by Chris Pisano
Praeker leaned back and took a moment to admire the two youths for delivering the weapons themselves, walking them right into his encampment. In the thickest part of the forest small tents and tarps made from assorted furs and skins hung, draped over branches and alcoves. And those were just for Praeker’s soldiers that cared—most found satisfaction within a patch of dead leaves or the nooks of large trees.
This battalion of nightmarish creatures numbered close to one thousand, but seemed like so much more through their acts of cruelty and hatred. None bathed. Ever. Some to the point of leaving an inky trail behind them wherever they walked. Bits of tattered and filth-saturated clothing would break off and fall from the festering skin of these putrid soldiers. They ate any animal that crossed their paths, leaving moist carcasses lie where they finished them. Latrines were unheard of, these monsters only moving far enough from where they slept to find relief. Sometimes they moved too close to where another slept, leading to the occasional skirmish quickly followed by a gathering crowd chanting and placing wagers. These creatures found a way to slice the belly of nature itself and then revel in the gushing entrails.
Tallon heard that Praeker formed this militia from leftovers and cast-outs from the society of Albathia. Citizens, both human and nonhuman—though the population tipped in favor of the latter—disgruntled, homeless, jobless, made the ranks. The Horde welcomed all who had a heart crafted by hatred and cruelty, ready to serve Praeker Trieste for the feral freedom of viciousness he offered.
A creature flanked Praeker on either side: a goblin examining a short sword, and a gaunt rat standing and acting like a man learning the nuances of a pike fashioned of iron. Praeker cast a sinister eye to the goblin and said, “What do you think, Captain? Tell the men to leave the castle’s gold and jewels be?”
The goblin laughed. “Or what?”
“Or no more,” Tallon replied. His impetuous response led to crushing glares from his audience.
The goblin, tall and the color of vomit with random locks of greasy, black hair sprouting from his wart-encrusted head, stepped forward, close enough to place the tip of the short sword under Tallon’s chin. “No more, did you say?”
Focusing his eyes on Praeker only, Tallon said, “We’re in this together. Kill us or refuse us, our weapons supply stops. And Daedalus will surely do the math if we go missing, meaning his supply to you will stop as well. Do you really want to risk angering a prince who can enlist an army to set an ambush for you? It’s a small price we ask.”
Praeker waved his hand to the goblin, ordering him to leave their guests alone, as he laughed at Tallon’s bluff. He knew of Albathia’s rising tensions with Tsinel and that nary a king’s soldier could be spared at the precipice of war. But he liked this arrangement and sparing a lone building was an acceptable sacrifice to have his plans continue forth smoothly.
The goblin snorted in contempt, but did as instructed. He looked at Tallia and smiled, parting his thick lips to expose browned teeth, gnarled and half-missing. His fat tongue slid across his bottom lip. In one fluid motion, he stabbed the ground with his sword and brought it to Tallia’s eye level, showing her the snake. The blade went straight through its skull, forcing its mouth closed as its body spasmed and tail flailed, smacking Tallia across her chest and lap. Just as the twitching subsided, the goblin took a hearty bite from the snake’s side, blood and meat falling to Tallia’s feet. The goblin turned and ambled away, the rat-creature with the pike followed, ready to barter or fight for a piece of the snake.
After the creatures left, Tallia’s grip on Tallon’s hand relaxed for the first time during this trip. Tallon slid his fingertips to her palm where he gently stroked it. She curled her fingers overtop his, caressing his knuckles with every stroke of her palm, creating a loving rhythm. And a warmth through Tallon’s body. Emboldened, he asked, “Do we have a deal?”
Growing bored with his guests, Praeker responded. “Yes, yes. Keep the weapons coming, and your castle’s lucre will go unspoiled.”
Praeker stood to dismiss his audience, but before he could say a word, a gaunt soldier, looking much like a mummified man, interrupted the meeting. “Sir! Our reconnaissance has found a stone nearby. They said the town of Bogosh was decimated by demons.”
