Now he wondered what other assumed lies might be truth, and which truths actually lies. He thought he had a fair grasp of the politics and culture in the nation of Akrasia based on a career of studying and fighting their soldiers. The kingdom of Akrasia once had covered roughly two-thirds of the small continent: woods and farmlands and rough trading cities. Brîn, a principality, had held the more profitable third, rife with moonwrought mines and the only year-round seaport. Via that port, Brîn had once done a brisk trade with many kingdoms, even Monoea. But before Draken had been born, the Akrasian King had finally conquered Brîn after generations of trying. Just about the time Draken had matured into the navy, that same Akrasian King had sent an army made up of vicious Brînian troops to try their hand at conquering Monoea. If they succeeded, Brîn could buy back its freedom with the spoils and escape Akrasia’s thumb. That had not come to fruition. It took some doing, but the Akrasians and their Brînian army had been soundly driven off.
Draken still remembered the Night of Surrender, the revelry and joy that the Decade War was over. Soon after, his cousin-King had ribboned him with awards of valor. But the best rewards had been yet to come.
“I leave the remnants of the war to your skilled hands, Draken, because I know I can trust you,” the King had said as he had lifted Draken to his feet. Born a slave, but risen to one of the highest ranking officers in the Black Guard, Draken had been able to secure Lesle’s hand in marriage because of his King’s trust.
Draken paused beneath a tree covered in iridescent scales, lost in memories. He touched the cool, smooth trunk, but twitched back when the tree shivered beneath his hand. Hesitantly, he tried again, and
saw
it shake this time, heard the branches rustle overhead. Golden fruits hung heavy amid thin gray leaves, but none had fallen and he had no wish to climb a tree that could shake him off. What magicks was this? He backed away. Vines and moss grew over the other trunks, but this tree remained clean of such adornments. A small clearing surrounded it, as if even the undergrowth didn’t dare draw near this prince of the forest.
Once he heard a rustling close behind him and stopped to stare back into the varied shades of green leaves. He listened a long while. His brow furrowed. An animal wouldn’t fall quiet just because he had. He strode back and poked around in the undergrowth, but found nothing.
The day warmed. Heat and dehydration started to press against the inside of his head, alongside memories of Lesle, her laughter, the feel of her skin beneath his hand...he shoved them away. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. At least onboard ship he’d gotten regular water. He was slowed by his aching, torn feet and sore knees, but he doggedly trudged on.
He found a cobbled road in the night, under the light of two moons hovering over the break in the foliage. He tried to gauge the monthday by their position but soon gave up. Of the Seven Eyes, three were of similar size. One was Elna with her black spot; the other might have been Korde or Shaim. He couldn’t be certain for their positioning was different here than it was in Monoea.
Beyond, the inland road lay straight, dying into the darkness of the woods. Behind him, it curved out of sight, back toward the sea. Inland would lead him to civilization, to food, maybe, and people, and danger. He took the straight route.
When he came to a house he stopped. A horse dozed in a small corral and an outlying building looked like a bird coop. Hewn logs made up the walls and the roof was flat. His home city in Monoea had icy winters. A flat roof would collapse from the snow. Akrasia, or this region, didn’t see much snow, then. Shutters held back the night .
For a brief moment he considered stealing the horse, but reconsidered when he thought how such a loss would devastate a poor family. Eggs, though, they could surely spare. He stepped over the fence and crept among the few hens to close his fingers around a warm egg. He cracked the shell against his teeth, poured the slimy yolk down his throat, and soon found two more. His tongue didn’t much like it, but they took the sharp edge off his hunger. Afterward he walked on, the smooth rounded cobbles almost soothing on his abused feet as long as he took care not to stub a toe. He heard movement in the undergrowth again, near the road, and another time just ahead. He didn’t stop, assuming it must be animals.
A group of structures took shape in the dark ahead. A village. Going there was a death wish. But his feet kept carrying him toward the stone buildings, all shuttered tight. He looked at the letters etched into a lintel beam. He could speak Akrasian passably, but not read it.
