Chapter: Complications: 12 of ?
Author: Sam
Series: A Deeper Magic
Last Chapter: Az and Dylan escape through the sewers. Az is injured and finds out Dylan is sick.
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Exhaustion laced his body, screaming though warrior's muscles pushed to the limit. Hunger gnawed at his guts, a dull ache he'd ignored for hours. She would help him he knew . . . if he could make it. She wouldn't like it, but she always gave in . . . always helped.
Rustling noises drove him behind a pair of close growing trees. His form-fitting black trousers and undershirt made him harder to discern, though his dark blond hair could give him away at any time. When the men in the rag-tag resistance outfits passed by, Zero began his trek once more. It had been annuals since he'd been on a stealth mission; he wondered briefly if he still had what it took. Had he become too used to the power of the witch's wrath and the royal name? The former leader of the royal guard refused to believe he'd gone soft.
Noting the lone white tree in the overwhelming mass of green, Zero smiled grimly, relieved. Soon he'd have rest, food, and medical attention. Of course, he'd have to be careful; he was in no condition to tangle with her kid . . . or her newly returned husband. Something played at Zero's exhausted memory . . . hadn't the boy blamed Zero for his mother's death?
A sudden frown settled on Zero's lean face and his steel-grey eyes narrowed. Impatiently he flipped his head to clear a wayward lock of hair from his eyes. He quietly approached, avoiding the dry underbrush and leaf fodder as much as possible, ignoring the scratches appearing on his fine leather knee-boots. Carefully rounding the side of the cottage, Zero stopped dead in his tracks, grey eyes widening in shock. Denial and fear raced through him, intertwined with a deep ache.
"No!" he felt his heart constrict and ran forward, ignoring any noise he made, indiscriminate in his horror. Dropping to his knees by the simple wooden grave marker, he read the dreaded words carved into the plank: Adora Cain. The kid really had been talking about his mother! Rage tore at him, and Zero thrust to his feet, ignoring the tearing pain of reopening wounds across his back. "Who disobeyed my direct orders?" he wondered. "I expressly forbid anyone from interfering with the Cains. Any arrests were to be made by me . . . punishments were mine to order!" In the last six months, he'd been too busy searching for that emerald to keep track of all the men. Zero whirled around, blindly reviewing the men formerly under his command, the ones who might recall Cain's name as being on the list of resistance fighters. "Which one do I kill?" he thought. "Which one is my enemy?"
Something gleamed dully from the mud on Adora's grave. Dropping down once more, Zero reached out and pulled up the bit of tin: a Central City police badge. "Shit!"
It had been one thing to taunt Wyatt Cain about the possible demise of his family, but Zero had never intended it to become a reality. They had been good friends once . . . a long time ago in a more innocent time . . . a time when both Wyatt and Zero had trained together for a bright future.
His head spun like a freakin' carousel. Damn, Wyatt sure didn't know how to hold a punch. It felt like he'd been run over by a skree. And he was sure he tasted blood, damn it! He'd make Wyatt pay for that. Pulling back his clenched fist, Zero tightened his muscles, preparing to put his full weight behind the punch.
"Okay, boys, enough. All this testosterone is making my head swim." Adora's voice sounded firm, though laughter played just below the surface.
Zero let his fist fly but adjusted the aim so he missed Wyatt completely. Steel gray eyes met crystal blue ones, and Zero couldn't help but be impressed to see no fear in Wyatt. It wouldn't have been difficult to feel the power behind Zero's diverted punch, yet the other teen seemed to be steady and calm. How the hell did he do that?
Adora whisked into the room, long skirts swishing about her ankles. Sixteen, with blonde hair flowing to her waist and dancing blue eyes, she was the prettiest girl in the plains. She carried a tray with soup bowls and thick mugs in her work-worn hands. Unfortunately, her wide smile dropped immediately when she looked at the two youths.
"Wyatt Cain, what do you think you're about?" Her voice had gone icy with anger.
