by Walter Rhein
“As you wish, I only came because a guard summoned me,” Malik said.
At the sound of his voice, Jasmine seemed to rejuvenate. She stood suddenly and came running forward for an embrace.
“Oh, Malik, I didn’t realize it was you.”
Malik held her for a moment, the warmth of her was a comfort he had enjoyed little of in his lifetime.
All too soon, the embrace ended as the two pulled mutually away.
Malik stared into Jasmine’s eyes and saw no shortage of concern reflected there. The sight saddened him.
“How did it come to this?” Jasmine said suddenly.
Malik almost laughed.
“Wars aren’t something people plan,” he said softly. “If anyone took the time to think about them, they’d realize it wasn’t worth the bother.”
“They’re calling me queen now,” Jasmine said as if it were an affront against the natural order.
“Well,” Malik responded, “aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not a queen. I’m just a stupid peasant girl.”
“People look for somebody to lead them,” Malik said. “They long for it. They need it. Once they find it, they name their leader ‘queen,’ it is as it’s always been.”
“But I have no right—”
“You made it your right. It’s yours because they’ve given it to you.”
Jasmine sighed and sat down on a nearby bench. Malik sat beside her.
“I have only my moments of weakness for you,” she said regretfully. “They’ve been coming to me day and night you know, asking for miracles. All I can do is heal them.”
“It’s more than most,” Malik said, impressed with the maturity she showed.
“But I can’t conjure food out of thin air can I? I can’t make the soldiers of the earl go away either.”
“The villages have been providing for us, you only have to make sure we get to Castle Miscony. It’s not far now.”
“Only to lead my people to their deaths.”
My people, thought Malik. He wondered if the earl ever thought of them as his people. More like his peasants, his servants, his slaves.
“Some will die, but less than would have suffered under the earl.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked at him, her eyes twinkling with hope. She only needed something to believe in, some little reassurance that what she was doing was just.
For a moment, Malik wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to tell her that he himself didn’t know, that he shared her doubts, that it could all have been a terrible mistake.
But he dismissed the thought as soon as it came to him. Ever since he had known her, he had asked her to be strong. It would be cruel to display his own weakness now, at the most critical moment.
“Yes I’m sure. I know it for a fact.”
At the words, Jasmine seemed to sigh in relief. She stood slowly, and Malik couldn’t help but notice the regal bearing that seemed to come so naturally to her. But upon reflection, he realized that noble bearing had always been there.
“Thank you, Malik,” she said, “I’m afraid I must take my leave. Denz says we can reach Castle Miscony tomorrow with a hard march.”
“Indeed,” Malik replied.
Jasmine turned back to look at him. For a moment, their eyes met and there was a jolt of intense energy.
“Then tomorrow, for better or worse, it will end.”
“It will end,” repeated Malik.
Jasmine turned and entered her quarters, and Malik slipped back out into the solace of the night.
Chapter 38
The Message of the Wounded
At dawn’s first light, they marched. Malik strode beside Jasmine with Gerard and his sons. Rorik and Denz had picked the best fifty men among them, and placed them at the front of the column, and bordering it twenty meters into the woods on either side of the road.
They moved as quickly as they could in the cool spring air. The men in the column walked in near-silence, burdened by the weight of their task.
Malik looked back over the sea of humanity that was making its way toward Miscony. They had picked up a steady stream of followers throughout their march, but he had no idea as to how many swords were at his command. Five hundred? A thousand? It was difficult to tell with the undulations of the road and the haphazard way in which the men had organized themselves.
Old men.
Young men.
It was an army of green fighters who had yet to get their first taste of battle. Who knew what would become of them when the arrows started raining down? Malik had to trust that their hatred of the earl would overwhelm their fear.
How much did they hate him?
Would it be enough?
With every passing step, the sun grew higher in the sky. The men in the troop started to walk with greater and greater familiarity. They had traveled these roads hundreds of times, after every harvest and before every spring planting. These were the roads of their childhood. Ever had they been there, along with the earl at the end.
The hair on the back of Malik’s neck began to rise. He felt eyes upon him. Eyes of the masses.
He was an outsider here.
The road was known.
The road was theirs.
In time, the atrocities of the earl would fade in their memories, but only if they were given the chance to live.
Where was he taking them?
What did they have to gain?
As noon approached, Alec came back from his scouting position and approached Jasmine formally.
“My queen,” he said, and Malik noticed a slight blush around her cheeks as Alec said the word. He realized it wasn’t the word that embarrassed her, but Alec.
“Report,” Jasmine said remembering her station at last.
“There is a group on the road ahead in need of healing.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jasmine responded.
“Take me to them!”
Malik halted her instantly with a quick snatch of the arm.
“We can’t risk it so close to the castle, milady,” he said. “This stinks of a trap.”
Jasmine looked at Malik for a long while before she spoke.
