Sons of the Oak r-5

by David Farland

  “Come,” their leader said, eyeing Fallion. “We’ll take you to safety.” He urged his rangit forward a small hop, and Fallion smelled its breath-heavy and sweet, like some exotic grass, with undertones of hair and urine, much like a very large goat.

  Borenson suddenly backed up a step, placing himself between Fallion and the stranger. He smelled the trap.

  “Who sent you?” Borenson demanded. “What are you after?”

  “We came to save the princes,” their leader said. “That is all.”

  Borenson reached for his sword. His skills were legendary, but these men were bright Ones, and quicker than Fallion could see, one of them lunged forward, his long red lance plunging into Borenson’s gut.

  Borenson dropped his sword, stood there holding the lance.

  It was not a deep wound. Fallion suspected that only the tip of the lance, the first six inches, had penetrated Borenson’s girth. But it was a serious wound, one that could well be fatal.

  The Bright One shoved the lance a little, and Borenson clung on for dear life, letting himself fall back rather than have the lance driven deeper into him.

  Two rangits bounded forward, one of them heading straight for Fallion. He turned to run, and a lance drove through the shoulder of his heavy woolen cloak.

  Suddenly he was lifted into the air, kicking and squirming, his feet well above the sand.

  The knight lifted his lance point, and Fallion found himself sliding inexorably down the shaft, into his captor’s arms. He peered to his right, heard Jaz screaming and kicking as one of the Bright Ones seized him.

  Suddenly the rangits turned, and they were bounding away, racing along the dark beach the way that the soldiers had come while the surf pounded in their ears, the smell of salt water heavy in the wind.

  Fallion was devastated.

  He peered back, over the Bright One’s shoulder, and saw Rhianna there by the fire, frantic, torn between her desire to follow, her desire to help the wounded Borenson, and her terror of the strengi-saats.

  Fallion reached for his own blade, trying to wrench it from the sheath. His captor shook him so hard that the blade slipped from Fallion’s hand and fell to the sand.

  “What about Rhianna?” Fallion pleaded with his captor. “What about Borenson?”

  The man chuckled mirthlessly. “We must leave the strengi-saats some thing to eat.”

  31

  LEFT IN THE DARK

  A man’s fears are like grains of sand on a beach. Ofttimes the tide strips them away, but then sends them sweeping back.

  — Asgaroth

  Rhianna stared at the retreating backs of the soldiers as the rangits hopped gracefully away, like hares on the run.

  Not knowing what else to do, she went to Borenson and studied his wound. He was looking faint, sweating badly, and just holding his guts in.

  Fortunately, there were supplies in the boat: a little food and water, some spare clothing, Fallion’s forcibles.

  Taking a rag, Rhianna washed off his wound first with water, then disinfected it with wine. She found one of Talon’s dresses, altered to be big enough for Rhianna, ripped off the lower part of the skirt, and gave it to Borenson for a bandage.

  The whole time, he just stared at her forlornly, panting.

  “Crawl under the boat,” she told him. “I’ll keep watch.”

  But he shook his head. “I’ll stay here with you.”

  Not that you can do anything, she thought.

  She picked up his saber and sat atop the boat, keeping watch.

  I’ll last through the night, she told herself. And if I live till morning, I’ll walk south, to town, and find help.

  She didn’t know how far town might be. Three miles or thirty.

  I’ll run, she told herself. As soon as the sun comes up.

  Rhianna heard growls and snarls in the jungle. A stray gust of wind brought the acrid scent of a strengi-saat. Borenson just lay in the sand, fading in and out of consciousness, getting ready to die.

  After an hour, the fire began to burn low. Rhianna rushed away from the boat, out into the shadows, and got some firewood. A shadow followed her.

  She turned to face it, sword gleaming in her hand, and then walked backward to the fire.

  Thus she scavenged the area, forced on each trip to walk just a little farther than she had gone before. And each time that she left the fire, the strengi-saats became more daring and drew closer.

