by Sarah Dalton
“Perhaps that would work,” said Mikkel. “He is a merchant. We could use his provisions for the journey.”
“Very well,” Lord Ramsiran said. “And as a show of goodwill, the Gold Council will give you thirty men for the journey.”
Stefan gritted his teeth and held in a laugh. Thirty men. It was almost ridiculous. But it would have to do.
While Ramsiran negotiated a fee with the merchant, Stefan thought glumly about his brother, Luca. He had thought about him on the ship across the Sea of Kings. His brother had stood aboard a similar ship, seen the same yellow coasts on the approach to Xantos. His brother had stood here and spoken with the same merchant. Stefan was almost there. He was on Luca’s heels and would not be shaken off. Stefan was going to find him and he was going to kill him.
But first he had to kill his doubts. He had not spoken to Mikkel about his intentions for fear that the Brother would try to talk him out of the plan, as he had tried to do himself. No. Luca deserved to die for what happened to Matias. And with Luca gone, Stefan had the best claim to the throne after his father died.
It cannot be long. The man is old. Fifteen years perhaps. Maybe twenty. It is not so long. Is it? It seemed like a long time. Stefan wanted power and he wanted it now. It was his destiny, he knew it. And now he had a future bride waiting for him in Nesra’s Keep. He tried not to think about the way she had cringed away from him. Instead he thought about her plump lips and intoxicating vanilla scent. He thought about her shining hair and innocent eyes. Yes, he would marry her as soon as he could, and make her with child soon after. She was to be his bride and he was glad of it.
“He will gladly show you the way through the Shadow Valley to the Ash Mountains,” Ramsiran said.
“Good,” Stefan replied. “Jano, saddle my horse. Montano, go to the ships and inform General Tyca and General Coren that we will be leaving for the Ash Mountains.”
Stefan’s squire, Jano, a nervous boy with pimpled skin, shuffled away to prepare the horses. Stefan had been told thrice by the boy that the beasts were restless after the journey to Xantos in the ship’s hold. Perhaps the journey to the mountains would settle them.
“Alas, this is where I must say my goodbyes, Your Highness,” said the short bald Lord. “I do regret you not joining us at the Golden Castle. Perhaps after your journey back from the Ash Mountains. I would join you, but, well, the journey is harsh terrain and I fear I am too old for it now.”
“No sense of adventure, Lord Ramsiran?” Stefan smirked. “Well, I wish you well. After victory against the filthy Mentis hiding like cowering cats in the mountains, I will take you up on that offer of a visit.”
Lord Ramsiran’s brown skin turned an ashen grey and his lips twitched as he began to back away.
“Wait,” called Stefan. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the documents signed and sealed by the King of Estala. “The relevant documents from my father.”
Lord Ramsiran bowed as he collected the scroll, then scuttled away, leaving Stefan watching his stooped back with self-satisfaction. The man knows who has the power. I have the power.
“Your Highness, perhaps it would be best to spend a night in the tavern,” suggested a guard whose name Stefan had forgotten. “If you forgive me for saying this, the men are tired, the horses need rest and feed. They say that the Shadow Valley is long, sparse, and hot. We might make better time if we—”
“The merchant will travel with us with plentiful supplies. We have tents, water, and weapons. There is no reason to delay,” Stefan replied. He could not see where fifteen hundred men would sleep in the Golden Port of Xantos. They could make camp outside the port, but Stefan did not want the hassle of it all. “Do not question my authority again.” Stefan stared down the man. He was red-haired and red-faced, but he showed no more signs of disobedience. Lastly, he glanced to Mikkel, who offered him a slight nod of approval.
Yes, this was how Stefan would rule, with a firm hand and a strong voice. He would not stand for those wishing to talk back to him. If this red-haired guard wanted to question his authority again he would have him whipped—or maybe the three-time death for Anios would serve better. He would drink his blood and take his strength…
The squire returned with horses, the merchant readied his cart, and Stefan felt a tickle of excitement in his abdomen. Soon, they would be ready to leave.
