The second guard tried to help his companion, swinging his weapon sideways in an attempt to behead the brash attacker. Saffron answered by sliding to her knees and raising her shield to stave off the blow. As her momentum carried her closer to the guards she twisted her body to the left, bringing her spear up with a thrust of her right arm.
It caught the guard to her left between the ribs and he cried out in pain, dropping his glaive to clutch the wound. Not wasting a second, Saffron released her grip on the spear and jumped to her feet. She torqued her leveled-off shield behind her with incredible force, smashing the other guard’s face and slamming his head into the door behind him. It bounced off with a thud, and he immediately sank to the floor, unconscious. The guard with the spear in his chest sank to his knees, his punctured organs no longer able to sustain him.
Rogan was in awe of how quickly Saffron dispatched their enemies. He had barely moved. “Remind me never to make you angry,” he said, stepping forward. He gestured to the laundry woman. “What about her?”
Saffron placed a boot on the body of the dead guard and pried her spear loose. “Open the door!” she commanded. The woman was sniveling, but managed to climb to her feet and pull one of the wooden doors ajar with both hands.
The spacious, decadently furnished Pleasure Garden of the King-priest lay beyond. Curtains, pillows, and all manner of cushioned surfaces imbued the chamber with a sense of comfort and luxury. It contained a fountain, planted trees, and a ceiling that opened to the sky above, letting in the soft light of celestial bodies. Two dozen women or more, clothed in fanciful outfits of silk or even precious metal, lounged about the premises. The nearest had backed away from the door, alerted by the sounds of fighting.
Others were oblivious, sleeping or simply lost in a haze of distraction. Fragrances smothered the air, fighting for dominance as they mingled together: incense, perfume, pipe smoke, even the heady musk of sex.
Saffron stormed into the room, scanning the faces for her sister, but Rogan’s focus was on the guards slowly stepping forward to stake their territory. Clearly among the most rewarded soldiers to have landed this duty, Rogan assumed they were either extremely loyal or extremely deadly – possibly both.
He counted six who were clearly visible, though places to hide in this den of pleasures were ample. This time Rogan was the first to charge, seeing the guards taking up positions to encircle them.
The harem protectors wore black cloaks over their armor and iron helms concealing their faces. Wielding swords and teardrop shields, Rogan surmised they possessed more battle-training than the pair Saffron had so easily dispatched. Perhaps the earlier absence of guards was only meant to lure them inside, after all.
The enemy sprung into action as Rogan entered their midst, and hearing his battle cry brought Saffron’s attention back to their danger. Rogan traded parried blows with one of the guards and then sank back toward Saffron, allowing her to focus on the right side of the room, while he took the left. She lunged forward with her spear only to have it blocked, while a second guard seized the opportunity to swing his sword at her flank. She moved her shield just in time, but it was clear with their numbers her opponents could just keep snapping; eventually, their teeth would hit.
Many of the slave girls screamed as the fighting broke out, but at least they had the sense to get up and push back to the far end of the room, out of danger. Rogan hoped, for Saffron’s sake, her sister was among them.
He did not have the advantage of a shield, but had never seen the need for one. Rogan preferred to remain nimble, though he also strongly preferred not to be outnumbered three-to-one. It certainly divided his attention, and he had the sinking feeling that he was going to once again have to rely on the special qualities of the uril-chent to get out of this alive. As he lunged forward again to engage the middle guard with his saber, he heard Saffron starting to sing behind him.
This song seemed somehow different from the others. Though still in Begnari, it was full and clear, and tinged by fury. He didn’t know if she was employing magic again, but he let the sound infuse him, feeding an anger he sought to harness. His arms moved faster and his blows beat back his opponent, who tripped over a padded bench while giving ground.
The two flanking Rogan were surprised by his advance, and slow to make up the distance. The moment the guard fell to the ground Rogan was on him, pouncing like a predator to finish his kill. The guard relinquished his sword to grapple with Rogan, trying to keep his dagger from thrusting into his exposed neck.
