Phoenix Unbound
Page 16
She hadn’t run far on her own. He spotted her on her knees, leaning against the trunk of a sapling, her eyes closed.
The abomination behind Midrigar’s walls had ceased its screeching, and Azarion gave silent thanks to whatever deity listened that it was trapped there like the dead who had summoned it.
He limped toward the witch. With their race over and their safety assured, at least for now, the pain in his side nearly took his breath away.
The agacin opened her eyes when he crouched in front of her, dark pools reflecting moonlight and fever. She ran her tongue across her lower lip, and her graceful throat flexed when she swallowed. “What if I had fallen or couldn’t keep up?”
He glided a fingertip along a valley made by the folds of her skirt. “I would have carried you.”
She continued to stare at him, saying nothing, until her eyes closed again and she sagged against the tree. Azarion caught her before she hit the ground. He lowered her gently to her side before taking a seat beside her. Sweat dripped into his eyes, steam rising off his skin in the cold air. He wiped his face with the hem of his tunic and pressed a hand to his side to ease the stabbing pain there.
Safety was a fleeting and a variable thing, but for now, they were safe from the horrors lurking in Midrigar and not far from where he had tied the horse. Azarion checked the witch and left her where she lay. He had no choice. If he tried to lift her, he’d collapse. He prayed to Agna for protection of her handmaiden and set off to retrieve his mount.
Misfortune still held him in its grip. The horse was gone, leaving behind a pair of broken reins hanging from a tree branch like stripped strands of ivy. Sometime during their deadly stay in Midrigar, the animal had spooked and freed itself by breaking its tethers. A trampling of grass and hoofprints created a half-moon around the base of the tree. Azarion suspected the otherworldly creature’s hideous screeching, along with the screams of murdered men, had carried far into the wood, frightening the horse so much it managed to snap the reins and escape.
Without the satchels he’d left behind in the city and the horse, they lacked transportation and supplies, and somewhere on the other side of Midrigar, a pack of hunting hounds likely still lingered, waiting for their masters to return.
Still, the Empire hadn’t yet caught him, he had escaped a thing that had wiped out those who hunted him, and he had his knife, along with a crossbow and quarrels. A stream ran not far away for water, and the trade road nearby was bound, at some point, to yield a traveler on horseback. It was just a matter of patience and time before he could replace the mount he lost.
For now he’d rest. Weariness had him seeing double, and pain made his stomach roil. The agacin lay unmoving next to him except for steady, shallow breaths. He wished he could stretch out beside her, but it hurt too much to lie down. Instead, he nudged her carefully into his lap and reclined against the sapling. His eyelids drooped. Every bruise and cut inflicted by the empress, and the fighter he killed for her entertainment, ached. The forest surrounding him turned fuzzy in his vision. He blinked hard to stay awake and finally surrendered to an exhausted sleep.
Voices and a mule’s braying snapped him awake. Azarion straightened from a slouch and rubbed his eyes for a better look at his surroundings. Morning sunlight spilled through the trees’ newly leafed canopy, dappling the agacin’s sleeping features. High color dusted her cheekbones, and her lips were dry and cracked. Sure signs the fever still raged through her body.
The voices grew louder, and the creak of wheels, clank of bells, and steady clop of hooves joined the mule’s racket. Travelers on the trade road, just as he expected, and from the sound of it, part of a caravan.
He stayed where he was, hidden in the tree line until the caravan came into view. Seven wagons pulled by a mix of horses, oxen, and the single mule. The brightly painted wagons and garlands of bells strung on their sides marked the group as free traders. Unbound by the rules and laws set by the Trade Guild, they plied their trades along the offshoot roads of the Golden Serpent without Guild approval or protection. Most of the lower rungs of society and the towns perched at the edges of Krael’s hinterlands bought their goods from the free traders.
The Guild barred them from working the more lucrative Golden Serpent, which wrapped around the borders of the Empire and stretched into the lands of Usepei and Ardin, but it didn’t stop the wily traders from getting their hands on items as cheap and ubiquitous as clay pots or as rare and expensive as purple silk. Some things were obtained through means that didn’t always include the exchange of coins, but no one reported the traders to the garrisons that squatted in the remote regions, and if they did, the garrison commanders turned a blind eye, finding the benefits of trade with such people far outweighed the petty crimes they might commit to provide those benefits.
