A King's Caution (The Eternal War Book 2)

by Brennan C. Adams

  Men and women with black squirming under skin lined the steps, filling the pit to the brim. Hundreds of eyes pierced Thumb with the intensity of their stares. And not a single word was spoken. The occasional burst of breeze was the only sound to break the absolute silence.

  So, when sniffling sounded behind Thumb, he faced the noise’s source with some small amount of trepidation. A familiar, eleven-year-old boy hugged arms around his chest, shuffling in the sand.

  “He’s to be my opponent?” Thumb asked. “I thought you Kiraak liked spectacle. A child won’t prove much of a challenge for me.”

  “You will fight.”

  Thumb raised his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say!” He lifted fists. “Come on, kid,” he muttered when the boy refused to move. “Don’t make me hurt you before you’ve had a chance to hit me.”

  Sniffing back tears, the kid uncertainly matched Thumb’s stance.

  “Good. Now attack!”

  Again, the boy followed instructions to the tee. He swung at Thumb, and the spy let the blow land along with his subsequent punches and kicks. From everything Thumb understood about Kiraak, they’d want a display of violence and would kill anyone who didn’t give what they desired. He’d allow the kid a chance to prove he could be entertaining, given time, before decisively finishing the fight.

  The time for an end eventually came, and Thumb avoided the kid’s overly ambitious strike. After dislocating the boy’s shoulder, he stepped back. The boy’s pain would be intense, but he could quickly recover from the injury, soon returned to perfect health and heartiness. Thumb faced the audience.

  “Good enough?” he asked over screaming.

  Something landed on his back, and tiny fingernails raked his cheeks and neck. Dropping, Thumb rolled backward, crushing and subsequently shedding the added weight. He warily watched the flattened kid in the sand, but the boy didn’t move, hiccupping sobs shaking his frame.

  He didn’t understand. According to accepted decorum, the injury he’d inflicted should have ended the fight. He’d proven he was the better brawler, and wasn’t demonstrating superiority the point of contests such as this? He should be facing his next opponent, not circling the one he’d bested.

  “Why haven’t you produced my next challenge?” Thumb decided to voice his befuddlement. “The kid did well, but he’s no match for me.”

  A rustle broke the audience’s stillness.

  “Where did you find this one, Overseer?” a voice from the crowd growled with amusement.

  A crunch and choking cough followed the question.

  “The fight is to the death, Master Marcuset,” a decidedly more imperious voice called out. “Do you not understand how the pits work? You’ll remain locked in mortal combat with a string of opponents until you die or satisfy our need for entertainment.”

  Thumb snorted. That couldn’t be right. He’d only skimmed the briefing which had touched on the pits, but the words ‘mortal combat’ or ‘to the death’ would have leaped from its pages.

  Besides that, Doldimar had been in power nigh on three centuries now. With the rate of Harvests alone, the Dark Lord should be nearing a complete cull of Auden’s population, but if one also included deaths from the pit fights, the citizenry should have passed from existence years ago. Unless Auden was much larger than he and his fellow Hand members had suspected, than any of those from Ada’ir had thought.

  The voracious gazes fixed on him belied how very serious these Kiraak were about this particular demand. They sincerely desired to watch a highly skilled brawler fight a child to the death.

  “Or what?” Thumb challenged.

  Compliance with this demand would test the spy in a way nothing ever had before. Forget the silly emotional rationale which was supposed to affect him at the prospect. Children were the future of humankind. To kill one was to end the possibility of future genius.

  “You fight, or we kill you both.”

  Oh, how one amused pronouncement changed things. Suddenly, Thumb’s expected fistfight was no longer to provide entertainment for the Kiraak but a visceral struggle for survival. Whose existence would continue after the next few moments: the older, stronger man or the underdeveloped kid? Thumb stood over his prey, and terrified eyes met his.

  “At least I can make it quick.”

  He snapped the kid’s neck in the blink of an eye, and the pit erupted with cheers. A Conscripted dragged the body away. Already, Thumb’s next opponent stalked across sand.

