by S J Hartland
Exhausted by shock and pain, Kaell braced the trunk to rise. His knees nearly buckled, his harried mind hooked on another wretched thought. His enemy overpowered him, took him. Why didn’t they kill him?
Now his breath stalled. Wings beat against a black-domed sky; falling blackness, blackness ready to suffocate him with terror.
Only one answer. Alive, they could drag him back to their god. A trophy, a prisoner to torture. Not just over days but months. No, the ghouls must not capture him again. If he could not get away, he must drive his own knife into his heart.
Kaell staggered a few steps. A light winked through trees. His heart hit ribs. A village. Cottages with window boxes spilling with flowers circled a grassy clearing. Goats bleated behind wooden fences.
He lurched towards raised voices, laughter, scents of ale and roasting meat. Armed men drank around a crackling fire. One leaned against a wooden barrel beneath an ancient, gnarled tree.
“Help me.”
The men fell silent and stared. A woman with long, auburn hair stepped from a cottage. She turned a flat gaze on him.
“Help me.”
A thick-waisted man with a slashed mouth and bristled brown hair lumbered to his feet. Dew wet the rim of a cloak draping his sturdy shoulders. “Help you?” He turned to the others. “He wants us to help him.”
They all laughed. Some rose and surrounded Kaell. He recoiled, not understanding.
The brown-haired man threw a fist. Surprised, Kaell blocked the blow with his forearm. He groped for his knife. But other hands grabbed him from behind, held him.
“Help you?” The man sneered. “We’re in these woods tonight to make sure none of you get away.”
He punched. Kaell fell back against the others, blood metallic on his lips. Still laughing, they let him go. Dazed, disorientated, he slumped to his knees.
The man with brown hair grasped his chin. “I’ll help you,” he jeered. “Pass out.” His fist came at Kaell again.
Aric
Aric leaned his elbows on the window edge. A westward wind gusted, hot for autumn. He hardly felt it. Nor did his stare take in the sea frothing and breaking over rocks beneath.
Fists knotted, he bristled with frustration. Come spring, the false king intended to sunder their gates with his beasts of siege engines. The Isles must be ready. But how, when his father locked up his best warrior?
He leaned to brush fingers over the tower’s rough stone, its chipped blocks warm from the sun. So many other hands must have touched these walls.
Maybe Ryol Caelan stood at this very window as his cousin Devarsi invested the castle with soldiers and towering trebuchets. Had Ryol felt as restless as he did? Had he yearned to do something, anything, rather than wait for defeat?
A key rattled in the lock. Aric turned, expecting his father or uncle to appear to berate him again for his wilfulness. Or a servant, eyes averted as they left a tray of food and wine while an insolent guard smirked from the passage.
Pairas stepped inside, grim-faced. “You’re free to leave this room.”
Alarm kicked in Aric’s gut. “Why?”
Pairas said nothing. He did not look at him.
“Why?”
“That boy, Kaell—” Pairas’ voice trailed off.
“Tell me.”
“We’ve received word by raven from some place called Thom. About a massacre.”
Aric recoiled. “They’re all dead? And—” He dragged in a breath. “And Kaell?”
Pairas hesitated for barely a second. “Dead, Aric. Just as Aingear saw. I’m sorry.”
But Aric caught his pause. “What are you not telling me?”
His friend would not meet his eyes. “Nothing. They’re all dead.”
Kaell
Fragrances of tallow, dried herbs and honeysuckle drifted as gently as a lazy, warm breeze.
Still half asleep, Kaell smiled. The scents belonged to Mountains summers, to long, carefree days when he stole away after his lessons to pick blueberries with Alyssa.
He did not want to surface from this sweet torpor, but someone shook him.
A woman bent over him. “I must check your wounds.”
“I’m wounded?” Kaell lifted his head. Nausea speared his belly. He groaned and dropped back on a pillow until the sickness passed.
Why was he wounded? Remember. But his thoughts shredded into a black, empty mire.
“Quiet, blossom.” Dark-red hair wisped the woman’s brow, the rest weaved into a long plait tickling his arm. Capable hands prodded his naked body beneath a prickling blanket.