The calm front turned sheepish and Wyatt hung his head, much to Zero's surprised amusement. "We were only sparring, Adora."
She plunked the tray onto a worn table, ignoring the liquid slopping over the mugs and bowls. "Sparring doesn't mean 'take Zero's head off,' Wyatt!" She moved to Zero and grabbed his sore chin in one firm hand.
He winced; he couldn't help it. Damn, but wasn't Adora strong? Her grip didn't lessen and he fought to keep the pain from his expression. She always said his eyes gave away his heart.
"Open your mouth, Zero. I want to see the damage my friend did." She tilted his head roughly to the side, trying for better light from the open doorway it would seem.
Wyatt's voice came out calm and steady. "He's going into the army, Adora. He's got to learn to . . ."
"I'll thank you not to make war in my parlor, Wyatt Cain." She shot a glare at the muscular blacksmith's apprentice then turned back to Zero. "I said open your mouth, Zero Zihs!" She squeezed his chin.
Pain shot through Zero's bruised jaw and he obeyed, knowing that Adora was mad at both of them, not just Wyatt. All the screaming in the world wouldn't have bothered Zero, and she knew it; that was why she used physical force to enforce her commands. Zero had been trained well to listen to brute force over mere words.
After more than a minute, the girl finally withdrew her hand and turned her glare from one sixteen annual old boy to the other. Most girls her age were gentle, flirtatious, using tricks and smiles to get a boy's attention, aiming at a marriage. But not Adora. She had become as tough as any boy, strong from annuals of farm labor and trained to fight by her Tin Man uncle. She seemed to have an innate understanding of those around her and used it to her advantage. All the boys in the local villages wanted to claim Adora Rowen, but she only seemed interested in her work and her two best friends: Wyatt and Zero.
"Let me see your hands, Zero," Adora demanded. "If you've damaged them, your mother will skin you." She grabbed his right hand.
The sudden pain snapped Zero into sharply focused fear, and he closed his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut as his head swam again, his stomach heaving in accord with the carousel in his head: up and down, up and down, like freakin' wooden horses. "I'm gonna puke." He snatched the injured appendage back then pushed roughly past Adora, ignoring her worried gasp, and headed out to the privy. Behind him he could hear Adora whirling on Wyatt with another harangue about killing the only friends a body has in the name of sport.
He didn't hear Wyatt defending himself, but, really, he could care less. Zero was too busy vomiting to care about anything else.
"Shit!" Zero dropped the badge back onto the grave. If Wyatt already knew of his wife's death, why had he made his kid leave Zero alive? Why had he released Zero from the iron suit a few weeks ago? Zero couldn't be sure . . . the fever he'd developed after intense torture, and being shoved in the iron suit without the appropriate life-sustaining magic, had left him weak and confused . . . and without the right magic, Zero had suffered re-injury of his wounds daily, causing delusions and pain. Memories blurred with dreams and images of intense heat with overwhelming darkness. Nothing was certain.
He wondered if Wyatt had discovered the death after the downfall of the witch. That made much more sense. Once the former Tin Man had discovered his wife's death, he certainly wouldn't rest without avenging her. Zero knew the former Tin Man probably wouldn't believe that the royal army commander had protected the woman, and her child, for eight annuals. Zero's one claim to decency in his entire miserable life and it would be his downfall now.
Zero knew he'd hunt down Adora's killer himself . . . and he would subject the man to every torture devisable. He would relish the pain he could inflict on the traitor. No one disobeyed his orders!
With a string of not-so-soft curses pouring from his bruised, cut lips, Zero let himself into the cabin. He knew the Cain men couldn't be there or they'd have heard him long before and responded. Looking around, the army commander noted the thin layer of dust . . . not quite enough to denote abandonment. By the looks of things, the Cains had only been gone a week or so.
