As a pair they worked well, outlasting many of the others. Dain used his Light-given abilities to strengthen himself and to heal Nicola’s scrapes and cuts. Nicola, with some innate ability she possessed, could drive off the multitude of pests that plagued them from the grasslands.
“A connection through the mind’s fire,” she said simply when asked about it.
“Did you drive them off as we marched? I noticed we seemed to avoid the snakes and insects that bit the others,” Dain asked.
Nicola smiled.
“Is that how you could ride the bats?”
“The Kalang are intelligent—impossible to control by will alone. It is a combination of the mind’s fire and simple training. Like dogs and horses and all manner of animals performing tricks in one of the traveling shows.”
Early on Dain found that hard work—pushing himself to the limit—worked as well as Bix’s potions, and he slept deep and dreamless.
The work was brutal. They cut and measured and then cut again. Their muscles grew stiff and sore. More than the work, the mindless repetition ground them down. Their motions became mechanical, requiring no thought at all. They wore through the first set of tools and the guards replaced them.
At first, they could see a handful of the other captured mercenaries around them. Over the passing months these others were all replaced by Tyberons as the captives grew weary and died.
At least the view is nice, Dain thought. He and Nicola worked on the quarry’s highest level. They could see fields and canals and the bristling city on the hill. For the most part they were above the chalky dust below; they were also exposed to the worst of the elements.
The nights grew colder as winter drew near. Snow fell in stinging little flakes as the howling winds swept over the browned grasslands, flinging its chilly bite at them. Nicola found her cuff would allow a thin trickle of power, and used it to heat loose rocks around them. These warded off the worst of the cold.
Dain and Nicola never left their work area. It became home. Unsha, a Tyberon prisoner from another city, was their only visitor. Twice a day, sunrise and sunset, the bent old woman struggled with her sloshing pots and doled out their ration of tough bread and tasteless gruel. From her they gradually learned the Tyberon language.
At one point, Dain wondered if he and Nicola had built half of the city. He lost count of how many blocks they had cut.
He worried about Nicola. The girl was made of iron, of that he had no doubt, but filed at by labor and boredom, even iron could be worn away. She never spoke of her past, the other Riders, or anything really. He didn’t mind. He didn’t share anything of his own history either. They told stories instead, or sang songs, or talked about the Tyberons, or shared what their plans were once they escaped.
But each day Nicola grew quieter.
She stopped taking meals with him, instead grabbing her own bowl, moving as far away as the chain would allow, and eating in silence.
Dain recalled a lesson from Myren, one of his childhood tutors. The old man claimed that a spellcaster could experience a type of withdrawal, including physical pains and cravings, if they were unable to cast for long periods. He drew on his abilities daily, using the Light for strength. Like muscle, his strength in the Light grew stronger from the steady use. Nicola’s, other than keeping them warm at night or driving off a few pests, were hardly being used at all.
One night Dain waited until her breathing was deep and even, and then knelt beside her. He had to do something to help her, to give her some reason to live.
Blessings were dangerous. Tampering with someone’s aura wasn’t easy, and an error could have drastic consequences. Since leaving the paladins he’d cast a few dozen blessings. Some had succeeded, but almost half had failed—none with serious consequences, thankfully.
Now he prayed—both for her and for his own skills. If ever there was a time for prayer and luck, this was it. He recalled his lessons. He spoke to the Creator with his need. The Creator’s Light answered his call and he felt its warm, clean power surge into him. He bent it to his will and formed a blessing. A glow began to shine over his hands; he reached out, touched Nicola’s shoulder, and willed the Light into her. She shuddered.
So far, so good.
The shuddering grew. Her teeth rattled. They ground against one another. Her body snapped and jerked and she howled in pain. Unconscious still, she started to cast. The bracelets fed her power, redirecting it against her. Wisps of smoke rose from her palms and her fingers began to gray.
Dain wadded a bolt of his shirt and stuffed it into her mouth. He grabbed the remnants of their water and splashed it onto her hands. It turned to hissing wisps of steam almost instantly. Finally, the shuddering stopped and Nicola lay still. Dain put his fingers against her throat. He held his breath. Her pulse was faint. The skin on her hands was coal-black and stunk of burnt flesh. The fire’s intensity had cauterized the wound, and it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Now she needed healing. But how? Dain hadn’t attempted a healing of this strength in years. He’d been surprised each time he used the Light to wash her scrapes and bruises away.
He began to pray and drew on the Light again, calling to the Creator. He held an open palm up and a flashing spark took form. Dain’s prayers grew. He willed more Light into himself and into the spark. It grew to the size of an apple. It seemed to take on a life and will of its own. The spark strained against Dain’s will and he could contain it no longer. With the force of a thunderclap, he slammed it into her chest.
Like white windswept dust, traces of Light flashed out. The dust expanded in a faint sphere, paused, and then grew completely still before collapsing in on itself.
Dain felt Nicola’s pulse. Strong now. Her hand was returned to soft flesh.
