Unforgivable Weakness

Time seemed to melt, stretching out—he felt as if he were falling for a full minute, perhaps even five. The air whistled in his ears, the sky and earth trading places, spinning in a mad dance. Above him: the dark rectangle of the window he’d fallen from, the silhouettes of soldiers leaning out, looking down. Below him: the ground rushing up. And then his back slammed into hard-packed ground with such force that the world exploded into a spray of white sparks. His whole body seared with unbearable flame, as if a red-hot iron had been drawn along his spine. Pain lashed from the base of his skull to his thigh in one solid wave, so strong that darkness flooded his sight. The air was knocked clean out of his lungs—his chest clamping as though an invisible vise had tightened around it. Leran tried to draw a breath, but couldn’t—his body refused him, as if it had forgotten how to breathe. His throat seized in a spasm. Everything around him lost its sharpness, the world turning blurred, as though someone had thrown a gray veil over it. Sounds dulled, growing muffled and distant, as if he’d sunk underwater. A noise swelled in his ears, like surf rolling in, or the rustle of a thousand wings. With it came a strange detachment. Everything felt unreal, as though he were watching himself from the outside: his own body sprawled on the grass, the gray sky choked with billows of smoke, the distant lights in the palace windows. As if from far away, a voice carried to him—thin, trembling with fear: “Sir Leran! Get up! Please—get up!” Prince Emil. The boy shook him by the shoulders, tugging at his arm. Leran felt the touch as if through a thick layer of cotton. Heat spread through him—strange, pulsing, rolling in waves. His heart beat wildly fast, the pounding echoing in his temples. Pressure gathered in his chest—heavy, swelling—as if something inside him were trying to tear its way out, forcing itself through his ribs. “Get up! They’re coming! We have to run!” Prince Emil kept hauling at his arm with all his strength. Leran tried to move. Pain speared through his back in a fresh wave—sharp, slicing. He groaned through clenched teeth, but forced himself on, rising slowly with enormous effort, as if through thick syrup: first he rolled onto his side, then pushed up on an elbow, then hauled himself onto one knee. His head spun. Everything swam, doubled. The ground beneath his feet swayed like a ship’s deck in a storm. Leran got to his feet with difficulty, swaying, barely keeping his balance. Prince Emil seized his hand at once, pulling him along. “This way! Hurry! Follow me!” the boy blurted, quick and urgent, but Leran caught only half the words. The voice sounded as if through dense fog. With every step, the pain in his back worsened, growing sharper, more unbearable. His legs buckled, refusing him. Leran clung to the boy’s shoulder in desperate need, even though he knew the child couldn’t possibly keep him upright. They pushed through thick shrubs along the castle wall, branches whipping at their faces and snagging at their clothes, thorns scratching at their hands. Leran moved almost blindly, barely making out the way. Suddenly the prince tugged him down. “Here! Squeeze through—quick!” Leran tried to crouch, but his legs gave out. He went down awkwardly—first onto his knees, then onto his side, his shoulder striking a root. There was no strength left to stand. None. His body would not obey, as if all the threads tying will to muscle had snapped at once. His limbs grew unbearably heavy. Through the haze, he saw the children—Prince Emil, holding Princess Lucille’s hand—crawling into a narrow space between the roots. The boy crawled first, clearing the way, pushing aside branches and leaves. The princess followed, sniffling; her dress caught on a branch and tore. Lifting his head with effort, Leran made out an enormous old tree—an ancient oak with a massive trunk and a broad, spreading crown. Its roots thrust from the earth like mighty knotted serpents, intertwining and forming something like a small cave at the base. The ground between them was trampled, strewn with last year’s leaves and acorns. “Sir Leran—come on,” Prince Emil whispered, reaching out a hand. Leran, mustering his last strength, crawled toward him, clutching at the roots. The earth beneath his palms was cold and damp, smelling of decaying leaves and wet soil. His fingers slipped on wet grass. Every push forward sent sharp, unbearable pain through his back. Clenching his teeth to keep from moaning, he kept crawling. The shelter was tighter than it had looked from outside. Leran squeezed between two roots with difficulty, scraping his arm on the rough bark. Inside, the space widened—enough to sit, hunched. The ground was carpeted with dry leaves. He wedged himself fully inside and collapsed onto his side, pressing his back against the trunk. The bark was uneven and cold, but at least it gave him something to brace against. He shut his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. “This is our secret hideout,” Prince Emil whispered, sitting down beside him and pulling his sister close. The boy’s voice trembled, but