by Kal Spriggs
Katarina decided to strike in that confusion, “We can turn things around, here. And if not now, then when? At what point does tyranny and evil need to be addressed?”
“At what point did the three of us become the ones to address it?” Bulmor snarled. “None of these people fought for you when your mother and father lay bleeding out their last from hired assassins. None of them would dare to so much as shelter a defenseless girl for even as much as a night.” His rigid mask settled again on his features, but it couldn’t hide the glint of true anger in his eyes. “Show me one loyal man in the entire Duchy who stood for you when Hector raised arms against you.”
“No, Bulmor, they did not,” Katarina said, her voice calm. She remembered the terror of flight. She remembered the pale faces of people too frightened to do more than bid her be gone. “But responsibility and authority comes from above and not below.” She closed her eyes, “My father did much through inaction to undermine his own authority. Hector capitalized upon that. As we can now.”
“You’re talking civil war,” Bulmor said. She could almost hear the gears ticking away behind her armsman’s eyes. “If things go wrong, losing our heads might be the least of our worries.”
“How long before it starts anyway?” Gerlin asked with a wry twist of his lips. “The nobility no doubt feels Hector’s taxes just as heavily. It’s only a matter of time before some of them are pushed too far. Not to mention the potential disaster of more atrocities like the one at Watkowa. Hector’s Dog might have swept the village, but some folk will always survive to spread the truth. A countryside in chaos with squabbling noblemen and villagers in arms would entice even more attention from the Armen and their allies.”
“We can act as a force of control, to prevent total chaos of a class war or civil war,” Katarina said. “But we must be seen as the saviors to both nobles and peasants. We need to strike a blow against Hector that shows his lies.” Katarina caught Bulmor’s eyes, “We need to free the men in the square.”
Bulmor shook his head, “This is too dangerous. Your parents charged me with protecting you. I cannot let any harm come to you.”
“Bulmor,” Katarina sighed, “There comes a time when running will cause me more harm than fighting.” She pursed her lips, “Your duty is to protect me... surely you understand my duty is to the Duchy. Your duty must allow me to do mine. We must throw Hector down. The first blow must be struck.”
Bulmor stared at her with his iron-like mask. Gerlin looked at her and his sarcastic smile faded to some emotion that Katarina couldn't name. The halfblood spoke, “You know, this is probably going to get us all killed, right?”
Katarina cocked an eyebrow at him, “This from the man who escorted the daughter of the man who had him imprisoned halfway across the Duchy with assassins on her heels?”
“I didn't say that I was the smart one,” Gerlin snorted, “just that I expected better of you.” He shook his head, “Sometimes I think it might be best if the whole Five Duchies burned to the ground and we all started over. But I'm with you.” His eyes took on a hollow look, “For better or worse, I swore myself to your service, no matter the course.”
She recognized that ache and while she didn't know the specifics, she understood his pangs for a homeland, stuck between two worlds as a halfblood. She felt that way herself, in her exile in Marovingia where she was always out of place.
She turned her gaze to her armsman. “Bulmor?” Katarina asked.
Bulmor starred at the floor for a time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, with both dread and worry, “Alright. Alright. In the name of the High Kings, alright. Although, if they come again I wouldn’t be more happy than if you gave up this plan.”
Katarina smiled, “If the High Kings came again, they would need the support of the Duchy of Masov to put the rest of the Five Duchies back in order.” She shook her head, “Then you agree on my plan?” He nodded, and her smile widened. “Good, after we free them, we'll head north, into Tucola Forest…”
***
Aerion
Zielona Gora, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Aerion fought the pain in his legs and straightened from his slumped posture. His arms had long gone past pain. His head throbbed, but the pain of his lost eye seemed merely one more item in a list of agony. His head felt filled with scratchy wool and his cracked lips and parched mouth screamed for water even as his legs trembled with weakness.