Exhaustion and relief singing in every nerve, Dain stood, moved away, and then lay down to sleep.
“The scars,” Dain nodded to the nearest Tyberon prisoner, “they’re from their missing feathers, aren’t they?”
A line of puckered scars ran from the man’s wrists to his neck.
“Only the warrior caste is allowed the feathers, and these are stoneworkers now,” Unsha said.
“Do the types of feathers denote rank? I’ve seen crane and lark.”
“Lark for men of the spear, crane for the guides, and eagle for the warchiefs.”
“And no one else is feathered.” Dain remembered a few of the women in the village they’d destroyed. Some had worn a feather or two or even three pierced through their upper arms.
“A warrior’s woman wears one of his feathers to show her caste, and one for each of their sons who are also to be warriors.”
“Larks are born to larks, cranes to cranes, and eagles to eagles?” Dain asked.
“What else would they be born to?” Unsha scoffed. “An eagle egg hatches an eagle, not a lark.”
“Which ones know how to use that?” He pointed to the domed observatory at the city’s far edge.
“The star eye. One caste can. The wise,” Unsha said. “Every tribe has one.”
“A telescope. And one for every tribe, you said? How many tribes are there?”
“Thirteen now. The fourteenth was destroyed six summers ago.” Unsha paused and a faint gleam passed over her eyes. “My own tribe destroyed it.”
Just before the war, then, Dain thought to himself.
“There are fourteen great shells of Sheckel’s lost children. Thirteen more like this one.” She gestured to the bristling city on the hill.
“Sheckel?”
Unsha nodded. “The great tortoise who holds the lands.”
Dain looked at the city again. It did resemble a rounded tortoise shell.
“All fourteen were rival tribes. Rivals who fought and raided the small outlying villages, and f
or ten thousand years nothing changed. Until the Esterians came. The little traders, the people of iron, we called them. But my people aren’t pagans like these. We traded them the most worthless of our Magentites and in return they gave us iron.”
“Iron for what?”
She looked askance at him, as if he were a child. “Iron for our spears, iron for war, iron for conquest. Before the Esterians we had no iron. With it we destroyed the Vieren tribe—we put their people to the spear and took their shell for our own. Even now my tribe rebuilds their shell in our image.”
Her expression darkened. She glanced down at her withered hands and spoke again. “The other tribes united. Our warriors fought but there were too many. Even the iron could not match so many. They killed the traders and cut us off from the river and the iron.” The gleam returned to her eyes then. “But they cannot take Janteel, our city, and we still have iron. Bone cannot conquer stone. They are stuck in the past. They refuse to use the iron against us.”
Dain looked down at the shackle around his ankle. “They don’t use the iron?”
“The blacksmiths are from Janteel, like myself. They too are prisoners. Your shackles are made from my people’s spearpoints.”
“Is that why you are here, Unsha? Because you are from a rival tribe?”
“A bit more than that,” the old woman cackled. “I killed a man. An important one at that. Or at least some thought he was important.”
“I’m sure you had a reason.” Dain couldn’t imagine the harmless old grandmother killing anyone.
“There is always a reason,” she cackled again.
Dain felt his chain tug. Nicola had climbed up onto the grassy ledge and was staring into the empty night. She hadn’t spoken today, and she’d barely eaten.
There had to be a way to help her, something other than a failed blessing. He shivered remembering how close she’d come to death. He regarded Unsha again.
“Another spellcaster arrived with us. A woman, though she might be shrouded in robes. Have you seen her?”
“I haven’t seen anyone like that,” she said. “Most of the group you were brought in with are dead and gone now.”
“It would mean a lot to her,” he inclined his head toward Nicola, “if she knew the other Rider was alive. It might help her feel better.”
“You haven’t gotten her pregnant, have you?”
“No, of course not. She’s only a girl.” Unsha had warned them both early on that the babies of slaves were taken as soon as they were born and given to childless Tyberon women.
“Poor dear.” The grayed woman frowned. “I will ask around some.”
Nicola woke early the next morning. She had been rising later and later, leaving Dain to work the morning alone. But her spirits seemed improved today. Maybe she had overheard him questioning Unsha.
“How long do you think they will keep us?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Until the war’s end, perhaps.” He dared not tell her that he didn’t think they would ever leave the quarry alive.
His mind skipped to his chosen spot at the mountain’s edge and the green lands beyond. He could almost feel the cool mountain breezes, hear the swaying pines, and smell the fresh rain on their needles. He studied his calloused and chalk-covered hands. It seemed that some dreams weren’t meant to be.
“Perhaps they are just waiting on your ransom to be paid, Nicola. I’m sure it’s coming.”
“I don’t think they care about the ransom. I don’t think my people even know I’m alive.”
“Everyone knows Hycropolis pays ransom for their Riders.”
Nicola ignored the comment. She measured another cut and marked it with her small chisel.
“I asked Unsha if Jensen is alive. She said she would look into it.”
“I heard you talking.”
