Please, Sollus, let it be Master Iwynd. Please, don’t let it be Gairen.
* * *
—
Riam jumped at the sound of someone banging on the door. He scanned the room in confusion. Loral was still next to him, though the cooks were no longer seated across from them. The sword lay on the table where he’d left it.
Jon unlocked the door.
“Get them inside,” a voice said. “On the tables.”
“Watch that one’s arm.”
Piling into the room were a dozen or so of the Thaen Regulars carrying the other children who lay limp in their arms. There was blood everywhere.
“Faen take me. Have they killed them all?” Brin said as he hurried to help.
“The blood isn’t theirs. We fought a nasty bunch of swaugs who were trying to carry them off. It was a near thing, especially after the lightning blinded us, but we were able to save the children.”
Riam and Loral both scrambled out of the way as the regulars carefully laid out the children on the tables around them. He almost forgot the sword and snatched it away before one was placed in front of him. It was Tannon, the city boy who’d given Riam the intimidating look. He didn’t look so intimidating now.
“Don’t know what’s wrong with them,” the Thaen said. “Thought they were dead at first, but they’re still breathing. Might be swaug magic. Our mediker is busy with Commander Harol—he took a nasty blow to the head—so we brought them here.”
Brin used his thumb to push up on Tannon’s eyebrow, stretching an eye open. “Hmmm.” He bent down to peer at it closely, then moved his hand to Tannon’s jaw and pulled the boy’s mouth open. He stuck his finger inside and did something Riam couldn’t see. “Yep. What I thought.”
“Deathroot?” Jon asked, coming up beside Brin.
“Yep.”
“Deathroot?” Loral said. “Are they dying?”
Brin chuckled. “No. They’ll be out for a bit, but they’re not dying. Looks like they rubbed it in their mouths.” He held his finger up. It was smeared with a dark streak. “It’s purple when it’s raw. Good for numbing and treating wounds when it’s mixed with honey, marigold, and yarrow. They’ll be fine, though. You have to really boil the stuff down to make it deadly, but then it would be black like tar.” Brin reached over and wiped his finger on Jon’s apron, leaving a purple smudge, before putting his hand on the regular’s shoulder and walking him toward the door. “They’ll be fine after a time.”
The regular whistled and made a circle in the air with his hand. The soldiers began filing out of the room at the signal.
Brin leaned in close to the leader of the Thaens and spoke, but they were too far away, and the departing soldiers made too much noise for Riam to make out the words.
Yet he knew the cook had asked about Gairen. Riam brought a hand up to push his hair out of his eyes. The scar on his palm caught his eye. He’d never be able to look at the thin white line without remembering his poor treatment of Nola. Is that all scars really are? Reminders of our failures? He knew the one on his nose would never let him forget about the wasps and Gairen.
He slipped around a table and made his way toward the door, trying to listen in on the conversation.
“. . . at least ten of them escaped. Led by a big bastard-of-a-swaug and another with a scarred face and torn ear. They’re the ones that got him when the lightning blinded us.”
Got who? Were they talking about Gairen?
“Make a hole!” the regular at the door yelled, and men sprang to either side to make way.
“All the children are accounted for?” a strong voice said from outside, growing louder as it spoke.
“Yes, sir,” another responded.
A Draegoran stepped inside. His face was hidden from view by one of the regulars for an instant. Then the soldier moved.
Riam’s sword dropped to the floor with a clang, and his heart dropped with it. Master Iwynd scanned the room. Their eyes met, but neither of them spoke.
He’d been right all along, but the cooks had given him hope. Not caring if it was safe, he walked out of the mess hall to find somewhere to be alone. He left the sword behind.
Chapter 15
The fire spread despite the best efforts of the Thaen Regulars. While they protected the buildings immediately surrounding the barracks, the billowing clouds of smoke threw sparks across the outpost, burning the line of cells Riam had stayed in the first night and another building used to store dry goods. It was a close thing for Master Iwynd’s headquarters, with only the grit and bravery of the Thaens saving it from the flames. There were many heroes in the night, even Maber of all people, who saved the stables and the horses but suffered terrible burns to his face and hands. Between the night’s attack and previous damage, more than half the outpost lay in ruins and more than thirty men were dead or wounded.
With so much needing to be done, the children didn’t start downriver in the morning. Instead, they pitched in to clear debris, douse embers, and carry water to the soldiers and townsfolk who labored in the heat. The sounds of hammers and saws, of horses and wagons, and of chopping and digging filled the air, but everyone strove to say as little as possible while they worked to put the outpost to rights. Even the meals were subdued, with only the hurried sounds of scraping plates and creaking benches filling the room. When people did speak, they spoke in hushed tones and hesitant whispers. Riam kept to himself and refused to speak to anyone, even Loral. He would always remember this as one of the darkest days of his life.
