by Morgan Rice
Koldo frowned.
“Of course the trail picks up somewhere,” Koldo replied, curt. “But what matters is that it does not lead all the way to this spot. There is a break in it, and that is what matters. From this spot, as far as I can see, there is nothing. Do you see something I do not?”
Naten frowned, turned, and walked away, clearly unable to respond.
“Prepare your sweepers!” Koldo commanded firmly, then turned and headed back to his horse.
His men broke into action, each extracting from their saddles long sweepers, poles with a smooth, rake-like attachment at one end, wide and flat, and attached them to the back of their horses. They were flexible, sweeping in different directions, so as not to give a uniform look to any sweeping they did, and completely erasing any possible trail. Kendrick admired them: they were clearly ingenious devices.
“We still have time to return to the Ridge before dark falls,” Koldo said, turning and looking back with hope toward the Ridge.
“There better be,” Naten said, coming up beside Kendrick. “If we don’t, we’re going to spend a long night out in this desert—and it’s all going to be your fault.”
Kendrick scowled, fed up.
“What is your problem with me?” he demanded.
Naten scowled back, confronting him.
“Our lives were perfect,” he said. “Before you showed up.”
“I haven’t ruined your precious Ridge,” Kendrick snapped.
“It seems like you’ve ruined every place you’ve come from,” Naten countered.
“You lack respect,” Kendrick replied. “And hospitality. Two sacred virtues. As much as I dislike you, I would have welcomed you into my homeland, a stranger. I would have even fought for you.”
Naten scoffed.
“Then we are very different people,” he replied. “I would not fight for you—and if I had my choice, I would never let you into our—”
Suddenly, a shriek cut through the air, interrupting them, raising the hair on the back of Kendrick’s spine.
And then, complete chaos.
Before Kendrick could grasp what was happening, he heard a man cry out in pain, an awful shriek, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw something dark and hairy drop down from the sky and land on his throat.
Kendrick turned as he sensed motion from up above.
“TREE CLINGERS!” a man shouted.
Kendrick looked up and was horrified to see that the thick branches of the tree were filled with glowing yellow eyes. A group of small monsters, with black fur and long claws and fangs, looking like sloths, began to reveal themselves, jumping out of the branches and leaping onto the men. Their claws shined in the air, several feet long, as sharp as swords, and they raised them high and swung them down like machetes, jumping right for the group of men.
Kendrick reached to draw his sword, but it was too late. Before he could react, a tree clinger, its long claws extended, swung right for his face—and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Boku hung on the crucifix that the Empire soldiers had nailed him to days ago, the last of his people alive since the great slaughter, somehow, despite his wishes, still clinging to life. He had stopped feeling the pain and agony—that had passed days ago. He no longer felt the agony searing through his palms, no longer felt the dehydration, the burning of the suns on his skin. He was beyond all that now, so close to death. All that he still felt was his intense grief for his people, all of whom had died beside him in their siege of Volusia, all massacred before his eyes. He craved to see them all again, and had cursed the gods that he had been left alive.
But Boku was too spent to even have room to curse now. There was nothing left in him but to die. He prayed to the gods with all he was to please let him die—and yet for some reason, they kept denying him. For days, the Empire had inflicted on him every kind of torture before finally nailing him to the cross, and still, no matter how much he craved it, he would not die. He drifted now in and out of consciousness, seeing his forefathers in a cloud of light, expecting any moment to be embraced by them, and wishing it to be so.
Boku opened his eyes—he did not know how much time had passed—and found himself to still be alive, caught in his harsh reality, his body numb, no longer feeling his hands or legs, and having to look down and see the piles of corpses of all the people he once knew and loved. When, he wondered, would this hell end? He would give anything for a swift, merciful death.
“Bring him down,” called out the voice of an Empire taskmaster, and for a moment, Boku’s heart leapt as he wondered if his prayers had been answered.
