by James Derry
She took a deep breath, and again, she stretched her lips into a grin. Her best course of action was to remain casual, to play into Pawn’s ego and slip her pocketbook out of the tent at her earliest convenience. She had already escaped two furious goddesses and two Ancient Ones. Not to mention supernatural bounty hunters and a sky full of furies. Getting away from a half-god who simply wanted to impress her? That would be…
“A piece of cake?” Pawn offered her a saucer with a beautiful pastry in its center.
Sygne took a bite and hummed appreciatively. He strolled over to a table in the corner of the room and fetched three bowls of wine. One for Sygne and two for himself. “I’ve been working on poetry as well. Would you like to hear some?”
“Absolutely, but can you show me around first?” Sygne pointed to a gilded scepter hanging from the ceiling on a tasseled rope. “What’s that?”
“Oh that?” Pawn’s chest inflated. “That is a trophy I was awarded from the philosophers at Qiwur. For excellence in promotion of humanities and humanitarian pursuits.”
“‘Humanities and humanitarian pursuits.’” Sygne thought it would work quite well as a club, if need be. “You had an attendant drag that here, to your forward headquarters?”
The Demigod King favored her with a wolfish smile. “You know that I don’t spend many nights in my royal quarters. So yes, sometimes I bring along amenities to keep me comfortable when I’m off on one of my many endeavors.”
“Many endeavors. Many comforts,” she said archly. It was a tiny verbal poke that she knew Pawn would notice. Pawn was a narcissist, but Sygne knew that he loved it when women offered him a bit of flirtatious challenge while he was showing them how great he was.
And so he took her on a tour of the accoutrements and the trophies in his briefing room. He showed her the curling horns and the silvery pelt of the legendary Platinum Fleece. He showed her a draft in etched silver of a new calendar that he was developing with Mentor Zoroas. Pawn had set down his mugs of wine close to Sygne’s pocketbook, so that he could show her the different details of his calendar. She wondered if she could slip some sedatives from her pocketbook into one of his mugs, but she decided that was a risky gambit. Considering the Demigod King’s constitution, two pounds worth of sedative might not have been enough to knock him out. No, Sygne had already decided on a longer (but more predictable) course of action.
She took a sip from her wine and blinked coyly at Pawn over the brim over her mug.
Pawn slurped down an entire cup. He didn’t snap for an attendant to bring him another amphora; instead he fetched the jug himself. That was a good thing—it was better for Sygne if they were alone.
Pawn said, “Let me show you my chest.“
“I can see most of it already.”
The sovereign chuckled. “No. I mean this.” He pulled a small chest from under the table. Dozens of dried leaves were stacked inside. The top side of each leaf was decorated with childish drawings. Tiny handprints were plastered on the undersides.
“These are thank-you notes from the children in the scrublands. I initiated a well-digging initiative a year ago. So far we’ve drilled new wells for over twenty villages.”
Sygne had to admit: her heart melted at the earnest drawings and the tiny ‘signatures’ left on the backs of the leaves. So many lives changed. Pawn was in a position to do lots of good. The problem was that sometimes he didn’t know when to stop. Today, Pawn was saving these children from thirst. Tomorrow he might be measuring their skulls and planning how to breed them for ‘better’ intelligence.
“Would you like some more wine?” Pawn asked.
Sygne wiggled her wine cup, which was still more than three-quarters full. The Demigod King poured himself another serving. It was his fourth since Sygne had entered the room. His face seem to grow heavy, settling into a serious expression.
“Sygne, I wanted to…”
She sat down hard on a row of cushions along the edge of the room. “Oh, Your Majesty, I’m sorry. Do you mind if I rest here for a moment?”
She brushed away layers of diaphanous fabric, exposing a tiny pink wound on the soft pale curve of her shoulder. She ran her fingers across the tender skin. “My shoulder still aches. I don’t know if it’s more from Mentor Abb Xyn’s needle or from the needle’s drugs.”
