The boy woke to the sounds of shouts from outside his dwelling, and with the sluggishness of sleep still upon him, he turned his face to the only window in their small hut.
The sun had risen just above the wall surrounding Garisa, which signaled the beginning of a new day. As with all Yedinerth’s simple folk, the people of his town needed to start their days with the sun’s rising. Otherwise, it was all but impossible to complete their allotted day’s work.
He yawned and looked toward his father’s bed, only to see it empty. As the shouting outside grew in volume, so did the boy’s interest in where his father was and what was happening beyond the walls of his home.
He threw back the sheet covering him and raced to his tattered work clothes, which lay crumpled on the dirt floor. As he dressed, the shouts outside increased in volume again, and he could distinctly hear his father’s deep voice among them.
A minute after waking, the boy poked his head from the door and stared at the ever-growing crowd outside. Guards hovered around the periphery of the milling assemblage but did nothing to disperse it.
He spotted his father in the middle of the throng, and he watched on as the big man tried his best to calm the people around him.
Without a single thought other than he needed to be at his father’s side, the boy rushed out of his family’s small dwelling and shouldered his way to his Da.
Even though he was only eleven, he was well-muscled, large, and looked like a somewhat smaller version of his father, which meant he was as big as many of the townsfolk. Thanks to this, he parted the people before him like a prow of a ship cutting through the waves.
“Da, what’s going on?” the boy asked as he reached his father.
The large mason looked down at his son and said, “The Falnorians have emissaries from the king with them. They have written orders that Garisa gives the refugees a safe haven.”
The boy thought on this for a moment.
The idea of opening the gates to people infected with the plague was madness. If even a single stricken person came in contact with the townsfolk, then Garisa would be doomed.
No wonder everyone was so angry. The hard work they’d put into preparing the defenses would be for naught if they simply opened the gates. Then something occurred to the boy.
“Da, you say emissaries travel with the refugees, but why aren’t they falling sick?”
Seeing as he was not getting anywhere with the crowd, the mason guided his son out of its midst and toward the scaffold overlooking the gate.
“The emissaries are Dark Lords and are immune to the plague.”
The boy’s brow furrowed with confusion. “I thought the plague killed all it touched.”
His father looked back at the crowd as the two of them reached the bottom of the ladder that ran up to the scaffold.
“Not all, but most. I have heard it said only one in five survives its touch.”
The boy knew his letters and numbers. In fact, other than the mayor’s son, he was the best in his class at adding and subtracting. He did the calculations in his head and gasped at the result.
Including the farmers and their families, three-thousand people now resided within the walls of Garisa. If his father was right, then only six hundred or so would survive an outbreak.
The thought of this filled him with panic.
“Up the ladder, Boy,” his father said as he pushed his son forward.
The two of them scaled the ladder with well-practiced ease and found the Mayor and the Master of the Guards bellowing down at someone below.
Because the boy’s father was a senior mason, no one stopped them as they headed to the edge of the wall and peered down.
Below, two men on horseback cupped their hands over their mouths and shouted up at the mayor. Even from where the boy stood, he could see the king’s crest emblazoned on their breastplates. If these men were impostors, then they risked beheading by wearing the Crown’s sigil.
The horseman nearest to the boy lowered his hands first, which caused the mason’s son to let out a gasp.
He could now see the man’s cheeks clearly and saw dark veins covered his skin.
Although the man was far below, the boy’s eyes were keen. To his horror, he realized the black lines moved about the Dark Lords’ face like foul worms crawling beneath the soil.
It was then the emissaries noticed the boy and his father, and they directed their attention toward them.
The boy could now see both men’s faces bore the black markings.
On seeing his son’s fearful but questioning gaze, the mason lowered his head so he could whisper in the boy’s ear. “The black veins of evil will cover every inch of their bodies.”
Because the men wore armor, helms and gloves, the boy could only see their faces. He had no doubt his Da spoke the truth, though.
