Chapter Twenty-Five

 

 

Fermin was not okay. He was still standing in the captain’s tent as he had been for the last two hours, listening to the captain ask for those with one proficiency or another, listening to those around him shout in answer, and watching the crowd dwindle further and further. He was sweating now, and he didn’t think it was from the heat inside the tent. He felt sure that, at any moment, one of those around him would point, would shout that he was just a manservant, one come from Valeria to spy.

He didn’t know how Marta managed to lie so well, but he decided that when this was all over, he’d be happy to give it up and go back to serving Lord and Lady Tirinian. Not that he expected he would get the chance. Perhaps Marta had been able to lie to herself about that much, but Fermin did not share her gifts, and for him a brutal, painful death seemed far too likely, if not inevitable.

But Fermin wasn’t only scared. He was embarrassed. An embarrassment that grew as more and more people shouted or raised their hands to show their knowledge in one area or the other and were escorted away to their new jobs. It was ridiculous, of course, to be embarrassed about such a thing, particularly because whatever job he got would only serve as a cover while he searched for Sonya. But ridiculous or not, that didn’t stop him from feeling a pinch of jealousy every time another skill was called and several of his quickly-diminishing group of peers raised their hands.

So when the captain called for anyone able to read and write and ride a horse, Fermin’s hand shot up in the air. “I can!” he shouted.

He wasn’t the first to shout, many others having done so to be heard over the mutterings of the massive crowd cramming the tent. The problem, of course, was that that crowd had long since stopped being massive. In fact, save for the captain and the guards positioned on the raised dais, the tent only held Fermin and six others, all of which turned at the sound of his eager shout to stare at him as if he were insane. Fermin felt his face heat under the scrutiny and inwardly cursed himself for a fool—the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.

He grew increasingly certain with each passing second that the captain must surely see through his ruse now, that in another moment he would usher his guards forward and they would cut him down. Instead, the man only grinned. “Eager, are ya? Well, that’s fine, just fine.”

Once he’d managed to start breathing again, Fermin nodded. “Yes, sir. Only want to do my duty, sir,” he said, because he thought it the type of thing a person would say.

“Oh, you’ll do it, that’s for sure,” the man said. “Anyone else?”

Two others raised their hands, but Fermin was too shocked to still be among the living to pay them much notice. He was so overcome with relief that he didn’t see the guards approaching until one grabbed him by the shoulder, and he let out a squeak of fear.

The guard grunted. “Jumpy, are ya? Well, come on. Captain wants us to show you to Sergeant Mander. He’s the one in charge of the army’s messengers.”

Fermin blinked. “Ah, the reading and the writing…it’s to be a messenger, then?”

“Sure,” the guard said, grinning. “Not much call for poets, just now. Come on.”

Fermin did, falling into step with the other two who’d been chosen as messengers and following the man through the massive, sprawling army encampment. He became lost almost at once as the guard strode confidently around one tent after the other. He wondered where Marta had been taken, considered asking, then thought better of it. If he did somehow betray that he was a Valerian, it would be better if no one associated him with the young girl anymore than they had to. So, he kept quiet, nursing his worries and his fears for the girl. After a while, the guard ordered them to halt in front of a tent far more elaborate and larger than any they’d yet passed.

“T-this is the sergeant’s tent?” Fermin asked in disbelief. He didn’t know much about army protocols, but it seemed unusual to him for a sergeant to have such an ostentatious tent which was far larger and fancier than any of the others he’d seen.

His escort hissed. “Shut up. We’ll get to the sergeant soon enough. There’s just a stop we got to make first; now keep your mouth closed. If any of you lot embarrass me, I swear by Shira herself, I’ll make you regret it.”

He walked closer to the tent and the four guards stationed at its front. Unlike most of the other guards Fermin had seen, these wore real armor, and there was something about the way they stood that made him think they knew how to use the swords at their sides.

“State your business,” one demanded, not in a bored way as Fermin might have expected from someone who spent hours standing outside a tent, but in a way that made it clear that giving the wrong answer would be a mistake a man wouldn’t have to live with for long.

Fermin’s escort cleared his throat, bowing low. “Forgive me, brothers. He asked to see those the captain chose to become messengers.”

