She was the only one left of the companions still fighting. Some part of her was prided by that, that she had endured where everyone else had fallen. She looked again and saw that Ruhk was still awake, but from the looks of him, he would tumble shortly. Verna had never much believed in herself before. All of her bravado and feistiness was a defense against her failings all her life. Yet here she had endured and pulled through.
A balding man stepped up to her, his hands empty of weapons, but Verna sensed something ominous about him, as if he couldn’t be trusted. His voice was reedy as he grinned at her. “Lady, set yourself down gently before you collapse and break something. This fight is over and we have taken the king.”
She fought against his words. “Taken the king? You’re not making sense.”
“You’re beleaguered and not thinking clearly, milady. Set yourself down before you—ah, too late.” He sighed playfully and clapped his hands as if dusting them off. Verna had collapsed in an exhausted heap at his feet. The man looked around and waved over one of the fighters. “She looks important, don’t you think? Put her with the others. Everyone else, let’s clear up this little party. We do have enough rope, don’t we?”
Chapter 9
The Regent of
Hathreneir
Three days passed as the damage from the battle was sorted out. The companions had taken serious damage and without the benefits of healing magic, they were unable to rise quickly to tend to the situation at hand. Instead, they were all at the mercy of their benefactor.
Dariak fared the best of the team, having taken a bad bump on the head which had rendered him useless in the bout. His body was covered in bruises and a cracked rib or two from being trampled upon, but he was otherwise able to rise and assess the rest of the damage. He walked around to visit his friends, keeping an inventory for when he felt strong enough to face the captured king.
Randler’s legs had taken further damage in the battle, and Dariak feared that the bard may never walk properly again because of it. He winced in pain even as he slept and though Dariak closed his eyes and begged the healing jade for any inspiration, the shard was cold and silent.
Carrus and Verna had thrown themselves fully into the fray and their bodies showed it. Their bandages were replaced frequently and it took time before they stopped losing blood. Luckily, some of Dariak’s army had skills in healing and they were able to ensure the pair received proper nutrients during their extended recovery time.
And then there was Ruhk, who had thrown himself into the line of Randler’s attackers. The Hathren commander had truly proven himself to Dariak in this fight. The deep gashes would leave noticeable scars, but he figured Ruhk would be honored by them.
Gabrion suffered the most, though he hadn’t received the worst of the physical wounds. He wailed aloud much in the way he had back in Jortun after he had killed Mira. He didn’t know if his soul could take any more heartbreak in his life. Everything he touched lately turned to ash and death. Nothing in the world made sense to him, especially after seeing Kitalla mangled and dead.
Turning from his friends, Dariak passed his eyes over the host of other casualties, shaking his head and feeling a deep sadness in his heart. They had lost so much and all because the king could not bear to listen. He knew it had to stop and he needed to stop delaying. He just wasn’t ready yet.
“That’s not a good face for you, friend,” greeted the balding man who had freed the imprisoned fighters and had come to their aid. “Come, there is soup and you look like you need a whole cauldron of it.”
Dariak followed solemnly, watching the man as he walked. “I admit. I don’t get it.”
“What’s that?”
“Your help.” He clapped the man on the back and shook his head. “When Kitalla last came to you, you turned her away. And that was after you left my side. When did you start taking up causes, Poltor?”
The man grinned to himself. “Kitalla was always my cause, once I got to know her. I turned her away because she no longer needed me.”
Dariak forced a laugh. “Nonsense. You denied her because she was going to expose you if people saw you together.”
The thief laughed and nodded. “Very well.”
“So why?”
The gray hairs along the sides of his head twitched as his face scrunched together. “She’s like a daughter to me, if you must know. And if I didn’t intervene, then her death was certain before any of the fighting began.”
Dariak stared at him for a moment, wondering if that was the truth of it, and Poltor understood the penetrating glare. The thief sighed and shrugged. “Fine, Dariak. You know me too well. It is true; I wanted to protect her. But the allure of breaking into the hidden dungeons and turning the king’s own plans on his head was enticement enough.”
