by Olive Creed
King Corynth reached the town square and had to wait as his soldiers shoved a path through the crowd of people. Cyprian slunk along behind him, disappearing into the crowd. Fury paced on the outskirts, growling impatiently. A tall fountain stood in the center of the square, surrounded by a low rock wall. King Corynth bounded up on it, raising his hands for silence.
“Your king is dead! Your Council members are either dead or imprisoned. Your army is slaughtered.”
Several women clasped their children close or covered their mouths with their hands, stifling sobs, even though they knew of the battle’s disastrous outcome. A few of the older men glared daggers at the Achian King, as if wishing they could pick up a sword and fight him. Cyprian edged closer to the fountain, holding both daggers in his hands. He didn’t have to worry, though. King Corynth looked like he wished they would try. Cyprian sighed, pulling his attention back to the crowd. King Corynth would never tire of the thrill of crushing someone, in forcing them to surrender or to die trying.
“I am your one and only—”
“Sure you are.”
Cyprian spotted the troublemaker pushing her way to the front of the crowd. She resembled the one who’d confronted them earlier, with long brown hair and the same flashing eyes. He stepped forward, getting between her and the king and pointing his dagger at her.
King Corynth smiled mockingly and waved his hand, gesturing all around him. “Do you see any other king before you?”
“The only one I see is a dog,” she ground out, ignoring Cyprian and stepping closer. “Do your soldiers know they serve a man who stabs an old man in the back and slays a weeping woman as she clutches her dead husband and begs for mercy?”
“Who are you?” he asked curiously.
“I am Mariah,” she declared boldly. “The daughter of the man and woman you killed just moments ago. The sister of one who fell in battle. The loyal follower of the late King Torrin!”
“This is war,” he said coolly. “Everyone dies. Everyone here has lost a loved one. Yet you are the only one speaking out.”
“Perhaps I am the only one foolish enough to.” She started to take another step, but Cyprian pressed the tip of his dagger against her stomach.
Her eyes met his for a moment, disgust curling her nose. "Traitor."
“What if we don’t align ourselves with you?” someone in the crowd shouted. “A king should be voted in by the Council. Not murder his way to the throne!”
“You there.” The king’s icy tone settled in Cyprian’s stomach like a stone. He pointed to an old couple. “Step forward.”
The woman shook so hard Cyprian was surprised she was still standing. The man lifted his chin, letting go of his wife to step forward. After a moment, she followed, clasping his hand.
“Cyprian.” The king never looked away from the couple. “Show these people what will happen to them if they do not align themselves with me.”
Cyprian swallowed, moving over to the old woman. He took a deep breath and in one quick move grabbed her shoulder and slit her throat. Before her husband could react, he stabbed him through the neck.
He stared at their corpses, forcing down every emotion. He couldn’t break down now.
“You monster.” Mariah threw her braid over her shoulder, staring King Corynth in the eye with a fury Cyprian had never seen before. “You march in with your two armies and your dragons and slaughter the men and women. Those you don’t kill, you sell as slaves, a fate worse than death.” She shoved Cyprian aside, marching forward. “You won’t always be young and strong. One day you will depend on the mercy of someone else and you will die.”
“Soldiers, take Mariah to the jailhouse.” A small grin twisted King Corynth’s face. “I believe she will be a welcome addition to Kyrnia’s slaves.”
The soldiers exchanged looks. Two of them grudgingly stepped forward and grabbed her arms, dragging her away. She didn’t fight them, marching with her head held high.
“Does anyone else want to join Mariah? Or perhaps they’d like to join the old couple?” King Corynth waved at the bodies bleeding out onto the ground.
Nobody moved. A few shook their heads, their shoulders slumped in defeat. They knew resistance was pointless. King Corynth may have been a tyrant—and the stories of his cruel ways were bone-chilling and had reached out to the far corners of their county—but surrendering was better than execution or slavery.
