Firebrand

  “You’re awake then, eh?” she asked.

  Zachary nodded, rose to his elbows. He’d have to face whatever was to come sooner or later.

  “Don’t move,” the woman said. “I will fetch Varius.”

  As moving seemed exhausting at the moment, he decided to obey. He ended up dozing until Varius arrived and shook his shoulder.

  “Min said you were awake a little bit ago. Do you want to try to sit up?”

  “I think so.”

  Varius helped him. His head pounded, then eased, and he did not feel an immediate need to vomit. Min brought him broth and a slice of toasted bread. He took his time eating. It did feel good to have something warm in his belly.

  “You slept hard,” Varius told him. “There are many who sleep here in the great hall at night, then we have our meals here, and you lay as one dead. It was a healing sleep, I think.”

  Zachary did feel noticeably better for it. Varius then helped him to a chamber where he relieved himself and splashed cold water on his face. Gray cave dust runneled off his face and hands into the basin. He gazed at his hands. His nails were jagged and dirt ingrained in the creases of his knuckles. They did not look like the hands of a king, and he was glad. Since there was no mirror, he could not see how the rest of him looked.

  When he stepped back out into the great hall, Varius handed him a heavy cloak. “The man this belonged to doesn’t need it anymore, but as you’ve none, you should have it.”

  Zachary flung the cloak around his shoulders and was glad to have its warmth. “Many thanks,” he said. Varius seemed like a good fellow, and it was hard to believe he was Second Empire.

  “Grandmother will want to talk to you,” the mender said. “I don’t think I can hold her off any longer.”

  “Some reason I should be worried?” Zachary asked. He had to pretend he did not know with whom he was dealing.

  “Grandmother is protective of her people is all. While we wait for her, let’s get you another cup of broth. You look like you haven’t had a good meal in some while.”

  Zachary thought back to the fungus he, Nari, and Magged had subsisted on in the cave. “No, I haven’t.”

  • • •

  He awaited Grandmother, wrapped in his cloak by the fire. As he did so, he watched people come and go across the great hall intent on their own business. There were those he identified as soldiers, though they wore no uniform or insignia. They lingered in the great hall keeping watch on him. Their regard was not friendly, and when Varius was called away to tend someone else, he was sorry to lose the one friendly person he’d met, thus far. Min, who seemed to be Varius’ assistant, always had a sour expression on her face when she looked in his direction.

  When Grandmother arrived, she was flanked by the curly-haired woman and a man who was clearly an officer, for the other soldiers saluted him. Zachary stood, a little unsteadily, at their approach.

  “Good morning to you, Dav,” Grandmother said, looking him over with a critical eye. “So, you have not died on us. This is Captain Terrik, and Nyssa. They will be listening while you and I talk.”

  Zachary bowed his head to them, and they all sat on benches before the hearth.

  “From where do you hail?” Grandmother asked him.

  “Duck Harbor,” he replied. “Coast of L’Petrie.” It was on the border of Hillander and would explain his slight accent.

  “Are you a fisherman?”

  “Nah,” Zachary replied, trying his best to stay in character. “My da ran the mercantile in the village.” Which would explain why his manner of speaking wasn’t more rustic.

  “What on Earth are you doing up north?” Grandmother looked incredulous.

  “I was in North, the town, looking after lumber interests. Y’see, my da supplies the local shipwrights. I was up to do some negotiating with sellers.” The next part would strain their credulity, and he was no Fiori when it came to telling stories. He took a deep breath and said, “I was staying at the Full Moon, playing cards, maybe drinking a little.”

  “That’s probably one of the roughest taverns in North,” Captain Terrik remarked.

  Zachary nodded sagely. He’d certainly heard enough reports about it, and other establishments in North, as well. “The fellows there, the lumbermen, they didn’t like that I was winning.”

  “I think I can see where this is going,” Nyssa said, looking amused.

