Nolyn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “How so?”

  Every one of them raised a finger and pointed at Amicus. “Him, sir.”

  Amicus looked awkward, then shrugged. “I trained them up a little.”

  “A little?”

  “The Seventh Sik-Aux is the best squadron in the empyre, sir,” Riley stated without a hint of arrogance, as if the assessment was common knowledge. “That’s why we’re always out front—the first to be sent in.”

  Myth smiled. “We’re as effective as a cohort.”

  “In my day,” Nolyn said, “a cohort was five hundred men.”

  “Still is, sir.”

  “That’s quite the boast.” Nolyn turned to Amicus. “Would you agree?”

  The soldier nodded. “The legion teaches teamwork above all else. Combat is a group endeavor. If you break up the members, fracture the line, soldiers become nothing but mindless thugs with sharpened sticks. But I teach my men to fight together, and alone, with spear, sword, shield, dagger, or even bare hands. That’s what’s needed in this jungle. We train over all terrains and in any conditions, even the dark.”

  Nolyn nodded. He would have argued, but three things stopped him. The first was the spectacle of martial excellence that Amicus had put on the night before. Second, there was no arguing with the reality of six survivors where none should exist. Third, if they wanted to do more than survive one night, they had to get moving. “As much as I hate leaving those men to the jungle . . .” He looked at Riley. “My duty is to the living. Let’s get moving.”

  “Sir,” Riley said, “I request permission to bury the dead myself.”

  Nolyn shook his head. “We can’t afford to lose a sword. We might need you to get out.”

  “I’ll be quick, sir, and I’ll have no trouble finding you since you’re going downriver.”

  “Those men are dead, and they—”

  “Deserve a proper burial. If they don’t get it, they won’t enter Phyre, and they deserve their rest in paradise.”

  “He has a point, sir,” Jerel said, then to Riley he added, “I’d lend a hand, but, well, you know.” He pointed at Nolyn.

  Riley nodded. “I’d want to be buried with a stone in my hand, sir. And I’d feel better if Sessation and Gammit found their way safely to the afterlife.”

  “We should at least collect the gear,” Amicus said. “And the ground is easy to dig in.”

  “Seven of us, thirteen of them,” Nolyn said. “There’s no time for individual graves. This has to be a one-pit burial, understand?”

  “Two,” Riley said hopefully. “It’ll take less time than carrying Paladeious, Lucius, Ambrus, and Greig back to the others.”

  Nolyn sighed. “Okay, two, but then we march out of here at double-time. Maybe we killed them all, but perhaps we didn’t. I’m not taking the chance that one or two gobs ran off to get friends. Understood?”

  Amicus nodded. “Show us the way, Riley.”

  When the last funeral was finished, the sun was almost at midday. Nolyn didn’t dare waste any more time and ordered them to move out.

  Everyone who’d lost gear the night before either found their missing items or grabbed new ones from the equipment pile of the fallen. That included Nolyn. Watching the others, he noticed how they each hooked their packs to the heads of axes, mattocks, or brush cutters that acted in place of the traditional furca carrying pole. It made far more sense to employ an existing tool than to use an additional stick to hook the pack to, and Nolyn was reminded that it had been centuries since he’d actively served in the legion. He adapted and did likewise, looping his pack’s hang-strap over the head of an ax. Unless he was running, the ax handle on his shoulder balanced the weight of the pack and he didn’t even need to hold it.

  “Smirch,” Amicus called, “you have the boar’s head.”

  “Are you serious?” the man protested, shocked. “I don’t know the way out of here.”

  “Don’t need to, just head back the way we came, then walk downstream. Even you can handle that.”

  “You’ve never given me the lead before. Why now?”

  “You might have noticed we’re a bit shorthanded. Do you really want to argue with me?” Amicus smiled at the soldier.

  Smirch frowned, hoisted his pack, and started out.

  “Did anyone manage to save their own gear last night?” Nolyn asked.

  Myth laughed. “Mine is buried under the cliff debris. This was Ambrus’s pack.”

