The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set

by Jamie Edmundson

  ‘What's happening?’ Belwynn and Clarin asked the wizard in unison.

  ‘I nearly walked straight in,’ began Soren. ‘I've been to the north-east of the city this afternoon, and I was returning to the inn via the back yard rather than the front.’ Soren's face was grim, but Belwynn just wanted him to spit out the news. ‘The head of Bernard Hat has been placed on a stake there. I tried to get a glimpse of what was going on without being seen and saw a number of soldiers in the yard. I skirted round the edge of the inn and I'm pretty sure that they're inside as well. I think...I think they're waiting there for us to return. We left Rabigar and Elana in there...some of the others might have returned already.’

  Belwynn swallowed hard. If Bernard Hat had been decapitated, what had been done to the others?

  ‘Why do you think that they're after us, Soren?’

  ‘Emeric is obviously linked to the dagger—’

  ‘Yes, but how did they know where we were?’ Belwynn was having trouble getting her head around this new turn of events. She looked at Clarin. Concern was plainly visible on his face, no doubt concern for Herin's whereabouts, but he was saying nothing. The three of them were used to working together in these situations. Soren did the thinking; Clarin would agree with his course of action.

  ‘I think,’ began Soren, responding to his sister's question, ‘we've been betrayed. Someone's told Emeric of our whereabouts. Those soldiers seemed to know that if they waited in the inn we would be coming back.’

  ‘I've just seen Dirk walk past,’ interrupted Clarin, who had been keeping an eye on the top of the street.

  ‘Dirk?’ Soren sounded surprised. ‘Go and grab him, Clarin.’ The big warrior dutifully ran off back to the top of the street to stop Dirk from walking into the trap which had been set for them.

  Belwynn watched Clarin go and then turned back to her brother.

  ‘Betrayed? But who knew that we were all coming back now?’

  Soren shrugged. ‘No-one else did.’

  ‘You mean you think it was one of us?’

  ‘Most of us have had a chance to get in contact with Emeric's forces this afternoon if we'd wanted to.’ Soren looked up at Clarin and Dirk who had turned into the street and were walking over. ‘And here comes my prime suspect.’

  It seemed to Belwynn that Clarin had taken Soren's instructions to grab Dirk quite literally. He still had a hand on the priest's shoulder, and the pair had the appearance of a wayward son and his father.

  ‘What's going on?’ asked Dirk.

  ‘Where's the dagger, Dirk?’ asked Soren.

  Belwynn and Clarin shared confused glances but allowed Soren to continue without interruption.

  ‘What do you mean?’ began Dirk, but he looked into the wizard's eyes, boring into his own, and seemed to think better of continuing.

  The priest put his hand inside his tunic, fumbled around a bit, and produced a knife. It had a jewel-encrusted hilt, a thin blade, and ended in a sharp needlepoint.

  Toric’s Dagger.

  ‘I think you've got some explaining to do,’ said Soren.

  Gyrmund was taken directly to Coldeberg Castle. He was given no opportunity to escape, his attempts at conversation were met with a stony silence, and before he knew it he was being led through the keep into the main courtyard.

  The castle was heavily defended. Gyrmund was shocked at the number of soldiers moving around the structure. His hopes of getting out of his situation alive were diminishing by the second. At first he had castigated himself for allowing Salvinus to catch him so easily, but now he had come to terms with the fact. His thoughts had turned to escape. Gyrmund realised that his best hope lay with being rescued by the other Magnians. He just hoped that some of them had evaded Salvinus's trap.

  Curtis shoved him off his horse. His hands still tied, Gyrmund fell badly off the beast. He twisted his body around to land as best he could, but his right shoulder took the impact and was snapped out of place. Gyrmund's back was already damaged from the confrontation with Salvinus at the inn, and as he landed pain lanced up and down his spine. He cried out in agony, leading to much amusement from the soldiers watching in the yard. Curtis yanked him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder didn’t stop. He worried that it had been dislocated, but he refused to give the Barissians any more satisfaction by letting them know.

