Treva noticed the surrounding murmurs hushed. Faces, eyes, whirled toward him. He met their gazes and lowered his head slightly. He bit back his lip and gave a small nod. The others, the group that had grown in size, the recently freed slaves took him in, aghast. Thrilled. Free and among their leader, their…
The tenor of a male’s voice rang out, “King Oetam is dead...Long live the King!”
Another shouted, “All hail Our Royal Majesty, Lanico Loftre of Odana!” At this realization, a wave of shock washed over his face. Treva’s heart lifted as she saw them take a knee one by one.
“Please! Please! Let’s remain calm!” Lanico started. His hands gave a raising gesture. “Please rise. I cannot…” He looked to Treva.
Smiling, she felt herself biting her lower lip and lowered to kneel as well. Their gaze connected.
He was astonished. “The slaves. These are my people, they were slaves—right here, in front of me, bowing to-to...me!”
She gave him the slightest of nods and then from under her brow replied in their shared way, “Your people await you, my King.”
In all the things that he had envisioned in reclaiming his kingdom, this wasn’t one of them.
She could see him swallow against the stone in his throat. Lanico breathed in the sobering cool air and spoke, “Before I leave this hill and claim the throne”—a smattering of random cheers came at this. He smiled and gently waved them down. “I wanted to talk to you, to all of you,” he started. “I owe you all an apology. I can only hope for your forgiveness.” He walked closely among them; the swell of several hundreds gathered. He urged them to rise with his hands and arms. Those closest he touched them on the shoulders, took their hands, and guided them back up to stand. Treva watched tenderly as he continued, “It took far too long. I have not been a dutiful or responsible leader for you. Because of this, we all lost.” He paused, turning to look upon the group. “We lost everything. I lost my title; you lost your shops and duties. I lost the castle, our castle, and you lost your homes. I lost my—” he made a sharp sigh, “—my friend, your Lieutenant General Izra, and you lost your King.” He paused, looking onto their faces. Some now streaked with tears. “As well as countless family, friends—and of course your freedom.” He walked slow with measure. “Today is a new day! I am reclaiming my position; I am reclaiming the throne! As we speak, the mines are being emptied of our fellow WynSprign, and closed! Grude will be removed from the throne and be assured, any Mysra responsible for adding to this enslavement and oppression will be dealt with!”
His mind whirled at this. How could they trust him again? How could they feel confident with him again, as their leader? He was their General and he had left them. He allowed them to suffer in anguish. Many that had entered into slavery had died. Anah’s parents...
There was nothing that he could do to truly convey his commitment, but he had to try. He needed to at least try.
“I haven’t deserved your forgiveness, but I will give you freedom again, safety—it will be yours again…I will never leave you again.” He then stepped before them as they now stood. He kneeled. Bowing his head he made a promise of servitude and protection for them, for his people.
Treva stood her distance and was moved at the sight before her. This regal Prince—her King, lowered, humbling himself for all to see. No one had ever witnessed such a move by royalty before. Lanico rose and some came in closer to embrace him. He didn’t shy away in this moment, but rather invited them in.
“Thank you,” he whispered, trying to maintain stoicism. He cleared his throat and said, “Thank you… I will win this day for us... For our tomorrow.”
His eyes met Treva’s in the short distance, among all the staring faces. He made steps toward her. The crowd gave way and watched as they came together. Her falchion. Her weapons, glimmering. That smart smirk playing about her lips, seeing him eyeing her, the look on his face. He came in close and offered his hand. “Shall we?” he asked most cunningly, as if it were an invitation to some romantic dance.
“Let’s,” she purred impishly.
Together, they walked toward the trench. Smiling faces and gazes all around glided over their rugged forms as they ambled forward, hand in hand, until there was a pause. There was a silent exchange of words.
He reconnected his eyes to hers. “A lasting embrace, my Queen?”
A twinkle glimmered in her eye. The familiar smell of leather and lavender, entwined in one lasting embrace, one that would carry them through, until the end—to whatever end that awaited them.
How is it possible that she still smells so marvelous? He found himself wondering again.
The WynSprigns knew who she was—knew who she’d become to them. The murmurs had swirled like the hissing of grasses, It’s the Emerald Knight. Their silhouettes fit together beautifully, as if they were crafted for each other. It was enough to make even the weariest of hearts flutter.
Movement on the crest of the hill just beyond caused them to snap their heads in that direction. Anah was bounding up with more slaves, Marin flanking them. It was moving just as planned. By now, the majority of slaves had arrived, had been freed, and were away from possible dangers within the encampment. Who knew what fate could await anyone still left inside? It was very likely that others would have remained inside still, fearful of events, but there wasn’t much that could be done. Judging by the size of this crowd – which now seemed close to a thousand, he believed, or rather he hoped the majority had arrived.
A distant crackle of thunder rolled.
It was time.
She felt the corner of her mouth curl into a crooked smile as his hands guided her waist closer.
He huffed a low laugh against her neck. It swept strands of her hair. “Ready?”
