He lies.
I know he lies, and he knows I know he lies. Still, we will both pretend he speaks truth. I smile like I have earned a great concession, for I also know that he will keep Tellen and Katrina away from me to give the people of Coldhaven the impression he still has honor. Their belief has bought him obedience. When that illusion shatters, they will rise up against him. The knowledge burns like physical pain in my chest, but I cannot speak of it. The time is not yet right.
“Have your pets stand down,” Oren orders.
Katrina hisses in response.
“Let me speak with them,” I say.
“No.” Looking triumphant, Huntmaster Oren turns to Katrina. “You, Saroth, take on your human form and stay in it or I will kill this woman.”
Mary whimpers as Oren’s blade pricks the sensitive skin on her neck.
Once Katrina obeys, Oren addresses Tellen.
“Let the good elder go, boy.”
Tellen looks like he wants to fill the room with lightning. I know he can, but the results would be disastrous. The air thickens and crackles with energy as Tellen draws on his powers.
Swallowing a painful lump, I plead with my friend.
“Do as he says, Tellen.” I stare hard into his eyes, hoping he’ll read the rest of my message: Wait. There will be another time to fight.
Straining to break through Tellen’s stubbornness, I accidentally sense a young woman and a boy waiting by the front door.
Recognizing the signs of Tellen accessing his gifts, Oren breathes more threats.
“My contract is for Victoria. It stipulates only that she be alive upon delivery. If you release so much as a spark, I will hurt her, kill the Saroth girl, and beat you to within inches of the Veil’s gates beside.”
For an eternal second Tellen simply stares back at me, ignoring Oren, but finally, he straightens and sheaths his daggers.
“What happens now?” asks the nervous elder.
“Now, Victoria allows my men to—”
“First release the captives waiting outside,” I interrupt.
“They’re here?” asks one of the village men, sounding stunned.
Oren’s eyes widen with surprise then narrow with anger. He nods curtly and dispatches one of the men to retrieve the other captives.
“Release the boy,” Oren orders when the errand is done.
The young woman’s father realizes the order’s implications almost before I do.
“What about my daughter? I demand—”
“You do not get to make demands. You are at my mercy,” Oren informs the man. He makes eye contact with each of the village men and continues speaking. “Victoria has bargained for her friends, and as a gesture of good will, I am releasing the child. I will keep Sara until we reach our destination to keep my contract in line and purchase your cooperation. You will keep Victoria’s friends here until I send Sara back. If I see them again, she will die. Do you understand?”
One by one, the village men nod. Then, with permission from Oren, one of the villagers scrambles to release the boy. A happy reunion takes place, and the ropes that previously bound the child are thrown at Tellen’s feet.
“Bind Victoria’s hands together in front of her, slave travel style,” Oren instructs. “Secure her ankles too, but be sure she can still walk.”
Though Oren deeply wishes it, I do not react to his statement. Slave travel style is a humiliating way to truss a prisoner. It involves wrapping rope around one’s midsection and securing each elbow to that. Then, the wrists are bound together and attached by a short length to yet another cord that wraps around the person’s neck. A final system of ropes provides leads which can be used to guide a prisoner about or hobble them like a beast of burden. Depending on how one arranges the ropes, the prisoner can be made to appear in a constant state of supplication.
“Stop it.” Katrina does not raise her voice, but her words carry as much weight as Oren’s.
Though I do not remember moving, my bracers fill the room with blinding light and I’m in front of Katrina with one of Oren’s throwing daggers in each hand. The light fades quickly, but every eye remains dazzled for a few moments.
Had the daggers hit their target, they would have only grazed Katrina, but they carry Oren’s point: do not interfere. Since I intercepted them, I too made a point: my surrender cannot be forced, only offered. To further emphasize my point, I kneel, place both daggers—heel forward—on the ground and slide them toward Oren.
