by Peter Wacht
Another dream entered his mind, pushing the other one out. He knelt on a windswept slope, the gritty black dirt staining his breeks. It was daytime, but the dark, churning clouds created a perpetual dusk. Blackened mountains towered above him. The wind twisted and turned around the peaks, carrying fragments of sound. He concentrated as best he could, but found it difficult. He was tired. His energy almost gone. He had been searching for something, something that would allow him to escape the cold, the fear. But he had failed. The Key was now beyond his grasp.
Finally, after several frustrating minutes, the fragments of sound became words in his ears, the whispers teasing him, pushing at the bounds of his sanity. He tried to fight it, to hold back the madness seeping into his brain, but he could struggle for only so long. He fell forward in the black dirt, a dark haze covering his mind. The words finally made sense: The shadow rules. The shadow rules. Death to those who oppose the shadow. As the darkness swept him away, he knew that he would never wake again.
The dreams came faster and faster, speeding through his mind, making it impossible for him to remember them all. He knew they were important, that they affected his life in some way. If only he could decipher them and find out what messages they contained. But the dreams only increased in speed, swirling around in his head like a tornado. He wanted to escape, to flee from his own mind, but he didn't know how. Then the dreams disappeared, replaced by a bright light.
Thomas enjoyed the calm and quiet after enduring the whirlwind in his head. Slowly, the light grew stronger, forcing his eyes open. His head exploded in pain. He pushed himself up to a seated position, squinting because of the bright sunlight and rubbing the side of his head with his hand. At least he tried to. The shackles on his wrists prevented it. With some careful maneuvering, he was finally able to do it. A lump had formed there, just above the ear. Other than that, he was fine, except, of course, for the tremendous headache. Then he remembered everything.
He had tried to help that group of Highlanders the reivers had captured, and though he had succeeded in freeing them, he now faced the same predicament himself. His grandfather had been right. Eventually the risks would catch up to him, and in this particular instance they had. He hated when Rynlin was right! At least he wouldn't have to see the look of smugness his grandfather so enjoyed giving him. Actually, considering his present circumstances, that look of smugness probably wouldn’t be so bad.
Opening his eyes fully, he winced. The early morning sun had not yet burned off the dew from the grass, which helped to explain why his shirt and breeks were damp. He turned his head from side to side, surveying his position. He was in the middle of the reivers' camp, or what was left of it anyway. Most of the reivers had formed into a long line of two horseman abreast, while a few struggled to pull down the tent.
"Good morning."
Thomas shifted around slowly, gasping for breath because of the sharp pain that shot through his head from the movement. The pounding in his head increased. The large boy stared back at him, his face a mass of welts and bruises, his long blond hair matted down by blood and dirt. He had tied a strip of cloth around the wound on his right arm. The boy looked to be his own age, though he was massive. Thomas felt like a dwarf sitting there across from him. His surrender had served a purpose at least. The reivers hadn't killed the Highlander — yet.
"How long have I been out?"
"Two hours," replied the boy.
Thomas grunted in reply. Two hours. It had felt like an eternity. And those dreams. They were important. He needed to remember them. But he couldn’t. Bits and pieces flirted with his memory, but the puzzle refused to form.
"How's your arm?"
The large boy grunted. "As good as can be expected. Just a scratch really."
"You should have escaped when you had the chance," said Thomas, gingerly rubbing at his head. He had to do it carefully, otherwise he might hit himself in the head with the chains attached to the shackles, and his headache was bad enough already.
"I know. But I couldn't let you have all the fun. It wouldn't have been fair." The boy looked at the eight reivers stationed around them with hate-filled eyes.
"Well, that explains everything," said Thomas.
The boy smiled. "Thank you for freeing my people. A debt is owed. Whenever you have need, it will be repaid."
Thomas was going to tell him that it wasn't necessary, that there was no need to repay the debt. The intensity in the boy's eyes made him think better of it. He had been away from his people for a long time and forgotten some of the customs. This one came back to him quickly. If one Highlander made a personal sacrifice for the benefit of another Highlander, such as a Marcher saving another Marcher's life, the person would say, "A debt is owed." Men of honor did not scoff at such a statement, as it was never said lightly.
"When I have need," replied Thomas, remembering the correct response.
The boy nodded. "You look like a Highlander, but then again, you don't."
It was a strange thing to say, but Thomas understood. "I am a Highlander. My mother wasn't."
The large boy nodded again. He studied Thomas critically for a few moments. "You fight well, green eyes. My name is Kylin, but my friends call me Oso."
"A strong name, Oso. My name is Thomas."
"That, too, is a strong name. Well met, Thomas."
Oso tried to extend his hand in greeting, but the chains held him back.
"So, the two young heroes are awake," said Killeran, walking past the eight guards and standing over them. "Good. It is time to go to your new home, or rather what will serve as your home until you die."
Killeran thought that the last portion of his statement would register with the two. They were young, with long lives ahead of them, or rather they did before their capture. But they ignored him, giving him only steely glances. He couldn't tell which one wanted him dead the most — the large one or the one with green eyes. Green eyes? Why did that tug at his memory? He tried to remember for a moment, then gave up.
