Keys jangled outside the door.
The handle turned, and a squat woman carried a tray of food inside. A shapeless black robe covered her entirely, contrasting with the wide white stole about her shoulders and a white wrap covering her head. Her face was plain and weathered, her deep-set eyes terribly sad. A faint smile touched her lips as she saw him struggle to rise on his elbows and sit up when she approached.
"So you live, and with spirit." Her voice was rich and thick with the accent of her native tongue. Bruallians had their own language, but she spoke the common Jenera for his benefit.
"We were not sure, but your will to live is stronger than the Death's whisper, it seems. You have lost much blood and will need to rest for as long as you can. My name is Matron Umalla, and I will attend to you." She stationed the tray to the side of the bed. On it was a steaming bowl of what appeared to be a stew of some sort, and a thick heel of bread. His stomach rumbled loudly, betraying his resolve.
"How long have I been here?"
"A few days." She lifted a large spoon of stew to his mouth. He realized to his shame that he was too weak to feed himself, and had to let her spoon-feed him like a child. The dark meat was strongly spiced and thick, unfamiliar to him but not bad in taste. He suspected horseflesh. The remainder of the stew was familiar fare –carrots, potatoes, and corn.
"You must not worry yourself with questions," she said. "Only with getting well. You are in Dragos, the heart of Bruallia. Lord Basilis had you transported to his citadel to recuperate, for he wishes you to be healthy before your execution. He is impressed by you."
Before your execution. The food lost its flavor, turned to ashes in his mouth by the certainty of her matter-of-fact words. Of course you're going to be executed. Did you think you were just going to be fed and sent on your way?
"Execution? I was on a rescue mission. What crimes am I charged with?"
"You and your men are accused of being assassins sent to slay our great lord." She eyed him quizzingly. "You say that this is not so?"
"Would you believe me if I told you?"
Her silence answered the question. Marcellus' voice grew ragged. "Where are my men? Did any of them survive?"
She hesitated for an instant. "Your men have been brought here as well. No more questions for now." The spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. He was shocked to see how fast it had gone. "In the mug there is milk, and I will leave the bread here. Tonight another matron will come to change your bandages and bring another meal. I will check on you again on the morrow."
She walked to the door and paused halfway through. "The door is guarded. Do not try to leave. For you, there is no escape." He heard pity in her voice, but firmness as well.
"Wait, sister."
She turned.
"You are a Matron dedicated in service to Deis. Why are you here aiding a tyrant and murderer?"
She gazed at him pityingly. "How many men have you slain, Sir Admorran?"
He opened his mouth, then hesitated. "That is...different. The causes that I have fought for have been just."
She shook her head sadly. "So the inhabitants of this land say of their war and their king. There is no difference other than perspective. Blood stains the hands of any that lift a sword. My service is to Deis, and my work is needed everywhere, not just in lands of peace. Be well, Sir Admorran. Pray that Deis has mercy on your soul."
The door closed gently, and he heard the lock turn. Once again he was trapped, his fate sealed like the door.
But not so. He was alive. Which meant he could escape. It wasn't the first time he had been held captive. He thought of Evelina, and a lump rose in his throat. What news had she received about the fate of his expedition? Did she mourn his death already?
I will return to keep my promise to you, I swear.
The Matron was right about one thing. He would have to regain strength. He snatched the bread off the tray, cursing his weakness. Tearing off a piece, he ate determinedly. One chance, one slip was all he needed. He would not die without trying. He was alive, which meant he could escape.
For weeks he was bedridden. Weeks of visits from the Matron while he moaned and feigned to be weaker than he was. As soon as she left, he rose and stretched his muscles, limping around the room to strengthen his legs. Every morning, Umalla smiled like a grandmother at a mischievous grandchild, not sure what he was up to, but certain it was no good. For weeks he ate extra portions of food, stashing away what he couldn't eat under the bed for later.
