He knew some of the names, and he was certain many if not all of them were Free Traders or at least sympathizers. He was certain that this money was used to finance the King’s road. Why would Remiel want him to procure documents detailing information he already knew? Garran had a good idea why, but the cold presented a more pressing issue at the moment, so he used the pages to stoke a bigger fire.
Garran used the last page to light another laudanum-laced tobacco twist before dropping it into the flames. He leaned back and let the drug dull his pain, and when it managed that task, he continued imbibing until it did the same for his mind.
When he awoke, his fire had dwindled to a lump of glowing embers, and his stomach reminded him that he had forgotten to eat beyond a few mouthfuls of dry rations. The sky was still black, and the stars shone brightly overhead. Until the sun began to rise, Garran had little more than a guess as to the time. He rolled up his meager bedding and ate the trail food as he walked. With any luck, he could gain a couple of hours on his pursuers.
It took all of his resolve and a good bit of laudanum to stay ahead of the Urqan agents and soldiers. He exhausted his food by the second day, and his body demanded more to replace the extraordinary amount of energy he had burned during his transcendings.
Thirty-six hours without food for Garran was similar to three or four days for a normal person, and it was beginning to take its toll on his body and spirit. The thin veil of snow crunched beneath his feet, alerting the doe he stalked just ahead. The deer raised her head and flicked her ears about nervously. Garran hoped that enough of the laudanum was out of his system to transcend again. Even if it was, his energy reserves were nearly depleted and might not be sufficient to the task. Already his face was becoming gaunt and pale, even more so than his usual sickly pallor.
Garran took his focus off the deer and directed it inward, blowing on the tiny spark deep within his soul. It flickered and sputtered before flaring to life, filling its host with renewed power. Garran launched himself at the deer. The animal turned as if in a dream state. The thirty or forty feet separating him from his meal vanished in little more than a second. He held a grim smile as he reeled back his reaping blade to deliver the death stroke.
His smile vanished when his inner flame abruptly snuffed out. The deer bolted, and Garran’s blade met nothing but air. He tripped and tumbled as his meal bounded away. Garran lay on the ground bemoaning his fate until he realized that face was resting in a pile of droppings. He sat up, cursed, and flicked away the fresh pellets sticking to his cheek.
He reached down and plucked out a seed the size of a blueberry from the pile. “Hello, what’s this?”
The deer had been feeding on a stoneberry bush, passing the indigestible pits. Stoneberry seeds were inedible in their natural state, but once they passed through an animal’s digestive tract, one could crack open the tough pit and make a strong, fortifying tea from the seeds.
Garran began picking out the small stones and sighed. “I am a shit-eating fish.”
A chill wind blew against his back. Garran raised his head, sniffed the air, and worked his jaw around as if to make his ears pop. An early mountain squall was on its way in and was likely to dump some heavy snow on the mountain peaks. He needed to find shelter and quickly. Snatching up the last of the stoneberries, Garran picked up a brisk jog.
He searched the forest around him for a suitable place to build a shelter. It was a tricky proposition considering that he had people chasing after him. If he stopped too soon, they might catch up to him, heedless or ignorant of the impending storm. Dark, ominous clouds were already beginning to roll over the northern peaks to unleash their burden of freezing wind and snow onto the lower range and passes.
Garran’s breath came in plumes of fog, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. He figured he had an hour before the first snows began to fall when he spotted a stand of tall boulders at the base of a rocky escarpment. The stones and cliff face provided excellent protection from the wind on three sides. This was the best shelter Garran was likely to get, and the Urquans were hopefully far enough behind that they would not catch up to him even if they were too stupid to stop and pitch camp.
Garran used his reaping blade to hew long limbs and small saplings. He laid them across the tops of the boulders to provide overhead cover and made a pallet to keep his body off the frigid ground. He then stacked fallen timbers and branches at the opening to create a fourth wall as well as a ready fuel source for his fire, without which he would surely freeze to death within hours.
While dragging the driest wood he could find to his camp, Garran unearthed a nest of giant wood grubs. The plump, white creatures were about the size of his fingers and made for a nutritious if less than palatable meal. It took him almost half an hour to get a proper fire burning, just minutes ahead of the first snowfall. The flakes were large and floated serenely from the skies for the first few minutes. Within half an hour, it became a blizzard, blotting out the world and covering it in a shroud of death-dealing cold.
Those who lived in the mountains called this type of storm a witch’s squall. They were usually brief but extraordinarily fierce. The three rock walls helped reflect much of the heat from his fire, allowing Garran to keep it small and hidden from sight. Not that anyone could see it through the driving snow unless they stepped in the middle of it and smelled their flesh cooking.
The flakes were the size of maple leaves and covered everything in a thick, white crust within minutes. Several times during the night, Garran had to clear the snow from his shelter’s roof to prevent it from collapsing and burying him beneath it. Thankfully, the squall was a brief one and relented to gentler flurries a few hours after it started.