He had seen both Old Barthan and Markel slump in the afternoon heat. As his body shivered in the cool night air, he tried to say prayers to the ancestors for their spirits. The words of the familiar prayers seemed to escape him. He knew, from painful experience, that it was impossible to breath like that for long, much less the hours they hung motionless. Aerion stood on legs that trembled with exhaustion. He turned his head to the side. The night guards stood near a small watch fire and Aerion recognized them after the past days and nights of suffering.
“Huh, the middle one's still alive. Tough kid,” The oldest one said. Aerion couldn't remember if the others had used his name. In truth, he could not see their faces any more, he saw shapes and blurs, but the details seemed distant.
“Too bad for him,” One of the others said. “He'll just suffer that much longer, poor bastard.”
“Serves him right,” the third man said. He stepped away from the fire and moved to stand only a few feet away. “Remember me? You cracked two of my ribs with that stock of wood. Captain Grel left me behind, stuck in garrison duty. I promised him I'd see you die in agony.”
Aerion worked his lips, tried to force words out. He could barely hear his own grunting moan.
His tormenter grinned and leaned closer. “What was that? Begging for mercy? Maybe if you beg a little louder I could end things quick for you.” Behind him, Aerion saw the other guards both turn to watch the encounter. For a moment, he thought he saw movement in the darkness behind the fire.
Aerion took a gasping breath, he forced his tired lungs to breath. It seemed to take every bit of strength he had to force the words past his swollen tongue and his parched throat. “Want... you to know...”
“Yes?” The guard leaned closer.
“Wish... I cracked... your skull,” Aerion gasped.
“You stupid peasant,” The guard drew his hand back, but froze at a cry of pain from behind him. Aerion grinned as the last of the guards around the fire dropped. One of the attackers brought a dagger across the guard's throat to cut short his cry. At least I'll see these bastards die.
The last guard froze. His mouth opened to shout. A stocky man, closed the distance before the guard could finish drawing his breath. He used a single, efficient stroke to cleave the guard in the neck. Aerion slumped even as the last guard fell.
“Check the prisoners,” The stocky man spoke. His gruff voice could have come from a spirit of stone. Aerion barely heard his words through the haze that filled his head. A moment later, he felt gentle hands check him over. “This one's alive, barely.”
A woman spoke, her voice sharp, crystalline clear. Her words cut through the haze in his mind. Aerion opened his eye. He felt a shock, like a static spark when he met the blue-eyed gaze of the woman who stood near the watch fire. “Just the one? The others... Bulmor I told you we had to move quickly. We could have saved all three!”
“They're dead, regardless,” The stocky man answered. “And we would be too if we tried this during the day.”
“Got the lock,” Another voice spoke from behind him, and hands caught him as the chains that held him suspended gave way. “Kingslayer! He's a heavy one. Give me a hand Bulmor.”
The stocky man got on his other side and had Aerion's arm over his shoulder a moment later. “Boy, can you walk?”
Aerion grunted, he tried to stand, but his legs gave out after only a moment.
“He's in bad shape. Gerlin, I've got him, get the horses.”
“Bulmor, what can I do to help?” The woman asked.
Bulmor looked aroun
d. Aerion felt the other man tense, as if he felt conflict over what to tell her. His voice seemed rough when he finally spoke, almost as if he didn't trust his own words. “Grab the guards weapons and anything else of value on them. We don't have long, but we'll need whatever we can get, my Lady.”
“Of course.”
Aerion tried again to stand, but his treacherous legs went out again and he slumped against the shoulder of his rescuer. “Easy, lad. Just wait for the horses.”
***
Chapter Two
Aerion
Near the Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov
Sixteenth of Silnak, cycle 999 Post Sundering
“…safe enough, for the moment.” Aerion heard through an aching skull. He groaned and attempted to rise, but gentle fingers pushed him back down.
“Lie still boy, you’ve taken enough harm in the past few days. Take a moment for yourself.” Aerion opened his eye and studied the speaker. The thin, clean shaven mahogany face was set with two ice-blue eyes. Aerion felt a stab of unease as he recognized the signs of a halfblood. The man smiled down at Aerion with perfectly even, white teeth.
