B008P7JX7Q EBOK

by Ijaz, Usman

  Michael looked up, and Alexis found himself staring into the man’s dark eyes.

  “ ... leave ...” Michael whispered.

  “Not without you.” Alexis studied the man’s wounds, a bullet hole in his arm and another high on his chest.

  “Go ... leave me,” Michael said.

  “No.” I promised to never again leave another behind. He watched Michael’s eyes drift away and past him. The man attempted to speak, but all that came out was a rasping, bloody cough.

  In a sudden movement Alexis pushed himself to his feet and wheeled around, bringing up both guns, and shot. The shots echoed in the square. One bullet took Wendyl in his left leg, and he fell where he was, just a little way inside the square. The man bent his head back and screamed as he clutched his wounded leg and rolled back and forth in pain. Alexis lowered his guns and looked behind him. Wendyl’s bullet had struck the wooden dais just inches from Michael’s head. He began to walk towards the fat lord. Wendyl saw him coming, and the anguished wails died off into whimpering mutters, filled with a fury that would have surprised Alexis on any other day. Wendyl removed one bloodied hand from his left leg and attempted to reach the pistol he had dropped. Alexis raised his gun and shot the pistol; it bounced away and out of the fat lord’s reach. Wendyl began to drag himself back along the ground, leaving snail-trails of bright red upon the cobblestones, but he couldn’t escape the Legionnaire.

  Alexis stood over the pompous lord, staring down at him piteously. How much had been risked today by this man? How many deaths had this one man caused today? Well, no more, he thought bitterly. He raised one silver-gray gun, aimed at the man’s head.

  “No --no,” Wendyl whimpered. “You ... cannot ... Please. I beg you--” His voice became a pleading whine.

  “Too much death has been caused this day because of you,” Alexis told him in a voice as hard as rock and edged with bitterness.

  Alexis turned his head aside and pulled the trigger.

  He turned and walked back to Michael without ever looking at his handiwork. Michael sat there, chin on chest, and Alexis knew him to be truly dead this time. He holstered his guns as he knelt before the Legionnaire, and raised Michael’s head to look into that once-hard face, now almost serene in its passing. He closed the man’s eyes. He picked up the great gun that lay on the ground beside Michael, and the other one that he still gripped, and placed them into the holsters at the man’s side. He slipped his arms behind the other man and picked him up. The corpse in his arms was heavy.

  Alexis turned and walked out from that place of death.

  7

  He made it halfway down the street when he saw Leah coming towards him. Alexis stopped and waited.

  “Is he all right?” Leah asked as she drew up reign.

  “No,” Alexis said, and his voice was bereft of emotion. “You left the boys?”

  “Yes, they are hidden beside the road out of town. I had to come back and see what had happened to you both. I could not have turned and fled.”

  And how well we both know that feeling.

  “What--what will you do with him now?” Leah asked.

  Alexis saw tears well up in her eyes and heard the way her voice faltered. He shrugged. “I don’t want to leave him behind.”

  Leah simply nodded. “Let’s put him on the horse. We can walk out of this place.”

  Alexis placed his comrade across the saddle. He grabbed the reigns, and the two led the horse down the street.

  The people they saw were all in a turmoil, like the scattered survivors of a disaster, and many of the houses they passed had faces at the windows that peered out uneasily at anything that moved in the streets.

  It was a relief to put the small city behind them and come out onto the dirt road. They didn’t have long to travel before being surrounded by fields of wheat on one side and of corn on the other. It was in the cornfields that they gathered the boys, sitting there and looking as though they had expected no one to come.

  Together they made their way from the small city where death had brushed them all.

  Chapter 25

  The Darkest One

  1

  The noise of the crowd was too much for Mordred.

  He tried to block it out and keep moving on his way, but it proved too difficult. Everywhere he looked he saw smiling faces, none that matched his own. The sky was clear, the sun shining brilliantly on everything, eliciting such good moods from everyone. Mordred hated those smiling faces. What do they have to smile about? he wondered. Some of those faces turned to regard him as he pushed his way through the crowd, some maybe even recognized him. Mordred didn’t care, he simply wanted to escape this swarm of joy that was like a knife to his heart.

  What the hell are they so cheerful about? he wondered. He fought his way past the market with still no clear idea of where he was heading. The dark scowl on his face kept others clear of his path. He walked among the rest of the citizens, and yet felt distinctly apart from them. But then that wasn’t such a surprise. Ever since he could remember, he had been alone. He could recall no friends from his childhood, or from any other time.

  I do not need friends. He told himself as he edged his way past the throng and into another street. I do not need any of them! Those words seemed a part of him now, and chained to them were the bitter, lonely memories he wished he could leave behind.

  He stopped suddenly as he came to an intersection. He stood still for a moment as he wondered just where he wanted to go. Anywhere that was far from the palace, he realized. There wasn’t much there to occupy his mind, and it felt more a prison than anything else at times. Slowly, he turned right and headed towards Singer’s Alley.

