Chapter Two

By the time Caelan managed to stagger to his feet and lurch forward, the proctor had vanished from sight.

Sharp pain stabbed through Caelan’s left knee every time he took a step. He could feel blood trickling down his leg, and his leggings were ripped.

Fresh resentment washed over him, but he pushed it away, determined to get inside the hall before the proctor locked him out. He wasn’t going to spend all night out here. They had no right to do that to him.

Limping and gasping, he hobbled past the main hall entry. The massive wooden doors with their elaborate carvings were always bolted shut at the conclusion of Quarl Bell. He didn’t waste time trying to get in that way. Instead, he limped around to the side door that he’d recommended to Agel.

It was locked.

He pushed on it with all his strength, then cursed and kicked it.

He tried the larder.

Locked.

He checked the stables, but they were firmly bolted. He knocked as loudly as he dared, but no one came.

The storage barns, harvest shed, and cider press were all secured. He could not gain entry to the servants’ quarters, and the only access to the tall stone building that housed the students was through the hall.

As for Elder Sobna’s small house, tucked up against the low wall of the kitchen garden ... impossible. He wasn’t about to seek refuge there.

Darkness—bleak and terribly cold—closed in around him. The wind cut harshly through his clothing. Shivering, he tucked his numb hands into his armpits and tried to pull his robe up over his head to protect his aching ears. It wasn’t enough.

They had to let him in, he kept reassuring himself. They couldn’t let him die of exposure out here. How would they explain it to his father?

His mind’s eye conjured up a scene of his father, grim and sorrowful, standing in Elder Sobna’s study. The Elder would be stroking his beard and shaking his head.

“The boy was always in trouble. Lax and disobedient, always breaking rules designed for his own protection. No one knew he’d slipped outside again. The poor boy simply froze to death. An unfortunate accident.”

Caelan’s anger came surging up hot and fierce. He wasn’t going to shiver out here, losing toes and the tips of his ears to frostbite. They thought he would pound on the doors and plead for forgiveness. They were trying to scare him into behaving.

But it wasn’t going to work.

Furiously, he circled the infirmary and classrooms. All the windows were shuttered firmly. The doors were locked tight.

No refuge anywhere.

The wind blew stronger now, whipping his clothing and lashing his hair into his eyes. It cut straight through him, driving him into a corner of the wall. Gusting and shrieking around the eaves of the buildings, it seemed to sob and wail. For a moment he thought he saw a blurry shape forming in the air itself, long talons reaching out to rend him.

“No!” he shouted, and shoved himself out into the open again.

He wasn’t going to give up, and he wasn’t going to beg for forgiveness. There had to be another way, one he’d wanted for a long time.

He limped toward the main gates. It took four men to lift the stout crossbeam that lay across the brackets of the gates. But there was a smaller pass gate, also bolted from inside and guarded by a softly glowing warding key.

By day the key was only a crude triangle of hand-hammered bronze. But at night its powers awakened to guard against all creatures of the shadows, including wind spirits and the unnameable things that crept the earth in increasing numbers. Spell-forged by the mysterious, nomadic Choven, warding keys could be found on the gates of the largest holds in Trau, or on the doors of the humblest daub and wattle cottages.

Warding gloves were required to handle the keys, but those were locked away in the gatehouse along with the gatekeeper, who was probably spooning his supper and refusing to listen to any knocking on his door.

The glimmer of pale blue light in the distance made Caelan look up. He saw a proctor gliding along the upper ramparts of the wall.

Caelan shouted and waved, but the proctor did not glance in his direction. When it reached the corner of the wall, it descended the steps and vanished from sight among the working sheds.

Desperation had many sides. Caelan’s resolution hardened. He’d rather be cursed now than to chase down a proctor and beg for mercy. He’d rather lose a hand from touching a warding key than endure another beating. Everyone in Rieschelhold could go to Beloth, for all he cared.

He looked around, but as usual no tools had been left lying about. There was nothing he could use to pry the warding key off the gate.

Every time Caelan stepped too near, the key’s glow brightened to a dazzling intensity, and the metal hummed with a force that vibrated through his skull.

He stepped back and scowled with growing  determination. Beyond the gate lay freedom and hope. He could join the soldiers and shake the dust of Trau once and for all off his shoes.

Although most of the time Caelan daydreamed through his lessons, he had received some training in severance at home from his father. And the extra drills from Master Mygar had not all been worthless.

Caelan squared his shoulders and shut his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate. All his anger had to be gathered first. He visualized a chest with a lock. Placing his anger inside, he slammed shut the lid. He visualized another chest. Into it he shoved doubts, fear, cold, hunger, and thought.

It was harder to do out here in the brutal cold than in the classroom under Master Mygar’s cynical eye. Caelan could feel himself wavering. A trickle of sweat beaded along his temples, and he gasped with the effort.

