by K R Leikvoll
My body collapsed and I nearly wept from the relief of not having to use my legs. I had never trekked such a long distance, nor had I grown used to sitting on a saddle. Between the physical and mental stress, I was worried I might look weak to James. To my utter relief, he felt inclined to help me instead of degrading me.
“You would heal faster if you drank directly from a source, but our Master does not desire for us to have a blood bond before your Sacrament,” he told me as he studied my wounds. “I have something that will help, but I’m afraid you will have to wait until we return home to mend your broken bones.”
I was puzzled by his words, as I had never given thought to ingesting anyone’s blood besides Vincent’s. It felt intimate and private – not something to be done with others outside of our relationship. My single night of being a coven member on trial was not long enough for me to learn anything of demonic rituals. The lovemaking I had with my Master was never a form of sacrifice to me, as I had no knowledge of sacrifice to begin with. I knew of his sweet blood and body, nothing more.
With much coaxing and patience, James convinced me to remove my clothing. It was rather moronic that I was frightful of such a thing, as even if James desired to have his way with me, my clothing was imbedding itself in my cuts and was filthy. Thankfully for the sake of my uneasiness, he worked methodically, much like Raven had done with my injuries after my fight and thirty years previously.
“You will be my coven sister soon. Have trust; we are cohorts in our assistance to our Master and the Void Lords,” James said to soothe me as he approached my side. He had a bowl of grayish paste, a vase of water and linen scraps in his hands. I stared at him wearily until the aching of my wrists made it hard to care any longer about his presence. With caution to appease me, he sat near my feet.
“What is a Sacrament?” I asked, genuinely curious. He slowly took my foot in his grasp and dipped his hand into the thick salve. His fingers wiped it on my damaged soles, massaging it in as much as he could.
“A variant of the dark ritual… you will be bound to our Master and the Void Lords soon after we get home.”
Bandages were wrapped around my ankles to stabilize them. My legs were next. Though they were almost free of injury and were simply sore, he still spent the time to massage a small amount of the salve on my calves and thighs. The paste burned, but the pressure of his hands helped the furious aching.
“Why must I be bound to the Void Lords?”
James paused in his movements after my legs before moving to my torso. At the time, I did not know why the question caused him to think. In retrospect, it was likely that he was trying to avoid giving me too much information that was Vince’s to give.
“If you are to help us achieve victory, you must become immortal. There is no alternative,” he finally replied.
“Is it… painful?” I asked fearfully. I had spent many years envious of James and Raven for their gift, but when presented with the idea of actually binding my soul, I was terrified. Magic beyond the light was rare in the world I had grown in.
James, again, did not answer for some time. He applied the salve to my chest, face and agonized hands before my desperate eyes made him sigh.
“You have to be strong, Lazarus. It will all be worth it when you see the divine truth of the Void and the Vast Dark.”
James offered no more words on the topic. Instead, he busied himself doing tasks for me – all completely unnecessary. He ran me a bath, assisting with washing my hair as it was too cumbersome with how weak I was. Afterward, he gave me one of his robes to wear until he could find more suitable clothing in the city. He even went as far as to cook me soup. Until I finished it, and was neatly tucked into bed, he did not make any notion that he would be leaving. It was far more than I deserved.
“I have to go speak with the chieftain on the border to ask for further compliance. After that, I’m going to have a drink. Don’t stay awake. Uxe will take well over a month to reach,” James said before he felt content in leaving me alone.
The idea of a longer trip that I had initially thought was torturous to my consciousness. I ached unbearably for my Master, unsure of how I could possibly last that long without his embrace. Our exchange of blood and bodies was done specifically to instill those feelings within me. He wanted me to yearn for his touch and lose my mind with desire. It would keep me focused on my goal during my trial. At that moment, however, I wanted to claw at my skin or rip at my hair. His blood was addictive, and it had been given to me far more frequently before I left. If I could barely last over a week, how could I endure over a month?
