by ML Spencer
Across the ring of wagons, the other children that had been carried away from the village were being unloaded. A weathered man with a dirt-encrusted face lowered the tailboard of the wagon the girls were in and motioned them out. They clung to each other, eyes wide and terrified.
The soldier made a growl and lunged for the nearest girl, catching her by the arm and yanking her forward with a screech. She came tumbling out of the back of the wagon, falling on her hands and knees. Picking herself up, she scurried away. The man caught hold of the next girl, tugging her forward. This one jumped out of the wagon on her own, dodged past him and scampered after the first girl toward the center of the camp.
“Let’s go, all of you!” the man growled, standing back.
Across the campsite, the boys knelt in a long line, their heads bowed in defeat. Many were covered in bruises and dark, crusted blood. Aram knew all of them, though there were a couple he could hardly recognize. Jory and Kasry were among the bunch. Even though they had been mean to Aram, he still felt sorry for them. Jory looked particularly bad. His face was covered with blood and one of his eyes was missing.
“Here.”
Sergan held a waterskin to Aram’s mouth, and he gulped the contents down frantically, until the sorcerer took it away and held it up for Markus. The sun was setting around them, the sky taking on the deep color of the ocean. In the center of camp, the soldiers had cleared the ground and were building a bonfire. When they had it going, the crackling flames devoured the darkness but did little to warm him.
Aram was exhausted, so he rolled over and curled up on the ground, hoping to sleep. But as soon as he started drifting off, the world jolted.
Startled, Aram sat bolt upright. The ground heaved again, trying to buck him off.
All around them, the world was undulating, its vibrant fibers convulsing.
Aram cried out, and Sergan brought his hands up to clutch the sides of his head. Markus looked at them with an expression of incomprehension on his face, as though he had no idea what was happening and didn’t understand why they were reacting the way they were. Eventually, the fibers of the world twisted back into place, though they still trembled as though afraid.
“Another rupture,” Sergan gasped, his hand diving for the collection of finger-sized vials strapped to his belt. Unstoppering one, he sipped some of its contents then closed his eyes and appeared to be concentrating.
“It’s not far,” he said after a moment, his eyes squeezed shut, his brow wrinkled in concentration. He took another sip of the cloudy liquid that looked like watered-down milk.
“Some got through,” he muttered. He opened his eyes, and there was fear in them. That terrified Aram. He wondered what kind of horror could scare a sorcerer.
“They’ll be coming.” Sergan surged to his feet. “We have to leave. Now.” Turning, he shouted to the soldiers behind him, waving them over.
“Who’s coming?” Markus asked.
But the sorcerer didn’t respond. Within seconds, they were surrounded by armored men. Sergan shouted orders, rattling them off faster than Aram could keep track of them. The bard was lifted from the ground and placed back in the bed of the wagon, which was hastily loaded with provisions. From somewhere, Sergan produced parchment, quill, and an inkpot and stood hunched over the tailgate of the wagon, scribbling furiously. When he was done, he rolled the parchment up into a scroll and dribbled a few drops of his vial-liquid onto it. The scroll stayed rolled after that, even without a glob of wax to seal it.
Sergan handed the scroll to one of the soldiers. “Take this to the nearest regiment. Ride like hell through the night and don’t stop.” The man bowed and set off for the horse pickets while Sergan waved another soldier over, this one of slighter frame. Sergan stood looking him up and down critically, as though sizing him up. “Take off your armor and put it in the wagon.”
The soldier gaped at him like he didn’t understand the order. “My lord?”
“You heard me.”
Looking both furious and fearful, the man pulled his armor off right there, removing his chain mail tunic and letting it fall to the ground along with his bracers and arming jacket, until he stood in front of them in only his undergarments.
“Your sword and shield,” the sorcerer snapped. Looking dumbfounded, the man complied, retrieving his shield and setting it in the back of the wagon, piling his sword and armor on top of it.
