by Jon Kiln
“How can you? We ourselves can’t get out,” Jace told him.
But the bear-mask simply turned and said, “Follow me.” He began walking, and they did as he said without very much reluctance. There was nothing else to do.
And sure enough, he quickly led them though a passage Jace and Pordel had both missed. The way was treacherous, but possible. Nearly twenty minutes later they found themselves in the southern end of Figa, where the buildings were not nearly grand enough to burn like massive pyres. The way was more or less clear, but still the bear-mask seemed intent on staying with them.
“Just until I know you are safe,” the man said. “At which time I will return for more survivors. Let me see you to where the southern gate is at least in sight. It’s open now, so you should have no trouble escaping to the roads and the woods. I warn you, do not try to follow any of my kind. We spare you now, but we will not suffer that we be followed anywhere.”
“Why are you doing this?” Jace asked him, his curiosity more than whetted despite the danger and stress of the circumstances. He didn’t know that his question was the very one A’ghel hoped would stall the leaders of Figa in their frenzy. The bear-mask could not answer without putting the entire scheme in jeopardy. Instead he simply grunted.
Soon the man was running back toward the flames, presumably to rescue anyone else he could find.
“I don’t think he recognized us as anything but citizens,” Carella said once they were at the gate. “I don’t think he realizes we know Draken.”
“Hmm,” was all Jace replied. He didn’t have enough information to speculate and he didn’t think Carella did either.
“Darling!” Pordel exclaimed as if he were just seeing Carella and her girls for the first time in a month. He grasped her tightly, and again Jace felt the rightness of their union. This was the kind of man she deserved. It may be true that Draken ran from this family because he was a coward, but the gods had done with this action what they’d seen fit. Carella had not been punished, but rewarded for her faith. Rewarded with a man who would be true to her always, Jace was certain.
He looked at Carella and took both of her delicate hands in his own, which were nearly as feminine as hers. “Listen to me very carefully.” And her eyes locked onto his. She reminded him of how he might imagine a soldier would be in war, totally attentive to her captain. Knowing she would not take his words lightly, he said, “You aren’t safe in Figa. Anywhere. Not where you’ll be known. Not for a little while. If Draken escapes them, they’ll come after you as leverage. He may not have been much of a husband, but he wouldn’t let them kill you or your girls. So you must hide. If he doesn’t escape… if he ends up going with them to Eda, then I think you’ll be okay. I don’t think they have any interest in you beyond your use as bait. Is there a place you can go?”
“Yes, my—”
But he cut her off. “Don’t tell me. I don’t think I’d do well in a torture scenario, to be absolutely honest. I’d rather just not know. But keep your ear to the ground. If it seems to you that Draken is gone, utterly gone, then you can probably return.”
She laughed, and it was heavy with sadness. She looked at what little was left of her city. “But return to what?”
Chapter 45
It felt like an eternity to Pul and Draken both. Draken could feel it in his own bones, the horrible dragging-on of hours until finally there were enough bear-masks for Pul to want to go, and he could see the same feeling clearly any time he glanced over at his brother, whether Pul was pacing, sitting and tapping his toe, or looking up to the sky as if for help.
It wasn’t that Draken wanted to go with them to Eda, or even that he was eager to be on his way, it was just that he was drained of all emotion. He wanted to be nothing, to feel nothing. He couldn’t consider the destruction of Figa, the very probable deaths of his wife and children even though Pul had promised their manor would be spared. He couldn’t bear to see himself in their plans, the prize Pul and the bear-masks had sought, leading them to start the fires in the first place. He wanted to just start moving his feet, take one step after another, endlessly, letting all thought become nothing but a haze of exhaustion.
Finally the time came when there were men enough for them to move. The rain had finally stopped, but the fires had not followed suit. Towers of black, gray, and white bloomed out constantly from over the city.
