by Bruce Blake
Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.
The waves grew, though they remained but rolling bumps of water. As he rose on one, he glimpsed Rilum stumbling out of the ocean and onto the shore. A measure of relief flowed through him—if his companion made it, then he could, too. He returned his attention to counting his strokes.
One. Two. Three.
Seeing the sailor drag himself out of the sea shot a dose of energy back into Teryk's limbs, and the second forty count passed quicker than the first. After completing the final stroke of the set, he looked shoreward again, found it noticeably closer. The recognition encouraged him, brought warmth to his cold and tired body. Feeling it increased his confidence, girded him into believing in his ability to reach his goal.
Forty strokes went by so quickly, he didn't stop, instead continuing to sixty.
When he raised his head the third time, he'd gotten close enough he estimated two more counts of forty before his feet touched bottom. If he held on until he counted to sixty last time, perhaps he'd hold out until eighty the next and finish with this swim. Before returning to the count, he spied Rilum on the beach waving his arms in the air.
At first, it seemed he meant the movement as simple encouragement, like he thought the action might make the prince move more swiftly through the water. He'd have continued thinking this the case if not for the strained expression twisting the sailor's face. Teryk stopped stroking and kicking and, with the near silence of the open sea falling around him, heard Rilum's voice, small and distant.
"Behind you! Hurry!"
A jolt coursed through Teryk and he jerked around in the water, sending a fresh ripple of waves rolling away from him, their momentum negated by larger ones rippling toward him.
A coil of smooth, green flesh slid along the surface of the sea before disappearing back into the depths.
Teryk turned for shore, paddling and thrashing with every scrap of his strength to save his life.
VII Trenan – In the City
As Trenan suspected, the streets of the City of the Sick lay empty. The quiet became an oppressive force weighing on him as he sat where they'd left him lashed to a wooden chair set against a blank, white wall. He gulped a shallow inhalation, not wanting to draw the air of Ikkundana into his lungs, but each tentative sip of breath proved fresh and clean. He imagined the same wasn't true of the chambers hidden within the surrounding walls. What atrocities might he find should he wander the dim-lit halls? He pictured desiccated bodies wasted away to living skeletons, weeping sores, rheumy eyes, pus and blood and puke. The thought made his stomach roil, gave him and appreciation for being bound outside in the silence.
Are you here hidden among the sick, princess?
The question sent a shiver along his spine. He doubted the possibility of someone hiding amongst the infected—or being held—for any length of time without becoming ill themselves. The red robe worn by Danya suggested Ikkundana may have been her destination, but it proved nothing. Part of him hoped it was because it meant the end of his quest drew near, but he also didn't want her to have to be in this place. Either way, he blamed Dansil for his current predicament. If he hadn't needed to carry the near-lifeless queen's guard, he'd not have ended up here.
He didn't know what they'd done with the man, whether he'd survived or perished. With any luck, he'd met his end. That, too, might complicate his life given the man's threat of revealing his secret. Considering his position tied to a chair with no real clue who his captors were, the master swordsman had more pressing issues, though.
It made sense there'd be people in the city who weren't sick. He harbored no desire for the job himself, but someone needed to take care of the ill and dying. Why have armed soldiers, even if only women? Ikkundana was likely the most impenetrable fortress in existence and filled with those no one wanted to confront; why waste resources protecting those who didn't need protection?
Past midday now and the sun sloped between the walls, shining on Trenan and causing sweat on his brow. A bead of water rolled from his temple and along his cheek; he longed to wipe it away but the knots they'd used to secure him to the chair held firm. Instead of fighting against it, he tilted his head back, resting it against the wall behind him, and let his lids slide closed. The sun's warmth on his face threatened to make him forget his predicament—the rope binding him, the missing prince and princess, the love he could never reveal. If only after closing his eyes he might open them again onto a world where these problems didn't exist, a world where he was home, with his lover at his side, and their children safe. A world without deceit and lies, a world with two arms.
Trenan sighed, opened his eyes, and lowered his chin. The three women standing before him startled him into gasping his air back into his chest.
"How...?"
"Be quiet, swordsman. No one has requested you to speak."
He recognized her as the rider who'd met him and the squad who captured him at the gate, the dark intensity of her eyes unmistakable. She gestured and the other two women moved forward. One placed the point of her pike within a hair's width of his throat while the other crouched and untied the knots binding him to the chair. As they loosened, the blood flow return to his hand and feet. He curled his fingers into a fist and released it, flexing them while being careful not to move his body and risk the pike's tip pricking his flesh. When the ropes were undone, the second woman stepped back and brought her own weapon to bear on him, too. Trenan directed his gaze toward the leader and waited.
"Goddess has brought you to us. It may be part of her plan, but it doesn't mean we must welcome you." She crossed her arms, exhaled. "Stand."
Each of the pikewomen took a step away, giving him space to obey her command without opening a vein in his throat. He did so, wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The leader stood taller than the others, and the way she held herself suggested not merely pride and a touch of defiance but spoke of more than a little training. But how was it possible for a woman to learn the arts of war in the Windward Kingdom without Trenan's knowledge?
