The Sleeping King

by Cindy Dees

  For what? He let her wet his shirt for a few minutes. He mumbled something incoherent, and it seemed to satisfy the emotional girl. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Rosana. You?”

  “Will.” He frowned, not wishing to offend her, but there was something different about her, and the accent … “You’re not … Are you…”

  “Gypsy,” she answered defiantly. “The great gaj—sorry, the high matriarch—in Dupree took me into the Kaer—gah! I did it again. The Heart—so it’s all legal and aboveboard.”

  “Umm, okay.” Will looked around the clearing cautiously. “We probably should get out of the middle of the road in case another Boki patrol comes back.”

  “Boki?” she repeated skeptically.

  Curse it, curse it, curse it. He wasn’t supposed to talk about it to anyone but that Aurelius fellow in Dupree. He backtracked quickly, doing his best to play stupid. “Isn’t that what all orcs are called?”

  “Hardly,” she answered scornfully. “Boki are legendary fighters. They’re a particular tribe of orcs and live in Forest of Thorns in the far north of Dupree. They do not live anywhere near here.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “We still should get out of the road.”

  She ignored him and instead took a long, critical look at the wagon. “The axle is broken. Not to mention the oxen are long gone. The orcs have probably eaten them by now,” she added sadly.

  “Liked the cows, did you?”

  She threw him an annoyed look. Bossy little thing.

  “We must walk. Which means we’ll need portable supplies,” she said briskly. “Find a sack while I gather food and gear.”

  Like he didn’t know what equipment was important? Irritated, he did as she said, nonetheless. She was the Heart member, after all.

  Of all the Imperial guilds, the House of the Healing Heart was by far the most widely respected in the colonies. They were always willing to heal a commoner in return for whatever the person could afford to pay, even if the patient could afford to pay nothing. Without the Heart, and healers like this girl, willing to brave the dangers of a half-tamed land, a difficult life in the colonies would be nigh impossible.

  In a few minutes he surveyed the small pile of supplies she’d collected. Rope, flint and steel, a long sword and two daggers from the guards, flatbread, dried meat, and several water skins. He added a waterproof tarp, a wool blanket, and a coil of snare wire to the pile, then commenced stuffing it all in the two large bags he’d found.

  He passed her the smaller and lighter of the two sacks, and she lashed it to her back cleverly using a length of rope and a spare sword belt to distribute the weight comfortably on her hips.

  Reluctantly, he muttered, “Can you show me how to do that?”

  She smiled brilliantly at him. “A boy willing to ask a girl for help? Maybe you’re not so dim-witted after all.”

  Dim-witted? Were he not so interested in how she tied his pack and the way her soft, quick hands flew across his shoulders and down his back, he might have taken offense at that.

  “How did you and your friends come to be here, tonight?” he asked curiously.

  “This afternoon, we threw a wheel. By the time we got it fixed, dark had fallen. We tried to reach Hickory Hollow to spend the night. But the orcs attacked us instead.” She devolved into muttering under her breath that sounded suspiciously like she was taking the orcs’ names in vain.

  “I’m from Hickory Hollow. I need to go back and check on my family.”

  She spoke sorrowfully. “We saw the fire of your village burning just before we were attacked. Orcs never burn until after they’re finished looting and killing.”

  She might as well have thrust a dagger through his heart. He sat down hard, right there in the middle of the road. His parents? His friends? All dead? It could not be. His mind went blank at the enormity of it.

  “You were right before,” Rosana said. “We need to go.”

  He looked up at her bleakly. They were all gone. Everyone he knew. Slaughtered like sheep. Ty had failed to save them. And his own insistence on his father making the attempt had gotten his parents killed, too. It was all his fault—

  Rosana chided gently, “You are not the only person ever to lose friends and loved ones. This is the Kothite Empire. Tragedy and suffering are all around you.”

  Stung, he retorted, “I know the suffering the Empire causes!”

  A pause. Then she announced, “You will not get anywhere planted on your bum in dust.”

