The afhem pressed, and the crowd parted. Muskigo hit the man again, and again until they were both outside the arena. Farhan’s feet found mud, and he slipped, spinning in time to get his hands out beneath him. He rose to all fours like a dog and sloshed through the slurry into the feet of his men, and stayed there, hoping for protection.
Muskigo shook the grime off his hands, then gestured to his guards to clothe him. He wasn’t even breathing heavy.
“The Glass is fading,” he said, “but we must fight every battle as if it is our last. If we do not, we will join our fathers beneath the sand. So, you will all sleep here, in the freezing cold, until your bones are near shattering. Because, until one of you can best me in combat, we will attack nothing. We will starve if we must because mediocrity will not do.”
The crowd stared in silence and Torsten couldn’t help but join them. The Black Sandsmen he’d battled were arrogant and eager to charge full-tilt into Liam’s wall of shields. They believed that in death they’d join their fallen ancestors in the depths of the Boiling Waters, and they acted like it. This man was different. As he strolled out of the tent, Torsten felt a very human chill run up his spine.
At least that means there’s time, he decided.
This young, impressive afhem was an enemy for a different day. He turned and peered into the crate behind him. The smell wafting out was rank. Raw meat for the beasts. That would come in handy later. He climbed over the fence and into the pen where the smell was even worse. Even on four legs, the zhulong’s backs were as high as Torsten’s chest. The mane along their reptilian necks ran down into a body sheathed in rust-colored scales. Hoglike-snouts, complete with tusks that could gore a man straight through, snorted and dripped. But despite their appearance, they were mild creatures, happy to lounge and roll in the mud—so long as the temptation of fresh meat was far from them.
Torsten snaked his way through the bulky beasts, not daring look down, for even in the darkness he knew what he was slogging through. He pushed forward until he spotted a human slave kneeling amongst a cluster of zhulong, scooping shog into a bucket. She was young, too young for such work, her dress tattered, stained and wet. She lifted the bucket and went to walk toward the water when Torsten lay his massive hand on her shoulder. She shrieked as she whipped around, dropping the bucket onto one of the zhulong’s massive paws, causing a few others to respond as if threatened.
Torsten could only imagine what he looked like to her: a giant, mud-covered monster. He held a finger to his lips as she stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’m here to help you, girl,” he whispered.
“By Iam, You’re a…a…a…” she stammered.
“A Hand of our Lord, brought here to save you from this place. Were you from Oxgate?” She nodded. “They’ll pay for that. But for now, I need you to do something for me.”
“You’re not going to free us?”
“I am, but King Pi needs you.”
“Surely you mean King Liam?”
She doesn’t know. Is it possible none of them do?
“That is a discussion for another day,” he said. “For now, when I leave, you must gather the others in here. When the time is right, run north and don’t look back.”
“How will I kn—”
“You’ll know. I need you to move, fast as you can. Go to Yarrington and ask to speak with Ran—with Wardric of the King’s Shield.”
Rand was a good kid, but he was young and an impressionable. Torsten knew better than most what even less than a week trying to appease Queen Oleander could do to a man. But Wardric had served under Liam. He may have been dour, but only because he’d seen so many of the horrors in Pantego under the flag of a true leader.
“Show this at the gates, and they’ll let you in.” Torsten removed his necklace. He took one long look at the glass pendant, his Eye of Iam given to him by Liam himself, before handing it over. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Abigail,” she squeaked out.
“I’m trusting you with this. The Queen Regent is trusting you. Tell the King’s Shield what you saw here. Spare no detail. Do this, and you will never want for anything again in your life, I swear it by the light of Iam.”
The girl marveled at the necklace as it rested in her shaking palms. She was common born judging by the gauntness of her cheeks. Probably had never seen a piece of jewelry so fine in her life.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I must continue on. But do not fear, Abigail. Iam is with us, even here. He will guide you home. Now, gather the others and prepare to run. Stick to the shadows and let nothing stop you from warning the kingdom.”
