The man raised his sword and chopped down. Iko closed his eyes and heard a scream that was not his own. He opened them to find Burns holding the stump of his wrist. A blade flashed and struck the guard’s neck, taking his head off clean. The guard’s body collapsed, and Iko turned to find Kardan standing over him with a sword in his hand.
Their eyes met and Kardan gave Iko a nod. “For your father.”
Caught up in the emotion and death surrounding him, tears blurred Iko’s eyes. He wiped them away to find Kardan’s hand extended toward him. With Kardan’s help, Iko stood and surveyed the situation. Dozens lay dead, but far more still stood. Only prisoners remained. Or rather, only the liberated remained.
His mother was kneeling on the ground beside Tom Gambo. The man had lost an arm and was bleeding profusely. The blood flow stopped, the stump healing before Iko’s eyes. His mother removed her hand from Gambo’s forehead and stood.
Her gaze surveyed the surviving prisoners as they gathered. Kardan shifted to stand beside her.
Gripping Kardan’s hand and holding it high, Iko’s mother bellowed. “While the price was steep, we are free!”
A weak cheer rose up.
“This is not the end, it is merely a beginning.” Varius spun about as she addressed the people surrounding her. “When the sun rises, we will be away. In our possession, we have enough food to complete our journey to Yarth, where we will begin to rebuild. The gold cache from this mine will secure what is required. The flash powder reserves we take will enable us to create weapons to combat Chaos. A new future has begun this night, a future with the Hand founding a new Empire – an Empire free of Chaos.”
Another cheer arose, this one deafening.
As the freed people fell quiet, Iko’s mother began visiting other wounded, healing those she could, blessing those she could not. The dead were gathered and thrown into the guardhouse, which was set on fire. It burned hot and lingered for hours.
It was a long night – a night of horrors, a night of hope, a night of change.
When the sun rose, it was a special day – the first day of Iko’s life beyond the prison walls. He found himself on a wagon full of barrels and black rock that sparkled in the sunlight. Kardan was on one side of him, his mother on the other. When Kardan snapped the reins, the horses pulled the wagon across the compound yard and through the open gate. A half-dozen other wagons followed close behind, trailed by sixty-two people on foot.
As the destroyed prison wall faded from view, Iko found himself with a future to think on, something around which he could shape his life. In that moment, the first time he could actually consider such things, he found clarity. His goal was simple, yet daunting – build a better future as defined by his past. For his father, he would see the end of Chaos.
1
Unnecessary Risk
Curan coaxed Gorgant to a stop, the stallion stirring briefly before he settled.
“Easy, boy,” Curan crooned as he slid to the ground.
There was a half-filled water trough and a stack of hay beside it, both welcome sights. In a hushed tone, he addressed the horse, which shifted his ears toward him.
“I prefer a bed tonight, so you must remain out here. Last night beneath that pine offered little sleep, and I could do without the needles for an evening.” Curan’s hand ran down the stallion’s neck in a strong, smooth stroke. “Eat. Drink your fill. Do not stray. More importantly, bite anyone who comes near you. You are a Tantarri steed. They should fear you rather than they think they might profit from you.”
Curan knew that Outlanders paid significant sums for Tantarri stock, as they should if people were allowed to purchase something so majestic. An odd thought. Yet, Tantarri horses were the fastest, the most intelligent – the best horses in Issalia. He eyed Gorgant’s lines, the fall of his dark mane from his ears to his withers, the rippling muscles beneath the horse’s grey coat. Horses were beautiful creatures, yet few could equal Gorgant’s majesty. Curan was proud that the horse had chosen him as a worthy rider. When his stomach grumbled, Curan patted the horse and turned his attention toward the inn.
The Horned Frog was of wooden construction, similar to the other buildings in Sarville. Having two stories made the inn stand out from the other structures along the road – structures covered in shadow although the sky above remained bright blue.