His window was not large enough to attempt an escape, and the view was poor. He saw a limited view of a courtyard and a large stone wall, nothing else. Below he heard the din of men training at arms. He assumed his room was above the guards' barracks, an ideal location to place a highly ranked prisoner. No escape would be possible there. He racked his brain, but without an idea of what his surroundings looked like, forming any sort of plan was futile. But the time would come. They could not keep him locked in there forever.
The time came. The door opened as normal, and he prepared his sick face for Matron Umalla. But it was two black-armored guards that entered with their hands on their sword hilts. They were without the monstrous helmets he saw on the battlefield. The room became even smaller as they loomed over him. Both were medium in height, dark of hair and eye, and sported long, thick mustaches. The one with gray streaking his hair spoke.
"Prisoner, you are in the presence of Valdemar Basilis, King of Bruallia. Let he who is wise fear the Dragon Lord." The guards bowed as another visitor swept into the room, searing the air with the haughtiness of his presence.
Like most men of Bruallia, Valdemar Basilis was not tall, but looked stocky and strong beneath his finely cut garb. His long wavy hair hung to his shoulders, framing a narrow face with high cheekbones and large, penetrating green eyes that smoldered beneath thick eyebrows. Marcellus felt unusually uneasy, as though Valdemar was a snake he didn't know was poisonous or not.
"At last we meet." Valdemar's voice was rich and heavy with the Bruallian accent. He fingered the gold brocade on his rich sable coat. Thin lips curved beneath his thick, curled mustache in a smile that never touched the unblinking eyes. "I have heard so much about the famed Marcellus Admorran. Word of your exploits are well known here in my country, and to meet in person is an honor."
He paused. "Of course it would have been finer to meet on the field of battle, as warriors. Regrettably, that will not come to pass. Can you rise, Sir Marcellus? I would have you walk with me for a moment."
Marcellus winced as he pushed himself up to a full sitting position. "I would like to." He tried to sound as weak as he could. "But I'm afraid my wounds have left me weakened, and I have yet to regain the strength in my legs. Another few days and I will be able to accept your offer."
Valdemar stared with a hawkish gaze. A dangerous silence stretched until Marcellus could almost see the tension as it thickened.
Valdemar finally gave a casual shrug. "I see."
Quick as an adder, he snatched the sword from the scabbard of the younger guard. The blade hummed as he swung it at Marcellus' legs. Marcellus instinctively snatched them away and rolled to his feet. He automatically grabbed the cracked vase and hoisted it.
Valdemar's rich laughter stopped him.
"I believe you underestimate yourself." The Lord of Bruallia withdrew the blade from where it had cut the mattress in two and handed it back to the guard, who sheathed it with a hard glare at Marcellus.
Valdemar was quite amused. "Your ruse was a worthy effort, but it is not so easy to deceive the Matrons. Contrary to what you Leodians think, we are not a race of mindless outlanders. The Matrons are quite learned in medicine and health, as you should have remembered. They know when their patient is feigning illness. But again, it was a worthy try. I might have done the same were our situations reversed. But now we have business to attend to." He clapped his hands. Instantly a white-robed young woman entered with her head bowed and a bundle of clothes in her arms.
/> "My servants will provide you with garments so that you can accompany me. There is something that I wish to show you."
Two more white-robed young women entered. Marcellus let them dress him in a drab gray woolen robe over threadbare trousers and an equally worn jerkin.
Valdemar gestured toward the door, and Marcellus hobbled out with him. The guards immediately fell in place behind them with naked swords in their fists. Marcellus noted only the two guards followed him. Apparently Valdemar did not want anyone to think he needed a large bodyguard to protect himself from one man, no matter what his reputation.
The stone hall was wide and decorated only by the banners of fallen foes. Marcellus counted the flights as they descended and figured he was imprisoned on the thirteenth floor of the tower. They walked into the sunlight, but the eastern wind was not friendly. Its bite was cold, sinking straight through his garments. His wounds flared, but he grinned inwardly in spite of it.
