“I’m not leaving you.” This time his voice did break. Tears dripped down the corners of his eyes. He wiped them with the back of one hand.
“Too late.” His father’s hands fell limp at his sides and his eyes closed.
Aclan watched the steady rise and fall of his chest for a while. Hopelessness weighed his limbs. Was it too late? No. He couldn’t believe it. His father would be fine. He tried to hold on to that thought, but it crumbled as it seemed his whole world had. Why had Ilythra left so suddenly? She had seemed confused toward the end. Not the same woman who’d walked into the castle only a few moons prior. He’d chosen to ignore it, just as he’d chosen to ignore his father’s fugues. It was Bredych. It had to be. Was it possible that the counselor wanted the throne? It had happened before. History was Aclan’s favorite subject.
He looked around the room. A cup of tea stood on table next to his father’s bed, but everything else looked as he remembered. His gaze moved back to the cup. His father didn’t drink tea. He picked up the cup and sniffed. A strong herbal smell assaulted his nostrils. His mind went blank for a moment. He blinked. Why was he there? He stared at his father and set the cup back on the table.
He backed toward the door and it all came crashing down. Ilythra, his father, Bredych, the Rugians. There was something in the tea. Aclan rushed back and threw the contents of the cup into the fire. The flames sizzled and danced. He placed the empty cup back on the table.
By the gods, he wished Ilythra were there. She could have told him what it was. Who else could? Cook was the only other person who knew about herbs, but he didn’t think the knowledge went beyond how to season a goose. Cassia. He’d been told the servant girl was injured in Ilythra’s escape. He hadn’t seen her since, but she had to be in the castle somewhere. She’d spent more time with Ilythra than anyone he knew. Perhaps she knew something.
His stomach churned. But first, he’d go to Konrad, as his father had commanded. Maybe the steward would have some answers.
* * *
A sickle moon rose over the forge. Gray against the black sky, a plume of smoke indicated the fires were still hot and burning. Most of the slaves had returned to their barracks. Several Rugians remained in the building she’d dubbed the gathering house, but most were in their sleeping quarters.
Ilythra jumped down from her perch and landed in a crouch, her ears straining for any sound. Insects chirped nearby, and a small creature rustled in the brush not far away. She breathed deeply and crept toward the edge of the clearing. She hoped Mohan was ready, had alerted the slaves and that the trick with the barrels had worked. She hoped for a lot.
The clearing seemed deserted. No one walked around the buildings, though windows glowed with yellow light. Keeping low, she moved as fast as possible to the forge then pressed her body close to the rough planks. The heat from the fires within warmed her back through the wooden structure. A Rugian stumbled from the gathering house. She froze and lowered her face to keep the white of her eyes from being seen in the shadows but watched him through her lashes.
He stumbled by, not a wheel away. Then some instinct must have triggered, because he turned and looked right at her.
He slurred something in Rugian that didn’t sound like a friendly greeting and started toward her. Ilythra stepped forward, reached for his wrist, pulled him close and, spinning, twisted his arm behind his back. With the other, she quickly slit his throat with her knife. Blood sprayed with his heartbeat. His weight jerked her arms as she lowered him to the ground.
Her heart beat frantically against her chest. She glanced around. No one seemed to have seen. At least no one was running toward her and shouting. She stared at the fallen man, clearly visible in the faint light. Maybe they’d think he fell down drunk. Maybe not. It went against her instincts to leave him there, but if the next part of her plan went as she hoped, it wouldn’t matter. Her arms shook. She willed her muscles not to rebel when she needed them most, but she was in no shape for extended battle. She needed to make this fast. With her sword in one hand, she pressed against the building and withdrew one of the stolen bottles, making sure the other was in easy reach.
