Brother, Betrayed Page 11

  “No, that…” Denire began.

  The dwarf interrupted him, “If that is truly why you dared to venture into our territory, your concern for him must be enough to allow us to take him.”

  “No, we can’t!” Oman said.

  Denire closed his lips, shutting his eyes a moment. The dwarf tilted his head. “So your concern for him is really so little,” he said, warning in his voice. He didn’t wait for a response, but turned to several of his fighters, motioning to them, and giving out commands in the dwarven tongue. He looked back at the knight. “We will let you keep your weapons. You will come with us. You will lead your horses, you will not ride. You will not stray or resist us, or our hospitality will run out very quickly.”

  “No!” Oman started to argue.

  “We must,” Denire replied.

  Several dwarves came up to the pool where Syah was lying. They knelt down, seizing his arms. Fasime held his brother tighter, staring with wide eyes, wordless and angry.

  Denire’s gaze shifted to him. “Let him go, Fasime.”

  Fasime breathed heavily, but unclasped his arms from around the boy’s chest. The dwarves lifted up Syah’s sleeping body. His brothers and the knight watched as they wrapped him in several blankets, then started to carry him away.

  “I will get the horses,” Denire said. Oman helped Fasime out of the pool and they gathered their things. Other angry fighters stayed behind, watching them closely and waiting for them to leave.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE HEALING

  Syah’s mind woke before his body did. He smiled as he realized it all had been a dream. He was thankful he was back in his room; that it was over, that he was back in his bed. He felt no emptiness and vastness of the open air. He heard a fire. The cushion of the bed and the warmth of the blankets were comforting and familiar. He was thinking about getting up, getting dressed, wondering what the lesson would be this morning, what he would be having for breakfast.

  But his mind snared him, made him realize he was still dreaming. There was a strange smell, something hard, wild, and a touch – something rough and foreign against his skin. He opened his eyes. His mind spinning and confused, he gradually realized he was not at home after all. He did not recognize his surroundings, faintly lit with firelight; the blankets, the stone walls of the room, the bed. The touch on his back had ceased, but the tinge of it was still across his skin. It wasn’t a dream.

  He caught his breath. This was more real than the feeling of being home, in his own bed. He was dressed in loose clothes, covered by thick blankets, but nothing he recognized. His breathing quickened: where was he? He felt the touch again, this time on his arm. Then a strange hand held him and began to turn him over.

  His eyes widened with horror at the figure above him. It was rusty and crisp, with thick hair all around its face and clear eyes set on him. Then Syah realized what the figure was. More than a sketching on a scroll, more than a paragraph in a text: this was a real, living, sentient dwarf, and Syah was completely defenseless against it. The dwarf raised its head, staring at him without emotion. Syah drew away, but realized his weakness. And the pain in his chest was still there, familiar.

  Sinking in despair, Syah heard a voice that said his name. Fasime came to him. He turned to his brother with desperation, but all he could say was, “Fasime!”

  “Don’t be frightened, Syah.” Fasime put his hand on Syah’s face and stroked the hair away from his forehead, thus turning his eyes away from the dwarf.

  “Dreams… Have I gone mad?” Syah demanded, clutching Fasime’s arms.

  “No, of course not,” Fasime answered, holding him close. He shook Syah a little, bringing the frightened gaze back to his face. “They have been caring for you.”

  “How did we get here?”

  Fasime didn’t answer, seeing the dwarf motion to him. The dwarf nodded and turned to leave. Fasime exhaled and then looked back at Syah. The younger’s eyes were wide, his body was rigid, as if someone were holding him at the edge of a cliff, and he was clinging to land with one hand. “It’s all right, Syah, we’re safe. We came to their lands when you were sick with fever. They have been healing you.”

  Syah’s face tightened, but he was silent in thought. His head, his mind couldn’t find any explanation, only a growing ache, for not knowing, not remembering.

  Fasime saw the look come over his face. “Don’t worry over it, brother. We will be leaving here soon. Your fever has loosened its grip on you.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Syah said with desperation, his eyes going back to Fasime. He tried to push himself up, but he was only able to lift his head. Fasime watched his struggling, and put a hand on his shoulder and a hand on his head.