“Look at their eyes,” his father whispered again.
The boy stared at the two as hard as he could, and then noticed what his father was talking about. Like orbs of obsidian, both men’s eyes were completely black.
“For the love of the Lords,” the boy muttered as he took a step back.
“I’m sorry, but order from the king or not, I simply cannot allow the plague-ridden within these walls,” the mayor bellowed down at the men defiantly. “If I open the gates, I will be signing the death warrants of all who reside within.”
While the horseman to the left responded, the one to the right fixed his dark eyes on the boy.
“If you do not open the gates, then you have sealed the fate of every soul residing in your dreary little town, for our orders are to kill any who dare oppose the king’s decrees.”
The boy shifted uneasily as the emissary’s gaze burned into him. It was as if the man was staring into his very soul.
The boy tried to avert his eyes from the foul man below, but found he could not. It was as if the terrible lord was trying to search his mind for an answer the boy did not have.
“Da,” the boy whimpered as he began to tremble, which caused the big mason to set a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
Finally, the gaze of the man below shifted to the mayor, and he added his own words to that of his companion.
“The king believes the plague is a test sent down by the Lords. Only the righteous survive.”
“But that’s madness,” bellowed the Master of the Guards.
Quicker than a snake, the man who’d pinned the boy with his eyes drew a knife and threw it at the town’s senior member of the military.
The distance was great, and the angle difficult, but the blade hit its target between the eyes and buried itself to the hilt.
The mayor took two stumbling steps back as the big man at his side dropped to the stone, dead.
“Such words are treason and are punishable by death,” the emissary who had just thrown the knife said. “Now hear me, and hear me well. I am Lord Duncan Lane.” He then gestured to the man beside him. “And this is Lord Casper Lane, my brother. By order of the king, you will open the gate to us. Thus you will all be judged by the Lords’ Plague.”
The boy gasped again. The man had just committed three blasphemes in one sentence. He’d not only spoken his own Lords’ name but that of his brother, too. He then dared to say the plague was a pox sent down by the loving Lords. Such crimes were enough to get a commoner hung and a noble whipped. Yet, the man below appeared unrepentant and indeed smiled at the discomfort and pain his actions and words caused.
The other emissary, Lord Casper, spoke now.
“You have one hour to open the gates. Otherwise, we will start catapulting in the bodies of the infected dead.” He then smiled. “We might even throw in a few live ones, too.”
With that, the two lords turned their horses around and started trotting back to the convoy of sick and dying heading their way.
Absolute panic filled the mayor’s face as he stared down at the dead body of the Master of the Guards. He then looked at the boy’s father but said nothing.
“Come on,” the big mason said as he placed a hand on his son’s back. “We have to go.”
“Go where, Da?”
“We have to get out of Garisa,” the big man said as he guided his boy to the ladder.
“Out of Garisa, but how?”
The mason’s eyes flicked to the mayor, but the man appeared frozen with indecision. It was doubtful the town’s leader even knew the two of them were there anymore.
“There’s a way, but we must hurry.”
The father and son returned to their dwelling as fast as they could, then both set about gathering up what food and belongings they could carry.
His father grabbed his hunting bow and the knife he used to skin the animals he caught. As the mason did this, his son gathered up bread and cheese, plus blankets for each of them. He then snatched up his mother’s necklace, which hung from a wooden peg above his bed.
The necklace had no real value, as it was only made of leather twine and a polished nail beaten into the shape of a heart. But to the boy, it was priceless.
“Hurry, Son. We must go.”
The boy slipped the necklace over his head, then slung his pack over his back, and winced as the raw skin on his shoulder took the load.
“What about old woman Ó Floinn? Should we not see if she wants to come with us?”
His father shook his head. “The old mother has a family of her own. She would never leave them.”
“Da, do we really have to go?” The boy then looked around their meager hut, for that was all it was. The dwelling was not much, but it had always been his home.
