“Me and Eliran go way back.”
“And yet she nearly killed you when she saw you in that temple.”
Darpallion snorted. “Don’t pretend to understand our relationship. When I was captured and tortured, I had to give them something. Sure, I could have chosen to die instead, but anyone who claims they would’ve done so is lying. To themselves, if nothing else. I saved Eliran’s life, though. I gave them enough information that they would stop torturing me, but I didn’t give them everything. I made sure Eliran was safe.”
“Why did they let you go, then?”
“Huh?”
“The emperor doesn’t release rebels,” Aric pressed. “Even the ones who talk. Why aren’t you in a dungeon?”
Darpallion made to reply when Aric heard shouts coming from the crew. He looked back to the shoreline and saw a promontory stabbing into the sea, bits and pieces of what had once been the Heron lodged into the rock. Beyond it, the ocean seemed somewhat calmer for a considerable length, and the cliffs of the coastline turned into a sandy beach. The same one where they had all washed ashore after the storm. In the middle of the sand, a few hundred feet away from the promontory, the forward half of the Heron lay on its side like the carcass of a gigantic sea creature.
“Take us in,” Naquad ordered his helmsman. “Nice and easy.”
“Prepare to drop anchor!” a boatswain shouted.
“Alright,” Aric whispered to Darpallion. “This is it. Follow my lead.”
The bard nodded, and as they turned, three massive sailors bearing thick, wooden clubs lumbered up the staircase to the foredeck. The three of them stopped a few paces from Aric, Darpallion and Dothea with hard looks on their faces.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Aric asked.
There was no answer.
“I see.” Aric took a step forward and the sailors did the same, blocking him with a wall of muscle. They eyed him defiantly as if daring him to do something about them.
Aric obliged.
His first punch came out of nowhere, sending the man in the middle staggering back. When his second punch landed on the face of the man on the left, all the sailor had had time to do was bring his arms up as if presenting Aric with his club. With a single, fluid motion, Aric swung, snatching the club and bringing it down on the man on the right, clocking him on the back of his head just as he missed Aric’s back with his own club by a hair. When Naquad and the rest of the ship finally realized what was happening, all three sailors were sprawled across the foredeck, two of them unconscious, the other wailing, but not daring to stand up.
On the main deck, Naquad unsheathed a cutlass, the blade shimmering. “Steady as she goes,” he told his helmsman, then stepped towards Aric.
Darpallion picked up one of the fallen clubs and Dothea drew a pair of her knives.
“Sheath those blades, Dothea,” Aric said without taking his eyes off the first-mate. “We’re not killing anyone.”
“You sure?” Dothea asked.
With angry looks, a small army of sailors closed in on them, some climbing down the rigging, others simply leaving their posts on the main and aft decks.
“What are you doing, dragon hunter?” Naquad asked, sword at the ready.
“Can’t let you leave,” Aric replied. “I don’t want to hurt any of you. I just want to go get my friend so we can all go home.”
“We are going home. Right now.” Naquad stopped and assumed a guard stance, ready for a fight.
Keeping the club he’d stolen lowered, Aric studied his opponent, ignoring the other sailors. The man knew how to hold a sword. Whether he knew what to do with it remained to be seen.
“Stop it!”
Aric turned towards the voice. Leth was standing a couple of paces to the side, his sword unsheathed.
“This is wrong, Aric,” Leth continued. “Our mission is the chalice. We have it. Time to leave.”
“We’re not leaving without her,” Aric said without skipping a beat.
“I thought your friend wasn’t going to be a problem,” Darpallion said, assuming a position on Aric’s flank.
“Shut up!” Aric raised his club to Leth. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Are you?”
“Uh… guys?” Dothea took a step, moving between the two friends. “What is that?”
She was staring inland. Aric followed her gaze. The ship had cleared the promontory and the beach was now clearly visible. Beyond it, from beneath the gray mantle of the forest, dark smoke billowed up into the sky.
“That’s our camp…” Aric muttered.
Throughout the ship, there was a sudden burst of gasps and whispers.
“Why would they be lighting a fire?” Darpallion asked, confused.
“They wouldn’t,” Leth replied.
“Goddess help us all!” Aric turned to Naquad. “Get the skiffs into the water. Now!”
Naquad faltered. Dazed, he swung his gaze from Aric to land, sword hanging limply in his hand, half-forgotten. “Wh… what?”
“They’re being attacked, you idiot! Get the skiffs on the water!”
24
The Cages We Call Home
Phaedra woke to the sound of screams. She looked around, confused. It took her mind some time to recognize the room’s features, but she realized she was back at the main tower of the Castran Gate, in the room she had been sharing with Fadan.
From outside, the screams intensified, mixed with the clanging of steel. Intila was assaulting the wall.
She made to sit up, but her abdomen exploded with pain, leaving her breathless and planting her back on the feather mattress. What had happened? The last thing she remembered was…
Flashes of the sortie on Intila’s camp flooded her mind. She remembered the cavalry charge, her magic being syphoned by the catapult the blade sinking into her stomach.
Goddess… she thought, instinctively placing a hand on her belly, fingers encountering the soft edges of a swath of linen? bandages.