She nodded against his shoulder.
His voice was low as he said, “Good. Let’s make metal spark.”
Chapter 22
Unfailing friendship and support
His breathing was labored and his body too beaten, and yet it was with extreme care that Gish soldiered his way from the southern watchtower along the trench’s border to the Purple Hall Mine. He placed one agonizing step after another. It took time keeping to the shadows to avoid a possible encounter with a guard—at least for now. It wasn’t likely that there were many remaining here, and the one that he had been concerned with most, Treva had already taken down. Yeah, he wasn’t supposed to know about that tangle with Nizen, but with their past history in this wretched place, Treva could tell him just about anything. Nonetheless, he needed to get to the mine first before any other possible guard roamed near to hamper his mission. It was expected that a small group of remaining slaves had likely made it there and were still toiling. They were in the first group, the ones that lived nearest to the mine entrance.
At his approach, the high-pitched sounds of chiseling and hammering echoed deeply from within. A frighteningly familiar uniformed pattern. He cringed. He hadn’t missed that sound, but now, there was something else drawing him in. The promise of strength and energy. The wafting scent of the purple mineral breezed to tease his nose. He could almost see the lavender wisps of powder, dancing before him, beckoning him in, closer—closer to the mine, to the promise of ease, of pleasure, of-of…
Gish licked his lips. Yes. The beloved taste was there—hinting in the air, landing on him. He could sense that the dust particles were kissing his skin even, enrobing him in pleasure. He sighed painfully, “No.” He took a shuddered breath. “I will…” he breathed, “remain strong.” He had remained undetected all this way. He would keep going; pushing himself onward.
Astonishment came when he realized the cave entrance didn’t have a scowling Mysra guard at watch. Unusual. Most unusual. He had prepared for a battle, but none would happen, at least, not here, not in this way. It was lucky. Very lucky. He didn’t feel confident his waning strength would last another battle especially when breathing itself had been a challenge.
He hadn’t time to ponder
on this. He inhaled deeply just before entering the brassy mine. Damn it. The scent, the subtle taste was there. His thick fingers rubbed together before he turned them into balled fists. Instantly the enticing smell of trillium hit him. He licked his lips again to taste the overwhelming sweet rock salt that flowed freely in the cavernous air. He clenched his fists tighter and fought the urge to indulge from the filled carts nearby. His heart raced—but on its own power. He feared his reaction to the trillium-filled mine, but it had to happen. Oh, Holy Fray Jaspia. His body ached so. But this was the most strategic place for him after all the planning. Greta had assured him all the time he’d spent with her, that he had the strength to pull away from its lure, the trillium’s dangerous call. She’d even conjured a spell over him, to reduce its enticement. He relied on his thoughts and knowing that time—time was of the essence. He didn’t have time to think about trillium. “Marin, shouldn’t be far behind,” he whispered to himself before placing another step, taking himself fully in.
A young golden-haired slave, who worked the closest to the entrance, gasped noticing a bloodied Mysra, Gish, stomping in. He was beaten. Badly. A beaten Mysra was indeed a shock. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.
Gish noticed shock splashed across the woman’s face. He knew that instant; she was a new addition to the mine, pulled from some mundane castle worker role to fulfill the increased trillium demands. No. His mind spun. No, not a mundane castle worker. He recognized, Cantata’s personal slave! Trilla.
Before she could sabotage his plan by screaming or running off to alert whomever, he made a split decision. In a flash of blinding pain he inhaled to roar; emptying everything he had into the cavern, “Everyone out!”
Echoing, booming throughout the Purple Hall, Gish’s bellow caused them to drop their tools and press hands to their ears. It almost felt as if the cave quaked at the roll of his voice. His voice had power. They stood, stunned, for just a moment, uncertain of what to do at that instant. Trilla, her mouth agape, dropped her tools and tore off, straight for her hut.
He felt himself on the verge of collapse, but still Gish fought against the urge to pass out. The air agonizingly expelled from his lungs. He labored, taking on another rasping breath through cracked ribs. “Out! Now!” A desperate attempt to get them all moving. He backed into the quarried wall behind him and slumped to the ground. His head spun from pain, from lack of air, from his outright need.
Cantata, who had already wandered farther into the mine in her own curiosity, now found herself at curious alert. At the roar, slaves were running, flying past her, to get out. She determined this demand for them to exit was perhaps a mistake in procedure? Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to have had them enter when she did. She pursed her thin lips, casually gathered up her skirts, and jogged out among the others. Though she wasn’t about to give into a fit complaint. She noticed how the guard was late and she’d rail at his or her tardiness if the blame fell on her.
✽✽✽
The wave of slaves neared and Gish grappled to raise himself, to use the cave wall for the support of his body. He just needed a few moments before running off to the next stop of their plan. Several WynSprigns paused from their rush at the sight of him. He was at the entrance. “Go!” He rasped, “Head—to the trenched—hill—for freedom!” He took another racking breath. “The southern edge—Go!” He hitched his weight up and pushed himself higher, to stand fully on his own, but dizziness ensued and he leaned back again. Some strength was returning. But his breathing was labored. Every breath a stab to his chest. More and more slaves flurried past him, taking heed of his order.
