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Ipid's eyes shot open. He swallowed the scream that was staggering on his lips.
The dream slowly faded, but he could still feel the teeth pushing through his skin, the tendrils crushing the life from him, the claws ripping at his guts. Shaking off the residual terror, he shut his eyes and drew several deep breaths. It was only a dream, he repeated to himself. You are a grown man. A dream cannot hurt you. But he had never had a dream as disturbing or real as that one, had never felt the pain of a dream even after he woke.
He took another breath and opened his eyes. He found himself in the middle of a round tent with a high ceiling supported by a single wooden pole that appeared to have been recently crafted from a nearby tree. He was laid out on the hard ground like a sack of potatoes. Red light filtered through the bottom of the tent suggesting that it was near sundown. Reflexively, he brought a hand to his head and rubbed the throbbing lump that must have sent him to oblivion. Considering the lump brought a cold wave of memories – another nightmare that exorcised the first.
I was at my table, surround by villagers all wanting something. Dasen and Teth were away.
Riders – from the west? Huge men. Chaos. People running everywhere. Swords drawn. Killing, Indiscriminate killing. By the Order, such brutality.
Where are my guards? Elton, where is that cursed Morg? Dead, already dead. On the ground with countless arrows piercing him, a knife clutched in his big hand.
Panic becomes fear. People herded together. Fear, paralyzing, barely bridled. Fire in the village. No one moves.
Somehow, I was at the front. "Please, no more. I'm the one you want!"
No response.
Confusion. Foreign language? Foreign dress? So many? How? Why?
Waiting. Children crying, men whimpering. More questions. No answers. Smoke all around.
A young man appears. "I'm the one you want. Leave them alone!"
A response, but what language is that? Riders upon me. "No!"
Darkness.
I'm alive, Ipid told himself when the memories ended. He was not sure that he believed it. Alive for what? Ransom. And the villagers? Dasen? He had no answers and only one way to learn.
Ipid rose to his knees, explored his surroundings, and was frozen by a movement in the shadows. Less than an arm’s length away was his captor looking down at him from a collapsible stool. Ipid filtered through the shadows surrounding the man’s face and recognized him as the one he had seen earlier, the last face he had seen before the world went dark. He watched his captor carefully, but the young man did not appear to notice him. He sat unmoving, puffing on Ipid’s own long-stemmed pipe. The smell of the smoke drifting from the pipe revealed that it was the fine Blyth blend that had been in his pocket.
Anger rushed through Ipid at the thought of this man smoking his tobacco in his pipe. He nearly made a point of it before he realized how petty an issue it was given the autocracies this animal had already committed. With effort, he choked back his indignation and looked instead at the man.
From what he could see through the shadows – beyond the red glow at the bottom of the tent, the space was lit only by a single candle on a small table – the man was big but not as large as he remembered from the green. He was also younger than Ipid would have expected, likely in his late twenties. He was handsome with a solid physique, short sandy hair, and well-proportioned features, but most surprising was the way he looked at his captive. He watched Ipid with the aloof disregard of a king facing his lowliest peasant
Ipid did not appreciate that look. No matter how this petty criminal thought he had turned the tables, Ipid was an important man, so he positioned himself to confront the overblown cutpurse. He did not rise above his knees, but he stiffened his back and planted his fists on his hips. He put on his sternest possible glare and locked eyes with the young man. The bandit’s expression did not change.
Ipid was stunned by the man’s restraint. Surely, he was dying to share the details of his plan, to gloat over the capture of one of the world’s wealthiest men. Ipid was likewise ravenous for information about his son, Tethina, Rynn, and the villagers, but the silence stretched until it was obvious that Ipid would have to speak first. "I think we both know why you are here, so you might as well dispatch with the drama.”
The man didn't even twitch.
“What have you done with the villagers? I am the one you want, so if you leave them be, I will cooperate as best I can.” Another pause.
The bandit just sat there – a statue except for the puffs he drew from the pipe.
"You know that the forest masters will find you. Even if you get the money, how far do you think you will get with it? Now, if you let me and the villagers go and leave immediately, you may be able to escape the noose, but if you continue with this, I guarantee that it will take you sooner or later." When there was still no response, Ipid’s words sputtered out leaving him lolling like a half-wit.
The bandit struck. His hand flew across the space separating them. A backhanded blow sent Ipid to the ground with his ears ringing and a tendril of blood seeping from the side of his mouth.
