Taren was silent, thinking on what Sabyl and his mother had said. He knew they were right—to somehow defeat the Nebaran army and save his friends only to ultimately fail at stopping Nesnys and Shaol’s true goal would be playing right into their hands. But he couldn’t simply abandon his friends.
“If Arron must stay, perhaps I can round up whoever’s left of the old group to go with him,” Nera said.
Sabyl turned her attention to her daughter. “Your old friends’ times have passed, Neratiri. Let them enjoy the peace they’ve earned. Your task in this is to prepare Taren for what he will face and trust that your son can take care of himself. And make Nexus ready in the event that fortune favors us not.”
Sensing their audience was at an end, Taren allowed Nera to again take his hand to lead him away.
“It is an honor to meet you, Grandmother,” he said, bowing deeply.
“The pleasure is all mine, Taren.” Sabyl’s smile was a palpable thing of stunning beauty.
They’re all depending on me. I’ll not fail them. He stood straighter, resolve strengthening him.
“One last matter, Taren. Tell the deathless wanderer to take heart, for the path lies before him now.”
“Who?”
“Your companion, the monster hunter.”
“Ah, Creel.”
“He’ll know the meaning, for it’s something he’s awaited all these years. Farewell, Taren.”
And then they were back in Nexus. Arron was waiting for them, lounging at the table, his feet kicked up on the edge and a cup of wine in hand.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“Well enough,” Nera replied. “I must think on all that has occurred. I imagine you are ready to turn in after a long day?” she asked Taren.
His head was still spinning from the meeting with Sabyl, but weariness was creeping in, and he knew he’d be finished once he settled down. “Yes, rest would be welcome.”
“Then let us speak more in the morning, and I’ll do what I can to prepare you for the challenges ahead.”
“Come on, lad.” Arron got to his feet and waved him to the door. “I’ll show you to your chamber.”
Taren followed gladly, already stifling a yawn.
Chapter 32
By dawn, Elyas and Harlan were in Leciras. With cowls raised on their stolen guardsman cloaks, they had navigated the marketplace and arrived at their destination, the harbor.
They had previously discarded the idea of venturing either north or west of the Pasikos lands on foot as too risky. Harlan was well versed in geography and such matters, and Elyas deferred to his opinion. Nebara was a vast nation, separated from Ketania by the Helmsfield Range to the north and farther west, by the Burning Wastes. Save for the Helmsfield Pass, the keep at which was certainly occupied by Nebaran soldiers, they would find no route home in that direction. And the terrain beyond the environs of Leciras was a harsh, sparsely inhabited wilderness that would pose trouble in finding food and water. A trek of nearly a hundred miles in search of a border crossing would be folly.
Their best chance would be to find a ship and sail north to Bremsen or, failing that, at least try to make it as far as the Duskfens, which although a wild and dangerous land inhabited by trolls and other monsters, would allow them to easily evade pursuit.
“I can pay you upon arrival in Bremsen,” Harlan was pleading with a scowling ship’s mate. “My family is well connected, and you and the captain will have a wealth of gold upon our safe arrival.”
“Bugger your well-connected family,” the mate scoffed. “If I had a crown for every bastard who tried to pull shite like that then disappeared the moment we reached harbor…”
“But—”
“Piss off! Coin up front or not at all.” When neither of them could produce any, the mate pointed a gnarled finger. “Begone, then.”
Elyas sighed as they retreated back down the dock. Thus far, they’d met with similar failure on three occasions although they hadn’t yet approached any Nebaran-flagged vessels. Harlan figured what few ships were in port from the Olinost Isles or even Vallonde would prove more sympathetic to their plight, rather than risking a Nebaran crew turning them in to the Leciran city guard at the first opportunity in hopes of a reward. Elyas was content to let Harlan do the talking, for he was much more diplomatic and patient.
“We might have to approach one of the Nebaran ships,” Harlan admitted.
“What about stealing a small boat?”
“Do you know how to sail?”
“Nay, but I can row.”
