by Peter Wacht
A sharp pain shot through Oso’s leg, jolting him from his reverie. The buck dashed off into the woods before he could release his arrow.
“Time to eat, boy,” said one of the reivers. “Now take the bowl this time or I’ll break your leg.”
Oso stared back at the reiver, hate welling up in his eyes. Still, he took the bowl. He needed to eat, to keep his strength up, otherwise he’d never escape. Oso held the bowl to his nose, sniffing at the contents. Some kind of stew, he decided. It didn’t smell very good, but he really didn’t have a choice. He gobbled it down quickly. His stomach growled for more, but he doubted he’d get any. Thomas had also finished his meal, and now lay back against the tree. His eyes closed, Oso wondered if he actually slept.
“No, just resting,” said Thomas.
“How did you know—”
“It was nothing,” said Thomas, opening his eyes and leaning forward. He quickly examined what was going on around them. The reivers had formed their camp in a circle, with the tree as its center. Eight reivers guarded them. Either Killeran was a wary man or one frightened easily by two boys. “It seems that we are quite popular this evening.”
“Yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it,” said Oso. “We should be honored, I guess, having eight nursemaids.” Oso’s voice rose so the guards could hear. “Two boys and eight nursemaids.”
Though every part of him hurt, Oso knew what Thomas was thinking. Escape. He was thinking it as well. But they wouldn’t succeed if eight guards stood around them all night. Maybe some would grow bored with their duty, and Oso’s words would be remembered. Some of the reivers might find something better to do than guard two boys and slip away for a few hours, giving them a chance.
“Remarkable, isn’t it,” said Thomas. “We’re tied to a tree by our necks, and our arms and legs are chained together, yet still we garner this much attention. You know, Oso, we really should be honored.”
The guards didn’t appear to be paying attention to them, but Thomas knew that they could hear their chatter. They might be wasting their time in idle conversation at the moment, but they had nothing to lose. Besides, it might work. Fewer eyes meant more of a chance at freedom.
“Stop the chatter or you’ll be dead boys,” said Kursool, who came striding toward them from the direction of Killeran’s tent. The sergeant was a broad man. Thomas judged that with his massive shoulders he was wide enough for two men. As a result, his legs looked tiny, which made his whole body appear disproportionate.
The sergeant stopped right in front of them. Unexpectedly, he lashed out with his leg, striking Oso across the chin. The blow sent him reeling. The only thing that kept him from falling to the grass was the chain around his neck. Oso fought against the pain, the blow having reawakened all of his injuries earned during his early morning struggle with the reivers. He refused to cry out, though. He would not show any sign of weakness to this bastard. Slowly, he pulled himself back up, until he lay back against the trunk. If not for the tree, he wouldn’t have had the strength to hold himself up.
Kursool nodded in satisfaction, pleased with the effects of his blow. He then turned his attention to the other boy and was about to deliver another kick when his eyes caught Thomas’. It was full dark now and Thomas’ eyes glowed brightly. They resembled green fire, mirroring the anger contained within him. The sergeant knew what Thomas was thinking. He knew it in his heart. If the boy was free, the sergeant would already be dead. Kursool was not accustomed to fear. He had seen much in his life, having fought in many campaigns, but he had never seen anything like this. He took a step back from the tree.
“You,” he said, motioning to one of the reivers standing guard. “Unlock the small one. Lord Killeran wants to see him.” The reiver rushed forward, eager to do the sergeant’s bidding. He twisted the key in the lock holding the chain around Thomas’ neck, then pulled him to his feet. Thomas realized that his plans for escape would have to wait. As the sergeant and the reiver dragged him across the ground, a sense of foreboding filled him.
CHAPTER FOUR
An Unwanted Meeting
Kursool and the reiver dropped Thomas like a sack of potatoes on the thick carpet that blanketed the floor of the tent, giving him a quick kick to the gut to punctuate his displeasure at having to drag him. After weathering the blow, Thomas examined his new surroundings with a careful eye. The furnishings were luxurious, especially for a field tent.