All work ceased for a time that evening as the nineteen Thaen Regulars who succumbed to their wounds were given a short ceremony in a burial field near the outpost. The surviving soldiers stood straight in formation. The wounded who could walk were among them. Maber stood with his face and hands wrapped. Valora, the section leader who’d been sent to save the children, wore a sling, but she stood rigid and straight in front of the troops—she was now second-in-command behind Harol after the death of her half-troop leader. Riam and the other children were gathered in two ranks off to the side. Their first formation as soon-to-be recruits was a somber one. Harol, his head in a bloodstained dressing, stood before the formation a pace beyond the freshly turned soil of the mass grave. His hand rested on a single spear posted as a marker for the men and women buried beneath it.
“All things fall,” Harol told them. “The strongest gods, Parron and Tomu, fell. Draegora and its cities fell. And one day this land, and even this world, will fall. It’s the nature of things.
“Look around you. The trees that surround this field and the animals and birds that feed from it will also fall. Even the sun and moon fall from the heights above us. But when we fall as soldiers, it means something more.”
How? Riam thought. How does life mean anything if everything dies anyway? He was in a foul mood, and the man’s words made it worse.
“We Thaens do not believe in the Church of Man or its arrogance that states the Fallen were never truly gods above us. We know the truth of the last remaining god, Sollus, and we respect the Fallen Gods for their sacrifice. Like the Gods of Light, our men gave their lives in the defense of others. There is no greater achievement in the eyes of Sollus than this.”
Yet Sollus is too weak to help. So why do we pray to him if it does no good?
“I hope that one day, when I fall, it will be the same, that it is to protect others. I hope that one of you will stand here in my place, reminding all of the honor in matching the Fallen’s sacrifice.” Harol leaned forward and kissed the spear. He then stepped backward and saluted. “Honor to the fallen,” he said and dropped the salute.
“Honor to the fallen,” the regulars echoed and saluted in unison.
Riam watched the men and women move one by one to the spear and repeat Harol’s gesture. Honor? Is that really all there is? It was not a satisfying answer. Honor didn’t stop others
from doing bad things. He wanted to hate the Esharii. He wanted to hate his grandfather. He wanted to hate Gairen and Lemual for lying to him. But he couldn’t. He really didn’t know whom to blame or why the world was the way that it was. Is it Sollus’s fault? The Fallen’s? The dark ones’?
His grandfather never spoke much about the Fallen, but then most people didn’t unless it was the first days of high spring—the one time each year that everyone made a sacrifice of food or goods to the Fallen before the winter’s end festival. The sacrifice itself was a personal matter, not discussed openly. Only those who followed the Church of Man worshipped together, but everyone back home said that only two types of people joined the Church of Man, the crazy and the foolish.
What little Riam knew about the gods came from Lemual—how the Gods of Light had fallen and how Sollus remained behind to watch over them with almost no power to intervene on their behalf. That was the point of the fall, so that the struggle between the Gods of Light and Dark would not destroy the worlds of man. But what is the point if everyone still fights and dies anyway? Why save us? He’d never thought about it before, and certainly no one had ever explained it to him.
Why had the gods created them and then died to protect them? What was so noble about giving up your life to help others? He thought about Gairen and that very question long into the night.
* * *
—
There was no ceremony for Gairen. Riam wanted to pay his respects and say good-bye, but when he asked Brin, he was told that Draegorans didn’t have a ceremony other than entering the death glyph in the rolls of their regimental hall. Master Iwynd had already buried the body, alone.
Riam hadn’t seen Master Iwynd since the attack. The old Draegoran seemed to be avoiding him, which didn’t bother Riam one bit. Whenever Master Iwynd looked at him, he had the sense the man blamed him for Gairen’s death.
That night Riam returned to the burial field. Since he didn’t know exactly where Gairen was buried, he stood alone in the moonlight before the spear that marked the grave of Harol’s regulars. The rich, damp smell of fresh-turned soil filled his nose.
“Gairen—” he began and stopped short. No, not just Gairen. Uncle Gairen. It was like Lemual’s betrayal all over again, but worse. It hurt so much. Why does everyone have to lie to me? Why can’t they tell the truth?
He took a deep breath and began again. “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me, but I wish you would have. And I wish you would have told me more about my father.” Riam closed his eyes a moment and took another deep breath, trying to keep control of his emotions. “I don’t think you would lie to me without a good reason, and you never tried to hurt me like my grandfather, but it still hurts.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. You told me to forget my family and the past. You told me to commit everything I have to becoming a Draegoran, and that I would never become a Draegoran if I didn’t want it, but you never told me why I should become one. No one ever tells me why. . . .” He trailed off.
A sound in the distance made Riam pause. The Esharii were long gone; at least he hoped they were. He listened for a moment while scanning the darkness. All he heard were crickets. He turned back to the grave.
“You saved me twice when you didn’t have to. Three times if you count saving me from my grandfather, which I suppose counts as much as the other two. I also know from Brin that you spent two years looking for me and that you died preventing the other children from being taken.
“It’s funny. Lemual used to scare me to death with his stories about Draegorans. I thought I was going to die right then when you walked into the farmhouse, but you turned out to be the one who kept saving me. You treated me fairly, and you were better to me than anyone I’ve ever known.” He lifted his shoulders and drew himself up, ready to come to the point of what he wanted to say.
