by A. R. Wilson
“And as soon as I touch it I get turned to stone. Is that it?”
“How would that help me?”
“Einiko’s filth doesn’t care whether they live. I may be starved of food, but I lack nothing in experience.”
“Then put the ring in my hand and I will show you.”
“And as soon as I do you break free and kill me?”
Arkose pushed out his chin. “Do you have someone you want dead? I do.”
Jurren turned to glare at his friend, who didn’t take the hint. Rather, he kept talking nonsense.
“Because if you do, let him touch the ring. That way you risk nothing.” Arkose raised an eyebrow as though challenging the man.
“I am no fool, you pathetic whelp. Hang there until you die, for all I care.”
“If I die, you will still be hungry.” Jurren closed his eyes a moment against the growing throbs in his head. “If you turn to stone, your suffering is over.”
The man didn’t spit. He didn’t come back with a scathing retort. Instead, he glanced at Jurren’s pocket. Quickly looking back, he stepped further into the room and closed the door. He glared at Jurren, then Arkose, then took a few steps closer. Jurren remained silent. Partly from the continued throbbing, and partly because he didn’t want the man to feel manipulated.
When he reached in Jurren’s pocket, he pulled back so fast the ring fumbled loose. It gave a ting, ting, ting as it bounced.
“Nothing happened.” The man rubbed his dirty hands together.
“You have to hold the ring. Think of what you want to eat. Anything at all. It will appear in your hands.”
The man stooped near the silver glint. From this angle, Jurren noticed ribs sticking out of his back. He touched the ring with the knuckle of one finger. Then he pushed it with the tip. Slowly, he pulled it up into his hand. A loaf of bread, twice the size of the man’s head, popped into existence between his palms. He tore into it like a wolf devouring a fresh kill.
“Theran!” A voice called from beyond the door.
The man flinched, tucked the bread under his shirt, realized its size in relation to his body, then moved to shove it under Jurren’s shirt. The many tethers and clasps from the elven clothing blocked the man’s every attempt. Eventually, the loaf fell to the ground, scattering crumbs.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no.” The man gripped the sides of his head, rocking himself.
“What is it?” Jurren watched the man lower to the ground.
“They’ll know. They’ll know I ate it. I’ll be cursed. My wife will be cast out and she’ll die as they push her through. Oh no, oh no, oh no.”
“Theran. Is that your name?” Jurren centered his remaining strength.
The man nodded.
“Take the ring. Fill the hall. Make more bread than an army of men could move.”
Theran dropped his hands and looked at Jurren as though he had asked him to turn himself into an animal.
“Are any of the men out there as hungry as you?”
“You really don’t know anything, do you?”
“I come from far to the north, beyond the land of the elves. You’re running out of time to hold the other men off.”
Glancing back and forth between the dropped ring and the door, Theran rose to his feet. He picked it up, then walked to the entrance and held out his hands. Tumbling thumps of bread loaves cascaded over each other. Golden rounds overflowed into the room as well, surrounding the man. He snatched one from the pile and ripped into it with the same intensity as before.
He turned, his cheeks stuffed to capacity. “Ooo ah woo?”
Jurren grinned shaking his head. “What?”
Theran swallowed after several more chews. “Who are you?”
“My name is Jurren. My friends here are Arkose, Kidelar, and you already know Azredan. Those two need my help. They’re badly wounded.”
“I know.” He took two more large bites.
“Will you let me tend to them?”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
“The novelty of a hoard of bread will wear off soon. After the officers take their fill, there will still be an account to give. I can get them to stay silent about the food, but releasing you is a whole other matter. King Meridan will want to see your injuries just as they are.” He continued eating as he spoke, oblivious to the crumbs sputtering from his mouth.
“That ring can feed your entire village. Everyone will get their fill.”
“And what happens when Einiko learns we all have enough to eat? There are worse fates than never having a full belly.”
“He wouldn’t have to know.”
“What about when he comes?”