  Curtis prodded him over to a doorway in the corner of the yard, and Gyrmund entered the castle proper. Curtis led him along a stone corridor, decorated thickly with tapestries on both walls, while behind him three other soldiers continued to guard his progress. He could not help but be impressed with the small part of the castle he was being shown. Both as a fortress and as a display of wealth and power, Coldeberg Castle came second to few. Certainly, thought Gyrmund, nothing in Magnia was a match.

  In the Brasingian Empire, though, things were different. Impressive as Emeric's castle and army seemed to be, he was no match for Emperor Baldwin, and Gyrmund took some consolation from the joy he would feel when Baldwin burned the place to the ground. If he was still around when that happened.

  Gyrmund's spirits dropped again, however, with the arrival of the moment he had been dreading. Turning the corner, Curtis took him past a couple of armed guards and began descending down a stairwell. They were now headed for the dungeons, and a real feeling of dread passed over Gyrmund.

  As they descended deeper into the bowels of the castle the air became stale and his feeling of confinement began, long before he was placed in the irons that he knew would be waiting for him. The descent, down the twisting staircase, was even longer than Gyrmund had anticipated. The journey ended though, and Gyrmund alighted from the last step into a stinking smell of sewage. Torches adorned the walls, but they did little to break through the underground gloom. The grimy, squalid bits of the dungeon which Gyrmund could make out made him think that was probably a blessing.

  ‘Herman!’ shouted Curtis into the murk.

  The address was met with silence. Gyrmund looked at Curtis but he didn't seem moved to try again, so they waited. His shoulder throbbed with pain. He worried that if he had to stand for much longer, he would faint.

  Eventually, Gyrmund could make out a shuffling sound, which was gradually getting closer. Gyrmund was now ready to meet with the deformed, brutish, stereotypical jailer he had been expecting. Such a figure duly emerged out of the darkness. Trailing a crippled leg behind him, the jailer gave Gyrmund a smile full of rotting teeth as he lumbered closer. He was a giant of a man with fists the size of a man’s head. Two-thirds of his own head was purple, the skin twisted and uneven, as if it had been held in a pan of boiling water for a very long time. One eye was useless, a milky white colour in the midst of angry purple. This, however, did not seem to be Herman. Next to him was a small, thin man with a sharp nose and a thin, black moustache over sneering lips. While his purple-headed colleague seemed positively pleased to see Gyrmund, this man gave him a once-over with hostile, beady eyes.

  ‘Follow me,’ Herman ordered, turning around and retracing his steps down the dark corridor. His accomplice gave Gyrmund one last smile and shuffled along next to Herman. Curtis gave Gyrmund a sharp prod in the back to ensure that he followed after them and walked along behind. Obviously he was going to fulfil his duties by ensuring that he didn’t leave until Gyrmund was locked up in chains.

  Gyrmund’s eyes began to adjust to what little light there was, and he began to make out a door to a cell further up the corridor. It had an iron frame and vertical iron bars so that the jailers could look into the room. As they approached the door, Gyrmund could see a man sitting against the far wall, his arms and legs in manacles.

  It was Herin. Their eyes met. Herin had a look of cold rage in his eyes. When he realised that it was Gyrmund a look of disappointment passed over his face. Gyrmund understood why; he represented one less potential rescuer.

  Herman unlocked the door and Gyrmund was shoved into the cell. Sitting next to Herin was Elana. On the opposite wall was Rabiga
r. Both of them were in manacles, too.

  Herman pointed to a place next to Rabigar. ‘Over there.’ Curtis violently pushed Gyrmund in that direction, causing him to crash against the wall and land awkwardly. He could not stop himself gasping out loud as his injured shoulder flared in pain.

  ‘Get him ready, Greg,’ ordered Herman.

  The big jailer knelt down, grinned at Gyrmund, and pulled him into position. Curtis moved closer and pointed the tip of his sword towards Gyrmund, in order to discourage a struggle. Greg put one shackle around Gyrmund’s ankle, clasping it into place and then locking it, before repeating the process with the second ankle. Herin and the others watched on in silence. Greg then pulled out a knife and lumbered behind Gyrmund in order to cut his bonds. Curtis leaned closer and rested the end of his sword on Gyrmund’s chest. Greg cut through the bonds, but immediately grabbed one wrist and placed it into a manacle. Once he had secured both arms he pulled back to admire his work. Curtis withdrew his sword.

