by Liam Reese
He could hear her footsteps behind him as he halted at the edge of the river, its waters swift and dark, swollen with rainwater and silt. He turned to watch Lyeeta approach, her eyes downcast and sad. He watched the play of light on her skin as her muscles bunched and flexed, arms bare to the shoulder.
Gods, she’s young!
As a member of the royal family, he had been surrounded by guards his entire life, and seen some who looked to be in their late teens. Lyeeta looked like a small, lost child as she stalked through the grass, slowing as she reached him. Her eyes flicked up to his, and he saw the complex play of emotions in them.
Sorrow for the loss of Herdin, anger that he had been killed, pain, suffering, and loss all radiated from her. Looking into her eyes, he could see she was not a child, but rather a young woman with emotions she couldn’t deal with.
“Highness,” she began in a hoarse voice. “Is there something amiss with the king?”
Shock chilled his chest at her words. If the guards knew Besmir was having difficulties, it wouldn’t be long before word spread like wildfire. Supposedly able to keep any secrets, someone somewhere would let the rumor spread, and his grandfather’s reputation would be tainted.
“Just the rigors of old age,” he said. “People forget his real age with his youthful appearance.”
Lyeeta looked at him skeptically, appearing as if she were going to say more, but changed the subject.
“I-I’ve never seen anyone … die before,” she said in a small voice. “No one I knew … like Herdin, at least,” she added, sniffing.
Shoulders hunched forward and hands clasped before her, Lyeeta seemed to be protecting herself, curling inwards to shield herself from the world and its horrors.
Wish I could do that too.
Merdon felt the connection in his mind as if it were a physical blow, his head jerking as his thoughts whirled. He drew his right-hand sword, laying the razor-sharp edge against his forearm gently.
“What are you doing?” Lyeeta asked in a panicked voice.
Merdon felt the bite as the steel edge, created by one of the Corbondrasi master armorers, caught his skin. A thin line of red welled up across his arm, and he reversed the blade, offering it to Lyeeta.
“Help me with a test,” he said as she took the weapon from him. “Now you cut me.”
“Highness...” she started, but the prince cut her off gently.
“I need you to cut me, Lyeeta,” he said, grinning at her expression. “Don’t worry, it’s not some odd fetish.” He held his arm out toward her.
The young guard swallowed, obviously torn between her sworn duty to protect him and the obligation to obey his command. With infinite care and slowness, she brought his own sword towards his skin.
Merdon held his position, unflinchingly, as she lowered the blade against his skin. Just before it made contact, cutting him again, something rose from within him, blocking the metal. Lyeeta stared at the sword, unable to touch him with it.
“Harder,” he said.
Lyeeta lifted the sword an inch above his arm and hesitated for a second before letting it drop against him. Again the blade stopped before any damage could be done, a force emerging from his skin to protect him.
Like it did with Emmerlin’s fire!
Two thoughts hit him then. One, that it had been this force that protected him and two, that he could have saved Herdin. Guilty sickness rolled through his stomach as that realization came to him. He could have stopped that post from killing Lyeeta’s friend. Yet how could he have known?
“One more time, Lyeeta,” he said. “Stab here.” Merdon stared into her eyes as he laid his finger on his chest.
Her head moved slowly from side to side, her wrist going limp, letting the sword droop. “That’s an order, guardswoman!” he barked, and she straightened, gripping the sword again.
A single tear rolled down her face as she fought with herself, half of her conditioned to obey him, while the other half balked at the thought of stabbing her prince in the chest.
“Trust me, Lyeeta,” he said gently.
When it came, even Merdon was surprised. Lyeeta’s scream rolled out over the grass as she launched herself forward, his sword stabbing at his chest. So fast had her movement been, he barely had time to react, let alone stop himself from reacting. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to throw himself back, but to let her hit him.
Lyeeta stood with his sword pressed against him, her expression a mixture of abject relief and utter bewilderment as she realized he was completely unharmed.
