He frowned. Where were they going? He thought the river was ahead, but apart from Meerange, there were no other cities in the central plains, only snow and more snow.
One of the men in front of Owen collapsed, groaning in the slush. Owen and his companion were forced to help him up, blows raining across their shoulders to hurry them up. As they dragged him to his feet, Owen realised that he was just a youth, slender and ill-clothed for such a venture as this. A surge of irritation rushed through him. This whole situation could have been avoided if he had paid closer attention; he shouldn’t even be here.
“Get up,” Owen growled.
“I-I can’t,” the boy stuttered through chattering teeth.
Owen jerked in surprise as the slight man next to him hissed at the boy through clenched teeth. “Yes, you can,” he said in a hard voice as he awkwardly wrapped an arm around the boy’s waist. The boy cringed closer to the man’s meagre body heat in desperation. Owen flipped his cloak over the boy’s shoulders and helped to half-carry half-drag him as they were herded down the slushy street and onto a wooden pier, which trembled under their weight.
They were shanghaied down the jetty and forced into the hold of the boat tied to it, then shackled to iron rings hammered into the thick wooden beams. They huddled together for warmth, cowed by the boat hand’s ready fists. Shivering men were already restrained, turning blue as they crouched in the hold.
Shouts from above warned Owen that they were about to cast off and he braced himself as the boat rocked haphazardly and the sailors pushed them out into the river. The boat drifted on, picking up speed as the oars began to pull through the water. He almost wished he was doing their job. At least he would be warm.
Shivering uncontrollably, the interminable night wore on. Cold seeped into his limbs, but he couldn’t stretch in the confined space. He couldn’t see the battered man next to him, but he knew he fared no better; he could feel his constant trembling. Owen could just make out the gleam of his eyes; he wasn’t sleeping either.
It was still dark when dim torchlight seeped through the decking onto the misery stashed in the hold. Owen reluctantly pried his eyes open. Was he still alive? He couldn’t feel his body.
Owen stiffened as the guards rattled down the wooden stairs. “Alright you miserable lot, get up!” they yelled as they started wielding their sticks in an effort to get the frozen men moving.
It took far too long and much brutality to get the ice-ridden men onto their feet and marching in place. There was one who didn’t move, no matter how much the soldiers beat him. After much cursing, they dragged him out of the hold and tossed him overboard.
As they climbed out of the hold onto the deck, Owen scanned the surroundings. The pier they were tied up to led to nothing. There was no town, no warehousing, no mercantile of any form. Owen frowned. Where were they?
The guards led their horses up onto the pier and remounted their horses once they had reached dry land. They looked much happier on land, though they still didn’t look eager to be returning. Owen peered around him as the shackled men stumbled down the icy road.
The air around the lead soldiers undulated, and then they disappeared, and the men at the front baulked, causing the rest to stumble to a fearful halt. A delayed ripple of confusion sped down the line before the soldier’s sticks were back out and the men were forced ahead.
As Owen approached, the texture of the air changed. It shimmered, blurring the surroundings and consuming the men as they passed through. The barrier caressed his skin, and the column of weary men appeared before him. A creaking chain warned him that they were approaching an entry point. Faint shouts ahead were muffled by thick wooden gates, which became clearer as flickering torches revealed a gaping maw as the portcullis was raised, jerking spasmodically as slaves pulled on the ropes.
Owen noticed the man next to him, peering around the opening courtyard as they shuffled under the suspended gate. The courtyard was bleak and empty. The ground hardened by many stamping feet. It had been bedded down like stone. No puddles littered this courtyard; it was clear of all impediments.
A giant of a man loomed ahead of them. “What’s all this, then?” he barked as the soldiers herded their meagre haul into the courtyard.
“Latest recruits, sir,” the lieutenant reported, saluting.
“Really?” the giant said, scowling at the lieutenant. His bald head shone in the light of the torches extending from the walls.