  He clambered to his feet and muttered, “Has anybody ever told you that you can be a wee bit pushy?”

  “Maybe once or twice.” She smiled crookedly at him. “Northeast, to Dupree, then. That’s where the nearest Heart chapter with a heartstone is. Spirits from here would go there to resurrect.”

  Hope fired in his breast. Resurrection? Of course. Maybe his parents—and the others from the hollow, of course—would resurrect in Dupree. It was an optimistic thought to latch on to, and at the moment he had need of such.

  She started off down the road, and he followed, hurrying to catch up. “I think we should stay off the path—” He broke off, grabbing her arm in warning. He signaled for her to be silent and she nodded her understanding of the woodsman’s signal.

  There it was again. Twigs snapping, underbrush rustling, and leaves rattling underfoot. A big group. Headed this way. And totally unconcerned for stealth. Rosana looked at him frantically for confirmation and he nodded grimly. Orcs.

  Stay close, he mouthed. And then he took off running as lightly as his exhausted legs would carry him, racing for cover with Rosana on his heels.

  CHAPTER

  8

  “Wait here,” Cicero ordered tersely.

  Raina nodded, watching in amazement as he climbed the largest tree edging the clearing as easily as a squirrel.

  He was back in a minute. “We appear to be at the southern margin of a line of forested hills. To the north and east stretches nothing but tree cover. To our west, the woods thin somewhat. If we are to find civilization, logic dictates that it will lie that way.”

  Logic dictates? That was awfully educated language from a bandit. It was a phrase she was known to use, in fact.

  “Where are you from originally?” she asked him, trying to keep suspicion from creeping into her voice.

  “The Sorrow Woods. North of Tyrel.”

  “Are there schools in the woods?”

  “Not all bandits are ignorant louts,” he observed. “Particularly not when they are bandits on account of the Kothite Empire.”

  She had no idea how to respond to such a statement.

  He smiled sardonically at her. “We do not have a school, but my village has a sponsor. A woman whom outsiders call the Black Widow. She keeps the oral histories of my people and teaches the stories to my kin. She is knowledgable on many subjects and enjoys teaching the children of my village.”

  “Do you recognize this place, then?” Raina asked, looking around curiously. “Is it Alchizzadon?” Her gaze darted about seeking rune-marked mages wearing dark blue in the shadows.

  “Not unless Alchizzadon is a clearing in a wood,” Cicero replied dryly.

  “The porters said the Mages of Alchizzadon came from Jena. If we are near there, we might be close to their home.”

  Her companion shook his head in the negative. “These are rowan trees, and the hills around us are old. Worn down. Jena is surrounded by oak forests with young, sharp mountains to the north. And rowans like a cooler climate than Jena’s.”

  Still, a prickle of magic tingled across her scalp as she looked around the clearing. Mayhap it was just the moonlight kissing the carpet of woodland flowers, soft grass, and moss that made it seem so extraordinarily beautiful. Each massive tree ringing the clearing was nigh unto perfect in form and symmetry. Every leaf was green and lush and perfectly placed upon its respective branch. The rod still gripped in her fist was growing warmer, vibrating gently, almost as if it were a living thin
g.

  “I do not ever recall seeing rowans so tall,” she commented. The few specimen rowans she’d seen before were little more than stunted shrubs.

  “These ones are unusually robust,” Cicero agreed. “And amazingly well tended. Trees as ancient as these are rarely in such good health.”

  “Have you ever seen a wood so lovely?” she breathed.

  He looked around, a frown taking root upon his brow. Of a sudden he took her by the elbow and hurried her toward the edge of the clearing. He muttered, “Let us be quit of this place, and quickly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this clearing is fae touched.”

  She turned eagerly to look at the clearing again. Might she see a pixie or a sprite if she looked carefully?

  “Yon is a dryad grove,” Cicero growled. “I’ve no desire to tangle with one of them. Evil, conniving wenches, one and all.”

