Of Thieves and Sorcerers

My wrists are covered in blisters and dried blood from the constant rubbing of the shackles locked too tightly around them. My head is resting against the harsh wood of the prison wagon as it rumbles along the potholed road. There’s a tiny slat in the wooden ceiling that allows for some of the sunshine to glint through, right into my eyes. I hiss and glance away from the blinding light. This repositioning of my line of sight brings into it a young boy with his head tucked between his knees, soft sobs emanating from him.

My heart nearly shatters at the sight of his thin arms locked in shackles that could slip off with just a bit of oil. I can see his ribs through the worn shirt that nearly hangs off his frame. His hair is squirming with lice and is greasily plastered to his skull. His whimpers play my heart strings like a violin.

“Somebody shut him up!” Comes the bellowed order of a guard and I flinch at the sound of a whip striking the side of the wagon.

“Hey,” I whisper, urgency forcing my tone to become hard, “Hey. Look at me.”

He raises his head, and his cheeks are brimming with tears as he meets my fearful look. His eyes should be the color of spring grass, but they’re too dull to be anything but shadows. They seem too big for his face, but it’s the tears that make them look glassy.

“What’s your name?” I ask, making sure to keep my voice low enough that the guards outside the wagon can’t hear, but a few of the other prisoners shoot me glares that I ignore.

“Luther.” His voice trembles so much I barely make out the name.

“Ok, Luther, I know this is scary, but if the guards think you’re going to be too much of a problem they’ll leave you rotting in a ditch.” I know the words are too harsh, but I can’t risk the guards hearing us, or one of the other prisoners calling us out.

“What?” His shock makes his voice rise to a nearly hysterical volume.

“Shh. You have to be quiet. Please.” I glance around hurriedly and force my own fear down. “You have to be quiet, ok?”

He nods and then bravely whispers, “How long have you been here?”

I smirk. “This time? Three days. But I’ll escape. I usually do.”

He gapes at me as recognition plays through his eyes. “You’re…”

“Shut up!” A guard outside bellows and a whip strikes the wall right behind me and I flinch away, instinct taking over.

I wink at the boy and turn my gaze back towards the sliver of light. My head lolls back against the wall and I let the unsteady rocking send me into a fitful daze. At some point Luther starts sobbing again, but this time the only tell is the shaking of his shoulders. And the occasional mumbled reminder that he’s going to die here.

The wagon rolls to a stop, presumably in front of a prison building meant to keep all of us scum off the king’s beautiful streets. I groan, along with the others, as the door in the back of the wagon is opened and bright light streams in with a vengeance. The guard who steps up to begin unchaining us is young. He’s only received the blue stripe over his heart; a first year then. His hair is too fluffy to be a guard’s hair and I figure that he must be a lord’s son attempting to fix some mistake, perhaps a pregnant servant. In the streaming light it looks almost like fire with ash mixed through it and my suspicions are confirmed. Only the aristocratic have hair with mixed colors, their powerful ancestors having passed on more than powers, giving them markers as well.

“Stand up.” His voice is harsher than it needs to be as he hauls the man closest to the door to his feet. It reminds me of a crashing river, yielding for nothing. He forces the man out the door with a grunt and an unnecessary shove. Anger begins to simmer in my blood, but I bite my tongue.

Luther next to me seems to freeze up with terror as the guard moves steadily closer, unlocking one prisoner after the next. His bare feet are trembling and the loose fitting pants covering his twig like legs do nothing to hide the shaking. I turn my full focus on him, the guard still five prisoners away.

“Hey,” I hiss and his eyes flicker to mine, they’re filled with so much fear I struggle not to feel the same way, “Stop shaking. Take a deep breath. Don’t let them see that you’re afraid. Or that you’re weak. Bite your tongue if you have to.”

He nods, but the paling of his face tells me that I shouldn’t have given him my full attention. I let my head turn slowly back to the guard, who now stands leering over me. I fight the urge to kick him in the shins as he kneels before me and takes my chin in his hand.

“That’s some pretty good advice, miss,” he chuckles, and his grip tightens painfully. “Maybe you should follow it.”

I lower my eyes, too scared of his which seem to hold hellfire in their depths. He releases my chin and moves to unlock my shackles. I turn my head to Luther who is still trembling, and I shake my head, a barely perceptible movement, but the message is clear. Don’t pick fights you know you won’t win.

“Get up.” The guard growls, hauling me up by my arm. I follow as smoothly as I can, but the space is small, and he switches his pace a few times so that when he tosses me out the back door I stumble and fall with a thud into the mud. He laughs cruelly as another guard yanks me up and pushes me into a line with the other.

“Now or never, boy.” The growl from the wagon sends my heart racing.

