him. The story claimed the moon was alive, that it was a man who had been trapped up there, tricked or lied to by some goddess—Simon forgot which—and left to spend all eternity looking upon the world but never again allowed to be a part of it.
He didn’t believe a word of it, of course, and thought it all too likely the story had just been his father’s way of trying to scare him away from his nightly excursions. It hadn’t worked. Nor had the stories about strange creatures roaming the city—his best friend, Blake, had even claimed to have seen one of the things—dissuaded him. Blake said the thing had looked like a man, but with its face all cut up, its arms far too long and far too thin. Ridiculous, of course. Simon had imagined—had seen—a lot of different monsters in his time. There were big ones with claws, hairy ones with sharp teeth and thick muscles. A thousand different ones, but none of them with arms so small. How could such a skinny monster be dangerous at all?
The truth was, and though it hurt Simon to admit it about his best friend, Blake was a bit of a coward. Simon used to try to get the other boy to go on his nightly monster hunts with him, but his friend had always refused, claiming his parents would be angry if they found out. So Simon had long since stopped trying to convince him. And what kind of silly reason was that to keep from having fun, anyway? Parents were always angry, always complaining about kids sneaking out or tracking mud through the house, torturing you with lessons from an old tutor whose breath smelled of garlic, and then getting mad when you ran out on the lesson—as if anybody could be blamed for doing such a thing.
Still, Simon felt good. The night was clear, without rain. Perfect weather for fighting monsters. So he crept out of his room and down their house’s small hallway to stand outside his parents’ door. He was rewarded with the sound of his father’s snoring, a sound that had, on more than one occasion, represented the angry growls of a monster or wild beast that had somehow managed to sneak into Simon’s house, and that had quickly been defeated by Simon’s skill. Simon the Swordmaster. It was what they called him. Or, at least, it was what they would call him, when he got older and was able to get himself a real sword and fight real bandits.
For now, make-believe monsters were good enough—and no real bandit or thief was ever as scary as the creatures Simon fought. He waited another moment then, satisfied that his mother and father would be asleep for hours yet, he crept back to his room and grabbed his sword before easing the window open and climbing out. He no longer had to look for the handholds on their two-story house, he had memorized each long ago and could have done it with his eyes closed.
Seconds later, he was in the street, his trusty sword in his hand. He’d just finished killing the last of the monsters waiting for him there and was taking a minute to catch his breath when a girl ran up to him. She was pretty—he’d seen her in the market a few days ago, but this time instead of the long blonde hair she’d had before, she had short, dark hair. Because, after all, it was his imagination, and he could change things however he wanted.
“Sir Simon,” the woman said, “we need your help.”
“Oh?” he said, in a voice not high and squeaking like in real life, but brave and sure and deep. The voice of a hero. “What is it, fair maiden?”
They were always saying that, in the stories. Fair maiden this and fair maiden that.
“Monsters,” she said, her eyes wide and adoring as she gazed at him, taking in his shining white armor. “There are monsters, Sir Simon, climbing over the walls. Please help us.”
“Of course, fair maiden,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it gracefully, and the real Simon, the boy who stood in the street holding the invisible woman’s hand in one of his own while the other held the long stick, felt himself blushing as he did so.
He’d lived in Baresh all his life, and their house was close to the western wall of the city. Usually, the monsters didn’t go up that far—no doubt scared of being caught by the guards and having them tell his parents again. Simon didn’t think his father would actually put bars on the windows, but he didn’t really want to test him. But the night was still young and his parents had gone to bed earlier than normal after a long day at the market. He thought he could probably slay the monsters and be back long before they woke up.
So, glancing down the street both ways, Simon hurried toward the nearest staircase leading to the top of the wall. He waited at the corner of a building, studying the area near the staircase for any hint of monsters or—more dangerous still—guards. He waited, patiently, for about three seconds, then decided he was clear and sprinted for the staircase.
He took the steps two at a time, staying as low as he could, sure that at any moment he’d hear a shout from a guard. But there was nothing, no one. Except, of course, the monster waiting for him at the top of the stairs. It swiped at him with a cruel, taloned claw, but one quick strike of his sword sent the offending limb spiraling into the darkness. His next sword stroke took the monster’s head from its shoulders.
When he reached the landing at the top of the wall, he crouched, shoulders tense, as he waited for one of the guards to give a shout. Never before had he made it all the way up the steps without being caught. No matter how much he looked, how long he spent watching their patrols, the guards always seemed to notice him. He usually escaped without getting caught—Simon the Swordmaster was fast, like, really fast—but sometimes the guards, who outnumbered him, managed it. His father had promised him the next time they did, Simon would be sleeping on his stomach for a week. So Simon waited, struggling to contain his excitement about making it this far as he scanned the battlements carefully for any sign of the guards.
It was for this reason he noticed something hanging over the edge of the wall, caught the barest glint of metal in the moonlight. Frowning, he looked around once more, assuring himself no guards were near, then crept closer to see what it was. Not a
make-believe monster, not this. This was real. Though, it had to be said, it did share some similarities with the monster claws he imagined. But where he always envisaged sharp, cruel talons of bone, the hooks on this device were metal. Three in all, each as sharp as the last, and two of which appeared to have caught on the stones of the wall. Simon’s heart began to gallop in his chest as he realized Blake might have been right after all.
Fighting monsters was one thing—something any champion swordsman was sworn to do, but this was different. He’d read enough stories (most snuck behind his father and mother’s back) to know this was a grappling hook, the kind used by thieves and …and assassins. His mouth suddenly incredibly dry, Simon scanned the wall, and soon saw other grappling hooks along its length.
He was counting them—had reached six—when he heard what sounded like the beginning of a shout, quickly silenced, and spun to look at the corner of the battlements less than thirty feet away. At first, he thought that he must have imagined the sound the same way that his younger brother imagined monsters under his bed. After all, everyone knew the night played tricks on you, if you weren’t careful and…Simon’s breath caught in his throat as what he’d taken to be no more than shadows at the corner of the battlements moved.
There were two shadows outlined vaguely in the pale moonlight, moving oddly, as if they were hugging. No, that wasn’t quite right. Their feet were moving too, and it didn’t look like they were hugging, not really. It looked as if they were dancing. Then one of the figures stumbled away from the other, collapsing to the ground. He sprawled in the light, and Simon saw that he wore the uniform of a city guardsman.
Simon had never seen a dead body before—at least, not a real one—but there was something wrong about the figure on the ground. It took him several confused seconds to figure out what it was, and when he did a shiver of terror ran up his spine. The figure’s neck was bent at an impossible angle, one no living man could ever bear. Simon scrambled back to the stairs and huddled behind the stone railing, his heart hammering in his chest.
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