“I won’t,” the man stated.
“If you keep your hands clean while we’re here, and that includes your followers, then that will suffice for me.” Grudgingly, the thief agreed. He took his band to a tavern and they remained there for nearly the rest of their stay.
Dariak took his three companions to seek one of the four town elders. The old woman was wrapped in a thin silk shawl from head to toe. It tugged against her hips and left little to the imagination, much to their chagrin. “Greetings, Imerelda.”
“Dariak, my boy, you return at long last!” she said with a gap-toothed smile. “We always knew your return would come, but we never knew when.”
“It is always a pleasure to be here,” he replied with such feeling. “We were wondering, while we’re here, if there is anything we can do to help? We have a fair number of able hands at the moment, if you need us.”
The woman’s whole face lit with enthusiasm. “What a delight! Indeed, we could! This winter was a massacre with all the winds. Surely you felt their raging energies?”
“I was away,” he answered regretfully, thinking back to his incarceration within the Prisoner’s Tower. “What could we do?”
“Simple. We have been rebuilding many homes already but more work needs doing. The king has taken a fair share of the strong ones for the battles against Kallisor. A shame they would start rebelling when our need is so great.”
Gabrion drew a breath to contradict her, but Kitalla jabbed him in the side for silence.
“We would be delighted to help,” Dariak said.
It was difficult convincing the Kallisorians to work toward rebuilding the village, but the four companions managed to convince a good number of them to do so anyway. Their arguments were valid; after all, their land was being attacked by soldiers who were grown and trained from this very town. Building it up seemed like a direct violation against their own country, but Dariak demanded it and they were serving him.
Once they began, the mages had the most fun of all of them. Not only were their spells allowed, they were encouraged, something they had rarely experienced in their lifetimes. White-haired Quereth swept his arms about, tightening the bonds between roof and wall, while Frast and middle-aged Lica drew added support from the earthen floor to secure those walls in place. The other mages also worked in tandem, some with the soldiers, to fortify the various homes. Most of them started with the huts in which they were staying, but eventually they fanned out around the town and did what they could for the better part of the day.
Dariak didn’t begrudge the thieves their abstinence from the construction work, knowing he would have other things to lay on their shoulders in the future. He didn’t think they would as easily gain access to the castle once they reached that far, but the thieves would provide at least a distraction, if not the key to breaking through the king’s defenses.
He didn’t like that line of thinking, but he expected there would be resistance when they approached the castle. However, their next goal was Magehaven, where the Council was housed, and he expected a warm enough welcome there when they arrived. His only hope was to recover their jades without much incident.
The day ended and the villagers showed their appreciation by preparing various meals for their visitors. The whole town felt united and the precarious division between Hathrens and Kallisorians was blissfully set aside for the night.
The next morning, they stocked up on supplies, further contributing to the town’s finances, and then by noon they were off again to the west, with Randler crafting some tunes on a lute he had purchased. He also procured a new mace that had a diamond-shaped head and fit his hands better. The troop left reenergized, in high spirits, and feeling good about having assisted the people.
In truth, it went better than Dariak had ever hoped it would. He wanted everyone to see that they were all just people with different needs but that they could work together. Randler saw it, and eventually so did many of the others. It gave them something to think about as they braved the hot day and the feral creatures that came out to greet them.
Indeed, the creatures seemed determined to make the journey to Magehaven as difficult as possible. Luckily, the troop was able to fend off the attacks easily, but there were many of them. Eaglons and reptigons appeared with the sandorpions and shadowcrows. The mages were hesitant at first, but Dariak led the way, spraying the air with fireballs and ice darts, windstorms and rock bullets. He encouraged everyone to use all their skills to the fullest, and so they did. Some of the warriors opted to practice their archery or lancing skills. A few put their swords away in favor of daggers, working with the thieves to hone their close melee battle tactics, though they often ended up wounded and bleeding. However, the mages tended to their needs promptly, keeping everyone strong and ready for the next barrage.
It felt as if the country of Hathreneir had no shortage of creatures. They fought for hours, with only brief rests between each foray. The fighters didn’t mind as much, but soon the mages grew weary. They weren’t accustomed to utilizing their spells with such rapidity. Yet everyone encouraged them to push through their weariness and keep the magic going.
Kitalla also practiced her dance moves, understanding that they would be less effective against the beasts than they would against the army itself. Still, she drew the forces around her like a cushion, envisioning the effect she wished to convey to her targets, and then casting the energies outward from herself to ensnare her victims. The eaglons seemed the most affected by her attempts and she was able to confuse a good number of them throughout the day. At one point, she convinced a pair of them to chase after each other, much to the amusement of the fighters below who laughed as the large birds flew in figure eights trying to catch each other.
Gabrion warmed up well to the fighting. He was grateful his injuries had been so fully healed back in Savvron after the mages had arrived. The pain was gone completely now; only the fear of it remained, and he was determined to banish that before he was engaged in a real battle. He kept twitching when he would turn to the side, fearful of reopening the side wound Heria had scored, but it was gone and healed and there was no wound to open. Still, the intensity of the pain stuck in his memory, so he kept repeating the maneuvers until he relaxed at last.