“He’s coming?”
“Every year. He comes to entertain himself and hang those convicted of treason. And then—” Theran stopped chewing. The break fell from his hand. “I shouldn’t have done this.”
The excited shouts of men floated through the blocked door. Theran stepped away from the loaves, and sat on the ground with his arms wrapped around his legs.
“What is it?” Jurren took a deep breath, wondering how long his arms could hold out.
“It’s been almost a year already. He’ll be here any day. If he comes today and sees this.” Water pooled at the corners of the man’s eyes.
Azredan moaned. “Ah... Theran. So good... to see... you.”
“You always put us at risk for the halfling’s wrath. Curse you Azredan! Curse you and the womb that bore you!” Theran picked up a loaf and hurled it at the elf. “I hope they string you up this time.”
“Only King Meridan can give that order.” Azredan took shallow breaths between every other word.
“Then allow me to inform him you are awake.” Theran spit in Azredan’s face then started kicking bread out of the way.
Climbing over the pile, Theran worked his way out the door.
“Excellent work, Jurren.” Azredan paused, gritting his teeth. “These people need hope. For a moment, Theran dared to hope.”
“You’re hurt pretty bad.”
“I’ve had worse.” Azredan closed his eyes, then pushed up his chin to lean his head back. “But this is pretty close.”
“Kidelar won’t wake.”
“Give him time.”
Jurren looked over at the scholar. The man’s breathing came with a thick gurgling sound. For almost an hour, Jurren waited in agony with a splitting headache and arms that occasionally fell numb. The smell of fresh bread tormented his belly. Hunger and thirst burned as much as the sting in his arm sockets.
The sound of angered voices came from the door. Metal scrapping against stone suggested a shovel forcing bread out of the way. The loaves in front of Jurren shifted. A few tumbled forward. More and more rolled as someone worked their way into the room. Two men clad in leather armor shuffled in, pushing the rounds aside. Another man, draped head to toe in a regal fur robe, strode in behind them. He had short-cropped, black hair with equally trimmed beard and mustache.
“Azredan. You have plagued us with your undesired presence for the last time.” He stroked the dark hair on his face.
The elf shifted his head to face the man. “Hail, King Meridan. May your seed extend for a thousand generations.”
“Do not patronize me with your worthless formalities. How dare you bring such a threat into our midst as we sit upon the eve of a visitation.”
Gulping a breath, Azredan tried to speak. “It is not a threat which I bring, but a hope.”
King Meridan spat in his face and scowled. “No one speaks that word in this land. It is forbidden. And anyone who teaches another to seek hope is sentenced to death.”
“The hope I bring will sentence Einiko to death.”
The two guards dropped their shovels, recoiling as though stabbed.
King Meridan’s jowls hardened into a deeper scowl. “Prepare the gallows!”
Sweeping his fur robe behind himself, the king marched out. The guards scuttled behind him.
/> “That didn’t go well.” Arkose looked over at Jurren, gasping.
Jurren’s first reaction nearly agreed. But he couldn’t shake the inner knowing that it had to happen this way. “Trust me. No matter what, don’t resist them and don’t say a word.”
“You’ve sounded more like him ever since we entered the swamp.” Arkose jutted his chin in Azredan’s direction. “It’s like I barely know you anymore.”
“Please, just trust me.”
“I trusted you to enter this village. Look where that got me.”
“We need their help to resupply.”
“In case you haven’t noticed Jurren, they’re planning to kill us.”
“Let’s call that plan B.”
“And they’re too poor to feed themselves.”
“Jurren is right.” Azredan coughed as he nodded.
“Shut up. You’re the reason we’re in this mess.” Arkose snarled his distain.
The door banged open. Several guards came in, covered in thick leather armor. One of them approached Jurren with a set of keys and unlocked the shackles. Jurren slumped to the ground, unable to brace himself. A bag shoved over his head. The rest of the events blurred into a mix of shouting, pain, tugging, dragging, and metal banging against metal.