The answer came on the heels of the question: she didn't learn her craft in the Windward Kingdom.
How did their enemies infiltrate so far into their homeland?
The woman's gaze roamed to his feet and back up again, resisting like a thing dragged against its well. Upon completion, one side of her upper lip curled in an undisguised expression of disgust.
"I do not deign to know Goddess' mind, but this..." She pursed her lips and spat on the ground as though attempting to expel something she found distasteful. She didn't finish her sentence, didn't need to say more. Instead, she spun on her heel and strode along the avenue, turning her head to cast a final word over her shoulder. "Come."
The pikewomen responded in unison as if they'd practiced many times. One stepped back, moving her weapon from his path but keeping it close to the side of his neck. The other shifted hers behind him, tapping him on the shoulder blades with the shaft and prompting him to follow. He did as they wanted, doubtful they'd hesitate in skewering him if he did not.
The woman leading them walked five paces ahead, her leather armor creaking and her boots crunching on the pebbles spread across the road. Hearing this, and the steps of the women behind them, Trenan wondered how they'd crept up on him before. Could it be he'd fallen asleep?
Impossible.
Too much training and too many desperate situations had squelched any possibility of unplanned dozing from him long ago. No, something had aided them in their stealth.
They traversed the streets in silence. No one watched their passing from high windows, no pedestrians, horses, or wagons shared the avenues with them. The woman led them, walking with confidence as she took corners and navigated roundabouts. Trenan didn't bother to glance back to confirm the business ends of the two pikes remained directed at him; he practically felt their pointed tips pricking his flesh. The softness of their tread made them stealthy warriors, but did they know how to wield the weap
ons they held? Their stances and bearing suggested yes, but many men believed females weren't meant to take lives, only to give them—as mothers, nurses, caregivers. Trenan didn't count himself amongst those who agreed with this opinion; he'd seen Danya's skills grow beyond her brother's too quick to doubt other women might not possess the same capability.
By the time they rounded a fifth corner, Trenan's patience wore thin.
"Where are you taking me?"
The lead woman stopped, turned, and closed the distance between them with a swiftness to her pace. Trenan considered taking a backward step, but he assumed doing so meant the tip of a pike or two penetrating his flesh. She halted a hand's breadth in front of him, tilted her head back to stare up into his eyes. Her gaze held not a modicum of fear, nor any respect.
"Do not mistake my silence as permission to speak, male." The words squeezed out between clenched teeth, weighted with disdain and distaste. "I do Goddess' bidding and no more, so do not test me."
She spun away again without giving him any chance to respond. An instant later, he felt the jab of a pike at his back, encouraging him to follow. He did, his own jaw clamped tight. In other circumstances, he'd be searching for the first opportunity to relieve one of them of their weapon and make his escape but after finding their way deep into the heart of the city, he realized he didn't know how get out of the place.
Three more turns and Trenan detected sounds other than footsteps and armor-song for the first time. It sounded an uncertain tumult, one which might have been made by any number of sources. But as they rounded a last corner, they came onto a straight avenue running straight to its end at a pair of wooden gates. Though some distance of dirt road lay between them and the portal ahead, he recognized the noise emanating from behind them. He'd heard the clang and clatter of weapons too many times not to recognize it.
His step hesitated and the cold metal of a pike tip brushed his neck, prompting him to continue. He did, a curse for the weapon-bearer teetering on the edge of his pursed lips, his arm tensed as he strained to keep from striking out at her. No doubt he'd best any two of these women in a fight—maybe all of them—but the matter of their weapons and his lack of the same changed the likely outcome.
Her response came in the form of the clop of hooves and creak of leather. The woman leading their party didn't bother looking back at him. With surprise on his side, he might take out two or three of them before the business end of a pike penetrated his body, but no doubt it would result in his blood wetting the dirt road. Best to wait for a better opportunity; one always came.
"You seemed as though you awaited my arrival," he said, defying the leader's most recent admonition, but if he couldn't fight, keeping quiet wasn't an option. "How did you know I'd be here? Is the princess here?"
His last question finally begat an answer. The woman came to an abrupt halt, faced Trenan with an impatient and humorless expression upon her face. The swordsman halted, too, this time without the touch of cold steel on his bare skin.
"Worry not for Princess Danya. She is not here, but she is under our care. She has her own part to play in this."
"So she is safe?" The heaviness in his chest and limbs eased by the weight of a fly.
"She is. I imagine you will see her again soon."
Tension the swordmaster hadn't noticed creeping into his muscles relaxed; he breathed a deep sigh. "And Prince Teryk?"
The woman hesitated. "His path leads him to a different place. A darker place."
"But he's alive?"
Another pause. "Of a fashion." She turned away, resuming her route toward the gate at a quicker pace than before.
Trenan's heart jumped a beat. For all the turns of the seasons he'd trained the royal children, he always did his best to treat them the same, at least in terms of emotion if not the effort he asked of them in practice. But no matter how hard he tried, he knew things tilted one way more than the other. Yes, he loved Danya and respected the woman she'd become—a source of pride for him—but he'd never share the same connection with her he had with the prince.