Through most of the fighting, Randler played his lute, rattling off numerous variations of battle songs, keeping the troops well motivated even when they started to tire. Each time a wave of weariness swept over them, Randler increased the tempo and inspired greater action from them all. He also took turns setting the lute down and launching some arrows or swinging his mace to keep his skills sharpened, but when his music was gone for a while, the fighters called to him for more. In a way, he inspired them more than did the need for survival.
Many of the creatures were salvaged for food, which they needed in addition to the dry rations they had obtained in Marritosh. Though they weren’t mages, Poltor and his gang focused on the recovery of the reptigons so they could claim the poisonous drops of serum before it decayed too greatly. They knew its value to the right mages, and they hoarded the rewards as they went, finally feeling like this journey might prove worthwhile after all.
It took a few days for them to reach Magehaven. The nights were much easier than the days. They set up the necessary protections at dusk and fended off the occasional intruders, while the days were fraught with continuous fighting. The battalion adjusted its strategy on the second day, where only a third of them fought at any given time, unless the odds were overwhelming. This allowed them to remain as fresh as possible while also protecting the group as a whole. It was an effective strategy and the troops credited Ervinor and Gabrion with its derivation. Soon, they were seen by most as the mutual leaders of the army, though the two of them in fact responded mostly to Dariak’s cues.
It was evening as they gathered at the base of Magehaven, which rose over ten floors high with a wide wall of force that kept them out. The wall had also obscured the tower from sig
ht until they were nearly upon it. Dariak gathered his companions. “The four of us will need to enter together. I have the right to be here as both a citizen of Hathreneir and a mage. You three will join me as bearers of the jades. We will be admitted if we go together.”
Ervinor saluted proudly, “We will await your return, Master Dariak.” The young fighter escorted the four to the barrier wall and watched as they clasped hands. As one, they stepped forward and passed through the invisible wall, where they vanished from sight completely.
Chapter 15
The Thief Unmasked
Kitalla looked around the oaken room, staring in awe at the high ceiling overhead and the luxurious tapestries that lined the walls. Sheer fabrics decorated the windows, teasing the room with multicolored light as the sun shone through. High shelves wrapped the perimeter, adorned with statues and figurines of all shapes and kinds. She tried to turn toward them, but someone tugged on her arm, so she looked back and upward into admonishing eyes.
“Be still, child,” said the woman tersely. “You’ll have a chance to look later.”
“Yes, mama,” she replied, remembering why they had come in the first place. They had left their hometown in the north and ventured to a local city where the mayor was seeking a wide array of workers, from cleaning servants to engineers. The prospects were exciting, even to the six-year-old, whose life had already been a struggle. She had no recollection of her father, but when her mother was able to sneak herself some wine and she loosened her tight grip on her emotions, she always spoke well of the man. Kitalla wondered when he would return from the war and when he would lift her in his arms and spin her around like she saw other fathers do.
A tug refocused her and it was months later. Her mother was enwrapped with aprons and rags, scrubbing a mess on the floor. “Such a careless thing to do!” she scolded.
“I only wanted to see, but he wouldn’t let me.”
The woman growled in annoyance. “It isn’t your place to have your way. It is your lot to obey the will of the masters. I won’t have any more of this nonsense.”
“But mama, they were saying things about you.”
The woman reached up and slapped the girl across the cheek. “Their words mean nothing at all, foolish child. Keep your tantrums in check or I promise you, I will send you off on your own.” She then forcibly calmed herself and pulled young Kitalla close. “Please, dearest. We need to make this work.”
“Yes, mama,” she said, and not for the last time.
The years drifted by and Kitalla’s mother was put to more and more grueling tasks, from scouring the chamber pots to clearing out the animal stalls. She never knew that Kitalla spied on her when she could, listening to what was happening and absorbing all the information. One cool autumn evening, the servant was crying to a sympathizer over a bottle of mead they had taken from the kitchens.
“You know I can’t leave,” Kitalla’s mother wailed.
“You’re better than this. Neither you nor the girl needs this kind of turmoil in your life! Pack your things and go!”
But she was resolute. “I only had to clean up after him. I can clean. I can do that for us.”
The other woman hissed. “He murdered the boy, tore him to pieces, and you had to go in and make it all disappear. This is outrageous. If he wasn’t the mayor, I swear!”
“Keep your anger down!” Kitalla’s mother insisted. “It was—it was an accident.”
“So the story will go, but you saw it happen! What kind of life is this for your daughter?”
The response was miserable, “The only one I can afford for her. No, I can survive this.” She wiped her tears away and straightened her back. “She has to grow up strong. She must. I can’t live on the street and still raise her to be strong.”
“Bah!” the woman protested. “You’d be better off elsewhere. Take her juggling act on the road. Join a troupe. Earn money that way and get help raising her in the process, I say.”