Draken had overheard the discussion about how the fires had spread beyond what the bear-masks had wanted, but even if he hadn’t, all it would take was the briefest glance at any of them and, even with their masks on, Draken would know they weren’t happy with the outcome of the day’s activities. It was in the way they shuffled restlessly, the way they looked sharply at even the most mundane unexpected sound.
They were all on-edge, fearing the retribution that Figa’s king and army would have in mind for the extreme violence of their acts. Maybe it was even partly guilt, for none could doubt that thousands had lost their lives this day, and by their own doctrines, E’ghat was not known to hate those who did not believe in him if they hadn’t had the chance.
Whatever the cause, no one was at ease as they began their march back to Eda, though in fact it was clear that few patrols would be out after all. Every able-bodied soldier-police would not doubt be enlisted in the work of putting out the blaze, sorting bodies out of the rubble, attending to the wounded, and of course, digging graves. There was little danger as they moved south, Draken in chains with a wide enough gait to allow relatively unhindered walking. They skirted the edge of the forest for a while, where paths had either been scouted or prepared, but eventually they moved to the main road.
By sunset, they had covered a distance of a few miles. No one had said much beyond the stark necessities of travel, and Pul had said nothing. A pall of sorrow and malaise seemed to follow them, and Draken could only be glad for it, for they deserved to feel in any small part the reflection of the pain they had caused in the name of their god.
Hours later, camp was made, but aside from the darkening of the sky to black, nothing had changed. A thick cloud-cover obscured any hope of seeing stars, as if a giant hand (the hand of Dramm-Teskata perhaps) blocked their view into the heavens. Or maybe it was just that she couldn’t bear to look at them, knowing the evil of their hearts. And Draken was among them.
Draken could see the stars no better than any of the cultists. And even though he hadn’t thrown a single bear-trap or fire-bomb himself, he felt he deserved to be numbered among them. He’d lost his faith before, he’d given in to every weakness his mind offered him even during the times he did believe.
And so it was with a heavy heart that Draken slept that night, shackled, surrounded by guards, exposed to the cold air. Despite the appeals for Draken’s comfort, given by those reminding their leaders of his status as one of E’ghat’s scattered, Pul had commanded he remain on the ground, without bedroll or blanket. His excuse was that if Draken were demoralized it would lessen the chance of his escape, but Draken knew the real reason. Pul could not come to terms with the death and destruction he’d caused this day, and Draken was the scapegoat of his own psyche.
Draken knew Pul must hate him now, either that or have his own mind ravaged beyond repair over the guilt of all he’d done.
Well that was fine, because Draken also knew he could match that hate rage for rage, slight for slight. Pul had ruined his life, and stolen the lives of thousands of others. In Draken’s mind, Pul was beyond forgiveness, redemption, and even understanding.
These thoughts boiled themselves down into a dream. Draken and Pul in the pit of Figa’s arena. It was intact, but all around fires raged and burned, bear-traps burst with their concussive force. In the stands, the audience also burned, their flesh bubbling as their fats were rendered and their bones scorched, but still they cheered their bloodlust down at the fighters.
In the waking world Draken could have beaten Pul literally with both hands tied behind his back. But in the dream, Pul’s face
was worn by the body of Sula’s long-dead father, Vgar. Instead of a sword, Pul-Vgar fought with his hands. Draken looked closer. The hands were not human, but massive bear paws with talons half a foot long.
Draken had his sword and shield, and—in a way that had never happened before—the fire of Rada was already burning within him at the start of the battle, not waiting until Draken was in serious danger. But now, in this hellscape of death and flame, who could say if it were truly Rada’s power, or E’ghat’s, or no one’s? Draken saw the futility of battle, blood, and murder, but he didn’t care. The hatred in him was a living creature who would only be satisfied with gore and action, and that was fine with Draken.
The battle ensued, a flurry of motion too complicated to follow, each blow and swing forgotten the moment after its casting. There was blood and blood and blood. Finally, it was time for the killing blow. Pul could no longer fight. Having both arms hacked from his body, he stood like an unsteady tower in a field rolling with earthquakes.
