Authors: Usman Ijaz
“Get lost, lordling.”
Mordred stopped in his tracks, eyeing the boy
who had turned to speak to him. The boy looked to be around seventeen, with
shaggy brown hair and a bruised face. “I have money,” Mordred aid.
“And I can tell you what to do with it too,”
said the boy as he looked around. His two companions had stopped and now stared
at Mordred with suspicion and disgust.
“Your kind have their own games,” said another
boy, blond hair falling past his shoulders.
Mordred’s lips thinned and he ground his teeth.
He met the eyes of the boy who had spoken to him first, feeling more abashed
than anything else, and saw a nonchalant confidence in the boy’s face as he
stared back.
“Leave. We do not want you.”
Mordred spread his gaze over all three boys
before turning and marching away. His emotions boiled within him, run by anger
and shame. But there was an underlying sense of rejection and loneliness. His
fists opened and closed at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms, as his
soul wailed against his thoughts.
2
Mordred had no clue as to how long he had sat in
the dim interior of The Swallow, drowned in the near-constant swell of music.
He looked up once from his table to note that the light outside the doorway had
dulled. He didn’t know what the singers were singing about and couldn’t follow
the tune at all. All he knew was that the music kept him from thinking, and
that was all he wanted.
He glanced around the room and saw that a few
more people had crept in since he had arrived.
He signaled for another tankard of wine. The
girl brought it and set it on the table, never saying a word. Mordred never
even looked at her, only stared at the spilled wine on his table. He was sort
of a regular here, and he didn’t need to look up to see the wary concern in the
maid’s face, or the innkeeper’s. They knew to leave him alone. Mordred ran his
fingers through the spilled wine, trying to focus on the music from the
minstrels at the rear.
At the moment his emotions were running wild. He
had to restrain them and calm himself. He knew this, and yet a part of him
refused to do so. His hands shook on the table as he recalled what the boy had
said to him. “We don’t want you.” It seemed that people had been saying that to
him all his life. Mordred clenched his hand into a fist to control the shaking.
The tankard of wine began to shake and rattle against the table top, spilling
its contents. Mordred looked at it and grabbed it to steady it. This wouldn’t
do. He had to calm himself before he revealed himself. His father would have
been infuriated with him right now. He scraped his chair back abruptly. He dug
into one pocket and drew out a handful of coins. He threw them on the table and
walked out, never once seeing anyone else in the tavern.
Mordred stepped out into the gray light of dusk.
He stood for a moment watching the sky, wondering amidst the turmoil of his
thoughts where to go. His feet carried him down towards the harbor district,
recalling the clothes the three boys had worn and his immediate realization
that they were from the poorer part of the city.
His intentions were unknown to him. He only knew
that he felt as though he would burst unless he calmed himself down. A part of
him hoped the walk to the harbor would settle his emotions. Another part
wondered why he held himself in check.
He stood out clearly in the harbor district.
There weren’t many people on the streets at this time, and none dressed as fine
as he was. The few vendors that were still out called to him in passing, but
most fell silent as they saw his face. Mordred wandered from one street to
another, not caring that this was a dangerous place for one such as him. He
almost wished someone would attempt to accost him.
He was beginning to feel dispirited and about to
turn around when he at last caught sight of the boy who had dismissed him so
easily earlier that day. The boy was coming out of a large, rundown compound.
Mordred stopped and watched the boy head down the street far ahead of him. He
wasn’t sure what he’d wanted with the boy if he found him. His feet began to
carry him after the boy.
He followed the boy at a distance, brown eyes
intent on his back and watching his every movement. He picked up his pace to
close the distance between himself and the boy. All the while the words kept
coming back to him in clear, haunting recollection. “We don’t want you.”
Up ahead the boy entered a small alley adjoining
two streets. Mordred rushed to catch up. The boy was nearly at the other end as
Mordred came to the alleyway. He watched the boy with a growing resentment,
breathing through his mouth, teeth gritted, hands clenched at his sides. The
boy glanced behind him, and startled to find Mordred standing there. He turned
to face Mordred, wary suspicion ruling his face.
“You--” the boy began, and was cut off.
“What makes you think I need you?” Mordred
snarled at the other boy.
The boy never had a chance to respond. His
entire body suddenly lurched to one side, as though flung by a pair of large
hands. His head struck the wall with devastating force. There was a sickening
sound as his skull shattered, spraying blood onto the wall. His lifeless body
collapsed among the heap in the alley.
Mordred strode to the body, still breathing in shallow
intakes. He looked down at the ruined mess that was the boy’s head. For a long
time he simply stood there, staring coldly at the indiscernible face, letting
his emotions ebb out of him.
“I don’t need you,” he told the corpse before
turning and walking away. It was closer to night as he made his way back to the
palace.
His father liked to claim that the halls of the
dead were black, referring to his dreary palace and the fact that people
thought their kind were dead to the world. But Mordred didn’t think he was
quite right.
The souls of the dead are blacker still
,
a part of him whispered.
1
Adrian watched from his window as the patrol of
guards rode past below. The rail fell in a steady downpour. There was little
light from the overcast sky, which gave all the world a colorless look and
feel. The rain pattered on the windowsill and the stone walls of the inn,
making it easier for the boy to lose himself in his thoughts. The people that
were still out on the streets paid little heed to the drizzle and pushed back
nervously before the guards. With gray eyes reflecting the monotony of the
world outside, Adrian watched the five guards on their mounts advance up the
street, turn a corner, and disappear from his view.
They’re not going to stop, are they?
His right hand crept to the scarf wrapped around
his neck. He pulled it loose and down to feel the scar that circled his throat.
