Light of Epertase 01: Legends Reborn (18 page)

L
ater that night, Raerdon returned to Paisel’s tent with a thick stack of unbound paper. Each section represented a different point of view from each scout. Raerdon looked at the mess with a smirk. “I hadn’t time to compile it.”

Paisel stared at the stack of paper, unsure if he was prepared to take on such a tedious task. “It will take me a week to get this mess suitable enough that I would feel comfortable presenting it to our King.”

Raerdon’s smirk grew. “You’d better get started,” he said.

“Yes, I suppose I should. Perhaps delegation is in order.”

Raerdon backed away with his hands up, as if he were surrendering. “I, uh … I’d love to but … well … I have much to do in debriefing the others.”

“If by debriefing you mean filling that large gut with ale, I expected no less. Don’t worry, old friend, I have no interest in interrupting your night’s entertainment.”

The two men shared a laugh before Raerdon went on his way.

Paisel placed the stack next to his sleeping blankets. He pulled King Logan’s intelligence from his leather bag and set it atop. He scribbled “Paisel’s Report” on the blank top sheet and leafed through it until he fell asleep.

It hadn’t been dark long when he was awakened to frantic screams of an approaching horse rider. He scurried from his tent. He recognized the horse rider as one of his farmhouse messengers.

“Hurry, hurry,” the rider screamed.

The other soldiers began crawling from their tents, groggy, wiping the sleep from their eyes.

The messenger leaped from his horse as it slowed.

“Calm yourself,” Paisel said.

“They’re here. They’re here,” he screamed back.

“Who?” Paisel asked. “Take a breath.”

He spoke in short, winded bursts. “When we arrived … at the farmhouses … we found the farmers … massacred … All of them … We were attacked … Your messengers are dead … Your lookouts are dead … Everyone is dead.”

Paisel hadn’t time to gather his wits when a distant fireball exploded and twisted to the sky, followed by a muted concussion. Then the farmlands to the west erupted into a sea of explosions.

Some of the soldiers watched, paralyzed in awe of the light show. Others scrambled into their tents, grabbed their clothes, armor, and weapons before making their way toward the fresh battle.

Paisel grabbed the messenger’s arm, breaking the man’s gape. “Get to King Elijah.” Paisel disappeared into his tent and returned with his leather bag. “Take these papers. Do not stop until you get there and give this to no one else.”

For a moment, the messenger was a statue.

Paisel again broke his stare. “Go! Now!” he ordered, leaped onto his horse, and raced toward the fight.

Simcane sat at the bar of Arthur’s Dive like he had so many nights before. It wasn’t that he liked Arthur’s all that much but it was a place he could go and not be gawked at.

Usually.

He felt the stare of a scrawny kid sitting next to him.

“Are you Simcane?” the young kid finally asked, his eyes fixated on Simcane’s bulky shoulder.

Simcane ignored him as he sipped his ale.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the kid said and tugged at Simcane’s tree-trunk arm, spilling his ale down his shirt. Simcane inhaled a deep, angry breath.

Marge rushed over and swiped the kid’s hand away, saving him a lot of pain. “I’m sorry, Simcane, honey. He don’t know any better.”

Simcane tapped his empty mug onto the bar and nodded for another. The bartender, Frank, stood on his toes and peeked over.

“Here you go, big fella,” he said as he set another glass in front of him. Marge and Frank had been there as long as Simcane could remember and they had always been fair to him. For that, he tried not to cause trouble and allowed strangers more leeway than he might have another time in his life.

Marge went back to her business. The kid looked down at his own empty mug and mumbled, “Just curious is all. I just think it’s rare, such a big guy like you being a coward. Doesn’t make sense. What do you weigh, anyways? Two fifty, three hundred stones?”

Simcane finished another ale while ignoring him.

The kid pushed his luck. “I don’t know. Anyone who tells the heathens our secrets and then quits the military in the middle of war, well, that man isn’t anything but a coward. Well, a traitor and a coward, I mean.”

The kid had no idea. Simcane considered pounding the truth into him but decided against it. He stared at the empty mug in his hand and the stump where his little finger once sat, proof of his tight lips at the heathens’ hands. This kid, and all of the gawkers, had no idea what it was like to have hot pokers held against their backs while protecting Epertasian secrets.

Marge slipped between Simcane and the kid with a glare. “You don’t know nothing,” she said.

“Let him be, Marge,” Simcane said.

She turned to him. “No, Sim. It ain’t fair. For years, all through the city, I hear these lies and I’m sick of them. Why don’t you defend yourself, tell them the truth.”

“And what’s the truth, Marge?”

“Let’s start with how Elijah abandoned you and your team when you were captured doing his dirty work. Or how he accused you of treachery after you escaped and returned, honor-bound, for another assignment.”

“People don’t wanna hear those stories, Marge.”

“It just angers me, is all. You did three hard years before you were acquitted and people should know that. You shouldn’t let them believe you quit or were some kind of traitor. Show this child your back.”

Simcane shook his head with his empty mug held out. “Another ale, Frank.”

But the drunken kid wouldn’t shut up. “Yep, I’d think a coward who fashions himself a mercenary would be out looking for our princess as we speak. Not drinking away his failures.”

Marge threw her hands in the air, groaned, and huffed back to her duties. “Your pain, kid. Your pain.”

Simcane studied the puny runt, briefly, before asking in his best intimidating voice, “What happened to the Princess?”

