Chapter Twenty-One

 

 

Despite a lifetime spent in training his strength, his endurance, and speed, Tarex was exhausted. He’d long since reached his physical limit but instead of collapsing as he might have, he simply left it behind, left it on the dust-choked trail hours somewhere behind them. It was not his muscles that kept him going now—muscles that had long since gone numb. Neither was it his breath which rasped in his lungs, or his feet which ached and blistered. Instead, what kept him moving was the knowledge of what would happen should they, should he stop. Argush or one of his creatures—man or nightling and, from what Tarex had seen, there was little difference between the two—would catch them.

The nightlings were out there even now, he knew, searching the forest, no doubt combing the ground between their camp and Valeria. After all, it didn’t take a master tactician to divine where Tarex and the girl would go, Valeria being by far the closest place that might offer shelter. It wasn’t thoughts of his own safety, of what torments would be visited upon him that kept him going. After all, a man’s debts always caught up to him, sooner or later, and over the course of his wicked life he had earned anything the nightlings might do, that and far more. Instead, it was his concern for the girl, the innocent girl who had saved him, that drove him on. It gave him strength enough to continue to put one foot in front of the other, to tug his gaze away from his feet from time to time to study the forest around them, trying to ignore the pain of the wound in his back.

He knew Valeria lay somewhere to their southwest. He’d done his best to keep them on track, but in the deep forest, traveling through the undergrowth, one patch of ground looked much like another, and even veteran trackers might get lost in unfamiliar territory. He thought there was a chance, if small, that they were off by enough to miss the city entirely. He was surprised then—and more than a little relieved—when they rounded a turn in the path, and saw the forest give way to fields and beyond those fields, stood the walls of Valeria.

“We made it!” Sonya said excitedly. She was riding on his back, her hands wrapped around his neck, and Tarex felt a pang of regret as she slid off onto the ground. It had been a small thing, carrying her so she would not wear herself out, but it had been a good thing, and he had been happy to do it, for he had done very few good things in his life.

“It seems we have, Sonya,” he agreed, though it was hard to share her enthusiasm. For one, he didn’t see this ending for him any way but in death. After all, Alesh and his companions had been his enemies, still were enemies so far as they knew. It was unlikely they would give him enough time to explain the change that had overcome him before cutting him down, even less likely that he would be able to explain it even if they did.

No, Tarex was under no illusions about what form his welcome would likely take, but he thought that was alright. After all, he had done nothing with his life so great that the world would think it a loss. He was only glad that he could at least right some small part of the wrongs he’d done by seeing the girl safely back to the city.

What bothered him more than his impending death, though, was the line of refugees outside the city gates. There must have been a hundred of them at least, all looking nearly as filthy as Sonya and Tarex, many of them displaying too-thin legs and arms, and the sunken, cadaverous faces of the starving. A miserable group of people, all told, few with even the energy to speak while they waited for their turn to see whether they would be allowed into the city or not.

If they were not, most looked as if that would be the end of them. They waited then, for a decision that would mean their life or their death, yet they seemed too exhausted, too hopeless to care.

Tarex glanced at Sonya and saw her studying them, seeing what he saw, the smile she’d had a moment before nowhere in sight, not now, for no decent person could look upon those wretched figures huddled in front of the gate and feel anything but grief. Tarex could not, and he, in truth, was far from decent.

“Come,” he said, “let us go and find your friends.”

Sonya swallowed, reaching out her hand to him. He took it, and gave her a wink before they started forward.

 

***

 

Pierce walked in a daze, stumbling down the forest trail. He did not cry, for he had already shed what tears had been in him, and there were none left, as much as he might wish for them. He was not sure how long he had walked; the hours blended together into one horrible journey of despair. He knew only that he was far enough away from the village, from the death and the soldiers who had butchered everyone he’d ever known, that he could see no longer see the great pillars of smoke as Brighton burned, could no longer hear the screams of its people as they died.

