Your imagination, boy.
Dak coughed. It had been so long since he moved that it drew everyone’s eyes. He thumped on his chest and coughed again, bending forward as he did so, grabbing the rack. His hand bumped a sword, knocking it to the ground.
Yanko took a step toward the prince. He had no right to question an elder, much less the Great Chief’s son, but he couldn’t stop himself from blurting, “What did you do?”
Zirabo was merely watching the Turgonian with a raised eyebrow, as if he thought this some overly dramatic display. Dak coughed a couple more times, then lifted his hand, the closest thing to an apology Yanko had seen him issue. What was going on here?
“That was more delightful to hear, honored Prince,” Father said. “Thank you for—”
Something rolled through the doorway.
A barrel. A burning fuse stuck out of a bunghole in one end, and it twirled with each revolution.
“Look out!” several of the guards barked.
“Prince Zirabo!”
The barrel was heading straight for Yanko. He sprinted for the wall where his father and uncle stood. “Down, down,” he barked, though they were already dropping to the ground.
Yanko threw his arms over their backs and hunkered on the floor with them. This time, he had a couple more seconds to prepare, and he managed to find the concentration to craft a shield, a small barrier of dense air to surround and protect them.
The barrel exploded. Even with his head buried and his eyes shut, the brilliant light burned red against his lids. This time, no shrapnel struck him, but he sensed the impacts against his shield. Wood, not rock. The chamber remained stable. Good.
Yelps of pain promised others hadn’t been so fortunate as he. Yanko dropped his shield, gave his father and uncle a quick pat to make sure they were unharmed, then leaped to his feet. Two of the guards in purple sprinted out of the room. The rest were trying to stand up, though they groped for the wall for support. Blood dribbled out of one man’s ear, and others had torn clothing.
The prince was missing.
So was Dak.
Part 6
One of the men who’d been guarding Dak wasn’t moving, at least not quickly enough to do anything effective. Yanko grabbed his crossbow and sprinted into the tunnel. He had been worried about the prince attacking Dak, but he wagered the Turgonian had something to do with this, if not everything. If anything happened to Prince Zirabo… this would be Yanko’s fault. Why hadn’t he warned his uncle that the Turgonian was more than he seemed?
The purple-robed guards had sprinted to the left, deeper into the mine. Dak must have gone that way, yet…
Yanko gazed to the right, toward the lift that led to the surface. Surely that would be his ultimate destination. Only death awaited him if he remained in the mine.
Yanko jogged for the lift. With the angry shouts fading behind him, he tried not to feel as if he was running away.
The area around the lift was open with nothing for cover save for a couple of bags of salt abandoned by workers who must have scattered when they heard the explosion. Should he wait here for Dak? No, the bags weren’t large enough for him to hide behind, and he wanted to make sure he had the advantage if he had to deal with the Turgonian, especially if the man carried a valuable prisoner.
Yanko stepped into the lift and ordered it to the surface. Far below, the creaky machine that powered the cables responded. Cool drafts brushed his cheeks, along with smells of the dry scrublands, the outdoors he hadn’t seen for many days. It wasn’t his forested homeland, but it was better than the lifeless passages of the mine. Another time, he would inhale deeply and appreciate it. Now? He stepped out of the lift, walked ten paces, and knelt behind a boulder.
Night owned the sagebrush and tumbleweeds dotting the dusty hillside, and a starry sky outlined the ridge high above. A guard shack hunkered by the mine entrance, many of the stones missing from its walls and its roof in disrepair. Since the collars had been instituted, it hadn’t been necessary to maintain a large security force.
So, what happened to Dak’s collar, eh?
The prince couldn’t have done something with that song, could he have? And if so, why?
Stop the Turgonian first; you can question him later.
Two lamps on poles burned next to the lift entrance. Anyone who came out that way would be outlined as soon as he stepped out of the cage. Yanko rested the crossbow on top of the boulder and scowled at his hands. They were shaking.