Boku felt his world shift, felt his cross lowered, felt his body go flat, then borne on the shoulders of several soldiers. He was set down on the ground with a bang, as they dropped him the last few feet, and a sharp pain shot up his spine, surprising him. He did not think he had any room left for pain.
Boku looked up, squinted into the glaring sun, until suddenly, a shadow passed over his face, and he opened his eyes wide to see the cruel Empire taskmaster, scowling down at him with his long fangs and horns. The taskmaster reached over with a pitcher and dumped freezing water on his face.
Boku felt like he was drowning. He felt the water go up his nose, felt himself immersed in it, and gasped as all the Empire soldiers laughed cruelly around him.
Boku felt water on his lips, and he licked them, trying to drink, desperate to be able to swallow. But there was none left to drink, adding cruelty to the torture.
Boku blinked and looked up at the taskmaster’s face, wondering again what he could possibly want, why he would bother keeping him alive. Why would he give him water? To prolong his torture, surely.
“Where are your friends?” he demanded, leaning over, his bad breath filling Boku’s face.
Boku blinked, confused.
“What friends?” he tried to ask, but his throat was too parched for the words to come out.
“Those from across the sea,” the man demanded. “Those of the white race. The ones you harbored in your village. The ones who fled. Where did they go?”
Boku blinked, his head splitting, trying to understand, his mind working slowly after so many days of silence and agony. Slowly, it came back to him. Before the massacre, that woman, what was her name….Gwendolyn. Yes. Her people….
It all slowly came back to him: they had fled before the battle. They had trekked out to the Great Waste, to try to find the Second Ring…backup for their army. Most likely, the Waste had taken them, too.
Boku looked up at the scowling face of the taskmaster, and realized now what he wanted, why he had kept him alive, had tortured him. It wasn’t enough for them to have killed him and all his people. They wanted to kill Gwendolyn and her people, too.
Boku felt a fresh resolve within him. If he had been unable to save his people, at least he could now save Gwendolyn.
Boku managed to clear his throat enough to speak:
“She went back across the sea,” he lied firmly.
The taskmaster grinned down, took a long, sharp dagger-like weapon with a curved tip, and plunged it into Boku’s ribs.
Boku shrieked screamed as he crammed it in farther, turning and twisting it; he felt as if his insides were being destroyed.
“You are not a very good liar,” the taskmaster said. “We found their ships burned. How could she have crossed the sea?”
Boku shrieked, blood coming from his mouth, determined not to speak.
“I will ask you but one more time,” he demanded. “Where did she go? Where are they hiding? Her people are not among the dead, and we have already ransacked your village—and all your caves. They are nowhere to be found. Tell me where they are, and I will kill you quickly.”
Boku’s pain was unimaginable, but he gritted his teeth and shook his head, tears coming from his eyes, determined not to give Gwendolyn up. With one great burst of energy, he managed to spit. He watched in satisfaction as blood from his mouth spr
ayed into the Empire taskmaster’s eyes.
The taskmaster, furious, reached down with both hands, pulled out the corkscrew, and plunged it into Boku’s chest. Boku felt an even worse agony, as the man pushed down with all his might, turning and twisting. He felt his bones breaking in every direction, an agony even he could not bear. He would do anything to make it stop. Anything in the world.
“I beg you!” Boku pleaded.
“Tell me!” the taskmaster replied.
“The…Waste,” Boku found himself screaming, involuntarily. “The Great Waste. I swear to you! I swear it!”
Boku wept, ashamed he had given them up. He had wanted more than anything to protect them, but the pain had been too intense, taking over his brain, making him unable to think straight.
Finally, the Empire soldier stopped, satisfied, and grinned down at him.
“I actually believe you,” he said. “Though I am sorry to say—it won’t save you.”
Several Empire soldiers stepped forward, daggers drawn—and Boku felt himself pierced by a million knives, in pain from every corner of his body.