But he didn’t need to see the smoke, for he could taste it, coating his throat and nose, choking him. And though the screamers were far behind him, screaming no longer, he could hear them anyway, phantom wails of despair and pain that dogged each step he took on the dry earthen path.

They had all died. His father, too, had died, Pierce had seen that much as he’d fled into the darkness away from the men and their swords and their fire, had seen his father stand up drunk—as he always was—yell something belligerently—as he always did—and then get cut down.

He didn’t know about his brother, Alden, but as he had been one of the three chosen to be town guardsmen, he thought that probably he was dead too. If not, he would have surely caught up with Pierce on the trail, for when news of an army gathering had reached them, it had been Alden who’d told him that, if anything should happen, he must head to Valeria and seek shelter. No, it seemed too much to hope that he would ever see his big brother again. Likely, the pack he now carried on his back—one hastily stuffed with food before he’d fled and which had belonged to Alden—would be the closest he would ever come to his brother again. Pierce had wanted to look for him, surely Alden would have done the same, but his brother was eighteen years of age, a man grown, and Pierce was only twelve. A child and worse than that, he now knew, a coward.

As the walls of Valeria came into view, Pierce stumbled to a brief halt and found that he had some tears left in him after all. They were tears of relief, at first, for he was safe or soon would be, but they quickly turned to tears of shame. I left my brother to die. His father, too, but he could live with that much, for Baler Caldesh had been a cruel man, angry, too, and who loved nothing more than to take his anger out on Pierce when Alden wasn’t there to stop him.

Still crying, Pierce made his way to the back of the line of refugees seeking entrance into the city, people that looked as terrible as himself, each seeming to nurse his own heartache. He hugged Alden’s pack to his chest as the tears slid down his face, doing his best to stay quiet and think of nothing, trying to forget about the world for a time, hoping that if he were really lucky, maybe it would even forget about him.

But the world never misses an opportunity to do a man a cruelty. So his father had taught him, his voice bitter and sour with the stench of ale as he’d uttered the words. It was his form of a bedtime story, hurled at his children like daggers as they lay in bed, he waiting only long enough to see if they drew blood before moving on to sleep or, more likely, drink until he passed out in his own room.

This cruelty, though, came not in the form of his father’s curses, but in an unexpected shove from behind. Pierce grunted in surprise, stumbling and falling to his knees, a couple of apples spilling out of Alden’s bag as he did.

Someone behind him grunted. “Told ya, Sven,” said the voice. “Didn’t I tell ya? Food, I said, that’s what it is, what else would the boy be clutchin’ like a little shit on his mother’s skirt?”

Pierce did his best to ignore the pain in his knees where he’d scratched them by falling, did his best, too, to choke away his tears as he turned to stare up at the men—and they were men, these, though young, appearing to be Alden’s age. Not that Alden was any age now, for the dead did not grow old, and to them time had no meaning. “Why did you do that?” he asked, not liking the weakness he heard in his own voice.

The second boy blinked, his eyes wide as he stared at the apples. The boy had clearly once been fat, but it was obvious that the last few days and weeks had hit him as roughly as they had so many others, and his face was droopy with loose skin that made it look as if it were melting. “Look at that, Mika,” he said, staring not at Pierce but at the apples, “you ever…ever seen anything so red?”

Pierce suddenly felt an irrational surge of protectiveness. These weren’t this man’s apples to take because he felt like it. They were Alden’s apples. He knew it was ridiculous. Alden would have no more need for the apples now than he would for knowing the passing of time. But ridiculous or not, that jealousy, that anger was still there, and Pierce scooped the two pieces of fruit up quickly, shoving them back into the pack. “You can’t have them,” he said, doing his best to square his shoulders as he’d seen Alden do, clenching his jaw in the same way. After all, his brother would not be around to protect him anymore; he would have to learn to protect himself. And it started here.

“What did you say you little runt?” the first one, Mika, growled.

