by Tim Marquitz
Darius put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and squeezed tight. “I would see my dear Alise avenged as well, but not at the cost of my son. Can you understand that, boy?”
After a moment he nodded, saying nothing as the bravest of the caravan men who’d survived the onslaught came to stand a respectful distance to their side, motioning for their attention. Darius handed Sebastian his cloak and turned to face the man with a grunt. Muffled wails sounded in the background, the women crying over their dead. The horses uttered frantic snorts and whinnies as they were led from the wafts of smoke that swirled about them.
Dressed in little more than rags, stained with the dirt of the waste lands, and much more beyond, the caravan man bowed. His eyes stood out bright against the grime that filled the wrinkles of his face and the dark rings that encircled them. “Praise the One for your arrival. I am Callum, once the sheriff of Odenshir, and now the leader of the sad caravan of homeless vagabonds you have just rescued.” He gestured to the cluster of wagons that escaped the fire’s touch. “We have little to offer you but all we have is yours, in thanks for what you’ve done for us.”
Darius waved him off. “We need nothing. Save what you have for your own.” He glanced to the sky before looking back to the man. “You should gather your people and be gone from here. Come dark, the Red Guard will return with a fury. It’s best you weren’t here to bear the brunt of it.”
Sebastian slipped his cloak on as Darius turned from Callum and motioned for his son to come along.
“Sir?” the man called out, daring another step forward.
Darius sighed and glanced over his shoulder.
Callum swallowed hard. “Are you part of the resistance?”
“No.” Darius shook his head.
“We were to join them,” Callum spit out before Darius could turn away again, “but we lost our guide in the attack. We do not know the way.” He drew a step closer, his hands held out before him. “Please, sirs, I beg of you. If you know where we might find one of the resistance camps, I would ask you take us there.”
Darius glared at Sebastian before his gaze drifted back to the man. “We know nothing of the resistance’s whereabouts. I’m sorry.”
Tears welled in the man’s eyes. Darius growled and leaned toward Sebastian, pulling him in close with a handful of his cloak. “For all your good intentions, this is what comes of playing the hero,” he whispered. “We travel for Deliton. Bring them along or send them on their way, but the choice is yours; as are the consequences, boy.”
His father released him and strode away. Sebastian sighed as he pulled his hood over his head and turned to the man. “If you would be safe, come with us to the village of Deliton. We can offer nothing else.”
Callum bowed, obviously grateful for anything. “Thank you, sir.”
Sebastian nodded and watched as his father continued on. “Best hurry and get your people moving, Callum. My father does not intend to wait. Should you fall behind, do not expect us to slow.”
The caravan man muttered his understanding and ran off to ready his people. Sebastian stared at Darius’ back. He could feel his father’s anger and disappointment still. For all the ease of his first true battle against the Red Guard, he knew his father was right. He wasn’t ready. Had the captain been a witch of the High Council, Sebastian would have been dead and his mother would know no justice. He could not afford to make such stupid mistakes if he would see the scales righted.
He drew his hood further down over his face and followed after his father. Though they were only two days out of Deliton, in the fullness of a warm spring morning, the trip to the village would be a long, cold walk for Sebastian in the wake of Darius’ anger.
Two
Emerald shifted uncomfortable in the saddle while her horse navigated the course of gnarled roots and low-lying foliage, which grew thick along the forested path. Far from the silvered spires and bustling streets of her home, the capital city of Corilea, the forest seemed desolate. The open sky hovered above the clearing, the afternoon sun bright and warm. She clutched to her stomach as she was jounced about, willing the bile that rose in her throat to settle. Its bitter taste flooded her mouth. She swallowed hard against it and drew up tight on the reins to settle her mount. It would only slow their journey further were she to vomit; again.
“Everything all right, my lady?” Donlen asked as he pulled along beside her.
