by Ted Neill
The girl was as shocked as the two men, as she felt about her neck, her eyes wide, her brow furrowed in a question as she ran her hand over the smooth, intact skin.
But I hit her!
Katlyn’s voice carried down the shaft to her—that was a sound Gail had not expected to hear again. But there it was, clear as the sounds of the fighting.
“Come on,” she said. “We need to get to Haille.”
Haille?
Katlyn turned and sprinted into the corridor behind her, disappearing into its blackness. The mercenaries, Val and Cody, remained, staring at one another and their bloodstained hands, dumbstruck. Katlyn called after them once more, “Come on!”
This time they obeyed, rushing into the passageway after her. Gail would not let this second chance slip by. She ran into the open, crossing the floor of the gorge, her arrow drawn back, ready to let fly, but the men fighting took no notice of her. They were too busy killing and dying.
The passageway to the font was nothing like the mine shafts cut into the raw earth. This hallway was paved with smooth stones and lined with statues. She heard voices and footfalls from farther down but without light she was all but blind. She returned her arrow to her quiver, wrapped the bowstring over her shoulder, and drew her sword. With the blade held in one hand, the other against the wall, she closed in on the others. She startled once as she bumped into a statue. She made her way around it and encountered another in eight steps or so. After that she knew she could expect them and moved more sure of herself.
A clanging noise rang out. A crack of light appeared and the sound of falling water filled her ears. Her eyes adjusted and she saw curtains of white water and the silhouettes of the men running and the girl pushing open the door. Her heart stopped and her throat constricted tight. Just past the girl was a plinth of blue-green stone.
She was there. The Font of Jasmeen.
But something was happening. The door swung partially closed for a moment, opened again, and she could see another figure, bent over, the others crowding around. It must have been Derrick. She shuffled forward and pressed herself close to the next statue while she listened and tried to understand what was happening. It was impossible to decipher their words over the hiss of the falls, but she did hear a thunderous crack and boom then a tremendous splash as if something large had dropped into a lake of water. It was followed by the sounds of smaller splashes like the beginnings of an avalanche.
They were coming back. She had her sword behind her leg now so that it would not catch the light and give her away. It was unnecessary. They passed without noticing her, the one called Cody saying, “Maybe you should have wished us a way out of here.”
Her mouth was dry, her temples pounding as she watched their figures recede back up the corridor and out into the sunlight.
The way was clear.
Or at least it appeared so. She had not accounted for Sade but she already took him for dead. He would not have let the boy out of his control otherwise. Still, she half-ran-half-walked the rest of the way, her sword held on guard before her, her eyes scanning the sides of the tunnel and the passing alcoves for any sign of Sade. Nothing. She came to the end of the hall, the door standing ajar. She kicked it open, misty air blowing into her face, the running of healing waters loud in her ears.
“No.”
What a cruel trick had been played on her. The statue was gone, broken off at the waist. All that she had glimpsed from the tunnel was the plinth that had held her. She heard her sword clatter on the wet stones at her feet. Her footsteps splashed in the running water as she crossed the walkway, the side of which was sheared away, braids of white water running over the shattered stone and into the swirling pool below. Under the water she saw a face, a giant woman’s face, her head adorned with a crown of sorts, her eyes staring up through the water, blank.
“No, no, no . . . .”
She risked crossing what remained of the damaged walkway, fell to her knees inside one of the pools, and slapped her hands up against the legs that remained. The water was frigid on her lower body, sending a shock through her entrails. Perhaps that was how it worked, she thought, through the sensation of cold gripping her. She dropped deeper into the pool, the waters rising up her chest.
“Please . . . please . . . .” she whispered, she prayed. She plunged her head under, held her breath as long as she could, listening to the rumbles and bubbles of sound beneath the surface. Her lungs ready to burst, she finally sat up and breathed in, choking on water that went down her windpipe. She coughed, and her cough turned to a sob, hot tears falling into her hands in which she cupped more of the water that she prayed would heal her. “Please, I don’t want to be little . . . I don’t want to be a freak.”
