by Rose Reid
I swallow, knowing he now expects me to finish my agreement with the king. And I should. So why can’t I? I feel the familiar twist of fury rising up in my chest. I cannot kill him — not yet. Not until I am certain that he did betray me.
And if you decide he is not the traitor you thought he was? whispers that dangerous voice.
Clenching my jaw, I decide I will deal with that then.
Lyom relents, letting out a long breath, and I catch myself watching him again, observing his every movement. His rigidness is gone, his stiff posture no longer ever present, and the scowl that seemed to be his permanent expression has vanished from his face. He is warming up to me. I hate the twinge of hope that jumps in my chest.
“You should rest more.” Lyom insists.
“I’ve rested long enough.” I answer.
“You were sick, Aerietta,” Lyom responds, looking at me with almost pleading eyes. “I don’t know how much of last night you remember but … You looked like you were going to die.” He gets to his feet, eyes wide. “You screamed for what seemed like hours!”
I flinch. That I remember.
Lyom rakes a hand over his face. “Just …” he begins. “Rest a little longer.” His posture begins to grow more rigid and I realize that whatever glimpse into the soul the Swordmaster claims he doesn’t have is fading, dwindling to nothing. The Blight of Evrallon is returning.
“I need rest as well.” Lyom says, turning and walking out of the room. I feel more than hear the door slam behind him, the shuddering of the hinges rattling through the air.
I do as Lyom tells me and rest for thirty minutes longer before getting up and stripping the old dress off in the washroom. My leg is sore and it hurts to walk, burning brightly when I step into the hot water Lyom called the innkeeper to prepare. Once I am cleaned off, I walk out and get dressed in new clothes, checking once to be sure my Jezdah is fully covered.
When I leave my room, I find Lyom, Jamas, and Carnahan at the table in the center of the seating area, maps spread out before them. Lyom glances up as I approach, giving me a silent nod of approval. His gaze returns to the maps before him.
Lyom nods. “And the foothills?”
Carnahan frowns. “We can easily avoid them.”
I look between them curiously as I approach. “Pardon my ignorance, but what is in the foothills?”
“More like who, Assassin.” Jamas replies. “Good to see you are feeling better.”
Lyom glances up at Jamas before going back to looking over the map. It is a quick, fleeting look but conveys a silent message to Jamas, who promptly ceases his explanation and moves to examine the chart alongside his companions.
“We’ll need to meet up with the rest of our men.” notes Jamas. “They remain at the northeast gate of Adaai.”
Confused and annoyed to be yet again left out of the loop, I say, “Hold on. Who is in the foothills?”
Carnahan looks up, smirking, his wooly mustache widening with the effort. “Bandits of sorts, young lady.” He straightens, rolling his shoulders back. “Bandits I’m sure you would rather not come in contact with. Forest bandits.”
The use of the word “Forest” is not lost on me. The foothills must be an entrance to the Afterlight Forest, or at least an area where the wall between the two is weakened.
Lyom’s blue eyes meet mine from where he stands, still slightly slouched over the table. “We’ll avoid the foothills. We don’t need any trouble.”
I groan, strutting across the room and dragging a chair up to the table, taking a seat. “Why does that sound like a sadistic foreshadowing?”
Lyom ignores me, going back to looking over his charts. “Moher will have kept the men close. They may not be allowed in Adaai but they certainly will not be far from the empire’s gates.”
“So we head for the northeast gates.” Jamas continues, pointing at the map. “From there we take the Helmfirth route back to Evrallon.”
“We’ll need more weapons.” Carnahan observes.
I raise my hand and Lyom’s brow arches.
“If we are all getting new weapons I’ll need one as well. It would appear Dominik cast mine into the Hook Gulch in a fit of ill temper.” I say.
Lyom’s gaze searches mine for the briefest of moments to decide if he should spend King Dryden’s coin on a new weapon for me. After a moment he nods, looking to Jamas. “Go purchase weapons. We’ll need six daggers, more arrows for the twins, and a new sword for Carnahan.”
