13 - Crescendo
They slept late into the morning, and when Felix opened his eyes to the brightly lit room, there was a tray of food on the foot of the bed.
“They brought this for us,” Torsten explained with a shrug. He’d woken first, as usual. Felix had felt him move away from him, had heard him rummaging around the room before he’d drifted back to sleep. And now he was sitting on the bed, looking sleep-soft and warm, cradling a mug of tea in his hands, and watching Felix with eyes still hooded from slumber.
Though he felt as if he could sleep a few more years, the smell of food tempted him to sit up. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, then reached for a piece of toasted bread.
Torsten eased up from the mattress and walked over to the freshly stoked fire, leaning into the steam of his tea and briefly closing his eyes. “There’s a lot of movement in and out of this village,” he said, poking with his toe at the socks Felix had left by the fireplace. “We should be able to beg or buy a ride from someone headed towards camp. These are dry.” He picked up the socks and tossed them over.
“You’re confident someone will be willing to give us a ride,” Felix said, hiding his pleasure at Torsten’s casual announcement by taking another bite of toast. He’d been worried Torsten would petition for his return to the guild, now that the threat of sleeping on a hard floor was gone.
“I’m confident that everyone in the tavern fell in love with you last night, and would give you the shirt off their backs if you asked.”
Felix thought of how Torsten had given him his own shirt, trousers, furs, even his bandana, and he’d not even had to ask. But he didn’t mention all that. Instead, he finished his toast, pulled the warm socks onto his feet, and combed through his unruly curls.
When he’d finished eating and Torsten finished his tea, they headed downstairs. As predicted, they found a ride almost at once, from a woman running a wagon of fabrics and pottery to the Royal Quarter. Felix said a final thank you and goodbye to the tavern owner, and then they were off, sitting in the rickety back of the canvas-covered wagon, with strict orders not to “touch the products” and “if you want to play your flute, that’d be fine by me.”
It was a bumpy ride, like the ones he used to take with Rex, but Felix couldn’t complain. It was better than traveling by foot—especially when neither of them had shoes—and though it remained unsaid, neither had any desire to travel by water again. Captain Quinn was probably still on the river, headed back east to receive his payment from Malcolm, and who knew how fast a Water could travel by ship? He shivered at the thought and hoped his path would never cross with the pirate’s again.
But as bumpy as the ride was, being stuck in a small space with Torsten was hardly unpleasant. He played his flute to pass the time, even gave it to the bandit to try, attempting to teach him a few simple notes. The musical results were horrendous, but the way Torsten laughed when he’d passed the flute back, shaking his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners, had been enjoyable.
“Are you ever going to explain how you came to have a magic flute?” Torsten asked, amused, and Felix wondered how he didn’t seem more bothered by the flute’s very existence. Felix was certainly bothered by it.
“Are you ever going to explain the odd behavior of the wolves in your territory?” he countered.
Torsten shrugged and turned away, but not before Felix had caught sight of a faint smile.
They shared their driver’s lunch of soft cheese, dried meats, and bread some time later, and having their offer to take the reins for a time declined, returned to their place in the wagon’s back, napping on and off through the afternoon, with Felix leaned against Torsten’s shoulder. Without the warmth of their pelts, the cold seemed to seep into their bones as the day waned, even in the back of the covered wagon, and that was Felix’s reasoning for keeping so close. Torsten didn’t appear to mind; he slept with his head leaned against Felix’s shoulder.
When they were both fully awake, Torsten claimed the road was beginning to look familiar. Felix took his word for it, and they took their leave from the tradeswoman shortly after, thanking her for her help. She rode on without them, waving until she’d rounded a bend. Felix wished for her safe arrival to the Royal Quarter, hoping she would not encounter Gethrin’s bandits. The thought of them made him shiver, and he burrowed his nose into the bandana around his neck.
