Reaper of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy)
Page 13
The man didn’t move, just continued to stare at the ceiling.
Stealing himself, Indaran slapped his friend’s face. “Wake up, Mastin.” He made the order sharp.
The slap startled life into Mastin’s face. He screwed up his expression, gazing at Indaran with bulging eyes. He murmured, “My Lord Prince?”
Indaran had to bend close to hear the words. “Yes. Ontarem is disabled. We need to escape now.” He pulled the man to a sitting position. “Get yourself up, and try to wake some of the others.”
“A dream?”
“Perhaps, but get moving anyway.”
“Yes, my lord,” the pilot mumbled.
Indaran staggered to the next block, his legs still not quite in his control. Here and there, some on the slabs murmured, began to stir, released from the terrible mind-hold of the Evil One.
A woman with sharp features framed by long blond braids and a bruised face lay before him. He didn’t recognize her. Something about her stillness made him touch the side of her throat, feeling for a pulse. None.
He swallowed down the regret that he couldn’t save her and moved on. He searched slab after slab. Only one out of three people remained alive. Some were crewmembers from his fleet, others were strangers. All seemed to have the lighter skin and hair of the people of Seagem.
From time to time, he checked on Jasmine. She seemed to work a bit slower than him, maybe because she wasn’t resorting to slapping people awake.
By the time he’d worked his way across the room, he’d gotten better command of his body, and a gradual wave of people stumbled toward the exit.
A shout went up.
Indaran pivoted.
Mastin leaned over a fallen guard on the floor and snatched up a sword. He raised the blade into the air for all to see, then, howling like a dog, he slashed down, beheading the body at his feet.
In seconds, the pathetic band of survivors transformed into a feral pack, grabbing for the weapons in the sprawl of guards.
Jasmine cried out in an unfamiliar language, holding out a hand, imploring.
Indaran started to run to the back of the room, but his legs trembled, and his pace was slow. Before he could stop them, the mob had hacked the men to pieces.
“Hold!” He put all the power of his will into the command.
The people turned to him, expressions contorted in hate, eyes dark with the madness of rage.
He raised both hands in a calming motion. “If we are to escape, we need to think, not just react.”
Mastin shook a bloody sword. “We had to kill them. They are tools of the Evil One and would have recaptured us.”
Indaran scanned the angry faces of the people, making eye contact with the ones he knew, as well as the strangers. “Yes,” he said quietly. “We probably needed to kill them. However, they were unconscious. We had time to plan what to do next, perhaps try to awaken one and question him.”
Mastin looked down, a sullen look on his face. “Yes, my Lord Prince.”
“Prince?” The inquiry came from a woman whose unbound copper hair spilled in waves to her knees. Her blue gown was torn, showing bruised flesh on the arms and across her chest. “I was a little girl when you left, but I know you.” She grimaced. “A black-and-white memory of you.” Her voice gained strength. “You’re Indaran, our prince who was lost so many years ago.” Her gray eyes welled with tears. “We thought you were dead, and all who sailed with you. Praise Yadarius you’re alive.”
A man with similar red hair and gray eyes, probably her brother, placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Hail, King Indaran.” He obviously tried for the ringing tones of a seneschal, but the hoarse disuse in his voice sounded no louder than a scratchy whisper. Yet he was heard.
“King Indaran, King Indaran,” sped in a quick chorus around the group of people. Moving with the stiffness of the very old, one-by-one, people dropped to their knees.
What do they mean, king? He shook his head, not wanting to allow the meaning of the word in. But still he knew. Iceros, his father, must be dead. Pain radiated through his heart.
“My father?”
The red-haired man bowed his head. “The whole royal family, my king. And almost everyone else as well.” Tears ran down his cheeks. “We were betrayed by King Thaddis. Ocean’s Glory turned the reavers on us, then attacked. We were taken captive, and as we sailed away on the slave ships, we watched Seagem burn behind us.”