The move causes a murmur to rise from the village men. Mary Baxter starts muttering prayers under her breath. Both Oren and I know the balance of power has shifted. He knows he must conclude this soon or the people of Coldhaven will awaken from their fear-induced stupor.
“Now, boy,” Oren growls.
“Do not do this, Vic,” Katrina urges. “We need you.” She places a hand on my right shoulder and squeezes hard, yet another plea to come to my senses.
I’m touched by the tender, broken tone with which my friend speaks. Reaching up with my left hand, I grip her wrist.
“It will not be for long,” I promise.
Tellen scoops up the various lengths of rope and approaches, kneeling before me.
“Remove her gloves first, and remember I will check your work,” Oren warns.
“I’m sorry, Vic,” Tellen says, reaching to bind my hands.
Chapter 13:
Breakout
Katrina Polani
Storage room of the Gathering Hall, Coldhaven
“You make a lousy prisoner,” Tellen teases. “Relax.” To emphasize his point, he crosses his ankles, tucks interlaced fingers behind his head, shuts his eyes, and leans back against the wall next to the door. Despite his words and carefree tone, Tellen bears the watchfulness of a patient huntsman waiting for prey to approach. I’m not certain how Arkonai huntsmen sense the world around them, but I suppose it’s akin to my ability to feel the surroundings better in snake form than any other.
In dog form, I pace the small room the foolish militia members left us in. Though the room lacks windows and has only one door, its designers had not meant it to hold any captives let alone ones with magical abilities. The crack along the bottom of the door offers one escape route, and several breaks along the foundation offer a few more. A mouse has even left a convenient hole leading to the main room. I could be out of here in seconds. My concern is not in actually escaping; rather it has everything to do with the step after that.
Halting my pacing, I cock my ears to listen. The men’s voices, which would have registered as low rumbles to my human ears, echo loudly in my skull. Even if they’re not speaking, I hear their restless movements and rough breathing.
Freeing Tellen must be my first priority, but it will not be easy. In addition to the six militiamen, Oren left one of his personal lackeys to oversee our imprisonment. After a moment’s calculation, I determine that two village men stand just outside the door to this storage room. The other four huddle near the fire and the man called Markesh paces across the front of the room, arguing quietly with himself. One guard I could handle, perhaps two or three, but seven guards would be able to overwhelm me before I can secure Tellen’s release.
If I cannot beat them in a fair fight, I will have to fight unfairly.
“As soon as they come to collect us, we can jump them and make our escape,” Tellen announces cheerfully. He closes his eyes and draws in deep, relaxing breaths.
Having gained what I could from the heightened senses of my dog form and tired of the pungent odor of unwashed bodies, I return to my human form and take two steps forward to quietly share my findings with Tellen.
“Welcome back,” Tellen greets, opening his eyes.
“How did you know I had changed forms?”
“Your tread changed,” he replies. Reaching up with both arms for a good stretch, Tellen yawns then lets his hands drop to the ground. “So, what’s the plan? It can’t be any crazier than my plan?”
“What’s your
plan? And what makes you think I have one?” I challenge, though a plan begins to sprout in my mind.
“To answer your second question, I don’t know,” Tellen admits with a shrug. He climbs to his feet and glances at the door to make sure nothing has come through it in the second he was distracted. “Something’s changed. You’re … calmer … and deadlier.”
“And to answer my first question?”
“I still have the baydonberries,” he reminds, patting the small pouch attached to a belt loop in his pants, “and you still have that Saroth fire you can conjure in a pinch.”
“Forget it. We do not know how powerful those corrupt berries will be. The explosion would as likely kill us as break us free.”
“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Tellen concedes, “so tell me your better, saner, safer plan for busting out of here.”
Clamping down on annoyance, I explain what I know.
“There are seven men out there, including Markesh. They are spread throughout the room. I cannot win such a fight alone, so I need to draw them in here where you can help.”
“How are you going to get them back here?”
“I shall go out into the main room long enough to show myself, retrieve an item if necessary, and retreat back here,” I say, wishing it could work that smoothly. “Then, we go with your original plan to simply attack them when they enter.”