“If I am to be queen, I shall not be the type of lady that hides behind her stone walls and lets others expose themselves to every risk and worry that might come along. I should be on the front lines with those I presume to lead don’t you think? Shouldn’t my neck be right out beside theirs?”
Malik faltered. He could see her logic, but he was still fearful.
Noting his consternation, Jasmine let her hand fall on his shoulder.
“This war is being waged so I might heal. I cannot pass up this opportunity or all is lost.” As she spoke she inclined her head to the troop behind her.
So, Malik thought, she has felt it too. The army was beginning to doubt, was beginning to forget what they had come for.
Wordlessly, Malik stepped aside and Jasmine ran forward.
As Malik followed, he felt eyes upon him once again. But now they were filled with curiosity rather than scorn.
It was only a short way toward the group Alec had mentioned. Upon seeing them, Malik sighed a breath of relief. It could not be a trap. There were about twenty elderly women sitting in white robes in a circle in the road. On many of them, crimson stains were seeping through both bandages and homespun cloth.
Malik came to stand beside Noah, who was watching almost in awe.
“There’s something angelic about them,” he said. “Their wounds are terrible, but they make no sound of suffering. They simply … endure it.”
Malik nodded, for he had seen such things before. A human body could swallow a lot of pain. Too much, as far as he was concerned.
Jasmine sprinted forward, but one of the women stood up and held up her hand in a halting gesture.
Jasmine skidded to a stop.
“Are you the one?” the woman asked. “The one they’re talking about? The one with the abil
ity to close a mortal wound?”
“Yes, I am,” Jasmine replied. “What has happened to you?”
“Various things,” the woman said cryptically, her eyes glossing over. “The game of politics, perhaps. The warrior from the south came and selected us.”
“The warrior from the south?” Malik said, a nervous tremor entering his voice. A suspicion had entered his mind, a suspicion that was impossible yet, somehow, a part of him urged against dismissing it too readily.
At the sight of Malik, the lead woman recoiled in fear.
“It was you!” she hissed, taking a step back in terror. But no sooner had the words escaped her mouth than her hands dropped in confusion.
“No … no …” she stuttered. “Not you, the eyes are different, the eyes!”
But Malik had heard enough.
“But he was my height and form, was he not?”
“Yes.”
“And did he bear one of these?” With that, Malik held forth his sword. Now every woman in the circle hissed with displeasure.
“Yes! He was a bearer of the bone sword! He used it to cut a message upon us!”
The women spread out into a line, and, once in place, they loosened their collars. As one, their white robes dropped to the ground to reveal letters of blood cut into their torsos.
The letters were cut so deep, they were underscored with the white gleam of bone.
Malik’s jaw clenched in anger as he read the message that had been created by torture for him.
“Camden Guard for life,” Malik hissed, reading the letters.
Hearing the words seemed to drain the last remaining bit of strength from the tortured women. Almost as one, they collapsed to the ground.
“Jasmine!” Malik cried, forgetting the formalities in his desperation, but she was already on the move. Instantly, the clearing was warmed with that telltale sensation of hope and purity that radiated from the young woman. Her hands were already glowing as she reached the first stricken form, and she went from one to the next with a sense of urgency Malik had never seen her employ.
As Jasmine went about her task, the rest of the column crept forward. Old men, young men, peasants from high in the mountains crept up behind the ring Malik and the others were maintaining to peer at the occurrence with eyes wide in astonishment.
Many of them had not seen Jasmine heal, for she often set about her work in the privacy of her own quarters.
Malik had warned her they might start whispering of sorcery if she showed it too much. You could never tell what the mob might begin to think.
But here on public display, Malik realized his fears had been misplaced.
Jasmine’s work was beautiful, and watching it was unifying. A sense of peace settled on all of them and suddenly, for the first time in a long while, Malik was sure that his path was the correct one.
He was right.
His actions were just.
And woe to the enemy who stood in his way.
“It’s true!” someone said as the first woman Jasmine had treated came to her feet, “She’s been sent by the heavens!
One by one, the women in white stood. They stared at their naked bodies without the slightest bit of shame, marveling at the horrific cuts that had been so neatly healed.
As Jasmine finished with the last, she herself swooned, and was caught by those that had gathered around her.
“For many months, there has been talk of someone who had such power,” the lead woman said her bloodstained rags handing in tatters around her. “It was the hope of meeting you that kept us alive.”
Instantly, Malik understood.
“He thought he was disposing of bodies out here on the road,” he said in an iron voice, “the warrior with the bone sword? He thought he’d killed you?”
A recently healed woman nodded.
“He arranged us last night. Most of us were too weak to resist him. But as the morning broke, our strength returned and we came together in a circle to pray. Something’s at work here, son. Something marvelous.”
With that she brightened momentarily.
“All hail our queen!” she cried, gesturing at Jasmine with two strong hands, “Jasmine sent by Lightbringer!”
And the cheer was instantly taken up by the mob.
The old men.
The young men.
The green soldiers who had not yet had their first kiss of war.
