Brother, Betrayed Page 8

  Fasime and Oman lowered their swords in relief. The knight exhaled heavily. Denire stood away from Syah, and his brothers’ eyes locked on his movements.

  The soldier looked down at the crimson blood dripping down his sword. “It seems I must disarm you myself,” he said to the two older princes. “If need be, I will bind you and drag you all the way back to the capital, kicking and screaming.”

  “You’ll hang for it,” Fasime said hotly.

  “Then so be it.” Oman and Fasime regained their stands as the soldier raised his sword and started for them.

  “Yes.” All three of them froze at Syah’s tone. “Attack them.” Denire looked back at him, incredulous. “You will probably win – but not until after they, and you, suffer many wounds.”

  The soldier and the two princes eyed each other.

  “And can you guarantee you wouldn’t seriously hurt one of them?” Syah went on. “We are far from any aid. Are you willing to risk killing one of us?”

  The soldier was still, studying Oman and Fasime. The soldier’s hands tightened and loosened, undecided, on the hilt of his sword.

  “Fine,” Denire said at last. He lowered his sword and stuck its point in the ground. Oman and Fasime didn’t react. The soldier looked at them once more. “I will disarm you by hand.” He advanced; they raised their swords to counter.

  “Of course,” the youngest began again. “You must try to disarm them empty-handed. But they are both trained swordsmen. Chances are they will incapacitate, even kill you, before you can stop them.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I have to…”

  “And then where will we be?” Syah interrupted him. “With your murder hanging over us? After all, you’re only trying to help us. What could we do then? Guilty and afraid, we will delve, deeper into unknown lands. Then where will you have gone? For what purpose will you have wasted your life?”

  The soldier turned and faced him. He didn’t reply for a moment, looking at the boy’s calm posture and focused expression. The soldier sighed. “I have no other choice. Unless you stop this obstinacy, and agree to return with me to the castle.”

  “Yes.” Syah’s composed acceptance was unexpected by all.

  “Syah! We can’t trust him!” Fasime exclaimed.

  Syah caught his eyes and then looked back at the soldier. “You were right: we were drawing too near enemy lands. I was careless. We will change our course.”

  “You mean head back to the city.”

  “No, not yet.”

  “No, Syah, you three have been missing long enough.”

  “They do not know we are gone.”

  Denire shook his head. “I cannot allow it.”

  “We will go north towards the dwarves, stay clear of their border.”

  “No!”

  “Then west towards the elves.”

  “That will take you past the thieves!”

  Syah regarded the soldier with his calculating eyes. “The threat would be less if you accompanied us.”

  “Syah, No!” Oman cried, stepping towards them. “He threatens us.”

  “Do you really want to kill a knight of Arnith this day?” Syah demanded.

  “He’s no knight,” Fasime muttered under his breath, looking back at the soldier.

  “I will not agree! It would be encouraging your rash actions!”

  “We are going to complete our journey, with or without you.” The youngest’s voice was still calm.

  “Why? Why now, when your kingdom is at war and it is especially dangerous for you?”

  “These wars will not be ending soon,” Syah stated, shaking his head. “If we are to do this, the opportunity exists only now.”

  “Syah,” Oman said, drawing nearer. “What if he is an assassin?”

  “Then we would already be dead. Oman, he is a knight, however abrasive. He did this because he thought it was his only option, when we didn’t give him any others. Look at him. He’s willing to risk his life, his integrity, his title, for our safety.” Syah decided not to continue, seeing Oman studying the knight. The soldier met his appraisal, clear-eyed.

  “You are a knight of my father’s?”

  “Yes.”

  Oman straightened. “What is your name?”

  “Denire Sharlane.”

  Oman turned his head, as if listening to conversations of past cycles. “I have heard of you. You fought with my father at…”

  “The Forest’s Edge and Parmin’s fields,” Denire finished for him.

  Oman sheathed his sword and stepped closer to him. “Swear to me that you mean us no harm, that you won’t again attempt to hold us against our will. Swear it by your oath as a knight.”

  “I…” the soldier started to argue.