there was pride in it. “Lucille and I found it last year. We hid here often. No one will find us here. Even the servants don’t know. Even the governesses.” Leran tried to shift, but the smallest movement sparked a new flare of pain. He froze, not daring to move again. Time lost all meaning. He didn’t know how long had passed—a minute, ten. The world drifted around him like a dream. Outside, somewhere very close, harsh, angry voices sounded: “Search everywhere! They couldn’t have gone far!” “Look for tracks!” The sounds drew nearer—boots thudding on the grass, armor clanking, torches crackling. Through gaps between the roots, Leran saw flashes of orange light sliding over the bushes. “The tracks end here!” a displeased voice snapped. “They vanished somewhere around here!” “Maybe they climbed a tree?” “A tree? With two kids? Are you stupid?” “Then where are they?!” The soldiers split up, crunching branches, rustling through shrubs. Their voices receded, came closer—then receded again. “They’re not here! Move on—east gate!” “Maybe they got outside the walls!” “Then we’ll never catch them! Damn it!” The footsteps grew fainter. The torchlight receded. It seemed they’d truly lost them—at least for now. Leran closed his eyes, trying to fight through the dizziness and pain. His body was starting to go numb—whether from cold or shock he couldn’t tell. Pins and needles prickled in his hands and feet. His mouth was dry. Then the air shuddered with a deafening, rolling boom. The ground trembled beneath them, clods of earth and small stones pattering down from above. Princess Lucille cried out in fear, clinging to her brother. The staircase, a thought flashed through Leran’s fogged mind. They really did blow up the staircase… So the way was cut off. The traitors wouldn’t be able to reach them quickly. It bought them a little time. Leran exhaled and let his eyes close. Just for a moment. Just to catch his breath. To gather his strength… But the darkness that took him was thick and clinging. It brought no peace—only dragging him down, wrapping around him, draining the weight from his limbs and the will from his mind. He felt as if he were sinking into cold water—slowly, inexorably, deeper and deeper. Somewhere at the very edge of consciousness, sounds drifted in: the dull crack of branches, the whisper of leaves, muffled voices—near or very far. He couldn’t make out words, only intonations: sharp, alien, rough. Then—quiet, almost gentle. A boy’s voice…perhaps Emil’s? No—impossible to tell. Everything drifted, as if it were rocking on waves. Images flared in his mind: a staircase bursting into flame; soldiers’ faces twisted with rage; little Princess Lucille’s eyes reflecting fire. Then—the oak: enormous, ancient, smoke curling around its trunk. It seemed to Leran he’d shut his eyes for only a minute. But when a loud voice, sharp as a slap, tore him out of the doze, it was already pitch-dark. Through the tangle of roots, he couldn’t see any trace of sunset—only the thick, lightless black of night. “Hey, you! Get up—what, you dead in there?” a man’s cocky voice barked right by his ear. “Still warm, though—so not dead yet!” Rough hands—calloused, with broken nails—seized Leran by the shoulders and, without any warning, started dragging him out along the ground. Roots scraped his arms, leaves rustled under his body, and every touch sent a fresh wave of pain through his battered back. Leran came fully awake. The first thought to pierce his fogged mind was simple and terrible: they’d found them. He blinked hard, trying to focus. Shapes swam before his eyes—dark, blurred—then slowly sharpened. People stood around him—five, maybe six. Torches burned in their hands, and in the wavering orange light their faces looked demonic. But as he looked closer, Leran realized they were nothing like soldiers of the imperial army. They looked more like ragged men. Closest stood a tall man with a long scar cutting his face from forehead to chin. The scar was old and faded but disfiguring—dragging down the left corner of his mouth, giving him a permanent crooked smirk. His hair was dark and greasy, tied back in a ponytail. An axe hung at his belt—not a battle axe but a woodcutting one, no less dangerous for that. His clothes were rough leather, patched in several places, smelling of smoke and stale sweat. To his right stood a stocky man with a barrel chest and short legs. His teeth were crooked and yellow, the two front ones missing. His beard was shaggy, reddish, threaded with gray. His arms were thick, his fingers big-knuckled. A rusted sword hilt stuck out of his belt—obviously stolen, judging by the cheap scabbard. A little farther off loomed another figure—a thin, long-limbed lad of about twenty, moving nervously, his gaze darting. His clothes hung on him like a sack, clearly off someone else’s back. He twirled a short dagger, flipping it from palm to palm. A nervous tic made his left eye twitch. Behind the trio stood two more, their faces hidden in shadow; their silhouettes suggested the same—ragged men. All of them were armed—swords, daggers, axes, homemade clubs studded with nails. Their clothes were worn, patched, torn in