They bellowed in euphoria, and instantly Malik knew the fight was not yet lost.
The celebration was short-lived as daylight burned and Malik knew they must reach the grounds of Miscony as quickly as possible. He gave the newly healed women a moment to gather their clothing, and then stood before them.
“Come warriors, let us give the earl his due!”
There was another resounding cheer, as Malik spun on his heel and resumed the march. Alec leaped forward to help Jasmine, who was still slightly weak due to her effort.
Malik had hardly taken two steps when the elderly woman grasped his shoulder again.
“But it’s not the earl any longer,” she said in a low whisper.
Malik’s blood turned to ice. He probed for more information.
“The earl is dead, it’s that other one who has replaced him.”
Malik’s jaw clenched; he had to know. “The warrior from the south?”
“Yes,” the woman responded, her eyes blue and wet.
“Did you get his name?”
“Of course,” she replied. “He told us several times in case any of us survived long enough to speak to you.” Her face clouded over, but she drew herself up enough to answer.
“Oberon,” she said.“Oberon Keels.”
Chapter 39
The Labyrinth at Dawn
They marched the rest of the way in silence. Oberon Keels might have meant his message as a deterrent, but it had produced the opposite effect, for any of those in the column who might have started to doubt the earl’s cruelty or his recent transgressions had just received a brutal reminder.
For Malik, it had functioned in its own cruel and sinister way. The face of his former master clouded his thoughts now and he was having trouble concentrating on anything else.
The road continued on eternally as all roads do until it simply opened before them to reveal the grounds of Castle Miscony.
The scene was eerily silent as the long shadows from the last light of day stretched over the ancient structure.
Malik called a halt and stood for a moment, observing. Within minutes, all his scouts had emerged into the greensward from the forest on either side of the road and, as one, they turned expectantly toward him.
Gerard approached and spoke in a whisper.
“It comes to this, does it?” he said simply.
Malik nodded somberly.
Gerard shook his head and sighed.
“Doesn’t it seem like more should be happening? Like there should be some witnesses or some fanfare?”
Malik snorted at the thought.
“Such moments are for stories and legends,” he said. “In real life, men die alone in their beds, or amongst a horde of strangers on a forgotten battlefield… Or as children, surrounded by snarling dogs.”
Gerard glanced at Malik, but the lean warrior did not turn his gaze from the castle. “You know what to do,” he said finally.
Gerard nodded and waved back to the men Denz had trained. One by one, they split off with their groups and began marching them to either side of the road, forming platoons. Noah stepped to Malik’s side.
“The Miscony grounds are renowned for their beauty,” he said.
A half-smile crept across Malik’s face as he recalled his first trip to Miscony in the back of a slave cart.
“The grounds?” he said. “How can I concentrate on the grounds, knowing they’re going to roast us alive?”
Noah chuckled.
“Perhaps I haven’t been clear,” Noah said. His face turned serious. “We don’t die easily.”
The double meaning resonated in Malik’s mind and he reached his hand to Noah’s shoulder affectionately.
“I’ll say one thing about you and your sister, you have a knack for showing your strength at the perfect moment.”
“We’ve had a good teacher,” Noah said. Malik simply nodded in appreciation.
The columns had finished organizing themselves.
Malik looked to the right, then the left. He raised his hand, and strode determinedly forward. The host of peasants moved easily beside him.
With every step they took, the castle loomed larger before them.
But there were no guards on the walls.
No sign of life. Nothing.
The scene disturbed Malik, but he continued his march. They had come too far to turn back now. They had been swept up in the current of events and no longer possessed individual will. Their path had been chosen for them long ago.
When they were about halfway to the gate, there was a heavy, grinding sound of metal being drawn upon metal as the winch that suspended the portcullis was turned.
Malik raised his hand to call for a halt and was instantly obeyed. More than a thousand eyes watched in eager anticipation of what was to come.
Inch by inch, the portcullis rose. Part of Malik wanted it to drag on forever, the other half wanted it over as soon as possible. The portcullis was indifferent to his wishes and simply rose at a steady pace. All too soon, it was set into place with a resounding thunk and fell silent.
Again, there was nothing but silence and the agitation of the army.
And then came the creak of timber.
This time it was the gate, ever so slowly pulling inward so a crack of the sun’s fading light streamed through the cracks of the thick oak doors. The crack grew wider until it gaped completely open to the courtyard.
In the courtyard stood two men.
One was dressed all in black and bore the weapons of the Nightshades. He held a canvas bag that was stretched with something heavy.
Although the sight of him disturbed the army, Malik’s attention was focused entirely on the other.
He was lean taut and wiry with a bone sword hanging from his belt.
With appalling arrogance, the pair strode forward. Malik watched the lean warrior as he moved. He showed not the slightest concern at the presence of the mob before him. Every step was light and agile as if he were skipping across water. He was graceful, but it was a deadly grace, and there was no doubt among any who looked at him that they were in the presence of a master killer.