Her limbs were trembling from the cold. Harsh, unforgiving, but ordinary cold. Her fingertips were wrinkled. Her teeth chattered, a sound she could hear reverberating in her skull as loud as the voice that told her she was too late—her own voice, her own thoughts, full of self-pity and self-loathing.
Still, she remained in the pool longer. Perhaps one needed endurance to be healed. Perhaps one needed to give up all hope to first gain the goddess’ favor. But she knew it was for naught. The goddess was dead. The font, whether it had ever had powers or not, was ruined now. It was empty of healing, empty of meaning. Empty of hope.
And why would she deserve such healing anyway, considering the things she had done. A series of children’s faces and the faces of young women and men whom she had betrayed into chains floated through her mind. The slavers she had killed might have deserved their fate, but the lackeys, drivers, and squires had not. Avenger Red was indeed red—red with the blood of so many.
Why had she ever even thought that she deserved to be healed?
She was unworthy, had always been.
And she never wanted to hear that name again.
She rose, dripping, shaking, her eyes following the flow of water down the sides of the shaft into the roiling pools below. She wavered on the edge, for how long she was not sure, before something of the animal in her, that instinct to survive, won the debate raging in her mind, and she moved one foot, then the other towards the broken walkway, back to where her sword was still waiting, the water coursing around it, down the length of its blade, over its handle. It dripped as she lifted it up, as if it were weeping too for all the wrongs it had done.
The battle had moved elsewhere when she emerged, dazed, from the tunnel into the gorge, its bottom already cast in shadow with the afternoon passage of the sun. Cold came with shadow, reminding her that she would need to find shelter before nightfall. The previous nights she had spent in the mines. At a certain depth the temperature was cool but constant, yet she had no desire to remain remotely near Morbright, no matter the victor of the battles. The caves, the shafts, and passageways had changed over the course of decades, cave-ins closing off some entrances and creating others. She had entered in just such a break in the walls and she decided to leave the same way. She was not sure where she would go next. Away, was all she was certain of. Away from her father, away from this place of bitter disappointment. Away from her old life.
Dead men were strewn across the ground, the rocks underfoot red with their congealing blood. She could hear the sound of further clashes but the noise was distant. She took the opportunity to scavenge what she could off the bodies. Waterskins for travel, a satchel of cheese and bread for the same. She made sure her quiver was packed with arrows, took a second short sword that she strapped to her back, then any rings or daggers she could carry they were good for trading. For good measure she took a length of rope from a dead man, then started her escape, moving in the opposite direction from the fighting.
Fate had been kind with provisions, but not time. By the time she reached the mountain trail leading down to Thestos, the last rays of the sun were shining across the realm into her eyes.
“Damn it, I should have searched for a camping blanket,” she said to herself, pulling her still dam
p cloak closed. She realized it was no use to try to wait out the night. Even if she marched to stay warm, she still might freeze. She would not let the waters of the font be the death of her, she thought bitterly. Instead she resigned herself to traveling only far enough away that she could build a fire in secret, strip off her clothes, and dry them.
She woke the next morning to a loud cawing. Her crow, Soot, had found her in the night and perched by the smoldering ashes of the fire, evidently hungry. She reached into one of the satchels she had scavenged and tossed him a scrap of bread.
“Now find me a route out of here,” she said, shooing him away. He took off into a sky curtained with gray clouds and low-hanging mist. She preferred this to a bright, cloudless day. After all, much of her dress was still red and she would stand out on a hillside, a moving crimson shape. At least with a shadowy, gray day she had some chance at cover.
As she went where? Again the question vexed her. The mountains to the east were closed to her, even this early in the seasons their high passes would be buried in snow. Not north, not at this time of year. Returning to the Eastlands was not an option, for she was known there and some instinct kept her from returning to her father—it did not matter if he survived or perished in the fighting. If he had lived, he would be her enemy. Dead, his lieutenants would be fighting amongst themselves for control of his empire and she would be seen as a rival or a pawn. Neither appealed to her.