Outside, as frightened WynSprigns dashed from the Purple Hall, Marin had only just arrived. Gish could hear him shout, “Run! Safety awaits you in the forest beyond the hill!”
The Mysra then straightened as Cantata came jogging past. She was among a group of other slaves and hadn’t noticed him. Her sight was too busy, aimed at the pounding group ahead.
He felt a sense of alarm at spotting her here. What is she doing here? It wasn’t normal for her to be outside the castle.
Marin ran inside just after the group came filing out. His steps squelched through, but he stopped short at the sight of his friend. His voice was ecstatic. “Gish! I’m so glad you’re here! I noticed you were able to clear this mine.” His voice stopped at the sight. Gish was fighting for air. Marin inhaled. He had been battered. Black blood stained his clothes. His sword was gone, no longer sheathed to his back. He was leaning on the wall for support.
“Gish...You’ve been—” Marin couldn’t finish the rest.
“I had to—fight off—a guard—can’t breathe good—”
“Are you okay?”
Not hiding his annoyance at that idiotic question, he rasped, “Marin! Go deeper into—” He pointed wearily, “mine—make sure—no one in cages—”
“Right.”
Gish was severely injured and they needed to move fast. It was a few eternity-filled seconds later that Marin reemerged. “It’s clear, Gish. Cages are empty. No one is here, save for us, so now, we’ll need to move.”
Gish nodded and licked his lips in error. The damned taste of the air alone had his senses roiling again. Fuck! His eyes roamed over the filled, gleaming carts. If only a small amount, to get moving again, to aid me.
“No, Gish.” Marin noticed where his friend’s eyes had landed. His tone was firm, but also hinted at compassion. He made it clear, just then, he knew what had been tormenting his friend Gish. The way his eyes twinkled looking at the lavender heaps. The subtle trembles. The odd fits of agitation. The conversation he overheard with Greta. “It won’t help my friend...not really.”
Gish sighed, but instead it came out as a moan.
“You’ve made too much progress to... You are stronger than the trillium.” Though he greatly overwhelmed Marin in weight and in strength, Marin offered a steadying hand to Gish. For unfailing friendship and support. “You’ve already made it so far.”
Gish nodded and grunted before straightening. He placed a step.
Marin’s calm demeanor was deceptive, but his words weren’t. “Time is slipping. We still need to meet Anah.”
Gish grunted as he stood and used every bit of his effort and strength to move forward. Though he hadn’t said it, Marin was right. Their group was small and they had to use themselves to their full extents. Now that the mine was clear of WynSprigns and guards, they needed urgently to make it back to Anah. She was left alone to guard the slaves from any possible attack.
Chapter 23
Smiling, breathing
The twang of metal rang high. Felena turned, swinging her sword toward the thick, muscled leg. Blocked—the Mysra blocked it. “Shit!” She heard herself growl in frustration, in fury. She knew she could have done better with that last strike.
Freck, if he wasn’t so determined to win at this, would have laughed at her sound. He didn’t have to look; he knew her cheeks were flushed in painted anger. The Mysra lunged for Freck’s unguarded chest, but he turned just in time. The Mysra’s blade slashed though empty air, his weight now off. Force drove him, moving forward in that second, right in front of Freck. Freck thrust his sword down in a smooth slice. The guard yelled as the blade rammed through his solid shoulder and out from his chest. Nonlethal, but very wounded. Freck smiled. The Mysra, now on all fours, collapsed, rasping, “Go ahead. Finish me!” He spat. Freck’s smile faded. The Mysra’s voice was low. “Ha! I knew you were too wea—” But, in a flash, Freck delivered a slash that sent his head rolling. He didn’t hesitate. He just wanted to take a few more energizing breaths before he finished him through. It had been a challenge, keeping up with them.
His ears perked to hear Felena, now behind him. He turned, smiling again as his eyes landed on her. She had a female Mysra at the other end of her swipes. Felena continued to swing, to lunge, to duck...Freck then hesitated. Maybe she doesn’t have this Mysra after all? He went to assist—knowing full well that she’d rail against him
for it, but he didn’t care. Her swings were getting weary. He didn’t want her to die needlessly fighting off some mediocre warrior.
She made a swipe against the Mysra’s belly. In an instant, her intestines came slushing, spilling to the ground.
Nope. She had her.
Felena panted and looked to Freck. Black blood had splattered her front. They locked eyes. Now, both were smiling, breathing. They had already succeeded in clearing out guards from another tower, as planned. It felt good. To do this again.
Another Mysra roar sounded nearby and amusement danced in her eyes.
“Let’s go!” Freck said. Felena tightened her lips and made a swift nod. Her golden plait waving behind her already bounding body.
The Legacy of Lanico: Return of the Son: Book two of the Legacy of Lanico series Page 21