Rathma
Rathma relaxed a little when he could see that Kuu was still breathing—as much as he could relax in irons, surrounded by enemies.
Before leaving him to the soldiers, Djozen Yelto had marched Rathma into the middle of the compound where the caged gray fox was sleeping, and Rathma watched as its rib cage drifted slowly up and down.
All around them were soldiers in Yelto’s employ, and Rathma knew they weren’t going anywhere. Most of them had a curved, short sword at their side. The ones who did not wear swords wore spears instead, with a small dagger strapped to a thigh. All of them wore tan tunics with chainmail underneath. The shemaghs they used to cover their noses and mouths during the day were pulled down loosely around their necks, forming cloth triangles that pointed at their belts. Most of the soldiers were quiet, but Rathma could hear a few of them exchanging whispers that more or less confirmed what he was thinking: that their trial would be quick and unfair. But what they were more intrigued by was that Djozen Yelto himself had left the compound to track them down.
Rathma felt the wooden end of a spear catch him in the back as a guard behind him said, “Move.”
Rathma gave the guard a cold look but did as he was told. He held his shackled hands in front of him as they walked, and they appeared to be headed for the entrance of Yelto’s chambers. In front of them, holding a torch above his disfigured face, was a Priest of the Holder whose empty eyes were staring right at Rathma. The muscles on the priest’s face twitched and tightened, and Rathma felt the bile creep up in his throat as he realized the priest was smiling.
“Don’t worry, child,” the priest hissed. “The Holder will take you soon.” Turning to the guard, he pointed inside as the thick metal door to Yelto’s chambers was opened. “Take him in and chain him up, then bring in the other one.”
“Yes, Priest,” answered the guard. His voice sounded shaky, and Rathma could tell that the skeletal figure made him nervous too.
Crossing the threshold, Rathma could see why the Djozen hardly ever left: the interior was lavish, spacious, and carefully adorned, displaying all the wealth and power that a man of Djozen Yelto’s lofty position would have. Large, colorful rugs were laid throughout the chamber, which was nearly as large as the courtyard outside. Candleholders made of gold lined the walls, and thin reddish-pink marble columns, one every ten feet, provided support for the ceiling and created an aisle down the middle.
The centerpiece of the chamber, though, surrounded on each side by two huge columns, was the throne. Elegant in its simplicity, the high-backed gold-covered chair stood eight feet tall, with a thick lavender cushion providing the perfect spot to rest Yelto’s better-looking half. He was sitting on it now, surrounded by three bare-chested women, with another one sitting in his lap, sharing whispers and laughs with the fat Djozen. The smell of their flowery perfume caressed Rathma as he walked closer and almost made him forget the trouble he was in.
Yelto looked up as the guard brought him in, waving off the women and giving a playful slap on the bottom to the one who had been on his lap. “Ah, good,” he said as he waved the guard in. “Bring him in.” In his other hand was a silver goblet that spilled wine as he moved it. He watched the women with a hungry grin as they scampered away.
The guard grabbed Rathma’s arm tightly and walked him front and center before the big man. “Kneel,” the guard said as he forced him down by his head.
A metal ring on the ground had a thick chain connected to it, which the guard had used to hook on to Rathma’s shackles, effectively locking him in place. He could stand up, but the chain was short and allowed almost no movement; he would have to bend forward if he didn’t want to remain kneeling.
Forced into bowing before Djozen Yelto. Rathma scowled. I’d rather kneel, he thought as he did just that. He settled onto the floor and looked up defiantly to the man on the throne. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
“Anxious, are we?” Yelto said as he took a sip of wine. “You Yhun boys always want everything now, now, now.” He wiped his mouth with a long silk sleeve and set the goblet on the arm of his throne. “Well, you’re on my schedule now. Look around,” he said with an elaborate sweep of his arm. “You’re in my world, boy.”
Rathma didn’t have to look around to know he was right.
It had been almost ten years since Yelto had returned from Do’baradai. His rule began when he deposed the western tribes’ Hedjetten—the one man to whom all the western tribal chiefs answered—and took his place as their new Hedjetten. The only true rule of law in the tribes was the rule of might, and Yelto certainly had that.
After he had conquered the West, Yelto turned his eyes to the East, and to the Hedjetten who ruled its tribes. When word of the fate of the western tribes reached their ears, the eastern tribes conceded to Yelto’s rule with surprisingly little resistance, and in doing so had made him the first Djozen: a man who ruled over two Hedjetti. Yelto had now done what no man before him had thought possible: he had begun to unite the tribes.
This all, of course, had been made possible by the help of the Priests of the Holder, who enabled the coup and had helped ease the transition of power. “The Holder’s will,” they had called it, and no one had argued otherwise. Just like sheep, Rathma thought. Maybe stupider. All that was left was for Yelto to assimilate the southern tribes and he could call himself ruler of all the lands beyond the Wastes.
That, of course, was easier said than done.
Behind him, Rathma heard the sound of footsteps. This time, though, he heard two pairs. Turning around, he saw who was responsible for them: led by two guards, with a muzzle over his mouth and a collar made of thin chain links attached to a rope, was Kuu.
Even as a fox, Kuu’s emerald eyes stood out. They looked out of place in a body that was lined with gray fur, but even Kuu’s older brothers—strong Wolfwalkers by any measure—couldn’t change the color of their eyes following a transformation. It was the biggest giveaway when looking at them: a wolf or fox with human eyes meant that they were born with two legs, but chose to walk on four.
The guards walked him over to where Rathma was kneeling and tied him to the same metal ring on the floor. When the rope was secure, one of the guards removed the muzzle and Kuu shook his head, clearly happy to be free of it.