The lieutenant cringed and took a step back. The overseer strode forward and inspected the dregs before him. “And these recruits are for the Third Chevron?” He turned on the lieutenant. “You bring me this to work with? Are you sure you’re recruiting for the grand duke?”
The lieutenant swallowed, his eyes darting towards his men. “There isn’t much left, sir. The area has been stripped already.”
“Then travel further. This is not acceptable. The grand duke expects better,” the overseer hissed.
The lieutenant cowered before him, and at his signal, his men remounted and headed back under the portcullis with alacrity.
The overseer glared at the rabble before him. His heavily muscled arms gleamed in the torchlight, and he slapped the baton he held in his hand against his leg. The thwack of the stick against his trousers echoed in the silence, and the prisoners stirred uneasily. “Well, well,” he said surveying them critically. “Welcome to the elite chevron training compound. Here we train the best soldiers in the grand duke’s army. This is your new home until you can satisfy us that you are one of the best,” he said as he continued inspect them. “We do not accept failure. We do not accept excuses. You are now a volunteer in the grand duke’s army, behave like one or pay the consequences. Let’s see what you’re made of.” He snapped his fingers, and the recruits were herded into a sawdust-covered training ground which muffled the sound of their shuffling feet.
A man with hammer and chisel struck the shackles off their wrists and feet. Owen rubbed his arms as he surveyed the grounds. A high ceiling enclosed the area and kept the inclement weather out. Tiered seating rose up the walls, circling the arena. The men training in the arena looked lean and fit. They paused their sparring and moved to the edges of the grounds, expectant smirks on their faces.
Owen considered his strategy; he didn’t want to overplay his hand, but he had to show potential. He had some training, and he was used to hard labour having worked many years on his family’s farm. Surreptitiously, he looked at the man who had been chained to him. In the light of the arena, he looked even worse. Blue tinged skin, mottled with bruising, sunken grey eyes glazed with pain, and a constant shiver. The arena was freezing. The grey-eyed man was one of the smallest men conscripted; the young boy was the only other similar in size. The rest were all bull-necked or taller, though in their stiff and frozen state, maybe he would have a chance.
Shaking his hands out, he flexed his shoulders as he scanned the area. His gaze paused briefly on a quiet spot and then kept moving. He assessed the other men, awaiting the travesty that was no doubt about to happen, noting his companion doing the same. What a waste of resources, he thought. Had they such a large army that they could waste the few men they had culled with senseless violence?
The overseer’s voice barked out a series of orders and the guards shoved the men into two lines. Owen sighed as he looked at his opponent; he was huge. His neck was so thick he had no hope of throttling him.
At the overseer’s command, the men began to spread out and circle each other. Owen tried to keep an eye on his travelling companion. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt concerned for him. The poor man was facing an opponent twice his size. He didn’t have a chance. Owen shook his arms out and focused on his own opponent. The man was stiff and awkward, and Owen soon had him immobilised in an arm lock.
The overseer ordered his men to separate them into smaller groups. The grey-eyed man grimaced at Owen and grabbed the young lad they had helped before saying: “Dive for their ankles,” as they circled arou
nd the equally exhausted men facing them. The boy panicked, staring wild-eyed at him. “I-I can’t," he whimpered. The man grabbed him by the throat and growled, “You will because you have to,” before shoving him away and turning back to his looming adversary. The boy stiffened as Owen glared across at him.
As their opposition lunged, Owen and his companions dived taking their opponents’ feet out from under them, letting them fall with leaden thumps. Owen and the grey-eyed man spun and wrenched their opponents’ necks back in vice like grips. The young lad flailed as his man rolled him over and clipped him around the ear. The boy dropped like a stone. The grey-eyed man rolled his eyes and tweaked the nerve in his opponent’s neck, feigning a twist he slipped between the remaining large man and the unconscious boy.
The boy’s opponent roared with anger and his hands extended to grab his neck.
“Halt,” a cold voice echoed around the arena, and they all froze. The overseer walked through the chaos allocating men to units until only Owen and the grey-eyed stranger waited in the middle of the arena.