A dozen or more rugs were piled one on top of the other to cover the grass. A large cot sat to one side. Costly sheets and blankets lay atop it. At the foot of the bed sat a large leather trunk. Off to the other side was a small table, yet one so ornately carved it looked remarkably out of place. Four matching chairs stood around the table. The entire set of furniture must have been several hundred years old.
Thomas studied the different pieces, his eyes running over the curling spokes that formed the backs of the chairs. The style was familiar. Searching his memory, it didn’t take him long to place the origin of the furniture. Highland woodworking. Thomas tasted the bile rising in the back of his throat and felt the anger coursing within his veins. Stolen from the Highlands. He had promised his grandfather that he would protect the Highlands and its people. Yet, a foreign army marauded through the countryside, killing his people and destroying his homeland. And he had done barely anything about it. His ire grew stronger, in addition to his shame. He imagined his grandfather looking at him now, the disappointment clear in his eyes.
Thomas pushed those thoughts away, thoughts that plagued him ever since he learned how to fight and use the Talent. Rynlin and Rya knew of the charges given to him by Talyn. They had told him many times before that he was not ready yet to make good on his responsibilities. It was getting harder and harder for him to listen to their advice. Soon, very soon, he would return, and then—
“So the hero remains defiant, even when covered in blood and dirt,” said Killeran as he strode into the tent. He unhooked the clasp around his throat and threw his cloak on the bed, then pulled off his gloves and dropped them on the small table. Someone had cleaned the mud and dirt from his armor, polishing it anew. The breastplate gleamed brightly in the candlelight.
Thomas watched the large-nosed lord closely, examining his movements, his habits, anything he might be able to use against him.
Killeran walked around his prisoner slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his boots sinking into the thick rugs. He laughed softly to himself. “Normally I wouldn’t bother with one such as you,” he said, circling Thomas much like a shark did its prey. “You’d be dead or begging to be put to work in the mines for what you did. But you intrigue me.”
Killeran stopped in front of Thomas, staring down at the boy. Hard green eyes stared back, sending a chill down his spine. Killeran almost took a step back, but he stopped himself, his courage fortified by the chains around the boy’s ankles and wrists. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, while pushing down the speck of fear that entered his heart. This boy was dangerous, more dangerous than he originally thought. Killeran had shrugged off his capture by the boy as a stroke of luck. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“There is much I would like to know about you. If you answer my questions, then perhaps it will only be the mines for you.” As images of the boy working in the mines popped into his head, Killeran regained more of his confidence. “If not, then you will die slowly and painfully. The choice is up to you.”
Thomas’ face darkened, his green eyes blazing. This time Killeran did step back. Thomas noticed that Killeran had several nervous habits. When he was unsure of himself, he squeezed his eyes tighter together, scrunching up his face. That, and his large nose, enhanced his resemblance to a rat. He also had the tendency of crossing one arm across his stomach while cupping his chin in his other hand and tapping his fingers on his upper lip just below his nose. Even in a position of power, Killeran was still nervous, perhaps even scared. Thomas’ expression became harder.
“What�
�s your name boy?”
Thomas remained silent, kneeling in front of Killeran, his face a mask.
“I said, what’s your name, boy?” Killeran repeated. “Where are you from?”
Killeran waited a few moments for a response. “Why did you help the Highlanders? You certainly don’t look like one of them.”
Thomas refused to speak, though his eyes were locked on Killeran’s.
Killeran sighed in mock exasperation. “I thought it might come to this.” The pleasure in his voice was obvious, which worried Thomas.
Killeran walked over to the small table and poured himself a glass of red wine from a gold pitcher. He took a sip from the flagon before he picked up a pair of gloves. Metal studs laced the outside of each glove, the fingers left open.