Night was falling by the time Torsten led them off the road and into the trees. The ground was cold and hard beneath his stockinged feet, and Felix kept stepping on pointy things that made him ouch and hiss, causing Torsten to continually remind him to be careful where he stepped. It was almost enough to make him complain about his ankle, not because it was hurting, but because Torsten might offer to carry him. In the end, he resisted, but it remained a strong temptation.
About two hours into their trek, the moonlit trees began to look familiar even to Felix, and he knew they must be getting close. He was about to ask Torsten how much longer it would be, when he abruptly stopped and placed his hand on Felix’s shoulder.
The touch was not unwelcome, but the concern in Torsten’s eyes certainly was. “What’s wrong?” Felix asked anxiously.
“I smell smoke, and not the good kind,” Torsten whispered. His hand tightened on Felix’s shoulder. “Stay close.”
They moved forward more quickly now, and soon Felix could smell the smoke, too. It was different from the smell of a campfire, and he stole a glance at Torsten, whose face was taut with worry. “What do you think has happened?” he asked, trying to keep up with Torsten’s quickened pace. “Is it coming from our camp?”
“I don’t know,” Torsten answered.
But he did know—they both did—for where else could the heavy drift of smoke be coming from? Felix could feel it in his gut, the churning of bad news, and though he tried to imagine what might have happened, he could never have predicted the carnage that awaited when they finally reached camp.
Torsten slowed their pace as they reached the last barrier of trees before the clearing. The smell was near dizzying now, and Felix coughed. He felt Torsten’s hand on his back, and then they were stepping into the camp.
Most of the tents had been burned to ash.
On the far side of the main fire, near the dais, bodies were laid in a long row on the cold ground.
Felix cried out, clapping his hands over his mouth, willing himself not to be sick. Beside him, Torsten stood silent, frozen, surveying his ruined camp with horrorstruck eyes. It wasn’t until Selon ran up that he moved at all, shaking his head in confusion at her and taking Felix’s hand, which he gripped tightly. Felix held on just as hard.
Selon was bloody, her bow clutched in her hand. “King, you’re alive,” she gasped. “You’re here and alive. Thank the Gods.”
In the light of the low-banked fire, Felix could see more bandits around the camp, some leaning over motionless bodies, others kneeling by them, others just standing and staring. But when they saw Torsten, they stopped what they were doing and quickly gathered before him, each as bloody and worn as Selon. Felix scanned their faces. He spotted Marilyn with a bandage pressed to her forehead, and Dot standing in the back, looking unlike himself with his glasses gone from his face and his hair loosed from its usual braid. Felix didn’t know the names of all the others, but he knew their faces, and all of them were pale with shock and red with blood.
“What has happened?” Torsten asked when they’d all assembled. His voice was stronger than it had any right to be, and Felix had to squeeze his hand to make sure he was real.
“Gethrin,” Selon answered, her face screwed up in disgust. “They came at dusk, first with a flight of burning arrows and then by horse.” She was gritting her teeth. “We were just sitting down to eat. Those of us who weren’t killed right away tried to fight, but … they were looking for you, King. Left when they realized you weren’t here.”
“Jossy?” Torsten was beginning to shake; Felix could feel it. “Where’s Jossy?”
There were ten, Felix realized, counting their heads. Ten left alive out of a camp of nearly forty. Harold was not among the living, the man who had shot Merric, and perhaps Felix should have felt some righteousness at his death, but all he felt was pain. He could feel it rolling from Torsten in waves. It was a massacre. His friends had been butchered as they sat for their dinner, and he hadn’t been there to help because he’d been taking Felix home. If they hadn’t gone, Felix wondered if they would have been among those left standing. He didn’t think it likely.
Despite his initial distress, Torsten did not wallow long in his shock. It was not in his nature. “Are any of you seriously injured?” he asked, going to Marilyn and lifting the bandage from her head.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” she said resolutely. “Those of us who weren’t killed right off didn’t suffer worse than that. I don’t know why, unless they wanted to leave some of us living. We never even had a chance to go for our bows. It happened so fast.”