Pawn’s eyes flashed, and he dropped to the cushions beside her. He gently pressed his thumb into the plane of muscle that sloped down from Sygne’s neck to her shoulder. “I’ve learned some massage techniques that might help with the pain.”
“Oh that feels good,” she said, dropping the other collar of her dress to reveal her other shoulder. “Could you rub both sides?”
“Of course. Should I have my attendants bring scented oils?”
“No, no.” Sygne had to admit that the Demigod King was good at giving massages. Add that to the list of his many talents.
“What is this?” Pawn pointed to a mostly healed abrasion on Sygne’s shoulder blade.
“That’s an old war wound, I suppose.” It was one of the injuries that Sygne had suffered after falling through a shaft into Tallasmanak.
“Oh, Jamal told me about that excursion.”
“He did?” Sygne clenched her jaw. Had Jamal told Pawn about the Lurker? If so, that might have been how Pawn learned about the Ancient One specimens.
“Oh sorry,” Pawn said. “I suppose I shouldn’t bring up a sore subject.”
“Sore subject?”
“You two are obviously on the outs…”
“We…”
“Speaking of sore subjects, I have quite a few war wounds myself.” Pawn flexed his shoulders and a few strips of scar tissue glistened in the soft light. If anything, the scars served to accentuate the contours of his muscled back. Sygne had to resist the urge to run her hand across those muscles. Then she remembered what she was here to do. Also, Pawn had turned the conversation away from Jamal and Tallasmanak. She had to encourage that.
She showed the Demigod King a gnarled twist of scar tissue across her palm. “I got this one when I jumped into the Slash.”
“You mean the famous canyon? The one that’s two hundred feet deep?“
“I think it’s much deeper than that.” Sygne then went into the story of how they had evaded a storm made of furies by inventing a giant sale to slow their fall.
“Oh my mother!”
Pawn began to drink directly from the amphora. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like more to drink?”
“No. I’m feeling very nice right now. Did I ever tell you how I proved that the goddess Bliss had killed the War-Warlock Yur?”
“Yur? I had heard reports that he was dead. You were involved with that too?”
“Well… Yes, myself, Jamal, and two dozen flies.”
“Flies?”
“Oh Your Majesty. There is so much I have to tell you.”
And so this time, it was Sygne who regaled the Demigod King with stories of her life. And with each altruistic anecdote or hair-raising adventure, she nudged herself just a bit closer to King Pawn. Soon they were reclining with their legs intertwined. Her hands roved all over the sovereign’s torso.
She touched her wine cup to Pawn’s lips. He took a sip, but she tipped the cup until most of the vintage had drained down his throat.
The Demigod King wiped his mouth. “Young tutor? Are you trying to seduce me?”
Sygne matched Pawn’s wolfish grin with a predatory smirk of her own. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. What do you think?”
She leaned in close to Pawn, and he leaned backward, pressing his chin into his neck. Then he seemed to realize this was a sign of weakness, so he straightened to meet Sygne face-to-face. Their faces hung less than an inch apart, their lips nearly touching. Pawn remained still. He seemed to realize that both these options represented a sort of submission. Either backing away from a seductress, or giving in to her. He was obviously confused. The Demigod King wasn’t u
sed to being submissive.
“Seriously,” he asked. “What is happening right now? Who is seducing who?”
Sygne chuckled. “Who is seducing whom.”
“Oh, forget it.” Pawn lunged forward and kissed Sygne passionately.
Sygne was still laughing as she pulled the Demigod King down onto the cushions and on top of her.
14 – Run!
Sygne was lying in the dark with King Pawn’s brawny arm draped across her chest. It had been a long two hours—at times both luxurious and tedious. The Demigod King’s stamina had lasted well past the point when the candles in the tent had burned down to nubs. Now the main chamber of his headquarters was completely dark, and Pawn was finally still. Sygne was close to exhaustion, and yet she fought to stay awake as Pawn’s breathing grew deeper and slower. Ten minutes passed like an eternity; then she was sure that he was asleep. She wriggled in the dark, inching herself out of the sovereign’s slumberous embrace.