The man stood and went past the small fire to a small lump of shadow that Aerion took to be saddlebags. A voice, the same as Aerion had awoken to, grunted, “So he’s awake then, is he?” The stocky warrior that Aerion remembered moved to stand over him. “Got a name boy?”
Aerion worked his cracked lips, “Aerion.”
“A Starborn name?” the halfblood asked. He placed a small tin cup in Aerion's hands and then helped him set up. “Interesting... I'm Gerlin, the grumpy one there is Bulmor. Drink this boy... but slowly.”
Aerion brought the cup up to his lips. The cool water tasted better than anything he could imagine. His first sip seemed to disappear into his mouth. He fought back the impulse to gulp the entire cup down in one motion and took another small sip.
“You were one of the villagers from Watkowa, did any of the soldiers waiting there survive?” Gerlin asked.
Aerion shook his head. “No.” His cracked voice startled him with its harshness. “I don't think anyone survived. Just me.” Aerion forgot about the water as he realized that he had something he hadn't dared to dream of when they'd suspended him in the town square. “I'm going to kill them all.”
The halfblood put his hand on Aerion's arm. “Listen boy, they deserve killing for what they did, I won't argue with you there, but you let them poison your spirit with hate and you'll complete their job for them. You'll be just as dead the others, just a bag of meat walking around.” Aerion looked up at him, and he saw some measure of his own pain reflected in the other man's eyes. Even so, he felt his stomach twist as he remembered the screams and the fire.
“Time for that later,” Bulmor said, though if he meant revenge or caution against it, Aerion didn't know. The squat warrior gave Aerion an abrupt nod and turned away.
“Don't mind him,” Gerlin said. “He gets that way around new people. Let him get used to you and he turns into a chatterbox, talk your ear off.” Aerion stared at the other man, barely able to follow through the aches and pains of his body. Gerlin gave him a smile, “For now, we need you able to ride. It won't be long until they've patrols searching for us.”
Aerion tried to set up, but a wave of dizziness washed over him.
“He's barely able to drink,” a woman's voice spoke from behind. Aerion twisted his head to the side to see the speaker. He felt a tingle run through his body as he saw her. It was the same woman from the rescue. Some echo of the shock he'd felt before ran through him again. He felt like he should recognize the tall, raven haired woman. “If we're going to get anywhere, we need to get him some healing.”
Aerion didn't register her words at first as he studied her features. He wondered at the source of whatever shock he'd felt when he saw her. Her black hair was so dark as to be nearly blue. Even seated, he could tell she must be tall for a woman. Her crystalline blue eyed gaze studied him even as he stared at her. He felt a tingle of anger, for her clothing and bearing showed her as nobility, as did the deference he saw on Gerlin's face. She was obviously well-born, probably a noblewoman, and it was the nobles and their politics which had brought Hector to power... and which had caused the destruction of his village.
“Every village healer will be questioned first thing. And none of them are going to forget a six foot six, one-eyed youth on the edge of death,” Gerlin said. “Our new companion does stand out a bit, if you haven't noticed, my Lady.”
“I think I have,” the woman shook her head. “I don't know where we'll even get decent clothes for him.”
Bulmor looked down at Aerion, he frowned, “How old are you, Aerion? Ten cycles, even?”
Aerion shook his head. “Not quite eight.”
“Not even a decade, and a big lad,” Gerlin shook his head, “Maybe not into your full growth yet. Was your father a big fellow too?”
Aerion forced himself to take a slow sip of the water again before he answered. The remembered shame felt all the worse for the certainty of his mother's death. “My mother never married.”
Gerlin coughed a bit, “Ah, sorry boy.” He shook his head, “Nothing to be ashamed of, there's plenty of great men in history who didn't know their father from their uncles.” He gave a grin, “You're in good company with me, I'm a bit of a bastard myself, in case you couldn't guess.” Aerion looked away. It didn't matter, everyone he'd known, his entire world, had ended in the village. He felt his remaining eye well up with tears, felt an ache in his chest that hurt worse than his other wounds.