His father slung his bow over one shoulder, then rushed to his son and took him firmly by the arms. “Boy, you know I wasn’t always a mason, do you not?”
“Aye, Da. You were one of the one in ten and once part of the King’s Army.”
“Aye, Boy, you speak true of the one in ten, but I was not part of that cadre. Since the kings of old took the throne, one in every ten boys has served the king. But they chose me for another reason, which I will not speak of here. But know this, my service was many a year, and while I served, I saw... terrible things. I soon got to recognize the work of the Evil Ones, and they are at work here this very day.
“Long have we heard tales of the markings of the plague, the ones the Dark Lords bore. Yet, I believed those tales not, for they spoke to me of ill things from my past. You see, Boy, I have seen such markings before, but it was long ago. Back then, I was but little older than you are now, yet I knew what they meant.”
“What, Da? What did they mean?”
The big man looked over his shoulder at the door, then back to his son. “I cannot speak of ill omens now. We must make haste. Come!”
The two of them exited their dwelling and moved out into a street filled with havoc.
People knelt in the dirt, praying to the Lords for mercy. Others ran about screaming. Countless numbers of townsfolk just stood rooted to the spot with tears rolling down their cheeks.
“Come, Boy,” his father said as he took his hand and pulled him into the heart of the town.
The pair pushed and shoved their way through the peoples of Garisa until they reached the town’s deep stores.
The mason looked around, but not a single soul seemed to be paying them any heed. Moving quickly, the big man opened the door to the stores and shoved his son inside. He then followed, closing and bolting the door behind him.
“Da, what are we doing here?”
The mason plucked a flaming torch from its holder on the wall, then held it out in front of him. “This way,” he said as he headed for the stone steps that wound down into the cellars.
“Da, what are we doing?”
His father glanced back at his son, then returned his attention to the steps before him. “The Ó Déaghains have been masons since Garisa was founded. Our menfolk have worked on every wall in this city. Yet, right from when the first stone was laid, our long-dead kin saw a flaw in the town’s design.”
“A flaw?”
“Aye, Boy. A flaw. Do you know what that flaw is?”
“No, Da.”
“There’s only one way into the town and one way out.”
“You mean the gates?”
“Aye, the gates. Do you not see the problem?”
As the boy followed his father into the bowels of the town, he worked on his question. Finally, he said, “While they keep our enemies out, they also keep us in. we have no other ways of escape.”
His father looked over his shoulder at him and beamed. “Exactly, Son. You have seen right to the very heart of this town’s weakness, but also its strength. Our kin who built the foundations of this town also saw the folly in having no escape route, so they built one in.”
The boy stopped in his tracks. “Our dead forefathers built an escape route?”
“Aye, Boy, and they told no one, other than their firstborn sons on the day of their Becoming.”
The boy pondered this. His Becoming was still two years away, but when he turned thirteen, he would become a man. At that point, he would start seeking a bride and be told all the ancient names of his kin, as well as all the secrets known only to his family. Entrusting him with such treasures sealed his journey into manhood.
His father turned to see his son stood a few steps behind him. “Hurry, Boy. We have no time to stand about.”
“Da, if our fore-folk had the good sense to build a way out of the town, do we not owe it to other Garisians to tell them? We could save many other lives.”
His father moved to his son and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Boy, your heart is still pure and untainted by this world’s hardships. If others knew of this escape, these stairs would be flooded with people trying to use it.”
The truth of his father’s words stung. But, it was not true that his heart had been untouched by hardship. The death of his mother still hurt every day.
“The secret was kept so the Ó Déaghains could live,” the boy whispered.
“Aye. I know that is a terrible truth to swallow, but it is the truth. Our kin of old foresaw a time when Ó Déaghains might need to flee this town, so they secretly built in such an escape point to the town’s very root. Now come, we have tarried too long.”
With that, the mason turned and descended into the darkness of the cellar.