So it was south. At least she could disappear for a time in Rivertown, provided no one recognized her, especially escaped slaves. They would always outnumber her wherever she went. But still south was all that was left for her. She traveled by day and night the first few days, eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and the mines and whoever survived. She had learned to live without sleep when hunting, tracking, and killing in the Eastlands. On the fourth day she was deep into the Thestos Hills. Here it was harder to stick to a direct path. She also felt vulnerable given that each glen was a winding blind alley, every hilltop a perch for a bandit with a bow. However, she knew she needed to pass through the hills in order to find the Liam river and follow it to Rivertown. The tow path where drivers whipped their donkeys pulling barges back north along the river was a safer place for a solitary traveler.
One morning while the mist still sat heavy on the hills, she and Soot came across a herd of horses. Thestos wilds, if she recalled what the locals called them. They were just stirring with the morning, foals still resting in the flattened grass beside their mothers, stallions grazing farther off from the herd. She nearly stumbled into one with a shaggy coat that had been hidden by heather until he lifted his head and huffed at her, a cloud of breath spreading from his nose.
“Easy there,” she said, backing away. She turned her path uphill and skirted the herd, then took a minute to sit down and eat the last of her hard cheese and even harder bread. Soot only received what crumbs fell from her lap this time while she sat and watched the horses. Closed off on all sides by fog, surrounded by walls of ancient hills, they were lost in their own dreamscape. She felt a little envious at what she perceived as their blissful ignorance. There was no shame, no outcasts among them, just the able-bodied.
But this came at a price, she knew. This was nature and she knew there was no use for the sick, the crippled, the small, and freakish. If nature had its way, if her father had his way, freaks like her would be left behind. She would have expired on a hillside like the one she sat on now, her heels spiked into the earth, left for dead like other children with deformities. Although she imagined it would have been worse for her, for it was not until she had passed ten summers that it was clear she was not growing. To have been spiked and left to die at that age would have been all the more terrible. No, they would have had to bash out her brains or slit her throat, as she had seen her own father do to . . . inferior stock.
Inferior stock she had delivered to him. Her hand, without her knowing, was wrapped around the soft flesh of her neck, her pulse beating under her palm. She tried to push away the dark thoughts by starting up and walking once more. She still had far to go.
Gail’s food was gone. She only had water now but she could move on an empty stomach. It was not what she preferred but Gail took some pride in not being soft. She smelled Rivertown before she saw it, the scent of wood smoke, leather tanneries, clothes drying, and fish guts rotting, all riding on the wind. But when she cleared the last bluff of Thestos she was greeted by a surprise: beyond the city was a pall of smoke fed by strings of hundreds of campfires. Fanned out in orderly rows, west of the confluence of the Lynn and the Liam rivers, just south of Rivertown, stood the tents of an army.
The king moves south.
Whereas some may have looked upon the sight of an army encampment as a sign of war and ill fortune, Gail saw it as an opportunity: where there were camps, there was security, work, and food. Plus she knew enough of the world’s ways—and war’s ways—to know that most of the fighting in battles took place away from the camp. The camp was a moving city of its own with servants, tradesmen, cooks, and of course, whores. That was one role she would not play, although the plight of a female among so many men was rarely an easy one.
She drew her knife, pulled her hair out to length, and began to cut.
Chapter 5
In the House of Pathus and Annette
“Imagine, Pathus Sumberland,” Cody was saying as he settled into his bed and pulled his covers up to his chin. “Surely the fates smiled on us.”
“No doubt,” Val said, piling wood in the fireplace before lighting a fire. There was a knock at the door. Katlyn jumped down from her bunk bed to answer it. Annette waited on the other side, her arms full of extra blankets.
“I thought you might like these,” she said, eyes sparkling.
“Thank you, madam,” Katlyn said, taking the bedding.
“Please call me Annette, child. It’s what my grandchildren call me.”
“Yes ma—Annette,” Katlyn said before closing the door.
“Good people,” Cody said, taking a blanket from Katlyn with a nod.