She glanced at him and nodded, though she doubted her face reflected even that simple optimism. He stared at her with dark eyes that seemed intent upon believing her lie. Neither he nor his mercenary companion, Fulrik, had been paid to be her nursemaid, and it was clear neither wanted the task. Their sole purpose was to accompany her to the resistance and to ensure she made it as whole and hale as a pregnant sixteen year-old could be. It had been a difficult trip, so far. The month away from the comforts of Corilea had felt like a lifetime. She was not used to such harsh conditions.
Her stomach churned, and she forced a dim smile to assure the soldier again. She’d shared more of her weakness with them than she ever intended. Donlen grunted and let his mount fall back a few paces, though he still hovered closer than when they first began their journey. Despite his lack of interest in being her caretaker, it had been made apparent his life depended on his making sure she was well. Victor had made it very clear.
An easy warmth flooded her belly at the thought of her love, and the flimsy smile at her lips gained strength. Her nausea eased a bit and she slouched in the saddle. Like the gentle embrace of her down-feathered mattress and furs, he too had been left behind in her rush to flee. But of all her comforts, she knew he would once again be hers. After she found the resistance, and had undergone the nullification ritual so that she could give birth to their son without fear of harm, Victor would come for her. He had told her so, his words wrapped in his sweet kisses.
She ran her hand over the mound of her stomach, willing her thoughts to penetrate to her son inside. They would be together again soon; they would be a family, despite the machinations of her mother.
The sharpened spear of a griffin’s cry pierced her reverie. A chill sprang upon her, prickling her skin. Her horse started at the sound and reared back, whipping its head about to peer wild-eyed at the sky through the opening in the canopy. Donlen was at her side before she’d even thought to tighten her grip upon the reins, his years in service to the Red Guard honing his instincts. He pulled them from her hands and galloped forward as she clung to the pommel. Her horse resisted for but an instant, but Donlen’s mount was bred for war. More than twice the size of her mare, his horse lowered its head and bulled forward. They were at a run just a moment after.
Emerald held on with all her strength, her knuckles standing out white against the deep brown of the pommel. Then as quick as they started, Donlen brought them to a halt beneath the shady cover just beyond the clearing. He wrapped the reins of her horse about a branch and pulled his blade from its sheath in what seemed a single movement.
Fulrik closed in beside Emerald with his sword already in his hand. His barrel chest strained the thick leather of his cuirass, each whistled breath drawing a creak from the straps. The huffed exhalations of his horse washed against her cheek as the mercenary inched closer, its heat sweltering. She could taste the foul stench of it and her stomach groaned its displeasure.
To distract herself, she followed the stares of the mercenaries and was glad to see little but the thick overgrowth of foliage weaved above her head, the open sky several yards ahead of where they waited. She narrowed her eyes and peered through the gnarled branches, her eyes jumping from one patch of tiny blue to another, but she saw nothing more than empty sky. Just when she was ready to give up, a dark shape blurred the blue to black.
She followed it between the green cracks and crevices of the leaves, until it broke over the clearing, and spied one of the beasts whose call had alerted them. Her heart fell still in her chest. She could see the bottom of the troop transport clearly
as it sailed past, casting its shadow across the forest floor. The whip of griffin wings floated to her ears as the Red Guard carrier continued on, its darkened wake trailing directly over the clearing they had just abandoned. The men atop were little more than black shapes against the bright sky. A moment later, they were hidden once more by the trees.
Emerald loosed the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and peeled her hands from the pommel. Her fingers gave way with a pained twang. Had they stayed where they were just a moment before, she had no doubt they would have been spotted.
“That was close,” Fulrik groaned as he sheathed his blade, nudging his horse forward so he could peer through the open canopy. Emerald dabbed at her nose, glad to breathe clear air once again. “They almost had us.”
“I don’t think so,” Donlen answered with a shake of his head, the gray tail of his hair dancing serpent-like at his back.
Both Emerald and Fulrik met his eyes as he turned his horse to face them.
