The Burning Kingdoms Page 4

  He’d traveled a huge distance over the last few months—across Pitoria to Dornan to find Edyon, then fleeing with Edyon to Rossarb across the Northern Plateau, and then back again, pursued by Brigantine soldiers. And now he realized how much Edyon’s company, Edyon’s soul and spirit, had kept him going. He missed Edyon’s presence more than he’d ever imagined possible. He was leaving Calidor and would never return. He’d never see Edyon again. If only he’d told Edyon the truth earlier, perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps Edyon would have listened; perhaps he’d have understood.

  “Are you having a final tearful good-bye, White Eyes?” a guard hollered. “Well, your time’s up. You’re on our wall, and if you don’t get off it yourself, we’ll throw you off.” The guard began to climb.

  March had a feeling the guard’s words weren’t an empty threat. He took a final look to Calidor—Edyon’s country, Edyon’s home now. Then, as the first guard was reaching the top of the wall, he swung his leg over the parapet and lowered himself down. He felt for footholds in the stone and found small gaps that could just hold the toes of his boots. He grabbed at the rough stone, scraping his knees but somehow clinging on, and moved down. But then his hand slipped and he had no energy left, and so he half jumped and half fell the final stretch, landing on the branches and brambles. Above him the guards hooted with laughter. March shouted in pain and despair but discovered he hadn’t broken any bones, and, though the brambles tangled him, ripped his shirt, and scratched his arms, he was intact. He struggled across a pile of broken branches and realized the ditch below him was deep, and he could smell pitch. The wood had been put there for a reason. This whole area between Calidor’s outer wall and Brigant’s wall, this no-man’s-land, was a huge fire pit waiting to be lit.

  He scrambled to the next wall, again finding steps built into it, and again knowing there’d be none on the other side. He made it to the top, lowered himself over the parapet, and clambered down as best he could to stand on Brigantine land, though thankfully there were no Brigantines around. He wasn’t sure how he’d be treated by Brigantines, but they didn’t have a reputation for being kind and generous. Though could they be worse than the Calidorian soldiers he was leaving behind?

  March set off walking, looking back only once to see the wall in the distance and the soldiers silhouetted on the top. He followed a gradual slope down, reasoning that’d be the most likely way to find a road and possibly people and hopefully food. He was relieved when he found a stream. He drank and washed, cleaning his dusty skin and hair, and cooling his feet. After he’d rested, he followed the stream down, eventually coming to a stony road. He had nothing to carry water in, so he took a last drink and followed the road east.

  March plodded on. He saw no sign of human life, apart from the road. When evening came, he couldn’t manage to start a fire. He had nothing, not even a blanket to keep him warm. He lay down to sleep. At least he could rest whenever he wanted now. At least he wasn’t being cursed or kicked. But he woke during the night, alert and fearful—this was Brigant after all, enemy territory. March crouched close to the ground, listening to the noises of the night, but there were no human sounds here. And it was at this point the tears came. He was truly alone, without friends, family, a home, or even a country.

  He remembered being in the cell with Edyon that last time. Edyon had said that March had been “a true friend. And a true love,” but March had betrayed him. And, even when Edyon had confronted him, March hadn’t been able to tell Edyon how he really felt. He had never been sure, until it was too late, that he loved Edyon enough. The tears rolled down March’s cheeks, and he closed his eyes and imagined Edyon standing before him, imagined telling Edyon he loved him, imagined kissing him and begging his forgiveness. And in his dreams, Edyon kissed March’s tears away.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning March trudged on until he spotted a small farmhouse not far from the road. He staggered toward it to beg for food. There were chickens in the yard, as well as goats and a pig. It was a small, poor place, and yet it seemed like heaven. March banged on the farmhouse door, but there was no answer. He had to eat, had to have something. An egg and some milk from the goats would keep him going for the rest of the day. Surely the farmer could spare him that.

