by Bruce Blake
"We accept your offer, Mr. Ive," she said, her voice cracking. "Please forgive our resistance; sometimes pride stands in the way of common sense. Traveling with you and Mr. Fellick in a wagon full of swords and axes sounds a much safer choice than walking through treacherous areas alone."
The weapons merchant relaxed, the not-quite-a-smile returning to his lips. Danya swallowed hard. Was this the right decision?
"Excellent," he proclaimed with a clap of his hands. "Mr. Fellick will enjoy having someone other than myself for company, I'm sure."
He gestured along the road with a sweep of his arm. Danya turned her attention back to Evalal, found the girl bearing a satisfied expression. The princess moved a step closer to her, leaned in until her lips brushed her ear.
"If you are wrong about your Goddess, this may be the death of us."
Danya bent, retrieved her sword and smock from the dusty road, and started down the track toward the corner ahead where a wain lay hidden, the stocky, formidable man waiting with it. The sensation in her leg ceased, the seed returning to being nothing more than dead weight thumping against her thigh as she walked. Did its quietness mean she'd made the right choice, or she hadn't?
They'd find out soon enough.
III Trenan - Ikkundana
Trees and brush came to a sudden conclusion, a straight and stark line marking the end of the forest and the beginning of barren ground.
Trenan reined his horse to a halt, and the beast snorted its relief. He'd pushed it hard through the night, an evil air of death chasing them as he fled with Dansil lashed to the saddle behind him. Even in the light of day, the sensation of being pursued remained, but he took time to allow his steed to catch its breath while he surveyed the land stretching out before them.
In the distance, bland, gray walls rose from the parched earth, reaching up toward the sky, never to achieve their goal. They stood featureless and implacable, their lack of windows or murder holes making the slabs of wall more imposing.
"Neither easy to defend nor a pleasure to attack," Trenan muttered. Dansil groaned from his seat behind him on the horse.
The forest ended near a league shy of the fortress, the earth between the last tree and the city of Ikkundana bare and dead—appropriate, by Trenan's estimation. When a past king converted the stronghold to house the sick and dying of the Sisters of the Goddess, they'd hacked away the trees nearest the walls, razed the rest. It left no means to sneak up without detection—a byproduct of its actual intent: to make sure no attempted escape went unnoticed.
Trenan allowed his steed to recover a bit longer as it nibbled at the sparse grass growing along the border between lush forest and dead earth. Anxiety coiled within the muscles of his legs. He knew he should put heels to his horse and cross the dry ground to the fortress ahead, but what man in his right mind went to Ikkundana? A visit to the city of the sick was to invite suffering and death—no way for a lifelong soldier to die. When his time came, he'd decided it should happen with a sword in hand, gazing into the eyes of his killer.
He hauled a deep breath through his nostrils, the smell of this place an odd mix between dusty ground and green foliage. Again he delayed in coaxing his horse to advance.
Why do I need to go there?
A lack of medical aid likely meant Dansil's death. The thought reminded Trenan of the queen's guard leaning against his back and it set his teeth on edge. He didn't enjoy being within eyesight of a man of his ilk, and knowing Ishla's safety fell to him nauseated him further.
I could leave him.
But aid for Dansil wasn't the only reason for visiting Ikkundana. When last he'd seen Danya, she'd been wearing the red robe of the Goddess' sick. But did the vestment mean they'd be taking her to the much-feared city? Too obvious. Had he planned the princess' escape, he'd use the garment to dissuade the curious, to keep anyone from peering beneath the cowl. If he put the robe on Danya's shoulders to flee Draekfarren, he'd make the city of the sick the last place he'd take her.
The master swordsman's eyes narrowed, and he noticed the man leaning against him, his breath stirring the short hairs at the back of Trenan's neck. The touch of both prickled through him, spreading anger and disgust through his body. No one would call the world worse less a fellow of Dansil's character.
