by L J Andrews
He sighed and nudged Agnus in the side. “There were some good things about home, a lot of bad too. But someday I’m going to fix the bad.”
Agnus only shrugged, clasped her hoe, and took to churning soil. Roark glanced at the lettering and shapes decorating his forearms now. The skin was raised and irritated, but the burn from hot needles and ink was gone. Keeping illegal words that had caused the fall of an empire concealed on a scroll was idiotic. Everything written by the Light King was now permanently penned on his skin in languages only scribes with higher study could interpret. The day he’d burned the scroll was the day Roark of House Varonis died and his search for vengeance grew to obsession.
“Hey, want to play?” Furv said with a wiggle to his brow.
Roark glanced at the ground where the boy had carved a rough board into the dirt. Furv dangled his pouch of pebbles as if it were filled with gold. Roark sighed and sometimes regretted teaching Agnus and Furv to play Kings and Swine. “There’s work to do. Since I spent my purse I need to work, or like Ouma said, I don’t eats.”
Furv clicked his tongue and tucked his collection of small stones back into his deep pocket. “Suit yourself. Just remember there’s always work and then we die. Best to enjoy a little bit of life along the way.”
Roark snorted and chopped the spade into the clay. “You know the game is based on betrayal and war, right?”
“How do you know all these things?” Furv muttered and gnawed on a golden stalk of tasteless wheat. “That makes it less exciting to play.”
With a small scoff Roark shrugged. “Not if you’re the cunning one that takes the crown. It can be quite exciting.”
“Well, you always end up the king and us the swine. You must be a very cunning one.”
“It’s easy to be a kingmaker in the game if you’re willing to break trust along the way. The purpose is to use your wits. The player with the most sense and strategy will always win,” Roark said.
“My oumi once told me my grandpapa owned a board made of marble with bone and real gems for the markers,” Agnus said without glancing up from her work. “Course I never saw it because she said he had to sell it to pay his tavern debts, but I think I wouldn’t play such a board for fear of breaking it, if it was true.”
Agnus rarely spoke of her family, so Roark knew little about how she came to be an orphan in the Gaps, only that she was an orphan. “I’ve seen some fine boards before.” When Agnus looked at Roark through a furrowed brow, he cleared his throat and added, “When traders came through the desert. They always carried fine things.”
“Who are they?” Furv asked. The boy gnawed on a dried blade of grass without a bead of sweat on his brow yet. He was going to get a beating, but Roark imagined after the amount of beatings Furv had already received for laziness, his backside was likely numb.
Roark followed Furv’s gaze to a group of men stalking toward the farmhouse. They were dressed in black, apart from the lead man. He wore a silk cap and silk vest over a linen shirt, not a tunic, an actual shirt tucked into black trousers. A noble? Possibly. Roark wet the earth with splashes from the bucket before digging the spade through the soil to moisten the row for planting. He kept a side glance on the men now speaking to Ouma. The hairs on his arms stood on end, but he shrugged for Furv’s sake. “Traders. Merchants looking for grains to sell. That’s all. Now let’s get to work so we can have something decent to eat.”
Screams and sounds of swallowing blood filled his dreams most nights. Usually the gasps came from his dying mother; tonight it seemed so real. Roark jolted upright in the hay when a swift boot lodged in his stomach. Bile soaked his throat and he heaved a few gagging breaths before the second kick struck.
The barn was in an uproar. A shrill scream pulsed through his head—Agnus. Roark tasted blood on his tongue, but his mind sharpened in time to grasp tight to the leather-covered foot as it wound to strike again.
A beast of a man bounced on one leg for a heartbeat until Roark twisted his ankle and the man tumbled backward. Roark wiped his mouth and crooked his arm around the neck of another man dragging Agnus by the hair. Squeezing tight enough, Roark could feel the tendons and ligaments crush. His cheek rested against the bearded face and he nearly vomited from the smell. Dry scalp, unwashed beard from too many greasy meals, and stale sweat clogged deep into the threads of the attacker’s clothing. The man was shorter, but burly, and swatted thick hands behind his head trying to free himself. Agnus dropped when the man gasped for air.
“Go,” Roark commanded and nodded toward the door.
