by Adam Carter
“Karina, no one here’s going to attack you in the night.”
She went back to looking out the window. He wished she would make up her mind where she wanted to look.
“Well they didn’t,” she said in a small voice.
“Did you get any sleep at all?”
She ignored him.
Crenshaw felt bad for a lot of things. While he was having a good time the previous night, Moya had been shaking in her boots and he was too drunk to even notice. He asked himself why he cared: it was their first night of freedom and he had every right to enjoy himself. He tried to think of something pleasant to say, but it had been a while since he had had to think of anything pleasant to say to anyone.
“Nice clothes,” he said. “Blue suits you.”
“Blue’s a wizard’s colour, apparently. One of the townsfolk is a seamstress. She gave me this and she gave you your clothes as well. And Asp. At least we look a little better suited to what we’re meant to be.”
Crenshaw had not really noticed his attire but looked over it now. The shirt was a dull brown and very plain, while the trousers were a deeper brown and crosshatched with leather. There was a belt on the floor, complete with scabbard, but since he didn’t have a sword it was all but useless. He guessed this was a simple mind’s belief of how a soldier should look. He wondered how Asperathes was dressed.
But what he had said to Moya was true. The blue blouse and trousers brought out her eyes. Her attire even seemed to sparkle, as though there were a thousand tiny sequins sown into it.
“They’ll forget us by tomorrow,” he told her. “We’ll be gone and they’ll think of something else to obsess over. Or they’ll remember us forever, but they’ll remember the versions they want to remember. Either way, we’ll be a long way from here and no one will be able to find us.”
“And what do we do? Go after your wife? How many years have you been locked up, Crenshaw?”
“You know, you can call me Jobek. Joe if you like.”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know exactly. Five years? I don’t know.”
“You think she’s still waiting for you after five years? She’ll have given you up for dead and remarried.”
“Not my Maria.”
“It happens, Crenshaw. Soldiers are reported dead all the time and turn up alive. And who’s to say she even waited that long?”
Crenshaw’s first instinct was to strike her for that remark, but he was no longer in prison so didn’t have to behave like an animal any more.
“We’ll see,” he said curtly. “You coming down for breakfast, or are you scared of the bacon?”
“You just love putting me down don’t you, Crenshaw?”
She was looking at him again: her indecision was giving him a headache.
“Putting you down?” he asked. “You really are clueless, Karina. You want to know what would have happened to you if you went to your own room last night and slept eight hours? You want me to tell you what would have happened?”
She bit her trembling lower lip but her eyes were defiantly silent.
“Nothing,” he said. “The snoring of your soldier colleague didn’t save you from anything, Karina. More like the other way round. You’re a wizard, a powerful one at that. Me? Any idiot with muscles thinks he could take me, especially with my one arm, but you? You’re something no one understands, something no one could ever match. They’re scared of you, Karina, and you’re scared of them?” He laughed. “Anyone in this town – anyone – would prefer to fight me and Asp together than have you look at them in a bad way.”
This time she did not look away but held his gaze. He liked to think it was an indication that she was growing a backbone, but the truth was his head was swimming so badly he didn’t care all that much.
“I’m going down for breakfast,” he told her. “Do what you like.”
Crenshaw made it down the stairs by holding firmly onto the rail, although by the time he reached the common room his head had begun to feel a little lighter. The smell of cooking helped, for it had been so long since he had last absorbed the scent of bacon and eggs that he honestly thought he would have forgotten what they were like. There were some things, however, which would remain forever. The smell of bacon and eggs were like Maria in that regard, although he was certain she would not have approved of the analogy.
Asperathes was already up. In fact, he was sitting at a large table, regaling peasants with his tales of derring-do. He was presently telling them a story about the time he had quashed a riot by laying down his arms and refusing to fight. Crenshaw remembered that well, albeit a little differently. In reality, Asperathes had been grabbed during the riot from all angles. He had been forced to shed his skin and running away, which – with a little creative licence – amounted to pretty much the same thing.
Crenshaw sat opposite him and waved away any attempts the locals made to engage him in conversation. He was grateful when Asperathes announced no one should ever talk to Crenshaw before he had eaten breakfast. As the crowd was shooed away, Crenshaw noticed what Asperathes was wearing and had no idea how he had missed it before. The apepkith was garbed in mauve silk and leather, and even seemed to be wearing a cloak with a high collar. It was the most bizarre thing Crenshaw had ever seen.
“You thinking of joining the circus?” Crenshaw asked.
“Oh, you woke with a wit this morning. How’s the little woman?”
“Keep calling her that and one day she’ll blow your grin off with a thunderbolt. What’s this?” he asked as a bowl was placed before him by a fawning local.
“Porridge,” Asperathes answered for him. “I’ve told everyone here that Jobek Crenshaw will never eat anything for breakfast if it’s not porridge. A good, healthy start to the day, you know.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Funny from my end, Jobek.”
Crenshaw knew he could have argued the point, but he did not want to call Asperathes a liar in front of everyone. If he had been lying about this, people would begin to question what else he had been lying about. Besides, it was food, and the eggs would still be around tomorrow.