From a low, open stable, he heard peaceful animal noises. Two dark taverns—what he wouldn’t give for a cold draught of wine—and a gated smithy hung to the left of the stable. The rest appeared to be homes, not so unlike a village in Monoea. He thought about people sleeping in warm beds and drew in a slow breath of clean, damp air, tinged with wood smoke, salt water, and his sweat. He wondered if this was Khein and why they didn’t have walls or anyone on watch. Perhaps the garrison was off in the woods somewhere, or further on this road.
At the other end of the village, the road curled around a well. He jogged forward and cranked up the bucket. The rope squeaked, but no lanterns flared. He drank deeply and splashed his face, wishing he had a skin to carry more.
As he took a second drink, he heard the quick clop of hooves on cobbles. Drawing a breath to calm his stuttering heart, he considered hiding, but they approached too quickly. And, after all, he’d done nothing worse than take a little water. In Monoea, wells were open to everyone. He turned to face the newcomers, still holding the ladle .
The third risen moon lit them well. Two warhorses halted with a clattering of shod hooves on the stones and a swish of restless tails. Marked as pureblood Akrasians by the black tattooed lines lining their eyes, the riders fair bristled with weapons. Knives on belts, swords on their saddles, bows on their backs. They wore green tabards, patterned with the Sevenmoon of Akrasia, one cut with three stripes, the other plain.
He scoured his memory for the Akrasian ranks. No stripes meant a mounted bowman or blademan: servii, they were called in Akrasian tongue. Stripes signified officers. Three must mean better than a Horsemarshal.
Fishscale protected their biceps and skirted their hips, expensive stuff bestowed only upon the King’s Guard at home in Monoea. Stitched leather greaves clad their forearms, matching the designs on their boots. Either Draken was mistaken on the sigils of rank or the Akrasian crown had significant moneys to spend on their lowest soldiers. The horse bearing the servii had an oblong bundle tied to the back of its saddle, too big for just a bedroll.
The servii fixed Draken with the measured stare of a soldier who knew what he was about. Provided his armor wasn’t thickly padded, he had thighs as bulky as fence posts. The thrice-striped marshal, who wore an aristocratic half-smile and his long black hair held back by a white circlet of moonwrought, lifted his chin and asked in Akrasian, “What are you doing so far from home, pirate?”
If they only knew how far. And pirate, indeed. They thought him Brînian, no doubt because of his dark skin inherited from his Brînian father. The time he’d spent tracking Akrasians and Brînians for the Monoean Crown taught him most Brînian warriors didn’t know much of their conquerer’s speech, refusing to learn Akrasian as a point of pride. He certainly shouldn’t speak it with his Monoean accent. He raised his hands in what he hoped was a disarming gesture and replied in Brînish, “No trouble here. I’m moving on.”
They muttered to each other and glared down at him. The bigger soldier urged his mount forward. Draken heard the unmistakable whisper of a sword against leather.
Death lingers in hesitation. Draken’s father had taught him that, early and well with the strap. Without a second thought, Draken threw the ladle at them, rounded the well, and raced into the cover of the woods, hearing noises of pursuit on his heels. The soldiers spat curses as they had to slow to find a path through the close trees. Draken didn’t look back. He simply ran.
His bare feet protested, toes pierced by twigs and small rocks, but the compacted soil made a reliable surface. All the branches were too high to reach, the brambles too thin to hide in. Running hard, he had no warning when the ground gave way beneath some waxy creepers on the ground. He tripped headlong into a deep gully. The impact smacked the air from his chest.
Violent thrashing behind. The Akrasians shouted directions to each other.
His heart keeping cadence with the pounding hooves, Draken yanked at vines and leaves in a quick bid to conceal himself. A bank of underbrush hid the hole between a thick tangle of unearthed roots. If they passed without looking down, or falling in, he had a chance.
I am the ground, he thought. He flattened himself into the gully.
Before he could blink, before fear made him catch his breath, a warhorse soared overhead, its great belly blocking the moonlight. The horse cleared the gully with strides to spare as the other thundered by. Draken cringed back, but the noise of the hooves faded off.
