Please, he begged, stop fighting.
He envisioned his struggling straps hearing his pleas, and imagined them lying still in the goop. His brain screamed to breathe, but he pushed it away and concentrated. He watched the appendages go limp in his mind. His lungs burned. For you and me both, please listen.
With his brain screaming to take a breath, one of the strap’s tug at his back relaxed. Then another one did as well. Then another until all of them seemed to hear his cries. His mind and lungs starved for air. He felt the world fading. The warm slime filled his nose and ears. He tasted it, unintentionally, and it was salty and disgusting.
The strap that was still above the slime tightened and pulled at his back. He began to drift away from the suck of the beast. Relax, he repeated like a mantra. The suns’ light poked through from above as he slowly floated toward the surface.
Then his forehead broke through. First his eyes rose from the slime. Next, the tip of his nose met the coolness of fresh air. When his mouth cleared, he gasped in a huge gulp of air and slime. The muscles in his chest tightened as he breathed out which pulled him lower again. Don’t breathe, he told himself. Not yet.
He looked up the front of the beast. His strap, his wonderful strap, had a death-grip on the embedded sword in the slug’s head. It pulled him toward the sword and freedom.
His head pulled free of the slime and slapped against the cold, scaly wall of the beast’s body. His shoulders lifted free, followed by his waist and his legs. Goop dripped from his hands and feet. He slid up the slimy front of the beast as the creature opened its mouth again. His feet dangled and brushed against the slug’s blood-stained teeth. The limp straps beneath him cleared the slime before attacking the beast with futile, pounding blows.
Once Rasi was close enough to the sword, he reached for it, grabbing its hilt with his good arm. His straps helped hoist him onto the sword like it was a ledge. Balancing on the sword, he was near the creature’s top. He dug his fingers into a crack between the beast’s scales and climbed upon its back. With a sigh, he stood up and wiped the gunk from his eyes. Ahead of the creature was nothing but slime for as far as he could see. In the creature’s wake was only a barren path of destruction and dirt.
Rasi took a deep breath. He slid down the slug’s sloped back to the bare ground while the beast continued plodding along its relentless path, oblivious to Rasi’s escape.
Rasi brushed himself off and looked around. A new seemingly impossible task stared him in the face – the ravine wall.
As he had learned from the rashta’s pit, his straps reached above for grip after grip as he painfully ascended the wall.
By the time he reached the top, the suns neared the northern horizon, the moon chasing them in a never-ending game of tag.
Salient’s weary body lay in the grass not far away. His chest rose and fell in shallow, dying bursts.
Rasi staggered to his friend. Salient panted and snorted, as if happy to see him. His eyes were tired – glassy. Rasi caressed his neck. Old boy, you’ve been a great friend. You were all I had when I had nothing. I wish I could help you.
He bit his lip with enough force to draw blood as he envisioned his most painful act yet. A strap slithered around Salient’s neck and squeezed until his eyes slowly went dark.
Rasi stared at the stars. Spittle sprayed from his clenched teeth with each angry breath. I will deliver this pain tenfold to all in my path. And I will bring down the gods if Alina has been hurt. He pulled himself to his feet. Lorca’s horse grazed in the distance. I’m coming, Alina. I swear.
CHAPTER 27
FIRST EPERTASIAN BLOOD
Paisel wrapped up his conversation with King Logan, elated with Lithia’s war preparations. Their meeting was brief but productive. In parting, Logan offered gathered intelligence on the invading army. He said his spies called them Teks due to their advanced technological capabilities and gave Paisel a packet of papers that he stressed were for his and Elijah’s eyes only. When Paisel asked what was in the papers, King Logan smiled.
“Let’s just say our spies have been busy.”
Paisel offered thanks and Epertase’s support before departing.
He had previously ordered most of his soldiers ahead to set up camp in the massive farmland regions southwest of Lithia. The farms represented the last bit of civilization before the emptiness of the Wastelands, making them the perfect fallback location for any scouts who might have encountered trouble.