“But … how?” she asked, standing straight again.
Merdon blew out a deep breath, not realizing he had been holding it until then, and took his sword with trembling fingers. It had felt like something, someone, else reached from within his chest to stop the blade.
So, is this my power?
He didn’t know for certain, but a wild plan came into his mind. If he were impervious to magic and physical damage, there might be a way he could help his grandfather. He reached into the pouch that hung at his side and pulled his grandfather’s flask out.
“What’s that?” Lyeeta asked, forgetting her place.
Well, I did just ask her to stab me in the heart.
Crouching by the dirty water, Merdon swilled the flask in the strong flow, rinsing the vile concoction from inside. He filled and emptied the flask several times as he spoke.
“Swear to me you will not breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone.”
“I swear it, my prince,” Lyeeta said seriously.
A spike of desire stabbed through him with those words. Your prince? I like that.
“King Besmir has taken to drinking … whatever this is,” he said. “Initially to soothe his mind at night, when the horrors of his life came to haunt him. Now … more so,” the prince added.
He stood and sniffed the silver flask, smelling nothing of the bitter filth that had been inside. He cast the flask into the stream, watching it sink below the surface as Lyeeta gasped.
“What are you going to do?” She asked.
“I’m going to speak to Chancellor Xaurin,” he said, turning back towards the camp of tents. “Then I’m going to put the king in prison,” he added, with a frown at his own words.
“I must confess I don’t understand, highness,” Xaurin said when Merdon approached her. “What possible use could you have for a dungeon?”
“Unfortunately I can’t tell you, but the whole of Gazluth would be eternally grateful if you had such a facility I could use.”
The diminutive Ninse leader stared at the prince for a few seconds as she thought. Merdon noticed a spot of mud high on her cheek, and felt guilty for asking more from her when she had already lost so much.
“It’s not something we advertise,” Xaurin said in a hesitant voice. “But we have needed a place to keep the unruly, and those who come here thinking the Ninse are an easy target. It’s at the far side of Ashorn and might be buried, but I can have someone guide you there, if that would suit your needs.”
“It would,” Merdon said. “Thank you, Chancellor. How does the rescue go?”
“Slowly,” Xaurin said, leaning back in the chair she sat upon. “But some of the diggers have reported hearing knocking sounds from somewhere.”
“So there are people still alive?” he asked incredulously.
“So it would seem,” Xaurin said with a smile. “Is there really nothing you can tell me of your needs?”
“If only I could, my lady, I’m sure my problems would melt as snow in your capable hands; yet these are my troubles, and I must deal with them alone.” Merdon caught her smirk at his honeyed words. “Might I see this jail soon?”
Besmir felt hands shaking him and woke with a start. His mouth was dry, gritty, and his teeth were coated with a furry substance that made him gag. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, as if it were swollen. His arms and legs ached with deep pain in his shoulder joints nagging at him.
“Grandfather?” The voice cut through the fog in his brain.
Merdon! Merdon’s here with me.
The thought lifted his spirits, and he rolled over in his cot, staring up into his grandchild’s eyes with a weak smile. The young prince looked harried and tired, as if something were draining him fast.
“You alright, lad?” he asked, his voice sounding strange to his ears.
Merdon nodded, his lips clamped tight together.
“I am,” he muttered.
Besmir’s fingers dipped inside his robes, searching for his flask. Finding nothing, he sat up straight, frowning as his surroundings came fully into view. Gray stone blocks, squared and fitted tightly together, formed the walls of a square room with a low ceiling. An impressive-looking iron door sealed one wall, and lamps provided light. A wooden bucket stood in one corner, telling Besmir exactly where he was.
“What’s going on?” he asked, fingers still searching frantically. “Why are we in here, and where’s my flask?”
Merdon stood, backing away a few paces as he stared at Besmir, concern and worry written across his face. “It’s gone, grandfather,” he said quietly.
