"Two days to Farren," Gar Tsi said with a grunt. "Three more to the capital."
Irreor hadn't found the need to speak much this past week. Those first days had been filled with a dense cloud that stole his sense. A fever. Thrashing and moaning and screaming.
Teel had tended his wounds.
'Like a mother with a baby,' Gar Tsi had said, a strange pride in his voice. 'Harpy didn't let you out of her sight, and she's being unlikely to until you're full healed. She's a better woman than I deserve.'
So now Irreor simply rode, waiting to reach Alkar and Kinslek.
"We'll stop in Farren?"
Gar Tsi frowned. "Boy, we aren't having the time to stop. Kinslek's needing to know—"
"My friends—"
"Will be waiting there a day or two more. My fool cousin hasn't always been trusting me like he should, and he'll be wanting to hear this from your mouth. Void's tit, I'm only hoping he'll listen."
A day, an hour—would that change anything?
Irreor twitched his fingers until pain crept up his arm. The merchant was right. They couldn't stop in Farren. Two or three hours wasted would've put the Mad King's army that much closer.
To hasten their journey, the merchant had abandoned his wares on the roadside while the fever was taking Irreor. He claimed he hadn't looked back and, with the wagon lighter, they'd traveled twice as fast. They always broke camp before sunlight splashed orange across the night, always lit their campfire long after stars twinkled.
"What can Kinslek do?" Irreor asked.
Gar Tsi scratched his armpit. "I'm not knowing—"
"What! Why risk time for a man we can't depend—"
"Kinslek hasn't got much of an army, and never saw a need for filling the fields with breastplates and arrows. King's cock, boy, there weren't being any problems before a few years ago, and they snuck up quicker than a cat with a mouse. You're knowing it."
Before Kylen Crest had killed Irreor's father, and before the plague in Rippon, he never would've suspected this. Two weeks ago, before he'd seen what Abennak was capable of, he couldn't have imagined a war.
"Kinslek's a good man," Teel said from the back of the wagon. "He's a little jealous of our lifestyle, but he means no offense by it. However, his wife is a bitch. She uses him and he lets her. Gar Tsi never cared for that."
The merchant grunted.
"I don't bloody care," Irreor said, surprised by the anger in his voice.
He'd killed a man. Not just killed, but murdered—all to protect his friends. Now they rode to meet a king who didn't command an army. Hope? It was a futile, fickle mistress.
Gar Tsi scowled. "Boy, you're—"
"Pissed."
"Aye, and that's not being a horrible thing. You've seen things men aren't supposed to see, and it's tearing you up like a rat in your guts." He patted Irreor's knee. "We're understanding."
Again, Irreor nodded and struggled to stifle his anger.
"Bought myself a silver eagle back in the Outskirts." Gar Tsi held a small figurine up to the sunlight. "Pretty enough, I suppose. Only thing I kept."
Over the past year, Irreor had paid little attention to Gar Tsi's haggling. However, soon he'd return to Farren. Krayr would be there, and the blacksmith had requested only one thing: a trinket.
Irreor owed the man that much.
"How much do you want for it?" he asked.
"What you be needing it for?"
"I promised something to a friend a long time ago."
Gar Tsi dropped the eagle into a deep pocket. He grinned—the same twist of the lips he always adopted when he attempted to haggle. "How much you willing to pay?"
"What you paid plus one silver penny extra."
"Boy, you're knowing I can't sell it for that. I'd run myself out of business—"
"You don't have a business!"
"No respectable man would be selling it for what I paid for it, and that's being final. King's cock, that poor bastard only sold it because he was needing the coin."
"Do what you want, but I won't give more."
Gar Tsi rubbed the eagle as if considering the offer.
Irreor rarely chose to abuse the merchant's inability to haggle—Gar Tsi seemed to do it just for fun—but sometimes, like in the case of a trinket for Krayr, he was willing to take advantage of it.
Teel jabbed her husband in the ribs. "Rippon's brothels weren't enough. I need something more."
"You could be taking me."
"Something that doesn't stink."