“That, I believe,” Dariak nodded. “As for Kitalla…”
Poltor shook his head. “Don’t ask.”
“I want to see—”
“I told you not to ask. The answer is no.”
“I don’t—”
But Poltor cut him off. “You’d best spend your time thinking of what to say to the king. We can’t keep him and his cronies cooped up for long, you realize. You have to find a way to make him stand down. If the people in the town rally together, there’s nothing more we will be able to do.”
“Thanks for reminding me of my duties,” Dariak snarled. “This isn’t something I can do alone, however.”
“We can wake your friends. They just won’t be able to do much good at your side. And I fear, if you wait too long, then you’re all going to perish.”
Dariak noticed the word choice. “You have an escape plan for yourself, then.”
Poltor gave a sinister grin. “I didn’t spend weeks as a manure peddler so I’d smell better. Of course I have an alternative. I will tell you a little secret; part of it involves getting as far away from you as I can. You draw too much attention.” Then, as if to prove that he was serious, he shoved Dariak back the way they had come, though he kept moving ahead.
Dejected, Dariak slinked back to his comrades, his mind a jumble of thoughts. Poltor had given him quick updates on the state of things. Most of Dariak’s army had lived through the ordeal, though a dozen had not. The mage shuddered as he listed the names in his head. The king’s men were all in the dungeons, guarded by trusted fighters. Poltor had also given Dariak a list of men and women who had defected to the king’s side when the circumstances had turned against them, and so his army had diminished even further. He hated seeing people he knew either dead or incarcerated, but he had to be careful whom he trusted.
Absentmindedly, he found himself rubbing the jades in his pocket. Still nothing. He knew inside himself that they would not remain inert forever, but he felt like he had gone both deaf and blind now that his powers were useless. Dariak was connected to magic, but here it was inert, and for his larger scheme he required the power of the shards anyway. He needed to seek out his father’s laboratory in the north and discover a means of restoring the jades. Of course, that depended on his father having discovered such a trick, and he had no knowledge if it was so.
Yet how was he supposed to leave this place with all the injured and dead? How could he depart knowing the king would find a means of taking over again? He berated himself for falling so quickly in the bout, but it reminded him that he was a shadow of himself without his magic. What would he even look like as he faced the Hathren king?
Dariak strolled back to the infirmary and drank an herbal tea that one of the healers made for headaches. He sipped it, focusing on the flavor and setting all of his troubles aside. For once, he wanted someone else to stand up and take care of things, and not just to change the tide of a fight. He wanted to follow someone else for a little bit. Poltor was certainly clever enough, but his motivation for helping was waning and soon he would move on whether Dariak held the reins or not.
Gabrion was no longer capable of keeping the army together, though Ruhk had suggested
otherwise. They hadn’t spoken much overall, but Ruhk had told Dariak of his defection and how only Gabrion’s inner spirit had changed him. But Dariak knew it wasn’t enough.
When he considered Carrus, he thought the big man could rally others behind him, but he always looked uncertain when he was challenged to speak for himself. He was an amazing fighter and a well-selected captain, but Dariak didn’t believe he could lead the army.
Despite himself, he bit his lip when he thought of Verna. If given the chance, she would not only have twenty-hour training sessions, she would probably whip anyone who complained of feeling tired. She was an able tyrant, he thought to himself, and she meant well, but she was no leader. Not of the whole unit.
No, it fell to him to stay in charge, and he knew it always would until he quit his quest. The jades had been assembled, but their purpose had failed. He had failed. He had allowed Frast to overpower him and channel the energies. Yet as he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure if he could have done better if he had pulled the jades together himself. He thought back to aligning the jades, feeling that something was amiss. Frast must have felt it too, and if he had been able to return from his attack on the castle, he may have been able to shed some light on the missing component.