  “It’s your choice,” the youngest said. “Fight us and we will continue on, hurt and alone. Or yield, and you can be there to protect us.”

  The soldier turned around. Oman caught his breath; the soldier reached for his sword. Oman, Fasime, and Syah were stiff, watching him pull his sword from the ground and then turn back to the eldest.

  Oman thought about drawing his sword, but held, ready. The soldier stood there, looking at Fasime and then back at Oman. Something on his face changed and he shifted his sword, but he closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  Oman felt a flush. The soldier was bowing before him. Holding his sword, he bowed deeply on one knee. “I swear, on my honor as a knight of Arnith, I will protect you on your journey through Miscia, and I will do all in my power to ensure you return to Anteria safely.”

  Oman watched the soldier kneeling before him. “We accept,” he said at last. Denire rose and met Oman’s gaze.

  “For disrespecting you earlier, I apologize,” the soldier said, offering Oman his hand.

  Oman hesitated a moment, then took it. “It seems we have recruited you. We should leave here soon. Are you prepared to travel?”

  “No,” Denire said. “Your brother isn’t well enough to ride.”

  Syah. Oman looked at his youngest brother. He was still sitting a little way behind them, leaning heavily on his right arm. Oman released the knight’s hand and went to him.

  Denire heard the middle brother behind him. He turned around to see Fasime’s face, tense and intent on him.

  “Drop your sword,” Fasime growled, low and forceful. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, sheathed but threatening.

  “Young prince…”

  “Do it!” he cried, stepping closer. Oman and Syah looked up at them.

  The soldier nodded. “As you request,” he said, turning his sword in his hands. “As a sign of good faith,” he said, offering its hilt to the prince. Fasime’s hand wrapped around it and the soldier let it go, not blinking as he watched the young man’s every move.

  Fasime jerked the sword. Denire jolted back to avoid it, but Fasime wasn’t coming at him. Instead, he threw the sword aside. As the soldier turned to see his sword tumbling over rocks and dirt, he looked back at the prince, realizing, too late, his intent. Fasime used all his strength and smacked his fist onto the soldier’s face.

  Fasime knew it would put the soldier on the ground, and it did. Denire caught himself, but he had to take a moment to recover. When he found his breath, he looked up at the enraged prince above him.

  “A son of Algoth doesn’t idly fall from his horse,” Fasime said with tense words, glaring down at him.

  Denire nodded. Fasime raised his head.

  “Fasime.” Syah’s voice lured his attention from the knight.

  Syah met his brother’s eyes, steadily. “I’m all right, Fasime.”

  Fasime’s muscles relaxed. He walked past Denire, who was getting to his feet. He knelt beside Oman and Syah. When Fasime embraced him, Syah tried to stifle a quick breath, but they saw pain on his face.

  “Where have you been?” Syah spoke before they could.

  “Looking for you,” Oman answered.

  “Where are you hurt?” Fasime asked him.

  Syah sighed.
“I’m fine.” Syah looked past him. “Fasime, watch out for the horses.” They turned to see the horses grazing, moving away from them at a lazy pace.

  Fasime turned back to Syah. “They won’t go far. You aren’t going to distract us from you. Can you stand?”

  Syah nodded. Oman and Fasime took his arms and helped him up. Syah tried not to flinch. The older brothers exchanged a glance. They felt Syah’s weakness and moved to support him better as they walked at a careful pace back to the fire.

  Oman and Fasime stiffened, halting. The soldier was getting something out of his saddlebag. “You can lay him here,” the soldier said, motioning to a pallet of blankets next to the fading fire, searching through a pack in his hands.

  “We can tend to him ourselves,” Oman said. His hand tightened on Syah’s arm.

  “Malgar probably taught you battle medicine,” Denire said, “but you can use my help. I have tended to many wounded comrades after battle.”

  “It’s just bruises,” Syah said, shaking his head.

  Oman sighed and then gave an affirming gesture to Fasime. They grasped Syah’s arms and walked him towards the fire again. “He’s right, young brother,” said Oman. “You are not well enough to ride.” Oman helped Syah sit near the fire, as comfortably as he could.