She looked terrified. But Torsten knew fear was a better choice than slavery. He held her gaze until finally she nodded and turned.
He grabbed her arm. “The fate of the very kingdom is in your hands, Abigail.”
She nodded slowly and headed off. Torsten watched her go until she vanished behind the haunches of a zhulong. Putting his faith in others hadn’t been easy lately, but, yet again, he had no choice. He had to trust she wouldn’t abscond from duty as Whitney had.
There is still decency in this world, he told himself. Iam hasn’t abandoned us yet.
He hurried back to the portion of fence running along the rec-tent. He crouched by the wood and removed his claymore from its back-scabbard. Then he slid the sword through a gap, careful to not make a sound. Although the warriors were still very much affected by their leader’s speech, that didn’t mean they were deaf.
He poked the blade right under the lid of a crate filled with raw meat for the zhulong, then pushed. He took his time, remaining quiet until the crate tipped and the meat spilled out. All at once, a dozen snouts snorted. Torsten could feel the heat of the zhulong’s breath on the back of his neck. He chose to ignore the spray of mucus that accompanied it.
A small company of the Shesaitju heard the crash and stood to find its source. They’d be too late. Torsten raised his sword and brought it crashing down on the makeshift fence, cleaving the entire panel in two. A swift kick sent it folding over.
Zhulong stampeded through the opening. Torsten dove out of their path moments before being trampled. The smell of the meat sent them into a frenzy, smashing into each other in a mad scramble. One smashed into the tent’s corner support and yanked the canvas down. Hanging nigh’jel lanterns fell and cracked, allowing the jellies to squirm out.
The gentle zhulong were gentle no more. Tusks clashed, gargantuan bodies slammed, and Torsten had the distraction he needed. He turned and saw Abigail with a group of slaves sprinting across the far edge of the pen. He caught her eye and gestured toward the hill from which he’d come.
He traced his eyes in the name of Iam, and before the group picked up their pace, Abigail returned the holy gesture. The sight lifted Torsten’s spirits.
Not all bad after all.
Now he just needed to keep the Black Sands distracted long enough for the slaves to put a reasonable distance between them and their captors. If they were caught escaping, their fate would be far worse than shilling shog.
He backed up behind the mess of zhulong, searching for the most bashful. He spotted one—young by the looks of it, its tusks still coming in—waiting at the back instead of joining the fray.
Torsten had never ridden a zhulong, but he’d spent a lifetime on horseback. He approached it from the side so he didn’t make eye contact, grabbed its tusk, and gently tilted its head down until it could see him with one eye. The young beast remained docile and permitted Torsten to climb onto its back. As immature as it was, it still proved difficult for Torsten’s armored legs to wrap around its thick sides. He now understood why the Shesaitju wore leather and cloth instead of metal greaves.
Torsten grasped a handful of its mane with one hand, then gave it a kick. It was like striking steel. The beast tore forward through the mud so fast he nearly toppled off. Sinking down, he used the mane to guide it through the opening in the fence. With his other hand, he brandished his claymore, a swo
rd so large it would require two hands from any ordinary-sized man.
“Abbat mos!” A Shesaitju shouted over the din of feeding beasts. “Abbat mos!”
“Iam, forgive for what I must do in your name,” Torsten whispered to himself. Then he slashed down from the back of the zhulong at the man. No sooner did the soldier hit the mud than horns rang out all across the camp. A murder of crows, frightened, rose up from naked trees, a cloud of black blending into the dark sky.
Torsten turned right, and his mount bowled through a table covered in freshly tanned and stretched leathers. Soldiers scattered. Others ran for spears and bows. They all shouted, “Abbat mos!” but Torsten swept his massive claymore from side to side like a scythe in harvest season. There was no formal declaration of war against the Shesaitju, but he felt no remorse as his blade rent flesh and split bone. Men from this camp had slaughtered innocent villagers for little but to send a message to the Glass Castle.
