by Erik A Otto
Darian kept repeating, “How does this bode for us? How does this bode for us?” It felt good to say it again, and again. Everyone in the courtyard looked on, incredulous.
Something changed in Darian at that moment. When blurting out Reniger’s words in the face of this unfair torment, he felt like he finally had a window into Reniger’s soul. And at long last, he understood why Reniger had saved him in the forest. As alien as it seemed to Darian, Reniger was simply doing the right thing. With repugnant forces like Granth in the world, and with the pain he was enduring, Darian realized that a simple act of kindness was enough motivation, was enough reason to be. Reniger didn’t need an ulterior motive. He need not be driven by self-interest. All this time he’d thought Reniger was hiding something, that he was doing it for himself.
He’d been wrong.
And now, when Darian spoke Reniger’s words they sounded so right, more right than anything else, more right than anyone else.
Darian looked into Granth’s eyes and said, “You know, not all of us are tools.” He said it just so. The inflection, the accent, the volume were all right. It was perfect, and Darian smiled.
Granth looked annoyed. His own smile faded. “Hoist him!” he yelled.
Mackie stood up and took a step forward. “Wait, General.” He was wincing, his hands pushing down in a gesture of calm. “You said the Porcupine was just—”
Granth roared back at him. “I said, hoist him!”
Mackie receded, his mouth agape.
The monks circled Darian and applied the harness. Once lifted, Darian felt an uncanny surge of confidence. Breathing in with Reniger’s breath, his blood pumping through Reniger’s heart, a strength of will came over him. Darian looked down at the Porcupine with Reniger’s eyes, and then defiantly into Granth’s blue-green eyes, unblinking.
Then, they lowered him.
Chapter 30
The Traitor
The path promenaded around the mouth of the Jawhari Sea for a day and then veered eastward across lightly forested hills toward the metropolis of Rabat. In these undulating hills they traveled for many more days, past small farms and through quaint villages, all without incident. At this point they weren’t traveling directly away from Pomeria, but they weren’t heading toward it, either.
Many of the people they saw were carting goods toward Judud Jawhar. These people paid them no mind. Zahir would say a curt greeting, and that was that. There were two patrols, but Zahir was quick to spot them, and they were able to hide until they passed. Since they saw only two, they probably weren’t looking for her here, at least according to Zahir.
Zahir was still sparing with his words, despite Hella’s attempts to pry them from his mouth. Sometimes she would ask questions and he simply wouldn’t answer. When he did answer, he parted only with whatever information could be conveyed to someone he mistrusted. She knew he was from a village in the mountains to the north of the Jawhari Sea, but he wouldn’t say the name of the town or even describe it. He said he’d grown up in public service as a local ranger, then as a soldier, yet he evaded questions about specific locations where he’d lived or worked, and he refused to tell her how he learned to speak Belidoran.
Waynard was quiet most of the time. He kept close by her side, ready to defend her from Zahir at any given moment. When she tired of trying to extract information from Zahir, she tried to lighten the mood by teasing Waynard. He wasn’t very responsive, but at least he smiled at her taunts.
She tried to like Waynard, but she couldn’t. He was loyal and strong, but he was too simple for her.
Aisha had once told Hella that she would be attracted to dangerous men. At the time, Hella scoffed at such ridiculous speculation, and she’d tried to avoid any such men just to prove her sister wrong. But Aisha sometimes knew Hella better than Hella knew herself.
At night she would dream of a grand dance in the Pomerian palace, and men’s faces would promenade before her, each one asking for her hand. Tandem was there, and so was Waynard. There were also a few of her early crushes mixed in. She would dip and twirl about the floor, making these men swoon, making them chase her. Eventually a mysterious man would step in. She would oblige him, and she would see that it was Zahir who danced with her, while fixing his sinister stare at her. For some reason, he would be the best dancer of them all, holding her firmly and steadily, following her every move, and leading more aggressively than any of the others. But his dark eyes and Jawhari mannerisms repelled her. She would eventually push him away, only to land into the hands of Vanaden Granth. Then a great anguish would overtake her, and she would run from the hall in tears.
Mother had told her to pay close attention to her dreams. But the only thing she gleened from this dream was that her romantic life was doomed to failure. Perhaps, some day in the future, if she survived this ordeal, she would find someone. She told herself she would find a kind man, or even a simple man like Waynard, just to spite Aisha. That would be enough for her. If Matteo were to guarantee her safety, she could accept that destiny.
The dusty path they were on gradually progressed into a well-kept road as they came closer to Rabat, and Zahir took them on an offshoot that headed north, higher into the hills. The path became rocky, and Zahir asked that they tie up their horses and proceed on foot. Eventually they crested a ridge, and Zahir asked them to get low.
On the other side of the ridge was a valley where there were rows of tents. It seemed an encampment of hundreds, perhaps thousands. In the distance there was a great rift in the earth, perhaps a mine of some sort, but it didn’t look active.
“Sal Habib,” said Zahir. “He owns these men for war, and there are more camps than just this one. He is ready.” Waynard and Hella absorbed it. If they were Habib’s men it was indeed disconcerting. Pomeria and Belidor had large reserve armies but no active camps controlled by nobles.