Trenan dropped the reins and turned in the saddle, enough movement to displace the queen's guard had he not lashed him in place. All the better—it meant once he loosened the knot, unseating became easy.
His fingers found the first knot and worked the rope. He couldn't see what he was doing and fumbled it, cursed, tried again. He twisted farther, straining to look over his shoulder and past Dansil's waist to lay eyes on the fastening he now wished he hadn't tied so well. It had just loosened in the grip between his forefinger and thumb when a rattle of leaves caught his attention.
The horse nickered and raised its head, ears pricked, and Trenan stopped, held his breath. No wind caressed his cheek, so a breeze didn't cause the sound. He scanned the thicket behind them but saw nothing other than greenery, trunks, and branches at first. His gaze darted from one forest shape to another, tree to bush to rock, until they ran together and other shapes coalesced amongst them: a silhouette in a robe, face hidden in the shadow cast by its cowl, a second figure beside him, this fellow with no legs and one arm.
Without warning, the horse reared and bolted. Trenan reeled, the sudden move throwing him backward, the efficient knots holding Dansil fast the only things between him and a dangerous fall to the ground. He reached forward, grasping for the reins as his steed's hooves beat clouds of dust out of the parched earth. When he found them, he straightened himself in the saddle, regained his equilibrium, but the animal refused to heed his commands to slow its pace. It raced across the bare expanse as though a devil from hell nipped at their heels.
Trenan pivoted, glancing over his shoulder toward the woods they'd left behind, but the dust cloud of their passing choked the air, obscuring any view of the figures he'd spied amongst the trees, leaving him doubtful of their reality. Had Stirk found his way back to hunt him?
Impossible.
The horse thundered across the barren ground, headed straight for the fortress. Its walls grew taller and more imposing as they neared it, the gray surface seeming to swallow the sky. He did his best to calm the frightened animal, trying to coax it into slowing its pace, but his seasons of handling horses did no good. Whatever had scared the steed did so well enough it refused to pay attention to him, ignoring the things for which its trainers raised it.
Trenan hunkered, Dansil's limp form leaning against his back, as he resigned himself to letting the horse run itself out. With two armored men astride the animal, it wouldn't take long.
In no time, they'd crossed half the distance to the city of the sick. The master swordsman lay flat against the horse's neck, the muscles and tendons in his body tense and tight as he compensated for the stallion's erratic gait, the dead weight of Dansil's swaying form throwing it out of true. Trenan kept his eyes straight ahead, saw a flash of sunlight on something metallic. He squinted, resisted the urge to sit upright and peer past the steed's head to figure out what he'd seen.
The animal's long strides gobbled up the distance and the walls loomed before them. Another glint and the sword master thought he spied shapes, but the horse faltered beneath him and his stomach lurched. He gripped the reins tighter, but it didn't matter. The beast's feet tangled, and it fell, throwing Trenan over its head. The swordsman contorted in the air, twisting himself to land on his shoulder. He hit with a crunch of metal and a clack of teeth. The impact jarred through his bones as his armor dug a furrow in the ground and sprayed dirt in his face.
Inertia dissipated and his body settled to a halt. Trenan didn't move at first; few times in his life had a mount thrown him, but it had happened. When you've sat a horse as much as the master swordsman, seen as many battles, you were bound to lose your seat now and again. He'd learned that, unless something threatened your li
fe, it was best to take a moment to assess the damage rather than popping up without consideration.
He unfolded his arm. Pain lanced through the shoulder on which he'd landed, but nothing appeared broken or separated. He sighed a breath from his lungs, his face close enough to the ground for his air to disturb the parched dirt. The discomfort held his scrutiny for a few heartbeats, then he turned his attention to untangling his legs, a feat he accomplished without trouble. He rolled onto his back, eyes closed, and exhaled again, wondered how Dansil fared being both unconscious and tied to the steed. His search for the princess might have proven easier if he'd left the queen's guard lying in a pool of his own lifeblood, but he was a soldier of the king's army. Many turns of the seasons past, Trenan swore an oath he held above everything, a vow by which he lived his life. The pledge included not leaving behind a wounded man. The act of living with honor proved far more difficult some days than others, but perhaps a horse's fear both solved his problem and allowed him to keep his virtue.