Sygne sighed heavily and stood up from the silk cushions that had been their love nest. She was still wearing some articles of clothing, although they had been twisted and wrinkled and rolled up until they were nearly unrecognizable. She spent a few moments trying to arrange those bits of fabric, but in the dark it was hard to tell if she was having any success making herself more presentable. After a short while Sygne gave up. She felt certain that there was no one else in the tent. Surely Pawn’s attendants had fled once they had heard the sounds of Pawn’s vigorous lovemaking.
How late was it? Sygne hoped that it wasn’t nearly dawn. The morning light would make her escape difficult—but not impossible. If Pawn had been trying to convince himself that Sygne’s kidnapping was actually the beginning of a lovers’ reunion, then he might not have gone out of his way to inform his guards that she was officially a captive. If she acted casually, then Pawn’s guards might prove discreet enough (or embarrassed enough) to let her walk straight through the camp gates without a single word. She would disguise her departure as an early morning walk-of-shame.
There was a rustle of fabrics at the front entrance of the tent. Sygne hopped to her pocketbook on the briefing table; she’d been through too much to lose track of it again. She closed the tome and lifted it in two hands. It was very heavy. If a guard was about to enter the briefing chamber, then perhaps she could use her pocketbook as a bludgeon?
She sensed two figures entering the dark chamber. They were sneaking, just like her. One of the figures was a man, wearing a helmet and breastplate. The other figure was a woman; she seemed to glow, just slightly, like she was dragging a purplish haze of dawn mist behind her.
The woman whispered something to the man and glided stealthily toward the spot where Pawn lay sleeping on the floor. Sygne felt a surprising surge of protectiveness. She skirted the table and moved toward the woman, her pocketbook raised over her head.
“Sygne?” hissed the armored man.
“Jamal?” she asked.
The glowing figure stopped short, and Pawn grumbled and rolled over—nearly awakened, but not quite. Sygne felt Jamal’s grip on her wrist. He pulled, and she followed, right through the briefing chamber and into the anteroom of the tent. Without pausing to be stealthy, Jamal darted through the front opening of the tent, snatched up a torch, and brought the light into the anteroom so that they could see each other.
Jamal and Sygne both gasped at the scandalous state of her wardrobe.
“I can’t believe it. You slept with him!”
“I…” Sygne tugged at the different sections of her gown. The problem was that Pawn had ripped it open in several places. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand! He told me you two used to be lovers.”
“I… That… That doesn’t matter.” Sygne felt a blush rising to her face like a sunburn. “I was trying to get away from him, Jamal.”
“I was trying to rescue you!” he protested. “And do you know how hard I’ve been working to not sleep with anyone tonight?”
“It’s true,” the woman said. Sygne practically staggered when she saw her in the light. The upper half of her body was like a moving statue—unclothed and uniformly colored in a stony purplish hue. But that wasn’t nearly as disturbing as her lower half, which was split into a dozen floating tendrils.
“What are you?” Sygne asked.
The creature’s mouth moved in a mealy way, twitching in too many corners.
“She’s a succubus,” Jamal said. “You know… a lascivious seductress of the night. Perhaps the two of you should compare notes.”
“Hey! Don’t shame us,” the purple woman chided. She offered her hand to Sygne. “You may call me Alollei.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sygne said. “Jamal, please believe me… This is not entirely as it seems.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Alollei said. “She was trying to earn the demigod’s trust, to make him drop his guard.”
“That’s not the only thing that dropped,” Jamal said.
“Wait,” Sygne asked the succubus. “How do you know that?”
“A few of my atoms were attached to the Demigod King. I could sense everything that happened around his person.”
Sygne crossed her arms over her tattered dress. “Everything?”
Jamal jabbed his finger at Alollei. “So you’ve been spying on them this whole time? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It seemed like you had enough on your mind.”
