Jekaran nodded to himself. “Any chance you can bribe one of the mercenaries to drop the key to these?” Jekaran raised his manacled wrists and drew the chain taut for emphasis.
Vestus dropped his eyes to the ground, a look of shame coming over his face.
“He threatened you, didn’t he,” Jekaran said.
Vestus nodded. “He knows we’re neighborly with you. He said that if any of us try to help you that our lands would be seized and our families put off the farm. I still have little ones at home, Jek. I can’t—”
“Then you best not be seen talking with me,” Jekaran interrupted.
Vestus nodded solemnly, rose to his feet, and picked up the tin bowl from the ground.
“I’m sorry, Jek. I really am.”
“It’s my own fault,” Jekaran said. He hadn’t needed to come after the sword, not in the truest sense. But the link didn’t allow another course of action. If that were the only reason, Jekaran wouldn’t feel so foolish. The truth was that the excitement of stealing the sword back from Gymal had been just as much of a lure as the sword pulling on his mind. Adventure is the lure of fools he heard his uncle’s voice echo in the ears of his memory. “And I am a fool,” he whispered to himself.
The next four days became Jekaran’s own personal hell. Being chained made it difficult to sleep at night, even though he was beyond exhaustion. Vestus did his best to save a portion of each meal for him, but the man was not always successful. And even when he was, there was often not much left for Jekaran to eat. To top it all off, Gymal made a public ritual out of ridiculing him- which for some reason stung more than Jekaran’s physical pains. The work itself was hard, but ironically, it became the easiest part of his suffering. The whole ordeal muddled his mind so that he had a hard time seeing beyond the moment. That made him all the more vulnerable to despair and he soon found himself in an angry melancholy. He channeled that fire into his work. At first it was to give vent to his anger, but later it became a fire that gave him energy. And so he nurtured it by chanting a mental mantra with each swing of his pickaxe.
Swing and CLANK!
Damn Ez for giving him the sword!
Swing and CLANK!
Damn the sword for pulling on his mind!
Swing and CLANK!
Damn Irvis and Karak for not coming to rescue him!
Swing and CLANK!
Damn Rasheera for ignoring his prayers!
Swing—but most of all, Jekaran would damn himself for being a fool—and CRACK!
The change in sound jolted him from his thoughts and Jekaran looked up to see shards of rock fall from the rock wall to reveal a soft amethyst light. His eyes focused on a smooth, translucent, crystalline surface buried beneath the rock.
He heard his pickaxe hit the ground, and, a beat later, one of his fellow excavators began shouting something. The rhythmic sound of picks striking rock had ceased all around him, replaced by excited chatter and more shouting.
He had found the Apeira well.
“Well, I suppose this proves the gods have a sense of humor,” Gymal drawled.
Jekaran flexed his brain in order to think of a biting comeback witty enough to make the entire onlooking camp laugh aloud, but nothing came. He was too exhausted, or maybe it was worse. Maybe Gymal had finally broken him.
“No clever cheek, Jekaran? Maybe you have begun to learn your place.” He smirked.
Again, no retort would come. That frightened him.
“What of the reward?” one of the men called out.
Gymal smiled, not taking his eyes off Jekaran. “I did promise something to the man who first found the well, didn’t I.”
Jekaran didn’t like the dangerous note in Gymal’s tone.
“Jekaran was the first to find it, and being a man of my word, he will get the reward!” Gymal’s announcement ignited angry murmuring, and one well-finder went so far as to jeer.
“Quiet!” Hort shouted and the camp fell silent.
“Well, Jekaran?” Gymal asked. “What is it that you want?”
He’s baiting you, Jekaran warned himself. He’s going to turn whatever I ask for around on me. He tried to think of everything he could ask for and how it might be turned ill. If I ask for freedom, he could kill me, and if I ask for rest, he might have me knocked unconscious. I definitely don’t want to ask for my sword or extra water. Asking for food would also grant Gymal a wonderful array of options. Jekaran looked down at Irvis’ filthy, tattered robe.
“I would like some new clothes,” he said, confident there was no way Gymal could twist that into a punishment.