"You have cost me twenty able-bodied workers, and more than a dozen reivers, so it looks like you will have to do the work of all. No matter. You'll simply die sooner."
Killeran studied his two new prisoners, still expecting a reaction. But there wasn’t one. They were still proud, still confident. By the end of the day, though, he'd have them blubbering like children.
"Bring them," he said, motioning to the reivers.
The reivers half-dragged, half-carried Thomas and Oso to the end of the two cavalry columns, then affixed long chains to their collars. Two reivers at the end of the column grasped the leashes. The reivers then placed chains around their ankles, with a two-foot length attached to their leg shackles. They would have a very hard time going faster than a slow walk, as neither could extend their legs more than a foot at a time. Of course, Killeran didn't plan for them to walk very far at all. These two boys intrigued him, and the one with green eyes more so than the other. Why? Why should that bother him so? He shook his head in frustration.
Killeran wiped his sleeve across his nose. His cold hadn't gotten any better. If he had to suffer through another miserable day in this inhospitable land, then these two could do so in a slightly different way. Satisfied that his prisoners were prepared for the day's journey back into the foothills, Killeran walked up to the front of the column and climbed onto his horse. Cutting the air sharply with his arm, the column started forward.
They had traveled for no more than a few minutes before he heard a satisfying sound that made him smile. Turning in his saddle, he saw that the large boy had tripped over a rock and was having a hard time getting up again because of the chains. He was dragged a short distance before he finally regained his feet. It looked like it just might be a very good day. Later in the morning he would pick up the pace and let the horses stretch their legs. Yes, it would be a very good day indeed.
CHAPTER TWO
A Drag
Thomas tasted dirt for the twentieth time that day
. Spitting the grainy particles out of his mouth, he glanced at his companion sharing in the misery. Oso looked just as bad as Thomas felt. His body demanded that he stop and lay there for the next ten years. Every muscle burned, every bone ached. He ignored the pain and forced himself to rise as quickly as he could, not wanting to get dragged across the rocky soil again. The chains around his ankles weighed him down, impeding his efforts.
He stumbled for the first few yards as he struggled to maintain his balance and resume the awkward gait the chains required. The reiver holding on to the leash attached to his collar didn't care about Thomas' struggles. In fact, he rather enjoyed them, putting heel to horse whenever he fell to make things just a little more difficult. And this was the easy part, when the horses moved at a walk. Trying to keep pace with the column at a trot with a short length of chain attached to your ankles just didn’t work. Once you fell down, you couldn't get back up. All you could do was try to avoid the larger rocks or stones that his guard had a particular knack for finding.
They had traveled since early morning, Killeran very intent upon getting somewhere fast and not allowing anything to slow him down. Several times during the day he had ridden to the back of the column to check on them. Each time afterward he quickened the column's pace, taking a special glee in the two boys’ constant falls.
Thomas again looked over at Oso, who trudged along beside him. Oso's size was intimidating, but he was remarkably quick and agile for one so big. Nevertheless, he had spent a lot more time getting dragged behind his jailer's horse than Thomas had behind his, and it showed. Now the rest of his body matched his face, covered in welts and bruises and cuts. The wound on his arm had reopened. His clothes were torn in a dozen places and he was caked in mud and dirt. Thomas knew his condition was just as bad. On the bright side, though, his headache was gone. In fact, that was the only part of his body that didn't hurt at the moment.
He wondered what Rya would have done if he had come home looking like this. He smiled to himself thinking about it. She'd probably have a fit. Thomas pushed the thought from his mind. He didn't have time to think about that. He needed to find a way to escape, yet all he could do at the moment was concentrate on his feet. If his chains got tangled, he'd never get back up. At least it was getting dark. Soon they'd have to stop, then Thomas could concentrate on escaping.
CHAPTER THREE
Ignored Taunts
Evening reluctantly gave way to night, and Thomas was thankful for the opportunity to rest. His entire body hurt. The reivers who served as their jailers had dragged Thomas and Oso into the middle of the camp where a lone tree stood in the center of the clearing. Suddenly, Thomas fell forward, landing hard on the ground. Thomas' jailer grinned after having kicked him in the small of his back. The other reiver produced a chain and wrapped it around the trunk of the tree, then affixed it to their chains as well.
Oso dropped to the ground next to Thomas, leaning against the tree. They were completely exhausted. Neither had a drop of energy left. It was several minutes before either could speak, and even then it was through gasps for breath.
"So, do I look as bad as I feel?" asked Oso, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored them. He readjusted the strip of cloth and tightened it around his arm. That should stop the bleeding.
"Worse," replied Thomas. He wasn't as winded as Oso. He had Rynlin and Rya to thank for that. His constant training had helped him greatly during the day's ordeal.
Oso tried to laugh, and instead it came out as a wheeze, finding it difficult while catching his breath. He sounded like Tigan, an old man in his village who laughed so hard that sometimes his face turned a bright red from the lack of air.
"So how's your head?"
"It's the least of my worries right now," replied Thomas. "And your arm?"
"Like you, the least of my worries."