Harlan grimaced. “Anything small enough for two men to row wouldn’t fare well in rough waters.”
“If we keep close enough to shore, we can put in if a storm blows in.”
“There is that. Or we could threaten a fisherman at sword point.” Harlan didn’t look thrilled with the idea, but Elyas thought it might be their best hope and had suggested that approach even before they’d sought to barter their way aboard with nonexistent coin. “I can promise the fisherman reimbursement upon arrival in Bremsen, same as the others. My family’s name is good enough, and I can make contact with a friend of the family there and leverage some coin.”
Elyas didn’t like the idea, but their choices were few. The morning was growing late, and he liked their chances of escape less the more time passed. Already, most fishermen were out on the bay plying their trade. His and Harlan’s absence from the barracks would have surely been discovered by now, and the city guard would soon be alerted to watch for them. The last ship’s mate had taken notice of Harlan’s iron collar, which clearly denoted the two of them as escaped slaves, and only a truly sympathetic or greedy captain would risk taking them onboard.
“All right,” Elyas said. “Let’s find a fisherman with a seaworthy boat. The sooner we are away from here, the better. At this point, I’m about ready to cling to a wooden barrel and paddle my way home.”
He glanced around nervously, afraid at any moment the city guard would come to apprehend them. Already, they had drawn too much attention. Without any coin, they couldn’t buy new clothes, and they didn’t want to chance stealing and risking capture by the guards. The cloaks helped them blend in somewhat but did nothing to hide their bare legs and sandaled feet. The collars couldn’t be totally concealed either.
“There’s some smaller craft down at that end of the harbor,” Harlan said.
He gestured, and they walked toward the southern docks, populated with smaller sloops and fishing trawlers. As Elyas had feared, most of the fishermen were out on the water already. Either the remaining boats were under repair, or their owners weren’t around.
“You there, boy,” Harlan called to a young boy lugging a bucket of baitfish. “You helping your da? Where’s his boat?”
The boy looked at them suspiciously for a moment before answering. “Down at the end of the pier. We sprung a leak so can’t go out today.”
Elyas looked around uneasily during the discussion. The boy was saying something about his father needing to haul the boat out and tar it again, but he was barely listening. Instead, he noticed the figures of horsemen looming over the crowd as they moved through the fish market.
“Harlan,” he hissed urgently, turning his back to the approaching riders.
His friend glanced over, and his face paled. “Where—”
“We have to find the lad’s old man—hurry! It’s our only chance.”
They moved down the dock at a brisk stride, passing a couple of moored single-masted sloops, both without sails and too large to row. An ancient fishing trawler was beyond the sloops ahead, but it didn’t look exactly seaworthy.
Elyas chanced a glance over his shoulder and cursed. The horsemen were nearing the docks, and he recognized Dirich and Shoat, along with a number of house guards.
“Balor’s balls, that’s them. We’ll have to take the man’s boat by force.” He didn’t like the idea of kidnapping the boy’s father at sword point, but the thought of being dragged back
was more than he could bear.
They broke into a jog, thankful for the bustle of activity on the wharf and a large galley that momentarily blocked their view from Dirich and the others. After another twenty paces or so, Elyas could see a man unloading netting and other supplies from a small fishing boat near the end of the dock.
The clatter of hooves thundered on the wooden planks behind them. Elyas and Harlan shot nervous looks over their shoulders and saw their pursuers heading directly toward them at a canter. The pair broke into a sprint, but Elyas knew they wouldn’t make it.
How in the Abyss did they find us so quickly? Must have spies in town.
The rush of the sea breeze pushed his cowl back as he ran, pulling ahead of Harlan with his longer stride while holding the hilt of his stolen sword in one hand to prevent it slapping against his thigh. Ahead about thirty paces, the fisherman glanced toward them, and his eyes widened in alarm.
“You there! Push off at once!” Elyas bellowed, hoping the man would comply.