The room’s door burst open and Fadan strode through.
“Oh, you’re awake,” he said, quickly crossing the room and kneeling by her bedside. “Thank the goddess…” His left arm was encased in a splint and slung across his chest. “We didn’t have any mages to heal you, but Vardrada’s surgeons patched you up the old-fashioned way. I even had the sappers build you this bed.”
“Couldn’t you have remembered that earlier? We slept on the floor for a week.”
Fadan chuckled. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was run through by a Legionary’s sword.”
Once again, Fadan chuckled.
“Did you get the catapult?” she asked.
Fadan’s smile faded and he shook his head. “Wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Intila’s had five more built in the past three days.”
“I was out for three days?” The sounds of battle drew Phaedra’s attention once again, and she looked out the window in front of her. “Wait, what about—”
“We’ve been taking heavy casualties,” Fadan replied. His gaze drifted to the floor. “I’ve ordered a full retreat.”
“Fadan…”
“It’s alright.” He looked back up at her. “Nyssander has fully mobilized his levies. We’ll join him in Ragara and double our numbers. We’ll make a stand there. The city has thick walls. It’s a tough nut to crack.”
“I…” Phaedra shook her head. She didn’t know what to say.
Fadan stood, using his good to push him himself up on the bed. “The men will be here shortly with a stretcher. You’ll be going ahead with the non-combatants.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll see you in Ragara.”
* * *
On the third day of riding, Margeth’s column crossed to the Saffya’s northern bank. They had been riding hard, stopping only when night fell to lay camp beside the road. Every time they did, Doric had expected Hagon and the others to spring out of the bushes to rescue him and Cassia, but so far, there had been no sign of his friends.
Doric’s sense of direction wasn’t great, but despite the occasional turns either north or south, he could tell they had generally been travelling west. However, that didn’t mean much. Most of the empire stood to the west of Pharyzah, after all. Margeth could be headed practically anywhere.
By noon of the fourth day, Margeth abandoned the main Imperial Road, choosing an ancillary road that meandered between verdant hills. They followed the new road for about an hour until Margeth left the road and climbed one of the hills flanking it.
“We’ll stop here,” she announced upon reaching the top. “Lay camp.”
Doric had been riding next to her the whole time, while Cassia rode somewhere at the back of the procession with Samyris. They had been allowed a conjugal visit every night but been kept apart the rest of the time. Doric had decided it wasn’t a terrible arrangement, all things considered.
Margeth herself hadn’t been very talkative, at least not after her initial interrogation of him. The Arch-Duchess had grilled him, of course. What was he doing in Pharyzah? How had he found out Cassia was there?
Doric had told her a lie sprinkled with truths. He’d long known the best lies usually were. He’d said the Rebellion had found out about Margeth’s betrayal but had decided not to move against her for sheer lack of resources. Fighting the emperor was challenging enough as it was. So, feeling betrayed and dismayed, he had decided to leave Ragara in search of Cassia on his own. He had spent what little gold he had on a couple of mercenaries who had abandoned him nearly the moment he’d paid them.
If Margeth had bought his little act or not, Doric had no idea. Her attention had quickly drifted after Doric’s revelation that the Rebellion knew she had been behind the attempt on the prince’s life. Ever since that conversation, she had turned quiet, almost gloomy, and only ever opened her mouth to bark out orders to her guards.
Doric dismounted, the shackles encircling his wrists clinking. He looked down the column and saw Samyris helping Cassia dismount her own horse. The two of them exchanged a glance and smiled at each other, but refrained from trying to get closer. They had both concluded there was no point in riling up their captors.
Around Doric, Margeth’s guards busied themselves in setting up their camp, the operation now well-rehearsed as to go quickly. He watched them pitch tents, prepare firewood, and set up a watch. As they did, he imagined Hagon and the others, jumping out from the bushes after dark to rescue him and Cassia. Would tonight be the night? And why was it taking them so long, anyway?
He looked towards Margeth and saw her standing like a statue at the very top of the hill, staring into the horizon with her arms crossed. He decided to approach her.
“So, are we there yet?” he asked playfully.
The Arch-Duchess hardly spared him a glance. “Almost,” she replied. Short and dry seemed to be her specialty.
Doric nodded. He hadn’t exactly expected much of an answer anyway.
“May I ask you something?”
Doric raised his eyebrows, surprised that she was finally engaging in some sort of conversation. “Sure…”
“You’ve known Tarsus for a long time. Was he always… you know?”
A psychopath? Doric shrugged. “Hard to say. Maybe he changed, maybe we were all just blind. I don’t know.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Here’s what I do know. If you had told me, twenty-five, thirty years ago, that he was going to force my wife to divorce me and marry him under the threat to kill me and our newborn son, I don’t think I would’ve believed you. I would’ve told you, ‘No way, Tarsus wouldn’t do that.’ And even after he did, if you had asked me if he was capable of mass murder, I would probably still have said, ‘No, that’s too much even for Tarsus.’ And yet he ordered the Purge not five years later. My theory is it’s much easier to sleep at night if you don’t believe in monsters.”