"Ah yes, my lovely, don't you be thinking I've forgotten about that. Alkar isn't but a few days away, and they're sure to be having something."
"A brothel, or a bath?"
"Both."
A girl, a wiggle, a smile—those things were enough for these two. No threat of war could tear them from their perch. It was nice, in a way, but Irreor would be forced to leave them once they reached Farren.
Teel poked his arm. "You'll join us?"
"No, but thanks all the same."
"Bah! Always so dour and serious." She crossed her arms to force her cleavage higher. "You're certain?"
He tore his gaze from her breasts. "Ah yes, quite certain."
"Such a shame. One of these days, though—"
"Leave him alone, woman," Gar Tsi muttered. "Fool boy has enough on his mind."
With the passing of large, fluffy clouds, morning became afternoon. They rumbled on, sometimes in silence, sometimes with a witty jab or friendly banter. If only Irreor could've forgotten the things he'd seen, the things he'd done.
If only a war weren't coming.
The afternoon deepened.
They passed a series of shallow dales. Small rocks littered the road, and the wagon jerked and hopped over them. At the mouth of the first valley, a wide, deep river poured from a spring, winding its way across the road. A rotted bridge spanned the water, with little yellow flowers sprouting from sodden, half-squishy planks.
Gar Tsi cursed. "I'm not taking us over that."
The road ended at the bridge, forcing them to skirt south of the stream, through a muddy patch of forest and foliage. Weeds—some green and thin, others red and thick—reached high to touch the wagon's floor. Progress slowed as the mud grew deeper, squelching and grabbing at the wheels.
Their donkey huffed in protest.
"This is a bad idea," Irreor said. "We don't even know how far this goes, and we don't know what's in those woods. Turn back."
"Just be getting yourself off," the merchant muttered. "I haven't been leading you astray yet, have I? It's only a bit of this to be slogging through before we find ourselves dry land again. Void's tit, we'll find another bridge."
Both Irreor and Teel did as he asked, and all three yanked and shoved the wagon through the muck. Mere feet away, water flowed over rounded stones. However, the opposite bank was clear of weeds and mud, with a well-traveled trail to complement the stream's gentle curves.
Gar Tsi stomped alongside the donkey, glared at the other bank. "All I've ever wanted was a bit of coin to find a woman or three, nothing more and nothing less."
"Lovely, we'll find a brothel soon," Teel said. "You'll find a proper bath, too."
"You were just in Rippon," Irreor said. "Surely you found something there?"
"Aye," they both said.
True, the island trails passed easier in the company of the merchant and his wife, but something—similar to the uneasiness he’d felt in the Skiran Outskirts—wiggled at the edge of Irreor's sight. It was a face, or an arm or leg, but it vanished the instant he focused on it.
Someone watched them.
The stream gurgled. Branches rustled.
Gar Tsi stroked his wife's arm. "You be giving me a promise, love?"
"Aye, we've gone too long without a romp—"
The forest erupted.
Two, three, four men leapt from the undergrowth and charged the merchant's wagon. They wore ragged leather armor with mismatched iron bracers. One man wielded a bent
longsword, and the other three clenched shortswords. All screamed as they rushed forward.
Irreor froze.
"Boy!" Gar Tsi yelped, and he scurried behind his wife.
-Ah, but the next deaths will be much worse than the first. They'll change him, yes, but at what cost? Whatever it is, it's one I'm willing to pay. Turn the man to stone. I'm a stone.-
I don't want to be a stone!
Teel growled as she leapt in front of her husband, long dagger bared. Gar Tsi stumbled backward, bumped into the wagon, and fought to find the reins to steady their donkey. The attackers darted forward, closer, almost within arm’s length.
-He won't have a choice.-
But I do. I choose to protect them.
Irreor ripped his dagger and longsword from their sheaths to block a diagonal slash from a gaunt, half-starved man. The counter came to mind without effort and he rammed his dagger into the man's chest.
Teel howled and flung her blade into another man's eye.
Both attackers crumpled.
Irreor breathed low and even, just as his father had taught him. The two remaining attackers circled to either side of him, and he followed their movements from the corners of his eyes.