  Raina swore she heard a faint tinkle of laughter on the cool night breeze. Cicero must have heard it, too, for he dragged her practically at a run toward the edge of the clearing.

  He all but lifted her off her feet in his haste to be quit of the place. She did not fight him. They passed out of the grove and suddenly the night seemed darker and colder. Colorless. Cicero took off running, never letting go of her arm.

  When her breath came in gasps, her legs were failing, and she felt faint, Raina begged, “May we please slow down and rest? I’m like to die of exhaustion if we go much further at this pace.”

  With one last worried look over his shoulder, Cicero did as she asked. She flopped onto the ground, grateful for the cool and damp of the moss beneath her. When she had recovered enough breath to speak, she panted, “Who was laughing back there?”

  “Dryads.”

  Dryads were fae tree spirits known for their powers of seduction over males of all species. No wonder Cicero had been sweating grapes. She looked down at the rod in her hand, now cool and still. Just a stick. She stuffed it in her belt pouch.

  “Are you planning to run me like that again?” she asked.

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “Then you’re going to have to help me remove this blasted corset.”

  His eyes widened in alarm as she stood up and presented her back to him. She wasn’t brave enough to look over her shoulder and see what Cicero thought of all that. She merely waited expectantly, as if it were perfectly normal to have a male elf, and a bandit at that, partially undress her.

  Something cool swept down her spine, and all of a sudden her dress sagged, all but falling off of her. She snatched at it in shock, squawking, “Did you just cut all my laces?”

  “It seemed the most expedient way to get it off.”

  “You not only cut my corset strings; you cut my dress strings, too. How will I hold my dress up, now? I cannot run around the countryside naked!”

  “Oh. I confess I am not familiar with women’s clothing.”

  “You think?” she snapped.

  While she pulled the awful corset out from under her clothing and discarded it into the bushes with great satisfaction, the kindari rummaged in his pouch and came up with a ball of rough twine. She rolled her eyes, but let him lace her dress together after a fashion with the hemp. She expected it made her look like a cheap doxy, but there was nothing she could do about it, at present. Frustrated, she stomped after him in the dark.

  Cicero commented apologetically over his shoulder, “You didn’t run too badly for a girl, and a human to boot. Particularly wearing that corset contraption.”

  She retorted, “Next time you want me to run like that, just kill me and be done with it!”

  He laughed under his breath as she drew Moto’s cloak close around her. “Now what?” she asked Cicero.

  “I was about to ask you the same. What are your wishes, my lady?”

  “I think we can safely dispense with the title. This is definitely not Tyrel, and my circumstances make it a likely wager that I shall never return home. My title is meaningless now.”

  “If you do not object to my asking, what predicament made you flee from prosperity, safety, and a loving family?”

  It was still too new a wound, too painful to speak of. She shook her head and answered merely, “Mayhap someday I shall speak of it. But please believe me that only the most dire of threats drove me away.”

  Thankfully, he let the subject drop. Idly, Cicero picked up a stick and pushed aside the pine needles to expose a square of black dirt completely foreign to Tyrel’s red clay and white limestone. He commenced drawing random shapes in it.

  “Have you any idea where we are?” she ventured to ask.

  “How far is it possible for that ritual you interrupted to have projected us?” he countered.

  She winced. “We could be anywhere on Urth. Literally. We may not even be on the same continent anymore. For all I know, this could be Koth.” Although somehow, that did not feel right to her. This place was still … familiar.

  He did not look happy at that prospect of landing in Koth.

  “I suppose the first order of business is to figure out where we are,” she offered. “We could make camp for the night, and on the morrow see if we can find someone who can tell us what place this is.”

  “It is my considered opinion that it would be better to travel now,” Cicero replied.

  “But it is dangerous at night. Bandits and outlaws are out and about.”

  “We are bandits and outlaws. You ran away from home and are a fugitive, are you not? And I … rendered aid to you.”

  Hah. He had been about to declare himself an outlaw in his own right.

