Exile Read Free

to calm his stuttering heart, he considered hiding, but they approached too quickly. And, after all, he’d done nothing worse than take a little water. In Monoea, wells were open to everyone. He turned to face the newcomers, still holding the ladle .
    The third risen moon lit them well. Two warhorses halted with a clattering of shod hooves on the stones and a swish of restless tails. Marked as pureblood Akrasians by the black tattooed lines lining their eyes, the riders fair bristled with weapons. Knives on belts, swords on their saddles, bows on their backs. They wore green tabards, patterned with the Sevenmoon of Akrasia, one cut with three stripes, the other plain.
    He scoured his memory for the Akrasian ranks. No stripes meant a mounted bowman or blademan: servii, they were called in Akrasian tongue. Stripes signified officers. Three must mean better than a Horsemarshal.
    Fishscale protected their biceps and skirted their hips, expensive stuff bestowed only upon the King’s Guard at home in Monoea. Stitched leather greaves clad their forearms, matching the designs on their boots. Either Draken was mistaken on the sigils of rank or the Akrasian crown had significant moneys to spend on their lowest soldiers. The horse bearing the servii had an oblong bundle tied to the back of its saddle, too big for just a bedroll.
    The servii fixed Draken with the measured stare of a soldier who knew what he was about. Provided his armor wasn’t thickly padded, he had thighs as bulky as fence posts. The thrice-striped marshal, who wore an aristocratic half-smile and his long black hair held back by a white circlet of moonwrought, lifted his chin and asked in Akrasian, “What are you doing so far from home, pirate?”
    If they only knew how far. And pirate, indeed. They thought him Brînian, no doubt because of his dark skin inherited from his Brînian father. The time he’d spent tracking Akrasians and Brînians for the Monoean Crown taught him most Brînian warriors didn’t know much of their conquerer’s speech, refusing to learn Akrasian as a point of pride. He certainly shouldn’t speak it with his Monoean accent. He raised his hands in what he hoped was a disarming gesture and replied in Brînish, “No trouble here. I’m moving on.”
    They muttered to each other and glared down at him. The bigger soldier urged his mount forward. Draken heard the unmistakable whisper of a sword against leather.
    Death lingers in hesitation. Draken’s father had taught him that, early and well with the strap. Without a second thought, Draken threw the ladle at them, rounded the well, and raced into the cover of the woods, hearing noises of pursuit on his heels. The soldiers spat curses as they had to slow to find a path through the close trees. Draken didn’t look back. He simply ran.
    His bare feet protested, toes pierced by twigs and small rocks, but the compacted soil made a reliable surface. All the branches were too high to reach, the brambles too thin to hide in. Running hard, he had no warning when the ground gave way beneath some waxy creepers on the ground. He tripped headlong into a deep gully. The impact smacked the air from his chest.
    Violent thrashing behind. The Akrasians shouted directions to each other.
    His heart keeping cadence with the pounding hooves, Draken yanked at vines and leaves in a quick bid to conceal himself. A bank of underbrush hid the hole between a thick tangle of unearthed roots. If they passed without looking down, or falling in, he had a chance.
    I am the ground, he thought. He flattened himself into the gully.
    Before he could blink, before fear made him catch his breath, a warhorse soared overhead, its great belly blocking the moonlight. The horse cleared the gully with strides to spare as the other thundered by. Draken cringed back, but the noise of the hooves faded off.
    At last, all fell silent except for the foliage moving in a slight breeze. Muscles still shuddering from his abrupt burst of