Lanico looked up at the high stiff peaks of Gray Rock, the wrathful work of his Fray aunt. He would not stay the night here. Though he desired pressing on after the tracks, he also rationalized that he needed rest to restore himself for more hours in the lingering, punishing sun. He lowered himself to sit in the narrow shadow of boulders and drank deeply from his canteen. He leaned back on the flat boulder that his Marin had leaned against not very long ago. He wanted to feel him there. Being in that same spot brought small comfort. He imagined the warmth of his son’s body still lingering upon it.
Never a fan of idle time, Lanico would make good use of the fire pit. He'd dine on rabbit, too, to keep up his strength. Using his supplies, he prepared the small campfire—this was relatively easy since the person who set it up before him didn't douse the fire—everything was dry and ready to ignite. He opened his tinderbox and went to work striking steel and flint. After a few moments of sparks, a flicker of fire started on bits of the abandoned rope. Then he set out on a hunt. It wasn't long before Lanico was eating sizzling rabbit meat. Once he finished, it was time to leave this temporary shelter—there was little time to waste. He dusted himself off, gathered his bag, and bundled-up cloak. He also obscured his footprints, just in case someone was tracking him. Before heading out, he viewed the space that he had just occupied. He pursed his lips, gave a stiff nod in approval, and promptly started heading off. He would once again delve into the Yellow Vast.
He followed the two sets of tracks this time—the large gait, and a smaller one . . . Marin's. The tracks were headed southwest, toward Odana.
✽✽✽
It seemed like hours had passed when Lanico noticed clearings among the yellow grasses ahead. He could hear buzzing flies as he came near. With a familiar panic, he ran, closing the distance between himself and the clearing. Again, the stench of rot greeted him and his heart raced in fear. Thoughts swirled in a torrent of nightmarish images, waiting to be realized.
He found the bodies of two dead Mysra—but where was Marin? The two appeared to have been stabbed, and their black blood was everywhere. As before, he held his cloak over his mouth and nose to stifle the smell, a smell that would only grow worse as the hours passed. His eyes darted around, searching frantically near the bodies. Marin? Lanico’s heart pounded wildly. Did Marin see all this? Who is he traveling with? Is one of these his captor? His mind roiled over horrific possibilities.
Lanico reviewed the death scene. Then he noticed horse tracks . . . from two horses.
On horseback again, he thought in mounting frustration. He'd have to press harder, picking up his pace. Days. His journey would take days. "Perhaps I can catch them at rest, once they've stopped for the beasts," he mumbled aloud.
He looked up to the sky. The sun was hanging at the horizon with hints of orange and rose. Lanico knew that he couldn't track in the night, but he also didn't want to wait any longer to intercept Marin. He'd press on, trying to track as well as he could in the fading light. There was no sense in investigating these two dead Mysra―Marin wasn't here, thankfully.
He resumed his trek in the direction the horses had taken. He could feel the slight incline that indicated he was nearing the end of this long plateau, and his strides were long to match the urgency of his mission—no good was going to come to Marin without his interception. Lanico was a Loftre. A royal, for Odan’s sake. He'd sooner die than have Marin, an Odana heir under him, experience a life of misery.
Chapter Fifteen
Broken and atoning
Slaves, covered in purple dust, emerged from the mines that dotted the eastern Odana Mountains range. They could no longer smell trillium after many years of the fine dust landing in their mouths, inhaled into their nostrils and lungs, ground into their hair and skin and clothes. Trillium had no effect on WynSprigns, which made them the perfect miners for the addictive mineral. The quick flare in temper and in strength seemed to come only to the Mysra, the ones who drove the slaves.
The sun had begun to set, signaling the approaching time for WynSprign mining slaves to return to their huts under the watchtower to the west. It bordered the encampment menacingly.