Because you’re scared.
No, because he didn’t want to shoot Dak.
Too bad—he attacked the chief’s son.
Coyotes howled on the ridge above. For a moment, Yanko thought of stretching out to them with his mind. They were far away and busy on the trail of something, but perhaps he could convince them to join him, to harry Dak if he proved troublesome.
But soft clanks and the groan of the rising lift reached his ears. He touched his finger to the trigger. There was no time to summon help.
The bamboo cage rose into view, and the gate swung open. Dak strode out, a pickaxe in one hand and a sword in the other. Not a practice blade—one of the guard’s sharp weapons. The darkness made it hard to tell, but Yanko thought the long blade appeared wet, with dark rivulets running toward the hilt…
He was debating between calling out and simply shooting when more men streamed out of the cage. Many more men. Ten. Ten hulking Turgonians. Some detached part of Yanko’s mind registered surprise that so many men could fit in the lift at once.
It doesn’t matter. One. Ten. You have to stop them.
And how was he supposed to do that?
Dak didn’t give him time to figure it out. He started up the path at a jog.
“Halt,” Yanko said before the Turgonians could close to melee range. He stood up, making sure Dak could see the crossbow.
A crossbow that can only take out one, at most.
Before the Turgonians pointed out that bit of logic, Yanko spoke again. “What did you do with the prince?”
Dak held up a hand, palm out. “He’s on the fourth level, tied to a pumping machine. They’ll find him.”
Or he could be dead. What truth did Dak owe him? “Why? Why did you take him?”
“It was meant as a distraction, nothing more. So we could escape.” Dak spread a hand toward his comrades. Some of them were muttering in their own tongue. Yanko might not understand the words, but the gestures toward him seemed explanatory. What are we waiting for? We can flatten this kid.
“That doesn’t explain why you disappeared with the prince,” Yanko said.
“He freed me.” Dak touched the collar at his neck, then lifted his other hand and pulled apart the back, something he never could have done with its usual energy locking it. He tossed it to the ground.
“What?” Yanko asked, though he was thinking again of the power of that song, the way he’d sensed it was doing something else for Dak, not simply rejuvenating him.
“I wasn’t expecting it—expecting him—but it worked perfectly,” Dak said. “Almost. He only intended to free me. Given the accidents that regularly happen involving foreigners, that was unacceptable.” He nodded toward his countrymen.
They were shifting about, eyeing the lift. Sooner or later, someone else would realize they had gone to the top. Yanko wondered if he should try to distract and delay them until the guards caught up.
“The prince volunteered to do this?” Yanko asked.
Dak hesitated. “I convinced him.” He gazed out on the dark scrublands. “For him even to help me, it was…”
“Treason?” Yanko suggested.
Dak’s chin rose. “I should never have been imprisoned. I was sent as a diplomat. Our treaties allow for the uninterrupted passage of official government diplomats between countries.”
Yanko had a hard time imagining Dak as a diplomat, or anything other than a soldier, but… Hadn’t his uncle said that Dak was an inconvenient political prisoner? One who couldn’t s
imply be executed? Maybe Prince Zirabo had come to right a wrong he believed the Great Chief had done. But… “And these others?”
The lift clanked. Someone was summoning it back below. Behind Dak, the Turgonians shifted again, fingering what weapons they had claimed during their escape. Interestingly, none of them ran off or tried to hurry Dak.
“I would not leave without them, not when I knew they had no hope of escape, nor would they likely survive the year.” Dak took a step forward, toward Yanko.
“So you convinced the prince to break their collars too.”
“Yes. I owe him… a great favor at some point. I hope to be in a position to redeem it eventually.” Dak took another step.
Yanko fingered the trigger. “And do you intend to convince me to let you pass as well?”
The chief’s son might get away with treason. Yanko would not.
“I hope I don’t have to.”