Draken went in for the kill, but…
Chapter 46
“Draken,” a whisper roused him. There was no confusion as the world around him reasserted itself. He didn’t cry or swing or jump. He just looked at the source of the voice.
Jace. He’d killed two guards apparently with swift silence. Despite everything, Draken was curious to know how this monk had accomplished a feat that should have been impossible, but he knew this wasn’t the time to ask.
Sleeping bear-masks surrounded him, but no one else was awake. The skies had cleared and Draken’s cynical mind fought the symbolic implications of this weather phenomena coming as it did on the tail of Jace’s return.
Jace motioned to him from further down the road. Draken was impressed by the wisdom of trying to get him to flee this way, and not into the woods. The trees and ferns would give them cover, but they would also make noise. The road-route seemed scarier, but in Draken’s estimation it was actually safer.
He got up very quickly and quietly, glad now not to have any trappings to keep him warm. There was less to make noise or take time. He grabbed the cloak off the nearest dead guard and wrapped it around the chains which held him bound. Of course he could be discovered any moment, but what choice did he have? He had the benefit of the bear-masks’ exhaustion. Some of them were snoring, and Draken didn’t think a single man among them, Pul included, would be woken by the tiny sounds of his shuffling away from them on the dirt road.
Finally, nerve-rending minutes and seconds later, Draken and Jace had moved far enough down the road to whisper.
“We’re going to have a devil of a time getting you back to Figa with these chains on,” Jace said. At the sound of his friend’s voice, a rush of emotion threatened to overtake him. He’d taken Jace for granted, he knew. He’d never had a finer friend, except maybe Carella, in all his life. A choking sob tried to make its way out of Draken’s throat, but he painfully stifled it, falling to his knees. He loved this man, who’d saved his life now on more than one occasion, who’d listened to his story and stayed his judgments. He knew the worst there was to know about Draken and still he’d come… he’d come to rescue this wayward fighter.
“Hey,” Jace said, “let’s have the breakdown somewhere a bit more hospitable, eh? As in, somewhere that has ale.”
Draken almost laughed, his frazzled nerves wasted from the endless catharsis of the last day. He didn’t trust himself to speak. They made their way further down the road, and then cut into the forest, where it seemed they were finally safe.
***
Jace told Draken of all that had happened. Draped in the double-thick night of the forest, Jace explained that Carella and his girls had survived, putting more emphasis on their own ingenuity than his own, and how she had a new man now who she was engaged to. A good man, and devout.
“No…” Draken said. “I—”
And then a long time passed. Jace couldn’t guess what was happening in Draken’s mind, but then when Draken spoke again Jace knew he’d made a mistake in saying so much, so soon.
“I have to go with Pul,” Draken said.
“What in the name of all the gods and their pets are you talking about?” Jace said with about as much anger as Draken had ever heard from the man. “I just saved your sorry hide, and you’re telling me you want to get… unsaved?”
“If I don’t, they won’t be safe,” Draken told him. “You’ve seen what the bear-masks are willing to do.”
“But Draken, they’re in hiding. I made sure of it. And you said yourself things didn’t go as planned in Figa for the bear-masks. They’re not going to come back so soon, not with every soldier-police in the country with an eye and a sword out for them.”
“I can’t…” Draken said, despairing, torn in every direction. “I can’t risk that. Or…” He looked up at Jace who even in the dim night could see the mad glint in Draken’s eye. “Or you could kill me.”
“What?” Jace said, refusing to understand.
“You could kill me, right here. Slit my throat or put a bolt through my heart. Leave my carcass here in the road for the bear-masks to find. That will be the end of it. What other choice would they have?”
“No. That’s a sin. A serious sin. Even for one who has killed for a good cause, as I have.”
“But what if…”
And the silence returned. Jace didn’t need Draken to finish the thought. Suddenly, he knew exactly what Draken feared. He feared that if he went with Pul and the bear-masks, he’d again fall victim to the beliefs of the cult of E’ghat. He was afraid he’d come to believe he was one of E’ghat’s scattered. Also, in that same instant, Jace saw that Draken must return to Pul. He saw the hand of the gods in it, though he could not understand it.
