by Tim Marquitz
Though he believed in Ree—her flesh the earth, her anguished tears, shed at the misery of her great awakening, the oceans—he could not subscribe to the blind faith of the Velen, or the Yvir for that matter, that the goddess played a role in their lives beyond the physically obvious. Life was just life; it ebbed and flowed like the weather, clear skies to storms, only to clear once more when it was ready. Life was theirs to navigate, built upon their choices, good or bad, and not fettered to the whims of the goddess.
It was this belief that most upset Jerul.
The screams of the dark woods in his ears, Domor was in no mood to argue. He raised his hands. “Forgive me, my friend. I concede...for the nonce. This is not the time, nor the place, to discuss such things.”
Jerul grinned. “You give in too easily, Velen. I was hoping for a fight. What troubles you?”
“This is what troubles me.” Domor swept his hand toward the wild shrieks that flooded the trees.
He cried out mid-arc as something struck his wrist. His cry of pain and surprise was mirrored by another, much higher in pitch, and then a quiet splash that flung droplets of cold water onto his face. Domor drew his arm to his chest and scurried to the far side of the raft.
Jerul set the oars in a quick motion, locking them in place before retrieving his blades from the deck. Domor stared up at him. The hammer’s blow feeling at his wrist sent throbbing shards of pain down the length of his forearm. He sat stunned.
The warrior moved to the center of the raft and stared into the darkness. His blue eyes shone like beacons as they darted about. He blinked once and his lids narrowed as he seemed to focus on something. He ducked low with a grunt, his eyes suddenly wide. An obsidian shadow led by four yellow dots zipped over him with a hoary screech, missing the wild white hairs of Jerul’s mohawk by just inches.
Domor followed the creature as it winged by, unable to make out any of its features save for the blurred trails of its lurid eyes.
“Stay low, Velen,” Jerul told him unnecessarily as he crept closer to hover near him. The jagged edges of his blades glistened against the backdrop of darkness.
Domor once again cursed his height as he did his best to sink below the low retaining wall of the raft. Though he knew his wrist had not been broken, the bones still in their rightful place, the slightest movement loosed spears of misery that starred his vision. He ground his teeth together and let his wounded arm lie in his lap as he drew his bag to him. He dug inside and pulled the dagger from hiding. With his teeth, he yanked the sheath free, letting it drop to the deck, before twisting to face the invisible shore. The darkness was filled with malevolent, glowing stares.
Whereas before, the raucous sounds of the night had resounded with such volume and intensity as to have been little more than a wall of noise, it had since dimmed, drifting into the background. Sharpened wails cut through the rest as though a blade through sand, carving a trail to their ears. The sounds grew closer as shadows winged above, the branches rattled in their passage.
Jerul growled low, his head on a swivel. Yellow dots appeared out of the darkness only to disappear as blackened shapes zipped close before veering away at the last moment.
Domor was buffered by the wind of one of the creature’s passes, and shifted just in time to see the yellow eyes of another just before they went dark. He spun about on his knees and lashed out with his dagger, catching the creature as it flew past.
The creature screeched as Domor’s blade bit deep. It shifted directions instantly and shot into the sky, knocking Domor back with a slash of its leathery wing. Off balance, Domor fell to his back, his shoulders crashing into the tree trunks of Jerul’s legs.
The warrior stumbled forward, twisting about to keep from falling over the rail of the raft.
“Be careful, Ve—” A grunt of pain cut his warning short, and Jerul spun, his blades bright blurs against the backdrop of darkness.
Something wet rained warm across Domor’s face as he scrambled back toward the rail. He could feel it running slow down his cheek and wiped it clear with his injured arm, ignoring its protests. He heard Jerul cry out once more. Jerul’s voice was a rumble that billowed up from the bulk of his chest. His companion’s pale outline visible, Domor could see dark stains along his back. They spread quickly, devouring the lighter areas with each passing moment.
He was surrounded by a horde of yellowed eyes that swooped down from the canopy in twos and threes, blackened missiles that winged past, leaving behind darkened trails along the warrior’s flesh. Jerul lashed out with his swords as the creatures closed. Sounds of the butcher’s block filled the air, the meaty thud of a blade meeting bone.
There was a pair of loud splashes, followed by Jerul’s blade striking the deck. The warrior stumbled, his free hand pressed to the side of his head as a quartet of yellowed eyes hovered at his shoulders. Dark water gushed between his white fingers as he stood doubled over, his eyes closed.
Though he was no warrior, Domor knew he had to do something to help his blood-companion before the beasts brought him down. He jumped to his feet and whipped his robes off. Used like a net, he dropped the bottom opening of the robes over the creature that tore at Jerul and drew it to the side fast, tightening his grip to seal the beast inside. The creature thrashed and squealed as its wings became entangled in the thick material. No time to waste, he pinned the beast to the deck with his foot and stabbed his dagger into the squirming mass. Over and over he sunk his blade hilt deep until the trilling shrieks ended and the beast lay still.