Paisel arrived at the camp later that day. The countryside glowed with the campfires of his men. He dispatched several messengers to distant farmhouses with orders to inform the property owners of the kingdom’s temporary need of their land. His newest lieutenant reported the western perimeter had been established.
Paisel unpacked his supplies in his tent before settling down for a late dinner. His meal, however, was interrupted by the arrival of a group of western scouts, escorted by armored Epertasian guards.
“Why have you abandoned your posts?” he asked Raerdon, an obese scout leader whom he had always called friend.
“Paisel, the invaders have forced our retreat.”
“Forced?”
“Their roaring contraptions and vast armies have overtaken the west. I haven’t seen such activity in the Wastelands since the height of the Heathens. They erect small towns while digging the grounds with their large machines.”
A thousand tasks raced through Paisel’s mind at once. His friend looked at him for guidance so he said, “King Elijah put me in charge of the western command. He has ordered an additional post established farther west.”
The scout tilted his head, appearing confused. “Paisel, this is as far as you can go. Any farther and you will be within their grasp.”
“By the gods, how large is their army?”
“Tens of thousands, maybe more.”
Paisel tried to project a false bravado. “I need you to round up all of the western scouts and have them report here.”
His friend shook his head, confused. “Paisel,” he said, “this is all of us, forty or so. The invaders have massacred the others.”
“Massacred? Why?”
“I don’t know, but it’s safe to say they are not here for peace.”
Paisel looked past his friend at his bustling soldiers. He didn’t immediately answer. Raerdon interrupted his thoughts, “Sir?”
“What? Oh, yes. My orders are to offer peace to the invaders and invite them to meet the royal family. I guess I should reconsider.”
“That would be my advice.”
“Did you manage to gather any intelligence before retreating? What they look like, type of weaponry? Anything?”
“Yes, sir. Quite a lot, actually.”
“Make a report of your findings, have your men do the same, and meet back here right away.”
“Very well.”
The spies sent by King Elijah rode up to the meeting. “Where are the invaders amassing?” the lead one asked. He wore all black, as did his compatriots. If not for his horse, Paisel may not have seen him at all. He squinted in a way that made his eyes hide in the shadow of his brow.
“Where?” Raerdon asked. “Everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” the spy asked.
The rotund scout acted as though he could not believe their naiveté. “They have overtaken all of the Wastelands.” He pointed westward. “In the daytime you can see the smoke in the skies from their metal monsters. If you head west, they will kill you.”
The spy grinned. “Stealth,” he said, “is our specialty. We will send word back within the week.” Then he turned and led his comrades westward.
Later that night, Raerdon returned to Paisel’s tent with a thick stack of unbound paper. Each section represented a different point of view from each scout. Raerdon looked at the mess with a smirk. “I hadn’t time to compile it.”
Paisel stared at the stack of paper, unsure if he was prepared to take on such a tedious task. “It will take me a week to get th
is mess suitable enough that I would feel comfortable presenting it to our King.”
Raerdon’s smirk grew. “You’d better get started,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose I should. Perhaps delegation is in order.”
Raerdon backed away with his hands up, as if he were surrendering. “I, uh … I’d love to but … well … I have much to do in debriefing the others.”
“If by debriefing you mean filling that large gut with ale, I expected no less. Don’t worry, old friend, I have no interest in interrupting your night’s entertainment.”
The two men shared a laugh before Raerdon went on his way.
Paisel placed the stack next to his sleeping blankets. He pulled King Logan’s intelligence from his leather bag and set it atop. He scribbled “Paisel’s Report” on the blank top sheet and leafed through it until he fell asleep.
It hadn’t been dark long when he was awakened to frantic screams of an approaching horse rider. He scurried from his tent. He recognized the horse rider as one of his farmhouse messengers.
“Hurry, hurry,” the rider screamed.
The other soldiers began crawling from their tents, groggy, wiping the sleep from their eyes.