Focus, he told himself. Focus hard.

Then, for a wavering instant, he felt a surge of icy coldness go through him, a coldness that burned inside and cleared away everything. He seemed to stand in a frozen place of pure isolation. For a second he could see ...

Now.

His hand reached out and plucked off the warding key. Heat blazed into his palm, but the pain was far away.

He tossed the key aside, and it clattered and spun on the cobblestones before going black.

Exultation roared through Caelan. He heard himself shout; then the world rushed back around him at its normal speed. He half stumbled forward, hit the gate with his shoulder, and shoved up the bar.

The gate swung open with a frozen creak of its hinges, and he went staggering through.

His hand ached intensely, but when he checked it there was no burn.

A feeling of wonder spread through him, but he had no time to think about what he’d done. Instead he spun around and shot a defiant gesture at the dark walls towering above him.

He was free at last of his prison.

With a laugh ringing in his throat, he stepped onto the smooth, stone-paved road and headed west at a trot, eager to catch up with the army he could still hear marching far ahead of him.

 

Defiance was easy enough in the heat of the act, but a far different thing when the path was dark, the trail long, and only cold and hunger marched by his shoulder.

Caelan gritted his teeth against fear, refusing to look too far to the left or right. The forest bordered the road in ominous quiet. Now and then he heard distant howls that might belong to wolves or worse. He kept quickening his pace, refusing to run, but going fast enough to be breathless. How had the rear of the army gotten so far ahead so quickly? All day he’d listened to them march by; now there was only the dreadful silence of the woods.

He thought he saw eyes gleaming off to one side. His mouth went dry and his heart quickened jerkily. But then the faint gleam vanished.

Caelan told himself he was seeing visions.

The gleam reappeared in the trees, brighter now although still distant. He heard a faint trace of sounds, an echo of laughter perhaps, and smelled food cooking. Pausing in the middle of the road, Caelan realized he was seeing the lights of a camp ahead. He’d found the army.

Relief washed over him. It was hard to believe his lifelong dream was finally in his grasp. At last he was going to live as he chose. All he had to do to enter the army was to lie about his age. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He thought he could convince the officers he was old enough to serve.

Squaring his shoulders and brushing quick hands down the front of his short novice robe, he practiced briefly what he would say, then strode toward the outskirts of the camp.

A shape barreled into him from nowhere and knocked him flat.

Half-stunned, Caelan slowly registered a foul stench; hard, heavy muscles; and a triumphant grunting. It was a lurker, and it had him.

Fear galvanized Caelan, and he yelled with all his might, flailing wildly with his arms to drive the creature off.

His resistance only seemed to excite the creature. It leaped atop him, ripping his robe into shreds. Lurker smell was nauseating, and Caelan gagged and choked. He had no weapon, not even a tinder strike or a coal box. Lurkers were skulkers, cowards who preyed on carrion and stragglers. Although vicious, they were easily frightened off by simple tactics such as armed resistance or even lire.

With regret Caelan thought of the knife he kept hidden in his clothes chest in his quarters. He’d bought it at the fair from a Neika tribesman last summer. It was forbidden, of course, and certainly not allowed at school. But he’d managed to keep the proctors from finding it during their periodic room searches. What he’d give to have the weapon at hand now.

Stupid to be caught like this. With the wide, paved road bordered on either side by deep ditches kept cleared by imperial order, he had felt safe. He hadn’t even been thinking of lurkers this close to the hold or the nearby town.

Sniffing along Caelan’s throat, the lurker laughed low. For a moment it sounded almost human.

Horrified, Caelan jabbed it in one eye with his thumb.

The creature reared back with a howl, and Caelan was able to scramble free. He gave it a kick that knocked it over, gained his feet, and ran for his life.

Shrieking, the lurker lunged after him, and the chase began in earnest. Caelan knew if it caught him it would tear him apart in its excitement, or else drag him off to feed a colony.

Lurkers were fearsome things, half human and half animal. Man-sized when grown, they could walk upright or drop to their knuckles. Hook-nosed and fanged, they had faces that looked semi-intelligent, and they were certainly cunning. Their skin was usually mottled or covered with warts. Long silver hair grew to their shoulders and hung in tangled locks filled with twigs and burrs. Said to be originally spawned of demons, they skulked the fringes of fields and hid in mountain passes. They preferred fresh meat, but they were also carrion eaters. If they were hungry enough, they would even prey on each other.

In springtime they were especially bold, seeking field- maids to force. If the villagers did not kill women who were attacked, often they killed themselves rather than give birth to such monsters.

Peasants slaughtered lurkers at every chance. Whenever the creatures ventured too near villages, the men formed hunting parties and rounded them up, driving them to their deaths over cliffs. But still the bestial creatures increased in number every year, migrating in from other regions.