  ‘Have fun,’ he advised Gyrmund, before, with a nod to Herman, he left the cell and made his way out of the dungeon.

  A short period of silence followed. Herman was staring intently at him. Gyrmund felt panic begin to rise within him. He couldn’t stand the idea of rotting away in this place. The threat of violence hung heavy in the air. He looked over to his fellow prisoners. While it felt wrong, he was relieved that he wasn’t on his own. Herin and Rabigar had grim faces, but were not showing any fear; their expressions were more like anger. Elana was a picture of calm. She had no reason to be, but it made him feel a bit better.

  A rasping noise made him turn his attention back to Herman. The jailer had withdrawn a knife of his own, a wicked looking instrument with a serrated edge. Still staring into his eyes, Herman walked slowly towards him and dropped down to rest on his haunches.

  He slowly moved the knife up between Gyrmund’s shackled legs until it rested against his manhood. The jailer still said nothing. Gyrmund didn’t know how to respond, so he kept quiet, his eyes flicking down towards the knife and back up to look at the jailer.

  Herman, eyes still boring into Gyrmund’s, put pressure on the knife. The blade sliced through the leather of his trousers. Herman pushed the cold metal up against the inside of his thigh, then against his member. Terror welled up within him. but he resisted the urge to shout out and to struggle. He had to keep control. Silence obviously wasn’t working. He forced himself to swallow, his mouth dry with fear.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  ‘I have been asked, by the King,’ began Herman quietly, ‘to discover the location of a certain weapon. I do not intend to fail him. I now have five prisoners. You and your prick are therefore dispensable to me. Tell me where it is or I cut it off.’

  Gyrmund’s mind raced to find the best answer. He had no doubt that he was dispensable to this man. Would he go through with his threat? Should Gyrmund pretend that he knew something? Pressure down below told him that the jailer wanted an answer now.

  ‘I don’t have it…I’ve never seen it and I don’t know where it is. I didn’t even know that one of us had it…’

  Herman’s expression didn’t change, and the blade remained where it was. Seconds passed; they seemed like hours to Gyrmund.

  Herman’s hand moved. He withdrew the knife and stood up. Gyrmund let out a ragged breath of relief. The jailer looked around the cell.

  ‘Maybe none of you know anything useful. Maybe you do… but I will find out either way. When I’m finished with you, you’ll be telling me how many times you wet the bed as a child.’

  His eyes found Rabigar. ‘I’m going to start with this one,’ he advised Greg. ‘You should have stayed with your own kind, Krykker.’

  Rabigar looked at Herman as if he were something unpleasant found on the bottom of his shoe. Greg lumbered over and detached Rabigar’s chains from the wall. He held onto them as if they were puppet strings. ‘Get up,’ ordered Herman.

  Suddenly, Rabigar sprang to life. Despite the chains weighing him down, he thrust himself towards the big jailer holding his chains. Greg was taken by surprise and was slow to react. As Rabigar dived into him, Gyrmund saw the Krykker snatch the knife which the giant had been using from his belt. Greg grabbed Rabigar by the hair and yanked the Krykker away with an iron grip. Rabigar slashed upwards at his arm and Greg howled in pain, letting go of the Krykker. However, with his other hand, the jailer yanked at Rabigar’s chains, and the Krykker was pulled to the floor. Greg’s booted foot slammed down on Rabigar’s hand, effectively disarming him. Meanwhile, Herman jumped on top of the Krykker’s back, wrapping one arm round his neck in a headlock and placing his own knife at Rabigar’s throat.

  ‘I should kill you now for trying that!’ screamed the jailer hysterically. It was clear that he had got a fright.

  Rabigar was breathing hard, down on all fours with one man on his back and the other holding his chains. Greg moaned in pain.

  Herman smiled. ‘To teach you a lesson for wounding Greg, you should be made to suffer as he has.’

  In a deliberate movement, Herman withdrew the knife from Rabigar’s throat, reversed the blade, and sent it into his eye.

