by Bruce Blake
Not even the trail behind them.
Fear flared in Khirro as he thought again of the field of tall grass that took the life of the one-eyed mercenary and came close to taking his, too.
The path was closing behind them, sealing them in the forest.
He looked to the front again, at Athryn running just ahead of him, but couldn’t see past. Straining and stretching as he ran, he peered around his companion and saw that the path appeared to open around them, a vague line before them widening to let them through, then closing again after they passed.
We’re being herded like animals. But where?
“Athryn, wait,” he called, already slowing his pace. There was no way for the magician to know the trail was closing behind them. “Something’s wrong.”
The magician turned his head, blond ponytail bouncing against his back, and opened his mouth to reply. Then he disappeared.
Khirro skidded to a halt at the edge of the pit, toes dangling over the lip and sending dirt cascading into darkness below. If he hadn’t slowed, he would have followed his companion into its depths.
“Athryn!”
He fell to his knees a safe distance from the edge lest the ground give way and spill him into the hole. Khirro squinted, struggling to see his friend, but couldn’t. Snarled roots held together the earthen sides that fell away into absolute blackness, deeper than he could see. A woven mat of vines and branches still hid a portion of the opening.
A trap.
“Athryn.” Khirro lay on his belly, head hung over the edge. “Athryn. Are you all right?”
A groan, quiet but distinct, floated up to Khirro on the earthy smell of loam and dirt. He breathed a relieved sigh—his companion had survived the fall. Now he had to hope he wasn’t badly injured and find a way to get him out.
But who would set a trap in the middle of the forest? In Lakesh.
The Mourning Sword still in hand, Khirro put his hands palms down at shoulder width on the loamy earth, readying himself to stand and intending to search for vines to braid into a rope with which to pull Athryn out.
The feel of fingers gripping his ankles stopped him, surprised and suddenly afraid. He twisted, trying to break free and glimpsed a flash of inhuman green skin—so green it was difficult to discern from the leafy background or believe he’d seen it at all.
And then Khirro tumbled into the hole, pushed by the green hands, and light and autumn sky receded above him.
Chapter Eight
Therrador crept from the tunnel and replaced its camouflaged cover, déja vu sending a shiver through him. The last time he used this method to slip out of the fortress, he’d gone to the salt flats and met with a woman he didn't know at the time was the Archon, and she'd revealed Graymon’s abduction. He gritted his teeth, determined this foray would yield a very different result.
This time he stole from the fortress to get his son back.
He paused and looked across the flat land toward the Kanosee camp fires—closer now than they were before. The Archon had moved her camp as close to the walls as seemed prudent given the Erechanians' fear of the undead soldiers that made up a portion of its troops.
Somewhere among those beasts is my son.
Therrador pulled the dark cloak tight around his shoulders to block the cold wind blowing in off the Bay of Tears and snugged down the helmet he’d taken from a sleeping Kanosee soldier to disguise himself. At the Archon’s insistence, the Kanosee were free to roam the Isthmus Fortress, but he didn’t think she’d be so happy with an Erechanian finding his way into the Kanosee encampment.
Especially not the king.
Crouching, Therrador scuttled across the open land, hand held close to the Kanosee short sword at his belt. That poor soldier would wake up in his underclothes with a headache, wondering what happened. It pained Therrador not to simply kill the man as he would kill any enemy, but he didn’t know how powerful Sheyndust’s powers were or if she’d have known. She might already know he’d left the fortress to rescue his son, but he had to take the chance.
First, he’d have to get into the camp, then he’d have to guess which amongst hundreds of tents was the one in which he’d find Graymon.
He didn’t think they’d kill him if they discovered him—especially when they realized who he was—but that didn’t ensure his safety. Best to be careful.
The autumn wind tugged at his cloak and tossed his long beard, unbraided to further hide his identity. The campfires grew closer. A noise made him pause and he crouched, becoming a boulder or a stump in the dark.
