An Oath of Brothers (31 page)

“Krov knows these waters better than anyone,” Erec said. “We follow his lead, as we have from the start.”

“And yet our maps show otherwise, my lord,” Strom said.

Erec furrowed his brow, wondering.

“He may be leading us around some shallow shoals,” Erec said, “or some other unseen danger. He knows these waters. Father trusted him to guide him, and we must, too. Maps don’t always tell the whole story.”

Erec, though, was now intrigued, and he signaled for his watchmen to signal Krov’s fleet.

Erec looked across the waters and saw Krov at the bow of his ship, leading his small fleet. He was perhaps fifty yards away, and as Erec’s men signaled, he came close.

Erec leaned over the rail as they came within shouting distance.

“Your ship looks worse for wear,” Erec called out with a smile.

Krov smiled back.

“That’s what years of pirating will get you,” he said. “They were weathered to begin with, and I didn’t think they could look much worse. I should have known, following you for a day can do that to them.”

“Do we sail in the right direction?” he yelled out.

Krov hesitated, surprised, as he looked back.

“Do you question this old sailor?” he yelled back, sounding offended. “Are you watching the maps? Don’t mind them much. Shallow rocks up ahead. If we had followed them and sailed straight, your ships would likely be at the bottom of the ocean right now,” he said with a roguish smile.

Erec, feeling reassured, turned back to Strom, who nodded, clearly reassured, too.

The two brothers turned and slowly made their way back toward the bow.

“It’s a clear, calm day, my brother,” Erec said, clasping his shoulder. “Try to relax. That was always your problem: you worried too much.”

“When we reach the Empire,” Strom said, studying the horizon, “I want to be first in battle. I’m going to kill the man that comes for you first. You can kill the man that comes for me—just the way they did in father’s time. Or you can stand back and let me kill them both,” he added with a smile.

Erec laughed, glad to see Strom back to his old confident self.

“Why don’t I just let you fight the entire Empire by yourself?” Erec said.

Now Strom laughed.

“Now that would be a fine idea. How many Empire soldiers do you think I could take with this—”

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a shout cutting through the air.

“UP AHEAD!”

Erec turned, snapping out of it, and looked up at the mast; way up high, sitting perched at the top of the pole, was the lookout, pointing and shouting.

Erec, alarmed at the lookout’s tone, turned and looked out at the horizon, puzzled, not seeing anything. Yet there was a mist on the horizon, and as Erec watched, it slowly began to rise.

Erec was shocked to see a hundred huge Empire ships, easily identifiable by the gleaming black and gold banners, emerging from behind the rocks. Thousands of Empire archers stood at the edge of the boat and had their arrows pointed down at their fleet, the tips flaming. Erec knew that with the slightest nod from their commander, his entire fleet would be destroyed.

They were too close to get away, and Erec suddenly realized, with dread, that they had been ambushed. There were no possible options—he could not run, and he could not fight without assuring a certain death for all of his men. The Empire had outsmarted them, and they were at their mercy, with no choice but to surrender.

Erec turned to Krov, immediately concerned for him, feeling guilty that he had led him, too, into an Empire trap.

Yet as Erec looked at Krov, he was confused: Krov did not look scared, or surprised, as Erec expected him to. Instead, Krov nodded to the Empire commander, who nodded back at him knowingly. Even more shocking was that none of Empire the arrows were aimed on Krov’s boat; they were all aimed at Erec’s.

That was when he realized: Krov had set all of this up, had led them here, to this vulnerable spot beside these rocks. He had betrayed them.

Krov’s boat glided up along the Empire’s, and Erec watched as one sack of gold after the next was thrown over the rail, landing on Krov’s boat, and he flushed with indignation.

Erec could feel all of his men looking to him in the silence.

“Is this how you repay my trust?” Erec called out to Krov, his voice echoing over the silent waters.

Krov turned and faced Erec. He shook his head.

“It is your fault,” he called back. “You never should have trusted me, Erec. Your father didn’t. I’ve always told you I sell myself to the highest bidder—and your bid, my friend, was not the highest.”

“Drop your swords!” shouted the Empire commander, a fierce soldier in gleaming armor, standing before all of his men.