After a minute to recover, Ipid brought himself back up and glared. It was met by another blow, harder than the first. Still, the man did not change his expression or posture even as he struck. Nothing but his hand moved, and it came so fast that it seemed like an illusion. He did not even miss a beat in the steady workout that he was giving the long-stemmed pipe.
Ipid spent a long moment on the ground soothing his temper after the second blow, and when he rose, he tried to look meek. He kept his hands open in his lap, his head down, and his eyes passive. He did not speak and fought the terrible temptation to rub the painful bruise that was forming around his eye. The new posture had the desired result. The outlaw’s mouth crept up around the pipe stem, and he nodded in approval.
The smile made Ipid relax, but it was betrayed by the whistle of a blade released from its sheath. The sword hummed through the air and stopped at Ipid’s throat. Its razor point pricked his skin, and he jerked back reflexively. The sword followed and transformed the prick into a trickle of blood that ran down his neck onto the collar of his shirt. Amazingly, the man on the stool brandished the long blade without seeming to move at all. The sword had appeared out of nowhere, and even as he held it, he sat in the same relaxed position, the pipe clinched between his teeth.
Ipid could not remember ever having been so still – he did not breathe. His eyes darted from man to blade and back again. One wrong move and his throat would be slashed, but the bandit acted as if nothing was happening at all. He moved his free hand to the pipe and pulled it from his lips sending tendrils of smoke boiling from his mouth. He rose, holding the sword with a precision that would shame the best surgeon in Liandrin, and began to speak.
Ipid did not understand a word he said. The language was like none that he had ever heard. He assumed that it was a code language. But why use a code language with just him in the room? It didn’t make any sense. The man spoke only a few sentences by Ipid calculation then asked, "Yahthu ti?" He nodded as if expecting an answer. Ipid took the phrase to mean, "Do you understand?"
He had not understood a word, but the meaning was clear: the man had only contempt for him and would have no problems killing him like a rat he had found in his pantry. Ipid carefully nodded, still wary of the sword at his throat. The bandit smiled again and patted him on the bottom of the chin with his blade before sliding it into the sheath at his side. Ipid’s hands went to his throat to stanch the stream of blood, but he had received worse from his barber. He marveled at the bandit’s control.
Beyond confusion, Ipid looked at his captor, hoping that he would explain the joke, but the young man was pounding the ash from the pipe as if his captive no longer existed. He placed the instrument on the table with casual disinterest before retu
rning his pale eyes to Ipid.
Ipid suddenly wished that he could disappear. The young man’s green eyes were hard and unforgiving, but far more frightening was the power reflected in those eyes. This man knew power. Far more than just the power over life and death – though that was part of it – this man knew what real power was, the kind that kings held and lesser men coveted. Worse yet, he knew that he possessed that power. A shiver rose up Ipid’s spine. He needed no more proof that this man was far more than a common thug, and for the first time, he was truly afraid.
“A - rin.” The man pointed to himself with an assertive gesture. His voice was rich, strict, and disciplined. Power flowed even from those two syllables.
Ipid guessed that the man was giving his name. He tried to respond to the gesture without revealing his crushing fear. "Arin is your . . . ."
A fist hit him between the eyes.
The blow left Ipid on the edge of consciousness, and it was a long time before he was able to sit again. When he did rise, holding his hands up to ward off another attack, the man, Arin, gestured to him then back to himself and made a yapping movement with his hand. He repeated the gesture, but Ipid was too dazed to understand. Arin made one more attempts. When there was still no sign of recognition, he struck.
Ipid felt his now split lip swelling as he pulled himself from the ground. Arin made the same gesture. This time he accompanied it with "Arin va Uhram Tavuh.”
The strange ritual was finally clear. The man's name was Arin, but Ipid was to use his full title to address him. At least, Ipid hoped that was correct. He built himself up and tried it. "Arin va Uh-ram Ta-vu." He stumbled over the unfamiliar words but kept his head low in an attempt to look humble as he spoke. He expected to receive another cuffing for the effort and was braced for it, but it did not come.
His eyes rose. Arin was smiling. The young man gestured toward him and waited for a response. The answer was obvious, but how could this bandit not know the name of his captive. "Ipid Ron. . . ."
An open hand landed across Ipid’s cheek. It was not as hard as the other blows he had received, but it struck a tender area and stung enough to bring small tears.
When he had recovered, Arin pointed at him and said, "Te-adeate Ipid."
Ipid guessed that he had a title as well, though the way Arin said the words, it was not a coveted one. He pointed at himself and repeated the title and name. The effort earned him another smile.