Haille himself could hardly believe their good fortune. Although he had retired before Haille had been born, Pathus Sumberland had served as the swordsmith in the castle forge for decades. His swords, axes, and dirks were legendary. Each member of the Antas Council carried a blade with his initials engraved on it and, as Val had told at dinner, some of the best men he had served under had the letter P with an A leaning into the stem on the base of the blade—the A standing in not for the “A” in Pathus but rather the “A” in Annette, whom Pathus said his life’s work would have been impossible without.
“They are so generous,” Katlyn said, settling back into her bunk. These were the chambers where their grandchildren slept when visiting. The beds were a bit small for Val and Cody but the fireplace was spacious and according to Pathus, it was the warmest room in the house.
“He retired a rich man,” Val said, striking a flint-and-steel into some oiled wool in the ember box. “They can afford to be generous.”
“True, but not all rich men are so giving in spirit,” Cody tugged on the sleeves of the wool tunic Annette had insisted he take after dinner. The couple had clothes for all of them, another result of having so many children and grandchildren frequenting their home.
The opportunity to change into warm clothes had been most welcome. Haille had been afraid at times during dinner that Val’s and Cody’s questions of the sword master would put him off, but Pathus answered each with patience and a smiling graciousness. Did he remember a blade called Fireswath, with a hilt fashioned to resemble flames, Val had asked. Did he remember making an ax called Bane, Cody wondered. Both men could remember the time and place they had seen such weapons. “Works of art,” they had called them. Pathus, for his part, remembered all his works. Haille had thought that the talk of weapons would have gone on without end had it not been for Annette who gently steered the conversation to their mission, the details o
f which Val and Cody were forthcoming with—including Haille’s true identity. Pathus and Annette had shown little reaction to the presence of a prince in their midst. Perhaps long years of living in the city and serving castle nobles had accustomed them to royalty.
The fire crackling, Val lifted the covers of his own bed. It was not long before the room was silent, but for the soft, deep breathing of the four of them and the occasional pop from the fire.
Haille woke first the next morning. The fire had burnt down to embers and the dancing shadows on the walls had been replaced by the faint light of dawn. Val and Cody were both still asleep, taking long, slow breaths. Katlyn lay curled into a tight ball beneath her covers, her face turned away from the window that looked out on a world hidden in white. Haille slid out of bed, slipped his feet into his boots and tiptoed out of the room, stopping in the hallway outside to rub the sleep from his eyes and flatten his hair. The house was still and quiet, the hallway dark, the only noise that of the boards creaking underfoot as he passed from the sleeping quarters to the great room where they had eaten dinner the night before. Haille heard the patter of feet and the soft murmur of voices from the kitchen. Voices of servants or grandchildren he was sure—although the night before he could not tell the difference among them as Pathus and Annette allowed all members of their household to eat at their long table, and unlike many lords and ladies, they provided sturdy garments for both relatives and workers. Haille sensed there was little distinction between friends and family in this home.
But he was not yet ready for the demands that interaction with others would place on him, nor was he hungry; the generous meal they had enjoyed the night before was still with him. So he borrowed a cloak from the clothes tree next to the main door and let himself out. The morning air was bracing but refreshing. Cold had turned the grass into blades of frost and one could be forgiven for imagining that the rest of the world had been wiped away in some cataclysm, as white fog had settled on the land, erasing any sign of life beyond the fences of the nearest hillocks. Even the closest buildings—the stables just a stone’s throw away—were mere outlines in the ghostly light. But out of the mist something did move and Haille realized it was the elk, emerging from the white darkness like some creature of legend, his hooves rapping out an easy rhythm as he neared a watering trough for horses and bent down to drink. A second shape shifted in the near distance and Pathus emerged from the direction of the stables, his gait uneven, his shoulders askew as he carried a bucket of feed. The elk lifted his head, water droplets gathered on the hairs of his chin, to watch the swordsmith-turned-farmer approach. The elk moved slowly, without the jerky, abrupt motions a startled wild animal might make. Instead his eyes followed Pathus as he set the bucket of feed next to the trough and backed away from it. The elk stepped forward, sniffed the offering, and buried his nose in the bucket, the crunching of his jaws loud enough that Haille could hear it across the yard.