by Tim Marquitz
As they moved through the woods, Elizabeth peered at Emerald from the corner of her eyes. “What about the father? Should I worry that he will come to rescue the mother of his child from the horrible, resistance scum?”
Emerald shook her head without hesitation, realizing perhaps she’d done so too quickly. “No. He will not bring the Red Guard to your door, I assure you. He wants only what I want, for our baby to born without fear of the Council.”
“Good. I would hate for anything to happen to you…or your child.”
The threat was clear. Before Emerald could say anything more, Darius stepped alongside her and gently tugged her from the woman’s arms.
“Now is not the time to play politics with the child, Elizabeth. There will be plenty of opportunity for that once she has rested and been fed. She has come a long way, with very little to help her along. Despite what she’s faced to get here, she never once called upon her magic to defend herself, until you forced it on her. While I know not what resides within her heart, she has shown me nothing to think she is acting as an agent of the Council, or her mother.”
Elizabeth stepped away, her hands raised. “Forgive me, both of you, but I have not survived this long against by letting just anyone traipse into my confidence, let alone the child of my enemy. I must be certain of your intent, Emerald. Your surname is one that summons fear.”
“I understand your mistrust,” Emerald told her. “I am who I am, though by no choice of my own. What I am not, is my mother. I have no desire to live forever at the cost of children’s lives, nor would I relish having the blood on my hands that informing on your presence would surely bring.” She drew in a sharp breath. “I also did not come to be used as a weapon against my mother, though I know I have little control over that. I am here for no reason other than to save the life of my child, and to give him a chance at life he would never be granted had I remained in Corilea.”
“Fair enough, child.” Elizabeth grinned. “You are brave, and wise, for your age. I will grant your wish for sanctuary, and perform the nullification ritual so you may birth your child without fear of your power bringing it harm. We will discuss the future at another time; when you are more rested.” She cast a sideways glance at the general.
Emerald thanked her, fighting back the tears that moistened her eyes. She could only hope the witch would be true to her word, but she had worried long enough. She was here, amongst the resistance now. There was no turning back.
Twenty
His thoughts a muddled fugue, Sebastian needed to rest. After finding a dense covering of foliage, which circled about a tree, he eased himself down at the base of it, wincing as the wound at his ribs complained. A sigh slipped from his mouth as he settled, the pressure relieved somewhat. Though his magic would eventually work to repair the damage, its natural inclination to heal its vessel, the wound was too severe for it to be quick. Since healing was too subtle a skill for his father to understand, Sebastian in turn hadn’t learned its trick. He doubted he ever would, no matter how useful it might be…or might have been, as he had no certainty of a future, continuing to bleed as he did.
The tree solid behind him, he leaned against it and let his head loll back, the bark scraping at his scalp. He didn’t care. All of the adrenaline he’d burned as he fled the Red Guard and fought the witch had drained away, leaving him hollow. His eyes blinked, the lids feeling as though they were being pulled down by anchors. If he didn’t get up and start moving again, he would fall asleep. With the Red Guard about, he figured he would never wake up.
He didn’t really care.
He stared at the bushes, which encircled him, his eyes tracing the veins of the leaves in their endless loops. His eyelids closed, for just a moment, snapping open as his head drooped. He blinked a few times more, the leaves a blur, before it all went black.
~
Sebastian’s head popped up, his eyes springing open as distorted words lingered in his ears. His mind scrambled to wake. Something in the voices had reached into his sleep-addled skull and rung a warning bell. Though his thoughts were only just beginning to clear, his senses reaching out to explore his waking world, his hand had already moved to the hilt of his sword.
He listened and heard the voices again, seeming to draw closer. A muffled clatter followed along. His eyes darted about, assuring him that his hiding place was out of the line of sight of where he determined the voices were coming from. He waited as they grew louder, realizing why they had been so hard to understand. It wasn’t that he hadn’t understood the words, it was that he just hadn’t heard them clearly. The voices spoke in hushed tones, only the silence of the woods carrying them to his ears.
He focused harder, pinpointing the speakers’ position amongst the trees. They had come to a stop a short distance away.
“You carry the damn thing, then,” the first voice said.
“You’re the one who wanted it. I just want you to be quiet. You’re like a herd of bulls stomping through the trees with that bag on your back,” the second voice complained, the sound like stones rubbed together.
Even in his weary and injured state, Sebastian recognized the second speaker. Far quieter than either of the two men were, and using their argument to help cover any noise he might make, Sebastian inched up to his feet and peered through the shrubs. He bit back a growl when he realized he was right. He had recognized the voice. There past the trees, white streaks in the man’s hair making identification simple, stood Jonas.
Alongside Jonas was another man, similar in stature, though what Jonas carried in muscle, the second carried in fat. Sebastian could see the slick sheen of sweat at the man’s broad forehead, a large sack hanging over his shoulder. Sebastian could see the ends of leathered greaves protruding from the bag, the crimson coloring a clear indication of what lay inside: Red Guard armor. The realization hit home, an angry flutter alighting in his stomach. Deliton hadn’t been the first time they’d donned the disguise of the enemy.
