by Liam Reese
Yet she knew he was right. She was a general in the army, responsible for dealing death, and he had vowed to end as much suffering as he could. They could never be friends, let alone anything else.
Khaleen turned and limped slowly towards her army, her ears full of their roars and cheers when her soldiers saw her coming.
Damp and cold seeped into his very skin and bones as he lay there. Minutes only did he endure it before he released his mind to search for a way out. Besmir rose, looking down at his own body on the stone floor, to float in the middle of the cell.
Fairly standard, it was a small square, underground, stone-built with an iron door. Can’t burn my way out.
Floating around the room like a wraith, Besmir discovered there was a bucket beside the door and a pile of moldy straw in one corner, presumably what served as a bed. The king hoped this place had not been used for a long time, as it was horrific to think anyone else had suffered in here.
He spent a few seconds looking for anything sharp he could use to cut the bindings on his wrists, but found none, so streaked out through the wall into the surrounding areas. More cells, but these were used for storage. Old barrels and broken furniture had been stacked in one, while another was full of empty grain sacks, chewed and colonized by a family of brown rats.
Besmir dived into one of the bigger rats and scurried back towards his own body, using the drainage pipes underneath the cells to get there. There was a blockage before he could get through to his own cell, and he knew he was going to have to start chewing at whatever this was to get it out of the way.
Whatever it had been was rotten and bitter to the taste, but he locked the rat’s powerful jaws about it and started to tug. A section of it came free and he clambered over it to tug another section free. It was some kind of cloth, with something wrapped inside, but he did not want to consider what.
Eventually, the king managed to squeeze his rat body through the pipe and up to where a grate blocked his way. Again he got to chewing, the rat capable of loosening the mortar that held the grate in place until he could push it up with his head.
Claws skittering against the stonework, Besmir hauled himself up into his cell and scampered across to his body. Carefully he gnawed through the rope holding his wrists, watching them fall apart and the color come back to his skin.
Before returning to his body, he also used the rat to chew through the blindfold and gag that had been put around his face. He guided the rat back into the drain and let her go, flowing back to his body and sitting up to rub his wrists and pull the cloth off his face.
He stood and went to the door, searching the edge for any weakness he might be able to exploit. It looked to be a new door, and well-fitted too, but he did see the bolt on the outside through a tiny gap between the door and the frame.
Besmir considered how best to approach this. He needed a concentrated stream of flame to heat the iron until it melted. Kneeling, he put his little finger to the sliver of space, forcing it into the gap, focusing on the thick bolt, and tried to send a small jet of flame out.
The massive force that burst from him lit the walls and floor outside, and he stopped. This was harder than he had believed possible. The sheer concentration needed to hold back the flame that wanted to burst forth took almost everything he had.
Eventually, however, Besmir managed to get a small, hot stream of flame to burn from his little finger, heating the iron bolt slowly from dull gray to dark red, through bright red to orange, and finally yellow.
Sweat poured from Besmir, not due to the hot metal, but from the intensity of the concentration needed to maintain the flame. When the bolt started to turn to liquid, molten drips pouring to the floor, he knew he was almost out, and a savage joy filled his heart.
With a final few drips, the door gave way, the molten bolt stretching and separating as he leaned on it. Within hours of being interred, he was free. The king made his way along the stone corridor without, the darkness barely chased away by the torch at the end of the hall. He slowed to a crawl and hesitated, sending his thoughts into the room ahead.
Two soldiers lounged beside a table, talking about him. Besmir assumed there would be more further up.
“...can’t believe we have the king locked up down there!” one said.
“Did you hear what he’s done, though?” the other asked, making a protective signal to Cathantor. “Killed his whole family.”
“Do you think he really did that?” the first asked. “Everything I ever heard about him said he was a family man.”
“Can’t see why Commander Ronistar would lie, can you?”
Besmir pulled back and tried to formulate a plan to escape without hurting these men. Ducking back into one of the cells, he started looking through the barrels and furniture, arranging it all to his liking. Opening the door to his original cell and then this one, he climbed inside one of the huge, empty barrels, screaming at the top of his voice before ducking below the rim.
Footsteps pounded past. Voices echoed from the stone and torches flickered as Besmir controlled his breathing, hoping they fell for his trap.
“We’re in for it if we can’t find him!” one of the soldiers whined, his voice high and panicked.
“Go tell the captain while I search.”
“No chance!” the other man cried. “I’m not reporting this; you go!”
“Hold up! This door weren’t open before; he must have gone in here.”
“Go on, then,” the first said.
“But … he might burn me!”
“I might go report to the captain, after all,” the first man said.
“Not likely!” his friend squealed. “Get in here with me!”
Besmir smiled as he listened to the men trying to creep into the room. Even though it was small, the clutter inside meant there were a number of places he might have hidden. Beneath a table, behind a stack of broken chairs, or behind a large board that had been dumped in here.
The king waited until the pair had passed him before standing up. Both men were gingerly peering into the hiding spaces he had purposely built for them to search. As quietly as he could, Besmir stepped from the barrel and backed towards the open door. Not until the hinges squealed did either man realize what was happening, and by that time it was too late.