  As the night waxed and the temperature dropped, she huddled near the fire for warmth as much as safety, saving her wood, nursing each tender coal. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and permeated her skin.

  The most dangerous time came at moonset, when the great silver orb dipped below the mountains. Blackness seemed to stretch across her then, the shadows of the night, and strengi-saats hidden from sight snarled in anticipation.

  She dared not go hunting for more wood.

  Dawn was still an hour or more away. The stars had not yet begun to fade in the sky.

  Rhianna heard growling and looked to Sir Borenson, who lay stretched on the ground, unconscious, his left knee in the air, his back twisted as if he were lying on a rock, seeking to get comfortable. His breath came shallow.

  He’ll probably die in that position, Rhianna thought.

  One of the monsters hissed, and Rhianna spotted a shadow on her left. She whirled to face it. There was no more wood. She dared venture no farther.

  But she was ready for them. She took a log from the fire and set it under the gunwale of the boat, then threw her spare clothing atop it.

  Soon the boat was ablaze, creating a bonfire.

  Now we can’t use it to get off the island, a small voice seemed to whisper to her in despair.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself. If I don’t live through the night, nothing matters.

  So she planted her saber in the sand and squatted beside it, her back to the fire, both hands gripping the hilt of her sword.

  Her eyes grew heavy as she fought sleep.

  Finally, she decided to rest her eyes for a moment, relieving them from the stinging smoke.

  Only a moment, she told herself.

  She closed them.

  When they flew open, the sun was a pink ball out on the horizon, and the boat lay like the smoking corpse of some beast, its blackened ribs all turned to cinders.

  Rhianna heard a cough, peered down at Sir Borenson. It was his coughing that had wakened her.

  He was still breathing shallowly, but he peered at her through slitted eyes. “You made it,” he whispered. “Now get out of here. Bring help if you can.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  She dropped the saber at his side, in case he needed it. She didn’t want to lug the thing down the beach. So she took only her dirk, jogged to the beach where the sand was wet and firm, threw off her shoes, and ran.

  Three miles or thirty? she wondered.

  She ran, feet pounding the sand, heart hammering, ignoring the stitch in her side and the burning that came to her legs. She gripped her dirk firmly, just in case.

  Run, she told herself. Nothing else matters.

  Hours later, in the heat of the day, Myrrima, Captain Stalker, Smoker, and a dozen other crewmen marched up the beach. It was hours past noon when they found Rhianna’s blade lying in the surf, half buried in sand.

  Myrrima picked it up, wiped it dry, and called out nervously, “Rhianna? Borenson? Is anyone here?”

  There was no reply, only the soughing of the wind over the sands.

  Smoker inhaled deeply from his long-handled pipe and peered toward the shore. “I cannot feel their heart fires,” he whispered. “They are either dead or far away from here.”

  Stalker and the others searched for tracks, but found none. What the tide had not washed away, the morning wind had.

  “Rhianna would not have left her weapon like this,” Myrrima said. She grieved, fearing the worst.

  So they marched on for an hour, calling for Rhianna and
Borenson, the despair gnawing at Myrrima’s gut, until at last they saw the black ribs of the boat lying in the sand, and found Borenson beside it.

  He was pale and sweating, looking as if he would die. But he wept when he saw Rhianna’s blade and heard the news.

  “Rhianna left just after dawn,” he told them. “She waited for daylight, so the strengi-saats wouldn’t attack, and then ran for help.”

  With a heavy heart, Captain Stalker whispered, “My guess is that she did not wait long enough.”

  32

  THE CELL

  Why should I weep for a man in prison, when I am held captive by my own desires?

  — Mad King Harrill (upon the imprisonment of his son)

  Fallion clung to his rangit as it raced along an open road. The dusty road itself shone a steady silver-gray in the starlight, but the foliage beside the road ranged in hues. Open fields that basked in the moonlight were a darker gray, while in the shadowed woods the boles of trees were black slats beneath the foliage.

