by B. K. Boes
A puff of breath sounded and then a wave of stench assaulted him. It startled him, rattling his bones as if her breath were a mighty wind. The smell of rotting meat and bile washed over him. It stung his eyes and made his stomach wrench. His palms began to sweat as his heartbeat quickened.
The general said the poison would work quickly. All I have to do is get the snake in her nest. Calm down and focus. Your brothers’ lives depend on it.
It took too long for him to gather himself back together, but he did. Hands a little steadier, he continued his crawl along the ledge.
When he passed the therbak’s curled-up backside, he peeked up over the side of the nest. The eggs were a few paces away. Her hind leg was between him and the eggs, and her jaw rested on her enormous paw to create a circle of protection around her six eggs. Anakai got back down on all fours and hoisted the basket up onto the edge of the nest. He unhooked the lid, tipped the basket, and the snake shot out in an attempt to escape, bouncing off the therbak’s leg and then slithering under it, as though it were a rock.
Anakai quickly grabbed the basket and sank below the nest, out of sight and into shadow. There was a growl, and a snap, and then the stench passed over him again. Heat radiated from above him. Something dripped on his head. He reached up, hand trembling, to feel something warm and sticky. It was blood. His head snapped up to find the muzzle of the therbak moving over him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She wasn’t looking at him, but rather out over the horizon. When she slurped up the snake, more blood spattered to the rock beside Anakai.
He held his breath until the rock beneath him shook as the therbak settled back into her nest. Anakai breathed out slowly, willing his body to stop shaking. To make it back to the overhang, he needed to calm himself.
Breathe. In and out. It’s nearly over.
But then, a small rock hit the nest near his head, bounced off a bone, and fell over the side of the cliff. Anakai looked up to the overhang to find Reddin, a bigger rock in his hand. Scurr was sprinting toward him. Anakai watched in wide-eyed horror as Reddin brought the rock over his head. Just as he was about to throw it, Scurr grabbed hold of one of his wrists. The rock still flew, but not nearly as far. Instead, it landed right in the middle of the therbak’s nest.
It crushed an egg. The cracking of the shell reverberated through Anakai like a boom of thunder. He dropped once again, but this time the growl of the therbak was intense. Long, ground-rumbling, and low, Anakai could feel it in his bones. He closed his eyes, ready for death.
But the sound of the therbak’s breathing turned away from Anakai. And then the panic above began.
“Run!” Scurr’s voice echoed.
Shaking, Anakai hugged his knees.
“Not me, idiot creature,” Reddin shouted. “There, behind your nest.”
The ground shook as the beast’s heavy foot fall landed outside the nest toward the overhang. The impact made the pebbles on the cliff’s edge around Anakai shift, a few falling off the edge.
“Commander,” Zan shouted as Anakai heard faint shuffling from the overhang.
“Leave him! I’ve got Wes,” Scurr screamed, his voice more distant.
Human footsteps padded across stone above, scraping the ground in a frantic run.
“Not me!” Reddin screeched, his voice still nearby.
“Commander!” Zan’s voice sounded, but it was farther off.
Get to the crevice. Get to the crevice.
Anakai willed his fellow slave-sons to seek out safety. To hide in the crevice where the therbak wouldn’t be able to reach them.
“Over th—” Reddin’s voice was cut off by a sickening crunch. The therbak’s head whipped back around, blood spraying out over her nest and over the side of the cliff. Reddin’s blood rained down on Anakai as a light shower of crimson, sparkling as it caught the light of the moons. It speckled his body in little droplets. He closed his eyes and hugged his knees.
A wet chomping ensued as Anakai sat mere paces away from the beast, hiding behind her own nest of bones. He didn’t know how long it took, but eventually the therbak groaned and huffed. Anakai gathered the strength to peek up over the bones. As he did, her head hit the nest with a heavy thump that nearly made Anakai lose his balance.
She’s out. The poison worked.
