Chapter 3: Unexpected Visitors
The warehouse smelled like old cloth and warm grass. A permanent odor, but one Sylvie had gotten used to during the long hours of inventory. She tucked a small chunk of pencil behind her ear. A pile of burlap sacks held off the corner. Their puckered tops faced her, cinched together in a complex sailor’s knot.
Hall, one of the farmhands at the governor’s field, lifted the sacks and stood them upright against the wall. Lined up like this, the bags revealed their numbers, painted in faded black ink.
“Bags 124 through 128.” Sylvie glanced at her list. “Rice. Salt in Bags 129 and 130. The knots are Matthew’s so I doubt we’ll find rocks in here.”
It sometimes happened that thieves came in, stole some grain, and put rocks in the bag to hide their theft. More often they lost food in a natural way. An infestation of rats or bugs. Sometimes mold. Sylvie glanced over her shoulder, where Warden was scooping through a half-rotten bag of barley, throwing the black bits on the floor.
Hall stuck a long wooden paddle into Bag 124 and began churning through it. Grains of rice moved with the sound of a gentle rain. Sylvie looked for signs of decay but saw none.
“This one’s good,” Hall said.
Sylvie plucked her pencil from her ear and made a note.
Once the last bag was inspected, Sylvie re-tied the knots and marked up her list. Mold, rats, ants--the usual things had gotten into their food. A pity. For some reason, she thought that, because these bags came from Matthew’s last expedition, the goods would be pristine. But that was silly. What made his last trip different from all the rest?
Warden swept out the barley rot. Sylvie stuck the list back into the inventory book.
“That’s one warehouse down,” she said. “And no thefts, so far, which is good. As my father would say, the moral fiber of the community is still preserved--although I’m sure the locks helped.”
Warden didn’t smile. “It won’t be enough,” he said, propping the broom in the corner. “Even if we lose nothing else, we won’t make it to spring. Not all of us.”
“Your father might be able to get more grain from the Ku Rokai.”
“Let’s hope so.” He held the door out for her.
Outside was overcast. It was about noon. The farmhands loaded the bags into the cart and settled down for lunch.
“I have to say prayers at the church.” Warden put the warehouse keys in his pocket. “Would you like to come with me? We can stop by your house and pick up your things.”
“That’s fine,” Sylvie said. “Do you think we need a guard?”
“Let’s ask.”
Two members of Kendrick’s guard were posted near the second warehouse, scanning the western end of the moat. Karl, big and burly with straight black hair, stood at alert, holding tight to his halberd. Lyndon, one of the musicians, sipped water in the shade, the sleeves of his red jacket rolled up.
“No, you don’t need an escort in the middle of the day,” Lyndon said in answer to their question. “The scouts shouldn’t be active, and there are two guards keeping lookout at the church. You’ll be fine.”
The warehouses stood on mounds of smooth white rocks, most fused together, but some loose. Wooden planks had been pounded between the sturdier rocks. As they descended from step to step, Sylvie glanced at the governor’s field.
The garrison’s morning training had ended. Beyond the carts, the brown-shirted soldiers chugged water, lay on the withered grass, or walked in slow circles. A pile of poles sat in the center, two men bundling them up. One was definitely Kendrick. His crimson cloak hung off his back like an unfurled scroll.
“Did your father ever talk to Kendrick?” Sylvie asked.
“He must have,” Warden said.
“But everything seems normal.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?”
“Father must have talked some sense into him.”
Maybe. Sylvie pressed the inventory book against her chest.
They walked on the road in silence. Warden seemed contemplative.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked.
“Spring.”
“My favorite season.” Sylvie smiled.
“We were supposed to get married in Mother’s garden,” Warden said. “I used to be able to imagine it. How you’d wear white flowers in your hair. How everyone would smile and laugh.” Pause. “Do you think it will still happen like that?”
Her chest tightened. “Things may change…”
For all she knew, she’d be in Mediation, delivering Matthew’s prophecy. Would Warden even want her if he knew what she was?
Suddenly he came to a halt.
“What’s that?”
Warden’s gaze drifted past her shoulder. Sylvie turned. Three women and a teenage boy scrambled over a mound of earth on the other side of the moat.
“Refugees?” she guessed. “Independent farmers who missed this morning’s evacuation?”
“We should help them.”
Warden strode quickly through the rough desert. Sylvie picked up her skirts and tried to keep pace. While the refugee women slid into the moat, the boy backed up and took a running leap. He sailed all four feet over the moat and landed in a crouch.
The boy’s hair was mostly shaved off except for a few long, curly locks, and his face was smeared with dirt. As soon, as he stood, his eyes shot to Warden.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name’s Warden. I’m the apprentice-priest of Brenton.”
“Warden?” the boy said loudly. “Not Kend--Not Eamon’s son?”
“Are you refugees?” Warden asked. “What happened?”
“Ku Rokai,” the boy said.
He bent over the moat and grabbed the hand of a tall young woman wearing a rust-brown dress. A straw hat perched lopsided on a head of stringy brown hair. The woman looked down. Probably frightened.
“Don’t worry,” Sylvie said. “You’re safe now.”
She took the girl’s hand, which was large with dirt under the nails.
That’s when Sylvie noticed the knife the young woman gripped in her other hand. Not a kitchen knife, but a long blade covered with blood.
Sylvie dropped the girl’s hand and took a step back.
“Warden,” she said.
Warden knelt over the moat, helping up a woman in a pink dress. In addition to the floppy hat, this woman’s face was covered with a scarf, wrapped round and round her mouth, like she was expecting a sandstorm.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“Such a helpful young man,” she croaked in a muffled voice.
A third woman lifted herself from the moat. As she scrambled up, her hat fell off. Underneath was a shaved head. The woman quickly grappled for her hat, but not before Sylvie got a good look at her face. No, his face. It was a man wearing a dark brown dress spattered with blood.
“Warden!” Sylvie yelled.
Warden looked up.
The man with the blood-spattered dress tackled him and pinned him to the ground.
Sylvie dropped the inventory book and ran. But the tall girl--the tall boy--lunged at her. He grabbed her arm, and jerked her back toward him. He brought the knife close to her face.
“Scream and I’ll cut you,” he said.
Sylvie froze.
“Really, Dean, you’re going to frighten her that way.”
The woman--the man--that Warden had helped out of the moat removed the scarf and pulled off his hat. He was about thirty or so and had a roughly shaved face and dark hair cut close to his scalp. His eyes were a light brown with heavy eyebrows, but his mouth was very expressive, and when he smiled, he showed perfectly straight, white teeth.
“I apologize for such a rough entrance,” he said. “But having the governor’s youngest son is a lucky opportunity for me, and I’d really hate to lose it.”
“Who are you?” Sylvie said.
“I am Jer, and these are my Men of the Desert.” He made a little bow. “I wanted to talk to Governor Eamon today. Having the two of you by my side will make him much more open to suggestion.”
Hall, one of the farmhands at the governor’s field, lifted the sacks and stood them upright against the wall. Lined up like this, the bags revealed their numbers, painted in faded black ink.
“Bags 124 through 128.” Sylvie glanced at her list. “Rice. Salt in Bags 129 and 130. The knots are Matthew’s so I doubt we’ll find rocks in here.”