  “I have Yorken’s,” Riley said. “And Ramahanaparus has Greig’s.”

  “I kept mine,” Amicus said.

  “Me too.” Jerel grinned proudly.

  “The two of you are freaks, aren’t you?” Myth added.

  They moved in a single file down the headwaters, which was treacherous because they were forced to travel over slick rocks and crisscross a forceful current. In some deep places, they walked log bridges covered with algae. Frequently, they had to swing out away from the river then cut back, and on two occasions, they were forced to resort to hand-over-hand techniques as they dealt with waterfalls that dropped twenty feet at a time.

  “What about your father?” Nolyn asked Amicus as they trudged together through a patch of thick ferns that grew taller than any of them.

  “Huh?”

  “We discussed the wit and wisdom of my old man, the Imperial Bastard. Tell me about yours. What’s his name?”

  “Anthar.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Was a soldier. He died a few years ago.”

  “Out here?”

  Amicus shook his head as he ducked around a massive prickly plant the others referred to as a spiker. “Died in bed of the pox.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He was seventy.” Amicus looked over. “That’s old for a human.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t know. Apparently, I’m an idiot.”

  “Sorry, sir, I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Forget it.”

  “I just mean, well, it’s especially ancient for a soldier. He taught me to fight. Started training me when I was five.”

  “It shows. So you were on good terms?”

  Amicus smiled wryly. “He asked only two things of me: keep a low profile and never serve in the legion.”

  “Oops,” Nolyn said.

  “Exactly. ‘Amicus, my boy,’ he told me, ‘your forefathers’ swords have served the empyre since before there was such a thing—since the Battle of Grandford—and what has it gotten us? Centuries of endless marching, poor food, blood, and misery, that’s what. Unless you’re Instarya, you aren’t allowed to succeed, not worthy of respect.’ He also told me to avoid profiting too much from my training. Brigham Killian’s son Ingram tried that path and regretted it. My dad always said, ‘When you’re as good as we are at fighting, you become a target.’ He was right. I painted a bull’s-eye on my back by beating Abryll. Still, I never thought it would be the emperor who would take aim.”

  “I guess we have something in common, you and I,” Nolyn said. “My father hates both of us.”

  Chapter Four

  The Voice

  Sephryn tried to stop the monk from seeing. She did her best to cover his eyes, hold his head. She did everything short of pushing him down the stairs, but he still saw the writing—and of course, he could read. She made him swear to be silent. Demanded it in exchange for allowing him to stay. She couldn’t risk him leaving after what he had seen. As it turned out, Seymour didn’t need coaxing. After learning her lineage, he was eager to please.

  What followed bordered on blind panic. Sephryn ran outside, reached the street, then stopped and examined Ishim’s Way. The little neighborhood was shutting down for the evening, but dozens of people were still drawing water, hauling sacks, and chatting on stoops.

  Is anyone watching me? She searched for the eyes of a stranger, hoping she would spot someone who might instantly look away or dart down an alley, but the street was the same as always.

  Windows! The idea popped into her
head, and she made a study of each one. Someone might be peering out at me, watching to see my reaction. She saw no one. Night was coming on; most of the windows were shuttered.

  She spotted a pair of city guards: simple leather, short swords, brushed helms. They were having a conversation as they walked past her house on the far side of the fountain.

  Tell anyone—he dies.

  Her heart raced as she debated what to do. If I wave them over and no one is watching, how could the culprit know? She scanned the street again. What if it isn’t a stranger? Maybe it’s someone I know. It can’t be, and yet—why would anyone kill Mica and take my son?

  None of it made sense. I don’t know enough to do anything yet. That one thought ran repeatedly through her head as she watched the guards walk past.

  Child still alive—will contact you.

  With one last look, Sephryn returned inside. She searched the house, although demolished was a more accurate description. She tore apart every cupboard and closet. She didn’t have a clear idea of what she hoped to find, aside from her son stuffed into some nook or under a bed. She found nothing, not Nurgya or even a clue that might lead her to the identity of who was responsible.

