"These fires are a day old. The ten have been taken down and buried, certainly not by Shadow Riders' hands. Who would dare bury them with the murderers still in sight?"
"Gorgeo," Coronea countered with a touch of exasperation, "we do not still ride free because we charge blindly towards every well and pig, but because we heed the cautions that have been bred into us, because we…"
Coronea did not have to finish. Gorgeo knew when she was right. He began calling out the names of his men to search the village, sending them out in pairs.
"The rest of you," he growled, "pull down these evil things." He indicated the stakes and the men set to work on them at once.
"Leave them!"
The voice came from the edge of the clearing. Up from behind a ruined wall the figure of a boy arose. He wore a simple farmer's tunic, much spattered with mud and filth. A cord around his head pinched a tousled mop of curly hair. Xanthippus could see the wisp of a beard under the lad's chin and reckoned him at an age of just less than a man. He stood manfully enough, however, brandishing a sickle he had no doubt found in some burned out farmstead.
Gorgeo and his men started, their hands instinctively falling on the hilts of their swords. Coronea pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it, but did not draw the bowstring. The men tearing down the bloody stakes stopped their work and gaped at the boy.
"The stakes remain," the young man cried, coming out from behind the wall. "They are mine now. I claim them for the bodies of Demetrius and his bloody witch, for I will impale them with my own hands."
He took no more than a step onto the rutted road when his eyes rolled and his knees buckled. He fell on his face in the dirt.
As a body, the entire group of rebels rushed to him. Several of the men unsheathed their swords and formed a perimeter around the body in case there were more boys among the ruined walls, sickle-armed or otherwise. Gorgeo uncapped a skin with his teeth and, having turned the boy over, began mopping his brow with water. The captives joined the group gazing down at the boy's face. They saw that it was not mud that soiled his tunic.
"It is blood," Nydeon said.
"Yes, but not his," Xanthippus observed.
Indeed, Gorgeo ran a probing hand over the boy's chest and abdomen where the blood was thickest and found no wound.
"It is the blood of the dead," one of the rebels said.
"Look at his hands," said another. Dirt and not blood soiled them. It was caked under his fingernails. "These graves are his work, no doubt."
"The poor lad..."
Gorgeo wet the boy's lips and he sputtered to life. His eyes darted from one face to another, but he made no attempt to move.
"Are you Irrylian?" he asked fearfully. "Well, are you?" he demanded, when no one replied.
"We are friends," Gorgeo told him. He was gentle with the lad, speaking softly, a different man. "You are safe now. Irrylians did this?"
"I saw you were flesh and blood," the lad said. "Flesh and blood like me, so I came out of my hiding. I fear no man, but…" He stopped, his eyes again darting to every face that peered down at him.
"He is confused," Xanthippus said.
"You fear no man, but what?" Gorgeo urged.
"But demons are a different matter, sir."
"Demons?"
"Black-cloaked, shrieking skulls…Unleashed by the witch…They descended on our village, carrying torches…Mere bones of men…"
"I knew it!" Coronea cried. "Shadow Riders!"
"What is your name?" Gorgeo asked.
The boy screwed his eyes tight and turned his head away. "I hid from them. Gods help me, I hid from them. While they staked my own father, I hid like a coward…"
"Let's get him to the fire," Gorgeo said.
Gorgeo lifted him to his feet and he and another helped him to where the pig men had started a fire. The pig was already spitted and turning slowly over the flames. The smell of it made Xanthippus' stomach growl. The sun had nearly set. The men Gorgeo had sent into the village were returning from their search, empty-handed and without report of any more skulkers. Gorgeo sent half-a-dozen riders to scout out the surrounding countryside while the rest of the band settled down for a bite and a few hours rest before setting out again. The captives sat by themselves. The Epirians brought them strips of dried meat and hard biscuit from their packs. These were grudgingly given, while they kept the fresh pork for themselves.
Vironysia had just begun to stalk her prey among the stars above when her earthly counterpart approached the captives and sat on a stone next to Xanthippus. Coronea had taken a special interest in the slaves and Xanthippus was not surprised to find her join them.
