by Watson Davis
Everyone laughed but me.
“Lieutenant, sir.” I held back from the squad crowding toward the stairs, ignoring the sharp intake of breath I heard behind me, the rustle of clothes, the jingle of bangles.
“You are going to share those extra rations, right?” Arcled asked, pivoting to face me, eyebrows raised, a dangerous undertone in his gravelly voice.
“Oh, of course.” I nodded, smiling, wiping the sheen of sweat from my brow, blinking back the lights winking in my eyes. “It’s just that this,” I indicated the floor in general, “doesn’t seem much protection against the Onei if he shows up. Maybe I should stay behind until more guards can arrive?”
The old orc grunted, his aged hand slipping out from below the blanket to retrieve the keys.
I bowed to him, saying, “No offense, of course.”
Arcled guffawed, stomping through the squad to my side, wrapping a sweat-stinking arm around my shoulders, squeezing me almost painfully into his chest. “The old shaman is a lot tougher than he looks.”
The old orc spat. “Thanks.”
“Now, about those extra rations.” He pulled me with him toward the steps.
I peeked back at the cells, hoping only for one last chance to bolster Aissal’s spirits, some eye contact to give her a spark of hope, but the other occupant, the one I had not seen before had risen from her cot. She stood by the barred door to her cell.
A dingy beige rag stained with blood and dirt, adorned with shells, stones, and bits of bone bound around her head, shrouding her eyes and hair, but leaving her mouth and nose bare. Her lean, muscular arms, the pure white of the Onei, a perfect camouflage against the snow and ice, bore the craggy marks of swords, whips, and canes. She wore a humble slave’s tunic of soft leather draped to her lower-thigh, and a peasant’s boots of strips of russet cloth swathed around her feet and calves.
Her lips curved into a cold smile, a knowing smile, a smile loaded with pride and revenge.
Lips I knew so well.
Lenya Brightfox.
My mother.
I stopped, stiffening against Arcled’s pull.
“Come on, boy.” Arcled yanked on my arm, dragging me down the stairs. “The shaman’s fine.”
Captured
Tallow candles sputtered and smoked around the room, wenches circulated carrying frothy mugs, their hips swaying, smiling and winking working hard for an extra coin or two. The tavern keeper poured mugs of ale and beer from kegs stacked on the bar. Other soldiers from other squads drank at other tables, with men and women who worked in and around the castle sprinkled in between, stablemen, scullery maids, fletchers, farriers, and more.
I burped as loud as I could, slamming my mug down on the circular table, at one time a wagon’s wheel now covered with rough planks, the whole table trembling with the impact. My hand clamping down over my mouth, eyebrows raising in mock-surprise, I gagged, not acting as much as I would have liked. The men and orcs around the table, most of them from Arcled’s squad, raised their mugs, bowing their heads, in a ragged chorus of “Here, here!”
“Gotta take a piss.” I lurched to my feet, stumbled around the bench, and staggered out the door to everyone’s laughter.
The door slammed shut behind me. I toppled into the shadows across the street, falling to my knees in an alley. I gasped for breath, pressing my throbbing, feverish forehead against the cold stones, and I relaxed. All the spells, save for the spell masking the amulet, unraveled, freeing me, the twisting, burning pain I’d endured fading, leaving only an echo of nausea, and a weary exhaustion.
I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of rest, no matter how much I needed it. Groaning, I shoved myself to my feet and jogged through the narrow streets, back the circuitous route I’d marked in my aching head, past this armorer’s shop, skirting that barracks, to the tower imprisoning my mother and my friends.
A couple of the guardsmen from the earlier card game lounged outside the tower door, one sitting on the stairs chewing on a root, the other leaning against the wall. I backed away, sticking to the shadows. Two more orcs stood on the wall conversing.
Finding a spot along the wall between these two groups of warriors, I whispered a spell I’d learned as a child, harder to cast than it would have been if I was fresh and rested, and I scaled the wall adjacent to the tower, my hands and boots sticking to the stones despite the thin sheen of ice, despite the gusting winds pulling at me, despite the unwieldy sword hanging from my back.