It sometimes happened that thieves came in, stole some grain, and put rocks in the bag to hide their theft. More often they lost food in a natural way. An infestation of rats or bugs. Sometimes mold. Sylvie glanced over her shoulder, where Warden was scooping through a half-rotten bag of barley, throwing the black bits on the floor.
Hall stuck a long wooden paddle into Bag 124 and began churning through it. Grains of rice moved with the sound of a gentle rain. Sylvie looked for signs of decay but saw none.
“This one’s good,” Hall said.
Sylvie plucked her pencil from her ear and made a note.
Once the last bag was inspected, Sylvie re-tied the knots and marked up her list. Mold, rats, ants--the usual things had gotten into their food. A pity. For some reason, she thought that, because these bags came from Matthew’s last expedition, the goods would be pristine. But that was silly. What made his last trip different from all the rest?
Warden swept out the barley rot. Sylvie stuck the list back into the inventory book.
“That’s one warehouse down,” she said. “And no thefts, so far, which is good. As my father would say, the moral fiber of the community is still preserved--although I’m sure the locks helped.”
Warden didn’t smile. “It won’t be enough,” he said, propping the broom in the corner. “Even if we lose nothing else, we won’t make it to spring. Not all of us.”
“Your father might be able to get more grain from the Ku Rokai.”
“Let’s hope so.” He held the door out for her.
Outside was overcast. It was about noon. The farmhands loaded the bags into the cart and settled down for lunch.
“I have to say prayers at the church.” Warden put the warehouse keys in his pocket. “Would you like to come with me? We can stop by your house and pick up your things.”
“That’s fine,” Sylvie said. “Do you think we need a guard?”
“Let’s ask.”
Two members of Kendrick’s guard were posted near the second warehouse, scanning the western end of the moat. Karl, big and burly with straight black hair, stood at alert, holding tight to his halberd. Lyndon, one of the musicians, sipped water in the shade, the sleeves of his red jacket rolled up.
“No, you don’t need an escort in the middle of the day,” Lyndon said in answer to their question. “The scouts shouldn’t be active, and there are two guards keeping lookout at the church. You’ll be fine.”
The warehouses stood on mounds of smooth white rocks, most fused together, but some loose. Wooden planks had been pounded between the sturdier rocks. As they descended from step to step, Sylvie glanced at the governor’s field.
The garrison’s morning training had ended. Beyond the carts, the brown-shirted soldiers chugged water, lay on the withered grass, or walked in slow circles. A pile of poles sat in the center, two men bundling them up. One was definitely Kendrick. His crimson cloak hung off his back like an unfurled scroll.
“Did your father ever talk to Kendrick?” Sylvie asked.
“He must have,” Warden said.
“But everything seems normal.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?”
“Father must have talked some sense into him.”
Maybe. Sylvie pressed the inventory book against her chest.
They walked on the road in silence. Warden seemed contemplative.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked.
“Spring.”
“My favorite season.” Sylvie smiled.
“We were supposed to get married in Mother’s garden,” Warden said. “I used to be able to imagine it. How you’d wear white flowers in your hair. How everyone would smile and laugh.” Pause. “Do you think it will still happen like that?”
Her chest tightened. “Things may change…”
For all she knew, she’d be in Mediation, delivering Matthew’s prophecy. Would Warden even want her if he knew what she was?
Suddenly he came to a halt.
“What’s that?”
Warden’s gaze drifted past her shoulder. Sylvie turned. Three women and a teenage boy scrambled over a mound of earth on the other side of the moat.
“Refugees?” she guessed. “Independent farmers who missed this morning’s evacuation?”
“We should help them.”
Warden strode quickly through the rough desert. Sylvie picked up her skirts and tried to keep pace. While the refugee women slid into the moat, the boy backed up and took a running leap. He sailed all four feet over the moat and landed in a crouch.
The boy’s hair was mostly shaved off except for a few long, curly locks, and his face was smeared with dirt. As soon, as he stood, his eyes shot to Warden.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name’s Warden. I’m the apprentice-priest of Brenton.”
“Warden?” the boy said loudly. “Not Kend--Not Eamon’s son?”
“Are you refugees?” Warden asked. “What happened?”
“Ku Rokai,” the boy said.
He bent over the moat and grabbed the hand of a tall young woman wearing a rust-brown dress. A straw hat perched lopsided on a head of stringy brown hair. The woman looked down. Probably frightened.
“Don’t worry,” Sylvie said. “You’re safe now.”
She took the girl’s hand, which was large with dirt under the nails.
That’s when Sylvie noticed the knife the young woman gripped in her other hand. Not a kitchen knife, but a long blade covered with blood.
Sylvie dropped the girl’s hand and took a step back.
“Warden,” she said.
Warden knelt over the moat, helping up a woman in a pink dress. In addition to the floppy hat, this woman’s face was covered with a scarf, wrapped round and round her mouth, like she was expecting a sandstorm.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“Such a helpful young man,” she croaked in a muffled voice.
A third woman lifted herself from the moat. As she scrambled up, her hat fell off. Underneath was a shaved head. The woman quickly grappled for her hat, but not before Sylvie got a good look at her face. No, his face. It was a man wearing a dark brown dress spattered with blood.
“Warden!” Sylvie yelled.
Warden looked up.
The man with the blood-spattered dress tackled him and pinned him to the ground.
Sylvie dropped the inventory book and ran. But the tall girl--the tall boy--lunged at her. He grabbed her arm, and jerked her back toward him. He brought the knife close to her face.
“Scream and I’ll cut you,” he said.
Sylvie froze.
“Really, Dean, you’re going to frighten her that way.”
The woman--the man--that Warden had helped out of the moat removed the scarf and pulled off his hat. He was about thirty or so and had a roughly shaved face and dark hair cut close to his scalp. His eyes were a light brown with heavy eyebrows, but his mouth was very expressive, and when he smiled, he showed perfectly straight, white teeth.
“I apologize for such a rough entrance,” he said. “But having the governor’s youngest son is a lucky opportunity for me, and I’d really hate to lose it.”
“Who are you?” Sylvie said.
“I am Jer, and these are my Men of the Desert.” He made a little bow. “I wanted to talk to Governor Eamon today. Having the two of you by my side will make him much more open to suggestion.”
* * *
“So,” Kendrick prompted.
“I’m tired,” Len said.
“We’re all tired. That’s no excuse for being sloppy.”
Len shrugged, causing the bundle of padded poles on his shoulder to jump slightly. His head was low, and his sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead.
Kendrick let him be silent for now. Len would tell him what was bothering him, eventually. He knew the routine.
The person who did worst at training had to tell Kendrick why he’d done so poorly. That, along with putting away the weapons, was his punishment. Kendrick shifted his own set of tied halberd poles to the other arm. He didn’t like to pry, but he needed to be sure his men were focused. Any little break in concentration could mean disaster in battle.
“It’s my sister,” Len said eventually.
“Brooke?”
“I wish she hadn’t come.”
