The young warrior found his feet quickly, but as he was about to set off at a jog Chad tapped his shoulder. “There’s no one on this side to see us.” The hunter finished by pointing at a cellar door close to where they were. An iron padlock secured the door.
Gram understood him immediately. Gripping the lock in two hands he set his shoulders and twisted. The lock hasp proved stronger than the metal band it passed through, with a pop the mounting tore loose, leaving the cellar door without a lock or a place to put one. Hurriedly they opened the doors and descended the stairs, pulling the doors closed over them.
“I don’t think anyone saw us entering,” muttered Gram softly.
“Hell, I can’t even see us,” observed the ranger. “It’s darker than an old lady’s…”
Gram placed a hand over the other man’s mouth before he could finish the sentence. “There are people moving on the street above,” he whispered. In point of fact, there weren’t, but he truly didn’t want to hear the end of the saying. Some phrases could not be unheard. He waited an appropriate interval before speaking again, “It looks like we’re in someone’s root cellar.”
“Smells like it anyway,” agreed Chad. “I don’t know how you can see anything in here with the doors shut. It’s as black as pitch in here.” He paused for a moment and then continued rapidly, “Blacker’n the inside of a cow’s ass.” The hunter snickered as he finished his addition.
“You just had to say something like that, didn’t you?”
“I was just testin’ to see if cow parts bothered you as much as women’s naughty bits. Now I know, all I need to do is say somethin’ about c—mblrlph!” The older man’s voice became garbled as Gram’s hand covered his mouth. He chuckled lightly when the hand was removed.
“Next time I’ll stuff a moldy turnip in that cesspit you call a mouth,” grumbled Gram.
The hunter grinned at him, “Yer a terrible liar, lad.”
“I wasn’t lying. There are turnips everywhere.”
“Nah, not that. I meant about the people above a minute ago. How can you see so well in here?”
“Grace—the dragon bond, it does more than make me stronger. My senses are all keener.”
“Now that’s interestin’,” said Chad, rubbing his chin thoughtfully in the dark. “How about yer nose?”
“Well, yeah…,” answered Gram, but then he stopped as a rank odor rose to fill his nostrils. “Damn, that’s bad!” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down while still emphasizing his dismay at the awful stench. Despite himself, he began giggling and his laughter held an almost hysterical note.
Chad laughed along with him, until at last he worried that Gram was losing control. “That’s enough, you’re goin’ to give us away.”
“More likely they’ll notice the foul odor emanating from the cellar,” countered Gram. “What did you eat anyway?”
“I think it was that trollop’s beer—or maybe the turnip soup…”
“I take back what I said about the moldy turnip then,” said Gram, choking on another short laugh. “That might be the death of both of us.” He went silent for a while after that, and the somberness of their situation settled over him once more. “How can we be laughing like this, after what just happened?”
“This ain’t yer first time killin’ people,” observed the hunter.
“It was different before. They were assassins, and it was about protecting someone else. This was butchery. Those people never had a chance, but they just wouldn’t stop…” Gram didn’t go further, his throat had a large lump in it. When he spoke again it was a question, “How can you be so calm?”
“Everyone’s different. Some laugh, an’ some cry after a battle, but it’s the nighttime that’s the worst, when you’re lyin’ alone in your bed.”
Gram could hear the old pain in the other man’s voice. He knew the archer had killed hundreds in the war with Gododdin and probably others even before that. “How do you deal with it?”
Chad gave him a false smile, “I don’t. In the daytime I live, I laugh, an’ I go on without thinkin’ on it. At night, well, I drink—a lot.”
They didn’t talk for a while after that, but eventually Gram broke the silence with his most awful question, “How many do you think I killed in the street back there?”
“It looked worse than it was…” said Chad, “…eight, nine, maybe.”
“That’s pretty bad,” said Gram despondently. “Some of them were women too.”
“I killed eighteen.”
Gram lifted his face from his hands, “You only had seventeen arrows.”
“The guy in the market,” reminded the ranger. “I gutted him. He won’t make it.”
“Some of the arrows might not have been fatal,” remarked Gram. He winced internally as he said it, realizing that whether two or three survived, it was still a slaughter.
“Nah, none of them are goin’ home today. I didn’t wing any of ‘em. I learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago. I put every fuckin’ one of those shafts through somethin’ vital.” Chad’s words were filled with bitterness and perhaps a sense of self-loathing, but he wasn’t finished, “I’m a murderin’ bastard maybe, but I ain’t leavin’ this world without takin’ as many with me as I can. When I die, it won’t be while I’m holdin’ a bow, more likely it’ll be a knife in the dark, probably from a woman I was drunk enough to think loved me.”
Gram wasn’t sure how to respond, so he settled for, “Now you’re just getting morbid and tragic.”
“It’s only tragic if they stick you before you get what you paid for…”
“I think I liked it better when it stunk in here, and we were laughing like fools.”
Chad grinned, “Careful what you wish for lad.”
Gram tried not to gag.
