A Facet for the Gem (10 page)

Chapter Six

The Missing Prisoner

T
hree large wagons
rolled in single file across the Quiet Waste, each one pulled by ten sullen-faced prisoners where horses ought to have been, and pushed by ten more behind. Having begun two days earlier at the ford of the Freeland River, they carried crates of steel arrowheads and pikes toward Korindelf and were flanked on every side by mounted soldiers who rode with whips at the ready.

Behind the lead wagon, one prisoner with a dark beard uneasily eyed the faltering, sick man beside him. Turning to the rest, he whispered, “This could be trouble… did you hear him coughing all night? He’s not going to make it.”

“None of us may,” answered one whose cloak was shredded open at the back, dried blood staining tattered threads around a wound. And those next to him bore marks as well. They all wore meager coverings and stiff leather boots that crackled in the cold, and their sweat-beaded faces burned terribly under frigid air. Snow would soon fall, and this spurred them on faster than their captors’ lashes ever could. Still, all thoughts of getting to Korindelf before winter turned harsh did little to bolster their hopes.

“Save your strength,” an older man among them spoke dismally, legs and back quivering. “After this job is done they’ll only ship us out again, probably on the day we unload these weapons. Reorganize us into different camps when the snow hits.”

The only woman in the group sighed beside him. “I doubt we’ll see each other again. Not until they’ve pooled us into so many camps that we’ve lost track of every name and face.”

“All a part of the Tyrant Prince’s plan,” rumbled a gruff man who was strongly built. “Never teaming us again with the same people after a job. He means to weed out companionship. Kill an uprising before it even has a chance to spring. Same with making us cart supplies like animals, when a few men with horses could bring this load to the city in a day. Wear us down till we have no choice but to accept his rule.”

A tall man added glumly, “And our families soon forget us. I’ve not seen mine in almost six months, and before that, hardly at all since he took control. A year already, and the last I saw my wife, she told me that all children are instructed to follow him… even love him. That his new order is necessary to lead a dying realm to prosperity.”

“And the Eaglemasters sit idle as his power grows,” the gruff one continued. “I was a farmer at the Freelands, and they came telling us to abandon our fields, our forges, because he was coming. And many fled across the bridge into their realm, leaving it all behind, but not I. I stayed to fight for what I’d worked so many years to build, and his army marched in with hundreds of Korindelf’s people chained in lines among them, with the shriekers all around. I saw a hundred Eaglemasters fall before they finally pulled back, destroying all they could so that Felkoth couldn’t have it, destroying the bridge too. And those few of us who stayed lost everything.”

“The Eaglemasters will do something,” the woman replied. “They will. They have to. King Valdis has always been true to Korindelf. He’ll not simply leave us to die.”

The sick man groaned, convulsing as his limp arms merely rested upon the wagon, and the darkly bearded fellow beside him gave the others an apprehensive look, watching the soldiers as they appeared so far not to notice. “The Eaglemasters can do nothing for us,” he said. “We are going to have to help ourselves.”

“Besides,” said a man whose face was scarred, positioned on the other side of the sick one, “the Eaglemasters have the ferotaurs in the West to ward off as well. And, if Felkoth invades their territory, they may not be around much longer.”

“Would he really strike out that far?” asked the tall one anxiously.

The farmer answered, though keeping his voice low, “Why such a steady flow of weapons to the army? They have the shriekers and whips for us, no need for arrows or pikes.”

“Maybe we should wish him to invade,” the woman broke in hopefully. “Trying to take the Eaglemasters on foot, in their own land. How could he stand a chance?”

“Quiet, you crawlers!” a soldier bellowed from behind, and a whip cracked against the air.

Driving the caravan on for miles more, the prisoners felt their muscles scream out for rest that was ages away, nourished only by scraps of food each was allotted in a small pack. Soon, the eastern woods appeared on the horizon, marking the end of a thirty-mile stretch, and the start of one far longer.

With a brief backward glance, the bearded man took note of the fiery mountain that towered ominously in the center of the Waste. Its silence disturbed him, as though it were capable of shaking the entire earth to pieces, but only waiting for the opportune moment.