  He clutched his short cloak around him as he made his way down the street. A few girls a little older than himself in bright skirts caught his attention, and he watched them in passing with a dull ache. They would never talk to him. He saw the calculating disgust plainly on their faces as they noticed him. Behind him one of the girls said something, and they all laughed aloud. I could kill you, you whores, he thought. He clenched his jaw and continued on, a fixed stare of murder keeping everyone away from him.

  He could not recall there ever being a time when he had not been alone. He had had his father with him for much of his life, but they were too similar in that they preferred their own company to the other’s, thus allowing for the growth of a distanced relationship. Once he had a mother. He could recall her from his earliest memories. He liked to imagine that had she still been alive he would have been a different person now. She would have taught him to smile and enjoy the world around him. Instead, she had died when he was four and his father had filled his head with nothing but hatred.

  No, his entire life had been spent in his own company, always revolving around others but never able to bring himself to join them completely. But then, he didn’t need them at all. What good were people for? They only created problems and hurt one another maliciously. Over and over he had witnessed it from the outside.

  Near Singer’s Alley he stopped to watch a small group of boys his own age dicing beside a merchant’s store. He watched them jesting with one another as they played, crude remarks that put a faint smile on his lips. Those were the kind of people that he felt he could be friends with. He watched them from across the street for a few minutes, and then headed towards them on hesitant feet. He strayed outside their immediate space and watched them. Perhaps they would notice him and invite him to join in. A part of him screamed he was being a fool and that he would only end up getting hurt, but the boy within him needed to be acknowledged and embraced by others. He approached the three boys.

  “Get lost, lordling.”

  Mordred stopped in his tracks, eyeing the boy who had turned to speak to him. The boy looked to be around seventeen, with shaggy brown hair and a bruised face. “I have money,” Mordred aid.

  “And I can tell you what to do with it too,” said the boy as he looked around. His two companions had stopped and now
stared at Mordred with suspicion and disgust.

  “Your kind have their own games,” said another boy, blond hair falling past his shoulders.

  Mordred’s lips thinned and he ground his teeth. He met the eyes of the boy who had spoken to him first, feeling more abashed than anything else, and saw a nonchalant confidence in the boy’s face as he stared back.

  “Leave. We do not want you.”

  Mordred spread his gaze over all three boys before turning and marching away. His emotions boiled within him, run by anger and shame. But there was an underlying sense of rejection and loneliness. His fists opened and closed at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms, as his soul wailed against his thoughts.

  2

  Mordred had no clue as to how long he had sat in the dim interior of The Swallow, drowned in the near-constant swell of music. He looked up once from his table to note that the light outside the doorway had dulled. He didn’t know what the singers were singing about and couldn’t follow the tune at all. All he knew was that the music kept him from thinking, and that was all he wanted.

  He glanced around the room and saw that a few more people had crept in since he had arrived.

  He signaled for another tankard of wine. The girl brought it and set it on the table, never saying a word. Mordred never even looked at her, only stared at the spilled wine on his table. He was sort of a regular here, and he didn’t need to look up to see the wary concern in the maid’s face, or the innkeeper’s. They knew to leave him alone. Mordred ran his fingers through the spilled wine, trying to focus on the music from the minstrels at the rear.

  At the moment his emotions were running wild. He had to restrain them and calm himself. He knew this, and yet a part of him refused to do so. His hands shook on the table as he recalled what the boy had said to him. “We don’t want you.” It seemed that people had been saying that to him all his life. Mordred clenched his hand into a fist to control the shaking. The tankard of wine began to shake and rattle against the table top, spilling its contents. Mordred looked at it and grabbed it to steady it. This wouldn’t do. He had to calm himself before he revealed himself. His father would have been infuriated with him right now. He scraped his chair back abruptly. He dug into one pocket and drew out a handful of coins. He threw them on the table and walked out, never once seeing anyone else in the tavern.

  Mordred stepped out into the gray light of dusk. He stood for a moment watching the sky, wondering amidst the turmoil of his thoughts where to go. His feet carried him down towards the harbor district, recalling the clothes the three boys had worn and his immediate realization that they were from the poorer part of the city.

  His intentions were unknown to him. He only knew that he felt as though he would burst unless he calmed himself down. A part of him hoped the walk to the harbor would settle his emotions. Another part wondered why he held himself in check.

  He stood out clearly in the harbor district. There weren’t many people on the streets at this time, and none dressed as fine as he was. The few vendors that were still out called to him in passing, but most fell silent as they saw his face. Mordred wandered from one street to another, not caring that this was a dangerous place for one such as him. He almost wished someone would attempt to accost him.

  He was beginning to feel dispirited and about to turn around when he at last caught sight of the boy who had dismissed him so easily earlier that day. The boy was coming out of a large, rundown compound. Mordred stopped and watched the boy head down the street far ahead of him. He wasn’t sure what he’d wanted with the boy if he found him. His feet began to carry him after the boy.