  “I’m sore from the fall. Just let me rest one night and it’ll pass.” Syah settled on the blankets.

  Denire knelt with them. He looked into the young boy’s eyes. “Syah, your hands,” the soldier said. They saw he was clenching a bundle of cloth in each fist. The soldier took his wrist and lifted his hand. He pulled back Syah’s fingers; the cloth was red with blood. He met Syah’s eyes. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You should lie back,” Denire instructed. “It will help stop the bleeding.”

  Syah paused, looking down at his hand.

  “He’s right, we need to dress it,” Oman agreed.

  Syah complied and looked up at the trees, but then Fasime’s face was over him.

  “This is going to hurt,” Fasime said. “We should have never split up and left you alone.”

  Syah rolled his eyes. “It has worked out, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Fasime returned, smirking at him. “You’re so bruised you can’t ride. And even if you could, you cut your hands so you can’t possibly grasp the reins.”

  Syah gasped and his face was set with pain. Fasime glanced at Oman and the soldier. They had removed the cloths from Syah’s hands. The cuts were deep on both hands and still bleeding. He looked back at Syah and saw his face had paled. “You surprise me sometimes,” Fasime said, placing his hand on Syah’s forehead. Syah met his gaze. “Well, now you are a seasoned warrior. You are the first of us to be cut by a knight’s blade.”

  “Hardly seasoned,” Syah returned.

  “What’s that you’re using?” they heard Oman ask.

  “Falas reed. It will sting for a moment,” the soldier answered. Syah felt something pressing on his hands. He closed his eyes. “Syah, listen to me,” the soldier went on. “I can give you something to numb the pain.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Syah muttered.

  “And the soreness in your limbs.” Both of Syah’s hands stung as if the sword were cutting him again. He fought not to cry out. “You will be able to ride,” the soldier said, the pain sharpening. Syah wanted to speak, but wouldn’t unclench his chest and throat.

  “We are close to the Dikartia border. The fire to guide your brothers could have led someone else to our position. We shouldn’t linger here. But unless you take this medicine, we will have to wait days to move you.” Syah gasped, unable to hold his breath any longer. The soldier moved closer. “Will you let your pride put you and your brothers in danger?”

  Syah opened his eyes. “No,” he said between gasps. He felt the cloth being removed from his hands.

  “The sting will subside in a moment,” Denire said, and Fasime leaned away from him. Fasime helped Syah sit up. The soldier uncorked a black bottle and held it to Syah’s mouth. “Tilt your head back and hold your breath; it has a putrid taste.”

  Syah saw something in the soldier’s face and felt a pang of nervousness.

  “It’s all right,” said Denire. He put his hand on the side of Syah’s face and tilted his head back. “Now take a deep breath – hold it,” the soldier said, as he lifted the bottle and poured its contents into Syah’s mouth. Syah jerked, but they held him. His throat rejected the sour sting, but he was forced to swallow because more was poured into his mouth.

  “All right,” Denire said. Syah noticed the bottle was gone. He tried to breathe, but some liquid was still in his throat. He coughed and stiffened in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Oman demanded. Syah struggled to pull his wrists free of his brother’s grip, but Oman tightened his hold.

  The soldier’s brows lowered. Syah resumed fast and shallow breaths. Then Syah coughed again, reluctantly, tensed and cried out. The soldier looked down to Syah’s chest. “Lay him back,” he said, and lifted up the young prince’s shirt.

  “What is it?” Fasime demanded.

  Syah blinked. He felt a sickening flush in his neck and shoulders.

  “Syah, tell us what pains you,” Oman said, shaking him. Syah didn’t respond. “What’s wrong with him?” Oman demanded, looking at the soldier.

  Denire saw that the boy’s breathing was slowing; his eyes were open but vacant. “It’s the falas,” the soldier explained. “It is relaxing him.” He pressed his fingers across the prince’s chest with care. Syah jerked and cried out. Denire sighed; his expression relented. “His ribs are broken,” he said, pressing his fingers around the spot. Syah lay still. “There is little we can do to help it heal.”

