by ML Spencer
“I won’t,” Markus whispered, his heart aching with pity for his new friend. “What will the Exilari do to him, if they take him?”
Master Ebra replied in the thinnest whisper, “I won’t let them take him. Not alive, at least.”
Markus shivered, feeling a chill of revulsion. “What about me? Would the Exilari take me too?”
“They would, but for a different reason. You see, hunting those with the affinity is a dangerous task, so their sorcerers are always accompanied by people who are resistant to magic. They’re called Shields. Exilari sorcerers take their Shields everywhere they go, to protect them from those they prey upon.”
“Oh…”
Now Markus understood why Master Ebra had picked him along with Aram, for the Exilari would be interested in both of them. Markus wondered if the bard had selected him to protect him from the Exilari—or if, rather, his intention was to deny the sorcerers a potential Shield.
“Try to get some sleep now, lad,” Master Ebra said.
Markus lay back down, rolling onto his side and bringing his legs up against his chest. The floor was hard, and the planks weren’t laid precisely flat, so they gouged into his ribs uncomfortably. But he was exhausted, and he felt sleep creeping up on him, so he decided to close his eyes and try.
“Master Ebra,” he whispered, “did Auld Champions also have Shields?”
There was a long pause.
“They did,” the bard replied. “Only, a Champion’s Shield was called a Warden.”
“Master Ebra … are Aram and I really your apprentices?”
Another long pause. The bard’s stool gave a slight creak.
“Yes. Only, I don’t intend to teach you anything about music. Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, we’ll move Aram somewhere we can hide him, and I’ll have things for you to do. You’re going to need your rest.”
Markus licked his lips. “If you want … I think I know of a good place.”
Chapter Eleven
Aram awoke in pain. The world was dark but scented with the nostalgic mixture of seawater and mildew he could never mistake. He knew immediately where he was before he opened his eyes to the surreal wonder of his cave. Wavering firelight played across the walls, making for a hypnotic dance of shadows and texture. When he turned to look, a shooting pain drove a spike of agony into his thigh, making him cry out. While his leg throbbed in time to his heartbeat, he lay still and tried not to whimper, clamping his jaw against the pain.
“Hey.”
Aram squinted to see Markus kneeling at his side. His dark hair hung to his chin in damp strings, and his face looked filthy and haggard, more the face of a work-weary man than a teenage boy.
“How are you feeling?” Markus asked, concern shadowing his eyes.
“Hurts.” Aram peered upward at him. “Why are we here?”
“Because it’s safe.”
Aram accepted the answer because Markus was right: his cave was safe, the safest place in all the world. What he didn’t understand was why Markus thought he needed to be somewhere as safe and secure as his cave. Had something happened while he slept? Something that he didn’t know about?
Opening his eyes wider, Aram saw Master Ebra seated on the other side of the small fire they had built on the mound in the center of the cave. Aram didn’t know how he felt about the bard’s presence here in his domain. He had never shown his cave to anyone but Markus, and he was afraid of what Master Ebra might think about it. Most people would look at his precious collection of knots and see only strangeness and eccentricity. Like any other boy would, he yearned for his new master’s approval, and if the bard were to look in judgement upon him, then the pain of that humiliation would hurt worse than his leg.
Seeing him awake, Master Ebra stood and walked around the fire toward him, bending to press a hand against Aram’s forehead. “No fever. That’s good.” He lowered himself to sit at his side. “Does your mother know about this cave?”
Aram shook his head. He had never told his mother about his cave, afraid she would forbid him from coming here. “No. No one knows.”
“That’s good.” Master Ebra looked at Markus. “How old are you, boy?”
“Fourteen, sir,” Markus responded.
“Do you know how to use a sword?”
Markus nodded. “My father hired a mercenary to teach me. He thought it was a skill I needed to know.”
“I fear he was right.” Master Ebra sighed, bringing a hand up to scratch his whiskered cheek. “I want you to return to the village and fetch supplies—enough to keep us here for a few days. And bring your sword back here too.”