  The briefing’s insistence that pit fighters eventually lost their minds made perfect sense now. Most couldn’t withstand the emotional pressure which allegedly came alongside ending a life before something snapped in their heads. Thumb felt nothing but disgust for the travesty the Kiraak had forced upon his conscience, and he quickly shook it to face the next threat to his survival.

  The stout man he was to fight stopped opposite him, madly smiling. Inspecting his opponent, Thumb quickly discounted any challenge he might bring. His pattern could easily be countered.

  The cheering died, and Thumb eagerly awaited the command to begin.

  Across Nephiron, multiple bells noisily clanged from near and far, a clamorous tumult of chimes and ringing, and after a beat of stunned silence, the pit dissolved into noise and movement. Kiraak sprinted, howling, from the bowl of earth, and Conscripted came forward to herd Thumb and the other combatant away.

  The holding cells were in the process of being emptied into the hall, and Conscripted roughly drove the crowd in the direction opposite the pit.

  Thumb endured the shoving and screaming, holding back panic which clawed up his throat. Too many people in one place! He couldn’t read the patterns! Chaos loomed! His vision narrowed as black stalked its edges.

  When they broke into open sky once more, Thumb nearly collapsed with relief, but his torment wasn’t yet at an end. The Conscripted corralled him into a cart filled with prisoners, several of whom tried to bite and scratch at him even with limited space. The cart bed was crammed with flesh. Every inch of his skin touched someone else’s. Thumb could only stand one person’s touch for more than a few seconds, and that man wasn’t here. How long was he supposed to endure this?

  A final, bawling woman joined them, and the Conscripted slammed the hatch closed.

  “Get the cargo to Uduli quick as you can,” one called to the wagon driver. “We can’t afford to lose the Dark Lord’s entertainment.”

  The cart jerked forward, and a mass of bodies slammed Thumb into the people beside him. He was quite aware that he hyperventilated, but until he separated from the chaos of so many interwoven patterns, he’d never claw control of his brain or lungs back. At least black didn’t threaten to drag him down as it had in the holding cells.

  The woman who’d had the misfortune of being last loaded nearly hung over the back hatch, any space in the bed eaten up by others. Her eyes landed on him as they departed the city, and if possible, her sobs intensified.

  “My son?” she asked him.

  What was she-? The kid.

  Thumb shook his head. She let loose a single shriek of anguish, and for a moment, her body went completely limp. Then, she lurched over the hatch, tumbling to the earth, and the cart behind them jostled a breath later.

  Panic subsided to be replaced with something other. He’d only experienced this sensation once before, and it shouldn’t show its face now. It belonged not to him but to the separate man.

  The approaching key ring jingle didn’t match the guards’ established patrol pattern, so he unlaced his fingers from behind his head to sit up. Shortly, the third-hour guard swung open a recently unlocked, wooden door, and a stranger sauntered into his cell. The guard left them alone.

  He held perfectly still. With no indication of the other man’s pattern, he wasn't sure how to act. The quiet must have become uncomfortable because the stranger shifted ever so slightly.

  “I hear you’re good with codes.”

  He shrugged. He’d unraveled patterns for
Daira’s thieves guild on occasion, whenever he’d needed the extra coin but wouldn’t qualify his work as ‘good’.

  “You’ve gotten yourself in quite the pickle, Marsuvius. Killing an ambassador from the Southern Kingdoms, even if the man provoked it, is never wise.” The stranger disapprovingly clicked his tongue. “Kaedesa was furious until I told her about your unique skills.”

  The stranger’s words ceased flowing as if in expectation of a response, but he’d nothing to say. When they’d pulled him off the noble he’d attacked, they’d said he’d been incoherent with rage. That he’d attacked several other patrons. That restraining him had taken four other brawlers. He remembered none of it, just his opponent breaking the pattern and something subsequently breaking in him.

  “Have they told you what’s to occur in the morning?” the stranger asked.

  “Execution.”

  It was a fitting punishment. He’d dolled death on the man who’d broken the pattern and broken one of society’s largest, overarching rules as a result. He deserved what came the morrow.

