by Ronie Kendig
He scanned her face, surprised. “So, intelligence.” One would not think this squirrel of a girl had much lurking beyond her beauty and flirtations.
“Contenders, enter the corral.”
Tili guided his four into the staked-off area and closed the gate. “Remember,” he said, working his way to the front, “shoot nothing, do nothing without my command.”
“But,” Darielle whispered, her voice piqued, “I thought you would wield. That we’d . . .”
“We’re a unit,” he said. “We work together. Think not that they put ye here for me to show off my ability to wield. This must be done together.”
48
Outside Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
Dawn had cracked the void of night leagues past. In a queue sandwiched between Trale at the front and Astadia behind, Haegan made himself keep moving. His feet ached, but he would not mention it. He did not believe the assassins would care one spark about his discomfort, when this is what they did for a living. Traipsing across countries, in and out of cities.
Besides, guilt forbade him from complaining about this path he’d set himself on. What was he doing? Walking straight into the enemy’s hands?
I would not have won regardless. The throne was lost to me.
Haegan’s sinuses ached, the warm scent stronger, so much that he could smell almost nothing else.
After miles of walking in silence, Haegan wondered about his captors. “What sort of person chooses to spend his days spilling blood and ending lives?”
A sharp thud between his shoulders made him stumble—Astadia had shoved him. He felt the heat of hatred roiling off the sister.
“Just shut up and walk,” she ordered.
Haegan looked to the brother. Older, stronger. His shoulders squared as they trudged up a knoll peppered with heavily sapped trees. Sap . . .
“Don’t even think about sparking here,” she growled. “I’ll thump you over the head and you’ll wake—”
Trale snapped up a hand and dropped to his knees.
Confused but following the lead, Haegan did the same, heart pounding. What had the assassin seen? Astadia sidled next to her brother, watching.
Tucked out of sight, Haegan waited, looking back in the direction they’d come. He could see for leagues from this vantage. Hetaera stood tall and proud in the distance, the Spire of Zaelero stabbing the sky. Had they noticed his absence? What would Gwogh do when he realized his prized puppet was missing? Would Thiel be okay? His heart ached at the thought of her discovering what he’d done. Though she would likely hate him, she would also be disappointed—hurt.
I am no warrior.
Thiel is more a fighter than me.
I do not deserve her.
I would bring shame to her and her family.
It would not have worked.
A hand gripped the edge of his cloak and pulled.
Haegan scrambled around.
“Move,” Astadia growled.
“What—”
“Quiet,” she hissed.
Haegan frowned at her, but she pointed to a pond. What was so significant or threatening about—
A shadow shifted.
Panic thrummed against his chest.
Not shadows. Sirdarians. Watering their horses. Four officers stepped toward the pond, their uniforms making it appear as if blood spilled from the trees. Blood-red uniforms to denote the dedication of their lives to the will of Sirdar. Red cloaks attached to epaulets. Silver braids corded the chest. Buttons glinted in the morning light.
As he watched, more blood—a lot more—spilled out around the small body of water.
So many? Haegan’s thoughts pinged. They weren’t coming from the south, as had been expected. They were closing in from the east. Which meant they were flanking the city.
Not good. Did Duke Maer’ksh and Dromadric know that an incipient horde lay beyond the plains?
“Are you going to turn me over to the horde?” Haegan whispered as they backtracked.
“Keep moving,” Trale bit out.
“I have to notify the Jujak—”
Like a whip, Trale spun. Cuffed Haegan by the throat. Lifted him off his feet and pinned him to the ground. Dark hair hung over darker eyes. “If you would die on this hillside, open your mouth again,” he said, his voice a deadly whisper.
Startled, Haegan clenched his jaw.
Trale hopped up and started moving again, not waiting for Haegan. Not concerning himself with the prince at all. The sister was no better, trotting behind her brother without so much as a backward glance. Were they not afraid he would go back?
Back to what? I have nothing left there.