At last, all fell silent except for the foliage moving in a slight breeze. Muscles still shuddering from his abrupt burst of exertion, he took a moment to catch his breath before rolling over to check himself for damage. Small, bright Zozia had risen with her brothers and sister, shedding enough light to reveal long stalactites of gray moss hanging from the branches high above. They draped the trees like dusty Sohalia ribbons.
Draken signed his thanks to Zozia for her protection and waited for his breathing to return to normal before getting to his feet. For a moment he just stood, looking at the quiet darkness. No sounds or movement around him. He sank back down on a root and rubbed his eyes with a grimy hand.
Hunger urged him to go back to the town, to find something edible to steal. But if it were him on the chase, he’d have the village canvassed soon. And if the village were Khein, that meant soldiers, plenty of them. The road would ease his travel, but maybe it was better to avoid people for now, at least at night.
“All I did was take some water,” he muttered—and not enough of it, at that. He couldn’t keep up a decent pace for long without food and drink. He looked down at his torn, filthy clothing, the ugly brands on his hands marking him as a criminal. The next time he had opportunity, he must steal more food and better clothes. He now regretted leaving the horse in its paddock.
Draken sighed and climbed out of the gully. Stealing. And he’d beaten Sarc senseless. Was his nature so easily remade by events? This banishment already had him considering and committing criminal acts.
***
Hours later, a light on the ground ahead moved like it was alive: fire. He crept toward it until he was close enough to see the soldiers he had eluded. The scent of cooking meat made his stomach twist with hunger. One of their horses lifted a head and snuffled in Draken’s direction, but the men paid it no mind.
The two sat near the fire, playing at Khel’s Stones. The pieces glittered white: a moonwrought set. Very expensive. The moonwrought looked at odds with the makeshift board laid out on the bare ground, twigs marking the ever-changing territories. The marshal was winning, sweeping the field.
The marshal said something to the other, too soft to hear, and gestured with his chin. The servii chuckled, replied, and stood up as the marshal picked up the game pieces.
The soldier walked over and knelt next to a bundle on the ground, tightening the ropes on it. “Ha,” he said, grinning at his lord. “This one won’t wriggle from the ropes as the last one did. Catch a fair price, she will.”
“If she’s worth anything after I finish interrogating her.”
“We could do it here.”
“No. Let her sweat.”
Draken heard a whimper from the bundle and his dry lips pressed together in annoyance at the unfriendly amusement. The bundle was too small for an adult and undoubtedly destined for an Akrasian slave market. But what would they interrogate a child about?
He stood for a moment, torn by his need to evade these two and his sympathy for the prisoner. And then the servii did something to clinch the matter. When the captive twitched violently, he gave it a vicious kick. The muffled cry stung Draken’s razed nerves, urged him to run out there and defend the helpless. But the voice of experience also spoke of caution.
Balls to that, he thought.
Gods-damned Akrasian slavers. If anyone deserved stealing from, it was these two. Despite temptation and abundant opportunity, he’d never been deliberately cruel, like kicking a bound, defenseless prisoner. Even when he was the prisoner, during his arrest and conviction, even with the disdain shown him by his cousin-King, Draken had never been harmed by the officials who detained him. Monoean law held the gods alone could decree fate, even for a bastard slave turned murderer. Only the ship captain had dared test the intent of the law .
He looked up at bright Zozia, the tiniest and wisest of the Seven Eyes, goddess of children and the weak. He felt her watching him back. She had protected him when the soldiers had chased him, when Sarc had attacked him, when he’d been too weak to protect himself. Even the Mother, Ma’Vanni, had not allowed the Korde, god of death, to drag him to a watery grave when he’d nearly chosen sinking over swimming. He owed the gods his life, his freedom, and his will. He would protect this little one for them in return. Draken settled in to study the two soldiers. His years spent in his cousin’s Black Guard, hunting down the last of the Brînian invaders who’d gone to ground, had made him familiar with this type of work. Before too long, one of them would step away, and he could make his move.
Chapter Two
E
ventually the marshal laid his belt by his side, leaving his sword and dagger within easy reach. He bundled himself into his cloak and immediately closed his black-lined eyes. The servii leaned against a tree, legs crossed, moving his head often enough to let Draken know he was still alert.