Cold sweat and warm blood dotting his face, he moved alongside Jerul and pushed the warrior to the deck, nearest to the slim shelter of the retaining wall. Certain he lacked the strength to wield his companion’s heavy, jagged blades, he left them where they lay as his eyes traced the path of the next wave of beasts that dove toward them. He set his dagger between his teeth and ignored the sting as its sharpened edge bit into the corners of his mouth.
Having seen what the creatures had done to Jerul, Domor knew he stood no chance of bringing them down with his dagger. So thinking, he loosened the tie from the closest oar and freed it from its swivel. His wrist sang with pain, but he pushed it aside with a loud growl.
Frenzied screeches were thick in the darkness as he turned to face the growing shadows. His hands trembled and his heart thundered loud in his chest as he waited for them to come a little closer. He judged their speed by the trails of their eyes and counted quick, swinging the wooden oar like a club in a wide arc.
The flat of the oar smashed into the outermost of the trio with a solid thump. Domor ground his teeth together as impact vibrations threatened to shake the shaft from his hands, but he clutched tight and managed to keep his grip. His wrist went blissfully numb.
The beast he struck was knocked sideways, its momentum redirected into its companions. Furious squawks erupted above as the creatures became tangled, their dive averted in the effort to get clear of one another. Two sets of eyes broke loose and flew back toward the darkness of the canopy as a blackened shape fell into the water.
Domor couldn’t stop a smile from stretching the corners of his mouth against the sharp blade he held in his teeth, but he knew his success was likely short-lived. He glanced around to see another creature hurtling toward him, coming fast and low over the water. He spun around and swung the oar with desperate strength just as the beast cleared the retaining wall.
The shaft collided with the creature just a few feet from where Domor’s hands clutched to it. His fingers rang out with the sting of impact and he felt the slap of the beast’s wing against his bare stomach. He stumbled back and fell to his knees, his hip grinding into the hard wood of the retaining wall.
Out of instinct, he reached down to steady himself and hissed as his injured wrist exploded in agony beneath him. The dagger tumbled from his mouth. He crumpled hard against the wall and heard a loud crack that reverberated against his back. He felt the support of the wall give way behind him, and he fell.
White light filled his eyes as something clamped down on his wrist like a vise before he could sink any further. There was a sudden sense of upward movement and he was clear of the water, slammed face first onto the hard wood of the deck. A vicious blow was struck to his upper back and he felt the water surge from his stomach in response, up into the passage of his throat. He gagged once against the tide before the swallowed river spewed from his mouth in a deluge that flooded the deck. Domor vomited twice more, bitter bile tearing at his throat as he cleared the last of the water from his lungs.
Angered grunts sounded over him as he lay curled into a ball and trembling on the deck. The solid slaps of wood against flesh echoed in his ears in competition with the piercing hum that seemed to fill his tender skull with white noise. His stomach roiled like the Tumult and the sour scent of vomit clung to his nose.
He rolled to his side to see Jerul standing over him, the warrior a blur of motion through Domor’s clouded eyes. The oar was in his companion’s hands, methodically being swept back and forth over their heads. His muscular back was dark with his blood, the lines of his veins invisible beneath the oozing claret.
“Jerul,” Domor croaked, the words coming out as a ragged whisper.
“Stay still and recover, Velen.” Jerul shifted the oar in mid-swing to bat one of the creatures from the air with a satisfying thump. “You have shown me the way. No more of these beasts will dine upon our flesh tonight.”
Domor looked once more to the blood that flowed free from Jerul, dripping dark to the deck beneath his feet. “You’re hurt, my friend.”
“I have known worse injuries in the mating hall,” Jerul countered with a laugh. “Rest and regain your strength. I will see us through until dawn.”
Even through the dull link of their bond, Domor knew Jerul lied. He could see the warrior’s arms trembling, the muscles at his back tensed so tight they twitched with random spasms. He was hurt far worse than he was willing to speak of and there was nothing Domor could do to help him.
Little better himself, Domor fetched the waterskin from Jerul’s bag. He did his best to disguise his own pain as he got to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. Though there was no hiding how he felt from his blood-companion, he tried anyway, joining in on the warrior’s game.
In between Jerul’s swings, Domor quenched his defender’s thirst and did what he could to slow the loss of blood, using strips cut from one of his spare robes. Quickly soaked through, they were of little use, but they were all he had.
Exhausted in a way he had never felt before, Domor forced his hands to keep pressure upon Jerul’s wounds, ducking low as the creatures soared past only to meet the blunt end of his blood-companion’s makeshift weapon. The constant motion and the quiet splashes that followed soon became a wearying rhythm that lulled Domor into a stupor.
The night crept by and he no longer had any sense of how long they had stood there, Jerul batting away the creatures and he tending to the warrior’s needs. He stared blankly up at the dark canopy, willing his vision to pierce its knotted mass, but only the blackness of night met his eyes.
