Book II - Exodus (Chapter 6)

A day later, the Wall rose up misty on the horizon, and Erich stopped. He looked at it, a magnificent feat of steel forged by the hands of many men, and felt insignificant; an ant in comparison. From here it seemed the Wall was impossibly tall, and every few miles closer he rode it seemed to grow exponentially. By the time he was actually stopped before it he feared he would not be able to see its top.

As he stared at the collossal structure looming a day’s ride away, he began to realize the foolishness of his plan. He’d made up his mind to go through the wall, to escape Meil. At the time he’d actually been naïve enough to think he’d be able to climb it, but he saw clearly now that he’d be looking for some opening, one that would lead all the way through. If the Wall was that tall, it was most likely at least half as wide to support itself. He’d have to find out where the Darks came in, and he’d need a Dark to tell him. Which meant another change in his plan. Don’t fool yourself, boy. When did you ever really have one? You just assumed you’d reach the Wall and it would open to you, bid you safe passage through. I gross misjudgement, one that must be remedied as soon as possible. Which means going to a city to find a Dark who can tell you where to go.

Not Rothkin, though.

He’d have to travel South, to Triga. It was out of his way, but not much. He’d already been circling South to avoid Rothkin, and if what he remembered from the geography he’d picked up from Krutt, it should be less than fifty miles from him. He could reach it before nightfall if he hurried. He patted the horsa’s neck, knowing he was pushing the animal hard, it had not had anything to drink for more than two days. But he would survive, long enough to take Erich into Triga, and then Erich would take care of him like a real horse master.

Looking at his body and the makeshift clothing he’d made for himself from the hunter’s bag and some of the desert grasses, he made a mental note to obtain some proper clothing when he arrived. Clothing that he could hide behind, be just another peasant. He’d need a large hat, one to cover his face, and the scar that would cause him all sorts of trouble if he ran into the wrong people.

Despite the change of plans, and his disappointment that he would not be leaving Meil as soon as he’d thought, he was grateful that he’d be able to at least stock up on supplies (that he’d most likely have to beg for or steal) before heading out.

Besides, Krutt had never taken him to Triga. It would be an adventure.

Unless you can’t find any Darks to tell you where to go. It was a possbility, one that was very real. Most of the Darks he’d heard of had been raised in Meil, and the one who’d actually sneaked in through the Wall was already dead. Still, there were more recent immigrants, like his mother, who had come within the last twenty years. He would find someone, and he would ask for the information he needed.

What will you trade for the information? Work, he supposed. He was strong, good with his hands; his muscles had grown fast for a twelve-year-old because of the relentless character of his former master.

Krutt. Erich found himself thinking less and less of the man. Every time he remembered the way he’d been treated, like an animal, even though the magician had needed him to do his magic right. He regretted much about Krutt, and most of all he regretted calling the man “master.” He had done it out of reflex, and out of fear. The term of respect had beaten Erich down, made him feel unimportant next to the magician. When he thought of it now, he seethed. He never let me know, never let on that I was the strong one, not he. I could have stopped him at any time, except for that he was using me, draining my power. Stealing it. In my mind I was weak, an insect compared to him. Oh, Krutt. How I wish I could exchange those boys’ lives for yours. Nine years your slave and still I watched another man end your life.

Erich did not like that he had killed, but he accepted the fact that he had. He had not meant to, and yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible. The injustice of it gnawed at him, however. Why had he been made to kill those he had not meant to, and not the only man who he’d ever hated?

On his way to Triga, as he rode the horsa hard, Erich resigned himself to the fact that if the ones who wanted him dead were going to try to kill him again, he was going to have to use his power. It was right in the defense of himself, he decided now. He wouldn’t like it, but he was no longer the weak boy who had feared a coward, and called him “master.”

He was Erich, and he would survive to see Mer’ka. No matter how many men they sent to end his life.