by Aldrea Alien
At last, his second undershirt was free. Darshan hissed as the removal from around the arrow shaft also tore away a chunk of congealed blood. His magic hummed through him, resealing the wound. He shuddered, trying to prepare himself for what was to come.
Hamish returned his bracing grasp to Darshan’s shoulder. His other hand clasped the broken arrow shaft. “Ready?”
Not at all. He had only been a boy the last time he had suffered such a wound as this, but the searing memory of that extraction was not one to be easily forgotten. There was nothing else that could be done. Leaving the arrow in would only continue to nibble at his magic until there was nothing left to give.
Darshan gave his lover a curt nod and prepared himself as best as he could for the pain. At least the arrow’s downward angle would aid in its, hopefully swift, removal.
With his lips pressed into a tight, grim line, Hamish drove the arrow further in.
White-hot pain clawed its way through Darshan’s gut, tearing a cry from his lips. His body shook as he desperately fought the urge to pull away from the source. His magic battled to mend the barb’s slicing path even as the cuts were made.
Gritting his teeth, Darshan slumped against Hamish’s hand. He was grateful for the solidity found in that grasp even if the consoling squeeze the man gave did little to ease the agony burrowing its way through him. He wasn’t sure if the pain had turned the world to white light or his tears had.
There was only agony and that hand.
The pressure at his back grew. He arched involuntarily, desperately seeking to shrink from the barb breaking through his skin. A whimpering gasp parted his lips, his lungs too exhausted to breathe deep enough for more.
Hamish lowered Darshan, exchanging the hand that had braced him for one of those broad shoulders. He reached around Darshan’s torso to feel what Darshan already knew. The arrowhead sat just beneath the skin. “It willnae be much longer,” he whispered. “Just stay with me, all right? One more push ought to do it.”
Be strong. His father’s voice echoed through his mind. A memory of another time with another arrow.
He fisted his lover’s overcoat. Waiting. Dreading.
Be strong.
At first, he thought he could bear it. The pain was no worse than already, the addition of a mere pinprick. It grew with each heartbeat, tearing the skin with all the finesse of a mace. It burned through his senses like ice, stealing breath, voice and thought.
Then it was gone.
His magic rushed to fill the void, itching and prickling through his body. When the last minuscule nick was gone, the buzz of healing subsided to bone-gnawing exhaustion.
Darshan sat back on his heels, steadied only by Hamish’s grip, and delicately wiped his fingers across his cheeks. Unsurprisingly, they came away damp. He had to be halfway to crying himself to a husk.
Without the heat of pain and magic, the chill air ran icy tendrils across his bare skin. Shivering, he reached for his shirt before catching sight of the tear in the threads. Already, his blood had dried to a dark stain around the holes.
“Here.” Hamish threw a cloak over Darshan’s shoulders, followed swiftly by a second. “I ken healing takes its toll. Stay warm and rest for a bit, then we’ll see about getting you dressed again.”
Nodding, Darshan eyed the outpost’s door. How long had it been since Gordon had ventured inside? The archers must’ve been dead.
Uncertain his legs would obey him if he tried to stand, Darshan wrapped the cloaks tighter around him. There was nothing he could do but wait.
Gordon exited the tower. He shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin grim line.
Definitely dead. Hopefully, the archers had succumbed to the faster death of the lightning’s power rather than the debris his wild aim had created.
The prince beckoned his brother and the elf to his side. The trio conversed in hushed tones amongst themselves and then strode into the tower.
Darshan didn’t bother to move a muscle. Whatever they were about, they clearly didn’t think him up to the task.
He heard them before long at the top of the tower. Zurron’s booming exclamation of the sight did little to convince Darshan that the archers had met anything less than a gruesome fate.
The truth of it was only confirmed as the trio dragged a crushed body out of the tower and laid them beside the other two guards who had met a similar end. Of the charred remains lying not that far from him, none seemed willing to touch.
