Darkness Falling: Soldiers and Slaves (14 page)

At last he came to the sword displayed in a place of prominence among other military objects. Tyn leaned in closer to read the small placard beside it.

Bloody Sirka
.

Tyn was unaware of the legend attached to the name. It must have had some significance once, but it fit the thing even while it hung dormant on the wall. There was darkness to the blade, as if it were drinking in the light.

Tyn reached out but did not pass the invisible wall of energy that served as protection. An alarm would sound, and he wasn’t interested in alerting the Enforcers to his presence. The barrier hummed steadily, and just beyond that the power of the sword itself reached back, awakened by the warmth of his skin. Tyn could feel its hunger. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. It was a masterful enchantment, the ability to drain the life force of anyone unlucky enough to be cut by its edge.

Garinsith would want the girl alive. The blade was not made for taking prisoners. Whatever plans he had for the sword would require a careful re-balancing of the enchantment.

Tyn followed the path of barrier containing the sword until he came to the wall. Placing his hand against the plaster he sent out a small pulse of energy that disabled the wiring. For a moment the lights flickered. He waited until he felt the invisible shield shift and fade. Only then did he reach to his full height and pull the sword down.

The lust for blood coursed through his mind. It had been too long since his last battle. He breathed deeply, concentrating to fight against the desire building within his mind.

Holding the sword close to his body, Tyn felt as it shifted its appearance, taking on the distinct coloration of his clothing; another interesting piece to the puzzle that was the Bloody Sirka. To think that such a dangerous object was put on display with such minimal security was disturbing. He wasn’t overly upset, however; as returned to the elevator with his prize. One man’s ignorance was another man's platform to victory.

* * *

Xander was not interested in celebrating. His presence was political and demanded by his father. It was also strategic in distinguishing himself from his family. In missing the welcoming ceremony, he dictated that his time was precious. Missing the main event, however; would be unacceptable. If he wished to placate the lesser nobility to win their support upon the throne, he must appear to them as inane as they were when they gathered, yet also maintain an air of greater importance. Ruling over men was merely a game to be played.

In his eyes Gleyth did not deserve such luxurious acknowledgment; it was expected by the aristocracy to bend to the will of tradition. His sister’s role in the occasion was unimportant and could easily be filled by any other woman; it was only her bloodline that mattered.

What would Gleyth bring to the Empire except another mewling mouth to threaten his inheritance?

Xander was acutely aware of the possibility of being passed over for his snot nosed baby brother should their father choose to disrupt the line. His only consolation rested with the reality that Harn wasn’t bold enough for such a brash move.

Gleyth, however; had lofty notions of her own status. Xander wouldn’t be surprised if she attempted a coup to put her own son on the throne. He also believed she could find backers to her cause. The nobility was nothing more than slavering hounds waiting to bite any morsel thrown their way. Sa Toret Sei’Theret may have united the named clans centuries ago, but it didn’t change the nature of ambition.

He detested the games he was expected to play. Eating without appetite, Xander ignored the conversation at the table. The chatter was of no importance. Len consider his elder brother as little more than a stranger. With an eighteen-year difference in their ages they never formed a bond. The young prince shied away, confused by not being allowed to sit with his mother. That in itself was amusing.

Len had been unexpected and unnecessary. At least he gave the Queen something to do in her advancing years. Women needed pets or infants to dote on, he knew. As long as the child stayed out of his way and away from his throne he was a non-issue.

The evening was not fully without merit, however; as he hoped it would give him a chance to confront his adversary. From the moment the Master Keeper and his guard entered the room, the prince’s eyes locked on him and did not waver far during the meal. A few times Garinsith turned in the prince's direction, a tight lipped smile crossing his wrinkled face. His overconfident demeanor was irritating.

When at last the dancing began, Xander did not ask a young woman to join him on the floor. Impressing the ladies was the farthest thought from his mind. 
Instead, he made his way around the crowd to where the Master Keeper sat content to observe. His fire-haired lapdog was at his side as ever. She stood as the prince approached, the hard line of her jaw did not concern him. He thought she looked ridiculous, playing the role of a man.

“I’m here to discuss your plans on recapturing Impyra,” Xander said firmly, half as an announcement and half to placate the Mutilator.

