Phoenix Unbound
Page 13
Azarion watched as she curled into a semi-fetal position. The wounds on her back made her hiss a protest when she curved too far, and she straightened with a groan. She closed her eyes, her lashes lying dark against her pale cheeks, and shivered.
He dug into one of the satchels and found a cloak. Made of coarse-woven wool that reeked of sweat and sour wine, the garment was standard issue to every Kraelian soldier, given to him along with a water flask, a tin plate, and a knife. Azarion tossed the cloak over the agacin’s shaking form. Her eyes opened. Startled by his solicitude, she clutched the cloak, nose wrinkling at the smell, and tucked it closer around her. Her hesitant thanks surprised him. He sat down beside her and reclined back against the marble wall. “Get some rest, Agacin.”
“Not likely,” she muttered. “Even the dead don’t rest in Midrigar.”
He smiled, relieved that for a brief moment they were in accord. His gaze flickered back to the blanket covering her. He might well have to tear a strip from it and gag her with it to keep her from warning the hunters if they chose to follow them into the city. He prayed they weren’t nearly as foolish as he was desperate.
He turned his attention to the ruined city. All knew the history of Midrigar. Once a thriving town and vassal to the Empire, it had rebelled when Krael demanded the vicegerent’s daughter as a Flower of Spring. The man refused, raising a revolt among the citizens, who already resented sending their wives and daughters to burn in the Pit.
The emperor’s wrath had been boundless, and the example he made of Midrigar ensured no other city risked suffering the same fate. Scribes recorded and storytellers whispered in hushed tones the tale of Midrigar’s fall, the wholesale slaughter of its people from the oldest crone to the youngest babe. The streets had washed red with rivers of blood, and the buildings burned for days, lit by a fiery glow that could be seen as far south as the islands of Lohar and as far west as the river port town of Dulvaden.
Even when the Kraelian soldiers had butchered everyone and everything down to the last rat, the Empire wasn’t done. The emperor sent in his sorcerers with their spells and curses so that even in death, the souls of Midrigar would be punished through the centuries for their rebellion. No wonder the witch’s defiance had crumbled in the face of Azarion’s threat that Beroe would meet the same doom as Midrigar if she refused to help him. At the time he meant every word. Now, seeing the remains of the city’s destruction and breathing the despair carried on every draft of cold air that swirled around him, he doubted he could follow through with so heinous a threat. Herself and the Pit had done their best to twist his soul into a reflection of the Empire’s own corruption, but even they hadn’t hardened him enough to consign another town and its folk to this terrible fate.
He glanced down at the agacin. Despite her claim that no one slept in Midrigar, she did. Huddled under the cloak, only the top of her head and a strip of her forehead were visible. She still shivered from the cold, but Azarion no longer heard her teeth chatter.
His own skin pebbled, the clothing he wore not much protection against the night’s chill. He ignored it. The elements rarely bothered him. As one of the Empire’s many gladiators, he sometimes traveled to other cities, fighting for the pleasure of whichever of Hanimus’s patrons chose to pay for the entertainment. They rode in rough carts or walked under a blistering sun, in the pouring rain, and sometimes in driving snow. Hanimus believed such hardships made his gladiators tougher fighters. Azarion gave an internal shrug. The master trainer might well have been right, but Azarion wished his companion had the strength to at least summon a small campfire.
What had she said about her magic? It comes with a price. The wounds were one thing, but she hadn’t tried to escape him by burning him. Not even a blister on his finger. Had she used up her power? If so, did it return sooner or later? The thought made him uneasy. He needed her abilities. Without them, he’d have a difficult time reclaiming his birthright.
He sighed and dragged the second pack closer. Inside he found a full flask and prayed it held water instead of the foul wine that scented the cloak. He unstoppered the flask and sniffed. Water. It was flat but cold and soothing against his dry lips and throat.
“I’d like some, please.”
The agacin’s voice was hoarse. Azarion shifted, careful not to twinge his left side too hard, and held out the flask. Fingers that had been cold a little earlier burned now as they grazed his knuckles. She took the flask and brought it to her lips for a quick swallow before handing it back.
Azarion frowned, certain the flags of color on her cheeks hadn’t been there earlier, only the bruise from his knee. She watched him with glassy eyes. “What?”
She drew away when he reached out, trying hard to avoid his touch and failing when he lay his palm against her forehead and then her uninjured cheek. “You need to drink more. You’ve a fever.”
