Athryn was right. He’s found his magic.
When the light faded to a bearable level, Khirro lowered his arm. A dimmer version of the light remained, illuminating the two dead men lying on the floor, Callan’s head detached at the neck. Khirro let the Mourning Sword sag to his side, the energy gone from his arm.
I killed him.
Athryn had crossed the cell without Khirro’s notice and patted him on the arm. Khirro looked up to see a broad, relieved smile on the magician’s lips. He understood why his friend wore the expression, but with a man lying dead at his feet, his life taken by Khirro’s own blade, it was difficult to share in his relief. His gaze fell back to Callan, but Athryn tapped his arm again. Khirro looked up and the magician pointed toward the cell door; Khirro turned his head to look.
All of the underground-dwellers had fallen to their knees, bowing before their angels of Sol.
Chapter Nineteen
Wooden wheels grumbled over uneven ground, protesting with each rock and hole they traversed. Graymon held on to the wooden plank under his bum, trying to keep the bumpy ride from unseating him while being careful the rough seat didn’t give him a sliver. The ride already seemed long, yet when he peeked through the canvas draped over the wagon, he still saw the Kanosee camp. He didn’t want to look again-the last time he did, one of the ugly monster-men snarled at him-but curiosity isn’t an easy thing for a five year-old boy to deny.
No, six. I’m six now.
Graymon hesitated, hand hanging in the air an inch from the canvas as he dug deep to raise his courage.
They won’t hurt me.
He grasped the corner of the canvas and inched it away from the edge of the wagon, then crouched to peer through the small space. The water was closer, the tents fewer. He scuttled across his bench and peeked through the other side to find the view much the same.
The water is close on both sides. This must be the land bridge.
His father had told him about the narrow strip of land separating the Small Sea from the Sea of Linghala, but he’d never seen it. Until the woman brought him to the salt flats-he didn’t know how she’d gotten him from the palace to the flats because he didn’t remember riding in a wagon or mounting a horse-he’d never been outside Achtindel, the city of his birth. At another time, he might have marvelled at seeing the seas for the first time and been awed by the sight of the land bridge, but not so now.
A cold wind blew off the water, shuddering the canvas. Dead brown leaves hung limply on trees or skittered across the barren ground, reminding him of the dead men escorting him from his home as a prisoner. Only dead men, not a living soldier amongst them.
The lady lied.
Tears welled in his eyes and Graymon dropped the canvas flap back in place. If he held it up too long, one of the hideous guards always noticed, always scared him.
Why did this happen to me? I was a good boy.
The wind slapped the canvas against the wooden side of the wagon, making him jump; he pulled the itchy wool blanket tighter about his shoulders and closed his eyes. If he slept, maybe he’d dream of better things: his father, or perhaps his mother whom he’d only known in his dreams and stories his da told him. Maybe, when he woke, he’d find this world of cold wind and canvas, dead leaves and dead men was the dream. Maybe he’d wake in his own bed with Nanny dozing in the other room.
The sound of the woman’s voice shattered his flimsy hope.
“Are you all right, Graymon, my sweet?”
Graymon’s eyes snapped open and he jumped, breath catching in his throat. The woman smiled her honey smile and put a hand on his knee for comfort. He shrank away.
“There is nothing to fear.” She glanced at the canvas protecting them from the wind as though she saw through it. “Are my men treating you well?”
Where did she come from?
The boy stared at her, his bottom lip quivering. Truthfully, the undead soldiers had done no more than glower at him when they caught him stealing glimpses at the countryside bouncing by.
“You lied to me,” he said.
The woman smiled. “I only told you what you needed to hear, dear Graymon. That is what adults do with children. They tell them half-truths and deceptions to protect them and make them feel safe.”
He glared at her, angry, but something in her smile made the ire dissipate from him. Nervous fear replaced it.
“W-where are you taking me?” He hated hearing a shake in his voice to match the one in his lip. The woman continued smiling but didn’t answer.
Daddy would want me to be brave.
He drew a shuddering breath and set his teeth, determination making his voice more steady this time. “Where are you taking me?”
The woman tilted her head the way a dog might, like she didn’t understand his question. She said nothing for a minute and Graymon fidgeted, the wool blanket suddenly itchier on his neck than a moment ago. He fought the urge to reach up and scratch it.
The colors at the ends of her fingertips drew his eye, but he quickly shifted his gaze away rather than see what atrocities might be painted there. The canvas flapped in the wind, startling him, and he stared, worried one of the dead men might be coming to join them.
It’s the wind. Be brave.
The wagon slammed through a deep pothole, jarring his spine and clicking his teeth. The woman continued to smile. Even over the rattle-thump of the wagon wheels rolling over the rocky track, Graymon imagined he heard the footsteps of decaying feet walking beside him, boot heels scuffing through dirt, the butts of spears clicking on stones. He thought if he listened close enough, he’d hear their flesh rotting. A knot formed in his throat making breath difficult.
“I… I want my da.” A fat tear rolled down his cheek onto the itchy blanket.
The woman nodded. “I know, sweetheart. You will see him again. But first, you have to be a good boy. And your da has to be a good boy, too.”
“My da?”
“Yes, dear. Your father promised to do things for me. When they are complete, you will be with him again.”
Graymon chewed his bottom lip and rubbed his cheek against the blanket. The wool wiped away his tear but left another itchy spot.
“But why do I have to go?”
She leaned toward him and he saw flames dance in her eyes.
“Your father cannot concentrate while you are around. He asked me to take you away.”
The air disappeared suddenly from Graymon’s chest, like the time he’d fallen off his bed and landed on his chest. He had thought he might never draw another breath, and though the feeling passed eventually, he’d never been so scared. Not until he met the woman and her dead men. Not until she said his father wanted him to go.
“It will be all right,” she said rubbing his arm. “You will like my palace.”
“But…da?”
The woman’s smile disappeared; some of her beauty left with it. Graymon pushed himself farther back on the bench until a crate behind him pushed uncomfortably into the small of his back.
“If you behave, you and your father will be all right. If your father behaves, you will both be all right. If either of you misbehaves…” She leaned back, her smile returning, but Graymon didn’t think her beauty returned with it. Her stare made him feel cold. “I will have to introduce you to some of my friends.”
Her arm moved quickly, throwing open the canvas before Graymon realized she’d moved. The chill wind whipped decayed leaves into the wagon, swirled them about the boy’s face making him jump back, the crate pressing painfully against his back. He waved the leaves away and looked out of the wagon at three ruined faces glaring back at him. The undead soldiers, their decayed lips contorted in sneers, brandished their weapons. Graymon pulled the blanket over his face as the wind gusted, threatening to pull that little protection off him.