Quickly, Zero raided the pantry, grabbing a leather carry sack with sturdy straps and filling it with dried meats and vegetables. He chewed on a strip of jerky as he moved into the bedroom near the front and slid a medical bundle into the sack. Perusing the clothing, knowing Wyatt's would be too large . . . the kid had a smaller, if athletic, frame . . . Zero grabbed a jacket from the cupboard. Holding the denim material to his torso, he grimaced. Athletic or not, the boy had some filling out to do. Zero tossed the jacket onto a nearby chair and headed into the other bedroom.
A few minutes later, Zero made his way from the Cain house, wearing a thick leather jacket too new to have been used yet and carrying his full supply pack. He turned towards the north and the Crack in the O.Z. He had to avenge Adora, in addition to his primary duty: find Azkadellia and protect her, if he wasn't too late. With a shake of his head, feeling his stomach drop at the thought, Zero pushed the negative possibility from his mind. He refused to give up without proof. If there was even a slim chance the princess had survived the witch's defeat, Zero would keep looking. He would not lose Azkadellia as he had Adora.
Zero made his way, close to the road but in the tree line, towards the nearly impassible gorge, teeth clenched and heart determined.
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Soft fur tickled his neck as Jeb carried the light-weight dog in his arms. Heading steadily west, the leader of the resistance kept as low among the cracked boulders as he could, though he knew the sun glinting off the gold trim on his brown uniform, in addition to his dark blond hair, made him a target for any Long Coat looking to bag a royal guard. Glancing behind them, Jeb practically jumped when the dog shoved a cold wet nose to his throat and gave a soft "woof."
Jeb looked up then threw himself backwards, the dog leaping from his arms and onto one of the Long Coat duo that had just stepped in front of them. Jeb ducked as the other threw a punch. The young leader drew his sword and slashed at the man's legs. Shock registered on the enemy's face, and the man threw himself to the side, cursing as the sword made contact. Jeb slammed the thick hilt onto the man's injured leg and the enemy screamed. The Long Coat scrambled down the hill towards the tower, apparently unarmed or too frightened to recall if he was carrying a weapon. Jeb turned to aid the dog.
The second man yelped as the dog repeatedly bit him on the arm, digging with his sharp claws. As Jeb watched his companion in amazement, the little dog snapped his teeth in the Long Coat's face. This enemy, too, fled the scene, though his eyes had fallen on Jeb's unsheathed sword just before he seemed to make the decision.
Wagging his tail enthusiastically, the dog yipped at Jeb, sounding quite pleased.
"Right," the man replied. "Pay attention. Got it." He frowned and again scooped up the dog then made his way into the rolling, grassy western hills. He didn't stop moving until the suns beat down at their zenith.
Sinking to the ground between two springy-turfed hillocks of wild clover, Jeb finally placed the dog on the ground. With a grunt, panting a bit after the intense exercise, the man rested his forearms on his knees and let his head droop.
Silently, his canine companion sat at his feet and watched him, ears perked in an attitude of careful listening.
Jeb looked up at last and studied the small grey and brown dog. He asked "and just who do you belong to?" He paused a long moment as he and the dog stared mutely at one another. Finally Jeb broke the silence.
"You came from the tower so you probably live with a staff member." When the dog shook his head with an odd sneeze, Jeb's memory clicked. He had seen this dog before. "Wait! You were with Father when he tried to rescue Princess Dorothy. I know you're not his or you'd have been with us this past month. Are you Princess Dorothy's?"
With a happy sounding yip, the furry mongrel jumped backwards, a few feet away from the human youth. The dog seemed to freeze, a look of what might be concentration in his intelligent brown eyes. He stayed in that pose for several heartbeats, shaking, before letting out a loud yelp and shuddering into a massive convulsion. Suddenly the little animal collapsed in a twitching heap, eyes rolled back in his head and tongue hanging out, limbs stiff and jerking.