Margeth looked at Doric as if he’d just said the most insightful thing she’d ever heard. “I’m going to deliver you and Cassia to him.” Her voice was flat. Not in a dispassionate way, more like a confession.
“What?”
“I’m sorry. It has to be done.”
For a moment, Doric forgot there were people on their way to rescue him. “Are you insane? Wha… why? Why would you do that?”
“I won’t ask for your forgiveness—”
“And I wouldn’t give it to you!”
Margeth gritted her teeth but allowed his remark to go without rebuke. “I have a responsibility to my people. Delivering you and Cassia to the Emperor will save Pharyzah.”
“You think Tarsus won’t betray you the moment he has us?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s not Tarsus I’m worried about.” She turned to Doric and met his eyes. “There’s a war coming.”
“The war’s already here!” Doric’s voice had risen to the point where the guards around them turned their way, hands reaching for their swords.
Margeth gestured to them dismissively, and the soldiers relaxed.
“The Prince has already declared war on the Emperor,” Doric continued. “And if you think siding with Tarsus will save you, you’re in for a very bad surprise.”
“Not that war.” Margeth turned from him and looked into the distance. “Something else. Something none of us is prepared for.”
Doric followed her gaze. Over the rolling hills, on the horizon, he noticed a cluster of towers and rooftops. At this distance, they looked smaller than a thumb, but he recognized their silhouette nonetheless.
The Imperial Citadel.
Fire take me…
* * *
Fadan stormed across the tunnel, his steps echoing around him. He stretched an arm forward and blasted open the great double-door before him. Inside the study, Arch-Mage Persea turned to him. She was standing in front of three hypervisors, a mage in purple robes standing in each of the mirror-like surfaces.
“You’re back.” She glanced over her shoulder, at the hypervisors. “Excuse me.” With a wave of an arm, the mages’ images vanished.
“I just had to retreat from the only good tactical position we had and forced-marched what few troops we still have left, all because of you. I lost a third of my Legions, and probably the war, because you couldn’t give me one mage. And in the process, she almost got killed. Phaedra almost died because you wouldn’t let her help me.” Fadan stopped a couple of steps from her, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring.
“Are you finished?”
“Yes, actually! We all are. Intila will be here in two weeks or so, and what do you think will happen then?”
Calmly, Persea walked to her desk and sat down. “You will face him, put up the best fight you can, and who knows—”
“It cannot be done!” Fadan seethed. “It can’t. We tried. Without your mages, we will all die. All of us!”
“We have contingencies in place. The Academy will survive.”
Fadan nearly took a step back, his eyes wide. “You can’t be serious. There are thousands of people here. Civilians. Most of them became fugitives for the crime of helping mages like you.”
“And you.” Persea leaned back in her chair. “We live in dark times, where doing the right thing means making costly sacrifices. Like sending soldiers into battle. Like battling your countrymen. Your own family. You, of all people, should understand that.”
“Well, I don’t.” Fadan aimed a finger at the ceiling. “And when the streets of Ragara run red with the blood of this Rebellion, I hope you get to take a good look at it, because it will be your doing as much as it is my father’s.”
* * *
Outside the tent, someone cleared their throat.
“Right on time,” Doric told Cassia as he finished buttoning up his shirt.
She lay naked underneath the cape she had been using as a blanket and smiled weakly.
“Hagon will be here soon,” Doric whispered.
She nodded, not looking very convinced. Doric was starting to have doubts himself.
“Coming right out,” he called, then turned back to Cassia. “Good night.” He leaned for a kiss and lingered on her lips until she smiled. When he pulled back, he admired her for one last moment.
“Good night,” she croaked.
With a sigh, Doric rose and stepped out of the tent. Samyris waited outside.
“Thank you for not going in,” Doric said.
Samyris nodded. “Of course.” She hesitated for a moment, then presented him with a pair of iron manacles. “I’m sorry. My aunt’s orders.”
“You gotta follow your orders,” Doric said in the same voice he’d used throughout his youth to tease his military father.
If Samyris picked up on his sarcasm, she pretended not to. After locking the shackles around Doric’s wrists, she led him across the camp to his tent. The sun had already disappeared in the west, and the sky above faded into a dark blue. Margeth’s guards had lit several fires and were currently cooking their dinners, the savory scent of meat and mushrooms filling Doric’s nostrils.
Beside Doric, Samyris walked with her head down, as if keeping watch over her feet.
“It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?” Doric asked as they reached his tent.
“You know I can’t talk about it.”
“Not talking about things doesn’t make them go away.”
“We have to make hard decisions.”
“Hard decisions?” Doric scoffed. “Facing up to a mass-murdering tyrant would be a hard decision. Rolling over to do his bidding, that’s the easy way out. The coward’s way out.” He took a step towards her. “Believe me when I say this, because I speak from experience. After tomorrow, you will never be able to look at yourself in the mirror. In a few years, you’ll be so tired of feeling sorry for yourself you’ll barely be able to get out of bed. And there will never be enough wine in the world to make you feel better.”
Samyris swallowed but found no words to reply.
The Shadow Of Fallen Gods Page 35