  “Not now, wait. You still need rest. Oman and Denire are out hunting for us. They will return soon. And perhaps by tomorrow you will be able to ride.”

  “Tomorrow?” Syah cried, the ache in his head sharpening.

  “Don’t worry now, Syah. I think we’re all right.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Syah said.

  “For now, we don’t have a choice.” Fasime took in a deep breath, watching Syah settle back a little. “Besides, I thought you would be interested in learning more about another race, excited to be around them in person.”

  Syah shuddered. “They are safe in books.”

  Fasime smiled and leaned forward. “Get some rest. No harm will come to you while I’m here.” Syah closed his eyes as Fasime ruffled his hair. He watched Fasime sit down in the chair by the door.

  “I don’t remember coming here,” Syah whispered after Fasime closed his eyes.

  “Don’t think about it,” Fasime answered, shifting in the chair.

  “I don’t remember anything,” the youngest confessed gravely.

  “Don’t think about it anymore,” Fasime repeated in a firm tone. There was a moment of silence.

  Syah tried to blink the dizziness from his sight.

  “I don’t want them to come back,” Syah murmured, on the edge of sleep. “They are not safe, not for us.”

  The room was silent, and the two princes slept.

  There was a sound of footsteps, drawing Syah back to the strange room, the bed, and the unease. He knew where he was as he opened his eyes. But it was different now: warm light shone on the stone walls through the window and the open door. Syah stopped looking around the room as he saw someone coming in through the door. The shadow of the figure made his heart pound. It wasn’t human.

  Syah stifled his fear as he realized Fasime was waking in the chair beside the door. His brother stood. The figure in the doorway moved to Fasime, joined by another similar figure. “What’s wrong?” Fasime asked them, his voice faltering only a little. Syah clenched the blankets in his hands.

  “Sir Fasime,” one of the dwarves said cordially, bowing his head, “you are to come with us.”

  Fasime looked from one of the dwarves to the other. A movement at the door proved to be three more dwarves, entering and stepping up to either side of Syah’s bed. Syah’s eyes snapped back to his brother. One of the dwarves beside Fasime put his hand on the prince’s arm, then the other did the same.

  “Come,” one of them said.

  Fasime’s gaze met Syah’s. He was still, his face blank, not angry or afraid as Syah felt. The dwarves beckoned him with a pull of his arms. “Come,” one said again. Fasime took in a shaky breath and then nodded, letting them lead him to the door. He did not break his gaze with Syah until they turned him and they went out the door.

  Syah felt a sickening clutch in his gut and up his throat as more dwarves came in the door. His brother did not return. He realized that he was alone. His body grew tenser, his breath more labored, as he looked at one of the dwarves by his bed. The dwarf’s face was calm; his eyes were attentive, but not threatening. Syah looked at another and saw he was the same. Although they showed no anger or hostility, Syah felt fear pulse through him.

  He swallowed. From the doorway came a c
lear, hard sound that lured his attention away from the wall of dwarves around him. Syah squinted his eyes against the sunlight, and saw that a staff had made the thud. He heard another thud; the staff’s holder was approaching. The dwarves beside his bed moved so that the figure in the doorway could step between them.

  Syah was fascinated by his face. It was covered with thick hair, like the rest. This one’s hair, however, was gray and long, tamed and braided, strung randomly with colored beads. His skin was ancient, like a weathered statue, and just as firm. He was covered with cloth and leather, trinkets and beads. When Syah looked into the aged dwarf’s eyes, he felt a strange twinge of apprehension. The dwarf’s gaze was sharp and yet elusive, as if it penetrated Syah’s thoughts, but shadowed his own intentions. The dwarf stepped closer, not looking away from Syah as his staff thudded one more time, powerfully. Syah shuddered. The aged dwarf’s eyes stayed on him, unblinking, and Syah’s hands tightened, but he didn’t draw away from him.