“Show me,” Torsten said. "Show me my people. Show me everything.”
Selon nodded, leading him deeper into the destruction.
The arrows had been expertly aimed, Torsten saw, as he knelt before each of the dead in turn. Most had gone directly into the heart, though a few had found their targets in the neck or head. Felix kept to his side throughout, silently repeating each man’s name as it was said but trying not to look at their bodies. There was a great deal of blood, so much that he could smell it, and he was grateful for the overpowering, acrid smell of smoke, and for the darkness.
The main tent, the largest, where the bandits had lingered over their maps and painstakingly planned their raids, had burned, and there was nothing left of it now but smoldering ruins. But oddly enough, the nearby dais was untouched, and after their morbid tour was finished, Torsten directed their small party toward it. He picked up the chairs that remained upon it and tossed them to the ground, then knelt. Soon, all the bandits were on their knees together on the platform, with Torsten in the middle and Felix tucked against his side.
“If this only happened a few hours ago, Gethrin will still be nearby,” Torsten began after a long, solemn silence. He spoke quietly, but his voice was strong. Everyone listened, their eyes on him, wide and trusting, and Felix wondered if their nickname for him was indeed more than a teasing moniker. “They’ll come back, hoping to finish what they started. Gethrin doesn’t want to leave me alive.”
Selon nodded. She was on Felix’s other side, and he could see the smears of charcoal running down her face from tears, some old, some new. “We’ll be ready when they come back,” she said fiercely.
The others voiced their approval, but Torsten shook his head. “No,” he said. “We can’t stay here. We’d have no chance surviving another attack. Not now.” His eyes swept over the smoldering camp. “The ground is too cold and hard and we haven’t the time for proper burials, so we’ll make a pyre for our friends tonight, and then leave this place at first light.”
Felix met Dot’s eyes, which were slightly unfocused without his spectacles. He was kneeling by Selon, his hand rubbing her back. “I’ve a full cord of dry wood and a quarter of another, King,” he said, “and there’s ample oil with the provisions to make a suitable blaze.”
“And we’ll get everything else packed up and ready,” Selon offered. “One of the tents is set up for you. There are clothes inside, and shoes. Marilyn and I are sleeping in the other.”
“Good,” Torsten nodded. “Good.” He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. “Let’s work quickly and put our friends to rest. That will leave us a few hours to sleep before dawn. Who has the first watch?”
Felix wasn’t a fighter. He couldn’t wield a sword or shoot a bow and arrow. He wasn’t strong enough to lift fallen trees from the road, or defeat assassins or elementals in combat. Neither was he an exceptional navigator, or a particularly fast runner. But he was useful that night as everyone got to work, helping Dot clean and pack his kitchen, toting wood, helping prepare the pyre. And when the time came to light it, Torsten didn’t need to ask; Felix pulled his old flute from his satchel and played a solemn song of passing as the fire began to roar and the bandits stood in silent mourning for their friends.
The flames were still high when Torsten turned away and headed for the tent. Felix followed without pause. The tent where they had slept was ashes now, but the one they ducked into was similar. The only real difference was the smell. Felix hadn’t realized the other tent had smelled so strongly of Torsten until he was standing in a tent that smelled primarily of smoke.
He watched as Torsten lit the lantern, then began digging through a crate, pulling out fresh clothes and furs for them both. After passing them over, he dropped to his knees on the pallet and ran his hands over his face, shutting his eyes with a shuddering sigh. Tears ran down his cheeks and caught in his beard.
There were a few obvious things Felix could say to try to make Torsten feel better. He could say how sorry he was that such an awful thing had happened. He could tell him that in time, the intensity of his grief would pass and become but a painful memory. He could tell him that everything would be alright. But “I have an idea,” is what he said instead, because he knew, from his own limited experience, that when something horrible happened, there was nothing anyone could say to make it better. But sometimes, there were things that could be done to help. And Felix knew what he had to do.