“It’s not mine,” Markus protested. “It’s my father’s. I can’t—”
“We need it. We also need food and medicine for Aram. Blankets and fresh water.”
Markus looked anything but pleased about the bard’s directive, but he nodded. “I’ll need coin.”
“In my instrument case.”
“Yes, sir.” Markus rose and set about his task, retrieving a small but hefty-looking sack from the bard’s case then paused, waiting for further direction.
Master Ebra said, “If you see anything out of sorts, come back here as fast as you can, but make damn certain no one is watching. Am I understood?”
“Understood,” Markus assured him. Giving Aram a weak smile of encouragement, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the low tunnel.
Aram closed his eyes, disappointed that Markus had to go. His leg felt better when Markus was there, and now it felt worse again. Besides, he was worried that the bard would be angry at him for ripping a hole in the world. He knew he deserved his anger, and the combination of guilt and pain was hard to bear. He must have let out a whimper, for Master Ebra took his hand.
“You’re a strong lad,” he said. “You’ll make it through this.”
Aram peered up at the old man, his jaw trembling with anxiety and pain. “Why did you bring me here, Master Ebra? Why did we leave your room at the inn?”
The old man patted his hand. “We’re here because we’re taking no chances.”
Aram didn’t understand. “I want Markus.”
“Markus will be back shortly. Now, get some rest. Close your eyes, Aram.”
He obeyed, nestling deeper into his blanket. “Will you sing me a song?”
“Later. I promise. For now, we must try to be as quiet as we can.”
Aram didn’t respond, for he was already fast asleep.
As Markus walked through the streets of Anai, he became gradually aware that the people of the village were staring at him, many with wariness or even fear in their eyes. He understood why. Whatever Aram had let into their small world, it wasn’t natural, and it could have endangered everyone in the village. It still might, if the Exilari got wind of what happened and decided to come investigate. It was a good thing they were planning on leaving because, by the looks on people’s faces, Markus felt certain they wouldn’t be welcome here much longer.
He went first to Mister Dareau, who owned the bakery on the edge of the market. He found the baker out behind his shop, feeding dough into his brick oven with a long wooden paddle. Mister Dareau was a big man, one of the tallest in the village, and years of sampling his own goods had made him even bigger. He had a good nature, always quick with a laugh or an offer of help. But the moment he saw Markus, his face tightened with concern—a testament to the effectiveness of Anai’s rumor mill.
“Markus.” He set the paddle down and wiped the dough off his big arms with a rag, using the same rag to mop the sweat from his brow. “How is Aram?”
Markus felt his face redden. “Aram’s doing well, sir, just in a lot of pain.”
“I should imagine.” The words were cordial, but much more guarded than they ever should be, coming from someone like Mister Dareau. The baker thrust his doughy hands into a pail of water, scrubbing them together. “What can I do for you, Master Galliar?”
Markus held up the bard’s coin purse, step
ping forward. “Master Ebra wants me to purchase supplies for our journey.”
Mister Dareau lifted an eyebrow. “How long of a journey?”
Markus hesitated, for he’d never been a good liar. They weren’t really going on a journey, at least not yet. “I … err … a week.”
Mister Dareau dried his hands with a fresh rag. “Maybe you should confirm with Master Ebra before you purchase too much or too little of something. In the meantime, stay clear of your father. If you see him about the village, turn and walk in the opposite direction.”
“Thank you, but—”
The sound of someone shouting broke Markus’s attention from the conversation. Loud noises echoed from a distance, muffled by a consistent and growing thunder. Markus flashed a startled glance at Mister Dareau, who immediately dodged around him and made for the street. Markus followed, jogging after him.
They left the yard of the bakery and rounded the corner of the house, emerging into the market just as a band of mounted soldiers streamed in from the side streets, scattering villagers before their horses with startled cries.