Chapter 8
Moira’s head was yanked roughly back, while another one of the king’s guests prepared to open her throat with a feast knife. It wasn’t an implement normally used for murder, but since those attending the king weren’t allowed to carry weapons, it was all the man had. Her eyes rolled in stark fear as he turned the sharp edge inward to do the job. She knew it would be more than adequate.
“Stop,” said another voice out of her current range of vision. “Celior needs the knowledge she has. Killing her will violate our bargain.”
The knife stopped, lying cold against the skin of her neck. King Darogen answered whoever had spoken, “Explain his reasoning, we were told her progenitor already had the information required.”
“The wizard still resists your attempts to deconstruct his brain,” said the channeler.
“His physical form continues to shift; eventually he will tire. You will have your information then,” said Darogen.
“You cannot be certain of that. Even if he does falter, your attempt to absorb the information in his head may fail,” countered the channeler.
“There is no reason to think his offspring has the knowledge Celior desires.”
“You do not understand humans then,” argued the channeler. “Even if she doesn’t, she can be used as a bargaining tool to weaken his resolve.”
“Our consciousness comprises a billion such minds,” said Darogen, “we know far more about humanity than a creature like your master could ever dream to understand.”
“Then consult them! They may understand, but clearly you do not.”
A short pause followed, and then Darogen spoke once more, “It appears you are correct. The female seems to lack her father’s ability to transmute himself, therefore we will take her mind. If the information is there, we will no longer need the sire, if it is not, we may still use her body as leverage against him.” The king stepped forward, giving no appearance of feeling the terrible pain his shoulder must be causing him.
The knife vanished and two other men gripped her head fiercely, using their fingers to force her mouth open. Moira’s jaws were strong, but their combined strength overcame her, and slowly they pried her teeth apart. Dar
ogen’s face loomed close, and his lips opened. Something metallic glinted as he pressed his mouth against hers.
No! Moira’s mind was screaming as she felt something cold and hard crawling over her tongue. Sharp legs cut as the strange metallic insect pulled itself forward, seeking the back of her throat. Thrashing violently against the men who were holding her, she had no hope of escape. Panic obliterated her reason, but the fear brought her remaining power into sharp focus. With little thought she created a shield within her mouth, encasing the strange monster there and crushing it. A terrible taste made her want to retch as the shield vanished. The men holding her relaxed, and she managed to spit the strange metal thing out.
“She still retains too much strength,” said the channeler. “The moon-shackles are not sufficient for this.”
“Lock her away,” commanded Darogen. “We will try again later. Once she is unconscious the process will be easier.”
One of the guards who had entered after the start of the confrontation spoke up, the tremor in his voice indicating that he was not under the same control as most of the others, “Y—yes, Your Majesty. What about the Baron?”
“Will you take him?” asked the channeler.
“He knows nothing, and his body is dying already. Lock him away for now. We can dispose of his body later, once we have a suitable explanation for his death,” pronounced Darogen. The king’s dead eyes locked on the guard who had spoken, “You and the others from outside, wait for me in the next chamber. I would speak with you privately.”
It doesn’t control all of them, thought Moira. It’s going to do the same thing to them, to keep them from talking about what they’ve seen. What was that thing? She spat as they dragged her limp body from the room, trying to clear the awful taste from her mouth.
Glancing down, she idly noticed that the dress the Baron had loaned her was ruined. One of the men that had been holding her had been badly wounded by her sword before she had been shackled. His blood had left huge stains on the fabric. Her magesight, which thankfully still functioned, showed her that the men coming behind her were carrying Gerold’s unconscious body with them. Poor Gerold.
Exhaustion had her full in its grip now, as the adrenaline of her battle faded away, leaving her cold and shaking. Even so, her mind worked furiously, trying to understand what had happened, and more importantly, why it had happened. She couldn’t come to any reasonable conclusion, but one thought stood out to her, my father is definitely still alive, and they have him.
Down they went, until at last she was brought to what must be the dungeon. Moira had read of such places before, but never seen one. Her father hadn’t seen the need to build one, and no one had ever wanted to let her see the one in Lancaster, even though it was mostly empty. The one here in Halam had evidently seen good use, however. The smell of mold and old refuse perfectly matched with what she had always thought a dungeon would be like.
Each cell was a stone room cut from the bedrock beneath King Darogen’s castle. While the interior walls were stone, the front wall consisted of nothing but iron bars and a door. Gerold’s unconscious form was dumped in one cell, and she was shoved into the one next to it. The click of the iron lock held a terrible finality as the door closed.
Moira wondered if she had the strength to foil the lock. She knew already that she was incredibly weak now. The shackles had robbed her of most of her strength. Her magesight still worked, and obviously she maintained a certain amount of power within her own body, but the shackles seemed to bleed away any aythar that she tried to manipulate outside of her own person.
Her hopes were dashed when two of the men remained behind, standing guard outside her cell. She knew that even if she had the strength to manipulate the lock, she wouldn’t have enough to fight the guards. Shit.