The look on King Corynth’s face was smug. Complete and utter defeat. There would be no uprising in the town of Everdon. “Good. Guards, escort them back to their homes and help them to repair the damages. Show the good people of Elyndia that we are not tyrants. We are not evil. We look after and care for those who are loyal to us and protect them from the ones who would rather cause trouble.”
Cyprian almost snorted. He cleaned and sheathed his dagger and snapped his fingers. Fury bounded through the people to stand by his side. He crouched, trusting her to keep watch, and picked up her injured foot, trying to distract himself from the fact that he just killed a defenseless old man and woman.
The bleeding had stopped. He’d clean the cut as soon as someone came to replace him. He straightened, scratching between her horns before turning his full attention back to the king.
As the crowd shuffled off, King Corynth dismissed General Byrd and a few of the soldiers, ordering them to get their injuries tended to.
The soldiers hurried off, but General Byrd stayed, clasping his hands behind him. “With all due respect, sire, I will not see a doctor nor get rest until I see that you are taken care of.”
King Corynth smiled and clapped his general on the shoulder. Byrd had been there by his side back when he was only a Shadow trying to care for his kid brother, or so Peter had told Cyprian. Together they had worked their way through the Shadow ranks until they’d been close enough to assassinate the Achian King. Corynth had gone on to be king, ruthless and savage, while Byrd had preferred the humbler status of General.
“Very well then, we shall both have our injuries tended to.” He paused, turning to Cyprian. “Take a group of men out to the battlefield. Make sure all the Elyndians are dead and finish off any of our men who are critically injured. I have no time to play nursemaid.”
As they walked off, Cyprian stood frozen in horror. Kill our own? He was a Shadow; he’d killed men before. But killing someone who’d fought alongside him in battle? Those were his fellow countrymen, fellow Shadows, people he’d trained with. He couldn’t just kill them.
But if he didn’t, he might as well be telling the king to slit his throat. Or worse, Peter’s.
This is wrong.
Cyprian stared down at the man he’d just killed. The soldier had been dying, an arrow deep in his stomach. He’d been unconscious when Cyprian finished him off. Small mercy. Guilt threatened to consume him, but he shoved it into the far corners of his mind, numbing himself.
He was a Shadow. This was his job.
And he hated it. But he’d stick with it, for Peter’s sake.
A quick glance around the battlefield showed him the vultures had already started to gather. The sun was setting and it was only a matter of time before the other scavengers came. Someone moved, maybe a hundred yards away. Cyprian dragged his feet in that direction. Even assassinating unsuspecting victims didn’t feel as low as this. At least with assassinations, the victim had a chance to fight back.
The figure was Elyndian, clutching a sword in one hand like his life depended on it. His face and throat were a ragged mess of torn, bleeding flesh and mud. Cyprian flipped his dagger, staring down at the Elyndian as he struggled to move away. His left leg hung useless and dragging behind him, his right hand mangled. The soldier would either bleed to death or get killed by a bear or dragon. The look on his face was one of grim determination, as if he knew he was dying but couldn’t give up the fight.
Cyprian couldn’t bring himself to kill him.
Maybe it was the anger he felt towards his king for the stripes on his bac
k. Or maybe the disgust at killing their own men. Or maybe something else. Something he couldn’t explain.
He looked around the battlefield. The other men unlucky enough to have been given this despicable job were scattered far and wide, none of them paying attention to him. Cyprian sheathed his dagger and knelt beside the Elyndian, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. His eyes slid towards Cyprian and he offered a small smile that he hoped was encouraging. If only Fury was here. But he’d left her in Everdon to get her foot taken care of.
The Elyndian was lean, a little on the short side even for his kind. Cyprian gently rolled him over and froze. This wasn’t a soldier.
This was King Torrin.
Immediately, a plan formed in his mind. If King Torrin lived, he would want to take his throne back. To do that, he’d have to kill King Corynth. And if King Corynth was killed, then Cyprian would be free to leave the Shadows and be a normal person. He and Peter and Fury could live normal lives.
But that would only happen if King Torrin lived.