He rounded a corner and a host of spears stabbed up at him. He parried two with a single swipe, and the rest snapped against the tough hide of his zhulong. The wealthiest Black Sandsmen made armor out of the creatures’ scaly hide, and now he knew why. Its tusk split a man’s stomach and lifted him through the air, his body sliding off like meat from a kebab.
When he was out of the way, Torsten saw Muskigo and his Serpent Guard standing ahead, waiting. Unlike the rest, these men wore gilded plate armor with zhulong hide hauberks beneath. They formed a circle around Muskigo with their round shields raised, spears sticking out. It was certain death if Torsten charged them, even atop a zhulong, but a chance at an afhem was tough to pass up.
Torsten stared straight into the man’s eyes as he neared and they stared back, black as night. Neither cowered or showed interest in doing so. Muskigo straightened his shoulders, rolled his neck, and stood tall. Torsten waited until the last minute, then guided his mount to veer right, avoiding the spears. Even as he passed, he and Afhem Muskigo never broke eye contact. Then, just as he went to turn away, Muskigo’s black lips creased into a smile.
He would have to wait. Torsten’s quest was more important than claiming the life of one vengeful afhem.
Someone ahead bellowed something in Saitjuese. Torsten turned just in time to see a mounted zhulong bounding toward him. A spear plunged toward his head, but he dipped left, swinging his sword in a full arc that caught the attacker across the forehead.
The zhulong slammed into each other and sent Torsten’s mount into a wild spin. He squeezed its mane and hung on tight until the beast found its footing. A slew of arrows promptly zipped past his head, one nearly nicking his ear another glancing off his pauldron. A few stabbed into the zhulong’s haunches just above its long serpentine tail.
They didn’t pierce the beast’s hide, but it was startled and took off at full speed, squealing. Torsten was along for the ride now. Fortunately, they were headed south out of camp just like he wanted. He glanced back and saw three more mounted warriors hot on their tail. Their older zhulong closed the distance quickly.
One launched an arrow that found a soft spot in Torsten’s armor and burrowed into the meat of his right shoulder. Another closed in from his left and stabbed at his zhulong with a spear. The Shesaitju knew their beasts well. It howled as the blade sunk through the fleshy underside of its hind leg. Torsten fought the pain in his shoulder and swung down, chopping the spear in two. He leaned out and grabbed the sharp side of the broken weapon, another arrow missing his throat by centimeters.
He released the zhulong’s mane to transfer his sword to his off-hand. With the other, he flung the spear. It pierced the bow-wielding warrior through the chest and sent him tumbling into the swamp.
Torsten quickly tossed his sword back to his right hand. Sharp lines of pain shot down the arm as he moved it into position to parry the attack of the third warrior.
“Run, beast!” he roared and kicked his zhulong in the sides as hard as he could.
The fog and the darkness were stifling, but ahead he saw a patch of blackness deeper than everywhere around, growing taller and wider. The form was jagged, ever-changing, like waves around a ship long at sea.
The Webbed Woods. He was so close. The two riders caught up, forcing him to fight them off at the same time. He clenched his jaw as he worked his blade, deflecting every blow.
He could see the form of the trees now. An endless warren of towering trunks taller than he’d ever seen and hanging vines as thick as his legs. The place looked like the foulest realm of Elsewhere, yet nowhere had ever seemed so inviting.
His mount didn’t feel the same way.
It stopped short at the first root protruding from the woods. Torsten flew over the zhulong’s head and rolled between two trees as tall as the Glass Castle. The shaft of the arrow sticking from his shoulder snapped in two as he rolled and popped to his feet, whipping around with his sword in both hands.
His zhulong turned and ran perpendicular to the row of trees, never daring to get within an arm’s length of the place. The pursuing warriors had stopped dead in their tracks as well. Their mounts squealed in fear, and their eyes spoke of dread.
They watched Torsten as he slowly backed into the forest. After a few steps, the Shesaitju warriors were gone. After a few more, he could barely see the sword in his hands, or the broken end of the arrow protruding from his armor, only a layer of copious darkness enveloped him. Darkness only found in the Webbed Woods.