“Fine,” he said as he shoved in a spoon. The porridge was bland, but at least it was made from oats and not sawdust, and he’d had a few of those over the years.
“Would you like something in your porridge, my lord?” the local asked nervously. “We have some blueberries, picked fresh this morning.”
“What the hell’s a blueberry?”
“It’s a berry, my lord. And it’s blue.”
“Eggs.”
“My lord?”
“Surely Asperathes told you how I like my porridge, lad? Always have it with bacon and eggs. Now get on with it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As the youth hurried away, Asperathes chuckled. “Nicely done, sir.”
The food was helping Crenshaw feel better, as was the knowledge that if they didn’t get a solid plan in place they were going to be discovered as escaped prisoners. “Any word on the baroness?”
“I’ve been asking,” Asperathes said, his smile fading as he moved onto serious matters. Crenshaw had always been a little afraid of Asperathes. He made himself as much of a likeable character as possible, but beneath it all he was a paid killer. Crenshaw may have been enjoying himself the previous night, but most of Asperathes’s mind would have been working.
“Did she survive?” Crenshaw asked.
“No one’s sure. She certainly managed to regain control of her castle. The three heroes vanished, I haven’t been able to ascertain precisely what happened to them. My guess is they were killed because if they’d made it out there would have been word of them. I can’t see them as the type of people to lie low, after all.”
“Any prisoners make it out?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Between the guards and the heroes, I don’t think the prisoners stood a chance.”
“We’re still calling them heroes then
?”
Asperathes shrugged. “It’s as good a term as any.”
Crenshaw’s bacon and eggs arrived in that moment and the youth dumped them into his porridge. Given the choice, Crenshaw would have had them on a separate plate, but he wasn’t about to be picky. He broke open his first egg and the yolk burst like a daffodil in bloom. If this was the only good thing to have come out of their escape, he would still feel it was worth it.
“When Karina gets up, we should leave,” Asperathes said.
“No argument here.” If any of those heroes had survived, they might well find themselves in the same town, and that would raise terrible issues. He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, as he noticed Asperathes was fiddling with something. “Shoelaces? Please tell me you haven’t been taking people’s shoelaces.”
“I could hardly refuse, these people are so eager to please. When I told them I didn’t want any breakfast, they insisted on giving me their laces.”
Thankfully Moya chose that moment to join them. Her presence had a strange effect on people. Some bowed their heads and avoided her, others – particularly the young men – fawned over her, while some tried to do both. It was an unusual concept to be at the same time terrified of and grateful to someone.
She dropped at their table and was immediately supplied with several plates of steaming, fried food. Crenshaw’s stomach rumbled at the mixture of smells and he watched as she just pushed the food around her plates.
“You need any help with that?” he asked.
Asperathes tutted. “Image to maintain, Crenshaw.”
Moya did not seem to have heard either of them. Crenshaw had hoped she would have been out of her mood by now and wondered whether she was psychologically damaged in some way. He had seen a vast number of broken people in the dungeon, but did not believe Moya had been there long enough to have suffered such long-term adverse effects.
“I want to train,” she said at last, still staring into her food.
“Train?” Crenshaw asked.
“To be a sorceress.” Her eyes rose to meet his and at last her determination was outweighing her fear. Crenshaw was certain he had seen the last of her staring into random objects. “My father wanted to protect me,” she said, “but he also wanted me to be great. My father’s gone, but I can still be great.”
“I don’t know anything about training wizards,” Crenshaw admitted.
“I know. But for the moment I can learn as we go. Once we reach your wife and you’re satisfied that she doesn’t want to know you any more, then I can think about what I need to do to find someone to train under.”
“Ouch,” Asperathes said, taking his turn to find something else to look at.
“Why do you need to train under anyone?” Crenshaw asked, ignoring all other aspects of what she had said. “From how you handled yourself back in the dungeon, you’re doing fine.”
“You ever fought in a battle with a wizard by your side?”
“Once or twice.”
“I’m intending to get to that stage.”
Crenshaw shuddered. No one ever spoke with sorcerers when they went into battle with them. They were, without doubt, the most powerful people on the planet, but only the best sorcerers could ever be attached to an army. Crenshaw understood little of magic, but he did know that only the best magic users could become so powerful. Looking into Moya’s eyes, he could see something which truly frightened him. He did not know whether it was because magic users were pampered or because she had lost her father, but there was a rage to Moya which could potentially make her the most powerful sorceress the world had ever seen.
“If you two are done staring at each other,” Asperathes said, “I think it’s time we made our move. We can pick up some supplies for the journey, but staying here much longer would lead to exposure.”
“You’re right,” Crenshaw said, rising from the table. “I’ll go arrange the supplies. Meet me out front in ten minutes.”
He did not know whether he sounded nervous as he spoke those words, but the truth was Moya had unnerved him. Ever since she had blasted Baros in the head he had been telling her how much people feared her, how powerful she was. Now it seemed he had at last got the message through. He had been trying to do a good thing, but could not help fear he had been instrumental in the creation of a monster.