They approached the barracks at the easternmost part of the field, tramping through what would have been potato fields had they bothered to plant anything. The barracks were hardly more than a storehouse, and a poor one at that. Four walls and a stretched canvas where the roof should be--that was the military headquarters of Brenton. Kendrick sighed.
The barracks sat close to Brenton’s dried-up lake. In the abandoned farmhouses surrounding the muddy water, Nolan and Lloyd--the two crossbowmen--played at target practice. Kendrick could hear distant thwacks where the bolts punched into the crumbling clay walls.
Brooke sat at the edge of the moat, playing the flute. The notes were strangely wispy and full of yearning. Brooke’s head swayed to the melody, and the bells tied to her long, loose hair jingled lightly.
“Are you worried about her?” Kendrick said softly.
“Wouldn’t you be?” Len said.
Yes. Always.
Like this morning, when Brooke climbed panting over the moat as the first rays of dawn punctured the clouds. The perfect time for scouts to attack, and she arrived alone. Kendrick nearly had a heart attack. Brooke had a good reason, of course. Jer was coming to Brenton early today. She rushed to make sure he got the message on time.
“Brooke wants to participate in the garrison,” Kendrick said. “Frankly, she’s too useful for me to send away. I try to minimize the risk, but it’s impossible to eliminate it entirely.”
They stepped into the barracks. It was a mess: jackets everywhere, Alethean shields on the floor, extra axes laying around. They really had to clean this place up.
Len set the poles against the wall. “One of these days, Brooke’s going to really get herself in trouble, and then she won’t be able to get out of it. I don’t want to have to deal with it right now. I want to do my job. That’s all.”
“Then do it,” Kendrick said harshly. “Stick to your practice and don’t think about your family. You won’t have that luxury in battle.”
Len’s mouth tightened.
He softened. “I do understand, though, how difficult focusing can be. I was also distracted. I couldn’t completely block out my father’s words.”
“What happened?” Len said.
Kendrick stepped back outside. “I told him I was leaving to join Jer,” he said, stretching his sword arm a bit. “That was shortly after evacuation. I said I’d made my decision and was determined to see it through.”
“What’d he say?”
“ ‘I see.’ Two words, no inflection. But afterward he had a long talk with Marshall. Then he shut himself in the garden and stayed there all practice long.”
“So he’s ignoring you,” Len said.
“He’s thinking,” Kendrick said. “He always does this before a major decision.”
“Who does?” Brooke asked. She’d come up from behind the moat and was twirling the flute on the cord around her neck.
“My father,” Kendrick said.
“Isn’t that my flute?” Len asked.
Brooke pulled it over her head and handed it back to her brother. “I was keeping an eye out for Jer, but there’s no sign of him. I didn’t hear anything from the other lookouts either.”
“So much for Jer coming early.”
“Everyone has a different idea of early,” Brooke said. “I think of it as before dawn. You think of it as before noon. Maybe Jer thinks of it as before dinner.”
“I don’t care if Jer’s idea of early is two minutes before midnight,” Kendrick said. “Why should he come to Brenton at all? We were supposed to meet at Makya’s farm after evacuation. Why change the location? Why speed it up?”
Brooke shrugged. “I think it has something to do with your father.”
“Speaking of which.” Len jerked his head toward the house.
Kendrick’s father ambled toward them through the empty field. Everyone fell silent.
“Hello, Len,” his father said. “Did you have a good practice?”
“It was fine,” Len said shortly.
“And Brooke, you aren’t too bored here, I hope.”
“Not at all. I’ve been playing the flute, making up songs in my head. I’ve thought of some new codes for the garrison. Would you like to hear them?”
“Maybe some other time.” His father’s eyes turned toward him. “Kendrick, I’d like to have a talk with you. Perhaps by the lake.”
“Very well,” Kendrick said.
At this time of the year, the lake was hardly more than a silver sheen of water. They passed Lloyd and Nolan, who were heading back for the barracks, and stopped at a dilapidated old house. His father leaned back against the wall, his good hand tucked in his jacket pocket. Kendrick crossed his arms, remembered that made him look petulant, and folded his hands behind his back. Tiny flies dimpled the surface of the water.
“I’ve considered what you said earlier,” his father said. “You think it’s immoral to hand Jer over to the Ku Rokai. I respect that. But in that case, I cannot have you lead the garrison. Marshall will take your place. I’ve spoken to him, and he agrees. It’s for the best.”
Kendrick nodded.
It wasn’t a surprise. He’d all but given his resignation, after all, and Marshall was the logical choice to succeed him. He’d anticipated this. Planned for it, in fact.
“Marshall is a good man and an experienced soldier,” Kendrick said. “I believe he’ll lead the garrison admirably in my absence.”
His father stared at the lake.
“You’ve put me in a dilemma, Kendrick. I must deliver Jer to the Ku Rokai; that is our arrangement. And if you become one of his followers, I must turn you over as well. I’ve thought about how to keep you from joining him, and in the end it’s quite simple. You won’t follow Jer. You’re smarter than that.”
“What do you mean?” Kendrick said cautiously.
“Jer has no future,” his father said. “His Men of the Desert have dwindled, and the Ku Rokai have an empire. Even if Jer could free the desert, the Ku Rokai can simply send more soldiers: a thousand men, five thousand men, ten thousand men, year after year, until everyone is dead. What can Jer do to stop them?”
Kendrick looked away. He wished he could tell his father his real plan, let him know he wasn’t stupid and impulsive. But that was impractical. Telling his father could ruin everything.
“We don’t have to fight alone,” Kendrick said. “We humans also have an empire.”
A flicker of anger cracked the surface of his father’s face.
“The Theodorian Empire will not help us.” Eamon took his hand out of his pocket. “Our king has abandoned us. What can Jer do to change that? Do you think because he kills some Ku Rokai, the king will rush to anoint him Lord of the Desert?”
Kendrick didn’t make a sound.
“No.” His father’s eyes sparked. “You think the king will make you Lord of the Desert. You think he’ll give you armies to conquer the Ku Rokai.”
“I don’t think that,” Kendrick half-lied.
“Get that idea out of your head,” his father snapped. “The king will never make you lord. Never. Is this the reason you’d turn to Jer? To fulfill some pointless ambition?”
“I want the desert to be something,” Kendrick said. “Not a patch of weeds, stomped down under the heel of the Ku Rokai. I want a better life for our people.”
His father opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sharp shriek of a flute.
“What does that mean?” his father asked.
“Attention. There’s a messenger coming.”
It was Karl--he recognized his heavy build. Kendrick tensed. Karl was always such a diligent guard. Something must have happened to bring him so far from his post.
“What is it?” Kendrick said.
“Jer’s holding Warden and Sylvie hostage.”
“What?”
“He wants to speak to the governor,” Karl said. “Eamon must meet him at the warehouses, or he’ll toss Warden and Sylvie to the Ku Rokai and see what they do to them.”
“I’m tired,” Len said.
“We’re all tired. That’s no excuse for being sloppy.”
Len shrugged, causing the bundle of padded poles on his shoulder to jump slightly. His head was low, and his sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead.
Kendrick let him be silent for now. Len would tell him what was bothering him, eventually. He knew the routine.
