Game of Souls (23 page)

F
light

T
oo many emotions to count spilled through Keedar as they fled. Most of them reeked of sorrow, longing, desolation, and fear. Sorrow for not only the loss of Mother to the Smear but also Father and any friends he knew. Longing for all he’d lost, for this all to be a dream. Desolation because of the little he had left. Fear. Fear in the expectation that the King’s Blades might appear at any moment. Overpowering the others, that last primal sensation drove him. It set his heart racing, his eyes searching for any changes to signify danger among the dappled shadows. It made dust of his mouth despite his sweaty brow, forced him to ignore the stabbing pain of exertion in his side, and lent his legs wings.

The future seemed bleaker than the cold air whipping by him, as dim as the moonlight trying to pierce the veil of clouds. All he had left of the world he once enjoyed was Winslow, who was as forlorn as he, and whom he barely considered a friend.

And memories. Memories he wished he could bury within his soul’s depths.

The need for revenge should have consumed him. It did not.

No words needed to be said between him and Winslow. Capture meant death as sure as the sun gave birth to dawn and bled its life into the sky at dusk. The thought kept his feet churning even when his body screamed for him to stop, begged him to rest, to ease the leaden weights his legs had become, or to relieve his burning lungs.

They had left the battle behind some time ago. Their knowledge of the forest helped them to avoid the thickest patches and to weave their way through saplings and brush as if they followed some imaginary path. Night creatures abounded, their chatter a dirge interspersed with the occasional pause that made his heart skip a beat every time. Winslow’s near indiscernible steps kept pace with him, and Keedar used his own breath and strides to run to a rhythm only he heard. Each inhalation brought the forest’s many scents, reminding him that he was free. Whenever the night sounds stilled, he fought down the urge to stop, to stare back the way they came and see if anyone pursued.

Uncle Keshka’s offered hope for survival. He repeated the words in his head on more than one occasion. Sweat poured down his face; the wind’s breath ruffled his hair; with each step he swore someone must have heard the crunch of a twig underfoot or the thud of a footstep despite how hard he attempted to tread lightly. At times he thought his own thumping heartbeat would betray him. Whenever a tree’s leaves rustled he expected to see his enemies leaping from its shadowy arms.

For hours, they ran, exactly how many, Keedar wasn’t sure. Mandrigal’s first threads were chasing Antelen from the sky when he drew to a halt. Shivering violently, he hugged himself. His teeth chattered.

Winslow pulled up next to him, features pale and strained. With each gasp for breath, the young noble shook. Head down, Winslow appeared ready to collapse.

As much as Keedar felt he could continue on, he knew Winslow needed rest. Running the Parmien was nothing new to them, but Keedar had years of experience to draw upon while Winslow only had several months. And not in weather as cold as it was now or with the upcoming incline. The temperature wasn’t freezing yet, but it was a hindrance all the same. The distance they’d covered was considerably less than during warmer times. Their soaked clothing didn’t help. Whereas he had not noticed them with his body moving, now he felt as if he wore cloth encrusted in ice.

After sucking in another deep breath, he said, “Up there.” He pointed toward a hill.

The expanse of pines, spruce, and oak that dominated behind them gave way to older and larger white ash and cypress with a sprinkling of other trees. Roots entwined within the leafy carpet, jutting up like giant worms. Keedar scrambled uphill past the first line of trees and into the next batch. With fall’s scent and colors thick around him, he picked out the largest gathering of leaves and roots.

Sure enough, as he began to clear them, he found what he sought: a space behind the roots measuring several feet wide and deep. A den of some sort. The reek of whatever animal used it for a home spilled above the earthy smells of the disturbed foliage. Sniffing again to make sure the scent wasn’t derin, Keedar beckoned to Winslow with a nod.

Winslow rustled through the leaves to stand beside him.

“You get in.” Keedar gestured to the V formed by the roots and to the hole beyond.