Dariak clenched his fist in frustration. Now he was wallowing in useless wishful thinking. He needed to be more practical now. Every jade was in his possession and though they were currently useless, he had to unlock them.
Gabrion stirred, moaning out in pain and drawing the attention of Dariak and the healers. Salves were applied to wounds and water and food were ushered down his throat. Dariak stood at the warrior’s side during the ministrations, then he took the younger man’s hand in his own and squeezed it tightly.
“Be strong, Gabrion. There is much yet to do.”
With a groan, the warrior murmured, “Kitalla.”
“She isn’t here.”
“Kitalla…”
Dariak could see that Gabrion wasn’t listening, once again lost in his own anguish as he had been during his Trial at Magehaven. Dariak could picture the blind ogre sitting at the campfire hearing snippets of repeated conversations. He patted Gabrion’s hand and set it down, turning away to get some more rest. With an agonized tone, Gabrion whispered one more time.
“Kitalla…”
Chapter 10
The Funeral
Gabrion’s eyes crept open and he looked into the misty light that filtered into the room. Thick gray clouds covered the sky in deep mourning, bringing an unnatural chill to the desert palace. As unholy as it was, it filled Gabrion with a sense of truth. Such clouds belonged here this day.
His body ached from head to toe and he lamented the loss of healing magic. His groaned at himself in scorn, for he had grown up in Kallisor where magic was despised, and the town of Savvron was no exception. Yet his time with Dariak and the others had shown him that not all magic was evil. It could be a force for good.
But it could not bring back the dead.
Pain lanced through him as he remembered all the recent events, including the images he did not want to see. Try as he might, still the sight of Kitalla bleeding out on the floor remained with him as if his eyes would always be stained with the image, blurring everything he would ever do.
Gabrion had gone through many changes on his journey, from timid teenager to powerful warrior. He had also been a killer, of both man and beast. Killing in battle had been normal, acceptable. But here in this accursed castle, he had become a murderer, and that was far worse.
Mira had hurt him profoundly, wounding his very soul. Her abduction from Savvron had been a ruse to bring her to her lover once and for all, when Gabrion never even had a clue that she fancied anyone else. His own advances on her had been reciprocated, he had thought. They had spent a lot of time together, growing closer, but apparently she had only seen him as a diversion to keep herself busy until she was of age for her man. And then, that selfsame man had sent his troops into Kallisor to claim her, and Gabrion’s town had succumbed to terrible loss.
He hadn’t even thought it when he learned the truth, but Mira had been a traitor, seeking the hand of the Hathren king though living in Kallisor. But Gabrion couldn’t ever fathom why the king himself had yearned for some peasant girl, though perhaps the randomness of it, the challenge of it, had been lure enough.
And when the truth was revealed to him, Gabrion’s body channeled the glass jade that had been in his possession and he destroyed Mira. He hadn’t meant to, but still, his rage and hurt were so complete that he believed deep down that she deserved it. And he despised himself for feeling so.
Kitalla had then sought him out as he hid away in Jortun. They had their dalliances and he had let his guard down, had given her his heart, even though it was still broken. Then he let Kitalla down and not just once. No, he had repeatedly failed her since then: refusing to fight the eaglons, hiding away in the outpost, delaying his return to her side.
And now again he had failed her. Sure, he was hard-pressed in that battle, but when he saw Kitalla approaching from the hall, he hadn’t moved himself toward her. No, he continued his own confrontations and awaited her arrival, relieved that she would be able to free him from his situation. He had waited there for her, battling surely, but not protecting her. He had wanted her to come and protect him.
His selfishness had cost her life.
Broken and beaten, Gabrion was a hollow shell and he didn’t know why he even drew breath any longer. Pushing himself up, he relished in the pain that ignited through his body, for he deserved it terribly. He squinted as he looked around the chamber and he could see several other wounded fighters still recovering. But everything was gray, colorless. The only vibrancy he saw was the afterimage of Kitalla’s dead body echoing over everything before him.