Cyprian picked him up, grunting a little under the dead weight. A few miles from here was a cabin, he’d seen it while scouting the area before the battle. Cyprian would take him there, clean him up as best as he could.
The decision brought a small warmth in his chest. Quiet rebellion against King Corynth sounded more appealing than it probably should. Mercy brings death. But this was a chance for him to get out of the Shadows. He wasn’t stupid enough to let this slip away.
Briley stayed huddled in the root cellar for hours, waiting for her grandmother to come. Let her know it was safe to come out. Her stomach rumbled, but she couldn’t risk getting caught. Her legs had fallen asleep and the muscles in her back cramped.
She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, when she heard footsteps up above. She froze. The trapdoor lifted momentarily, then closed.
A match flared and light filled the cellar as a lantern was lit. The same soldier from earlier—Roscoe?—descended down the stairs. “I know you’re in here. You’re safe. Come on out.”
Briley reached out slowly, grabbing a jar of canned goods. If he tried anything, she’d break it over his head. Maybe.
“Look, I’m going to help you get out,” he whispered, moving to stand directly in front of her hiding spot. He set the lantern down on the floor. “I know you’re part Anatheman. I’ll help you get out of the city.”
She swallowed. “Why?” He was a soldier. Certainly not Achian or Kyrnian, but he was a part of King Corynth’s army nonetheless.
“Because if King Corynth finds you, he’ll kill you,” he whispered. “I’m just trying to give you a chance to make it out alive.”
Briley eased out of the tiny space and straightened her aching back. Her legs tingled painfully as the blood began to flow. Once she felt she could support her own weight, she grabbed the shelf and pulled herself to her feet. “That doesn’t exactly tell me why you’re going to help."
He backed up as far as the small root cellar would allow. When he spoke again, he spoke in the language of her people. “I’m friends with your kind. King Corynth doesn’t know and he’d kill me if he found out. I help troubled Anathemans when possible.”
Briley hesitated. As far as she knew, nobody outside of the Anathemans spoke the native tongue. But he could have learned it to try and convince Anathemans that he was on their side, just to turn them over to his king. “If you’re a friend of the Anathemans, you’ve met Mi Hale?”
“Used to be the King of Anatheme, was forced to flee here with just a handful of his people from their homeland, and they have lived in Zaraya for twenty years. Formed a peace treaty with the dragons and have used them to guard the ring of mountains from all trespassers. Yes, I know him.”
That much was true, but he could have found that out from... well... she didn’t know where. But before she trusted him, Briley had one more question. “What are the names of his three sons?”
He chuckled. “He has no sons, but one daughter whom he loves dearly. Her name is Raevyn, she’s seventeen-years-old, and prefers the battle axe to the more traditional spear.” Was it her imagination, or did he try and suppress a shudder?
Briley smiled, hugging herself. “Alright, I’ll follow you.” She hoped she wasn’t making the worst mistake of her life.
He blew out the lantern, hurried up the ladder, and raised the trapdoor. “Catnip, is the coast clear?” A few minutes later, he motioned for her to come up.
She scrambled up the ladder, thankful she'd worn leggings instead of her usual skirt. He helped her out, then lowered the trap door.
A small, purple dragon curled around Briley’s ankles, purring. Its purple scales glowed faintly. Briley glanced around. The small house was ransacked, muddy and bloody footprints littered the floor. One of the windows was broken, the curtains partially burnt. A few stars twinkled up in a coal-black sky.
Roscoe peered outside the small house and scanned the streets. Everything was quiet, a few torches casting eerie shadows. He turned around. “Alright. The coast is clear right now. Let’s go.”
She followed him out onto the streets. The dragon flew ahead of them, glowing like a lantern.
“Turn it off, Catnip,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re gonna attract attention.”
The dragon hissed and turned her nose up in the air, but the glowing ceased.
He grabbed Briley’s arm, tugging her down a dark alley. “We’ll climb over the wall behind the castle,” he whispered in her ear. “The gates are all guarded and the forest comes up to the wall in the back. We can sneak away safely there.”
