Silas
Silas watched the messenger exit the tent and start walking away. He glanced over at the prison wagon again, taking note of the heavy lock on the door, and the hitch at the front. It would be hard to break the lock with the lousy sword he was carrying, and even harder to get the key from whichever Mediator he was sure was holding it. The hitch was another story, though. If he could sneak in once most of the camp had gone to sleep, he might be able to get a couple of horses onto the wagon, and start rolling it away.
"At least until they hop on their horses and ride me down," he muttered to himself. He would be even more of a sitting duck steering the wagon, giving the soldiers plenty of chances to put an arrow in his chest.
He was reconsidering his plans when he noticed a faint blue light coming from the woods on the other side of the Mediator's tent. Before he could shift himself to get a better look, he saw that the light was coming from someone's hand. He followed the hand up to the arm to the shoulder, and then to the face. He recognized the boy from the silk merchant's cart immediately.
There was a shout as one of the soldiers saw the boy too.
"What in the name of Amman is he doing?" Silas asked himself. "He's going to get killed."
The blue light was growing brighter, and he saw how the boy was looking down at his hand. No, not at his hand, but something he was holding. Then he saw the blood that was pooling below his left eye.
Silas didn't think, he just acted. He rose up from his hiding spot and drew his sword, running towards the boy. He was Cursed, and he was free! He wasn't sure what he was doing, but he was sure he was going to need help.
No sooner had he reached the clearing then the blue light exploded outward in a blinding white light, lances of it launching everywhere around them. Silas threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding one of the bursts, and hearing it hit the tree he had just been hiding behind, lighting it on fire. He heard screams, as some of the bolts lashed into soldiers, and cries of fear from those that weren't struck. More bolts launched from the boy's hand, hitting the trees around them, hitting the Mediator's tent, hitting more soldiers. In a matter of seconds the entire camp was turned to chaos.
Silas pulled himself up. He saw the boy suddenly react as though he was in pain, dropping whatever he had been holding to the ground. The lightning stopped immediately, and he stood there clutching his wrist and looking down at his hand, still smoldering from the heat of the display.
The Mediator's tent was on fire, and Silas saw the flap at the entrance get shoved aside, and a man with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail step out, sword in hand. His eyes went directly to the Cursed boy, and he started charging towards him, raising the weapon to strike.
The boy saw him coming, but didn't move, his eyes wide with fear. Silas started running for them, forcing himself to move as fast as he could. He reached the Mediator just as he was preparing to strike the boy, stabbing the dull point of his sword into the man's back and running him through. He reached up and took the man's hand, preventing him from bringing the sword down on the boy, and then threw him to the ground. He dropped his dull blade, and claimed the Mediator's.
The boy was looking at him, his mouth wide open, his eyes wild. Then he raised a finger and pointed.
Silas spun around, bringing up the Mediator's sword just in time to block one of the surviving soldiers. He smiled when he felt the light weight of it, the perfect balance, and the way it captured much of the vibration caused by the block. It was the finest sword he had ever touched.
He knocked the soldier's sword away and drove it into his chest. Something in his mind told him that no, it wasn't the finest sword he had ever touched, but it would do.
Silas heard the snap of a bowstring, and turned in the direction of the sound, expecting an arrow to pierce him or the boy before he could finish the movement. He found the archer a dozen feet away, but his bow wasn't even aimed at them.
It was aimed at the wagon.
A cry echoed in the night as the arrow pierced the chest of one of the Cursed, and he fell backwards into the arms of the others. Two more twangs, and two more arrows found their way between the bars and into the prisoners.
Silas started to make a run for them, to cut them down before they could finish their dirty business, when a voice interrupted him.
"Going somewhere, Silas?"
He turned towards the Mediator's tent, which was on its way to being burned to ash. Standing in front of it was Roque.
"I'm setting them free," Silas said. He held the sword ready, but he knew it wouldn't be that useful against a Mediator.
"That is what you don't understand. You aren't setting them free." He looked over at the boy. "I can't let them leave here alive. I'm sorry."
Silas shouted and charged. Roque brought up his own blade and blocked it. They held the weapons close, each pushing back against the other.
"You used to understand," Roque said. "You used to believe in him."
Murderer, the voice whispered in his mind.
"I used to be a murderer," he said, giving a hard shove and breaking the clinch.
He brought the blade up and around again, but Roque backed out of reach. He could hear the cries of the Cursed in the wagon, and he saw that one of the soldiers had reached it with a torch, and was setting it on fire.