“Do you know what these are, boy?” Killeran asked, taking another sip from his wine. He didn’t bother to give him time to answer. “No, I didn’t think so.” He stood in front of Thomas again, holding his hands before him.
“These are cestus, boy. Boxers used them hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years ago. You see, back then, things weren’t as civilized. Now, during a boxing match, when someone is knocked unconscious, or severely injured, the fight is stopped and a winner declared. Of course, the boxers only use their hands, not cestus.”
Killeran circled Thomas again, enjoying the sound of his own voice. “But centuries ago, boxing matches were decided in a slightly different way. They were often fought to the death, and the cestus were very useful for breaking someone’s bones. As we do today, betting on boxing matches was a profitable business. Today, the winner is either obvious or picked by a judge. But before the sport became more civilized, it was often difficult to determine the winner, because in some matches both boxers died. So they counted how many bones had been broken. The one with the fewest broken bones won, posthumously of course.”
Killeran laughed wickedly. “Now let’s start over. What’s your name, boy?”
Killeran stopped behind Thomas, who still refused to answer. There was no reason to make things easy for Killeran. No reason at all.
“I said, what’s your name, boy?” A flash of pain shot through Thomas as he landed face down on the rug, the back of his head throbbing from Killeran’s blow. Killeran yanked him back to a kneeling position with the collar around his neck. “What’s your name, boy?”
This time Thomas didn’t even have the chance to answer. Killeran struck him again, this time on the side of the head where he had been hit earlier in the day. He toppled to the floor in agony. Killeran let him lie there this time.
“You see, boy, being difficult is really no help to anyone — you or me. If you answer my questions, it will go much more smoothly between us.”
Killeran’s voice was calm and reassuring. Thomas ignored it. Spots danced in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t see straight. Worst of all, his head wouldn’t stop spinning. He thought he was going to be sick, but he refused to give Killeran the satisfaction.
“Now, let’s move on to another subject.” Killeran began pacing in front of him. “You have a very unique fighting style. One that surprised me at first. You see, I’m a student of combat, yet you fought in a way I had never seen before. In many ways you fought like a Marcher would, in others you assumed a style of fighting that I’ve never seen before. In fact, for a time I thought you were fighting like a Carthanian would, and that civilization disappeared thousands of years ago. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Killeran’s voice almost begged for Thomas’ answer. The force of Killeran’s kick into Thomas’ stomach forced him over onto his back. He lay there trying to catch his breath, and it was several moments before he finally tasted air again. Thomas wanted to curl up into a ball and wish his pain away, but he gritted his teeth instead, focusing on what he would do when he escaped.
Killeran walked back to the table and took another sip from his goblet of wine. “I see it’s going to be a long night.” The thought didn’t displease him.
In the next few hours, Thomas learned what the ancient boxers must have felt like after a fight. He thought after being dragged behind the column for the entire day his body could never hurt so much. He was wrong. Eventually, he was able to close his mind to the pain and actually withdraw from his body somewhat. His mind grew numb under Killeran’s onslaught and he lost track of time, hovering on the brink of unconsciousness.
Finally, after what seemed like days but was only hours, Killeran tired of his sport and called for the guards, who picked up Thomas by the arms and dragged him back toward the tree. As he left the tent, Killeran’s final words echoed painfully in Thomas’ head: “You will talk, boy. It’s just a matter of time, but you will talk.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A Pact
Though Oso’s exhaustion consumed him, he couldn’t sleep. The chain around his neck holding him to the tree was only part of the reason. His worry for his new friend dominated his thoughts. They had taken Thomas away hours before, and every second that passed became more nerve-wracking for him. Oso owed his life to Thomas. If not for him, the women and children of his village would be with him right now. His having to work in the mines was one thing. He could deal with that. He might even survive for a time, and possibly even escape, though the odds of doing so were slim. No one had ever escaped from the mines before, except by dying.
However, the thought that he had failed in his responsibility, that the women and children would die underground because of him, was something he could not bear. Thomas saved him from that — the shame, the recrimination. Now Oso owed Thomas a debt, yet he couldn’t repay it. Not now. Not chained to a tree like an animal.
