by Jeff Wheeler
Thealos smiled fondly at Sturnin Goff. He was not a man with flowery words or fragile sentiments. Though hardened by years of war and training, he was still a man who wanted nothing more than the Rebellion to end so that peace could return and ease the suffering done to hundreds of shattered families. His duty would not allow him to quit until that end was accomplished. He knew many knights who had been killed by the Kiran Thall or trapped and outnumbered by companies of Bandit soldiers in the Kingshadow. In their memory, he continued to fight.
The door at the head of the corridor opened, bringing smells wafting down from the kitchens. It was enough to drive Thealos mad with hunger. He glanced at the knight and shook his head. “That smells like a roast hog and cider, doesn’t it? They built this place near the kitchens to torture us. I’d rather face the rack about now.”
“You’re right. Smells like roast with onions and sage. The Governor is supping well tonight. I’ll remember that when I hang him,” he added as the clamoring within the other cells rose up around them.
“They haven’t fed me all day,” Thealos said. “Maybe it’s time now.”
Sturnin shrugged. “You think you’ll get the governor’s scraps, do you? Don’t let it bother you, lad. You get used to hunger in the saddle.”
“Don’t talk about horses, you’re only making me more hungry,” Thealos quipped, cocking his head, hearing the sound of bootsteps approach. One guard followed by someone with low-heeled boots. It was a soft step, almost a…woman’s?
Thealos nudged closer to the door as a guard approached and unlocked it. He tugged it open with a grating squeal, and Thealos gaped with surprise as Ticastasy walked in bearing a tray loaded with food.
She wore the gown he had given her. For a moment, he was paralyzed. He could see her clearly in his mind’s eye serving tables at that tavern in Sol. The image clashed with a dank cell full of roaches and stinking straw. He blinked, trying to be sure it was her and that his eyes weren’t deceiving him.
“I’ve always thought it strange how your eyes glow like that,” she said with the twist of a smile, bringing the tray over and dropping down in a crouch. She glanced back at the guard in annoyance, and he fumed and walked away, grumbling at her to shut the door when she finished feeding them.
“Let’s see, we have some spice stew here in a loaf trencher, some buttered wafers and apricot halves.” She glanced over at the knight. “Hello, Sturnin.”
“Hello, lass,” he said, studying her. “How did you end up serving tables down here?”
“Eat up,” she insisted, grabbing a wafer and tossing it to the knight. He caught it and started chewing. “I made sure the stew wasn’t scorched before dipping in the ladle, and let’s see – I even brought some Silvan wine because ale and mead are also both Forbidden. I can’t understand why that’s true, but then I’ve never pretended to know everything about the Shae.”
“What are you doing here?” Thealos demanded, sensing that something was wrong. Her bantering was forced, uneasy.
“Saving you both, it would appear,” she whispered, smiling with satisfaction at his bulging eyes. “Quickly, eat! That guard won’t wander down the hall for very long and I’ve knocked out plenty for one day. Here, have some fruit.” She tossed Sturnin an apricot.
Thealos tore a hunk from the loaf and dabbed it in the stew. It was steaming hot, but he ate it ravenously. The meat was a little tough, but he wasn’t about to quibble over how rare it was supposed to be. He took a long sip from the wine cup, soothing his parched throat. It was an excellent vintage, probably from the governor’s wine cellars. She bent close to him and stared into his eyes. He felt his stomach shrivel.
“How is your wine?” she asked coolly.
He set the goblet down, wiping his mouth. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“Because I need to ask you something. And I want the truth. You can always tell if a man is lying – it’s always in his eyes. Is that why your eyes glow, then? I’ve wondered that a long while about the Shae.”
He stared back at her. “I don’t understand.” He swallowed, feeling her presence so uncomfortably close. She shifted nearer, her face so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. It was as if they were lounging on a cushioned window seat, not a filthy cellar floor.
“Are you the son of a barter?” she asked.
A shaft of guilt went into his stomach. He closed his eyes, feeling the irony slap him behind the guilt. He knew there was no point denying anything. She wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t already know.
“Yes,” Thealos replied, not daring to open his eyes.