“You told me to become a Draegoran. So I will. I’ll do it for you. I’ll dedicate myself to becoming a Draegoran. I’ll be like you and stop people like my grandfather and the Esharii from hurting others, and I’ll make you proud, but I won’t quit trying to find out the truth about my father and our family. That’s my deal with you. I think it’s fair.” Riam listened to the night, as if his uncle might agree or object, or there might be a sign from Sollus. Aside from the crickets, the night remained silent. He took that for assent.
“We’re leaving for the island soon, and I wanted to say thank you before I go. I never said thank you, but I should have.”
He wanted to leave something as a sacrifice to Gairen and the Fallen, so he placed his new boots on the ground in front of the spear. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, but the boots were the most expensive thing he owned. In a sense, it was his uncle who’d given them to him in the first place.
He held his hand up in a half salute before making his way back to the outpost. The world around him seemed heavier and darker, but he had a purpose, and he would not fail his uncle. For Gairen, he would become the greatest Draegoran who ever lived—if it was within his ability.
* * *
—
By the morning of the third day, the outpost had returned to a more organized, albeit temporary, state. Riam and the others had spent the previous day hauling debris to a pile some distance from the walls. It was dull and monotonous work, but it had given him something to do. The remains of the barracks had been replaced by three lines of tents, and a short rain during the night cleared the smoke from the air and washed away some of the signs of battle.
In another twist of events, the taulin that had been guarding the supply run returned. It didn’t remain long before setting out in pursuit of the Esharii. Riam still hadn’t seen Master Iwynd, so he assumed the old Draegoran went with them. That was fine with Riam. He didn’t have anything to say to Master Iwynd.
Riam and the other children left the outpost, escorted by a full section of regulars—they were taking no chances with the children on the final day under their care. As they headed toward Hath, they walked through the timber yard, but unlike the last time, it was quiet, with only a few workers and a single maston. There was no sign of the teamsters or the timberwains. Sabat and Jerald, who walked in front of Riam, were pushing each other and shouting about the maston, having never seen one before, but Riam ignored them. He wasn’t ready to be a part of the group yet, and he did his best to stay as far back as he could. Loral remained close, and she kept dropping back to speak to him, but he wasn’t ready for that either. He was thankful she didn’t push.
They were all filthy from their work, so they marched straight to the baths once they made it to Hath. The morning was like a repeat of his trip with Gairen. Even the tailor and his boys were at the baths, giving each of the children a new set of clothes to replace the torn and soot-stained ones they wore. It made Riam sink further into himself. He couldn’t wait to get on the boat and leave Hath behind.
At last they were all dressed and moving to the docks. People lined their doorways to watch the procession make its way through the small town, many of them calling out.
“Luck to ya, boys!” an old man with a half dozen grandchildren around his legs yelled.
“Hey, we’re not all boys!” Loral yelled back at him. Ania, the girl from Tannon’s table in the mess hall, also waved at the man.
The whole family laughed at this. The man made a half bow in apology. “Sorry, missies, luck to you girls, too.”
Others yelled their best wishes or thanked the regulars for their protection from the Esharii. All in all, the people of Hath seemed far kinder than back home. Riam guessed that if you lived your life next door to the Draegorans, you understood them. It was easier to blame someone far away for your troubles than your neighbors. That had to be what Gairen meant when he was complaining about the people of Nesh.
They arrived at the docks, where two barges were tied off to the small pier. They were roughly the same, both around forty Arillian ro
ds long with raised decks on either end, and there were large, square holes in the lower, middle deck for taking in cargo. Big canvas covers stretched over the top of some of them. Above one of the barges, a wooden crane lowered a net filled with bales of dark wool into one of the holes while workers rolled a few final barrels up the ramp. The other barge sat empty except for a lone watchman sitting on the front deck whittling at a piece of wood.
A chubby-faced man with large, woolly sideburns and a thick mustache approached the section leader.
“Captain Karlet?” the section leader asked. Her name was Valora, if Riam remembered it right from the fire.
“That I am,” said the man. He wore a yellow silk shirt and brown billowy pants that were tucked into hose just below the knee. None of the crew dressed as extravagantly. Most wore only pants with no shirt or shoes.
“Loading some last additions. The extra two days gave me time to fill another contract. This, added to the sum you paid me to wait, will make for a profitable turn back down the river. You have my thanks.”
“Where do you want the children?”
The barge captain looked down the line, rubbing at one of his sideburns as if he were doing the math on where to stow cargo.
Riam and the other children watched him expectantly, their small bags of personal belongings and clothes clutched in their hands or slung over their shoulders. Many of them were eager to ride in a boat for the first time, and even Riam in his stupor felt a tug of excitement.
Judging by the wrinkles on Captain Karlet’s forehead and his pursed lips, he didn’t share the same eagerness. He spoke to the section leader, but he made sure all the children heard him. “As soon as the barrels are lashed down out of the way and the last of the cargo loaded, which will be any moment, they can come aboard, and we’ll shove off. There’s a bin under the lee of the forward deck they can put their bags in, and they can sit out of the way on the cargo covers while we push out into the current. The boatswain will come and explain the rules of my barge.” He narrowed his eyes and gave the children a fierce look. “Nobody does anything but sit there quietly until he does.”
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