In the course of the last two days, Kion had become more and more convinced Inashtar might be gracious enough to forgive a servant’s one-time failings. Maybe. I just have to come by a great enough sacrifice, he thought.

“You must relax,” Tatros said, walking next to him through the dark of night. “Use smooth movements.”

Kion swallowed a sharp reply. It was the same advice the old man had repeated all the time during his preparation, and it hadn't been helpful.

They reached the shore of the lake and Kion dropped the small raft into the dark water. It was improvised from three pieces of wood bound together and would be the only thing keeping him from drowning. Tatros handed him his spear and he tied it to a cord hanging from the raft. Out on the water, he wouldn’t have a hand to spare to hold on to it.

The old hunter watched him with doubtful eyes, barely visible under the starlight. “Are you sure about this?”

“If I go into danger,” Kion said, wading into the cold water, “I want to at least be armed.” He was aware of how ridiculous he must seem, wanting to challenge the entirety of the Assanaten camp with a sharpened stick but the improvised spear gave him at least a bit of confidence. Feeling the cold creep into his body, he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

“I meant the whole plan,” Tatros said. “Two days isn’t enough to learn to swim. At least not in your case.”

Kion ignored him. He’d prepared as good as he could. Two days he’d paddled up and down a slow-flowing stream far enough away from the village to not be discovered by the Assanaten patrols. One thing was clear - he was a pathetic swimmer.

“It was your idea,” Kion said. “Your plan.”

“And it’s a horrible one,” Tatros said. “I would never attempt this myself.”

Tatros had done his best to teach Kion a simple technique. Holding on to the raft to keep him above water, he would use his legs to struggle forward. It was hard. Kion was young and fit. Drilled by the sar’s best instructors he knew he could run all day and still have enough breath to fight. Yet, the unfamiliar movement combined with the freezing mountain water seemed to suck the strength from his legs in no time at all.

He let his gaze wander over the lake.

“I always thought drowning had to be the worst way to enter the underworld,” Tatros said, maybe guessing his thoughts. “Anyway, may the gods be with you.”

“Yes,” Kion said, through his teeth. “Thank you for everything.”

The shadowy figure at the shore crossed its arms. “Sure. Make it back so you can repay me.”

Kion didn’t reply this time. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. Then he pushed off, gliding forward through the water. When his forward momentum slowed, he began to move his legs. Keeping a steady rhythm, he swam out onto the lake. Speed was less important than endurance. And stealth. If the camp’s guards noticed him, he wouldn’t be able to outswim their boats. Or their arrows.

Some distance away from the shore he could see the lights of camp to his left. Orientating himself on the wooden jetty protruding from the center of the village’s beach, he headed for the northern end. In the dark, it was hard to see, where the water ended and the beach began.

Licen had been right. There were no watchfires on the beach. Further up, where the houses began, Kion could see shadows against the light of fires and torches. But the beach was dark.

The Assanaten clearly didn’t expect an attack from the lake. And why should they? In the valley only the Helcenaean used boats and at this point, they could be sure that they‘d captured or killed almost all of them.

Having passed half the distance, Kion could feel the fatigue in his legs. Two days weren’t enough to get used to the unfamiliar movement. Instead of pushing through the discomfort, he decided to slow his pace. A cramp in the middle of the lake was the last thing he could afford.

You’ve got time, he told himself. The night was long and if everything went according to plan, Livadios would already be waiting for him. With some reluctance, Licen had agreed to bring a message to the Helcenaean prisoners. He’d come back with a promise from Ipras himself. Although he didn’t really know the man, Kion wasn’t concerned about the elder logger’s word. Tatros trusted him and that was enough to take the risk.

What worried Kion more was Livadios himself. He didn’t know the man and while he was Helcenaean by blood, he’d grown up in Piro, and the people of the Crimson Cities were known as spineless merchants. It’s up to the gods now, he thought grimly. In the valley, Inashtar and Assan should be on even ground.

Distracted by his thoughts, he only noticed the torch when the man carrying it stepped out on the jetty.

Kion stopped moving – and immediately his legs began to sink. Keeping an eye on the figures walking on the wooden planks, he kicked out a couple of times trying to stay somewhat horizontal. It wasn’t easy. He could do the repetitious leg technique Tatros had taught him, but his body had had no time to pick up the subtle movement with which the old man had floated next to him in the stream. Never panic, Tatros had repeated many times. If he didn’t panic, he would be fine. That lying bastard.

While he struggled to stay afloat without attracting attention, the figures reached the end of the jetty. There were two of them. The one carrying the torch stood a little behind. The other had walked to the very end. Unable to see the figure's face, Kion imagined him looking out over the lake. Would he be visible against the black of the water?

For something like an eternity, the figure just stood there. Every so often Kion’s legs began to sink again and he had to kick out to hold his position. Whenever that happened, he feared that a splashing of water would give him away.