Without a single protest at the musky stench, Winslow nodded, crawled inside, and curled into a ball. Not once did he move or even glance up. He must have been exhausted.

In no way could Keedar afford to lose his companion. Not now. From the first day, he’d seen Winslow, there was something that connected them, even if the noble harbored some animosity, acted indifferent, or at times with scorn. It wasn’t that Father had made him seek Winslow out either. Within himself, he suspected he would have done so anyway after that first day in the Smear.

Keedar piled as many leaves as he could into place, and then eased inside. The mere act of being within the enclosed space already added a little warmth despite his drenched clothing. They’d dry soon enough anyway. His main concern was for Winslow.

The nimbus around Winslow was faint but even. That boded well. It meant he had not exerted himself to the point where his soul leaked in great enough amounts to prevent a quick recovery. Rest would be the main requirement. And food. For now though, regaining some soul through inactivity and the body’s natural healing process took precedence. They wouldn’t be able to stay long, but an hour or two was better than nothing. Leaning back against the roots and dirt, he allowed his eyes to close.

Keedar jerked awake. Faint memories of some dream slipped through his consciousness like water through open fingers. A nightmare with baying hounds.
Where am I?
He sniffed, taking in a whiff of sweat, dirt, and a wild animal’s stink. A cramp in his back made him wince. His arm felt dead where he’d rested on it. He stroked it to work the numbness out. Something warm stirred next to him.
A person?

It all came back to him in a sudden rush. The Cardiff mansion, killing Gaston, flight into the Smear, Father battling Sorinya, Father drawing the soldiers away so he could escape, meeting Winslow, Martel charging Felius.

He took in his surroundings. The shelter was almost as warm as if they had a few glowing coals inside the den. His clothes were dry. Hopefully, their short rest had afforded Winslow’s soul enough time to recuperate. When he studied his friend, he gasped.

The nimbus around Winslow pulsed steady and strong. Too strong for the hour or two he had planned for them to rest. He glanced up through the opening. From the sky, it appeared to be almost noon.

A sound cut through his thoughts. More joined it. He frowned, trying to place the noise.

Eyes widening with each additional sound, he grabbed for Winslow. “Get up. Wake up, Winslow, now!” He shook his friend vigorously.

Winslow woke, shaking his head. “What? What is it? Gaston, I was dreaming that—” He cut off as his eyes focused. “No, no, no …” voice trailing off, he washed his hands through his hair.

“No time for that,” Keedar said. “We have to go. Now. Listen.”

The sounds came again. This time, they were unmistakable. Several dozen hounds bayed.

“Hell’s Angels,” Winslow swore.

“They aren’t close enough to worry over yet, but—”

“You have never really seen hounds on the hunt, have you? From their baying, they have a scent, most likely ours. They will not let up.” Winslow scrambled up and out of their hiding place.

Keedar barreled after him, almost knocking Winslow down before he realized the young noble stood frozen, staring at something. Without thinking, Keedar snatched for the daggers at his waist.

By the time he took in the derin’s white form, it had slammed into them. Winslow fell to one side with a grunt. Lying on his back, Keedar stared into black pits for eyes. The derin’s hot breath stunk of its last meal.

With his arms pinned beneath him, there was nothing he could do but wait for death. His heart thumped a thousand times in those sparse moments. At any instant he expected to feel biting teeth much like a knife driving into his flesh.

Yellowed canines flashed down. Crying out, he snapped his eyes shut and tried to heave. The beast was too heavy.

But when the derin ripped at the front of his shirt, he felt no pain. Keedar eased open first one eye, and then the other. The derin had a swath of the grey material from his clothing in its mouth.

Then the strangest thing happened. The creature whined once and squatted on his chest. Something warm splashed on his stomach, ran down his side. A rank stench followed.

Keedar stared, slack-jawed.

