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Signs Of The Secret
Becky J. Rhush
Copyright © 2011 Becky J. Rhush
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To my partner in crime and love, Sabra. Also to my Mom, Dad, and Rhonda. Thanks for never giving up on me. And, above all the rest, thank You God. Without divine intervention, none of this would be possible!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks so much to Keelei Czex for her amazing cover art, modeling, and awesome friendship.
Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.
-Sun Tzu
PROLOGUE
“If we don’t make it out now, he’s going to kill my baby!” Perseathea wheezed, running off balance through the dark tunnel behind Bartamius. Pain tore through her swollen belly. Her face flushed hot, lungs burning in the stagnant air of the underground, making it hard for her to keep up with the young man.
“Keep going!” Bartamius gritted over his shoulder, clenching her sweaty palm.
Hot throbbing dropped the girl to her knees in the sand. Heaving Perseathea up, the adolescent boy kept a frantic watch over her shoulder. “There‘s no time-”
“I can’t stop the pain….”
“They’re coming. We have to get out of the fortress. Now!”
Perseathea squeezed his hands, holding back the warmth in her eyes. “You can’t come with me, Bartamius. You have to go back.”
He looked passed her, scanning the tunnel left behind, then brought anxious eyes back down to her. “You won’t make it alone.”
“I will-“
“You won’t.”
“But they’ll kill you-”
He kept his gaze on her. Steady. Assuring. “They can’t. He needs me.”
“What about Essicka? We can’t leave her like this-”
Spurred by approaching voices, Bartamius lifted the pregnant girl into his arms. With his heart raging against his chest, he cleaved to Perseathea, staggering back into a run. Partway down the flickering halls, Perseathea’s hands tightened at his neck. He could feel her body tensing. Her sharp, short breaths. Her aching.
At the end of the dim corridor, he dropped the girl to her feet, scrambling up the dirt steps to the aperture. Manipulating the doorway masquerading as a tree trunk above ground, Bartamius ascended the dingy hole. Shuffling to his feet in the dead grass, he heaved Perseathea up into the bitter breeze of evening. With her panting and palming her knees, he hurried to unleash the horse waiting beneath the Sycamore.
Suddenly wailing, Perseathea clawed her belly, her cheeks flushed. “The baby…” her words dropped into panting, “it’s not going to wait.”
The young man lifted Perseathea with another strained grunt. “We’re almost out. Just hold on.” After one last glance at the tendrils of torch smoke escaping the tunnel, Bartamius lifted the girl partway onto the horse. “Grab hold.”
Perseathea lugged herself onto the animal, cradling her unborn child in protective arms. Voices traveled the underground again. Chasing after them.
“This way!” Came a muffled shout.
Bartamius slid in behind her, kicking the horse and launching them into a sprint down the hillside.
Perseathea squirmed in his arms, breathing hard. Hurting. It’d been two seasons she’d been with child, and at only fourteen summers in age, it weighed heavy on her frail frame. Burning squeezed her stomach, blazing the burn up her back. Into her legs. It was like nothing she had ever felt before. But more terrifying than her pain loomed a near crippling fear. Gragore sought to split her newborn in half. Would revel in it. And the warlord would be certain Perseathea witnessed it with her own eyes.
“Are you all right?” Bartamius’ words hovered warm over her cold ear.
“I don’t know.” She confessed. “The pain, it comes and goes.”
The horse urged forward at full gallop, tossing her about. She could feel Bartamius’ arms tensing around her as they hurtled down the hillside and into the first trees of the Black Cloud, a forest so named for its place on the mountain where the rain clouds hung low into its branches.
The woods at dusk were eerie. Thick and foreboding. The stink of rotting wood and decay hung on the frosty air. The dense web of leaves and vines disoriented all who ventured in. Every tree loomed haunting, shrouded in icy mist. And it was near the sun’s fall. The forest would soon be black. Inescapable.
Perseathea’s pain sliced back in, wrenching her with another series of short breaths.
