John inhaled sharply. The blistering hot shackles sank deeper into his chafed wrists, destroying any thoughts of getting use to the pain. His captor, Randy, had all but forgotten him as his horse pulled them forward uncaringly. Glaring at the lieutenant's back, he savored the thought of pulling his former superior off his horse and strangling him to death.
[If only] he thought, eyeing the other men around him.
Between the unsteady footing of the sand and his weakened condition, he knew the small tent group of legionnaires would stop him well before Randy could draw his last breath.
As he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, he wondered how everything had turned to shit so quickly. A week ago he was Sergeant John Wayden of the Ninth Brigade, First Battalion of the Vanguard. Arguably the highest position a peasant could obtain in the Ce'l Empire. And now? Now he'd been marked as a traitorous murder and strung out to dry. Between the extensive mental and physical beatings he'd gone through, not to mention the lack of food and water, it was only his simmering anger keeping him upright.
Knowing it'd be only a matter of hours before they'd put the sword to his neck and ended his suffering only pissed him off more.
"Just--" John began, but his voice came out hoarse, barely audible even to his own ears. He licked his lips and tried again. "Just tell me one thing."
Randy's ears perked up.
"Why didn't you vouch for me?"
When his executioner remained silent, John snorted. "Fine, then let's get this over with. No sense in delaying it any further."
No one so much as slowed.
"Oh come on!" he bellowed. "Are you really going to follow the law to the letter?"
The ridiculous thousand-year old law required them to execute him at the border—a seven league journey. Seeing the Dark Wood Forest on the horizon, John guessed they had another league to go.
His tired legs tripped over themselves for the umpteenth time and he nearly took a nosedive. Cursing loudly, John barely gained his footing back before Randy's horse could pull him down. It wouldn't be long before they'd have to start dragging him.
"What if I promise not to tell anyone?" he offered half-heartedly.
John stumbled again but this time he couldn't gain his footing back. He ate sand and, after being dragged a few steps, a voice behind them stopped Randy's horse.
"We're close enough, Lieutenant."
Between the sand in his face, the snug collar he wore and the tight chains, he couldn't see who'd spoken. But while John didn't recognize the voice, it didn't take a genius to deduce he was from the House of Se'kal. The Duke he'd allegedly killed had a lot of pissed off relatives.
Dismounting, Randy pulled free his sword. "You sure?"
"Yes," the voice behind John answered.
Propping himself up on his knees, John glared at Randy.
Ignoring him, his old friend positioned himself directly in front of John and made a flourish with his sword.
John's heart skipped a beat as he realized what was about to happen.
He was going to die.
[Well, I can at least die with dignity] John thought as he attempted to bore a hole into the lieutenant's eyes.
He'd be damned if he gave Randy the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
Randy raised his sword and, in a blur of grey steel, it flashed down faster than the eye could follow.
"Relax Sarg," Randy said with a smile in his voice. "You're not dying today."
John opened his eyes—he didn't remember closing them—to find the rope between his shackled hands and Randy's saddle cut cleanly. The men around him chuckled. Caught off guard, he could only stare at the limp rope before him.
Randy sheathed his sword and pulled out a key from his back pocket.
"Look, we don't have a lot of time," he said, helping John stand. "Sorry for the act but I was told it was the only way."
The lieutenant pressed something into his hand. "For you."
As the restraints on his hands fell away, John held up a thin piece of paper. Confused—and still wary of it being some kind of sick joke, that at any moment they'd decapitate him from behind—he opened it.
////
J,
Your friend told me of your problem and requested my help. You must be a very trustworthy person for him to call in such a large debt. Where you stand today, however, is all I can do. To clear all wrongdoing will require another's help, but that person requires something in return. There is a teacher who needs assistance. Do this and consider your problem taken care of.
B
////
The collar and remaining shackles hit the sand with a dull thunk, kicking John's brain into motion. He read the letter a second time.
Based on the handwriting and the amount of paranoia in the note, it was obvious the mysterious B wasn't an idiot. Smelling no perfume, he knew it was safe to assume it was a man--Ce'lian women were notoriously known for their perfumes. Not only that but the man had to have a lot of clot in the military to pull his escape off. And to get his name cleared from such a public trial? He'd have to know some very powerful friends. John's eyes widened as he put the pieces together.
General Briar Ta'lee.
He was sure of it. But how did Randy know the General of the Vanguard? Even the Majors spaced themselves from the legend, and they reported directly to him. Randy had never mention the relationship to him before, let alone talked about the general owing him one. And considering he didn't drop his name in front of the men, he wanted it kept that way.
Who could possibly fix his problem?
How?
A hand pulled on his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts, and he faced the man he had originally assumed was from the House of Se'kal.
Anyone from a distance would have passed him off as an old Ce'lian soldier. He had greying brown hair, brown eyes and wore the traditional red and tan uniform of a legionnaire. But his face and hands were too soft to belong to a warrior.
"I see you've figured out who wrote this. Good. You might come back from this alive after all."
The older man gave Randy a look and wordlessly his friend walked off, taking with him the rest of the legionnaires.
Before John could ask one of the many questions forming in his mind, the older man said, "For the sake of security, do not breathe another word of this to anyone. From this moment on, you've escaped our custody and are a fugitive. There is no turning back now. Do you understand?"
When John slowly nodded, the man grabbed the letter from him and the piece of paper spontaneously combusted. John took an involuntary step back.
The man was a mage.
Grabbing both of his shoulders, the mage stopped his retreat with surprising force. Locking eyes with him, he whispered, "Where you are going, son, no one can know where you are from."
Before he could fully process this, John felt a sudden searing sensation on his left shoulder, right where his Vanguard tattoo was. He cried out and dropped to his knees.
The mage followed him down, refusing to break contact with him. Off in the distance, the other legionnaires shifted uncomfortably.
As the burning sensation died away, the mage leaned forward even closer and breathed into his ear, "Your mission will require you to be something you're not. This will help."
John blinked sand away from his eyes and groaned as the sun tried to scorch his eyeballs.
[When did I fall down?]
Propping himself up with his elbows, he looked around.
Not a soul in sight.
Judging the sun's height, he'd been out a few hours. Not only that, but he was at the edge of the forest and at his feet was a water bag and a map.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Pulling himself to his feet, he paused halfway.
[That's odd] John thought. Righting himself up cautiously, he frowned.
He felt good.
No, better than good. He felt like he just had a full night's rest and a hearty meal. Inspecting himself, he discovered his chafed wrists and bruises he'd sustained from his arrest had mysteriously disappeared. Carefully he pressed against the wounds he'd received during his "questioning" and found them healed. Glancing at his bare shoulder, his tattoo was missing, as if it had never been there.
"Who ever you were mage, thank you," John said to the empty desert.
Bending down, he picked up the items. The map was a crude drawing of the forest with two words scribbled in a small clearing and circled by Randy's hand: "Good luck."
John snorted.
Part of him wanted to throw the map away and head in the opposite direction. He'd just been bent over like a two penny whore and now he was being told to dance for someone else to make it right.
Straightening his shoulders, he stared out into the foreboding forest.
"One problem at a time, John. One problem at a time."