Arin considered his captive for a long time after that, weighing him with his eyes, then turned to the small table at his side. He produced a simple wooden writing instrument, a leather-bound book, and a bottle of what appeared to be ink and handed them to Ipid, who was thoroughly confused. It appeared that this man did not speak the common Imperial tongue, which was not unheard of in some corners of the world but exceedingly rare in the Kingdoms. The man and his followers could come from the swamps and jungles of Sylia, Ipid supposed, but that was far away and these men certainly did not look like the small, brown Sylians Ipid had seen. Or they could be Morgs. But Morgs that rode horses and didn’t wear beards?
"Te-adeate Ipid.” Arin pointed to the book, cutting Ipid’s contemplation short. The gesture was obvious, so Ipid wrote the words at the top of the first page, pausing only to consider the spelling of te-adeate. Arin grabbed the book when he was finished, studied the words, then scribbled next to them. When the book was returned, five unrecognizable characters were scrawled next to Ipid’s name.
Arin did not give him a chance to study those characters. "Arin va Uhram Tavuh." Ipid made his best guess on the spelling of the words and handed the book back to Arin.
The strange lesson carried on like that for some time with Arin pointing at objects around the tent and giving them a name in his language. Ipid would reply with the translation, write the word on the page, and hand it to Arin, who would add one or two characters of his own. Ipid was beaten if he misunderstood one of Arin’s cryptic gestures – making the lesson like a cruel version of a child’s guessing game – but they went through objects, then to actions, and finally colors and sizes without breaks until Ipid was on the verge of hysteria.
When Ipid did not think that he could take any more, a man interrupted the lesson with a plate of food, but it was not the meat, cheeses, and bread that caught Ipid’s attention. The man was as large as any he had ever seen, bigger even than Elton. He had to hunch to stand in the tent, and his body seemed to fill the entire space. He was both tall and broad with hulking arms and chest. His hands were as big as the dinner plate he carried – proportioned for the pommel of the enormous sword that was slung across his back. His face was marked by a long mustache that was braided through with strips of dark leather and ornamented with red beads. His steel-grey hair was also long, hanging past his shoulders in another set of small braids that were pulled back into one tight clump. A long scar ran across the length of his face disturbing what would have been bold features.
The giant did not look like any man Ipid had ever seen, and that just added to his confusion. He was already bewildered as to why a bandit king would kidnap one of the wealthiest men in the world in order to receive a language lessons. What’s more, the language that Arin spoke was not only unknown to Ipid, it was unlike any he had ever heard, and the symbols he wrote in the book were equally foreign. To this point, Ipid had been too busy worrying about Arin’s pantomimes to consider these oddities, but now that he was putting them together, he knew that something strange was happening in Randor’s Pass. The only reasonable explanation was that these men were. . . .
A sharp kick in the mid-section dispelled any thoughts Ipid might have had regarding the raiders’ origin. The blow caught him completely off guard and knocked the wind out of him so thoroughly that he was turning blue before he managed a gasping breath.
Ipid lay on the ground, breathing deeply between retches as Arin ate. When he was finished, he laid the scraps in front of Ipid’s nose, but despite his suddenly ravenous hunger, Ipid had not lost his dignity. He turned his nose up at the scraps. He expected another beating as payment, but it did not come. The plate was simply removed as if it had never been offered.
The language lessons continued for hours after that until Arin was attempting simple sentences. The young man had an incredible memory that only needed to hear a word once to store it seemingly forever. Ipid was not so quick, and Arin reminded him of his shortfalls with a long stick that he had procured after the meal. He used the stick to whip his teacher across the arms and back whenever he failed to remember a word or understand a gesture, and by the end of the night, Ipid was covered with welts.
Ipid was eventually so sore and tired that he could no longer think. He was certain that if Arin hit him one more time he would breakdown – even the thought of the stick left him on the verge of tears. Arin must have seen the same thing. In the night’s only act of compassion, he cut off Ipid’s shaking recitation of the words they had covered. "Stop! Te-adeate Ipid sleep."
Arin pushed back the flap of the tent and said a few words to the guard outside. Ipid almost wept in relief until the man who had brought the food ducked into the tent and lifted him by the collar of his shirt. The huge guard carried him easily, but the grip he used caused the shirt to cinch around his throat like a noose. He tried to bring his legs under him, but they had been asleep for hours, and he could not hope to make them function. The huge man mercilessly dragged him gagging and sputtering across the village to a large sheep pen where the other villager were housed and haphazardly added him to their number.