The mid-afternoon sun hid beyond the tall peak to the west, leaving only the mountaintops to the east in direct sunlight. Clusters of deep green pines stood out amidst the red, orange, and yellow of leaf-trees covering the valley hillsides. Soon, few leaves would remain – the final resistance in the face of the coming winter.
A small village in the heart of the Skyspike Mountains, Sarville had a population measured in the dozens at best. In fact, Curan had seen only two people during his fifteen-mile approach from the mountain pass, both working in the fields just south of town. He closed his eyes and listened. Rather than hearing the sounds of a city, the rush of the river behind the inn filled the air, joined only by the chirping of birds perched in the tall pine across the road. Still dominated by nature, Sarville seemed a peaceful, lonely slice of humanity.
Despite his aversion to Outlanders, Curan forced himself up the steps to the covered porch, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, careful to duck as he passed through the doorway. Shadows lingered in the room, cast by the light coming through the windows at the front. The center of the room stood open but for a single post with a dormant glowlamp mounted on it. Tables lined three of the walls, and an open stairwell ran along the fourth wall. Beneath the stairwell, a lonely broom leaned in the corner, beside a door that appeared to lead to the kitchen. Quiet conversation came from the only occupied table. Four men, woodsmen of some sort, sat behind empty plates and spoke in hushed tones.
Curan crossed the room and chose an open table along the far wall. He shed his travel cloak and hung it over his chair before sitting so he faced the front door.
A young woman walked past him and placed mugs before the men seated beside the front window. She had brown hair, blue eyes, and a voluptuous figure framed by a cream-colored tunic, a tight brown vest that forced her chest to bulge, and a brown skirt that flowed around her ankles as she walked. In her early twenties, the woman was just a few years older than Curan. She collected the empty plates in one arm, spoke with the men for a moment, and disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, she reappeared and stopped beside Curan’s table.
Her gaze swept over him before settling on his face. “You’re a big one. I bet you can eat your share.”
Speaking to strangers – to Outlanders – still made Curan uncomfortable. However, his new life would require it so he forced the words out.
“I would like some food. Food and a bed.”
She nodded. “I have roasted crowster and potatoes.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“I’m assuming you can pay for it?” Her hand rested on her hip, her brow arched as she waited on his response.
Curan removed the coin purse from his belt and pulled out a gold piece. He held it toward her. “Will this cover it?”
The idea of exchanging coins for food was a foreign concept. He had seen his father do it during their trips to Nor Torin, but the last outing was three years past. Worse, he had never paid attention as to which coin had been used. When her eyes widened, Curan knew he had made a mistake.
“Well…” She smiled. “That’ll get you as much food as you wish, along with a bed. Ale, too.”
She reached for the coin with greed in her eyes. With reluctance, he let the woman take it, her fist clamping around it before she stuffed it into the neckline of her dress.
“My name is Mandy.” She shifted closer, smoothed her skirt with one hand, and twirled her long brown hair with the other. “You’re a fine looking young man. Perhaps you would enjoy some company as well?” The look she gave him – the half-masted eyelids, the knowing smile – he had seen it before from the girls in Mondomi, the
ones who saw sex as a game. Swallowing hard, his gaze shifted toward the table.
“Um…not tonight. Just the food and a bed, please.”
“Alright. If you’re sure…” Her tone taunted him, as if he were passing on the chance of a lifetime. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
She slipped away, off toward the door beneath the stairs.
When Curan looked up, he found the men at the occupied table staring in his direction. All four had runes marking their foreheads, three of them identical to the others while the fourth had one of a different sort. Curan didn’t know what the runes represented, only that they were a relic of the past – a lingering reminder of the Empire that once ruled Issalia. The glares directed toward Curan made him wary, and his gaze flicked to the front door, far across the room. When his focus returned to the men, he found them huddled in conversation with one leaning over the table.
The kitchen door opened, and Mandy appeared with a mug in her fist. She sauntered to Curan’s table and placed the ale before him. “Drink up. You’ll need your energy.” Her smile wreaked of innuendo.
“I…I didn’t order this.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been traveling, and you need to drink something.” She pointed toward the tankard as foam ran down the side. “Besides, I’ll feel guilty if you don’t drink it.”