“Gone?” Besmir asked in panic. “What do you mean gone? Gone where? Who’s got it?”
“I threw it in a river,” Merdon said.
Besmir stood, slowly approaching his grandson, who at least had the grace to look sorry.
“You did what?” Besmir asked, trembling inside his chest. It can’t be gone!
“Whatever that stuff was, it was killing you, grandfather,” Merdon said. “I got rid of it.”
“Idiot!” Besmir bellowed, making Merdon flinch. “That drink helped me get through life. I need it.”
Thoughts whirled through Besmir as he started to pace, running his hands through his hair. “No matter,” he said. “No matter, my boy.” The king went to Merdon, laying one arm over his shoulder. “I’ve got some more in my pack.”
Yet Merdon was shaking his head. “No, grandfather. I destroyed all of it.”
Besmir shoved his grandson away from him. “Why did my son ever put you in your mother’s poisoned womb?” he spat nastily. “Let me from this room. Now!”
Merdon stood before the door, impassively watching his every move as Besmir stared at him with hate.
My favorite! And he’s betrayed me like this.
“Treason!” Besmir shouted. “You’ll hang for this, boy!”
Merdon folded his arms, and Besmir knew the prince knew it was a hollow threat. Need and fear gathered in his chest, the chilly pressure building.
What happens when the pain comes?
“Merdon, lad,” Besmir said in a deceptively pleasant voice. “You’ve made a mistake. Now, I know you think you’re helping me, but this is only going to cause pain and suffering. So just let me out, and we can go to see the men I got it from. Together, you’ll see it’s more like a medicine than anything … they’ll explain it to you … Merdon, please.”
Terror ripped at Besmir as he realized his grandson was not about to move an inch. Fine! Then I’ll…
No!
What had he been thinking? This was his grandson, and he had been about to shock him with lightning to get past.
No. I’ll never do that.
Besmir stomped back across to the cot that had been brought in, throwing himself down onto it like a moody teenager. “I hope my misery and pain brings you joy,” he grunted.
The King of Gazluth wrapped his robes around himself and waited for the pains to begin. Fright and misery made tears spring from his eyes. Arteera, I wish you were here.
Yet even as he thought that, the king realized he never wanted his wife to see him in such a pathetic condition.
9
“Surely not, Majesty,” General Khaleen said, several days after their last meeting.
Arteera stared at the other woman with a look that spoke volumes. The queen had been beside herself with worry and anticipation. With no word from Besmir or Merdon, let alone from any of the Ninse, she felt blind and helpless.
“Oh, yes, General,” Arteera said seriously. “I will be coming with you.”
Khaleen looked round at the other women in the queen’s sitting room, Arteera echoing her gesture. Branisi stood beside the door, eyes downcast and with her hands clasped before her. Petrena busied herself with various meaningless tasks and looked as if she would rather be anywhere else, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.
“Might I suggest you remain here, Majesty?” Khaleen said in a calm voice. “We intend to ride hard in order to join forces with Waraval. There will be long days in the saddle and short nights sleeping on the ground.”
“I won’t hold you up, General,” Arteera said.
“And who will run the kingdom in your absence?” Khaleen asked.
“Branisi can manage for a short time,” the queen replied.
“I’m too old now, majesty,” Branisi muttered, her eyes still downcast.
“Nonsense, you’re younger than me!” Arteera cried. “Why do you all want me to stay here?”
“To begin with, to keep you safe,” Khaleen explained. “We go to face mercenaries. If they capture you, the whole mission will have been for naught.”
“But...” Arteera began, tears threatening to come.
“You need to stay, Mum,” Petrena piped up from behind the queen. “You’re too old to be riding off into war.”
Arteera, Khaleen and Branisi all turned to stare at the woman, the queen openly agape at her tactless words. Petrena had originally been servant to Collise, but Arteera had taken the simple girl into her service when Besmir’s cousin had gone to join the king at Ursley Mine.