“There wasn’t but four or five men on that tub, all clustered thick at the rear for some reason. There wasn’t no one at the reins, neither. Near as I can tell, they were all looking behind for something, not below at the woods.” He glanced to Fulrik, his eyes narrowing. “If I was a betting man, I’d wager the Lord’s money they were doing their best to be far away from something that spooked them.”
Fulrik laughed. “The Red Guard running? There’s nothing but sand and peasants the way they came. What would they be fleeing from?”
Donlen shrugged. “Don’t know, but I do know fear when I see it. They were in too close and short too many men for everything to be all right. When I was Red Guard, you stayed in your place on the transports, the weight needing to be distributed properly for the beasts to keep it in the air without tipping. While I couldn’t see their faces against the sun’s light, those men looked worried about something. I didn’t see no captain with them, either.”
The mercenaries’ gazes met and Fulrik’s laugh rumbled quiet in his chest. “You’re serious?”
Donlen gave him a curt nod and waved off any further questions. “Don’t matter none, I guess.” He looked to Emerald. “It’s probably just Bourne and her resistance folks causing trouble for the Council lackeys.”
“Bold if it is,” Fulrik muttered.
Donlen grunted his agreement. “We best get moving, my lady. It seems our destination may well be closer than we have been led to believe.”
Emerald saw the lie etched across his face as plain as if he had spoken it, and knew his explanation to be unlikely. While Elizabeth Bourne had been known to target the assets of the High Council in an effort to harry them, she had never sought open confrontation, to Emerald’s knowledge. After the witch’s flight from Corilea, to the outlying lands that would eventually fall under the whole of the Realm of Mynistiria, Elizabeth had remained hidden, drawing little attention to herself by using cat’s paws to carry out her whims.
If it had been Elizabeth who had assaulted the Red Guard squadron, she risked bringing the whole of the High Council down upon her, something she’d spent nearly twenty years trying to avoid. It made no sense, for Emerald could see no way for Elizabeth to triumph against the might of the witches in direct confrontation.
She could feel the uncertainty of her escort at the brewing conflict, their fear an almost palpable heat. Each unconsciously fondled the pommels of their swords while their gazes lingered beyond as though they might divine what had terrified the Red Guard squadron. Fulrik appeared to accept Donlen’s word, at last, perhaps not able to reason a better answer to the question. She knew they all contemplated some variant of the same thought: If Bourne had grown so brave and reckless as to challenge the Council directly, what would she do with Emerald should she learn the truth of who she was? And here they were, seeking Bourne out. It had to be madness.
She could see that thought echoed on the faces of the mercenaries. They wanted nothing more than to abandon her, but they would continue on, only because they feared Victor more than anything that might lie ahead. Of that, she was certain.
It was her only certainty.
She nodded to Donlen, and Fulrik sighed as he turned his mount and started off. The moist clop of his departure sounded loud in the still forest. Emerald freed the reins from the tree trunk and followed after, Donlen at her side. He settled in even closer than before. His presence was slim comfort as she made her way through the woods. With a witch ahead and a witch behind, Emerald knew there was little his sword could do should either decide to swoop down upon them. He, no doubt, knew that, as well.
She could only hope Victor had the right of it, that she and her unborn son would be welcomed by the people of the resistance and offered sanctuary. It had to be true, for she knew the bloody fate that awaited her child back in Corilea. She could never accept that; she would never.
Emerald spurred her mare on with a squeeze of her legs. Fate lurked before her, and she hoped it was far less cruel than the one she had left behind.
Three
Sebastian surveyed Deliton as the sun crept below the distant horizon. Though he balked at his father’s suggestion to scout ahead of the caravan, he was glad he had. From his vantage point amidst the haphazard piles of chopped wood set outside the village to dry for the coming winter, he watched as the townspeople shuffled toward the town square, their arms loaded down with a variety of packaged goods. They trudged forward in silence, their chins lowered as they took ponderous steps. Their feet dragged trails in the dirt.
A handful of Red Guard, with broadswords out, were scattered along the dusty paths, which led to the square, their eyes on the villagers. Despite there being so few soldiers, it was easy to see how the people had been so effectively cowed.