Another two steps, and Dak stopped in front of Yanko. The crossbow sight aimed squarely at his chest. Yanko’s finger trembled on the trigger. If he shot Dak, the others would swarm over him and kill him. If he didn’t, if he let these Turgonians escape into the night without a fight…
“Dak,” one of the men whispered behind him. “The guards will be up here any second. Do you want more bloodshed with these people?”
“No,” Dak said, looking into Yanko’s eyes. “I don’t.”
He leaned his pickaxe against the boulder, lifted his hand slowly, and pushed the crossbow away from his chest. Yanko’s finger had been so tight on the trigger, so tense, that the weapon went off before he knew it. The quarrel spun away into the darkness, far wide of hitting any of the Turgonians.
“I owe you a favor too,” Dak murmured.
Yanko shook his head bleakly. He was committing treason; the last thing he wanted was a reward for it.
“And I don’t expect you to forgive me for this,” Dak said, stepping past him.
Forgive him? It was Yanko who was at fault.
Only when something slammed into the back of his head did the words make sense. Pain erupted in Yanko’s skull, and the world went dark.
Epilogue
Yanko woke in a bed, the familiar grayish-white salt ceiling above him. His first thought was of disappointment, to be back in the cold stale air of the mine again. His second thought was of pain. He winced, lifting a hand to probe at a tender egg-sized lump on the back of his head.
“I wouldn’t touch it,” came a voice from the next bed over.
Only then did Yanko realize he was on the first level, in the small infirmary.
“Turgonians are brutally efficient when it comes to damaging heads, torsos, and other body parts one would prefer not be maimed.”
Yanko’s vision hadn’t cleared entirely, and it took him a moment to identify his roommate. He swallowed. Prince Zirabo.
A lamp burned on a table between the beds, revealing black-and-blue marks on his face, along with a lump at his temple that matched the one on Yanko’s head.
“You tried…” Yanko hesitated and checked the rest of the room to see if anyone else lingered. They were alone. “You tried to help him.” Yanko left unspoken, And this is how he repays you. Us.
The prince nodded. He understood. “Something nobody knows, and I’ll implore you to keep it that way. They found me beaten and tied. They found you unconscious. It was obvious to them that we’d tried to stop the Turgonians and understandably failed against superior numbers.” Zirabo gazed solemnly into Yanko’s eyes.
“Oh,” Yanko said.
He had committed treason, by omission or failing to act, if not by outright sabotage, but nobody except the prince knew he had. Even the prince must only suspect. He had no proof. After all, what could a single inexperienced youth do against a squad of escaping soldiers?
“As a child,” Yanko said quietly, “I often wished I was better at getting away with things, but Father or Aunt Min always caught me. I never thought I’d find the idea of succeeding in getting away with something distasteful.” He plucked at the blanket draped across his torso. “Dishonorable.” He muttered the last word to himself. He didn’t wholly understand the prince’s relationship with Dak and did not wish to seem to condemn him.
But Zirabo must have heard for he nodded and hmmed. “Sometimes… honor is a matter of yes or no, light or dark, but more often, we must navigate the shadows in between. It is taught that loyalty to one’s family and one’s country is of paramount importance, but for some people, a day comes when you realize that those who live beyond your borders and have different tongues and beliefs are as human and as deserving of loyalty as your own people.
Yanko leaned his head back against the pillow. “I’m not sure I’m old enough to judge that properly.”
“You haven’t much time left to be a child, I fear. The future… well, perhaps it is a ways off yet. There is still hope the inevitable might be averted.”
Yanko faced the prince. “What does everyone think is coming? War with Turgonia?”
“No, nobody wants to go to war with Fleet Admiral Starcrest, now President Starcrest. Some believe he’ll take the military might of the empire, the former empire, and attack, but more believe he wants exactly what he claims, an era of peace and stability for Turgonia. But stability over there means… fewer opportunities for us to acquire the resources we need. I had hopes to find a diplomatic solution, an opportunity that would allow us to exchange salt and Made devices for their ore and crops, but when my father starts hurling their delegates into mines… it doesn’t bode well for peaceful trade.”