The person who did worst at training had to tell Kendrick why he’d done so poorly. That, along with putting away the weapons, was his punishment. Kendrick shifted his own set of tied halberd poles to the other arm. He didn’t like to pry, but he needed to be sure his men were focused. Any little break in concentration could mean disaster in battle.
“It’s my sister,” Len said eventually.
“Brooke?”
“I wish she hadn’t come.”
They approached the barracks at the easternmost part of the field, tramping through what would have been potato fields had they bothered to plant anything. The barracks were hardly more than a storehouse, and a poor one at that. Four walls and a stretched canvas where the roof should be--that was the military headquarters of Brenton. Kendrick sighed.
The barracks sat close to Brenton’s dried-up lake. In the abandoned farmhouses surrounding the muddy water, Nolan and Lloyd--the two crossbowmen--played at target practice. Kendrick could hear distant thwacks where the bolts punched into the crumbling clay walls.
Brooke sat at the edge of the moat, playing the flute. The notes were strangely wispy and full of yearning. Brooke’s head swayed to the melody, and the bells tied to her long, loose hair jingled lightly.
“Are you worried about her?” Kendrick said softly.
“Wouldn’t you be?” Len said.
Yes. Always.
Like this morning, when Brooke climbed panting over the moat as the first rays of dawn punctured the clouds. The perfect time for scouts to attack, and she arrived alone. Kendrick nearly had a heart attack. Brooke had a good reason, of course. Jer was coming to Brenton early today. She rushed to make sure he got the message on time.
“Brooke wants to participate in the garrison,” Kendrick said. “Frankly, she’s too useful for me to send away. I try to minimize the risk, but it’s impossible to eliminate it entirely.”
They stepped into the barracks. It was a mess: jackets everywhere, Alethean shields on the floor, extra axes laying around. They really had to clean this place up.
Len set the poles against the wall. “One of these days, Brooke’s going to really get herself in trouble, and then she won’t be able to get out of it. I don’t want to have to deal with it right now. I want to do my job. That’s all.”
“Then do it,” Kendrick said harshly. “Stick to your practice and don’t think about your family. You won’t have that luxury in battle.”
Len’s mouth tightened.
He softened. “I do understand, though, how difficult focusing can be. I was also distracted. I couldn’t completely block out my father’s words.”
“What happened?” Len said.
Kendrick stepped back outside. “I told him I was leaving to join Jer,” he said, stretching his sword arm a bit. “That was shortly after evacuation. I said I’d made my decision and was determined to see it through.”
“What’d he say?”
“ ‘I see.’ Two words, no inflection. But afterward he had a long talk with Marshall. Then he shut himself in the garden and stayed there all practice long.”
“So he’s ignoring you,” Len said.
“He’s thinking,” Kendrick said. “He always does this before a major decision.”
“Who does?” Brooke asked. She’d come up from behind the moat and was twirling the flute on the cord around her neck.
“My father,” Kendrick said.
“Isn’t that my flute?” Len asked.
Brooke pulled it over her head and handed it back to her brother. “I was keeping an eye out for Jer, but there’s no sign of him. I didn’t hear anything from the other lookouts either.”
“So much for Jer coming early.”
“Everyone has a different idea of early,” Brooke said. “I think of it as before dawn. You think of it as before noon. Maybe Jer thinks of it as before dinner.”
“I don’t care if Jer’s idea of early is two minutes before midnight,” Kendrick said. “Why should he come to Brenton at all? We were supposed to meet at Makya’s farm after evacuation. Why change the location? Why speed it up?”
Brooke shrugged. “I think it has something to do with your father.”
“Speaking of which.” Len jerked his head toward the house.
Kendrick’s father ambled toward them through the empty field. Everyone fell silent.
“Hello, Len,” his father said. “Did you have a good practice?”
“It was fine,” Len said shortly.
“And Brooke, you aren’t too bored here, I hope.”
“Not at all. I’ve been playing the flute, making up songs in my head. I’ve thought of some new codes for the garrison. Would you like to hear them?”
“Maybe some other time.” His father’s eyes turned toward him. “Kendrick, I’d like to have a talk with you. Perhaps by the lake.”
“Very well,” Kendrick said.
At this time of the year, the lake was hardly more than a silver sheen of water. They passed Lloyd and Nolan, who were heading back for the barracks, and stopped at a dilapidated old house. His father leaned back against the wall, his good hand tucked in his jacket pocket. Kendrick crossed his arms, remembered that made him look petulant, and folded his hands behind his back. Tiny flies dimpled the surface of the water.
“I’ve considered what you said earlier,” his father said. “You think it’s immoral to hand Jer over to the Ku Rokai. I respect that. But in that case, I cannot have you lead the garrison. Marshall will take your place. I’ve spoken to him, and he agrees. It’s for the best.”
Kendrick nodded.
It wasn’t a surprise. He’d all but given his resignation, after all, and Marshall was the logical choice to succeed him. He’d anticipated this. Planned for it, in fact.
“Marshall is a good man and an experienced soldier,” Kendrick said. “I believe he’ll lead the garrison admirably in my absence.”
His father stared at the lake.
“You’ve put me in a dilemma, Kendrick. I must deliver Jer to the Ku Rokai; that is our arrangement. And if you become one of his followers, I must turn you over as well. I’ve thought about how to keep you from joining him, and in the end it’s quite simple. You won’t follow Jer. You’re smarter than that.”
“What do you mean?” Kendrick said cautiously.
“Jer has no future,” his father said. “His Men of the Desert have dwindled, and the Ku Rokai have an empire. Even if Jer could free the desert, the Ku Rokai can simply send more soldiers: a thousand men, five thousand men, ten thousand men, year after year, until everyone is dead. What can Jer do to stop them?”
Kendrick looked away. He wished he could tell his father his real plan, let him know he wasn’t stupid and impulsive. But that was impractical. Telling his father could ruin everything.
“We don’t have to fight alone,” Kendrick said. “We humans also have an empire.”
A flicker of anger cracked the surface of his father’s face.
“The Theodorian Empire will not help us.” Eamon took his hand out of his pocket. “Our king has abandoned us. What can Jer do to change that? Do you think because he kills some Ku Rokai, the king will rush to anoint him Lord of the Desert?”
Kendrick didn’t make a sound.
“No.” His father’s eyes sparked. “You think the king will make you Lord of the Desert. You think he’ll give you armies to conquer the Ku Rokai.”
“I don’t think that,” Kendrick half-lied.
“Get that idea out of your head,” his father snapped. “The king will never make you lord. Never. Is this the reason you’d turn to Jer? To fulfill some pointless ambition?”
“I want the desert to be something,” Kendrick said. “Not a patch of weeds, stomped down under the heel of the Ku Rokai. I want a better life for our people.”
His father opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sharp shriek of a flute.
“What does that mean?” his father asked.
“Attention. There’s a messenger coming.”
It was Karl--he recognized his heavy build. Kendrick tensed. Karl was always such a diligent guard. Something must have happened to bring him so far from his post.
“What is it?” Kendrick said.
“Jer’s holding Warden and Sylvie hostage.”
“What?”
“He wants to speak to the governor,” Karl said. “Eamon must meet him at the warehouses, or he’ll toss Warden and Sylvie to the Ku Rokai and see what they do to them.”
