House Of Blades - House of Blades Part 23
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House of Blades Part 23

"What is that?" Andra asked.

"My Territory," Simon replied. Olissa drew in a sharp breath. "You can stay there for the time being," he continued. "Once I settle things with the other villagers, I'll come join you. And when things calm down, I can take you back to your home."

"This was our home," Olissa said softly. "Everything we owned was in these wagons. Once we finished this job, we were going to find a place to settle in Deborah's realm."

Simon winced. If he hadn't gotten involved, their home wouldn't have been taken from them. They would have concluded their business and moved on. Of course, if he hadn't gotten involved, Andra and Lycus would probably either be dead or trapped in Orgrith Cave. There were no good choices, and nothing easy to regret.

"Well, then, you can stay in here for the time being. We'll work something out. But you should get going."

They're about to come in, Caela's voice whispered, just as the canvas behind Simon peeled open. Chaim poked his face in, his eyes growing huge as he took in the Gate. "What is that?" he asked. At his words, a few people behind him pressed their faces forward, trying to see for themselves.

Thanks for the warning, Simon sent to Caela. She loftily ignored his sarcasm.

"Hurry," he told Olissa, pushing her toward the Gate. She and Lycus grabbed Caius, half-carrying and half-shoving him into Valinhall. Andra stood, hesitating before stepping through. The Gate shrunk steadily as it sealed itself.

"The bedrooms are on either side of the hallway," Simon said hurriedly. "It's past that door right there. You can't open any of the bedrooms, so just head on through. If you see the guys in the dark hoods, tell them I sent you, and they probably won't strangle you. Walk through the white-and-gold door, and you'll see a pool of water. You need to get Caius into it as soon as possible. It will heal him. Watch out for the water demons, they'll try to eat you."

Olissa, Andra, and Lycus stared at him from the other side of the Gate; judging from their expressions, they were trying to decide if they were better off coming back through. Simon released both his sword and his strength, and the portal shrank even more quickly.

Andra stepped forward before the Gate could close completely. "Simon!" she called. "Where's Erastes?"

Last time Simon had seen him, the captain had been struggling for breath on the ground. He was almost certainly dead by now. "I'm not sure," he hedged.

"Please save him," Andra said. Her pale eyes were practically the only things that showed through the narrowing portal. "I know you can do it."

The Gate closed.

Great. How was he supposed to refuse a request like that?

The wagon shook as Chaim stepped up. "Sweet Maker. How did they disappear like that? And what was that you were telling them?"

"I'll explain it to you later," Simon muttered. He walked out the far end of the wagon. The people gathered there gasped as he walked out and they got a clear glimpse of the empty wagon. At another time Simon might have worried about what they thought; not now. He had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that he may have sent the Agnos family into even worse danger by trying to save them; they had no one to show them around the House. Simon would go there himself as soon as he could, but first he had to deal with the villagers. Who would probably try and lynch him when they found out he had helped a family of Damascans escape.

He wanted to sleep for a year.

Circling around the wagon and ignoring a barrage of questions, Simon scooped up Caela and began walking to the other side of camp. When he reached the glowing embers that were all that remained of the night's fire, he stopped.

Erastes lay much as Simon had left him, though someone had stripped away his armor and his hands and feet were bound with rough ropes. Bruises marred his face and every inch of exposed flesh Simon could see, some already starting to swell. A gang of boys ranging in age from about fourteen to a few years older than Simon surrounded the Damascan captain. One used a stick to flick coals over Erastes' body. When he shouted, it came out muffled, so Simon gathered he had been gagged. If he wriggled away from the pain, another boy would use the flat of a short sword to smack him back into place.

The blade gleamed strangely in the predawn light, and Simon recognized it. They were beating Erastes with his own sword. Where had they gotten it? The last time he remembered having the weapon in his own hands was shortly before he passed out, so they must have either taken it from Simon's unconscious body or picked it up from the ground afterwards.

A dim memory told Simon which of the boys was in charge; he was one of the oldest, no bigger than the others, but harder of face. He had spent more of his childhood being punished for one reason or another than anyone else Simon knew; the kid had bragged about it, sometimes. Simon walked up to him.

"Simon," the young man said. He made it sound like a challenge.

"I don't remember your name," Simon replied. "Sorry." The boy's face hardened even further, and Simon couldn't find it in himself to care. "I need the soldier and the sword."

"What for?"

Simon reached out and grabbed the other boy's wrist, twisting a way that Kai had done to him a hundred times. The boy gasped, dropping the sword, and Simon plucked it out of the air before it hit the ground. Without a word, he turned his back on the other boy and walked away.

Even as tired as he was, some part of him enjoyed that.

When he reached Erastes, Simon knelt and examined the soldier's injuries. Some of the gang shouted at him, and he suspected they were beginning to find their spines again. So he called steel and held it. Icy power flowed through him, and he ignored their threats, returning his attention to the Damascan on the ground.

Erastes was fully conscious, steely blue eyes bright with pain. His gaze showed no fear, only hatred and anger. Simon pulled the gag out of his mouth. One of the boys, behind Simon, kicked him in the back. That boy screamed as though he had slammed his foot into a stone, and Simon heard him hopping around in the sand.