Pain lets a man know he's still alive, boy. It's when you feel no pain that you know you've bled your last. Those were the words of Stigandr the Wroth, the knight from Norland that Marcellus squired for as a boy. Stigandr was a man of many memorable phrases, most having to do with pain and killing.
The courtyard was small, walled off to block any view of the surrounding area. The only people visible were soldiers and servants hurriedly going about their business. Upon Valdemar's entrance, the soldiers cheered and shouted, waving their weapons. Yet when their eyes fell on Marcellus, their expressions quickly changed.
"Yes," Valdemar said. "You feel their hatred. Did you expect differently? These men come from generations of families slain in the name of Leodia. And now you and your men come in your arrogance, a hundred men to slay one man. So much for the precious honor of Kaerleon. It was only a matter of time before your true colors revealed themselves. Murder and betrayal have long been a part of your dealings with us."
"You know who I am." Marcellus continued to scan his surroundings. "You believe I would personally lead my Companions on a mission to assassinate a warlord that has never seen Leodia? You think highly of yourself, milord."
Valdemar's face flushed red. "It is not beneath you, Knight of Kaerleon. Your people have long desired the extinction of mine own. It was not enough that you robbed us of our lands and heritage. You mean to make sure that we never rise again."
Marcellus glanced at him askance. "You speak of the past as if it were yesterday. The war between our kingdoms has long been over."
"Easy for you to say." Valdemar's gaze darkened. "Your people were not driven from green lands into a wilderness where they had to hack out a living. And your people did not bleed as mine did. Generations pass, but we do not forget. The blood of the fallen still calls to us from the darkness of the past."
Marcellus gazed at the Lord of Bruallia calmly. "Blood is shed in all wars. But Kaerleon brought unity in the midst of chaos, and peace to a world all but consumed by war."
Valdemar's voice heated. "That is not all it has brought. You forget to mention the rule of the iron fist, and the determination to rule all of Erseta regardless of protest."
"The will of Kaerleon is peace, and the only people who oppose it are the barbaric sort on this side of the Dragonspine." Marcellus looked Valdemar in the eyes. "Your people."
Valdemar's mouth thinned, and his eyes narrowed. "Such is the cavalier attitude of the Leodians, looking down your noses at people you think are beneath you. Take a look at what my father has built. Do you see a muddy caste of savages dwelling in caves? Look and tell me what you see!"
Marcellus turned and beheld Castle Basilis, a towering fortress made of dark stone so cunningly placed that it seemed the castle was hacked out of a mountain of granite, with towers at the corners that stretched toward the sky. The Red Dragon and the Sword of Deis adorned the banners that fluttered in the wind. Dragons of stone and mortar decorated the ramparts, staring down with baleful eyes, ever watchful of the populace below.
Marcellus shook his head. "I see darkness and madness. Madness to believe that you will ever be able to bring your brutality within a hundred leagues of Leodia."
"Leodia." Valdemar spat the word. "You speak of it as if it were the Light of Deis himself. It has blinded you, deluded you into thinking your ways are absolute. Deis knows the love of my people. We serve him faithfully, knowing that he has allowed us to undergo hardship to gain strength. Leodia is despoiled, allied with ungodly nations like Jafeh and Komura. Your king is at odds with your Pontifex, refusing to establish Divinity as the official faith of the kingdom. Your nation is corrupted from the inside out, yet you accuse me of madness. You know nothing, Sir Admorran."
Marcellus turned to him. "I know enough. You dare to speak of piety? Your devotion is a glittering mask covering a rotting skull. I know well of the deeds of your father, whom men named Dragon. Did he not worship the old gods of Bruallia? It is no secret that he gained his reputation from indiscriminate slaughter and the merciless torture of his enemies. Under his command children were thrown into the fire, and even his own family hung from the walls of this very castle. The same spirit resides in Aracville and Ravynna, the same bloodlust. A thousand battles would be worth the cost if it keeps your kind from crossing the Dragonspine."
Valdemar trembled with silent rage, his pupils practically vibrating. His fists clenched as though trying to fight lunging at Marcellus' throat. But he slowly regained enough composure to curve his lips in that shadowy smile. "I would suggest that you never mention my father again. Or I fear you will face the same fate that your men already have."