The messenger leaped from his horse as it slowed.
“Calm yourself,” Paisel said.
“They’re here. They’re here,” he screamed back.
“Who?” Paisel asked. “Take a breath.”
He spoke in short, winded bursts. “When we arrived … at the farmhouses … we found the farmers … massacred … All of them … We were attacked … Your messengers are dead … Your lookouts are dead … Everyone is dead.”
Paisel hadn’t time to gather his wits when a distant fireball exploded and twisted to the sky, followed by a muted concussion. Then the farmlands to the west erupted into a sea of explosions.
Some of the soldiers watched, paralyzed in awe of the light show. Others scrambled into their tents, grabbed their clothes, armor, and weapons before making their way toward the fresh battle.
Paisel grabbed the messenger’s arm, breaking the man’s gape. “Get to King Elijah.” Paisel disappeared into his tent and returned with his leather bag. “Take these papers. Do not stop until you get there and give this to no one else.”
For a moment, the messenger was a statue.
Paisel again broke his stare. “Go! Now!” he ordered, leaped onto his horse, and raced toward the fight.
CHAPTER 28
SIMCANE
Simcane sat at the bar of Arthur’s Dive like he had so many nights before. It wasn’t that he liked Arthur’s all that much but it was a place he could go and not be gawked at.
Usually.
He felt the stare of a scrawny kid sitting next to him.
“Are you Simcane?” the young kid finally asked, his eyes fixated on Simcane’s bulky shoulder.
Simcane ignored him as he sipped his ale.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the kid said and tugged at Simcane’s tree-trunk arm, spilling his ale down his shirt. Simcane inhaled a deep, angry breath.
Marge rushed over and swiped the kid’s hand away, saving him a lot of pain. “I’m sorry, Simcane, honey. He don’t know any better.”
Simcane tapped his empty mug onto the bar and nodded for another. The bartender, Frank, stood on his toes and peeked over.
“Here you go, big fella,” he said as he set another glass in front of him. Marge and Frank had been there as long as Simcane could remember and they had always been fair to him. For that, he tried not to cause trouble and allowed strangers more leeway than he might have another time in his life.
Marge went back to her business. The kid looked down at his own empty mug and mumbled, “Just curious is all. I just think it’s rare, such a big guy like you being a coward. Doesn’t make sense. What do you weigh, anyways? Two fifty, three hundred stones?”
Simcane finished another ale while ignoring him.
The kid pushed his luck. “I don’t know. Anyone who tells the heathens our secrets and then quits the military in the middle of war, well, that man isn’t anything but a coward. Well, a traitor and a coward, I mean.”
The kid had no idea. Simcane considered pounding the truth into him but decided against it. He stared at the empty mug in his hand and the stump where his little finger once sat, proof of his tight lips at the heathens’ hands. This kid, and all of the gawkers, had no idea what it was like to have hot pokers held against their backs while protecting Epertasian secrets.
Marge slipped between Simcane and the kid with a glare. “You don’t know nothing,” she said.
“Let him be, Marge,” Simcane said.
She turned to him. “No, Sim. It ain’t fair. For years, all through the city, I hear these lies and I’m sick of them. Why don’t you defend yourself, tell them the truth.”
“And what’s the truth, Marge?”
“Let’s start with how Elijah abandoned you and your team when you were captured doing his dirty work. Or how he accused you of treachery after you escaped and returned, honor-bound, for another assignment.”
“People don’t wanna hear those stories, Marge.”
“It just angers me, is all. You did three hard years before you were acquitted and people should know that. You shouldn’t let them believe you quit or were some kind of traitor. Show this child your back.”
Simcane shook his head with his empty mug held out. “Another ale, Frank.”
But the drunken kid wouldn’t shut up. “Yep, I’d think a coward who fashions himself a mercenary would be out looking for our princess as we speak. Not drinking away his failures.”
Marge threw her hands in the air, groaned, and huffed back to her duties. “Your pain, kid. Your pain.”