  She finally collapsed on the kitchen floor, running a hand through her hair and trying to think. Seymour said nothing, just watched her from across the room. After several hours, he went to the counter, took a cloth and the water bucket, and headed for the stairs.

  That got her moving. Together they cleaned the nursery. Seeing her hands shake, the monk offered to do the job alone, but she wouldn’t have it. It was her house, and that was Mica’s blood—she was certain of it. More important, she desperately needed something to do. Sitting and waiting, she felt certain, would kill her.

  Blood was everywhere, but there wasn’t as much as Sephryn first imagined. The horror came less from the amount and more from the area it covered. Although she’d never been to war, the death of Kendel wasn’t the first she had experienced. She had seen a man crushed by a wagon, a woman trampled by a horse, and two people who fell from scaffolding. She’d even witnessed a number of executions: a man boiled to death and another drawn and quartered. Those occurred back in the dark days before she managed to have such barbaric punishments outlawed. Yet in all her centuries, she’d never seen anything that turned her stomach like the blood in the nursery.

  It’s as if poor Mica exploded.

  As they scrubbed the stains, Sephryn couldn’t help thinking of the old woman who had served as Nurgya’s nursemaid. Her relationship with Mica hadn’t started out that way. Mica was just one of the many destitute people whom Sephryn had taken in. At the peak, there had been sixteen people living with her, all impoverished, which meant a lot of mouths to feed. Even now, she continued to fund a food bank for those unable to find work. Mica was her last invitee and, like Arvis, was a hopeless case. Both were disagreeable, difficult to understand—much less appreciate—and neither was able to take care of themselves. But where Arvis had refused room and board, Mica relented on the condition that she would trade work for a roof over her head. That was how, a little more than a year ago, Mica had become Sephryn’s housekeeper. With the birth of Nurgya, that role expanded to include nursemaid. Mica had no immediate family nearby. With the exception of a handful of scattered relatives that she occasionally mentioned as examples of hideous human beings, the old woman had outlived the rest of the DeBrus clan. Sephryn thought she might have a cousin living somewhere in Rhulynia, but even Mica wasn’t certain about that. Contacting relatives, at least, wasn’t something Sephryn would have to deal with.

  She rinsed the red from her rag in the bucket and bit her lip, trying to hold back tears. Mercifully, Sephryn hadn’t come across any body parts. Whether Seymour had found and removed them, she didn’t know—didn’t want to find out.

  First Kendel, now Mica, they say deaths come in threes.

  By the time they finished the nursery, it was late, and the house was dark and cold. Seymour emptied the buckets of pink water into the sewer grate, the dark of night defending against the prying eyes of her neighbors. Exhausted, her head hurt from examining every possible option. None was useful. Sephryn returned downstairs and sat on the floor like a top that had run out of spin. Seymour lit a fire, found a blanket, led her to a chair, and wrapped her tight.

  “It’ll be fine. I’m certain,” the monk offered in a nearly convincing voice.

  Child still alive—will contact you. Dear Mari, she hoped that was true.

  Sitting before the fire, she continued to think, tried to focus.

  Why was the nut she couldn’t pry open. Nothing had been stolen. Nothing damaged.

  Blackmail? Everyone knows I’m not rich. Do they think I have the power to enact real change? Was someone angry because—

  She remembered Fryln. Watch yourself, mongrel. That’s a thin line to hide behind. Maybe killing half-a-Fhrey would prevent my entrance to Phyre, but there’s nothing against inflicting pain.

  She swallowed hard. He’s the one. Has to be. There’s no one else.

  Terror gripped her as she imagined him killing Nurgya, but then came a realization. He can’t! Hope rose. Nurgya is my son. He has Fhrey blood. But then hope fled. He could always pay someone to do it for him. She shuddered. But maybe he only wants to frighten me. He wouldn’t dare harm Nurgya. Oh, if he does . . .

  Her eyes rose to the long bow that was mounted above the fireplace—her mother Moya’s bow.