Harlan cried out behind him. Elyas glanced back and saw his friend fall hard to the dock, Shoat’s whip ensnaring his calf. Elyas halted and drew steel, turning back with the intention of cutting his friend free of the whip. What felt like a fist punched into his chest, knocking him backward a step. A second quarrel followed, striking his solar plexus and knocking the wind from him. The bolts had blunted heads, intended to incapacitate and not kill. A third struck him in the forehead, and he fell, dazed. He gritted his teeth, trying to blink away the wash of colors in his vision. He managed to secure the sword and get to his hands and knees when a shadow loomed over him, briefly blotting out the sun.
A heavy footman’s mace crunched into his wrist, breaking bone, and the sword fell from his nerveless fingers. Dirich’s next strike hit him in the ribs, sending him sprawling. He tried to take a breath although cracked ribs made that painful.
A flurry of thudding hooves and shouting guardsmen in the crimson and gold of House Pasikos surrounded him. Cudgels and boots thudded into him, and he curled up to try to protect himself. Harlan cried out in pain from nearby as Shoat pinned him to the ground, arms wrenched painfully behind his back while he lashed his wrists together.
“You shitelickers aren’t very smart, are you?” Dirich watched the beatings with a nasty smirk, thumping the heavy head of his mace on the planks of the dock in a steady rhythm. He held up a glowing stone in the palm of his free hand, and Elyas recognized it as similar to the device a Nebaran spy had used to track Taren and himself what felt like years before. “There’s a good reason slaves like you wear those collars at all times. Get them up, and put them on the horses. We need to get back.”
Hands gripped Elyas’s tunic and hauled him upright. Sea and sky and dock swirled around him dizzily. He recognized a couple of the guards, their faces marred with dark bruises—the same men he’d knocked out the previous night. One of the guards smiled an ugly grin that was missing a couple teeth, and a fist slammed into Elyas’s mouth, splitting his lips. A second blow struck his jaw, and he spiraled into unconsciousness.
***
Elyas woke strapped across the back of a horse, wrists and ankles tied together beneath the animal’s belly. He immediately wished he’d remained unconscious. Everything hurt: his shattered wrist, cracked ribs, and knots of swelling bruises. The ribs in particular were aggravated by bouncing along on the horse’s back. From what little he could see, he thought he recognized the hills and vineyards near the Pasikos villa.
He couldn’t help but be impressed with the ruthless efficiency, ease really, with which he and Harlan had been taken down. If he’d ever had any doubt as to Dirich knowing his business, that episode had easily dispelled it.
After an agonizingly long time, the horses plodded up the road to the Pasikos estate. He couldn’t see Harlan anywhere, only a few mounted guards around him. They passed through the gates of the villa and into the training yard. Once there, his bonds were slashed, and he was shoved unceremoniously off the horse’s rump, falling hard to the dirt. Once the jolt of pain from his hard landing subsided, the end of his painful journey came as a minor relief.
But that relief would be short lived, for his pain was only beginning.
“These traitorous dogs betrayed your brotherhood,” Dirich growled. “Cowards, the both of them, slunk off in the dark of night after pissing on our lord’s hospitality. They shame the title of gladiator.”
Elyas raised his head enough to see that he and Harlan were encircled by their fellow gladiators. Curses and mutters rose up from the gathered men as they regarded the pair, expressions ranging from disgust to anger and even raw hatred. Spittle struck Elyas on the cheek. Harlan’s eyes were wide and fearful as they met Elyas’s.
“Show this scum what it means to betray their brothers,” Dirich snarled, stepping back, arms folded across his chest. “Just keep them alive.” Shoat loomed over his shoulder, his blunt face looking eager to watch what came next.
Elyas thought the previous beating was bad enough, but what happened next was much worse. More ribs shattered beneath stomping feet. His nose was crushed from a knee to the face, clumps of hair yanked out, fingers stomped and broken. A vicious kick to his knee caused sinew to tear, eliciting a howl as that pain eclipsed all others, momentarily.