The soldiers encircled the perimeter of the market before drawing their mounts up, their mounts stamping and snorting, lathered flanks heaving. The men on their backs wore the uniform of the Imperial Legions, a sleeveless scale mail tunic that left their arms and legs bared. Their horses wore tall saddles and elaborate barding that dripped with ornaments and tassels. Black and purple standards rippled above their heads, disturbed by the onshore breeze.
The soldiers dismounted in a clatter of armor and weapons and stood at the heads of their horses, training crossbows at the villagers. Two other men who had rode in behind them now slid from their horses’ backs and walked forward, their eyes roving over the small crowd of frightened people. One of the two was a large Abadian man armored in a steel breastplate, carrying a longsword in one hand and a heater shield in the other. The man at his side was Cerylite, with an angular face and long blond hair tied back at the neck. His clothing was covered by a blue mantle, and his tunic bore the insignia of a winged serpent on the left panel. His disquieting gaze traveled over the frightened villagers, as though he were searching for something—or someone.
“Where’s the bard?” he asked at length, glancing from face to face.
Only silence answered his question. Women drew their children protectively behind their skirts, and the village men stood shifting and trading nervous glances, but no one spoke. On the edge of the crowd, a babe started crying, and its mother cooed franticly in an effort to hush it.
Eman Tangreve, one of the village elders, stepped forward and bowed low. “Exilar, welcome to Anai. Allow me to—”
The blond man raised his hand. “Word has it that a bard was here last night reciting the Ballad of Raginor in your longhouse.”
Markus stared wide-eyed at the man, realizing he was an Exilari sorcerer. His body stiffened, fear clouding his senses and numbing his brain, and he could do nothing but look on. The dark Abadian man with him must be the sorcerer’s Shield. They were looking for Master Ebra—which meant they were really looking for Aram. They had to be.
People in the crowd shifted, but still no one spoke. The silence extended, tension compressing the air until it was almost too thick to breathe. The sorcerer’s gaze swept over the crowd, coming to rest on Mora Haseleu, who stood in front of her father’s salt shop.
The man stalked forward, crossing the street toward her. Mora shrieked when she saw him approaching, and Mister Haseleu lurched in front of her, shoving his daughter back, but the nearest soldier came forward and dragged him to the ground and kept him there at sword point.
Without thinking, Markus stepped into the street and blocked the sorcerer’s advance.
The man halted and just stared at him, as though he couldn’t believe someone would have the audacity to get in his way. For a long moment, the two of them just stood there, gazes locked on each other’s face.
Markus’s vision exploded as something struck him in the head from behind. He staggered, wavering for a moment before his legs gave out from under him. The next thing he knew, he was staring upward from the ground into the face of the sorcerer’s Shield, who loomed over him like a menacing statue. The man looked to his companion, who nodded.
The Shield moved swiftly, catching Markus by the hair and dragging him upright. Wrenching his head back, he brought his dagger up to slice his throat.
“Stop!”
Wheezing panicked breaths, Markus glanced sideways to see his father threading his way toward them through the terrified crowd. Seeing the look on his father’s face, Markus found himself fighting back tears. His captor held him locked against his chest in an iron grip, his sharp blade biting into the skin of his neck. Markus knew that if that knife moved at all, this one glimpse of his father would be the last he ever had.
Baldur Galliar halted in front of the sorcerer, hands raised. Even from feet away, Markus could smell the strong stench of alcohol roiling off him. His eyes were red, face oily and pallid, and he swayed unstably over his feet. Markus couldn’t tell whether he was hungover from the night before or still drunk, but it didn’t matter. He was there.
“I’m the bard,” his father growled, eliciting a gasp from the crowd.
Markus gaped at him in dismay, wondering what he was thinking.
The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. “What is your name?”
“Ebra of Starn.” The words came out badly slurred.
“Ebra of Starn,” the sorcerer echoed, scrutinizing him with a frigid glare. “Last night you were witnessed performing a proscribed ballad before a gathered crowd.”
“I apologize, Exilar. Please. Let the boy go.”