Garinsith gave him an impatient smirk, his eyes full of condescension. “Your highness,” he hissed. “It is such an honor for you to grace our table,” the sarcasm in his voice was palpable.

Xander glared at the old man. “My father persists in allowing you to reside in the Tower despite your inaction. How long are you going to sit around doing nothing? Impyra isn’t waiting for us, I can assure you.”

“Of course not. I’m well aware that she is on the move.”

Xander frowned. The Master Keeper’s lack of concern was frustrating. “I know you’re growing fat and comfortable here, but I intend to resolve this issue as is my right. Nothing has been done on the reports that they were sighted in Ro’Tesche-Ala. If you do not take action, 
I will
.” His face grew hot with anger.

The thought that every breath she took was one more than she deserved was infuriating.

“You may recall that merely chasing the girl down is a waste of resources,” Garinsith reminded him calmly. “Certain preparations must be made to capture a person of her talents. Those preparations are nearly complete.”

“I don’t believe you,” Xander shook his head. “You’re allowing this because you’re sympathetic to her and her kind,” he shot Lethel a disgusted look.

The Mutilator’s face remained emotionless.

“I assure you, Kei Xander, no matter where the girl attempts to hide in this world she cannot escape me,” Garinsith leaned forward.

Xander rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “You're a pompous old fool.”

“And you are a young fool,” the Master Keeper returned. “Go back to your seat, Kei Xander.”

He couldn’t believe he was being dismissed so casually. “Bringing you here was a mistake,” Xander fumed.

“The only mistake,” Garinsith lowered his voice, “was allowing you to have access to as rare a creature as Impyra.”

The prince felt a strange pressure in his mind, he tried to fight against it but his thoughts began to dull.

“You are tired and you will return to your rooms. You will leave us to our work until we are ready to depart.”

“Whatever,” Xander blinked his eyes, the room felt foggy. “I’m tired of this conversation.”

The prince took his leave without further argument. An unusual quiet surrounded him, or perhaps it was too loud. He couldn’t remember why, but he needed to be back in his office. The strong desire for a glass of wine and solitude propelled him forward. Xander knew that whatever Garinsith was planning would be completed soon, his goal was accomplished.

Fleeting thoughts that moments ago he was certain the old man was wasting time floated just below the surface of his awareness. It difficult to recall why he doubted the Master Keeper to begin with, and before long he forgot to keep trying.

* * *

Snow had been falling since early morning, obscuring the road. Needing to rest, Winifred passed the responsibility of driving over to Alta. The young woman's measured breathing and white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel spoke of her anxiety. After sunset the storm worsened, their headlights piercing the darkness in an illumination of white powder.

In the back seat Mikal slept with his head against the window, having taking his turn driving earlier in the day. The children huddled together for warmth. They were out of the icy wind but the van's heater was weak.

Wini watched the snow through the swish of the windshield wipers. Their time on the road had been uneventful, and for that she was grateful. With the increasingly bad weather she began to worry. The storm was unnatural. Na'Effilan Forest was perhaps a day's journey away. Deep within the sanctuary of the wood they would find the ruin where Winifred had been born, the last stronghold of the Akar.

Her anticipation grew with each passing kilometer.

Just outside of the glow of the headlights something dashed across the road. They were moving fast and Wini couldn’t see it clearly, although it appeared to be running on two legs. It had been far too quick to have been a person.

A flash of pain shot through Winifred's body. Her breath caught in her throat. A strange sensation filled her mind; similar to the plague yet somehow different and tainted by dark energy.

“Wini,” Alta breathed, her voice shaking. “Did you see that?”

“I did,” Wini nodded solemnly. “Keep driving.”

She closed her eyes, sensing the surrounding world for anything amiss. As far as she could tell it was the only one, already gone into the night.

“What do you think it was?” Alta whispered, glancing at her nervously.

Winifred had an idea, but she didn't want to frighten her charges. “It was probably an animal, hungry and driven from its home.”

Alta didn't appear convinced, but she did not argue. It was better to agree than to dwell on the unknown. Everything was coming together faster than Wini anticipated. There were too many signs and not enough time. Her mind spun as she remembered the prophecy.