Sun warmed the soldier's cheeks and, for a brief instant, he considered lying where he'd landed for a longer time. It felt like an escape from everything: Dansil, Teryk and Danya missing, unrequited love, his severed arm. Dallying offered an added benefit: every passing moment meant Dansil's life was less likely to continue.
Is that any different from leaving him behind to bleed to death in the forest?
To some, it might be, but his age-old sense of duty niggled at his mind again, tightening his chest. None knew the reality of what transpired, but that meant nothing, for honor and character are what one does when no one else knows.
Trenan inhaled and released another deep breath, preparing himself to stand, and opened his eyes to stare at the tips of five pikes.
***
They rode in silence into the shadow of the fortress, a rope round Trenan's wrist tethering him to one of the mounts as he jogged along behind. The horses' hooves clacked on the hardened ground, bouncing back to them from the face of the flat wall. None of them said a word from the moment he realized their presence, but he couldn't fathom how he hadn't heard the approach of the eight soldiers now escorting him toward the City of the Sick. With the walls looming over them, blocking the sun, the temperature cooled and, after a short time for his eyes to adjust, Trenan scanned the colorless surface. No windows, no door, no gates, and no sentries peering from a high parapet. He scowled, unimpressed they'd have to circumnavigate the place to gain access; walking so close to a horse's ass wasn't his preferred style of transportation.
The master swordsman looked over his shoulder, identified the featureless heap that was once his steed lying on the bare ground. He squinted but saw no sign of the queen's guard, so directed his attention back to his footing, not wanting to trip on an unseen rock or clump of weeds because of his own inattention.
"Who are you? What have you done with my companion?"
Referring to Dansil as such set his teeth on edge. He didn't care what had happened to the man, but the silence of his captors weighed on him like a stone. He hoped hearing an explanation might help lift it, though the sound of his own voice did not.
Not one of the helmeted heads so much as tilted in his direction.
They rode on, hooves kicking up dust, armor clattering, their pikes held pointing toward the sky. Whoever these warriors were, they appeared well trained. But from where had they come? Why were they here? And by whom had they been instructed? Their armor bore no marks of local nobility, and they weren't soldiers of the king. Trenan knew the deployment of all the kingdom's army detachments.
Or do I?
He raised his eyes again to the blank wall. Now they were closer, he spied scars made during an ancient battle breaking the wall's uniform smoothness at irregular intervals. No other features marred its surface, as if builders had carved the fortress out of a single great piece of stone. As a military stronghold, Ikkundana was formidable, near impenetrable. How it fell from the army's grasp into the hands of the Goddess worshipers, history had forgotten. It had been so since the time of the Small Gods and no one dared challenge it; no soldier desired to risk their lives for a city full of the diseased.
So why are these soldiers here?
He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, readying the tone he used to get what he wanted from the men in his charge, but stopped short of speaking.
Ahead, a patch of the stone faded to a lighter gray. Anyone else might have overlooked the subtle difference, but so many turns of the seasons training and fighting had honed Trenan's observational powers to a higher level than most—it kept him alive when other men perished. His escorts rode toward it, their captive in tow.
When they drew within the length of ten horses from the fortress, the leader halted his steed, and the others did the same. Trenan continued forward a few more paces, pulling even with the horse to which they'd tied him. The rider atop it leaned his pike over until it touched Trenan's chest, prompting him to stop.
The master swordsman did so, staring ahead at the wall. He doubted he'd have noticed the minute color change if the sun shone on the surface. The uniform edges started at the ground and climbed to the height of three men. Another straight line connected them at the top to form the shape of a gate. Trenan clamped his jaw tight; he'd come here to find the princess and the end of his journey could lie on the other side of the barrier, yet what lurked within might kill him. He didn't recall anyone he'd known going to Ikkundana, certainly no one returning to tell stories of it.
