by ML Spencer
A vambraced arm slid around him and dragged him backward toward the door. Markus beat his fists against the steel breastplate of the soldier holding him, but all he succeeded in doing was making a racket. The man moved like an iron golem, his grip indomitable. He never lost a stride as he hauled Markus out into the street and flung him down in the dirt, pinning him there with a boot driven into his back.
The man’s weight made breathing almost impossible. Markus lay on his stomach gasping for air, his eyes trying to make sense of the madness that confronted him. Everywhere he looked, villagers—people he knew—lay sprawled in the street, dead or dying. Many were women. Children. Blood pooled in the dirt, leaking from the corpses of his friends and neighbors.
Up the street, soldiers with crossbows had collected a group of men in a small cluster, forcing them to kneel on the ground with their hands behind their heads. Further away, toward the market, women and children were being loaded into wagons. There were a few older boys amongst their number, none younger than ten.
He saw Mora’s father among the group of captured men. Mister Haseleu knelt with his fingers laced behind his head, blood leaking down his face from a wound in his scalp. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, his teeth bared like a dog’s, watching his daughter being loaded into a wagon full of other girls. Mora bucked and screamed, struggling as a soldier shoved her in and locked the tailboard of the wagon into place. There was a shout, then the wagon lurched forward.
The weight of the boot lifted off Markus’s back. He tried to rise, but the stock of a crossbow knocked him back to the ground. He lay on his back, staring blearily upward as blood leaked from his scalp and tears drained from his eyes.
He heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching, and then a shadow fell over him. Markus looked up to find himself staring into the sorcerer’s face, the man’s crystalline blue eyes locked with his own. As Markus watched, the man raised a thin glass vial to his lips, taking a sip of its contents. He swallowed, seeming to savor the taste, and almost immediately, his eyes started changing. His pupils contracted, disappearing altogether, and his eyes filled with a haunting blue light that glowed from deep within, as though his very soul burned with ethereal fire.
The sorcerer’s glowing eyes glared down at Markus, holding him captive in a way that no iron shackle ever could. The muscles of his face twitched. Then a puzzled expression creased his brow, and his face pinched in concentration. He stared at Markus harder, his eyes burning like angry blue coals. He drew back with a sharp gasp.
“Nahim!” he called, the sound of his voice ragged.
His Shield came jogging up, sword in hand.
The sorcerer nodded at Markus. “Bring him.”
“Is that the one?”
“No.” The sorcerer paused. “But he’s Impervious.”
The Abadian man’s eyebrows flew up, and he glanced at Markus in astonishment as the sorcerer strode away. While he hesitated, Markus closed his hand around the hilt of the knife that he’d stashed under his shirt.
When the man bent to grab him, he struck out, stabbing the thin blade of the gutting knife into the man’s eye socket, driving it deep, all the way to the hilt.
The sorcerer’s Shield recoiled with a cry, his hands making it halfway to his face before his entire body started jerking spastically. He took a step backward then dropped to his knees. He folded forward, his body convulsing. His limbs flailed, feet drumming on the ground. His head jerked back and forth with the hilt of the knife still protruding from his face, white froth foaming from his mouth. Markus stared at the bizarre spectacle, transfixed, unable to look away.
“Run, boy!” Mister Haseleu bellowed at him.
That shocked him out of his daze.
Pushing himself to his feet, Markus sprang forward and pulled the knife out of the dying man’s face then sprinted away.
Chapter Twelve
Aram awoke to the sound of Markus shouting.
“They’re burning the village! They’re killing everyone!”
Markus’s voice was so loud and echoing it made Aram’s nerves scream. That, in combination with the things Markus was yelling, overwhelmed his ability to stay calm. He shot upright with a moan of pain and raised his hands to cover his ears, squeezing his eyes closed. He could still hear Markus shouting, so he moaned louder, trying to drown him out.
“Stop!” Master Ebra bellowed, springing to his feet and throwing his hands up. “Both of you, silence!”