  The night her mother died, Sephryn and her father had sat together in a small dark room for hours. Her father, who always used to entertain his daughter with tales of how he had laughed in the face of his own death, trembled as Moya faced hers. Neither Sephryn nor Tekchin said a word as they sat on either side of Moya’s bed, listening to her breathe, a rasping inhaled hiss that gurgled on the way out. For years afterward, anything resembling that noise set Sephryn on edge. But that sound was music compared with the silence when it finally stopped. After waiting so long, after enduring the seemingly unending anguish, Sephryn had imagined that the end would bring relief. She was wrong. What was perhaps even worse was when her father stood up and said, “It’s over. She won’t even need a stone. She knows the way.” His tone was what had bothered her. There seemed to be a lack of regret. Her mother’s passing—the death of his wife of nearly fifty years—appeared to have had little effect on him. He acted as if she were just sleeping, and he’d see her the next day when she woke up.

  That had been the worst night of Sephryn’s life—until now.

  Sephryn sat in that chair, wrapped in the blanket and praying to a host of gods she’d never needed before. When morning came and the world brightened, she cursed the rising sun. The night had passed without hearing from the kidnapper. There had been no deadline, and yet, she felt the new day was evidence that the slender hope of contact had been nothing more than wishful thinking. She feared facing a reality without her son the same way she’d had to accept her mother’s death. Once more, she would do so alone—or nearly so.

  “I found some tea,” Seymour said, coming toward her with a pair of steaming cups.

  Sephryn had moved to the bench at the window so she could watch the street. Lights were on in a few homes. A handful of lonely figures braved the chilly morning air with raised hoods. They carried satchels over their shoulders or pushed carts.

  Just another day—for them.

  Seymour set one cup down on the table and pressed the other one into her hands. He waited until he was certain she had a grip before letting go. Then he sat beside her and looked out the same window, loudly sipping his tea.

  “Do you suspect anyone?” That was the first thing he’d asked since his feeble remarks of support.

  “Not certain, but I have an idea. If I don’t hear word soon . . .” She forced herself not to look at the bow. She hadn’t touched it in years, but she was certain her skill would come back easily. “I’ll go after him, track the bastard down myself, if I have to. My mother was known fo
r her temper, famous for it, actually. For good or ill, I have inherited that. No law of Ferrol will stop me.”

  Seymour nodded. “So, you think it was a Fhrey?”

  Sephryn was surprised by his knowledge of Ferrol’s Law, but brushed it aside. “If my son dies, no legend will stop me, and that will bring repercussions. I’ve spent generations trying to build a bridge between humans and Fhrey. Proclaiming that the two could live together in peace. Killing one . . .” She shook her head and sighed. “Murdering the scion of a powerful house could destroy everything I’ve worked for.”

  She stood up and moved to the other window. More people were in the square. She reached out and touched the pane of glass with her open palm. “He’s out there somewhere. My son still lives. I have to believe that.”

  “Yes, he does,” a voice in her head said. “And if you don’t want me to kill him, you’ll do everything I say.”

  Sephryn dropped the teacup, and it shattered on the floor. “Did you hear that?”

  Seymour looked from the broken pieces then back to her. “Hear what?”

  “Shall I continue?”

  “That right there!”

  “Only you can hear my voice. Would you rather listen to me or blather on with that idiot beside you?”

  Her fear must be showing because Seymour looked at her, puzzled.

  “Are you all right?” the monk asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sephryn replied, terrified. “Something strange is going on.” Her heart was thumping, her breath short.

  “I thought I made it clear that you shouldn’t talk to anyone. So, who is this fellow? You told him, didn’t you?”

  “No! No, I didn’t say anything. I swear!”

  “Who are you talking to?” Seymour asked.

  Sephryn shushed him with a finger to her lips.

  “Don’t lie to me. Remember poor Mica? Let me show you what happens when you disobey—”

  “I didn’t tell him!” she shouted. “He was with me when I found the message. We saw it at the same time.”