The delay was long enough for one of the other guards to slash the back of Rogan’s right arm, cutting deep into his triceps where one of the holes in his armor left him vulnerable. With a cry of pain accompanying a surge of strength, Rogan drove his dagger into the throat of the man beneath him, then quickly rolled away to seek cover nearer the wall.
A pulse of heat swam through Rogan’s body, coming to rest in his injured arm. A dozen tiny needles seemed to prick from the inside, but seconds later left no sign of a cut arm, no weakness of a severed muscle.
Momentarily out of danger, his attention shifted to Saffron, who was a hurricane of fire doing battle on the other side of the room. She spun with the speed of a cyclone, still singing, and embers trailed in the wake of her spearhead, glowing red with heat. Saffron thrust her weapon into a hanging tapestry, piercing and setting it ablaze. She yanked it away from the wall and onto one of her mesmerized opponents, cloaking him in a garment of fire.
He screamed and backed away, unsuccessfully trying to remove the artwork without actually touching it. She focused on the next guard, spinning and pivoting, bounding off obstacles in the room as if she had placed them on purpose. Her opponent was overwhelmed, unable to discern from what angle the next blow was going to come.
The third guard on her side clearly wanted no part of this elemental warrior princess, and whether a coward or simply smart enough to recognize the situation, he bolted for the door, either intent on escaping with his life or gathering reinforcements.
As Saffron finished off her foe with a spear to the stomach, Rogan noticed the other two guards near him had also become distracted by the incendiary display. One ran to push his ignited ally into the fountain to extinguish him, while the other stood in place, contemplating his next move.
In the confusion Rogan charged, sweeping his saber’s blade across the back of the stunned guard’s leg, crippling him.
“I surrender!” he called out, dropping his sword, acknowledging defeat. “Mercy!”
The two near the fountain had abandoned their weapons and shields as well, and steam rose from the torn tapestry, doused in the cool water. Occasional gasps and squeals still erupted from the congregation of concubines huddled together at the back of the room, the braver ones peeking around plants or sculptures to get a view of the action.
A woman’s voice rose from the crowd, “Saffron! Im shulak hadeem!”
Saffron’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, her eyes frantically searching for its source. “Dhania? Dhania!”
A young Begnari woman, bearing a striking resemblance to Saffron, peeled out of the group of harem slaves and ran forward, smothering her mouth with her hands and sobbing into them. She collapsed to her knees before covering the distance between them, but Saffron was to her an instant later, enveloping her in an embrace and weeping as well.
Rogan prodded the remaining guards toward the wall, away from their weapons. With Saffron distracted, he didn’t want them regaining their courage and taking up arms again.
“If you want the girl, take her and go,” one of them said. “We will not miss one slave.”
Rogan could not decide if it was a trick, or simply the man’s sense of self-preservation speaking.
“You wait much longer,” another chimed in, “this place will be swarming with more guards than even that one can handle.” He nodded in Saffron’s direction.
Perhaps they only wanted a chance to control the scene before others arriv
ed, but it certainly was a risk to linger now that they had found Dhania. “Saffron, we need to leave,” Rogan called as he backed toward her, still pointing his saber at the guards.
Saffron wiped her eyes, kissed her sister’s forehead and stood, bringing Dhania to her feet as well. She did not, however, lighten her embrace. “Which way out?”
“There is a door this way,” Dhania grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her toward the back of the chamber. She pointed at the guards across the room, “Only they have the key.” She spoke Illanese, but her accent was even thicker than Saffron’s.
Rogan faced his prisoners, “Hand it over.”
Looking as though his secret had just been exposed, one of the guards pulled a chain, looped through a small, silver key, from underneath the neckline of his tunic. Rogan ripped it off him, then ran to the far end of the room to unlock the door.