'Of a fashion?' What does she mean?
He parted his lips to press her further about the prince's whereabouts, his condition, but the warrior behind Trenan pressed the shaft of her weapon against his back, jarring him forward. The master swordsman stumbled, righted himself, and spun on the woman, his teeth clenched tight. Before he said or did more, the tips of four pikes hovered within a finger's width of his face and throat.
He froze, the muted sounds of clashing weapons floating along the avenue from behind the wooden gates. After an instant, the distinct crunch of boots on gravel joined the commotion, and he sensed the leader at his back.
"Mind yourself, swordsman. Goddess brought you here for a reason other than your death, but it doesn't mean my warriors won't defend themselves."
She'd stepped so close behind him, her breath touched his neck as she spoke. He suppressed a shiver and a portion of the instant rage left him. Careful of the pike tips hovering near him, he pivoted slowly toward her. When he faced her, he found she stood four paces away from him. Had he so misjudged her place, the feel of her air on his skin? Or she performed the same stealthy magic as the others did when they discovered him? Either way, he stared at her, perplexed and unable to respond to her threat. A corner of her mouth tilted upward in what one may have considered a smile, then she turned her back to him once more, returning to their trek.
The gate was much closer now, the noise tumbling out from behind it louder. Trenan walked again, frowning. Why did a community meant to house the sick and dying have such arms and armor as to create this sound? He might have suspected a tournament in progress, but it lacked cheers accompanying the clatter of combat. An actual battle, then? Inside the city walls?
The woman halted when she came within five paces of the gate. The tap of a pike shaft on his chest prompted the master swordsman to do the same as another of the pikewomen hurried past. She stopped short of the gateway and rapped on it with the butt end of her weapon. Completing this task, she returned to her position without waiting for a response.
Five heartbeats later, both sides of the gate swung open.
The commotion of sounds increased in volume as the wooden baffle opened. Trenan leaned to his right, looking past the shoulder of the leader standing in front of him. Beyond her he spied a practice yard, dozens of soldiers within honing their techniques with sword and shield, spear and polearm. A few wore leather and chainmail like the pike-wielders, the others in nothing but white cloth hanging at their waists, their chests bare and gleaming with the sweat of their efforts.
And every soldier a woman.
VIII Ishla – Queen's Guard
Erral slammed his fist on the tabletop, setting it shuddering and the flagon upon it wobbling. It settled without tipping. The king rarely took counsel or messages at the table instead of the throne room or meeting chamber but, when the queen heard of messengers bearing news of her children, she'd insisted they not wait on tradition.
"The princess escaped him and still no sign of the boy?"
Ishla winced at the king's choice of words. She hated when he referred to either of their offspring as 'the boy' or 'the girl,' but she worried most when he neglected to use Teryk's name. It wasn't possible he'd guessed the truth, but part of her harbored fear he suspected. What might happen if he found out? The thought frequently made her shudder.
The taller of the two soldiers—she didn't know him but recognized him as an acquaintance of her queen's guard, Dansil—practically hopped from foot to foot, a ludicrous grin on his face. His expression angered her; did he find the fact of her missing children amusing? The older soldier, she was familiar with—Osis, a compatriot of Trenan's. The veteran fighting man glared at him out of the corner of his eye, embarrassed by the man's demeanor and not attempting to hide his anger.
A shadow fell across the king's face. "When Trenan returns, I'll—"
"He doesn't matter now, your highness," Ish
la interrupted. Using her husband's title rather than his name added to her discomfort, but the soldiers' presence demanded it. "The safety of our children is paramount. Considerations of reprimand can wait."
She paused, awaiting the king's response. As she watched his thoughts reflected in his expression, she suppressed her own nerves and trepidation. Worry didn't gnaw her stomach only for her children, but for Trenan, too. The seasons had turned many times since he'd sacrificed his arm to save the king. Though he'd proven himself a true and loyal adviser in the time after, Ishla suspected their children's disappearance wore thin her husband's patience for the master swordsman. Each instance of his anger showing made the queen wonder if he might have guessed the truth. If he did, his tenuous patience and any forgiveness his friend's sacrifice may have earned him would disappear like a layer of dust blown by a strong breath.
A few tense moments passed, everyone in the room silent. Ishla watched her husband but sensed the gazes of the other men shift from her to the king, to each other. Being a seasoned soldier, Osis would be assessing the situation and preparing for the king's orders, ready to do whatever his ruler asked of him. She couldn't guess the other man's mind or intent. Did it matter?
Erral rubbed his hands on the front of his breeches, removing the sweat from his palms. He cleared his throat and raised his arm, pointed a finger at the older warrior.
"You. Gather a squad—ten men at least. I shouldn't have allowed Trenan to go with such a small deployment. Take them to where you last saw the princess, track her and Trenan and return them to Draekfarren."
Osis bowed at the waist but missed his chance to respond as Strylor jumped on the opportunity to insert himself.
"You can count on us, your kingliness. We'll have your daughter and the incompetent swordsman back in no time."