Episode 10
He didn’t cut the rope off Gregory’s hands, though, keeping him bound, and there was still about six feet of slack dragging from his wrists to the ground, but he wasn’t about to complain. The man patted himself on the chest.
“Leader,” he said. “Mahkinson.”
Still bound by manacles, Gregory made a rough gesture with both of his hands, trying to touch his chest.
“Gregory,” he said. The man nodded and walked away, not seeming to care. The other man watched him go, then grabbed Gregory by the shoulder and started guiding him along.
So much for friends.
They came around the edge of the caravan, and Gregory felt a sharp intake of breath. The Comerians, nearly thirty soldiers and half as many hired hands, were lying on the ground. Some had arrows sticking out of them, and others had gaping wounds crossing their torsos and limbs.
Some were still alive, crying, moaning, and trying to scream in agony. A fair number of the enemy soldiers who had attacked were dead and dying as well, though not as many as he would have expected.
Enemy soldiers? The thought came unbidden, but he knew it was true. He was disgusted by the scene of carnage before him, and they caused it. This was their devastation, attacking travelers in the night. Never mind that the soldiers had been intending to murder him. This was far more brutal.
If they killed these soldiers so easily and efficiently, how could he possibly believe they wouldn’t kill him?
No, Gregory decided, they definitely couldn’t be friends. And if they couldn’t be friends when killing is involved, they might as well be enemies.
Gregory watched as one man in hide armor moved to a crying soldier. The Comerian started begging and pleading for his life, but the man didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he knelt next to the Comerian; Gregory saw that there was a dagger in his hand.
Muttering something under his breath, the man plunged the dagger into the wounded soldier’s throat and yanked it out, one fluid motion. Gregory winced. Even in the dim glow of the campfire, he could see the terror and pain in the soldier’s eyes as his life ebbed away. A moment later and there was nothing left except gushing blood.
Gregory averted his gaze away as the man moved to the next soldier. He held his breathing steady and focused on showing no emotion. No doubt they would continue crying, moaning, or any other show of emotion as a sign of weakness.
Confronted with death, he found reserves of courage to help him stay strong. The executioner moved through the crowd of wounded, treating his own mortally wounded in the same fashion as the Comerians. This man embodies death, Gregory thought with a shudder. He refused to think about what would happen next.
Gregory heard a yelp from his left and saw a man stumble into the clearing. It was one of the Comerian soldiers, wearing chain mail, and Gregory looked away as he saw one of the enemies close behind. Gregory didn’t want to watch this man die; he didn’t want to see the prince executed…
The thought stopped him, and he glanced back up, taking in more of the scene before him. The Prince stood there, still in uniform and terrified. Bryce was looking at the surrounding soldiers, helpless and young and surrounded by carnage. The executioner behind him had his sword ready and was preparing to plunge it into the Prince’s heart.
“Wait!” Gregory shouted, then immediately regretted it. The camp fell silent. All eyes turned to him. The grip on his shoulder tightened, but the man about to plunge a sword through the Prince’s heart paused.
Seconds passed in silence, and no one seemed sure what to do. Mahkinson appeared from behind one wagon and moved through the carnage to Gregory. He walked with smooth and purposeful strides. His face was a mask of rage, and Gregory suddenly felt tiny.
“They no speak to you,” Mahkinson said slowly, stopping in front of Gregory and gesturing toward his men. He spoke calmly, accentuating his words. “You speak to them?” he asked, and Gregory could feel the barely controlled rage in his new captor.