“What item?” Tellen asks, picking up on the hesitation in my tone. His dubious expression tells me what he thinks of the plan. “Am I going to disapprove of this unnamed item?”
“Probably.”
Narrowing his keen brown eyes, Tellen searches my face for answers.
“Wait. You’re not talking about Markesh’s Conjuring scroll, are you? We don’t even know what’s on it!”
“Neither do the guards,” I point out, trying to hide the fact that I am impressed he spotted the scroll. “Markesh is out there right now, dying to use that scroll. I say we give him the chance, but if he is unwilling to unleash whatever the scroll binds, I can do it.” I do not even bother trying to hide a wicked grin. “It would be quite the distraction.”
Holding out his palms in a halting motion, Tellen asks, “Have you thought about what happens after we release whatever is on that scroll?”
“We can worry about that after dealing with the guards,” I say, aware that the edge of my voice has sharpened.
Dropping his hands and ducking his chin, Tellen closes his eyes, as if praying to The Lady for wisdom. When he looks up, his earnest eyes demand my attention.
“We can’t kill them, Katrina. The people of Coldhaven aren’t evil. They’re scared.”
Sudden rage grips me, pounding through my head like martial drums. The memory of Tellen binding Vic’s hands for Oren fills me with a lust for revenge, but just as quickly, the emotion leaks away as reason prevails. Much as I wish to blame Tellen, he had no choice but to carry out the order. Defiance would only have earned somebody—likely me—an early grave. Oren’s order to Tellen was nothing more than to prove the extent of our powerlessness. I silently curse the Arkonai and their need to exert power over each other and everybody else in the world. My people can be just as cruel, but at least they tend to do their own dirty work.
Trying to cling to the fading scraps of my anger, I ask, “What about Vic?”
“What about her?”
As the anger continues retreating, a cool sense of helplessness rushes to take its place.
“We have to get out so we can help her,” I insist, loathing the new emotion.
“I want to help Vic as much as you do, but we can’t do it by killing innocents!” Tellen’s voice vibrates with the force of his convictions.
That gets a bitter laugh from me.
“None of them are innocent.”
“That may be, but we still need a plan,” Tellen gently reminds me. Tentatively, he grips my shoulders. “This is bigger than the people of Coldhaven, and it’s bigger than us. I agree we need to get out of here and help Vic, but we’ll need the villagers’ help to get to Fort Amareth without Oren knowing.” We’d picked up that little detail from the loose-lipped village men who herded us into this pathetic prison.
“We should steal supplies.” Though not a serious suggestion, I am frustrated enough to bring it up to bother Tellen.
“We could steal supplies, but not cooperation,” Tellen explains. “I don’t know this area well enough to guide us to the fort before Oren, but somebody here should have that knowledge. We need a guide, or at least a map.”
“So what would you—”
Surprised and frightened shouts and curses from the main room drive the rest of the thought from my mind. A crash and defiant screams join the continued frantic shouts and the thunderous roar of boots slamming down on wood. I exchange a quick, questioning look with Tellen. He seems grim but resigned.
Nodding toward the other room, he folds his arms over his chest, and says, “Try not to permanently damage anyone.”
Diving toward the mouse hole and praying not to meet the mouse, I take on my beetle form and scramble through.
“And don’t forget to let me out!” Tellen calls after me.
The scene that meets my eyes is one of pure chaos, and I realize that our disagreement over releasing the creatures bound to the scroll has become moot. Markesh stands atop a wooden chair reading from his scroll. Three zombies stumble around the room, disoriented by the ample light. Their moans and grunts provide an oddly fitting counterpoint to the men’s crazed cries.
After wasting several seconds trying to locate the man with the key to the storage room, I notice a fourth zombie and decide Tellen’s going to have to wait. The scroll likely only carries one or two more zombies as binding more than five to one parchment can be very difficult, but the room seems plenty full right now.