“Dhania, take us with you!” one of the other girls begged, her hands extended toward her fellow slave, daring to take a step closer.
“I am sorry,” interjected Rogan. “We have no room, nor any time.” He wanted to promise he would return to set them all free, but too much danger lay ahead, and he did not want to lie. As he held the door open for Saffron and Dhania, more women pleaded to come with them, but as soon as he was through the door, Rogan shut and locked it again.
He looked at Dhania; her fresh face held the same beauty as her sister, only more innocent. “I truly regret it, but if we freed your friends now, none of us would get out alive.” Dhania nodded, her eyes wide as she considered him.
Rogan placed them not far from the bastion they had originally descended, if his bearings were correct. He led them with haste down the hallway to their right, and when it ended, took a left. In the distance they heard cries of men being called to arms. Spurred on even further, Rogan was relieved when the passage ended with only one more hallway.
Turning right, he saw the iron rungs in the wall leading up to the battlements. Rogan went first, and as he helped Dhania out into the cool night air, he realized her outfit left much to be desired in terms of providing warmth. Her torso was wrapped in layers of silk that only extended to her ribcage. Her skirt was the same material, and only reached mid-thigh. A matching silk veil completed the ensemble. No shoes to speak of. He would be glad to at least offer his cloak once they reached the canoe.
“Look out!” she called and pointed behind him. Rogan turned to see a guard rushing across the wall in their direction, spear in hand. He stopped where the rope was looped around the crenellated stone, and started to lift it over.
“Don’t!” Rogan cried, running forward to save their escape route. He was too late. The rope went over the edge and Rogan almost went with it, lunging to grab hold as it skipped down the side of the stone to the beach.
The guard grabbed him by the waist to hoist him over as well. Rogan scrambled to catch the side of the wall as he felt himself lifted, but suddenly the guard released him and he dropped to the ground, relieved.
Saffron was pulling her spear from the guard’s body by the time Rogan realized what happened. “You almost went over,” she said, stating the obvious. The concern in her voice, however, was real.
“We lost the rope,” were the only words he could find.
They peered over the edge together – their canoe looked tiny, so far below. Bells rang as the general alarm was raised, and Rogan could see more guards on their way across the wall from the far side of the palace. An arrow clanked off the stone nearby, causing all three of them to flinch.
“We have to jump,” Saffron said, ducking from any unseen arrows.
“Is it deep enough?” Dhania questioned. “You know I am afraid of heights.”
“I’ll go first,” volunteered Rogan. “If I make it, don’t wait too long.” He leaned over and kissed Saffron full on the lips, leaving her stunned. Then, climbing onto the edge of the wall, he jumped as far as he could out toward the water.
The impact felt like being slapped hard on the bottoms of his feet, but the channel cut deep and he didn’t hit the riverbed. Water rushed up his nose, but after a few seconds of disorientation he pierced the surface of the water. It took him a moment to locate the shore, but by the time he was pulling himself onto it he heard another splash.
Saffron’s shield dropped first, wedging into the sand, followed by her spear. Rogan looked up just in time to see her sailing through the air, and followed the course of her silhouette down to its inevitable splash as she collided with the river.
He saw Dhania swimming to shore and waded back out knee-deep to help her in. She took his arms, and when he lifted her body out of the water, he couldn’t help but gasp. Wet, the silk she wore was completely sheer and clung to her body, revealing every inch of it. Even though it was night, the moonlight shared enough.
Rogan looked away, but not before the image had burned into his memory. He walked her onto the shore and immediately to the canoe, where he offered one of the cloaks borrowed from Cyril. Saffron crawled out of the water on hands and knees, having trouble finding her breath.
She waved Rogan off as he tried to help her to her feet, so he grabbed the spear, shield, and rope dropped from the wall. Someone hurled a spear from above, but it missed and plunked harmlessly into the water.