The crew driving these wagons or walking beside them were a motley lot, a mix of men, women, and a few children. Every adult was heavily armed, and while their scruffy clothing marked them as not the most prosperous group, they looked well-fed and clean enough—something neither he nor the agacin could claim at the moment.
She twitched in his lap, hotter than a bonfire. She needed succor he couldn’t give and was far too valuable to leave behind. And he owed her much. Revealing himself—and her—to the traders was his only choice.
He carefully moved the witch off his lap and onto the grass before creaking to his feet. The crossbow and arrows would have to stay with her. Walking out of the trees with it in his arms guaranteed him a quick death. He kept his knife sheathed to show he meant no harm, stiffened his back, and stepped onto the road in front of the lead wagon.
Before the wheels rolled to a halt, he found himself once again in the lethal sights of not one but six crossbows, their nocked arrows pointed at various spots on his body.
“Help us,” he said and waited.
A man garbed in mismatched layers of ragged wool and bits of expensive silk sauntered from behind the lead wagon and approached him, a short spear held casually in one hand. He wore his graying hair clubbed at the nape, and the gimcrack beads draped around his neck sparkled in the sun. His gray gaze, flat as unpolished steel and just as hard, settled on Azarion. “What happened to you?”
The witch had named him a liar and a thief, and in this moment, Azarion hoped he lived up to the first insult by spinning the most convincing of tales, otherwise he’d be shot full of arrows before he could take a single running step. “Thieves set upon my wife and me,” he said. “We were traveling to the Silfer markets to sell our dyes and were attacked. They stole everything, including our horse.” Thank Agna the agacin sported green hands from dyeing the long nettle. That, more than any words from him, should convince them he spoke truthfully.
The caravan leader’s eyes narrowed, his gaze suspicious. This wasn’t a man who let sympathy overwhelm caution. “Why did they let you live?” He peered beyond Azarion’s shoulder into the woods. “And I see no wife.”
Azarion shrugged. “She’s injured. I left her just within the trees there.” He gestured with a tip of his chin to where the agacin lay hidden. “I don’t know why they let us live. They didn’t share their reasons or their purpose. Not all murderers are thieves; not all thieves are murderers.” A quick glance behind the leader at the trader folk nodding their heads and murmuring told him his words had struck a chord.
The abomination behind Midrigar’s walls had ceased its screeching, and Azarion gave silent thanks to whatever deity listened that it was trapped there like the dead who had summoned it.
He limped toward the witch. With their race over and their safety assured, at least for now, the pain in his side nearly took his breath away.
The agacin opened her eyes when he crouched in front of her, dark pools reflecting moonlight and fever. She ran her tongue across her lower lip, and her graceful throat flexed when she swallowed. “What if I had fallen or couldn’t keep up?”
He glided a fingertip along a valley made by the folds of her skirt. “I would have carried you.”
She continued to stare at him, saying nothing, until her eyes closed again and she sagged against the tree. Azarion caught her before she hit the ground. He lowered her gently to her side before taking a seat beside her. Sweat dripped into his eyes, steam rising off his skin in the cold air. He wiped his face with the hem of his tunic and pressed a hand to his side to ease the stabbing pain there.
Safety was a fleeting and a variable thing, but for now, they were safe from the horrors lurking in Midrigar and not far from where he had tied the horse. Azarion checked the witch and left her where she lay. He had no choice. If he tried to lift her, he’d collapse. He prayed to Agna for protection of her handmaiden and set off to retrieve his mount.
Misfortune still held him in its grip. The horse was gone, leaving behind a pair of broken reins hanging from a tree branch like stripped strands of ivy. Sometime during their deadly stay in Midrigar, the animal had spooked and freed itself by breaking its tethers. A trampling of grass and hoofprints created a half-moon around the base of the tree. Azarion suspected the otherworldly creature’s hideous screeching, along with the screams of murdered men, had carried far into the wood, frightening the horse so much it managed to snap the reins and escape.
Without the satchels he’d left behind in the city and the horse, they lacked transportation and supplies, and somewhere on the other side of Midrigar, a pack of hunting hounds likely still lingered, waiting for their masters to return.
Still, the Empire hadn’t yet caught him, he had escaped a thing that had wiped out those who hunted him, and he had his knife, along with a crossbow and quarrels. A stream ran not far away for water, and the trade road nearby was bound, at some point, to yield a traveler on horseback. It was just a matter of patience and time before he could replace the mount he lost.
