by Jayden Woods
The dungeons of Vikand were carved deep within the Great Volcano, about ten miles from the Khan’s Tower. Picard had always admired the large, cone-shaped mountain from afar: its sharp, spear-like peak and its jagged base, sliced with gray and silver tephra. It stood by as a symbol of the khan’s own strength and dominion. Picard had appreciated its ominous visage many times while sitting at his window in the Khan Tower and smoking a roll of safra.
Once he walked up the stone steps of its base into its ashy flank, his love for the Great Volcano dissipated. A gaseous smoke drifted from its peak, casting shadows on a red sunset. The smoke seemed to mock Picard, reminding him of the Dearen Haze he had breathed only days ago. Instead of filling him with pleasure, this haze of gas would poison him over time, making his lungs burn, searing his eyes with heat. Here he had been damned to live his life indefinitely.
“You can’t do this,” he yelled, not for the first time. He had yelled it so often that his throat ached from the effort. For the last two days of traveling, he had almost abjured the effort, as it did him more harm than good. Now he couldn’t resist the urge to try again. “You can’t do this! I am Archon Picard! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Such efforts were useless. The hordeswoman twisted his bad arm and turned his protests into screams of pain. She led him down rocky halls and ashy fissures, past chained prisoners and filthy cells. He even passed a few dead bodies which had not yet been carried away.
“No … please!”
The hordeswoman resisted his cries with a heart of stone. Picard marveled at her ability to do so. Could she not see how much agony he was in? Could she take no pity on his miserable condition? Judging by the gleam in her eyes, she actually enjoyed causing him pain.
The realization made his body lurch with guilt. He knew what it was like to appreciate people’s fear, to enjoy making them squirm. But this was different. No matter what he did to other people, their pain surely never got so great as his. Surely.
“I’ve done nothing!” he cried. “I am innocent!”
These words rang in his head, over and over again, even as he was thrown into his stone cell and the door locked behind him. He threw himself against the wood repeatedly, forgetting to care how sorely his arm ached from the effort. “I am innocent!”
The statement seemed true enough. He had not done what Richard accused him of, which was somehow bringing about Leonard Khan’s death. Although, if Sean had not gone to see Kyne and learn more about making safra in the first place …
Hot tears streamed from Picard’s eyes and salted his lips. Perhaps he was not wholly innocent. But he did not deserve this. No one did. He slid down against the door and collapsed against the floor, sobbing into the ash. He could smell the filth of whomever occupied this cell before him.
He was innocent.
He was innocent …