Garran’s leg throbbed and burned. He examined the injury by firelight and found the tissue around the wound red, swollen, and weeping. The darkening of the small veins at the site indicated that infection was setting in. With no other treatment options available to him, Garran took out the flask tucked inside his coat pocket. He cried out as the powerful alcohol dribbled onto the wound, not so much from the pain but from the sight of his limited supply running onto the ground.
He slept in fits and starts, woken several times by the pain in his leg or the sound of limbs snapping beneath the snow’s oppressive weight. Unwilling to build a larger fire, Garran’s feet and hands were numb, and involuntary shivers wracked his body. Casting his gaze down the slope, he spotted the large blazes set by his pursuers. Farther down the mountainside nestled in the cleft, several more fires dotted the pass. Those were likely the riders using the King’s new trade road. They were certainly a tenacious lot.
The rising sun was just barely hinting at its impending arrival when Garran set out after fashioning a pair of snowshoes from supple pine boughs and braided cord. The blanket of snow would make it all but impossible to elude the Urquans, so his only hope was to stay ahead of them. A light snow was still falling, but not enough to cover the deep trail left by his passing.
Around midafternoon, the path he was on meandered beneath a tall escarpment with several feet of snow tentatively clinging to its steep face. Garran seized the opportunity to shake his footed pursuers and end the chase. Knowing that the Urquans were following directly in his footsteps, he deliberately walked across the base of the steep slope before working his way around to the side. When he reached the summit, Garran took up a hiding place behind some snow-covered boulders and waited.
It was more than an hour before the first enemy agent plodded into view with six more following close behind him. When the group neared the base of the slope, Garran came out from behind the rocks.
“I burned the documents, so you may as well turn around and go home,” Garran called down from his perch maybe three-hundred feet over their heads.
The lead man looked up and spotted him standing near the crest. “It doesn’t matter. We won’t let you take whatever might be in your head to Remiel.”
“The only thing in my head is thoughts
of booze, broads, and brain-numbing chemicals.”
“That might be, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“Well, no one can say I didn’t try.”
Garran hurled his remaining flash bomb at a large boulder piercing the snow a few dozen feet below him. He watched it arc out and land in the soft powder several feet away from it with no effect.
“Aw, crap!”
He grabbed his reaping blade, hacked at the snow near the ledge and stomped on it with his feet. The ice shelf gave way with a deep, soft whumph. Garran scrambled to grab hold of one of the boulders mostly buried by snow as the avalanche bore down upon the men struggling to get out of its way. Tons of snow and ice obliterated everything in its path that was not strong enough to withstand the brutal pounding, and that included the men now entombed beneath it.
He looked down upon the death and destruction he had wrought, lit up a laudanum-laced tobacco twist, and smiled. He laughed uproariously when his flash bomb exploded, sending up a spray of snow. It was the perfect testament to his life.
CHAPTER 2
“Your Highness, I wish you would listen to me regarding this gala you insist on throwing,” Gregor beseeched for the third time in as many days.
“Gregor, I appreciate your caution and concern for my safety, but my roads are nearly finished, and I will not back down now.”
“I am not asking you to back down, Remiel. All I am asking is for you to proceed quietly and not rub it in The Guild’s face. You have shown them that you are the true ruler of Anatolia, but they will make your success as bitter as they possibly can. I have gotten very sound intelligence that someone is intent on hurting you.”
“Let them try!” Remiel coughed and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Even if they do manage to kill me, they will not destroy my legacy. Once the people see how I have broken The Guild and they begin to prosper, they will never allow anyone to take it away.”
“They can hurt you without touching a hair on your head.”
“You think they will attack my family?”
“I am almost certain of it, and this event you insist on is the perfect place to do it. Everyone who is anyone will see you take a blow that I don’t think any loving husband and father could withstand.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Cancel the gala.”
“Suggest something else. The Guild isn’t the only one who wants the public to see someone get knocked down.”
“Send the Queen and your children away for a while. In a few weeks, the last of the trade roads will be complete, and the Free Traders will have access to all the markets it brings.”
Remiel sighed. “My wife is not going to like it, nor is Evelyn. She is all grown up, and the wealthiest, most eligible bachelors in the kingdom are attending.”
Gregor smiled. “You’re the King. You can throw another one once the backlash has subsided. Maybe The Guild will even realize that your road is not the end of the world for their organization. If anyone can figure out how to turn what they think is a disaster into a profit, it is them.”
“I’d like to pave the last few leagues with their miserable bones,” Remiel said with a vicious scowl.
“As would I. There is a lot of blood on their hands, and none are likely going to see justice for it.”
“The blood may be on their hands, but it is on my soul. Many blame me for those who died on the road.”
“They will forgive the indenture and those who perished when their children are no longer hungry and do not face a future whose only certainty was continued poverty.”
“I hope you are right, my friend. Can you keep my family safe? I swore to give my life to this road, and I still do, but I cannot allow anyone to hurt my family because of it.”
“I will handpick a contingent of guards and agents to escort Damodara and your children to your mountain chateau. They could hold of an army ten times their size with ease from there, and we’ll do it quietly so no one even knows they are leaving.”
The king clapped his friend and advisor on the back. “Thank you for looking out for me and my family all these years, Gregor.”