With his larger hammer and chisel, Dain drove the point into the hard stone, cutting on Nicola’s mark. He was stronger than he had been when they had first arrived. In four smooth strikes he’d put the chisel to proper depth. Then, the first chisel halfway buried, he moved down to the second mark at ground level and repeated the process. On the third mark, midway between the two, the stone cracked clean.
“We will get out someday. I’m sure of it,” he lied.
Nicola didn’t speak again that day. Unsha brought their food, but no news of the other Rider.
The next morning Nicola stopped talking all together. She stopped measuring as well, and although the guards beat her, she refused to measure again.
With each new day, the guards punished her. No one was allowed to quit here, but the rules were the same: if one partner died, the other took a spear. Every night Dain used his limited healing abilities to knit Nicola’s torn skin and broken bones back together. She never cried out, but the process had to be excruciating.
Both measuring and cutting now, he should have been angry with her. He worked hard to meet the two-block quota and instead of anger felt only pity for the young girl. He held her each night, listening to her sobs.
She is just a girl, too young to be here. How could someone so young be sent to burn and kill?
The guards placed bets on how long she would last. He heard them and hated them for it. The first night he overhead their wagering, he vowed to keep her alive and to get her out of this place.
Twelve nights into Nicola’s silence Unsha finally had news. Nicola lay nearby, apathetic and recovering from the day’s beating. Most nights she simply fell and lay still after the healing. Rarely, she ate a little afterward.
Her mind has been broken, Dain feared. She seemed more dead than alive anymore, like some living doll.
“Jensen lives,” Unsha said.
“What?” Nicola mumbled.
Dain stayed silent. Here, perhaps, was finally something to bring her back to life.
“The other Rider, Jensen. She lives.”
“You are sure? Is she safe?” Nicola asked.
“Red-headed woman with fair skin and gray eyes. She’s as safe as any of us here.”
Over the past half-year Nicola’s hair had grown in, Dain noted, a dark shade of red.
“She thought you were dead all this time. She heard a young girl died just weeks after you all arrived. She gave up all hope until Dain had me ask around.”
Nicola reached for Dain’s hand and squeezed it. Her eyes were damp.
He wanted to ask Unsha if Jensen had any plans for escape, but hesitated. How far could they trust the Tyberon woman? Like them, Unsha was a prisoner; she might sell them out for a chance at escape.
Unsha must have sensed his reluctance. The stooped woman smiled.
“Jensen trusts me. She plans an escape.”
“Tell us how,” Dain said.
“I don’t know the details, but it involves the festival of Mantal.”
“What’s Mantal?”
“Mantal is the god of night. He takes the form of a tegu on the first full moon of summer.”
“What’s a tegu?”
Unsha furrowed her brow. “I don’t know your word for it. It is a great lizard, larger than a house, with thick brown scales from head to tail. They hunt the herds of bison at night and sleep during the day. All tribes fear them.”
Dain recalled the scaly tail he’d seen on the march here. The Tyberons truly had been frightened, then.
“How would the—” he began, but Unsha raised an open hand to stop him.
“I can speak no further, the guards will be looking for me. Tomorrow night we will speak again.”
The old woman shouldered her sloshing pots and faded into the night. Dain watched her lantern swing as she delivered food to the other prisoners.
“Jensen is your mother,” he said when they were alone. It wasn’t a question,
and Nicola didn’t take it as one.
“Mother will get us out. She’ll have a plan.”
That night, the first in a long time, Nicola didn’t cry.
Unsha didn’t return.
Not the following day or the next. Taking Unsha’s place was a new woman, one far younger. Dain tried to talk to her, to feel her out and see if she could or would pass along a message to Unsha or Jensen, but this proved impossible. When he tried, she shook her head and scurried off to the next pair of enslaved stonecutters.
Stonecutter, Dain thought, is that what I am now?
Weeks stretched on with no sign or message from the old woman or from Jensen. Had Unsha betrayed them? Perhaps she’d died? Delivering food for so many, climbing the long flights of staggered stairs, laboring under a heavy burden—these were not tasks for someone of her age, someone frail.
A week after Unsha’s last visit, Dain’s worries returned to Nicola. He watched for signs of despair. He waited for the smoldering light of hope in her eyes to dim. He didn’t know how he could pull her out of it this time. Not when his own faith had begun to fail.
But if his own hopes waned, Nicola’s strengthened. Instead of dimming, the hope-filled light in her eyes shone brighter by the day. Her faith troubled him. If Unsha didn’t return, if Nicola’s mother failed and that light died, there would be no saving her.
His concern increased and compounded as the days stretched into weeks without word. Nicola waited alone each evening, eager to see who would bring them their meal, and each evening she seemed disappointed but not broken. She never spoke of it—not before the young bearer arrived, not afterward.
Nicola was tough, hard even, but she was still a young girl. One who rained death down upon her enemies, but a young girl all the same.
River of Spears (Kingdom's Forge Book 0) Page 8