The world swam around Marcellus; he had to fight to keep his balance. "What have you done to them?" The words grated out raggedly between clenched teeth.
The mirthless smile stayed on Valdemar's lips. He pointed to the far wall of the courtyard, where ravens and vultures rose and descended in a living cloud just outside.
"Bring him."
The guards barked a laugh as they seized Marcellus by the arms. He had neither the will nor the strength to fight them. He already knew what lay beyond, yet knew he could not escape the sight.
Valdemar stepped through the outer gate and spread his arms wide. "See." His voice rang with pride. "This is what becomes of assassins. The Lord of Bruallia does not take an attack on his life lightly."
Row after row of upraised stakes were upraised in plain view of any passersby. Impaled on them were the remains of men after they have been left to die in the sun for weeks. Putrid flesh and bones still fed the carrion eaters that lazily flapped on them. The stakes had been thrust through the crotch or buttocks of the bound victims and worked to protrude out the mouth or chest. Marcellus knew the men had been alive when the torture had begun.
Many of the men still had scraps of their red Komuran uniforms, but his eyes dragged to the men who had been raised on longer stakes to stand out among the others; ragged crimson scarecrows in the tattered and torn uniforms of Kaerleon. Their faces were far too long rotted to recognize, but the wind whipped through at that moment, bringing the rotting stench full into his nostrils.
"Your trespass is an act of war," Valdemar said. "All treaties to the border are dust, any chance of compromise negated. Do you think the deaths of your precious Companions were terrible? You think correctly. So just imagine the plans I have for you, the so-called Champion of Kaerleon."
As the shock stiffened his muscles, Marcellus heard a voice from his past. He again recalled the words of Stigandr, who first trained Marcellus how to fight when he was just a lad known as the Coward's Son.
There be a bear somewhere within that scrawny chest of yours, boy. When the time for killing comes, he will awaken in a storm of fury.
Something wild and terrible roared in his ears. It had been long since the bear roused within him, that beast of rage that he had eventually been forced to contain. Stigandr had always said the bear would speak to him, but it never had until that moment. Marcellus heard the voice, harsh and guttural in his ea
rs.
Rise up. Kill many men.
Marcellus spun and slammed the heel of his hand into the neck of the nearest guard, crushing his throat. The closest guards instantly sprang, seizing Marcellus before he could snatch up the dying man's blade. A man might have fallen, but he was not a man. He flung them aside, snapping one man's arm in the process. Bowling over another pair, he furiously tried to reach Valdemar, who smiled softly with his hands clasped behind his back. The guards cursed and shouted, struggling to hold him back.
Soldiers ran from their posts to join in the scuffle. Spear butts and gauntleted fists struck him, but a bear did not feel pain. Marcellus yanked a spear from one startled guard's hands and rammed it into another's chest. Snatching it out, he whirled it like a quarterstaff, striking helmets and armor with ringing blows to keep the bellowing soldiers at bay. A helmetless guard shrieked and fell, clutching the side of his head where his ear used to be. For a moment Marcellus believed that somehow he could fight his way clear.
The moment ended swiftly.
Screaming soldiers fell upon him. He howled in rage as he tried to rise, but the armored avalanche bore down mercilessly. Fists and sword pommels pummeled him back to his knees as Valdemar stood motionless with a half-smile on his lips.
"Do not ruin his face badly. I want him to be recognizable."
Marcellus lunged and managed to throw one of them off, but the others fell on him before he could take a step. They laughed as their boots and gauntleted fists pounded until he finally collapsed in a cocoon of agony. Still the blows fell, until his vision blurred and blood spattered across the dust.
Valdemar was a hazy figure that walked away without a backward glance.
Chapter 9: Nyori
Nyori awoke early with a haunted mind. The dreams that plagued her slumber had not faded with the light. A shuddering breath wrested from her lungs.
The Eye of Everfell Page 9
