cleared the last of the water from his lungs.
Angered grunts sounded over him as he lay curled into a ball and trembling on the deck. The solid slaps of wood against flesh echoed in his ears in competition with the piercing hum that seemed to fill his tender skull with white noise. His stomach roiled like the Tumult and the sour scent of vomit clung to his nose.
He rolled to his side to see Jerul standing over him, the warrior a blur of motion through Domor’s clouded eyes. The oar was in his companion’s hands, methodically being swept back and forth over their heads. His muscular back was dark with his blood, the lines of his veins invisible beneath the oozing claret.
“Jerul,” Domor croaked, the words coming out as a ragged whisper.
“Stay still and recover, Velen.” Jerul shifted the oar in mid-swing to bat one of the creatures from the air with a satisfying thump. “You have shown me the way. No more of these beasts will dine upon our flesh tonight.”
Domor looked once more to the blood that flowed free from Jerul, dripping dark to the deck beneath his feet. “You’re hurt, my friend.”
“I have known worse injuries in the mating hall,” Jerul countered with a laugh. “Rest and regain your strength. I will see us through until dawn.”
Even through the dull link of their bond, Domor knew Jerul lied. He could see the warrior’s arms trembling, the muscles at his back tensed so tight they twitched with random spasms. He was hurt far worse than he was willing to speak of and there was nothing Domor could do to help him.
Little better himself, Domor fetched the waterskin from Jerul’s bag. He did his best to disguise his own pain as he got to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. Though there was no hiding how he felt from his blood- companion, he tried anyway, joining in on the warrior’s game.
In between Jerul’s swings, Domor quenched his defender’s thirst and did what he could to slow the loss of blood, using strips cut from one of his spare robes. Quickly soaked through, they were of little use, but they were all he had.
Exhausted in a way he had never felt before, Domor forced his hands to keep pressure upon Jerul’s wounds, ducking low as the creatures soared past only to meet the blunt end of his blood-companion’s makeshift weapon. The constant motion and the quiet splashes that followed soon became a wearying rhythm that lulled Domor into a stupor.
The night crept by and he no longer had any sense of how long they had stood there, Jerul batting away the creatures and he tending to the warrior’s needs. He stared blankly up at the dark canopy, willing his vision to pierce its knotted mass, but only the blackness of night met his eyes.
He knew not how much longer it would be before the sun rose and the Dead Lands returned to its diurnal slumber, or if even that would cease the beasts’ attack, but he dearly hoped it would.
He only knew one thing for certain: dawn could not come soon enough.
Chapter Thirteen
The soldiers closed in tight around Arrin as he was marched through the gate that opened onto the Crown Level. He lifted his chin for the first time since he’d been led away from the Ninth, and let his eyes wander.
Memories flooded his mind at seeing the crowded masses of white stone homes and the gilded spires that rose up so high above as to challenge the mountains at their backs. They stood out bright against the backdrop of night. Arched windows peered from their stone faces like flickering eyes that stared out across the whole of Lathah. Nu’ree seemed to peek back as though hiding, its blue-gray orb just beginning its ascent into the eastern sky.
Arrin’s mood far too sour to enjoy such grandeur, he lowered his eyes to the narrow streets. They were free of the rampant clutter that plagued many of the levels below, the cobblestones polished to a fine shine. The air smelled of fragrant wood and musky spice, burned in small quantities in most every home to chase away the fetid scents that occasionally wafted up from the lower levels.
He glanced behind him as the gates to the Crown swung closed without a sound, the hinges oiled and gleaming in the light of the torches that hung in silvered sconces in excess upon every wall. They cast dancing shadows along the streets, an audience of blackened ghosts assembled to witness his shameful return.
He looked once more to the tall houses as he was herded forward, as his past weighed upon him. He’d spent the best years of his life on the Crown as he’d courted Malya. He couldn’t walk the streets without imagining her there beside him. His chest ached at the thought and his eyes danced in his skull in the hopes he might see her, though he knew she’d never be out after sundown. She’d always been a child of the sun.
He was almost grateful when the commander’s gruff order to halt interrupted his remembrances.
“Go tell the prince’s advisor we have an important prisoner I wish to bring before Prince Olenn, at his earliest convenience, of course,” Maltis told one of his men, who started off immediately. The commander grabbed the man’s arm before he got far. “Be as vague as possible as to who the prisoner is. I don’t want the prince angrier than he’s already going to be at such a late summons. The very last thing we need is him on a rampage before we’ve even reached the hall.”
The soldier nodded, understanding etched across his face, and darted away when the commander released him. Maltis turned to face Arrin.
“This is it, Arrin. There’s no more turning back.” He gestured to one of his men and the soldier pulled a pair of manacles from the pack of the man in front of him. “I’ve given you as much freedom as I possibly could, but I cannot have you unbound when I take you before the prince. You have far too good a reason to want our dear prince dead for me to trust in only your word. I hope you understand.”
“Of course, my friend,” Arrin answered without hesitation, placing his arms behind his back. “I would expect no less from one in your position.” He gave the officer an understanding smile, which made Maltis grimace.
The soldier placed the heavy iron shackles around Arrin’s wrists, the cold iron locks clanging shut. Arrin tested their mettle instinctively, willing the power of the collar to remain at peace. With its magical assistance, the manacles would delay him no more than a single heartbeat should he feel the need to be free of their binds. They were more a benefit to him than a hindrance, everyone likely to believe he was helpless and at the mercy of the prince’s whims. Shackled and seeming powerless, it might serve Arrin’s purpose and salve Olenn’s fury at his unexpected and unwelcome return.
Once the shackles were secured, Arrin nodded to Maltis. “Let’s be done with this, commander. The waiting is killing me.”
“I pray that is all that kills you,” Maltis replied, his hand resting light upon the pommel of his blade.
The message was clear. Despite the blood they had shed side by side upon the battlefield, the meals and laughter shared, and the loyalty of soldiers, Maltis was honor bound to the prince here in his home. Arrin could expect no mercy should it come to a choice between him and Olenn. Maltis would cut Arrin down as quickly as any enemy he had ever faced.
“Clear your conscience, friend. It won’t come to that.”
Maltis cleared his throat. “If only I were so certain. You know our prince as well as any, and time has done nothing to lessen his willfulness.” The commander turned away and waved his men on. “I can see no happy end to this night…for you,” he added as strode ahead.
The soldiers around him shuffling forward to follow their commander, Arrin matched their pace. Their boots thumped against the bright cobblestones as they paraded down the main road, which led toward the throne room.
The streets eerily quiet, Arrin glanced at the windows of the homes they passed, but they remained sealed tight against the night and the clamor of heavy boots. Lights flickered behind their shutters though he saw no shadows cast by their residents. While his memories were blurred by the time gone by, Arrin couldn’t recall the Crown having been quite so lifeless, even after the sun had set. The silence was foreboding.
“Is Lathah under curfew,” Arrin asked the soldier beside him.
The man hesitated to answer, his eyes drifting to the back of Maltis. He shook his head quick, his eyes staring straight ahead.
Arrin watched the soldier for a moment, then cast his eyes to the rest that surrounded him. None would meet his gaze, so he let the question die in the air. He would likely know the answer soon enough or he might well be dead. Either option would resolve his curiosity.
