Redemption of Thieves (Book 4)

by C. Greenwood

  He seemed to be taking a lot for granted and I wondered what gave him such confidence. That his uncivilized tribes could fully conquer my province with its modern weaponry and well-trained fighting men was uncertain. But I wasn’t about to spark a debate on the subject.

  Instead I said, “I’m a little confused about where this is headed. Pardon me if I cut straight to the point. What happens to me now? Am I going to die?”

  He shrugged. “That is up to you, young kinswoman.”

  “Kinswoman? Why do you call me that?” I asked, startled.

  He tilted his head and examined me. “You haven’t the sun-darkened skin and dark hair of our enemies. You are of our Skeltai ancestry, are you not?”

  I scowled. “You’re mistaken. We may share common ancestors, but my kinsmen stayed in the province and became civilized long ago.”

  He raised blue-streaked eyebrows. “Such contempt for your rightful people.”

  I knew what he was doing. “Stop pretending your people are mine,” I said. “I have no patience for your foreign tricks.”

  “One in your position has cause to cultivate infinite patience,” he pointed out. “But I see you think of nothing at this moment but your fate. So let me explain how you find yourself here. Our plan was to lure your soldiers through the portal where you would make prime sacrifices for tonight’s Sagara Nouri ritual. Understand, stupid villagers are acceptable sacrifices and vast numbers of them, harvested from your province, will be committed to the fires. But when possible, something more… special is preferred. Good fighting men, strong warriors who go to their deaths with brave hearts are the sacrifices we value most.”

  With each word my heart sank deeper, every new detail like another pebble added to the weight of the burden crushing down on me. How easily we had been duped! And it was my fault. I should have nipped the idea of trapping the Skeltai before it had even formed itself into a full plan. I should have seen our enemies were too clever to allow themselves to be tricked so easily.

  The old man, the one blue hair called his grandfather, was jabbering at me in his outlandish tongue again. He reached out a wrinkled white hand to touch the bow where it had fallen at my feet.

  I scowled, asking, “Does he have to be here?”

  “You should be grateful he is. Without his in-inter...?”

  “Intervention,” I supplied.

  “Yes, without that, you would be dead now. Injured as you were, it would have been easier for the war party to dispose of you than bring you back with the others. But my grandfather is a great shaman, and upon seeing in a vision that you would soon enter our forest, he commanded you should live.”

  I abruptly realized where I’d seen the old shaman before. It had been after the attack on Boulder’s Cradle. Dradac, Ada, and I had pursued the fleeing Skeltai and arrived in time to see them disappearing into one of their portals. When I looked through after them, I’d seen this wizened, silver-haired old man’s bloodless face looking back at me.

  I remembered now how that look had inspired me with a fear that returned to haunt me on many sleepless nights. It was he who had activated the portal, he who had somehow foreseen my coming and had made certain I would arrive in this place to find myself as I was now—a prisoner at his feet. I could only guess how much of the attack on Beaver Creek, our wild scheme to trap the Skeltai, and our disastrous pursuit through the portal had all been a part of his greater scheme.

  I looked into his small, dark eyes and he returned my gaze with a knowingness that sent a shudder down my spine. I could have sworn he was reading my mind. Impossible. But I found I couldn’t meet the shaman’s eyes. If I did, he might see through my calm façade, might see the fear coursing through me as I contemplated his power and tried to guess its limits.

  “What does this mean, the way he keeps touching my bow?” I hadn’t realized I was about to speak until the words had already drawn themselves from my mouth.

  The Sageuon muttered some words to his grandson in their barbaric tongue and through the younger Skeltai the meaning was interpreted.

  “He says there is a legend of a Skeltai warrior, one who was great among our people long ago, before the strangers came and claimed the land across the border. Because of his enchanted bow, we called him the barra-banac or Bearer of the Bow. When he died, the magical bow was lost to us, but prophecy told of how it would be rediscovered and of the one who would one day hold it again. A new Bearer of the Bow. My grandfather wishes to be that bearer.”

  “That will not happen,” I said fiercely without stopping to think. “The bow is mine, and while I live, no other will hold it.”

  I snatched up the weapon and held it tight.

  They didn’t like that much. I could tell by their expressions as they conferred in low voices.

  The bow warmed in my hands but I couldn’t focus on its anger. I was too filled with my own. Or were the two one and the same? It was difficult to tell any more.

  The younger Skeltai pulled back from the elder and returned his attention to me.

  “The barra-banac is not a plaything for a youngling. Its magic is great and ancient, a power you are scarcely capable of comprehending. With it, our people could do great things, could accomplish victories you cannot imagine. It belongs with us.”

  Glaring, I tightened my grip on the bow and said, “The bow has chosen its bearer and I won’t give it up. If you want to kill me and take it, I can’t stop you. But I warn you I’ll bloody well try.”

  The blue-haired Skeltai scowled while relaying my message to his grandfather, and when he interpreted the old man’s response, I could tell he didn’t like what he was compelled to admit.