He didn’t blame them.
Sean had returned, the pony in tow, by the time the trio had brought down the second archer. “What the feck happened?” he asked, halting his horse at the edge of the road.
“Our resident spellster ambassador,” Gordon replied, waving a hand his way. “How else? Was it really necessary to kill them all?” That final question was directed Darshan’s way with an accusatory glare as if he were an unruly child new to his power.
Darshan gestured to the bloody arrow, then to the skeletal remains of the guard. “Was I supposed to let him lop off my head?” He returned his attention to the ruined overcoat and shirts, fingering each tear. A shame. Tossing the overcoat aside, he staggered to his feet. “I need to eat.” The tower larders should have something. Maybe there was a change of clothes inside or, at least, the means to wash and repair his attire.
And myself. His blood had congealed upon his front and he didn’t dare doubt his back looked a similar gory mess. Food first. He could bathe once his body didn’t feel like it was sucking itself dry.
“How can you think about food after doing all this?” Sean asked, incredulous.
“It is because I did all this that I need sustenance.” It wouldn’t matter if he was currently walking through the deepest pile of putrid filth, his body would still cry out to replace what he had lost. He slapped a hand against the door. The hinges creaked, but gave freely.
“Hey,” Zurron called out, drawing everyone’s attention. The elf stood near the leader he had managed to incapacitate. “This one’s still alive. What do we do with him?”
“Truss him up and wait until he wakes,” Gordon replied. “I want to hear what that message from me mum really said.” His gaze slid to the rest of the dead guards. “I suppose we should bury them.”
“Bastards dinnae deserve to be resting on the Goddess’ bosom after what they attempted,” Zurron growled. “I reckon we burn them. Let their souls be lost in the ether.”
“I’m nae sure I want to be responsible for that.”
The elf shrugged. “You’re the crown prince, but I reckon they committed treason trying to take down the ambassador, nae matter their reasoning.”
Gordon scrubbed at his chin, burrowing his fingers deep into his beard. “That is true. But we’ve nae the wood or the manpower to make a pyre big or hot enough for seven men.”
“Give me some time to recuperate,” Darshan said. “Along with nourishment, and I shall be able to do it.” They would still need fuel to burn—it was always easier that way—but once the pyre got underway, keeping it at a high temperature would take very little effort.
“Fair enough,” Gordon grumbled. “You were the one to suffer the most out of all this.” He shook his head, mumbling inaudibly to himself. “Come on, there ought to be plenty of food in the tower for you.”
“And perhaps some fresh clothes?”
Gordon grunted. “These sods sure dinnae need it anymore.” He pointed a finger at Sean. “Secure the horses and be sure he—” Gordon jerked a thumb at the unconscious leader. “Stays put until we’re ready to talk to him. And let us ken when he wakes up.”
Sean snapped a salute and set about his task as Gordon waved Darshan into the tower. After the sun-soaked forest, the inside of the tower was dark and smelt faintly of mould. That didn’t bode well when it came to the condition of their food.
Nevertheless, Darshan raided the entirety of the outpost’s larder whilst Gordon and Hamish picked through the guards’ chests in search of clothing and
answers.
What they hadn’t found was any sign of a message from Queen Fiona.
Darshan pondered over the absence as he sat in the warmth of the doorway, toasty in his new—although admittedly slightly oversized—attire and munching on his haul whilst the rest waited for the leader of these men to awaken. His meal consisted of simple fair; mostly stale bread, cheese that had gone hard around the edges, a few smoked sausages that hadn’t looked terribly suspect and the wizened lump of an apple.
He intended to consume every last bite.
If there had been any message, it could only have reached here via messenger pigeon. Even if there were no signs of the feathered rats within the tower. Anything reaching by foot was preposterous. The lack had to mean the leader had disposed of it. Had that been part of the queen’s orders? Leaving no trace of suspicious, and possibly illegal, acts.