  March went to the henhouse and slipped inside. He ran his hands over the shelves, finding two eggs, which he gently placed into his pocket. He left feeling guilty, but he still needed to take more. To survive, he needed a blanket and a skin for water. The house was standing quiet and empty—dare he go in?

  “It’s that or die,” he muttered to himself as he opened the door and stepped inside.

  The house was tiny and almost bare of possessions. There was one room with a single bed to the side and a rough wooden box containing a few clothes and a blanket. March took the blanket. Then he went to the kitchen—the other side of the room—which had a fireplace, table, and two small cupboards. There was a small pitcher full of milk in one. March licked his lips and his stomach growled. The milk hardly touched the sides of his mouth, yet its flavor was fatty and full. The cupboard also contained some cheese and apples. March grabbed a sack to put the food in, and then found some cabbages and rutabagas. He took one of each and put them in the sack too.

  He was leaving the house, closing the door carefully be-hind him, when he heard a shout. “Hey there, boy. What you doing?”

  March turned. An old man was approaching. March had to choose: confess and beg for forgiveness, or run.

  He looked at the man, who was wiry with a short gray beard. “Well, what you after?” the man shouted, scowling and moving surprisingly fast toward March, who backed away. “Is that my sack you got there? You stealing off me?”

  “I’m just hungry.”

  “And what’s with your eyes?”

  “I didn’t steal them.”

  “You’re Abask! I thought your kind were dead. They were all thieves and lowlifes.” The man snatched at the sack, but March jerked it out of his reach, so the man grabbed at March instead.

  March pushed the man away.

  “That’s my sack.” The man snatched at it again, but March pulled it away and ran a few steps, turning to plead, “I’m just hungry. I just need some food.”

  The man bent down and picked up some stones from the path, throwing them with fierce accuracy, while shouting, “Thief! Abask thief!”

  The stones struck March twice on the back of the head as he ran off, and the man shouted, his voice carrying surprisingly well in the still air: “I’ll have your eyes out for stealing, you Abask bastard.”

  March slowed at the top of a rise before he looked back. The man was far behind, staring at him. March took out the eggs from his pocket, cracked them open, and sucked their contents down. He threw the shells on the ground and shouted at the man, “I should have taken a chicken too.”

  * * *

  • • •

  That night March managed to make a fire. He wrapped himself in the blanket and ate some of the food, saving what he hoped would be enough for the rest of his journey. He didn’t know how long he’d be walking, and he couldn’t risk stealing too often. He needed to get to a town or city. He needed money, work, something. But, as the night wore on, his thoughts fell from those things and returned, as always, to Edyon.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning, he set off at first light, not sure where he was going and not sure he wanted to get there. To make things perfect, it started to rain. March put the sack over his head and trudged toward a line of small trees, away from the road, to find some shelter. As he neared, he saw that the trees were growing in a small, narrow valley. He slid down the slope of wet grass and mud, landing on his backside, which elicited a snigger above him. March looked up to see a boy leaning against a tree trunk.

  The boy was smaller than March, painfully thin, wit
h a swollen black eye, straggly red-blond hair, and boots that looked way too big for him. By way of greeting, the boy opened his tattered jacket to reveal that his trousers, which were also too big, were held up by a leather belt that was thick and worn, and into which was tucked a long knife.

  The boy said, “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Me neither,” March replied. “I just want to get out of the rain.”

  “Same here.” The boy nodded to the next tree along. “There’s room there.”

  March went to the tree, laid his sack out, and sat on it. He looked at the boy, who was watching him intently.

  “My name’s Sam.”

  “March.”

  “Rain doesn’t look like stopping soon.”

  March wasn’t in the mood for a conversation about the weather, but it would do no harm to be friendly. “No, probably not.”

  “You got any food?”

  “A bit.”

  Sam wrapped his jacket close to hide his knife and pulled a smile wide across his face. “What you got?”