Harlan cried out in concert from somewhere within the storm of battering fists and feet.
When Elyas finally blacked out, the relief was so great he hoped he’d never awaken.
***
“What have you done, you fool?”
The voice came from a great distance, clearly irritated yet not unsympathetic. A bitter odor filled Elyas’s nostrils, and he choked awake into pain and misery.
He was in the familiar confines of the infirmary. Edara peered down into his face and sighed in relief, corking a vial of whatever substance she had used to rouse him.
“How could you be so foolish? You’re fortunate they didn’t kill you.”
Elyas thought she might have had it wrong, judging by how he felt. He tried to reply, but all that came out was a strangled “Glahr.”
“Hush. Drink slowly.” She tipped a cup of one of her foul-tasting potions to his lips.
He gulped it down, barely tasting its bitterness, his only wish to fall into a deep, painless sleep. Anything was preferable to the misery of seemingly every inch of his body aching as it did.
“Harlan?” he managed to ask.
Edara’s lips tightened. “He was even worse off than you were and required immediate aid. Frailer constitution than yours. But he’ll recover… in time. As will you. The gods saw fit to truly challenge my abilities today.”
She went to work on his wrist and hand, which he was only aware of as a throbbing agony below the elbow, likely from multiple fractures. He took solace in her ministrations as the potion calmed him and his pain eased. Edara hummed a soft tune as she straightened and then splinted his broken fingers and wrist. She sliced open his shirt and breeches to examine bruises and lacerations. He sat up with her aid, then she wrapped a tight bandage around his torso to support his broken ribs. He winced when she probed his swollen knee with her fingers.
“Mmm. That’s going to pose a problem.” She gripped his ankle under one arm and pinned it against her side, then she wrenched his leg sideways.
He cried out at the stab of agony as bone and sinew shifted, but the pain seemed to lessen after the adjustment. She bound his knee in a poultice that provided a pleasant warm numbing sensation to the aching joint.
Next, she stood above his head and ran her fingers across his cheeks and jaw, feeling for fractures. Something crackled as she adjusted his broken nose, and he hissed in pain. She dabbed the blood off his face with a wet rag.
“Well, that’s about all I can do for now,” she pronounced a few minutes later. “Thankfully, most of that mess is bruising and will heal on its own with my potions. The fractures and tears will take longer to mend. Return on the morrow. And as I told your friend—try to refra
in from such foolishness next time.” She patted his shoulder and gave him a wan smile when their eyes met.
Elyas clasped her hand and squeezed it before she could pull away. “Thank you for your kindness, Edara. You’re a godsend.”
She shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Just doing my job, Elyas. Until tomorrow, then.” She pulled her hand free but didn’t look displeased. “Oh, you’ll need to use this to walk with until the knee heals.”
Elyas took the sturdy wooden crutch offered and hesitantly slipped off the table. He kept his weight off his bad knee as much as possible and nearly lost his balance when he tried to catch himself on the crutch but managed to stabilize himself. His clothes were bloody ruins, and he wore only his smallclothes. Edara repeated her directions to the guards, and they led him back to the barracks, where he was returned to the cage he and Harlan had spent their first several weeks in.
“Home sweet home. Just like old times, eh?” Harlan’s face was black and blue, swollen and lopsided, and he lay flat on his back, but he managed a grimace of a smile. One arm and leg each had a splint, as well as bandages wrapped around his head and ribs, and his right foot was wrapped up in a large splinted mass.
The guards locked them in and departed, one man returning a moment later to toss Elyas a change of clothes.
Elyas awkwardly lowered himself to his old corner and held his crutch across his lap. The thought of donning the clothes seemed too daunting a task for the time being. He noticed Harlan had a matching pair of crutches just like his.
“Well, I reckon these might do some damage if you hit someone over the head with it.” Elyas was about to smack the thick end of his crutch against the palm of his ruined hand but thought better of it.
Harlan choked out a bitter laugh. “Oh, you never give in, do you, my friend? I don’t know where you find the strength.”
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