Suffering abounds, the Plagued shall rise and the Balance shall fall. Tears of anguish rain from the sky, shattered souls that cannot die. The Seeker reborn, wielding death, awakens to be Countered at last breath.

It was why she must return to her homeland. There she would find the hidden tools needed to defend against the coming darkness. Long ago her people had been prepared, awaiting the appearance of the ancient talisman Syerset and those who would return balance to the land. Foolishly her people grew too ambitious, believing themselves to be far more capable of guiding the world than any other. Their downfall was the result of their arrogance.

Petor walked the same path as their ancestors, churning the dark waters and believing he could control the storm. Winifred, however; knew better.

“Wini?” Alta asked timidly, she dared to reach out to place a comforting hand on Winifred's arm.

“It will be all right,” she said, as always remaining strong to carry the burden alone.

There was yet hope so long as Brosen and Impyra remained free. If they were who she hoped they would become the world would be safe. She must not falter or despair. Darkness may fall but the new dawn would soon rise.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Impyra never realized how much water existed in the world. The ship pushed through the waves, throwing spray up onto the deck. There was no sign of land in any direction, only the dark depths of the Darna Waters churning beneath the stormy sky. Her hair was lifted by the wind and the snow melted against her skin. She took a deep breath, allowing the rush of energy to fill her as it never had within the confine of Sa’Toret-Ekar.

Freedom.

Brosen appeared equally enthralled by the journey. He stared out at the ocean with eyes wide in amazement. Walking across the deck to their assigned duties, it was difficult for them not to pause and marvel at how immense the world truly was. The breathtaking view would have to wait, however; as there was work to be done.

Pulling herself away from the view, Impyra walked carefully toward the hatch leading to the galley. Her legs wobbled as she moved, unused to the motion of the ship beneath her. Some of the crew watched in amusement. At least Brosen was having similar difficulties, she decided. She didn't appreciate being observed, but at least she wasn't alone in looking ridiculous. Leaning heavily on the wall for support, she finally opened the door to the galley and stepped inside.

Immediately beyond was a narrow stairway leading downward. The lighting was dim, doing little to brighten the dull gray metal of the ship's interior. The stairs opened out into a large dining hall with metal tables and benches fastened to the floor. Everything, from the walls to the floors to the light fixtures, was painted the same dull gray. Along one wall the portholes looked out at the wintery sea beyond.

Impyra crossed the room to the kitchen. A clutter of dirty pots and dishes were precariously stacked on the counter. She was nervous about having to cook, as she’d never done it before, but was suddenly relieved by the mess. Hopefully she would be cleaning instead. The cook was a portly man with greasy skin dressed in a dirty t-shirt covered by a stained old apron. He sported a scraggly blond beard, and his flaxen hair stuck out at odd angles from beneath a ratted hairnet.

“Ya come t'help?” He asked, his heavily accented voice was gruff but not unkind.

“Yes, I'm Impyra,”

“Good,” he sniffed, “y'can wash pots t'start.” He pointed at the sink.

Feeling awkward with a stranger she said, “What should I call you?”

He grunted impatiently, “Gilert's m'name, but they all calls me Gilly.”

Gilly of the Galley,
 she bit her lip, attempting not to laugh.

Impyra set to work without further instruction. Organizing the clutter before beginning the task of washing seemed to be the best place to start. It was disgusting. Her stomach turned as she lifted an overturned stockpot to reveal a pile of dishes growing mold. She gagged at the smell.

“Wha'sa matter, girly?” Gilly laughed at her discomfort.

“You don't clean much, do you?”

“I cleans what needs it.”

Impyra was thankful they would not be dining with the crew. The food in their pack was nothing more than dried meat and crackers, but she'd rather that than the likely illness acquired from the galley.

Scrapping the mold into the refuse bin required her to use the full strength of her willpower not to vomit. She almost dropped one entire plate in, not believing it was worth the effort, but the cook was watching. He was chopping limp vegetables with a butcher knife. Impyra averted her eyes as the slime slide into the bin with a wet plop. She filled the sink basin with soapy water and began to scrub the plates with a brush. It was an ancient thing with bristles gray from age and worn down to stubble in some places

One by one Impyra scoured the plates free of grime. She stacked them neatly in the drainer by size. Gilly approached to observe her progress. He eyed the dishes and snorted.