Where were his clothes? Where was he?
Straw rustled on the cot beneath his back. An ember-red fire spat in a hearth. Tallow from candles in holders adorned a stained table. Beeswax and the faintest hint of lavender drenched the air’s smoky warmth.
Dull, yellowed light streaked through shutters upon sachets, bottles and earthenware jars. They crammed untidily onto shelves upon a hut’s walls. Dried herbs and flowers bunched from rafters.
“Who are you?” Kaell croaked. “What happened to me?”
“All is well.” The woman did not smile. “After many days, the crisis came last night and your fever broke. I removed the arrow heads while you slept, stopped the bleeding.”
“Bleeding.” Kaell fought a moment of disorientated panic. His dulled wits strained at shadows draping his memory. “Yet nothing hurts.”
The woman rested her hand at the nape of his neck to hold a cup to his lips. “Salve on the wounds. And poppy juice to mask the pain.”
And bring sleep. He sipped, wanting to surrender to the languid wave sinking his limbs … except for a niggle of unease, an inner voice warning him to stay awake.
“Where are my clothes?”
“Shy are we? I cut them off to clean and bandage your thigh. Your shoulder, too, is gouged. An arrow scraped bone in your ankle. There’s an old scar there.”
An old scar. That seemed important. Part of who he was. Kaell sank down. “Who are you?” How did he get here? Why couldn’t he remember?
“Don’t talk, blossom. Sleep.”
His eyelids drooped. “My name’s—not blossom.” That sounded ungracious, so he added, “Thank you for helping me.”
Sleep rushed him. He thought he heard: “I do not need your thanks, blossom. He shall reward me.” But the words might be part of a dream. It might all be a dream.
Night fell and deepened. Fragmented images, faces, played behind his eyelids.
He wandered in a forest perfumed of rain and drizzling mist, searching. A man sobbed. Kaell followed the sound. But it faded until he stood alone and confused among dark trunks.
“My lord, Raggamirron. It’s too soon. He’s still too ill to move.”
Golden hair. Dark eyes. Cool hands on his skin. A whisper.
“It’s been three days. He’ll heal fast now. We’ll return at sunset.”
Kaell woke in hard light. A new fire burned in the hearth. Smoke. Cold air. Yawing shadows. Shivering, he reached for the blanket. His hand caught. What? He tugged. Rope looped his wrists to the cot.
“Did you bind me? Why?”
No answer. No sign of the woman.
Panicked, Kaell thrashed about, twisted his hands. The cords bit but held firm.
“Are you there? Cut me free.”
The woman appeared. She touched fingertips to his brow. “Warm. I’ll check your wounds then bring more poppy juice.”
“Release me. I’ll not hurt you.”
She stripped back the blanket and peeled blood-soaked cloths from his wounds. “They’re right. You do heal quickly.” Her voice shrilled in surprise.
“Answer me!” Kaell jerked at the ropes, arched his back, squirmed. Snatches of his dream returned to him. Return at sunset. Sunset.
What happened at sunset? From the harsh light the day already aged.
Nameless fear tore through him. Again he writhed, panting until he collapsed with exhaustion.
“Still, still,” the
woman said. “It’s no good, blossom. You only tire yourself.”
She covered his wounds and pulled up the blanket. “I’ll fetch you something to eat.”
“I don’t care about food. Tell me why you trussed me like a beast?”
She dropped her hands to her waist. “Very well. Since you won’t leave it alone. It’s because they don’t want trouble. When they return to take you.”
Take him? Who? Where was he? That veil on his mind shrouded something important. He must remember. Must.
Dal-Kanu. With a jolt he recalled the city. The king. Aric. A journey. Thom.
Thom.
As if a hand squeezed his heart, memory ripped up his breast. His breath disappeared. Arn. Olier. Kaell wanted to scream, weep. Run. Fight. Hide.
Die.
Oh gods, his friends, warriors he’d known since childhood, all dead. It wasn’t right they had died, and he hadn’t. A beast’s sounds, not words, caught in his throat.
“Witless.” The woman tapped her temple. “I suppose it’s better for you that way.”
She moved away, humming.