Praeker turned to the twins, growling, “Our meeting is over.” He grabbed the mummified soldier and dragged him deeper into the encampment.
The thought of spending any more time than they had to in this encampment of horror sent chills down each of the twins’ spines. Once they made their way back to the horse-drawn-cart, Tallia flung her arms around Tallon’s neck, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed. “That was horrible, Tallon. Simply horrible.”
Tallon wrapped his arms around Tallia. “Then for the next meeting, you stay home.”
“I won’t hear of it! There is no way I will let you come here alone,” Tallia said, pulling her head back.
Tallon looked at Tallia’s tear-streaked face. Her eyes sparkled, the pinkness brought upon by tears, accentuating the shimmering blues. Tallon touched her cheeks with both thumbs, each erasing a tear-traveled path. He then stroked her cheeks again, this time his fingers unfurled to slide through her hair, his palms cupping her chin. He slid his fingers across her forehead to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, causing her to gasp and part her full lips. Using his whole hand, he caressed her face again, his thumb gliding across her bottom lip. He stared at her as if they were the only creatures in the forest. Two people. Man and woman. Brother and sister. A chill tripped down his spine, forcing him to acknowledge his surroundings. “We must be going now.”
With little effort, he assisted her to the driver’s bench of the cart. He then hoisted himself up next to her and took the reins. With a quick snap of the leather strips, they began their journey back to the castle.
During the ride, Tallia had snuggled close to Tallon, placing her hand on his inner thigh and her head on his shoulder. The day had left her drained, a mental emptiness that accompanied a physical exhaustion. Asking her to use any form of mental faculty at this point would have been fruitless and, in Tallon’s mind, cruel. So they rode in silence, despite his overwhelming desire to talk. He yearned for opinions on how the meeting went and what their next move should be, but it could all wait as he took a surreptitious look at her face, his movements minimal so as not to disturb her. Her face was pale and had the pinched look that spoke of recent terror. He decided again not to press her.
The ride back to the castle was long, but not altogether unpleasant. They had timed this journey, as with all the previous trips, to allow time for them to circle around and ride into the capitol from the direction that Daedalus would expect. The twins both knew he was the suspicious type and would certainly watch for their approach. Tallon had no desire to lengthen the actual trip on this day. Instead, he found a place to stop the horse and pulled out a simple meal of dried fruits and nuts and a small jug of wine he had stashed in the saddlebags.
“The wine will help you sleep,” he assured Tallia when she looked at him with doe’s eyes, relief flashing within them from his words. She accepted the cup from him with shaking hands. With that small gesture, she validated him as a person, as a brother, as a man … so many feelings stirred inside him. From the embers of empathy within him, he knew a full spectrum of emotions awaited release. He watched her stretch out to lie down in the back of the cart for a brief nap. His eyes never left the prone beauty of her form. He drank it all in, more intoxicating than any alcohol he had ever known. Taking several slow, deep breaths to clear his mind, he stepped away.
“I must protect her from the monsters that stalk our world. Let Daedalus and Praeker Trieste have each other and be damned by their own insensate furies. We should tell the king. Play all sides. Preserve our peace. How I would love to see Daedalus in chains asking his father how he could possibly have known of his son’s treachery and me stepping from the shadows to enjoy the disbelieving stare of a prince-turned-prisoner. What del
icious irony,” he whispered to the horses, patting their snouts, as if wrapped within another separate conspiracy with them. He took several deep breaths, slowing the wayward torrent of thoughts that escaped him. When they were safely dammed up inside him again, he returned to watching his sister’s slumbering form and a more reasonable series of thoughts. “Soon this will be over, and we can slip away. I wish no more games, no more betrayals, no more danger. Only sanctuary, a little slice of perfect land for such a perfect beauty. And I’ll be by her side.”