He knew not how much longer it would be before the sun rose and the Dead Lands returned to its diurnal slumber, or if even that would cease the beasts’ attack, but he dearly hoped it would.
He only knew one thing for certain: dawn could not come soon enough.
Chapter Thirteen
The soldiers closed in tight around Arrin as he was marched through the gate that opened onto the Crown Level. He lifted his chin for the first time since he’d been led away from the Ninth, and let his eyes wander.
Memories flooded his mind at seeing the crowded masses of white stone homes and the gilded spires that rose up so high above as to challenge the mountains at their backs. They stood out bright against the backdrop of night. Arched windows peered from their stone faces like flickering eyes that stared out across the whole of Lathah. Nu’ree seemed to peek back as though hiding, its blue-gray orb just beginning its ascent into the eastern sky.
Arrin’s mood far too sour to enjoy such grandeur, he lowered his eyes to the narrow streets. They were free of the rampant clutter that plagued many of the levels below, the cobblestones polished to a fine shine. The air smelled of fragrant wood and musky spice, burned in small quantities in most every home to chase away the fetid scents that occasionally wafted up from the lower levels.
He glanced behind him as the gates to the Crown swung closed without a sound, the hinges oiled and gleaming in the light of the torches that hung in silvered sconces in excess upon every wall. They cast dancing shadows along the streets, an audience of blackened ghosts assembled to witness his shameful return.
He looked once more to the tall houses as he was herded forward, as his past weighed upon him. He’d spent the best years of his life on the Crown as he’d courted Malya. He couldn’t walk the streets without imagining her there beside him. His chest ached at the thought and his eyes danced in his skull in the hopes he might see her, though he knew she’d never be out after sundown. She’d always been a child of the sun.
He was almost grateful when the commander’s gruff order to halt interrupted his remembrances.
“Go tell the prince’s advisor we have an important prisoner I wish to bring before Prince Olenn, at his earliest convenience, of course,” Maltis told one of his men, who started off immediately. The commander grabbed the man’s arm before he got far. “Be as vague as possible as to who the prisoner is. I don’t want the prince angrier than he’s already going to be at such a late summons. The very last thing we need is him on a rampage before we’ve even reached the hall.”
The soldier nodded, understanding etched across his face, and darted away when the commander released him. Maltis turned to face Arrin.
“This is it, Arrin. There’s no more turning back.” He gestured to one of his men and the soldier pulled a pair of manacles from the pack of the man in front of him. “I’ve given you as much freedom as I possibly could, but I cannot have you unbound when I take you before the prince. You have far too good a reason to want our dear prince dead for me to trust in only your word. I hope you understand.”
“Of course, my friend,” Arrin answered without hesitation, placing his arms behind his back. “I would expect no less from one in your position.” He gave the officer an understanding smile, which made Maltis grimace.
The soldier placed the heavy iron shackles around Arrin’s wrists, the cold iron locks clanging shut. Arrin tested their mettle instinctively, willing the power of the collar to remain at peace. With its magical assistance, the manacles would delay him no more than a single heartbeat should he feel the need to be free of their binds. They were more a benefit to him than a hindrance, everyone likely to believe he was helpless and at the mercy of the prince’s whims. Shackled and seeming powerless, it might serve Arrin’s purpose and salve Olenn’s fury at his unexpected and unwelcome return.
Once the shackles were secured, Arrin nodded to Maltis. “Let’s be done with this, commander. The waiting is killing me.”
“I pray that is all that kills you,” Maltis replied, his hand resting light upon the pommel of his blade.
The message was clear. Despite the blood they had shed side by side upon the battlefield, the meals and laughter shared, and the loyalty of soldiers, Maltis was honor bound to the prince here in his home. Arrin could expect no mercy should it come to a choice between him and Olenn. Maltis would cut Arrin down as quickly as any enemy he had ever faced.
“Clear your conscience, friend. It won’t come to that.”
Maltis cleared his throat. “If only I were so certain. You know our prince as well as any, and time has done nothing to lessen his willfulness.” The commander turned away and waved his men on. “I can see no happy end to this night…for you,” he added as strode ahead
.
The soldiers around him shuffling forward to follow their commander, Arrin matched their pace. Their boots thumped against the bright cobblestones as they paraded down the main road, which led toward the throne room.
The streets eerily quiet, Arrin glanced at the windows of the homes they passed, but they remained sealed tight against the night and the clamor of heavy boots. Lights flickered behind their shutters though he saw no shadows cast by their residents. While his memories were blurred by the time gone by, Arrin couldn’t recall the Crown having been quite so lifeless, even after the sun had set. The silence was foreboding.
“Is Lathah under curfew,” Arrin asked the soldier beside him.
The man hesitated to answer, his eyes drifting to the back of Maltis. He shook his head quick, his eyes staring straight ahead.
Arrin watched the soldier for a moment, then cast his eyes to the rest that surrounded him. None would meet his gaze, so he let the question die in the air. He would likely know the answer soon enough or he might well be dead. Either option would resolve his curiosity.