The mentioned grunts in agreement. How he managed to lose his sword I don’t know but Lyom must have given him a rough time about it.
Jamas nods and disappears through the doorway. Lyom sends me on an errand of my own — provisions. I am sent into the bazaar, which by now has nearly completely died back, and am ordered to buy whatever fruits, vegetables, or breads the vendors have left over. At first many of the vendors try to take advantage of me, believing I am just another traveler coming to partake in the Feast of Yaran. The vendors soon learn, however, that I am not one to be trifled with.
Upon arriving back at the inn, I see that what Lyom said is correct. The weapons have been collected, carried by Carnahan, and Jamas holds Dominik in chains. For a small moment I find myself hesitating in my approach, seeing Dominik in captivity like this settles oddly in my stomach. But then I pick up my pace, thinking only that I’m not sure if I trust Jamas to keep tabs on Dominik.
I take the chains from Jamas and Lyom only gives me a suspicious look before picking up a bag of items from the ground, pulling it over his shoulder. I do not glance back at Dominik as we begin our trek back to the northeast gates of Adaai where Lyom’s trusted swordsmen supposedly await us; I do not need him to try to convince me that I am making the wrong decision — trusting the wrong person. I’m not sure it would work, anyway.
The cobblestone road turns to dirt twenty yards outside Zahlemia’s gates. Unlike the past few days, the heat of the midday sun is not sweltering, threatening to evaporate every drop of water to hit the soil. In fact, the sky gives way to rain and dark clouds cover the sky, shielding us from the hot sun.
The rain that drips down from the sky is appreciated for the first hour but once it seeps into our clothes, making everything heavier, it becomes less of a blessing and more of a burden. I hold fast to Dominik’s chains but he has yet to attempt an escape. Lyom continually looks over his shoulder at Dominik, suspicion in his eyes. Lyom has not even been formally introduced to our prisoner and already he senses something is off. I’d like to urge Dominik to do something reckless or rebellious to prove to Lyom that we are not collaborating, as I’m sure he’s suspecting.
Carnahan continuously cuts his eyes over to me, a subtle smirk on his lips. Whatever he’s thinking I’m glad not to be privy to it. He threw the sling for his arm away this morning, though I am certain it’s still broken, unless he has whatever miraculous healing Lyom does.
The rain slows, becoming nothing more than a trickle from the sky, a bothersome pinprick of droplets that feel like needles at first. My soaked hair and clothes stick to my body. I am only slightly self conscious of the fact that my drowned clothes are doing little to conceal the curves they were meant to hide.
Dominik’s shoulder wound has begun to bleed. I assume it is where my dagger stabbed him. The blood drips from the back of his shoulder blade, staining his beige shirt more than it already was. We won’t stop to tend to the wound; he’ll be dead soon enough, anyway, whether I kill him or Lyom gives out and does it himself.
“What is your deal with the king?”
The voice of my captive surprises me and I look over my shoulder to be sure he has spoken. In the hour and thirty minutes we have been walking he has not uttered a sound — none of us really have.
Dominik looks only half curious. “If you plan to kill me then I cannot see the harm in revealing anything.”
I glance forward at Lyom who gives me a warning scowl as an answer. Turning back to Dominik, I say, “Your death for my freedom.”
Dominik’s dark silver eyes seem troubled. “You did deal with the king. What a horrid deal, Etta.”
I tilt my chin up. “It is a fair trade.”
Hoofbeats in the distance draw my attention away from Dominik and I turn to the road ahead, seeing a small wagon approaching, two males in wide-brimmed hats atop the wagon. Though I know we are still in Adaai and still safe from the pillagers of the Menca Denu, my hand subtly moves to the knife Jamas gave me in case it should be needed.
“Aerietta,” Lyom calls. “Keep the king’s prisoner close.”
I huff dramatically at his use of the word king. Dominik is my prisoner. But I pull him closer all the same. He doesn’t stumble over his feet as he moves up to walk beside me, though. Assassins aren’t ones to trip over themselves frequently.