“You haven’t heard? She’s been kidnapped. Everybody’s talking ’bout it.”

The kid’s words bothered him. Not that he had ever met the Princess or had any vested interest in her life, but he always saw her as a source of hope. As angry as he had been, he never hated Epertase, only Elijah.
Who could have done such a thing?
he wondered.

“Yep,” the kid continued without being asked. “King Elijah sent Tevin to find her. Shoot, Queen Madalyne even ordered Siver to go with him.”

Siver, huh?
Simcane knew him well, or at least his reputation. He was the Queen’s personal bodyguard and as good a soldier as there was. That knowledge should have put Simcane at ease but for some gnawing reason, it didn’t. He had no doubt of Siver’s dedication to the Queen and the royal family, but he didn’t quite trust Tevin.

Simcane carried his ale to one of the many empty tables. If the drunken kid followed, he’d already decided to hurt him.

Badly.

He slurped his fresh ale.

Marge brought another. “This one’s on me, hon. Don’t let the little guy bother you. He’s new in here and he’s had a few too many.” Marge had always been a sweetheart, even before their one night of drunken passion.

He laid a couple extra coins on the table, swigged his last swallow of ale, and threw on his ankle-length overcoat.

“See ya, Frank … Marge.” His voice was gruff, almost hurting his throat. He flipped his hood over his head and down over his brow. Marge and Frank shouted that they’d see him in the morning and he waved and walked toward the door.

Before he could reach for the double-hinged front door, it swung open, narrowly missing his nose. Two soldiers, along with a third in officer’s fatigues, stood in the doorway.

“Simcane?” the officer shouted.

The low buzz of the few remaining patrons went silent like they were at a funeral.

Simcane walked toward the men, head held low and eyes to the floor. The two soldiers stepped in front of their officer and into Simcane’s path. He stopped.

“A word?” the officer asked.

Simcane nodded.

“I am Captain Jarrah. As you may have heard, the Princess has gone missing.”

Simcane nodded that he had.

“The great King Elijah has dispatched Tevin the Third to the mountains to find her and has ordered Thasula’s top mercenaries to stand down. There is no money in interfering. He has sent me, personally, to make sure you understand you are not welcome. Do you understand?”

Simcane didn’t answer.

“Understand you’re not welcome, that is?”

Simcane sighed. “Sure,” he said, no doubt giving the officer some unjust satisfaction.

Jarrah continued, “Tevin and his men are more than capable of handling the one called Rasi without the likes of you.”

Rasi?
That’s a name Simcane hadn’t heard in years. Hell, he thought Rasi was dead. They must be wrong, as he knew Rasi from the war and harming the Princess wasn’t in his nature.

Jarrah stepped between his guards and within a breath of Simcane’s lowered head. He peeked beneath Simcane’s overhanging hood and whispered, “If you so much as move wrong, I will kill you. You are not as feared as you may believe.”

The handle of a seven-inch blade slid from Simcane’s coat sleeve and rested against his cupped palm. He had the drop on the captain. He squeezed the hilt until his hand turned white. The captain glanced down at his clenched fist. The confidence drained from his face.

“Is that all?” Simcane asked.

Jarrah moved aside.

Simcane marched past and out of the tavern. He would not have been as forgiving when he was younger.

Rasi squinted away the flickering rays of sunslight.

An old, familiar voice startled him. “Relax, old friend. You’re safe.”

Terik!

Rasi sat up, sore but rested. He rubbed his temples and focused his eyes. The dilapidated barn around him was cozier than anywhere he had slept in many years and he recognized it as Terik’s. His old friend sat before him. His hair, the same close flattop cut he had always worn, remained trimmed and professional but now had more gray. The scarred gouges on his cheek from the heathen’s teeth had faded but would never truly be gone.

He said, “Somebody did a number on you. You’ve been unconscious for days. I found you lying alone in my field.”

Rasi tapped his palm against his forehead. He couldn’t remember much after his belke slug battle. Lorca’s horse came to mind, though anything after that was foggy at best. He had no idea how he had found Terik’s land, but was thankful that he had.

“I am sorry for the poor conditions but I had to keep you in the barn in case they came looking. I’ve given you medicine for your shoulder as it was red and spreading. I think the infection is nearly gone, but you are putting off heat like you still have a fever.” He paused and then asked, “Hungry?”

Rasi was and nodded.

“Very well, I will return in a moment.” Terik went to his house and returned with a bowl of cold, left-over stew.

“I could heat it for you if you give me a moment to start a new fir …”

Rasi shoved the bowl against his face, dumping the stew into his mouth and spilling it down his chin and chest.

“Those things on your back – they must remember me. I took far fewer bruises this time.” Terik grinned.

Rasi rose, offering his hand. His shoulder ached with each movement of his hand but he was happy to move it at all. He wore a tight bandage across his chest which held his injured collarbone snug, obviously a result of Terik’s continued care.

“Where are you going?” Terik asked. “You need to rest.”

Rasi pointed through the loft window where the tip of the castle could be seen.

Terik leaned for a better look. “Do you know where Princess Alina is?” he asked.

Rasi shook his head that he didn’t.

“Well, Elijah thinks you do. Tevin and several of Thasula’s top guards have been dispatched into the mountains to find her – to find you. Why do you keep causing trouble for Elijah? He was none too happy to have his Elite Guard return from your battle a few men light, from what I hear. Lorca was a rising star for him.”