Jeb leapt forward, scooped up a sturdy stick, and shoved it roughly into the dog's mouth. "Damn! Don't you die on me, mutt! The Princess will probably never forgive me if her dog dies." His hands ran over the soft tangle of fur and the heaving, quaking sides of the suddenly helpless animal. Finding the inch thick metal collar, Jeb tried to release it. He knew it would interfere if the dog started choking. The metal felt smooth and heavy with three solid buttons at the back. Confused Jeb withdrew his hand, unsure what the buttons did but feeling they might possibly relay medicine to alleviate the seizures; he'd heard that the royal advisor had developed something of the sort for animals some annuals ago.
Several very long, heart-racing minutes passed before the dog's seizure stopped and the small figure lay quietly panting. Once more Jeb began to check on the animal, noting the lethargy of the little dog. Pain seemed to radiate from his intelligent brown eyes and he panted slowly, drooling to excess, as if fighting nausea. Jeb stroked the weakened animal's soft muzzle, easing the stick from between now slack jaws. It had been bitten deep during the seizure.
"It'll be okay, Boy. I'll keep you safe until I can get you back home." He sighed. "Right now we have to catch up to the queen, though." How much would this dog slow him down? Jeb stroked again, steel blue eyes scanning his tired companion.
After ten minutes, the dog still seemed unresponsive so Jeb took off his uniform jacket and gently wrapped the dog in it. Carefully, the young man rose, cradling his bundle. He began to walk once more, heading southwest in order to intercept the old brick route leading between Central City and the Thousand Years Grassland. Princess's dog or not, his mission to contact Queen Lavender trumped any seizure attack.
Feeling the animal must be terrified in his after-seizure collapse, the normally very quiet man felt a need to speak to the poor canine. "Well, my name is Jeb Cain and I'm now one of the royal guards," he said softly. A small rustling from his bundle drew steel-blue eyes downward. Jeb allowed himself a small, tight smile. The dog certainly had heard him and seemed to be reacting. Slipping a hand over so he could pet the soft fur with a pair of fingers, he said "that's a start."
He thought for a moment then added, "I need to call you something, but you aren't wearing a name tag. If I choose a name for you, I hope you'll answer to it." His mother had taught him a trick used for young animals to get a response to a new name; the youth hoped it would work on this noticeably older canine. He stroked the fur and gently said "I'll call you Baxter . . . I had a cat once called Baxter." He stroked again when he said the name. Leaning close in an awkward hunch as he walked, he said "Baxter" and stroked again.
The little dog gave a weak bark and rustled in the coat. Jeb knew that he'd recover soon as he was responding more and more. Reiterating the name with the reward of soothing petting, Jeb said, "good boy, Baxter. Good dog."
As time progressed, the newly dubbed Baxter seemed to perk up, and he lifted his head to give a soft bark. Jeb looked down noticing that the brown eyes seemed brighter, the dog's movements seemed steadier. Once again, Jeb stroked his companion's soft fur. "Feeling better, Baxter?"
The look in the dog's eyes could be construed as exasperated amusement . . . by some. In answer to the human's question, Baxter wriggled out of the jacket and put a paw on Jeb's chest, yipping up at him. Jeb stopped walking and Baxter jumped down, disappearing into the thick underbrush of the hill bushes and trees.
"Hey!" The resistance fighter shook his head, pushing a lock of dark blond hair from his blue-grey eyes. "I can pick a different name!" He called desperately, trodding after the dog.
"Hello." The voice stopped the young man and he turned to face back towards the rough path. There stood a tall, thin woman. Her greying brown hair had been pulled into a tidy bun atop her head. She wore traditional clothing, complete with overskirt and jacket over the more familiar camisole, blouse, and ankle-length skirt. Her entire outfit was made of sturdy dark brown cotton; her shoes were of well-kept dark brown leather. She smiled, though her hazel eyes seemed more watchful than welcoming.
Jeb stepped out of the shadows onto the trail and shock crossed her features. Hurriedly the young man slipped into his uniform jacket, very aware of the image he presented. Quickly assessing his fellow traveler, Jeb felt he'd never met the woman before. "Hello, ma'am," he replied.