“All right.” Curan lifted the mug and took a drink, the cool bubbles rolling down his throat. The ale lacked the sweet aroma that accompanied Tantarri pumpkin ale, but it was still refreshing. “Thank you.”
She smiled and glided toward the kitchen, her hips swaying overtly as his eyes followed. When she disappeared, he turned and found the four men approaching. Two were oversized, burly men with thick beards – one black, the other brown. A third man stood tall, with a lean frame. The fourth was shorter than the rest, sporting a shorn scalp and a brown goatee, his leather vest revealing well-muscled arms. The short man addressed Curan.
“Hey, boy. What’s with the body art?” The man gestured toward the ink on Curan’s arms, which depicted intertwined runes and images. “You one of those Tantarri?”
Curan’s eyes narrowed as he considered his response. “Perhaps I am one of those Tantarri. Why should that matter?”
The man grimaced as his eyes shifted toward Curan’s hair. Unlike the rest of his people, Curan’s hair was light brown, his eyes blue. Thanks to his father, he was unlike his people in numerous ways.
“We folk in the Greenway don’t care much for those who don’t follow Issal. If you’re one of those heathen Tantarri, you’ve found your way into the wrong village.”
Curan sighed. He knew where the conversation would lead.
“Listen. I’ve been riding for the past two days. I’m exhausted. I just wish to eat and get a good night’s sleep.” He reached his long, muscled arm out and patted the short man’s shoulder. “I’ll be happy to buy you each an ale if you will let me be.”
One of the burly men snorted while his tall companion blinked at the idea. The short one sneered with his response.
“We don’t want your ale, boy. We want you out of Sarville. But first, leave your coin purse on the table.”
Inhaling with long, slow breath while sporting a contemplative expression, Curan lifted his coin purse in one hand, showing it to the short man as he stood. Rising to his full height of six and a half feet, Curan clenched his fist around the coin purse. The short man stared at it with a furrowed brow. In a flash, Curan’s fist burst forward, smashed into the man’s nose, and sent him staggering backward into his companions. Curan spun toward the kitchen door, tossed his coin purse on the table, and grabbed the broom, holding it before him as he turned toward his foes.
The two burly men stood their companion upright while the short man held his hand to his face and blinked the tears from his eyes. When he pulled his hand away, he glared at his crimson streaked fingers – evidence of the blood running from his nose.
“You’re going to get it, now,” the man sneered.
The four men separated, one burly man shifting to each side of Curan while the tall and short one stood in front of him. There was only one way out of the situation, so Curan gave himself to his training: when confronted by a superior force, attack first to eliminate a coordinated attack by your opponents.
With a thrust, Curan drove the broom handle into the black-bearded man’s stomach, which elicited a grunt. He then feinted toward the tall man, who leaped backward, and smashed the broomstick across the scalp of his shortest opponent. The stick broke in half, sending a spray of splinters in the air as the short man staggered to one knee. The big brown-bearded man to Curan’s right came at him with a meaty fist. Curan ducked beneath the blow and drove the splintered end of the broomstick into the man’s thigh.
“Argh!” the man cried out as he stumbled backward.
Sensing movement behind him, Curan bent and thrust his foot backward, driving his heel into black beard’s stomach. He spun, following with a roundhouse punch. His fist struck the bent-over man’s temple and sent him careening to his hands and knees.
The tall one’s fist flashed toward Curan’s face, and Curan dodged just enough to receive a glancing blow across his cheek and ear. Raising his arm to block the next punch, Curan grabbed the tall man’s tunic and pulled backward with all his might as he dropped to the floor. The man’s head smashed into the kitchen door with enough force that it cracked the frame…and his head. He collapsed to the floor, bloody and unconscious.
Seated on the floor, Curan found the short man coming at him with a fist cocked back for a massive punch. Curan dodged to the side and the punch missed, instead striking the doorframe. Staggering backward, the man held his broken hand by the wrist while howling in pain. Before the short man could escape his range, Curan scissored his legs – one high, one low – with the man’s leg between them, sending him crashing to the floor.