They were afraid. The thought struck him with such clarity, Haegan scrambled to his feet and hurried after them, remembering how Tokar constantly reprimanded him for being so noisy. Not wanting to give Trale more reason to knock him to the ground, Haegan watched his step. Walked as quietly as he could. And most importantly, kept his thoughts to himself.
Which is not to say they were quiet in his head. His thoughts bounced here and there, landing back on his guides’ fear. Yes, they were afraid of something, but not of him. Did they not know Haegan was the Fierian?
They hiked northwest, if Haegan’s sense of direction and skills with topography were accurate. Skirting north of Vid. Would this not take them away from Iteveria?
Why did the Infantessa want him anyway?
I would like to see her.
Trale stopped and turned. Glanced back. Scanned the tree-dotted plain. “I think we’re clear.” He nodded to Haegan. “I beg your mercy, but it’s said the Sirdarians have unusually keen hearing. One wrong sound and they’d have been upon us.”
They didn’t want the Sirdarians to know. “You take me to the Infantessa, but not to Poired.”
Trale’s expression seemed to soften. “She asked us to deliver you, alive.”
“So she can kill me herself?” Why had he thought this was a good idea?
“I know you doubt us,” Trale said, glancing at his sister, who glowered still, “but I am not convinced her intent is to kill. She is good.”
Astadia snorted and looked away.
Haegan frowned. “If she does not want me dead, then what?”
Perhaps an alliance?
Where the thought came from, he didn’t know.
His nose dripped, and he wiped it again. Maybe if they put more distance between him and Hetaera, the smell would dissipate.
Farther from home, from his friends? And this was a good path?
Again, he didn’t understand his own actions. Walking out of Hetaera with assassins bent on delivering him to the Iteverian Infantessa, who was said to be the spawn of Sirdar . . .
The amusement, the light that had flickered momentarily in Trale’s eyes vanished. He frowned, his gaze darting over the earth. “I . . . I am not her voice. Only her instrument. She asked for you. We do as she commands.”
“Yes,” Astadia snapped. “Now, can we actually do it?” Her eyes held fire. “Or would you two like to spend the afternoon chatting like lovesick dogs while the Sirdarians close in?”
• • •
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
Like a sign of the times, the screech of evil in a world protected by Abiassa, a whistler streaked into the sky. Gwogh watched the fiery-orange ball arc over the mountain and felt a tinge of sadness that someone had failed.
“That’s a record,” Adomath chuckled from his chair on the tower platform. “What, forty minutes?”
“Forty-two,” confirmed Voath as he pointed to the western half of Medric.
“Who?” Gwogh asked. The Contender must have failed only moments into the second challenge. Sentinels had just confirmed all ten had survived the first obstacle—navigating a maze cut into the overgrown grasses. Marshals had come out in the night and scorched the area, hardening the waxy field so the grasses were not easily bypassed, thereby allowing swaths to be cut out and traps set in.
“It’s Ociliama of Dradith,” Voath said, slumping in his chair.
“No surprise there,” Adomath murmured. “It’s a practically failed state anyway. Should be absorbed into Vid.”
Mm, it would make things easier for Sirdar, now wouldn’t it? Gwogh thought.
“Nay,” Falip objected from his chair. “We are stronger than we have ever been.”
Gwogh glanced at the new Council member, impressed with his courage in contradicting the grand marshal’s faithful ally.
“As seen by your Contender,” Adomath taunted.
“She was not my choice,” Falip confessed. “Her family has money Dradith badly needs.”
“There is no shame in failure,” Gwogh injected into the contest. “Each test was made to be challenging. ”
Kedulcya nodded. “The huts particularly so.”
“What of the shriekers?” Aoald asked. “The beasts already got one.”
“Beasts,” Adomath said with a guffaw. “They are but two hands in length.”
“Aye, and they’re vicious with those hooked beaks and dagger-sharp talons. They hate the sight of people and attack relentlessly.”
“They have arrows,” Adomath said with a smirk. “Let’s hope they use them wisely.”