"Get to the wagon, Teel," he commanded.
She did so.
The voice from Irreor's childhood twitched and scratched at the back of his neck. It spoke with a smug, anticipating tone, as if enjoying the attack on the merchant's wagon:
-Yes! Blood will rain to the forest floor like a summer deluge. He'll grow. He'll learn. And he'll lead.-
I'm busy.
The man to Irreor's left launched forward, blade lifted, shrieking in desperation. The second attacker followed, and they converged on Irreor like two felled trees against the same sapling.
Irreor rolled beneath their slashes, whirled to face them, and crouched with his blades raised in a defensive cross. They attempted to mimic him, their movements slow and clumsy compared to his nimble steps.
-Oh, how he'll struggle with it. But what will rise from that flood of emotion is the man my prophecy will need.-
Busy!
"You have one chance," Irreor said to the men. "Leave your friends here and go back into the trees, or die. I don't care which you choose, but your families—"
"Our families starve," the first snarled. "We got nothing."
"Not good enough."
The second man's eyes darted to his fallen companions. He gulped, and his stern features melted. His rusty sword wavered and drooped. The first attacker, however, released a low hiss, clenching his weapon tighter. Behind the men, Gar Tsi snatched his wife's hand as she balled her fists and stepped forward.
The first man pointed his blade at Irreor. "We want to feed our families and survive the year. We got nothing. Give us the wagon and we'll leave you in peace."
-They'll die.-
"You'll die," Irreor stated, struggling to disbelieve his own words. "The wagon is empty, we dumped everything almost a week ago. It's not worth dying for. Void take me, turn back and—"
The first man unleashed a hacking, frenzied cough and shot forward, sword held like a spear. Irreor skirted to the side and whipped his dagger across the attacker's throat. Blood, smelling of copper and heat and death, rained to the ground. The man's face smacked grass as Irreor continued his movement, skipped forward, and thrust his sword through the last man's gut.
Irreor completed the maneuver to hack head from shoulders.
Silence.
Gar Tsi released his breath. "King's cock, I hadn't expected—"
"You should have!" Irreor pinned the merchant with a fierce glare, and the man pressed himself against the wagon. "I told you to turn back, but you ignored me. I told you it was a bad idea! I'm not a child. I'm not a boy, and you'll listen to my advice from now on."
Teel frowned, but remained silent.
The fury of the fight fled Irreor, leaving his arms and legs with a soggy, tar-like sensation. With trembling fingers he cleaned his blades on a bandit's tunic, then sheathed them with short, jerking movements. These men hadn't attacked out of spite or maliciousness. They'd done so out of desperation.
"Aye, bo—man, I'll do that." Gar Tsi gripped his wife's hand, holding to it as if he never wished to release it. With his other, he dug deep into his pocket and tugged out the eagle figurine. He tossed it to Irreor. "I'll consider—"
"Not good enough," Irreor snarled. The eagle's metal beak poked his palm, but the pain didn't compare to what he'd done. He forced his voice steady as he said, "I'll go with you to Alkar and talk to Kinslek, but I'm my own man after that."
He pivoted and stumbled into the same weeds and bushes those men—now corpses—had hidden in. He staggered deeper, until the gurgle of the stream vanished beyond trees and flowers and grasses.
-Those later kills, ah. I'm sorry.-
He dropped to his knees and mourned. Not the dead men near the stream, but the loss of himself. He wasn't the same man who'd refused to fight Crest a year ago.
Now he was a killer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kipra glanced across an empty market. The courtyard was barren, though a thin layer of dust coated the roads and buildings and stalls. No other vendors were here. No customers. Not even the Parched Ones shuffled through the streets.
Except for her shortswords, the tables were empty.
"I've half a mind to send you away," Haral muttered.
Thick smoke billowed from the city's center, reached high into the sky, and blanketed the market with the acrid stench of roasting flesh. The midday sun hid behind gray and black wisps.
Kipra drew a deep breath and coughed it out. Her eyes stung from the smoke, from staying awake through the night. She'd thought another night on the hilltop would help clear her thoughts, but she'd been wrong.