The small huts were once used near the castle for Odana Soldiers, and many of the huts were relocated to just outside the mine entrances, though some huts remained near the castle for the WynSprign castle slaves. The huts were weathered and in dire need of restoration, but the Mysra had no interest in replacing or repairing them, and the slaves had done what little they could to keep them functional over the many years. The Mysra did, however, repair and reinforce the barbed-wire fences and the trenches that surrounded the slave encampments, and maintained other security features as well. There were areas though- areas that they had neglected to update over the years.
Trillium-addicted Mysra warriors patrolled the small hut villages with customary large knives and scowls. The Mysra would start their guard shift with a heavy serving of trillium to pump them up, ready for punishing. The WynSprigns feared the severity of punishment and few challenged the system, but for those that dared, punishment was inevitable. Death was a possibility, but rare. The value of the slaves kept them alive, but only just barely.
The long line of WynSprigns leaving the Purple Halls mine resembled from a distance slightly swaying purple flowers dotting the sides of the mountain. WynSprigns young and old lined up to leave their work for the next day, returning to the small hut village at the base of the mountain. Then they would promptly go into their huts, clean the purple dust from themselves, and gather outside for their final meal of the day.
One WynSprign, small but strong, stood at the fire pit. Like all of them, she had hands stained the characteristic purple from years of mining, concealing the battle scars that laced up from her fingers to her wrists, and even higher.
She stood, leaning slightly forward, holding a large spoon. It was her turn today, after her long shift at the mine, to hand out rolls and stir the large cauldron of stew. She was to ladle out the thick contents to waiting WynSprigns in line. Her long tunic and leggings hid her thin body. A faded bonnet, barely secured by the tie at the nape of her neck, was in need of attention, for a section of emerald hair had loosed and curved around her face. She stopped to discreetly tuck it behind her ear and tug the bonnet lower before anyone noticed, noticed the brazen color.
One by one, they held out their wooden bowls, waiting to receive the brown stew she ladled, and the hard, brown roll she would place atop. Sweat on her brow glistened from the flames beneath the cauldron. While no one was watching, she quickly palmed several brown rolls and shoved them in her pocket. She had never considered that she'd be palming rolls instead of daggers one day. But those glorious days were long, long gone.
A small boy approached next from the line and held up his bowl. She smiled warmly at him and carefully bent low to dole out the stew, to prevent him from getting too close to the boiling pot.
A stab of pain made her suddenly grunt. Her face scrunched a wince. She recoiled and quickly grabbed at her side, pressing at the thick scar that served as her constant insult, a reminder of captivity. It delivered stabbing pain that limited her movements and reminded her daily of all that she had lost. Or, perhaps, she had often considered these years, it was a gift from Odan himself, for failing my family, for having failed at my highest duty. She supposed she deserved this―the pain, even the slavery.
After her former years of rebellion in this shithole, she now embraced it, all of it. Slowly, the dainty veil of complacency had, over the years, turned into a reality. She was broken and atoning. Her days of skull bashing, combat missions, brothel visits, and tavern brawls were faded into the recesses of her memory. The role of Emerald Knight had left her.
Even her silent defender, Gish, had left.
She huffed a defeated sigh and lifted another ladle full of the brown stew, pouring it into another countless bowl. The slight scar on her lip was barely visible with the weak feigned smile she aimed at the next slave.
&
nbsp; Chapter Sixteen
Reward
The sky was as inky velvet, but full of brilliant stars when Lanico made it to the edge of the plateau. His moon-glowing silhouette cast a shadow across the landscape behind him. The brass of trillium laced the air. His heart leapt and his eyes sparkled, gazing over his reward.
Odana.
Resting in the distance, she was beautiful in her slumber. At first sight, at the thrumming of his heart, he was in love again; in love with the land, the country, Odana. He belonged here. Gossamer moonlight blanketed the thriving, but sleeping world ahead. In the distance he spotted the familiar twisting silver ribbon, the beloved Odana River. "Ama," he whispered the Fray word for mother to the breeze. For she was a Fray, a wielder of light, the second created daughter of Odan. Until he arrived in her home, he would stay near the river that led to her. It had been far too long to remember any other path.