She met his gaze through swollen eyes, but soon darted for the exit. Roark let the gasping man fall to the straw and ripped one of the three-pronged rakes from the wall.
“Now, now, we don’t need any sort of trouble.”
Roark peered over his shoulder at the voice and felt blood drain from his cheeks. Furv trembled, a dagger drew blood across his throat, as the man they’d seen earlier in his silk vest clutched the lanky youth to his chest. Roark clamped his jaw until it seemed to lock in place with a pop and tossed the rake. The fraud wasn’t noble. Roark could see now the weathered belt, tarnished buckles, and painted gold rings. And he was missing a middle finger on one hand.
“That’s a good boy,” Silk Vest said. “Now, since most of these gutter rats are as pale as clouds, I’m going to need you to be completely honest with me boy. Are you from Jershon?”
Roark’s stomach flipped until the noonday crusts of bread and curdled milk tossed together like a stormy sea. Sobs came from behind. From the corner of his eye he saw a dark brute dragging Agnus back into the barn, his wide palm wrapped around her throat, a knife steadied against her ribs. The brute had to duck his boxy head inside the barn. His skin was glossy from the bulge of muscles stretching and threatening. Even more terrible than an enormous brute holding a small girl was Ouma. The old woman stood hunched from behind. Roark narrowed his gaze at the farm woman, and for a moment he thought there was a flash of remorse in her pale eyes. Until Silk Vest tossed a purse jingling with coppers into her knobby hands. Then Ouma turned on her heel and never looked back.
Roark’s breaths were rapid, tight, and his lungs burned when he faced Furv with his captor. Internally he was chaotic, but Roark had always been able to hide emotion with flat expressions. The other farmhands were sprawled face down in the straw quivering and muttering, though one man wasn’t moving, and the straw was a sickly burgundy near his head. Roark had never needed sharp instincts as a scribe but found when he’d forced his educated mind to survive in the wild Gaps the consequence was a developed ability to think on his feet. On one hand, admitting he was from Jershon might free the others. But on the other, more likely, hand, admitting he was Jershonian gave Silk Vest what he clearly wanted, and the others could be killed, or sold anyway. The man with four fingers clearly wasn’t a human trapper, he was clean of the crossed scar on the throat or forehead. But the others were trappers. Deadly ones.
“I don’t understand you,” Roark blurted in hurried Mulekian. Silk Vest glared and Roark used his hands to seem more out of control than he was. “What are you saying? What do you want from us?”
“What is he saying?” Silk Vest pressed. “Is he Jershonian? The hag said he was a refugee from Jershon.”
“He speaks Emperor Baz’s language,” one trapper said from behind Agnus.
“Why is he brown then?”
The trapper sighed and stepped in front of Roark. He shoved a strong finger against Roark’s chest and shouted in broken Mulekian. “He wants to know why you brown?” He signaled to his skin.
Roark furrowed his brow, his eyes widened, though inside he was a tumultuous body of red rage. “Father is Zaharan, Mother is Mulekian.”
The trapper clicked his tongue seeming almost bored with the terror they’d caused. “Halfling, Bale.”
Bale. Roark committed the name to memory.
Bale tossed Furv to the ground, but a trapper gathered him up before he could scramble away. Fur
v spluttered as tears splashed on his cheeks when the trapper grinned and pressed a kiss to the boy’s head. Roark stomped a single step in Furv’s direction but stopped when Bale crunched his grip around the back of his neck. The man’s pocked face was ugly and there was no light in his eyes. “I don’t think he is a halfling, or he would be in the ice mines or tossed in a pit with the rest of them. He fits the description, even down to the scar on his chin.”
Roark tried not to react as he thought of the nick in his skin that came from the blade tip of Kawal’s soldier that fateful night.
“Could he be the one General Kawal wanted?” Silk Vest muttered. “We need something to barter with, or the general will not join our cause.”
