*******
The last body fell to the ground with little more than a grunt. Faces, many frozen in a state of disbelief, littered the grass across the Lamonde Plains. Some familiar, most not. But these men had been Keroko citizens, and that was enough to make them family. Ravens circled overhead, waiting for their chance to feast on the corpses of the men who'd fought so fearlessly to defend their captain, their village, and their kingdom from the selfish and heartless ambitions of Sartan Truce. Nearly eighty men had stepped foot on the Plains today. Less than a dozen escaped.
If Arus could've cried, he would have done so, hunched over the dead with his head in his hands as he pled for forgiveness. Instead, his cybernetic eye scanned the battlefield for any signs of life that had yet to be extinguished. He had used every ounce of willpower within his soul and then some extra in attempting free his mind from the implant's hold. But his body never so much as flinched; he slew soldier after soldier in a gruesome bloodbath that had sent many good men to the grave. If there had been any weakness in the implant for Anton to exploit, Truce had certainly remedied the problem with Arus' version.
He watched in horror and disgust as he leaned down and wiped the blood from his blade using one of the soldier's breeches. It almost seemed as though the implant had been programmed to go out of its way to be cruel, especially when he—rather, the bloody implant—had killed a man by crushing his throat with his mechanical hand. More than once he thought he would vomit—watching himself sever another man's head should've been more than enough to empty his stomach—but each time the urge arose, he felt his stomach suddenly calm, and cursed the implant when he realized why. The device had full control over every function of his body, and there was nothing he could do but scream silent screams and weep dry tears. The torture was enough to drive him to madness, yet even then, his body would've controlled itself despite the inner turmoil. Kitreena, have you abandoned me?
Beside him, Truce cupped his hands around his mouth. "All right, listen up! Eaisan and his boy escaped to the north along with several other men. Rather than pursuing them and risking discovery by the Cathymel patrols, we're going to proceed with our original plan."
The original plan made Arus' stomach churn again; it was certainly the kind of dirty scheme he'd expect from the Mages. The horses had not been the only thing they'd pilfered from Narleaha. Several chests of commoners' clothes, three wagons, and two coaches had been taken as well, along with two bottles of the finest Narleahan brandy. It was all designed to mimic a Narleahan caravan—at least, that's what the guards outside of Cathymel would think, anyway—and it would provide the perfect cover to get close enough to the castle.
Arus followed the others back to the woods as his sensors did periodic scans of the Plains to ensure that all enemy soldiers had been eliminated. F'Ledro was right where they'd left him, patting the nose of one of the horses hitched to the tan coach. The other coach was parked behind the first, maroon red with two windows on either side. Opposite the coaches, the wagons sat unhitched in the grass, one full of assorted tools, the other holding the chests of clothing. Two other Mages had been left guarding with F'Ledro, and while they remained alert and attentive, his eyes drooped over a stifled yawn. Arus noticed it at the same time that Sartan did. The coach's curtains had been drawn back, and the windows stood open. Someone had been resting on the job.
"I thought I told you to stand watch," Truce growled, dropping his sword and sheath on the ground beside them. "Do you take me for a fool?"
"I did watch, Boss!" F'Ledro whined. "Honest! I kept a sharp lookout!"
The rest of the soldiers fanned out across the caravan and began preparations for departure, hitching horses and donning commoner's clothing. If Arus hadn't come to know most by their faces, he'd honestly believe they were travelers or merchants coming to peddle their wares or seek work. Hopefully the guards of Cathymel wouldn't be deceived quite so easily.
"Do you think me a fool, F'Ledro?" Truce's voice held a dangerous chill.
The wiry man stammered, obviously rethinking his story. "Uh . . . That is, I . . . Uh . . ."
Truce waved a hand at him. "I don't have time for this," he said, shaking his head. "Just go clean up the horse manure."
"But, Boss—!"
"Now!"
Muttering a trail of incomprehensible babble, F'Ledro stomped toward the supply wagon. His fingers barely touched the shovel when Truce spoke again.
"With your hands, F'Ledro."
"What? You've got to be—"
"If you would prefer a more brief yet . . . harsher punishment, speak up." He was visibly trying not to grin.