She was quiet for several moments, but he could feel her breathing, feel her stiffen. He opened his eyes. It didn’t matter how guilty he felt. This was the only chance he had to escape. He had to convince her to help him.
“I don’t need to ask how you found out,” Thealos said, staring into her face. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”
She nodded curtly. “Don’t change the subject, Quickfellow. Is that really your name, then?”
Thealos nodded. “I should have clarified this earlier. Let me try to explain it quickly. Many, many years ago,” he said, feeling suddenly exhausted, “my father’s family were heirs to the Quicksilver throne. This was back when the Shae lived over in the East Kingdoms. There was a revolt and a civil war over the succession of the throne. My Correl’s family chose to follow a Silvan prince to this land and renounced their rights of inheritance. In another land, I might be considered a Silvan Prince. But not here, not in this place.”
“You let me believe a lie, Quickfellow. What else have you led me to believe?”
He frowned, feeling his frustration strain against the tethers of his self-control. “Do you think I came here to buy wine?” he demanded, leaning forward. “There is an army beyond the city. You’ve seen it. You’ve also seen the Everoot and you heard what was done with it by your forefathers.”
“Yes, but how do I know you aren’t hear to buy the Everoot, barter? Think for a moment, Quickfellow! Why else would you be here?”
He gripped her arm. “Because although I am the son of a barter,” he said in a low voice, “My birthright gives me access to another magic that is down here, in the tunnels. I do not know why that is. I don’t care. But the magic is real and it will stop this madness from continuing any further. It will stop the Rebellion. Think of all who will die if we don’t get the Crystal. Think of all we stand to lose if Tsyrke and his fellows win. Remember the Kiran Thall in Sol? Remember how they behaved? Think what will happen to the valley if they win!”
She frowned, obviously angry and disturbed by what he had told her. “Then the Crystal is real?”
“You said you could tell if a man was lying. I have told you the truth. I swear it.”
She was quiet for several moments. “I believe you. Maybe I’m the world’s greatest fool for trusting a Shae, but I pray that I’m not.” Ticastasy hiked up her skirt and tugged off the leather boot. A small key ring plopped into her hand. She gave him a wink.
“Quit flirting lass and unlock us!” Sturnin grumbled.
She gave the knight a smile. “I came here to free you, Sturnin. I just needed to know whether I should let Quickfellow out too.”
It took several tries until the key made a little snick in the lock and the manacles opened. Blood tingled in Thealos’ feet and he smiled with relief.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping her chin so that their eyes met. “We’ll see you safely through this, I promise you.”
She grabbed the chain between his wrists. “Here, hold still, Quickfellow. This won’t take…”
The door opened at the far end of the hall and the marching sound of boots thundered into the dungeon. Ticastasy’s eyes widened with shock as the clank of sword and armor rattled the stillness.
“In the shadows, lass,” Sturnin warned. The serving girl stole deeper into the cell, hiding herself in the darkness. Sturnin leaned forward, blocking sight of her. Thealos too
k another hunk of bread and quickly chewed it, watching to see who was going towards the kitchens and the stairwell leading out of the dungeon. The advance guard wore black armor fringed with gold. They carried long-handled torches before them, showing the rats slinking in the ceiling rafters. The man in the middle looked about seventy years old, his face hard-edged and angry. His hair was long and gray, spotted with streaks of ice. His gait was strong and sturdy, his walk quick. He stunk of Forbidden magic.
“Ballinaire,” Sturnin said in a near-whisper.
Thealos bristled as the soldiers passed, obviously on their way to meet with the commander of the Shoreland regiment. The clanking noises faded as they mounted the steps. The door leading to the kitchens slammed shut behind them.
“That should give us even more time,” Ticastasy said, slipping in front of Thealos once again. She swiped some of her dark hair behind her ear. “I knew he was coming – hoped to get down here without having to cross him. Ballinaire is here to speak with Tsyrke. You’ve met him, haven’t you?” Her eyes met his and then looked away.
“I know who he is now,” Thealos said, squeezing her hand. “And I know that you didn’t. I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip and then slid the key into the manacles on his wrists. “It gets pretty complicated after that, as you can imagine.”