Shock stopped his heart; grief choked his throat. Denial numbed his thoughts. Indaran reeled from the impossible news. No. No. No.
He must have mumbled the words out loud, for the pity on the faces swimming before him confirmed the truth more starkly than words.
Cries of grief tore from the throats of his crew. He shook his head, trying to block them out.
Later. Not now. Later. I’ll think about this later. For now, it isn’t real. We need to focus on escaping.
He waved everyone to their feet.
Don’t think of my family, my city. Don’t think. Don’t feel.
As he walked over to Mastin, Indaran’s eyes remained burning dry. He took the sword from the pilot, then stooped to wipe the blood off the blade on the torn kilt of its dead owner. Unbuckling the man’s scabbard, he jerked it from beneath the body, binding the belt around his own waist and thrusting the sword inside.
Indaran held out a hand to Jasmine, who’d hovered near his side, her face pale as bleached parchment, horror in her eyes. “Come, Lady Jasmine. Lead us to freedom.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jasmine shivered so hard she could only take shaky steps to reach Indaran’s hand. She tried to ignore the carnage around her, draw upon her healer senses to deal with the blood and body parts, shut her nose to the smell of raw meat, spilled guts, and feces. But nothing in her nurse’s training—not that she’d had much—had prepared her for this. Even through her revulsion, she sensed the deep agony within Indaran and the frozen wall he’d thrown around those feelings. He needed her. These people, brutally traumatized to the edge of insanity, needed her. Their need weighed on her shoulders. And Indaran expected her to lead them to freedom.
His hand tightened around hers. “Do you have a ship,” he asked urgently. “So we can sail back to Seagem?”
Someone in the midst of the crowd called out harshly, “There is no Seagem!”
Indaran turned toward the speaker, his expression stern. “Then we will rebuild. We cannot stay in Louat. When Ontarem returns to his power, we will be recaptured.”
“I will die first,” the same voice said.
Indaran touched the hilt of his sword. “As will I. But if we are all that remains of Yadarius’s people, we need to remain alive.”
The copper-haired woman laid a hand over her bruised chest. “Yadarius has turned His back on us.”
Jasmine stirred. “Perhaps not. Perhaps Ontarem has stolen His power in some way.”
The woman’s mouth slackened in shock. “Yadarius is a God.”
Indaran shook his head, obviously not understanding. He had the blank look in his eyes of one who’d been traumatized too much. Through her othersense, she could tell how he strained to suppress his emotions.
“A God,” the woman said again.
“So is Arvintor, Ontarem’s twin.” Jasmine wrapped her words in crimson healing power, trying to reach Indaran…reach all of them…give them hope. “Generations ago, Ontarem stole his brother’s power and banished him to Exonlah. Ontarem might have done the same to Yadarius, his rival in your kingdom.”
The people stared at her, their eyes wide and frightened, not comprehending.
Jasmine waved to the statue. “Only now is this one’s brother, Arvintor regaining His power. Arvintor has challenged His evil twin, and He has temporarily succeeded.”
A slight woman, who looked too frail to be standing, piped up. “We are not the only ones left of Seagem. More are still in the slave camp.”
Indaran glanced at Jasmine for apparent clarification. “Slave c
amp?”
Jasmine shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any slave compound between here and the grasslands.”
The red-haired man waved toward the right corner of the room. “It lies on the west side of the city, on the cliffs by the ocean.”
Indaran squeezed Jasmine’s hand. “We must free our people from the slave camp.”
The red-haired man shifted. “Twelve swords and twelve spears aren’t enough. We’re not fighters, or we wouldn’t have been captured in the first place. We’d be dead along with all of Seagem’s soldiers.”
“How many guard the camp? Can we storm them before fleeing to the ships?”
Jasmine said, “I have no ships.”
A bleak look crossed his face. More bad news for him to absorb.
“We will need to hurry toward Arvintor’s land.” Jasmine glanced around. “Perhaps only those who can fight should remain. The rest can head for the grassland. The Che-da-wah, the nomads who live there, will help hide you.”