  “How would you like a grant of reprieve instead?”

  He considered. Continued existence was, of course, favorable to death, but the offer confused him.

  “Wouldn’t that break your laws?” he asked.

  “The Queen makes the law, and she’s the one offering.”

  An acceptable line of reasoning. Which left… “Why would she offer such a thing?”

  “She has need of your abilities. I suppose I should test them before we go any further,” the stranger replied, retrieving a document from a breast pocket. “This was found among the effects of the ambassador you killed.”

  Accepting the document, he quickly scanned it. At first glance, it seemed a love letter to a mistress here in Daira, but on closer inspection…

  “The ambassador planned to use his protected status to get close to the Queen and assassinate her,” he stated, handing the paper back.

  “Exactly as we surmised,” the stranger agreed. “So, would you like your stay of execution?”

  He hesitated but eventually nodded.

  “Excellent! Welcome to the Queen’s Hand,” the stranger said, proffering a hand.

  He reluctantly shook it, repressing a desire to shudder at the contact.

  “My name’s Oswin. I’m your spymaster, and together, we’ll create a little chaos.”

  He promptly proceeded to throw up.

  That same reaction threatened to overwhelm him now. Only the angry glares of the people around him kept his stomach contained.

  What did others call this sensation? Self-disgust? Regret? Somewhere in between? Whatever it was, he couldn’t shake it. The kid’s eyes burned into his even now.

  Thumb could produce a slew of logical reasons for his actions in the pit. His King needed him. If he’d allowed the kid to kill him, the boy would have died at the hands of his next opponent, and death wouldn’t have been nearly as painless.

  None of those rationalizations, however, had floated in his mind when he’d snapped the kid’s spine. All he’d known was the kid’s life versus his own, and he’d chosen himself. It was a perfectly rational choice, one he’d made countless times in the past, but this one haunted him. The sensation was frustrating! In a struggle to survive, nothing but strength should matter, not gender, not genius, not age…

  He buried his face in his hands, rubbing at gritty eyes. What was he doing? Sensations such as this shouldn’t distract him from his job. He was Thumb of King Raimie’s Hand. His purpose was solely to serve the King.

  Carefully, he pulled his message in a bottle from the hidden pocket. This was the last report he could send for an indeterminable length of time. Best to make it thorough. Ignoring the curious glances directed his way, he added the information concerning the commotion in the pit and his current transport to Uduli.

  So many Kiraak scrambling from a favored form of entertainment and the appearance of ships on the horizon could only mean one thing. Someone else intended to invade Auden, and he or she had been lucky enough to make landing at Nephiron instead of an abandoned beach.

  Thumb didn’t include his conclusions in the report. Middle and the King were smart enough to figure them out by themselves. They could also decide what such a development would mean for their own attempt to free Auden from Doldimar’s clutches.

  He returned the parchment to the bottle none too soon as it disappeared while replacing the stopper. The display of magic stirred some form of surprise from the dejected men and women around Thumb, but the reaction didn’t last long. They soon returned to listless staring.

  As for him, panic took over once more. The creak of cart wheels barely covered the noise of his uncontrolled gasps.

  Chapter Nine

  The child is sullen, petulant, and exceedingly self-centered. If, as you’ve seen, he’s to become our last hope, then we are doomed.

  Maybe I judge too harshly. You know how much I despise children. Perhaps that general dislike has colored my vision with regards to the Audish heir. I certainly hope such is the case.

  I’ll be home soon, my love. When the time is right, I shall visit Auden once more. Perhaps I can give you a better assessment once the child has grown into a man.

  Their weeks long trek had come to an end, and Keltheryl was only a little disappointed it was over. They’d taken a leisurely pace through the countryside, acutely aware of how long it would take to move trebuchets and catapults over such a lengthy stretch of rough terrain.

  The journey had allowed Keltheryl time to relax and enjoy being home. Even if it went by a different name in this era, this country refused to change no matter how many lifetimes he spent within its borders, and surprisingly, Doldimar had yet to take the time to ravage it this go ‘round, despite his centuries in power. The familiar landscape caressed him with comfort.