The smile that played across his lips had grown steadily in size and intensity until it was at last full-blown and not even the cover of darkness could conceal it, entranced by a blurring kaleidoscope of visions of Tallia as queen. His favorite part replayed itself several times over in the theater of his mind: Tallia speaking to peasants assembled in the courtyard, the weight of her words carrying down the throng of milling bodies, their meaning returned by the smiles of the commoners. His face shone like a beacon in the night, and his skin felt feverish—all at the thought of Tallia in full regalia speaking to her subjects from on high. Then, in his vision, she reached backwards with one hand, touching him firmly on the chest. Her hand lingered there, clearly indicating that the placement was no accident. The acuity of his vision and the shame of such illicit thoughts startled him back to awareness, and though he tried to suppress the urge, he found himself checking under his shirt to see if he had in fact been singed by her imaginary touch.
His physical form boasted no such marks, but his psyche bore them indelibly, and it took him several minutes to recover. When his head finally cleared, he realized that the night had deepened, and he would need to make haste or face interrogation by Daedalus as to why their journey had taken so much longer this time. Tallon hurried back to the cart and woke his sister gently. After a few minutes of stretching, she joined him at the reins and then he set the horse forward. Still a bit groggy, she wiped the remnants of sleep from her, lest Daedalus notice even so small a detail as incongruous of their previous trips. They raced along the road to the castle. Tallia lit the side candles on the wagon to illuminate the crest it bore. By their light, the gate guards recognized their livery even at a distance and allowed them admittance without forcing them to slow their pace. They raced through the gate and headed straight for the stables. Leaving their steed and wagon for the stable boys to care for, the twins raced for their rooms and a quick bath before meeting with the prince. With any luck, the quickness of their entrance had shielded them from prying eyes.
From the balcony of his apartment, Daedalus watched as the cart approached the castle. With growing interest, he noticed the speed of the wagon and the haste its occupants made for the interior of the castle proper. Surely they had a tale to tell worth hearing.
Eighteen
Dearborn was packed and ready to go. The tip of the morning sun peeked over the horizon, not yet awake from its own nightly slumber. The chill in the air dictated the need for a blanket or heavier clothing, but Dearborn was warm and irritated. She hated how this mission fared.
The mottled men of the Elite Troop muddled through their routine. Some moved more slowly than others, paying the price for how easily ale and mead slid down their throats the night before. A few even swigged the remains from any mug they found, searching for the hair of the dog that bit them last night. Some drank in celebration of completing their mission; others drank to the loss of three comrades along the way.
Dearborn had not drank at all last night, nor slept a wink. She felt disappointed in the general and their men—she knew very well that no mission ended until they made it back home. She gazed to the rolling hills where she chased the mysterious and handsome—she could not help but use that adjective every time she thought of him—thief mere hours ago. Then another frightening chill ran down her spine, forcing her to look over her shoulder to the cave in which they found the stone. Eyes watched her. She knew it. She felt it! But she could say nary a word to anyone without feeling like an irrational harpy.
Blankets were rolled, fresh jerky and stale bread eaten, and canteens filled from a tiny stream that trickled between the mountains. And Dearborn watched, still staring at the cave where they found the stone. Then her horse shifted from the extra weight of another person jumping on its haunches.
“Good morn, partner,” Haddaman said, his voice filled with a certain upbeat happiness, either from assisting in finding the stone, or anticipating the joy that came from annoying her. Dearborn could not guess why he seemed so happy, nor did she care, so she simply grunted in response.
Still smiling, Haddaman followed her gaze up to the mouth of the cave. “Quite an impressive climb, huh? But we did it. Just you, me, and the future king. Spectacular! Have you thought about your plans after the Elite Troop? I was thinking since you and I make such good partners in treasure hunting, we …”
“We are not partners,” Dearborn hissed. She thought of Mahlakore and the gruesome way he died. That man, that young man, was a good soldier and a good person. His parents still lived, and she would be the one to give them the news of their son’s demise. “The very second this mission is over, I never want to see you again. And if you ever call me partner again, I will cut your tongue out and wear it as a necklace.”