Sergan drew a knife and started toward Aram. Aram tensed, for he thought the sorcerer intended to kill him. But instead, Sergan used the knife to saw through the bonds confining his legs.
“Get in the wagon,” he ordered, moving to Markus.
But Aram couldn’t move from the spot he sat in because it hurt too much to stand. He watched as the sorcerer freed Markus’s legs, then Sergan lifted him and carried him to the wagon, setting him down next to Master Ebra, while Markus scooted onto the bed and sat next to him. Raising the tailgate into place, Sergan climbed into the driver’s seat and waited there for the soldiers to finish harnessing the horses.
Twisting around, Sergan explained to them in a conversational tone, “They’ll be coming for Aram. The therlings, I mean. They’ll be coming through the rupture, and with his shine,” he nodded at Aram, “he’ll draw them like iron filings to a lodestone.”
Aram was hardly listening to him. He sat gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg and staring down into Master Ebra’s ruined face. When he looked up at Markus, he realized his friend was looking at him, fear and compassion in his eyes.
As soon as the horses were hitched, Sergan snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward, rattling away from the campsite and jolting back onto the rutted road. The sun had set completely, and the woods that surrounded their camp were dark and cold.
With his legs untied and his blindfold off, Aram wondered if he could do something—anything—to knock the sorcerer out of the driver’s seat, so they could flee to safety and get help for Master Ebra. But when he tried to bend the strands of air around them, he couldn’t grasp them. He tried for several minutes before finally giving up. Frustrated, he pondered the problem as the wagon lurched along. At first, he didn’t understand why his magic wasn’t working. It took him a few shuddering miles to realize that, for the moment at least, Sergan was trying to help them, so his mind didn’t see him as the greatest threat.
With a sigh, Aram leaned back against the side of the wagon and stared at poor Master Ebra, wishing he’d wake up. Sergan didn’t say another word to them, but drove the horses forward relentlessly until they were well away from the campsite before giving them a rest. Even then, he said nothing, but just sat staring into the darkness as though he expected an attack at any time.
When they started off again, the bard let out a low, heartrending moan. As the hours wore on, Master Ebra seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable. He moaned and thrashed often in his sleep, and eventually took to shouting out, moaning names of people that Aram didn’t know. He wished he could do something for him, but he couldn’t. He only knew how to tie knots in the air. He knew nothing about healing somebody that was broken.
Sometime past midnight, the bard’s breathing became labored. His moaning continued, but he had stopped flailing about so much. His breaths took on wet and crackling sounds, and he let out a soft groan every time he exhaled. He looked so pitiful and uncomfortable that Aram couldn’t bear it, and his eyes filled with tears. He wanted more than anything to help the poor man, for he knew that Master Ebra was dying. Eventually, the bard’s breathing slowed to the point that it took long, cruel seconds for the next breath to come. When his chest stopped moving altogether, Aram wept, for the bard had been kind to him. The only thing that gave him comfort was knowing that Master Ebra wasn’t in pain anymore.
Sometime later, the wagon stopped, and Sergan jumped down from the driver’s seat to check on them. He rolled Master Ebra’s body out of the wagon and left him on the ground at the side of the road. Then he climbed back up into the driver
’s seat and lifted the reins.
“Aren’t you going to bury him?” whimpered Aram.
“No.” Sergan cracked the reins, sending the horses forward.
The wagon clattered on down the road. Aram’s leg hurt terribly, and he was growing too tired to stay awake, so he curled up in the wagon bed. He lay there miserable for a long time, his heart and leg aching, until exhaustion finally got the better of him.
“Aram.”
Somebody was shaking him awake. Aram rolled over, the action sending pain shooting from his leg into his groin. He moaned, sagging back. The pain was too great to sit up. His entire body was drenched in sweat, and he was cold and shivering. He didn’t feel right.
“What’s wrong with him?” Markus asked in a worried voice.
“He’s feverish,” came the sorcerer’s response.