She nodded, gripping the back of his shirt to keep from losing him in the dark. Catnip landed on her shoulder, wrapping her tail around Briley’s neck to steady herself as they darted from shadow to shadow.
The warm, humid night air wrapped around her, making her sweat under her shawl. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and frogs sang their hearts out.
A peaceful night. Perfect to be fleeing for her life.
They soon arrived at the back wall. He helped Briley up onto a stack of crates before grabbing the edge of the wall and pulling himself to the top. Briley still had to jump, grabbing his hands and scrambling up. Catnip shot up their arms and disappeared.
Roscoe pulled Briley up and held on until she got her balance. "You know how to climb trees, miss?"
"Yes."
“Catnip, we need a light,” he called softly. Somewhere in the trees, his little dragon started glowing. “Catnip,” he moaned. “It’s not helping us over there.”
After a moment, he sighed. “We’ll just have to make do.”
She frowned. “Why don't we just use a lantern?"
"That's an unnatural light. Draws too much attention."
She nodded, easing out onto a branch and scrambling down the tree. She stared up at the glow in the foliage. “Come on, Catnip, work with us, please.”
Briley heard a squeaky snort and the glow disappeared.
Roscoe dropped down beside her. “Ignore her. She’s pouting because I offended her somehow. Snooty dragon. Let’s go.”
Briley grabbed the back of his shirt and followed him through the woods at a run.
They ran until she could run no more. She'd taken off her shawl and her tunic clung to her heaving chest, sweat dripping down her face. She bent over, resting her hands on her knees.
“Will you be fine on your own?” he panted, reaching out to steady her.
Briley nodded. “Yeah. Thank you. So much.”
He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Don’t... don’t mention it. I’ll tell your grandparents you’re safe.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck."
Catnip bounded over to them, glowing brightly and squeaking. She jumped onto his shoulder and butted his head. He chuckled, pushing her away. “Get to Zaraya as quickly as possible. You’ll be safe there.”
`Briley nodded. “Be careful. If Corynth finds out you helped me..." Wo
w. Talk about stating the obvious.
“Don’t worry about me.” His voice held sorrow, maybe even loneliness. His big, round eyes seemed even larger in the shadows from Catnip’s light. “Just make sure you get there safely.”
Catnip chirped at her and then they were gone, just a dim glow running through the trees back to Everdon.
Torrin woke with something hard at his back and spikes of pain shooting through him. His mouth hung open as he struggled to draw in a decent breath.
Someone grabbed his arms and pressed them against his chest. He heard a whimper and some part of his brain said it must’ve been his. Fire seared the side of his face, moving to his neck. The stench of burnt flesh and blood mingled with the sound of choked, agonized screams.
He thrashed, but the weight on his chest increased until he thought his ribs would collapse. Hot tears ran down his face, plastering his hair to his skin and dripping into his ears. He kicked out with one leg—unable to move the other.
The fire left his neck and the weight on his chest vanished. Torrin swung blindly, his fist colliding with a face. He heard a grunt that wasn’t his own and peeled his eyes open.
A young man leaned over him. Somewhere, deep inside, Torrin knew that he’d seen this person before. Curly black hair hanging in front of cold blue eyes set in a pale, narrow face. But the pain raging inside his body was overpowering his ability to think.
He dimly realized his tunic was being cut off. Torrin cried out as the boy clawed into his stomach. The rational part of his brain—whatever was left, anyways—said he was tending to his wounds. The pain drove Torrin to fight back or run away. He twisted, trying to escape.
The young man grabbed him and yanked him onto his back, holding him there as he pressed against Torrin’s stomach. He never said a word, face twisted in grim determination.
Torrin forced himself to relax, to focus on breathing. Maybe even pray. But he hadn’t prayed since his family had been killed and he didn’t have the strength to start now. Something else was pressed firmly against his stomach. Something sizzled.