“The numbers are lower than usual,” Zahir said, still scanning the site. “Thousands are missing because the Day of Ascendancy is approaching. But they will be back.”
Mooring lines were strewn about the camp as well, she could see. They were ready for the Day. It reminded her that the Day would be in…three or four days? She wasn’t concerned, but she wondered if Zahir was.
“There are no beasts out now, but they have ramolons. Can you see the tracks?” Zahir frowned in disappointment when he couldn’t find whatever this “ramolon” was that he was looking for.
She looked down, following the vector of his arm. The tracks in the mud could have been made by horses. She tried to remember where she’d heard the word before. Ramolon…ramolon. There was a traveler’s tale that one of the bushy brow admirals had told her as a child. He told of huge mythical beasts called ramolons, several times the size of a horse. Supposedly they could hammer through battlements with their hard beaks.
This was nothing but a nursery rhyme, of course, a bedtime story to delight a child. She hadn’t heard the word since, and no one had ever seen one. The fact that Zahir said he’d seen one made her wonder about her guide’s credibility and sanity. Was there some madness lurking behind those dark eyes after all?
Zahir noticed her skepticism. “They were there,” he said. “I swear by Matteo.”
Even without any fairy-tale creatures, though, the size of the army camp couldn’t be denied. They were preparing for war, that much was true.
“I didn’t take you for a religious man, Zahir.”
“And I did take you for a heathen,” he said back to her. Prompted by Zahir’s words, Waynard prepared himself for an act of chivalry, but she signaled to him to stay out of it.
It was the Day of Ascendancy, and they were on golden fields of grain, the forest having opened up to meadows and plains. The three of them were strung together by ten-yard spans of rope tied uncomfortably tight to their midsections. Zahir had insisted on moving from hearthstone to hearthstone this way, as if they were climbing up a mountain that had fallen on its side, but that was about to be turned upright again.
He explained that even with the lines, what they were doing was dangerous, and the only reason he wasn’t holed up near a hearthstone was because this was the only day they could make good progress out in the open. Lookout points nearby might be completely unmanned on the Day of Ascendancy.
“Surely if we were to make a run for it we could bypass this area in an hour, rather than taking the entire day stringing these annoying ropes about,” she said.
“If the world turns without this mooring, we will die,” he responded.
She was all for religious tolerance, but their lives were at stake here. Reason should prevail. “Come now, Zahir, we can’t believe everything the priests say.”
“We follow Matteo’s will. There’s no choice in the matter.” He had that look again, like the one he’d had after killing the guards in Judud Jawhar. There was no compromise in those eyes.
She couldn’t fault him for being a man of faith, even if she did doubt his judgement. He was their guide, so they had to go along with it, despite how slow going it was. And it would have indeed been safe to travel this way, except that Zahir made a false assumption.
The lookouts were still manned.
Late in the day two assailants jumped down on Waynard from the lower branches of a tree that was obscured by the curvature of the pathway around a hillock. Waynard managed to untangle himself and maim one of them with a hard chop on his arm, but another used the opportunity to stab him in the back. Waynard went down.
Meanwhile, another Jawhari ranger emerged from behind a tree nearby to join the fray.
Hella was in front of Waynard, and Zahir even farther ahead, so they had time to prepare.
“Run,” Zahir said to her, his eyes on his assailants. Then he ran to crest the hillock. It looked like he planned to come down on them from above.
Hella did run, and in the opposite direction, but she quickly realized if she didn’t follow Zahir the rope between them would go taut, and it may even encumber Zahir as he attacked. So instead she turned and followed him up the hillock, took out a small bone knife Zahir had given her, and began cutting the rope lines around her. First she cut where she’d been attached to Waynard, then she cut the line she’d tied to the nearby hearthstone. She debated cutting her attachment to Zahir but decided to follow him instead. This way at least she could stay close and know where he was.
She overheard clangs and screams as Zahir came into view on the other side of the hillock. She saw one maimed man crawling away, clinging his arm, Waynard dead on the ground, and another Jawhari with a gash above his eye, lying motionless. Zahir was still dueling with the last one.
The ranger managed to slash down on Zahir’s torso. Zahir’s robe split open, and a trail of red appeared on his breast, but Zahir seemed unperturbed by the wound. He made a sweeping backhand cut that went halfway through the man’s side. The last ranger fell, gurgling.
Zahir looked up at her as she descended the hill toward him. He was breathing heavily.
She heard someone calling out in Jawhari. It was barely discernible, partially lost in the wind.
In the distance, on the plain that extended south from the hillock, six more rangers were coming at them. One of them was yelling. He seemed to recognize Zahir. “Fermenda Zahir Farreya, legal il harrdel!”
“El koref,” Zahir said, then spat. It was a Jawhari expletive she’d heard often. “Too many naustics,” he added. “There shouldn’t be this many in the Jawhari army.”
“Should we run?” she asked.
“Lah.” He shook his head. “Too many. We will be taken.”
Maybe Zahir could talk them out of this. “Should we give up? We certainly can’t fight six of them. Maybe we can slip away later?”
