To Darkness Fled (20 page)

Locto struggled to sit, his face flushing. "Take that back! I follow Barthos, not Gazar."

Sir Gavin picked the boy up by the back of his shirt and stood him on his feet. "We'll take you home and introduce you to our One God, Arman Echad. Then you'll see a real miracle when Arman destroys your idol in front of you."

* * *

Every muscle in Achan's body screamed. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His lips had cracked, and no amount of licking brought comfort. He sat on a smooth rock--wrists still chained in front--and massaged his swollen foot, cut from the rocks he'd stumbled over for hours...days? A long time. His stomach pressed against his ribs, aching in its empty state. They'd given him only aleh tonic to drink and crusty bread.

Twice they'd stopped to sleep, so Achan figured two days had passed. He still couldn't bloodvoice. Arman had not restored it, despite Achan's pleas for a miracle. Perhaps Arman couldn't hear him through the aleh tonic, either.

His mind drifted like a twig in a fast current, dwelling on all he'd experienced in the past months. For what? To die in Darkness, sacrificed to a false god? And how exactly did that work? Would the Barthians kill him? Would they wait for their god to show up? And if Barthos didn't come, would they take matters into their own hands?

His thoughts rippled. Was his mind drifting out of reality?

Movement caught his eye and he glanced up. A crowd had formed around the rock he sat on. Scores of men and women with grey skin and hair. Every set of dark eyes fixed on his.

He stood, heart seizing in his chest. "What's this?" Where had these people come from? He shook his head to clear it.

The crowd parted. Silvo and Sir Nongo approached. Silvo grabbed Achan's arms, spun him around, and kicked out his knees, pushing Achan over the rock on his stomach.

Sir Nongo drew his black sword. "For Barthos!" He raised the blade above Achan's neck--

The image shifted. Now Achan hung from a tree, his cuffs looped over a branch.

A man in a blood-splattered apron stood before him, sharpening a long knife on a whetstone. "I've skinned my share of animals but ain't never skinned a man.
S'pose
it works the same." He lifted the knife to Achan's waist--

Again a shift. Achan was now strapped to a wooden altar, looking up at a golden statue of Barthos, a creature with the body of a man and the head of a rabid wolf.

The temple was sweltering, filled with burning braziers and hundreds of people chanting, "Barthos. Barthos. Barthos."

A black knight wearing a wooden mask stood at the foot of the statue. He grabbed Achan's hair in his fist and held a dagger to his throat. "
Rabab yarad
."

Nausea welled in Achan's gut. "Don't. Please. Arman!"

The chanting vanished abruptly. Achan again sat on his rock by the wagon. The campfire crackled to his left. Silvo and Sir Nongo sat beside it. A horse neighed. All else was silent, except for Achan's heavy breathing.

Darkness. Playing on his fears.

Maybe he could sing one of Minstrel Harp's songs. Achan sang aloud, for it seemed the only way to focus.

"Hail the piper, fiddle, fife,

The night is young and full of life.

The Corner teems with ale and song.

And we shall dance the whole night long."

"Quiet!" Sir Nongo scowled in Achan's direction.

Achan went straight into the next verse.

"Hear the pretty maiden sing,

Hair and ribbons all flowing.

She can take my heart away,

By her side I long to stay."

A stone struck Achan's knee. He jumped.

"Shut up, stray," Silvo yelled.

Achan lowered his voice.

"Never love a knight, he cares only for his sword.

Never love a sailor, he spends all his life aboard.

Never love a merchant, he's too busy counting wares.

Never love a prince, for himself, only, he cares.

Never love a bard, for he'll put you in a song.

And if he doesn't you will know--
ow
!"

A rock the size of Achan's fist struck his foot. Surely the black knights thought him mad by now. He wished he were with Gren at the Corner. He could almost smell her, the mix of orange blossom and the subtle bitterness from the fulling water she used to clean wool. Was she still imprisoned?

Tired of singing, Achan returned to nagging Arman.
Why do you torture me? You say all other gods are false. You tell me I'm your chosen king. Then you play games with my life. Does this amuse you?

Heat flashed through Achan's body as if he'd stepped into a bathhouse. He tensed, recognizing the heat as the signal that Arman was about to speak.

TRUST IN ME AND I WILL DIRECT YOUR PATH.

The heat swelled and subsided in the length of one long breath. When nothing else came he laughed bitterly. "That's it? Trust in you? How am I supposed to do that while lunatics drag me behind a cart? Sit and wait, I suppose. Well, I was already doing that, so thanks for finally speaking up, but you're not much help."

"Do you always talk to yourself?" Silvo's voice came from the campfire.

Achan shifted on his rock. "
He
started it."

"Who?"

"Arman. He keeps telling me things, like an old sage. He's so abstract I can't understand what he's saying half the time."

"You think the father god talks to you?"

"No, I said He
told
me things. If He'd talk to me, a back and forth conversation, we might get somewhere. But no. He spouts cryptic proverbs. Whenever He feels like it, of course. I've been praying for two days and finally He speaks. But is it an answer? No. 'Trust in me,' He says.
Trust.
For Cetheria's hand! I'm about to be killed and He says to trust him."

"Darkness has rotted your mind, stray. Sacrificing you to Barthos will be a mercy to you. You're mad."

