Savants of Humanity (The Scholar's Legacy Book 2)

by Joshua Buller

  I stopped, eventually, deposited in an unceremonious heap at the foot of the ridge. I coughed a few times, trying to catch my breath. Each heave sent a fresh jolt of pain up to greet me. I tried to count the likely bruises from the throbbing, but gave it up after only a second; at the least, somehow, it felt like I hadn't broken anything. I quickly ran my tongue around my teeth, seeing if I'd knocked anything loose, but aside from the tang of blood, everything seemed in order there too.

  Convinced that my wounds were manageable, I tried to get my bearings and find my escapee. Unfortunately, my tumble had made me lose sight of them, but I did spot a clearly disturbed patch of brush. Someone had pushed through there recently.

  I pushed through in pursuit, common sense screaming at me louder every moment that I was being reckless and should cut my losses. I was just about to listen to it finally, when my arms got caught in the brush.

  Then the brush tightened around my shoulders, and I realized that I had made a huge mistake.

  The two soldiers that had been hiding in the growth stood together, lifting me off the ground by my armpits. I tried to struggle against them, but my battered body screamed at me and I fell limp. As if to destroy any notion of escape, my captors pressed in on either side, tightly enough that I could barely wiggle.

  We didn't have far to go. In less than a couple of minutes, I was being hauled into a small area that had been cleared out of encroaching plant life. In the clearing was another squadron of beige-clad soldiers, at least as large as the one that had stopped us on the road.

  One of them was still catching their breath, speaking hurriedly to a blonde woman whose face was a cold mask. They stopped speaking and looked at us as we came into view, the eyes of everyone focusing on me with curiosity. I met the woman's gaze, and something struck me as terribly familiar about her.

  “That's the girl!” said the soldier who had been talking to the woman. I recognized him as the runner I'd taken off after. Of course, he'd been running to reinforcements. I was an idiot to believe that patrol was all there was.

  The woman, clearly a superior officer, strode forward and brought her face down to my eye level. She was taller than me, but not by much. I couldn't shake the feeling I'd met her before.

  “She was travelling with someone who claimed to be the Scholar,” the man explained while she examined me.

  “So you've said,” the officer responded. Hearing her voice, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had seen her before. The last time I had, though, she'd been wearing an iron helm that hid most of her features.

  “You're…Diane, right?” I managed to choke out. Even speaking hurt. “Sergeant Farhel?”

  She straightened up and away from me. “Have we met?” she asked. Then her eyes widened, and her mouth set into a thin line. “Of course. If you really were travelling with the Scholar, then you would.”

  “You know this captive, Captain?” asked one of the soldiers restraining me.

  “Yes,” said Sergeant Farhel. Or rather, Captain Farhel. “This lend some credence to your claim, Judd. We'll be taking her back for questioning, then. Rawlins,” she addressed the soldier to my right, “bind her and gag her. I don't want her giving our location away, especially if the Scholar is close. We move out immediately.”

  Rawlins moved with professional swiftness, sliding a leather bit into my mouth before I could even think of trying to call out. Not that I would have, with so many armed soldiers nearby. They wanted me alive now, but there was no guarantee that would last if I made things difficult for them.

  The other soldier holding me quickly and efficiently bound my hands behind my back, taking the opportunity to relieve me of my short-sword. With my power, the bindings wouldn't be a problem, but I would have to pick the right moment for my escape. I half-expected Hawke to come charging through the growth any moment, but the only sounds I heard were the soldiers shouldering their gear and the stomp of the light tread of their feet over the ground as they started back.

  Farhel turned back to my chaperones and me one more time, her eyes darting over me. “Oh, I should add, if you two hurt her again, you will receive whatever you give her twice over.”

  “But, but Captain, we didn't do this,” argued Rawlins. She cut him off with a sharp gesture.

  “I shan't repeat myself. Move out.” She turned on her heels and marched towards the head of the column. My captors, muttering under their breath, prodded me forward, and we took our place near the back. I kept waiting for that crucial interruption, for Hawke or Char to storm in and help me.