“Managing untrained brute force is a definite skill. Let’s see what you can do with a weapon,” the overseer said as two of the grinning guards threw swords at their feet. Owen eyed the other man warily as he ducked to grab a sword, rolling away out of reach as he regained his feet. They slowly circled each other, ignoring the heckling and jeers from the side lines.
The grey-eyed man gave way under Owen’s ferocious attack. Owen was heavier and stronger and easily forced his opponent to give ground. The grey-eyed man managed to parry each blow as he gave way, until he suddenly side-stepped and retaliated. Owen found himself hard pressed to block the blows. The man feinted under the overhead strike that Owen attempted. They thrust and parried, evenly matched, though Owen’s energy levels began to flag, sapped by the cold. The man took advantage of Owen’s inattention and spun within his guard, thrusting his right hand upwards. Owen’s head snapped back painfully. He snarled with anger and counterattacked, forcing his opponent back across the arena. The man feinted again, allowing Owen within his guard, but Owen knew, he just knew, that the man had deliberately stepped into the stunning blow he delivered.
Owen leant on his sword, breathing deeply. He looked down at the man lying in a heap on the ground. He knew that this man had thrown the fight. Why? He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the stands as a slim man walked out of the shadows clapping slowly. He wore a full-length black coat that absorbed what little light there was around him. He wore it open and seemed impervious to the cold.
“A worthy foe. I suggest you escort him to the barracks and wake him up. You have much to learn.” His voice was silky smooth and very much in command. Owen bent to grab heave the unconscious man into his arms.
“You’ll need your weapons in the Third Chevron,” the shadowy man’s voice rebuked him. Owen hesitated before gripping the swords, then he heaved the limp body over his shoulder, and staggered under its unexpected weight. He followed the private who had led him to the barracks of the Third Chevron.
Owen dropped his opponent’s limp body onto a cot indicated and propped the swords against the wall between them, before sitting down on his cot, panting heavily. As his breathing eased, he stared at the man. He may be smaller than Owen, but he knew how to fight. Owen knew he would have been bested, maybe even been killed, if this man had tried. But for some reason, the grey-eyed man had wanted them both to live. Owen’s gaze flicked around the barracks. Ten empty beds lined the walls, the rest of the unit; he wondered when they would return.
With a soft sigh he leaned over and gently slapped the unconscious man’s face. He lay unresponsive. Owen stood up and, searching the room, found a bucket to fill with water, and went to search for the shower room. Returning, he stood over the dark-haired man briefly before emptying the bucket of icy water over his head.
The man came to, gasping for breath, barrelling up out of the cot before stopping with a groan as he held his head in his hands. Water dripped down his sleeves. Concussion, Owen thought, as he watched the man swallow. His face was pale under the bruising. The man slowly raised his head and met Owen’s eyes.
“How do you feel?” Owen asked, as he placed the bucket beside him.
“Never better,” the man replied, heaving. He lurched for the bucket and vomited.
“Welcome to the barracks of Chevron Three, Unit Four. I bet they are just going to be pleased to see us,” Owen said with a wry smile.
“Yeah, I bet.” The man rested his head in his hands, leaning over the bucket. Owen was sure his face must be sore as he prodded his cheek and jaw. “What did you hit me with? A sledge-hammer?” the man asked as he winced.
Owen chuckled. “Just my sword; you walked straight into it for some reason.”
“Yeah.” He sighed as he closed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Why what?” The man retched, struggling not to throw up again.
Owen watched him before he took a breath and said, “You could’ve taken me easily.”
The man swallowed. “I was thinking of the waste.”
“The waste?”
“Of your death,” the man admitted, “or mine.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t make it any less of a waste,” he said. “Anyway, I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry you out of that arena.”
“True,” Owen agreed with a grin. He sat on his bed. Hesitantly, he extended his hand. “Owen Kerisk of Tierne,” he said.