Finally, he was able to let go. Finally, sweet death came for him.
Before leaving it all, embracing his ancestors, the great light, one final thought came to him:
I am sorry, Gwendolyn. I betrayed you. I betrayed you.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Erec stood at the stern of his ship, taking up the rear of his fleet as they all continued to sail upriver, and he looked out behind them, downriver, watching the twisting river for any sign of the Empire. On the horizon, he could still see the faint outline of black smoke from where they had created a blockade and had set the ships on fire, and judging by the smoke, it was still burning strongly. Given how tightly wedged those ships were in such a narrow area—and given the fires keeping them at bay—Erec felt confident that the Empire could not break through quickly. Erec imagined they might have to resort to ropes and grappling hooks to pull away the debris. It would be a slow and tedious process. It had bought Erec and his fleet the precious lead they needed.
Erec turned and looked back upriver, saw his ships sailing before him, and felt relieved that he was at the rear; if the Empire did catch up with them, Erec would be the first to defend his people.
“You need no longer worry, my lord,” came a soft voice.
Erec felt a gentle, reassuring hand on his arm and he turned to see Alistair, coming up beside him and smiling graciously back.
“Our ships are faster than theirs,” she said, “and there has been so sign of them all day. As long as we keep sailing, they shall not catch us.”
Erec smiled back and kissed her, reassured by her presence, as always.
“There is always something a leader must worry about,” he replied. “If it’s not what’s behind us, then it’s what lies ahead.”
“Of course,” she replied. “All security is an illusion. As soon as we stepped foot on this ship and set sail from the Southern Isles, safety did not exist. But that’s what ships are meant for, is it not? That is what makes us who we are.”
Erec was impressed by her wisdom, her courage, and he knew that royal blood flowed through her. As he studied her, he noticed her beautiful blue eyes glistening, and he sensed something was different about her—he was not quite sure what. He felt as if she were withholding something from him.
She looked back at him questioningly.
“What is it, my lord?” she finally asked.
He hesitated.
“You seem…different these past days,” he said. “I’m not sure how. I feel you are perhaps…withholding some secret from me.”
Alistair blushed and looked away, and he felt sure that she was.
“It is… nothing, my lord,” she said. “I am just distracted by the departure of my brother. I worry for Thorgrin, for Guwayne. And I wish to be reunited with our people again.”
Erec nodded, and understood—though he was still not quite convinced.
“Erec!” suddenly shouted a voice, and Erec turned to see Strom beckoning him at the bow of the ship, agitated.
There was a sudden commotion as men rushed forward for the front of the ship, and Erec broke into action and raced across the deck, Alistair beside him.
Erec weaved his way between men until he finally reached the bow. Waiting for him was Strom, who handed him a long looking glass and pointed upriver.
“There,” Strom said urgently, “to your right. That small speck.”
Erec looked closely through the glass, holding it to his eye, the world moving up and down as they sailed through the current, and slowly, it came into view. It appeared to be a small Empire village, perched at the river’s edge.
“It will be the first village we’ve encountered since entering this land,” Strom said beside him. “They could be hostile.”
Erec continued looking through the glass, taking it all in as they got neared, the wind carrying them closer with each passing moment. It was a quaint village, comprised of one-story clay houses, smoke rising from chimneys, children and dogs running about. Erec spotted women walking about casually, unafraid, and in the distance, men farming and a few fishing. From their dark skin and small stature, they appeared to be not of the Empire race; they seemed a peaceful people, perhaps under the Empire’s subjugation.
Indeed, as Erec waited patiently for the current to carry them closer, he was surprised to see these people were of the human race—and as he looked closely, he spotted Empire taskmasters positioned throughout the village, holding whips. He watched a woman scream out as a taskmaster lashed her across the back, forcing her to drop her child.
Erec grew hot with indignation. He did a quick tally and counted perhaps a hundred Empire taskmasters spread throughout this village of several hundred peaceful folk.