They turned and ran for the door just as Besmir slammed it shut, sliding the bolt across to seal them inside. One of them peered through the grill that had been set in this wooden door, his eyes pleading with Besmir.
“Let us out, Majesty,” he moaned. “Please?”
The other man shoved his companion aside and pressed his own face to the grill. “Open this door!” he shouted.
“Sorry, lads,” Besmir said calmly. “Someone will be down to let you out sooner or later.”
Besmir left them calling to him as he disappeared along the corridor and slipped through the door.
Merdon snapped awake, his eyes darting about the wooden cage of branches they were in. Beside him, Lyeeta made a contented sound and wriggled herself closer. The prince wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and go back to sleep, but his senses told him something was wrong.
Gently, he unwrapped the sleeping guard from his side and rolled to his feet, drawing both swords with a soft hiss. The fire had burned low, nothing more than a dull orange glow covered with dark ash that gave out no light at all. The cage of willow branches and leaves effectively cut off all light from the stars, leaving Merdon in utter darkness.
A gentle breeze wafted the willow leaves about him, bringing an eerie sound to his ears. Merdon tilted his head, trying to hear if there was anything else out there that was about to leap at him from the darkness. He found he had been holding his breath, and his lungs began to burn with the need to breathe.
As he let the air from his lungs as quietly as possible, the sound of twigs and branches rattling came to him as something entered the shelter of the willow trees. Merdon reached down, his hand tangling in Lyeeta’s hair a
nd tugging gently.
“Hnn...Merdo..”
“Shh,” he hissed, keeping his right-hand sword pointed in the direction of whatever was stalking them.
He felt Lyeeta get to her feet beside him, pressing herself against his body she breathed in his ear. “What’s wrong?”
“Breathing,” he said, his voice as silent as a butterfly wing. “Listen.”
She fell silent, her breath tickling his neck as she exhaled gently. Even so, he could hear a deep whistle as something else breathed near them. He tightened his grip on his swords, running through a number of combinations that he could use to surround them in a ring of steel.
When he was just about to launch an attack, the massive creature leaned in close, its hot breath puffing over his hand. The lick was unexpected, the animal’s rough tongue lifting his cheek as it lapped at him, purring.
“Teghime!” he cried in surprise. “Teghime is that you, girl?”
The great cat nudged him in the chest, growling low in her throat as he buried his fingers in her warm fur. The pressure that had been building in his chest dissipated, flushed out by warm relief.
“She came to you,” Lyeeta whispered, still feeling the need to be silent.
“Grandfather said she was scared of him … after I locked him up,” Merdon said, ruffling Teghime’s fur. “I thought she’d just run off, but she must have tracked us.”
Happiness at the cat finding them, coming to him, warmed his chest. He smiled when Lyeeta blew life back into the fire, adding a few sticks that started to crackle, lighting the daasnu’s face. Merdon had forgotten just how old the cat was; his father had found her thirty years ago, and there was no telling how old she had been then. Her muzzle sprouted gray fur, and some of her whiskers were ghost white. Scars crossed her face and forelegs, evidence of her loyalty to Besmir in battle.
“We can catch up with Grandfather now,” Merdon said. “Follow him to Port Vartula.”
Lyeeta added more wood to their little fire, warming the air beneath the willows as Teghime curled up on the ground, head on paws, and promptly closed her eyes.
“I wish I could fall asleep that easily,” Merdon said with a smile.
“I could,” Lyeeta said, folding herself back up beside the willow trunk.
She looked up at Merdon, inviting him down with her eyes. Hot pressure built inside his chest as he stared at her, holding her gaze just long enough to make her smirk and look away.
The prince squatted beside her, stretching his legs out and sliding his back down the tree until he sat beside her. The length of her leg pressed against his, firm and warm through their clothing, and his skin tingled from the contact.
Wordlessly, Lyeeta leaned her head back on Merdon’s chest, grabbing his hand and throwing it over her shoulders. She intertwined her fingers with his and sighed.
Merdon paused for a second before lifting her face gently towards his. Her eyes searched his face for any sign as to what he wanted, her lips parting as he leaned down. He caught her plump lower lip between his own, massaging it gently.
15
“You have your orders, gentlemen. Carry them out,” Khaleen said to the commanders of the Gazluthian army. Saluting her respectfully, they turned to file out and begin the march towards the mercenary camp. She had spent the past day planning and strategizing, compiling reports and coming up with a three-pronged attack that should disable and defeat the men inside the camp.
Their main force was to attack the front gate, smashing through and pouring inside. Meanwhile, two smaller forces were to scale the walls using ladders, taking control of the camp and grinding the mercenaries between the three forces.
Simple, but effective.
Khaleen massaged her leg, stretching the muscles and relieving the ache that was almost always there now. Slevward had sent over some packets of herbs with a letter that explained their use for pain relief. Her aide placed a cup of the vile brew before her, a curl of steam rising from the hot water.
“Drink up while it’s hot,General,” he said.