  “Cheese, an apple, rutabaga, and cabbage.”

  Sam licked his lips. “Nice.”

  “When did you last eat?”

  The boy shrugged. “Yesterday . . . or the day before, maybe.”

  “Do you know how to set rabbit traps?”

  Sam shook his head but looked hopeful.

  “Lend me your knife and I’ll show you.”

  “I’m not going to fall for that one.”

  March sighed. “Look, there are rabbit holes all round here. How about . . . I show you what to do, and you do it? I won’t touch your knife.”

  Sam nodded. “Sixes.”

  “Sixes? What’s that mean?”

  Sam looked confused. “Sixes! Agreed. Deal. Six of one. Sixes.”

  “Oh, right.”

  March showed Sam how to get a length of a branch, cut it, and strip it down to make a flexible piece that could be fashioned into a loop to catch a rabbit. Sam was a quick learner and worked well with his hands, but he never let March close to the knife, always tucking it back in his trou-sers when he wasn’t using it.

  After they’d set the traps, Sam asked, “You’re not Brig-antine, are you? Where you from?”

  “I’m Abask by birth. Traveled quite a bit, trying my luck here now.” March quickly changed the subject from himself, asking, “And you, where are you from?”

  “Blackton. Tiny village in the north by the sea.”

  “So how come you’re here?”

  “My master couldn’t pay me, couldn’t even feed me. I ran away.”

  “Did you steal his clothes?” March smiled, looking at the oversized trousers and boots.

  Sam’s face went stiff. “I’m no thief. They’re mine.”

  March nodded. “Did your master give you the black eye then?”

  “Do you ever stop asking questions?”

  It was clear that Sam had been in a fight of some sort and those were not his normal clothes. But March didn’t press further. They both had stories they didn’t want to share. “So you’ve run away from the north all this way. Where are you headed? Calidor?”

  “Calidor! They’re our enemy. Why would I go there?”

  “Work. Money. Food. It’s the land of milk and honey, after all.”

  Sam shook his head. “Not for much longer, they say. Anyway, I’m joining the army. That’s the place to be.” He smiled. “Work, money, food to be had there.”

  “And war and fighting.” March thought back to Rossarb. “And death and destruction.”

  “Not for the winners. The winners aren’t destroyed.”

  March looked Sam up and down. He was a child. He shouldn’t be in the army. “You’re a winner, are you?”

  Sam shrugged. “I can hold my own.”

  March didn’t mention the black eye. “How can you join the army? Don’t you have to be an apprentice to a lord or something first?”

  “Not for the boys’ brigades. You just have to be loyal to the king, and young enough.”

  “Really?” March’s interest piqued. Was this the boy army Edyon had to warn his father about?

  “They’re the best. They say that they’ve got special powers, special strength. They live forever.”

  It had to be the boy army, fueled by demon smoke. “Hmm. I’m not so sure about the living-forever bit, but I do believe they have special strength.”

  Sam’s face lit up. “You heard that too? Some say it’s the work of demons, but I don’t care how it works as long as I get strong enough to fight anyone I like.”

  “It’s true. If you inhale the purple demon smoke, you get strong for a short while. It heals wounds quickly too.”

  Sam laughed and slapped his thigh. “Yes! It’s true. It’s true. We’ll be indestructible.”

  “You’ll still have to destroy other people,” March re-minded him.

  Sam pulled his shoulders back. “People get what they de-serve. The enemies of Brigant need to be shown who’s boss.”

  “Women and children too? Babies? Old people?”

  “I’m not going to fight them! They’re not in the army. But”—Sam shrugged—“if you’re on the wrong side, you suffer.”

  March nodded as he thought of his family and all the Abask people. “That’s certainly true.”

  They sat quietly for a while and then Sam said, “I’ve seen eyes like yours before. In the north. The Abask slaves working in the mines have silver eyes too.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My master dealt with the mine owners, buying and selling tin.” Sam poked at the ground with his finger. “Is that where you’re from? When you said you traveled around a bit, do you mean you escaped?”

