Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 (17 page)

Caleb snapped into action. “You fear because now you believe Warren found the Medallion? He’s only a boy!”

“Again, your mouth works harder than your brain. We don’t know what kind of threat Kseleksten holds for us. An adult might be more careful, if he’s wise enough. But a child?”

Caleb finished packing and hoisted Warren into the saddle, his thoughts racing. “You’re sure the evil will be through Kseleksten?”

Soren mounted quickly, and the old mare snorted her protest. “We’ll need to ride hard to escape the Hodyn,” he said. “I’ve hidden the body, but they’ll probably find it anyway. And I’ll give you one more reply before we must both keep quiet: Kseleksten, the First Lor’yentré, is the last source of evil in the world. No matter how improbable it seems, Caleb Stenger, the fulfillment of Yrsten is upon us. Our best hope to protect Ada now is through knowledge—by what we find at Graxmoar.”

They started off. Caleb glanced down at Warren, who sat before him, too sleepy to heed their argument.
I’ve already changed fate once,
Caleb thought defiantly.
I’ll change it again.

♦

A high cloud cover drifted in from the south, veiling the moon. Dawn was hours away. Soren led the way, tensing as he rounded every bush.

They had barely entered a small clearing when Caleb felt the flesh of his neck crawl again. He leaned forward. “This place doesn’t feel right,” he whispered.

Soren whipped around, a hand over his mouth. It was too late. Dark forms sprung from the bushes, and fierce cries shattered the nightly calm. Had the clearing been larger they might have escaped, yet before Caleb could react a net was cast over his head and arms. The Master Raén drew his weapon, but a well-aimed whip snatched it away. Several strong hands yanked him off his mount and pinned him to the ground.

Warren flailed at the ropes, crying out. Caleb’s horse panicked, and both he and Warren fought to stay on as it snorted and bucked. Yet their struggles only further entangled them, and before he knew it Caleb slammed to the ground, Warren on top. He righted himself in an instant, but his stare came level with the point of a wide blade shining dimly in the light.

His head spun. It was all over in a few seconds. A thickly accented voice cut through the night air. “Move one muscle and die, Adaian!” Caleb held still, whispering to his son to do the same.

Another voice nearby spoke in the guttural Hodyn language, the basics of which Caleb had studied at Gerentesk. “That’s no Adaian. He’s got a beard!”

“Eh? Not much of one. Looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while. Trethan spy?”

“Maybe. We’ll find out soon enough. Get the net off him and tie him up proper, and we’ll have a little talk. Same with the boy.”

Warren sobbed as they drew him aside and tied his hands. It took all of Caleb’s willpower to remain calm, to remind himself that fatherly heroics at this point would only end in disaster.

“Hold on, Warren—they won’t hurt you,” he whispered shakily in English, hoping desperately it wasn’t a lie.

Someone jabbed a shoe into his back. “Quiet!”

Soren was already tied, hands in back. Yet his legs were still free, and he kicked like a rodeo calf until a sword threatened his face. The Hodyn who first spoke bent down and smiled.

“So! I’ve captured a prize!” His voice turned grim. “You’ve murdered many of my comrades, Soren. Now there will be payment.”

“With only one life, Hodyn.”

He waved a finger. “You’ve got it all wrong. You’re going to be very valuable to us.”

“I prefer death.”

The man grinned. “Even that of the boy, eh?”

Caleb roared his defiance until the nearest soldier set the point of his sword to his chest. Though his mouth was dry, Caleb worked up enough spit to defile the man’s blade.

It was the lowest of insults, to both Adaian and Hodyn alike, and the guard reared his sword with a cry. “Hold!” the leader shouted, stopping him barely in time. The soldier lowered his weapon, gritted his teeth, then swung his hand across his victim’s face.

Caleb fell to one side, his head ringing from the blow. Yet he had enough wits left to hear Soren’s protest.

“How heroic. How so like the Hodyn!”

The leader took Soren’s tunic into his fists. “My brother lies back there dead, pig,” he cried, spittle flying. His black eyes smoldered; then he released him with a curse.

He turned to the others nearby. “Kerdon, Polla: post a watch while we talk. There might be more of these filthy Raéni about.”