• • •
The copse of trees seemed welcoming, but there was a strange quiet emanating from it that raised the hairs on the back of Tili’s neck. “Is there a way around?”
D’wyn shook his head, then nodded both right and left. “The fence cuts directly through the trees.”
Tokar eyed the fence. “Let’s follow it up. At least we’ll have protection on one side.”
“And nowhere to go if we’re set upon,” Tili said, noting Tokar’s annoyed expression. The guy didn’t like being countered. Too bad. That was the way of things—suggestions, improvements. Someone suggested something. Someone improved upon it. Kept everyone alive.
Tili pointed up the middle. “Straight through. If we’re separated, move north. Always north—that’s our endpoint. Going back means failure. Find the separation barrier and wait there. Understood?”
They nodded.
“Single file. Bows ready. Stay close.” As they lined up, he tugged Tokar to the front. “Take point.”
“Why? So I die first?”
Tili bit back the retort on his tongue. “Go. We’re waiting.”
With a huff, Tokar slid into position and advanced. Tili trailed the team, sweeping up and around. Behind. Up, around, behind. Eyes out at all times. He moved quietly, listening to the others. Noting them as he took in the landscape.
“Weird quiet,” Chwik whispered.
Aye . . . Using his abiatasso, Tili reached out for warmth but found little. There was something out there, but not big enough to be human. Nor did he detect the eerie chill that would indicate accelerants in their path. That was similar to what he’d detected as he watched Haegan and the Drigo face the incipients. But this . . . this was different. Slightly. Annoyingly. What was there?
The strangeness bathed them as they ventured farther into the trees. It wasn’t a forest, not like Ybienn’s southernmost Black Forest, so named because no light penetrated the canopy. But the vegetation was dense enough to drape the day in shadows.
“I . . . don’t like this,” Darielle murmured, her hand going to Tokar’s shoulder as she trudged onward. “It feels like it did when my sister and I were hiking. Shriekers—”
“Quiet,” Tili hissed, slowing, gaze skimming the upper branches.
Something changed. The air. He wasn’t sure. A strange, trilling sound broke the silence.
“Shriekers,” Darielle gasped. “I told you!”
“Go! North! Don’t stop!” Tili lined up his arrow on the first inbound bird. Its keening vibrated against his ear drums. A sound meant to distract its victim. Tili released the arrow, slinking backward over the forest litter.
Sighted the next. Fired.
He heard the pluck of another bow and release of arrow to his left.
Tili worked the right. Sent another shaft through a bird.
Poof!
Hesitating, Tili sorted what he saw. The birds—they weren’t birds.
“They aren’t real,” Tokar announced. “They’re only flames.”
“But if they touch ye—sear yer clothes—ye’re still dead in the trial.”
“D’wyn, Chwik, get Darielle to safety.” Tili nocked another arrow. Felled the next flaming bird. And another. Tokar was his counterpart, dropping just as many.
“Last arrow,” Tokar called.
“Go!” Tili tested how many he had left—five—then drove another.
A whistler shot into the air.
Darielle cried out.
Tili swung around, staring down the shaft of an arrow as two shriekers descended upon her. She hunkered down, arms over her head, screaming. Her position gave Tili the opportunity. He released the arrow. It flew true. Sailed into the first.
Pooof!
And right into the second. Another puff of smoke.
Someone yelped.
Tili kept walking backward, protecting the rear. He aimed at a shrieker. And stumbled. The arrow went wide. Blazes!
The shrieker spiraled in on him. Death kill.
He grabbed for an arrow but knew he’d be too late. His heart hammered. Would he lose so quickly?
An arrow sailed overhead. Poof!
Tili scrabbled around. Hauled Chwik to his feet. “Go. Run, Twig.” Thrust him north. Nodded at Tokar, who’d just saved his life. They were moving. Running. He saw the lip of the woods. Sunlight. “Go go go!”
Hearing the stampede of feet, he pivoted, trotting backward as he fired another arrow at a shrieker. And another.
