by Wight, Will
Simon pushed his borrowed sword against the rope, intending to saw through it. The effort wasn’t necessary; at the touch of Erastes’ blade, the rope parted like rotted cloth.
The ropes fell away, and Chaim gaped at him. The look on the older man’s face might have been gratifying some other time, but Simon felt little other than numb. He stepped up into the wagon, moving between the prisoners, sword flashing. Ropes fell free. People rubbed their wrists in wonder. Some of them started crying.
None of them, apparently, had the guts to be the first out of the wagon.
When Simon finished freeing the captives, he felt a broad hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Chaim’s face beside him, standing among the others of their people still stunned at their good fortune.
“Simon,” Chaim said. “What happened to you?”
Simon shook his head, unable to speak, and walked out of the wagon.
The people of Myria followed.
When they saw their tormentors injured or helpless, lying all around the camp, the villagers lost their restraint. One woman set upon a one-armed Damascan soldier with nothing but her hands, screaming as she beat him. He had lost so much blood that he just curled up around his injury, shaking. A pair of boys drove one mostly-healthy soldier off with spears they scooped up from the sand, and one—little older than Simon—beat another soldier with a burlap sack of potatoes.
At first, Simon tried to hold them back, but it seemed he had at last reached the end of his endurance. He almost collapsed from exhaustion, and the world spun queasily around him. For a moment his vision blurred, and the only thing his numb body could feel was the cold sting of invisible chains dragging down his arms.
Panic gripped him. Was he going to fall over every time he used up his powers? He couldn’t stop so much as a five-year-old girl from sticking a knife in him if the world kept spinning, and he didn’t know what Damascan soldiers were still in the camp. He stumbled toward what he thought was a wagon, trying pathetically to hide until the ground finished rocking.
When he came back to himself, the fire had burned itself almost down to coals, and the only surviving Damascans had run, crawled, or stumbled into the night. He vaguely remembered seeing some of that, men in uniform running fast, casting fearful glances over their shoulders. Someone might have tried to shake him back to his senses a while ago, too. Or maybe not. His sense of time seemed to have deserted him.
Simon found himself sitting on the ground, with his back leaning against a wagon’s enormous wooden wheel. Judging by the muffled sounds, someone was in the back of the same wagon, loading or unloading crates. Probably some of the villagers, going through them to take stock, he reasoned. A few people huddled around the fire, either clutching one another and staring at nothing or feeding the coals some pitiful handfuls of twigs in an attempt to ward off the cold.
If you’re done napping, Caela’s whispering voice cut in, I suspect you might want to intervene.
Blearily Simon looked around. Aside from the general bustle of everyone moving around a camp, things seemed quiet enough. In what? he sent.
Come and find out.
Simon heaved himself to his feet, paused a moment as an aftershock of dizziness hit him, and lurched forward. A few people called out to him, but he ignored them. He didn’t think he was up to much real conversation right then. On Caela’s teasing, whispered directions—Warm...getting warmer now...oh, it’s quite cold in that direction...there you go—he finally found his way to a wagon on the far end of camp.
The men and women from Myria surrounded both of the wagon’s open ends, as though preventing someone within from escaping. They held borrowed weapons awkwardly—one young man with a huge nose, Alin’s second cousin, squeezed a one-handed Damascan infantry sword in both hands like he thought it would run off without him—and they kept up a stream of taunts and jeers in the wagon’s direction.
A pair of oxen that had obviously been yoked to the wagon stood nearby, unhitched. The wagon wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Leah’s aunt Nurita shouted, “You’ll learn what it’s like!” and a chorus of agreement rose from the others.
Simon’s stomach tightened. Though he hoped desperately that he was wrong, he knew who was in the wagon.
Caela lay a few strides away, resting on top of an opened crate filled with odds and ends: scraps of leather, a half-full pincushion, a matching trio of painted wooden balls. Apparently someone hadn’t known where to put her, but she wasn’t food, so she had been stuck with the junk deemed useless by starving villagers.