Heeding James’ word, and dreading the next day, I allowed myself to rest. If I could succeed in winning James’ favor on our journey, it could only benefit my relationship with my Master. He was Vince’s favorite after all.
James was not an idiot, like myself. When we approached the western gate to leave Duskwraith and Eidune behind, an entire caravan and a band of soldiers were awaiting our arrival. The caravan was from Eidune, carrying both foreign prisoners and traders to the Zaarian capital Uxe.
Even after James’ delicate care the night previously and that morning, my wrists and other fractured bones would take weeks to heal. At least the abrasions afflicted during my ambush had virtually cleared overnight. It helped that I was wearing lighter clothing James had purchased with his own coin. They were loosely fitted to be gentler on my fading bruises.
“You are still far from mending. Why don’t you rest in one of the wagons? You can help me keep an eye on everyone that way,” James told me. He was ordering me to without making me feel as if I were unimportant. After his unneeded kindness and respect, I found it hard to be offended. I would have rather lounged in a carriage than walk or ride on a katoma full time anyway.
On that topic, James’ bladed, white cat came bounding from the south, likely from the stables. His hands forcibly moved me to the side. It was an abrupt enough motion to cause me to stumble. Naturally, my first reaction was anger, but it was quickly replaced with understanding.
The katoma – all nine hundred pounds of the beast – leapt on top of James, burying him into the ground with the force. The silver blades adorning its paws cut deeply into his flesh. Pitch black blood completely drenched his cloak and tunic. At first, I thought the cat was attempting to eat him, but more people were laughing than shocked.
With a sharp push, James crawled from underneath the cat. I assisted in helping him to his feet with another guard. It was a difficult task, for the katoma was so excitable, she was nearly knocking him back over with her aggressive head nudges.
“Naxerella! Naxi! Naxi – you are being rebellious and it needs to cease!” James tried to yell commandingly. He finally scratched at her ears and rubbed her face. She purred so loud it sounded as if she swallowed a ton of keeba bees. When she was satisfied that he had sufficiently noticed her presence, she padded out to the open rocky field. The area was barren, but katoma were intelligent hunters. If there was any big game to be found, there would be no chance of survival.
Apparently Naxerella often mauled James, so he always prepared with an extra change of clothes. He removed his blood-soaked shirt, and I watched in awe at his wounds. Each one of the fatally deep lacerations began to heal. By the time he was pulling on a dark green tunic over his ashen head, all that remained were bloodstains. Not even a scar was left in its place.
After some direction and orders from James, the caravan started on its path to Uxe. I took his advice and wishes to heart, putting myself with the traders and their large, silk covered wagon. They were being pulled by reptilian beasts known as beithirr. They were natives to the Empire of Zaar – extremely hard to handle and not widely used outside of the rocky territories. Despite their temperament, they made excellent creatures for trade and coach pulling. The Zaarians were the only race of Praetis that had truly perfected their management and used them for war. A sight I did not desire to see.
The traders that occupied the wag
on were uneasy at the idea of having me nearby. Perhaps being the Warden made them feel as if I did not allow happiness nor cheery attitudes. It mattered not – I cared only for rest, not conversation. There were a couple of Duskwraith men, a few Zaarian traders traveling back to the capital, and a handful of women and children that belonged to them.
I positioned myself as deep as I could and watched the land through the small gap in the silken cover. The further we grew from the border in Eidune, the colder and drier the air became. Though I always considered Duskwraith to be a frigid country, it rained far more often and maintained a muggy atmosphere. Zaar lacked any sort of moisture, making it somewhat harsher to inhale than that of either of my homelands.
I slept off and on for the first week without any desire to leave the covering of the wagon. James had seen to me having blankets and stuffed pillows to rest on, expressing his concern that I needed to be kept as comfortable as possible to heal faster. The days had dragged on unbearably slow; I thought I would lose my mind entirely before we finally made it back home.