That wasn’t very ladylike. She could almost imagine Grace chiding her for her language. Gram’s dragon had been her first spellbeast, living as a teddy bear and playmate for years before taking on her new role. Grace had never approved of Moira’s occasional lapses into foul language. But she isn’t here right now, and I’m damn well screwed if I don’t figure out a way to get out of this.
I need to be clever. She spent several minutes trying to do just that, but her mind came up blank. It always seems so easy in the books. She changed tactics, What would Lady Rose do?
That was no help either. She couldn’t imagine Gram’s mother being locked in a dungeon. The image refused to come to her. Imagining her mother in a prison cell was easier for some reason, but then her mother’s solutions to such a situation were of no use to her either. I can’t just rip the bars apart with my bare hands.
“Mom wouldn’t have been captured anyway,” she muttered to herself. “She’d have fought her way free.”
A vision of her sword cutting through the man in the audience chamber flashed in her mind, and a sick feeling swept over her. Worse, it was followed by the memory of the people who had thrown themselves in front of the King. Despite the many bizarre experiences of her childhood, she had never killed anyone before.
Tears welled in her eyes, and she began to cry. The nervousness and anxiety of the past few days had worn on her, even as she had worked hard to put forward her best face. Her father had always been strong, and her mother stronger still, and yet she knew she was just a child. No matter how she had tried, it had all been a façade, and now she was out of her depth. She wept long and hard, hating herself for doing so but helpless to stop herself.
After a time, her tears stopped and her head felt clearer. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and think about what you have. That was easy, not very much, but now that she was calmer she realized she did still have some assets. The dragons will be looking for me, and Gram and Chad will know exactly where I’ve gone. Gram or either of the dragons alone would be enough to put an end to King Darogen and any number of his soldiers. Chad was not to be discounted either; the ranger was deadly with a bow.
I just have to survive until they rescue me. The thought reassured her, but it wasn’t satisfying. She was a wizard, and the daughter of a man who had almost single handedly rewritten the course of history for Lothion. She couldn’t sit idle. I have more than just allies. She still had her magesight, and obviously some of her abilities still worked. Her brother came to mind then, and she wondered what he would do.
Thinking of Matthew annoyed her. He would have chided her for letting herself get into the situation to begin with, not that he would have done any better. He’d probably be trying to devise some overly complicated enchantment to get himself out of this. Simultaneously, she found herself worrying about him. She had left him alone, back in Lothion. What if he’s gotten himself into trouble? It wasn’t long ago that she had had to reattach one of his arms after an experiment of his had gone wrong.
Thoughts of her brother did lead to one good idea, however. Lifting her manacles in front of her, she examined the subtle runes engraved on the milky white stone they were made of. She might not be quite the enchanter her father and brother were, but she still knew a lot about enchanting.
A few minutes’ careful study told her a lot. The method used to produce the effects of the shackles on her aythar, was overly complicated and inefficient. If the designer had done the job properly, the shackles would have completely sealed her abilities. Instead, they merely drained away the majority of any aythar she tried to project beyond herself. On a weaker mage that might be enough to entirely stop them from using magic, but for a stronger one, it didn’t quite do enough.
They were probably made a long time ago, by someone who wasn’t very good at it. Despite the flaws in it, she couldn’t see any way that she could break the enchantment while the shackles were around her wrists. She considered attempting to shatter them by banging them against the stone floor, but she couldn’t be sure how much aythar they were storing. The reaction produced by their destruction might well end her life.
She noticed one of the guards staring at her then. Her magesight told
her that he was back in control of his own mind again, though he seemed somewhat confused about what had happened earlier. If he remembered losing control of his body, there was no sign of it, he would have been more fearful. Instead, she was guessing that he had a blank place in his memories.
At the moment he was having some decidedly unvirtuous thoughts as he watched her. She tried not to shudder. He’s at least ten years older than I am, how could he even consider something like that? Of course, she had learned quite well over the past week that many men had no qualms when it came to fantasizing about girls much younger than themselves.
Moira turned her attention to Gerold. She could see with her magesight that he was still breathing in the cell next door, but he was slowly bleeding to death. Focusing her perceptions carefully, she could tell that he was lucky to be alive at all. The spear had slid through his midsection without nicking his stomach or intestines, but his liver had been torn, most of the bleeding was from the veins there. If it had cut the artery, he’d have been dead already.
He might live if I could seal his wound and stop the rest of the bleeding. There was no way she could do that at the moment, though. Even if he had been in the same cell, she couldn’t muster enough aythar to do much of anything physical.
Her mind froze then, as another idea came to her. I can’t do much on a physical level, but what about mentally? Her eyes went to the guard once more. He was still watching her, and his aythar had a distinctly lewd cast to it. If he were closer…
She knew he would love to be closer, if it weren’t against the rules. She fought down a feeling of disgust. I can’t believe I’m even considering this.
But Gerold was dying, and she was his only hope.
Moira stood and approached the bars, her gaze meeting the guard’s in an open challenge.
The man stared back at her in silence, not sure what to make of her sudden change in behavior.
Don’t talk, you’ll screw it up, she told herself. Instead, she licked her lips.
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