by B. K. Boes
Prestis closed his eyes and lowered his head. “I don’t know what my superiors will do. They really wanted this mission to be successful.”
“Tell them that dealing a blow to the Adikean Army by stealing their warriors before they step foot in those canyons is victory.” Imrah said. She folded her arms against her stomach. “Tell them we can try gaining information from slave-wives who aren’t indoctrinated, like I did. In fact, there may be more I can gather from my master’s records. There may be many Central Sector slave-wives willing to help; that list I gave you would give us a good place to start. But,” Imrah said, emphasizing every word. “No more barters. We save every boy we can.”
Prestis nodded once. “I’ll convince them,” he said. He leaned against the stack of trunks, and Imrah came to stand next to him. They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence for a while before Prestis sighed. “You’re right about the processes. If we develop a systematic way to bring women into the rebellion, our success will only spread. Word of mouth does go a long way, but we need more.”
“I agree,” Imrah said. “We’ll find a way to test the waters with women we know haven’t been here long enough to be completely indoctrinated. And then, we must train those who want to be a part of this rebellion. Give them enough resources and knowledge so they don’t end up dead in an alley or tortured for information because they told the wrong person.”
Prestis smiled a little. “I have the feeling you’ll be the one who finds a way. And when you do, there will be no stopping you.”
She glanced at the glass bottle on the floor in a small pool of pepper oil. “Adikeans have earned my fervency,” she said. And then to herself, I’ll die before I let them win.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Anakai
Kelda Canyons, Adikea
8th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
Anakai pulled with every ounce of strength left in him. Hours ago, sixteen slave-sons had begun the fight to secure the bull with ropes. It had started out well, until the beast had woken. They’d lost three slave-son warriors, all from Anakai’s age group, but now, if only for a few moments, the bull was tied down. Torches threw orange light over the bull, flickering over his tough, leathery skin. Dawn couldn’t be too far off, but it was still dark outside, blue moonslight illuminating the mouth of the cave. Anakai was near the beast’s middle, his rope one of several holding down the wings.
“Hold!” Char yelled from outside the cave. The true-sons had all remained at a relatively safe distance while they shouted orders to the slave-sons.
Char approached the bull’s head, which was strapped down to the cave floor, muzzled and restricted. His hindlegs had been strung together, spears run through points in his wings, pinning them to his body. That and the several slave-sons with ropes had finally been enough to conquer him. Therbaks only had wings and hindlegs, no front legs to contend with as with the dragons of legend. If they hadn’t gotten him muzzled and bound while he was still asleep, they could have all died. But, the ancestors were with them that night.
Char passed the head, the height of which came to his chest, passed the long neck, and climbed up the shoulder of the beast, using the bones of the wings as leverage to climb. He stood on the bull’s back and pulled out his short sword.
“We are victorious!” Char plunged the sword into the base of the bull’s neck, twisted, and the beast shuddered and went limp. The females had only needed daggers to penetrate their weak spot; the bull needed something more. Char pulled his sword from the carcass and raised the blade covered in blood over his head. “Praise the ancestors!”
Every warrior threw his hand in the air and shouted back, “Ancestors be praised!”
Anakai was caught up in the moment. He felt powerful, part of something bigger than himself. He had survived the slaying of a bull! He looked to Scurr and Zan, and his elation vanished. Zan had Wes’ body slung over his shoulder, hanging limp.
And now we have to go back and tell General Vordon we failed to protect our Commander.
A lump settled in Anakai’s stomach and stayed there the entire journey back to the warrior camp. The sun peeked over the plateaus as they arrived. The other slave-sons were celebrating, and they would be all day. For their victory, their day would be filled with ale and time off from training. They could rest and eat and feel proud of their Adikean blood. But he, Scurr, and Zan would not take part in the revelry.
They broke off into their own group as each slave-son team was reviewed and sent to another clearing where the celebration would take place. The true-sons would have their own rewards. Anakai mimicked the posture of the older slave-sons next to him as General Vordon approached, his expression grim.
General Vordon spoke to Zan, the oldest of them all. “Where is your Commander?”
“He’s dead,” Zan said.
General Vordon’s face contorted in anger, and he balled his fists at his side. “What happened?” he asked, his voice controlled.
It wasn’t lost on Anakai that no one was asking about Wes, whose corpse would be carted to the sea and sent out on a death barge with little to no ceremony.
Scurr swallowed audibly before answering. “He… the therbak killed him. The female, when we were poisoning her. It got out of control.” He held out Reddin’s severed leg. “This is all that is left of him.”
The general drew in a sharp breath and took the leg. He closed his eyes for a moment and then walked to General Yormin who was speaking with the remaining true-sons. The two generals spoke for a moment before General Vordon handed the leg to Yormin and came back to where Anakai, Scurr, and Zan still stood.
“All three of you follow me,” General Vordon said in a gruff voice.
He took them to the small clearing outside the slave-son lecture caves, where there was no one else to see or hear. He crossed his arms. “Is that what really happened?”
Anakai sealed his lips. He wanted to shout, to deny it, but the older boys’ claims from earlier kept him quiet.