Khaleen glared at the man, shooting daggers into him with her eyes. Even though she could not see a smile on his face, Khaleen knew the whole situation was amusing to the man she had known for years. The earwax-bitter tea did seem to make the pain easier to bear, but she could not decide if it was worth enduring the taste of the vile liquid to be free of it.
Knowing Slevward, it’s a trick.
Thoughts of the Waravalian doctor and his volatile mood swings started to make Khaleen feel down, so she put him from her mind and struggled to her feet, limping outside to where a cart waited to take her to the staging area.
Slowly, she climbed into the back and settled herself in the large chair that had been hastily constructed for her. No sooner was she in place than the teamster flicked his reins, driving the horses on.
Khaleen watched the landscape flow by, her eyes locking onto the mass of tree stumps, evidence of the amount of building that had taken place in and around the camp. Minutes passed before she got her first glimpse of the palisade wall they had built at ground level.
A trench had been dug around the camp; then the excavated earth had been piled up, compacted, and the entire thing lined with sharpened stakes. Driven deep into the top and strapped tightly together sat a row of dressed and prepared logs that fit so closely they had become a ten-foot wall.
Impressive.
Her driver made sure to stay well out of the range of any archers as they trotted along the length of the camp.
It’s bigger than it looked from above.
Several mercenaries called obscenities at her as she passed, making lewd gestures and exposing themselves from the top of the wall.
Animals.
The staging area before the main gates was a hive of activity, with both the Gazluthian and Waravalian armies forming up and preparing to attack. Khaleen stood up in the back of the cart and surveyed the area. Atop the wall, directly over the gates they were about to breach, a huge number of large boulders had been stacked. Massive pots were also being boiled, full of either oil or water to pour on her soldiers.
People are going to suffer today.
King Vetrulian approached with Collise at his side. He was dressed in full armor, polished to a mirror sheen, while she wore a white blouse, green skirt, and tight-fitting leather waistcoat. Both were armed.
“How do you fare?” Vetrulian asked.
“Well now, thank you, Sire,” Khaleen replied. “Are you planning to take part in the assault?”
“Oh, yes,” Vetrulian said, scratching his cheek. “It’s more or less expected, really. Can’t ask the lads to risk their lives if I won’t, eh?” He grinned.
Khaleen looked down, knowing she should be in the thick of things with her own troops, especially as King Besmir would be if he were here. The injury to her leg, however, made it impossible.
“No one’s expecting the same of you, Khaleen,” Collise said, with a pointed look at her husband.
“Are you going to offer them terms?” Khaleen asked, ignoring the comment.
“I suppose I should,” Vetrulian said, reluctantly. “Don’t especially want to, though.”
The king marched off toward the camp to give them the chance to surrender as Collise leaned against the cart and watched him go.
“So how is the leg, really?” she asked.
“Agony,” Khaleen replied. “It feels worse than when the arrow was in there.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Collise muttered as she watched Vetrulian march forward. “Maybe you need to go back and see Slevward again.”
“After the way he treated me? The way he spoke to me?” Khaleen cried. “Not likely!”
“He’s fond of you,” the queen said, with a sly smile on her face.
Khaleen fell silent, contemplating what Collise had just said. How could it be possible that the doctor was fond of her, when he had been so rude and dismissive? “Unlikely,” she muttered. “He certainly disapproves of my care
er choice.”
“Well, I saw the way you were looking at him, all moon-eyed and wistful,” Collise said. “And he was really impressed that you managed to walk again. There’s something there, I think.” Collise peered at Khaleen from the corner of her eyes.
“Hm,” Khaleen muttered. “Here goes nothing,” she added, nodding at the king, who was about to speak.
“Let it be known to all within these walls,” the king bellowed up at the men atop the gate. “That I, King Vetrulian of Waraval, hereby declare that any who surrender without conflict will be treated fairly by trial and sentenced according to current law!”
“We obey no king, and follow our own laws!” someone yelled back.
Khaleen watched as a space was made for him and she squinted up to see the man who had apparently amalgamated the mercenary bands into a cohesive force. He did not look particularly impressive, from her vantage point. Silvery hair flowed around his shoulders, and he wore the same ragged armor the rest did, with nothing to show he was running things.
“Do you accept these terms as offered?”
“Shove them up your royal backside!” the leader yelled, bringing calls and jeers from the men beside him.
“Glad you said that,” Vetrulian responded, retreating to the front ranks. “Archers!” he called.
Five hundred bowmen and women readied their bows at once, all waiting for Vetrulian’s signal. The king raised his arm, locking eyes with the man atop the wall, before dropping it.
Khaleen heard the combined whooshing twang of five hundred bowstrings firing simultaneously, watched as the dark cloud of buzzing arrows arced up over the wall and fell like deadly rain behind it. Within seconds, screams reached her ears as people beyond the palisade were pierced through.
“Shields!” Vetrulian barked.
Soldiers brought their shields to bear, covering their comrades as the men atop the wall struggled to return fire. Khaleen saw they did not work as a cohesive unit, individuals and groups firing at different times with no real leadership.
Might not be too bad once we get inside.