At the top of the wall, I peeked down at the sheer drop to the icy river below. The shore on the other side beckoned to me, pure, wild, Onei wasteland, a place where I could lose myself, a place of complete freedom where the only thing I’d have to worry about would be where my next meal would come from, a place I’d be all alone. All alone. I dreamed of that back in the monastery, prayed for that when Diyune began his ritual sacrifices, siphoning off my soul, my magic, draining me to power the spells that drove their damned empire.
I can’t run.
Nose twitching, tasting the air for the stink of unwashed human or orc, I crept, keeping low, ears vigilant, expecting an alarm to be trumpeted, for someone to point at me yelling, along the top of the wall to the tower, and climbed up the tower’s side, shifting around a quarter to the outside to keep from being seen, to not present a silhouette against the sky to the men on the wall, up all the way to the top, clambering up between the merlons of the battlements.
A trapdoor of black iron in the middle of the floor of the parapet glimmered in the moonlight. I lifted the door, straining against the weight, wishing I knew a spell of silence to dampen the horrendous creaking of the ancient hinges, or a spell to augment my strength, but I’d never had the time to learn how to do those, not that I had enough magic left to waste on such a spell even if I knew those spells. I had a fight coming; I had to conserve my strength for that.
I slipped in, reaching down with my toes, locating a shaky wooden ladder leading to the next floor down. I secured the door, and scrabbled down the ladder, eyes wide, adjusting to the dark, the floor appearing below my feet as a surprise, a jolt, my foot stopping when I expected it to keep going to the next rung.
"Close the damned window," a gruff voice yelled from below, fainter for the floors between us, but still loud enough to carry all the way up to me.
"Ain't no windows open up here," a voice called back from the floor beneath me.
The tower trembled, wavering to the sides for a split-second, enough to make me question my balance, to reach out my hands to break my fall but not enough to knock me from my feet. I gathered myself, taking a deep breath, steeling my nerve, sliding the sword from its scabbard. My hands jerking from weakness, my mouth dry, my heart thudding in my chest, I didn’t have the power left for this. I closed my eyes, whispering a prayer to Inare, hoping for a sign, an idea, for guidance.
An alarm sounded, ringing through the tower.
“He’s in the castle somewhere!” men shouted.
“To the prisoners!”
“Guard them.”
What?
I leapt onto the ladder, clambering to the top, placing my palm on the door, ready to run, out of this damned citadel, back to the forests on the other side of the river. As Rucker said so long ago, the Great Onei, running like a coward, I survive. I survived the sacrifices by protecting myself, by forcing other souls to be used up before mine would be touched, instead of allowing the energy to come from all of us equally, pushing their souls before mine in the queue, untrained children not knowing how to maneuver their spirit energy, trained magicians not understanding what was happening, except for Silmon who pushed his own soul to the front to be used first. Diyune and his monks killed those people, but my hands were not clean.
I slid back down the ladder to the floor.
One chance. One chance to make amends.
Slipping the pouch from my belt, I upended it, the amulet oozing out, tumbling to the wooden floor.
I stared at where I believed it l
ay with my magesight, barely able to discern it in the darkness, barely able to see the magical flows woven through it because of the shielding I’d placed on it. My fingertips traced the tattoos on my skin under my tabard.
Time for another sacrifice.
# # #
“Dammit.” Lieutenant Arcled slammed his dagger point-down into the rough-hewn, wooden tabletop and withdrew his hand. From beneath furrowed brows, he stared at the knife oscillating back and forth, mesmerized by the motion, the copious amounts of alcohol he’d imbibed to warm himself after a boring day standing in the damned ice with his eyes pressed to a window fuzzing his thoughts. He said, to no one in particular, “There was something I wanted to do.”
Agholor leaned forward, shoulder pressing against Arcled’s, his fingertips tracing the lip of his mug of Fosler’s Ale. “Remember to go outside before you take a whizz this time?”