Thealos nodded, feeling a surge of relief when the heavy iron fell onto his lap. He scooped up the chain and set it next to him on the straw. The feelings of relief surged within him. Without her, he would never have made it safely out. He owed her more than a tavern. He owed her his life.
Her eyes found his again.
“You wore that in Sol,” he said, nodding to the pendant around her neck. His touch grazed her skin. “You wore this as a promise, didn’t you?”
She sighed and nodded.
Thealos shook his head slowly and tugged the pendant, snapping the thin chain. He tossed it into the straw “You don’t belong to him, Stasy. Not him.”
She brushed her hair back again. “I don’t belong to you either.”
“Quit staring at each other like smitten fools and unlock me!” Sturnin hissed.
Thealos didn’t know why he did it. He couldn’t stop himself. Leaning forward, he kissed her.
It surprised them both.
“Thank you,” he said. “For saving my life.”
A shadow blocked the doorway of the cell and she flinched, shoving away from him in a panic.
Secrist Phollen stood there, gripping a dagger.
XXXII
The reek of Forbidden magic stung Thealos’ nose, bringing tears to his eyes. It seethed from the dagger. He should have noticed it approaching the cell, but the scent of Ballinaire passing through the tunnels still lingered in the air. Secrist’s eyes locked on his, his mouth tightening into a snarl.
Ticastasy wiped her mouth, watching Secrist with naked fear on her face. He didn’t even look at her. He stared at Thealos.
“Shaden,” he said, swinging the cell door open with a rusty groan. There was an intensity in his eyes that was unnatural, a self-feeding hate that drained the color from his cheeks. The stench of Forbidden magic entered the cell even more strongly. Thealos looked at the grainy textured knife blade. His skin shivered.
Ticastasy regained some of her composure and reached under her skirt, producing a dagger from her other boot.
“No,” Thealos said, holding up his hand to stop her. He backed away from the wall and watched as Secrist followed his movements. Fear threatened to overcome him, but he swallowed it down. One touch from the blade – one slice in the skin and he would die. He knew what it was, even though he’d never seen Deathbane before. He wished he were a Sleepwalker. But he wasn’t, and wishing for it wouldn’t change anything. He retreated several steps back into the cell, grabbing Ticastasy by the arm and pulling her behind him.
“Take this,” she said, trying to give him the dagger.
Secrist lunged.
Thealos nearly screamed as the Kiran Thall slashed at him with the dagger. Ticastasy gasped, but Thealos managed to grab the Kiran Thall’s forearm with both hands. Some flicker of thought went through his mind, faster than his own reflexes. Even though he was separated from the blade of Jade-Shayler, he felt a remnant of the magic still inside him. A Crimson Wolfsman’s training – just enough to save his life. They both went down, arms and legs thrashing as Secrist jerked and heaved to break free of Thealos’ grip. Twisting, Thealos tried to throw the man off of him, but he was too heavy.
Suddenly, Secrist arched in pain as Ticastasy drove her dagger into his back. Thealos saw a mess of chewed roots in Secrist’s mouth, its juice dribbling down his chin. With his other hand, he reached back and pulled the dagger from his back.
“You bloody rook!” he roared, his body convulsing. Thealos watched his eyes glaze over in ecstasy. He was chewing Everoot. Thealos inhaled the honey-sweet smell from his mouth. He was thick with it. The Everoot was part of him now, a craving he couldn’t quit. Thealos recognized it at once and knew that the magic had overwhelmed him.
Secrist’s eyes went wild. Staring at the bloodied dagger in his hand, he looked down at Thealos. Then drove it down towards Thealos’ throat.
Thealos bucked and shoved Secrist off of him. Ticastasy landed a kick to his ribs, but the soldier hardly grunted. Straightening, he pounced at Thealos again, both daggers whipping around. Thealos dove to the left, into the cell’s cramped corner, trying to keep away from the attack. His mind whirled furiously. How long could he dodge Secrist’s thrusts? He needed a weapon. He needed his Silvan sword, but the Sorian had destroyed it.
