"At least until they hop on their horses and ride me down," he muttered to himself. He would be even more of a sitting duck steering the wagon, giving the soldiers plenty of chances to put an arrow in his chest.
He was reconsidering his plans when he noticed a faint blue light coming from the woods on the other side of the Mediator's tent. Before he could shift himself to get a better look, he saw that the light was coming from someone's hand. He followed the hand up to the arm to the shoulder, and then to the face. He recognized the boy from the silk merchant's cart immediately.
There was a shout as one of the soldiers saw the boy too.
"What in the name of Amman is he doing?" Silas asked himself. "He's going to get killed."
The blue light was growing brighter, and he saw how the boy was looking down at his hand. No, not at his hand, but something he was holding. Then he saw the blood that was pooling below his left eye.
Silas didn't think, he just acted. He rose up from his hiding spot and drew his sword, running towards the boy. He was Cursed, and he was free! He wasn't sure what he was doing, but he was sure he was going to need help.
No sooner had he reached the clearing then the blue light exploded outward in a blinding white light, lances of it launching everywhere around them. Silas threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding one of the bursts, and hearing it hit the tree he had just been hiding behind, lighting it on fire. He heard screams, as some of the bolts lashed into soldiers, and cries of fear from those that weren't struck. More bolts launched from the boy's hand, hitting the trees around them, hitting the Mediator's tent, hitting more soldiers. In a matter of seconds the entire camp was turned to chaos.
Silas pulled himself up. He saw the boy suddenly react as though he was in pain, dropping whatever he had been holding to the ground. The lightning stopped immediately, and he stood there clutching his wrist and looking down at his hand, still smoldering from the heat of the display.
The Mediator's tent was on fire, and Silas saw the flap at the entrance get shoved aside, and a man with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail step out, sword in hand. His eyes went directly to the Cursed boy, and he started charging towards him, raising the weapon to strike.
The boy saw him coming, but didn't move, his eyes wide with fear. Silas started running for them, forcing himself to move as fast as he could. He reached the Mediator just as he was preparing to strike the boy, stabbing the dull point of his sword into the man's back and running him through. He reached up and took the man's hand, preventing him from bringing the sword down on the boy, and then threw him to the ground. He dropped his dull blade, and claimed the Mediator's.
The boy was looking at him, his mouth wide open, his eyes wild. Then he raised a finger and pointed.
Silas spun around, bringing up the Mediator's sword just in time to block one of the surviving soldiers. He smiled when he felt the light weight of it, the perfect balance, and the way it captured much of the vibration caused by the block. It was the finest sword he had ever touched.
He knocked the soldier's sword away and drove it into his chest. Something in his mind told him that no, it wasn't the finest sword he had ever touched, but it would do.
Silas heard the snap of a bowstring, and turned in the direction of the sound, expecting an arrow to pierce him or the boy before he could finish the movement. He found the archer a dozen feet away, but his bow wasn't even aimed at them.
It was aimed at the wagon.
A cry echoed in the night as the arrow pierced the chest of one of the Cursed, and he fell backwards into the arms of the others. Two more twangs, and two more arrows found their way between the bars and into the prisoners.
Silas started to make a run for them, to cut them down before they could finish their dirty business, when a voice interrupted him.
"Going somewhere, Silas?"
He turned towards the Mediator's tent, which was on its way to being burned to ash. Standing in front of it was Roque.
"I'm setting them free," Silas said. He held the sword ready, but he knew it wouldn't be that useful against a Mediator.
"That is what you don't understand. You aren't setting them free." He looked over at the boy. "I can't let them leave here alive. I'm sorry."
Silas shouted and charged. Roque brought up his own blade and blocked it. They held the weapons close, each pushing back against the other.
"You used to understand," Roque said. "You used to believe in him."
Murderer, the voice whispered in his mind.
"I used to be a murderer," he said, giving a hard shove and breaking the clinch.
He brought the blade up and around again, but Roque backed out of reach. He could hear the cries of the Cursed in the wagon, and he saw that one of the soldiers had reached it with a torch, and was setting it on fire.
"How can you stand there and watch them kill innocent people?" he shouted at Roque. "They aren't more than children, and they're just like you!"
A tear ran from Roque's eye. A red tear.
"Because I have faith in his truth, as you used to." He held out his hand, pointing his fist at Silas. "He should have killed you, all those years ago."
Silas saw the ring on his finger, the red stone attached to the shining metal loop. He saw the flame within the stone, and he understood, but there was nothing he could do.
The fire shot at him like a lance, burning a hole in the air and heading straight for him. He was too close. He closed his eyes, ready to feel the flames take him, already sensing the heat on his face. When seconds passed, and he found he was still alive, he opened them.
He was laying on the grass, ten feet away from where he had started. Roque was in the same spot, the flames squelched, but his attention was somewhere else. Silas followed it with his eyes, and landed on the boy.
He was standing there with his hand out, a line of blood running from his eye and down his cheek, dripping off onto his shirt. "Leave him alone," the boy shouted.
"How?" Roque asked staring at the boy. He seemed surprised that he had been able to shove Silas aside. "Child, please, let me help you."