  Rabigar roared out in pain, and Gyrmund cried out in shock. The Krykker reared up and knocked the Barissian off his back. Greg, however, gave the chains another yank, and dragged the Krykker across the floor, towards the door of the cell. Rabigar clutched at his eye as he was dragged off down the corridor. Herman picked himself up. He bent over, wheezing. It looked like he had some kind of injury. Then Gyrmund realised that he wasn’t injured—he was laughing: a silent, breathy noise that made Gyrmund feel sick. He slowly stood up and gave the cell and its prisoners a final look.

  ‘I think the rest of you should reconsider,’ he said, gesturing into the corridor. ‘I’ve only just started with him.’

  Belwynn stared down at Toric’s Dagger.

  She had seen it once before, when she and Soren had visited the Temple with her father. It had a fancy enough hilt, if you liked that kind of thing, but the blade itself didn’t seem that special. There wasn’t much of it—just a thin sliver of metal that ended in a thin point, for stabbing. Tiny runes had been inscribed onto the blade. It wasn’t in a language she understood, and as she stared at them they began to swim and swirl around in front of her eyes. Belwynn drew her eyes away from the dagger and returned to the conversation at hand.

  ‘…from the beginning, all of it, and make it quick,’ her brother was ordering Dirk.

  Dirk nodded his acceptance. ‘I have been living here in Coldeberg for some years now. I am not a priest, I make my living by…well, mainly by thieving.’ He spread his hands, as if to apologise. ‘For a while now Emeric has been building up his power, hiring soldiers—he seems to have unlimited supplies of money from somewhere. A few weeks back the word was spread about to people like me that he wanted Toric’s Dagger. There would be a reward of thirty thousand thalers, a small fortune. I wanted that money.’ He shook his head, seemingly in disappointment at himself.

  ‘I decided that the best way to gain access to the dagger was to become a priest of Toric. It took a while, but I was accepted, just about a week ago. I sneaked into the Temple during prayers and took it. It was pretty easy. I was planning my escape when Salvinus and his men broke in. Obviously, he was too late, and he never got the dagger. But everyone assumed that he had. The suspicion was totally off me. If I had left of my own accord, it might have awakened some suspicions. By volunteering to go with you, I could leave freely and get protection on the way back to Coldeberg, where I knew Salvinus would be heading.’

  ‘You had it all the time?’ Clarin blurted out. ‘In the Wilderness, on the Great Road when that sorcerer attacked us—’

  Words failed the big man and he grabbed Dirk by the throat.

  ‘Leave him be,’ snapped Soren.

  Belwynn could tell that her brother was just as angry as she and Clarin were. That he had put the
m all in unnecessary danger was bad enough, but it was the fact that he had made fools of them all which rankled the most.

  ‘So this afternoon,’ Soren began. ‘Why didn’t you take the dagger straight to Emeric when you had the chance?’

  Dirk had the gall to look affronted by the suggestion. ‘I would never do that, not now. Now I understand why it is so important. Elana has explained it all to me.’

  Something in that comment made Belwynn uneasy.

  ‘Does Elana know that you’ve got the dagger?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dirk meekly.

  ‘Gods!’ thundered Soren. ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Just her and me…and now you three,’ answered Dirk defensively.

  Soren pushed his hand through his hair as he tried to take control of the situation in his mind. Belwynn felt the same way; her head was spinning. The attack on the inn, their friends captured. Dirk and the dagger. What should they do now? ‘So what have you been doing today?’ she asked the thief.

  Dirk shifted his pack off his shoulder and opened it up. He shoved his hand inside and pulled out a white cloak. ‘I bought this, so that I can look like a proper disciple of Madria,’ he said, holding it up for Belwynn to see.

  Soren groaned and rolled his eyes up in his head. ‘You do realise that Elana has probably been captured by Emeric?’ he demanded of Dirk.

  The thief-turned-disciple looked shocked. ‘What do you mean?’

  Belwynn realised that they hadn’t told Dirk about the situation. Soren, however, looked impatient to get moving.

  ‘I’ll fill you in as we go along. We need to establish what exactly has happened and, if necessary, think of some way to rescue the others. Meanwhile, I still think we’ve been betrayed, and you,’ he said, pointing at Dirk, ‘are still the most likely candidate, despite what you’ve said.’