The wagon rattles forward, the horses in an easy trot as they ride towards us. We continue to walk and Dominik still manages to have a shred of dignity, holding himself high as we move. When the wagon grows near enough that I can see the men driving the horses clearly and I do not recognize them my edginess begins to die out. It is never good when I recognize someone; it generally means I have killed a relative of theirs or have used them as my cover story at one time or another.
The farmers, if that’s what they are, tip their hats to us as they pass; a father and son it would seem. Water drips off their wide brims and the father offers us a courteous smile, though he seems a bit wary when he notices Dominik in chains. I do my best to offer a comforting smile, though I’m not sure how well I do.
We pass more villagers on the road the farther towards the northeast gate we get. From what I can tell they are traders, returning from the Menca Denu. Their clothes are tattered and their shoes are worn but for the most part they look whole. I see three of them that have severe wounds, one of which is being carried on a makeshift bed, two other traders bearing the injured’s weight.
As I watch them pass I wonder what sort of troubles they encountered while in the Menca Denu. As a no man’s land, bandits run rampant throughout the expanse, but it is not only the bandits one must watch out for. We were fortunate to only run into marauders that scrounged for their next meal but from the looks of it, these traders encountered far worse. For all the emperor’s carelessness, he would not send inept traders out into the Menca Denu.
The bites of one look sinister, choppy and uneven, not the clean wounds caused by the sharp bite of a wytrian. I can only imagine the sorts of animals with jagged teeth that could have caused such injuries.
The walls of Adaai soon come into view and for the first time I find myself eager to get back into Evrallon. I notice our pace quickens the closer to the walls we get. When they tower over us, a guard from the top shouts down in Adaaian, demanding to know who we are. Lyom and his diplomacy waves the document given to him by the emperor and a lousy guard comes down from his perch to inspect it. He frowns, looks us over as if trying to decide if we are the sort of folks to forge a document like that, and when he has decided that we are certainly not Adaaian, he gives Lyom a curt nod, speaking in a dialect of Adaaian I have not heard in a while. I frown, trying to hear what he says, then look at Lyom to see if he can understand a word that is being uttered. He turns around and looks over his shoulder at me.
“He says we are free to pass. My men wait for me beyond the gate.” says the Swordmaster.
I’m not sure why he tells me this. It is either to prove that he can speak Adaaian — perhaps even a little better than me — or if he somehow knew I wouldn’t be able to understand the foreign dialect. Either way, I must admit it is slightly unnerving to know that the Swordmaster could speak Adaaian the entire time we were here and never mentioned a thing.
The guard turns on his heel and marches back towards his tower, shouting up to another in gibberish Adaaian. A thirty second conversation is had between the two incompetent sentinels before the wooden gates are finally opened, revealing a vast wasteland beyond.
All is still in the Menca Denu and the breeze barely blows. I am thankful for the coolness of the day though don’t suppose every day will be like this in the expanse.
We walk through the gates, underneath the walls, and emerge on the other side. I hear the gates close behind me with finality and the guard from the wall shouts down to us in his strange, rough dialect, warning us to be careful, and that he hopes we “Evrallonic swine” find our way back to our “mud hole.” Lyom’s muscles tighten when he hears his words and I find myself wishing again that he couldn’t understand the dialect, or at least only knew as much as I do. Despite whatever code of honor the Swordmaster holds to, he is fiercely loyal to his king and kingdom.
As the guard said, Lyom’s men are waiting for us, but I notice a stunning lack of numbers.
Seven.
There should have been seven left.
Three of Lyom’s servicemen wait for us a few hundred yards into the Menca Denu, ten horses tied to a tree nearby. They have set up camp beneath one of the only trees with leaves on it, a fire burning in a pit. When we approach, they all stand sorrowfully and tuck their hands behind their backs like guilty children. The remaining three are Moher, Ulric, and Gresham.
Before Lyom has even made it to their campsite, he is questioning them. “What happened?” he asks in the same gruff voice he gets when he is furious. I am beginning to notice the slight differences in Lyom’s tones: You have the gruff when he is mad, the growl when he is furious, the hiss when he is silently angry, and the groan when he is annoyed. Oh, and then, of course, the strangely soft tone he took with me this morning. I’m not fully sure I want to log that down as one of his permanent sounds … I doubt I’ll ever hear it again.