Stefan decided to ride his horse around the port as the two generals disembarked the ships with their men and horses. Brother Mikkel rode with him and they bought sticky, sugary treats that Mikkel greatly enjoyed but Stefan found too sweet. The small pink squares were aptly named Zucari, which apparently meant “sugar” in the common tongue. By the time the men were ready, the Zucari sat heavily in the pit of Stefan’s stomach. For the first time, he realised the gravity of his mission. Now that he saw all the men awaiting his command, he wished he had not eaten that third sweet, or the olives from earlier. He frowned and nodded to the merchant to lead the way. The merchant flicked the reins at his donkeys and the party moved out of the Golden Bay, leaving the rotting-fish smell behind them.
Stefan was glad to leave the stink and the noise in their shadow. He looked to the Ash Mountains now. The peaks of them were just visible in the distance. He stared at the great Zean Volcano and thought of the fiery strength within. Stefan himself was like that volcano, ready to erupt when it was time to show the world how much power he possessed. They never thought it would be me, he thought. They underestimated me. They shunned me. Father, Matias, mother… They treated me like dirt, but I am about to show them who I am and what I’m made of. He pushed back against that sickly, nauseating sensation in his stomach.
They rode on, atop their skittish horses. Stefan was almost unhorsed by his mare when the beast reared at a grass snake. He tightened his reins and leant forward in the saddle, failing to stop his hands from shaking. Horses were such ludicrous animals. He hated them with a passion. But it would not do to sit in the cart with the merchant. He must show strength. He had not brought a litter with them for that very reason.
It seemed that there was little outside the Golden Bay. Once the villas and taverns ended, the road snaked over the Dark River and into the Shadow Valley. Stefan choked on the dust churned up from the cart and the horses. His neck burned under the sun’s constant glare, and he drank plentifully from the wine skin. The sense of power he had experienced while gazing at the distant Zean volcano ebbed away quickly, leaving him irritable with the Xanti climate and doubtful about the impending attack on the rebel camp.
As they crossed the bridge over the Dark River, the sun dipped below the Ash Mountains, and a pleasant wind brushed against Stefan’s collar. His horse danced its way across the bridge, fighting against the bit the entire way. Thankfully the bridge was sturdy, with stone towers and a strong wooden floor. Stefan regarded the fast waters below with some trepidation.
But it was after they crossed the Dark River that Stefan learned what it was to be in the shadow of the Ash Mountains. Night came fast. One moment they were watching the sun fade below the mountains, casting the sky in a dusky red, the next they were hurrying to pitch tents in the dark, with his squire rushing around the valley searching for wood to make a fire. Stefan slipped down from his mount and was glad to feel earth under his boots once more.
“Take this brute horse away from me before I slit its throat with my sword.” Stefan threw the reins into the air for whomever was closest.
He stormed away from the horse, pulling his gloves off one finger at a time, when he turned towards the cart to see the merchant sitting there, smiling. The man leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, with the reins from the cart loose between his fingers. The donkeys stood quietly, swishing their tails back and forth to swat flies.
“Who do you think you are staring at?” the prince asked.
But the man spoke in a language that Stefan could not understand. Savage, he thought. What kind of merchant does not bother to learn the common language? The man i
s a fool, an idiotic fool. He would have words with Lord Ramsiran and the rest of the Gold Council after his mission was complete. They mocked him sending such a fool to spend time in his services.
“I want a guard on him,” Stefan ordered. “He is not to be alone.”
The guards, who were busy working on the tents and fires, stared at Stefan with blank faces. After a moment’s hesitation, one dropped the wood he was carrying and walked towards the cart. Stefan mused that his father should find better men to guard the heir to his throne. This was no good.
By the time the fire was lit, Stefan had donned his cloak and huddled beneath a poorly constructed tent. He pulled the heavy wool around his body to protect himself against the cold. What sort of climate was this? The place boiled in the day and froze at night. And the vegetation was beyond strange. There were no fields of green like in Lantha and Kestalon. Here, nothing grew except spiky plants and dry grass. It was a hard country. Dusty and unyielding.