“How long has this been going on?” Simon asked her. He found it easier to just speak than to focus on sending mental messages.
They’ve been in there for almost ten minutes, Caela sent. I’ve watched the whole thing. If I do say so, this spot is quite convenient. She sounded as self-satisfied as if she had picked the spot herself.
“Why hasn’t anyone gone in yet?”
Olissa found a spear, Caela replied.
He had hoped to be wrong. He didn’t want to be the one to decide these things. No matter whose side he took, Simon couldn’t imagine everyone walking away from this situation satisfied.
But there was no one else. Simon set Caela back down in the box and walked over to the wagon, heart pounding.
Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, chains slid down his wrists.
Simon pushed his way through the thin line of people gathered around the wagon’s entrance. Nurita demanded to know what he was doing, but he ignored her, stepping up onto the wagon.
Immediately a steel point leaped at his face. He dodged to one side, narrowly missing the spear—a trap like that wasn’t much worse than the Valinhall armory, really—and tried to call up Nye essence at the same time. Nothing happened; the power remained empty. Was it taking longer than usual for the essence to refill? How long had he been unconscious?
The spear withdrew quickly and then stabbed back out with the speed of panic. Simon had taken enough wounds tonight; none terribly serious, but practically every inch of his skin felt sliced or scraped. He couldn’t allow any more.
Simon’s hand snapped up almost without his conscious direction, grabbing the haft of the spear below the head. The person on the other end, maybe Olissa, tried to pull back, but he moved with the motion, stepping inside the darkened wagon.
Olissa crouched in front of him, clutching the Damascan spear in both hands. She was leaning back, putting her whole body into the effort of wrenching the weapon away from him. Andra faced the opposite entrance, just barely short enough to be able to stand without bending over. She held a small knife up, and had glanced over her shoulder to see who was coming in. Her eyes were wide and terrified; a dark smear of blood covered the blade.
Caius and Lycus sat in the center of the wagon. All the cargo had been removed and sorted, so they leaned against the edge of the wagonbed rather than against a crate. Caius breathed shallowly, and a great dark stain spread over his right side. Lycus kept a bundled-up rag, apparently an old shirt, pressed to his father’s side.
Olissa gasped at the sight of Simon stepping in through the canvas flaps. Outside, a few of the Myrians cheered or called Simon’s name.
Leaving the spear in Simon’s grip, Olissa ran to cover Caius and Lycus with her body. Andra turned and held the knife in his direction, shaking. Such a change. Two hours ago, they had thought him a hero.
“Please don’t,” Simon said wearily. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Andra’s voice shook, and she sounded even younger than her years. Like a lost child. “Then why did you kill them? You killed everybody.”
“No! No, I...” How was he supposed to explain? Everything had moved too fast. “They attacked me. And the captives were from my village. Was I supposed to just let them stay in chains?”
Suddenly Simon noticed the night brightening around them. Not long until dawn. Kai had said there were nine days left before Leah and the others w
ere sacrificed to Zakareth’s Territory. But nine days from when? Did this rising sun mean he had nine days left, or eight? And did that mean the first sacrifices would begin today?
He wasn’t sure, but either way, he had too much to do and not enough time.
“Not nearly enough time,” he muttered.
Chaim’s voice bellowed, “Simon? How’s it going in there?” A big shadow approached the canvas.
“Talking with the prisoners,” Simon said, improvising. “I need another minute alone.”
No time left. He had to do something, even if it made the situation worse. Reaching out his hand, he called steel and summoned Azura. The Agnos family wailed almost as one, and shrunk down against the wagon bed.
Spectral chains pressed against the back of his hands again—when had they vanished the first time? As he had done once before, Simon pointed Azura’s tip at the top of the wagon’s cover and reached through the sword to Valinhall. Dragging the blade down through the air, Simon tore open a Gate. It took thirty, maybe forty heartbeats, and every second Simon was sure someone was just about to jump in the wagon and demand to know what he was doing.