Caleb struggled to right himself, his cheek aching and swollen. He looked over at Warren. The boy had a scrape along the temple, presumably from the fall, but no other marks. Tears still coursed down his cheeks, renewed no doubt by the sight of his father being mistreated. But he seemed to understand it was best to keep quiet.

Soren wrestled with his ropes, cursing. Caleb got the impression he was cursing at himself rather than at the Hodyn.

“Aye!” the leader said, perceiving Soren’s thoughts. “You made it so easy for us, riding out into this lovely little spot.” He bowed with mock-politeness, and the others laughed.

After a few minutes he sat down before them, a dim oil lantern between, his dark-complected face all business now. Beyond his ragged clothes, his only embellishment was a short braid of rough hair on one side that ended at a small, crudely decorated bone.

“My name is Losien. I’m not usually chosen for this kind of thing. It was my luck to be in the right place at the right time. Luck favors you, too, in a way. If you were anyone else, you’d all be dead right now.”

He paused, his scrutiny darting between Soren and Caleb. “We come seeking the Bringer of Strength.”

Soren remained wooden. Caleb tried to copy him, but Losien grinned. “We’ve done well. Which one of you is it?”

Neither answered, and Caleb’s stomach went cold. Losien spoke again. “Your boy is seconds away from paying the price for your ignorance.”

“No!” Caleb bellowed.

Losien faced him calmly. “Then tell us.”

Caleb had no choice but to play the game, and swallow his pride. “I am. I found the Medallion.” Soren growled his frustration.

The Hodyn murmured among themselves, and Losien’s eyes widened as they glanced from father to son. “Oh ho!” he cried. “The famous Falling Man, and his boy—of course, of course!”

“How did you learn about Udan so fast?” Caleb managed to ask.

Losien chuckled. “No doubt your Adan friends told you that the Hodyn are filthy, ignorant folk. Truth is, we know much of what happens in Udan, even Ekendoré at times.” His stare narrowed critically. “Your sword and clothing are Adan, but you don’t look like one of them. Your name—I forget your name, Falling Man.”

“You brag about how much you know, yet you don’t even know my name.” It was the weakest of insults and didn’t affect Losien in the slightest. “I’m Caleb Stenger, a Raén of Ada!” He mustered enough enthusiasm to at least sound genuine.

“
Was
. I would say you’ve broken the Oath by your admission.” Losien glanced at the Master Raén. “Looks like Soren thinks so, too. Seems you have no friends left, Falling Man.”

“Just say what you want, and have done!”

“You—what else? You are the Bringer of Strength for the Hodyn. Bringer of Evil to the Adaiani. What better prize than that?”

“So you’re just going to take me home, put me in a vault, and see what happens?”

“Hardly. What can a mere man accomplish? He needs a tool. It’s as plain to us as it is to the Raéni that Yrsten is connected to Kseleksten.”

“I know nothing of this Kseleksten.”

“Don’t take me for a fool! You’ve studied at Gerentesk to join the Raéni. You know all about Orand and the Prophecy. You will lead us to Kseleksten!”

“And if I can’t find it?”

“You already know the answer to that. Be correct, Falling Man: your days of freedom are over. We’ll keep you captive if it takes ten years. If it takes a lifetime!”

“Blind confidence will be the death of you, Hodyn worm!” cried Soren. Losien whirled and landed a blow to his temple, knocking the old man on his side.

The soldier who had struck Caleb laughed. “Didn’t want you to feel left out!”

Losien peered nonchalantly up at the sky. “Dawn comes. We’ll rest here, then begin our journey to … ” he said, and lowered his stare at Caleb.

Caleb swallowed a lump. “Graxmoar. I may find some clues there.” He caught Soren’s glare, and shot, “What choice do I have?”

Blood oozed from a slit near Soren’s eye. “Two! You’ll end up bringing evil upon us without any help from the Prophecy!”

Caleb remembered what he kept hidden in his trouser pocket.
You haven’t seen the best of my strange gadgets.

“Shut up, both of you,” Losien snapped. “As for you, Master Raén, be thankful you’re worth more alive than dead. Winter comes, and the coffers of Wsaytchen will feed many of my people.”

♦

After a short rest and a quick breakfast, they gathered their horses and started off. The cloud cover was complete now, the dawn slow. Caleb breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared they would search his clothes and find his laser. But a weapon small enough to fit inside someone’s pocket and still pose a threat was beyond their experience. In fact, they might have killed somebody in their ignorance. One sweep of its thin beam could cut a man in two faster than the keenest sword.