He glanced from wall to riders. None of them moved. If not for the occasional huff from a horse's nose or impatient whip of a tail, they might have been detailed statues fashioned by the most talented of hands.
"What now?" Trenan demanded.
His words fell against stone and died, unheeded by any ears close enough to hear them. He thought of the scars he'd seen on the smooth surface, remnants of attacks gaining no more success than his greeting.
Trenan swept his gaze along the top of the wall, searching for the slightest movement, or a head peering over the edge. A place such as this received infrequent visitors—likely none other than supply deliveries and the ill arriving from every corner of the kingdom. They may not have reason to mistrust him in particular, but he supposed the rarity of strangers explained their wariness of any who approached the refuge.
But who'd come to the City of the Sick without good cause?
He couldn't imagine why anyone might risk disease and death. If not for the possibility of the princess being here, and then his honor demanding his concern for Dansil's miserable life, he'd never have found himself here, either. All of it begged more questions: why did this place need soldiers to guard it? Who were these men who risked their lives guarding the deathly ill? Where did they come from? If the king's command stationed them here, why didn't he know of them?
The distinct sound of rock scraping against rock fell on his ears and the rectangle in the wall ahead of them moved, sinking into the fortress, then shifting to the right, creating an entrance in the barrier. Trenan's eyes widened; he'd never seen such an ingenious system for ingress and egress. The riders started forward, but Trenan stood his ground, legs tight with apprehension at what lay beyond. He'd fought in battles, one on one, and in tournaments, experience making fear a rare emotion in the master swordsman, but he'd stared into the faces of his opponents in each of those situations, known the danger. Disease and sickness were dangers unseen, impossible to fight or prepare a defense against. Since those condemned to Ikkundana were the sickest of the sick, any breath or touch might be deadly.
Trenan wanted to reach for Godsbane's pommel but knew he wouldn't find it where it should be; his sword belt hung from the saddle of the same horse to which they'd tethered him. An instant later, the rope around his wrist tightened, forcing him to follow the rider toward the gap in the wall. His lips pressed into a thin line. From his youth, he'd known he'd likely not die an old man. He'd always imagined coming to his end on a battlefield or at t
he hand of a swordsman who bettered him in a duel. The thought of dying from an unseen virus had never crossed his mind.
The rider's pace quickened, forcing him to increase the speed of his own steps to faster than a quick walk. His shoulder tensed, the muscles in his arm knotted from the strain of the rope pulling at his wrist. He tried to ignore it, splitting his attention between ensuring his footing and the widened space in the wall. Would a robed woman step into the opening, perhaps wearing a red robe to warn of her sickness? Others must live in Ikkundana to care of the ill. He didn't know how any of them survived living with the mortally sick. Or maybe no one did.
Hoof beats and the song of armor filled his ears, hiding all else from his notice. So it was he wasn't expecting the solitary rider who stepped into the opening in the wall.
The lone horseman's chestnut steed looked bred for carrying an armored man, but the horse itself wore but saddle and blanket with no barding of any kind. The rider's sword remained sheathed as he sat the animal like a veteran, all ease and comfort, but did nothing for a few moments. From behind a visor preventing the master swordsman a glimpse of his features, he surveyed Trenan and his escort leading him to the City of the Sick.
The riders reined up a few horse-lengths short of the new arrival and again, no one spoke. The swordmaster bit hard on his back teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Was Ikkundana filled with mutes?
The solitary soldier dismounted with the clack and thud of leather and mail. Half a dozen strides brought him in front of Trenan where what turned out to be the most diminutive warrior the master swordsman had ever seen tilted his head back to gaze up at him. In other circumstances, their size difference might have girded him; not so much when his foe carried a sword, and he did not. The blade's bite cared not about a man's stature.