Anakai scrambled out from behind the nest and to the wall, hoping that above he would find the slave-sons in the crevice. He found handholds and footholds on the rock wall and scaled it as quickly as he could. When he got to the overhang, he turned around to find the edge of it covered in blood, Reddin’s leg detached below the knee lying in the center of it.
“Scurr!” Anakai ran toward the crevice. “Zan! Wes!” He reached the crevice as Scurr came into the bluish light.
“Anakai?” Scurr held his sword out in front of him. “You’re alive!”
“Barely, but the poison has worked. The therbak is out,” Anakai said. “Are Zan and Wes…?”
Scurr laughed. “They’re fine.” He turned back to the darkness of the crevice. “Did you hear? The therbak has been poisoned.” He hopped out of the crevice, his smile fading when he glimpsed the carnage behind Anakai.
Zan and Wes followed. They stared together at what little remained of their Commander.
“There was nothing we could do,” Scurr said.
“They won’t see it like that.” Zan hung his head and put his hands on his hips. “We’ll all be whipped senseless.”
Wes said nothing, only chewing on his bottom lip.
“He tried to kill Anakai,” Scurr said. “We’ll just tell them—”
“No!” Zan said. “It’s only the word of slave-sons. They’ll want to tell his family he died honorably. If we say anything different, we’re dead.”
“But, his death was his own fault,” Anakai said. “What are we supposed to say?”
“We’ll have to take his cowardice onto ourselves. For the good of the Adikean Army.” Zan looked away from the blood.
“Damn the Other.” Scurr looked at Anakai and Wes. “He’s right. If a true-son was here and wanted to corroborate our story, that would be one thing. But we don’t have that.”
Anakai felt sick to his stomach, but another thought popped into his head. “Reddin was supposed to deal the killing blow. The dagger to the base of the neck.”
“I’ll do it,” Scurr said. “You’ve done enough.” The older slave-son climbed down to the overhang, into the nest, and over the limp body of the beast. He straddled the therbak’s neck. Anakai, along with Wes and Zan stood on the overhang’s edge, watching with wide eyes as Scurr raised his dagger and plunged it into the weak spot of the therbak, under her thick frilling, deep into the base of her skull. Scurr twisted until a muted pop sounded.
This should have been a victorious moment, Anakai thought as he glanced at the severed leg. Instead, their glory was stolen, and they all faced punishment.
Once Scurr was back on the overhang, they gathered together to discuss their next actions.
“We should join the others. Try to redeem ourselves a little by helping take down the bull,” Zan said. He kicked a rock and turned to pound the wall behind him.
“We survived.” Anakai lifted his chin. “And we all know who the real coward was here today. Our blood was strong.”
Scurr patted Anakai’s shoulder. “We’ll get whipped, but we won’t be killed since it was the therbak, not us, who killed him.” He walked over to Reddin’s leg. “We’ll take this back for proof.” He grabbed a rope lying where they had first descended and tied it around the lower leg several times. “I’ll carry it,” he said. “Let’s go. Zan is right. We’ve got a bull to take down.”
Scurr grabbed hold of his rope that still hung anchored to the top of the plateau. Anakai, Wes, and Zan did the same. They climbed to the top together, unhooked the anchors and walked toward the group of slave-sons gathering in the distance. It would take every last one of the surviving warriors to take down the bull.
Adrenalin
e and anger flowed through Anakai’s veins.
He was ready.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Imrah
Lower Sector
The City of Sydor, Adikea
8th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
On the other side of the Southern Pass, Imrah walked through the empty, quiet streets of Warrior’s Ward. Here, retired slave-sons were given quarters in exchange for their years of service to the Emperor. They couldn’t have families and had only a few options for how to spend the rest of their lives, but at least they had some measure of freedom. Many of them worked long days guiding death barges out to sea until they were too old even to do that. Now, hours after the sun had gone down, this part of the Lower Sector was sleeping.