His squire brought him wine, olives, honeyed figs, and flatbread. He ate with Brother Mikkel at his side. When the small meal was over, Mikkel told him everything the merchant had said about the Ash Mountains.
“He is tight-lipped and I do not trust him,” the tall Brother said. “He evades our questions about the Menti with vague replies, telling us he knows little about the rebels. Apparently they have half a dozen leaders, and he remembers little about their looks, let alone their names. I have had three men question him, and so far the numbers are between fifty and a thousand. But what we know is that they occupy the foothills of the Ash Mountain. We must anticipate powers from fire wielding to air manipulation. Some may change their faces, others may shift into animals, such as wolves or snakes.”
Stefan frowned, and the cold chill seeped into his bones. “So many as a thousand? Father has not given me the numbers.”
“Ah, the man speaks false. I do not believe for one moment that there are a thousand rebels waiting for us in the shadow of Zean. I will not lie to you, Your Highness, the fight will be tough. You have a cavalry, archers, and good fighters. And we have surprise on our side. There is no reason for them to expect an attack at this moment.”
“Unless they know who Luca is,” Stefan said. “Luca knows we are coming for him.”
“We will send scouts,” Mikkel replied. “They will travel like shadows through the foothills and send word of the Menti numbers.” He tapped Stefan on the knee and rose with a groan. “These old joints creak these days. Get some sleep, Your Highness. All will look better when the sun rises.”
Stefan wondered how his good mood had disappeared so quickly. He had three guards flanking his tent, though he did not imagine he would need them in this valley were God had clearly forsaken the place. He pushed his fingers into the hard dirt and wondered if Luca had camped at this very spot. Had his brother sat here contemplating his next move? Had he sat here and felt himself too young for his circumstances? He sighed. Perhaps Mikkel was right: He should sleep and rid his mind of these useless worries. Anios would not concern himself with such.
His bed for the night would be a pile of furs inside a rickety tent. It was not a bed for a king, but it would do. He sat down on the soft furs and began to pull his boots from his feet. He had moved onto his right foot when the tent flap ripped open and the knife came flying towards him. Stefan’s gaze was so fixed on the bright blade that he almost froze in one spot. His hands lifted automatically, and somehow, his fingers gripped the wrist of the knife wielder.
Lania Menti. Lania Menti.
The words rang in his ears. He pushed the wrist as hard as he could, throwing his body against the weight, but he was off-balance. His knees buckled, pushing him back onto his backside, while the attacker still stood, leaning his weight down towards Stefan.
“Lania Menti! Lania Menti!”
They were a scream. The screeched words came from the mouth of the merchant as he pressed down onto the knife, now inches away from Stefan’s breast. For the first time, Stefan glanced up to find the merchant’s rage-filled eyes staring down at him. The weight of the man pushed him down onto his back, while a droplet of sweat fell from the merchant’s brow to hit Stefan on the cheek.
There was an instant where Stefan believed it to be over. His forearms burned with exertion as the knife moved a fraction closer to his chest. The merchant gritted his teeth, and spittle flew from his mouth, but Stefan could not die today. It was not in his destiny. He was destined to be king of Estala, and no dirty Xanti merchant would get in his way.
He moved as fast as he could, mustering the last of his energy. It began with raised knees hitting the merchant with full force, then he pushed him back, let go of his wrist and rolled from the furs, finding his sword in the process. Stefan rose to his feet and unsheathed the sword.
But the merchant was nothing if not persistent. Yelling his bizarre phrase, the man raised his dagger and flew at Stefan, dodging Stefan’s blow and almost opening the prince’s throat. Stefan leaned away from the thrust, then brought up his sword to meet the next blow. He parried the merchant a second time when the tent opened and the guards rushed in. It took three guards to seize the man, while Stefan dropped to his backside with shock. He immediately shook himself and rose to his feet. Princes did not collapse in fear.
Brother Mikkel hurried into the tent. “Your Highness, are you hurt?”
It was all Stefan could do to muster the energy to shake his head.