“I’ll kill you!” Secrist swore, his voice slurred and thick. “I’ll bloody kill you all!”
There was no reasoning with him. No logic to call on. Something was driving the Kiran Thall, pushing him to the fringes of reason and then a few steps further. The madness gave him strength, but it also clouded him. Thealos side-stepped to the right, not wanting to get trapped in the corner. If they could make it to the door and lock him in …
Thealos sidestepped the thrust and nearly went down. Secrist was still quick. Having missed the Shae with the dagger, he slammed his elbow into Thealos’ throat. It hurt like fury, but Thealos grabbed the man’s arm and shoved him back, trying to win more space between them.
Sturnin heaved Secrist off his feet, his arms twisting one of the iron chains around the Kiran Thall’s throat.
As the knight and the soldier whirled and wrestled, Ticastasy pulled Thealos toward the cell door. Her quick thinking had saved him again. The manacles no longer encumbered the knight, but he used the chains as a rope and slung it around Secrist’s throat, slowly twisting it closed around his neck. The Kiran Thall jerked in spasms and cut wildly in the air. He still had Tica’s dagger in his hand, and he struck the knight in the chest twice. Sturnin winced, but held his forearm over the chain, hoisting Secrist backwards, trying to snap his spine and choke him.
“Go!” Sturnin gasped as blood gushed from his side. He slammed the Kiran Thall into the wall a second time.
Indecision twisted inside of Thealos. He watched the knight struggle and then he saw the Deathbane dagger rise up and fall, stabbing Sturnin in the stomach. The knight let out a yell of pain – as if the scream had been ripped from his lungs. Thealos watched in shock as the knight twitched and convulsed as the flood of Forbidden magic swelled in eddies through the cell. Thealos saw Sturnin’s life wink out like a snuffed candle. All his years of training, all the battles he had fought. Gone in the flicker of a moment. His skin started to shrivel and blacken.
“Sweet hate!” Ticastasy breathed in horror.
“Run,” Thealos said, grabbing her arm.
He slammed the cell door shut behind them, hearing the lock click into place. But he knew somehow that the cell door would not hold Secrist long.
* * *
Tsyrke stared dispassionately at the aging Bandit leader. He didn’t know how Ballinaire had survived so many years of war
without his bones ending up snapped and broken, but here he was, with a stride full of stamina and vigor. The man will bloody never die.
Ballinaire held his white-plumed helmet in the crook of his arm. His face was hard aged skin, split by wrinkled crags. Even his eyebrows were flecked with gray. A thin white beard garnished his lower jaw. Five gold general bars and a golden star were pinned to his cape along the shoulder. It was all about rank. All about authority and position. As if anyone in Owen Draw or Dos-Aralon remembered anymore about the good he had done early in his life. Tsyrke wanted to chuckle. All they would remember was his angry defiance and the countless lives lost. Blackened fields and ashes, all of it.
“You look like Pitan,” Tsyrke said, offering Ballinaire some honeyed mead. “Do you want a drink?” As a true Shorelander himself, Tsyrke never took the Inland customs of deference to rank seriously.
“I did not come here to get drunk, Commander,” Ballinaire said with a clip and rasp in his voice. “You’d better pray to the Druid god Achrolese that you didn’t come here for that reason either. Are you sober?”
“Very,” Tsyrke replied, setting the goblet down. Mage sat in a chair to one side, watching them both. “Though after I heard what happened last night…” He took another sip from his large cup.
“You should have been here sooner,” Ballinaire said, pacing on the other side of the desk. His eyebrow twitched. “You should have been here weeks ago!”
Tsyrke held the glare and matched it with one of his own. “I came when I could,” he replied. “It is no easy task keeping a regiment moving and fed, not staying any place long enough to get pinned down by the brags at Dos-Aralon. Hiding in the mountains is one thing, but roaming the Shoreland without getting caught is totally different. I got my troops into the Shadows Wood for you. But what about Dairron and Folkes? Are they moving?”
The Bandit leader stopped and lifted his chin peremptorily. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Are they moving?” Tsyrke repeated.