Roark’s legs threatened to crumble. Bale wasn’t speaking to Roark or the trappers, he was glancing toward the shadows of the barn. The cloak moved so slowly it almost seemed as though a mist surrounded the man. Draped head to toe in crimson with black filigree over his breast the cloak floated next to Bale. Roark swallowed hard, though there was no moisture in his mouth. A living, breathing banesman noted by the silver scimitar on his hip wrapped in a gold sheath. A hired sword and fierce killer in the folds of night. Banesman were the closest to living Lightborn, but more than a few turned away from the Light King and his rays to serve a different sort of power.
The banesman shed his hood to reveal skin so gray it almost seemed translucent. His eyes were dark, normal, apart from the rapid dilation of his pupils as he studied Roark’s face. Roark tried not to look away, but the banesman touched his gleaming hilt and all Roark could watch was the weapon on his hip.
“I hear the voice of his rays. They are tormented and there is poisonous hatred in his heart.”
It was a risk, even for a banesman to speak of the Mount rays out in the open. Many still worshiped the Mount and its gods, but the Gaps were where most Blood Knights roamed. And they were a death sentence.
“Is he the one you saw?”
The banesman tilted his head and Roark froze in place. “I do not see specifics and you would be wise not to demand details, only disaster follows when too much is foreseen. He hides truths, and his mind is one of cunning. It is possible he could be he.”
“Show him the piece,” Bale urged at the banesman’s back.
The assassin smiled and flashed wet teeth too large for his mouth. Roark’s attention drew to his open palm. In the center of dirt and scabs was a stone hanging from a silver chain. Roark tilted his head as his heart quickened pace. The stone seemed as if there were flames trapped within, but nothing so remarkable it would catch anyone off guard. Except something tugged at Roark’s soul. As if a thread hooked his sinews the chain and stone demanded his attention. Somehow Roark knew it was unique—the stone had power.
Swallowing hard, Roark cursed his weakness for reacting when the banesman let out a raspy chuckle. “He knows this is no ordinary amulet. That would mean he knows ancient texts.”
It couldn’t be an amulet of the Mount, yet the closer Roark drew to the piece the more certain he became it wasn’t an ordinary stone. Bale clapped his hands and laughed. “Oh, I think you know how valuable this is, boy. So, he could be the scribe Kawal searched for after the siege?”
Roark wanted to gnash his teeth, or strip flesh, if anyone mentioned that name again. The banesman tilted his head and Roark wasn’t sure if the man had even blinked once.
“Perhaps,” he said as he gripped a bony hand around Roark’s forearm and traced the tattoos. “Forgotten languages? Most farm boys wouldn’t know such writings.”
Bale shoved past the banesman and unsheathed an onyx dagger. “That’s enough proof for me. We’ll take his head to Kawal.”
Agnus screamed, Furv whimpered, and Roark tugged against the trapper holding him still. The banesman lifted a hand, his voice even and cool but with enough power it stopped Bale on his bloody path. “I would not.”
Bale narrowed his gaze. “Are you mad? This boy, along with the amulet, will be plenty to convince the general to act. I hired you to help me take what’s owed me.” His held up is four-fingered hand with fury.
The banesman grasped the cuff of Bale’s shirt. Everything stilled, even Furv’s gasps ceased. “You hired me to see what you cannot.”
Roark held his breath. This banesman spoke as if he were a Diviner, a breed with future sight, and nearly as rare as Lightborn.
“If you spill his blood, I see the end of your days.”
Bale grimaced but there was a flash of hesitation in his eye. “You’ve said that with the other I plan to execute.”
The banesman stepped back and shrugged. “Kill him then. It’s your life to risk, I suppose.”
After stunned silence threatened to rot all their senses from pressure, Bale cursed and slapped Roark across the face. “It seems everyone I desire to kill will somehow cause my death.”
“I do not divine the gods’ chosen,” said the banesman, earning a scowl from Bale.
Roark pinched his mouth tight. The banesman must be a fraud, for he certainly was no chosen one by false gods.
“Fine. Take him then. I’m surrounded by incompetence.” Bale stomped about like a spoiled child as he smacked the wooden beams holding up the barn roof. He shoved a dirty finger in the face of the largest trapper. “But make certain he is placed somewhere he’ll never be found. Let Kawal think he is dead. I’ll pay any added fees. Take them all, as promised.”