He was wrong.
The soldiers and some of the well-finders laughed, hooted, and catcalled as Hort shoved him out of one of Gymal’s tents. He clenched his jaw, looking down at the humiliation Gymal exacted on his request. Velvet and green, Jekaran could only guess why Gymal would own the evening gown, much less have brought it on the expedition. The weaselly little lord was thoroughly enjoying this, even going so far as to tie red ribbons in Jekaran’s hair and fitting him with a black choker. He reached up and twisted the thin crimson material between two fingers and dropped his hands to the side. Gymal had his eager vengeance for the pranks the year before.
At least they had needed to remove his manacles in order to dress him for the spectacle.
Jekaran stumbled to the ground, quickly deciding it best to stay down and keep his eyes shut. If hard labor and half starvation hadn’t broken him before, this would almost certainly do the trick. He listened hard for Vestus’ laughter and was grateful when he didn’t hear it among the derisive chorus.
The laughing seemed to go on without end and Jekaran retreated inward to escape. He fixated on his psychic bond to the sword talis, instantly knowing where it was and how far away he was from it. That didn’t make him feel better, but the power of the distraction took the edge off the ridicule. It worked so well, that Jekaran didn’t even hear the voice whispering in his ear until it repeated itself a third time.
“Uska stupid human boy be ready,” Karak hissed into his ear.
Jekaran opened his eyes and glanced toward the sound. He had expected to see a slight wavy distortion to the air marking Karak’s presence in his veiled form, but there was no sign of the Vorakk shaman. He was about to chalk the voice up to intense wishful thinking when he caught movement on his right periphery. Jekaran looked to his right and found a small, marble-sized ball of light hovering just above his ear. It looked like a glow fly, but glow flies didn’t shine bright enough to be seen during the day. Jekaran squinted at the sight and then gasped. There was no mistaking it – it was one of Karak’s spirit orbs.
It zipped away and Jekaran half lifted a hand as if to catch it. Be ready for what?
A sound like rumbling thunder stilled all of the laughter and Jekaran snapped his head up in time to see Gymal, the soldiers, and all of the well-finders glancing around in confused silence. The rumbling grew louder and then the ground began to shake. Jekaran sat back on his haunches and looked around stupidly.
What was—?
A cracking sound accompanied an explosion of dust from the ground and Jekaran saw a fissure form, snaking its way across the camp and tearing open the earth. What followed was pure pandemonium as the soldiers and well-finders scattered to find safety. Jekaran struggled to stand as the ground heaved beneath his feet and tipped him into a backward fall. Hands on his back steadied him and Jekaran turned to find the boy Lyam standing at his right side, gripping his forearm. The shy boy wasn’t wearing the oversized hat and spectacles that always half-hid his face.
“Mae?” Jekaran gasped. What was she doing here?
“Move you idiot!” She pulled on his arm and forced him to the right.
They stumbled into a run, Jekaran having to hike his dress up with his free hand in order to keep from falling. Men shouted and scrambled about as the ground continued to quake. No one cared to pay attention to Jekaran running through the camp. The quake subsided to a manageable tremor b
y the time they reached the outer ring of tents and the ghern picket line. The beasts bayed, bucked and strained against their bonds. A man stood near the animals, a long serrated blade held in his right hand. He was dressed in a simple white tunic and brown trousers, but the round face and white hair were unmistakable. It was Irvis.
The monk laughed when he saw Jekaran’s dress and whistled as he made a show of looking Jekaran up and down. “You make a pretty little thing, don’t you child?”
Jekaran shot him a glare as he tore the black choker from his neck. “Took your sweet time coming for me,” he snapped.
“Your grateful sentiment is very endearing.” Irvis laughed, and sawed on the rope tethering the nearest ghern until it snapped. The beast bellowed and shouldered past him, breaking into a run out of the camp.
“What are you doing?” Jekaran asked.
“Making sure we’re not followed,” He severed the tether of another ghern. “Don’t worry. Karak has mounts waiting for us. Go on ahead. I’ll be done here in a second.”
“Not yet!” Jekaran pulled out of Maely’s grip and began running back into the camp.