Narrowing her eyes, she spun around the doorway and into the forge. Two Rugians rose to their feet, a third moaned in the corner. Several prisoners froze in shocked surprise and then began hobbling toward the door. She ran her sword through the closest guard before the shock left his gaze. Another Rugian charged. She met his attack with her blade. The force of his swing vibrated down her arm. She quickly deflected several more blows. He was strong, and she was slowing. Her recent inactivity had taken its toll. If she didn’t finish this fast, he’d finish her. She reached deep for her reserves for every last trick her grandfather had taught her.
Several fires burned on raised rock pedestals. Wood lay in piles near open grates. A small hill of straw stood on the other side of the building, well away from the fires. One of the slaves grabbed a handful and threw it behind him toward the fires. Mohan had warned the slaves. She breathed a sigh of relief. Boxes stood in rows on several tables. One of the prisoners hobbled behind the moaning guard, placed his arms on either side of the guard’s head and pulled back, choking him with the rope binding his hands. The weakened guard struggled against the grip. She wasn’t sure who would win the battle but it kept the guard busy.
She jumped back, narrowly avoiding the swish of her opponent’s blade. “Get out of here!” she yelled to the prisoners. “Now.” Bits of straw floated in the air like snow. Dust coated her face and she fought a cough.
They glanced at one another. One knocked over a crate. Straw and swords spilled to the floor. He picked up one awkwardly in his bound hands and then joined his companions, who shuffled toward the door.
Metal against metal clanged in the building. The Rugian’s dark eyes narrowed in concentration. His long hair was tied back, and his beard fell in two braids down his chest. Her opponent definitely hadn’t drunk from either barrel. She got in a lucky strike but it lacked strength, and the thick fur he wore around his torso deflected her blade. She inched closer to the flames, barely keeping the Rugian at bay.
When she neared, she ducked, pivoted and threw the first jar of alcohol into the heat of the nearest furnace. Her sword deflected but didn’t quite stop the Rugian’s blade from skimming her body. A line of fire trailed across her ribs. She backpeddled toward the door and threw the other bottle. It missed the next forge but shattered on the straw near the fires.
She spun, kicking the Rugian in the chest, then continued the pivot on the ball of her foot and followed up with the edge of her sword. The Rugian fell back. She didn’t think it was a fatal blow, but she didn’t have time to finish the job. “It’s been fun, but gotta go.” Ilythra backed up and dove out the doorway as the bottle exploded in the fire. Small pieces of glass hit her back, and bits of fire jumped out into the night. She only hoped the flames found the alcohol-soaked straw. Ilythra didn’t stop to examine her work. Once on her feet again, she raced toward the prisoner barracks. Her body felt sluggish and her muscles already ached.
The door slammed open as she neared. Ilythra skidded to a stop to avoid running into someone leaving the building.
Relief surged through her body when Mohan stepped out.
He glanced over her head. The roar of fire consuming wood sounded in the night. “Nice distraction.” Without pause he moved out of the way to let the first tentative prisoners out. “The guards in there are dead. I’d say the fact that we’re not surrounded by Rugians right now means your plan is working.”
“Just get them out of here.” She wasn’t counting on every Rugian drinking from the tainted barrels.
Mohan grasped the arm of a prisoner with a sword. “Take them toward the road. We’ll slow down any pursuit.”
The man nodded and began gathering prisoners. Some resisted as though they were afraid of leaving. Another prisone
r exited the building, carrying a sword. He was quite a bit thinner and his once-cropped hair hung below his collar, but even beneath the layer of filth, she recognized him.
Relief mixed with shame. She’d promised and failed to rescue him once; she wouldn’t do it again. “Res.”
He froze and stared at her. “Lady.”
She shook her head. She wasn’t a lady.
“Um, reunions later. We have company.” Mohan’s voice held dread.
She turned to see several Rugians heading their way. “Res, get the prisoners out of here.”
“With due respect, lady. There’s several strong men here who can fight. If we don’t make a stand now, none of us will escape.”
Ilythra turned toward the prisoners. A few had run off, some had followed the prisoner with the sword, others looked ready to do battle but most were huddled together with wide, frightened eyes. She faced the group. “Grab anything you can use as a weapon. Anyone who wants to stay and fight is welcome, but there is no shame in running. Catch up with the others. Get to the road or you’ll die here. We’ll meet you there.” She turned back to face their attackers. “If the gods be willing,” she added under her breath.