  “We cannot take the bow from its holder by force. As long as it recognizes you as its true possessor, in all other hands it would be only a lifeless piece of wood and string. You must give us the bow willingly.”

  I snorted, anger making me bold. “You’re wasting your time.”

  The young savage snapped. “Do not be foolish! We hold your life and the lives of your friends in the palms of our hands. You would be wise to strike a bargain with us. The shaman is prepared to make a generous offer. Your freedom if you gift us the bow.”

  I smirked. “I refuse the offer.”

  The Skeltai thrust his face close to mine, the dangerous glint of his eyes reminding me how much animosity he felt against me, however restrained he had appeared to this point.

  “Ignorant dog!” he growled. “You have no idea of the shaman’s condescension in bargaining with you. On no other occasion would my grandfather look a half-blood in the eye, but today he deals with you as with an equal, as with one of our people.”

  “Does he always keep equals bound in his presence?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “It is his wisdom to do as he pleases!” was the retort. “You should not be in his presence at all. You walk beneath the sun, not in the cool shadows of the deep forest. You live within walls of stone, not sleeping beneath the roof of the trees.”

  “I’ve actually spent many a night sprawled in the branches of a tree,” I said truthfully. “You savages aren’t the only ones with forests.”

  He scoffed. “Your forests are dead wood and half-grown saplings. You of the provinces do not know deep shadow.”

  He made it sound as if this were a terrible shame on us.

  The old shaman interrupted our argument to speak a few words. Although I understood none of the exchange between them, I sensed the younger man was being rebuked.

  After a pause, the chastened young Skeltai grumbled, “My grandfather wishes to return the talk to our bargain.”

  I leaned forward. “You have already told me if the bow were yours, you would use it as a powerful weapon against my province. How then can you expect me to willingly give it up to you? No, I’ll never do that. Tell the old man if he’s interested in making any other kind of bargain, I’m willing to talk. I’ll trade him almost anything he wishes to buy the freedom of my companions. But the bow I will n
ot give up.”

  Cannot give up, I amended inwardly. I doubted I could separate myself from the bow if I tried. But there was no reason for my enemies to know this.

  Shooting me a scorching look, my interpreter passed on this information to the shaman.

  The old man turned cold eyes on me and my resolve almost weakened with sudden fear. When he spoke his voice was like a dash of ice-water.

  “My grandfather says,” I was told, “that he has no other bargain for you. If you will not pass the bow into our hands, we will offer both you and it as a gift to our gods. Maybe such a large sacrifice will incline the gods to our favor and they will see fit to give us victory over our enemies without the barra-banac.”

  I could tell by the wild expression of the old shaman he was mad enough to carry out his threat. But even now I didn’t consider complying with their wishes. What I needed, I thought frantically, was to buy myself more time. Time for escape, for rescue. Time for a miracle…

  I said, “We can play at this game all night but you’ll not change my mind.”

  “Then you will burn on the fires of Sagara Nouri and the corpses of your friends will be the kindling at your feet.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that, but I clung to the shreds of my determination and wouldn’t allow myself to contemplate the picture he painted.

  My captors conferred together, and when my interpreter turned back to me, he said, “It has been decided you will be given the opportunity to consider the shaman’s offer and to imagine the fate you will suffer if you refuse it. But your time must be short for the rites begin at the mid-point of the night.”

  He called in the pair of savages lurking in the background and I was hauled unceremoniously from the hut and out into the black of the night.

  Chapter Six

  In the surrounding darkness, I had only a brief impression of thick, shadowy trees reaching out to clutch at me with their sharp branches as I was maneuvered down a beaten path away from the little hut. It was difficult to make out my surroundings in much detail. The dense canopy overhead blotted out all but the most determined slivers of moonlight, so it was as if I stumbled around in a dark closet with only the aid of my captors to keep my feet on the path.

  When we came into a narrow clearing, I could identify a little more of what was before me because of a faint orangey glow flickering through the dense foliage in the distance. I couldn’t see what lay in the larger clearing beyond this, and wondered if the firelight I was glimpsing through the trees was from the same fires meant to consume my body and those of my companions during the coming blood rites.

  I pushed the thought from my mind. Escape was what I had to concentrate on, not the consequences if I failed to achieve that goal. I looked around and noted the area was ringed with rows of large cages that looked much like outdoor prison cells constructed of wooden bars.

  I was hauled to the nearest of these and made to stand waiting in the care of one of my guards, as the other deftly unlatched and opened the door. Should I break free and run? But no, the savage’s hold on me was firm. Besides, my hands remained bound. The opportunity passed as I was seized and hurled roughly into the interior.

  Driven by the force of my captor’s shoves, I stumbled into the far wall. Before I had time to regain my balance and turn, I heard the narrow door behind me being drawn closed and secured. Clutching the narrow wooden bars, I closed my eyes for a second. What cruel twist of fate had brought me into this mess? I had come hunting Skeltai and instead had become their captive. Thinking to damage my enemies, I had stumbled unwittingly into their waiting hands. Not only that but I’d delivered more victims into their grasp.