All the while the cold bit deeper and deeper into his bones. He thought about at least wiggling his fingers a bit, but he feared shifting on his small raft. And so, he stayed still and waited.

Finally, the figure turned around and walked a couple of steps towards the torch bearer.

Kion perked up, hopeful that soon he would be able to continue his swim safely. He was disappointed. The figure stopped in front of his comrade.

Kion felt his heart sinking. I can’t stay here, he realized. His limbs were growing numb and trying to stay afloat was tiring. He had to make a decision. Either he took the safe course and turned back or he tried to reach the far end of the beach. Which was right there. Goddess help me, Kion prayed in his heart while carefully paddling forward.

Less than ten paces away from the beach he carefully extended his leg and found bottom. Afraid to be seen he stayed low, and waded forward until his knees connected as well. From there he crawled, pushing the raft in front of him onto the beach.

Kion carefully turned his head, looking over his shoulder without rising.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The light on the jetty hadn’t moved. The two figures still stood there, giving no indication that they had noticed anything.

Between them and Kion, the beach was filled with a line of roundish mounts, black against the night. Once Kion reached the closest, he would have cover from the figures' line of sight.

He carefully pushed the raft forward another arm length, to make sure it wouldn’t swim away. Then he pulled in the line and loosened the knot on his spear. After another glance at the jetty, he carefully crawled past the raft.

He reached the first mount without being spotted. Leaning against it Kion paused, allowing some of the tension to ease. As some of the cold left his body, he could feel the mount’s wooden surface against his skin. These were the boats the Helcenaean were building for the invaders. Turned upside down, they lay in a long row all along the beach.

Kion opened and closed his hands a couple of times. Even the worst desert nights didn’t feel this cold. If he had been forced to fight right out of the water, a peasant with a stick might have slain him.

No time to dawdle, he thought, bringing his head close to the boat’s hull. “Livadios?” He listened carefully but there was no response.

Licen had brought them the message that the craftsman from Piro would hide under a boat on the northern end of the beach. Which boat exactly, hadn’t been said.

Kion sighed.

Careful not to make any noise, he snuck to the far end of the boat. The boats weren’t very high so he stayed crouched. Leaning on his free hand he glanced around the stern. There was nothing to see.

On this end of the beach, the closest houses were far enough away that Kion was sure he wouldn’t be spotted even if somebody happened to look in his direction.

He ducked around the corner and crossed the six paces to the next boat.

“Livadios, are you there?” he whispered. Again, no response.

Slowly, Kion became nervous. What if the man hadn’t made it? Iristos had assured Licen he would be there, but a lot of things could have gone wrong.

He snuck around the next boat and the one after, all the time coming closer to the center of the beach. Soon, having the village on one side and the figures on the jetty on the other, he could be discovered no matter around which end of the boats he went.

“Livadios,” he whispered once more. “Livadios, are you there?”

Nothing.

Frustrated, Kion went down on his knees and put his cheek to the ground, trying to look under the next boat. Without a light, he could see only darkness.

A sudden thought struck him. Quite some time had passed since sundown.

Blunt end first he stuck his spear under the boat. It didn't hit any resistance. He shuffled a bit to the side and poked under the boat he had just passed. This time he was rewarded with a grunt followed by a fearful shriek.

“Quiet,” Kion hissed under his breath. Now that he was awake, the man’s breathing seemed to be unmistakable. “Livadios?”

“...yes?”

His voice betrayed his nervous fear. The artisan from Piro might not have volunteered for this nightly adventure.

Kion listened for a moment to make sure they remained undiscovered. When he was satisfied nothing had taken note of them, he lay flat on his back and slid under the boat. “Move over.”

Livadios obeyed, making as much room as he could.

“Thank you for coming,” Kion whispered. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the other man’s expression, but the small pause told him enough.

“Sure,” Livadios said at last. “What do you want with me? The others didn't say.”

“They didn't know,” Kion said with emphasis, “and let’s keep it that way.”

“...you’re here for the sage.”

“Tell me about master Mel’Chor,” Kion said. “Tell me what happened.”

It took a little more prompting but then Livadios told his story. How his father had introduced him to the sage and ordered him to guide the old man over the mountains. How they’d crossed the valley following some vague descriptions the old man had cited from memory. When his story reached the night, their paths had parted his voice started to shake. He had to pause a couple of times to gather himself.

Kion understood that whatever Livadios had seen that night had left him deeply scarred. Goddess, keep whatever they ran into off my path, he thought.

The rest of the man’s memories were fragmented and hazy. He could barely remember running into the Assanaten patrol and had no memory of being interrogated at all.

“When I woke up, the loggers told me I’d been dead asleep for two days,” he said. “They said I screamed from time to time…it did feel like waking from a nightmare.”