Erec could feel the eyes of all of his men on him. Strom looked at him, too, and Erec turned and looked at Alistair, who lay there weakly, still spent. More than ever Erec wished for Alistair to be able to use her powers. But she lay there, so weak, and could barely lift her head. Without her help, he realized, there was no chance of victory.

“Don’t,” Strom urged. “Let us all die here, together.”

Erec shook his head.

“That is a solution for a soldier,” he said. “Not a leader.”

Heart breaking inside, Erec slowly, gently, drew his sword and placed it on the deck. It hit the deck with a hollow thud, the sound piercing Erec’s heart. It was the first time he’d ever laid down his sword before the enemy. But he knew he had no choice: it was that, or have all of his fine men, and Alistair, killed.

All around him, on all the ships of his fleet, his men followed his lead, and the air was soon filled with the sound of thousands of small swords placed on the decks, shattering the stillness around them.

“You have betrayed us, Krov!” Erec shouted. “You have given up your honor for a sack of gold.”

Krov laughed.

“Honor?” he yelled. “Whoever said I had any to begin with?”

Krov laughed.

“You are Empire property now,” he said. “And I am a very, very rich man.”

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Loti walked with her mother, her brother Loc at her side, following her as they had been for hours, taken on a meandering trail, wondering how this all came about. She understood her mother needed her to help to help convince new villagers to join the cause, but she wanted to be back in the main camp, with Darius and the others, helping them fight.

Loc limped along beside them, sweating beneath the sun, and Loti wondered how much longer this would all go on.

“How much further?” Loti asked her mother, impatient.

Her mother, as she always did, ignored her, just hiking faster through the woods, pushing back branches that snapped in Loti’s face.

It was impossible to get anything out of her. All Loti had been able to learn was that one of the neighboring villages, populated with the strongest slaves, was reluctant to join their cause and would only join if Loti urged them to. Her mother said they could bring a thousand slaves to the cause, nearly doubling the size of the army. She said they had great respect for Loti, that her fame had already spread, stories told and retold about what she had done to save her brother’s life. Her legend was growing, as the one who had escaped from the Empire’s clutches, the one who had managed to make it back to her village on her own. It was only she, her mother said, who could convince them.

As Loti thought about it, marching as they had been for hours, following her mother down the winding paths over the arid desert and in and out of forest trails, she felt a sense of optimism. While she was annoyed to be with her mother and not Darius, she was also thrilled to have a chance to do her part to help the cause. She felt a sense of purpose, a sense of being needed, and she felt honored that these villagers would even want to speak with her and her brother.

Finally, Loti was relieved to see the terrain open up, and they emerged from the forest and back out into the arid desert. Before them lay a small slave village, perched at the edge of the forest, and within it, hundreds of slaves milling about. She braced herself, ready to do whatever she could to convince them.

“Why do these people need an invitation?” Loc asked, beside her. “Shouldn’t they be rushing to join our cause? Don’t they realize that if they don’t, they will be killed?”

Loti shrugged.

“Some are more proud than others, I guess,” she replied.

They followed their mother and walked into the village, down its dusty path, and followed her as she weaved in and out of crowded streets.

Loti was a bit surprised. She had expected a welcoming committee, a group of villagers ready to greet her. And yet everyone here was bustling about, ignoring them, as if they did not even know they were coming.

“They want to speak with us,” Loc said to his mother, “yet, there is no one to greet us. What is wrong? Have they changed their minds?”

“Shut your tongues and follow me!” their mother snapped, walking faster ahead of them, turning down side streets.

Loc came close to Loti.

“I don’t like it,” he said to her quietly, jostled by other passersby. “This whole thing stinks. Since when has Mother ever come around to our cause? Everything we’ve ever done she has resisted.”

Loti began to wonder herself—she had to admit, it all did seem strange. But she didn’t delve too deeply into it—all that she cared about was helping Darius, whatever the cost.

They turned a corner and their mother stopped before a large, black, horse-drawn carriage, with iron bars on its windows. Several large slaves stood before it, scowling down at them.