  “It will be difficult for him to travel,” Oman stated.

  “We are not going back,” Syah said in a half-awake voice. Oman and Fasime couldn’t help smiling at his courage.

  “Let’s finish wrapping his hands. The falas reed will help as it takes effect,” the soldier said.

  Syah closed his eyes, relieved the sharp pains in his hands and chest softened. He let his breathing deepen. He felt them closing the cuts on his hands, but it was easy to ignore. Something was pulling him away from consciousness. The flush spread down his arms and chest, and up his neck. He felt his head sway…

  Syah gasped and opened his eyes. “Fasime!” he cried, but didn’t see him. He tried to force his limbs awake.

  “It’s all right, Syah,” Fasime’s voice said, close to him. “I am here.” Fasime’s face appeared above him.

  “Fasime! Help me!” Fasime saw fear in Syah’s eyes.

  “Easy,” he said, “it’s all right now.”

  “No!” Syah insisted, shaking his head. “He drugged me!”

  “Yes, I know,” Fasime said.

  “No, I’m…”

  “Easy, Syah, I know.”

  Syah struggled to pull his hands free from Oman and the soldier.

  “Rest easy. How else would you be able to travel? Nothing he could have given you would have made you able to ride.”

  “But…”

  Syah’s breath quickened. “All is well, Syah. Don’t fight it.” Fasime moved his hand over Syah’s eyes. He felt Syah’s face, taut beneath his palm. “Your brothers will take care of you. Rest now, trust us…” After a few breaths, Syah’s muscles loosened. His head swayed under Fasime’s hand. Fasime leaned forward and whispered, “You sleep in the king’s hall tonight.”

  Syah felt himself slipping deeper into the dizziness… but something else held him. Warmth, comfort, trust…

  Chapter Eight

  SICKNESS

  Fasime’s mind was wandering. Part of him was paying attention to the horse, the trail, and holding up Syah in the saddle. But he was also thinking of the woods, of traveling, of going into enemy lines, of a hasty retreat through the forest. Oman and the soldier were ahead of him, Oman leading Syah’s horse. They were drawing nearer the
mountains. He imagined leading his horse to the top of a mountain and gazing down at what the dwarven lands would look like.

  Fasime felt Syah stir. He collected his thoughts, looking down at his brother. Why continue when Syah is injured? The wilderness will wear on him. He looked back at the path. Is this worth it?

  An uncomfortable rocking made Syah’s drowsy mind uneasy. He felt a churning in his gut that warned of something being wrong. Still more in a dream, but knowing he wasn’t, a voice inside him shouted something urgent that he couldn’t quite understand…

  Syah opened his eyes. For a moment, startled at waking on a horse in an unfamiliar forest, he caught his breath and stiffened. But then he recognized the stallion, and he felt Fasime steady him.

  “Are you all right?” Fasime asked.

  Syah saw Oman and Denire riding a little way in front of them. “What happened?” Syah asked, sensing the weakness of his body.

  “You’ve been asleep,” Fasime began, feeling Syah’s body shake.

  “Where are we?” Syah demanded.

  “We have been riding north. We’re past the Dikartian border.” Syah tensed again.

  “Past Dikartia? But that would have taken…”

  “Two days,” Fasime answered.

  “How could…”

  “Easy!” Fasime warned as Syah shifted his weight, struggling to sit upright, and Lightning jerked back.

  Syah forced himself to relax. “How could you do this?” Syah demanded when Fasime had the horse back to a steady pace.

  “You are injured. It was the only way we could ride.”

  Syah raised his hand to his head.

  “I probably wouldn’t like it if it happened to me. But it’s over, so…”

  “Stop the horse,” Syah demanded.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Fasime asked, tightening his arm around Syah, careful to avoid his lower chest where the fractures were.

  “Let me off.”

  “Syah, what is it?”

  “I can ride on my own,” Syah said. “Give me my horse and I will ride!”

  A smile softened Fasime’s face, in appreciation of his brother’s independent spirit. Fasime shook his head. “Of course you will.”