  While traversing the countryside, both he and Raimie had been curious to see what life was like for the ordinary Audish citizen, for those not sheltered by the resistance, but they’d also agreed it was a risk they couldn’t afford yet. Tales of five strange men wandering between villages would surely prompt suspicion in whichever Enforcer laid claim to this region. Satisfying their curiosity wasn’t worth heightened defenses at the Birthing Grounds.

  This morning, they’d arrived to that dreaded place. Over the hill’s rise, the crater which contained the Birthing Grounds stretched for a mile, tiny figures bustling between crudely built barracks in its depths.

  Keltheryl was grateful for the trees’ cover. Not far from his vantage point, the forest abruptly cut off to be replaced by a blasted land devoid of life, nothing but scorched earth and scrubby bushes in every direction.

  Little said the sinkhole they sought rested in that land absent any hiding places, and so, they listened for the crash and pound of bombardment within the last bit of cover between them and their goal.

  Keltheryl had distanced himself from the other four men once they’d chosen a place to wait. The enthusiasm the persona of ‘Keltheryl’ required drained him in a way nothing else truly could. It was the opposite of his true personality, and every loud, happy statement strained his ability to control his temper. These small moments away from the others kept him from ripping their heads off.

  Kylorian, in particular, tested his patience. Ren’s adoptive brother regularly questioned how he’d killed an Enforcer. Keltheryl knew the other man only wanted to be prepared for how best to protect him when they went into battle together, but the questions were ones he was unable to answer. Minus Raimie and Oswin, his companions believed him to be an ordinary human. He couldn’t exactly tell Kylorian he’d employed Ele to eliminate Teron. Not counting what such a revelation might do to Raimie’s reputation as Teron’s vanquisher, the fact that he was a primeancer wouldn’t help his deception.

  And he hated to admit it, but his sister’s confession that, in the years of his absence, Kylorian had become a replacement for him irritated Keltheryl to no end. After their h
ome fell to Harvest, Ren had thought him dead. That she’d latch onto the older boy as a band-aid was only natural, but Keltheryl couldn’t help the animosity which reared its head whenever he looked at Kylorian.

  Little stood from where he’d been discussing the plan with Raimie, Oswin, and Kylorian once more. When the spy left their grouping, it fell apart. Kylorian wandered into the trees, probably hoping for solitude in which to pray to Alouin again. Oswin and Raimie remained near one another, but they didn’t commune, each wrapped in their separate bubbles of silence. Little started trudging toward him, and Keltheryl tensed, reluctantly portraying enthusiasm once more.

  The stitches holding Little’s face together made his insides squirm. The spy had gone to Chela, one of the better healers to accompany them across the sea, after he’d delivered his report to Raimie. While her work had been adequate, Keltheryl knew he could have done better. He hated that his deception had ended with the young spy receiving inadequate treatment.

  “Relax. I’m not going to bite you,” Little murmured as he joined Keltheryl’s observation of the arid lands beyond. “And drop the fake smile. It’s clearly hurting you to hold it.”

  “That obvious, huh?” Keltheryl replied.

  “It wasn’t at first, but as we traveled together, the deception fell apart rather quickly, Kheled.”

  “What can I say?” Keltheryl chirped. “Sometimes I like my…”

  The words the spy had spoken fully processed in his brain. “What did you call me? My name is-”

  “Kheled,” Little interrupted. “Don’t try to deny it. I know it’s true, but don’t worry. I doubt anyone else will see through your false persona. It’s convincing. Almost fooled me, and I’ve a gift for reading people. I’d been given some warning to look for you though.”

  “Really?” Kheled asked, lips a straight line. “By whom?”

  “How’d you convince so many people they’d seen your corpse?” Little asked, disregarding Kheled’s question. “Did you doctor a body to look like yours? Ingest an easily reversed poison which simulates death? And why did you do it? Was it simply to dispense with the threat of further attempts on your life, or was there another reason?”