Loti stopped in her tracks, confused. None of this made any sense. The carriage before them was a slaver carriage—she had seen them a few times in her life. They traveled the country roads, going village to village, and used the carriages to trade slaves between villages. They were mercenary scum, the lowest of the low, those who captured their own kind, broke up families, chained them, and sold them to the highest bidder.

“That is a slaver’s carriage,” Loti said to her mother, annoyed. “What are they doing here? We shall not have slavers join our cause.”

Loc turned to her, too. “Mother, I don’t understand. Who are these people? Why have you led us here?”

As Loti stared at her mother, she watched her expression change; her stern face fell away, and instead was replaced with an expression of profound loss and sadness, even regret. She saw her mother’s eyes well with tears, for the first time in her life.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said. “There was no other way. You and your brother—you are too proud. You have always been too proud. You would have joined Darius’s fight. And he, my children, is going to lose. They are
all
going to lose. The Empire always wins.
Always
.”

The slavers rushed forward, and before Loti knew what was happening, she felt her wrists being grabbed by big, strong calloused hands, felt her arms being wrenched behind her back, felt her wrists being shackled. She cried out and tried to resist, as did Loc, but it was too late for them both.

“Mother!” Loc shrieked. “How could you do this to us?!”

“I’m sorry, my children,” their mother cried out, as they were dragged to the carriage. “We are all going to die in this war. But not you two. You two are too precious to me, you always have been. You always thought that I favored your brothers. But I favored you. And I will do whatever I have to, to protect you.”

“Mother, don’t do this!” Loti yelled, frantic, struggling desperately to get free, but to no avail.

Loti saw the rear door to the carriage open as she was dragged to it and as she was shoved from behind, she felt herself tumbling into it, Loc beside her.

She turned and tried to get out, but the iron door was immediately slammed and locked behind her. She kicked and shoved it, but it would not give.

Loti heard the crack of a whip, felt herself bounced roughly as the carriage began to move, and she scurried to her knees and grabbed the iron bars and looked out the window, watching the world go by.

The last thing she saw, before the village disappeared from sight, was her mother’s face, standing there, weeping, watching them go.

“I’m sorry,” her mother cried out after them. “Forgive me!”

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Darius stood in the captured fort of Volkara, surrounded by his huge camp of soldiers, Dray at his side, and examined the scroll in his hands. He read it again, then a third time, wondering if it could be true. Ever since the falcon had arrived with it, he had been able to think of little else.

Could it be true? he wondered. At first he was certain it had been some sort of trick, or perhaps that he had misread it. But as he read it again and again, he felt it was true: this was a genuine letter from Godfrey, the Queen’s brother. Against all odds, somehow Godfrey, with his impossible mission, had succeeded. Darius could hardly believe that Godfrey, of all people, had come through. He had taken him for a drunk, perhaps even a fool—certainly not a competent warrior. It had taught Darius a great lesson—victory could come from the most unlikely of sources. Perhaps Godfrey had been right after all: there are many ways to win a war.

When the moon rises, approach the rear of the city. When you see a great torch lit atop the parapets, the gates shall be opened, and the great city of Volusia will be yours.

For the first time since this war had begun, Darius’s heart welled with optimism. Darius looked everywhere for Loti, wanting to share this good news with her and Loc, to embrace her, to see how elated she would be. He was puzzled that he could not find her anywhere, and he resolved to find her later.

Darius passed the scroll around, to Raj, Desmond, Luzi, Kaz, Bokbu, all of his brothers, all of the elders. Each examined it and clapped their hands in joy, before passing it on to the other. One by one the joy spread, and a wave of optimism began to spread throughout the camp.

Before this arrived, the camp had been filled with anxiety, hundreds of former slaves milling about, wondering how they would hold this fort, how they would ever attack Volusia. Darius had met with all his men, with all the village leaders, the elders, all of them arguing over what to do next. Some argued over different ways to attack Volusia. They all knew its walls would be too high to scale, that thousands of soldiers would await them with fire, with boulders, with a myriad ways to stop a siege. They all knew that they, former slaves, were not professional soldiers with the professional equipment needed to siege a city like Volusia. Many of them had argued not to attack at all; some argued to hold this fort they had captured, and others argued to abandon it. Any way they looked at it, it seemed clear to all of them that they would lose a great deal of men no matter what they did.