When everyone else was asleep, Peten walked on the tips of his toes over the still bodies that seemed to carpet the cold flagstones. One man cursed him when he stepped on a finger, but no one else seemed to notice or care.
At the entrance to the hall that led to the sacred chambers, those denied to the refugees, a bored-looking guard seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. It seemed an eternity that Peten waited, but then the moment came: the guard let his eyes droop closed. After waiting for a few more anxious moments, Peten moved as quietly as he could past the guard, his limp making the act of being silent even more difficult. His right foot seemed to want to drag across the stone with every step, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.
Voices carried through the halls, and Peten flattened himself against the corridor wall, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
'… can smell the boiling vermin from here.'
'Won't be much longer before that problem is…'
The voices faded and Peten hastily resumed his quest, suddenly panicking, worried he had forgotten what the man told him. Was it left at the fifth hall then right at the third? Or was it the other way around? Sweat dripped into his eyes as he concentrated. Part of him wanted to give up, to go back and hide with his family and friends, but another part seemed to have awakened. He could make a difference. His actions could save countless lives. In his mind he played through the drama and pageantry that he imagined would follow his great victory. His people needed a leader, a person who would take action in the face of death, and he was that leader. All he had to do was prove that to everyone.
With determination, he strode forward as fast as his limp would allow. Following his gut instinct, he turned left when he reached the fifth hall and right at the third. No more voices broke the silence, and finding the room the man had told him about sent Peten's confidence soaring. If only his confidence could defeat the smell, which was worse than the smell of the refugees. The thought of climbing through a sewer made Peten want to wretch, but it was the path to his salvation. Driven by his need for power and a deeper, almost unrecognizable, feeling of responsibility for those he cared about, he entered the sewer.
The journey was something he hoped he could erase from his memory for all time, but he doubted it. At least the man had been true to his word about leaving a torch. Obtaining flint from a fellow refugee had cost him another silver, but it was coin well spent. Without the torch, he would have been lost. When he rounded a corner and saw a splash of dim light illuminating the way ahead, though, he quickly tossed the torch into the fetid water.
When he reached the grate, he nearly wept. Grasping at the bars that blocked his way, he cursed the dirty little scoundrel who had sent him on a fool's quest. Anger boiled in his belly, and he growled in fury. It took every scrap of will he possessed to refrain from crying out, from venting his rage on the heavens. In his anger, his muscles contracted and he could feel the bars digging into his flesh, but then something amazing happened: One of the bars began to move. It was only the slightest movement, but it was enough. Increasing the pressure, Peten began to push and pull on the bar as hard as he could. Mortar fell away in large chunks, and with a suddenness that sent Peten stumbling backward, the bar gave way.
Again Peten had to refrain from crying out as he pushed his way past the remaining bars. Rock and metal bit into his skin and left him with a dozen minor cuts, but he gained the fresh air and his freedom.
The drainage ditch that ran from the mouth of the sewer ended at a small cove so fouled and stagnant that no one would stay near it for long, and Peten decided that it could be no worse than the sewers had been, and it was his best chance to slip into the water undetected.
Beyond the cove he bathed in the crashing waves, letting them blast the foulness from him, but the smell seemed to follow him no matter how hard he scrubbed. In the end, he gave up washing and concentrated on swimming and, at times, wading his way along the coast. The sun began to rise, as if Vestra wished to expose him to the Zjhon.
Peten cursed his luck and looked for a good place to leave the water and gain the shore. He had seen no shadows and heard no voices for quite some time, and he knew he needed to cover a lot of distance in a hurry. When he reached the shore, he climbed a pair of massive stones that cradled an ancient tree between them. Using a branch to pull himself up, he had no time to react and not the slightest chance of avoiding the boot heel that was hurtling toward his face. In an instant, the world went dark.
A broken twig and a plant that stood at an angle, its leaves crumpled and broken, were Benjin's first warning, and it was far too close to their hideaway for his comfort. There were more signs as he moved closer to the populated lands. Years of training became fresh in his mind once again, as the need for stealth became paramount. When he neared the farm, his fears grew. It seemed the Zjhon were everywhere at once. Their numbers were difficult to believe, and he considered abandoning his quest, but the need for information drew him on. It was all too clear to him now that they would not be able to remain in the cavern until spring, the Zjhon would tear down the forest and pick the mountains clean if that was what it took.
When he reached the tree line that bordered the farm, he crouched behind a tree and waited. Soldiers milled around the area, and he thought he might have to wait until after dark. In the distance, a bell rang, and many of the soldiers stopped what they were doing and headed back toward Harborton; a few remained. 'Not perfect,' Benjin said to himself, 'but it's an improvement.'
One man went to the well, and two others walked toward the cottages. No one else could be seen. Benjin made his move and charged up to the back of the barn. Looking through a knothole in the barn door, he checked for Zjhon but saw none. Doing his best to be quiet, he slid the door partly open and slipped in. First he went to the feed stall, and was pleased to find that the Zjhon had not taken everything. A salt block sat in the corner, and there were still some oats in one of the barrels. Being as quiet as possible, he broke up the salt block and put it into a couple of sacks that had been hanging from a wooden peg. He put some of the oats in a sack as well, but he did not take too much, knowing he could carry only so much and still maintain his stealth.
It took time to carry each sack into the loft, but he figured this was the safest place to hide them until he came back. The loft was also where he'd hidden his sword, and he pulled it from behind some bales of moldy hay. He had considered taking it with him when they first left for the mountains, but he hadn't been able to bear the thought of talking to Catrin about her mother. He could not lie to her, and if she saw the sword, she would surely have questions. Any answers he gave to those questions would certainly have led to questions about Elsa. The memories were still painful for him, and he could see no good that would come from revealing things to Catrin that would only confuse and hurt her. Now, though, his need outweighed his desire to spare Catrin the pain of knowing.
Even as the thought occurred to him, he heard the barn's front door open and the sound of horses walking into the barn. In the next moment, he heard something that chilled his bones and made him curse his own stupidity: 'Why is the back door open?' someone asked in Zjhonlander. Benjin hadn't heard it spoken in many years, but he recognized the peril of his situation immediately. After making sure the sacks of salt and grain were well hidden, he climbed over the bales of straw that were stacked almost to the angled roofline. Squeezing himself through the cobwebs, he ducked under the rafters that gave him barely enough room to pass. When he finally reached the other side, he quietly slid down into the small open area between the straw pile and the back door of the loft.
From what he could hear, the soldiers below had not called out or raised the alarm, but he heard them climb to the loft. As quietly as he could, Benjin opened the loft door just enough to see if anyone was outside. When the way looked clear, he opened the door and climbed out onto the narrow ledge that ran along the top of the barn doors. With his back to the barn, Benjin closed the door and scooted himself sideways until he reached the makeshift ladder he'd built many years ago. It had taken a only few scraps of barn board cut into short strips and nailed to the side of the barn to create a nearly invisible ladder. As he climbed down it, he was thankful for his own ingenuity.
When he reached the bottom, he saw the soldiers coming back down from the loft, and he raced to the fence. Using his momentum and a hand on the top rail, he launched himself over the fence. In truth, he was lucky his grip did not miss the top rail since the entire fence was overgrown with honeysuckle and blackberry bushes. It was the growth that gave him cover while he fled. Running while crouched is not an easy thing to do, and his knees ached terribly when he finally reached the tree line. From there, he watched and rested.
The Zjhon seemed quite relaxed. They had taken Harborton and the highlands, and now those who remained