At the far end of the crowded square was a grim reminder of the cruelty wrought by the High Council’s rule. Dozens upon dozens of bodies lay in a twisted heap, gray limbs dangling from it like withered vines. Lifeless eyes peeked out from within the tangled mass of the dead, and a dark pool shimmered beneath. Even from where he sat, he could see the flies swarming about. He was grateful he couldn’t hear their incessant hum.
Sickened by the number of tiny bodies he could see amidst the corpses, Sebastian turned away. Now was not the time to be offended by something he couldn’t change. His eyes narrowed as he glanced about the village. Though there was no transport to be seen, there was sufficient room alongside where the supplies were being stacked for one to land. Given the low number of soldiers present, and the lack of a female officer, Sebastian wondered if they had been part of the squadron that attacked the caravan. He grinned without mirth. They would be waiting a long time for the transport to return, were that the case.
Another two soldiers stalked the perimeter of the village in wide, lazy circles. Shoulders slumped and weapons sheathed, it was clear they were expecting no resistance. All the better for him.
He watched for a few minutes longer to see if their paths intersected. Once certain they did not, he crept from the wood pile and inched toward the village. The setting sun cast long shadows of the gathered huts, and he stuck to the darkness as he made his way. He debated storming the square to catch the soldiers off guard, matching their cruelty with well-deserved brutality, but his father wouldn’t approve. Somewhere out in the darkness, Darius waited to see how he handled the test before him. Should the villagers die as a result of his attack, Sebastian would be forced to concede his father’s belief that his skills were not up to the task of taking on the witches. He wasn’t willing to do that.
He reached the nearest of the buildings and slipped into a narrow alley between just moments before the first of the perimeter guards started his return trip. Sebastian loosed his sword in silence and waited. The crunch of boots on dirt grew louder, and Sebastian could hear the guard humming tunelessly as he approached, giving away his location as clearly as if he’d called out. As soon as the soldier rounded the corner of the hut, Sebastian stepped behind him and wrapped
his arm around the man’s shoulders to slit his throat. The blade sunk into flesh as though it were water, cutting clean. Sebastian felt a warm wetness spill across his forearm, and the guard went rigid, blood bubbling from his mouth. He pulled the man into the shadows and let him fall. The man was dead before he hit the ground.
Sebastian looked through the jumbled maze of huts to spy a glance of the square. The Red Guard and villagers alike were oblivious. He grinned and slipped around the far edge of town. On the other side, all eyes focused on the busy center, it was easy to find a shadowed corner in which to hide. Minutes later, the second perimeter guard sat hunched against a wall, the same as the first, his life spilling out red across his chest.
Those two out of the way, Sebastian knew the others would not go down quite so easily. Gathered closer together than the perimeter guards had been, there was no way he could take them out alone without being seen. He glanced about, looking for a way to approach in order to minimize casualties among the villagers. A thought popped into his head when his eyes alighted on the wood pile.
Without a sound, he returned to the other side of the village, avoiding the most likely route of travel between the Red Guard positions and the pile. He examined the nearest roof and eased himself onto it. The wood creaked under his weight, but no eyes turned at the sound. Once he was sure he remained unseen, he crouched low and sucked in a deep breath. He cupped his empty hand and focused on his palm. His pulse fluttered as he drew upon his magic. Drops of sweat formed at his forehead and ran into his eyes. He blinked them away and willed his power to take form, fighting back a growl at its resistance. At last, a flicker of reddened-orange came to life in his hand.
He glanced at the tiny flame and shook his head in disgust. It would work, but just barely. With one last glance at the square, Sebastian cast the tiny fireball toward the far end of the wood pile. It struck a log with a flash and rolled into a crevice to disappear from sight. Sebastian sunk lower on the roof and waited. A few seconds later a thunderous roar sounded as splinters of burning wood were flung into the air. Tongues of flame washed over the wood as the force of the explosion rattled the pile. It shifted, and logs tumbled down in a great crash.