“What,” her word cut short under the pain, “what about Essicka? We… we can’t leave Essicka.”
“I’ll go back after we-”
“I can’t leave her.”
“There they are!” A voice barked behind them.
Bartamius glimpsed over his shoulder. Three mounted soldiers gave chase. Black armor. War horses. A blue and purple banner flapping the wet wind. Gragore’s head of security. His three most violent and monstrous men, sent to cut Perseathea open.
Kicking desperately into his steed, Bartamius dashed through stinging limbs and a spray of wet leaves, searching the horse cut trail. The three soldiers were gaining ground, the sound of their armor clanging. Louder. Closer. Night blue and blood purple, the colors of murder in this land, growing larger.
“Halt!” One of them shouted, but the boy ignored them.
“Bartamius-” Perseathea begged, breathing hard.
“We’re going to make it. I promise.”
“Last warning, boy!”
Bartamius didn‘t look back, keeping his eyes sharp. Speeding down the steep trail, his horse side stepped the mush of rot and soil, darting into a shallow creek. Spritzing icy water over them. As the pain subsided, Perseathea eased a bit, holding tight to the horse’s tether. Her breath was coming back to her. Whatever was happening in her body faded again, but her heart still shuddered out of control. She could hear the men yelling just paces behind. The clanging of their armor. Heavy hooves pummeling mud. The sounds of death for her and her baby.
Leaning back into Bartamius’ chest, she squeezed his hand. “No matter what happens,” she urged into his ear, “know that I love you. You and Essicka.”
As soon as the words left her lips, Perseathea felt the boy’s body jolt. His arms loosened at her waist. A chill pricked over her. She turned to find his eyes stunned and glassy. His mouth gaping. The motion of the horse sliding him from her.
“Bartamius!” Double wrapping her hand in the horse’s tether, she clutched the boy’s tunic, grappling to hold him steady. He slid more and more from her white knuckled grasp, slipping the side of the saddle.
“It’s… it’s pois….” His words strained out.
“What?”
“Poisoned.”
“No!” Her arm burned, struggling to keep hold of Bartamius as he leaned into her hip. Gasping. Grappling at her waist with weak hands. And that’s when she saw it. A blotch of red staining the once white material over his shoulder blade. An arrow.
“Halt!” A soldier shouted from behind. Three men chased not ten paces back, one with a bow in his hand. The other two with swords drawn. Ready to dissect.
With one hand still knotted, and her other fighting to hold onto Bartamius, she narrowed eyes back on the forest ahead. She was heading into the deep of Black Cloud.
The deeper in, the colder it got. The mist heavier. The more tangled and thick the vines. And the sun had dropped. Darkness now soaked the forest in black. She’d be lucky to cut through on the horse path, already deep-rooted.
Twisting and turning through the dense trees, she pulled a sharp right, then another, rush
ing her steed headlong into a thigh deep torrent of frigid water. Spitting and coughing, she choked on the freezing water now soaking her to her waist.
She had to lose the soldiers. Had to find a place to hide. She’d never make it to Pahll-sus now. Pulling up on the muddy bank, she drew further away from the voices, somehow able to shove the wavering pain in her belly to the edge of her mind.
Eyeing the bleak river bank, she begged for a refuge to appear. Bartamius was certainly dying. The soldiers had been thrown off her pace, but not by much. She could still hear their garbled voices hiding in the dark trees beyond the rapids of the creek.
Slapping the haunch of her steed, she pushed the animal, feeling it sense her desperation. Her urgency. The horse exploded into another gallop, the cold wind stinging her with shivers. Her fingers were white and stiff, aching and cold as she struggled to clench Bartamius’ arm. The boy moaned without sense. Bleeding. Bobbing in and out of consciousness.
Teeth chattering, Perseathea balled a hard fist in the horse tethers, squeezing her thighs into the animal. The steed bucked up, nearly ripping Bartamius from her hand. Clawing the boy back up, Perseathea held to him, muscles burning.
“Bartamius! Please!” She could feel the young man’s arms grappling to hold her.