  After a moment the dwarf’s expression seemed to soften, and Syah breathed again. The dwarf looked away from Syah’s face, down to his limp body beneath the covers. He studied Syah, as if he were reading a book. Syah clenched his jaw as the younger dwarves around him studied him as well. Syah felt a growing unease as he looked back to the eldest. The ancient eyes met his again.

  The dwarf leaned his staff on the bed and then moved his hands towards the prince. Syah drew back. He felt the touch on his skin beneath his neck, but he was not afraid. Its roughness was like the touch of a stone, but warmly alive. Syah’s brows lowered as he watched the old man pull the covers off his chest. His eyes followed the dwarf’s to his lower chest, to where the pain was. His chest was distorted; the skin over his ribs was red and swollen, and on one side, the upper abdomen was larger than it should have been. Syah’s body pressed down into the bed as if he could get away from the sight of it, and the excruciating pain that swelled near his waist. His eyes went sharply back to the dwarf beside him, to the other dwarves around him, suspicious of their intent.

  The elder dwarf spoke then, his voice like the melodious grinding of stone, his dwarven words spoken smoothly, “He is very ill.” Syah clenched his jaw, keeping his eyes on him. “We will have to cut him open,” the dwarf continued. Syah’s eyes opened even wider. He tried to draw back, but the dwarves did not move to stop him.

  The aged dwarf’s gaze returned to him. He seemed to smile, and he said in his own rough tongue, “You speak Dwarven.” Syah was motionless, confused, but then shook his head as he looked away from him, trying to make himself understand what was happening. He had been tricked. Syah looked back up to him. “Yes, you do. And what human child would learn our language?” Syah was very still, like a rabbit caught in a trap. “What human child, unless a prince?”

  Fear and surprise overwhelmed Syah. He returned the old dwarf’s stare, trying to decipher what his reaction should be. “Fear not, young prince. We will not harm you, based upon you being a son of the human king.” Syah believed him, but he still was blinking with confusion. “We are here to help you,” the old man said. “Sickness.” He nodded to Syah’s chest. “Sickness is deep in you. You will be in discomfort, pain, but it will be brief.”

  Syah tilted his head, his brows lowering again. “Who are you?” Syah asked, doing his best to use the little Dwarven he knew – even though it sounded childish to him.

  The dwarf did smile then. “An enemy of sickness,” was his answer. “Now, young prince, lie still.” The dwarf’s hands came towards Syah again. This time one hand stayed on his chest, then moved down to the sore area, the red intrusive swelling. Syah braced. He clenched his teeth as the dwarf’s rough touch sent ripples of sharp pain through his body. Finally, when his teeth ached from holding it back, he let out a brief cry.

  Fasime turned swiftly around, ready in an instant to push past the dwarves and barge through the door. But they grabbed his arms.

  “No!” Fasime cursed himself, trying to wrestle free.

  “You should not enter,” one of them said hurriedly. “They are healing him.”

  “You are hurting him! I will not let you!”

  “No,” the other said as they pulled the struggling prince back, “they are helping him. We should not stay here.”

  “Let me go!” Fasime cried. Their grips grew stronger on his arms.

  “We will walk away from here. Let your mind ease.”

  “No harm will come to him,” the other dwarf assured him. They started to drag Fasime away from the house. Fasime strove against them, kicking and trying to pull his arms free from their grips.

  After they were a few houses down the road, Fasime stopped fighting them. He sagged in their hands. “All right, all right! Let me go.”

  Syah opened his eyes and relaxed his jaw a little. “Yes,” the aged dwarf’s rumbling voice came to his ears, “it is very deep.” The prince did not look at him, trying to stop his body from shaking. “It is very deep, but we can still draw it out.” Syah’s face paled and his eyes met the old man’s. “Prepare yourself,” the dwarf said, raising his head. “The pain will be strong.” The dwarf placed his hand over Syah’s head.