The guard’s upper lip peeled back from his teeth for a moment as the man called them “brothers” but apparently decided to let it pass. “Wait,” he barked in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t a request, then disappeared inside the tent.

While they waited, Fermin fretted over who this “he” might be. Someone high up in the army, perhaps, or whoever had been given command of the messengers, but in another few seconds the guard returned, cutting off his train of thoughts. “Inside.”

Their escort started forward, but the tent guard grabbed his arm as he started past, stopping him as easily as a brick wall might have done. “No weapons. You can leave them here with us.”

The escort looked as if he were about to protest, but he seemed to think better of it, closing his mouth and nodding tightly. “Of course.” He unbuckled the scabbard from his waist and handed it over to one of the other guards who took it without a word.

“Come,” the first guard barked at Fermin and the others, putting his anger where he clearly believed it to be safe to put it—a fact that Fermin couldn’t disagree with as he and the others followed meekly enough.

There was little light in the tent, the only illumination the fitful, weak glow of torches stuck in the ground outside by the guards. Fermin squinted to see more clearly, as the guard led them deeper into the tent. In one corner of the tent sat a large, elaborate bed finer even than the one in his masters’ bedroom, but his attention was drawn to the desk at the back and the two men near it.

“Kneel before your Chosen,” their escort hissed, dropping to his knees, and Fermin and the others followed his lead a second later.

Chosen. Fermin didn’t like the sound of that, and his heart sped up in his chest. He hoped that he had somehow heard the man wrong, a hope that was dashed a moment later when the cloaked and hooded figure seated at the desk spoke.

“I am Kale Leandrian,” he said in a sibilant voice that made Fermin think of snakes, “Chosen of Shira, ruler of Ilrika, and leader of this army.”

Fermin’s heart was hammering against his chest, and he heard gasps from the other would-be messengers.

“It is an honor, Chosen,” the guard who’d escorted them began, “to be given the opportuni—”

“Leave us,” Kale growled, and the man cut off, bowing his head and fleeing with indecent haste. Fermin watched his boots disappear from where his own forehead was still pressed against the floor of the tent and wished he could follow.

Once the man was gone, Kale spoke again. “Rise, my soldiers.”

Fermin and the other two men did so, and Fermin stood at what he thought might have been attention.

He squinted at the desk, but he could make out little of the figure seated behind it. The man was covered in a robe, a hood hiding most of his face, but it wasn’t just this which made it difficult to see him. The shadows of the tent seemed to cling to him like a favored pet rubbing against its master’s legs, an eerie sight, and one that, judging by the anxious expressions on the faces of Fermin’s peers, wasn’t lost on them either.

But as odd as the figure seated at the desk was, he paled in comparison to the one standing beside it. The man was massive, seven feet tall at the very least, and he wore the biggest sword Fermin had ever seen strapped to his back. It must have weighed a ridiculous amount, enough that Fermin doubted he could have picked it up, not to mention stood with it, but if the weight of the sword bothered the figure at all, he did not show it. He had wide shoulders and a thickly muscled frame that looked as if it could crush boulders without any trouble. He had long hair that fell about his shoulders from which hung what appeared to be tribal fetishes. Though the figure did not move, only stood with his arms folded across his massive chest, there was something martial, something dangerous about him. He practically thrummed with barely contained violence, ready to fight, to kill, at any moment.

“May I introduce to you, Paren, son of the blessed goddess Shira, and God of Conflict,” Kale said.

Fermin heard sharp intakes of breath from both of the men beside him, and he suddenly felt decidedly lightheaded, as if he might pass out at any moment. So, he used an old trick he’d learned long ago and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. The pain served to sharpen his thoughts, driving the haze out of his mind. One of the other men who’d come with him apparently didn’t know such a trick, however. His breath left him in a wheezing sigh, and he pitched to the ground, unconscious.

Fermin considered moving to help the poor man, but finally decided against it, thinking it unwise to do anything that might draw anymore attention to himself than he already had, particularly since he was standing in front of the God of Conflict and the leader of the enemy army. Fear threatened to overwhelm him again at the very idea of it, and he bit his cheek again, risking a glance at the giant standing beside the desk.