Hamish stepped through the doorway, his arms full of firewood, forcing Darshan to scrunch against the door pillar. “This is the last of it,” his lover declared, dumping his haul beside a pile near the charred remains of the guard Darshan had already halfway cremated.
Rather than move the bones—an act not even Darshan was willing to attempt—the others had piled the bodies, along with the split wood from within the tower, atop the remains. All it would take to ignite was a little push from his magic.
They just had to wait now.
“Do you think the queen ordered a hunt?” Sean murmured to his elven companion, shaking his head. “I cannae believe she would suggest such a thing, but do you?”
“Maybe nae her,” Zurron growled. “But they clearly had nae qualms. Still…” He glanced towards the charred remains of a guard. “They got theirs. Should’ve been flogged for even suggesting it, but the punishment fits.”
“What is this hunt?” Darshan asked between bites of the last sausage. One of the guards had mentioned it before the leader had ordered their attack.
Heavy silence followed in the wake of his question. Hamish looked as though he might vomit at any moment, whilst the rest of them all looked at each other as if trying to decide which amongst them would be the unfortunate one to answer him.
Sighing, Gordon scratched at his cheek with a thumb. “It’s an archaic form of punishment. Something from the ancient scriptures. You ken of them?”
Darshan raised a brow at that. Were these the same scriptures Hamish claimed Queen Fiona followed? “I have heard them mentioned,” he admitted. Dread seethed in the depths of his mind, backed by a slow-burning anger.
“Were you also told what those scriptures entail? What they used to do to men like you?”
Darshan shook his head. The conversation he’d had with Hamish atop that disused castle tower—a time that seemed an eternity ago—had moved on and he had forgotten to ask. He could guess readily enough, though. All this time, he had thought the gathering of spellsters had been a gentle thing. But to hunt them like animals?
“Gor,” Hamish warned. “Dinnae you dare tell him what those bastards used to do.”
“He deserves to ken,” Gordon snapped back at his brother. “I’ll be brief. The scriptures hold the laws of the clans. Of what should be obeyed for a happy life. Much of it has been scrubbed from the new version, but the old one was… nae kind to people like you. They were seen as detrimental to the Goddess’ will.”
“Spellsters?” He could see how the people wouldn’t want entire families of magically gifted folk, but they were used as healers and were considered as vital resources during plague.
Hamish shook his head. “He means men like us.”
Gordon cleared his throat but said nothing further.
“That…” Darshan glanced from one brother to the next. Shock wiped his mind, sending him adrift. “Sorry, I believe I misheard there. You mean they were killed for loving other men?” Was Hamish really suggesting that, had either of them been born in those times, then they would’ve been hunted and slain?
“Aye,” Gordon replied.
“I honestly have no idea what to say to that.” There had been no such restrictions in Udynea, not even when the empire was young. “How old are these scriptures?”
“Me mum was a wee lass when the law was finally struck from Clan Decree. I reckon it’s been about five decades. A lot of folks dinnae care much about who other folk are sleeping with, providing they keep their heads down like everyone else. But there’s plenty who are nae so forgiving.”
“Clearly.” Enough to use him as target practice, at the very least. “I…” Even knowing the wound was gone—the trace of its entry fading the longer his magic worked at the spot—he still ran a finger across his chest. It could’ve just as easily been his heart. There was no coming back from an injury as grave as that.
“He’s awake,” Zurron called.
Wiping the greasy residue of sausage off his fingers, Darshan stood to join the others at the elf’s side.
The guard sat against the tower wall, surveying their surroundings. His greying brows lifted upon spying the pile of bodies before sinking to their lowest. “So,” he snarled, his dark gaze settling on Darshan. Perhaps it was the murderous ire warping his face, but he seemed to be a good few decades younger than the other guards. “You survived at the expense of me men.”
“Never you mind him,” Gordon said, squatting between the man and Darshan. “You mentioned receiving a message from your queen. Was that the truth?”