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Warden whispered.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have trusted them.”
Sylvie wanted to sigh. As usual, Warden blamed himself for something he had no control over. He sat on a wooden step with his head between his legs, looking like he was bracing himself for a beating. She rubbed his back.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m not.”
She really wasn’t. Strange, considering that one man held a knife to her back and another crouched in front of her with blood on his dress.
Maybe it had to do with the garrison. Marshall had directed his soldiers to form a tight ring around Jer and point their halberds at him. They’d done that. But there was no passion behind the act, no tension. They might as well be practicing formations.
But it wasn’t only the garrison who looked indifferent. Jer tested his footing on a loose rock, striking a pose. When he puffed his chest and held himself just so, he did appear rather heroic--salmon pink dress non-withstanding. Still, it was hard to take Jer seriously as a threat.
As though sensing she was thinking of him, Jer suddenly turned.
“You’re an honest girl, aren’t you? You must be. You’re the priest’s daughter.” He bent toward her, eye-level. “When people ask you what happened, you’ll tell the truth, right? You’ll say we never hurt you.”
“You haven’t let us go yet,” Sylvie pointed out.
He laughed.
“Why did you come here? What is it you want?”
“Warden wasn’t so far off when he called us refugees,” Jer said. “We do need sanctuary. Avenger Ku Rokai are after us.”
“Avenger Ku Rokai?”
“A group of armored Ku Rokai hell-bent on blood and vengeance.” Jer flashed a toothy grin. “We killed one of their horses earlier. Ku Rokai take offense so easily. Kill a horse, they’ll kill a man. You see where we rank among them.”
Sylvie pulled her arms in.
“Don’t worry,” Jer said. “There’s not more than eight armored Ku Rokai out in the open desert today. I’m sure if we all stick together, we’ll be fine. Isn’t that right, Warden?”
Warden didn’t reply.
“The governor is coming.”
Jer sprang upright.
The excitement in his eyes worried Sylvie. He seemed so eager for this confrontation. Why? He had to know it wouldn’t end well.
Boots stomped and jackets rustled. Marshall motioned with his hand and the ring of soldiers opened. The governor marched through. His eyes were like steel, his one good hand a fist.
“Greetings, Eamon, governor of Brenton.” Jer made a bow. “What an honor it is to finally meet the hero of the Second Ku Rokai Wars.”
“Let my son go.” Eamon’s voice was cold. “Let Sylvie go. Whatever you want from me, they have nothing to do with it.”
“No, they don’t,” Jer said. “But I must have insurance or your men would leap to attack me as soon as I said hello. Much as it pains me, I don’t know if I can consider you a friend. Rumors have reached my ears that you intend to turn me over to the Ku Rokai. Is this true?”
“No,” Eamon said. “We would never bargain with the Ku Rokai.”
Jer smiled. “You’re lying. I know the Ku Rokai are your allies.”
He made a slight motion. His men seized Sylvie and Warden and pulled them to their feet.
The tall man’s knife pressed against Sylvie’s neck. Her heart sped up a little. Yet she understood this was all for show. She and Warden were no more than props for Jer, flags waved for attention.
“What would happen if the Ku Rokai had caught your son today?” Jer carefully placed a hand on Warden’s shoulder. “I ask you to think, Eamon--would they be so nice as to bring him back to you? No. I think they would have murdered him without a second thought. A quick stab through the heart, and they’d leave him lying in a pool of blood. Then they’d carry off his pretty fiancée, and none of your pleading would get her back. Your allies, Eamon.”
“What do you want?” the governor said.
“I want to end the hostility between us,” Jer said. “I envision all humans standing united against our common foe, free from fear, free from oppression, free to live as men. I offer you this chance to break the grip of the Ku Rokai. I want you on our side, Eamon.”
Jer looked the governor straight in the eye, but for some reason, Sylvie found herself glancing at Kendrick, who stood by his father. He’d been thinking of joining Jer earlier. What’d he think of him now? She studied Kendrick’s face, but saw no signs of anger or betrayal. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest as though seriously annoyed.
“You have a strange way of offering an alliance,” Eamon said. “You kidnap my son and then expect me to trust you.”
“I would never hurt another human.”
“Then let them go.”
“Do I have your word that you won’t betray me?” Jer said. “You won’t turn me in to the Ku Roka as soon as my back’s turned?”
“You have my word,” the governor said.
Jer motioned to his men. “Dean, Rafe, release them.”
What?
It was too easy. Why would Jer settle for a promise from a man whose son he held hostage? The governor would say anything to get them released.
The two men put down their knives. The one behind them even gave them a little push. Warden grabbed Sylvie’s hand and walked quickly toward his father. Sylvie followed more slowly, eyes still on Jer. His hands were on his hips, and he had a smug, satisfied grin on his face.
Something was wrong.
“I’ve kept my end of the bargain, Eamon,” Jer said. “Will you keep yours?”
The governor turned to Marshall. “Arrest him.”
“No.” Kendrick’s voice was soft, but clear. “Whatever you may think of Jer, he’s still our best chance of freeing the desert. I won’t let you to hand him to our enemy.”
“Kendrick, stop this.” Eamon sounded exasperated. “My mind’s made up. If you keep on this path, I’ll drag you back to the refugee camp and have you imprisoned until this is over.”
“And how would you do that?” Kendrick said quietly. “These soldiers are my men.”
The halberds shifted. Like a delicate dance, the points swept from Jer to the governor. Not one soldier’s expression changed. They were on Jer’s side from the beginning, Sylvie realized. A cloud rolled over the sun, and the earth darkened. Jer’s face was a mask of benevolence, but his eyes laughed triumphantly.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have trusted them.”
Sylvie wanted to sigh. As usual, Warden blamed himself for something he had no control over. He sat on a wooden step with his head between his legs, looking like he was bracing himself for a beating. She rubbed his back.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m not.”
She really wasn’t. Strange, considering that one man held a knife to her back and another crouched in front of her with blood on his dress.
Maybe it had to do with the garrison. Marshall had directed his soldiers to form a tight ring around Jer and point their halberds at him. They’d done that. But there was no passion behind the act, no tension. They might as well be practicing formations.
But it wasn’t only the garrison who looked indifferent. Jer tested his footing on a loose rock, striking a pose. When he puffed his chest and held himself just so, he did appear rather heroic--salmon pink dress non-withstanding. Still, it was hard to take Jer seriously as a threat.
As though sensing she was thinking of him, Jer suddenly turned.
“You’re an honest girl, aren’t you? You must be. You’re the priest’s daughter.” He bent toward her, eye-level. “When people ask you what happened, you’ll tell the truth, right? You’ll say we never hurt you.”
“You haven’t let us go yet,” Sylvie pointed out.
He laughed.
“Why did you come here? What is it you want?”
“Warden wasn’t so far off when he called us refugees,” Jer said. “We do need sanctuary. Avenger Ku Rokai are after us.”
“Avenger Ku Rokai?”
“A group of armored Ku Rokai hell-bent on blood and vengeance.” Jer flashed a toothy grin. “We killed one of their horses earlier. Ku Rokai take offense so easily. Kill a horse, they’ll kill a man. You see where we rank among them.”