CHAPTER SIX
Her companions were killers, but Moya had little choice in whose company to keep. The past few days had been such a whirlwind of confusion that she was only just now beginning to settle. They had departed the tavern that morning and had been walking for two hours without a break. The weather had thankfully been neither too hot nor cold, allowing them to make good time. Moya was surprised by how much her body ached from the march, and when they finally stopped for as long a break as she could manage, she could see neither of her companions was immune to fatigue. A soldier Crenshaw may have been, but it had been a long time since he had been on as long a march as they were putting themselves through.
She tried not to think about her life, about what had led her to this moment. Her father was dead and she would never return home, and that should have been the end of her thoughts. But it wasn’t. Whenever she thought of her past, images of Drake came to her mind: Drake standing with the baroness’s soldiers as they cut her father down.
Moya had never hated anything in her entire life, had never been able to even understand the concept. Now she understood it entirely.
As companions, Crenshaw and Asperathes were adequate. During their march Moya had lost most of her fear, although she was not sure that was such a good thing. She needed to keep in mind the nature of her two companions, remaining wary while at the same time not becoming like them.
Removing her boots, Moya ignored the smell as she rubbed her weary toes. She had told Crenshaw to take a bath back at the tavern but had not found the courage to follow her own advice. Looking back, Moya could not believe she had been so afraid of those townsfolk. It had only been a few hours, yet she supposed spending those hours with just Crenshaw and Asperathes for company had hardened her. Plus she had spent the time assimilating everything she had been through since her arrest. How anyone could spend years in the dungeon she could not say. She could only imagine what the experience had done to them.
“Nice boots,” Asperathes noted. They had stopped in an open area of well-travelled road and Crenshaw was keeping guard some way from them. There was scrubland either side and birds cawing in the distance. The area reminded Moya of the places she used to explore when she was young, but that had been a lifetime ago.
“Thanks,” she said. “I got them in town.”
“Right. Do you need the laces?”
She looked at him sourly. “I’ll trade them for a nice pair of snakeskin boots.”
Asperathes laughed. “She’s finally coming out into her own and she’s a comedian.”
“Seriously, what do you do with all the laces?”
“Oh, nothing much. I twine them.”
“Why?”
“Gave me something to do. When you’re a bounty hunter you tend to work a lot with your hands, but your mind’s always active as well. Prison dulls both the mind and body, you know.”
“Hence the mental puzzles.”
“Right. The laces are just something to keep my fingers busy. When I first started doing it, I didn’t even realise. Then it became something of a joke, even a little intimidating. I’d ask newbies for their laces and they really didn’t understand. Boots, sure, newbies have their boots stolen all the time, but not just the laces.” He paused. “Made it really interesting when someone else demanded their boots only to find no laces. Some of them even gave the boots back, thinking I only took the laces from people under my protection or something.”
“Psychological prison warfare,” Moya said, sensing logic behind his actions.
“I guess I’ll have to try to shake the habit.”
“Asp! Look alive.”
The shout had come from
Crenshaw. Asperathes was already up and alert, hurrying over to see what the problem was. Moya trailed, not familiar to such urgent commands being shouted. It was something she knew she was going to have to get used to if she intended to remain with these two. She still had yet to reach any proper decision regarding that, but for the moment they were all she had.
She and Asperathes found Crenshaw already running, and Moya could see why. In the scrubland to one side were half a dozen men; scarred and wearing soiled, torn attire. There were two others in the field as well – a man and a woman. These were younger, probably in their mid-to-late teens, and were clearly being pursued by the group. Moya watched as the girl stumbled, screaming, while the men descended upon the boy, battering him eagerly with their fists.
Crenshaw was already halfway across the field, his arm raised in defiance but without any form of weapon at all.
“He’s going to get himself killed,” Moya said.
“Any more head-blasting spells?” Asperathes asked.
It took Moya a moment to realise he was asking her to consciously attack someone. Back with Baros, she had acted instinctively. Her life had been in danger, as had Crenshaw’s, and she had acted without any thought at all. She had all but killed a man and it was not something she ever wanted to do again.
She watched the youth scream as the bloody fists descended, watched the girl wailing, not knowing whether to flee or try in vain to help. Moya realised it did not much matter how she felt about using her powers on people; her pride would not take a back seat to other people’s lives.
Crenshaw reached the gang, his loud shouts already having drawn their attention. He took a swing at the first man, his blow strong enough to snap the man’s head back in a sickening crack. The others left the youth where he lay bleeding into the soil and threw themselves upon Crenshaw.
Roaring as loudly as he could, Asperathes was still several moments away, and in that time Crenshaw could be killed.
Moya stopped running, raised both hands, curled her fingers and concentrated on her hatred. Her mind snapped back to a time so recently gone, when a group of men had come to her home. She saw another man on the ground, broken and dying, and saw a different young woman standing by unable to find it within herself to do anything to help. That day Moya had been rendered powerless through her fear.
