Chasing the Prophecy

“Now you have eight,” the voice informed them. “Sure you won’t talk? You can’t ride away if I keep putting arrows in you. I have plenty. I seldom miss.”

Jasher gave his wife a nod. “Very well,” she said. “Truce.” She took her arrow from the string, but kept it in her hand.

A tall man dressed as a conscriptor strolled out of the night, using a metal bar like a staff. He wore no helmet, and his head was shaved bald. The glow of the burning waterfront shone behind him. He held a large crossbow at his side. A bow and quiver were slung over one shoulder. His armor and gear jangled softly with every stride. With a pang of distress Jason recognized him.

“Groddic,” Jasher said.

“I know most of your names as well,” the big man replied. “Farfalee, Jasher, Corinne, Aram, Nia, Dead Guy, Injured Guy, the other drinling who got down just in time, and of course my old friend Jason.”

Jason remembered Groddic from Felrook. The tall conscriptor had brought him to his holding cell after his audience with Maldor. Suddenly the horse seemed like pathetically insufficient cover. Jason tightened his grip on his sword. What kind of chance would he have against a soldier like Groddic? He was the leader of the conscriptors. He was the conscriptor who had defeated Galloran. Apparently, Maldor was very serious about stopping them.

“What do you have to say?” Farfalee challenged.

“First, I want to congratulate you,” Groddic said.

“He wants to stall us,” Jasher repeated.

Groddic glanced over his shoulder. “Your crew tried to hold us at the docks. They were promptly overwhelmed. Many men are coming for you, but they lack mounts. Getting rid of the local horses was how we should have stopped you. We didn’t get the job done, so we won’t stop you here. Not unless I kill all of you myself.”

Jason found Groddic’s nonchalance distressing. He was a lone man approaching a sizable group with several proven fighters, but not only did he act unconcerned, he almost seemed exasperated. Jason glanced over at Corinne. She watched solemnly.

“Please try it,” Aram invited.

“You’re a large man,” Groddic complimented. “None of you are incompetent. We keep losing torivors. That alone speaks volumes. It would be an interesting contest. I brought in Galloran, you know, years ago. I’ll bring you in as well.”

“Still stalling,” Jasher warned.

“Let’s get him,” Corinne whispered angrily.

Releasing his horse, Jason crossed to her and placed a hand on her arm to still her. He could feel her trembling.

“I joined the chase in Angial,” Groddic said casually. “The Intrepid waited for me to board her. Might have been a mistake. We just missed you at Windbreak Island. Nice work there. I never thought we would see the end of that Maumet. If you hadn’t—”

“What have you to say?” Farfalee demanded. “Stop prattling.”

Groddic’s expression hardened. “I don’t have tempting offers. Any of you could have access to Harthenham. You could have close to anything at this point. But I know you won’t quit. Jasher was right. I was stalling. I intend to slay the lot of you. I’m just picking my moment.”

“I could put an arrow in your throat before you took a step,” Farfalee said.

He gave an easy chuckle. “That would officially end our truce. I would like to see you try.”

Quick as a blink, Farfalee pulled her bowstring back and let an arrow fly. It took Groddic through the throat. Thag and Del charged forward. Nia as well. Jason raced around Corinne’s horse. He didn’t want to wait for Groddic to come to him. He was tired of hiding behind others. Corinne charged alongside him.

Staggering, Groddic raised his crossbow and shot Thag in the center of his chest. The thickset drinling went down hard. Gurgling, Groddic blocked Del’s sword—once, twice, three times—before Nia ran him through with her sword from his blind side and Farfalee pierced him with another arrow. Del stabbed Groddic as well.

Jason and Corinne stopped short. The fight had ended as they arrived. The tall conscriptor went down and did not move. Del hurried to Thag. Nia checked Fet.

Jason could hardly believe the speed of the fight. He stood frozen, eyes roving from Groddic to the fallen drinlings.

“We need to go,” Jasher called. “His purpose was to harm us and slow us. Soldiers are coming. They will be on our trail. They will try to loop ahead of us. They will scavenge for horses.”

“Fet is dead,” Nia reported.

“Thag won’t make it,” Del said.

Jason could see Thag feebly waving for them to go. Jason’s eyes became wet. They were losing so many good people! The stirrup creaked as he climbed onto his horse.

Farfalee mounted up. “We must away.”

Nia stabbed the fallen conscriptor once more on the way to her horse. Jason wanted to add a stab or two of his own. That was the man who had blinded Galloran! He had just killed Thag and Fet! But there would be no point. It would restore nothing. Jason nudged his horse forward, following Jasher into the night.

CHAPTER 21

TREACHERY

Nedwin had to fight his way awake. His senses knew that something was amiss, but he was in the middle of agony such as he could only suffer while asleep. After he’d lost the ability to feel physical pain, the sensation had begun to find new life in his dreams. The trauma had started innocently—a bone broken in combat, the dull ache of a bad tooth, a tumble into a campfire. Over time the dreamed pain had come to feel increasingly authentic, and nightmares of torture and the attending anguish had grown more common. After the worst dreams he would wake up shivering and drenched in sweat.

Nedwin had always been a light sleeper. The condition had spared his life more than once. But as the excruciating nightmares grew more immersive, he found himself snapping awake at minor disturbances less often.

Tonight he was once again imprisoned in the dungeons of Felrook. Some nights he suffered at the hands of Copernum, other nights Damak, and other nights Maldor himself did the honors. Currently he was under the power of a tormentor called Grim. It was the only name Nedwin had ever heard him called. He was a small man, with dexterous hands. Nedwin suspected that if Grim had learned the violin, he would have become a virtuoso. Instead, Grim had studied torture.

On occasion, while he was in the midst of dire torment, the pain and despair would be interrupted as Nedwin realized he was dreaming. In the past he had found ways to use that recognition to claw his way to consciousness. Over time, as the nightmares became more intense, it was getting harder for Nedwin to deliberately rouse himself from the agony. But the task was always easier when aided by outside stimulation.