The one coursing at Caelan’s heels now was more than enough. Snuffling, it kept up with him easily. Caelan ran flat out, arms and legs pumping, straining to hold his short lead.

His cut knee began to twinge, then hurt. He ran anyway, ignoring it, but the pain intensified until every step brought a wrenching stab of agony.

The lurker was closer now, snuffling and grunting in excitement. It lunged at Caelan, and the graze of its claws on his back made him leap forward.

Howling, the lurker lunged again.

This time Caelan’s leg buckled under him without warning. He went down hard, the lurker clawing his back with shrieks of triumph.

Mashed beneath it, Caelan felt it grip his neck to snap it. Fear convulsed him, but he was pinned and helpless.

The lurker squalled anew, uttering a bellow of triumph that changed to a weird, high-pitched sound and ended abruptly.

It fell across Caelan with a thud and did not stir.

Breathing hard, terror still running through him in waves, Caelan did not at first realize what had happened.

Then he heard running footsteps and voices. A light from a lantern shone in his eyes.

Dizzy with relief, Caelan raised his head. “Help me!” he cried. “Get it off.”

The soldiers surrounded him and dragged off the lurker’s dead body. Sitting up, Caelan saw the haft of a javelin sticking up from the lurker’s back. One of the soldiers pulled out the weapon, and dark green blood dripped off the point.

A noxious stench rose up from the wound, driving the soldiers back with wrinkled noses.

“Break that javelin and throw it away,” one of the men advised in slurred Lingua. “You’ll never clean lurker stink off it.”

The owner of the weapon grimaced, then cursed to the war god Faure. He snapped the javelin across his knee and tossed it in the ditch.

Caelan scrambled to his feet, filled with admiration. “That was as true a throw as anyone could hope for, sir,” he said in flawless Lingua. “And in the dark, even finer. Thank you for saving my life.”

The four soldiers exchanged glances and hooted with laughter.

Not understanding, Caelan stared up at them. His  eagerness for acceptance burned brightly. It was hard to believe his dream was finally coming true. Already he felt a part of the group. He had survived danger and been rescued. His eyes drank in their mail and long daggers, gleaming in the lantern light. Scarred and tattooed with shocking symbols of blasphemy, their faces looked cruel and savage, but he didn’t mind. To him, they were heroes.

“I thought you Traulanders were afraid of the dark,” the tallest man said. He was swarthy with an evil-looking pagan tattoo on his cheek. Long plaits of braided hair hung to his shoulders, and a leather thong kept them back from his face. He wore a gold ring in one ear. “Comes dark, and the whole populace bolts indoors like rats into their holes.”

“Not the dark,” Caelan said earnestly. “It’s the wind spirits that come in the darkness.”

Two of the soldiers grinned, but one glanced around and fingered a small amulet hanging from his neck.

The tattooed man eyed Caelan a while, then shrugged. “You’d better get home, sprout. We’ve business, see?”

“But I want to join up,” Caelan said.

The men laughed again, elbowing each other and shaking their heads.

Caelan grinned back, holding himself as straight and as tall as he could. “I’m old enough and strong,” he said.

“Aye, big enough,” the tattooed man agreed.

Another man leaned forward. “Best take him to the sergeant, then.”

A third man slapped him hard on the shoulder. “You daft? Boy’s run away. Sergeant won’t join him up.”

“Please,” Caelan said anxiously. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

The tattooed man was still looking him over. “Well- dressed boy. Good clothes. Warm and close-woven. You from the town?”

“Meunch? Yes,” Caelan lied. He didn’t want them to know he’d run away from school. With a yank he pulled off the torn remnants of his robe and tossed it away.

“Takes money to join up,” the tattooed man said, fingering his earring. His eyes looked dark and intense over the jagged symbol of Mael on his cheek. “Seven hundred ducats for a kit.”

Caelan’s heart plummeted. It was a fortune. He had nothing but a few coppers in his pocket.

“Naw,” the other one said scornfully. “That’s officer’s kit. This big, strapping lad ain’t wanting none of that lot.”

“Why not? He’s well born.”

“Take him to the sergeant,” said the man holding the lantern. He spat near Caelan’s foot, and Caelan flinched involuntarily.

“The sergeant won’t take him.”

Caelan frowned, trying to follow their argument. They were staring at him in a peculiar way he didn’t much like. At some point they had spread out and formed a circle around him. He swallowed and felt suddenly alone and vulnerable.

“There must be something I can do,” he said nervously, eying them. “I’m old enough to join and strong enough to march.”

“And squalling like a baby for its mother when that lurker was after you.”

The men roared with laughter. Caelan felt ashamed of his earlier fear now, but tried not to let it show.

“How much you got?” the tattooed man abruptly demanded.

“Sir?”

“How much money you got?”

Caelan looked up at their faces. “I—not much.”