“Your right!”
He heard the warning and reached for another arrow—gone! Tili’s heart jammed. He threw himself toward the lip of the forest, straining for security. Heat blazed over his neck and shoulder. He ducked. Dove into the sunlight.
Poof!
Hands pawed at him, pulling him upright. He stumbled a step then caught traction. Sprinted for the fence.
“They’re gone!” Darielle said, glancing back. Slowing.
Tili’s heart was still firing hard, but he braved a look toward the trees once more. She was right. The shriekers were gone.
“The woods,” D’wyn said. “That was their perimeter. Couldn’t go past it.”
Tili ran his hands over his face and then through his hair. Gripped his knees. Then his temple. Rubbed. Thinking.
“That was close,” Tokar said. “Good thing I saved you.”
Though arrogance filled those words, Tili could not deny it. “I owe ye.”
Tokar squinted in a hidden smile. “No.” He cocked his head. “We’re a unit, remember? You go down, we all go down.”
Surprise lanced through Tili. That was a mark of maturity he hadn’t expected from the thin-blood.
“Did you hear the whistler?” Darielle asked, her voice stricken. Haunted. She shivered. “That was the second one in this challenge alone. Another Contender failed.”
“A head of pride sinks in the river of life,” Tili said, quoting the proverb his mother taught him.
“We know that what comes at us is conjured,” D’wyn said. “Those birds were inflamers—worked out of flames by accelerants. We don’t have to worry.”
Tili pointed at the dark-skinned man. “Think like that, and ye lose the trial on this spot.”
Beside the Kergulian, Chwik was making notes on the parchment. He’d scrounged a scorched stick to use for writing. Tili craned his neck to see what he recorded. A list of some sort.
Tili glanced at the next fence and nodded. “We must be prepared. The Council is not doing this for bloodshed but to test the mettle of the Contenders.”
“Lucky us,” Tokar muttered. “Chosen to get the flames scared out of us so you can prove you’re worthy.”
“Think not that this is about only me,” Tili said. “Whoever tak
es the Fire Throne—all of ye on this field will know their mettle. Doubts will be erased, and from these forty-four, that word will spread. Confidence in the new leader will spread.”
“So you like this?” Tokar scowled.
“Like? Nay.”
“Can’t you just lose?” D’wyn said. “I mean, then we could all go home.” The Kergulian may well have strength, but he had more doubt.
“And where is the honor in that?” Tokar growled.
“Easy,” Tili warned then focused on D’wyn. “Tokar is right—I do this to honor my father’s name. If I cast about without purpose, I lose. Nivar is blemished, shamed.”
“Besides,” Tokar said. “I don’t like losing.”
“Sir.”
Tili looked to Chwik, more than a little annoyed with D’wyn’s taste for passivity. Chwik drew a stack of arrows from behind him. Handed them over.
Tili frowned. “Where—?”
“When you shot them, they fell to the ground.” He shrugged beneath his mop of dirty-brown hair. “I picked them up. Thought we might need them.”
With a laugh, Tili took a handful and gave the others to Tokar then patted Chwik’s shoulder. “Well done, Twig.”
“I . . . it’s Chwik sir.”
Again, Tili indicated the next fence. “Line up and stay close.” He positioned them with Tokar again the lead—“am I always the bait?”—then D’wyn, Darielle, and Chwik.
Taking up the rear, Tili readied himself. “Go.”
Tokar slid around the corner and the unit snaked around behind him, clinging to the fence until they got their bearings in the new setting.
Only . . . there wasn’t anything to figure out. A thin swath of field narrowed in the northeast quadrant, effectively pulling their gaze to a lone glass dome. Something was under it. He couldn’t quite tell what with twenty-five meters between them and the glass.
“Too easy,” muttered Tokar, holding his position, which forced the others to do the same.
Tili trotted up to where his point man crouched. “Agreed.” There had to be a catch. A trick. Something.
With a gasp, Darielle drifted closer. “The jewel!” she exclaimed and started forward.