The sorcerer took a step forward, slipping his hands out of his pristine white gloves. “You sang a forbidden song before a public gathering.”
For the first time in Markus’s life, he saw his father looking less than arrogant. Humbly, Baldur Galliar lowered his gaze, clasping his hands in front of him. “Do what you want with me, Exilar. Just please. Don’t hurt the boy.”
The sorcerer glanced at Markus then moved forward until he was but a nose-length from Baldur’s face, grimacing at his foul breath. The surrounding crowd had gone rigid and silent, and Markus’s own sharp, panicked breaths were the loudest sounds in the world.
“Do you enjoy singing, Master Bard?” the sorcerer whispered.
“I do.” Markus’s father averted his gaze, unable to meet the man’s caustic stare. “Let the boy go, sir, and I’ll sing whatever song you like.”
The sorcerer gave his companion a wry smirk. “If this man’s a bard, then I’m the Imperial privy boy. But apparently, he likes to sing.” Shrugging, he took a step back. “So let’s hear him sing.”
The pressure of the blade left Markus’s throat. In the same instant, the sorcerer’s Shield struck out at his father with the speed of a viper.
Markus cried out and lunged forward, but a soldier caught hold of him, restraining him with his arms pinned behind his back as he kicked and struggled.
His father doubled over, clutching his middle as his intestines spilled wetly through his hands, slithering to the ground. Baldur Galliar fell forward, hollering in agony as he clawed at his guts, trying to rake them back inside.
“No!” Markus cried, his voice strangled by horror.
“He sings well, doesn’t he?” remarked the sorcerer with a smirk.
His Shield struck out with a steel-toed boot, knocking Baldur the rest of the way to the ground. Then he kicked his head and started stomping on it, over and over, grunting as he put all his weight and effort into the blows. He stopped only when Baldur’s head caved in, reduced to a bloody, flattened pulp. Then he dragged his boots through the dirt, one at a time, wiping off the gore with an expression of distaste.
Markus screamed, sobbing and struggling in the soldier’s grasp. All his life, his father had mistreated him, sometimes terribly—but he didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this. There
were times he’d been good to him too. And, in the end, his father had been his only champion.
The soldier released him, and Markus collapsed to his knees, weeping openly into his palms.
The sorcerer raised his voice and addressed the gathered crowd, “You are all aware of the law, and you’re all in violation of it. The bard wouldn’t have sung a note if he didn’t have an audience. By the order of God-Emperor Mirak, I declare the inhabitants of this village traitors to the Empire.” He turned and gestured at the officers. “Burn it down.”
The market collapsed into turmoil as people fled with wild cries of terror but were prevented from escaping by more soldiers streaming in from the side streets. Sobbing, Markus picked himself up off the ground and took two faltering steps toward the grotesque body of his father. But it was too much. He couldn’t go another step, and his father wouldn’t want him to anyway.
So he turned and sprinted up the street, past the bakery and the salt shop. He ran all the way to his home and barred the door behind him. Through the slatted windows, he could hear the terrified screams of the villagers and smelled the first traces of smoke.
He went immediately to his father’s room and dragged the feather mattress off the bed. There, atop the wood slats that supported the mattress, was his father’s unsheathed longsword. He pulled it off the bed and held it up, pausing to stare at it for a few seconds, incapable of doing anything else. A scream from outside made him flinch and, blinking, he shook his head to clear his mind, then dashed back to the front of the house.
He took his father’s gutting knife off the table and thrust it into his belt under his shirt just as the door jolted. Another impact sent shards of wood flinging into the room and a third broke the frame entirely, the door bursting open. Two Imperial soldiers charged inside, weapons drawn.
Markus raised his father’s sword in both hands, his arms shaking violently, his vision blurred by tears. One of the soldiers advanced toward him. Markus struck out at him with the sword, but the soldier simply batted the blade aside and rushed him. The weapon flew from his hands and Markus spilled to the floor.