Achan sighed heavily and lifted the back of his wrist to rub his tired eyes. Another wave of heat racked his body. He wheezed at the overpowering sensation.

ACHAN
. The voice sent burning tremors through his heart.
DO YOU KNOW CETHERIA?

Saliva pooled in Achan's mouth.
N-No.

HAS SHE SPOKEN TO YOU?

Achan swallowed, sweat dripping down his forehead.
No, sir. Never.

YET YOU'VE LEFT SACRIFICE AND LOVE OFFERINGS FOR HER ALL THESE YEARS.

I thought that's what I was supposed to do. Sir.

AND NOW?

Achan sucked in a cool breath.
I haven't petitioned Cetheria since you told me not to.

YET YOU SWEAR BY HER HAND.

Oh.
Achan panted, the heat incredibly intense.
Well, that was just an expression.

O
F YOUR ANGER AT ME?

Achan winced.
I guess so. Sir.

I HAVE CHOSEN YOU, BUT YOU HAVE NOT YET CHOSEN ME. YOU MUST TRUST ME FULLY. ONLY THEN WILL YOU BE MORE AT LIBERTY TO MAKE DEMANDS AND EXPECT IMMEDIATE ANSWERS. SO, TRUST IN ME, LITTLE KING, AND I SHALL DIRECT YOUR PATH.

A long stretch of silence followed. Achan dared not move. A chill brought goose bumps over his arms and he shivered. The heat had gone. It was over.

His chest heaved. Moisture filled his eyes. He closed them.
Arman, forgive me. I know not what I do. I've only ever wanted to be free, live my life as I saw fit, go where I wanted to, wear what I wanted to, love who I wanted to. I never aspired to king. I don't think I can do this.

A wave of heat.
BUT
I
CAN.

Achan gasped as the warm sensation faded. He opened his eyes. He sat atop his rock, temples itching.

Itching? Praise Arman, a knock! Achan slid off the rock and kissed the craggy ground. He jumped to his feet and raised the shackles above his head. "Praise Arman!"

A pebble struck his shoulder. "Be shutting it, stray!"

Achan lowered his hands. "Thank you! Thank You."

Sir Gavin Lukos.

Another small rock struck his back. "One more word about Arman and Sir Nongo says I can beat you," Silvo said.

Achan smiled and reached for Sir Gavin.
I've been captured. Silvo and Sir Nongo are black knights. They're going to sacrifice me to their false god.

You're not injured?

No more than usual. My feet are sore and they took my clothes and boots. Arman spoke to me, Sir Gavin. He scolded me, then healed me. Bested the aleh.

Then we're truly on the right path.
Achan could hear the smile in Sir Gavin's tone.
Look and listen for us. We're coming.

* * *

Dozens of bonfires cast an orange glow over Barth. The city consisted of thousands of domed clay huts, coating the land like endless anthills. But the pyramid was the main feature of the city. Just as Inko had told him, the pyramid rose out of the center of the city. Its height stretched beyond the range of bonfire light, into the black sky. An arched portcullis bored through the center base of the pyramid like a mouthful of teeth, bright yellow light glowing from beyond.

The cart towed Achan past the first bonfire. The flames heated the left side of Achan's body, stung the cut on his cheek. The fire burned in a pool of shimmery liquid contained in a round stone brazier sitting inches off the ground, twice as wide as the cart pulling him.

People lined the road, staring with wide, white eyes, their grey skin covered in dark mud. Their half-naked dress and dirty skin made them almost invisible against the dark backdrop. Olive-skinned men also peppered the crowd. Refugees from the plague of female mages in Jaelport, no doubt.

People chanted and jeered as Achan passed. The ground trembled with distant drumming. Ritual drums. The thrumming crescendoed as they neared the pyramid. A lonely wailing song rose above the rhythm.

A shiver snaked through Achan's stomach and coiled around his heart. This was like the daydream he'd had. One of the ways he might die. Surely Arman wouldn't let him die?

The cart stopped, and Achan stumbled into the end of it. Shouts in a language he didn't understand drifted back from the front of the procession. Clinking metal told him the portcullis was rising.

The cart dragged him over a moat of fire burning over shimmery liquid. The heat of the flames lapped at his heels and stung his cuts and blisters. Achan wished for some outer garments to shield his skin from the heat. He passed under the portcullis and into Barthos' sweltering temple.

It seemed the entire pyramid was hollow on the inside, as if it were a giant stone tent, its four sides converging at the top and covering an underground amphitheater. The stone grandstands were big enough to house a small army. Indeed, it seemed an army of barely clad spectators had already gathered for the show. More streamed down four aisles approaching the middle from the four corners of the compass. Narrow trenches of fire lined each path as if marking the way.

The main feature of the temple stood in the middle of the dirt floor below: a huge, elevated platform. Men walked around on top, several levels above the heads of the spectators on the bottom few rows of seats.

This must be where they planned to kill him.

Two massive beams rose from the floor on either side of the platform and leaned diagonally toward one another, their sharpened tips almost touching. A wooden scaffold reached almost to the tips, as if they regularly hung decorations from the spot--or perhaps took turns sliding down the giant spikes to the floor far below. Barthian fun.

What might such a contraption be used for?

Sir Nongo approached from the front of the cart and removed the chain holding Achan's shackles to the cart. He towed him toward the stairs and paused at the top. "We will be going down many steps."