Seeds of Rebellion (24 page)

Corge snorted. “What about your reputation for justice?”

“This is just. We both have swords. You tried to kill me when
you had the advantage. Now I’ll try to kill you. Not my fault if I’m better at it.”

Aram quietly came up behind Corge and crooked one muscular arm around his neck. The half giant braced his free hand against the back of Corge’s head and applied pressure until the conscriptor slumped into unconsciousness. “We don’t have time for banter.”

“I suppose we can leave him alive,” Ferrin sniffed. “He won’t have much more to share with our foes than the displacer who fled. Incidentally, Aram, well done back there. You were amazing. Worth every drooma.”

“It helped that they fought like fog-bound sheep.”

Ferrin laughed. “They had no idea they were racing into combat against a half giant. Next time they may not be so brash. I’m keeping Corge’s horse. Are you two happy with your mounts? I noticed a few good ones that Aram didn’t butcher.”

“You said to fight dirty,” Aram reminded him. “Jason and I will retain our steeds. Chancy chose well, and we have no time to spare.”

“No argument here,” Ferrin agreed, grabbing some gear and mounting Corge’s horse.

“Should we scatter the other horses?” Jason asked.

“Not worth the time,” Ferrin said. “There are more horses in the village. When reinforcements get here, they’ll already be mounted.”

Aram maneuvered his horse close to Jason. “You did well back there,” he said, placing a large hand on Jason’s shoulder.

“Whatever. I should be dead. Thanks for bailing me out.”

“You were more effective than I expected with those rocks. And you survived your first swordfight. Many can’t say the same.”

“Dawn approaches,” Ferrin reminded them, kicking his horse into motion.

Aram nodded. “Let’s cover some ground before I shrink.”

They rode cross-country to the southwest as the eastern sky brightened behind them. As sunrise seemed imminent, Aram brought them to a halt near a small glade, dismounted, and stripped down to his breeches. He packed his armor, sword, and heavy cloak onto his big horse, collected a bundle from his saddle, and started toward the glade.

“Where are you going?” Ferrin asked.

“To get a little privacy,” Aram replied.

“Why?” Ferrin pursued.

Aram averted his gaze. “You think I want you watching? It’s humiliating!”

“We can turn away,” Jason said. “We won’t look.”

Aram’s meaty shoulders sagged. “All right.”

“Here comes daybreak,” Ferrin announced jovially. “Shall we avert our eyes?”

“We have almost a minute,” Aram said. “Sorry to be particular about this. You see, at night I feel like my true self. I don’t when I’m Goya or Burt. I hate the thought of people looking at big Aram and picturing some puny—”

Aram uttered a low, involuntary groan.

Ferrin and Jason glanced at each other and turned away.

Behind them, Aram panted and grunted. They waited.

“All right,” said a less manly voice.

Jason and Ferrin turned. Aram, face shiny with sweat, pulled a small pair of pants over his skinny legs. His shrunken hands trembled.

Ferrin struggled not to smile. He was unsuccessful.

Ferrin’s involuntary grin forced Jason to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Ferrin noticed and began to shake, eyes watering.

Aram hastily pulled on a shirt. Then he folded his arms,
glaring grumpily up at the others. “Go ahead, let it out, have a good laugh.”

They did.

Feeding off each other, magnified by the knowledge that the laughter was so inappropriate, their mirth was uncontrollable. Ferrin buried his face, attempting to compose himself. Jason stared at the ground, trying to summon sober thoughts.

“We need to go,” Aram said indignantly, clambering up onto his suddenly oversized horse. Atop the huge stallion, he looked like a little jockey.

Jason coughed out a final laugh.

Ferrin shook quietly, wiping tears from flushed cheeks.

“Finished?” Aram asked. “You two are ruthless.” He looked down at himself. “I guess it’s quite a contrast.”

“We don’t mean to rub it in,” Jason apologized. “We’ve already seen you both ways. It isn’t that big of a deal.”

“It doesn’t help that you’re so shy about it,” Ferrin tried to explain. “It was more your expression than anything.”

“Let’s leave it behind us,” Aram said, nudging his horse with his heels. The stallion didn’t respond.

Ferrin buried his face in the crook of his arm. Jason ground his teeth.

After Aram flicked the reins and gave a couple of harder kicks, his horse started forward.

CHAPTER
11

B
y the time Ferrin, Aram, and Jason had stashed their horses in the woods below the ruined castle of the Blind King, night had fallen. The glow of the waning moon provided the only light as they surveyed the silent hilltop.

“Very quiet,” Ferrin whispered, eyes intent on the dark castle from his crouched position behind a bush. “Almost looks abandoned.”

“They may be asleep,” Aram said.

“Something’s different,” Jason murmured, his gaze gliding from the crumbling walls to the single tall tower. “I know. There used to be two towers. One that looked ready to collapse. I guess it did.”

“Fortaim is in worse repair than on my last visit,” Ferrin agreed. “Shameful, really. The stronghold was once formidable.”