  I waited for hours. The sky began to darken, and we kept our light but steady pace. Not once did the soldiers waver in keeping watch over me. We kept marching until my legs were rubber, and I had to be partially dragged along by my arms. Still I waited, until the sun started shuffling back into the sky to bring a new morning. Help never came.

  Chapter 22: The Great One

  For nearly two full days we marched, without once pausing to rest. After a whole day and night of constant travel, I expected them to set up camp for a respite, however brief. But they kept moving, sure and steady as the tide. All meals were taken on the march, curt courses of dried fruit and jerky, washed down with a perfectly rationed gulp of water. Nothing was wasted, not movement nor munitions.

  I had to admire the tenacity of my captors; not once did they complain about the grueling pace, nor having to force me along non-stop. Eventually, my poor legs couldn't take the forced exercise any longer, and my energy waned. It didn't help that I was only given very brief water breaks, poured through my gag. They didn't risk removing it to feed me, less I got the urge to cry for help. I resented them for it, even if it was a wise move on their part.

  They had no qualms of lugging me like a human-sized sack when I couldn't move under my own power anymore. Whenever the pair carrying me grew tired, another pair would rotate in and take their place. Hardly a word was ever traded between the squad, and they clearly didn't need it. Whoever trained them, they were someone who must have commanded great power and respect.

  I considered using my essence to bolster my waning strength, but there were too many risks involved with that. If anyone was sensitive to such things, they might realize I was more of a threat than I looked. For now, I was just a young woman who traveled with Hawke. If they had any inkling what I might be capable of, it would make escape later that much more difficult.

  So I weathered the march, the pit in my stomach growing more angry as we entered our second night of marching. The stress and exhaustion started weighing on me, the incessant drone of the procession's footsteps not helping matters. I drifted in and out of restless sleep, jerking awake every time my holders jostled me too hard or a particularly bad stomach pang ripped into me.

  At some point, I managed to drift off longer than usual. When I awoke, it was to the creak of wooden wheels and the sight of canvas stretched over my head. I'd passed out long enough for the squadron to commandeer a wagon, or perhaps they'd met with allies that had one waiting. It did look like the number of soldiers had increased, or maybe I was just dizzy with hunger and counting some of them double.

  However many there were, they had all changed out of their false Damkarein uniforms and into thick cotton tunics and breeches dyed a blue deep enough to be mistaken for black in the dead of night. A single lantern hung just outside the front flap, to shed light for the driver to guide by, but only casting a faint, fuzzy glow inside the canopy.

  Captain Farhel was watching me, her face as impassive as ever. She let me take in my surroundings until I was ready to meet her gaze.

  “Would you like something to eat?” she said.

  I was tempted to remain stubborn and shake my head. My stomach, though, went wild at the mere mention of food. By the Almighty, the Lord Ordained, and everything else that's considered holy, did I ever want something to eat.

  “You can eat, under the condition you do not speak.” Farhel grabbed a piece of hardtack and jerky. “A single word
out of you, and the gag goes back on, and your meal is over. Understood?”

  Every part of me wanted to throw her offer in her face. Without my strength, though, I'd have no chance of escape even if a chance presented itself. I nodded once.

  She returned the nod. “Rawlins, the gag.”

  Her subordinate removed the strip of leather from my mouth. I took the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and work my jaw a bit, sore as it was from being forced open for so long. I was hoping they'd liberate my arms too, but instead the Captain proceeded to hold the food to my face so I could eat. Figures they didn't trust me that far.

  I ate slowly, taking bites out of the jerky and tack alike at once. It was typical marching rations, dry and salty and tough. My jaw ached as I worked to chew the mouthfuls down to something I could manageably swallow. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted.

  I used my time gnawing at the rations to gather my surroundings. A group of soldiers blocked most of my view out of either side of the covered wagon, but I could see a great blackened shadow imposed against the night sky ahead of us. Even in the dark, I recognized the great walls of the Lonely Kingdom, Val'Hala. I'd already assumed we were going there, but seeing it looming ahead was near enough to steal my appetite, ravenous as I was.