A set of hands propped him upright. He staggered to maintain his balance. The hood lifted off, revealing a sea of haggard faces. He stood on the wood platform in the middle of the town square before what appeared to be the entire village. Roughness against his throat suggested a rope placed around his neck.
“People of Ransom!” King Meridan stood somewhere behind Jurren. “Behold the filth which attempted to add to our curse.”
The gaunt faces booed and jeered. Several threw clods of dirt.
“People of Ransom! Azredan has brought this man and his two companions to us. They claim to be a source of hope to overthrow the warlock.”
“No! No! No!” Fists pumped in the air as they shouted their defiance.
“People of Ransom! What happens to those who attempt to earn the wrath of the warlock?”
“Death! Death! Death!”
King Meridan walked to stand ahead of Jurren then held his arms out wide to the side. “People of Ransom! This man will hang for his crime.”
Cheers and waving hands filled the air.
Jurren took a long slow breath. Tascana needed him to rescue her. Heluska needed him to return and fight the goblin threat. The only way to do both was to trust in truth. He closed his eyes. The ground beneath him dropped away. Rope cinched around his neck. His tongue shoved into the back of his throat.
Then a freefall. He slammed into the ground, his hip jarring as he landed. Leather-wrapped hands pressed his face into the dirt, muffling any chance to voice this new discomfort. Above him he heard the king shouting again.
“People of Ransom! You have witnessed the hanging of a man in opposition to the warlock. Now return to your homes.”
As his mind spun, trying to understand what happened, someone remained pressed into his head and back. After several moments, the person dragged him up into a seated position.
King Meridan stood in the dim light of the tiny room below the gallows. “You aren’t a minion of the warlock?”
Jurren coughed and shook his head.
King Meridan held out Jurren’s ring. “Why have you brought this to us?”
Someone cut Jurren’s bonds. He tried to put a hand to his throat but the motion wouldn’t come. “I did not bring you the ring. It is a gift given to me by another.”
“To what end?”
“I’m not certain.”
Squinting, King Meridan looked him up and down. “How did you come to know the elf Azredan?”
“He sought me out. I am of the bloodline capable of wielding the Sword of Einiko.”
The king lowered his hand. “You seek to retrieve the sword?”
“I seek to retrieve my daughter. The halfling kidnapped her, and the only way I can save her is with the sword.”
King Meridan looked around at the four other guards under the platform. Making a jerking motion, he indicated for them to take Jurren out. In the bright sun, an empty patch of hard packed dirt now filled the empty square. The king’s eyes ranged further out, taking a sweeping watch of the village.
“Does the warlock know you are traveling in his kingdom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you fought any of his creations?”
“Yes.”
“Then he knows.” The king made a sweeping motion with his hand and started walking.
One of the guards gestured for Jurren to follow. He stayed a few steps behind the king, struggling to keep up from the pain splintering in his head. They moved through the village, into a cave past the last building, then down a tunnel. A door skirted with bread stood at the far end.
“Jurren! You’re alive.” Arkose choked on his words.
“Release these men.” King Meridan snapped his fingers.
The four guards moved to undo the locks. Kidelar woke once he hit the ground. Trying to hurry to the man’s side, Jurren fumbled into a clumsy kneel. Pain singing through his arms and shoulders made it difficult to help Kidelar into a seated position.
“Where are we?” The scholar’s body shook.
Jurren did his best to ease Kidelar against the wall. “We’re in Ransom. The king has allowed us to live.”
“Oh, that’s good. I rather enjoy living.” Kidelar sounded as though speaking in a dream.
“Hail King Meridan!” Azredan somehow managed to pull himself into a prostrated kneeling position, once he dropped free of the wall.
“I receive your praise.” The king nodded at him. “You truly believe this man trustworthy of wielding the sword?”
Leaning back onto his haunches, the elf nodded. “I would not seek an opportunity for your audience otherwise.”