Another string of babble poured through F'Ledro's lips, but he stomped toward the horses, wringing his hands the whole way. Truce laughed openly this time before turning his attention back to Arus. "Did you see your friend out there?"
"I do not have friends," Arus heard himself say. "My purpose is to serve the kyrosen and obey your commands." Friend? Was Vultrel there? Or is he talking about Master Eaisan?
The Mage put a hand to his beard and nodded. "Excellent," he said to no one in particular. "You've shown no signs of resistance to the implant's instructions. I've really outdone myself this time."
"Sir," Olock began, approaching from behind, "if I may . . . We should get moving."
"Of course," Truce agreed. He immediately started barking out commands, ordering everyone into a set of commoner's clothes and shouting for the horses to be hitched. Arus' feet moved—not that he wanted them to—and he started toward the second coach. He was the key to the Mages' victory, and with the iron grip of the implant controlling his every move, it was unlikely that he'd manage to foil those plans.
"Move it, soldiers! I want to reach the castle before nightfall!"
The stuffy coach was warmer than earlier. The rising sun heated the air more each day, though he'd heard stories about the extraordinary summers of the Lamonde Plains. How the grass stayed so green in such temperatures was beyond him, though it was also well-known that the Plains saw some of the nastiest thunderstorms during this time of year. Apparently the land got all the water it needed. Arus wished he could say the same for himself.
By the time they were on their way, sweat was pouring down his forehead. The windows of the coach only enhanced the warmth despite the breeze that occasionally filtered through the half-tilted glass. Seated across from him, Truce seemed no better. But years spent under the Mayahol Desert had to have improved his tolerance for heat. He was dressed in baggy brown pants and a loose white shirt, completely contrary to his usual black pants and vest. Despite the loose clothes and lighter colors, sweat dripped down his face just as much. Still, he kept his lively mood, obviously happy with the massacre his men had handed the Keroko Militia.
"I can't wait to see the look on Eaisan's face when he sees his boy here," he was saying into his communicator. "You know, there are some days you dream about for years, and I think today may be one of those days!"
"Agreed, but let's take one thing at a time," Olock's voice came back. He rode in the second coach alone; F'Ledro was supposed to accompany him, but the smell of his hands after cleaning the manure was too much for Olock to handle. Instead, he brought up the rear of the caravan, seated in the wooden wagon beside the tools. "Let's focus on getting through the Cathymel patrols first," Olock was saying.
"No problems there," Truce's eyes shifted to Arus. "If any of them decide to cause trouble, Arus can take them down before they make a sound."
"What of Eaisan? He's going to warn Sarathon about us, and we'll have the Royal Guard bearing down on us before we know it."
"If we play it cool, they won't know it's us until it's too late. They won't attack a civilian caravan without an abundance of evidence to rouse suspicion."
"Still, if Eaisan warns of our approach, and then this mysterious caravan shows up unannounced, I think they may figure it out."
They went back and forth for a while, discussing the possibilities and making contingency plans for each. Each plan essentially came down to the same response; Arus was to kill whoever stood in their way. It made the boy sick that these people killed so many without a care or regret, but it made him even sicker that he was the one who had to do it. The whole thing had helped him understand why Anton had reacted the way that he had. If Arus could've put his sword through his own heart at that moment, he would have done it fifty times over. Anything to keep Sartan from forcing him to kill more people. Master Eaisan, what would you do?
They rode in a long procession with a dozen mounted soldiers trotting ahead of the coaches, followed by the wagons and additional riders. By the time they reached the trail to Cathymel on the north end of the Lamonde Plains, the sun was dipping below the treetops. A few more hours of light, probably. Arus had no idea how far it was to the city gates, but Truce seemed encouraged by their progress. The deep maroon glow of the implant's scanners showed a tight ring of patrols a short ways off. If the Cathymel soldiers didn't let the caravan pass, the killing would soon resume.
"All right, Arus," Truce began, peering through the window. "Let's get that implant covered."