The frail woman spoke up, a stubborn set to her mouth. “I’m not trusting any people who live here. I’m staying with King Indaran.”
A man who’d picked up the pike thumped the butt end on the floor. “My wife is in the camp. I won’t leave her.”
Nods and murmurs of agreement flowed around the group.
Jasmine could see they wouldn’t budge. “What is the camp like?”
“Horrible,” said the bruised woman in a flat tone.
A pained look crossed the red-haired man’s face. “Our people are forced to do menial labor. They suffer from ill health.” He tightened his arm around his sister. “Some of the women are used as prostitutes by the guards.”
A shudder of empathy racked Jasmine. She needed to find a way to help the prisoners. An idea came to her. “What if we sneak into the camp? It’s the last place they’ll look for you.”
The bruised woman crossed her arms over her chest. “Then we’ll still be slaves.”
Am I putting these people in more danger by doing this? Jasmine thought. What if I’m leading them in the wrong direction?
She waved in the direction of Exonlah. “Arvintor has challenged his brother. Ontarem won’t let that go unpunished. He will order his soldiers to the plain. With the chaos in the city and fewer guards at the camps, we can organize a general slave revolt.”
~ ~ ~
A spurt of admiration penetrated Indaran’s numbness. Jasmine is a quick-witted woman. He turned over her plan. Risky. But so is any other choice.
He refused to abandon his people. Because of him, they were in this predicament in the first place. But he’d have to withhold that information for a while. With their precarious hold on sanity, they might turn on him. And he wouldn’t fight his own people. Right now, they needed him to lead them, to escape. Later, when the truth came out, they could do with him as they willed.
Indaran looked at the red-haired man for confirmation. “What do you think of the Lady Jasmine’s plan?”
“I’m called Tempor, my Lord King. I think it will work. There must be seven or eight hundred people in the camp. Maybe ten soldiers posted at the gates. The guards won’t know everyone by sight.”
Indaran grimaced, but nodded agreement. “Tempor, you’ll be our guide. Mastin, you and Yok—” he gestured toward a tall, thin crewman “—guard the back. The rest of you fan out across the front and flanks. Everyone who is unarmed, stay together in the middle. Help anyone who is weaker.”
People shuffled around, putting themselves into position.
“Jasmine, you stay behind me.” Indaran moved to the doors, his legs gaining strength, and pushed them open slightly, peering out.
“Stop!” a voice thundered from the back of the room. “Stop in the name of Ontarem.”
~ ~ ~
Indaran whirled, sword ready.
He saw a priest, wearing a gray robe and a dull-silver helmet with a scalloped upturned brim, stagger down the aisle.
Vol. The shock of recognition sent anger coursing through Indaran. Vol, the first of their betrayers.
The priest leaned on a spear covered with runes, similar to the one Ontarem held, as if it were a staff. A beaky curved nose jutted from his face. Skin several shades paler than normal and large pouches under his eyes testified to his exhaustion. Obviously, the man had been depleted of his energy by Ontarem and had only just regained consciousness.
Rage boiled up in Indaran. He pushed away from the door, sword outstretched, and stalked toward the priest. The people parted to give him a wide berth. “We will not stop in the name of Ontarem. We are no longer forced to do His bidding.”
The priest halted, using the spear to draw himself to a straight-backed, outraged position. “Blasphemy. You are only here to serve His purpose.” Although Vol tried to sound condemning, his voice trembled with weakness.
Indaran bared his teeth in a feral grin. “No. Now, we serve ourselves.” He waved his free hand at the statue. “Look behind you. See the weakness of your God.”
The priest risked a quick glance to his rear, to the drooping posture of the statue. His eyes widened in shock, and the indignation seeped out of his body. Then Vol’s expression hardened. Wildness replaced the shock in his eyes. “No.” He reversed his hand position on the shaft, picking up the spear with a two-handed grip and charged at Indaran.
One of the women screamed.
The priest jabbed the point toward Indaran’s belly.