It’s Gresham that steps up, pulling his shoulders back in a brave way. “It was my doing, Swordmaster.”
Lyom stops in front of them, dropping the sack of supplies at their feet. “Explanation.”
Gresham’s jaw tightens and I almost believe I see a tear in the corner of the boy’s eye. Then I remember that he had a brother — a twin.
“I fell to them during my shift.” Gresham says.
I throw Dominik’s chains to Carnahan, who has to catch them with his bad arm. He immediately grunts in pain when the chains hit his arm and I call it a small victory, proving that he is still in need of his sling.
I walk a few feet away from the group while Lyom and Gresham continue talking. My gaze scans the horizon. Something foul permeates the air; not the stench of death … something else. My gaze flicks to the walls of Adaai and all along the sides I find marks scratched into the stone, forever etched into the mortar. The claw marks are large, sharp, like talons. But a bird would be able to fly over the wall unless it was injured. What injured bird could make marks like that?
The conversation behind me grows quiet though they still speak. I turn around, noticing that Gresham has lowered his voice to a whisper.
“What attacked you?” I ask.
Gresham looks up, stunned to be questioned by me. Did he think I’d lost my voice? He looks as though he doesn’t plan to answer and glances to his Swordmaster for a response.
“I didn’t ask Lyom.” I tell him, then point back to the wall of Adaai. “What made those?”
Gresham shakes his head then decides shrugging his shoulders is more suited to the situation. “Beasts.”
I frown in annoyance. That could be anything. I know little of the beasts that dwell in the Menca Denu. Paired with Gresham’s vague description of the creatures that means I know absolutely nothing about the animals that attacked them.
I let out a huff. “You buried the bodies?”
Gresham looks confused but then nods his head. “Yes, of course.”
“Dig them up.”
Lyom looks at me in astonishment, followed by the rest of the swordsmen.
“Pardon —” Jamas starts.
“Do you want whatever attacked them to track us into the Menca Denu?” I demand. “Dig the bodies up. We haven’t much time. The bodies
will cover up our scent and also distract the beasts.”
Lyom must see the reasoning behind my order but he shakes his head. “We will not defame the bodies of fallen Evrallonic soldiers.”
“They are dead, Lyom.” I inform him as if he doesn’t already know. “They cannot be defamed. Will they not rot in their graves? Their bodies turn to dirt?”
“They deserve to be buried, Aerietta.” Lyom insists.
I shrug, hoping to play it off. I can’t let Lyom know they digging up the dead bothers me. It shouldn’t. As an assassin that shouldn’t unnerve me in the slightest. “And so do most of the people whose bodies I have thrown over bridges.”
Lyom’s scowl deepens while Carnahan seems to choke on whatever he is chewing. Lyom appears on the verge of dropping his head in his hands which is a new look for him … I’m not sure I care for it.
Sighing, I take a different approach.
“Let them help us even in death.” I say, allowing my tone to sound marginally sympathetic. “It is what they would have wished.”
Lyom’s lips purse in thought and conflict wars in his eyes of deep sapphires. Though he appears uncertain he nods his head. “Dig up the bodies. We leave them for the beasts of the Menca Denu.”
Not a soul argues Lyom’s command. Not even Gresham. The swordsmen go to work digging the bodies up by hand and Lyom helps, lifting one body at a time from its grave, carrying it several feet away before laying it down. I watch as Lyom bends before each, saying a few words before moving on to the next. I study him as he does so, listening to the words he speaks. I don’t understand the language, which is enough to send chills down my spine.
The last to be dug up is Northam. Gresham is the one forced to dig up his brother, as the others are busy carrying the bodies. I bend down beside Gresham who works feverishly to dig the body of his brother up from the earth. He looks up at me with cold indifference before returning to his work. I help him push the dirt aside, part of me wondering why I am doing it. This is not my chore. Something in me is sympathetic towards Gresham, who should not have had to bury his brother.