“Y-you heard me,” Pierce said, raising his chin slightly when all he wanted to do was turn around and run, maybe spend the rest of his life doing it, not knowing or caring where he was going, only going away. Away from his dead brother and dead father, away from the soldiers who’d killed them, from these men who would rob a child and the people in the crowd who pointedly looked away from his questing gaze, perhaps thinking they had enough problems of their own without borrowing someone else’s.

“We were goin’ to just take the bag,” the man, Mika said, a sneer on his face. “Now we’re going to hurt you too, understand?

The familiar fear, that animalistic panic that stole all reason, that had more than once reduced him to crying before his father had even so much as laid a hand on him, was back. Pierce could feel it tracing its way along his spine, but he gritted his teeth harder, so hard it felt as if his jaw would crack. No. He would be brave, as Alden had wanted him to be. “I won’t let y—” He didn’t manage to finish speaking before the man lashed out unexpectedly with a quickness that caught Pierce off-guard, slapping him in the mouth hard enough to bust his lip. Before he’d fully realized what was happening, Pierce was sitting on the dusty road leading to Valeria, his face burning where the man had struck him, thinking that he was still just cowardly Pierce, and that his father had been right about the world.

Hot tears threatened, close now, and Pierce looked around the crowd of men, women, and children waiting in line to get into the city, but none would meet his eyes save for one, a middle-aged man, who shook his head. “Best give it to ‘em, lad,” he said. “It ain’t worth dyin’ over.”

Pierce thought that maybe it was, for it was the last thing he had of home, the last thing he had of his brother, but there was no way to tell the man that, and with the sobs lurking in his throat, wanting out, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to anyway. Swallowing hard, he rose, still gripping the bag, hugging it tight against him.

The man named Mika shook his head in disbelief, giving him a cruel smile before hocking and spitting. “A brave little bastard, I’ll give you that much. But I’m losin’ my patience. We’re gettin’ that bag, one way or the other, understand? So how about you save yourself some pain and us some time and hand it over before I really get mad?”

It would have been an easy enough thing to give it up, and Pierce was tempted to do just that. He was a coward, after all, and it wasn’t as if he enjoyed getting hurt. Who did? But the thing was, he didn’t want to be a coward, not anymore, and if he did give the men the bag, there was no way of knowing how he would get food once he made it into Valeria. He’d only been to the city once before on a rare occasion when his father had invited him along. So far, all he’d considered was getting there, and he’d given no thought to what he was going to do once he did, having only a vague idea of maybe finding some sort of job. But it was safe to assume that the dozens of people in line would be looking for the same thing which meant that he might not be able to find anywhere to stay or eat for a long time, if at all. The bag, then, and the food Alden had packed in it, might well be the difference between living or dying.

But that knowledge wasn’t the reason Pierce was so reluctant to give up the bag. It was simply that it was his brother’s, the last thing he had of him, and the understanding that, in the same situation, Alden never would have given it up. Just as Alden would never have left until he’d found Pierce. So instead of doing what his cowardice would have had him do, he squared his shoulders as best he could, avoiding the temptation to rub at his cheek where it still stung from the man’s slap, and met his harasser’s eyes. “No.”

Mika’s face twisted in anger, and he reared back to hit him again, Pierce wincing at the pain to come, involuntarily closing his eyes. But when several seconds passed and nothing happened, he slowly opened them again, surprised to see someone standing between him and his attacker.

The newcomer wore a faded cloak, the hood pulled down to obscure his face. Not that Pierce could have made anything out of his identity anyway since his back was to him. Still, he saw that the man had caught Mika’s wrist, seemingly with ease, and held it for a moment before casually shoving him away.

Mika stumbled but caught his balance after a moment, and his face flushed an angry red. “You’d best leave quick, stranger, unless you want what the boy’s getting ready to get.”

“I will not,” the newcomer said in a slow, calm voice. “You are wrong. You have fled monsters, seeking refuge here in this place, yet you would make of yourself that which you seek to escape. Leave the child alone, and there need not be any ill will between us.”