Torsten opened his eyes to him. Devastation was plain across his face and in the way his shoulders hunched, and how he clasped his hands together, as if he needed something to hold. “What is it, Flautist?”
“You’ll want revenge,” Felix said, keeping his voice light, soothing. “I know, because it’s been years and you still want to punish your father for being a crook, for letting people starve, for getting you banished and trying to get you killed. And you want revenge on Gethrin for the evil he’s done here tonight. I don’t blame you. I’d want revenge, too. I do want it. But there’s something you need from Gethrin before we kill him.”
Torsten arched an eyebrow. “We?”
“Gethrin has information about Malcolm’s crooked dealings with the guildmaster. He has proof, he said. We need that proof, whatever it is. With it, we can have revenge on your father and Gethrin, with the right plan. And the plan won’t work without me.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” Torsten asked with tear-bright eyes.
“Well, the first part of it is rather obvious.” He still held the bundle of fresh clothes in his arms, and now he clutched them tightly to his chest as the details of his plan began coming together in a frenzy. “I can get what we need from Gethrin.”
Torsten stood abruptly, nearly knocking his head on the tent pole. “No,” he said with staggering forcefulness. “I won’t allow it. There’s no way.”
“He wants me. He very clearly wants me.” Felix tried to keep the tremble from his voice as he recalled the leering eyes and the rough grip of Gethrin’s hands. “I could go to him, offer myself, find the proof. He’d never suspect me.”
“Are you out of your mind?” The devastation was gone from Torsten’s face, and now all he looked was furious. “You cannot give yourself to Gethrin.”
“I can tell him that what happened here tonight scared me to death and I’ve come to him for protection, or that you blamed my presence here for the death of your people and threw me out of your party,” Felix went on, his head whirling with possibilities. “I can convince him you’re gone, given up, headed east, tell him you’ve left the territory with no plans to return. It will give you the time you need to rebuild your forces, and plan the attack that will remove him as a threat forever. And when that’s done, when Gethrin is dead, I will have the proof we need to go after your father and convince the queen of your innocence. It’s a good plan, Torsten.”
“Giving yourself to a monster isn’t a good plan!” Torsten shouted angrily. “You know what he would do to you!”
Felix met Torsten’s eyes. His breath hitched. “I know,” he replied with as much calm as he could muster. “But I also know that what happens to me isn’t nearly as important as stopping all the death and misery those men have caused.”
“It’s not going to happen,” Torsten grunted dismissively.
“Why not? If it were Jossy or Selon or any of the others would you be so quick to say no? I can do this. I want to do this,” Felix insisted, his voice verging on hysteria. He was sure it was the right thing to do. He could feel the certainty of it in his bones. “Or do you think I can’t, because I’m nothing more to you than a weak, silly flautist?” If Felix still had the magic flute, he would have tried playing a song that would somehow convince Torsten to agree to his plan. It was dangerous, yes, and disgusting—no question of that—and there was a good chance he would end up getting hurt. But it was also something that he and he alone could do, something that was meaningful and good, maybe even heroic. And he knew he had to try.
“Enough!” Torsten exclaimed. “I know you can do it. And I am moved beyond measure that you’d offer to make such a sacrifice. But I don’t want you to do it. And I will not allow it.” Torsten stood in front of him, chest heaving, his face taking on the same strange, soft expression Felix had seen there before, and he now believed he knew what it meant.
“All right,” Felix said in acquiescence, lowering his eyes and shrugging his shoulders. Maybe he didn’t have a magical flute with its powers of persuasion anymore, but he was not entirely without wiles of his own. He dropped the bundle of clothes to the ground along with his satchel, then loosed the bandana from his neck. “What do you want, Torsten?” he asked as he pulled his shirt from his head. “What will you allow a weak, silly flautist to do?”
Torsten’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion as he watched Felix undress. “What do you mean?” he asked, stepping closer. “And you’re not just a flautist, nor are you silly or weak. You’re not any of those things. Not to me.”
The King's Whisper Page 20