The horse bucked again, this time its hooves slipping the mud. All three of them slid into a narrow cut in the earth. The divide was tall enough to swallow them, leaving several hand lengths above before reaching the wet forest floor. There was only room enough for the passage of the horse. No more. Squinting into the darkness ahead, Perseathea realized they had fallen into a channel Bartamius had told her of before. It dug into the earth, formed by an ancient creek that now only stood a foot deep.
The steed trounced through muddy orange water, muck and tree roots scraping her legs. Moments later the earth opened up into a long forgotten sliver of the ancient pond. At the other side, a cave waited.
Trekking across the water, Perseathea untied her grip, causing herself to temporarily loose grasp of Bartamius. The boy flung into the mud, pummeling into orange puddles. Dropping herself from the horse, Perseathea landed unbalanced, her own belly toppling her to her knees in the cold mud. Scrambling back to her feet, she swatted the horses flank, sending the animal back into the forest.
“This way.” The soldier’s shout stabbed back.
At the sound of them, Perseathea’s heart froze. Scrambling to Bartamius, she struggled, digging heels, dragging him into the cave. Settling him into the dark and dank shadows, the young girl waddled back out into the beginnings of nightfall, the cold wind stinging her cheeks with new rain. The voices surrounded her.
“Belephron head east. Zach-Tarius west. We will not leave these woods till it is done!”
As the moon traveled, Perseathea held Bartamius in her arms, listening to the soldiers circle them. Their voices would fade, then re-emerge. Then fade again. Rocking the bleeding boy against her swollen belly, she felt his warmth oozing from a make shift wrap she had fashioned. She could smell his blood now. He hadn’t spoken. The last cry he’d made was when she’d broken the arrow in two and drew it from him. He could scarcely breathe, but shivered without end. Shaking from the bitter cold herself, her teeth chattered loud in her ears. Black Cloud would drop into frost, but she couldn’t chance a fire.
She could do nothing but sit with Bartamius in the icy black, listening to the chirp of the hundred or so bats above. She could feel the wind off their wings. Chilling her. Gagging her from the stench of their droppings. Wiping their stink from her legs, her jaw tensed with the pain rising and falling in her womb.
When the voices had been gone a goodly while, she settled Bartamius, and snuck out to the edge of the cave. The moon shone bright behind a wisp of clouds and had dropped from the middle of the sky.
Kneeling back to Bartamius, his belabored breathing stung her into tears. “We made it out, Bartamius. Just like you promised.”
After reaching Pahll-sus, Perseathea had no choice but to leave Bartamius teetering at the edge of death. It broke her heart to see him sleep, looking lifeless with fever. Her only solace was knowing that if death were to take him, his last wish would be, without a doubt, for her to make it out of Gragorian territory before the birth of the baby. She had no time to stay in Pahll-sus now. Not to eat, drink, or sleep. Her pains were coming and going with no promise of the baby’s arrival, and without a mother of her own, she had no understanding of such mysterious happenings.
She had to get out of Gragorian territory. If the baby were born during the treacherous travels, so be it. The only thing she was certain of was that she hadn’t felt the baby move. Not in days. Or longer. The pain in her body to push the child out grew strong, but the child itself had gone without movement for too long a time now. Her greatest fear was to escape Gragore’s men, only to deliver her first born without breath. The thought of it pulled her breath down into her chest, holding it there like a heavy hand.
A Pahll-sus man by the name of Silas had previously arranged with Bartamius to take Perseathea into new territory, and at the break of dawn, they set out. She was to travel the long journey hidden in the back of the man’s covered wagon, stashed among the horse feed hay and other various goods he planned to peddle along the journey.
With the sun warming and the song of morning birds, Perseathea left Pahll-sus behind. She prayed to the true Goddess, the deity her mother had worshipped before her death, and the only deity Perseathea had knowledge of beyond the serpent gods Gragore served. The true Goddess protected women and their children, and she needed nothing more than that now.