One of the elder traders had slowly realized I was hardly a threat and gave me a large vase of wine to help with my distress. Though my body was getting better as far as my fractures and sprains, the withdrawal from my Master’s blood caused me to be feverish. It was puzzling at the time, I thought the longer I was away, the more I would wean myself from the substance. Instead, it was the complete opposite. I cried in my sleep for Vincent. I scratched at my skin uncontrollably when it would hit me in tidal waves. Every day, hour, minute and second passed feeling as if it might be my last.
After nearly a week straight of drinking wine and sweating out my desires, I could no longer stand to stay with the traders. I climbed from the wagon with the intention of surveying the land. It wasn’t until I was trailing behind the convoy that I realized how inhospitable our surroundings really were.
It was as unfruitful as far as my eyes could see. No brush, trees nor grass grew in any direction. Not even a stream could be heard. Only the strong winds from the northern mountains were howling in the silence. It made sense to me as to why the Zaarians lived primarily in their three major cities, or on the outskirts. It would be impossible to hunt, farm or build in such a drab, dead place.
“It makes you appreciate Duskwraith, doesn’t it?” James voice asked on my side. I did not bother to look in his direction, lest he truly see the unrest in my soul. I discreetly pulled my hood down further and wrapped my blanket around me tighter.
“We could starve them out by the looks of it. They will be easy to destroy then,” I replied in a cracked, monotonic voice. Without paying mind to our mission or my surroundings, my words fell on Zaarian ears.
It was a prisoner, bound and forced to walk alongside the wagon rather than being permitted to sit inside. His eyes narrowed into a glare and he spat at me with fury, “Evyan whore.”
“Stop the caravan,” I grumbled, holding up a fist.
“You heard the Warden! Halt!” the accompanying guard captain called.
Gradually the beithirr slowed and brought the carriages to a stop. I was originally only going to punish him for his mouth. That is the truth, on my soul I swear it. To James’ irritation, however, my tongue had let slip our intention for war when most were under the impression that our mission was one of peace and diplomacy. For our Duskwraith soldiers and citizens, it mattered not, but such a thing reaching the ears of prisoners could ruin our plans.
A loyal soldier pulled the Zaarian filth to his knees in front of me. Even then, he was still almost as tall as me, but to bring a Zaarian to his knees was to bring dishonor. All eyes were focused on us; even prisoners peeking through the silken covering to see what was happening.
“Wait until the Emperor hears that the Evyans are conspiring with Duskwraith to start a war!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder hesitantly at the other prisoners in the wagon. He was trying to get them involved, not realizing that it would mean their death as well.
“Warden,” James’ voice said curtly over my shoulder. His grasp was gentle, but firm on my arm. “You must watch your words. There is no reason to give anyone the impression that we won’t come to some sort of agreement.”
I thought he was merely saying what he had to in order to appease the prisoners that may have heard something. The prisoner bound at my feet, however, was a different case. I took a step back, to his dismay. James swung his massive, ruby laden sword and cut his head clean from his body. It was fast, and I assume, nearly painless.
With a clear look of disapproval toward me, James proceeded to roll the body out of the way of the trade carriage. In mere moments, Naxerella was on top of the corpse, munching on it with sickening snaps. The prisoners were horrified, naturally. Had I not been witness to Morgan doing the same, I suppose I would have been, too.
“Be more mindful. Now we risk a mutiny among the prisoners,” James said low enough to where only I could hear. The caravan started moving again once more, to the relief of the other convicts. With a sigh, I submitted to defeat.
“I am sorry, Lord James. I have had too much to drink it seems,” I told him with a nonchalant shrug. “Naxerella could use the meal, anyhow.”
It agitated him beyond belief. He had every right to be frustrated with me. I was naïve, drunk and full of myself. If it had been my Master I uttered those words to, I would have been beaten senseless. James was always substantially more patient than Vince. Perhaps it was because he felt the need to guide me as a teacher, or perhaps it was easier than picking a fight.