“Jekaran!” he heard her shout.
He quickly touched his bond to the sword and hurried to Gymal’s tent in the center of the camp. He hesitated at the tent door and listened to see if it was occupied. The din of confused and frightened shouting made it difficult to tell, so Jekaran threw caution to the wind and lifted the canvas flap.
Empty.
The only light filtering into the tent came from the sun at his back and a small hole near the floor in the back of the tent. Jekaran hesitated a moment before the sword flooded his mind a second time with miraculous familiarity of the tent’s interior, making sight unnecessary. Jekaran rushed to the side of Gymal’s four-poster to the long lockbox lying next to Gymal’s travel trunk.
At least the man is consistent.
“Jekaran!”
He started and glanced at the tent door to see Maely’s backlit head poking into the tent.
Had she cut her hair?
He turned back, grabbed the lockbox, and then stood.
“What are you doing?” the girl hissed.
Jekaran moved toward the door—he would let Irvis pick the lock this time once they were safe—and gently pushed passed Maely and out of the tent.
“You’re going to get us caught!” she snapped at him.
Fitting words, Jekaran realized, as he saw Gymal, Hort, and two mercenary soldiers rushing toward them.
“Come on!” He grabbed Maely’s arm and pulled her from the tent.
A glance over his shoulder showed the soldiers overtaking Gymal as the short, skinny man started to flag. “Don’t kill him!” he heard Gymal shout to Hort, who had already put considerable distance between himself and his lord.
The bastard probably wasn’t finished tormenting me, Jekaran thought. Why else would he order his men to spare me?
Jekaran looked ahead to find that he and Maely were heading for a naturally formed stone arch beyond a narrow path that inclined up one side of a rocky hill. Hill might have been an understatement, he realized. The monstrous monolith of eroded, orange stone looked more like a miniature mountain. He was about to bank right to avoid the treacherous path, but Hort and the mercenaries were closing so quickly that they would definitely overtake them if he changed direction.
He sped up and towed Maely furiously through the archway.
“Where are we going?” she shouted.
He shook his head. The path they headed toward could frighten her more than she already was, and the incline slowed them. He glanced over his shoulder and the strain lightened. Hort and his two mercenary comrades were struggling, and the distance between them growing.
Their armor will tire them out before we run out of energy. We can outrun them!
Just when Jekaran was starting to feel smug about his projected victory, his feet tangled on the hem of his dress and he pitched forward taking Maely with him. The lockbox slipped out from underneath his arm and crashed down to the rocky ground behind him. Jekaran heard the distinct sound of splintering wood followed by the clang of steel.
“My sword!” he blurted out as he hit the rocky ground.
He rolled down the incline, but not in straight line and before he knew it, Jekaran was going off a rocky ledge. He dug his fingernails into the ground, which slowed his momentum enough for him to purchase a tenuous grip on the ledge, but not before his lower body had swung over, leaving Jekaran’s feet dangling free while he desperately worked to keep his upper body from sliding down further.
“Jek!” he heard Maely scream from somewhere up the path.
At least she hadn’t fallen off the side of the cliff. That thought made Jekaran look down, a terribly stupid mistake. His heart leapt into his throat. He was dangling more than thirty feet above a very rocky ground. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, kicking his legs and throwing everything he had into to trying to pull himself up over the ledge. The effort rebounded on him, his tense muscles releasing and betraying him to exhaustion. He began to slip, a second straining effort doing nothing more than slowing his fall.
His fingers slipped against the rock, and dread filled him as he closed his eyes. He was going to fall.
In a final effort, he clawed the surface, and then felt his dress pull tight around his back and underneath his arms. He looked up and saw Hort’s beefy arm pulling him up. The man strained and dragged Jekaran up over the rock ledge, the sharp rock ruthlessly scraping Jekaran’s arms and legs and tearing his dress.
That’s a shame, he thought. It looks expensive. Then he chuckled at the absurdity of the thought, or the giddy relief of his escape from death.
“What’s so funny?” Hort breathlessly demanded as he unceremoniously dropped Jekaran to the ground.