“Yes, General,” Zan said. “No matter the details, we failed to keep our Commander safe.”
“Good answer,” General Vordon said. “You will each receive lashings. Ten lashes for Zan and Scurr, as you hold more responsibility than your younger brother. Eight lashings for Anakai. You’ll be expected to rejoin training in a span.”
Anakai swallowed hard, his palms beginning to sweat. Is fourteen days long enough to recover from eight lashings?
He’d seen a boy die once from that many lashes.
General Vordon walked over to a rack where weapons of all kinds were kept, just at the entrance to the caves. Choosing a whip, he ordered each of them to get down on their hands and knees, backside to him. He started with Scurr and then Zan. With each of their ten lashes, Anakai flinched in anticipation of his own. He waited.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The last three lashes ended for Zan, and the older slave-son collapsed onto his side, groaning. Anakai squeezed his eyes shut.
Crack.
His back exploded with pain.
Crack.
Anger at Reddin followed.
Crack.
Then came a nauseous numbness.
Crack. Crack.
A memory of his mother lying on her stomach, lashes across her back. His mind was fuzzing, images surfacing he hadn’t thought about for a long time.
Crack.
Be a better man than your father, Anakai. Don’t become like him. Please? Promise me.
Anakai had stopped cleaning her wounds for a moment.
Crack.
Promise me.
I promise, Momma.
Crack.
Anakai’s arms and legs gave out after the last lash, and he lay cheek to warm rock, his back bubbling with pure agony. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Dream-like visions flashed through his mind, more images of before. Images and memories he was supposed to have forgotten. Time passed, how much he didn’t know, but eventually Jerg found him.
“They got you good, didn’t they?” he asked, kneeling in front of Anakai. “C’mon,” he said as he prodded Anakai into a sitting position, supporting him as he wobbled. Anakai noted the sun was overhead now. “Let’s get you back home.” He directed Anakai to lie stomach-down on a stretcher made of rough cloth and iron poles. “Orduke gave me this. Seems like the general wants you to live. Sent me to fetch you.”
Anakai groaned in response as Jerg lifted the metal poles and began dragging him over the canyon floor.
“We’re even after this,” Jerg said. “I’ll nurse you back to health, but just this once.”
Anakai furrowed his brow and rolled his head to look at Jerg.
“Not a good time for jokes?” Jerg asked.
“No,” Anakai managed.
“Sorry.” Jerg shrugged. He was walking backwards, maneuvering the stretcher into a thin corridor. “I would’ve come to get you sooner if I’d known.”
“I know,” Anakai whispered.
“Bastards.”
“Quay…” It was all he could push past his raw throat, but the look in Jerg’s eyes revealed understanding.
“Yeah… he’s not going to let this go,” Jerg said. “I’ve already heard him blame you publicly.”
He’s going to kill me. Anakai groaned. If these lashes don’t do it for him.
“But I’ll be here,” Jerg said. “I won’t let ‘em near you.”
Jerg dragged Anakai back to their little hole in the canyons, goading him into enough consciousness to make it down the wall without skewering himself on their spikes. Anakai laid down again. Now safe in his own cave, he welcomed sleep. But nightmares of raining blood and sharp teeth and the stench of rotting flesh awaited him. There would be no peace for him that night.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Imrah
The City of Sydor, Adikea
8th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
Three days had passed since Imrah had nearly died at Bazz Harbor. She hadn’t seen Prestis since, and she probably wouldn’t for a while. It wasn’t safe for him in the city under his usual merchant guise.
Will he come up with another alias? Another way to sneak into the city to oversee our cause?
Imrah walked through the Middle Sector, a basket on her arm. She was careful to keep it from sliding to her wrist, where the burn still stung. She was able to blame the injury on an accident with the kitchen oven.
The basket was full of mending supplies, a new bottle of ink, and samples of new silk from the tailor for Lady Vega Dakkan and her daughter, Lady Myna, to sort through. She’d run her errands in a haze, her stomach slightly nauseous the whole time. Food had been unappealing for the last few days, though she’d forced herself to eat a little.
Though determined to keep the rebellion alive, they were presented with a problem. Up to now, they had gone by word of mouth. A slave-wife already involved vouched for a close friend or a sister, already sure she would either accept the invitation to save her son, or at the very least keep her mouth shut about the offer. The rebellion had grown successfully this way, but not fast enough.
Imrah had gathered information on Central Sector slave-wives, which ones had been born elsewhere, captured, and enslaved. But it could be several cycles before she was able to gather the names of every new slave-wife in the city. Not to mention the fact that women were being captured and brought into the city all the time.
I’ll have to copy the names slowly over time, or I’ll be caught. I can’t deep clean the study every span, nor can I risk being caught again in Dramede’s study at night. But those names are our best shot at expanding the rebellion, at convincing Prestis’ contacts the rebellion is worth continuing.
A cold shiver went up Imrah’s spine at the thought of the rebellion coming to an end.
Could I go back to how things were? Could I go back to being only a slave-wife, helpless in the face of cruelty?