  He followed the boy at a distance, brown eyes intent on his back and watching his every movement. He picked up his pace to close the distance between himself and the boy. All the while the words kept coming back to him in clear, haunting recollection. “We don’t want you.”

  Up ahead the boy entered a small alley adjoining two streets. Mordred rushed to catch up. The boy was nearly at the other end as Mordred came to the alleyway. He watched the boy with a growing resentment, breathing through his mouth, teeth gritted, hands clenched at his sides. The boy glanced behind him, and startled to find Mordred standing there. He turned to face Mordred, wary suspicion ruling his face.

  “You--” the boy began, and was cut off.

  “What makes you think I need you?” Mordred snarled at the other boy.

  The boy never had a chance to respond. His entire body suddenly lurched to one side, as though flung by a pair of large hands. His head struck the wall with devastating force. There was a sickening sound as his skull shattered, spraying blood onto the wall. His lifeless body collapsed among the heap in the alley.

  Mordred strode to the body, still breathing in shallow intakes. He looked down at the ruined mess that was the boy’s head. For a long time he simply stood there, staring coldly at the indiscernible face, letting his emotions ebb out of him.

  “I don’t need you,” he told the corpse before turning and walking away. It was closer to night as he made his way back to the palace.

  His father liked to claim that the halls of the dead were black, referring to his dreary palace and the fact that people thought their kind were dead to the world. But Mordred didn’t think he was quite right.

  The souls of the dead are blacker still, a part of him whispered.

  Chapter 26

  Asgar

  1

  Adrian watched from his window as the patrol of guards rode past below. The rail fell in a steady downpour. There was little light from the overcast sky, which gave all the world a colorless look and feel. The rain pattered on the windowsill and the stone walls of the inn, making it easier for the boy to lose himself in his thoughts. The people that were still out on the streets paid little heed to the drizzle and pushed back nervously before the guards. With gray eyes reflecting the monotony of the world outside, Adrian watched the five guards on their mounts advance up the street, turn a corner, and disappear from his view.

  They’re not going to stop, are they?

  His right hand crept to the scarf wrapped around his neck. He pulled it loose and down to feel the scar that circled his throat. He knew without looking that it was gruesome, a black and purple reminder of death’s touch. It pained him to know that Connor’s was worse.

  Footsteps creaked outside in the hallway. Adrian turned to see the door open and Alexis come in, wet from the rain outside. He wore a faded black shirt that clung to him. His matted hair hung heavy. Adrian watched the Legionnaire run his hands through his hair, and noted how odd the man looked without his guns strapped about his waist, or without the long coat the boy had come to believe was a part of him. Alexis had discarded the coat, saying only that it would make it easier for others to spot them, and had, with some clear reluctance, hidden his guns from sight amidst the blanket rolls.

  To any eyes but their own they were but simple travelers.

  Adrian cleared his throat; it hurt, but not as much as it had the day before. His voice still sounded hoarse. “Is it done?”

  Alexis glanced from him to the window. He walked over to where Adrian stood with a weariness that far surpassed the physical and touched the soul, and studied the street outside. “It took most of what we had, but it’s done,” he sighed. “The captain I spoke to agreed to take Michael’s body on his way to Grandal. I gave him instructions to hand it to the local duke or lord, wherever he makes berth.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Alexis stared out into the morose sky. “That I had lost a brother.”

  Adrian nodded. He felt ashamed that some little band of tension had loosened around his chest. Michael had died saving them, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved they would no longer have to travel with the man’s corpse. One less burden. He turned his face away, loathing himself.

  “He deserved at least that much,” Alexis said, as though reading his mind. “It was the money more than anything that convinced the captain. They’ll
carry his body back to Grandal in brine.”

  “And the horse?”

  The Legionnaire let out another weary breath. He walked to his bed and slumped down, wincing as he did so, one hand rising to the wound in his shoulder. Adrian watched him pensively. If he dies ... what hope is there for me and Connor? His thoughts firmed. He can’t die. He dragged us into this; he has to get us out as well.

  Alexis glanced at him, tired gaze searching his face, as though he’d caught a little of the run of his thoughts. When he spoke, he sounded more dejected than Adrian ever remembered hearing him. “I think the innkeeper might be willing to part with one of his, but I don’t have my hopes raised that it will be much good. Either way, I suppose we’ll have to take it as we can.”

  Adrian cleared his sore throat. “How’s your shoulder?”

  Alexis shook his head. “I think I broke one of the sutures while turning in my sleep, but for that it seems to be healing fine. I’ll need to replace the poultice Kira made, though. She warned me not to leave it on too long.”

  Adrian nodded, remembering the old healer who had bandaged the Legionnaire on one of their stops in a small village. A part of him hoped that no harm had come to the healer for what she had done; she couldn’t have known the man she helped had killed a lord. He turned to the window and regarded the drenched world outside as one might weigh a dangerous land one meant to cross.

  “Did you see Connor or Leah?”

  “No. I don't think we should be seen with them until we leave this place.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” the Legionnaire said. “Leah and Connor know where to meet us.”