  I realized I wasn’t alone. Looking around me, I identified other sorry figures slumped in dejected poses along the walls of the cage—my companions in this failed venture. Or as many, I supposed, as remained of them. Bloodied and disarmed, the Fists didn’t look quite as impressive as they had at the start of the day. Only one of them, a wiry little man I vaguely remembered seeing before, left the shadows to wordlessly help me loosen my hands, before he drifted away.

  The moment my hands were free I grabbed my bow, which my captors had slung crookedly and somewhat ridiculously around my neck before bringing me out here. Resettling it in its rightful place across my back, I wondered what had prompted them to let me keep it. I could only guess it had something to do with their grudging reluctance to separate the bow from my hands by force.

  Now it was time to assess my chances of escaping this wooden box.

  I noticed my fellow prisoners had managed to free themselves of their bonds. But it looked like they had given up after that, and they sat, silent and apparently resigned to their fates. Fear was palpable in the air, as I did a quick mental count.

  Terrac’s voice came from a shadowed corner. “Seven of us remain.”

  Relief flooded through me that he was one of that seven.

  He continued with, “The others were killed in the fighting. It might be best if we had shared in their luck, but I’m afraid a slower and more painful road lies ahead for us.”

  His voice was weak and I detected a tremor of pain, as I scrambled to his sprawled form.

  “Terrac, are you alright?” I could see no injuries on him and it was impossible to tell if the blood spattered across his clothing was his or someone else’s. I made a grab for the buckles of his breast plate but he stopped me.

  “Don’t look, Ilan. It’s too late now.”

  “I have training,” I offered feebly, knowing full well the handful of tricks I had learned at the elbow of Javen the healer weren’t enough to save a man with a mortal injury.

  He caught my hand at the buckles again.

  “Let it be, Ilan,” he said.

  My eyes stung at the gasp of pain it cost him to get out the words. This was all happening too fast. My world was crashing down around me and I couldn’t take it all in. Life without Terrac would be… no life at all. Funny that revelation came to me at a time like this.

  He still held my hand and seemed to be unaware of doing so, as he said, “There’s a favor I need to ask of you.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Anything.”

  “I need…” He winced, stiffening with pain. “I need you to forgive me.”

  What was he talking about? I said, “I don’t understand. Forgive you for what?”

  “Listen. I was wrong to act as I did when you came to rescue me all those years ago in Selbius. I’ve regretted my words ever since. I’ve messed up a lot of things, maybe we both have. I just want everything as it should be now… at the end. I need you forgive me and say we’re friends again.”

  “Of course, of course. We were never anything else.”

  “You swear to that?”

  “I swear it.”

  He smiled weakly and I squeezed his hand. Did his life force feel weaker than it had? Did I sense him slipping away even now?

  He moved abruptly to hoist himself into a sitting position.

  “What are you doing?” I pressed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You should be lying down. Movement will open the wound farther.”

  He brushed my hand away. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve never felt better.”

  His weakness fell away like an old cloak and he was suddenly moving and speaking with the ease of a healthy man.

  I looked for a grimace of pain or an outpouring of blood but there was none.

  Satisfied he was uninjured, I shoved him back against the prison bars. But not very hard. I remembered too well the heart-rending ache when I’d thought he was dying.

  “What’s wrong with you, priest boy?” I demanded, reverting in my anger to his childhood nickname. “Who plays such a stupid joke at a time like this?”

  “I wasn’t joking,” he protested. “There were things I needed to say and, oddly enough, it’s a lot easier to speak your mind when you’re dying.”

  I hesitated. “Well, are you dying or aren’t you?”

  “I�
�m not but I knew you couldn’t refuse me if you thought I was.”

  I exploded. “Refuse you? Why, you sneaking devious—! How dare you pretend you’re—when you’re really—?” Choking on my indignation, I had to stop. It was all I could do not to give him another good slam against the bars.

  He grinned. “Now, now. Don’t forget you gave your word.”

  “I promised to forgive everything that happened before,” I snapped. “But I won’t be tricked into forgetting this so easily.”

  He looked away from me, out the bars of the cage and into the night. I followed his direction and saw the bonfires of the Skeltai in the distance.

  “Sadly, I don’t think you’ll have a very long time to hold the grudge,” Terrac said. “They’re preparing for our deaths even now.”

  I sobered. The orangey glow of the bonfires cast a flickering light over us and the bars of the cage threw long shadows across Terrac’s face. His mouth quirked in an apologetic smile and his violet eyes gleamed beautifully in the half light. It occurred to me suddenly that a man could be forgiven many things when he looked this good.

  The moment was interrupted by a piercing howl in the distance as the Skeltai shamans took up a flesh-crawling chant. I shivered at the reminder of our eminent fate, even as I tried to find in myself some spark of hope or defiance.

  “We should check the entrance,” I suggested.

  “Locked and guarded,” said Terrac.

  “Maybe there’s another way out?”

  “I already checked.”

  He startled me by reached up to run one gloved finger down the bridge of my nose, following the crooked spot where it had been freshly broken. A shiver ran through me at the contact.

  “Its fine,” I said, abruptly pushing his hand away. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”