A wave of emotion swept him and he fought back the bitter sting of regret it brought. How could I have denied myself returning? So much time has passed. His throat knotted, thinking of the years that had flown by. All the possibilities with those lost years.
"Moving down this slope will bring battle again," he whispered to the wind, understanding. But there was no way back. A battle for what was his, was certain. He inhaled, filling his lungs with the fragrant air. It was time. Time to find Marin. Time to return to them, to lead the WynSprigns—to free them from Grude’s corruption. Time to reclaim the throne. It was time to set things right.
He tossed his walking stick and after lowering himself to kneel, he lifted a silent prayer to Father Odan. He prayed for the guidance of every step he would plant moving forward.
Crickets chirped in the grasses and there was a faint rustling from the far-off trees as if in some indecipherable response. He pulled in a deep breath and hoisted himself up from the ground. With a rippling snap, he flung out his cloak and swung it about his shoulders. For the night had grown cool and he wouldn't find warmth until he arrived to his Ama.
He took a knowing step. There’d be no going back from this-this choice, this descent. From this step.
As Lanico marched down the switchback slope, his General’s instinct kicked in. The need for survival and stealth. He became mindful of his movements, aware of his glowing eyes in the dark. It took some time before he came neared the rushing of the river, and the smell of the dancing water.
Near, his sensitive hearing detected the faint sound of voices. In his long habit that came with an increase in his pulse, he felt the hilt of Reluctant Leader against his thigh. He concentrated intensely to make out the voices, searching for Marin's. His heart pounded as he listened. Picking up fine details of the sounds, his eyes darted about as he momentarily forgot about their glow. Hope. There was hope.
He could make out the image of two horses tied to a tree near the water. “Two,” he breathed under the hush of the river. With his mind swirling, he stayed hunched, carefully setting one foot before the other toward the trees. Then he paused, hiding behind a few small trees. He grew cold at the sight of a large Mysra sitting in the moonlight. Who is he talking to? He moved slightly for a better view around the tree and spotted purple glowing eyes focused upward toward the Mysra. There!
A sob threatened to burst from his throat at the realization. Marin! His heart went wild, his breath visible in the cool of the night. He choked back a mixed burst of laughter and a wail. "Where?" he breathed and placed a hand over his mouth. He needed to stay rational. Survive. He was trained to do that. Setting his emotions aside, he watched to gauge the situation, to assess.
Marin sat near the Mysra and seemed fine, unharmed. The Mysra, however, had the dark stain covering his leg. Blood, perhaps? Lanico considered. They have no campfire, probably to avoid being seen by unwelcome company. The Mysra had been smart with that decision.
They appeared to be in the midst of a serious conversation, for Marin was at full attention, reaching for his tooth necklace, forgetting it was missing. Lanico smiled a little at this. Marin nodded and continued listening to the Mysra, seemingly spell bounded.
Lanico, remembering his eyes, avoided looking directly at them, even from his cover. He used the slight breeze that, thankfully, came from their direction. Lanico gaped, lifting his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and scented the air. He felt for the familiar feeling, the feeling of threat, danger. There wasn’t any that he could pick up with this Fray ability—his mother, his Ama, being a full Fray, had a stronger ability to scent out others. Harmless, his senses told him—overall it was an odd result but he continued to wait, the breeze carrying their voices to him.
The Mysra was telling Marin about his father, about the constant pressure to prove himself and his loyalty. "In truth,” he said, “even though I am a trained Mysra guard and have spent countless hours training others for horseback, my father doesn't approve of . . . me." He hesitated, “Even my ease on the over-worked WynSprign slaves enrages him.”
Lanico’s heart skipped. He nearly stumbled from his hidden place, and Marin’s breath caught at that admission.
WynSprign Slaves?
Gish continued, almost embarrassed. "My father . . . he is important in Odana. He expects much from me." The Mysra looked down.