“Y'work too hard at it,” he critiqued. “Th'men don't care if ya leave smudges.”

Impyra couldn't believe that's how the cook ran his kitchen. Then again, Gilly wasn't exactly the picture of sanitation.

“Smudges might make them sick,” she explained, “best to clean them all the way.”

He glared at her insolence. “Are ya' th'High Princess or somethin'?”

Impyra imagined Ky Gleyth attempting to clean the dishes in the galley and suppressed a smile. She'd probably faint.

“No, but when the crew is healthy it's easier to work. No one likes working if they’re sick.”

“Bah,” the cook grumbled before he spat on the floor.

Impyra quickly turned back to the sink.

“Here, give me the brush,” he said, yanking the brush from her hand. “Like this,” swirling the bristles swiftly over a grimy plate he counted, “One, two, three, four, five, done.” He slammed the plate into the drainer, small chunks of a previous meal still visible. “We work fast, Princess,” he told her firmly. “No time for fancy cleaning.”

Impyra refused to be defeated so easily. She bit her bottom lip and moved on to the next plate. Dipping her hands into the water she charged it with energy. If he wanted it done fast, he would get his wish. Her hands began to move faster with each motion with the brush. She didn't want to get caught, so she counted in a loud whisper, mimicking what he showed her. The added force from the energy helped to break the grime away and simplify the process.

Within a few minutes the drainer was filled with sparkling plates and pots. The cook stared at her work, his mouth twitching and his eyes confused.

“See, y'learn from me, good job,” he said slowly. “Now,” his mood brightened a bit. “We cook.”

Impyra wanted to groan, but she didn't. Instead she smiled patiently; a practiced expression that was nearly an art form from her time in the Tower.

“Turn on the burner,” the cook said, waving vaguely toward the stove.

Reaching out to the knob closest to her she could feel that the mechanism was broken. The energy sparked just beyond reach. The device was almost sorrowful in having lost its purpose. Closing her eyes, she extended her energy, resetting the lose connection.

“Not that one,” Gilly was saying, his back turned, “it's broken.”

A sharp puffing noise announced the fire as it sucked in air to ignite. The cook turned in surprise. This time he glared at Impyra suspiciously.

“Maybe it wasn't fully broken,” she blushed.

Gilly squinted at the fire with a frown. “Y'ain't a normal girl,” he accused, glancing back at the dishes. “Can ya cook?”

Impyra shook her head, “No, not really.”

“Too bad, y'have to help. No more tricks, got it?” He pointed a grimy finger and she nodded.

With his arm extended she was able to see his forearm. A tattoo of a lighthouse standing amidst crashing waves grew from his inner wrist to the middle of his arm. Aware that she took notice he quickly dropped his hand to his side. Her eyes widened. Had he been a slave, too?

“It's dangerous,” Gilly said, “Cap'n Dei'Brenen's a good man, ye’ve nothin’ t’fear on the ship” he told her firmly. “But, in the world it’s dangerous.”

She understood. For years she used her talents with great caution to avoid detection. Freedom was making her negligent.

“Now, we cook,” he smiled, showing off the gaps in his grin. “I'll teach ya.”

* * *

Sheyra's first decision as the new cook for The Seafarer's Lodge was to make Lineya more comfortable. Outside the temperature had dropped noticeably during the night and she didn't want the girl to freeze to death. They were just finishing meager breakfast of toast made from stale bread and cups of bitter coffee when Sheyra sat up straight in her chair. Lorsen and his daughter jumped at the unexpected movement.

“I propose that this morning I take Lineya down to the shop and purchase her an outfit for winter and some new shoes,” Sheyra announced cheerfully.

She enjoyed their shocked expressions that followed her display of generosity. Lineya's face brightened in a mixture of excitement and caution. Her eyes fixed on her father, pleading.

“That's more than we could ask for,” Lorsen said quietly.

“You didn't ask,” Sheyra pointed out with a smile. “I offered and I won't take no for an answer.”

He couldn't refuse. His daughter needed clothes and Sheyra was happy to help. She found it interesting that only a few days ago she'd clung to her credits, guarding them closely. Those days were done. She’d discovered real happiness in choosing to spend freely on strangers in need of help.