Simcane studied the puny runt, briefly, before asking in his best intimidating voice, “What happened to the Princess?”
“You haven’t heard? She’s been kidnapped. Everybody’s talking ’bout it.”
The kid’s words bothered him. Not that he had ever met the Princess or had any vested interest in her life, but he always saw her as a source of hope. As angry as he had been, he never hated Epertase, only Elijah. Who could have done such a thing? he wondered.
“Yep,” the kid continued without being asked. “King Elijah sent Tevin to find her. Shoot, Queen Madalyne even ordered Siver to go with him.”
Siver, huh? Simcane knew him well, or at least his reputation. He was the Queen’s personal bodyguard and as good a soldier as there was. That knowledge should have put Simcane at ease but for some gnawing reason, it didn’t. He had no doubt of Siver’s dedication to the Queen and the royal family, but he didn’t quite trust Tevin.
Simcane carried his ale to one of the many empty tables. If the drunken kid followed, he’d already decided to hurt him.
Badly.
He slurped his fresh ale.
Marge brought another. “This one’s on me, hon. Don’t let the little guy bother you. He’s new in here and he’s had a few too many.” Marge had always been a sweetheart, even before their one night of drunken passion.
He laid a couple extra coins on the table, swigged his last swallow of ale, and threw on his ankle-length overcoat.
“See ya, Frank … Marge.” His voice was gruff, almost hurting his throat. He flipped his hood over his head and down over his brow. Marge and Frank shouted that they’d see him in the morning and he waved and walked toward the door.
Before he could reach for the double-hinged front door, it swung open, narrowly missing his nose. Two soldiers, along with a third in officer’s fatigues, stood in the doorway.
“Simcane?” the officer shouted.
The low buzz of the few remaining patrons went silent like they were at a funeral.
Simcane walked toward the men, head held low and eyes to the floor. The two soldiers stepped in front of their officer and into Simcane’s path. He stopped.
“A word?” the officer asked.
Simcane nodded.
“I am Ca
ptain Jarrah. As you may have heard, the Princess has gone missing.”
Simcane nodded that he had.
“The great King Elijah has dispatched Tevin the Third to the mountains to find her and has ordered Thasula’s top mercenaries to stand down. There is no money in interfering. He has sent me, personally, to make sure you understand you are not welcome. Do you understand?”
Simcane didn’t answer.
“Understand you’re not welcome, that is?”
Simcane sighed. “Sure,” he said, no doubt giving the officer some unjust satisfaction.
Jarrah continued, “Tevin and his men are more than capable of handling the one called Rasi without the likes of you.”
Rasi? That’s a name Simcane hadn’t heard in years. Hell, he thought Rasi was dead. They must be wrong, as he knew Rasi from the war and harming the Princess wasn’t in his nature.
Jarrah stepped between his guards and within a breath of Simcane’s lowered head. He peeked beneath Simcane’s overhanging hood and whispered, “If you so much as move wrong, I will kill you. You are not as feared as you may believe.”
The handle of a seven-inch blade slid from Simcane’s coat sleeve and rested against his cupped palm. He had the drop on the captain. He squeezed the hilt until his hand turned white. The captain glanced down at his clenched fist. The confidence drained from his face.
“Is that all?” Simcane asked.
Jarrah moved aside.
Simcane marched past and out of the tavern. He would not have been as forgiving when he was younger.
CHAPTER 29
REUNION
Rasi squinted away the flickering rays of sunslight.
An old, familiar voice startled him. “Relax, old friend. You’re safe.”
Terik!
Rasi sat up, sore but rested. He rubbed his temples and focused his eyes. The dilapidated barn around him was cozier than anywhere he had slept in many years and he recognized it as Terik’s. His old friend sat before him. His hair, the same close flattop cut he had always worn, remained trimmed and professional but now had more gray. The scarred gouges on his cheek from the heathen’s teeth had faded but would never truly be gone.
Light of Epertase 01: Legends Reborn Page 12