Jekaran rose up on his hands and knees and shook his head. “I ruined Gymal’s dress,” he laughed. It was no longer a laugh of mirth, but more a bitter admission of defeat.
“That is kinda funny,” Hort said. Then he kicked Jekaran soundly in the ribs.
His vision dimmed, his breath robbed from his lungs. He fell back to the ground, rolling onto his right side as he desperately gasped for air. He heard Maely shouting, the sound a distant thing as if it was nothing more than a particularly lively memory. The next sound was a scuffling followed by Maely screaming, not in fear, but in anger.
“Bastards! Get your hands off me!”
For some reason, that comforted Jekaran. He wasn’t sure why, but the idea of Maely’s consistency of temper even in a crisis made him feel better. Not much, but enough for his mind to clear. Or maybe that was the return of oxygen to his brain. It didn’t matter. He rolled back onto his stomach and rose again to all fours, and then rocked back onto his knees. He saw Maely kicking back at the ankles of a mercenary more than three times her size as he dragged her back to the group.
“Let her go!” Jekaran shouted. “She’s not a part of this!”
“She is now,” he heard Hort call from behind him.
Jekaran turned and was struck with a sudden, fierce jealousy as he saw Hort lift the sword talis from the ground. The man stared at the blade, a look of surprised admiration on his face.
“So this is what you were trying steal from ol’ Gymal?” The mercenary reverently touched the amethyst stone embedded in the silver crossguard and barked a short laugh. “I can’t say I blame you.”
“Put it down!” Jekaran heard himself scream. He had once seen an overprotective mother alienate her sister over a jealous obsession of who could hold her newborn baby. He had never understood that mindset until this moment. “I’ll kill you!” he heard himself growling.
Hort looked genuinely taken aback by Jekaran’s sudden ferocity. “What’s this to you?” he asked. “I’ll grant that it’s a fine blade, and no doubt worth a great deal, but you act as if—”
Jekaran was on his feet in a flash, lunging for Hort like a wild man. Hort reflexively swung the swor
d at him, a swing apparently intended to lop off Jekaran’s head. The mercenary cried out in surprise as the blade abruptly halted in midair, as though he had hit an invisible wall.
Jekaran stopped up short, the reality of his near death shocking his mind to clarity. Divine Mother! What was he doing attacking a trained soldier?
All froze in stunned paralysis. Hort was so shocked he even kept the sword raised, the blade only a hair’s-breadth away from the right side of Jekaran’s neck.
The distant clamor of the chaos of the camp below was the only sound piercing the air.
He can’t use it against me, Jekaran realized. The sword was his and would not let anyone else use it against him. His confidence rallied and he smirked at Hort, as though he had known this all along.
Attack, he heard the sword say, actually say—in words. And so he did.
Jekaran brought up his boot and slammed the toe into Hort’s codpiece. The man grunted and dropped his arm. Jekaran took the opportunity to grab Hort’s wrist and forearm. Wow, I can’t even get my hands around his wrist, Jekaran realized with a stab of panic.
Hort was big.
Hort was muscular.
Hort could destroy him.
The sudden image of him twisting Hort’s beefy wrist hard to the right flashed before Jekaran’s mind and he found himself doing exactly that. Hort cried out and let go of the sword. It hadn’t even touched the ground before Jekaran grabbed it, so quickly that he caught it by the blade. He stared down at his hand, which should have been badly sliced, but remarkably, the blade didn’t harm the soft flesh of his palm.
Jekaran quickly turned the sword around and grabbed the handle. Relief like nothing he had ever known washed over him. It was as if he had been thirsty to the point of agony and now his lips touched cool, clean, refreshing water.
He had his sword, and the world felt right again.
Maely felt her eyes widen as Jek performed a standing back flip away from the large mercenary leader as though he were some kind of acrobat. The soldier shook himself out of his stunned stupor, drew his own sword, and lunged at Jek, who confidently whirled to the left just in time to dodge the swing. He then snapped up his right foot, striking the mercenary leader’s wrist and the man cried out in pain, dropping his sword.
The Lure of Fools Page 18