Sylvie pulled her arms in.
“Don’t worry,” Jer said. “There’s not more than eight armored Ku Rokai out in the open desert today. I’m sure if we all stick together, we’ll be fine. Isn’t that right, Warden?”
Warden didn’t reply.
“The governor is coming.”
Jer sprang upright.
The excitement in his eyes worried Sylvie. He seemed so eager for this confrontation. Why? He had to know it wouldn’t end well.
Boots stomped and jackets rustled. Marshall motioned with his hand and the ring of soldiers opened. The governor marched through. His eyes were like steel, his one good hand a fist.
“Greetings, Eamon, governor of Brenton.” Jer made a bow. “What an honor it is to finally meet the hero of the Second Ku Rokai Wars.”
“Let my son go.” Eamon’s voice was cold. “Let Sylvie go. Whatever you want from me, they have nothing to do with it.”
“No, they don’t,” Jer said. “But I must have insurance or your men would leap to attack me as soon as I said hello. Much as it pains me, I don’t know if I can consider you a friend. Rumors have reached my ears that you intend to turn me over to the Ku Rokai. Is this true?”
“No,” Eamon said. “We would never bargain with the Ku Rokai.”
Jer smiled. “You’re lying. I know the Ku Rokai are your allies.”
He made a slight motion. His men seized Sylvie and Warden and pulled them to their feet.
The tall man’s knife pressed against Sylvie’s neck. Her heart sped up a little. Yet she understood this was all for show. She and Warden were no more than props for Jer, flags waved for attention.
“What would happen if the Ku Rokai had caught your son today?” Jer carefully placed a hand on Warden’s shoulder. “I ask you to think, Eamon--would they be so nice as to bring him back to you? No. I think they would have murdered him without a second thought. A quick stab through the heart, and they’d leave him lying in a pool of blood. Then they’d carry off his pretty fiancée, and none of your pleading would get her back. Your allies, Eamon.”
“What do you want?” the governor said.
“I want to end the hostility between us,” Jer said. “I envision all humans standing united against our common foe, free from fear, free from oppression, free to live as men. I offer you this chance to break the grip of the Ku Rokai. I want you on our side, Eamon.”
Jer looked the governor straight in the eye, but for some reason, Sylvie found herself glancing at Kendrick, who stood by his father. He’d been thinking of joining Jer earlier. What’d he think of him now? She studied Kendrick’s face, but saw no signs of anger or betrayal. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest as though seriously annoyed.
“You have a strange way of offering an alliance,” Eamon said. “You kidnap my son and then expect me to trust you.”
“I would never hurt another human.”
“Then let them go.”
“Do I have your word that you won’t betray me?” Jer said. “You won’t turn me in to the Ku Roka as soon as my back’s turned?”
“You have my word,” the governor said.
Jer motioned to his men. “Dean, Rafe, release them.”
What?
It was too easy. Why would Jer settle for a promise from a man whose son he held hostage? The governor would say anything to get them released.
The two men put down their knives. The one behind them even gave them a little push. Warden grabbed Sylvie’s hand and walked quickly toward his father. Sylvie followed more slowly, eyes still on Jer. His hands were on his hips, and he had a smug, satisfied grin on his face.
Something was wrong.
“I’ve kept my end of the bargain, Eamon,” Jer said. “Will you keep yours?”
The governor turned to Marshall. “Arrest him.”
“No.” Kendrick’s voice was soft, but clear. “Whatever you may think of Jer, he’s still our best chance of freeing the desert. I won’t let you to hand him to our enemy.”
“Kendrick, stop this.” Eamon sounded exasperated. “My mind’s made up. If you keep on this path, I’ll drag you back to the refugee camp and have you imprisoned until this is over.”
“And how would you do that?” Kendrick said quietly. “These soldiers are my men.”
The halberds shifted. Like a delicate dance, the points swept from Jer to the governor. Not one soldier’s expression changed. They were on Jer’s side from the beginning, Sylvie realized. A cloud rolled over the sun, and the earth darkened. Jer’s face was a mask of benevolence, but his eyes laughed triumphantly.
* * *
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. The plan was for Kendrick and his closest friends to leave peaceably, not undermine his father’s authority and publicly humiliate him. This was a disaster.
And Jer was enjoying it far too much.
Kendrick gritted his teeth. Jer with his elastic face and pearly teeth. Jer with his pretty posing and grand inflections. Slowly, Kendrick uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides. But ultimately it wasn’t Jer who’d planned the betrayal. That honor fell to Kendrick.
“Will you kill me?” his father asked.
The question was directed toward Jer.
“I told you I don’t hurt humans. I’m a man of my word. But you will be restrained, and so will those who stand with you.” Jer looked at Marshall. “Do you stand by the governor?”
“Yes.”
“Then drop your halberd and join him.”
Marshall glanced at the governor, who nodded. The weapon clattered as it fell on the rocks. Quintin, the only one in Jer’s group not wearing a dress, dove to pick it up.
Jer clapped his hand on Kendrick’s shoulder. “Shall we reassure the civilians?”
“I suppose,” he replied icily.
Thanks to Jer they had an audience--the six farmhands, plus Warden and Sylvie. As Kendrick stepped out of the ring of guards, he tried hard not to look at his little brother, with his wounded eyes. Other men, less hurt and more hostile, grumbled angrily.
Hall stepped right up to him, practically poking him with his bony finger. “I’ve known you since you were a child. Your father’s been good to you and you treat him like this?”
“I have the right to choose who I follow,” Kendrick said. “The governor would try and stop me, so I must temporarily hold him prisoner, until Jer and I make our escape.”
They would need somewhere to keep him, though. Some place with locks.
“Warden.” Kendrick turned to his brother. “Give me the keys to the warehouses.”
“Father--”
“The keys,” he snapped. “Now.”
Wordlessly, Warden handed them over.
“Now I know you’ve all suffered a shock,” Jer said, “but I must ask for your cooperation for a little while longer. We are in the middle of a war. Even as I speak, Avenger Ku Rokai are racing through the desert--”
“What?” Kendrick said. “Avengers are after you?”
“We were on a raid, before we came,” Jer said calmly. “Hence the disguises. My guess is we have an hour until they close in on us. That’s why, for the safety of all, I ask you to stifle your hostility and follow our instructions.”
Kendrick was shocked.
Shock felt like nothing. Like a white flash of lightning with no thunder. What was Jer thinking, intentionally leading armored Ku Rokai into Brenton? They had innocent people left in town. There were women here! A hot feeling sank into Kendrick’s stomach, boiling his innards, making him feel queasy.
Calm down, he told himself. You can protect them. You’ve prepared for this kind of battle.
The moat would prevent armored Ku Rokai from entering except where the road intersected it, the north bridge at the church and the south bridge at the governor’s field. If he could block the bridges, he could defend the town.
“Reid and Shaw, go to the church and help the guards there make a bonfire,” Kendrick said. “A big one--I don’t want any Avengers getting though. Everyone else, empty the carts and push them toward the bridge--”
“And do not fear the Ku Rokai,” Jer interrupted, “for before the day is over, you will see their blood spilled, their armor bent, their corpses littering the ground for the buzzards to peck at. We will prevail.”