“So,” Kion said, interrupting Livadios, “is he gone?”

The other man fell silent for a long moment. When he eventually spoke, his voice sounded resigned. “In my heart, I believe so. But I can’t know for sure. The Assanaten sent out men but so far they haven’t found anything.”

“As far as you know?”

“…yes,” Livadios said. “But we would have heard. The camp isn’t that big and the logger’s women cook for everybody.”

Kion thought about what he’d learned. Livadios had lost track of time but considering when mistress Bel’Sara had her dream, his and master Mel’Chor’s encounter in the mist must have been weeks ago. Or had the mistress seen the future?

The thought made a shiver run down Kion’s spine.

Not for the first time, he cursed the day Nasser-Zeribona had sent him to fetch mistress Bel’Sara. What could his spear do against forces such as this? A power that could bring down the most legendary magus of their time.

“What will happen to me now?” Livadios asked silently.

The sudden question tore Kion from his thoughts. “Hm?”

“The Assanaten already took all the Helcenaean settlements. I…I couldn’t find the child.”

Kion remembered the man mentioning master Mel’Chor’s last order. The child had to be the champion mistress Bel’Sara had spoken of. Was it possible to search for it?

Before he could come to a conclusion, the sound of voices close by made him freeze.

“Leave me the light and go,” an older voice with a thick Assanaten dialect said. “Your young eyes are good enough to pierce the darkness. I shall see you in the tent.”

After his time disguised as a mercenary in the Assanaten camps Kion had no trouble understanding them. The old tongue was spoken all along the Golden Road also no two people sounded the same.

“Yes, master!”

The crouching of sand indicated two individuals walking away in different directions. One slowly, the other at a jog.

Kion tried to guess the directions but wasn’t able to. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, he decided it was time to go. He’d learned all he could about master Mel’Chor’s fate and the longer he stayed the greater the chance he would be discovered.

“I’m going to leave now,” he said. “Stay here until I’m gone for an hour.”

“You aren’t taking me with you?”

Kion hesitated. Was there any value in bringing the man with him? He’d learned what he could but of course, Livadios might remember more later. “Can you swim?”

There was a moment of silence.

“I can’t see you,” Kion whispered, “in case you’re nodding right now.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” Livadios sounded embarrassed. “A little. As children, we played at the beach a lot. Can’t we steal a boat?”

Kion considered the idea. “I didn’t see any oars on my way here. Besides, could you steer it?” He’d never guided a boat in his life, nor was he sure that they could easily turn one of them over and let it to water without being discovered even if they found the oars. The Assanaten bowmen would be on them in moments.

“…no.”

“Then I can’t take you.” Not waiting for a response Kion shuffled out from under the upside-down boat. Emerging from the total darkness the starlit night felt much brighter than before.

The endless ocean of lights above always reminded Kion of the greatness of the gods and his own mortal insignificance. It was important to honor one’s obligations to those above.

He stuck his head under the boat once more. “Livadios?” The young man had risked his life tonight as well.

“Yes?” There was a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“Livadios, your father is dead.”

“…what?”

“He was killed when Piro was conquered.”

“Piro was…”

“As the eldest son you must perform the rites and say your prayers,” Kion whispered. “I wish you well.” Content that he’d been able to repay Livadios at least a little bit, he pulled his head back and sat up. It was time to leave.

“Wait!” Livadios whispered desperately, struggling out from under the boat as quickly as he could. “Please, wait.”

Kion frowned. Do I need to strangle you unconscious? He thought. The young man had served the sage to the best of his ability. Killing him might offend the gods.

“Please,” Livadios whispered pleading, “if you take me, I think I can find the spot where we were attacked.”

“I thought you weren’t familiar with this part of the valley?” Kion asked. “Weren’t you guided by master Mel’Chor’s knowledge?”

“Yes,” Livadios said. “But I remember the position of Old Horto from our campsite and the form of the riverbed. I’m sure together with somebody who knows the valley, we can find it.”

Kion hesitated. Could he refuse this opportunity? He had no other avenue to pursue. The only thing left was to leave the valley for Riadnos and report what he’d learned to mistress Bel’Sara. It was what he wanted to do. He’d fulfilled his duty. Sneaking into the Assanaten camp had been insanely risky. Searching for a mysterious child was impossible under these circumstances.

Livadios seemed to sense his hesitation. “The pouch! The one master Mel’Chor gave me. It must still be there.” He gestured excitedly. “I lost it in the mist when I…when I fell.”

Damn it. Mistress Bel’Sara would surely want whatever her fellow sage had left behind. Kion wasn’t a priest but even he could recognize fate. When the gods guided him in such an obvious manner there was no way avoiding it.

“Follow me,” he whispered. “We’ll see how good your swimming is.” If he drowned that would be fate too.