The frantic yelling ceased.
The bard raised a finger at Markus. “Take a moment and collect your thoughts!”
Merciful silence settled in, broken only by the sound of Markus’s sharp, rasping breaths.
“Now. Speak slowly.”
“An Exilari sorcerer came to the village!” Markus said in a strained whisper that quaked with panic and despair. “He brought soldiers with him. They killed my father because they thought he was you!”
Hearing the misery in Markus’s voice, Aram started whimpering. His thoughts drifted to his mother, but it scared him too much to think of her in danger, so he forced his mind away. He hugged himself and started rocking, his nails scratching at the soothing fabric of his shirt.
“They’re killing people!” Markus sobbed, anguish in his voice. “They’re burning the village. We have to go!”
“Did anyone see you?” Master Ebra asked, his tone careful and deliberate.
Markus wiped his tears with his sleeve. “The sorcerer saw me. He wanted to take me, so I killed his Shield.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then the bard whispered, “You killed a sorcerer’s Shield?”
Aram’s eyes shot open. He stared wide-eyed at his friend, his terror momentarily forgotten. His body relaxed, and his fingers stopped raking at his shirt. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he felt suddenly comforted.
“I’m sorry!” Markus gasped. “They were going to take me! I just reacted!”
Master Ebra heaved a great sigh. Lifting his hat, he ran a hand back through his hair. “They’ll track you here,” he said in a defeated voice. “We need to go.”
The bard didn’t sound convinced that leaving would do them any good. Aram was growing nervous again, and the look on Markus’s face didn’t help. His friend’s eyes were red and haunted, his cheeks blotchy and glistening with fresh tears.
“Aram.” The bard crouched at his side. “I need you to look at me.”
Aram looked, though his vision was blurry, and his mind felt cold and fuzzy.
“That passage there.” The bard pointed toward the back of the chamber. “Is that another way out?”
Aram turned to look in the direction Master Ebra pointed, to where there was a dark slit in the rock wall barely wide enough for a man to pass through. “It’s a long tunnel. It has an opening, but you can’t get out because it’s too high up.”
“How high is it?”
Aram frowned deeply, struggling to remember. It had been a while since he’d explored back there. “About as high as the roof of Markus’s house.”
The bard looked thoughtful. He glanced behind him, his eyes finally settling on the coils of rope Aram had collected in the cave. He rose to his feet. “Markus, bring some rope along.”
“Can’t we just go back out the front?” Markus asked.
“They’ll be coming in through the front,” the bard reminded him. He bent and lifted Aram in his arms, blanket and all. Aram gasped as his leg was jostled, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t cry out. The bard carried him toward the back of the cave and set him down, leaning him up against the stone wall.
Master Ebra turned sideways and moved through the gap in the cave wall. It was a tight squeeze, Aram knew, but it did open up wider later on.
“Gather up a faggot of sticks!” The bard’s voice echoed hollowly from the opening. “We need light!”
“What about your instrument?” Markus asked.
“To hell with my instrument!”
Aram couldn’t believe Master Eb
ra would say such a thing. The oud he played was beautiful, and it seemed very special to the bard. That Master Ebra would let it go did more than anything else to drive home the reality of their danger. The bard wouldn’t leave his instrument behind unless he had no choice.
He returned at length and picked up Aram. Markus walked toward them, carrying a bundle of flaming sticks that he had gathered from the fire.
“You walk ahead,” Master Ebra directed him, and waited for Markus to go first.
The bard carried Aram in front of him at an angle as he edged his way back into the narrow gap. The passage curved abruptly, and as he shifted his posture to accommodate the turn, he scuffed Aram’s leg against the wall. Aram clamped his jaw to stifle a scream, an action which left him tasting blood.