The anger Kendrick had quashed a moment before came roaring up again. Behind his back, Kendrick squeezed his hands until they were numb.
“Jer, may I speak to you in private?”
“A strategy meeting,” Jer said. “Excellent idea. Tell your men to handle the preparation, while we formulate our master plan.”
Whatever excuse they needed to get away. Because if Kendrick had to stand here and listen to this idiot ramble, he was liable to explode.
He put Karl in charge of preparing for battle and brought Gregory and Len as guards. They walked up to the second warehouse, the one closer to the moat, where it would be harder for the civilians to hear them.
“Stop with this play-acting,” Kendrick said. “I want to know what you’re doing here and why you’ve decided to needlessly endanger my people.”
The jovial expression dropped off Jer’s face.
“I’m tired of waiting for you to split the garrison,” he said. “By now, everyone should know you and your father are fighting. But do they? No. Folks seem to think the two of you are getting along just fine.”
“I told him I was leaving. I don’t see the need for a spectacle.”
“A spectacle creates gossip. Gossip leaks into the ears of the Ku Rokai. The Ku Rokai interrogate farmers--that’s how they get their news. Do you think farmers know every intimate detail of your private family drama? Spectacle gets people’s attention. Spectacle gets people talking.”
“You might have told me,” Kendrick said. “And what’s your excuse for provoking the Avengers like that? Are you trying to get people killed?”
Jer smiled, a slit across his face. “Maybe I don’t trust you, my half-lord Kendrick. Maybe I’m not sure your little garrison can actually fight. Maybe I want some assurances that you can beat the Ku Rokai before I risk my life on it.”
“Your life’s already at risk,” Kendrick said. “Or did you think I’d let you run to Makya’s farm while my men fought off your enemies? No, you’re staying with us. You’re going to tell me everything you know about the Ku Rokai chasing you.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be open with you? I want you to kill as many Ku Rokai as you can. After all--” Jer’s grin widened, showing teeth. “--I am your ally.”
And Jer was enjoying it far too much.
Kendrick gritted his teeth. Jer with his elastic face and pearly teeth. Jer with his pretty posing and grand inflections. Slowly, Kendrick uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides. But ultimately it wasn’t Jer who’d planned the betrayal. That honor fell to Kendrick.
“Will you kill me?” his father asked.
The question was directed toward Jer.
“I told you I don’t hurt humans. I’m a man of my word. But you will be restrained, and so will those who stand with you.” Jer looked at Marshall. “Do you stand by the governor?”
“Yes.”
“Then drop your halberd and join him.”
Marshall glanced at the governor, who nodded. The weapon clattered as it fell on the rocks. Quintin, the only one in Jer’s group not wearing a dress, dove to pick it up.
Jer clapped his hand on Kendrick’s shoulder. “Shall we reassure the civilians?”
“I suppose,” he replied icily.
Thanks to Jer they had an audience--the six farmhands, plus Warden and Sylvie. As Kendrick stepped out of the ring of guards, he tried hard not to look at his little brother, with his wounded eyes. Other men, less hurt and more hostile, grumbled angrily.
Hall stepped right up to him, practically poking him with his bony finger. “I’ve known you since you were a child. Your father’s been good to you and you treat him like this?”
“I have the right to choose who I follow,” Kendrick said. “The governor would try and stop me, so I must temporarily hold him prisoner, until Jer and I make our escape.”
They would need somewhere to keep him, though. Some place with locks.
“Warden.” Kendrick turned to his brother. “Give me the keys to the warehouses.”
“Father--”
“The keys,” he snapped. “Now.”
Wordlessly, Warden handed them over.
“Now I know you’ve all suffered a shock,” Jer said, “but I must ask for your cooperation for a little while longer. We are in the middle of a war. Even as I speak, Avenger Ku Rokai are racing through the desert--”
“What?” Kendrick said. “Avengers are after you?”
“We were on a raid, before we came,” Jer said calmly. “Hence the disguises. My guess is we have an hour until they close in on us. That’s why, for the safety of all, I ask you to stifle your hostility and follow our instructions.”
Kendrick was shocked.
Shock felt like nothing. Like a white flash of lightning with no thunder. What was Jer thinking, intentionally leading armored Ku Rokai into Brenton? They had innocent people left in town. There were women here! A hot feeling sank into Kendrick’s stomach, boiling his innards, making him feel queasy.
Calm down, he told himself. You can protect them. You’ve prepared for this kind of battle.
The moat would prevent armored Ku Rokai from entering except where the road intersected it, the north bridge at the church and the south bridge at the governor’s field. If he could block the bridges, he could defend the town.
“Reid and Shaw, go to the church and help the guards there make a bonfire,” Kendrick said. “A big one--I don’t want any Avengers getting though. Everyone else, empty the carts and push them toward the bridge--”
“And do not fear the Ku Rokai,” Jer interrupted, “for before the day is over, you will see their blood spilled, their armor bent, their corpses littering the ground for the buzzards to peck at. We will prevail.”
The anger Kendrick had quashed a moment before came roaring up again. Behind his back, Kendrick squeezed his hands until they were numb.
“Jer, may I speak to you in private?”
“A strategy meeting,” Jer said. “Excellent idea. Tell your men to handle the preparation, while we formulate our master plan.”
Whatever excuse they needed to get away. Because if Kendrick had to stand here and listen to this idiot ramble, he was liable to explode.
He put Karl in charge of preparing for battle and brought Gregory and Len as guards. They walked up to the second warehouse, the one closer to the moat, where it would be harder for the civilians to hear them.
“Stop with this play-acting,” Kendrick said. “I want to know what you’re doing here and why you’ve decided to needlessly endanger my people.”
The jovial expression dropped off Jer’s face.
“I’m tired of waiting for you to split the garrison,” he said. “By now, everyone should know you and your father are fighting. But do they? No. Folks seem to think the two of you are getting along just fine.”
“I told him I was leaving. I don’t see the need for a spectacle.”
“A spectacle creates gossip. Gossip leaks into the ears of the Ku Rokai. The Ku Rokai interrogate farmers--that’s how they get their news. Do you think farmers know every intimate detail of your private family drama? Spectacle gets people’s attention. Spectacle gets people talking.”
“You might have told me,” Kendrick said. “And what’s your excuse for provoking the Avengers like that? Are you trying to get people killed?”
Jer smiled, a slit across his face. “Maybe I don’t trust you, my half-lord Kendrick. Maybe I’m not sure your little garrison can actually fight. Maybe I want some assurances that you can beat the Ku Rokai before I risk my life on it.”
“Your life’s already at risk,” Kendrick said. “Or did you think I’d let you run to Makya’s farm while my men fought off your enemies? No, you’re staying with us. You’re going to tell me everything you know about the Ku Rokai chasing you.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be open with you? I want you to kill as many Ku Rokai as you can. After all--” Jer’s grin widened, showing teeth. “--I am your ally.”