But the closer Imrah came to Bazz Harbor, the brighter and louder the city became. Street lamps made the night sky glow from a distance, and the symphony of a city alive reminded Imrah of the Inner Road during the day. To her left, on the outskirts of Bazz Harbor where the streets were darker, was a great circular structure. It towered above six smaller buildings, miniature copies of itself, evenly spaced around its perimeter.
The Order of Being.
Imrah shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. It was in these false sanctuaries that people like her master-husband learned to justify their cruelty.
The storage house should be close.
Imrah came to a grouping of long, rectangular buildings, each one made of sandstone. Flat roofs, heavy iron doors, and padlocks secured them. She searched each one, looking for the sign of the rebellion: two overlapping circles. Finally, she saw what she was looking for carved above an iron door. She pulled on the lock and it came loose. Someone had left it unlocked as promised. There was no one on the street, no one to witness her sneaking inside, so she pulled on the heavy door, just enough to slip into the building. Then, grunting from the effort, she pulled it shut again from inside, the rusty hinges resisting any movement.
Woven baskets, crates, trunks, and sacks were stacked everywhere. It would’ve been pitch black, except there was light coming from somewhere in the maze of storage containers. Imrah navigated toward it and came to a clearing. Prestis sat cross-legged near a lantern. He wore the same brown merchant’s cloak, the hood lying against his back. His eyes were closed, hands resting on his knees. Just breathing.
Imrah stood still in the dark outside the circle of light. Her breath caught in her throat, and she took a moment to study him. She’d known him for two years now. The man who had helped her save Nasheer. The man who had given her a way to fight back. She’d taken a chance on him, and he’d come through. In more ways than one.
Prestis stirred and opened his eyes. He took a deep breath and then looked around, his eyes falling on her. “Who’s there?” His voice was cautious. One hand went to the sheathed dagger strapped to his hip.
“It’s me.” Imrah stepped into the light.
He relaxed his muscles and smiled. “How long have you been there?”
“Just a moment. I didn’t want to disturb you.” Imrah came near. “Shall we get started? I must return to my household as soon as possible.” She pulled the rags with all of the information out of the inner pocket of her cloak and handed them to Prestis.
He took them, brow furrowed, but as he unfolded one and began to read, his eyes grew wide. “This is excellent information, Imrah. My superiors will be pleased. We can use this.”
Imrah nodded. “If it will help the rebellion’s cause and give them cause to continue, the risk was worth it.”
“Thank you,” Prestis said. “You’ve done so much, Imrah. Your life has already made such a huge impact on the world. Words can’t explain how proud I am.”
Imrah felt a rising heat up her neck, embarrassed at the praise for reasons she couldn’t identify. “We should get started on whatever it is I’m here to do,” she said.
Prestis stood. He walked to a stack of woven baskets, set down the rags, and opened the top basket to pull out a pile of clothing. “Never one to waste time,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. He handed her the clothes. “We’ll be quick. Change into these before we go out. It will help hide who you are.”
Imrah unclasped her cloak carefully, without using her injured arm. She held the wound close to her body, and one-handed, awkwardly shrugged off the outer covering.
“What’s wrong?” Prestis asked. “Are you hurt?”
Imrah didn’t look at Prestis as she walked over to him and laid her cloak across the top of a trunk. “I had to use pepper oil in Dregstown, but—”
“Dregstown?” Prestis’ eyes widened. “Why were you in Dregstown?”
“I had to go through there to get here,” Imrah said.
Prestis shifted his feet and rubbed a hand across his mouth and chin. “What are you talking about? We are right next to the Southern Pass. I know for a fact there are gates that lead from the pass into Warrior’s Ward, which is a safe area.”
“Prestis, I couldn’t go into the Lower Sector from the Southern Pass. I tried to tell you. I can get into The Forgotten Vale easily because nearly every slave-wife has someone they visit there. What excuse would I have for going into Bazz Harbor?” Imrah held out her hand again. “Give me the merchant’s clothes. I’ll change.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I’d known,” Prestis set the clothes down and stepped forward. “Let me see it.”