Luther responds, “I’m not afraid of you!”

The guard who was holding onto me, decides I’m not a flight risk and goes to investigate. I turn to take in my surroundings, but there’s a commotion behind me that calls for my attention. I face the wagon just in time to see Luther come flying out. He lands in the mud by my feet, his breathing ragged and a split lip with a bleeding nose.

“Deities!” I cry out as I kneel to examine his wounds. He coughs and bloody spittle lands on my hands. I examine his chest with panicked eyes to find burn marks and broken ribs. There’s a gash on his arm that’s bleeding profusely.

“I’m not afraid of Death.” He mumbles, so softly I have to lean in to hear him.

“Luther?” I demand as his eyes focus on the sky behind me. I grab his shoulders and against my better judgment I shake him. “Luther?”

“Leave him be.” The guard responsible commands as he strides out of the wagon, a wicked sneer on his lips.

I stand and cry out, “He was a child!”

The guard marches closer and nearly steps on Luther in the process. “He was a criminal. Just like you are.”

“Let me bury him.” I find my eyes locked on the body lying at my feet, his eyes clearer than they ever were in life, watching the clouds roll by. “Let me give him the rites. His soul can’t leave unless he’s given the Passing Blessing.”

The guard considers for a minute, and looks at the others, prisoners, and guards alike, before shaking his head. I take a step back as he kicks his boot into the corpse with a satisfied air. The rage in my stomach grows and I snarl at the guard, how dare he disrespect both the living and the dead. He looks at me with surprise and then cruel calculation.

“He. Was. A. Boy!” I scream as I launch myself at this guard. He stumbles as I crash into him. I wrap my leg beneath his knee and drag it out. He sprawls in the mud, and I let gravity pull me downward. My fists connect three times with his chin, cheek, and throat in succession. It takes two other guards to pull me off him before I can do much more damage.

I’m heaving for breath as he sits up and wipes the blood from his cheek. My hair has come loose from the braid I usually keep it in, and a few black wisps spill into my eyes, which I imagine must look like fire. I stop struggling against the guards holding me as he stands and rubs his chin, which is sporting the beginnings of a bruise.

“Are you alright, Private Ellis?” The question comes on the wind behind me, and chills race up my back as I recognize the voice.

The guard straightens, “Yes, sir. She did little harm.”

“Oh well,” The owner of the voice finally comes into view, “I wouldn’t say that much.”

The owner of that voice is General Jurin Resio, a large, imposing man who stands six feet, eight inches tall. He’s built like a boulder, all hard edges and rough skin that’s a pasty white color. His hair is grey with streaks of navy blue through it, marking his power and his house. The terror that grips my stomach makes me want to scream for help as his eyes, the unnatural white of winter snow lock onto me.

“I see you’ve returned to us, Althea,” he says, his voice the unnatural hiss of a snake, “How nice to have you back.”

“Not for long, Resio.” I manage to push the defiant words out of my clenched throat.

He laughs and waves for the guards to take the other prisoners in, the two guards holding me between them tighten their grip on my arms as Resio examines Luther’s corpse. His face is pulled in a frown as he toes the too thin boy.

“He wouldn’t have lasted long here anyway.” He glances between Private Ellis and I as he wipes his boot in the dirt. I snarl and struggle against the two holding me.

“You don’t know that.” I kick one of my guards in the shin and he flinches but doesn’t release me. “Let me give him the Passing Blessing, he can’t leave until he has it!”

“Settle down there, Althea, or I’ll be tempted to add you to the growing grave as well,” Resio says, disappointment coating his voice like soiled milk. It drives me insane. I shriek, really shriek the pressure in my chest building as I sink my teeth into the shoulder of the guard on my left and kick out the knee of the one on my right. I rush for the corpse, but Private Ellis grabs me around the waist and locks me against his body.

“Let go!” I cry out, driving my elbow backward into the soft part of his hip, just above his pelvis. He grunts and his arms release enough that I can turn and drive my knee up between his legs. That drops him. I scramble over to Luther’s body and clutching his shoulders, whisper the Passing Blessing over him.

“May the shores beckon you with their light, may the deities welcome you with open arms, and may you find peace amongst the ancestors.” Finishing the blessing, I shakily close his eyes with two fingers, and press a hand against his heart. It’s all I get to do before I’m lifted from the ground and held against a heaving chest.

“Still see you have that fight in you,” Resio mutters, rubbing his chin in a thoughtful way that sends fear fluttering around my stomach, “We’ll have to find something to do with that.”

“I have an idea,” Private Ellis, whose name finally clicks, Kylian Ellis, bastard son to the King, suggests.

“Bring her inside, to the office,” Resio orders, “We’ll discuss our ideas then.”