“Wait. How did you get here?” Sygne asked. “And more importantly: How are we going to get out?”
Jamal bunched his lips and exhaled slowly through his nose. He pulled back the flap of the tent’s main entrance and led Sygne outside. A faint fog of morning light hung over the Albatherrans’ encampment, and Sygne could easily discern the shape of each tent. Here and there, she saw smaller, lumpier shapes settled on the dewy lawn. She recognized the outlines of armored shoulder pads—of swords and spears buried tip-first into the turf.
“Soldiers,” she said. “Did you kill them all?”
“No. Better than that,” Jamal said. “Better for them. Alollei mollified them.”
“What does that mean?”
“She… leeched their ‘libidinal energies.’”
Sygne blinked at the succubus.
Alollei’s eyes gleamed, and she nodded happily. “You are not the only one who’s had an interesting night!”
“We should go,” Jamal said. “But first…” He dashed back into the tent.
Sygne followed him into the main chamber, clutching her pocketbook. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to take Pawn’s sword.”
“Why would I do that?” There was an entire brigade’s worth of discarded weapons left in the grass outside the tent.
Jamal sighed, “The jewel on the end of the hilt. It’s from the Strider Between Worlds.”
Sygne blinked at him. “Are you sure?”
“Pawn told me that himself.”
“When did he do that?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Between fighting off a simurgh and”—Jamal cocked his thumb toward Alollei—“a succubus.”
“That doesn’t make sense, I was with Pawn yesterday at the Academy.”
“Are we going to grab the sword or not?” Jamal asked. “Because I’m already having second thoughts.”
***
Just a few seconds later, Jamal, Sygne, and Alollei were exiting the tent of the Demigod King. Jamal led the way, tiptoeing over tent stakes. Sygne had her pocketbook. Jamal had slung Pawn’s scabbard belt over his shoulder. Endbringer felt very heavy to him, both physically and figuratively. The third and final piece of the Threefold Key. They had finally done it, assembled the impossible components of a world-shaking spell. Surprisingly, Jamal didn’t feel triumphant. He felt nauseous. It didn’t help that he couldn’t stop thinking about what Sygne had been doing with Pawn before he’d rescued her.
Around another corner, and th
ey ran down a wide path between tents leading to the camp’s western guard post. The path was littered with the satiated bodies of a dozen soldiers.
Sygne tapped Jamal on the shoulder. “I think we have to destroy the specimens.”
“What? Why?”
“I saw things yesterday… The things that Pawn has planned… With the Academy… It’s awful.”
“Wait. Now the Academy is evil, too?”
Sygne nodded. “They taught me everything I know. And then I tutored Pawn and apparently ‘inspired’ him to change the world. And together they hatched this hideous plan.”
Alollei warned, “We should keep moving.”
Sygne continued, “It has me rethinking everything. The Threefold Key is just too powerful. Even if we found someone with completely, unquestionably pure objectives, I’m not sure that we could trust what would happen if they used that much power.”
“Hurry,” Alollei said. “There are many more Albatherrans awakening in those tents. And my power wanes as the dawn grows brighter.”
They passed stealthily between bodies. No one was a stealthy as Alollei, who could glide directly over the men she had subdued. (There were a few women, as well.) They reached the western guard post, which was a gate of rough-hewn lumber straddling a cart path. They slid through the gates, careful to not disturb the sentry who was sprawled out on the ground beside his post. This man had been Alollei’s first unlucky victim. (Or he was the first to get lucky, depending on how you looked at it.) She had snuck up behind him and slipped her hand through his skull, filling his brain with a stupefying bliss that had plunged him into a deep, contented slumber.
Jamal wondered how Pawn would punish two-dozen sentries who had all fallen asleep at their watch. Would anyone be able to figure out what had happened here this night? Jamal patted Endbringer and hoped that he and Sygne would be miles away before they did. He didn’t feel like a glorious hero, carrying the fate of the world on his shoulders. He felt like a thief who had just stolen a burning barrel of pyrotechnics.