XXVI
THE THIEF
It wasn’t the darkness of the Webbed Woods that had Whitney’s flesh rising into little bumps. It wasn’t even the overwhelming silence but for the gentle rattling of a canopy far above and the occasional scuttle of unseen creatures. It was the fetid smell of dried blood and old flesh. Death. Like he’d just stepped into the largest graveyard known to man.
He shuddered. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
He’d had one since the moment they arrived. It was a straight shot south to the Webbed Woods from Bridleton. No more interruptions from dire wolves, ghosts of the past or crazed cultists. Their horse sloshed through the Fellwater Swamp, cutting through a layer of fog so copious Whitney could barely see its mane in front of him. The tremendous trees of the infamous woods loomed like strong towers.
Whitney and Sora didn’t run into a soul even though the echo of screams rang through the air like ghosts were about. Their stolen horse, likely smarter than either of them, hurled them off instead of entering. It was on foot from there, into darkness that was somehow worse than the blanketing fog. Searching for someone and something for which Whitney had no idea where to start looking or even what exactly to look for.
Whose bright idea was this? He couldn’t even remember any longer.
“Quit being a baby,” Sora said. “I thought you’ve robbed a dragon?”
“I never said it was alive.” Whitney couldn’t see Sora’s face well, but he’d come to know her eye roll by memory and was sure it accompanied her groan. “Besides, this is different. You can see a dragon. We’ve been walking in near-darkness for half a day after the horse ran away and we haven’t seen anything. Have you noticed there hasn’t even been a bird chirping, or a night bug, or anything? It’s just quiet. Eerie quiet.”
“If you were a bird, would you live in here?”
“If I were a bird I’d be an even better thief—Eek! Was that you?”
“What?”
Whitney didn’t get a word out before he felt something slither around his gut. It tightened suddenly and yanked him against a tree.
“Sora!” he yelped.
He reached for his dagger, but whatever the thing was wrapped one of his wrists and blocked the weapons around his waist. It moved like a tentacle or a snake, but it wasn’t slimy. It felt almost like…
“The vines!” Whitney said.
He tried to pull himself free, but a vine wrapped his ankle and squeezed it against the trunk. Another found his throat.
Sora’s raised her bandaged hand
in front of his face. A fresh streak of blood stained it, and from her fingers roiled an orb of flame so perfectly round it was as if she held a glowing crystal ball. The vine immediately retreated.
“Took you long enough,” Whitney said, panting.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Whitney saw a momentary flicker of concern on her face, which vanished as soon as he nodded. “You should have heard yourself squealing. And I thought I was the girl.”
“You’re just jealous of my incredible singing voice,” he said, rubbing at his neck.
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe, but remember what I said about sneaking around in here without fire to avoid attention? Ignore me.”
She turned, her hand casting flickering orange light on the trunks of towering cypress trees. A slew of vines draped all around them shriveled away in hiding. Whitney stared up but could see nothing but darkness beyond the glow of her magic once they were gone. There was no sky. There wasn’t even the tree-top canopy. Just night eternal.
Whitney gripped the amulet he’d stolen from Constable Darkings as they walked, rolling it absentmindedly between thumb and forefinger.
“I still can’t believe you nearly got us killed for that ugly thing,” Sora said.
“What?” Whitney said.
“That stupid thing,” she said pointing to the amulet. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know what it is!” Whitney whispered as loudly as he dared.
“Yeah? What?”
“It’s a…” he flipped it over a few times. Even in the dim light of the flames, the amber stone glimmered. “It’s a… an arrow-shaped amulet with a gem worth more than Troborough. And look, little flecks of something else, probably diamond, on the tip.”
“It’s useless, and we could have died.”
“What about you? You were supposed to set a signal fire not burn the entire house down.”
“Oh, now you care?”
“I think we should talk about it before anything happens here and you bring a tree down on top of us.”
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 24