Twenty yards away, a figure paced. He knew guards would be posted at the edge of the camp, no matter whether a so-called truce was in place or not.
Therrador breathed shallowly, thankful for the carelessness of the sentry. If the man had been quieter, or stationary, he likely would have walked into him. The king waited and watched as the soldier, silhouetted against the campfires, took slow steps away, the butt end of the spear he carried scraping lazily along the ground. When he’d gone a few yards, Therrador inched forward, his gaze fixed on the man’s back to see if he’d continue on. After a moment, the man’s shape faded into the dark; Therrador hurried past silently.
The edge of the Kanosee encampment lay ten yards ahead. He wanted to rush in, to rifle through tents until he found his son, but Therrador forced himself to wait, to gauge how many men remained in the camp and where they most likely kept Graymon.
The smells of cook fires wafted to Therrador on the salty breeze. Pork, robbed from the stores of the Isthmus Fortress. He clenched his teeth, biting back anger at how things had played out so far, but the blame lay with no one but himself. It was his jealousy and anger that led to this. He could hardly be mad at the Archon or the Kanosee without shouldering a large measure of the responsibility.
Therrador pushed the thoughts from his mind—the time to set things right would come. Not now, though; as long as the Archon held Graymon captive, he could do nothing but what she asked of him without endangering his son. He started forward again, satisfied the sentry wouldn’t likely return shortly. His nerves jumped and danced, controlled but ready for battle.
He reached the outer line of tents and dropped the black cloak from his shoulders, exposing the Kanosee mail beneath. The man from whom he’d taken the armor was slightly smaller than himself and it restricted his breathing, pinched his skin if he turned too quickly. Such discomfort would have meant nothing years ago when soldiering was his world, but king’s advisor was a much easier life. He shifted the mail shirt, pulled it down, suddenly identifying with Braymon’s oft-heard lament about going soft sitting on the throne. It seemed the same had happened to him.
Thank the Gods experience doesn’t wane with age.
Touching first the hilt of the short sword, then the dagger on his right hip, Therrador stepped across the camp’s threshold, out of shadow and into firelight. He chose a spot where he saw no one around and looked left then right, wondering which way to go.
There will be a guard, that’s how I’ll know which tent.
He went right and passed the debris of camp life littering the ground: gnawed chicken bones, fruit and vegetable rinds, worn through boot soles. A rat the size of a farm cat scuttled away before him, a chunk of some rotted food in its jaws. Therrador’s lip curled—he’d never have allowed a camp to look like this, no matter how long the occupation.
Of course, I never commanded soldiers raised from the dead.
Therrador strode the path between tents like a man who belonged. Some tents he passed by lay silent, others hid snoring men or hushed conversations. He ignored them all, concentrating on where he might find Graymon.
If I had a captive, I’d keep him near the center of camp.
He took an abrupt left and headed toward the heart of the Kanosee encampment. Ahead, three men sat around a fire, one of them rotating a spit skewering the leg of pork he smelled earlier. Therrador relaxed, trying to look natural, but his mind tensed, ready to throw his bod
y into action at half a second’s notice.
He looked sideways at the men to see if they were indeed men or the undead. One of them looked up at Therrador’s approach; sparse gray hair speckled his cheeks, his eyes looked suspicious.
“Oy,” the man called confirming him a living thing. “Go get your own food. Leave ours alone.”
Therrador nodded, not trusting his Kanosee would be accent-free enough to keep from giving him away. He strode past the fire with the purposeful gait of a man with a task to accomplish. Ten paces past, he thought himself safe when the man called out again.
“Hey, stop,” he bellowed. Therrador did, turning slowly. The man stood and gestured at him. “What’s with the armor? Afraid those cowards will attack?”
Therrador shrugged; the man’s face pinched in a questioning look.
“Don’t worry ’bout them. The Archon’s got their king under her pretty thumb.”