places, yet chosen with intent: dark colors, leather, rough wool—nothing bright. “Who are you?” Leran rasped, his voice sounding strange—like it wasn’t his own. He kept looking around. “What do you want?” Prince Emil stood not far off, bewildered and shaken, his back pressed to the oak trunk. When Leran caught his eye, the boy—as if to justify himself—started speaking quickly, tripping over his words: “You fell asleep, Sir Leran! I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t wake up! I didn’t know what to do! And these people were prowling around, looking for someone… and I thought they were peasants from the village, so I went out to ask them for help!” The bandits burst into laughter—rough, booming, with a note of mockery. The scarred man slapped the stocky one on the shoulder so hard it made him sway. “Peasants!” The stocky one guffawed, spraying spit. “Well, we are peasants, boy! The real thing! We plowed, we sowed—only now we don’t reap our own harvest, we reap someone else’s!” The others laughed again. The thin lad darted closer, waving his dagger. Leran whipped around, searching for the princess. His heart skipped a beat. Where was Lucille? He found her almost at once. The girl slept peacefully, curled up by the roots, wrapped in her brother’s doublet—far too big for her small body. No commotion, no loud voices, not even the bandits’ coarse laughter could wake her. She slept deeply, completely worn out—the way only children sleep after surviving a nightmare. Leran tried to get up. He braced his hands on the ground, tensed his muscles—and nearly howled. Right after the fall, with the shock still in him, he’d been able to move; now the pain was tearing him apart. His back burned as if a red-hot rod had been driven through it. He bit back a groan and stopped trying to get up, careful not to show how bad it was. The men exchanged looks. The stocky one grinned, showing the gaps where his front teeth were missing. “You know, when the Shepherd told us to look for a parrot,” he spat to the side, “we thought he’d lost his mind. ‘A parrot,’ he says—go find a parrot. Turns out he was telling the truth—we did find a parrot. And what a fancy one!” He jabbed a dirty finger at Leran’s embroidered cloak, smeared with dirt and leaves, the gold thread glinting dully in the torchlight. Scar-face squatted, eyeing Leran with open curiosity. “Maybe we shake him down a bit, eh? Might be something worth taking.” “Back off,” the stocky man snarled. “The Shepherd said—bring him in in one piece. You start going through him and I’ll crack your skull.” Leran felt anger boil inside him. He understood at once: these were that bandit’s men—the very one they’d released from the dungeon. The Shepherd. He turned the nickname over in his mind, and a bitter half-smile flickered across his lips. Yes—fitting, for someone who could run a pack. Someone who knew when to send the sheep out to pasture and when to pen them up, and who wouldn’t hesitate to send toslaughter anyone who stopped being useful. He’d let that man out of a cage, hoping for help—and ended up in one himself. “We had an agreement,” Leran said through clenched teeth, keeping his voice steady. “You were supposed to come help the palace—not sniff around like vultures looking for easy pickings.” The bandits traded glances. Scar-face got to his feet, dusting off his knees. “Don’t know what you and the chief agreed on. You’ll talk to him yourself.” Leran tried to argue back; it was hard to get the words out. “We’ve already handled it ourselves. We don’t need your help anymore. We—” “Would you look at that!” the bearded man cut in, throwing his hands up like he was on stage. “Turning down our help! That’s downright rude, you know! We’ve been crawling through the bushes half the night like rabbits, and he goes—‘don’t need it,’ he says!” Scar-face grabbed Leran’s shoulder again, rough and careless. Pain lanced through his back so hard his vision darkened at the edges. “Hands off,” Leran ground out through his teeth. Scar-face yanked his hand away with a crooked grin. “Like I’m dying to paw at you. You’re not some delicate girl. But we’re leaving—and fast. Before anyone spots any of you.” Leran understood there was no point in arguing. He was barely able to stand, and the Emperor’s children were right there beside him—he couldn’t risk anything. He’d have to go along with it. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, the bitter thought crossed his mind. He’d dug this hole himself, letting that bandit out. “If anything happens to us,” he said, putting all the menace he could into his voice, “you’ll get nothing. No ransom, no gold—nothing. Remember that.” The bandits only laughed—easy, insolent. Two of the men who’d been standing in the shadows stepped forward and seized Leran under the arms, yanking him to his feet. He clenched his teeth and made not a sound. “Well then, my lords,” Scar-face said with a smirk, turning toward the forest, “let’s go visiting.” Before they led him away, Leran managed to turn and cast one last look at the palace. Everything there was quiet. No lights, no movement. It was impossible to tell whether anyone inside had survived.