  Even if we'd been traveling for near two days straight, most of that had been on foot. Hawke, Char, and I couldn't have been more than a day of riding or so from the city when we were accosted. There was still hope that they might come across our duplicitous caravan and free me.

  Even as I thought it, I knew the chances were almost nonexistent. We were almost to the gates of Val'Hala, and Hawke would likely steer well clear of the city that so openly despised him. Even if he did dare venture close, maybe even guess that I'd been taken hostage, there was nothing suspicious about the wagon we were in. Dozens of wagons made the trek to the city every day for business or pilgrimage, along with hundreds of hopeful immigrants and refugees from bandit or grinel attacks, or victims of the sporadic civil wars that cropped up in the Old Kingdom.

  As if on cue, the low murmur of countless voices began to rise ahead on the road. Even the barest glimpse out the front of the wagon revealed a throng of hopeful new citizens and prospective merchants already forming up for a day of waiting, their noise rising like a swarm of agitated bees.

  I managed to catch sight of a well-armored soldier that approached the driver. The two exchanged hushed words and a smattering of hand gestures. Finally, the guard took a peek inside the wagon itself. When his eyes landed on Captain Farhel, he gave a curt salute, which she gave back. He only looked at me briefly, accompanied by an equally brief scowl.

  Looking satisfied with what he saw, the guard turned to the throng and started barking orders for room to be made for the wagon to pass. Soon, other voices joined the first, all of them demanding the way to be cleared. There was a general buzz of anger from those gathered, but soon the wagon started creaking forward again.

  I could just make out a pair of bronzed gates set in the towering curtain walls high enough to blot out the sun come midday. Guards stood at attention on either side of it them as they slowly creaked open, presenting just enough space for our vehicle to pass. The sounds of the crowd rose as some of them clamored to try and slip in, but I'd seen enough before to know they were probably already being rebuffed by butts of spears and mail clad fists. The moment we had crossed the threshold, the gates began to groan back into place, the guards on the other side ready to drop the sturdy crossbar that secured it shut back into place.

  No sooner did I hear the crash of gates shutting was I swept to my feet and blindfolded. It was done so swiftly, so expertly, I found myself more impressed than angry at my handling. It was too bad for them that I had already seen the city. As uptight as everyone seemed here, I doubted the decor had changed much in the years.

  Once again, I found myself being forced to march, though this time without the benefit of even knowing where I was stepping. My handlers wasted no time in picking me up and carrying me by the arms anytime I wasn't going fast enough for their liking, or whenever there were sudden raises or drops, like stairs. And from the feel of it, there were a lot of stairs involved.

  It didn't take long to realize that wherever I was going, it was down, down, down. My captors' footsteps echoed off unseen walls close enough that I could feel every reverberation, and each moment longer we descended brought with it a stronger and stronger smell of decay and filth. I knew the telltale signs of a dungeon, even if I couldn't see them.

  I lost track of how long I was dragged along in blindness, but it felt like at least a half-hour. When at last we stopped, I was surprised as they suddenly removed the bonds from my wrists. I got less than a second of enjoying my freedom before two strong pairs of hands grabbed my arms and hauled them over my head. There was a tight, binding snap, accompanied by the friendly kiss of cool metal around my wrists.

  My blindfold was ripped off, and I got to appreciate my new accommodations in full. It was as uncreative a dungeon as I could have possibly imagined; rows of cells stretched down the hallway we undoubtedly just came from, built with inch thick bars spaced just far apart that their occupants could maybe fit a limb or two through, but narrow enough that it would do nothing other than tease the prospect of freedom.

  I was expecting such a room for myself, but they had opted to chain me to the corridor's dead end. The only light afforded was a pair of weak torches that did little to fight off the shadows, and nothing to fight off the cold.