“Gabrion, you’re awake, good, good,” said Gretcha, the healer who had been trying to revive him. “Don’t move so much. Relax.”
“When is it?” he breathed.
“When…? Oh, five days after the battle,” she answered. “Be still, let me get you some tea.”
“Has it happened yet?” It was hard to force the words out. “The funeral?”
Gretcha nodded and answered too eagerly for Gabrion’s taste. “Oh yes, yesterday indeed. It didn’t make much sense to delay.”
Gabrion coughed and he thought he would vomit. He had missed it. He couldn’t even say good-bye to Kitalla properly now. It was done. It—
“Oh wait, no, Gabrion, I’m sorry, no, no, I’m all messed up. There was a funeral yesterday but it was for the Hathren soldiers who died.” She patted his arm, not realizing how close she was to getting smacked by him. “Tonight is the funeral for our losses.”
“All of our losses?” he asked.
She looked at him, confused. “Well, yes. Wouldn’t really make sense to bury some and keep others for display.”
He shoved her away and she crashed to the ground, but he didn’t care. Peeling himself from the bed, Gabrion planted his feet on the floor and, with all the determination he could muster, he rose. Gretcha cautioned him about reopening his wounds, but he ignored her, focusing his thoughts on moving his legs and reminding them of their purpose. A cold chill ran through the room but he didn’t take the nearby robe to cover himself, feeling he had earned whatever pain and discomfort the world could now throw at him. Pace by pace, he made his way to the door.
He had never been on a boat before, but he had heard tales and it felt to him now like he was on a sea in great turmoil. His body felt all wrong as he moved about, barely able to function. Each step was a challenge and he wondered when he would crash in a heap and if he could get himself up without help. His side and arm lit with searing pain and he knew he had disturbed his wounds already, but none of that mattered. He would endure through the funeral and then he would add himself to the list of casualties, for no more good could come from his life.
He shuffled down a darkened hallway and waved off the help o
f a fighter who passed him by. He located a small, empty room and there he set himself down in silence and cajoled his limbs to function better. Just for one more task. He massaged his legs, moaning as he pressed against the lacerations, yet he persisted, needing the mobility back.
Gabrion stretched and rubbed his muscles, rising up and pacing the room, sitting down only when he thought he would otherwise fall. Eventually, he managed to keep a relatively even step, with a few minor stumbles. Then, continuing to pace, he turned his mind to other matters.
“Kitalla,” he began, speaking aloud to help himself focus. “She was a brave and noble fighter, but she would rip your throat out for saying so.” He shook his head. “No, that’s ridiculous.”
He started again. “Kitalla was a woman against whom no one else could compare. Her finesse, her skill, her charm were beyond the… Kitalla was a woman uncontested. She could do anything she ever set her mind to, whether it was fight, or cook, or keep the team together, or steal.”
He sat down and rubbed his head. “Why can’t I think of what to say?”
Gabrion stood up again, reaching for the words, trying to channel Randler’s bardic talents. “Kitalla was a thief,” he started again. “Not by choice or desire, but because circumstances led her there. Growing up I would hear stories about the terrible people who were thieves, but Kitalla was not one of them. Perhaps few of them are as terrible as we imagine. Sure, she fought and she plundered, but not for sport. She did it to survive. What don’t any of us do just to survive? We work. We battle. We sometimes kill.” His voice cracked.
“Kitalla was not a killer, though many died by her hand. No, she calculated her odds of survival with the keenest sense and then she did what was needed to survive. I didn’t understand her at first. I was a naïve little boy in some ways when I met her. And she was so much older—and not just because she was dressed as a hag,” he smiled despite himself, thinking of the spirited Kitalla as he had come to know dressed up in such a fashion. “She was ever wise and cunning, but she saved my life even when I had lost everything.”
The Forgotten Tribe Page 7