Blood Rain

by Helix Parker

  “Why do you do that?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Change between old and young. Why not just choose one?”

  “Youth makes me weak. Magik is not infinite. It takes strength.”

  “So why not just be old?”

  She smirked. “Wait until you are old, little one. It is not such an easy thing to bear.”

  Leon walked past on his way to the dining room.

  “Why do you follow him?” Edgar asked.

  “Why do you?”

  “I don’t. I pay him. He follows me.”

  “Does he?” she asked playfully.

  He shrugged. “Why do you do it?”

  “He is very special. More than you know.”

  “Oh, I know all about him. Leon the Lion, Destroyer of Cities, Scourge of Men, Monster of the High Seas, et cetera. There are a thousand men just like him. Old monsters that no longer have the passion of youth and settle into lives of quiet sadness.”

  “Does he appear old to you?”

  “Now that you say it, I suppose he does not. He looks like a young man.”

  “And how could a young man get the reputation he has of destroying cities and robbing royal ships on the seas?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would. Just be there for him. He has never had a true friend. Not one.”

  “He has you.”

  “I am not his friend.” She rose. “Best get some sleep. He’ll want to leave as soon as we can.”

  Three days after they had arrived, they left the inn. The mud had dried into a warm cake and the sun was back out, lighting the path ahead.

  They were on horseback and traveling through a forest that was not named. The trees caved in on both sides and appeared to either be reaching for those on the road or to be covering them with shade. Either way, they sent a chill down Edgar’s back even in broad daylight.

  A group came into view as they rounded a bend: men, women, oxen, horses, and other cattle. Edgar tensed but relaxed a bit when he noticed Leon and Naspen seeming unconcerned. The caravan came closer, and Edgar’s small party moved to the side to allow them to pass. The people appeared dejected and defeated. Children walked with the women, and the men hauled provisions on their backs or on mules.

  “Where are you going?” Edgar asked one of the men.

  “Anywhere but Dolane,” the man replied.

  The reality of the situation hit him. Dolane, one of the largest cities in the world, would suffer the same fate as his village.

  “Here,” Edgar said, slipping a coin into the man’s hand. He dismounted and began distributing coins to the children.

  After the caravan, they didn’t see another soul for nearly the entire day. Speaking was held to a minimum, and Leon talked only when asking if they were hungry or needed rest. Edgar watched Leon, the way he moved and spoke. He seemed detached, as though he were watching everything but not participating in it. Edgar’s uncle had once said of his marriage that he had “no cock in the game.” That expression fit Leon’s behavior.

  By evening, the horses were near exhaustion, so Leon had the party stop in a small village to shelter for the night. They found a stable to rent and turned the horses over for food and rest for the night.

  Edgar proceeded straight to the alehouse—for every village had one—and got thoroughly and completely drunk. He saw Leon and Naspen outside, talking under a tree. At one point, Naspen took Leon’s hand and kissed it affectionately before she turned and walked away.

  Leon the Lion, he thought. You are an interesting person indeed.

  32

  Estra stood on the stone steps of the forum as a senator gave a rousing speech having to do with the patriotism of Dolanians.

  “Dolane for the Dolanians,” he bellowed to great applause.

  Hate, it seemed to Estra, was always very popular.

  The senator rambled on about the evils of foreigners and foreign influence in the senate. And as Estra expected, he ended his speech with a vow that he would be the one to fight the foreign influence and return Dolane to its rightful citizens. And of course to the king. One must always mention the king at the end of any speech promising the return of Dolane to the citizens. But it was only a token recognition, and few Dolanians knew or cared about what happened in the rest of the kingdom. As long as the royal family left them alone when they wanted and protected them when they needed, what was there to complain about?

  The crowd began to disperse. Dolanians loved their ornate garb, and the crowd, from where Estra was standing, appeared a hodge-podge rainbow of color: bright blue dresses with cranberry-red hats and green slippers, and for the men, purple gowns with sandals to match. If they were feeling particularly wild, perhaps a violet rose was tucked in the hair or behind an ear.

  Estra waded into the crowd. He furtively dipped his fingers into the pocket of an older Dolanian and came out with a coin purse. Naughty boy, he thought. You really should keep your purse securely tied to your person.

  He moved away and spotted his next target, a man with his coin purse—a heavy one from the looks of it—tied to his belt and held closed with a strap of leather. There was a challenge.

  Estra approached and asked the man what he thought of the speech. While the man answered, Estra untied the leather strap, reached in, and took just enough of the coins that the man wouldn’t feel a sudden change in weight. He slipped away mid-sentence.

  Then there was the woman who thought herself clever and hid her coin in one of her slippers. Estra stepped on her heel then apologized as her foot came out of the slipper and coins bounced everywhere. Several people bent to grab what they could as the woman tried to fight them off. Estra helped himself to four coin purses while the owners were busy attempting to push each other away from the coins on the ground. He glided away, moving deftly through the crowd.

  “You there! Thief!”