  March shook his head. “No. I wasn’t a slave of the Brig-antines. I was a servant in Calidor. But a servant is pretty much a slave.”

  “You don’t need to tell me. So how come you left Calidor if it’s the land of milk and honey?”

  March shrugged. “Like you, Sam, I’d had enough of be-ing a servant.”

  “So you’re going to join the boy army too?”

  March had no plans for what he’d do next, but it seemed that whatever he tried, and wherever he went, the war was in his path. The war was his destiny. He had not avenged the deaths of the Abask people, as he’d originally left Theloni-us’s castle to do, and he knew now that it wasn’t possible. They were gone years ago. But Edyon was still alive, and the Brigantines were certainly going to attack Calidor. Could March help in some way? Could he somehow spy on the boy army and return with valued information to give to Edyon? Could he win back Edyon’s trust?

  It seemed like an absurd idea. Most likely he’d just be killed in the first battle. But he had to do something. He couldn’t just pretend the war wasn’t happening. He couldn’t pretend that he’d never met Edyon. He didn’t want to do that. He wanted to return—not to Calidor, but to Edyon.

  March’s stomach growled, bringing him back to the real-ity of sitting in a wet ditch with Sam. The simple fact was that he was starving, and at least in the army he’d get food. He said, “Yes, I’m going to join the boy army too.”

  EDYON

  CALIA, CALIDOR

  EDYON STOOD on the edge of the field in the hot after-noon sun, a bottle of demon smoke in his hands. With him were two young noblemen named Byron and Ellis. They would be his assistants for the demonstration. Byron was Edyon’s age, handsome with a long black plait of hair draped over his shoulder, and Ellis was a couple of years younger, broad-shouldered, and blond.

  Across the field, a few of Lord Regan’s men laughed loudly at some joke, while another man stretched and yawned. To Edyon’s right, in the shade of a long, open marquee, ser-vants in bright white shirts stood ready to pour refreshments.

  Edyon looked round toward the castle for t
he hun-dredth time, hoping to catch sight of the audience arriving for his demonstration. Lord Regan had said he’d get the other lords there after quizzing Edyon on what he’d planned to do. Regan had told him, “You can make the demonstra-tion on the knight’s practice ground. I’ll have it prepared and set up.” But Edyon had been waiting for what seemed like hours in the hot sun, and no lords had arrived.

  Edyon paced around until finally Regan came into view, walking beside Prince Thelonius and leading a throng of well-dressed men—the lords. They strolled up and slowly gathered in the shade of the marquee, sipping cool drinks and talking to each other, ignoring Edyon. Edyon was just about to call for their attention when Regan turned to him and shouted, “Are you ready yet, Your Highness?”

  As if you’ve been waiting half the afternoon for me!

  Edyon smiled and said, “I hope we are all ready, Your Highness and my lords.” He stepped closer to his audience. “Thank you, Father, for allowing me to make this demon-stration. And thank you, my lords, for sparing your time on this glorious afternoon.

  “I left Pitoria just a couple of weeks ago to come to Cali-dor, and I was given the responsibility of bringing two things with me. Both of these things were handed to me by Queen Catherine herself. The first item was a letter of warning. A warning that King Aloysius of Brigant is building a new army, with which he intends to take over the world. First, he intends to crush us, his neighbors—Calidor and Pitoria.”

  Edyon had to be careful not to mention that the Pitorians had asked to join forces with the Calidorians, but he felt he should explain that the Pitorians had warned Thelonius of the threat. And that seemed to be going fine so far. Edyon contin-ued, “This new Brigantine army is powerful and terrifying, but also unusual, as it is made up not of men but of boys.”

  There were a few laughs and smiles among the lords at this. “How old are these boy soldiers?” one asked. “Out of nappies, I assume?”