The Rugians charged.
Chapter Six
Ilythra brought up her sword to block a downward swing and sliced the man’s torso with her knife. There were advantages to being smaller than your opponent. Heavy leather took some but not all of her steel. Pink tinged the fur but the wound wasn’t deep enough to slow him down. She blocked another blow, and the force of impact numbed her sword arm. She switched hands, crouched and, with a sweeping kick, knocked his legs from under him and buried the sword in his belly. Acrid smoke and the crackling of burning wood filled the air.
Res fought next to her with his stolen sword. His movements were clumsy, but anger gave strength to his attack. A truncated scream sounded on her other side. One of the prisoners fell.
Another Rugian replaced the first. She spun out of the way of his charge, letting his momentum carry him forward, then sliced at the back of his legs. He crumpled to the ground.
A shout sounded from across the clearing. Rugians emerged from their sleeping quarters, holding their stomachs. She turned back to the fight. Some slaves fought but others huddled, staring at the fallen Rugians as though they could hardly believe what they saw.
Mohan stood over a prone man. He gazed at her, his look assessing. “Left me some bad guys this time. First time for everything. You’re getting generous.” He looked around. “Now let’s get out of here.”
Ilythra glanced at the forge. Flames shot into the night sky and rained down small pieces of ash. More Rugians stumbled into the night, dumbly gazing at the inferno. It wouldn’t take long before the Rugians organized, and by then, they’d better be long gone.
She kneeled down to check a fallen prisoner. No heartbeat. At least three more lay bleeding into the ground. She stood. Her arm tingled but was otherwise numb. She would be useless in a fight. “I’m with you.” Grabbing a sword from a fallen Rugian, she tossed it to a prisoner holding a large stick. “Let’s go before they figure out what happened.”
Mohan placed an arm under a wounded prisoner, glanced at her and limped toward the road. On impulse, Ilythra picked up a burning stick and tossed it on the keg-filled tent. Hopefully it would keep the Rugians busy long enough that they could get the prisoners to safety.
* * *
Aclan slipped through the corridors toward the kitchen, slipping by two Rugians leaning against the wall near an exit.
Since his father’s illness, Rugians patrolled the castle grounds, slept in the hall and made themselves at home, even taking whatever they liked from the surrounding farms. He hated it. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the Rugians guarded the castle. But were they keeping watch to keep someone from breaking in, or escaping?
Konrad’s rooms lay on the other side of the kitchen, up a short set of stairs. He paused in the hall. Water splashed in the kitchen, and a little girl laughed. They were preparing for the next day’s meals. When he was younger, he used to sneak into the kitchen and pretend he was one of the servants. They always seemed so much happier than he was. He’d once asked his father if he could invite the children up to his rooms to play with his toys. His father had refused, saying it wasn’t done. He hadn’t understood. There was no joy in the rooms full of toys for him alone. He pretended at times there were other children playing with him, but his nurse had put an end to that with a few sharp words.
As he grew older, once the kitchen servants realized he was there, they’d changed of course. Become more formal. He hated being the one to steal the laughter, so he’d stopped coming down. He still missed the warmth. It was what he imagined family was like.
Conversation stopped when he entered the large kitchen. The staff bowed. He waved a hand, and they rose. “Do you know where I might find Konrad?”
“Is there something wrong with your room, prince?”
Aclan froze. Fear stiffened his spine. He turned and faced Bredych. What was the counselor doing in the kitchens at this time of the night? Had he followed him from his room? He affected his most bored demeanor. “The stuffing in my mattress has grown stale. I would like it changed immediately.”
The kitchen staff seemed to let out a held breath.
Bredych’s smile held no joy or mirth. “I will see it done.”
“I don’t wish to bother you with such a trivial task.”