"The boy has agreed to fight with us," she told the captives. She shot a pointed look at the two Prathians. "Though young, he is very brave."
"Hatred burns within him," Xanthippus said. "That is plain to see."
"And why should it not?" Coronea asked. "He hid himself in the village with the screams of his people ringing in his ears. He will be happy to have something better to fight with than a rusty sickle." She looked both of the men up and down. "He is braver than you," she added contemptuously.
"He is like your Gorgeo," Xanthippus said, ignoring her slight. He turned and looked over his shoulder and saw the rebel leader grimly peering into the flames with his men seated all around him.
"The man is coiled tightly," Nydeon agreed.
Coronea admonished them with a look as if they were children. Xanthippus reckoned her twenty summers at the most. Whatever was new to her, she thought new to the world. "We are in the country of Shadow Riders." she said in a scolding tone. "Demetrius pays them coin to hunt us. It is Gorgeo's coils, as you call them, that keep us alive. His name, we have heard tell, has dripped from Pylia's lips like venom. Do you know what it is to have your name on her tongue?"
The Prathian Guardsmen of course knew of Pylia and of Demetrius. They knew of Epiria and Irrylia and Sethaly, and all the rest, but it was living that occupied them, not higher causes. What happened out of their sight was none of their concern.
"I find it is not a good thing to have your name on anyone's lips," Xanthippus said.
Coronea frowned. "You would not make jests if you truly understood Gorgeo's position. Most men would hide themselves, but Gorgeo fights for his freedom and for the freedom of his people nevertheless. I would think you would value your own freedom as highly as Gorgeo values his." She glanced at Thalen and Asander, their masters, she believed. "At first sight, I had taken you to be brave men, but I see now that slavery suits you."
All evening, Thalen had sat staring at the ground between his feet. He had been morose ever since the Epirians had debated killing him. When he raised his head, there was a look of anger in his eyes.
"Don't get too comfortable with your captors, slaves," he said with warning emphasis. "Whatever they have planned for us perhaps might go doubly for you once words begin to fly."
Xanthippus did not need Thalen to remind him of the danger. He had only to recall the cry of For Hurrus! to understand the peril. He had tried to kill their king. Gorgeo's Epirians were inclined to zealotry, that was clear. Who knew how they would react? Better they believed them slaves.
"I saved your miserable life twice," Xanthippus said under his breath, knowing at once it would have been better to hold his tongue, but the words burned in his mouth. "I may not have a third in me."
"The slave speaks boldly," Coronea observed.
"They believe themselves freed," Thalen sniffed. "They gloat while we shall undoubtedly suffer at the hands of these bandits." He nodded toward Asander. A word seemed to worry the tip of his tongue, but Asander did not speak it.
"What happens to you is not up to me, Irrylian," Coronea said. "We will leave that for Clautias to decide when we take you to him. What we have planned for your…your slaves…is that we free them and they fight with us. If I were a slave, I would eagerly accept. Of course," she added with a sly Vironysian smile, "I don't believe you are slaves.
"
Xanthippus and Nydeon said nothing. Coronea reached out and ran a finger along Xanthippus' forearm.
"These scars on the right arm are those of a swordsman," she said. "I have never known a slave to bear them, and yet I see them on both of these men."
A smile came to Xanthippus' lips when he spied Thalen secretly inspecting his own right arm. It was as smooth and clean as had been his ass cheeks on the day he was born.
"They are bodyguards," Asander lied, still with that worried look in his eye. "Swordplay is one of their duties."
Xanthippus held his tongue, though he found the lie both humiliating and puzzling. Kerraunus sent me, he remembered. But Kerraunus is not here, and you made your bargain. Why did he lie for them now?
Coronea laughed, dispelling the notion that the Epirians had any laughter in them. "They are the first unarmed bodyguards I have ever seen. Had they been armed, I believe we might not be sitting here now. Unfortunately for you, your true bodyguards lay dead in the pine wood, nobleman."