  Strengi-saats, attracted by the sight of running beasts, raced beside them, but dared not attack the well-armed troops.

  The land seemed dead. No dogs barked or raced out from the shadowed cottages at the sound of approaching strangers. No cattle bawled in the barns as if wanting to be milked. No smoke coiled lazily from chimneys.

  The land had been swept clear of life. Even the sheep were gone.

  Where? Fallion wondered. But he knew.

  The strengi-saats had eaten everything that moved.

  The ride was jarring. Within an hour, every bone in Fallion’s body seemed to ache, and he could hear Jaz whimpering on the rangit behind him.

  They climbed hills and rode through shadowed vales. And in the cool hours of morning, when a chill wind had begun to numb his hands, they topped a mountain pass and looked down into a valley beyond.

  At last, there was a city with smoke coming from chimneys. The valley below was black with fires, choked with them, and in the silver moonlight, he could see masses of men-or something that looked like men-toiling in the darkness.

  It’s an army, he realized. An army hidden here at the edge of the world.

  And what an army!

  As the rangits bounded down the slopes with renewed energy, eager to be home, they passed fortified bulwarks and deep trenches, until at last they reached the encampments. Fallion soon saw that what he’d thought to be cottages were in fact tents. What he’d taken to be hearth fires were forges, burning in the open air.

  Hammers rang in the night, and manlike creatures called out with strange groaning cries.

  As he neared, he saw creatures with warty gray skin scampering about on their knuckles, bringing fuel for the forges. Others were dragging logs down from the hills, denuding the mountainsides.

  They stared up at him as he passed, and their gazes chilled Fallion to the bone. The creatures were not human, he was sure. There was no joy in their eyes, no sadness or any other emotion that he could name.

  Just deadness, yawning emptiness.

  At the forges he saw workmen, some Bright Ones, some gray men, hammering blades, fashioning helms and axes.

  They’re preparing for war, Fallion realized, but with whom?

  And quickly he figured it out. Once, long ago, in days so far past they seemed to be legend, black ships had sailed from the west, surprising the folk of Mystarria.

  The ships carried the toth, and their assault had nearly decimated the world.

  The creatures hammering out weapons in this dark vale would be far more dangerous than toth, Fallion suspected. They formed the heart of an army from the netherworld.

  There would be men who would join their cause, Fallion knew, men like those that had ridden with King Anders-mercenary warlords from the north, embittered nobles from minor houses, cruel and cunning men eager for a profit.

  Fallion tried to guess how large the army might be. Two hundred thousand? Five hundred? He could not guess. The unending city sprawled across the valley, rose into nearby hills, and spread beyond them for unguessed distances.

  How will anyone save me? he wondered.

  He thought of Borenson lying on the ground, his belly pierced by a lance.

  They won’t save me. He realized. They can’t. Even if whole armies sailed from Mystarria, they wouldn’t be able to bring enough men to penetrate the enemy defenses.

  It was with a rising sense of despair that they passed through the vale, rode up a winding mountainside, and entered a bleak fortress, its walls crude but thick and functional.

  Once inside the city walls, the Bright Ones dragged Fallion and Jaz to a heavily guarded building, and into a dungeon where the tortured cries of men and women could be heard.

  They passed a cell where a young woman sobbed noisily, cradling her right arm, trying to stop the bleeding from a stump where her hand should have been.

  They were taken to a small cell and chained to a wall, their hands stretched overhead, the weight of their whole bodies resting on their wrists.

  The prison cell consisted of three walls made of heavy black basalt blocks piled one atop another. The fourth wall was formed of iron, bars with a small door in it.

  The bottom of the door had a clearing of perhaps three inches, just tall enough so that a plate could be slid under, for those who were lucky enough to eat.

  Fallion and Jaz were not afforded the luxury of food. They were left hanging against a cold stone wall, slick with greasy water and mold.

  There was no light.

  Fallion could sometimes hear the snarls of strengi-saats deeper in the prison, and he feared that they prowled the hallways. He hoped that the bars would keep the monsters out.