“We don’t choose the paths,” Jace told his friend, thinking that this might well be the last time he ever saw him. “I see the wisdom in what you are saying. You must go with them. To ensure peace here. Stay strong, my brother. They spit lies, and the destruction they leave in their path is evidence enough of that. And I’ll come for you.”
“No, you can’t—”
“I’ll come for you with an army. I’ll explain what has happened, where they are. In the meantime, play the role, whatever they want, and I’ll come. I’ll come with the forces of Figa and the might of Dramm-Teskata and Rada whom you serve. I’ll come. Just hang on.”
“Thank you,” Draken said, but the despair was in his voice and Jace had to hope that he’d find his faith. But this was all that could be done.
“Stay true,” Jace said.
Draken nodded, and Jace went back to the road. He could hear, distantly, the bear-masks discovering their dead, their camp springing to life, and he had to laugh to himself.
It was all so absurd.
Chapter 47: Epilogue
Draken ate a grape. It was ripe and fresh. He’d had many this day, and his lips and tongue protested the heavy acid content of the vine-ripened fruit, but still he ate, relishing them.
A girl dressed almost in nothing fed him from her reclined position aside him. Her heavy breasts threatened to burst her fool’s-gold-encrusted bodice, and so Draken reached behind her with a practiced hand and unsnapped her confinement, laughing at the way her breasts bounced free. She laughed too and rolled onto him so he could play with her as he pleased.
Beside him on the table, a specially-brewed spirit that had been named after him was only half depleted. His mind was swimming in the alcoholic haze, but that was no reason to stop drinking. If he had a hangover the next day, there were women with the knowledge of shamans to rub his sore head, or, failing that, more to drink.
Languidly, he filled his mug—a clay reproduction of the kind he’d liked so much as a child, a commoner’s mug, an eccentric trinket to add another layer of mystery to his persona, and drained it in one slow motion.
“Why?” he said aloud, and the girl knew he did not want to be answered. “Why would I have ever fought against this kind of life?” His wor
ds were slurred, and the sound of them amused him.
“I don’t know,” a voice from the ornate doorway caused Draken to jolt upright, or half-upright, anyway, when his muscles failed to cooperate.
“Wha—” he said, but then he knew. It was Pul, of course. A weird mix of feelings churned in Draken’s stomach. “I t-t-thought I closed that door.”
“Well, next time maybe you’ll remember to.”
Pul plopped down next to Draken, one of his arms lining the girl’s long, thin legs. Draken knew his brother did this to irk him. It worked.
“Hand’s off!” he gurgled through his drunken anger, and Pul moved his arm, returning it to his own lap.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she belonged to you.”
There was a threat in his words, and Draken found its meaning somewhere in his drink-addled mind. Pul was reminding him that all this—the girl, the drink, the comfort—was a gift from the followers of E’ghat, and that it could be taken away as easily as it was given.
“Get out of here please,” Draken slurred to the girl, and she was gone in a flash of flesh and legs. “What do you want?”
“Getting right down to business, I see.” Pul said coldly. “Your specialty.” Then Pul slumped down a bit as if some of the wind had gone out of him. “I wish it wasn’t like this, Draken. We’re together again. Finally. We’re on the same side now. Why can’t it be the way it was before?”
Draken wanted to tell him it was because of the evil, the blood that had been spilled to reunite them, but he was too far gone to think of the right words. Instead, he again said, “What do you want?”
“There have been some disturbing reports at the border of Drammata and Eda. True, it’s a long way from us, but our intelligence suggests it may be related to us. Bands of soldier-police scouting around. And worse, asking questions.”
Draken knew where this was going, and willed some measure of false sobriety on himself. “They m-must just be making sure you guys don’t come back. Can you blame ‘em?”