"Lies roll off this one's tongue, Coronea. And he is no nobleman."
The old man, the same who had spat an accusation at Asander upon his capture, stepped out of the darkness and sat next to Coronea. His long white hair and beard seemed to shine in the night. His eyes burned like coals, and it was Asander who felt their heat.
The old man pointed a gnarled finger in the direction of Asander's face. "You were there the day Demetrius made the council dance, Asander. Oh, yes, don't think I don't know your name. Don't think I don't remember…"
"Cleonander…" Coronea warned. She grasped his outstretched hand and gently pulled it down. His arm looked strong as a tree branch. Coronea could have swung from it like a monkey, but he allowed her to lower it.
A light of recognition brightened Thalen's face. He looked up with a start.
"Is it the man himself?" he asked with a gasp. "I dare not suppose it to be!"
The old man stiffened. "I am Cleonander, the Epirian," he said fiercely.
"The Epirian playwright!" Thalen provided the unspoken word. "Vanished for fifteen years, since I was a child. Everyone thought you dead."
"The playwright is dead," the old man said.
A huge smile of wonderment blossomed on Thalen's face. Xanthippus winced. Shut up, you idiot!
"'What are you gaping at, you thunderstruck fool?'" Thalen uttered the oft-quoted line fervently.
So he was that Cleonander. Though he had never set foot in a theater, even Xanthippus knew the reference. It was the most famous line of Cleonander's most famous play, The Curmudgeon. Normally, to quote it would have elicited raucous laughter, but now it hung in the air like a soiled garment.
Cleonander gave no indication that he even recognized the line. "I have not laughed in fifteen years, young man, and I'm not about to start now -- not at the sound of some hackneyed nonsense written by some frivolous scribbler."
Words died in Thalen's open mouth. He looked heartbroken.
"Especially not when uttered by a doomed man, like you," Cleonander continued, his rage rising.
"Doomed?" Thalen asked, utterly at a loss. Xanthippus would have struck him in the teeth if he thought it would get him to shut up. No doubt his uncle, who had procured for him his captain's cloak, had accompanied his precious nephew to the theater and encouraged his hero worship of actors and playwrights. He might have pitied the boy if, while he was admiring the works of the famous scribblers, Xanthippus and Nydeon had not been fighting for their lives in Menleco's Prathian School. What pain must follow the realization that your childhood hero prefers you dead?
"I don't know why we left you alive," Cleonander went on, as unpoetic a thought as he had doubtlessly ever had. "What do we hope to gain through mercy?" he asked Coronea.
"We are not mere murderers. What would we gain by this man's death? We fight to free Epiria from Demetrius, not simply to slay our enemies."
"Revenge is its own reward," Cleonander said. "We might spare this boy, but we stand to gain plenty by killing this…by killing Asander, the Irrylian butcher."
"I am no butcher, sir," Asander snapped angrily.
Cleonander again thrust an accusing finger in Asander's face. "Do you deny standing at Demetrius' right hand while the council danced?"
Asander held the old man's gaze, but said nothing.
"Of course not!" Cleonander went on. "For how can you deny a clear truth? It was you who distributed the daggers. Was it not?"
Attracted by Cleonander's outburst, Gorgeo's men turned from their fire to see what was the matter. A few of them sauntered over and stood outside the ring of captives, listening, their faces hard.
"What would you have had me do? Forfeit my life in a futile attempt to save doomed men? I would have died with them. Is that what you would have done? Died with them? I notice you still live, though you were there as well as I."
"You speak as though you did not enjoy it, Asander the butcher, that you did not laugh along with the rest."
"Your recollection is true enough. I admit it, I was there. But I did no more than what was required of me. It was an outrage. Whatever part I was forced to play is now a source of everlasting shame to me. I would not wish that on you, Cleonander. Do you suppose that day is forgotten to me? If I am guilty of anything, it is cowardice. That is bad enough. Certainly not butchery."
Cleonander peered out from under his bushy brow at each face in turn. "It was he who handed the councilmen the daggers while Demetrius handed his men their wives. Did you get one, Asander?"