For now he’d rest. Weariness had him seeing double, and pain made his stomach roil. The agacin lay unmoving next to him except for steady, shallow breaths. He wished he could stretch out beside her, but it hurt too much to lie down. Instead, he nudged her carefully into his lap and reclined against the sapling. His eyelids drooped. Every bruise and cut inflicted by the empress, and the fighter he killed for her entertainment, ached. The forest surrounding him turned fuzzy in his vision. He blinked hard to stay awake and finally surrendered to an exhausted sleep.
Voices and a mule’s braying snapped him awake. Azarion straightened from a slouch and rubbed his eyes for a better look at his surroundings. Morning sunlight spilled through the trees’ newly leafed canopy, dappling the agacin’s sleeping features. High color dusted her cheekbones, and her lips were dry and cracked. Sure signs the fever still raged through her body.
The voices grew louder, and the creak of wheels, clank of bells, and steady clop of hooves joined the mule’s racket. Travelers on the trade road, just as he expected, and from the sound of it, part of a caravan.
He stayed where he was, hidden in the tree line until the caravan came into view. Seven wagons pulled by a mix of horses, oxen, and the single mule. The brightly painted wagons and garlands of bells strung on their sides marked the group as free traders. Unbound by the rules and laws set by the Trade Guild, they plied their trades along the offshoot roads of the Golden Serpent without Guild approval or protection. Most of the lower rungs of society and the towns perched at the edges of Krael’s hinterlands bought their goods from the free traders.
The Guild barred them from working the more lucrative Golden Serpent, which wrapped around the borders of the Empire and stretched into the lands of Usepei and Ardin, but it didn’t stop the wily traders from getting their hands on items as cheap and ubiquitous as clay pots or as rare and expensive as purple silk. Some things were obtained through means that didn’t always include the exchange of coins, but no one reported the traders to the garrisons that squatted in the remote regions, and if they did, the garrison commanders turned a blind eye, finding the benefits of trade with such people far outweighed the petty crimes they might commit to provide those benefits.
The crew driving these wagons or walking beside them were a motley lot, a mix of men, women, and a few children. Every adult was heavily armed, and while their scruffy clothing marked them as not the most prosperous group, they looked well-fed and clean enough—something neither he nor the agacin could claim at the moment.
She twitched in his lap, hotter than a bonfire. She needed succor he couldn’t give and was far too valuable to leave behind. And he owed her much. Revealing himself—and her—to the traders was his only choice.
He carefully moved the witch off his lap and onto the grass before creaking to his feet. The crossbow and arrows would have to stay with her. Walking out of the trees with it in his arms guaranteed him a quick death. He kept his knife sheathed to show he meant no harm, stiffened his back, and stepped onto the road in front of the lead wagon.
Before the wheels rolled to a halt, he found himself once again in the lethal sights of not one but six crossbows, their nocked arrows pointed at various spots on his body.
“Help us,” he said and waited.
A man garbed in mismatched layers of ragged wool and bits of expensive silk sauntered from behind the lead wagon and approached him, a short spear held casually in one hand. He wore his graying hair clubbed at the nape, and the gimcrack beads draped around his neck sparkled in the sun. His gray gaze, flat as unpolished steel and just as hard, settled on Azarion. “What happened to you?”
The witch had named him a liar and a thief, and in this moment, Azarion hoped he lived up to the first insult by spinning the most convincing of tales, otherwise he’d be shot full of arrows before he could take a single running step. “Thieves set upon my wife and me,” he said. “We were traveling to the Silfer markets to sell our dyes and were attacked. They stole everything, including our horse.” Thank Agna the agacin sported green hands from dyeing the long nettle. That, more than any words from him, should convince them he spoke truthfully.
The caravan leader’s eyes narrowed, his gaze suspicious. This wasn’t a man who let sympathy overwhelm caution. “Why did they let you live?” He peered beyond Azarion’s shoulder into the woods. “And I see no wife.”
Azarion shrugged. “She’s injured. I left her just within the trees there.” He gestured with a tip of his chin to where the agacin lay hidden. “I don’t know why they let us live. They didn’t share their reasons or their purpose. Not all murderers are thieves; not all thieves are murderers.” A quick glance behind the leader at the trader folk nodding their heads and murmuring told him his words had struck a chord.