Ipid landed on several motionless bodies, which burst to life, yelled in pain, and pushed him away. When they saw who it was, they retracted, looked at him with a mix of fear and revulsion, eyes blaming him, begging him to leave. He apologized to those he had disturbed and stumbled off, with his legs still half-asleep, in search of an open space in the crowded pen. The crowd retract
ed from him like a plague carrier then left him a space near the edge of the pen where only those who were unable to move remained anywhere near him.
He had just curled into a ball when a soft hand pressed on his shoulder. He shook in fear that it was the guard, but when he looked up, cowering, it was Rynn’s tight smile that greeting him. The boy looked awful. His face was splattered with grime, his shoulder-length brown hair was tangled and matted, and his entire body trembled beneath his filthy, but once fine, clothes. Whatever Ipid had been through, it looked like Rynn had received worse. Nonetheless, the sight of him brought a small smile to Ipid’s battered face.
To Ipid’s surprise, Rynn did not speak immediately. He just sat and looked at him as if he might disappear. Then, when he finally found his voice, the words were distant whispers. "Lord Ronigan, sir, it’s . . . it's good to see that . . . that you’re still alive. I . . . I feared the worst when I couldn’t find you.” The boy shook violently, and his eyes watched the guard near the gate of the pen with rabid fear. “One of the villagers said . . . well . . . that the leader of these animals went after you. And when that happens, there usually isn't . . . isn't much left of the person." Rynn laughed nervously. His eyes shifted. The laugh made Ipid look at the boy twice. It smacked of madness.
"We’ve been in this pen all night,” Rynn almost chuckled. “They just crammed us in here and left us . . . left us with this one guard, but . . . but no one dares to run. No one's that brave. Not . . . not after what’s happened.” He paused again and looked at Ipid as if he might question his courage. Ipid tried to reassure the boy with a tight smile and a nod. “When they were herding us into the pen, everyone was afraid, but whenever anyone talked or cried out, they just . . . they just cut them down. Women and children too, anyone who made the slightest sound, they cut ‘em down without . . . without even blinking." Rynn’s face crumbled. He turned from Ipid and shook with ragged sobs.
Ipid realized that he might have had the easy part of the day. These people had known terror far worse than anything he had experienced. By the Blessed Order, children too? He had known that they were dealing with a brutal bunch, but he had not expected anything like that. He put his arms around Rynn in an attempt to comfort him. The boy tried to escape the embrace, but Ipid did not let go. He pulled him close and tried to ignore the pain in his arms where he had been whipped.
"They just killed people.” Rynn shook. His words were a mumble in Ipid’s chest. “I was so scared that all I could do was walk. A woman next to me. They hit her . . . hit her right in the head with one of those sword. Her head . . . . The blood hit me . . . all I could do was walk . . . ."
Ipid tightened his arms around Rynn and stroked his hair. He made quiet noises telling him to stop. When his sobs eased, he pulled the boy away and looked at him. His eyes were damp with tears; they looked distant and dead. "Listen to me, Rynn. I know you saw some terrible things today, and I don't want you to ever forget those things. Keep those images, those people with you, but don't let them destroy you. Let them power you.” He looked at Rynn to be certain he was listening. “These bastards may treat us like less than animals, but we cannot let them convince us that they are right. You have to be strong, Rynn. Put today behind you, but never forget that woman. Don't let her die in vain. Make her part of you, let her give you strength."
Some of the distance faded from Rynn's eyes as Ipid spoke, and his tears began to dry. When he finished, some rigidity had returned to his body, and a new determination seemed to take hold of him. Ipid hoped it would be enough.
He brought Rynn to him in another embrace then pushed him away. "Now, go. Get some sleep.” He tried to sound fatherly and sure. “You will need it tomorrow. Go ahead. Put this terror behind you and sleep."
Rynn looked like he wanted to speak, but Ipid held up his hand and motioned him away. He did not want the boy around when these bastards came for him in the morning. There was a chance they would see the fine cut of his clothes and realize his value. He was safer as an anonymous villager, so Ipid sent him away, denied his own desire for companionship. The boy nodded, stood on shaking legs, and wove through the villagers to the far side of the pen.
Ipid sat back in the mud feeling the cold of the night return. He had to remember what he had told Rynn as well. Now was not a time for tears or regrets, now was a time to survive, to survive and remember.
Chapter 16
From Across the Clouded Range Page 36
