by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Ten
Chris didn’t have a sword. He didn’t know how to ride. He wasn’t even sure where he was going. But he wasn’t about to stay behind and do nothing while Orias rode away. Besides, maybe getting shot was exactly what needed to happen to wake him up.
He thumped his heels against the pony’s ribs, and the horse lumbered into a run that covered only half as much ground as Orias’s big mount. Pitch didn’t argue. Teeth gritted, Chris attempted to forget about trying to ride and just let his muscle memory take over.
He risked a look over his shoulder at Pitch. “What is it these Koraudians have against your people?”
Pitch’s face was grim. “They hate us because we helped kill Mactalde in the war.”
“And what do they do to you?”
“Kill us.”
A cold fist clenched in his stomach. Almost without thinking about it, he rose in his stirrups, his weight centered over the horse’s forequarters. He tightened his legs around the pony’s girth and smacked the reins against its shoulders. The horse’s ears flicked back at him and its body lengthened, its strides reaching farther, its hooves pounding.
After what seemed an eternity, they neared the edge of the trees. Instead of the sounds of battle, he could hear only the tread of heavy feet and the shouting of men. He leaned back and clumsily hauled the pony to a stop. Was the battle over then? Already?
Through the trees ahead, the shadows of mounted horsemen trotted through the smoke. He dismounted.
Pitch clung to his back, then jumped to the ground. “Here.” He thrust the hilt of a stiletto toward him. “You better stay here. It’s no good if you get yourself killed on your first day.”
Chris gripped the light sword. The blade was only a foot long, and the hilt barely accommodated the full breadth of his hand. He tried to relax into the instincts of his body, but the little sword felt unfamiliar, even awkward.
He stood up. His breath came hard, and adrenaline shot through his body. Swords and riding might not be his thing, but he’d thrown himself into enough underdog fights to know how to inflict damage even without a weapon.
“I’m not going to just stand here.”
Pitch leapt up and grabbed his free hand. “No! Orias said for you to stay. You’ll get killed!”
Hoofbeats drummed toward them, and two horses, side by side, appeared through the trees. Their helmeted riders were humans, dressed in flowing red tabards emblazoned with black eagles. Without pausing to ask questions, the blood-spattered rider nearest to Chris uttered a roar and raised his sword.
Reflex took over. Chris dove headlong. The horse’s front feet landed inches from his hand, and the rider’s sword slashed overhead. He ratcheted his feet under him and spun to face the horsemen.
Pitch bounced into his peripheral vision, flourishing his remaining stiletto. “Prepare to die, murdering dogs!”
The soldier yanked his horse around to face Chris once again. His friend didn’t waste any time following.
“Maybe you should be quiet,” Chris said.
“Filthy, brainless, ugly murdering dogs!”
The soldier charged, sword rising for the kill. Chris took one step back, lifted the tiny stiletto, and swung to meet the blow. The blades collided, and the stiletto ripped from his hand. The soldier reined his horse closer, and the second knight closed off Chris’s escape. He pivoted, trying to keep them both in his line of sight.
Pitch hurled himself at the nearest horse’s leg. His blade buried itself in the soft tissue behind the horse’s bone and slashed past the tendon. The horse reared and tore the sword from Pitch’s grip.
The knight growled. “Should have minded your own business, Laeler.”
The other soldier drove his horse forward, shoulder to shoulder with Chris, and hammered his hilt at Chris’s temple. Chris hurled himself to the ground. A rock smacked against his head, and fog flooded his brain. He just barely managed to roll over and shove himself to one knee.
More horses broke through the smoke. A rider dismounted and ran to fence off Pitch before he could come to Chris’s aid.
The soldier who had taken Chris down dismounted. He pointed his sword at Chris’s chest, and his jowls bunched in a grin on either side of his spade-shaped faceplate. “Teach you to fight with Cherazii, eh?”
Half a dozen horsemen gathered around Chris. He wrenched his other foot under him and rose. He wasn’t about to make his last stand on his knees. Wishing for a hand grenade or a machine gun or pretty much anything, he launched himself at his attacker and threw him to the ground.