He knew without looking that it was gruesome, a black and purple reminder of
death’s touch. It pained him to know that Connor’s was worse.
Footsteps creaked outside in the hallway. Adrian
turned to see the door open and Alexis come in, wet from the rain outside. He
wore a faded black shirt that clung to him. His matted hair hung heavy. Adrian
watched the Legionnaire run his hands through his hair, and noted how odd the
man looked without his guns strapped about his waist, or without the long coat
the boy had come to believe was a part of him. Alexis had discarded the coat,
saying only that it would make it easier for others to spot them, and had, with
some clear reluctance, hidden his guns from sight amidst the blanket rolls.
To any eyes but their own they were but simple travelers.
Adrian cleared his throat; it hurt, but not as
much as it had the day before. His voice still sounded hoarse. “Is it done?”
Alexis glanced from him to the window. He walked
over to where Adrian stood with a weariness that far surpassed the physical and
touched the soul, and studied the street outside. “It took most of what we had,
but it’s done,” he sighed. “The captain I spoke to agreed to take Michael’s
body on his way to Grandal. I gave him instructions to hand it to the local
duke or lord, wherever he makes berth.”
“What did you tell him?”
Alexis stared out into the morose sky. “That I
had lost a brother.”
Adrian nodded. He felt ashamed that some little
band of tension had loosened around his chest. Michael had died saving them,
but he couldn’t help feeling relieved they would no longer have to travel with
the man’s corpse. One less burden. He turned his face away, loathing himself.
“He deserved at least that much,” Alexis said,
as though reading his mind. “It was the money more than anything that convinced
the captain. They’ll carry his body back to Grandal in brine.”
“And the horse?”
The Legionnaire let out another weary breath. He
walked to his bed and slumped down, wincing as he did so, one hand rising to
the wound in his shoulder. Adrian watched him pensively.
If he dies ... what
hope is there for me and Connor?
His thoughts firmed.
He can’t die. He
dragged us into this; he has to get us out as well.
Alexis glanced at him, tired gaze searching his
face, as though he’d caught a little of the run of his thoughts. When he spoke,
he sounded more dejected than Adrian ever remembered hearing him. “I think the
innkeeper might be willing to part with one of his, but I don’t have my hopes
raised that it will be much good. Either way, I suppose we’ll have to take it
as we can.”
Adrian cleared his sore throat. “How’s your
shoulder?”
Alexis shook his head. “I think I broke one of
the sutures while turning in my sleep, but for that it seems to be healing
fine. I’ll need to replace the poultice Kira made, though. She warned me not to
leave it on too long.”
Adrian nodded, remembering the old healer who
had bandaged the Legionnaire on one of their stops in a small village. A part
of him hoped that no harm had come to the healer for what she had done; she
couldn’t have known the man she helped had killed a lord. He turned to the
window and regarded the drenched world outside as one might weigh a dangerous
land one meant to cross.
“Did you see Connor or Leah?”
“No. I don't think we should be seen with them
until we leave this place.”
“How long will that be?”
“We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” the Legionnaire
said. “Leah and Connor know where to meet us.”
Adrian nodded. They were two days away from Sune
now, and yet the need to travel secretly still lay heavy upon them. He knew the
importance of it, knew that they were being sought out, but still he wished
they didn’t have to scurry away like rats. He looked around the bare, desolate
room, which only held the two beds and a washbasin, and wished that he could be
sitting back in his room at the Golden Lilly. Thoughts of his uncle’s inn made him
wonder what everyone there must be doing. But that life had belonged to another
boy. He suddenly felt as though he were the only one in the room, and all these
thoughts and memories were of someone long gone.
He stood feeling as though something inside of
him was being torn apart, and waited for dusk to cover the world.
2
Connor couldn’t help but turn in his saddle and
look back towards the town. Morning lit up the sky, and dew from the night
sparkled on the grass to either side of the road. The horses’ hooves raised
clouds of dust on the dirt road, which stretched before them like a snake,
surrounded on both sides by flat fields. Others shared the road with them as
well, farmers going to or coming from the town, and others who looked as though
they spent much of their time traveling from one place to another. All the
combined dust in the air made it hard to breathe. Connor coughed, then stopped
abruptly. It hurt too much to cough; hell, it hurt too much to swallow his own
spittle. He massaged at his throat through the coarse scarf looped around his
neck. After a while the pain subsided, and he followed the horse before him,
lost in thought.
Leah led him away from the small town, her
large bundle swinging from side to side where she had tied it behind her
saddle. Connor stared at the bundle in silent absorption for a moment. Now that
he knew what it contained, he could easily distinguish the shape of the harp.
A
female bard
, he thought,
I wonder what da would think of that
. She
played beautifully, he knew - it had been how she earned them their room. The
innkeeper had seemed doubtful at her skill, but soon even he had had to admit
grudgingly that she was better than most bards he’d heard.
Leah turned in her saddle to look at him, and
Connor found himself staring into dark eyes in a slender face. The breeze
stirred her black, shorn hair around her face. She smiled at him in an
encouraging manner.
“Keep up, Connor.”
Why does she help us?
Connor
wondered, but he nodded and spurred his horse on. The small pot tied to one
side of his saddle banged with a dull, lonely clang, as did the pan on the
other side. The pot and pan were two of the few items they had made certain
they had before leaving the town. A town whose name Connor didn’t think he even
knew. In his saddlebags were some of the other items they had bought - some
hard-baked bread that looked as though it could last forever, a few small tin
bowls, and two waterskins on top of the two Leah already had. Leah had paid for
much of it.