Who is his father? Lanico wondered, squinting at the back of the Mysra’s head.
“I can understand how that might feel, Gish.” Marin responded.
Gish? As Marin said the familiar name aloud, Lanico’s heart dropped. The father was . . . Grude. Word had spread, even to the Great Mist leaders, about Grude’s son, Gish-the next in his succession.
Grude.
Lanico fumed at the name called up from his mind with a flurry of memories about the tyrant. Grude, who led the siege at the Castle of Odana and killed vast numbers of WynSprigns. Grude who I now understad had enslaved the survivors. Grude . . . who killed my father, Izra, and Treva. Lanico's fists coiled and his nails dug crescents into his palms. A spark of rage had now begun to course fiery through his veins. Grude had been responsible for taking just about everything that Lanico had held dear. Everything.
Lanico’s mind snapped back to the need. The present urgency. What life must be like in Odana now? For our people, for the . . . the slaves? He had long denied himself this thought when he was powerless to remedy it. He had known about the torment against his remaining subjects, but not about slavery. Not that.
I have not been angry enough about this. How could I let my people down? He hastily ran his fingers through his hair and grimaced. For too long I have lived in a fog.
Lanico had been lost and grieving for too long—he now needed to move forward. It was the only way – moving forward. He shifted his thoughts quickly and knew, without a doubt, that he was back. This quest to retrieve Marin was the beginning, was the only way to make things right.
He waited for several moments longer in silence as Gish confided in Marin about the pressures, he felt.
"Actually, Gish," began Marin, "my . . . father was important in Odana at one time, long ago. I always wished that I could have had the responsibilities that I was meant to have.” He paused. “But I guess, after listening to you, that it seems being a royal can be overwhelming."
Stilling his anger, Lanico listened closely to the enhancement of the youth’s voice, one of the strategies of his training. Marin sounded trustworthy. Perhaps Gish would let his guard down, allowing Marin to escape into the nearby woods. Well played, my boy. Well played.
✽✽✽
Though unplanned, Gish quickly found himself warming up to the boy as they sat in conversation. The shushing of the river added to the ensuing calm. He and his captive had more in common than he previously considered. Gish had felt relief in baring his feelings. For too long he had had no one to confide in, save for the horses he kept. They were a true comfort but did not take him as far as this conversation had. He would share one more detail with Marin, trusting that he might understand this one, too. It was an opportunity to have a .
. . friend. He nervously tugged at the bottom of his tunic, thinking over his words.
"Marin," Gish continued with a softer voice, "there is something else.” He wasn’t sure how to tell the boy without making him want to tear off toward the woods. After the long ride the boy was exhausted and likely knew he couldn’t escape, so, Gish took a gamble and said more to the trustworthy youth, much more than he had imagined.
“Your leader, Trayvor, wants to set up an exchange, selling misbehaving WynSprigns to us for our mining endeavors―that means you, Marin."
Marin took in a breath. Trayvor? Our leader? Well, that had certainly been a lie from the old drunkard. His thoughts were engrossed on the second part of that sentence though. Me . . . an installment of slave trade?
Gish noticed the widening of Marin's glowing eyes and looked down in shame. "To him you were the first installment, a teaser for more that would follow." Gish made a heavy sigh. "Trayvor, well, he didn't realize the ulterior motive behind this agreement. The mission from my father wasn't only to collect a few delinquent WynSprigns for slaves. He wanted an excuse to get closer,” The Mysra raked at the back of his neck, “to find the lost WynSprign village." Gish couldn't bring himself to look at Marin. "My father wants to bring all the WynSprigns back to the Odana to work as slaves, mining for trillium in the southern range. WynSprigns are the only ones immune to the stuff, and able to do it. He thinks the main mine, the Purple Hall, is nearly emptied."
"No," Marin whispered. He slowly shook his head and held it low, in dejection. However, he also seemed to gain energy that Gish watched warily, and the boy sat up a little straighter despite his fatigue.
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 9