* * *
Sylvie still had no idea why Kendrick chose to follow Jer, but at this point, she didn’t care. She was worried about Warden. The shock had yet to leave his face. As Lyndon brought his father and Marshall to the warehouse, Warden stared after them desperately, as though hoping for some sort of signal. But Eamon went quietly, and Warden’s face took on a strangled hue.
Karl banged the ground with the butt of his halberd.
“During battle civilians will do as they’re told,” he said. “Men will unload the cart as quickly as possible, then go straight to the empty warehouse. Women will go to the warehouse now.”
“But--” Brooke said.
“That’s an order.”
A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes.
“All right,” she said.
“Move it,” Karl said.
The farmhands climbed the wagon.
Warden stood there. His eyes were distant, blank. As though he didn’t know who he should follow or what he should do. Sylvie knew if it had been her father, he’d have launched into a sermon on obedience, ordered the governor’s release in the name of God, and possibly incited a rebellion among the farmhands. She was glad he’d left for the refugee camp.
She tugged at Warden’s cloak. “I’ll see you inside.”
He blinked. “What?”
She motioned at the warehouse. “There’s a battle coming. Let’s do whatever we need to in order to keep ourselves safe.”
Warden nodded. Slowly, he slogged toward the carts.
As Sylvie headed for the warehouse, she could hear sacks hitting the ground. Thump. Thump thump thump. Smack, hiss. That was probably the rice spilling out of the bag. So much for all their morning’s work. So much for all those lists of--
The inventory book.
Sylvie froze. She’d dropped the book near the moat when Jer’s men had grabbed them. It was still there.
Oh no.
The inventory book wasn’t essential to their survival, but it was symbolic to both her father and Warden. They equated those lists with structure and civilization. Sylvie could imagine her father yelling at Warden for having lost it, even though it was her fault. It was Warden’s responsibility, he would say. And Warden would absorb the blame, like he always did.
She could go back and get it.
Sylvie glanced over her shoulder. The farmhands were dumping goods onto the field, not even looking in her direction. Lyndon, at the warehouse, was distracted. He had crouched down like a stool, and Brooke was stepping on his shoulders, trying to reach the edge of the warehouse roof.
No one was paying attention to her. No one would notice if she left.
Why was she hesitating? Avenger Ku Rokai weren’t coming for another hour.
Go. Now!
Sylvie dashed off around the bend. She half expected someone to shout, “Get back here!” But no one did. Sylvie kept close to the hill, hiding in its shadow, hoping no one would see her. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. Why was she so anxious? One little act of defiance didn’t make her a bad person.
The inventory book sat untouched in a patch of soft-looking thistle grass. The bow had come undone, and the frayed red edges bled over the soft leather cover. Sylvie gingerly scooped it up. There. Now Warden wouldn’t get in trouble. She started back for the carts.
From the hills came a faint scraping. Sylvie turned--
Something slammed into the side of her head. The pain knocked into her eyes, causing her to vision to spin. She found herself gasping into the dirt, prickly weeds biting into her palms. A violent yank of her hair. Sylvie cried out in pain, but there was no noise, only the taste of salty cotton filling her mouth, choking her. She tried to spit it out and only gagged. She screamed as loud as she could and made only the smallest dent in the quiet.
And then she panicked. She thrashed and kicked. She would have struck with her arms but they were stuck together behind her back, and as much as she tried to pull them apart, nothing happened except a burning pain at her wrists. She tried to wriggle away, but there was a hard pressure pushing against her back, pinning her to dirt. An instant later, she felt a sharp tug around her legs and she couldn’t move them either.
Tied up.
Captured.
Rough sand scraped the side of her face as something flipped Sylvie onto her back. It crouched low over her. A dirt-colored hood covered the top of its head and mouth, but she could see the gray skin around its slit-shaped eyes. Blue eyes with little round pupils.
A Ku Rokai scout.
Karl banged the ground with the butt of his halberd.
“During battle civilians will do as they’re told,” he said. “Men will unload the cart as quickly as possible, then go straight to the empty warehouse. Women will go to the warehouse now.”
“But--” Brooke said.
“That’s an order.”
A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes.
“All right,” she said.
“Move it,” Karl said.
The farmhands climbed the wagon.
Warden stood there. His eyes were distant, blank. As though he didn’t know who he should follow or what he should do. Sylvie knew if it had been her father, he’d have launched into a sermon on obedience, ordered the governor’s release in the name of God, and possibly incited a rebellion among the farmhands. She was glad he’d left for the refugee camp.
She tugged at Warden’s cloak. “I’ll see you inside.”
He blinked. “What?”
She motioned at the warehouse. “There’s a battle coming. Let’s do whatever we need to in order to keep ourselves safe.”
Warden nodded. Slowly, he slogged toward the carts.
As Sylvie headed for the warehouse, she could hear sacks hitting the ground. Thump. Thump thump thump. Smack, hiss. That was probably the rice spilling out of the bag. So much for all their morning’s work. So much for all those lists of--
The inventory book.
Sylvie froze. She’d dropped the book near the moat when Jer’s men had grabbed them. It was still there.
Oh no.
The inventory book wasn’t essential to their survival, but it was symbolic to both her father and Warden. They equated those lists with structure and civilization. Sylvie could imagine her father yelling at Warden for having lost it, even though it was her fault. It was Warden’s responsibility, he would say. And Warden would absorb the blame, like he always did.
She could go back and get it.
Sylvie glanced over her shoulder. The farmhands were dumping goods onto the field, not even looking in her direction. Lyndon, at the warehouse, was distracted. He had crouched down like a stool, and Brooke was stepping on his shoulders, trying to reach the edge of the warehouse roof.
No one was paying attention to her. No one would notice if she left.
Why was she hesitating? Avenger Ku Rokai weren’t coming for another hour.
Go. Now!
Sylvie dashed off around the bend. She half expected someone to shout, “Get back here!” But no one did. Sylvie kept close to the hill, hiding in its shadow, hoping no one would see her. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. Why was she so anxious? One little act of defiance didn’t make her a bad person.
The inventory book sat untouched in a patch of soft-looking thistle grass. The bow had come undone, and the frayed red edges bled over the soft leather cover. Sylvie gingerly scooped it up. There. Now Warden wouldn’t get in trouble. She started back for the carts.
From the hills came a faint scraping. Sylvie turned--
Something slammed into the side of her head. The pain knocked into her eyes, causing her to vision to spin. She found herself gasping into the dirt, prickly weeds biting into her palms. A violent yank of her hair. Sylvie cried out in pain, but there was no noise, only the taste of salty cotton filling her mouth, choking her. She tried to spit it out and only gagged. She screamed as loud as she could and made only the smallest dent in the quiet.
And then she panicked. She thrashed and kicked. She would have struck with her arms but they were stuck together behind her back, and as much as she tried to pull them apart, nothing happened except a burning pain at her wrists. She tried to wriggle away, but there was a hard pressure pushing against her back, pinning her to dirt. An instant later, she felt a sharp tug around her legs and she couldn’t move them either.
Tied up.
Captured.
Rough sand scraped the side of her face as something flipped Sylvie onto her back. It crouched low over her. A dirt-colored hood covered the top of its head and mouth, but she could see the gray skin around its slit-shaped eyes. Blue eyes with little round pupils.
A Ku Rokai scout.