“How do you do it Azredan?”
“Do what, your Highness?”
“How do you serve this Ever One who allows people to suffer as we have?”
“The Ever One does not cause the choices of those who violate the sanctity of life.”
“Perhaps, but He does allow such choices, doesn’t He?”
“Are you any better off serving the Fates who have given Einiko his power?”
The king pursed his lips, but eventually nodded. “We have always agreed to disagree, haven’t we?”
Azredan rose to his feet. “I will always respect your decision, your Highness.”
“Einiko has remained absent eleven months. His return is eminent.”
“We cannot guarantee we will reach the castle before the next visitation. I can only promise we will return.”
He sighed a laugh. “What must it be like? To roam the lands with such freedom?”
“One day soon your people will taste that freedom.”
“I want to believe it is possible.”
“Then speed us on our journey. We need arrows and rope.”
“You know how little we have. Even the robes I wear are a requirement by Einiko to mock our poverty.”
“I only ask for what you are willing to spare. Nothing more.”
King Meridan turned to look at the rest of them. Arkose nodded and put a hand to his chest. Jurren copied the gesture when the king looked towards him and Kidelar.
“I will see what I can do.” The king paused. Above the ruffle and beauty of his robe, Jurren noticed the gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes nestled below a heavy brow. Their poverty extended to both body and spirit. Desperately hungry for something they dared not admit they needed. “Tell me Jurren. If you are indeed successful at taking the Sword of Einiko, what do you plan to do with it?”
“The only thing I know for certain, your Highness, is I need to rescue my daughter.”
“Know this. Whatever action you take affects all of those under his rule. Should you fail to capture the warlock’s sword, the suffering of my people will be beyond anything we have already
endured.”
The imagined screams of a princess dying before her father rang in Jurren’s ears. “I owe you my life. And I never forget a debt.”
Lowering his eyes, King Meridan nodded.
CHAPTER 10
Tascana stood next to the window, watching the lazy movements of white dots on the hills. Dots she now understood to be unicorns. Thoughts of her exchanges with the mare had turned her dreams into nightmares for the past week. No longer did the night hours pass with feelings of strength and power. Now they festered with guilt and shame, riddling her with awareness of what she had become. Why had the mare sought her out in the first place? And why had the mare made such an audacious claim, as to suggest Tascana could love the thing growing inside her? How could she ever love that vile, alien life? The mare might as well proclaim an escape from the castle existed.
As Tascana returned to her chair, Jerricoh entered the library.
“Taking a break, I see?” His eyes held that uncertain shade of medium blue.
“Just looking at the unicorns.”
“We can go visit them again, if you wish.”
“Not today.” She plopped into the high-backed chair.
“I wasn’t offering such a thing.”
She shifted her eyes to her lap. No point resisting one of his moods.
“The Master says you are behind on your studies. You must try harder.”
“As you wish.” Tascana opened the book and flipped through to the last passage she had read minutes ago.
Jerricoh dragged a chair to sit a few feet away from here. She ignored him. Hover all day if you wish. He stayed right by her side through the rest of the afternoon. The smell of Rothar bringing in the evening meal caught her stomach off guard, and she missed spilling the contents of her gut into the vase on the floor. Some of the mess splattered onto Jerricoh. He raised his hand in disgust, intending to strike her. His elbow lifted high in her peripheral vision. Nothing within her desired to protect herself from the blow. But for some reason, the contact never came. Rather, he snapped his fingers to order a pair of servants to clean up the mess.
Before they finished, her stomach lurched again. Her body surged with the reflex to empty itself. Jerricoh stooped over her, sweeping her hair out of the way, until the waves passed. After wiping her mouth, he lifted her into his arms. Though she wanted to recoil from his touch, she couldn’t. No place in this castle gave her a safe place to retreat to. Any direction she attempted to go to avoid him simply didn’t exist. Her only hope: a brittle thread among the thorny vines of dread that she might die from the pregnancy.