Pierce was surprised by the man’s calm, as Mika seemed to be, frowning and thinking it through. Suddenly, Pierce felt a hand on his shoulder and barely managed to hold back a scream as he turned, surprised to find a girl who was a few years younger than him standing there. She gave him a sympathetic smile, offering him a small hand. “Are you okay?”

Pierce’s life had not been a pleasant one. He had spent his years being ridiculed by the townsfolk and scorned and beaten by his father, so he found that he was far more surprised by the girl and her unexpected kindness than he had been by the men trying to take what was his—something his life had taught him to expect. A small kindness, maybe, but that didn’t stop tears from threatening. He cleared his throat, determined not to cry, not this time, and nodded, taking the offered hand. “Thank you,” he said.

The girl smiled and started to say something, but someone shouted and they both spun in time to see the man, Mika, lunge at the newcomer. For a moment, the cloaked man didn’t move, and Pierce had time to think that he was going to be struck down for the simple act of trying to help him. Then, just as his attacker was almost on him, the newcomer moved in a blur, too fast for Pierce’s eyes to follow. The next thing he knew, Mika was stumbling backward, and it was his turn to fall on the road, a red mark rising on his cheek where the newcomer’s foot—Pierce thought it was his foot, but it was hard to tell for sure—had struck him, a confused look on his face as if he couldn’t figure out what exactly had happened.

“Let it be done,” the newcomer said, his voice as calm and even as when he’d first spoken. “You were wrong, but all men are at times. You need not be so any longer.”

The last bit was said with an almost regretful quality, the first sign of any emotion that had made it into the newcomer’s voice, but Mika was hearing none of it. “You son of a bitch,” he growled, climbing to his feet.

“W-what do we do, Mika?” the pudgy man asked.

“We kick his ass, that’s what!” Mika snapped back. “And we’ll take whatever he’s got, along with the brat.”

He pulled a knife from the inside of his tunic—a crude, rusty blade. Then he lunged forward, brandishing the weapon. The newcomer had some weapon, a spear, it seemed, sheathed at his back, but he made no move to grab it. Instead, he stepped to the side, avoiding Mika’s rush with casual ease. Once again, he moved too quickly for Pierce’s eyes to fully follow, and then Mika struck the ground, face-first, the knife he’d wielded a moment before now in the hands of his adversary as if by magic.

The other man hesitated for a moment, then, as the newcomer turned to face him, he held up his hands as if to show he wanted no trouble and backed away into the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle.

Pierce blinked, staring down at the man who’d tried to steal his bag, who was currently lying on the ground, groaning in pain. It had all happened so fast. “Sorry,” he said, glancing back at the girl, “but who are—” He never got a chance to finish what he’d been about to say as, at that moment, there was a shout and the crowd parted to let four guardsmen through.

Three of them spread out in a semi-circle around Pierce, the girl, the newcomer, and the not quite unconscious would-be thief, while the fourth stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Just what in the name of the gods is going on here?” he demanded of no one in particular.

The newcomer turned to regard him, his face hidden underneath his hood. “They were going to rob the boy,” he said evenly. “I told them they were wrong.”

The guard studied the man for a moment then grunted, glancing at Pierce. “That true, lad?”

“Ye—” Pierce began, his words drowned out as Mika picked himself off the ground. Instead of attacking the newcomer, he turned to Pierce instead, and rushed toward him, his face twisted with unthinking fury, apparently deciding to take out his revenge for the beating he’d received on him. Pierce’s breath caught in his throat, and he moved in front of the girl, but he needn’t have bothered. The man had barely taken a step before the cloaked figure was there, pivoting and spinning, his foot lashing out, lightning-quick, and striking the man in the face.