“You should have just left it at the village, like I told you, fool. The witch isn’t going to reward you for lugging a few suits of battered leather back to the cache. It isn’t worth a damn copper in the shape it’s in.”
The fat man started walking. “Who’s to say she won’t?”
“I am,” Jonas growled at his back, rushing to catch up. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re wasting your time.”
“Mine to waste,” the fat man replied, saying nothing else.
Jonas shook his head and followed along behind, stomping his feet. After a moment, they had slipped out of sight, but the noise of their passage still sounded clear. With no idea where his father was, or even where the resistance had set up camp, Sebastian presumed one of the two would know. Since the man still lived, the quicksilver from the wounds Sebastian had given him not killing Jonas, it made sense he would have to know where the camp was in order to have been healed. Even if he didn’t know, he owed the old warrior a beating, at the very least, for what he’d tried back in Deliton.
Sebastian checked his wound, noticing it had stopped bleeding, and then started off after them. Still hurt and moving slow, he was grateful the fat man traveled with Jonas. The old man was stealthy, able to move quietly despite his bulk, but there could be no covering the sounds the other man made. He crept like a boulder tumbling down the side of a mountain, twigs snapping at his every step, leaves crushed and rustling in his wake. Sebastian had no fear of losing them as he trailed behind, or that his own passage would be noted. He only worried, as did Jonas, apparently, that his companion’s elephantine stomp would alert the Red Guard and bring them running. Fortunately, either none heard or they believed him a wild animal, too large to risk investigating.
After what seemed to Sebastian like several hours, the men surprising him by traveling without pause, they at last slowed, coming to a stop as they reached the base of a great, rocky hill. Sebastian grumbled in silence, glad to rest a moment, his quick nap nothing more than a reminder of how exhausted he w
as. His side throbbed as he peered through the leaves and watched as the two resistance men approached the worn down side of the hill, its tall face steep and covered with rocky protrusions. Jonas felt along the rock wall, as if looking for something. Sebastian’s stomach sunk as he thought the men might try to climb the wall. He blew out a quiet breath when he realized that wasn’t what they intended. There was no way he could follow them if they had.
Jonas fiddled with the stones, and Sebastian recognized a pattern in his movements. After a few moments, the wall shimmered and grew translucent, darkness welling up as its face faded away. A black shadow moved behind it, the blur of its shape becoming apparent as a man as the last of the stone disappeared.
“Hurry up and get inside,” the young man growled at Jonas.
Sebastian recognized the man as one of the resistance warlocks whose name he did not know. The warlock spun away and vanished into the tunnel that lay beyond the false, stone face. Jonas hurried after him, the fat man waddling behind.
Unsure if he could remember the sequence Jonas had manipulated to open the wall, and uncertain if it were rigged with an alarm of some kind, Sebastian thought it best to risk entering before the wall returned, illusory or otherwise. Holding his side so he could move faster, he darted out from behind his cover once the bag-carrier shuffled into the tunnel. He slipped along the hill, moving quickly toward the opening. He saw the first glimmers of magic about the portal and pressed forward. Unable to see what lay past the cave mouth, he made the choice to step inside.
He hit the opening just as the wall began to shimmer back into existence and slipped inside without hesitation. A cool darkness greeted him, but nothing else.
He leaned against the tunnel’s wall and breathed deep, stretching his side painfully, as the stone took shape once more beside him. He stood without moving, letting his vision adjust to the gloom, his eyes slow to respond. He could hear the men in the distance, Jonas’s voice and the warlock’s in casual conversation echoing back at him, the fat man’s huffed breaths as he lagged behind. He caught the warlock’s name when Jonas called him by it—John—and heard the creak of a door opening. He heard it close a few moments later, the curses at the fat man’s slowness muffled behind it.
Once he could see clearly, Sebastian drew his sword and started down the tunnel. It was roughly hewn, the walls jagged with protruding edges. Only the floor was smooth, a light layer of dust stirred as he walked, the blurred footprints of the men laid out before him.
The massive entrance shrunk down from its ten feet high apex, to a little less than seven. The tunnel’s width also narrowed, leaving it at about three feet across. Plenty of room to walk through without worrying about bumping the walls, but it made the prospect of fighting inside of it daunting. It was the perfect ambush point. That was the thought that stayed with him until he reached the end of the tunnel, where another uncertainty faced him.
Instead of a single door, there were three: one directly ahead, and one on either side of the corridor, all wooden with metal banding. The dust on the floor had been so agitated by the movement outside the doors, each swinging outward, there was no way to determine which one they’d taken, though he felt certain they had all gone through the same one. That didn’t help much.
Sebastian leaned his ear against each, in turn, listening to see if he could pick out sounds beyond the doors, but the wood was too thick. He could hear nothing, No clues to help him determine which door was the correct one, he chose one at random, settling for the one to the left. He made a cursory examination of the hinges and frame to see if he noticed any signs of a trap. He hadn’t expected any, the wall trick an effective screen, so he wasn’t surprised not to find anything.