Sergan unwrapped the bandages on his leg, and Aram tried his best not to scream. When the cloth came away, a terrible odor rose from the wound. Markus made a strangling noise, recoiling. Even the sorcerer looked concerned.
“The wound’s festering.”
Aram tried to peer down at his leg, but it hurt too much to move even a little bit. Sergan sat for a minute rubbing his chin, frowning down at Aram’s leg, while Markus leaned against the side of the wagon, staring at him with a stricken expression. Scowling, the sorcerer reached down and withdrew another vial from his belt.
“What is that?” Aram asked through clattering teeth.
“Essence.”
Sergan took a sip from the vial, closing his eyes and appearing to savor the taste of the liquid. Then he bent forward and exhaled a great, steaming breath onto Aram’s wound. Dropping the empty vial, he withdrew another and repeated the act, expelling the contents of the vial onto Aram’s leg in one, long breath.
At first, Aram felt nothing. It took him a long moment to realize that his leg was no longer throbbing. It still hurt fiercely, just not as bad as before. His teeth had also stopped chattering, and he didn’t feel so terribly cold. He looked up at the sorcerer in amazement.
Sergan stood, dusting the dirt of the wagon bed off his black tunic, his face still tight with concern. “That’s all I can do for the moment. I’m running out of essence, and I need to save the rest in case the therlings catch up with us.”
He drew his knife and held it threateningly before Markus’s face. “I need you to understand something and understand it well. Your friend’s life is in grave danger. If the therlings don’t kill him, the infection will. Without me, he doesn’t stand a chance.”
Bending, he used the knife to cut the bonds from Markus’s wrists. Then he turned to Aram and sawed through the rope lashed around his arms.
“I can feel them,” Sergan said, climbing back into the driver’s seat. “They’re getting close. I sent riders for help, but I don’t think it will arrive on time. There’s a town ahead of us. Mardak. I’m not sure we’ll reach it before they catch up with us.”
He snapped the reins, and the horses started forward again. The wagon bucked as it skipped over deep ruts in the road, sending jagged lances of pain up Aram’s back. He sucked in a sharp breath, balling his hand into a fist and smacking it several times against his good leg.
They traveled for several minutes before the pain finally started settling down. By then, the road had left the woods and now cut across a rolling lowland textured by shadows and scattered trees. Fog clung to the ground, swirling in the moonlight.
“What are they?” Markus asked.
Sergan glanced back over his shoulder, but not at Markus. Instead, he seemed to be watching for something behind them. “Aetherlings. Creatures that inhabit the void between worlds. There might be void walkers with them too. They’ll be starving for essence, so they’ll be drawn to Aram.”
A high-pitched noise pierced the night, ripping across the lowlands toward them. It didn’t sound like any animal Aram had ever heard. It wasn’t a wolf’s howl or the screech of an owl. It sounded mournful, like the wail of an injured beast. It sent tingles across his skin that started in the back of his neck and spread to his shoulders.
The wagon jolted hard as one of the wheels slipped into a rut. Aram stifled a cry. The pain was getting worse again, so much worse, and it had gone on too long. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it.
“Markus!” Sergan called over the clatter of the wagon. “Put the armor on!”
Markus stared at the sorcerer as though he didn’t understand. But then another cry rose from out of the darkness behind them. He scrambled to the corner of the bed where the soldier had piled his armor and sword. He started pulling on items, first the leather tunic, then the chain mail, struggling to buckle the straps. Finally, he strapped on the bracers and buckled the sword belt around his hips.
The wagon bounced hard, and Aram bounced with it. He gave an agonized cry, for the pain was excruciating. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He could also sense the therlings behind them, and they were coming closer. The fear provoked by their proximity was starting to strangle him.
“I see something,” Markus gasped, looking behind them.
“See what?” Sergan called back, snapping the reins and urging the horses to a gallop. “What do you see?”
Markus stared behind them, hands gripping the tailgate of the wagon. Then he twisted back around, his eyes wide with terror.
“They’re here!”