  There wasn't so much as a door barring my way from the rest of the dungeon. Either they heavily underestimated me, or their security was beyond anything I could imagine: I assumed the latter. I considered taunting my two escorts as they turned and swiftly strode from the hall, maybe even just slipping my shackles off and following them back up. Then I felt a sudden thrill up my spine that had nothing to do with the lack of heating.

  Maybe it was the lack of food and rest over the last few days, but some primal part of me was whimpering in the corner of my mind. Why was I left at the end of the hallway, when there were so many unoccupied cells I could have just as easily been thrown into? In fact, looking around, I saw that I was the only prisoner down here. No enemies of the state sleeping huddled in a corner. No flippant soldiers begging for clemency.

  Even stranger still were the cells themselves. As normal as they appeared at a glance, there was something about them that felt terribly off. I squinted, peering into their dark depths to see if I could make out what it was, and then it hit me. I was peering into their depths.

  The cells had no back to them.

  It was impossible to tell from my position how far they plunged, but it was deep enough that I doubted I could see the back even if I tossed a torch in as far as I could. More than that, I had to wonder, why in the world would Val'Hala use holding cells that might well stretch for miles? What could possibly need that much space?

  I swallowed my initial urge to undo my manacles and explore the area. My wall was just far enough from the closest cells that nothing would be able to reach me through the bars. At least, I hoped so.

  My body still ached from my tumble the other day, and my brief naps on the march and in the wagon had done little to slake my exhaustion. At the least, my wardens had given me enough slack on my chains to kneel on the ground. With wrists bound and my bed consisting of a hard slab of mortared stone I had to lean against, I remembered all the nights I'd gone to bed with just as bad - if not worse - in my earlier years of life. How odd it was, to think back on the treatment I'd received from the squat plantation master who had stolen Hawke's name, and reflect on them fondly. Thanks to all that time, I fell into an easy sleep.

  My wakeup call was a steel-toed nudge to my ribs. I jerked to my feet on reflex, the chains containing me rattling as I reached for a weapon that wasn't there. Captain Farhel stood a few steps away, holding a tray of mush that looked questionably edible. Her eyes flashed around wildly, whites promi
nent, and when she spoke it was a breathless whisper.

  “Eat quick,” she said. “Your audience is soon. You'll need your strength.”

  “Going to be a little hard with these on.” I shook my manacles, letting the chains play again. She winced.

  “I'll feed you. Keep it down.” She continued to cast anxious glances around as she lifted the spoon of gruel to my mouth. As strange as the scenario was, it had been a good while since my last meal. I took the bite; not as flavorful as I'd hoped, but my stomach grumbled in excitement nonetheless. She winced again.

  “Do Val'Halan captains always make a point to hand feed prisoners?” I asked. I kept my voice low. From Farhel's twitchiness, it felt like the proper thing to do.

  “Nobody's supposed to be feeding you, honestly. Don't tell him I did this, or it'll end badly for both of us.”

  “And who is 'he'?” I asked, though I already had a good idea.

  “Lord Othenidus,” she said. She was practically shoveling the food into my mouth. I couldn't tell if she was trying to keep me quiet, or she was in that much of a hurry to get away. Likely, it was both.

  “What does the fraud want with me?”

  She cuffed me over the head with the spoon. It surprised me more than it hurt me. When I opened my mouth to argue, she silenced me with another spoonful.

  “Whatever you think, he is still my Lord. Watch your tongue around here. Especially with him.” The plate was near empty, and Farhel was already scooting backwards. She looked ready to bolt at the slightest noise. “When he comes, the other prisoners will come out too. Whatever you do, don't upset them. And by the Lord Ordained, don't upset him.”

  She shoved the last spoon of gruel into my mouth and was heading toward the door before I could swallow to retort. My tongue stayed, even though I wanted to shout after her. She'd said there were other prisoners. I felt the crawl of dozens, maybe hundreds of imaginary stares watching me suddenly. Whether they were real or not wasn't something I was eager to test.