Pierce’s attacker spun as if attempting some dance, then collapsed to the ground, fully unconscious this time. There was a rush of sound as seemingly everyone in the crowd gasped at once, and Pierce thought they must have been marveling at the man’s speed just as he was, until he looked up and realized that they weren’t studying the unconscious man but the newcomer, and the looks on their faces weren’t ones of awe but hate and fear.

He followed their gazes to his savior and saw that the stranger’s hood had fallen away revealing a face covered in looping swirls of tattoos. Strange, true, but Pierce still didn’t understand why everyone seemed so afraid until he heard a metallic ringing and turned to see that the guard who’d spoken had drawn his sword, his eyes wide and more than a little afraid. “It’s you,” the guard said in shock. “The Ekirani.”

Pierce had no idea what an Ekirani was or who the man might be, but that seemed enough for the other guardsmen who followed the first’s lead, drawing their blades and moving to surround Pierce’s rescuer. The unconscious man and Pierce himself were clearly forgotten.

The newcomer, though, did not seem surprised or worried in the slightest, as if he had been expecting this. “I mean no harm,” he said softly in the tone of a man who knows his words will do no good but is compelled to say them anyway.

The man who appeared to be the leader of the guardsmen grunted, spitting in disgust. “Don’t try to sell that bullshit to me. We’ve all heard plenty of stories about what kind of harm you’ve been about lately, you son of a bitch. Now, you put that weapon down. Or don’t,” he said. “I’d love nothing more than a chance to kill you the way you’ve butchered so many others.”

“Tarex?” the girl asked in a worried voice.

The tattooed man turned to her, giving a shake of his head and a small smile, one that reminded Pierce all too much of the smile his brother had given him when he’d told him to run. “It is alright, Sonya,” he said.

Pierce didn’t know a lot, had no idea what an Ekirani was or why everyone in the crowd seemed to hate him, but he was pretty sure things weren’t alright, not at all. Still, the man was calm enough, seeming not to notice the way the guards surrounding him raised their swords as if they might strike him down at any moment. He reached for the weapon at his back, unsheathing it, and several of the guardsmen fidgeted as he did, the looks on their faces making it unclear whether they were considering attacking or running.

“On the ground,” the leader barked. “Now.”

The tattooed man did as he was asked, kneeling and placing the weapon on the dirt path with surprising gentleness. He studied it for a moment, some indefinable emotion in his eyes, then he rose, meeting the guardsman’s gaze as if patiently waiting for what would happen next.

“What do we do, Sergeant?” one of the other guards asked.

The sergeant, the one who’d been speaking, seemed to hesitate, as if unsure himself. Then, finally, he nodded. “We take this bastard to the castle, that’s what. Let the Chosen decide what to do with him. I don’t know what your plan was, coming here,” he said, meeting the tattooed man’s eyes again, “but if I have any say in it, you’ll suffer before you die. You deserve that much and more for what you done, you cold-hearted bastard.”

The tattooed man said nothing, and when the sergeant gave an order and one of the other guards produced a set of manacles, moving warily toward him as if he was some wild beast that might choose to attack at any moment, he offered his wrists to him without argument.

In less than a minute, Pierce’s rescuer was manacled at his wrists and ankles.

“What about these two, sir?” one of the guards asked, and their leader turned to study Pierce and Sonya.

He frowned. “Best take them with us. I don’t know what part they were meant to play, but I’m sure Chosen Alesh’ll figure it out.”

“Alesh,” the girl blurted. “Please, is he well?”

The guard frowned for a moment, but when he spoke he turned back to the tattooed man. “Well enough to send any damned army of Dark-worshippers to the Keeper’s Fields and that’s a fact. Now, come on.”

The next thing Pierce knew, two of the other guards had stepped forward, one behind him, the other behind the girl, and though they did not manacle him as they had the tattooed man, the guard with him put a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm enough to make it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Well, Alden, Pierce thought, hugging the sack his brother had given him tight to his chest as the guardsmen began leading them toward the city gate, I made it. What am I supposed to do now?