"How can you stand there and watch them kill innocent people?" he shouted at Roque. "They aren't more than children, and they're just like you!"
A tear ran from Roque's eye. A red tear.
"Because I have faith in his truth, as you used to." He held out his hand, pointing his fist at Silas. "He should have killed you, all those years ago."
Silas saw the ring on his finger, the red stone attached to the shining metal loop. He saw the flame within the stone, and he understood, but there was nothing he could do.
The fire shot at him like a lance, burning a hole in the air and heading straight for him. He was too close. He closed his eyes, ready to feel the flames take him, already sensing the heat on his face. When seconds passed, and he found he was still alive, he opened them.
He was laying on the grass, ten feet away from where he had started. Roque was in the same spot, the flames squelched, but his attention was somewhere else. Silas followed it with his eyes, and landed on the boy.
He was standing there with his hand out, a line of blood running from his eye and down his cheek, dripping off onto his shirt. "Leave him alone," the boy shouted.
"How?" Roque asked staring at the boy. He seemed surprised that he had been able to shove Silas aside. "Child, please, let me help you."
"Help me?" the boy cried. "Can you bring my parents back? Can you bring my brother back? Can you revive that girl in the wagon that you thought was me? How can you help me, when you've already hurt me in every way you can imagine?"
"Girl?" Silas said, not loud enough for either of them to hear. He came to another understanding; that the boy was no boy at all, but the girl the soldiers had been searching for. No wonder they had been so desperate to find her.
"I'm sorry," Roque said. "We can be overly... assertive, at times. It is only because we must. Please, come with me, and I will show you everything you need to see, to understand."
Silas heard the soldiers headed towards him. He rolled to his feet, sword in hand, just in time to block a soldier's downward stab, kick the blade away, and hack through the soldier's head. Two more were coming his way, and he charged towards them, taking them off guard, slipping between them. The Mediator's blade was incredibly sharp, and it took only a light touch to open deep wounds in both of their stomachs. They fell to the ground, groaning in pain.
"I don't want to understand," the girl said. Eryn, Silas remembered. That was the name the soldiers had given to the merchants on the Elling road. Eryn Albion. "There is no good reason to kill innocent people. You say you need me, you need Cursed for some reason that makes sense to you? If that was true, you would speak plain, not kill our families and take us against our will. Not kill us when we run away. How in the name of Amman does that make sense to you?"
They were the words that broke the Mediator's calm. His face twisted, and he brought his sword to bear. "You know nothing," he yelled.
Silas looked down at the dying soldiers. He saw the small hunting knife sticking out of the boot of the one on the left. He reached down and grabbed it, and turned back to Roque. The Mediator was rushing Eryn, as the first had. He pulled back his arm and let loose. The knife wasn't meant for throwing, but he had instincts and muscle memories he couldn't connect to his former life. Its flight was awkward, but its aim was true, planting itself in the side of the man's neck.
The wound caused Roque to stumble, and he dropped the sword, crashing into Eryn and falling on top of her. She screamed at him, struggling to get free, and then quieted.
Silas looked around. All of the horses had fled when the fighting had started. The chargers were trained for war, not whatever insane power the Cursed possessed. The trees and the soldiers' tents were burning. The red and gold Mediator's tent was sagging and ready to collapse. The wagon with the prisoners was on fire too, but there were no screams or cries for help, its inhabitants already peppered with arrows. The soldiers that hadn't yet been killed had seen Roque fall, and chose to run.
"I have to get her out of here," he said to himself.
He ran back to where Roque was laying over Eryn, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling his dead body off of her. As he did, a slip of paper fell from his robes, floating to the ground next to him. He picked it up and stuck it in his pocket, and then looked to Eryn.
He worried for a moment that the Mediator had killed her, until he saw the throb of vein in her neck, still pumping blood. He bent down, scooping her up in one arm and lifting her over his shoulder. When he rose, he saw a blue stone laying behind her in the grass.
He knew that it must have been what she'd dropped, so he balanced Eryn on his shoulder and picked it up. He shoved it in his pants pocket with the paper, and then glanced back at Roque and the lustrous alloy blade laying next to him one last time. He could only imagine how much a sword like that would fetch him from Rappett or one of his contacts in Elling. He already knew he was keeping the one he took from the other Mediator. He let the idea go and started running as fast as he could, pushing through the trees in a desperate effort to get away before it all burned.
As he ran, Roque's words echoed in his mind.
"You used to believe in him."
"Who am I?" he asked.
It was a question he found himself asking with every step he took.