Seeing how it drew his attention, the woman stealthily glanced at all nearby soldiers before speaking, hoping they would pay no mind. “Do you know the story of the mountain?” she asked.

He looked diligently from side to side, and after determining it was safe to resume conversation, his eyes asked her to go on.

Relieved to bring an end to the chilling quiet, she said, “According to legend, a terrible winged serpent sprang from these lands long ago. Its hide was forged from molten rock, they say, invulnerable to the devices of men, and the wretched sound preceding its fiery breath was the last thing men heard before death. So the creature came to be called Bloodsong. But, it was no match for the Blessed Ones, who sealed it within the mountain, where it is fabled to slumber to this day. And only he who has killed one of them can break the seal.”

The man glanced uneasily back at the mountain. “Well, I’m glad that is no longer possible.”

At this, the farmer beside them scoffed. “Listen to the two of you, talking as though it were true. That is nothing but a mindless children’s tale.” He chuckled. “Pure farce, like the Missing Prisoner.”

Another quickly interjected, “He is not farce—have you not heard the stories?”

“I have,” said the man whose face was scarred. “Many have said that he turns up in different prison camps.”

“Yes, I’ve heard this too,” the woman whispered. “He blends in with the rest of the prisoners. Then, after a few days, a small group escapes in the night, and he always shows up again somewhere else.”

“The guards know of his efforts too,” said the bearded one. “But they don’t deter him.”

A whip split the air again, this time snapping but a foot away, and the man’s heart sank at the sound of fast-approaching hooves. Throwing all strength forward, he pushed on, and hoped his conspicuous effort would be enough to defuse any danger.

“You there!” the soldier shouted, riding up close on the wagon’s right side with his weapon brandished high. “If I have to silence you again, it will be permanently! And that goes for the lot of you! Understood?”

All nodded in unison, except for the sick man, whose head hung low as he struggled to keep up, hardly exerting any weight against the wagon. The bearded fellow discreetly opened posture to obscure him, and to his well-hidden relief, the soldier slowly withdrew, eyes still burning them while he formed up with the others.

Keeping his face forward under such hostile surveillance, he moved his lips just barely to say, “You, with the scars. We can’t let them see him like this. We can’t let him fall back. It could mean death for all of us—do you understand?”

Silence followed, broken only as the scarred man to the left of the sick one gave a slight cough, which seemed to indicate his affirmation.

Finally they reached the White River, crossing its bridge into welcoming trees, and found the first shelter from frigid winds in what seemed an eternity. With trees standing close against the cleared path, all seventy soldiers were forced away from the caravan’s sides, splitting off so that half rode out in front and half behind. Every prisoner breathed a little easier at this altered formation, less vulnerable now to prying eyes.

But, as the bearded man closely watched the worsening fellow at his left, he could not yet enjoy this newfound comfort. Noticing his worry, the nearby woman whispered, “They even say that he takes shelter within these woods.”

His focus stayed fixed upon the sick man, whose face appeared devoid of all hope, all lucidity, merely a mask around eyes that barely left the ground. Suspecting that the man could fall limp at any moment, he reluctantly turned away and replied, “Who?”

“Him,” she answered. “The Missing Prisoner.”

“Ahh,” the farmer beside them broke in, chiding again. “Enough about him. Why would he be in the woods, of all places, when he should be out performing more miraculous rescues?” he scoffed. “It is a mere tale, born from fear and helplessness.”

“Perhaps,” she rebuked, “he’s waiting for the right opportunity.”

As the two of them disputed, the reins beside the bearded man lost their slack, and the one they bound now lagged behind aimlessly. Grabbing the scarred man’s arm, he directed his attention toward the problem at hand. “Help me. Before they see!” he urged, and hoped that the rest of the caravan would be enough to conceal them from view if they worked quickly.

The two fell back together, nearly stretching their own reins to the limit while they both held the sick man, having grabbed him just as he seemed about to lose his footing, and scurried forward until they brought him against the wagon. Finally realizing the peril these circumstances posed, the seven others strained to make up for their loss of momentum.

“That’s slowing us down!” the farmer grumbled as they assumed their positions. “One man is more than we can spare as it is—we can’t lose the both of you pushing just to go after him. It’ll stop us!”