  “What are you going to do?” Syah demanded, though a stronger fear was held back somehow by the dwarf’s rough hand. The other dwarves grasped his arms and legs, lifting them. Syah was about to try to fight them off, but something about the hand on his forehead calmed the impulse. He felt a tingling sensation, somehow easing his thoughts, moving him further away from the fear. The grips on his limbs steadied. Then there was another tingling rush through his head. Syah was frightened, but the hand shifted, and he felt a wave of weariness. His eyes closed a long moment, then he opened them again, but only partially. His breath was deep. His fear was being pushed away.

  “Prepare yourself.” The Dwarven words rolled over him. He saw the faces of the dwarves around him, staring down at him intently. The old dwarf was looking away, but his hand still stayed on his head. He reached for something, but Syah sensed no danger from it. As the dwarf focused again on Syah’s chest, the dwarves around him started to… sing. Syah realized it was singing after a moment. It was some ancient song that his teachings didn’t allow him to understand completely. It told about battle, though, about bravery.

  Syah’s eyes sharpened as he saw what was in the dwarf’s hand. It was a talon, dangerously sharp, curved, black and long. The dwarf was moving it over the swollen area. At the same moment, he felt the grips on him shift. He found he couldn’t move his arms or legs at all, he couldn’t even tighten them. Syah’s breathing quickened, his eyes widened. Then the hand on his forehead pressed down: he felt the tingling sensation again. Even as he did, he saw the tip of the talon on his skin, he felt it being pushed in. Nothing could stop the pain – tearing, shrieking pain cutting through him. Syah couldn’t help but scream, as if it would alleviate the terrifying feeling inside him. The talon sliced deep through skin, through flesh; and now he felt the very bone being crushed. He screamed. He screamed through every part of his body, though he couldn’t fight it.

  Fasime heard his brother’s cries. This time, he didn’t let his inaction best him. He turned around and started back towards the house, back towards Syah. But the dwarves stood in his way. Fasime moved to go around them, but they stepped in his path. He stopped, hearing the screams sharpen, growing more desperate.

  “Syah!” he called, looking past the dwarves. They came towards him again and he grabbed his sword. The dwarves changed their stances, but they did not draw their weapons. Fasime had no intention of cutting them: he thought the sword would scare them out of his path, but it did not. “You’ll let me go or I’ll run you through!” Fasime warned.

  A dwarf took hold of his arm and twisted it, folding Fasime’s body so that he lost control of his stance. Another seized his other arm, and somehow he lost hold of his sword. Fasime yelled, trying to fight them off, but they dropped him. He found his face, his body on the ground and his arms pincered behind him. His b
ody settled as he realized he couldn’t move, he couldn’t break their grip. “Syah!” he said with what force he could, because his chest was pushed against the ground.

  “Don’t fear, young man,” said one of the dwarves. “He is in pain, but they are helping him. He is safe.”

  “No, I have to stop it!” Fasime attempted to free himself again, but he could only move his legs and head a little, and they never left the dust of the road.

  Tears flooded Syah’s eyes. The pain was easing a little, but the shocks of it still rolled through his body. His chest ached, not just from the wound but also from the screaming. He tried to breathe, though his breath was shallow. He blinked the tears from his eyes. The dwarves around him still held him immobile. He tried to see a clear image of the aged dwarf, but something was wrong with his vision. The old dwarf’s face seemed to be glowing; his eyes were cloudy gray.

  Syah blinked; it wasn’t his vision. The other dwarves were looking at his wound. He saw their faces clearly. Had the pain driven him mad? He looked at the aged dwarf again. He could see a strange light, a glow from the dwarf’s hand as it moved over the wound.

  Syah had forgotten the hand on his forehead until it shifted; he felt a soft tingle of energy again, but his eyes were able to stay on his chest. He lay there, unblinking. He saw the hole the talon had made, just below the ribs. A strange bright mist was streaming out of it, towards the dwarf’s hand over his wound. Syah’s mind tried to comprehend what his eyes witnessed. He could feel it happening; something inside the wound was leaving him, drawing out with a tangible force, and disappearing as it reached the hand of the old dwarf. It was as if every hardship and every ounce of pain he had endured since his fall were being not just submerged, but released completely. His body relaxed, so much that he couldn’t help but close his eyes and rest.

  Chapter Twelve

  DREAMS