“Let me be dead too,” Kaell whispered. “Khir, please. If you hear me, I can’t stand this ache. I don’t want to survive if I’m alone.”
Alone. With ghouls about to come for him. He groaned in despair.
The woman returned with a cup. Kaell listlessly shook his head.
“It’s water. Not poppy juice.”
His throat as dry as sand, Kaell drank.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The woman turned away.
“They will torture and kill me,” Kaell blurted.
She stopped. Turned back. Regarded him with eyes as hard and lifeless as unpolished diamonds. Empty of compassion. “Why should I care, blossom?”
“I’m Kaell, not some flower. I heard what they said: they return at sunset. You can’t deliver me to them.”
“I lose patience with your nonsense. One more word and I’ll gag you.”
Kaell fell silent. Light dulled towards dusk. Beneath a soft wind, crickets chirred.
“How can you do this? I’m human, like you. Why help ghouls?”
The woman took up knitting needles near the fire. “Spare me your tiresome cries for pity. Everyone knows Khir’s warrior is not quite human.”
She knew who he was. Ice fingers trailed across Kaell’s scalp.
“Why bother to treat my wounds? Better to let me die. They’ll just kill me, anyway.”
The woman dropped her knitting, rose, found a cloth.
“I will be silent,” Kaell muttered.
“See you are, blossom. Still, too.” She glared, then shrugged and sat. Her needles clicked time away. Time he didn’t have. Kaell glanced at the windows. Dusk gathered like storm clouds. He could not just lie there and wait for whatever happened at dusk.
Desperately, violently, he hurled himself back and forward.
The woman flew at him, her face twisted with fury. “Stop this nonsense.”
Kaell thrashed. The cot creaked and shook.
“You wicked, wicked child. I’ll force a sleeping draught down your throat.” With clunked footsteps she trod off, returning with a bottle. She grasped his chin.
Kaell twisted his head away.
A fist thudded against the door. Two ghouls entered. The last light fled as though they marched darkness into the room.
Kaell stared in shock. One was the ghoul from the tournament. Lastenarron.
“You,” he seethed, wrenching at his bonds. “You killed those men to spite me. You’ll pay.”
Lastenarron blew Kaell a kiss. “Threats now. Such a fierce child. I missed you.”
The other ghoul addressed the woman. “He is well enough to travel?”
She nodded. “His wounds healed quickly, as you said. Be wary, my lord.”
“Wary is Raggamirron’s second name.” Lastenarron barked laughter. “His first is duty. His others—honour and courage. My friend is very dull. I wonder why we are friends at all.”
Raggamirron stood over Kaell. He was blond, tall and as elegantly lovely as every ghoul, his face as splendid as a bird of prey’s. A fur-lined cloak brushed boots of tanned hide. An embroidered leather doublet tapered to a sword belted around slender hips.
Yet despite the ghoul’s graceful form, Kaell sensed bull strength, a contained menace.
“This is the warrior you fought, Lastenarron?”
Lastenarron swaggered closer. “Pretty isn’t he?” He thrust his knife to Kaell’s throat, forcing his head back with the tip. “A pretty beast.”
“Beast?” Kaell curved a brow, determined not to show fear. “She says I’m a blossom.”
The woman tapped her head. “He hit his head. Something not right there.”
Lastenarron sighed. “I’ve slaughtered two bonded warriors. Children, like you. Why does your god send boys against us?”
“I’m no boy. I’m a blossom. Ask her.”
“Mad,” the woman said.
“Or pretending to be. How sweet.” Lastenarron leaned to sniff. “He’ll taste sweet, too.”
“Cut him free,” Raggamirron said. “Wrap him in something—you and I both shall suffer if he freezes to death—and bind him.”
Lastenarron tickled his blade across Kaell’s cheek. “Maybe our lord will give him to me. When he’s done with him.” With a leer, he dug a knee into Kaell’s hip and slashed at cords.
Lord? Done with him? Kaell thrashed hard. Once bound and their prisoner, he was lost.
Lastenarron struck him a numbing blow. “Settle down, sweetness.”
He rose off Kaell and sauntered off.
“Woman,” Raggamirron said. “I can’t take him through the mountains naked.”