“Nothing is trivial when it involves the prince and heir to the Greton throne, Highness.” Bredych’s dark gaze focused on him.
Ice traveled through his veins. He had liked it better when Bredych didn’t notice him. If the counselor had his eye on the throne, Aclan’s life wasn’t worth much.
“Um...thank you.” Aclan cast an imploring glance to the head cook over his shoulder, nodded to Bredych and headed back down the corridor toward his rooms.
He suddenly felt like the mouse in the field right before the hawk dives.
* * *
A series of soft explosions echoed from the valley. There goes the tent. Ilythra glanced back. The prisoners straggled along the road behind her. There were about three dozen. Fewer than half looked as though they could put up a fight. How many more had run away or remained in the camp? It was a useless speculation. She needed to get these men to safety.
Slow. Too slow. She flexed her right hand. The feeling was returning slowly. Her gaze moved to the billowing black smoke against the starlight. The forge at least had been destroyed. Hopefully every weapon would be rendered useless. A chill traced her spine. The only reason for that many swords was war. War against whom? Erhard’s stories of ancient kings, glory and honor danced through her memory. “Erhard, you foolish man,” Ilythra muttered. But she knew better to think the king of Greton was behind this. Bredych. He would start with the surrounding kingdoms but he wouldn’t stop there. An image of the calculating ambition in Bredych’s gaze ran though her memory. Her stomach clenched and she tasted bile. He would not stop until he was stopped.
“Come on, hurry,” she called. Soot coated her clothing and clung to her skin. She caught Mohan’s gaze as he helped an elderly man up the steep road. Diluted as it was with the liquid in the keg, Ilythra had no way of knowing how long the clove oil would affect the Rugians. The effects of the dropwort root should linger for a few days, but all it would take was a dozen healthy Rugians and the rescue attempt would die a sudden death.
At any moment, she expected to hear the stomp of boots behind them. Even with the stolen Rugian blades, the escaped prisoners were not warriors. They couldn’t withstand an organized attack. It would be a slaughter. She turned back toward the tunnel. It wasn’t far now. If they could make the pass, get on the mountain, they had a chance. Would the Rugians give chase down the mountain?
A form appea
red on the road ahead. Ilythra’s arm ached, her ribs burned fire, but she held her sword steady in her left hand. She separated from the group. Mohan’s tread sounded on the road behind her. After few steps, the man raised his arms in greeting. Jarin. She relaxed and quickened her pace. “It’s good to see you upright.”
Jarin stared at the line of prisoners, his mouth slightly open. “You did it. You really did.” He brought a befuddled gaze to Ilythra. “Who are you?”
She shook her head. Not long ago she would have been unsure how to answer that question. “Ilythra, the healer.” She placed a hand on Jarin’s shoulder then turned. “It’s not long now. We have to keep moving.”
A few of the prisoners called out a weary greeting to Jarin. Res trotted to the front of the column and fell into pace next to her. “Do you know how Nenya and the baby are doing?”
“Last I saw, they were both doing well. The baby was getting big.” Emotion clogged Ilythra’s throat. “I owe her my life.”
Tears formed in Res’s eyes, sparkling in the light of the stars. “Then I’d say we’re even.”
Ilythra cleared her throat. Nenya had hidden her and Mohan while the king’s men had searched the village. She’d put her life, and the life of her tiny son, in danger to save them. “After you get back, you’ll have to hide for a while. Don’t let anyone see you.”
“I know. I’ll be an escaped prisoner.”
She nodded to the rest. “Spread the word. Be careful. None of you are out of danger once we’re out of this valley. Not everyone will be glad to see you free, least of all the man who brought you here.”
Res placed one hand on her arm. “No matter what happens, thank you.” He fell back in with the prisoners.
Ilythra stared ahead at the mountain looming against the night sky. Rugians behind them, Rugians ahead, and somewhere Bredych would have realized she held the stone again. She hoped she wasn’t being overly optimistic. First they had to get out of the valley.
Journey of Wisdom Page 6