"Help me?" the boy cried. "Can you bring my parents back? Can you bring my brother back? Can you revive that girl in the wagon that you thought was me? How can you help me, when you've already hurt me in every way you can imagine?"
"Girl?" Silas said, not loud enough for either of them to hear. He came to another understanding; that the boy was no boy at all, but the girl the soldiers had been searching for. No wonder they had been so desperate to find her.
"I'm sorry," Roque said. "We can be overly... assertive, at times. It is only because we must. Please, come with me, and I will show you everything you need to see, to understand."
Silas heard the soldiers headed towards him. He rolled to his feet, sword in hand, just in time to block a soldier's downward stab, kick the blade away, and hack through the soldier's head. Two more were coming his way, and he charged towards them, taking them off guard, slipping between them. The Mediator's blade was incredibly sharp, and it took only a light touch to open deep wounds in both of their stomachs. They fell to the ground, groaning in pain.
"I don't want to understand," the girl said. Eryn, Silas remembered. That was the name the soldiers had given to the merchants on the Elling road. Eryn Albion. "There is no good reason to kill innocent people. You say you need me, you need Cursed for some reason that makes sense to you? If that was true, you would speak plain, not kill our families and take us against our will. Not kill us when we run away. How in the name of Amman does that make sense to you?"
They were the words that broke the Mediator's calm. His face twisted, and he brought his sword to bear. "You know nothing," he yelled.
Silas looked down at the dying soldiers. He saw the small hunting knife sticking out of the boot of the one on the left. He reached down and grabbed it, and turned back to Roque. The Mediator was rushing Eryn, as the first had. He pulled back his arm and let loose. The knife wasn't meant fo
r throwing, but he had instincts and muscle memories he couldn't connect to his former life. Its flight was awkward, but its aim was true, planting itself in the side of the man's neck.
The wound caused Roque to stumble, and he dropped the sword, crashing into Eryn and falling on top of her. She screamed at him, struggling to get free, and then quieted.
Silas looked around. All of the horses had fled when the fighting had started. The chargers were trained for war, not whatever insane power the Cursed possessed. The trees and the soldiers' tents were burning. The red and gold Mediator's tent was sagging and ready to collapse. The wagon with the prisoners was on fire too, but there were no screams or cries for help, its inhabitants already peppered with arrows. The soldiers that hadn't yet been killed had seen Roque fall, and chose to run.
"I have to get her out of here," he said to himself.
He ran back to where Roque was laying over Eryn, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling his dead body off of her. As he did, a slip of paper fell from his robes, floating to the ground next to him. He picked it up and stuck it in his pocket, and then looked to Eryn.
He worried for a moment that the Mediator had killed her, until he saw the throb of vein in her neck, still pumping blood. He bent down, scooping her up in one arm and lifting her over his shoulder. When he rose, he saw a blue stone laying behind her in the grass.
He knew that it must have been what she'd dropped, so he balanced Eryn on his shoulder and picked it up. He shoved it in his pants pocket with the paper, and then glanced back at Roque and the lustrous alloy blade laying next to him one last time. He could only imagine how much a sword like that would fetch him from Rappett or one of his contacts in Elling. He already knew he was keeping the one he took from the other Mediator. He let the idea go and started running as fast as he could, pushing through the trees in a desperate effort to get away before it all burned.
As he ran, Roque's words echoed in his mind.
"You used to believe in him."
"Who am I?" he asked.
It was a question he found himself asking with every step he took.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Silas
Silas' luck was with him. When he reached the field, the dappled mare was still there.
"Aren't you a good horse," he said, patting its muzzle. He could feel the heat of the flames behind him. The fire would consume the trees, and then move on to the grass. There was no telling how much it would burn before it wound down, but he didn't want to be near it when it did.
He lifted Eryn and laid her carefully across the horse, and then climbed up behind her. It took some effort to get her positioned to ride unconscious, but he got her secure and then ordered the horse back south. He would have preferred to head towards Elling, but she needed help - food, water, and rest. There was only one place he knew he could get any of that in a short time.
The minstrels weren't all that happy when Silas returned with their horse, since they knew he had gone chasing after the soldiers. Once Sena saw Eryn; however, she changed from a bawdy wench to a tender caretaker. She helped Silas get her down off the horse, and guided him to their carriage, where they laid her out on a bench. Her breathing was shallow, and her head was soaked in sweat.
"She might have a fever," Sena said. "Where did you find her, anyway? And why is her head shaved?"
"The less you know, the safer you'll be," Silas replied. "I rescued her from his soldiers."
She stroked Eryn's cheek. "Cursed, eh? She's a pretty young thing. She looks like she's been to Heden and back. I'll go fetch some cold water and cloth."
"Thank you, Sena."
"You want something for yourself? A flagon, maybe?"
Silas felt the temptation. He always did. "No. Just some water." He watched Eryn's breathing. "I couldn't save them," he said to her when Sena left. "I'll save you."