For the hundredth time he glanced toward Killeran’s tent. Each time before, he had hoped to see Thomas emerge. Yet each time he had not, and his worry and anger increased. Oso sat up a little straighter. He thought he saw movement around the tent’s entrance. A few minutes later dark shadows moved toward him, their identities hidden by the night. After Thomas’ raid the night before, Killeran had not allowed any fires. He was afraid there might be more like Thomas out in the forest somewhere. The shadows eventually took shape, and Oso saw the sergeant and the reiver making their way to the tree with Thomas hanging limply between them.
The two reivers roughly threw Thomas back against the tree. Oso’s new friend looked horrible. Thomas’ face was swollen along one jaw, with a large bruise over his right eye. A cut above his left eye dripped blood slowly down the side of his face to fall onto his torn shirt. And those were only the obvious injuries. Oso was afraid of what he might find in the morning, when the sunlight exposed everything Killeran had done to Thomas. His friend appeared oblivious to what was going on around him as he slumped against the tree. The reiver forced his head back against the bark and strung the chain through Thomas’ collar.
A white-hot rage welled up in Oso. He tested his chains for the hundredth time, lunging forward in an effort to get at the reiver. The chains held, much as Oso had expected. Still, it felt good to try.
“Don’t like what Lord Killeran did to your friend?” asked the reiver, laughing softly under his breath. “Well, you’ll get your turn. Don’t worry about that.” The sounds of laughter drifted off into the night, following the footsteps of the two reivers as they headed for their bedrolls.
Oso waited several minutes before talking, unsure of what to say. He felt responsible for what had happened to Thomas. He should have been the one to experience Killeran’s wrath, not Thomas. The shame that Thomas had helped him avoid with the women and children took hold of him nonetheless.
“Are you all right, Thomas?”
Thomas took a few moments to answer. The pounding in his head echoed through his entire body. “I will be.” Thomas’ voice was a whisper. If he spoke any louder it would only exacerbate the pounding.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. This is my fault. If not for me, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You should have let me die.”
Thomas chuck
led softly, ignoring the pain that ran through his body in waves. “We will get out of this together, Oso. Blaming yourself won’t help.”
“But—”
“No buts, Oso.” Thomas’ voice was stern, and louder than he intended. His head felt like it was going to split in two. “I made the choice to help. You didn’t make it for me.”
“Thomas, if I had not failed in my responsibility to the village—”
“Oso, are you trying to take away my ability to choose?” asked Thomas in anger. “If you take away that, you take away my freedom.”
“No, not at all,” Oso replied. He was confused. He was trying to apologize. Why was Thomas getting angry? “I was just trying to apologize.”
“No, you weren’t,” said Thomas. “You were trying to blame yourself for what happened, and by doing that you were taking away my choice. There is no reason for you to apologize. Is that understood?”
Oso nodded, then realized Thomas might not be able to see him in the darkness. “Yes.”
“Good.” Thomas placed his head gently against the bark, taking a few deep breaths. He tried to block away the pain as best he could. “Sometimes the only freedom a person has is the ability to choose, whether it’s a particular course of action or something as simple as what to have for dinner. If you take away that choice, you take away that person’s freedom. If you don’t have your freedom, you have nothing.”
Oso sat staring at the shadow of his friend for a long time. His friend’s words banked the fire of his anger. Thomas fell asleep soon afterwards. Oso couldn’t sleep. Thomas’ words kept running through his mind, especially one: freedom. He had always thought of himself as free, even if the reivers occupied part of the Highlands. But was he truly free? By morning, he had still not found an answer.
CHAPTER SIX
A New Home
The next few days were much like the first for Thomas and Oso, and their hardships only served to bring them closer as friends. A bond began to form between them, a bond that grew stronger with each step. Neither had a brother growing up. Now it felt like they did.