Horror filled the woman’s eyes. “You would send me off to wander the land in a circus? Oh, I pray you’re only too far into the mead to be speaking clearly.”
“Clearer than you, at any rate,” the woman scoffed, after which they dissolved into meaningless banter.
The terrible secrets continued and the burden placed on Kitalla’s mother grew more dangerous, but she didn’t know what to do other than follow through with orders. Meanwhile, Kitalla’s knife-throwing talents were discovered and the mayor periodically brought her in for performances before large audiences. She once dared to refuse and received such a violent beating she didn’t think her skin would ever return to its usual color. She submitted to the commanded performances, unable to do anything as a child. What she did notice, though, was that as her throwing skills brought money in to the mayor’s hands, her mother’s trials seemed to lessen.
As Kitalla grew older, she paid less and less attention to her mother’s troubles. They had accepted their lot and the periodic fiascos that arose as a result. The mayor’s temper led to a number of random deaths through the years, and more than once the town guard sought Kitalla’s mother as a suspect. The men handled her roughly, but would end by leaving her sprawled on the floor, which was an improvement over escorting her to the dungeon.
Time flashed forward again.
“You’re… really talented,” said a kind young squire one day. Kitalla was sixteen and he wasn’t much older himself. His cheeks were red with embarrassment and though she didn’t have time for him, she couldn’t help but feel intrigued.
“Am I?” she grinned, tucking her daggers back into their hiding places. She had just finished a wild performance, tossing her knives and cutting fruits into evenly sized chunks. Partway through, the mayor had risen up, apparently bored, and strode from the room, after which the other nobles had followed, all save this one boy.
“You really are,” he affirmed, then he held out his hand in greeting, which clearly wasn’t the proper way to greet a girl. “I’m Joral.”
“Kitalla,” she replied, looking over his shoulder at the empty room. “Sir, shouldn’t you be off with the others?”
“Perhaps, but meeting you was more important,” he said, his cheeks flaring red again. “And… It’s Joral.”
“You’ve taken too much wine,” she accused.
“Not a drop,” he swore.
She noted his hazel eyes and the funny curl of his reddish-brown hair. “I’m just a knife thrower, Joral. Bastard daughter of a serving girl, really,” she explained, determined to cast aside his interest.
“I don’t very much care where you come from or who your family is, Kitalla. It’s you I want to know better.”
She didn’t know how to respond, his sincerity was so blatant. “I—” She cleared her throat. “Look, I have to go before I’m punished for being late.”
“Then go,” he said kindly, “but I’ll find you again and we’ll talk then. I won’t forget you. Don’t forget me, either. Promise?”
Kitalla laughed. “Very well, Joral, if you insist.”
True to his word, he scoured the town until he found her the very next day. She was off buying food for the servants and he approached her timidly from the side. They made a day of it, bartering with the merchants, and arguing over the best ways of making salads or debating the finer points of daily life in the city.
They became close very quickly after that and were together at all times. They had some passionate disagreements, but they always worked through them in the end.
“Kitalla?” he said one afternoon, nearly a year later.
“Yes, Joral?” she replied dreamily, lying beside him on the hill outside the city, watching the clouds float effortlessly by.
“Kitalla, I love you.”
She laughed and sat up so she could see him properly. “That isn’t news, Joral. I love you, too.”
“I would give this world to you if I could.”
“Hitting the wine again?” She winked.
He turned t
o her and took her hand in his. “I want you in my life forever, Kitalla. Let me love you. Let me protect you. Let me honor you, for all time.”
“J—Joral?”
He kissed her hand and offered her a traditional engagement bracelet that only nobles exchanged. It was simple in detail, but its intent was clear. “Will you let me, Kitalla?”
Her astonishment turned to joy and she threw her arms around him and kissed him deeply. “As if you ever needed to ask! Yes! Yes!”
They were too young to wed and their respective parents didn’t take particularly well to the news. Joral’s parents demanded he cancel the engagement with the lowly peasant, stating he deserved better than such filth, but he swore that she was more than just a peasant at heart. Introducing them actually worked to his advantage, for they could see that she was at least pretty, and she did seem intelligent. Still, it took time.
Kitalla’s mother, on the other hand, took it as a personal affront. “You’re trying to desert me after all I’ve given up for you!” she bellowed one night. “What I’ve endured for you! And you would run off with some infant out of spite!”
“It isn’t spite, mama!” Kitalla screamed. “I love Joral. He means everything to me that father meant to you!”
She received a slap for the comparison. “How dare you imply that you know anything about your father, you demon child.”
“Mother, why won’t you listen to me?” she cried.
“It is for me to protect you, daughter. You will sever this tie at once! Had I known it was more than a mere dalliance, I would have put a stop to it months ago.”
“Mother, I—I can’t.” With that, Kitalla started trembling and the reaction caught the woman off guard.
“What is it?” she asked hesitantly.
“I’m with child,” Kitalla whispered.
* * *
“No more,” Kitalla moaned.
“Yes. You must heal these wounds,” an ethereal voice echoed.
The Shattered Shards Page 17