Petrena seemed to realize what she had said, and slowed her pointless straightening and setting of the queen’s objects. The woman reddened, her cheeks turning bright crimson to the tips of her ears as she cast about with her eyes.
“Thank you for that, Petrena,” Arteera said. “Nothing I need more right now than to be reminded I have one foot in my grave!”
“I didn’t … what I meant … Mum...” Petrena stumbled over her words until the queen held her hand up.
“You can leave now, Petrena,” Arteera said shortly.
“She has a point, however,” Khaleen said as Petrena lifted the hem of her dress and slunk from the room. “Age is not on your side.”
Arteera felt the weight of her years pressing down on her. Old and useless. She slumped into one of her chairs, depression clawing at her.
How could she be of any use to Besmir when he was in another country and she was stuck at home? If she joined the fight, led the army, at least she’d feel as if she was making a difference.
“We’re all here for you, Arteera,” Branisi said when Petrena had gone. “But with King Besmir away and unwell, Gazluth needs you here.” She hesitated. “And you are very old,” she added with a twitch of her lips.
“Says the woman who is only a few years my junior!” the queen said with mock anger.
In truth, she was just happy to see her friend smile, a rare treat since her lover had died. Arteera searched inside herself, realizing they were right. It would be a massive risk for her to leave for Waraval. If the trip didn’t kill her, she might be killed or taken in the fight.
“Fine!” she said. “Fine. I shall remain here, like a weak woman, while you visit my wrath on these mercenaries.”
She fixed Khaleen with a piercing glare. “But make sure they suffer, General. Take every man and woman you need, including royal guards.”
“Majesty...” Khaleen began to protest, but Arteera cut her off.
“I want this matter dealt with, Khaleen. My family is at risk. My husband. Take the guards.”
General Khaleen nodded, snapping to attention and turning for the door, her cane tapping against the floor in a staccato beat.
Arteera sighed, feeling useless and old, sadness and depression tugging her low. She rested her chin on one hand and stared into midair, her though
ts consumed by Besmir and what was happening to him.
Is he still alive? Hurt? Should I go to him?
“He’ll be fine,” Branisi said from behind her.
“How can you even know that?” Arteera wailed. “Everyone else who’s taken this drug is dead!”
Branisi folded her arms, perching on the edge of the queen’s desk. Her face looked troubled, brows furrowed as if in pain. “Because I know him,” the housecarl said. “Lived and worked with him for years, and I know he’s one of the strongest, toughest men alive.”
Her eyes rolled to meet Arteera’s. “And you’d know if something had happened,” she added, laying her hand on her chest. “In here.”
A pinch of guilt gripped Arteera as she considered how self-centered she was being. She was imagining the worst without cause, when Branisi had suffered through it, losing her family and lover.
“How do you do it?” she asked. “Go on, I mean, after...”
Branisi’s dark eyes took on a haunted look, remembering the pain and loss she’d suffered. “Life goes on,” she said. “Whether you want it to or not.
“The pain, the hollowness you feel, as if a piece of you is missing, lessens over time.” She paused. “Or maybe you just grow accustomed to it being there,” she added, almost to herself.
I don’t want that!
Arteera watched her sad friend leave her room. Alone and scared, the queen considered life without her husband for the first time. Panic threatened at the thought and she stood, crossing the room to enter the bedchamber she shared with him.
Child-like, the Queen of Gazluth crawled into her bed, laying her head on Besmir’s pillow and curling one arm about it possessively. The smell of him filled her nose, and she wept.
All the vile torments of hell had not been as dire as the ordeal Besmir endured now. His sojourn in hell had been harrowing, almost claiming his life once, with the very air he breathed there dangerous to life. The shredding, desiccating wind and diamond-sharp ash that had cut the soles of his bare feet, however, would be a pleasant relief compared to this torment.
