And then, they were free. By some miracle, they were free.
The first breath he sucked in quivered, filling lungs that had been as clenched as the rest of him in those several seconds of brutal eternity. The second breath was resolutely steady, his fists tightening on the reins, eyes narrowing. He had escaped, now he would be captured, and later escape again. It was all going according to plan. An uncoordinated, poorly trained lance was nothing he couldn’t handle.
Eclipse labored for every breath, and made no objections to skidding to a halt at Yhkon’s cue. He spun to face the oncoming lance. Thankfully, they slowed, warily at first, then stopped fully a stone’s throw away.
“Do you surrender?” the commander called.
“On certain conditions.”
“Which are?”
Yhkon relaxed a little in the saddle. “You don’t kill me, and you take care of my celith.”
The man hardly even hesitated. “Agreed. Dismount, and step twenty feet away from the celith.”
He swallowed. The lack of hesitation could just mean the commander thought his conditions reasonable, as they were…or it could mean he was tricking Yhkon into putting himself in their control, so they could kill him.
Some distant, restrained voice told him that this was idiotic. He had no proof that the Kaydorians wanted him alive, it was just a guess. For all he knew, they were going to slit his throat at the earliest opportunity. Or, if they didn’t kill him, they would take him to Aydimor. There were still at least fifty of them, making his chances of escaping quite slim. And if they took him to Aydimor…
As always when he was about to do something arguably reckless, an image of Grrake came like a shackle to his mind. Grabbing him. Trying to talk him out of it. Even pleading.
Also almost as always…he ignored the nagging caution, and dismounted.
11
Water
C apture really was looking like a less and less brilliant plan, as it unfolded. Naturally, he had been stripped of his weaponry and minimal armor, and searched for anything hidden. Fortunately not thoroughly enough for them to find the knife lodged in his boot. After that, his wrists were bound tightly behind his back, he awkwardly clambered onto the coliye they directed him to, which was tied to two others. Eclipse, at least, was taken care of, as promised.
Well, at least he’d been right about them wanting him alive. Unless they were just waiting to kill him more creatively, later.
“Let’s go!” The commander’s sharp voice rose above the general buzz of the lance. They all mounted, moved into formation, and set out at a walk. Satisfied that the men were in line and in no need of further instruction for the time being, the commander turned lazy, yet cunning, brown eyes on Yhkon. A well-built man, average height, probably in his thirties or forties. Experienced. “I’m Commander Dejer, quarter of offensive infantry, eleventh platoon, of His Majesty’s army. What’s your name?”
“Quarter of offensive infantry, eleventh platoon”...fancy way of saying the minimally trained, basic soldiers that Kaydor throws at problems in abundance until they eventually fix it by sheer numbers. “Commander of offensive infantry? You clearly didn’t start with the rank. What did you do that so pleased His Majesty into promoting you?”
It was the lack of self-obsessed, snobbish ego that convinced him the man hadn’t earned the rank for no more than a family name, or social standing. Still, Dejer showed his own sort of arrogance in his reply. “I’m the one who told him about you and your friends. Therefore,” a cruel grin displayed perfect teeth, “I’m the one who gets to deliver you to the king.”
“To him personally, is it?” Yhkon tilted his head as if curious. The last thing he wanted was for this Dejer to see that he was far from composed, actually seething. “He must feel quite threatened by just a few San Quawr.”
The lazy eyes became more intent. “Are you going to tell me your name, or will I have to drag it out of you by other methods?”
“Well, I’m sure you’re going to be trying to torture some sort of information from me before we’re through, why don’t I give you more to look forward to discovering?”
The cruel grin was hardening into a glare. Dejer’s hand whipped out, yanking back the hood and mask Yhkon wore to expose his face. His smirk returned. “Ah, I wondered. You’re nothing but a tadpole, talking like a man. Sanonyan, too.”
Yhkon could have killed the man and enjoyed it thoroughly. At what point would men stop looking down on him for his age? When he was ninety? He was twenty-four, hardly a child. And he had the wretched imbecile by at least two inches, and twenty pounds. Though he knew there was restrained anger in his countenance, he kept his voice cool. “Says the man who lost a quarter of his force to me.”
There was a brief flash of rage in the commander’s face, before his fist slammed into Yhkon’s jaw.
To say it didn’t hurt, or that it wasn’t difficult to keep his calm composure, would be a lie. But keep it he did. He met Dejer’s gaze without so much as a wince, gathered up the blood in his mouth, and spat it to the side. It was tempting to spit it at the pompous Kaydorian, but he’d always felt that to be a petty, childish sort of gesture.
No matter. The collected, mocking expression he wore clearly irritated the commander plenty.
Dejer leaned back, recovering from his anger, even smirking again. “Have it your way, tadpole. As you say, it just means we’ll have more to get out of you tonight.” Obviously, he was looking forward to it. “Kaydor did insist you be brought in alive…but he gave me no other limitations.”
I’m sure he didn’t. So, the brilliance of increasing the commander’s desire to torture him by being vexing was debatable. Not to mention, growing thirst wasn’t a problem that would solve itself. Now he had little choice except to make his escape that night, before dehydration slowed him, and lest whatever pain-inflicting techniques they used debilitated him in some way. One thing was certain, he would not be taken to Aydimor, not alive.
Dejer straightened and kicked his coliye into a trot to move ahead. Yhkon waited till he was gone, before turning to one of the soldiers who rode as sentry beside him. “Don’t suppose I could trouble you for a drink?”
When the man answered by snapping his riding crop over Yhkon’s shoulder, he concluded that they were under no orders to pay him courtesy, and that getting some water would have to wait.
The day passed slowly. Nothing to distract from his growing thirst and lightheadedness. He kept his mouth shut and his head down, not wanting to dig himself even deeper into this mess, and not feeling much energy for sarcasm.
The lance didn’t stop until it was already growing dark. By then, Yhkon was beginning to crave a feast, with a whole pitcher of water, maybe even some wine, and then a comfortable bed. That, he knew, was not at all what he was in for.
With his hands still bound behind his back, dismounting at the order of his guard seemed rather impossible. Would it be more humiliating to accept assistance, or risk falling on his face? Well, they weren’t offering help, and he wasn’t about to ask for it, so it would have to be the latter. He swung one leg over and slid down. He landed on his feet, only losing his balance and stumbling a little…until the nearest guard purposely tripped him. Unable to catch himself with his hands, he ended up on his side, coughing on dirt, with the Kaydorians laughing over him. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be able to jump up and snap their necks. No weapons necessary—he knew he could take the two sentries barehanded.