“We can’t afford to give them any reason to raise their whips, either!” the bearded man seethed in reply. “You know they never stop after just one—when they rip into him, they rip into those beside him next, then the ones beside those!”

The sick one groaned more loudly next to him, suddenly twitched, and sagged low as his hands tried in vain to touch the wagon. “I… I can’t hang on,” he muttered.

“Please, you must! For all of us!” urged the bearded man. But the poor wretch lagged again, and suddenly fell to the ground before they could bring him forward. “No!” he fretted, seeing him now being dragged along behind them. “Come on!” he pleaded to the scarred man, who darted back again, and the others heaved desperately in their absence. “Get up!” he said frantically, and struggled to lift him to his feet while scanning to see if the soldiers had yet taken notice.

Their wagon lost more speed, and the ten who pulled protested loudly, unaware that those who pushed had been reduced to seven. Soon, this imbalance caused them to veer off course, wobbling to the path’s edge until the front left wheel slammed down into a rut, stopping them in their tracks.

The bearded man scuttled forward clumsily, left arm linking with the scarred man’s right as they both hoisted the sick prisoner back to his place. The incensed guards swarmed around the disabled wagon, inspecting each person, none of whom dared look back. Then slowly, the back of his neck tingled from their stares as they found good reason to focus in.

“You!” a harsh voice rang, and he immediately knew it belonged to the soldier who had threatened him before. A long quiet followed, and even the other prisoners soon turned his way.

“You!” the voice boomed angrily again. “You abandoned your post. I know it.”

His heart plunged through ice, sinking lower while the guard considered him more closely. And the sick man seemed barely within the threshold of consciousness, sputtering against their tight support.

“That filth you hold, drop him,” the soldier ordered with a satisfied tone.

But his arms stiffened around the one he’d surely condemn to die by obeying the command.

“Now!” The word barely resonated over his own crying out as the soldier’s whip tore into his back, sending blood to hit the ground before the sick man did.

“Ah,” the guard smiled sadistically, looking down at the helpless captive who trembled upon the dirt. “Here lies our true culprit.” Then, tilting his head with mock inquisitiveness, the soldier laughed. “You’re tired, is that it? You need to rest?”

The man coughed in a terrible fit, barely able to move.

“Or perhaps this work bores you. Do you need something to take your mind off it?” the soldier taunted. Then, dismounting, he lifted his whip. “I can certainly oblige.”

“Please, he’s ill!” the bearded man begged. “Please, don’t!”

“Quiet!” the guard spat, slicing his arm this time with another excruciating lash. “You’re next after I finish this one.”

Blood slowly filled his sleeve below the gash, which throbbed like an execution drum while the man he had tried to help waited to be destroyed.

“You think you’ve suffered thus far?” the soldier hissed over his victim, wrapping several inches of the whip around his wrist for better leverage. “You know nothing of pain.”

The prisoners watched, paralyzed with fear while they began to hear the slightest rustling in the nearby brush, too soft for their cackling enemies to detect.

Clearly savoring every second, with all eyes on him, the guard brandished his whip high, rearing back with deadly purpose, and cast it forth.

But suddenly, the sick man caught the whip in hand. Then, wrenching the soldier through the air like a ragdoll, he stood up quite easily and appeared to be in more than perfect health as his would-be killer skidded across the ground to his feet. Snapping off the reins that bound him to the wagon, he bent down to face the visibly confounded soldier, and said, unafraid, “Do you think your whip is a threat to me?”

All prisoners watched with awe, and as the guards frantically reached for their bows to shoot him down a great uproar broke out in the surrounding woods. Unseen archers around the caravan’s perimeter sent a flurry of arrows from every side, dropping many soldiers in but a few seconds. Thunderous shouts rocked the air from all over while the prisoners crouched low, watching the exposed battalion fire haphazardly into the trees, their obscured attackers quick to counter and lethally accurate.

One soldier carrying a battle horn around his neck blew just one echoing note before a well-placed shot hastily shattered it, and a second threw him from his horse. The deadly rain pressed in, striking down the captors by the dozens. A mere minute or so after the first shots were fired, all noise ceased, and every horse around the caravan was left with an empty saddle.