She brought a tunic and pants. “Will these do? His are bloody rags.”
“Dress.” Raggamirron shoved the garments at Kaell.
Kaell struggled into tight clothing. He huddled on the cot, shielding his shivering body with his arms. Dread bowed his shoulders. Only pain and humiliation lay ahead. Shame.
Vraymorg would soon learn of the ambush. He’d think Kaell recklessly led his men to their slaughter. His lord would shake his head, his lips grim with disappointment.
Kaell blinked the terrible image away. If only he had a blade to drive into his heart. End this struggle, end this unendurable grief and guilt.
Yet despite his hopelessness, the prospect of torture and a slow death endured alone, part of him bucked at such cowardly surrender.
Would his lord, if held captive, give up? No. Even from that dark pit where all seemed lost, Vraymorg would shout his defiance, scornfully tell his captors to do their worst.
Kaell could not let his lord down, even in thought. He’d die well, be worthy of the man who raised him.
Lastenarron dangled coiled rope. “Wrists together, little beast.”
“I’m a blossom,” Kaell laughed. And laughed. It was better than weeping.
“Wrists together, little flower.”
Kaell sprang at him. He landed a blow hard enough to knock Lastenarron off his feet. But pain snapped like steel teeth about his wounded ankle. Kaell moaned and toppled.
Lastenarron rose. “Naughty child.” He hauled Kaell up, an arm to his windpipe as Raggamirron bound his hands.
Kaell winced as cord bit. “This won’t stop me. You’ll have to kill me.”
“Sweet boy.” Lastenarron kissed his brow. “So fierce. But you said you were a flower.”
Raggamirron tied a cloak about Kaell’s trembling shoulders. “Walk.”
He took a step. Fire seared his ankle. His leg buckled.
With a patient sigh, Raggamirron circled an arm about his waist and half dragged, half pulled him outside.
Icy air stung Kaell’s face and neck. Gooseflesh blistered his arms as vicious as the glares from ghouls turning to stare. Ranks of them. Some stoop-shouldered with weariness. Others bloody. Their lips curled in snarling hatred.
Raggamirron barked orders. A ghoul broug
ht forward a horse dragging a wooden frame.
Outraged, Kaell blenched. “You expect me to submit, to let you lug me about like a beast?”
“Be grateful you’re injured. Otherwise I’d loop rope about your neck and make you run.” Raggamirron shoved.
Kaell sprawled on frost-hard ground. He glared up. “I won’t make this easy for you.”
Ghouls pounced. Cursing, kicking, flailing, he fought them as they hurled him onto the frame and bound him to its slabs.
“He’s stronger than he looks,” one laughed, slapping his head.
“Sweet isn’t he.” Lastenarron strode from the darkness. “He’s a blossom.”
“He’s a killer.”
Kaell traced the new voice. For a moment, shock numbed him. Wind nipped his skin through cloth, coldly ruffled his hair. The coarse cloak’s musk caught in his throat.
Beneath the forest’s pungent, earthy fragrances, beneath the wind, beneath the high-pitched bats in trees, the hum of insects, Kaell stiffened with anger.
Eelidaran.
“You sent us to our deaths!” He lurched against ropes, desperate to get at the man.
The Thom elder shrugged dispassionately. “We offered you and your men to our god.”
What god? Didn’t these villagers serve Khir?
“I swear I’ll make you answer for this.”
“You’ll be dead, or worse.” Sneering, Eelidaran tilted his head to study Kaell. “Not so proud now, are we, Kaell of Vraymorg. I cannot pity you.”
He turned away.
The ghouls set off. Kaell stared after Eelidaran until the lights of the village faded. “Khir, hear my oath,” he whispered to the night. “I will deliver vengeance for my men.”
Horses plodded through gloved darkness. The ghouls carried torches, pale, insignificant, flickering beacons in a sea of murky emptiness. Every so often a shadow hulked, a towering tree or mountain, the landscape alien and hostile.
Kaell tried to peer into the darkness, listened, smelt, seeking anything that revealed where he was.
“Where are you taking me?” he shouted. Armed ghouls trudged about him, cloaked against the cold. None answered.