  And he heard Jaz crying, his young frame shuddering.

  Fallion wanted to hold his little brother, offer him comfort, but he couldn’t even see Jaz’s face.

  Jaz asked after a long while, “Do you… think that they’ll kill us?”

  “We’re worth… more alive.” Fallion could not get his air. “They’ll probably hold us-for ransom.”

  “What kind of ransom?”

  “Forcibles, gold. Maybe… land,” Fallion said.

  He wished that he believed it. They were the Sons of the Oak, the children of the Earth King. Borenson believed that with a word, whole nations would rise up to follow at their command.

  And so, Fallion realized, to someone like Shadoath, they might represent a danger. They might just be worth more dead than alive.

  The manacles were cutting into Fallion’s wrist; he wriggled painfully, trying to ease the pressure.

  “How long?” Jaz asked. “How long will they… keep us?”

  “A few weeks,” Fallion calculated. “Someone will have to sail back to Mystarria, raise a ransom, come back.”

  “Oh,” Jaz said forlornly.

  Fallion offered some more words of comfort, and after a bit he asked, “Would you like me to sing to you?”

  That had always worked when Jaz was small and troubled by bad dreams.

  “Yes,” Jaz said.

  Fallion remembered a song about rabbits, one that had been Jaz’s favorite a few years ago, and he began to sing, struggling for breath.

  “North of the moon, south of the sun, rabbits run, rabbits run.

  Through winter snow, summer gardens, having fun, having fun.

  Faster than wolves, fast as birdsong,

  Rabbits run, rabbits run.

  North of the moon, south of the sun.”

  Someone came marching toward them. Fallion saw a flicker of light and heard the jangle of keys. His stomach had begun to tighten, and he hoped that it was someone bringing food.

  But it was only a brutish man who stubbed past their cell, bearing a smoking torch. He wore a loincloth, a blood-spattered vest, and a black hood that hid his face. In his right hand he carried an implement of torture-a bone saw.

  Fallion peered at Jaz, saw his brother’s face pale with fear.

  The torturer went past their cell,
and Jaz asked, “Do you think he’ll come for us?”

  “No,” Fallion lied. “We’re too valuable.”

  Down the hall, the torturer went to work, and the screaming began-a man whimpering and pleading for mercy.

  He must have been round a corner, for Fallion could see little light.

  “Are you sure?” Jaz asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Fallion told him. “They… just want to scare us.”

  So Fallion hung against the wall, his weight born by the manacles around his wrists, and sang to his little brother, offering comfort whenever he could.

  His were small manacles, made especially for women and children, he realized.

  They cut into his wrists, made them swell and pucker. He had to wiggle his hands from time to time, try to find a more comfortable position, in order to keep the blood flowing to his fingers. He’d seen a man once, Lord Thangarten, who had been kept hanging in a dungeon in Indhopal so long that his fingers had died, and he was left a cripple.

  Yet if I wiggle too much, he knew, in a few days my wrists will chafe and begin to bleed.

  So Fallion hung on the wall and tried to minimize his pain. With his wrists bearing all of his weight, his lungs couldn’t get air. After the first few hours, he learned that it would be a constant struggle.

  In the darkness, Fallion was left to focus on sounds, Jaz’s breathing as he hung in his cell, deep and even in sleep, ragged when he woke. His brother’s weeping and sniffing, the clank of chains against the wall, the sobs of the tortured as they lay in their cells, the squeaking of rats, the snarling of strengi-saats.

  He would not have minded the rats, normally. But after he had hung against the wall for a few hours, he heard one squeaking below. It rose and bit his big toe.

  He kicked at it. The rat squeaked angrily as it retreated.

  It will be back, Fallion knew. It will be back, when I’m too tired to fight.

  He found that he had to pee. He held it for as long as he could, then let it go.

  In the darkness, deprived of light, accompanied only by the smell of mold and urine and cold stone and iron, as days began to pass, Fallion despaired.