Simon smiled. With the steel running through him, he had barely felt a thing.

Erastes tried to swallow, found his mouth too dry, and tried again. He spoke as though he had a mouthful of sand.

"Coward," he rasped.

"If you can talk like that, you'll be fine," Simon said. "Probably. I'm no healer." He drew Erastes' own sword across the man's bonds, slicing them as easily he could have with a Dragon's Fang.

Then, standing, he summoned Azura into his other hand. The boys yelled and scrambled away, undoubtedly going to fetch someone else. That was fine; there was nothing they could do to stop him, anyway.

He drew Azura down the air, opening another Gate.

Erastes' raspy voice grated on his ears: "There's nothing more you can do to me," the gray-haired man said, as if Simon was about to take him into some new torment.

None too gently, Simon scooped him up in both arms. With steel flowing through him, it took about as much effort as picking up a newborn kitten.

Simon walked through the Gate, holding it open with his will. He laid Erastes down on a couch, saying, "Caius and Olissa are here somewhere. Tell them I said to get you into the water as soon as possible."

"Don't need a bath," Erastes said. "Need a miracle."

Simon thought about explaining, then decided it would take too much effort. He tossed the old soldier's bare sword down beside him. "Let me know if you find one," Simon said, and walked back into the world.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:.

THE ROAD TO BEL CALEM.

None of the Myrians were happy about losing their few remaining Damascan prisoners, Chaim and Nurita least of all. They appeared to have taken charge of the surviving villagers, since no one of any greater influence had accompanied the group south.

"They're gone?" Chaim had demanded. "Where did they go?"

"Who gave you the right to send them anywhere?" Nurita had asked. "You're just a child."

Even more than that, as he had expected, they wanted to know about his newfound powers. Was he a Traveler now? How had that happened? Was he working with Alin?

He tried to dodge those, ashamed for some reason that he could not quite pinpoint. He had been proud of his abilities; if anything, he should brag about them to anyone who would listen. But he didn't feel like it. Maybe once he rescued Leah and the other captives from Malachi's grasp, then he would show his pride. Until then, he was almost afraid that he would look like a pretender, a child dressing up as a warrior of legend.

Still, the other villagers would not be put off by half-truths and misleading answers. Even if none of them had directly seen him draw on his Territory, they had already seen too much.

At last, when he could take Chaim and Nurita's incessant questions no longer, he told them. "I'm a Traveler now," he said. They looked at him warily, but didn't gasp in horror or gape in wonder as he had half-expected. They seemed almost...doubtful.

"What do you mean by that?" Chaim asked, as though testing Simon's words, trying to find something hidden.

"You don't have to compete with Alin, just because-" Nurita began, but she was cut off by the tip of Azura pointing at her throat. Simon stood the better part of ten feet away, holding the blade steady in his steel-infused right hand. With his left, he rolled up his right sleeve, exposing the shadowy chain marks that crawled steadily up his arm.

A few people did gasp then, at the enormous sword, at Simon's apparent strength, or at the fact that Simon had called the sword out of midair.

"You led the ones who attacked the Damascans," Chaim said. He sounded almost in awe.

"I didn't lead anybody," Simon replied. "It was just me."

Most of the bodies around the camp hadn't been removed or buried yet, simply piled where they were least inconvenient. Chaim looked from one stack of Damascan bodies to another, and he appeared to be doing sums in his head.

Nurita's eyes narrowed, and she spoke sharply. "Are you like Alin, boy?" She didn't sound impressed, but then again, he couldn't imagine anything grand enough to bend her self-importance.

"Not exactly," he said. "I think Alin was born to it. I had to learn."

"In six weeks?"

"It's been a long six weeks."

Chaim's face had frozen into a kind of snarl, and when he spoke he sounded rabid. "Then that Damascan family. You have them. In your Territory."

Wary of a trap, Simon nodded slowly. "Yes."

Smacking his hand into his fist, Chaim laughed. It went along with the new, cruel cast to his face. "Good. Then we have them trapped. They can't escape us now."

"That family is under my protection," Simon said. "No one's doing anything to them."

He knew before the words left his mouth that he should never have said it like he did. Simon had never prided himself on skill with words; he tended to think of the right thing to say only minutes or hours after the fact. This would do nothing but provoke the other villagers. Indeed, angry oaths and mutters rippled through the crowd. Chaim looked both shocked and disgusted.

Simon levered Azura down, driving her point-first into the ground. At an angle, like Kai had always done, because he couldn't reach high enough to drive it straight down. He hoped this would demonstrate that he was trying to talk, not fight, though it had the side benefit of reminding his fellow villagers that he was in possession of superhuman strength and a seven-foot unbreakable blade. If they brought it to a physical confrontation, there was only one way it could end.

Chaim, apparently, wasn't overly worried about his own safety. He stepped forward and grabbed the front of Simon's shirt in both his fists.