She pushed away his second offer of the flask. “It will pass. It always does.”
Magic and its price. “And the burns?”
A shrug. “They’ll heal and leave their mark.” Her too-bright eyes narrowed. “Why did you take me? I’m no use to you now. In fact, I’m a burden.”
He tucked the cloak more snugly under her. “You’re even more valuable to me now. You’re an agacin, and agacins are revered by my people.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Agna, he prayed silently to the goddess. Please let her loss of magic be a temporary thing. Aloud, he told the witch, “I need an agacin to reclaim my birthright. I need you.”
The heat of her glare matched the heat of her fever. “Pig,” she spat before yanking the cloak over her head to shut him out of her sight.
He heard no more from her, and soon her breathing slowed and deepened as sleep claimed her once more. The following hour passed in thick silence as Azarion listened for the hunters. He no longer heard the hounds, and prayed they had strayed in an opposite direction, misled by a lead dog’s faulty nose or an instinctive fear of Midrigar. They might be safe from the Empire for the moment, but he and the witch weren’t out of harm’s way. The prickling sensation of being watched didn’t abate, though it had blunted, either because whatever observed them lost interest or his own exhaustion dulled his senses. They sharpened to full alert when something moved in the shadows of the buildings across the bone-littered avenue.
Azarion straightened from his slouch against the wall and unsheathed the knife at his hip. Stolen from the guard he killed in the catacombs, it wasn’t much in the way of weaponry but better than nothing.
More movement rippled through the darkness before a ribbon of vapor unfurled itself from the shelter of a broken column to float above the street’s cobblestones. Azarion possessed a newly discovered and puzzling talent for seeing through illusion, but whatever hovered in midair before him wasn’t an illusionary mask cast over a person. Nor was it a mist. The night was cold and clear, and dry enough to sting the lungs with each breath. And mist didn’t move the way whatever this was did. As insubstantial as a cloud, it bore the vague outlines of a person, its borders solidifying until Azarion could make out the ghostly form of a man.
He wore the clothes of another age and stared at Azarion from a face half hacked away by a sword or an ax. The grotesque visage didn’t take away from the intensity of the one-eyed gaze that rested on Azarion. A mournful keening, separate from the wind’s own dirge, rose along the street, and soon the wraith was joined by a throng of other wraiths.
He dug into one of the satchels and found a cloak. Made of coarse-woven wool that reeked of sweat and sour wine, the garment was standard issue to every Kraelian soldier, given to him along with a water flask, a tin plate, and a knife. Azarion tossed the cloak over the agacin’s shaking form. Her eyes opened. Startled by his solicitude, she clutched the cloak, nose wrinkling at the smell, and tucked it closer around her. Her hesitant thanks surprised him. He sat down beside her and reclined back against the marble wall. “Get some rest, Agacin.”
“Not likely,” she muttered. “Even the dead don’t rest in Midrigar.”
He smiled, relieved that for a brief moment they were in accord. His gaze flickered back to the blanket covering her. He might well have to tear a strip from it and gag her with it to keep her from warning the hunters if they chose to follow them into the city. He prayed they weren’t nearly as foolish as he was desperate.
He turned his attention to the ruined city. All knew the history of Midrigar. Once a thriving town and vassal to the Empire, it had rebelled when Krael demanded the vicegerent’s daughter as a Flower of Spring. The man refused, raising a revolt among the citizens, who already resented sending their wives and daughters to burn in the Pit.
The emperor’s wrath had been boundless, and the example he made of Midrigar ensured no other city risked suffering the same fate. Scribes recorded and storytellers whispered in hushed tones the tale of Midrigar’s fall, the wholesale slaughter of its people from the oldest crone to the youngest babe. The streets had washed red with rivers of blood, and the buildings burned for days, lit by a fiery glow that could be seen as far south as the islands of Lohar and as far west as the river port town of Dulvaden.
Even when the Kraelian soldiers had butchered everyone and everything down to the last rat, the Empire wasn’t done. The emperor sent in his sorcerers with their spells and curses so that even in death, the souls of Midrigar would be punished through the centuries for their rebellion. No wonder the witch’s defiance had crumbled in the face of Azarion’s threat that Beroe would meet the same doom as Midrigar if she refused to help him. At the time he meant every word. Now, seeing the remains of the city’s destruction and breathing the despair carried on every draft of cold air that swirled around him, he doubted he could follow through with so heinous a threat. Herself and the Pit had done their best to twist his soul into a reflection of the Empire’s own corruption, but even they hadn’t hardened him enough to consign another town and its folk to this terrible fate.