After countless days bumping along in the back of Silas’ wagon, and a meager diet of warm water and hard crust bread, Perseathea’s concern for her child grew desperate. The baby still had not moved. And she no longer felt the strange pain that would bring it either. She had no idea what to do for her child. Not only did she lose her mother in her early youth, she had also been brought up by men. Cruel, violent, warring men, with no concerns for her beyond one purpose.
Feeling lonely, she thought of Bartamius. Of Essicka. And of her mother. What she could remember of her. Time faded the woman’s face in her mind. Squeezing back hot tears, she laid in the hay, palming her belly. Wondering what her future days might bring. Exhausted, she drifted in and out of sleep a goodly portion of the travels.
At the heat of day, the wagon jerked to a stop, waking her. Saying nothing, Perseathea kept place, contemplating a run in with Gragore’s soldiers. Sitting quiet, she stared at the tarp covering the wagon, watching for any revealing silhouettes. Sweat misted her skin, stinging into her eyes. Silence. Then, she felt the wagon wobble and heard boots drop to the grass.
A glare of daylight rushed her on a hot breeze. When her eyes settled, she found Silas standing at the edge of the wagon, holding the drape open.
“This is where you get out.” His words landed flat, and without offering the young pregnant girl a hand, he dropped the flap, shadowing her once again from the sun‘s glare.
Scuffling through the hay on her knees, Perseathea edged herself to the opening. The bright of day shined back into her eyes, causing her to squint. Dangling her feet over the wagon, the sweet fragrance of wild orchids and lilac swept over. Far from Black Cloud, the days heated much warmer on her skin here. Silas had traveled with her a week’s time, two days of it crossing valley, to come to this edge of the Great Jungle. Far from the frosty mist of the mountains. Far from the cold gray stone of Gragore’s fortress.
Dropping her bare feet to the grass, she found herself in a place she vaguely remembered from childhood. The treetops loomed high here, high as the warm clouds, green and sparkling in the steamy mist.
“What is it that this place is called?” She looked up to Silas, already back in his wagon seat. With the slap of leather, his horses jumped into a trot. The wagon turned around as the man left her without answer.
“But wait!” She called after him. “Where do I go from here?”
“Bartamius paid me to bring you to the Great Jungle.” The old man shouted without looking back. “I’ve honored that.” His wagon kept a steady pace down the path, never slowing.
“Will you leave me no food or…” her words dropped off, defeated and realizing Silas had no further intentions.
The buzz of the afternoon jungle surrounded her with the hum of locusts and birdsong. The breeze whispered sweet and warm. The land boasted, lush and green, with its heat climbing down a thousand limbs to embrace her face.
A burning jolt. Pain hunched her into her knees. Her stomach raged, for the first time in days. The Goddess had answered her prayer, waiting till she was out of Gragore‘s land. A burst of hot liquid dripped down her inner thighs, splashing her feet. Confused, she clutched at her belly. Moaning. The pain was growing. Twisting and squeezing. The hot ache climbed into her back and legs. Attacking. Pinching her insides.
Stumbling, Perseathea searched for a safe place. She couldn’t walk much longer, but still couldn’t chance being out in the open. Doubled over, she ambled deeper into the jungle. Finding a rabbit trail, she went to her knees, following it to a cluster of high green grass. Palming the ground to find the burrow, she found the flat grass, and scrambled back into the shelter of the burrow.
Pain clenched her stomach again. Squeezing. Burning. She gritted her teeth, groaning. Trying not to make noise. The soldiers could have tailed Silas without his knowing. The old man was no more than a simple fisherman, a grandfather, his mind most likely dim. He could know nothing of battle and tactics, other than Gragore’s tyranny, which everyone in Pahll-sus bowed to. She deemed herself lucky he’d brought her this far.
The warm liquid between her legs scared Perseathea. It had not happened last time. And the pain in her body was more intense. Less forgiving. The pains came and went, but with much less time between them now. Unable to breathe but for her panting, Perseathea prayed. Please Goddess, help me.
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