His "cover" was a hooded brown cloak, much like the one that Anton had worn when they met under the desert. It's probably the same one. The thought made Arus' skin crawl, though he couldn't force himself to scratch. The hood was deep and long, giving plenty of extra cloth to cover the implant. Truce pulled down on the left side, hiding most of Arus' face under the brown cowl. The cloak draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his arms, hiding the shining steel of his cybernetic arm. Up close, he looked suspicious enough to alarm even the laziest guards. But in the shadows of the coach, through the window and behind the curtains, he could've been just a servant traveling with his wealthy lord.
It didn't take long for a soldier to approach them. The caravan slowed to a stop—presumably forced to do so by the Cathymel patrols—and a hand rapped against the window. "Who goes there?" a gruff voice called from outside.
Arus' eyes remained fixed on the floor, regardless of how much he wanted to look. The cowl hid most of his view of the cabin; only the right window and wall were really visible. Truce had ordered him to stay still in order to keep the implant hidden, and it was about as easy to disobey his orders as it was to turn water into diamonds. He saw Truce shuffle to the left and out of his view. "Bavon Don Moinsen the Third." That was the false name that Sartan had taken. There was no need for Truce to be concerned with being recognized by his face. Most in Asteria had a good idea of what his father had looked like, but with Truce keeping himself hidden underground until only recently, people had little reason question his identity. "I come from Narleaha, seeking the shelter and protection of His Majesty."
Arus couldn't see the soldier from where he sat, but the request was apparently an odd one. "Protection? From what do you seek protection, Lord Bavon?"
"Why, those bloody Vermillion Mages, of course!" Truce sounded as though he was surprised that the soldier had to ask. "Hasn't anyone told you?"
"We have heard something about those animals causing trouble again, yes. A band of soldiers from Keroko Village passed through here hours ago, claiming they were being pursued by the Mages."
"Pursued?" Truce sounded legitimately shocked. "Do you mean to tell me that they are coming here, as well?"
There were a few laughs outside the window. The soldier must have had friends nearby. "Not to worry, Lord Bavon. The Royal Guard of Cathymel will keep the city safe from any intruders, I assure you. It will take more than a few rogue bandits to threaten the kingdom of Asteria."
"There are more than a few, I'm afraid," Truce went on. "They attacked Narleaha in droves, pouring in from the south like a plague of locusts. My estate was burned to the ground, and I barely managed to load up some things into my wagons and get out of there. Mayor Burnest insisted I take a detachment of his best soldiers and head toward the castle to request reinforcements."
"Seems like those rats are up to something," the soldier grumbled. "No matter. They won't break our defense, should they be foolish enough to come."
Another voice came from outside. "What's in the trunks, Lord Bavon?"
"Just clothes and food." For once, he was telling the truth. "I ordered my servants to only grab essential items during the escape."
There was a long silence, and Arus could almost feel the soldiers' eyes on him. Their next question confirmed it. "Is he all right? He seems a bit nervous."
Truce never missed a beat. "A good servant is an obedient one," he responded. "I've trained my servants not to move unless told to do so. They obey only my instructions, but this one here has had to learn the definition of ‘loyalty' more than a few times. I have to keep a close eye on him, but he's learning."
What am I, some kind of pet?
Again, Arus overheard the voice of another soldier outside. "Yeah, don't go too close to that servant in the wagon back there. I'd almost swear he's been swimming in horse droppings."
Without looking, Arus knew Truce had that grin on his face. "Whatever works!"
The group shared a hearty laugh, and it became evident to Arus that the ploy had not only worked, but it could even see Truce find an audience with the king without the least bit of resistance. As the guards gave "Lord Bavon" their blessing, the coach bumped down the dirt path toward the stone walls of Cathymel. The only comfort came in knowing that a few of Eaisan's men had managed to make it to the city—and likely Castle Asteria—before the Mages had even reached the border. But if Eaisan was out there, then the possibility that Arus could be forced to fight his own master and mentor was still very real. And if Vultrel had also traveled with the militia . . . Was he the "friend" that Truce was talking about? Master Eaisan wouldn't let Vultrel come along on such a dangerous journey, would he?
"That wasn't so hard," Olock's voice came through Truce's communicator.
"We've got them in the palm of our hands, my friend," Sartan said softly. "We couldn't have asked for a better welcome."
"Do you think the gatekeepers will be as friendly?"
"Trust me, Olock. By midnight, Asteria will have a new king."