The other soldiers finished their packing, securing straps, looking over their steeds, checking their weapons and armor. Just as the rising suns started to chase away the morning chill, Iderion finished his own packing and approached Dearborn. “Good morn, Sergeant.”
Dearborn looked down from her horse to the general. The only time Iderion seemed small was when she was on a horse and he was not. She hated when he called her by her rank, but she did love this smile that accompanied the words. She returned his smile with a fake smugness, as if they shared a joke only they knew. “Good morn to you, General.”
“I trust our package is secure?” Iderion asked.
“Yes, sir,” Dearborn replied, still smiling.
“Wonderful. I knew I made the right decision last night.” As a social gesture, he placed his hand on her thigh. Surprised by the smoothness, he let his hand linger, and even indulged in the slightest of squeezes. His smile twisted to shock as he realized the gross breech of protocol.
Dearborn gasped. Images of throwing Haddaman from her horse so Iderion might join her so they could ride to a secluded nook in the cragged mountain base and throw each other around flooded her head as quickly as a flush filled her cheeks. His hand was rough, but warm, and felt like heaven on her skin.
Her eyes darted from his hand to his face. She hoped that her eyes conveyed the mix of love and lust that pumped through her veins. They did not. They showed shock and surprise, just as his did when they looked at her. He removed his hand and mumbled, “Ummm, I’ll be out front. We’ll keep the prince in the middle of the group. You stay toward the back. May our journey be blessed. Farewell.”
As Iderion strode away, Haddaman all but laughed, “You two are pathetic. Any particular reason you two are hiding your love for each other? Afraid workmates shouldn’t be bedmates?”
Dearborn hesitated, only because she could not decide which option to choose: break his nose, crush his windpipe, slap him, gouge his eyes, throw him from the horse. However, she would not get to do any of those, because Prince Oremethus interrupted her rage.
“Good morn, Sergeant,” the prince said, directing his horse next to hers. “You look tired.” The prince was not his usual picture of perfection. He seemed a bit disheveled: his hair not perfectly coiffed, hints of purple crescents under his eyes, a bit of a slouch to his posture. However, his handsome regality had not been diminished.
“Good morn to you, Your Highness” Dearborn replied. “I’m fine, thank you. For today’s journey, the general has suggested that you ride …”
“Actually,” the prince interrupted through a gleaming white smile, “that’s not why I’m here. I’d like to carry the stone, please.”
“Excuse me?” slipped f
rom Dearborn’s mouth. She wished no disrespect, but his request caught her off guard, causing an unsatisfactory tone.
The prince’s smile faded. The sunshine in his eyes gave way to dark storm clouds. He extended his hand and repeated, “The stone.”
The warmth from Dearborn’s face disappeared, leaving only pale, clammy skin. Her entire career, she had only taken orders from Iderion, never anyone else. She never felt more confused. “But … the general …”
“Is not the ranking officer. I am. And I don’t remember opening the subject to debate. The stone. Now.”
Reason forced its way into her mind, allowing her to accept her position. Simply give him the stone and discuss it with the general, it told her. So she did.
The prince’s personal storm clouds parted, and the sunshine returned to his demeanor. His smile was back and twice as bright. He rolled the stone around his palm and fingers. “Sorry for seeming so demanding. Since I found it, I simply thought I should carry it.” With a nod of gratitude, he rode away.
Haddaman fought every urge to vomit. Dearborn had carried the stone. She had had the stone! It was on this horse with her, which meant it was on this horse with him. And he never knew! Visions of him stealing the Satan Stone danced through his head. He could have waited for a particularly boring part of the journey when her mind would be all but asleep and he could have taken it. Or if he slipped an arm around her waist to distract her, he could have taken it. Or he could have engaged her in philosophical debate, forcing her to focus on grand ideas, and then he could have taken it. Oh, what a bargaining position he envisioned for himself as holder of the stone and a world bowing to him …
Dearborn noticed a sudden shift in Haddaman’s demeanor. He seemed to be sulking? She was going to ask, but enjoyed the silence far too much. She counted her blessings and kept her mouth shut as well.