A spark of anger made Therrador’s hand twitch toward the short sword at his waist, but getting Graymon back was more important than defending his honor—what little might remain in a man who orchestrated his own king’s death. He nodded and smiled. The man took a few strides toward him and Therrador tensed, fingers curled into fists.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” the Kanosee said with a tone sounding both suspicious and accusatory.
Therrador swallowed hard. “No,” he ventured.
The man glared at him a few seconds before breaking into a wide grin.
“I’s just having at you. Come have a bite with us.”
Therrador made himself smile back.
“No,” he said again. “Already ate.”
“Fine. Be like that then.” The man waved him off and returned to his companions at the fire. “Don’t tell no one I weren’t hospitable, though.”
“I won’t,” Therrador agreed.
He strode away, a droplet of sweat running down the back of his neck. Tension remained in his limbs as he wondered if the men would see through his ruse and come after him. They didn’t. Years before, during skirmishes with Kanos before Braymon became king, Therrador learned to speak Kanosee out of necessity—if you spoke their language, questioning your prisoners was easier. As king’s advisor, it came in handy dealing with the occasional ambassador, but he never expected he’d use it to keep from discovery infiltrating an enemy camp. He sighed and unclenched his fists.
The camp was vast. Therrador passed more fires and more men as he balanced between keeping to the shadows and looking like he belonged. No one else challenged him and after a while, the tents changed from plain tan canvas to larger structures, colored and striped and decorated. He saw fewer soldiers here, where the higher ranks made their beds, and many of the tents were empty—most of these men now resided behind the wall of the Isthmus Fortress. The thought twisted Therrador’s gut; he set his jaw and pushed on.
As he came around a large red tent with a white roof, Therrador halted and shrank back into the shadows. Ahead, a group of five soldiers were gathered around a tent easily the size of the next four largest combined. He crouched and waited, squinting against the light of the tall torches set on either side of the door. The men didn’t talk, instead grunting and growling at one another. One turned toward Therrador and he receded further into the shadows at the sight of the man’s black breastplate splashed with red.
The undead.
Given its size, Therrador guessed the tent must belong to the Archon. A wisp of smoke curled from the peak of the pavilion, dissipating into the night sky. But a fire wouldn’t be lit if there was no one inside, guards wouldn’t be posted at the door of an empty tent, and he knew the Archon to be at the fortress. Hope stirred in Therrador’s chest.
This is where they’re holding Graymon.
He breathed as deep as the ill-fitting armor allowed to ease his excitement and nervousness, then let it out slowly, quietly. Getting here had been relatively easy, now came the difficult part—rescuing the boy and finding a way back through the camp with him. He shook his head to dispel the thought.
First I have to get past the guards.
Therrador crept back around the curve of the tent until the soldiers were no longer in sight, then stood and adjusted the too-small chain vest. He’d never favored the sneaky approach, preferring instead to face things head on. With little effort, he slipped into a posture of command he’d become accustomed to wearing over the past two decades—back straight, eyes ahead, step purposeful. He strode around the tent and directly toward the guards. One of them saw him immediately and grunted at the others. Hands touched hilts, but none drew weapons. He halted in front of the biggest of the group.
“The Archon sent me to check on the boy,” he said and wondered if a man perhaps more dead than alive would notice his accent.
The thing stared at him; Therrador forced himself to look back. Its nose had rotted off in some dark grave; one eye moved while the other stared off at a peculiar angle. Therrador saw crooked yellow teeth though a hole in one cheek.
“Hmm.”
“Sheyndust sent me to look in on the hostage,” he said again. “Step aside.”
The thing opened its mouth sending the stench of death wafting to Therrador on the sea breeze. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to hold the thing’s gaze.
“Why she sent you?” the creature asked finally, its words run together like a child not yet used to speaking. “We guard him.”
Therrador frowned and narrowed his eyes.
“She had a vision of someone coming and taking him.” He glanced at the others watching the exchange. “I’m doing as I’m told, I suggest you do the same.”