He lowered the glass and handed it back to Strom, determined.
“Prepare your bows!” he shouted back to his men. “We sail into battle!”
His men cheered, clearly thrilled to be back into action, and they lined up along the rail and took positions high in the masts, bows and arrows at the ready.
“This is not our battle, my lord,” said one of his commanders, coming up beside him. “Our battle awaits us far on the horizon. Should we not press on, and leave this village alone?”
Erec stood, hands on his hips, and shook his head.
“To sail onwards,” he replied, “would be to turn our back on justice. That would make us less of who we are.”
“But there is injustice everywhere, my lord,” his commander countered. “Are we to be the knights for the world?”
Erec remained determined.
“Whatever is put before our eyes is put before there for a reason,” he replied. “If we do not make an attempt to rectify it, then who are we?”
Erec turned to his men.
“Do not show yourselves until my command!” Erec yelled out.
His men quickly knelt, concealing themselves beneath the rail, preparing for the confrontation to come.
As their fleet of ships neared the village, rocking in the river’s current, Erec sailed out in front, taking the lead—and soon, the villagers caught sight of him. The villagers began to stop what they were doing, farmers stood where they were, fishers began to pull back nets, all staring in surprise.
The Empire began to notice, too: one by one, Empire soldiers began to turn from their tasks and watch the river, looking curiously at Erec’s ships. Clearly they had never seen their like before, and had no idea what to expect. Perhaps they assumed they were Empire ships?
Erec knew he had but a brief window of surprise until the Empire soldiers realized they were under attack—and he was determined to take advantage of it.
“Archers!” Erec shouted. “Introduce these Empire men to the strength of the Southern Isles!”
There arose a great cheer as Erec’s men rose, as one, up from behind the rails, took aim, and sent a volley of arrows towards the shore.
The E
mpire soldiers turned to run—but they were not quick enough. The sky blackened with hundreds of arrows, arching high and descending, piercing the taskmasters one at a time.
They cried out, dropping their whips and swords where they stood, collapsing to the dirt, while terrified women and children screamed and fled.
“Anchors!” Erec cried out.
His fleet dropped their anchors, and they all followed Erec’s lead as he jumped over the rail, flying through the air a good ten feet, landing in the water, up to his knees, then drawing his sword and charging on the sand.
As Erec led the charge to the village, Strom a foot behind him, dozens of Empire soldiers rushed forward to meet him, swords and shields at the ready.
The first sword slash came down, right for Erec’s head. Erec blocked the blow with his shield, then swung around and slashed the soldier in the stomach. At the same moment he was attacked from the side, and he turned and slashed the other soldier before he could lower his sword, then turned the other way and kicked one back in the chest, sending him back, splashing in the water. He head-butted a fourth, breaking his nose, smashed another with his shield, and stabbed another in the chest.
Erec spun in every direction, a whirlwind, cutting through the ranks of hundreds of Empire soldiers. His men were close behind, and Strom, at his side, fought like a man possessed, felling soldiers left and right. Cries ran out in the morning air, and Erec lost more than one soldier, as more and more of these vicious Empire fighters seem to pour out of nowhere.
But Erec was filled with indignation at how these cruel taskmasters had treated the defenseless women and children, and he was determined to set things right and liberate this place, whatever the cost. He had also been eager, for far too long at sea, to let loose his aggression on the Empire, hand to hand, man to man, on dry land. It felt good to wield his sword again.
The sound of a whip cracked through the air, as an Empire soldier came at them from behind and lashed them with his long whip, catching Erec and Strom by surprise as he lashed the hilt of Erec’s sword and yanked it from his hands. Erec reacted quickly, turning and throwing his shield sideways; it went spinning through the air and hit the soldier in the throat, knocking him down. Defenseless, another soldier brought his sword down for his face—but Strom stepped up and blocked the blow for his brother, then stabbed and killed the man.