This hole was wider than the one he had made for Kai, though he wasn’t sure what he had done to make it so. Yet another thing he was going to have to learn at some point. So many things to learn, and never enough time. The far end of the wagon completely disappeared behind the familiar scenery of the entry hall.
Andra and Olissa goggled at the Gate, then at him. Olissa looked like she was contemplating running, Andra as if presented with a new hope. Lycus continued pressing the rag against his father’s side, though he sent nervous glances toward Simon and the Gate equally. Caius made no reaction; his skin glistened through a sheen of sweat, and he muttered faintly to himself. Simon wasn’t sure he was even fully conscious.
“What is that?” Andra asked.
“My Territory,” Simon replied. Olissa drew in a sharp breath. “You can stay there for the time being,” he continued. “Once I settle things with the other villagers, I’ll come join you. And when things calm down, I can take you back to your home.”
“This was our home,” Olissa said softly. “Everything we owned was in these wagons. Once we finished this job, we were going to find a place to settle in Deborah’s realm.”
Simon winced. If he hadn’t gotten involved, their home wouldn’t have been taken from them. They would have concluded their business and moved on. Of course, if he hadn’t gotten involved, Andra and Lycus would probably either be dead or trapped in Orgrith Cave. There were no good choices, and nothing easy to regret.
“Well, then, you can stay in here for the time being. We’ll work something out. But you should get going.”
They’re about to come in, Caela’s voice whispered, just as the canvas behind Simon peeled open. Chaim poked his face in, his eyes growing huge as he took in the Gate. “What is that?” he asked. At his words, a few people behind him pressed their faces forward, trying to see for themselves.
Thanks for the warning, Simon sent to Caela. She loftily ignored his sarcasm.
“Hurry,” he told Olissa, pushing her toward the Gate. She and Lycus grabbed Caius, half-carrying and half-shoving him into Valinhall. Andra stood, hesitating before stepping through. The Gate shrunk steadily as it sealed itself.
“The bedrooms are on either side of the hallway,” Simon said hurriedly. “It’s past that door right there. You can’t open any of the bedrooms, so just head on through. If you see the guys in the dark hoods, tell them I sent you, and they probably won’t strangle you. Walk through the white-and-gold door, and you’ll see a pool of water. You need to get Caius into it as soon as possible. It will heal him. Watch out for the water demons, they’ll try to eat you.”
Olissa, Andra, and Lycus stared at him from the other side of the Gate; judging from their expressions, they were trying to decide if they were better off coming back through. Simon released both his sword and his strength, and the portal shrank even more quickly.
Andra stepped forward before the Gate could close completely. “Simon!” she called. “Where’s Erastes?”
Last time Simon had seen him, the captain had been struggling for breath on the ground. He was almost certainly dead by now. “I’m not sure,” he hedged.
“Please save him,” Andra said. Her pale eyes were practically the only things that showed through the narrowing portal. “I know you can do it.”
The Gate closed.
Great. How was he supposed to refuse a request like that?
The wagon shook as Chaim stepped up. “Sweet Maker. How did they disappear like that? And what was that you were telling them?”
“I’ll explain it to you later,” Simon muttered. He walked out the far end of the wagon. The people gathered there gasped as he walked out and they got a clear glimpse of the empty wagon. At another time Simon might have worried about what they thought; not now. He had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that he may have sent the Agnos family into even worse danger by trying to save them; they had no one to show them around the House. Simon would go there himself as soon as he could, but first he had to deal with the villagers. Who would probably try and lynch him when they found out he had helped a family of Damascans escape.
He wanted to sleep for a year.
Circling around the wagon and ignoring a barrage of questions, Simon scooped up Caela and began walking to the other side of camp. When he reached the glowing embers that were all that remained of the night’s fire, he stopped.