The blood drained from her face as the answer hit Imrah in the gut. She couldn’t do it. The rebellion had given her something to live for again. How could she go back to sitting idly by, no purpose except doing the will of her master-husband? The possibility was overwhelming. Imrah’s hands began to tremble as a flash of dizziness made her stop in her tracks. Her heartbeat raced, and her breaths became rapid, her chest tightening. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself.
The street ahead split and curved around a city well. Thin, white trees and a variety of cacti surrounded the well, stone benches placed around the perimeter. Pockets like this existed all over the Middle Sector, miniature gardens that brought a little bit of greenery to residents. Those who lived here weren’t allowed to enter the Central Sector or walk the beautiful gardens there. These were all they had.
Imrah veered off the street into the garden area surrounding the well. She chose an unoccupied stone bench and sat, doing her best to calm herself. As her breathing slowed, she watched the commotion surrounding the stone shaft that reached deep underground. Slave-wives trudged back and forth carrying large water jars. Children in plain brown tunics tagged along behind their mothers. Other slave-wives congregated together, taking advantage of the precious few moments they could gossip and chat with friends.
None of these women should be here, Imrah thought as she studied them, her hands flat on the warm stone bench. Without the rebellion, there’s no hope to offer them.
A slight breeze rustled Imrah’s skirts, caressing her skin. She looked up at the clear blue sky. When she was young, she’d believed in the Sustainer with fervor. Her entire village had. When traveling oracles passed through the mountains, Imrah would relish sitting at their feet with her friends, the sun shining down at them as the oracle told the stories found in the Holy Book.
Imrah still believed. But not with the same childlike wonder.
She felt better now, less disoriented, but still she needed to do something. Imrah wanted to find a way to test the waters with women whose loyalties were unknown. She wanted to find a process which she could use to train other women in the rebellion. But it seemed out of her hands. Memories of listening to stories under an Ergonian sky made Imrah remember something else.
The Holy Book says nothing is ever truly in our control, that the Sustainer has power over everything. Purpose in everything. That he bends the power of evil, the power of The Other, against itself.
Imrah looked back to the sky.
Are you here, even in Adikea? Are you manipulating evil in this place, to ultimately destroy it?
She closed her eyes, uttering the most honest and desperate prayer she’d ever given. “Show me,” Imrah whispered. “Give me some way to move forward, to help secure the rebellion.”
Holding her breath, Imrah sat there with her eyes closed, waiting. Her only answer was another gentle breeze. Imrah opened her eyes, feeling foolish. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. As she stood, hooking her arm through the handle of the basket once more, Imrah shook her head.
What did I expect? For the Sustainer’s voice to boom from the sky with an answer? She chuckled to herself. Perhaps some of that child-like faith remains after all.
Imrah took a step toward the street ahead, but then stopped. A woman by the well caught her eye. There was something familiar about her. Her face was slack, her eyes haunted. She was definitely older than Imrah, but Imrah guessed she was aged beyond her years. Every lethargic movement spoke to her mental state. A little boy of maybe three years old was secured to her hip in a sling. She carried a water jar against her other hip. The toddler curiously pulled at her earlobe, but the woman didn’t reprimand him as he tugged with one hand and touched a symbol behind her ear with the other.
The symbol…
Memories came rushing back. Anakai’s hand slipping from hers. How her son blended in with the other boys as he was led away from her. How she’d desperately wanted to see him one last time. How anger had flared as she saw the true-wives with their smiles and pride. H
ow that woman had stopped her from getting herself killed.
Fyla.
The name came back to her as though she’d heard it moments ago. Now, her heart broke as she saw the woman again, with another boy at her hip. Everything about her was broken.
She’s not a Generational, but she is beaten down. Imrah’s eyes widened as she stared at the woman several paces away. Slave-wives walked back and forth between them, but to Imrah it felt as if it was just her and Fyla.
Where do her loyalties lie? She could still remember freedom, but… those who have lost so many sons to the canyons can be too broken to do anything but follow the rules.
Imrah watched Fyla draw water and fill her jar. The boy nuzzled his little head into her neck, and at that, Fyla breathed in deeply, closed her eyes, and turned away from her child for a moment. Then she slowly let her breath out and concentrated on the water jug, on the task at hand. Imrah recognized that pain.
She’s trying so hard not to love him.
Fyla’s advice from more than three years ago surfaced in Imrah’s mind, and she could see how hard Fyla was working to apply that advice to herself.
How many boys has she given up already to the canyons? Four? Was that what she said? I can test the waters with her… repay her for stepping in, saving me, possibly Anakai, too.
Her emotional state on that day had rendered her illogical. Without Fyla’s intervention, Imrah had wondered over the years if the soldiers would have made an example of her, as Fyla had suggested they would. Certainly, they’d done it before.
This was the answer to Imrah’s prayer. The question of how they could approach a woman no one in their network knew well enough to trust was an ominous one. But, Fyla was the perfect candidate to test the waters. She could betray Imrah. It was clear Fyla had given up; she had hardened her heart against her son. She’d been in Adikea for a long time, been beaten down.
But a spark of who she had once been could still be alive somewhere inside her.