“We had better leave before their archers show up.” Rogan dumped his armful into the boat and waited for Saffron, still out of breath, to climb in. He pushed the canoe into the river and leapt into the final seat. Dhania had already taken up one of the paddles, and he grabbed the other. With swift strokes they took off downstream, eager to put distance between them and Hope’s End.
Only when the lights of the palace had shrunk once again to candles, did Rogan allow himself a break from paddling. “We made it,” he said, looking back at the daughters Furasi. “We actually made it.”
They were looking at one another, and though they did not respond with words, he saw Saffron’s cheeks wet with tears. She would tell him it was only the river, dripping across her face, but he knew better. He looked ahead, not wanting to intrude, and concentrated on steering their boat toward the western shore, beyond the realm of the Empire.
Chapter 18
Calling Up the Storm
T he day Saffron went south with the Baron, Jaiden began making an effort to live the tenets of the Order of the Rising Moon. According to Palomar, it was the best way to learn them. Jaiden wanted to change, wanted Saffron to notice his transformation; if that did not work, he would woo her with song.
Lothander did not disappoint him, finding a lute so Jaiden could practice during his free time in the caves. He had not touched one in years, but the fingering came back quickly, and he was soon composing a song dedicated to the absent object of his affection.
Getting used to the structure the Order provided, and the discipline it demanded, did not come easily. Jaiden made an effort every morning to take up a helpful task with no personal gain. Spending a few hours every day polishing boots or weapons, peeling potatoes – nearly any mundane chore that did not require standing – only left him hungrier for excitement. With none to be found, he was still waiting to reach the point where he felt gratified by his service, as Palomar promised.
He spent his afternoons alone, working on the song. Not a natural talent, he made slow progress, memorizing the music and lyrics little by little as he wove them into a story of his longing.
During these hours of seclusion, in the shadowed depths of the Caves of Criesha, Jaiden first noticed the smell. Unsure at first what it was, he came to realize his leg had acquired an unwholesome scent – like a sack of rotting potatoes. He regained some mobility after Saffron bound his leg in its sheath, and paired with Palomar’s morning songs to soothe his pain, he had convinced himself his leg was improving. In truth, there were worrisome signs – he could prod parts of his lower leg without feeling, and now the unmistakable stench.
He did not tell anyone, carrying on as if nothing was wrong, but he spent almost a
ll his time alone to avoid betrayal by his pungent aroma or the pit of dread taking hold inside. Jaiden tried not to pay it heed, but an inner voice grew, whispering the end had come.
Palomar spent the first days after their arrival tutoring Jaiden on the particulars of the Order’s minutia, but had rarely been around since. Sir Golddrake kept him busy scouting and carrying messages in preparation for their next move.
Five days after Saffron left, Sir Golddrake announced his decision that fewer than a hundred men would be selected to liberate Blackthorn Prison. The rest would be heading to Selamus, to bolster the capital against possible invasion and await the return of their brethren. Jaiden knew he would have to do whatever it took to be one of the chosen.
The Master asked for volunteers, since the journey into Chelpa was by far the more dangerous mission, but no shortage of willing participants came forth. When Jaiden petitioned for inclusion, Sir Golddrake told him he would only consider it if he were fully committed to the Order.
“I am ready,” Jaiden responded without hesitation.
“So be it,” answered Sir Golddrake. “Tomorrow, then, you and the rest of the would-be initiates will be tested, declare your intentions, and swear loyalty to the Rising Moon before your new brothers.”
That night Jaiden had trouble sleeping. He was cold and could not seem to get comfortable on his mat. His leg itched in its sleeve, but he did not want to risk loosening it, afraid of what he might find.
The following day began much the same as the one before, but around noon Lieutenant Orestes dropped by to gather the initiates for their test. Jaiden, along with five other men and Palomar, walked out of the caves and into the sunlight of the stone steps. They sat in a crescent formation and were asked to talk about what they had learned while traveling in the presence of the Order.
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