With another whine, it bounded off him and onto Winslow, who was just now trying to scramble to his feet. It knocked him on his back and pissed on him too. When the derin finished, she threw her head to the sky, howled, and leapt away, streaking through the forest in a white blur.

“W-What, in all that’s unholy, just happened,” Keedar managed, knees weak where he sat.

“The Creator saved us.” Reverence filled Winslow’s voice as he made the circular motion to represent the Dominion on his forehead.

“No,” Keedar grimaced at the reek, “a derin pissed on us. I’m pretty certain that has never happened before … ever.” Keedar took another whiff before turning his face away in disgust. He opened his mouth to belittle Winslow’s belief, but instead, he snapped his mouth shut. What could he say after what happened? What other explanation could there be to the beast not killing them both? Before he conjured an answer, the hounds bayed again.

“Well,” Keedar slowly stood. He felt at his chest to make sure his body was in one piece. Cold air whispered across his exposed skin, but he was unharmed. “Whatever it was, let’s hope it’s to our benefit. We must head up past the ridge if we hope to escape those hounds. We follow it all the way around to Kerin Pass.”

“What of this uncle of yours?”

“He lives beyond the Pass.”

“Wait, your Uncle lives in Kheridisia?”

“Yes. In the Treskelin Woods to be exact. Come, let’s go. We can talk on the way.” Keedar headed up the hill, deeper into the trees.

It didn’t take Winslow long to catch up. “If I knew Kerin Pass was the plan, I would have avoided this folly. With the garrisons located on either side, there’s no way through without the soldiers seeing us? Even if no one has sent a raven out to them yet, they will hear the hounds.”

“I’ve managed to sneak through a time or two. Besides, we do have a man at the garrison who’s sure to let us by.”

“And how does he know you’re coming?”

Keedar paused to work his way past a brush whose thorny vines snaked through several branches and around a few trunks. His mind worked to find an answer. If the Pass was out of the question, then only one other place remained.

“I’ll take your silence to mean you realize this might not be a good idea,” Winslow said. “And living in the Treskelin? Unless you’re Kheridisian, all you will find there is death.”

Keedar managed to smile. “Not all stories are true. Some are to keep unwanted visitors away.”

“So you have been there before?”

“A few times.”

“And the wild Kheridisians?”

“I’ve never met any. My uncle says they think he’s cursed so they avoid the place. The only ones who ever visited were the more civilized who spoke our tongue.”

“That’s not any better.
They
hate us.”

“I guess you have another suggestion, then.”

Winslow shook his head. “We’re here already. What choice do we have now? But we will need another way through the Pass, and we need it soon.”

Keedar didn’t slow, pushing forward harder, his mind mulling over what he intended. He’d managed it before, but he was unsure if Winslow could match his feat.

The baying behind them grew more insistent. Neither of them bothered to glance over their shoulders, choosing to remain silent instead and concentrate on climbing the hill and through the forest as fast as possible. When the hounds’ announced their pursuit once more, they were much closer than before.

Keedar knew they wouldn’t make it to the pass. In desperation, he made a decision. One he hoped he would live to laugh at in his old age.

“If you have another idea, you need to come up with it now. We won’t make it.” The fear in Winslow’s voice was near tangible.

“Follow.” Keedar broke into a run.

Together, they snaked through the forest, the sounds of pursuit drawing closer with each passing moment. Keedar was certain if he glanced behind, he’d catch a glimpse of the large brown or white beasts as they gave chase. After a nearly an hour spent fleeing, chest heaving, the sun’s rays beating through tree branches whose leaves had mostly succumbed to the changing season, he reached his goal.

The woods abruptly became a grassy expanse less than a dozen feet wide that ended in jagged, stony edges. Beyond, it appeared as if he could see forever. The wind whipped at his clothes, cutting to the bone despite the sun. At the edge, the land fell away. Nothing but air separated them from the Treskelin Forest where it spread a thousand or more feet below like a mottled, green sea.