The god stared down at the fainted man, his expression unreadable, then he unfolded his thick arms and started toward Fermin and the others in an unhurried walk. He stopped first in front of the man to Fermin’s right. The god said nothing, only watched the man who refused to meet his eyes, clearly having no idea how to act in front of a god and finally settling on falling to his knee once more, his gaze pointedly studying the floor.

Fermin thought he detected a faint expression of disgust pass across the god’s features, but it was gone in a moment, if it had been there at all. Then, it was Fermin’s turn. Paren stepped in front of him, piercing him with eyes that seemed to see right through him, to see the truth of who he was and why he had come. There was something about that stony regard that compelled Fermin to tell the truth, to start blurting out everything he had ever done and not stop until he’d divulged every secret he’d ever sought to hide. Whether there was something magical in that feeling, some spell cast by the god’s regard, he did not know, but he focused his thoughts on Marta and Sonya, the two girls counting on him, using his love for them like a shield, and it was enough. Barely.

His knees felt weak, his mind getting the fuzzy, swimming feeling that had warned him he was about to pass out. He bit his cheek again, breaking the skin, and warm, coppery blood filled his mouth. On a whim, remembering—and hoping desperately that he hadn’t imagined—the look of disgust the god had given the man who’d knelt and avoided his eyes, Fermin gritted his teeth and raised his head to stare challengingly back at the god.

Paren continued to regard him with a blank expression for several seconds, and it was all Fermin could do to keep from wincing or recoiling. Then, the god inclined his head the slightest fraction and walked past Fermin to stop in front of the man who’d fainted. He stared down at him for several seconds then, abruptly, there was a flash of movement, far too fast for Fermin to follow, and something wet and warm splattered across his face.

He recoiled, surprised, and heard a shout, though in his confusion he couldn’t have said for sure whether it came from him or the other man standing beside him. He turned, dazed, and looked where he’d seen the movement, gasping as he realized the god had drawn the massive sword at his back, moving with an unbelievable speed, and had brought it down onto the unconscious man, impaling him through the chest. Fermin realized then that what had struck him in the face had been the now dead man’s blood. Horror and revulsion washed over him in a wave. He wanted to run, to scream, to do something in answer to the sudden, terrible violence, but he was frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable, even, to breathe.

The god stared at the man he had just killed impassively, as if he felt no more about it than a normal man might feel about squashing a bug beneath his feet. “This army has no place for cowards who faint from fear,” the god grumbled in a deep, gravelly voice that sounded like two mountains scraping together.

“Paren!”

Fermin tensed at the shout, seeing that Kale Leandrian had risen from where he’d sat, though the shadows still clung to him, obscuring most of him from view and leaving only a vague, dark shape.

The god turned back to him slowly, and Kale went on. “This is my army, not yours. You are here only as an advisor, and I will choose who dies and who does not die in my army.”

Several tense seconds passed during which Fermin held his breath, the air pregnant with barely-restrained violence. “You mean,” the god said after a time, “my mother’s, your mistress’s army. Do you not?”

“Her army which she has given me leave to command,” the shadowy figure hissed.

Had Fermin not been able to see how tightly the god gripped the handle of the massive sword where it still impaled the dead man, he would not have known the anger the god felt, for his face betrayed nothing of his feelings. Finally, Paren resheathed his sword and, without another word, walked back to stand beside the desk.

The cloaked figure watched him for a moment, then turned back to Fermin and the remaining man. “As messengers of my army, you will be expected to be swift and accurate in relaying messages. Any leader knows there is no more important job than the carrying of messages, and it is for this reason that I wished to meet you all personally and to assure you that, should you fail me, your deaths will not be swift. Guards!”

One of the men stationed outside the tent stepped inside. “Yes, Chosen?”

“Take them to the other messengers and send someone to clean up this mess,” he said, waving a shadowed arm at the dead man and the spreading pool of blood beneath him.

If the guard was surprised to find a corpse, he hid it well, only bowing his head in acquiescence. “It will be as you command, Chosen,” he said. Then, glancing at Fermin and his companion, “Come.”

Fermin did as he was told and followed the man out, shocked to still be alive.