Erastes lay much as Simon had left him, though someone had stripped away his armor and his hands and feet were bound with rough ropes. Bruises marred his face and every inch of exposed flesh Simon could see, some already starting to swell. A gang of boys ranging in age from about fourteen to a few years older than Simon surrounded the Damascan captain. One used a stick to flick coals over Erastes’ body. When he shouted, it came out muffled, so Simon gathered he had been gagged. If he wriggled away from the pain, another boy would use the flat of a short sword to smack him back into place.
The blade gleamed strangely in the predawn light, and Simon recognized it. They were beating Erastes with his own sword. Where had they gotten it? The last time he remembered having the weapon in his own hands was shortly before he passed out, so they must have either taken it from Simon’s unconscious body or picked it up from the ground afterwards.
A dim memory told Simon which of the boys was in charge; he was one of the oldest, no bigger than the others, but harder of face. He had spent more of his childhood being punished for one reason or another than anyone else Simon knew; the kid had bragged about it, sometimes. Simon walked up to him.
“Simon,” the young man said. He made it sound like a challenge.
“I don’t remember your name,” Simon replied. “Sorry.” The boy’s face hardened even further, and Simon couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I need the soldier and the sword.”
“What for?”
Simon reached out and grabbed the other boy’s wrist, twisting a way that Kai had done to him a hundred times. The boy gasped, dropping the sword, and Simon plucked it out of the air before it hit the ground. Without a word, he turned his back on the other boy and walked away.
Even as tired as he was, some part of him enjoyed that.
When he reached Erastes, Simon knelt and examined the soldier’s injuries. Some of the gang shouted at him, and he suspected they were beginning to find their spines again. So he called steel and held it. Icy power flowed through him, and he ignored their threats, returning his attention to the Damascan on the ground.
Erastes was fully conscious, steely blue eyes bright with pain. His gaze showed no fear, only hatred and anger. Simon pulled the gag out of his mouth. One of the boys, behind Simon, kicked him in the back. That boy screamed as though he had slammed his foot into a stone, and Simon heard him hopping around in the sand.
Simon smiled. With the steel r
unning through him, he had barely felt a thing.
Erastes tried to swallow, found his mouth too dry, and tried again. He spoke as though he had a mouthful of sand.
“Coward,” he rasped.
“If you can talk like that, you’ll be fine,” Simon said. “Probably. I’m no healer.” He drew Erastes’ own sword across the man’s bonds, slicing them as easily he could have with a Dragon’s Fang.
Then, standing, he summoned Azura into his other hand. The boys yelled and scrambled away, undoubtedly going to fetch someone else. That was fine; there was nothing they could do to stop him, anyway.
He drew Azura down the air, opening another Gate.
Erastes’ raspy voice grated on his ears: “There’s nothing more you can do to me,” the gray-haired man said, as if Simon was about to take him into some new torment.
None too gently, Simon scooped him up in both arms. With steel flowing through him, it took about as much effort as picking up a newborn kitten.
Simon walked through the Gate, holding it open with his will. He laid Erastes down on a couch, saying, “Caius and Olissa are here somewhere. Tell them I said to get you into the water as soon as possible.”
“Don’t need a bath,” Erastes said. “Need a miracle.”
Simon thought about explaining, then decided it would take too much effort. He tossed the old soldier’s bare sword down beside him. “Let me know if you find one,” Simon said, and walked back into the world.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
THE ROAD TO BEL CALEM
None of the Myrians were happy about losing their few remaining Damascan prisoners, Chaim and Nurita least of all. They appeared to have taken charge of the surviving villagers, since no one of any greater influence had accompanied the group south.
“They’re gone?” Chaim had demanded. “Where did they go?”
“Who gave you the right to send them anywhere?” Nurita had asked. “You’re just a child.”
Even more than that, as he had expected, they wanted to know about his newfound powers. Was he a Traveler now? How had that happened? Was he working with Alin?