Arcled pointed at the human, eyes squinting, his lips twisting, trying to get his brain working. “Close, but no. Something else.”
At a table across the bar, one of the new lieuts just up from the south, a repugnant human by the name of Surto, growled some angry threat to the Onei people in a toast with his men, the whole lot of them fools, overestimating their readiness, underestimating the strength and guile of the enemy, of the Onei.
Arcled rubbed his eyes. Most new companies sent up here for their final training lost a lot of men because of a lack of respect for the enemy. But if this lot was anything like Silmon, they’d do pretty well, unless Surto led them into some stupid ambush, and then Silmon would be butchered along with them.
Wait.
“No.” Arcled pushed the table away from himself, driving it into Gonnar and Ruag on the other side, making everyone at the table stagger back and curse. Arcled stood, swaying, holding his hands out for silence. “It’s good. Everything’s good. I remember what I wanted to do.”
“Oh, gods, save me.” Agholor thrust himself up from the table, not as drunk as anyone else in Arcled’s crew—he never was—watching Arcled with suspicion and fear.
Snatching his dagger from the table and jamming it back in its scabbard, Arcled whirled, jostling his way through the bar, tossing chairs and tables out of his path, regardless of whether anyone occupied said tables and chairs or not. Oblivious to the outraged chatter in his wake, Arcled stormed up to a singular table, and pounded his fist on it. “Surto, you sorry son of a cock-gobbler, you are not deserving.”
Surto sprang to his feet, eyes dangerous, hand on the hilt of his dagger, the dagger sliding out. “You mewling—”
Arcled’s left hand snapped out, clamping around Surto’s throat, dragging him closer, pulling him across the table. Arcled struck out with his right hand, clasping the man’s hand on his dagger’s hilt, stopping him from drawing it any further out. Arcled blinked. He glared back at Agholor who now stood at the ready position with his shortsword and dagger drawn, better for fighting with in cramped conditions than his two longswords, shifting back and forth like a hoodsnake, threatening every movement he saw, the rest of the squad forming up around and behind him.
“What was I saying?” Arcled asked. “What did I want to tell this piece of dung?”
Agholor shrugged. “No idea, but say it quick before this gets any uglier.”
Arcled stared at Surto for a heartbeat and said, “Oh, yeah. You are an ignorant, self-important prick, and you’re going to get all your men ambushed and murdered and Silmon is too good a soldier for that dragon-crap so I’m reassigning him. I’m reassigning him to my squad. Effective to earlier this evening.”
Surto grunted, trying to talk, wriggling like a worm in Arcled’s grip.
Arcled nodded and tossed Surto back into his chair.
Surto scrabbled for balance, coughing, and shot back to his feet, out of Arcled’s reach, yanking his longsword from its scabbard. “I’ve killed better men than you for less than that.”
“Professional courtesy.” Arcled grinned, resting his palm on the pommel of his dagger. “Silmon is on my squad now. He’s a good soldier, deserves to live longer.”
“Silmon?” Surto shook his head, swallowing and massaging his throat while still aiming his sword at Arcled. “Who is this Silmon you’re going on about?”
“That just goes to show you, doesn’t it?” Arcled sighed, turning, raising his hands, staring up into the air. “Just how bad a commander this arsehole is. Doesn’t even know the names of the poor sods under his command.”
Agholor’s face tightened, lips compressing, eyes narrowing. “Boss.”
“There’s no one under my command named Silmon, piss-breath,” Surto said. “Are you sure he’s not one of Lollingworth’s little bitches?”
“You don’t have anyone named Silmon?” Arcled turned toward Surto, the haze of alcohol lifting, hurled back by the pounding of his heart. Arcled held his hand up. “He’s about this high, northerner, magic-user, new recruit, poorly trained on his movement commands, undisciplined as hell? Silmon?”
“No.”
Arcled backed away from Surto, raising his hand, shaking his head, blinking his eyes. “That can’t be right.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling,” Agholor said. “That coulven girl really seemed to like old Sparks, didn’t she?”