  “Probably you can,” Zachary said. “A little too much drink, and me winning too much. They, three of them, beat me up, took me out to the middle of nowhere, beat me some more. I woke up stripped of my winnings and my clothes. It was freezing.” His listeners, even Grandmother, appeared to be enjoying the tale. If they believed him, he could not tell, but at least his bruises would give credence to the idea he’d been in a fight. He continued to play the part by trying to look aggrieved. “Those fellows just as soon I died out in the woods with no one the wiser. They didn’t care.”

  “Tell us, Dav,” Grandmother broke in, “how you did not die.”

  Zachary coughed. He was still hoarse. “Maybe I could have another drink?”

  Grandmother called to Min to fetch more water. An uneasy silence followed as they waited. Nyssa examined her fingernails. Captain Terrik seemed to fall into deep thought. Grandmother gazed speculatively at him from beneath hooded eyes. As a king, he would have met her gaze. As Dav Hill, he did not. He fidgeted, looked anywhere other than at Grandmother. He showed that he was nervous. Meanwhile, he wondered where Fiori was, wondered what magic Grandmother was capable of. He knew some of it, but largely she was a mystery to him and his spymasters. If he could find a way to eliminate her, he could possibly slow Second Empire’s rise. If they did not believe his story, he would have to act immediately. If that were the case, the odds were not in his favor.

  Min finally returned with a cup of water that was icy cold. He drank it down, but when he was ready to resume his story and tell them how he’d come upon a hermit’s cave in the woods, his listeners were distracted by the entrance of others into the great hall. Five men strode in, three of whom were dressed in ordinary woodsmen’s attire like the soldiers of the encampment. Two were dressed in the black and silver uniforms of his Sacoridian soldiers. Zachary almost jumped to his feet until he realized who it was.

  Grandmother and Captain Terrik did rise to greet the newcomers, Nyssa following. Zachary pulled his cloak up about his shoulders and bowed his head, allowing his hair, which had grown some during his time at the cave, to fall over his face.

  “Captain Immerez!” Grandmother exclaimed. “I am ever so glad to see you.”

  If anyone could identify him, Zachary thought, it was Immerez.

  FROM KING TO THRALL

  “Terrik!” Immerez exclaimed. “You’ve been promoted—my condolences.”

  Good-natured banter accompanied the greetings as though Immerez were a hero returned. Zachary watched from the corner of his eye as the Mirwellian was patted on the back by those who came to see him. Along with his freedom, he’d obtained the hook that replaced his missing hand, the hand Karigan had cut off, Zachary thought with grim satisfaction. He wondered about the soldiers he’d sent in pursuit of Immerez after his escape, and he was soon answered.

  “Need we be on the lookout for king’s men on your trail?” Terrik asked.

  Immerez laughed his gravelly laugh. “The few we didn’t kill we left in the dust weeks ago. They’ll return home with their tails tucked between their legs.”

  Zachary frowned. He would not have wanted his soldiers to blunder into Second Empire’s base, but it was unsettling that they’d been thwarted. That some had been killed caused his shoulders to sag. He thought perhaps he’d been forgotten until Grandmother and Terrik looked toward him, speaking to one another. Then Grandmother returned to Immerez, and Terrik motioned a couple of his guards forward. Zachary tensed.

  “A
ll right, Dav,” Terrik said, “Grandmother will finish up with you some other time, but if you are well enough to sit up, you are well enough to work.”

  “Work?”

  “Didn’t think we were just going to let you lie around all day, did you?”

  The two guards grabbed Zachary’s arms and lifted him to his feet. The world spun too much for him to put up much of a fight. He was dragged outside, the cold like a slap to his face. Wood smoke was heavy on the air, and he saw a blur of shacks and people as he was pushed and shoved and pulled.

  “Let me go,” he said, struggling to release himself from their grasp. “You’ve no right—”

  He was smacked behind the head and all went briefly black and suddenly he was on his knees. They kicked him to get up and he staggered to his feet.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” one said. “Whatever you were before, you belong to Second Empire now.”