“It is my duty and pleasure, Highness.”
“You say that now, but I will wager you shall be changing your tune when we tell Damodara.”
***
“You want to bundle me up and send me off like some parcel?” Damodara snapped.
“It is for your safety and for that of our children,” Remiel stressed.
“Then you should cancel the entire damn thing if there is such a threat.”
“That is what I have been trying tell him,” Gregor said.
“No, we sent one of our children away already, and I will not do it again,” the Queen said adamantly.
“Please, be reasonable. We had no choice but to send Adam away. It was for his own good just as it is for yours, Evelyn’s, and Marcus’ to take a short vacation away from the palace.”
The Queen stroked one of her sable coats hanging in the wardrobe. “It is the last chance we will have of enjoying the high retreat before the snows reach the lower passes. Gregor, do you think this is necessary?”
The senior agent nodded. “If Remiel insists on hosting the gala, we have to keep you and the heir safe.”
“You have always been brutally pragmatic, Gregor. Very well, husband, but you will either join us after your flaunting or we come home.”
Remiel looked to Gregor who nodded his assent. “Thank you for being reasonable, my dear.”
Damodara smiled and poked Remiel in the chest. “Oh, I am not being reasonable. You owe me big for this.”
“I will gladly do whatever I must to make you happy.”
Damodara leaned close and kissed her husband deeply. “You always have. When must we leave?”
“Now, Your Highness,” Gregor answered.
“Now?” the Queen exclaimed.
“It is best to leave tonight or very early in the morning before the staff and most of the city is awake. We want you and the children to leave as inconspicuously as possible. A platoon of soldiers has already ridden ahead and is waiting a few miles from the city. You, Princess Evelyn, and Prince Marcus will travel in a nondescript coach escorted by men bereft of heraldry handpicked by me.”
“As usual, you have everything sorted out, Gregor,” Damodara said crisply. “I suppose I shall go pack mine and Marcus’ things for the trip.”
Gregor cleared his throat. “Actually, Your Highness, I have taken the liberty to have your trunks packed and loaded.”
“I suppose I should have guessed.” Damodara turned and headed toward her children’s rooms.
Remiel grinned. “That went much smoother than expected. She must really believe the threat is real, or we would have been here arguing until Marcus ascended the throne.”
Remiel found Damodara in Evelyn’s room, helping their daughter pack a few things no man would think to bring. He smiled at the sight of his daughter who had managed to grow into a beautiful young woman without his even realizing it.
“All ready to go then?” Remiel asked as he stepped into the room.
“Nearly,” his wife replied.
“Daddy, is The Guild really going to try to kill you at the gala?” Evelyn asked, her eyes glistening with tears at the thought.
Remiel held her in his arms and kissed the top of her head, a feat requiring him to stand on his tiptoes these days. “Gregor is paid to worry incessantly about my safety. I do not think the danger is nearly as great as he portends. The Guild is a scheming, lying, thieving bunch of scoundrels, but they are pragmatic above all else. There is no profit in making any attempts against me now. My road is nearly complete, and there is nothing they can do to stop it. They have fought me these last nine years and lost. I will publicly declare the road’s success, and things will return to normal.”
“Will Adam come home too?”
Remiel sighed at the thought of his eldest child. “He is a grown man now. I think it might be time for
him to visit if he desires. He has settled into the abbey over the years and might not want to leave it.”
“Do you think he has forgotten about us?”
“Of course not.” Remiel squeezed his daughter tightly but coughed when she hugged him back. “Come, I will walk you all to the carriage.”
Damodara kissed him lightly. “Go to bed. It is late, and you look dreadfully tired. We will be back in a week or so. You will not even have time to miss us.”
“I already do.”
“Silly man.”
Gregor escorted the Queen and their two children down the palace halls and to an infrequently used door leading outside. A young man stood nearby and stepped forward.
Gregor said, “Highness, this is Captain Owens. He leads your guard and will show you all to the coach.”
Damodara faced the agent and fixed him with a stern gaze. “Take care of my husband, Gregor Ward.”
Gregor bowed at the waist. “On my oath, I shall.”
The young captain held his elbow up for the Queen. “Your Highness, if I may escort you out?”
Damodara laid a hand on his arm and allowed him to guide her through the door. In a small courtyard, several men in ordinary clothes stood near a coach and baggage wagon. The driver opened the door to the coach, and the royal party climbed inside. Damodara stopped with one leg on the step and looked at the driver.
“You are not one of my regular drivers.”
“No, Your Grace. Arnold came down with the crud.” He turned out the collar of his coat and flashed his silver agent’s pin. “Don’t worry, Highness, you’re in good hands.”
“I expect so, but I would know the name of the man driving my carriage.”
The man ducked his head. “Dragoslav Zeegers, Your Grace.”
***
Garran’s skin was clammy, sweat rained out of every pore in his body, and a strong wind blew against his face. The world bobbed and tossed him about like a ship in a storm. It took him a moment to remember that he was on a horse. He had stolen it from somewhere, but his mind was awash with various hallucinations and could not remember where or when.
The Agent Page 2