“Sound the alarm!” Arcled screamed, whipping his sword. “Everyone to the tower, let them know this Caldane asshole is inside the fortress.”
Men and orcs jumped to their feet screaming, buckling their weapons back on, yelling commands at each other. Arcled elbowed through them to the side door.
Agholor cursed from behind him. “Where are you going, sir?”
“Some brainless idiot has to tell Silvertits who she gave extra rations to.”
# # #
Between the second and third course, Fi Cheen lounged in his seat beside Silverhewer, watching fools and actors with oversized, cushioned hammers running around swinging at each other, falling about with melodramatic flair. He listened to Silverhewer’s rumbling laughter, devising a myriad of creative ways to slay her, struggling with the question of whether he should redirect the blame to someone else or bask in the glory himself.
Renaud and Lyu-ra sat to his right, dressed in silken finery embroidered with depictions of the empress’ razing of Windhaven, robes prepared for them for this evening’s “celebratory” dinner by green-skinned coulven slaves Silverhewer captured in some battle in Morrin, his people being ordered to come at Silverhewer’s request to witness her mocking of Fi Cheen, diminishing him in the eyes of his subordinates.
Silverhewer pointed at one of the fools, a man with a smile painted on his face, rolling and tumbling in the dirt, jumping up and kicking his heels together. Silverhewer said, “That idiot there has a plan even better than yours, Fi Cheen.”
Fi Cheen sighed, glancing toward her, forcing the tips of his lips up in as fake a smile as he could manage.
“Of course, it would have to be better than yours just by the fact that it’s a plan.” She chuckled with the sound of swords grinding against whetstones, her entire body bouncing up and down, shaking her head, tears streaming from the corners of her beady eyes. “Maybe he should be charged with finding your slave.”
Fi Cheen wondered if he could jam her food into her windpipe and strangle her that way. He wouldn’t even mind perishing in her thrashing, the satisfaction overwhelming whatever pain and suffering he might endure before he succumbed to his wounds.
Slaves placed plates of food before them, thick silver plates polished to a mirror-like shine, loaded with steaming meats of local pig and salmon, and aromatic vegetables shipped from the southern lands.
“I don’t think he’d order me out to stand around in the snow all day waiting for prey that never showed.” Silverhewer grabbed a plate, the silver crumpling in her grasp, collapsing into a ball dripping with food, and she reared back, flinging food across the table, spattering a brown sauce on Fi Cheen, spraying him in the face. He ducked, raising his hands above his head.
Silverhewer glared down at Fi Cheen, her lips retreating from her monstrous teeth and tusks. “I don’t like standing around in the snow all day, scratching my vulva and pissing on trees, unless I catch something.” She bent down lower, putting her face next to him, and shrieked, “We didn’t catch anything, you stupid rat-fuck.”
“I know,” Fi Cheen said, wondering if her stone-like skin could withstand a pike entering her throat at the jugular, wondering how much force would be required to rip her throat out. “I was there.”
Growling, she turned back to the fools, and screamed, “Make me laugh or you all die.”
A squad of soldiers burst out on the arena floor, the wooden gate to the holding area flying open, the doors striking against the stone arcade and recoiling, quivering. An orc lieutenant led the men across the floor, through the fools who mewled in fear and scattered—Silverhewer smiled at that.
“General.” The lieutenant bowed. “I have news you must hear.”
Silverhewer rose up to her full height, her fists on her hips, gray eyes wild with fury. “Will this news of yours make me laugh?”
The lieutenant stared at her, his mouth open, his men milling behind him, moving up beside their leader, almost as if they would try to shield him, like they were preparing to fight for him. The lieutenant shrugged, wincing. “I believe this Onei we’ve been hunting, this Caldane, has disguised himself as a soldier, and sneaked into the fortress.”
Fi Cheen leapt to his feet, peering down at the lieutenant, at once elated, and angered.
Silverhewer stared at the lieutenant, motionless except for her teeth grinding together, crunching like the wheels of a mill. A long breath later, she whispered, “How did this happen?”