Curan stood and scrambled past his downed opponents to create space. With his hands ready to fight, he surveyed the room.
The brown-bearded man had his tunic off, exposing a hair-covered, overweight torso. The man yanked the broken broomstick from his leg, his face in a grimace as blood welled up from the wound. He wrapped his tunic about the leg and began to tie it off.
Near the door, the tall man lay unconscious, blood tracking across his forehead and pooling on the floor. The short man sat beside the tall one, his blood-covered face scowling at Curan while he held his wrist. His hand was swollen, the skin torn open, fingers bent into a useless claw.
The black-bearded man sat on the floor with one arm on Curan’s chair, his other hand holding his head. Based on the distant look in his eyes, he was in no shape to fight.
Curan shifted toward the table to gather his cloak and coin purse. The kitchen door swung open as the barmaid emerged with a plate of food. She paused to stare down at the four men before glancing toward Curan.
He gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about the mess. I’ll just take the food with me. Keep the gold.”
A cool mountain breeze blew from the north and pushed Curan’s hood back, exposing his face to the gray skies above. He had worn his hood up the entire day in hope of avoiding any additional trouble. The fight in Sarville was not something he relished – an unnecessary risk with nothing to gain. Recalling the inn left him longing for the bed he had purchased for the night – a night he had, instead, spent sleeping poorly on the forest floor a few miles outside of town.
Waking with the breaking dawn, Curan had taken the road north, along the valley that many called The Greenway. Tall snowcapped peaks watched over him during the journey. The snow would undoubtedly extend throughout the valley once it was in the grasp of winter.
Curan decided not to stop and eat when he reached Fallbrandt, nor did he speak to any who had passed him. With his hood down and a grim expression that warned others away, he continued through town with only his destination in mind, eager to reach it before the gray sky drew dark.
Movin
g at a fast trot along the forest road, Fallbrandt was soon miles behind him. He came to a large clearing, surrounded by forest with a tree-lined road splitting the center. After a brief glance toward the military academy to the east, Curan focused on the sprawling structure ahead, its form appearing more clearly as the trees beside the road fell away.
The complex consisted of blocky buildings at the center and long wings that extended toward the mountains to the east and west. It was the largest structure Curan had ever seen – even bigger than the castle in Nor Torin. Regardless, the monolithic building looming over the rear of the complex is what demanded his attention. I was sure father was exaggerating when he described it, but he may have been understating, instead.
With the nudge of Curan’s knee, Gorgant turned down the road encircling the eastern side of the fabled Fallbrandt Academy of Magic and Engineering. The horse continued past the circular tower that terminated the eastern wing and past a building that Curan assumed was the arena. He recalled stories of his father’s days at the academy, before the new military school even existed. Curan’s father remained somewhat of a legend at the school, the only novice to defeat all other paladin trainees and win the vaunted Arena Challenge. Even if he had not made a name for himself in the Arena, his father’s exploits on the battlefield would have rectified the situation. Curan wondered if his new role would offer the same opportunity. Further, he hoped that he might live up to such expectations.
When Gorgant cleared the arena, the full majesty of the Arcane Ward came into view. An ominous gray tower, twelve stories tall and windowless, the Ward was unlike any building Curan had ever seen. Something about the structure made it seem as if it were imposing its will upon the valley, demanding everyone’s attention, yet threatening anyone who dare approach it. Rather than an exaggeration, his father’s description of the Ward actually paled to seeing it in reality.
The gravel road led Curan to a cobblestone courtyard nestled between the school, the tower, and the thirty-foot-tall wall connecting them. Two guards stood beside the arched black doors that led to the tower, watching him warily. Another stood beside the black gates to the training yard behind it, holding a spiked halberd with a massive blade. Curan frowned at it, wondering how the weight of the blade didn’t force it to tip away from the man’s grip.
An Imperial Gambit (Wardens of Issalia Book 3) Page 2