“Good to see you again, Kuu,” Rathma said, smiling weakly. “I would have hoped you’d gotten away, though.”
Beside him, the small gray fox began to change.
His front paws swelled and spread, while his hind legs grew thicker and more pronounced. Then his entire body seemed to lengthen and thin, like an earthworm being pulled by both ends. His gray fur retracted into his body, revealing Kuu’s light brown skin and dark hair that had been hiding underneath. His nose, crooked and big, hadn’t changed much.
“I almost made it,” Kuu said with a grimace. The rope was tight around his thin neck and he pulled at it, trying to loosen it a bit. Lucky for him, it seemed the guards were not the best at knot tying and he was able make some room to breathe. The rope that hung from his body as he stood up was the only thing he wore.
Rathma was used to that, but what he wasn’t used to was the large scar running down his side, the gash Rathma had seen when Kuu was still a fox. Beside it were several more puncture wounds that hadn’t been evident before either.
Noticing Rathma’s eyes on them, Kuu waved it off. “Lucky shot,” he said.
Rathma was skeptical: it was more than just a lucky shot—it was a couple of them.
Before he could say something, though, Yelto slammed his hand down on the arm of the throne.
“Someone get this boy some cover,” the Djozen growled. Pointing to a guard standing near the entrance, he said, “You. Find wherever this . . . animal shed his clothes and put them back on him. I won’t have him tainting the decency of this court.”
Kuu swung the rope around in his hand. “What’s the matter, Yelto? Intimidated?”
Rathma elbowed his friend in the ribs before he got them sentenced even faster. “Quiet, Kuu. Stop playing with that.”
Djozen Yelto said nothing as he took a long drink from his wine, looking down his nose at the two boys before him. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed throughout the stony hall as a short, squat guard charged his way into the chamber room with a pile of clothes in his hands that apparently belonged to Kuu.
“We have them here, Excellence,” said the guard as he stepped in front of the boys, obscuring Kuu from Yelto’s line of sight.
“You’re too kind,” said Kuu. While he dressed, Yelto turned his attention back to Rathma.
“Might I ask,” the Djozen began, “what you planned to do once you got inside this chamber, using the key you took off the body of my guard?”
“You might ask,” Kuu said as he poked his head out from around the guard. “But we might not answer.”
Rathma almost laughed, but managed to keep his composure by biting his lip and looking at the ground instead of Djozen Yelto.
“It doesn’t matter,” Yelto said dismissively. “I know very well what you intended.” He tapped his fingers a few times on the side of the throne while resting his jaw on the palm of his other hand. “Any fool with half a brain could see by the weapons you were carrying that you planned to kill me.” He let the words sink in. “And do you know what they call that? The assassination of your leader?”
The next voice to answer was neither Rathma’s nor Kuu’s.
“Treason, O Great One,” it said.
Rathma cringed when he heard the serpentine voice; it was a Priest of the Holder.
The slow sound of footsteps echoed off the walls as the priest walked in, punctuated by the hollow sound of his wooden staff striking the ground.
Step . . . Step . . . Knock.
Rathma stared straight ahead at Yelto, hoping not to see that horrid, skeletal face again.
Step . . . Step . . . Knock.
Even the thought of his jaw muscles expanding and contracting was enough to make him choke.
Step . . .
Step . . .
Knock.
The footsteps came to a halt just behind the two boys, and the hairs on Rathma’s neck stood up.
“Correct,” Yelto said. His voice was a powerful baritone, made even stronger by the acoustic quality of the vast stone hall. “Treason.”
Looking at him now, towering over them in his throne, Rathma could understand why western tribes had acknowledged Yelto as their leader: big, heavy, and strong, the great man’s size was enough to cow even the bravest of men. And it did not stop there.
A by-product of his wealth, Yelto’s size also proved his power. He ate what he wanted whenever he wanted, drank almost hourly, and had his every desire met here in the confines of his palatial throne room—or his bedroom, if he wanted privacy. The last bit of hard work he’d done was wiping the blood from the blade he had used to cut Hedjetten Hota’s throat, the very blade that now hung around his own neck as a reminder to all who saw it: peasant or ruler, Yelto would dispose of you if it fit his plan.
And right now, Rathma and Kuu most certainly fit his plan.
“And what does the Holder of the Dead say about treason, Priest?” Yelto asked with a sly grin, tracing the hilt of his dagger with a finger.
“That it is the worst of all crimes, and must be punished as such.”
“And the penalty for treason?”
“Death.” The word was cold and unforgiving. “They shall have the flesh stripped from their faces to be laid bare before the Holder of the Dead. Then they will be cleansed with fire, and shall stand in judgment before Ahmaan Ka for the sins which they have committed.”
The guards were right, Rathma thought. Quick and unfair.
They weren’t even afforded the chance to defend themselves—not like it would have mattered if they had been; Djozen Yelto would see them flayed, maybe even using his own dagger to do it, and the “trial” that had just taken place was the best way to ensure that.
“Throw them in a cage until morning,” Yelto said to a nearby guard, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And bring me more wine.”
“Yes, O Great One,” answered the guard with a bow of his head. He hurried over to where Rathma and Kuu were standing and unhooked the chains that held them to the floor. He was anything but gentle as he secured a good length of chain to them and made sure they weren’t going anywhere unless he directed it. “Out with you,” the guard said with a jab to their backs.
Rathma complied—as if he had a choice—and looked back one last time at Djozen Yelto. He could do nothing but shake his head at how casually Yelto had handled the whole thing. Amazing, he thought. He’s just condemned two men to die and he acts as if he’s ordering breakfast.
But that wasn’t what bothered him the most.
What bothered him, more than anything, was the smirk that spread subtly, almost invisibly, over Kuu’s face as they were being led to their deaths.