“You can’t join without buying in,” the man said gruffly. He stepped forward, and Caelan cringed back. “Hand it over.”

Caelan shook his head. “I don’t have any—”

They grabbed him then and lifted him bodily despite his struggles. Rough hands patted him down and turned out his pockets. The meager remnants of his allowance spilled onto the road and lay gleaming in the lantern light.

The men swore with disappointment and dropped him bodily onto the ground. One of them kicked him.

“Is this all he’s got?”

“Pipsqueak!”

“Faure consume his liver!”

“Damn!”

They kicked him again. Caelan lay huddled face down on the road, clenching his fists and trying not to cry.

“Get up,” growled the tattooed man.

Caelan heaved himself up to his hands and knees, but then with an oath the man seized him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“Where do you live in town?” he asked.

Caelan stared at him, seriously frightened now.

“Those ain’t working hands you got, boy. Your da a rich man?”

Caelan swallowed hard. He shook his head.

“Leave him,” said one of the others. “Let’s go and see what better sport we can find.”

“What about that fancy hold down the road a bit? Good pickings in there, I’ll bet.”

“No!” Caelan cried involuntarily. He thought of the gate he’d so carelessly left open, and his face flamed hot.

The tattooed man smiled. “So you’re a schoolboy, eh?”

His eyes were terrible, pinning Caelan’s and holding them. The obscene figure engraved on his cheek moved with every shift of his jaw. It was all Caelan could do not to stare at it.

“Yes, sir,” Caelan finally said.

“I thought as much. You wearing that cute little schoolboy robe no longer than your bottom.”

The men all laughed again, and Caelan’s blush intensified. He felt raw with humiliation.

“So what kind of school is it? And no more of your lying.”

“It’s a school for the healing arts,” Caelan said.

They groaned.

“No money boxes in that kind of place.”

The man with the tattoo narrowed his eyes. “Still want to join up?”

Caelan hesitated, then nodded warily.

Someone behind him snickered, but the tattooed man didn’t smile.

“You’re no good for it,” he said, his voice cutting and contemptuous. “We’ve no use for such cowards.”

Caelan flinched. “I’m not—”

“Aye, coward!” the man roared, silencing him. “A braggart and a fool, as well. You can’t stick where you are now, so how will you do your job in the emperor’s army? Eh?”

Without warning he struck Caelan across the mouth with the back of his hand.

Caelan reeled back and went sprawling on the ground. His head roared, and he thought he might pass out.

“Lying runaway!” the man bellowed at him. “I wouldn’t bet my life on a scab like you holding your line position during a charge.”

“But—”

“Shut up! You’re going back where you belong.”

Caelan scrambled to his feet in fresh defiance. “I won’t! I—”

The man slapped him again. The pain seemed to burst Caelan’s head. Panting with his hand pressed against his mouth, he barely managed to keep his feet this time.

“Leave it,” one of the men urged. “Let’s go find the town. There’s better prey there than this.”

“Better shut him up, though,” warned another.

Their eyes held no mercy. Frightened, Caelan took a step back and dodged his way out of the circle.

“Coward!” one of them taunted him.

“Mama’s boy!” another joined in.

Their teeth gleamed in the lantern light.

“Run, schoolboy. Run for mama.”

The man with the tattoo pulled out a javelin and hefted it in his hand. His eyes narrowed, sizing up Caelan. Then he smiled a terrible, empty smile.

Fear congealed in Caelan’s veins. For a moment he could only stare, caught like a rabbit before a snake; then he turned and ran for his life.

The wind whistled in his ears, and the light from the lantern dwindled quickly behind him. Darkness faced him, and the cold wind lashed his face as though trying to slow him down. All he could think of was his own exposed back and of how the lurker had died from a javelin throw.

Behind him the men shouted encouragement and called out bets.

They were laughing, and Caelan told himself they were only trying to scare him. Maybe they wouldn’t really spear him in the back for sport. After all, they had saved his life.

He stumbled on his bad leg and glanced back just in time to see the man throw.

The javelin came, arcing perfectly through the air. Too late, Caelan tried to double his speed, tried to zigzag to dodge it.

Too late.

It hit his shoulder with a glancing blow, bringing a ripping flame across his back. The impact drove him down, and he was falling, falling in a tumbling dive that took him off the road and down into the ditch beyond it.

There were sticks and briars and stubble from where the bank had been cleared. He rolled in a bruising tangle,  unable to stop his impetus, and all the while there was the brutal fire in his back, unquenchable, driving him mad.

He landed at the bottom with a jolt. Numbed and shaken, he sank into stagnant mud and water that was freezing cold. With a groan, he tried once to lift himself, but the effort proved beyond his strength.

He groaned again, hurting so much he couldn’t think. The darkness seemed to tilt and fold over him. He heard a strange rushing sound, and then there was nothing, nothing at all.