  He continued, “Imperial soldiers move during the day. Hence, we are prudent to move at night.”

  “Cicero, I have no right to ask it of you, but please do not leave me alone in these woods.” She laid a beseeching hand upon his arm. Something of kindness, rough honor, seemed to emanate into her palm. She continued, “I have no coin to pay you, but I will find a way to—”

  He interrupted sharply, offended. “I require no coin to lend my protection to a young girl who would otherwise be alone in a dangerous wood in a strange land. I will turn my sword and my skill to your protection as long as you have need of them.” She must have looked fearful still, because he added more gently, “I give you my word.”

  Gratitude nearly brought her to her knees. “Just don’t run me into the ground, please?”

  That got a grin out of him. “Stick with me and I will make a fine outlaw of you.”

  She could do a lot worse than a kindari protector. The forest elves were renowned for their woodcraft and tracking skills, not to mention their skills as hunters and warriors. She supposed it came from surviving in the wilds and having to defend themselves from whatever threats came their way. Not to mention they were known for flying into incredible rages in battle that rendered them impervious to pain and fatigue. The trick was to avoid provoking such a rage when in the presence of kindari, however.

  The night’s hike took them through gradually thinning forest. At one point, the girth of the trees diminished sharply, and Cicero murmured that these woods had been harvested within the past decade or two by the Forester’s Guild—a sure sign that the two of them neared human habitation.

  The night grew chill and damp, and were it not for Moto’s sturdy cloak she would be shivering with cold. Her dainty slippers did nothing to protect her feet from the cold and the rough ground, though, and she was miserable even with the cloak.

  Cicero followed game trails that, although meandering, made his and Raina’s progress through the forest easier. Deep in the darkest hour of night, they ran across a road. It was barely more than parallel wheel tracks half-smothered in grass, but a road nonetheless. They trudged along side by side in the tracks until she thought she was going to fall over from exhaustion.

  They were at the base of a long slope and she had just taken a deep breath to gird herself for the climb when Cicero abruptly grabbed her arm and dragged her off the road into a
thick stand of brush. He pressed a finger over his lips and she nodded her understanding. That was when she heard what had sent Cicero diving for cover. Men. Talking.

  Three silhouettes topped the hill. Similar in height and nearly identical in dress, they all wore tabards with vertically halved heraldry. Some light color lay over their hearts and a dark shade lay on the right. All three wore boiled-leather armor under the colors, long swords on their hips, and mailed coifs on their heads. Soldiers, then.

  The patrol drew parallel to their hiding place and she made out their colors. A black griffin in gold on the left, and black on the right. Her jaw dropped. The Haelan legion? If she was not mistaken, the badges on the men’s chests identified them as members of a Dupree regiment.

  Were they close to Dupree?

  The city lay on the northeast coast of the continent, capital of the colonized lands in this corner of Haelos. Tyrel lay south and west nearly as far inland as it was possible to go and still be in civilized lands.

  She reviewed what little she knew of Dupree. It was named after Jobère Dupree, discoverer of this continent. As capital, the city was thick with Imperial presence. Apparently, colonized lands constituted only a tiny corner of the continent. The Emperor must be salivating at the notion of an entire, massive continent to settle and bring to heel. All those lovely resources to exploit for his own wealth and power …

  She glanced at Cicero, and he looked nearly as thunderstruck as she. He must recognize the colors, too. The soldiers, jesting and laughing among themselves, passed out of sight over the next ridge.

  Cicero gestured for her to follow him farther off the path. Crawling on their hands and knees for the last bit, he led her into the center of what appeared to be an impenetrable tangle of vines and brambles. He stomped the center flat, though, and cut out the worst of the thorny vines. “Rest, Raina. I shall stand watch through the night.”

  Rest? Surely he was not serious. But he eased his sword—which she noted was a finely made blade—free of its sheath and laid it across his lap. She drew Moto’s cloak close as best she could and lay down, squirming until only a few thorns poked her.