Haral cursed and said, "We shouldn't be here. I didn't think he'd take the city so fast."
"He was ready." Kipra wet her lips. On the far side of the market, the half-sitting corpse of a Parched Man leaned against the baker's shop. Blood pooled beneath it. "No one else was prepared."
Haral grunted.
Through the night, Crest had assassinated most of the council and toppled the king's government. Only a few councilmen remained, but they'd thrown their support behind the crime lord. He'd gathered a small army—bought with the extorted coins of the city's merchants, paid for with the manipulations of a talented whore.
Earlier in the morning, Kipra had snuck past the pyre on her way to the shop and, in sullen darkness, its blaze had painted the sky red. Crest had ordered men and women and children thrown atop it—King Kinslek's loyal soldiers, the councilmen and their families, and other, much more random killings.
Her sister had bullied or coerced the entire city. When threats had failed, Kleni attempted to use her body. If that didn't work, she'd ordered people killed. Like Haral, the council had failed to act. No one stood up to her.
Because of her, Crest owned Farren. His thugs prowled the streets, laughing and whooping at what they'd accomplished.
Haral wiped a hand across his brow, and a dark line of ash stuck to his forehead. "We shouldn't have come here. We should've stayed in the house where it's safe."
"I'm not leaving the shop. It's all we have."
"Kipra—"
"Be silent, Haral," she snapped. "Leave if you want, but I'm not backing down. Not again." She pointed to the corpse near the baker’s. "You thought you were protecting me when you gave my sister those coins, but this is what you bought."
He hung his head and whispered, "I didn't know."
"Then you're a fool."
He flinched, and she shook her head in disgust. Everyone had funneled Crest coins. She'd watched it, tried to stop it, even warned of what would happen, but he continued to pay them behind her back.
He never let her protect them.
He was wrong. So, so wrong.
Steel clashed in the distance, and Kipra snatched her weapons from the table.
The worn hilts felt comfortable, like a friend who had returned after years away, but she'd never used them beyond practice. She'd never proven herself. But these men, these thugs who destroyed her city, who leered at her, craving nothing more than her body—she'd kill them.
Haral wrung his hands. "Kipra—"
"Go away." She leapt to the other side of the table and peered down an empty alley. More steel clashed, this time closer. "I'll come get you when it's finished."
He opened his mouth to protest, but she swung away to stride down the alley. Haral couldn't understand the years of flinching beneath men's stares, of bearing the legacy of her true mother and sister, of watching as Crest wrenched more and more power.
Swords clashed again. A high scream rent the air—a child, or a dying man. The alley was wide enough for two people, but it spilled into a broad road fifteen paces in front of her. She crept forward and sprang around the corner on the balls of her feet.
Two men flanked Bran. Another lay motionless at his feet.
Kipra skidded to a halt. She'd expected a helpless woman or a stricken child, or maybe one of Kinslek's soldiers, but not Bran.
The blacksmith ducked beneath a wild swing. Blood seeped from beneath his tunic to drip from his elbow. Tears streamed down his tender, round face, and he clenched an iron cudgel in a meaty fist.
Why is he here!
Kipra danced forward.
One of Ark's lessons flashed through her mind, 'Do whatever you can to kill or maim.'
She lashed a blade against the back of the first man's knees. He shrieked and fell. She leapt toward the last man, but he cast a startled glance at his screaming companion and fled.
Kipra's heart hammered against her chest and her hilts were slick with sweat. Adrenaline roared in her ears as she grinned. She'd drawn blood. Years of training and restraining herself had paid off.
But it wasn't enough—she needed to feel something... more—and she turned back to the first thug. The man thrashed against the ground, screaming again and again. She leapt to finish him, but halted mid-turn as Bran smashed his cudgel into the man's face.
Shrieks vanished beneath a wet thud.
The blacksmith lifted his cudgel to smash it down. Brains splattered. Through broken sobs, he growled. Kipra reached out to yank the weapon from his hand, but he tore it from her to again smash it into the dead man's shattered skull.
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