Two of the riders dismounted and ran for him. They raised their swords above his chest, and the sun glinted on the blades as they descended. Blood rushed in his ears. So much for making his last stand on his feet.
“Stop!” That roar could come from no human’s chest, and, unless death was clogging his senses, the chest it came from was Orias’s.
The two swords halted inches from his heart. He darted a look toward the meadow.
A new squad of Koraudians had ridden into the trees, and Orias and Raz walked beside the lead horse. Blue blood seeped from the corner of Orias’s mouth. His face was grim, defeated even, but he wasn’t bound.
Chris frowned. He came with these men of his own free will?
The man on the lead horse dismounted. “Aye, stopping would be good.” Red-haired, red-bearded, and incongruously grimy beneath the impressive sweep of his hat’s feather, he grinned at Chris. “This here is one human I’d hate to see die anytime soon. What’d be your name, bucko?”
A heavy-gutted old fighter hauled Chris to his feet and put a sword to his throat. Chris had a very real urge to sucker punch him. But, under the circumstances, that was probably a fast track to getting himself skewered.
His captor followed his movements with the sword. “Commander Rotoss asked you a question, Laeler. Tell him who you are.”
Chris looked to Orias for some kind of indication how to play these people. But Orias stared straight ahead, his face more impassive than before, if that were possible.
The leader glanced at Orias. “Introduce us.”
Orias’s face never flexed a muscle. “Chris Redston, Glelarn Rotoss.”
“Charmed.” Rotoss inclined his head and made a bowing gesture with his hand. “I’ve been waiting twenty years to meet you.”
“Seems to be a popular sentiment.” Or, more likely, his brain was just using this astonishing dream to process Harrison’s similar words from yesterday.
Rotoss shrugged one shoulder. “You’re the Gifted, matey. Everyone wants to meet you.”
Chris hid a frown. Orias hadn’t wanted anyone to know he was the Gifted.
Orias stared past him.
What had happened back there? These red-shirted guys had overpowered all those Cherazii? From the looks of Orias, they hadn’t just overpowered him, they’d crushed him. But if he was their prisoner, why hadn’t they bound his hands? Surely his superior weight and strength would let him take out at least four of these men before they could subdue him again.
Rotoss stepped forward. “You’ll think none the worse of me, I warrant, if I ask for a little proof you are the Gifted. You have the Orimere?”
That’s what this was all about? His palm, hanging inches from the purse on his belt, prickled.
Orias looked at him and lowered his chin in a tight nod.
Chris shrugged. If that was what Orias wanted, that’s what he’d get. He untied the leather purse from his belt and tossed it over.
Rotoss upended the contents into his hand. The coins and Pitch’s fawa-radi sculpture tinkled through his fingers to the ground, but the Orimere’s pouch hit his palm with a thump.
“Well.” His exhale almost trembled. Long dirty fingernails pried open the drawstrings. He took one look inside, then closed his eyes in an expression somewhere between rapture and relief. “There it be.” He opened his eyes, and a smile tugged up the corner of his mouth. “And here you be. I never expected to get this
lucky. A Keeper, a Gifted, and an Orimere all in one day. Tell me, how long have you been in our world?”
“Since this morning.”
“I see. So the Searcher hasn’t found you.” Rotoss walked all the way around Chris. “Lucky for you.” He cast a thumb back in Orias’s direction. “He’s told you about the Searcher, I’m sure?”
“I know who she is. She’s tried to kill me every time she’s seen me.”
“She wouldn’t kill you. Though I’ll say she wasn’t able to do much to keep the last Gifted alive.” He looked at Orias. “Ain’t that right?”
Orias’s jaw churned. Then he drew in a breath and conceded with a nod. “The Searcher and her father the king will do everything they can to put the Gifted under their thumbs. To them, you’re a political pawn.”
“What?” Pitch squeaked. His captor clapped a hand over his mouth, and he promptly bit it.
“Pitch.” Orias’s voice burned. “Tuch pua.”