  He dashed for the safety of the inner city. Two men chased him. Estra leapt over a cart and turned down a side street before making a sharp turn away from the inner city and running to the main plaza with the bell tower. He leapt onto the doorframe and pulled himself up to the first knob over the door. From there, he used several cracks in the wall and a banner pole to climb to the top of the structure.

  He jumped, his fingers just barely catching the edge of the belfry. Once inside, he lay down, took out all the coins he had pilfered, and poured them over his body. They clinked as they fell around him, and he smiled. Growing up poor, he had no legitimate venue to make as much money as he did stealing. Most respectable careers were closed to him.

  Becoming a politician was impossible because boys from his class weren’t viewed as having the proper stock to lead others. Learning to be an apothecary was out because most considered the poor to be stupid. Becoming a king’s law guard was unlikely as they required references from citizens in good standing. Working as a blacksmith was a remote possibility, but only if one managed to convince an already practicing smith to take on an apprentice. Baker, cook, stonemason, innkeeper, field worker, and house worker all required apprenticeships, which were difficult to come by as the professional could only take one apprentice at a time, and some people wished to stay with their teachers for years on end.

  That left crime.

  Once Estra felt the commotion had died down, he sat up and started to put his coins away. He froze with a coin in his hand when he noticed a young girl of perhaps nine years of age huddled in a corner of the belfry. Her clothes were dirty and worn, and she had her knees pulled up to her chest.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She didn’t reply.

  “Are you here by yourself?”

  She nodded.

  He rose to his feet, and she gasped. He bent and quickly scooped up his coins, putting them in the largest purse. “It’s all right. I’m just leaving.” He began climbing back through the opening.

  “I can please you.” Her voice was soft and timid.

&nbs
p; “Pardon?”

  “I can please you, m’lord. In exchange for food.”

  Her glistening eyes were filled with desperation. He walked over to her. As he got closer, he noticed she was trembling.

  He laid the coin purse at her feet. “Buy yourself passage out of the city and go to one of the smaller towns. Find work there, real work. Cooking and cleaning. You can make a life for yourself but not here. This city eats people. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, reaching for the coins like a squirrel that had found a stash of acorns. Estra hopped out of the belfry and went back to the cobbled streets of Dolane. His city. He knew every hiding place and hidden corner and underground passage, better even than the engineers. Vast catacombs from an ancient people were interlaced beneath the city’s sewers. He could tell they were ancient from the way the skeletons were dressed. He had found swords, shields, and daggers that he’d sold to various smiths. The items were colorful and beautiful, blue and silver with intricate designs of lions and sharks emblazoned on them. He didn’t like selling them unless he had to, so he saved them as a last resort to use only if he was starving.

  Three boys he knew were at the corner. Estra went over and sat next to Quell, a young man his age. Quell had a small pot in front of him, hoping for a few coppers from passersby.

  “How did you do?” Quell asked.

  “I have nothing.”

  “I told you. Thieving is just too hard. Begging is much easier.”

  “And dying much easier still. But I’m in no rush to do either.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ve made enough to eat for days. Did you hear the gossip?”

  “What gossip is that?”

  “The Marauders are on the march, and Gerald the smithy says they’re marching here.”

  “Why would they march here?”

  “I don’t know. To kill us, I suppose. But Gerald said that the governor doesn’t believe they’re going to take the city, so he’s not following the advice of the city guard to fortify the walls. If the Marauders do lay siege, they’ll burn the city to the ground. And do you know what that means for us, friend? Free rein. I’m going to the Lompol mansion and taking their gold. They’ll be too frightened to fight us, or they might even be dead.”

  “We might be dead, too.”

  “Why would the Marauders kill us? We’re nothing to them. No, I think they’ll kill the rich and powerful and leave the poor souls alone.”

  Estra shrugged. “When are they supposed to arrive?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  33

  They would be at Dolane by nightfall. The men carried a sense of anticipation, resulting in fights, arguments, and bouts of uproarious laughter. Rodrick’s senses were heightened, and his stomach was in knots from fear, something he would never relay to another living soul. But he would act precisely the same with or without that fear. It did not matter. And he didn’t let it affect him.

  Hess rode beside him. He twirled a bone that appeared to be from the rib or arm of a person but may well have come from an animal. “You sexed her,” he said, without glancing at Rodrick. “Erebos will kill you for it.”

  “She said he doesn’t feel affection for her.”

  “No, not affection. Not like you might feel affection. He feels ownership. And you have taken that ownership from him.”

  “Well, he won’t find out.”

  “I did.”

  Rodrick glared at him before turning his eyes back to the valley. Riding in silence, he kept his gaze on the vast nothing of grass, not even mountains as far as he could see. But just past the horizon lay Dolane, backed up against the sea, her great walls gleaming. He could almost… taste it. He would worry about his master afterward. Besides, how upset could Erebos be if Rodrick handed him Dolane?

  “Werzzel makes trouble,” Hess hissed.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He says the boy-leader does not know how to lead men and will take us to our death. Some of the captains have begun to listen to him.”

  Rodrick shook his head. “Keep the line moving forward.” He rode back through the horde until he came to Werzzel’s war-horse, a massive brown steed covered in scars.