One of the others grumbled words Therrador didn’t understand; the leader turned toward the other soldier so his unmoving eye came to gaze upon Therrador. The dead, unseeing orb made Therrador think of Suath’s empty eye hole and he wondered what had become of the mercenary.
“Okay,” the dead man said without moving out of his path.
Therrador took a step forward and came chest to chest with the soldier. It still didn’t move. He glared into the thing’s good eye, knowing he couldn’t be the first to move. A minute passed; the other soldiers moved closer and a flicker of claustrophobia flared in Therrador’s stomach. He held his breath against the stench of rotted flesh gathered around him. Finally, the creature stepped back and gave him space to pass. Therrador went by confidently, bumping the undead man with his shoulder on the way, pulled the flap aside and entered the pavilion.
The fire blazing in the iron fireplace at the center of the tent made it almost unbearably warm inside; smoke curled up through a hole in the peak as he’d seen from outside. He breathed deep, happy to draw air not smelling of rotted flesh after being in close quarters with those dead things.
The tent’s interior was sparsely furnished—not what he’d have expected to find in the Archon’s lodging. Perhaps he’d been wrong about this being her tent. A plain chair made of driftwood lashed together with lengths of heavy twine sat to one side. A basin of water rested atop a short stool; a honey pot sat nearby. On the far side of the makeshift room was a straw-stuffed mattress draped with thick green blankets. Underneath them, a sleeping shape. Only a bit of tussled brown hair showed under the coverings.
Graymon.
Therrador took a step forward, then stopped. He looked about the room again, searching the shadowed corners and behind the stick furniture. They were alone. He hurried across the dirt floor, struggling to contain his excitement. Three strides from the bed, less than ten feet from his son, he stopped. He hadn’t meant to.
What...?
He attempted another step but his foot wouldn’t move. It stayed in place as though stuck by strong glue. He struggled against the unseen grip, grabbed his thigh with both hands and pulled, but nothing happened.
“Graymon,” he whispered and reached out toward his son lying just out of reach. “Graymon.”
The boy shifted under the covers, turned over to face his fath
er, eyes closed in sleep. Therrador’s heart leaped to his throat at the sight of his son with his features so much like his mother’s. He reached again, stretching his fingers as far as he could, but he was too far away.
“Graymon.”
“That’s enough.”
The sound of the woman’s voice stopped Therrador’s breath half-drawn. Goose flesh galloped up his spine despite the fire-warmed air in the tent.
How could she be here?
He struggled to face the voice but found himself unable to move at all. His head wouldn’t turn, his arms wouldn’t raise. Only his eyes would move; he directed them toward the Archon as she stepped up beside him.
“I told you I could not trust you,” she said.
She wore the black cloak she’d worn the first time they met that night on the salt flats, but the cowl was pulled back from her face this time and her blond hair spilled over her shoulders.
“I only want my son back,” Therrador said despite being unable to move his lips. His words ran together like the dead soldier’s had. The Archon’s face remained stern.
“All I want is for you to do as you are told,” she replied with a sweetness in her voice mismatched to her meaning. “It seems neither of us will get what we want if things do not change.”
A lump formed in Therrador’s throat. He tried unsuccessfully to make his mouth ask her not to hurt his son. His eyes flicked back to Graymon; the boy continued sleeping peacefully.
“I can see as long as the boy is nearby, you will be uncontrollable. We will have to rectify that.” She reached out and took the helm off his head, dropping it to the ground with a clank, then brushed hair from his forehead, the tips of her long nails scraping along his skin. “You have to learn to behave yourself, Therrador, or people will start getting hurt. You do not want that, do you?”
The king tried to shake his head.
“No,” he mumbled staring at his son, willing her not to hurt the boy.
“I did not think so.” She grasped his chin and moved his head so his eyes looked into hers. “Do not worry, I am not going to hurt your son. Not this time.”