Pitch stared. Slowly, he closed his mouth.
Chris looked at Orias. Something wasn’t on the up and up here. He cocked his head toward Rotoss. “And am I so much better off with him rather than the Searcher?”
Rotoss stepped out of Chris’s way and gestured for him to move closer to Orias. “I wouldn’t hold it against you one jot if you wanted to jaw it over. You don’t know me, and we haven’t met under the most kindly circumstances. Go ahead. Ask the Tarn.”
Chris drew forward a step to meet Orias. “Well?”
Orias let out a long, shuddering breath. “He’s here to help you.”
“Help me do what? Stop dreaming?”
Rotoss stepped in again. “You telling me you don’t want to be a Gifted?”
Chris let himself laugh. “Back where I come from, they’ll put you on antipsychotics and lock you up in a mental institution for dreaming something like this.”
“Dreaming, is it?” Rotoss paced a few steps, then came back. “All right. In that case, what if I offered you a deal?” The grin returned. “In point of fact, the one and only thing I want from you is the one thing that will give you what you want as well.”
“And what is it you want?”
Rotoss winked at Orias. “Tell him, blue.”
Orias paused for two long beats, then he looked Chris in the eye. “If you want to make the dreams stop, there’s something you have to do in your world. Someone you have to find.”
“Mactalde.” The name found its way out of his mouth almost of its own accord.
“You’ve got it,” Rotoss crowed. “Faolan Mactalde. Mactalde’s life for your freedom.”
Chris shook his head. None of this made any sense. “And why’s that going to stop the dreams?”
Rotoss dangled the Orimere’s green pouch between his fingers. “That’s the magic of the dreamstone. Bring back Mactalde, and you will live the dreams no longer. You’ve my word.”
Chris hesitated. Was this his subconscious telling him how to solve its problems? Or was he just devolving further into insanity? Either way, why not give it a shot? Any ticket out of here was one worth buying.
If none of this was real—and it wasn’t, he wouldn’t let himself believe it was—it didn’t matter why Mactalde was the key. But some niggle of doubt made him ask anyway. “Why’s this guy so important? What happens when I bring him back?”
Rotoss smiled beatifically. “Lord Faolan Mactalde was a beloved leader. He believed in many beautiful things, including rescuing his people from the tyranny of the Laelers. He was ruthlessly and unjustly cut down in the last war by the Searcher and her father, King Tireus II.”
“And after twenty years, you haven’t moved on?”
“After twenty years, we find ourselves in need of him again. This is the only way to bring him back. This is the only way to save our people.” Rotoss gestured over his shoulder to Orias. “And his.”
Ah, so that was it. It was a cinch Orias wasn’t siding with this guy because he liked him.
Pitch shook his head vehemently. “You can’t use the Orimere to bring people across! That’s not allowed. That’s what the last Gifted tried to do!”
“Just because it’s never been done before doesn’t mean it can’t be,” Orias said. Now that he was finally meeting Chris’s eye, the raw, furious intensity of his gaze nearly drove Chris back a step. “Rotoss isn’t lying. If you do what he says, you will save my people. I told you before you would have to choose whether you save us or destroy us.” His whole body trembled. “This is where you choose.”
“But—” Pitch sounded desperate. “The Cherazii had to kill the last Gifted when he tried to bring Mactalde back.” He looked from Orias to Chris. “This is the worst thing a Gifted can do! Who knows what bad things will happen.”
Raz rapped his knuckles against Pitch’s shoulder. “Ci liah spalalal o bé taradu.”
Pitch opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then rolled his lips together and bit down on them. He stared up at Orias.
“Is that true?” Chris asked. Not that it mattered. It didn’t matter. He clenched his teeth. This was a dream! Bad things didn’t happen here at all. They were just wisps of color in the back of his mind.
Orias stepped forward. His height, at least six inches above Chris’s, loomed. The width and bulk of his shoulders threatened in their massive power even when Chris knew he meant no harm. “Pitch doesn’t understand what’s happening here.”