  Rodrick maneuvered in next to Werzzel, leaped from horse, and rammed into the captain’s chest. They both tumbled to the ground. Rodrick struck Werzzel twice in the head before getting up and drawing his sword. The newly oiled steel glistened in the sunlight.

  “Rise,” Rodrick ordered.

  Werzzel rose to his feet and pulled out the axe strapped to his hip. He screamed like a man possessed as he rushed in and swung the axe widely, going immediately for the killing blow. Rodrick rolled under him and tried to cut the captain’s leg off at the knee. But Werzzel moved out of the way at the last second.

  Werzzel swung the axe down with both hands. Rodrick twisted away, and the steel head sank into the dirt beside his foot, kicking up clods of earth. Rodrick swung his sword, aiming for the handle of the axe.

  The sword cut through the hardened wood, leaving the blade in the dirt. Rodrick raised the sword and rammed it into Werzzel’s shin. Werzzel groaned as the blade thrust through the back of his leg.

  Rodrick yanked his sword free and bashed the hilt into Werzzel’s mouth. Werzzel fell onto his back holding his mouth. When he removed his hand, he spit out several teeth.

  Rodrick stabbed down, the blade aimed for Werzzel’s nose and primed to explode out the back of the captain’s head. At the final moment, Rodrick altered its course, and the blade cut through Werzzel’s ear and sank into the soil.

  “Question me again, and I’ll kill you.” Rodrick sheathed his sword, mounted his horse, and rode back to the front of the line.

  The horde marched all day. When the sun set, bleeding the sky red, they stood on a precipice overlooking the great city of Dolane.

  The walls were much taller than Rodrick had been led to believe, and he was amazed that men could build such a thing. The turrets gleamed white and were so large, he guessed at least a thousand men were evenly spaced along the walls. Conical spires encircled with archers rose from the four corners. An open tower hung above the two entrances, possibly to dump any manner of mischief on an intruding army stupid enough to attempt a raid. The parapet walks were lined with so many men they could fire hundreds of arrows every moment without stop if they desired. And the city, tucked away within the walls, appeared to go on forever. Teeming with people, horses and carts, gardens, a public square lined with merchants, and a garrison on every side.

  The sight was so awe-inspiring he had to make certain none of his men saw his mouth drop open.

  “The City that Never Falls,” Hess said. “That is what they call it.”

  “I know. But it will fall now.”

  34

  The horses were exhausted, and they had to stop quite often. Edgar didn’t mind as he would find shade under a tree and catch as much sleep as he could, but he would have preferred to have gotten the whole thing finished.

  So close to his target, his desires had begun to wane. Of what use was revenge? It wouldn’t bring a single person from his village back. And he’d put the lives of two other people at risk. He didn’t have that initial cold anger in him anymore, and he wondered why he had ever started the journey.

  And then, he thought of her.

  He pictured her raped over and over again by Marauders. Bleeding and broken, she had died alone, not knowing that anyone thought of her.

  The fire came back within him, and he had a desire to see Erebos at his feet. He wanted his face to be the last thing Erebos saw before Leon killed the evil man. Edgar would tell Erebos about her. Erebos had to know he was dying because of her.

  When the horses were ready, Edgar rose and mounted, and they carried on again. Edgar had no idea how far they were from Dolane because he had quit asking some time ago. But he knew they were probably close because of the amount of people making an exodus from the city.

  They stopped at an inn to eat at midday, and
Edgar listened in on the conversations of some of the Dolanians. They were upset that the governor had not made preparations and instead had reduced the number of the guard to show the people that he was not frightened of a rag-tag army of rapists and robbers. Most of the populace were comforted, but the smart ones were not. The smart ones had left.

  After their meal, Edgar rode next to Leon, who hadn’t spoken all day.

  “What’s wrong?” Edgar asked.

  “Why do you think something is wrong?”

  “Because you’re not your usual happy self. Are you frightened?”

  “No, I don’t fear death.”

  “Then what?”

  “I fear killing.”

  Edgar shook his head. “You are an odd pirate indeed.”

  Leon opened his mouth as if to answer, but then closed it and stared at something in the field to their right. Edgar turned to look, but all he saw were sheep and a shepherd. When he turned back to ask about it, Leon had jumped off his horse and begun sprinting toward the shepherd.

  “Leon, where are you going? Leon!”

  Leon pulled out the short sword Edgar had bought for him from the innkeeper at the last inn, and he went for the shepherd’s throat. The shepherd smiled and said something Edgar didn’t quite hear but that sounded like, “So you live?”

  Leon thrust with the sword and then swiped in three directions. The shepherd adroitly moved out of the way then pulled out a sword of his own. The two men cut each other with sloppy thrusts and swipes, neither of them gaining an advantage.

  “Do something,” Edgar said to Naspen.

  She shook her head. “He can fight his own battles.”

  The shepherd ducked low and swiped at Leon’s ankle. The blade met skin and nearly toppled him. The shepherd lifted his sword with both hands and brought it down, aiming for Leon’s head. Leon dodged to the side and thrust with his sword, catching the man in the shoulder. The shepherd yelped in pain then swung wide, slicing Leon’s arm.