Grateful for that little piece of luck, he tugged at the rope handle and pulled the chosen door open just the tiniest of cracks. Images of a sword blade being thrust into his eye flashed through his mind as he peered through. He sighed at seeing the gloom of yet another tunnel, and thankfully, not the point of a blade. He listened another moment, and though he could hear a muted shuffling sound, he heard no voices.
A wish on his lips for the door to be quiet, he eased it open and slipped inside.
Twenty-One
The White Witch stared at the green sea of trees as the transport circled about to land. She clutched hard at the rail, the dark splotches on her hands standing out against the pale white. She glanced over at Gracelin and saw her own fury mirrored in the woman’s expression, her eyes narrowed, her upper lip pulled into a sneer. The wind from the griffin’s wings did little to cool her mood, a messenger having caught their transport shortly after they’d left Corilea, delivering the news of Carrance’s death.
Deborah swallowed hard against the uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm her. Of all of the witches, Carrance was most suited to the gritty needs of combat, the master of the Red Guard. She, more than any other witch, often left the comforts of Corilea to venture out into the world and test her magic on the field of battle. If there was a warrior among the Council, it would have been Carrance. To learn she had been slain by Alise’s son, the fact confirmed by the surviving Red Guard on the ground, was a chilling portent of things to come.
There could be no coincidence that he had struck out against Carrance. With General Darius alive, and his abomination of a child trained in the arts of war well enough to hold off Shade and to slay a witch of the High Council, it was clear what the pair intended; they had come to avenge Alise.
A chill prickled Deborah’s arms at the thought. She had believed she and her accomplices could put an end to Darius and the boy before things got out of hand, but Carrance’s death had brought with it a sickening uncertainty. To complicate things further, she could only keep the news of the Red Witch’s death from the rest of the Council for a short time. If she couldn’t silence the warlock before then, there would be far too many questions asked for the truth to remain hidden.
She grunted as the transport settled with a thump. A soldier opened the restraining gate and stepped away, allowing her and Gracelin to debark. A Red Guard captain met them at the tree line and motioned for them to follow, not daring to meet Deborah’s eyes. They strode through the woods, a path having been cleared for their arrival. Deborah chuckled at the consideration; how easily they had prepared the way to her greatest failure. After a few long moments, they came upon a fallen tree, the subtle scent of magic still in the air.
Shade stood on the far side of the downed trunk, staring at something Deborah could not see. She knew without asking what it would be, so she steeled her nerves and strode around the near end of the tree when she was ready. Gracelin followed behind. Shade noticed them and took a step back to clear the way. Deborah narrowed her eyes as she saw the red-stained ground and the body at the center of it. She forced herself not to look away and heard Gracelin hiss at her shoulder.
Carrance lay upon her back, her glassy-eyed face to the sky. Her mouth hung open in an exaggerated wideness, her cheeks split with a crimson smile. Blood formed a pool in her mouth. Flies fluttered about the opening, sipping at the claret. Her arms were splayed out to her sides, and one of her hands was clenched rigid, as though she were grasping at the air. The other hung as lifeless as the woman herself. Deborah closed her eyes a moment, attempting to catch her breath. It was too much to take in at once.
She heard Gracelin step away and opened her eyes to see her hand over her mouth, making quiet gagging sounds as she moved toward the far trees. Deborah fought the urge to follow, her stomach roiling with sympathetic pains. Knowing the Guard and Shade were watching, she held her ground and examined the body once more, keeping her face expressionless.
The material at Carrance’s shoulder had been cut away, at some point. A festering black wound covered the flesh beneath. Striations ran serpentine up her neck and down into the folds of her clothing. The red of her robes was stained darker about her right side, a puckered red groove cut deep between her ribs, standing out against the paleness of her
skin.
“It was the warlock for certain,” Shade said.
Deborah turned to face her, grateful for the excuse to look away.
“He wields a Quicksilver blade, which would explain the blood poisoning about the shoulder wound. The blow that killed her, though, was the one to her mouth. There’s none of the infection surrounding it.”
“He killed her in close?”
Shade nodded. “The captain of the reserve squadron tells me the Red Guard engaged first, sending the warlock fleeing. He struck down a number of the men and toppled the tree here upon the captain, scattering the Guard. Carrance then attacked at range, and though there were no witnesses to the specifics of the battle, it’s clear the warlock managed to get inside her defenses to deliver the fatal blow.”
Deborah glanced at Gracelin who returned to stand beside her. The Green Witch’s face looked sickly, but her eyes burned with fury.
“He struck her down in fair combat?” Gracelin asked.
“It appears so.” Shade drew her hand along her own ribs, approximating the wound on Carrance. “The warlock is right handed, so given the direction of the wound he was directly in front of her when he struck her. That injury likely stunned her and is what allowed him to finish her off.”
Deborah drifted away from her fallen friend, motioning for the assassin to follow. Shade moved alongside, Gracelin coming along slower once she noticed they had moved. The White Witch waved away the soldiers that clustered about, shooing them off so she might have privacy. Once they were gone, she turned to Shade.