  They dragged him through a gap in the curtain wall and into the woods. Were they going to kill him? But then he saw people ahead who seemed to be working, carrying baskets filled with rocks and dirt, which they dumped in piles. There were other armed guards here. Zachary was thrown to the ground at the feet of a man with a spiked cudgel.

  “Got you a new worker,” Terrik said. “His name’s Dav. Be careful, he’s a brawler.”

  The man gazed down at Zachary. “Looks a little worse for wear.”

  “That’s the way he came in. Grandmother figures he can still move rocks.”

  Cudgel man grunted in what sounded like some kind of assent. “Git up, then.”

  Zachary was grabbed by the collar and thrust toward the other workers, gaunt, half-starved souls who moved as though dead on their feet. They were silent but for gasps and grunts as they shifted heavy loads. He was put to work in a tunnel that burrowed into an earthen mound, with timber supports to keep the ceiling from collapse. He was directed to remove rocks and scrape up dirt and debris. If he did not move fast enough, one of the guards whipped a caning rod across his back, as if he were no more than a mule.

  He was so in shock, his head still not right, that he stumbled about and dropped as much as he carried. How his fortunes had reversed. He’d gone from king to thrall, for thrall was what he’d become. He’d known hard work, had even known battle, but forced labor was different, and if this was how Second Empire would treat his people should they claim victory? No, he would not have it. When he paused to catch his breath, the cane whooshed down on him. He pivoted and caught it in his hand. The guard’s eyes widened.

  Zachary raised his fist to smash it into the man’s face, but his feet were kicked out from beneath him. He hit the ground hard and boots kicked and kicked him. The caning rod came down on his side and ribs. He threw his arms over his head to protect it. The blows rained down hard and furiously until he felt he must be reduced to pulp. And then it stopped. He lay there panting, on the edge of darkness, unable to move.

  “Your technique is lacking, Cole,” said a woman, whose voice Zachary recognized to be Nyssa’s. “You’re still more cobbler than soldier, aren’t you.”

  Zachary gazed up through blurry eyes to see her looking down at him.

  “Maybe that’s so,” Cole replied, “but these grunts don’t need technique. I reckon we’ll have him trained up just fine. Your training leaves strong workers useless or dead, and Grandmother wants the passage cleaned out.”

  Zachary was not sure what passed for a time until he was roughly hoisted to his feet, his whole body screaming from the pummeling he had received.

  “Get back to work,” the one called Cole ordered, and he pushed Zachary back toward the tunnel, or mine, or whatever it was.

  He could barely move, barely remain upright when he bent to pick up rocks. He bumped into the walls, and when he stumbled into other workers, they pushed him away. The guards did not beat him if he moved too slowly. Not mercy, he supposed, but pragmatism that further beating would render him unconscious and useless.

  He leaned against the mine’s wall to regain his balance. He rubbed his aching head. Deep breaths hurt. The other workers just trudged around him as though they were revenants out of some nightmare. It did not help that he’d only had some broth and no real food in who knew how long.

  It was as he leaned against the wall that he realized it was, in fact, a wall, not just rough, natural stone, but blocks of granite shaped by tools. He did not linger, for Cole was fingering his caning rod, looking eager for a chance to use it again.

  At midday they were allowed to take a break. Zachary eased himself down onto the floor of the passage and leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

  “Here,” someone said, placing a bowl into his hands. It was warm. He forced his eyes open to discover it was gruel with a chunk of pan bread in it. His appetite was uncertain at best.

  “You’d better eat it,” his benefactor said. “Still got a long day ahead.”

  He looked up. The woman had a Rhovan accent, and was as covered in dirt and rock dust as everyone else. He had not distinguished her from the others at first because everyone had looked pretty much the same.

  She handed him a tin of ale. “My name is Lorilie.”

  “Dav,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Thank you.” He sipped the ale. It was flat as piss, but it helped return moisture to his parched mouth.

  “Looks like you’ve had a hard day,” Lorilie said.