Chapter Fifteen
“You’re going to be my Shield,” the sorcerer called back to Markus.
Aram thought Markus looked like he had just been stung by a jellyfish. His face had lost its color and his eyes had gone wide and round. Markus scrambled to where the soldier’s shield lay clanking around in the corner of the wagon. He pulled it toward him, drawing the sword from its sheath. All the while, he kept his gaze fixed on the road behind them, his terrified eyes scanning the shadows. On his hands and knees, he crawled toward the front of the wagon, hanging on to the sideboard for stability.
“I don’t know how to be a Shield!”
“It works like this!” the sorcerer shouted back over the clanking racket of the wagon. “You stand in front and take everything they throw at me!”
Markus looked terrified. “I’ll die!”
“You’re Impervious!” Sergan shouted back. “Magic can’t harm you!” Cracking the reins as though they were whips, he hollered, “Hah!”
But the horses were tiring, their distended nostrils blowing steam, their coats lathered with sweat. They couldn’t continue at that pace much longer.
Sergan told Markus, “They’ll be coming for Aram, so we have to stand between them and him!”
“How do we kill them?” Markus asked, testing the weight of the sword in his hand.
“That’s my job. I’ll attack. You protect me. Do you understand?”
Markus looked like he didn’t. “I think so.”
Aram didn’t know why Markus would lie about that. He glanced behind them and thought he saw a flicker of light far away, between the trees behind them, but it faded too quickly for him to be sure. He scanned the landscape for other lights, and soon, he saw them: dim white glows appearing from the shadows.
Sergan pulled back on the reins, bringing the horses to an abrupt halt. Picking up a leather pack, he bolted out of the driver’s seat and slid down, setting the pack on the ground beside the wagon. Pausing, he removed his blue mantle and tossed it to Aram.
“Keep this over you, no matter what happens. It’ll conceal your radiance.” He stooped to rifle through the items in the pack. “Markus, get down here!”
Aram pulled the thick mantle over his head like a blanket, leaving only his face exposed, and peered out from under the fabric. His hands found the remains of the frayed rope Sergan had used to bind him, and he started fiddling with it nervously. The lights behind them were getting closer, approaching from different directions. Fear made his pulse thunder in his ears, the ache of his wounded leg all but forgotten.
Sergan rose,
holding onto a green glass bottle that reminded Aram of the kind Kantimari sailors used to store their liquor. Unstoppering it, the sorcerer raised the container to his lips and, closing his eyes, drank deeply of its contents. Aram realized that the bottle was a bigger version of the small vials Sergan wore at his waist, just a much larger capacity. He was fascinated, knowing what the liquid inside those vials did—allowed the sorcerer to work his magic. He hoped the container was full. There were a lot of lights out there, and they were getting very close.
“Stand here,” Sergan said to Markus, scraping an X into the dirt with his boot, “and don’t move off that spot, no matter what. You are Impervious to any magic they use against you, so your goal isn’t to keep them off you. It’s to keep them off me. If you cower or run, I’ll die and then Aram dies. Say you understand.”
When Markus didn’t respond, the sorcerer took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Say you understand!”
“I understand!” Markus moved to stand over the X as Sergan drew back behind him, standing with his back up against the side of the wagon.
The lights were closer now, growing in size and beginning to take form. As though confident, the creatures that trailed them had slowed their advance, spreading out to surround them in a wide but constricting ring. Gazing out at the lights, Aram’s fear melted away, his mind growing strangely calm. As his fear ebbed, his thoughts and vision sharpened their focus, and the forms stalking them took on distinct shapes. They resembled creatures he knew: horses and wolves, long, thick snakes and pink-skinned panthers that looked like drowned farm cats. Each was corrupted in its own hideous and unique way, as though it had died and gone to rot, only to be resurrected by an incompetent god. Their bodies were pale and hairless, their limbs malformed and flailing. A terrible light gleamed from their eye sockets, as though their flesh was merely rotten clothing draped over the haunted souls of animals.