“Die, foul creatures!” one of the village men screams. “Return to the Darklands, Outcast’s spawn!”
Most of the other men keep their comments to simple curses.
Taking on my dog form, I weave through the struggling figures. Without giving Markesh time to think, I bark once, leap, and catch the scroll in my mouth, jerking my head violently several times to yank it from his grasp. Then, ignoring his anguished screams, I use my paws and teeth to rip the scroll to shreds. The paper smells deliciously musky, but before I can sample it, Markesh’s boot comes crashing down from above.
Twisting my body away from the boot, I bump into a zombie who grunts in protest. Inspiration strikes and I let loose a series of menacing barks, using my body and well-timed nips to herd the zombies toward Tellen’s prison. Once backed into the corner, the zombies pound on the door, eager to escape the almighty racket raised by me and the angry men.
While my unwitting help tears at the door, I keep up a steady racket to spur them on and run back and forth behind them to prevent a retreat. Spotting the belt with Tellen’s daggers, I race over to retrieve them, leaping high and snatching them much the same as I had the scroll. As I land with the prize, Markesh appears and kicks me squarely in the side, forcing me to drop the belt with the daggers.
My pained yelp turns into a human sound as I undergo the change and roll forward simultaneously. Pulling out one of Tellen’s daggers, I slash at Markesh’s left boot. The sharp blade slices through the thick leather and cuts into the leg beneath, earning a chilling noise from Markesh. Before he can recover, I jam the dagger back into its sheath, turn back into my canine form, gather the belt with my teeth, and race to deliver the weapons to Tellen.
Sprinting past dumbfounded men, I arrive as the zombies break through the door. Changing to snake form, I whip my tail around the nearest zombie’s leg and yank hard. As expected, the limb comes off with a wet-sounding pop. Suppressing the urge to shudder, I toss the limb in the general direction of the men trying to contain the zombies. Shrieking, they scatter.
The legless zombie leans hard against his fellows, widening the gap. Turning back to dog form, I trot through and present
my prize to Tellen.
“Took you long enough,” he grouses. His grin contradicts the words as he straps the belt around his waist and draws the daggers. “I’ll forgive the dog spit this time. Let’s finish this.”
Four unmistakable sounds of arrows striking flesh combine with zombie death cries to demand our attention. Their bodies flop to the ground and turn to dust that mingles with the splinters from the door’s remains.
Tellen drops into a defensive stance.
I crouch low, ready for anything that comes through that door, except the person who actually strolls in.
“What are you standing there for?” demands Shadow. “Let’s go. We have a couple of damsels in distress to rescue.”
“Call Vic a damsel in distress to her face,” Tellen dares, following Shadow into the main room. “I want to see what she does.”
Chapter 14:
Battle for Coldhaven
Katrina Polani
Streets of Coldhaven, just outside the Gathering Hall
Dog form can do well for melee fights against a reasonable number of ordinary foes, and snake form has proven quite effective against zombies. Still, at times such as this, I wish I could use a weapon like Shadow’s bow which is currently out, arrow nocked, but not quite pointed at a specific target. Though I have recreationally used a bow, I would be useless with one in a real battle.
As expected, Tellen keeps his daggers at the ready. Someday I hope to be able to wield a dagger or short sword as it would greatly increase the combat effectiveness of my human form. Unfortunately, my transformation skill level lies far below that necessary to affect a weapon. Any Shapeshifter apprentice can weave their clothes into their transformations, but only masters can incorporate additional objects into their creature forms.
Legends speak of Shapeshifters, such as Kian the Conqueror, who could take the form of a dragon and absorb the dust of former zombies to make his fire especially toxic to humans. Modern tales might be more modest, but I am proud to say my great-grandmother, Ilianna Caresh, is among those spoken about in awed whispers. She used to carry a sturdy oak branch and distribute the specks making up the branch into a thin, yet durable, shell whenever she would take to panther form.
Awakening (Redeemer Chronicles Book 1) Page 7