Eventually, the narrow passage opened up into a tunnel that seemed bored out of the rock, the ceiling high enough that they could walk fully upright. They followed the tunnel for a good distance, straight ahead, the fluttering firelight casting back the shadows around them. A light breeze stirred, coming from the tunnel ahead and guttering the flame of Markus’s makeshift torch. Eventually, the passage widened into a small chamber with a perfect ring of sunlight streaming in from a hole overhead. Roots that looked like snakes dangled through the opening, none reaching far enough down to do them any good.
Master Ebra set Aram down on the floor then climbed onto the debris pile, shading his eyes from the brilliant sunlight, and looked upward through the hole.
“Do you think you can climb up there?” he asked Markus, indicating the roots.
“I don’t think so.” Markus’s eyes shifted around the chamber. “Maybe if I stand on your shoulders.”
“I couldn’t support you.” With a deep frown, the bard glanced at Aram. “If I hold your hands, do you think you could stand on my shoulders and reach those roots?”
Aram eyed the roots that were hanging well over his head. They were so far up, but he didn’t have a choice, did he? He whispered, “I can try.”
“We’ll try it, then,” the bard decided. To Markus, he said, “We’ll tie the rope around Aram’s waist, then you lift him onto my shoulders. I’ll stabilize him.”
Markus brought the rope over and helped steady Aram as the bard tied the rope around him. When Master Ebra tugged the knot tight, Aram nodded in appreciation of his choice of the bowline.
Master Ebra said, “Grab hold of the roots and pull yourself over the edge. Once you’re up there, find something to tie that rope around and throw it down to us.”
Aram nodded meekly, fearing the pain he knew was coming. If he fell … Even the thought brought a shiver. Just pulling himself over the edge was going to be excruciating. But he understood the stakes and knew they had no choice. They couldn’t stay there forever, and they couldn’t go back.
Markus grabbed him under the arms and lifted him onto the bard’s broad shoulders. The pain was bad, and Aram had to bite his lip harder to keep from crying out. He tried not to put weight on his leg, but even with Master Ebra’s hands clutching his own, he still had to put some weight on it. His body listed from side to side as the bard fought to stabilize him.
“All right, now,” said Master Ebra. “I’ve got you. Try to stand still.”
Aram tried, but his arms and legs were already shaking. Markus took hold of his ankles to help steady him.
“Can you reach the roots?” the bard asked.
Fear of falling almost made him balk. But Aram summoned his courage and, biting his lip, let go of one of Master Ebra’s hands. He stretched up to grasp the nearest root, but it hung just out of reach. He would have to let go with his other hand and put weight on his leg.
“I think I hear something,” Markus whispered.
Aram heard it too. The sound of voices echoed toward them through the tunnel. Fright electrified his nerves, making his stomach clench. Sweat broke out across his brow and needled the palms of his hands. But he didn’t have time to be afraid.
He let go and lunged for the root, grasping it with both hands. Then, using every bit of strength he had, he pulled himself up, squeezing his eyes closed and groaning with pain. From out of the tunnel, the sounds and voices echoed louder, spurring him to go faster. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up the thick and rubbery root until he reached the break in the ceiling and climbed through the hole. His wounded leg raked over stone as he pulled it limply behind him. The pain was atrocious, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming. He clenched his jaw and covered his mouth with both hands, curling into a ball.
But he couldn’t stay there like that. Not with Master Ebra and Markus still down there. Glancing around, Aram saw that he had emerged into the grove of trees north of the village. With dogged determination, he pushed himself to his feet and forced himself to hop on one leg toward the nearest tree. He fell down beside it and quickly untied the bowline the bard had applied, spilling the knot and releasing it from his waist. He wrapped the rope around the trunk of the tree, securing it tightly. Then he wriggled back to the hole on his belly and peered down, waving at his companions to hurry.
Markus stepped back from the rope and motioned for the bard to go ahead.
But Master Ebra shook his head. “You go first.”
As Markus went for the rope, the bard’s hand caught his arm.
“Protect him,” Master Ebra said gruffly. “Keep him safe, no matter what. And if you can’t … you know what to do.”
