Ashes of Dearen: Book 1

by Jayden Woods

  Picard wanted some time alone time with their precious prisoner. Richard just wouldn’t give him the chance.

  They camped in the valley and kept the prisoner in the khan’s carriage. This seemed like a fitting place, somehow, to punish Sean for killing the khan. Richard, unfortunately, would have killed Sean with his rage if Picard did not keep constant vigil. He would let his brother visit Sean in little bursts, at which point Richard would kick and punch the prisoner as it pleased him. Then Picard would worry about Sean’s health and talk his brother back out of the carriage.

  “Now Richard,” he would say, “we have a very important prisoner here, and we mustn’t kill him yet. We must make an example of him in front of all Vikand. We must give him a public execution, and demonstrate for everyone what happens to traitors of the khan. This will frighten them, brother, and best of all, it will make them afraid of you. They will have to choose another khan, after all. And who could they respect more than a man capable of killing a Wolven?”

  Richard would finally agree to leave Sean alone. He would drink a lot of ale, pace about in the grass, and maybe spend some time with one of the Dearen maidens he had brought with him from the palace. Then, he would resolve to go back inside and give Sean another beating. This pattern cycled over and over and over again, until the night fell and the moon sagged low in the sky, and Richard fell asleep by the fire.

  Sighing with relief, Picard took a candle and paid a private visit to Sean’s carriage.

  The prisoner lay in a heap on a large cushion the khan once reclined upon. Picard shivered a little to see the all-powerful Wolven reduced to a bloody bundle. Blood rolled from his nose down his chin and neck. His tunic spread open to reveal a bruised chest. Chains bound his hands behind him—Picard reminded the hordesfolk that this man had torn open the Khan-Collar, and ropes simply wouldn’t do. Ropes seemed sufficient for his legs, however, both of which were wounded in one way or another.

  Picard brought the candle to the arrow in Sean’s thigh and studied it with a frown. “Hm, I suppose we should have someone take a look at that. It might kill you before anything else. Sean? Sean, are you listening to me?”

  The Wolven did not move. He pretended to be asleep, but Picard doubted it. Just in case, he grabbed the arrow and twisted it.

  Sean jolted, releasing a guttural groan of pain.

  “There we go,” said Picard. “Now that I have your attention, I want you to listen carefully. I could torture you until you tell me what I want to know. Or we could begin this conversation with a much more pleasant arrangement—for you, anyway. After all, Richard has already done more damage to you than I ever intended. I wonder if you will ever be a true Wolven again, even in your current state? I suspect your arm broke when Richard kicked you across the carriage—isn’t that so? Well, you certainly won’t be a Wolven anymore if Richard takes your eyes out, which he has eagerly talked about doing.”

  Sean’s eyes finally opened, glaring at the archon with two discs of red.

  Picard smiled back at him. “Here is what I propose. You tell me how safra is made, and I will let you go.”

  Sean did not speak.

  Picard laughed, a little nervously. “I know that you know, Sean. At the very least, you know more than you’ve told me.”

  “Kyne and I tried to make safra,” grunted Sean. He spat some blood from his mouth. “We tried, and we failed, so I killed him. There is no more to know.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Picard reached over and grabbed the arrow again, pushing it deep. Sean thrashed feebly. Picard leaned close to his gnashing teeth. “He must have known enough to attempt it. So what did he attempt? What did he say? What did he do?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Picard.” Sean struggled to speak through his groans of agony. “Even if you knew how, only a Violeni can make it. The only place you could ever make safra is in that dungeon. And the script for the ceremony burned with Kyne’s body. You … will never … make safra.”

  Picard ripped out the arrow in sudden burst of rage. It was not a very smart thing to do. By pulling out the arrow, he opened the wound in Sean’s leg to bleed and fester freely. Plus, Sean screamed, no doubt waking up several people in the camp, which meant possibly Richard.

  Picard’s hand throbbed as he held the arrow in it. The movement had caused him a great amount of agony, as well. To his own surprise, tears of pain and despair filled his eyes. In a panic, he groped in his tunic for safra. He still had some, and he had sent men to gather more from the fields while they camped here. He nearly choked on his own sob as he threw the safra into his mouth. He grabbed a flask of ale from his belt to wash it down with. Then, at last, he swallowed.

  A few moments later, he shook with laughter.

  “Oh Sean,” he said with a deep breath of relief. “You may be right. I may never understand how to make safra. So until then, I will steal what pleasure I can from the likes of you.”

  He lifted his good hand, holding the tip of the arrow out like a knife. Then he grabbed Sean’s head with his glove, clamping it tight, and held it still.

  “I will take out your eyes myself,” said Picard. “After all, if I can’t have what makes me whole, then neither shall you.”

  Picard prepared to jab, but he paused to relish the fear gaping in Sean’s pupils one last time.

  Then a loud thud reverberated through his eardrums, and belatedly, Picard felt the pain spreading from one side of his head to another. He realized he had been stricken by a very heavy object. Then he fell to the side, closed his eyes, and ceased to think at all.