Imrah frowned. “It’s fine.”
Prestis pressed his lips into a firm line, but his brow was still furrowed. “Imrah. Let me see your arm.”
Imrah sighed and held it out. In the light, she could see the thin line of raised skin, a hand’s length from her wrist down.
“Someone attacked you?” Prestis gently took her arm and studied the wound. He looked up at her, his concern replaced with controlled anger. “Are you all right? Besides this? What happened?”
“I was attacked, yes, but when he cornered me, I was able to use this.” Imrah went to her cloak and pulled the bottle out of the pocket. “I brought it with me just in case. And it served its purpose. If you think my arm looks bad, you should see his face.”
“Imrah…” Prestis turned around, hands on his hips, head hanging low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
“I know.” Imrah stepped forward and gently put a hand on his shoulder. “Prestis, I made this choice. You said this was important. I wanted to be part of it. I knew the risk.”
He turned back toward her. They were only a few inches apart now, face to face. She looked up at him. He took her hand in his own. His hand was soft and warm and welcome. “I would never knowingly put you in that kind of danger,” he said.
“You knew this was dangerous. Didn’t you tell me so yourself?” Imrah spoke softly, gently. “I’m not a little girl, Prestis. I can handle myself.”
Prestis shook his head once, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ve only ever seen you as a woman, Imrah. Beautiful and brave.”
In that moment, Imrah imagined what it might feel like to be held by a man who cared for her. But a sudden fear bubbled up inside her.
My heart can’t handle any more loss.
She stepped back and let her hand fall out of his. “I’m not as brave as you think,” she said as she picked up the clothing. “I was frightened out of my mind.”
“Bravery and fear often go hand-in-hand,” Prestis said.
“Nevertheless.” She took a deep breath, clearing her mind. “We have work to do.”
“We do, indeed.” Prestis stepped back toward the lantern. “I’ll wait here. Go change behind one of these stacks.”
Imrah welcomed the darkness. She found a nook between crates piled high and put a hand to her fluttering stomach. His touch still lingered. That isn’t my life, she reminded herself. I’m a slave-wife. That will never change.
It was difficult to avoid irritating her burn as she undressed, but she managed. She carefully put on the strangely thick brown s
lacks and pulled the cream-colored tunic over her head. She left her bosom bound as it was under her slave-wife garments. Finally, she pulled on the brown cloak and clasped it at her sternum.
Prestis was waiting for her by the lantern. He chuckled when he saw her. “You’re perfect,” he said. “I’ve never seen a better-looking merchant. I’m proud to have you as my wife.”
“What?” Imrah blanched.
“We’re an Eikonian husband and wife team. Not entirely uncommon when no small children are involved. We specialize in Urakma shipments with the occasional dip into taurret wood merchandise.”
Imrah was grateful for the dim lighting as her cheeks grew hot. “Right,” she said. “I guess we need a story, in case someone asks.”
“Exactly.” Prestis grinned and headed toward the iron door. “Let’s go,” he said.
“All right.” She grabbed the pepper oil, just in case, and turned to follow Prestis out of the storage house. “Who is it you want me to talk to?”
“A tavern keeper’s slave-wife,” Prestis said.
Imrah furrowed her brow. “And she has a son in need of saving?”
“Well, yes, but it’s more complicated than that.” Prestis looked away from her. “Her son is seven. Nearly old enough to be sent away.”
They had saved older boys before, but always with extreme caution. “He may be old enough to be a danger. What if he’s already indoctrinated?” Imrah’s stomach dropped. She had a feeling there was more Prestis wasn’t telling her.
“He very well may be,” Prestis said, “But even if he is, it’s better for him to be in Eikon than in those canyons.”
Imrah put a hand on Prestis’ arm and stopped. “The larger doses are more dangerous. It might dissuade her.”