“And what happened to it?” Hamish added.
Darshan bit his tongue. He was certain of the answer there.
“Aye, your highness. A pigeon arrived a few days ago, likely nae long after you lot started your wee journey.” He grinned broadly at Hamish, showing a row of mostly gaps with a few teeth. “It said to burn the message afterwards, so I did. All right and proper. Cannae fault a man for following his queen’s orders.”
Gordon jerked the man’s head around with a tug of the beard. “What did the message say?”
The man harrumphed, further ruffling his beard. “I already told you.”
The older prince folded his arms and continued to silently glare at the guard.
Those dark eyes clouded with uncertainty. “I spoke nae lies. We were only following Queen Fiona’s order. Find the ambassador and escort him.”
“As what?” Darshan snapped. “A corpse?”
The man spat in Darshan’s direction. “Filth like you deserve death. Your kind are poison, spreading your corruption across the land, sickening everyone you touch.”
“And what would you have told that queen once I turned up dead?” Darshan enquired.
The man shrugged. “Bandits… Bears… Boars… There’s plenty of mishaps that can happen to the unwary traveller.”
“I’ve heard enough, Gor,” Hamish said. “Do it.”
Gordon opened his mouth as if to object, then closed it and withdrew a slim dagger from his back sheath.
“Do?” the guard demanded. Panic widened his eyes. “Do what? You cannae harm me. What would you tell the queen?”
“You knowingly injured,” Gordon replied, laying a hand on the man’s head. “And attempted to kill, an imperial ambassador who also happens to be a prince of the Udynea Empire. They are our allies and that means you wilfully committed treason.”
“This is nae Udynea,” the man growled. “The only treasonous ones here are you for letting this filth freely wander the lands.”
“May you be granted all the mercy you show others.” Gordon plunged the dagger into the man’s neck, holding it there even as the guard jerked and only removing the blade when the man had stopped moving. “Throw him with the others.” He stepped back, letting the body fall to the ground.
Blood continued to pour from the wound, staining the grass as Zurron and Sean hefted the leader onto the pile of bodies and wood.
“Light it,” Gordon commanded.
Darshan breathed deep and focused on the straw packed around the wood. He hadn’t regained as much energy as his healing had burnt through
, but with luck, he would need only a spark. The air grew hot. Thin curls of smoke, almost indistinguishable in the haze, drifted up from the straw.
Then, with a mighty whump and a billow of pale grey smoke, the whole pyre flared to life.
“By smoke and flame,” Gordon said as the fire twirled and danced before them. “I cast you from the Goddess’ bosom. Through dust and char you are condemned to wander the endless darkness of the ether.”
They stood vigil as the pyre burned. Darshan maintained a tentative hold on the fire, manipulating the intensity to a furnace-like heat. The air all around it shimmered in the dull afternoon light. The wood crackled and snapped, not quite masking the sizzle of flesh. He took care to manipulate the wind, too. Not a terrible amount, just enough of a gust to feed the flames and keep the stench from invading his nostrils.
When there was nothing of the guards but ash, they smothered the embers and mounted their horses. Whilst it would’ve been more convenient for them to use the tower’s facilities, especially with dusk approaching, none of them had been at all keen to sleep where dead men had lain.
“We’re going to be in so much trouble when we get back,” Hamish mumbled as they returned to the road.
“Sounds like we already are,” Gordon replied. “I just hope Mum hasnae done something foolish.”
“Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding,” Darshan suggested. He certainly hoped so. Whilst the idea of someone plotting the end of his life wasn’t new by any measure, that a foreign queen sought his death carried complications he didn’t want to think about. “I doubt she would seek to throw her people into a war.”
“Nae rational ruler would prefer war over peace,” Gordon said, the uncertain twist of his frown not instilling Darshan with much confidence that the man considered his own mother as befitting the description. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see. If more guards come after us, then we’ll ken her true intentions.”