“Why do we need their resources and crops?” Yanko asked.
Zirabo met his eyes. “The Great Land is where agriculture first developed, thousands of years ago, where humans first flourished. Our history is amazing, but we’ve grown and grown, and have more people than ever, and the land, as you must have learned, is less fertile than ever. A thousand generations of farmers have depleted the earth of its nutrients, and our crop yields are lower than ever, even in years we don’t suffer droughts or storms. The aquifers from which our wells draw water to irrigate the fields are being depleted too fast to be replenished. We have too many people and too little food to sustain ourselves without expansion, and there aren’t many places left to expand to, not without war. We must either find a way to feed more with less… or to cull the herd.”
A tremble went through Yanko’s belly. “Is someone… thinking of doing that?”
“Not in a systematic manner, but nature has a way of taking care of these things. In the face of such a future, war seems inevitable.”
“War amongst our own people?”
“It seems likely.”
The prince’s words about navigating the shadows suddenly seemed to apply to far more than a few Turgonian prisoners.
“But perhaps someone will find a less bloody solution.” Zirabo smiled at him.
He can’t mean… Me?
“I thought… I mean, I realize now that you must have come here because of the Turgonian, not because of me. Or the salt.”
“That is true, though I was intrigued by what your father said about you as we rode over, or rather what he seemed to be trying hard not to say. You prefer creating to destroying. That is a rare trait in a young man, especially one training to be a warrior mage.”
“That’s… well, it was always understood that I would aspire to that career.” Yanko decided it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask the prince to intervene and find him a new destiny, one that could somehow still help his family regain its status. After all, it sounded like Zirabo might be on the bottom rung in his family too. Yanko did allow himself the small complaint of, “Father… doesn’t appreciate my creating.”
“We are not always blessed with fathers who understand us.” The prince’s smile grew very dry.
“Is your father…” Yanko reminded himself that he was talking about the Great Chief here. It wouldn’t do to think of Zirabo as a comrade or peer, even if they had
been pulverized by the same Turgonians. Curiosity overrode his tongue’s hesitation. “Is he the one who ordered Dak imprisoned here?”
“He is. I was not in the Golden City then. He’s frustrated with the way events came to pass in Turgonia, that we weren’t able to find a way to gain access to their rich mineral resources. He had no wish to listen to the words of their latest diplomat.”
“Dak was truly a diplomat then? Not a soldier?”
“In Turgonia, the two careers are not mutually exclusive.”
“Still, he didn’t seem very…” Yanko rubbed the scab on his hand. “Diplomatic.”
“No,” Zirabo agreed.
Yanko thought he might say more—he certainly seemed to know more—but the prince fell silent.
“Do you know if my uncle sent men after the Turgonians?”
“They did,” Zirabo said.
“Do you think they’ll catch the Turgonians?”
“No.”
“Why do I sense that you know a lot more about this Turgonian diplomat than you’re telling me?” Yanko asked.
Zirabo smiled. “Because you’re a perceptive youth.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but I’d rather know the full story.”
“My father doesn’t even know who he is. If he did, his fate might have been far worse than the mines.” Zirabo shook his head. “While he’s still on Nurian land, I won’t speak his name.”
“He said… he owes me a favor. Do you think that means anything?” Yanko figured the Turgonian would head straight for home. What were the odds that they would ever meet again?
“Yes,” Zirabo said, a faint smile still curving his lips.
~
Labyrinths of the Heart
(Swords & Salt, Tale 2)
Part 1
Yanko parried the attack smoothly, then countered by advancing and lunging with a quick feint before tapping the toe of the saber against his opponent’s chest. The miner muttered something in a language Yanko didn’t understand, but he read the disgust easily enough. The man dropped his sword and stomped for the exit of the training chamber. He had to push through men who’d come up to watch on their lunch breaks, men who shared murmurs—and traded money—in the aftermath of the sparring match.
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