"Well, it was a pleasant day nonetheless," said Thomas, finding that talking helped to take his mind away from the bolts of pain that shot through his legs. He tried to stretch them out but had to stop halfway. They were cramping up, the sharp pain reawakening his senses. He'd try again in a few minutes. "A warm sun. A pleasant breeze. It's always nice to be outside on a day like this."
Oso looked over at his new friend as if something had been rattled in the smaller boy's head during one of his falls.
Thomas explained himself. "It helps to take away the ache when your mind focuses on something else."
Oso nodded, then tried it himself. He imagined that he was back near his village, stalking a large buck that had wondered close to his hiding place. In absolute silence, he affixed an arrow to his bow and stepped out from between two large trees. He stepped slowly through the brush, careful not to disturb anything that would give him away to his quarry. It was good to hunt again. To feel the rush of adrenaline as you closed in for the kill. He just needed to get a little closer. Just a little closer. He pulled back the bow, the string almost touching his face. Just a little closer.
A sharp pain shot through Oso's leg, jolting him from his reverie. The buck dashed off into the woods before he could release his arrow.
"Time to eat, boy," said one of the reivers. "Now take the bowl this time or I'll break your leg."
Oso stared back at the reiver, hate welling up in his eyes. Still, he took the bowl. He needed to eat, to keep his strength up, otherwise he'd never escape. Oso held the bowl to his nose, sniffing at the contents. Some kind of stew, he decided. It didn't smell very good, but he really didn't have a choice. He gobbled it down quickly. His stomach growled for more, but he doubted he'd get any. Thomas had also finished his meal, and now lay back against the tree. His eyes closed, Oso wondered if he actually slept.
"No, just resting," said Thomas.
"How did you know—"
"It was nothing," said Thomas, opening his eyes and leaning forward. He quickly examined what was going on around them. The reivers had formed their camp in a circle, with the tree as its center. Eight reivers guarded them. Either Killeran was a wary man or one frightened easily by two boys. "It seems that we are quite popular this evening."
"Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it," said Oso. "We should be honored, I guess, having eight nursemaids." Oso's voice rose so the guards could hear. "Two boys and eight nursemaids."
Though every part of him hurt, Oso knew what Thomas was thinking. Escape. He was thinking it as well. But they wouldn't succeed if eight guards stood around them all night. Maybe some would grow bored with their duty, and Oso's words would be remembered. Some of the reivers might find something better to do than guard two boys and slip away for a few hours, giving them a chance.
"Remarkable, isn't it," said Thomas. "We're tied to a tree by our necks, and our arms and legs are chained together, yet still we garner this much attention. You know, Oso, we really should be honored."
The guards didn't appear to be paying attention to them, but Thomas knew that they could hear their chatter. They might be wasting their time in idle conversation at the moment, but they had nothing to lose. Besides, it might work. Fewer eyes meant more of a chance at freedom.
"Stop the chatter or you'll be dead boys," said Kursool, who came striding toward them from the direction of Killeran's tent. The sergeant was a broad man. Thomas judged that with his massive shoulders he was wide enough for two men. As a result, his legs looked tiny, which made his whole body appear disproportionate.
The sergeant stopped right in front of them. Unexpectedly, he lashed out with his leg, striking Oso across the chin. The blow sent him reeling. The only thing that kept him from falling to the grass was the chain around his neck. Oso fought against the pain, the blow having reawakened all of his injuries earned during his early morning struggle with the reivers. He refused to cry out, though. He would not show any sign of weakness to this bastard. Slowly, he pulled himself back up, until he lay back against the trunk. If not for the tree, he wouldn't have had the strength to hold himself up.
Kursool nodded in satisfaction, pleased with the effects of his blow. He then turned his attention to the other boy and was about to deliver another kick when his eyes caught Thomas'. It was full dark now and Thomas' eyes glowed brightly. They resembled green fire, mirroring the anger contained within him. The sergeant knew what Thomas was thinking. He knew it in his heart. If the boy was free, the sergeant would already be dead. Kursool was not accustomed to fear. He had seen much in his life, having fought in many campaigns, but he had never seen anything like this. He took a step back from the tree.
"You," he said, motioning to one of the reivers standing guard. "Unlock the small one. Lord Killeran wants to see him." The reiver rushed forward, eager to do the sergeant's bidding. He twisted the key in the lock holding the chain around Thomas' neck, then pulled him to his feet. Thomas realized that his plans for escape would have to wait. As the sergeant and the reiver dragged him across the ground, a sense of foreboding filled him.
CHAPTER FOUR
An Unwanted Meeting
Kursool and the reiver dropped Thomas like a sack of potatoes on the thick carpet that blanketed the floor of the tent, giving him a quick kick to the gut to punctuate his displeasure at having to drag him. After weathering the blow, Thomas examined his new surroundings with a careful eye. The furnishings were luxurious, especially for a field tent.
A dozen or more rugs were piled one on top of the other to cover the grass. A large cot sat to one side. Costly sheets and blankets lay atop it. At the foot of the bed sat a large leather trunk. Off to the other side was a small table, yet one so ornately carved it looked remarkably out of place. Four matching chairs stood around the table. The entire set of furniture must have been several hundred years old.