Losien paid attention to details: he exchanged Caleb and Soren’s horses with slower ones, and had Warren ride with one of the Hodyn. Horses were a precious commodity among their people, and these were probably stolen from ranchers within a day’s ride of South Grimoa. Caleb, his hands retied crisscross in front to handle the reins, rode behind Soren at the center of the caravan. This included seven Hodyn. The last two riders led a pair of mules, each laden with large water skins and feed for the horses—a clear sign they were headed for the arid, open flatland of central Dernetondé.

Caleb fought to calm himself, to keep from doing something foolish in his desperation. The Hodyn would be on their guard at first. Even with his hands tied he might be able to reach in and retrieve the pistol, but he could never wield it properly. Patience was the key. He had to wait for the right opportunity, even if it took days. Soren was powerless without a weapon of some kind, and rode ahead, his expression hidden from view.

The slow day passed, uneventful. The end of the valley drew closer, and as the Hodyn made camp that evening, Caleb overheard a comment that another day’s journey would bring them out of the brush, where they could make better progress. Caleb offered a few harmless remarks about the weather, seeking to put them at ease. But they only eyed him suspiciously, and he subsided. Brooding silence was more convincing.

Despite a fitful night’s sleep, when they started the next morning he was alert for any change in their captors’ vigilance. They appeared to have accepted his show of futility, but he tempered his hopes with good sense. Any attempt at escape would be dangerous, even in the best of circumstances. And he had to drop Warren’s guard with the first shot.

By mid-afternoon the last peak on their right fell behind them, and the bushes thinned out into the hard-baked plain of Dernetondé. Caleb was glad he had waited to act, for now he had an unobstructed view in all directions. Yet still he hesitated. When they camped that night, he knew he had at least another full day before they crossed the flats.

Soren remained stubbornly unresponsive to any attempted conversation, and the Hodyn kept them too far apart for whispering. It would have been a good idea, Caleb thought now in hindsight, to teach Soren a few words of English.

♦

Caleb woke to the cold sting of white flakes settling on his face. As they made ready to start again, he demanded that they temporarily remove his thongs so he could throw on another coat stashed away in his baggage. They saw no harm in this, but when they walked over to untie him his hands trembled with sudden inspiration. Luckily they merely thought him weak and susceptible to the cold. He gulped down the morning meal, his mind awhirl with plans.

He mounted, and looked at Soren for reassurance. But the Master Raén sat on his horse in silence, munching the last bit of his food like a cow chewing its cud. Caleb switched his attention to the horse at his right, and saw a young, haggard face dirty with dried tears. Warren had been separated from his father for more than two days. Caleb studied the guard in the saddle behind him, then turned a grim stare at the flat horizon.

They started off. He waited until the last traces of sleep faded. He placed his bound hands under his coat as if for warmth, keeping them still for a while should the Hodyn grow suspicious and demand that he reveal them. But they said no word.

The time had come.
Be calm!

Flexing his fingers to restore their agility, he maneuvered his tied wrists over to the right pocket of his trousers, careful to keep hold of the reins. He wriggled one hand in, and his fingers met the butt of the pistol. His heart leaped to his throat. A powerful urge to wait yet another day overwhelmed him, but he mastered it, knowing this might be the last chance.

Caleb slowly twisted the gun out until it rested on his lap beneath the coat. He turned his head casually toward the mountains, eyes sidling to glance behind him. No one had noticed his movements.

He fumbled with the laser to work it into position. The continual lurch and sway of the saddle threatened to dislodge the weapon at any second. But at last the muzzle pointed outward between his hands, the butt of the gun in the crook of his right arm. He angled the muzzle slightly to the left to avoid the horse’s mane, then bent his wrist until he could barely reach the trigger with his middle finger.

Cold sweat drenched his face, and his ears pounded with the rhythm of his heart. He feared to lose a hand, or drill a hole through his wrist and bleed to death. And what would happen to Warren if he failed?

Gritting his teeth, he pressed the trigger.

A faint crackle, and the thongs parted with a thump. He gasped, for the shot had burned his skin. Then he heard a scream—not a man’s, but a horse’s. Soren was gripping the horn of his saddle, his horse bucking up and down like a wild bronco.