It was liberating.

Outside, the snow had continued to fall during night, covering the street in a thick layer of white. Early winter was usually mild with rain. Snowfall was rare, and blizzards were almost unheard of. Undeterred, Sheyra carried Lineya on her back to the car. The shop was only a few blocks away, but the girl was in no condition to walk the distance even on a summer's day.

The interior of the shop was brightly lit, contrasting against the gloomy day. Ro'Awnor-Clee was a prosperous village with the port, and the shelves were stocked with more variety than Ro'Tesche-En had ever been. She was beginning to feel like a regular. For a brief moment she reminisced about picking out food with Brosen and Impyra to take on their journey.

Lineya hurried to the clothing racks and began looking through the available items.

“Pick something warm,” Sheyra called after her, “We want it to last the winter.”  

She decided to purchase herself something for herself as well as a coat for Lorsen. Pulling a heavy gray sweater from the rack she held it up, closely inspecting the knit. Across the room the shopkeeper stood behind the counter, watching them closely. Sheyra glanced at him and he turned away quickly, busying himself with organizing items in a small bin. Sheyra shook her head.

“Can I get any color I want?” Lineya asked timidly from the other side of the rack.

“Yes, as long as it's warm,” Sheyra reiterated.

“This one?” the girl held up a dark purple sweater with a pocket in the front and a hood at the back.

Sheyra smiled. “That would be a good choice,” she said.

After making their final decisions, Sheyra lead Lineya up to the front. The young man smiled nervously as they approached.

“Hi, Lineya, where's your dad?” He asked.

“He's at the tavern,” she said, placing her sweater and new shoes on the counter.

“Who's this?” He asked, his dark eyes met with Sheyra's, full of suspicion.

“This is Sheyra,” Lineya smiled. “Dad hired her to help in the kitchen. She's buying me some new clothes.”

“I can see that,” he looked confused. “I'm Jairon. You were in here yesterday; twice if I remember correctly.”

“That's right,” she had a vague memory of him from the day before.

“What happened to your friends?” He was attempting to look innocent but his questions were unwelcome.

“They're gone,” she said flatly.

Jairon finished calculating the price and smiled. “Sixty credits,” he held out his hand.

Sheyra handed him her card, her eyes watching his face. He hesitated before swiping her card, almost as if it made him nervous. At last he gave in to something and the credits were approved. With everything paid for she sent Lineya to the dressing rooms to change. The girl was energized by the kindness of her new friend, her face glowing with joy.

“You know they don't have the money to pay you for your work, or to reimburse you for all of this,” Jairon said, his voice colder than before.

Sheyra's smile stayed in place. She wasn't going to allow him to ruin her day.

“I know,” she said. “Sometimes you help people for reasons other than money.”

Jairon blinked, surprised by her response.

Lineya returned. She put her arms out and spun to allow Sheyra to appraise her new outfit; sweater, denim pants, water proof shoes, and warm socks. To complete the ensemble was a warm coat with a hood and gloves.

“Do you like them?” Sheyra asked gleefully.

“Yes! I love them!” Lineya beamed.

“See you around,” Sheyra smirked at Jairon, her point proven.  

“Bye, Jairon,” Lineya waved, oblivious to the confrontation, as they stepped out the door.

Back in the car Sheyra took a deep breath. Perhaps she should have moved on before settling in to find the resistance. Good luck had been on their side, but she wasn't yet safe from suspicion. It might be wise to leave Ro'Awnor-Clee behind for the next town.

When she looked at Lineya, however; she knew she couldn’t break her promise. If Jairon turned her in to the Enforcers, it would it would be worth it. She would stay.

* * *

Brosen found himself below deck with two boys, Leyk and Jek, to scrape rust from the piping in a dimly lit corridor. Dressed in dirty white t-shirts and worn denim pants, Brosen found it hard to tell them apart. He wondered if they were brothers. Although they were too young to be teenagers, they both glowered with the surly expressions of much older men.

Taking advantage of having Brosen on their team they used the opportunity to work less and talk more. They confidently discussed usual topics for boys who considered themselves incredibly knowledgeable about worldly affairs.