“What was the man shouting?” Mikkel asked, moving towards the merchant, who was now subdued, but still refusing to stop staring at Stefan in a way that unnerved him.
“Lania Menti.”
The merchant began his cry until Montano beat the cry from his lips. The merchant sagged forward, with blood dripping from his mouth.
“Long live the Menti,” Mikkel said. “I should have known that a merchant who travels to and from the Menti camp would remain loyal to them.”
Stefan hated this man who had tried to kill him. He hated him for the assassination attempt, but he hated him even more for his loyalty.
“What shall we do with him, Your Highness?” Mikkel asked. For the first time since they had left Estala, the Brother’s eyes lit up. “Anios would welcome a sacrifice.”
Stefan locked eyes with the Brother. “I will drink his blood tonight.”
Luca
Tania the water fighter resembled his brother Matias in not one feature, yet Matias was all Luca could see as he faced the girl. He rubbed his naked wrist and tried to control his breathing. Geraldo had pinned him to the ground to remove the iron bracelet. Now the fever spread through his body, creating the rivulets of sweat that were running down his temples as he stood under the Xanti sun and faced his opponent. Tania should be afraid, but the girl stood nonchalantly, resting one hand on her hip. She wore leather from the neck down. Only her hands and face were bare.
“Whatever you’ve got I can counter it.” Tania adjusted her weight from one leg to the other and picked dirt from her fingernails.
“I cannot,” he said. “I will not.” He turned and glared at Geraldo who stood to the side scowling.
Luca had made the mistake of telling Brother Axil about what he saw in the tent that night. He had decided then and there that he had no other choice. Luca had run away from the tent like a coward and he was ashamed of it, but what he had seen had been evil. How could a father inflict such pain and suffering on his son every single night? He remembered the stench of searing flesh and the look of agony on Nico’s face. He remembered how Geraldo had forced Nico to heal his own wounds. It was wrong.
After Luca explained what he had seen, Axil spoke to Geraldo about the treatment of his son. While Axil was berating the camp leader, he told Luca to stay in his tent, but Luca had disobeyed his Governor and followed Axil to see what was going on. In the shadows of the camp, he concealed himself and watched while Axil admonished Geraldo for his actions. The tough rebel leader had only shaken his head in response.
“Have y
ou any idea what we’re facing? Every time new recruits come through that valley and join us, it opens us to the possibility of an attack. Davead’s men could be making their way through the valley at this very moment and we’re not prepared for it. I demand a lot from all of the powerful Menti in this camp and it’s no different for my son. He doesn’t get any special treatment from me because he’s my son.”
“It seems to me that he doesn’t get any treatment at all,” Brother Axil had barked back. “The boy deserves a father, not a torturer.”
Luca had shrunk back into the shadows at the sight of Geraldo’s fierce expression. The man’s nostrils flared as he lifted his hand to jab a finger at Axil’s chest. “He will need to know pain in battle. He will need to be able to face it and heal his injuries before it’s too late. The boy isn’t a fighter, don’t you understand that? I have to keep him alive somehow.”
“Why does the boy have to fight at all?” Axil replied. “Keep him out of the battle when the war comes. There are healers in war. They stay in the camp and help the wounded.”
“Because he’s Menti! Because King Davead won’t rest until all the Menti are killed.”
Luca saw Axil narrow his eyes. “What do you know of King Davead?”
“I know his ilk,” Geraldo said. His voice was strong, but Luca noticed how his eyes dropped and he took a step away from Axil. “He’s tried to wipe out the Menti before and he’ll do it again.”
Luca had snuck away from the men then. Now, while he faced a bored-looking Tania, he thought of that moment. Geraldo hid something from the rebels. There had been a moment where Geraldo realised he had given away the hint of a secret to Brother Axil. Maybe he knows Father, Luca thought.
“Get on with it,” Geraldo hissed, pulling Luca away from his thoughts. He stood with his arms folded and his legs akimbo, glaring under knitted eyebrows. “Tania, strike.”
“He’s not ready.” Tania lifted her arms in frustration. “Ludo, listen, you have to look inwards. What are you feeling right now?”