Markus stared at the bard for a long moment before finally nodding. He couldn’t argue, for he didn’t have time. Hand over hand, he climbed the rope as fast as he could. Just as he got his legs over, the sound of shouts echoed up from below.
“Cut the rope!” Master Ebra called up to them. “Now!”
Markus lingered for a moment, feeling torn in half. He didn’t want to leave the bard down there, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. It was Aram they had to save, and Master Ebra knew it. Drawing the knife from his belt, he used it to saw through the rope, sealing the bard’s fate by letting it fall, then he knelt to scoop Aram up in his arms. The boy was heavier than he looked, and Markus had to bounce him a bit to adjust his weight, but Aram didn’t whine or cry.
Carrying him, Markus sprinted through the trees, the muscles of his jaw bunched with the strain of the effort.
“What about Master Ebra?” Aram asked in a pained and jostled voice.
“Don’t worry!” Markus gasped. “He’ll be along!”
He hated himself for the lie but couldn’t tell Aram the truth—that they’d abandoned the old man to the Exilari. He struggled forward, grimacing with the strain of carrying Aram’s weight, his lungs and muscles burning. He ran as hard and as fast as he could, north toward the river.
They hadn’t gone far, not even a mile, when he started feeling nauseous, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep running without dropping the boy. A desperate fear clenched his chest, pressing him harder.
From the distance behind them came the sound of baying hounds.
“Dogs,” Aram said.
Terrified, Markus glanced behind them. A few of the men in the village kept hounds that they used for hunting hares and foxes. Apparently, the soldiers had commandeered them. He redoubled his pace, sweat streaming from his brow, arms trembling with fatigue.
The noise of the hounds was getting louder. He ran faster, panting and hunched over from a cramp in his side, grimacing in pain. He made it maybe another league, but there came a point where his arms just gave out, and he collapsed, spilling Aram onto the ground. The boy cried out in pain, clutching his leg and writhing on the forest floor.
“I can’t…” Markus gasped, panting for breath and grimacing in desperation. “Can’t run anymore…” He tried to get his legs under him, but he just couldn’t. His muscles simply wouldn’t move.
“It’s all right,” Aram said weakly.
But it wasn’t all right. Master Ebra had placed Aram’s life in his hands, and he�
��d failed them both.
The hounds were almost upon them, and Markus didn’t know what to do. He was shaking so hard, but he couldn’t move, paralyzed as he was in both body and mind.
“Run, Markus,” Aram urged him. “Just go.”
Markus wept like a child, hugging Aram close. “I can’t.”
“You can!” the boy begged him. “Please, just go!”
Clenching his jaw, Markus shook his head. “I’m not going to leave you.”
He couldn’t. He remembered what Master Ebra had said. For Aram, capture meant a lifetime of agony. He couldn’t let that happen.
He knew what he had to do. He just didn’t know if he had it in him.
His hand moved to the knife at his belt. Hugging Aram with his other hand, he asked him, “What’s your favorite memory?”
The boy’s eyes grew distant. “The day Captain Holin took me sailing.”
Weeping silently, Markus squeezed the knife until it shook in his grip. “I want you to remember that day. Close your eyes and try to see it.”
“Why?” Aram whispered.
The baying of the hounds was louder.
“Just trust me.” Markus ran a trembling hand through Aram’s hair. “Can you see it?”
The boy nodded, his eyes squeezed closed.
Markus brought the knife closer. “What was it like?”
“It was a beautiful day,” Aram said softly, his voice trembling. “The sky was so blue, with puffy white clouds. I can still feel the wind. The sails were full, and the ship was moving so fast!”
Markus stopped listening to his words, for he couldn’t bear to hear them. He was only aware that Aram was still talking, and that’s all that mattered. The boy’s mind had gone to a beautiful place, and that’s what Markus wanted. He wanted Aram to stay in that place, stay there forever.
“Keep talking,” he whispered, groping within himself to find resolve. “Tell me about the rigging.”