He glanced down at the agacin. Despite her claim that no one slept in Midrigar, she did. Huddled under the cloak, only the top of her head and a strip of her forehead were visible. She still shivered from the cold, but Azarion no longer heard her teeth chatter.
His own skin pebbled, the clothing he wore not much protection against the night’s chill. He ignored it. The elements rarely bothered him. As one of the Empire’s many gladiators, he sometimes traveled to other cities, fighting for the pleasure of whichever of Hanimus’s patrons chose to pay for the entertainment. They rode in rough carts or walked under a blistering sun, in the pouring rain, and sometimes in driving snow. Hanimus believed such hardships made his gladiators tougher fighters. Azarion gave an internal shrug. The master trainer might well have been right, but Azarion wished his companion had the strength to at least summon a small campfire.
What had she said about her magic? It comes with a price. The wounds were one thing, but she hadn’t tried to escape him by burning him. Not even a blister on his finger. Had she used up her power? If so, did it return sooner or later? The thought made him uneasy. He needed her abilities. Without them, he’d have a difficult time reclaiming his birthright.
He sighed and dragged the second pack closer. Inside he found a full flask and prayed it held water instead of the foul wine that scented the cloak. He unstoppered the flask and sniffed. Water. It was flat but cold and soothing against his dry lips and throat.
“I’d like some, please.”
The agacin’s voice was hoarse. Azarion shifted, careful not to twinge his left side too hard, and held out the flask. Fingers that had been cold a little earlier burned now as they grazed his knuckles. She took the flask and brought it to her lips for a quick swallow before handing it back.
Azarion frowned, certain the flags of color on her cheeks hadn’t been there earlier, only the bruise from his knee. She watched him with glassy eyes. “What?”
She drew away when he reached out, trying hard to avoid his touch and failing when he lay his palm against her forehead and then her uninjured cheek. “You need to drink more. You’ve a fever.”
She pushed away his second offer of the flask. “It will pass. It always does.”
Magic and its price. “And the burns?”
A shrug. “They’ll heal and leave their mark.” Her too-bright eyes narrowed. “Why did you take me? I’m no use to you now. In fact, I’m a burden.”
He tucked the cloak more snugly under her. “You’re even more valuable to me now. You’re an agacin, and agacins are revered by my people.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Agna, he prayed silently to the goddess. Please let her loss of magic be a temporary thing. Aloud, he told the witch, “I need an agacin to reclaim my birthright. I need you.”
The heat of her glare matched the heat of her fever. “Pig,” she spat before yanking the cloak over her head to shut him out of her sight.
He heard no more from her, and soon her breathing slowed and deepened as sleep claimed her once more. The following hour passed in thick silence as Azarion listened for the hunters. He no longer heard the hounds, and prayed they had strayed in an opposite direction, misled by a lead dog’s faulty nose or an instinctive fear of Midrigar. They might be safe from the Empire for the moment, but he and the witch weren’t out of harm’s way. The prickling sensation of being watched didn’t abate, though it had blunted, either because whatever observed them lost interest or his own exhaustion dulled his senses. They sharpened to full alert when something moved in the shadows of the buildings across the bone-littered avenue.
Azarion straightened from his slouch against the wall and unsheathed the knife at his hip. Stolen from the guard he killed in the catacombs, it wasn’t much in the way of weaponry but better than nothing.
More movement rippled through the darkness before a ribbon of vapor unfurled itself from the shelter of a broken column to float above the street’s cobblestones. Azarion possessed a newly discovered and puzzling talent for seeing through illusion, but whatever hovered in midair before him wasn’t an illusionary mask cast over a person. Nor was it a mist. The night was cold and clear, and dry enough to sting the lungs with each breath. And mist didn’t move the way whatever this was did. As insubstantial as a cloud, it bore the vague outlines of a person, its borders solidifying until Azarion could make out the ghostly form of a man.
He wore the clothes of another age and stared at Azarion from a face half hacked away by a sword or an ax. The grotesque visage didn’t take away from the intensity of the one-eyed gaze that rested on Azarion. A mournful keening, separate from the wind’s own dirge, rose along the street, and soon the wraith was joined by a throng of other wraiths.