He was standing at the door to the carriage when Sena came back, Robar trailing behind her. "I hear you have one whopper of a tale," the minstrel said. "Rescuing a Cursed from his soldiers? As far as I know, it's never been done."
"It isn't the kind of song you can sing in an Elling tavern," Silas said. "Not unless you want to be hung."
Sena pushed past, holding a bucket and a rag. "Excuse me. I have a patient to tend to."
"Maybe not around here," Robar said. "But Elling is only one province. There are towns on the other side of the Killorn where songs about rebel heroes will pay quite well indeed."
"Rebel hero? No. I made a promise, that's all."
"To who?"
Murderer.
"To myself," he said.
"Maybe you see it that way. I'm a storyteller, and I know what stories to tell to get the people to part with their coin. A story about a man rescuing a girl from his soldiers? That will pay well in Aspin, I'm sure of it. The point is, part with your story, and we'll take good care of you. We can even sneak you into Elling City, if that's what you want."
"Tell me more about Aspin first. My memory is a little shady these days, but from what I know, his control over the Empire is absolute."
Robar laughed. "Once upon a time, it was. But it's been over four hundred years. Four hundred! There's been talk that he's dead and has been for some time. Who lives that long, anyway? If he is dead, then who do we fear? The Overlords? His soldiers? I'm a performer. I don't get involved in politics, outside of the tales I can tell, but what I do know is that more and more people are questioning every day. More and more Cursed are showing up, and the townspeople and villagers are growing weary of having their sons and daughters taken away or killed for no reason at all. Once you throw in the others being taken to work the ore mines, this empire is ripe for rebellion."
Silas was surprised to hear such open talk about such things. "Are you a performer, or a trouble maker?"
Robar laughed even harder at that. "Is there a difference? I tell tales based on what I see and hear. I may embellish, but everything has a ring of truth. Even 'Your Merry Stones'. The anger is simmering just below the surface, even here. It's only a matter of time before it begins to materialize into action."
Silas was considering the minstrels words when he heard a small groan from the carriage. "Let me care for my charge. We'll speak later. Don't even entertain the idea of bringing his soldiers here. Even if they caught me, I would be sure to kill you first."
Robar's mirth faded, and he backed away.
Silas climbed up into the carriage, and shooed Sena out. "I need to speak to her alone," he said.
"Make sure her forehead is kept damp, it will help with the fever," Sena said. "I'll see if we have anything for her to eat." She gave Eryn one last worried look, and left.
Silas kneeled down in the center of the carriage, leaning over Eryn's face. He took the cloth and dunked it in the bucket, then squeezed it and ran it along her head. She groaned again, and her eyes opened just a hair.
"You," she said.
"Do you know me, child?" he asked.
Her eyes opened the rest of the way, and she tried to sit up. "The soldiers," she said in a harsh whisper.
Silas put his hand to her chest, and gently shoved her back down. "Rest, child. You're safe here."
She didn't resist him. "Where are we?"
"How much do you remember? Keep your voice low. You are safe, but your words may not be."
"I saw you," she said. "I saw you at the merchant's. You bought a bowl of stew. I knew who you were, from what the soldiers said. A man with white hair and blue eyes. I followed you to make sure. I thought you could help me."
"Help you?"
"Yes. The soldiers, they.... They..."
Silas dunked the cloth again, using it to dampen her forehead as Sena instructed. "Shh... you don't have to say it, child. I'm aware of what his soldiers do." I used to be one.
"The soldiers went by on horses. I saw a girl who looked like me. I thought they took her because she looked like me. I didn't want them to kill her because I escaped." She pushed herself up again. "
Is she here? Is she safe?"
Silas wasn't sure what to say. He decided that lies would only extend the pain. "I'm sorry. I tried to save them all. Do you remember?"
She shook her head, and started to cry. Silas sat there, his hand holding the cloth over the bucket.
Murderer.
Her tears broke his heart. He dropped the cloth, and reached out tentatively. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight, sobbing into his shoulder.
"She died because of me," she said. "Because I got away. It isn't fair."
Silas held her, and rubbed her back. He couldn't even remember the last time he had comforted someone. Had it been his son, so many years ago when he was just a boy? Before he had developed the Curse? Before he had ordered for him to be hunted down? The pain she was feeling, he had caused. Not only to her, but to countless others. He felt the bite of it in his heart.
"Eryn," he said. "That is your name, yes?"
He felt her nod against his neck.
"Eryn, it isn't your fault. You did everything you could. I was there in the trees. I saw you come out, with a stone in your hand."
He pushed her away with utmost care, and reached into his pocket, finding the blue stone there. He took it out and showed it to her, and then turned her hand over. There was a burn on her palm, in the perfect size of the stone.
"You used your Curse to make this stone send lightning everywhere. I don't know how you did that. You set fire to the trees, and the tents. Do you remember any of it?" He dropped the stone into her open palm.
She shook her head again, but she had stopped crying when she saw the stone. "I took that stone from a woman in black robes. Her name was Lia. She killed my brother Roddin, and she tried to kill me too."
"They're called Mediators," he said. "They're Cursed, like you. They have power, like you."
His Dark Empire (Tears of Blood) Page 13