 

***

 

By the time he was finally shown to his small tent, Fermin was more tired and sore than he ever remembered being. He’d spent the last several hours drilling with a dozen other messengers, riding horses and being checked on the accuracy of the dispatches they relayed when they were unable to carry actual parchment. He had found that he excelled at the latter, for keeping track of orders with precision was something his life as a manservant to the Tirinians had prepared him well for. The horse though—and the saddle sores and blisters already covering most, if not all his posterior—were quite another matter.

He’d ridden horses before, of course, while accompanying his masters through the city to ensure that their needs were met, and Lord Tirinian, before his health had begun to decline, had loved to ride and had often given Fermin the privilege of accompanying him. But the last time they had done so had been years ago as his lord was no longer able to sit a saddle for any extended period of time, and when Fermin hobbled into his tent, his entire body felt as if it had been beaten repeatedly by cruel men with sticks. Which, considering the impatience of their drilling instructor and how often he had made use of just such an instrument to communicate his displeasure to those training to be messengers, wasn’t very far from the truth.

He was surprised to discover that a small fire had been lit within the tent until he saw Marta sitting beside it eating soup from a small clay bowl. His stomach rumbled in protest as he himself hadn’t eaten anything since the morning.

“About time you showed up,” Marta said, handing him a full bowl she’d already prepared, “I was beginning to think they’d killed you.”

“Not quite,” Fermin said, gingerly taking a seat on the opposite side of the small campfire. “Though, Lady Marta, I believe they gave it a noble attempt.”

Marta snorted quietly at that, glancing at the tent flap as if concerned someone might be listening in.

“Messenger then, is it?” she asked. “Best you tell me what happened.”

Fermin did, speaking in low tones and recounting the events of the day, including his meeting with Kale and Paren in the command tent.

Marta sat in silence, listening, and when he finished she let out a low whistle. “The God of Conflict himself,” she said. “That’s…worrying.”

Which, to Fermin, seemed like just about the largest understatement he’d ever heard, but he understood the emotion behind her words easily enough, understood it, for he was feeling it too. Fear. Fear but not only that. Hopelessness.

“And Sonya?” Marta asked in a tone indicating that she knew the answer already. “Any word?”

“No,” he said regretfully. Then, he knew he needed to change the subject, for he was close now, so very close to despair, to realizing just how foolhardy they had been to come here, to understanding just how pointless it all was. “How was your day?”

She grinned at that, and he was glad to see it, for it banished some of the hopelessness from her gaze. “It was…difficult. Would you like more stew?”

Fermin glanced down, surprised to find he’d finished the stew without knowing it. “Yes, please.”

She leaned into the light then, taking the bowl from him. As she did, the fire illuminated her face, and Fermin gasped as he saw her left eye was swollen nearly shut. “Lady Marta, your eye—”

“It’s nothing,” she said, abruptly turning away and filling the bowl. “Fell, that’s all.”

He only watched her, and after a moment, she sighed, looking back at him. “That’s a lie, I guess. Some of the slaves in the tent are…well, let’s say they’re a little less than friendly.”

Fermin put a hand on her shoulder, meaning to comfort her, but jerked it away when she winced. “Lady Marta? What’s…”

“It’s nothing,” she said again, adjusting her tunic but not in time to avoid him seeing the ugly purple bruise on her shoulder. “They were…thorough, in their unfriendliness.”

Fermin felt more helpless than he had in a very long time then. “I’ll…I’ll talk to my commander or—”

“No,” Marta interrupted. “No. We need to stay right where we are. As a messenger, you’ll be moving about the camp plenty and have a good chance of finding…” She glanced again at the tent flap, then went on in a whisper, “Of finding Sonya. As for me, well, if anyone might know where a little girl is being kept, I’d say it’s the slaves. People have a tendency, see, to think of them as little more than furniture, saying stuff around them they normally wouldn’t say around anyone else. If I can get through to some of them, might be we can find Sonya and get out of here before anyone’s the wiser.”

An occurrence that sounded all but impossible to Fermin, requiring nothing short of a miracle. Which, considering that one of the gods was actually in the enemy camp actively working against them, seemed fairly unlikely just then, but saying so would do neither of them any good, so he nodded.

They ate on in silence then, each with their own troubled thoughts. Eventually, they finished their meals and both lay down in their separate bedrolls, nursing their individual hurts and aches as best they could, trying—and largely failing—to get some much needed sleep.