Chris nodded toward the meadow. “What I want to know is what happened back there?” Dream or not, he needed to figure this thing out. “You said they were your enemies. Pitch said they wanted to kill your people.”
“They do, and they will, unless you bring Mactalde back.”
“I bring him back, your people are safe, and I don’t dream anymore. Is that right?”
Orias hesitated only a second. “That’s right.”
“Fine.” He swallowed the whispered doubt. “I’ll do it.”
Orias turned away and breathed out. The Rievers exchanged a glance, and Pitch looked at Chris, his eyes wide and wounded.
Behind him, Rotoss clapped his hands together. “That’s a bucko! Now, let’s get to work on this right away. We haven’t the time to waste.” He strode over and slapped the Orimere’s pouch into Chris’s palm. “You know how to use this thing?”
Chris shook his head.
“Fortunately for us, you don’t even have to be a fast learner. It’s as simple as falling asleep.” He guffawed and turned to one of his men. “Bring the wrak.”
Chris shook the Orimere out of the pouch. Its electric warmth fell into his hand and tingled all the way up his arm. His heart stuttered. The sensation fell somewhere between painful and exhilarating.
He looked at Orias. “How’s this going to work anyway?”
“The stone will cross over with you, along with everything you are touching. It will work the same way when you come back. If you are touching Mactalde when you cross, he will come with you.”
“And how am I supposed to find Mactalde? Has anybody here thought about that?”
Rotoss took a large glass vial from one of his men. “If luck be with us, he’ll find you. The last Gifted told him you would be coming. You were his backup plan, so to speak, if Harrison Garnett didn’t work out—which, of course, he didn’t. You want my gold on it, I’d say Lord Mactalde has known where to find you for a long time past.”
Rotoss held up the vial. It was slender in its neck and expanded into a squashed sphere at the bottom. “Now, in the normal course of things, we’d wait until you fell asleep tonight. But with the Searcher coming upon us, we haven’t the luxury of time. This here’s what we call wrak. It’s a knockout drug, used for surgeries and the like. Safe as ever was my own mother’s porridge in the bowl. Lie down.”
Chris glanced at Orias. If this was a bad idea, this was the last chance the Cherazim would have to tell him so. But Orias stood unmoving except for the twitch of his taut forearms every time he clenched his fists.
With a
deep breath, Chris lowered himself to the bedroll someone had spread out.
Rotoss handed the vial back to his man—a medic hopefully—who propped the round base onto a trivet beside Chris’s head. Amber liquid sloshed in the vial’s globed bottom. The medic slid a metal straw down the vial’s neck, then topped it with a flat metal plate, on which he balanced a chip of wood.
“We light that afire,” Rotoss said. “The liquid wrak turns to steam, and you inhale it.” He pointed to a nozzled hose connected to the vial’s base.
Another man handed the medic an eight-inch cylinder, about as round as Chris’s thumb. The medic fitted a wad of dry grass into a notch on the cylinder’s base, then rested the grass against the wood chip. He depressed a plunger on the cylinder’s other end. Flame spurted against the tinder, and the medic leaned down to blow on it. In a few minutes, he had the woodchip coated in a purple-hearted flame. He covered the chip with a metal dome and handed Chris the spigot at the hose’s end.
“Breathe carefully. It’ll be hot.”
The amber liquid frothed inside the globe and steam fogged the glass. Chris closed his eyes. With any luck this stuff would have the same effect on him as the Searcher’s bullet in his face. He was going to wake up, he was going to find out who cracked him over the head back on Hunter Street, and if at all possible, he was going to get his life back to normal.
He set the silver nozzle between his teeth and inhaled. Steam filled his mouth, not quite hot enough to burn him. It savored of a honeyish sweetness, but when it hit the back of his throat, it burned in his nostrils like the smell of diesel. He coughed and opened his eyes.
“Just keep breathing.” The medic put the nozzle back into his mouth.
One more breath was all it took. The trees overhead started to spin. As his head sank back to the ground, he caught one last glimpse of Orias’s face. The pale white of his skin blurred and ran like wet paint.