"My Heavens," she whispered in awe, reaching out to touch the younger man's cheek. "I had heard the magic . . . but you haven't changed a day . . ." she seemed distracted.
Startled by the unsolicited contact, Jeb pulled away, blue-grey eyes narrowing. "May I help you, ma'am?" He kept his voice impersonal.
Suddenly the woman stiffened and frowned fiercely. Wrapping her hands in her skirt in a protective gesture, she said, "No. I mistook you for someone else. You look very much alike."
A low growl came from the underbrush behind Jeb and he glanced back. The brown and grey form of his canine companion stood there, stiff-legged, head lowered, teeth bared, and eyes steady on the stranger.
"Baxter?" Jeb questioned.
The woman didn't even bother to glance at the animal, ignoring his warning growls. "Mind if I journey with you for a spell? It's a dangerous road we travel."
Hand falling unconsciously to his sword-hilt, Jeb shook his head. "Baxter doesn't like strangers, ma'am."
She seemed more interested in his weapon than his words. "What a . . . beautiful sword. Is it an heirloom?" Her fingers twitched in her skirts.
As the sword had been made less than twenty annuals ago for the man who'd given it to Jeb, the young resistance leader doubted it could be considered anything as precious as an heirloom. "No, ma'am," he replied but did not loosen his grip on the functional sword. "I received it in war. It was crafted in the royal armory not long ago."
At her frown, Jeb added, "there should be a village up the road a ways, ma'am. You can get escort there. Baxter and I travel alone." He moved to step past her and she grabbed his sleeve in a move so quick that almost took his breath away.
Baxter let out a vicious bark but the woman merely waved a hand as if at a pesky mosquito. She flicked her eyes down at the dog, surprise registering, frown deepening as Baxter let out a series of barks. She turned to look at Jeb, as if trying once more to ignore the dog. "What is your name, officer?" she asked, her voice measured, almost cold.
However, when Baxter made a small lunge at the woman, annoyance flashed across her face and she shot a glare at the steadily more incensed animal. "Perhaps a muzzle," she suggested coldly, her fingers twitching again.
"Never!" Jeb said, putting all his conviction in the word. "Good day, ma'am," he matched her frosty tones. "Come on, Baxter." Without giving her another chance to interfere, Jeb turned towards Baxter and pushed his way into the foliage, ignoring as branches whipped at his torso and face. He began to feel more relaxed, more at home, in the deepening brush and trees. He'd spent too many annuals on the run with first his mother than the resistance; open places made him nervous. Jeb sighed. "And so do strange women," he thought.
Baxter quieted as soon as Jeb left the path and deserted the odd wanderer. Cocking his head as if listening, the canine paused. After a long moment, he gave a yip and bound up onto a largish boulder. From the rock, he made a rather surprising leap onto Jeb's shoulders, carefully balancing. As Jeb froze in shock, the dog draped himself, lying down across the human's neck and shoulders. He turned his small head and touched his nose to Jeb's cheek then seemed to settle comfortably in his precarious position.
Feeling odd to be draped in fluffy dog, the young man didn't protest. Rather, he started picking their way through the undergrowth. "We'll need to pick up our pace, Baxter. I hope you can balance as well on a moving horse."
As if answering that statement, Baxter yipped and gave his tail a wag.
Jeb took that as agreement and nodded. He hoped the dog was right. After all, the royal couple had half a day head start with a pair of horses, and Jeb needed to catch them before they reached the checkpoint for the Nature Clan.
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Continued in Chapter Thirteen: Problems after Surgery
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The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:
Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . (Ice- Mount Runcible)
Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . (Milltown)
Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . (Viewers)
Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . (Guilds- Munchkins)
Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . (formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)
Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . (Alma Mata- Gillikin)
Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . (Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)
Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt
Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . (Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)
Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . (Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)
Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . (Air- Lake Country)
Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . (Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)