The trappers jeered and squealed in delight. Roark spat blood and met Furv’s eye when they were both yanked to their feet. This wasn’t the plan. How had the banesman found the amulet? More than ever, Roark couldn’t afford to be bartered by trappers, but with knives, swords, and chains on every man, there was little he could do. He was no warrior.
“What about this one?” Roark’s blood ran cold. Agnus’s trapper clutched her chin and grinned. “She’s dirty, but quite pretty.”
Bale grumbled and stalked toward the open barn. “I know a handful of red houses that will pay top coin for her. Now, take them. We’ve lingered too long. Too many Blood Knights in these parts.”
“No,” Roark tussled with his trapper and tried to reach for Agnus. No one in the barn seemed to mind his accent had changed. “Don’t touch her.”
Agnus sobbed and reached for Roark. Furv was paler, if possible, and seemed ready to vomit. “Ro,” Agnus cried. “Ro…please…”
Roark tossed an elbow against the trapper’s nose that earned him a kick to the back of the knees, and the butt of a sword to his head. His skull buzzed and filtered in and out of light and dark. Roark heard Agnus cry his name then plead for her safety. Then the night came.
Chapter 5
The Amulet
Kawal stomped down the isolated corridor as the main areas of the manse filled with lutes and laughter. Tjuvar port exhausted him, and he didn’t like the way cries of the traded people echoed in his head. Their sobs were supposed to mean nothing. All he was meant to see was profit made on the backs of sturdy Jershons. So, it wasn’t his concern if some slave brokers didn’t want children to stay with mothers, or men with their families. It didn’t matter. He shook his head to dull the echoes and shoved through the heavy wooden door to the master chamber.
Emperor Baz had been gracious with treasures since the siege months earlier. Kawal’s manse once belonged to Emperor Abram and was equal in size and glamor to Baz’s new gilded palace. The alabaster and marble manor spanned half a hillside and ruled above the clay homes and apartments in the city of Sortis below. Yet, the riches were a marionette string and Kawal was the puppet for Baz. His ambition to overthrow the emperor dwindled with every sunset as Baz gained more support and loyalty from the people.
Kawal could hear drunken celebration in the great hall. Celebration for what? It didn’t seem to matter, his society found reasons to make merry every night. His halls, rooms, and tables were never empty. High-ranking officers, nobles, judges, anyone of worth spent their nights in Kawal’s home. Tonight though, the cheap love from
working women or fallen nobles looking for security by befriending the general, the stench of ale and praises to his name did little to entice him to stay. Kawal would drink himself into a stupor. Alone. Or until the brown eyes of women chained by their wrists left his mind.
They aren’t my people anymore. Kawal swallowed the catch in his throat and unsnapped the chin strap of his gold helmet. His brown hair matted across his damp brow and every divot of muscle ached from the journey to the coast with the emperor’s trade.
His body screamed for numbness, but the bloody work of the day didn’t dull everything. Heightened senses allowed Kawal the strength of mind to rip the jade sword from his sheath, and spin on his heel fast enough, until the cutting edge nestled against the fleshy neck of the intruder in his room.
The man rose from his shadowed place in the corner of the room and chuckled. “General Kawal, forgive the intrusion, but you are a difficult man to see.”
“State your reason for being in my chamber, though you shall likely lose your life no matter what spews out.”
The man held up his hands, Kawal noted the missing finger, but his blade didn’t slacken. “I have need of your assistance.”
Kawal sneered. “Many do. Tell your men to come out.”
“I assure you, General, I’m here alone. A sign of good faith. And my request for service is different, for it is a threat to your empire.”
“The empire of Emperor Baz, peasant.”
“Oh, come now, General,” the man laughed. “I’m not the only one who sees the real strength behind Jershon’s power.”
“You speak treason, snake.” He spat the words, but his blade eased away from the man’s throat. Kawal always claimed Jershon as his, and someday it would be.
“Perhaps. I am Bale, barbarian, swindler, negotiator, I hold many titles, sir. I’ve come with a gift you will find most valuable.”
Kawal took a step back and sheathed his blade. The man was alone. He’d silently scanned the room and not a soul hid in the shadows. “Valuable enough to risk your life? Fine, swindler, your brash move has paid for two minutes.”