  Much more than a day, he thought. How long since the aureas slee had snatched him from the castle?

  “Do the best you can,” she continued, “and they won’t beat on you. Trying to fight them is not worth it. Trust me, I know.”

  She left him then, to take her own bowl and cup to sit elsewhere in the passage. He watched after her as she limped away. It was hard to tell much about her, except for her Rhovan accent. He felt as though he were missing something, something that he should know, but he’d been so beaten his mind was not working well. He would worry about it later. He forced himself to eat.

  Lorilie had been correct. There was still a lot of day left to move rocks. Even if he had not been in such terrible condition, it would have been backbreaking work. He tried to get through it by counting his steps back and forth, then by counting the rocks he loaded into his basket. When that palled, he thought about swordfighting forms, imagining each movement in his mind. Perhaps this was how the other workers got through their day, by immersing their minds in something other than their current reality.

  After dusk, they were herded into a rough-hewn building with a firepit in its center, the smoke spiraling up through a hole in the roof. The packed dirt floor was strewn with old rushes.

  One of the thralls doled out stew from a cookpot over the fire. There was some pushing and shoving among the workers, now suddenly come to life. Zachary was too tired to fight, and so he ended up at the rear of the line with some of the older workers. There was barely any left for them.

  He could hardly hold his bowl in his bruised and bleeding hands, but once he found a place to sit, he ate his pittance, scooping it out with a piece of greasy pan bread. At least he was keeping his food down.

  Lorilie, he noticed, sat across the room in a circle with others as though holding court. No one else paid him any mind, and he figured it was just as well. He almost fell asleep with his face in his bowl, when someone came to collect it. Others were wrapped in blankets or cloaks and lay down to sleep. Several lay close to one another for warmth. Zachary blessed Varius for the gift of the cloak and fell into the slumber of the grave.

  • • •

  Sometime during the night, he dreamed he was a stag crowned with branching antlers, but he was not free. He was surrounded by snarling wolves. Karigan entered the vision though not the Karigan he had hunted and slain with an arrow, nor was she Karigan the Green Rider. Rather, she was clad in strange armor that gleamed with the light of stars. Unknown symbols
crawled across the surface of it changing shape and form. Somehow he knew the armor to be made of star steel, a substance of legend. She wore a winged helm upon her head and carried a lance. Upon her shield, the device of the crescent moon shone with ethereal luminescence. She was not herself, but more a supernatural being filled with the power of the heavens. She casually swept away a few of the wolves by merely pointing her lance at them.

  “Think,” she commanded him in a voice that was more than her own. She flicked more of the wolves away as if they were nothing. “Observe.” The rest of the wolves fled before her and she stood above him. “Protect.”

  Then she left, astride a great black steed.

  When Zachary awakened at dawn, he remembered only a sensation of the dream, as if he’d been under some spell. It ebbed away in the reality of a body barely able to move for all the pain, and a day ahead of hard physical labor and deprivation.

  THINK, OBSERVE, PROTECT

  The work was again mind-numbing. An older man fell, and his basket of rocks spilled across the passage floor. He curled up where he lay and would not move. The other workers just walked around or stepped over him. Zachary glanced over his shoulder. The guards, deep in some conversation, had not yet reacted. He knelt beside the man.

  “Are you sick?” Zachary asked. “Hurt?”

  “I am so tired,” the man murmured.

  Another worker paused beside them. It was Lorilie. “Get up, Binning, or they will beat you.”

  “They can drag me off into the woods and kill me,” the man said. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Let me help,” Zachary said. He started refilling Binning’s basket.

  “Hurry,” Lorilie said. “They’re coming.” She left them, carrying away her own burden.

  “Let me help you stand,” Zachary whispered.

  “Leave me be,” Binning said. “I’m too tired.”

  “What’s this?” asked Cole, slapping his rod against the palm of his hand. The guard with the spiked cudgel stood square beside him. “Are we going to have to make you move?”