“Do not forget who is judging your trial, Lazarus,” he said with a soft tone, despite his upset expression. “If you cannot play nicely with others, especially your elders, you will not get a positive review.”
I stopped walking and turned to him. With all the respect in my being that I truly did feel for him, I said, “My apologies, Ambassador. Forgive my insolent tongue.”
His arm wrapped around my shoulders to make me walk alongside him. The purple sky was growing with the navies of twilight. A few soldiers helping assist the coachmen lit thick torches to keep the forces from tripping on the rocky ground.
“Sit in with the prisoners, where the captain has been staying near the front. They need a far more watchful eye than his. If they believe they are in danger and they can escape, they will make every attempt,” he instructed.
Deciding against protesting, I had my bedding and few belongings moved to the front of the prison carriage. Rather than climbing in the back like the other wagon, the entrance was on the front, toward the coachman. It was spacious for whomever was charged with watching over the prisoners. Even with my bed space made, there was at least a foot between where I would sleep and the large cell they were being held in. They were not gifted with benches; rather, they stood or sat on the floor in shackles. All of their chains were connected to one another – nine prisoners total – making it impossible for them to escape without finding a way to cut their restraints.
I sat on my pillows, propped near the gap in the fabric and the wood of the carriage and studied each one thoroughly. Seven were Zaarian men; some skinny and malnourished, others muscular and branded with tribal symbols. One was a Zaarian woman, clearly someone trying to avoid the rebellion and border wars with how frail she appeared. The last was different altogether.
It was an ill Evyan woman with ragged, coppery hair. Her skin was covered from head to toe in welts and scars, as if she had been tortured. The golden hue of her eyes was deadened and lifeless in appearance. She was the first Evyan woman I had seen in over thirty years or more. It was surreal, as I had nearly forgotten what we looked like as a gender with my restricted access to my reflection.
When it came time for dinner, far too late in the evening when I had long nodded off, I was startled awake by the sound of fighting. The tribal men were asserting their dominance over the others and took all the food thrown in the cage for themselves. The skinnier men had managed to get scraps. Both the Zaarian and
Evyan women received nothing.
Curious beyond anything else, I raised a loaf of bread toward the two women. They both looked up warily, and with good reason. The others saw my action and moved toward the bars. They knocked on the steel and yelled like animals for me to give them the bread, trifling with my lack of tolerance. I lifted Misery from my side and pointed it toward them, without an arrow drawn. That action alone was enough to make them sit back in their spots with glares of malice.
After I was positive I would not be responsible for either of the women’s deaths over food, I broke the loaf in half and dispensed it to both of them. The Zaarian woman ducked her head in a slight bow, likely because she did not speak the muddied slang of Duskwraith or Evyan. The other woman tore so viciously at the hunk that she did not bother to thank me.
“What is an Evyan woman doing in a prison caravan headed for the Zaarian capital?” I asked her in Evyan for the sake of privacy while she chewed. I felt her answers would be repayment enough for her meal.
The bread hunk she received was gone in half the time of the Zaarian woman, though they both appeared to have been starving for a period. She wiped her mouth on her grimy sleeve and stared wistfully at my flask. For the sake of my boredom, I handed it to her.
“I was a soldier for the Faeran army, stationed in the Kaedan-Evyan territories. The Zaarians from Diam attacked us in the night. They took me as a hostage as proof of their victory, but I managed to escape. I made the foolish mistake of fleeing to Duskwraith from the west instead of attempting to sneak past their southern border encampments. Now, I’m being returned to the Zaarians as I trespassed from Zaar, not Evya,” she finally responded, but not before she drank all of my water. “And what of you? What is an Evyan woman doing as the Warden of the Duskwraith regime?”
I stared outside for a moment, unable to answer. It was probably for the same reason it had taken her time – it was somewhat sore to think about what had led us from our homeland.