Staring at the dark windows, Jason bit his lower lip. If imperial troops had beaten them here, Galloran might already have been taken. Or worse. Trying to keep his composure, Jason told himself that they had no actual information yet. Hopefully, there was another explanation.

“Could this be a trap?” Aram asked.

“We’re being hunted,” Ferrin said. “Our enemies could have
anticipated this destination, particularly if the lurker is still aiding them.”

“I haven’t noticed the lurker,” Jason said.

“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been watching,” Ferrin said. “No spy is more stealthy. Then again, it had you in an excellent trap back at the ferry. It might have assumed victory and departed.”

Ever since sunrise, Ferrin had led them across lonely terrain, passing monstrous oklinder bushes and groves of tall, slender trees. They had glimpsed no other people, friend or foe. Ferrin had allowed only a few short breaks to rest and eat some of the greasy clam fritters prepared by Moira. Aram had acted a little sulky all day, but at sundown his attitude had improved with the return of his intimidating size.

“Do we go in?” Jason asked. They had been watching for several minutes.

Ferrin gave a nod. “I have a plan. If this proves to be an ambush, Aram will kill everyone. And their horses.”

“I love strategy,” the big man replied.

“Where does the Blind King sleep?” Ferrin asked.

“At the top of the tower,” Jason said.

Ferrin stared, as if trying to visually penetrate the castle walls. “If this is an ambush, it’s masterful. I haven’t seen a sentry. I haven’t glimpsed a flame or smelled any smoke. I haven’t heard a horse so much as snort.”

“No coughs,” Aram added. “No conversation. No footfalls.”

“Let’s have a look,” Ferrin said. “Stay ready to run.”

The trio slunk forward to a place where the wall had crumbled inward. After listening for a moment, Ferrin gestured for Aram and Jason to wait. Flitting from shadow to shadow, he explored the courtyard, passing out of view. After a few minutes, he returned and waved them in.

Jason and Aram caught up to Ferrin beside a mossy stone block. The displacer was examining a dented helmet. “This belonged to a conscriptor. It hasn’t been here long.”

Rubble from the fallen tower was strewn across the moonlit courtyard. Several wide, shallow depressions cratered the yard. Moving cautiously, Ferrin squatted beside a blackened pit and sniffed. “Orantium,” he murmured. “The explosion was recent.”

Jason felt deflated. This was starting to look really bad for the Blind King. He tried to detach from his emotions, but could not help quietly despairing.

Picking their way through the jumbled stones and timbers left by the toppled tower, Ferrin paused to indicate a dusty arm protruding from the rubble. Farther along, near the gates of the great hall adjoining the only remaining tower, they found a corpse pierced by arrows.

Jason recognized her. “She served the Blind King. She was part of the crazy group making up stories in the throne room.” Despite the rising nausea, he kept his voice steady.

“Imperial troops only leave enemy corpses behind as a mark of disdain,” Ferrin said. “They want the populace to view Fortaim as a monument of shame. I’m afraid the castle is vacant. The troops appear to have moved on.”

“Shouldn’t we check his room?” Jason asked. “He might have left a message.”

“We’ve come this far,” Ferrin said.

The door to the largest, most intact building hung askew on twisted hinges. Inside the great hall, they found the shabby throne overturned and the floor pitted from more orantium detonations. In a corner, Aram spotted a dead hound. Jason noticed dark smears of dried blood on the floor. A broken sword lay near the door granting access to the tower.

Mounting the winding stairs up the tower, they encountered a second cadaver on a landing. “He also served the Blind King,” Jason confirmed, examining the mustached face, struggling to keep his emotions clinical.

At the top of the gloomy stairwell, the door had been forced open. Inside the room, a dark, spindly figure crouched on the windowsill, backlit by the moon.

“Who goes there?” Ferrin challenged, drawing his sword.

“I was here first,” the figure countered, twisting and coiling as if prepared to leap to his doom. “Who are you?”

“Travelers,” Ferrin said. “We seek the Blind King.”

“Poor timing,” the figure replied, voice anguished.

“What happened here?” Aram asked.

“Did a crow peck out your eyes?” the figure cackled. “There was a massacre.”

Jason resisted a vision of Galloran dead alongside the rest of his servants. Stepping around Ferrin, he stared hard at the lanky figure. “Your voice is familiar.”

“Jason?” the figure replied doubtfully, his posture changing. “Is that you?”

“Ned?” Jason gasped. “What are you doing here?”

Ned’s posture relaxed a degree. “I found him,” he said softly. “After all these years, I found him. But I may have lost him again.”

“We’re looking for him too,” Jason said.

Ned’s feet came down from the windowsill. He closed the shutters, then twisted a short length of seaweed, which began to emit a purplish glow.

By the violet light, Jason recognized the strange freckled man who had aided him and Rachel months ago in a seaside village. Then, he had worn a sack with holes cut for his arms and head. Now he wore a soiled shirt and trousers. He remained tall and
gangly, with disheveled hair. A long knife hung from his belt, as did several pouches. He still wore a glove on one hand.

The luminescent seaweed also revealed a pale corpse on the floor: a wiry old man with a long ragged beard, lying supine. Jugard, from the sea cave.