The man opened his eyes and, seeing the hand in front of him, extended his. “Finn,” he said, after a slight hesitation.
“Finn of?”
Finn shrugged and then vomited in the bucket again. “I don’t know. Finn is all I remember,” he said, wiping his mouth. His skin was a sickly greyish green under his bruises.
“I’d say it was a pleasure,” Owen’s lips quirked, “but I’d be lying.” His fingers absently twirled his beard as he looked morosely around the barracks before returning his gaze to Finn. “But I’m thinking you’re the closest I have to an ally in this place. Especially when the others turn up.”
Finn sighed in agreement as he took in the empty beds, all smartly made up and identical. He lay back down with a groan and closed his eyes. “Better make the most of it, then.”
Owen emptied the foul-smelling bucket, placing it next to Finn’s bed, and then he watched him doze until the clatter of boots stopping at the end of his bed drew his gaze away.
21
Grand Duke’s Palace, Retarfu, Elothia
Niallerion skulked down the corridor, keeping the Ascendant in sight. He had a bag of tools and cloths ready to duck into a room and begin cleaning if anyone questioned his presence. After his close call with Selvia, he had spent a week recovering and the last week exploring every inch of the palace and ingratiating himself with the staff. Observing from a distance seemed the more sensible bet. He was sure Marianille would be proud of him, if she knew.
The housekeeper was now his best friend and let him have the run of the palace after he had fixed a frozen pipe for her and created a more efficient rack to hold her pans. She had been mesmerised by the pulley system he had built, which doubled her storage space.
Niallerion knew where every corridor went, even those he wasn’t supposed to know about. He also knew the wing where the Ascendants were located, which was where he was currently headed as he followed the Ascendant called Tor’asion. Niallerion was not impressed with what he had seen of him so far. He was arrogant and cavalier; he walked down the corridors as if he owned the palace, and ordered the staff about in much the same manner.
Taelia had nearly fainted when he reported that Torsion was also known as the Ascendant, Tor’asion. Marianille had to talk fast as the blood drained from Taelia’s face and she had gone deathly still. Torsion had been a friend of hers and Jerrol’s for a long time. When you discover the dark truths about a person, it can shake the very foundations of your beliefs, and Torsion had b
etrayed them both.
Watching Taelia’s face stiffen with cold calculation had chilled Niallerion to the bone; it was an expression he had never expected to see on her face. Once Taelia had recovered from the initial shock, her eyes had narrowed; making plans, Niallerion was sure. She had been determined to find out everything they could about what the Ascendants were planning, even to extent of pretending to like Torsion, and Torsion was lapping it up. She had ordered Marianille to call an Arifel and while they waited for one to turn up, she had dictated a report to her. Then Marianille rolled the paper up and gave it to the Arifel to take to the king.
Since then, Benedict had demanded that they return in every message he sent. Taelia refused to leave, with Marianille a close second. Niallerion didn’t think twice about agreeing with them. They were finding out information that could be crucial in helping to win the war. At least Stoneford and Deepwater would be as prepared as they could make them.
The Ascendant cut across another courtyard, of which there were many, and Niallerion waited for him to exit the other side before he followed, skirting the ornate statuary of a tumbling waterfall in the centre.
There were three Ascendants at court: Var’geris, who Niallerion recognised from the Terolian deserts; Tor’asion, who looked just like Var’geris, if a little broader across the chest; and Sul’enne who liked to spar. He thought himself quite the swordsman, though Niallerion curled his lip as he imagined what the Captain or Birlerion would do to him if they got the chance.
Niallerion's chest constricted at the thought that both the Captain and Birlerion were reported dead. He hung on to the belief they lived; he was sure he could still sense them, though they were both so muted, sometimes he wondered if it was just wishful thinking. Breathing deeply, he calmed himself. He crossed the courtyard and entered the building opposite and flattened himself against the wall as Tor’asion stopped outside a door and flexed his hands before opening it.
Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series Page 16