Bulmor spoke, his gruff voice somber, “We'll have to ride within the hour. Can you do it?”
“We'll help you up on the horse, boy, but you'll need to stay on,” Gerlin said. “I can tie you up, but that might not be good with your injuries.”
Aerion nodded. “Never ridden much, but I'll stay on.”
Bulmor just gave him a sharp nod.
The halflbood man nodded and patted Aerion on the shoulder. “Well then drink that water and get some food in you if you can.” Gerlin stood, “My taciturn friend, perhaps you and I can prepare the horses?”
***
Lady Katarina
“Do you think he'll be able to ride?” Katarina asked Gerlin as they walked towards the picketed horses. Bulmor kept silent and seemed withdrawn.
Gerlin sighed, “He's willing and the spirits know he's little choice, but I don't think he'll make it through the day.”
Bulmor nodded, “Traitor's Death.” He spat to the side, “Few deserve that.”
Katarina sighed, “His wounds?”
“That and just exhaustion. The beatings didn't kill the other two, their suspension did. Bulmor is right, the Traitor's Death often kills even if there is some reprieve. It is the same type of punishment as crucifixion, they slowly suffocated as their legs weaken.” Gerlin spat to the side. “It's a death reserved for traitors and the worst sort of bandits and it normally requires authorization by the Duke or one of his Senior Magistrates for that sentence. Normal punishment is a hanging or beheading if they're noble enough.”
Katarina shivered. “They wanted those men to suffer.”
Bulmor shook his head, “Wasn't about them.”
Gerlin nodded, “Every person in that town knew exactly what fate they'd get if they stepped out of line.” Gerlin said. “And that's why we won't be able to find a healer within a week's ride who will see to the boy, not if they and their families can face the same punishment.”
“Any hope for him?” Katarina asked. She looked over at the young man, only a couple cycles younger than her. For a moment, she felt a surge of anger, with him as the target. She'd risked her life, and the lives of others to save him. Is it too much to ask that he live long enough to at least make that effort worthwhile?
“We'll see,” Bulmor said, his voice bleak.
***
Aerion
Tucola Forest, Barony of Zielona Gora, Duchy of Masov
>
Aerion clung grimly to the saddle as the horse climbed down into the stream bed. The four of them had journeyed along back roads, sometimes cutting across country, guided by Gerlin. The halfblood seemed to have an uncanny knack for finding his way.
Aerion had never before ridden a horse for more than a few minutes. He'd had an affinity for horses before, which had meant more trade with the handful of merchants who came through the village. Now it meant he kept to the saddle, despite the total exhaustion that weighed down his body and the weakness that left him feeling barely human.
They had five horses, one a pack beast, and Bulmor led them first at a trot, then a walk. Aerion drank water and stayed focused on holding on to the saddle. Whole stretches of terrain passed in a haze, barely noticed, as his world centered on remaining on the horse. Twice he had awoken, slumped in the saddle, as the horse moved to a faster pace to keep up with the others.
He felt blood drip down his back. He knew that his welts had torn open again and the bandages that Gerlin had tied on had become sodden.
The cool water of the stream felt good on his legs and he splashed some up on his hot face. The cold water cut through the dust and sweat and made the world feel sharper and more real. It was almost a shock to leave the water.
As they rode into the trees above the embankment, the world seemed to darken. Aerion shook his head, worried he would pass out again. He looked around and their surroundings finally pierced his dazed state. The entire western sky had turned the color of blood. The rest of the sky had gone dark. To the east the first stars had begun to show against the night sky. The dark trees around them seemed tangled and stunted, with dense underbrush that tugged at him as his horse followed the others ahead.
“Hold,” Gerlin's soft voice barely penetrated the gloom. “We're not alone.”
“Who's there?” Bulmor growled.
“There's more than a dozen of us and only four of you. I think, young man, that we have a bit better position to be asking the questions.” A thready voice called out.