Zahir was looking back and forth between her and the running rangers, his brow furrowed. His sword was still in his hand, his grip firm. Instead of dropping it or raising it against the oncoming rangers, he pivoted toward her.
He raised his eyes to her one more time. This time his look was more menacing.
“Dana assef, Princess. They cannot know.”
He began advancing, the sword raised high, with fresh drops of blood promenading down the edge of the blade.
“Wait, Zahir. What are you doing?” Her lips quivered.
“They cannot know it was me—Wahab’s man—who helped you.”
He was turning on her! She backpedaled, not knowing what else to do.
He began reeling in the rope between them with his free hand. When it tautened, he started to pull her toward him. Her feet dug in the ground, but that only allowed him to walk closer to her while she was off balance.
She stepped backward and tripped over one of the bodies of the dead rangers, falling on her buttocks. The ground felt unnaturally hard, like she’d fallen onto a rock. Weren’t they just walking on soft meadow grass?
Then a deep, low rumble sounded across the plain, building in volume until it was like a hundred Pomerian bass drums were playing all at once.
Zahir stopped midstride, and so did the rangers on the horizon.
She tried to read Zahir’s expression. Was it fear? An epiphany? It was hard to say, but the look of bloodlust he’d borne only a few seconds ago had been trumped by something else. He was only a few feet away from her, and she could see his dark irises grow as the rumble continued to increase in volume.
Then, rather abruptly, the noise stopped.
Chapter 31
The Truthseeker
The prisoners were strewn out on the dank floor. They had been given some wood planking and straw to sleep on. The Thelonians tended to congregate together, and so did the Sambayans.
In his first week Sebastian had tried to ask questions at night but had been shushed by the other prisoners—and once more painfully by a cudgel from a patrolling Sambayan. Recently he’d seen less patrols, and there was little noise from above. If Sebastian could guess, the ranks of their captors were thinning.
On Sebastian’s fourteenth night in the pit, a man had the courage to speak.
His whisper cut through the darkness. “Are they packing up, then? Is the war over?”
There was a long quiet as people waited for the man to be struck by a circulating guard, but it never happened. None of their captors were nearby, apparently.
Doras answered, “I’ve been here for a year. They come and go but never all leave at once. Now that they have unearthed the beasts, though, things could change.”
“What beasts?” someone asked. A few of them hadn’t yet caught wind of what happened with the mosquero.
Nobody was willing to waste precious whispers on a lengthy explanation. Someone offered simply, “A great beast was unleashed from beneath the earth three days ago, from behind the silverstone walls.”
Sebastian had dozens of questions to ask about the mosquero. Why did they unleash the beast? How did they know what lurked there, behind the silverstone walls? But Sebastian doubted these men would know the answers.
Someone followed up on the original question. “I see no more Cenarans. I think they’re gone. And there are less than half the usual number of Sambayan guards. Maybe they’re finishing their work.”
Sebastian knew another reason why people were leaving, a reason these men seemed to be forgetting. “The Day of Ascendancy is approaching,” he said. “Many go home to be with their families or to moor their houses.”
Someone snickered. “Ha! That may well be. But I would be surprised if these people believed in the Day, much less any prophecy.”
After the thought settled, someone whispered, “When is the Day?”
Sebastian waited to see if someone else answered, but no one did. He was in the company of criminals and naustics, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. “Five days,” he said.
There was a pause. Then someone whispered, “We have to find a way out.”
It must have been Doras who said it. Sebastian surely didn’t want to see another mosquero in his lifetime, and he guessed neither did Doras.
Sebastian heard more whispering, but it was quieter and less intelligible. The others had been plotting for a while, and Doras was at the center of it. For some reason, Doras didn’t tell Sebastian about his plans, even though they worked together, and even though Sebastian was supposedly the only other Belidoran. Maybe Doras didn’t trust the newer prisoners.
Finally, Sebastian heard a louder whisper. “We will leave on the Day. Be ready.”
It was a risky thing to say. Even though the Sambayans might not cudgel them, they still could be listening. The bold statement brought quiet to the group, and no one ventured another word that night.
Three days later they were told by their captors they were to have a day of rest. In the morning the ladder was lifted to the second level, then to the third, and finally to the fourth. The prisoners spoke more freely because it was clear their captors weren’t going to patrol them. Conjecture abounded about them being left to starve, but it only lasted until midday, when they were dropped food from above.
Sebastian spent much time in the opening, trying to get a dose of the midday sun, and at times glancing toward the higher levels to see what was amiss. He could see only one Sambayan toiling about, but there could be more.
Doras tried to rally the group. Heated whispers filled the caverns as the twenty-seven captives parlayed and translated back and forth between Sambayan and Belidoran languages. They debated whether they should try to dig through to the mosquero tunnel, but as Doras described the mosquero incident in more detail, that idea lost momentum. They converged on trying to climb the wall. On the morning of the Day, they would make gouges so they could use them as foot- and handholds, then climb up in stages, overwhelming the remaining captors who had stayed behind.
Sebastian interrupted to point out that during the Day it would be wise to be secured by ropes to an anchor somewhere, preferably to a hearthstone, but they ignored his comment. Judging by the looks he received, most thought him mad.