Asander stared at him, murder in his heart. Xanthippus tensed. He felt the growing crowd of rebels at his back, listening to the tale. He wondered if they would all be killed.
"Asander's master commanded them dance -- and dance they did. But not to the music of flutes and harps as we were accustomed to hearing in the court of King Arrhus. Oh, no, they danced to Pylia's tune, to the screaming of Arrhus and our beloved Eunice. Have you not heard this before, young mustard-cloak? Or is this story legend among Irrylians now, always good for a laugh?" Thalen shook his head, not daring to speak. "The screaming was unending, and the councilmen -- decent, wise, dignified Epirians -- danced while Demetrius' men laughed and pelted them with showers of nuts and fruit, whatever they could lay their hands on. He gave the councilmen a choice. Use the daggers as they saw fit, or dance in the presence of Pylia. So we watched them disembowel themselves. Given the same choice, isn't that what you would have done?" He regarded the group, but no one responded. "Oh, one of the men turned his dagger on Demetrius, but he did not get very far. He was taken alive.
"And what of me, the Epirian court poet, you ask? Demetrius commanded me to write a play of the proceedings. A comedy, he said. This is what I was to do." He turned his face to Thalen. "What are you gaping at, you thunderstruck fool?' I'm afraid the line has lost its punch for me, son. Perhaps I could have resurrected it in my new comedy. I could have, but I ran away instead. I have not touched a pen since and have taken up the sword. But I see that you, Asander, remain at Demetrius' right hand. Foreign Minister now, is it?"
"A Captain of the Guard does not so easily run away," Asander said. Xanthippus had the feeling that the danger had passed. Cleonander's rage had descended into sadness. "A poet is a different matter, perhaps even good riddance to you."
Cleonander laughed. "In my youth, I overestimated my worth, I will grant you that. Now, I live only to kill Demetrius. I would feed him to his own snake."
"They were angered that they could not find the boy." Gorgeo's voice rose from the knot of men who had gathered. "It is this that is our salvation."
"What boy?" Xanthippus asked, although he already knew the answer. The boy was the man he had gone to Tygetia to kill. An innocent man, Seus had called him. Asander and Thalen knew the truth of it. Thirty others would surely kill him on the spot if they did.
"Hurrus," Coronea told him. "Prince of Epiria and rightful heir to the Epirian throne. It is for him we fight."
"For Kin
g Hurrus!" several of the rebels uttered in muted tones.
"We know that the witch Pylia has foreseen his return in his eighteenth year," Gorgeo said. "Our freedom is at hand."
Thalen was dubious. "How do you know what the witch has seen?"
"Do not think that it is only Epirians who hate Demetrius, young man."
A horse was approaching. The sound of galloping hoof beats came to them through the darkness. Cleonander sprang to his feet, drawing his sword. There was a clatter as the rest of the band drew their weapons as well.
Gorgeo raised his hand. "Stay your hands," he called, as a lone horseman came into view. It was one of the outriders returning from his scout.
He was out of breath. "Shadow Riders," he huffed. "Not two leagues from here."
Coronea was on her feet in an instant. "We know them to be two hundred strong. They will overwhelm us."
"Are they coming this way?" Gorgeo asked.
The outrider shook his head, beginning to regain his breath. "They are in camp, heading south. It is a huge camp. They must have a thousand foot with them."
"They plan to strike us in the morning. We must hurry our prisoners to Clautias. Mount up. We ride now!"
The men turned and began running for their horses.
"Wait!" Coronea cried. The men looked back. "I will prepare a surprise for them for when they break camp." She called out half-a-dozen names of men to accompany her. They were all bowmen. "We will slow them down for you, Gorgeo, so you can get ahead of them."
Everyone knew at once what she meant.
"There is a small defile south of their camp," the outrider said. "They must march through it on their way south. I will show you."
"We will clog that road with the bodies of their dead," Coronea declared.
The rest of the men now ran back to the fire and began spreading the wood and tamping out the flames. Gorgeo paused.
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