"You have no idea what they did to us," Chaim growled. His voice was pitched so that everyone could hear, though Simon suspected that had more to do with the man's temper than with any desire to perform for a crowd. "Do you know how many we buried when they first caught us? Do you? Do you know how long they've had us, what they made us eat, what they made us do?" Chaim shook him, hard. "Watch them kill your daughter, son of Kalman, and tell me how much protection they deserve."

Simon had intended to let Chaim vent his bile, but that was enough of that. Not only was the conversation headed nowhere productive, Chaim's shaking was piling on top of stress and injury, making Simon feel like he was about to pass out again. If the man didn't stop, Simon might well puke on his shoes.

Gently, Simon pulled the older man's hands away. Chaim weighed twice again what Simon did, but Simon's only concern was that he not grip too hard and crush the man's wrists.

"I saw Orlina die," Simon said. He kept his voice even, but made sure everyone could hear him. "It was right before the same Traveler killed my mother."

Dead silence. No one dared to say anything, because many of them had been in the same cave. They had seen what happened.

"This family didn't do it," Simon continued. "No one here did. I killed the soldiers who captured you." He regretted that, but he couldn't let them see it. "Some of them ran off, I guess, but we'll never catch them. And you're angry, I know that; I am too. But we don't need to get revenge-revenge doesn't help anybody. We need to get our people back."

A few people nodded. Nurita even muttered something approving.

Chaim visibly gathered himself, scraped tears from his cheeks, and nodded. He didn't apologize, nor did he even admit that the Agnos family might not be the correct target for his anger, but he did refocus. "That's what we were doing when these Damascan dogs found us. We're headed for Bel Calem."

"What do you expect to do?" Simon asked.

"We won't know until we get there. Whatever we can. Die trying, if we have to."

Simon thought about what to say for a long moment. "Myria can't afford to lose you," he said at last. "There aren't enough of us left as it is."

Chaim leaned forward, his hard face intense. "There are ten men and women from our village in Bel Calem as we speak, waiting on His Majesty Zakareth. We can't afford to lose them either."

"All the more reason that I should leave now," Simon responded. He was losing his edge, getting nervous, debating with Chaim. It wasn't long since he had obeyed Chaim as he would have an uncle. Chaim had the advantage of age and experience; what gave Simon the right to argue? Especially out here in front of everybody. And Simon was still so tired.

"By yourself?" Nurita demanded, stepping forward. She even put her hands on her hips, for that added bit of motherly authority.

I don't need your help. I'll be better off on my own, Simon thought. He tried to say so, but his earlier confidence was evaporating quickly. What he said instead was, "I just thought it would be better that way."

Chaim shook his head. "No, boy. We'll follow your lead, but we won't be left behind."

Simon considered just running off-no one would be able to catch him-but the adults seemed to take his agreement as a matter of course. Before he could say anything else, all the villagers were working like ants to shove crates, bags, and boxes into the wagons, clearing away bodies and stripping bloody corpses of armor and weapons.

Nurita, in her shrill voice, herded and bullied everyone into moving. Not that they needed much encouragement. Their captivity had made everyone eager to get away, it seemed, at least a little farther from where they could be found. The villagers stuck to the wagons as if they contained food, gold, and salvation all at once, and they tossed packages into the back with almost religious fervor.

He could still get away, leave them behind. But what if there were more soldiers in the area? What if the ones who had fled came back, in the night? He had to escort them, at least, past the forest and a little closer to Bel Calem. After that he could leave them. Or could he? He would have abandoned them in Damascan lands, after all, where every hand might turn against them. Just a little farther, then.

Simon's fists clenched, and he wasn't sure why he felt trapped.

Minutes later, when the oxen were hitched and Nurita called for everyone to fall in by the wagons, Simon followed.

"Sunset tomorrow?" Alin said. He raked fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself, trying to see the whole picture. "Then we must act now. If we Travel through Naraka, surely we can make it."

Miram shook her head sadly. "Forgive me, Eliadel. The Grandmasters have forbidden it."

Ezera, one of the Avernus Travelers that Alin had met once or twice, swept a feathered hat off his head and dipped into a perfect bow. "Do not fear. The Overlord has received our requests for parley, and our informants indicate that he may be willing to spare the remaining sacrifices from your village."

Alin was unable to keep the anger from his voice. "There have been seven sacrifices so far. Today makes eight. What are the odds that none of them have been people I knew?"

"We've tried," Miram said, "I assure you that we have, but we haven't been able to confirm the identity of the seven sacrifices so far. Even if they were from Myria, there's nothing more we can do for them."

"Malachi is caring for at least one of the Myrian captives at his own personal expense," Ezera responded, "and we should take that as a very good sign."

The Avernus Traveler sounded like he found the whole situation amusing, but that was no surprise. From what little Alin knew about the man, Ezera would sound that way five feet from his own noose.

"If I am to oppose Zakareth, then let me oppose him while there is still time," Alin responded. "At least me alone; there is no need to risk the rest of you."

Miram and Ezera exchanged a glance. "You are the last we should risk," Miram said finally. "It is hard to say, but even if Overlord Malachi were to sacrifice all the captives from your village, it would be better than losing you."