Indaran parried the thrust. Then he slid his blade up the shaft, slicing through Vol’s wrist and arm, then curving up to slash across his neck, almost severing the head.
Blood spurted. Indaran leaped back as the body collapsed.
Panting, he held the sword out ready to continue battle, almost wishing more of the Evil One’s followers would emerge and challenge him. Power raced through him. He swung his blade, loosening his arm muscles. Many years had passed since he’d touched a sword, but his body hadn’t forgotten the long years of training.
When no other priest appeared, he relaxed.
Someone murmured words of admiration.
Annoyed, Indaran swung around. “He was depleted and unsettled. Weak. A simple opponent. Once Ontarem and His priests and priestesses regain their power, they will not be so easily vanquished.”
The people hushed, shuffling their feet, and looking away.
Indaran looked at all the bodies lying on the slabs. He swallowed down his reluctance. “Listen to me, everyone. I know you won’t like this, but I am ordering each of you to go to one of them.” He jerked his head at one of the slabs. “Remove their clothing and add it to your own.”
He saw the unwillingness on their faces, but they obeyed him.
“And hurry,” Indaran called, his voice ringing through the building. “I don’t know how much time we have until Ontarem returns to Himself.”
That seemed to goad the people because they cast worried glances at the statue, then set about stripping the dead.
With the bodies not yet stiff, it only took a few minutes for everyone to disrobe the corpses and return to where he stood.
A shaft of sunlight glinted through the partly opened door and bounced off Indaran’s gold coronet.
Jasmine walked over to him and ran her arm over the silk of his shirt, an unconscious intimate gesture. “Indaran, you and your crew are far better dressed than the rest. You don’t look like slaves. You’d better don the clothes of the deceased as well.”
He looked down and a rueful look crossed his face. “We dressed to attend a welcome feast. Then we were betrayed.”
Indaran stooped and cleaned the sword on a corner on one of the slain guard’s kilt. Then he sheathed his sword, unbuckled his belt, and handed it to Jasmine.
He quickly stripped his outer garments, pulling on the rougher woolen clothing. But even dressed like a peasant, he still looked regal. He bundled up his clothing.
Jasmine took the ball of clothing and handed it to another woman who held a woolen cloak.
He smiled his thanks, then motioned the people into position. The crewmen and women with weapons surrounded the others. Then he glanced down at the dead priest.
The spear.
Indaran strode over to scoop it up.
“No,” Jasmine cried, running over to grab his arm. “The spear is evil. Don’t touch it.”
~ ~ ~
Indaran froze.
Relieved he listened to her, Jasmine relaxed her grip.
He raised one dark eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Look at Ontarem’s spear. The same runes are engraved on the shaft. When I studied them in a…when I studied them, I felt a pull that made me dizzy. I think touching that priest’s spear might put you in Ontarem’s power.
Indaran’s brow creased in thought. Grabbing the brown woolen cloak Tempor held, he dropped the material over the spear, picking up the shaft. “We need to destroy this.”
Jasmine leaned down to study the silvery helmet, trying to keep her gaze off the body. “And this too. I think it serves a similar purpose.”
He nodded. Using a fold of the cloak, he lifted up the helmet. “These will probably need to be melted down.” He looked at Tempor in inquiry.
“My cousin is one of the slaves in the foundry. Perhaps he can smuggle them in and melt them.”
“That would be best. In the meantime, they need to be wrapped and hidden.” He looked at Jasmine. “I hate to ask, but will you take charge of them?”
Jasmine eyed the shrouded objects with misgiving. “Yes. You’re right. They need to be disposed of.” She held out her arms.
Indaran gave her the bundle. Evidently satisfied, he stalked to the exit. “Come.” He pushed the huge doors open. The sunshine haloed his body in golden light, gilding his hair.
Jasmine caught her breath at the sight. He looked like a movie star from an ancient epic or a Greek god descended from Mount Olympus. Or a king.
He scanned the outside, then motioned for her to come close.