by John Marco
“I know that,” said Lukien. “With Akeela gone I thought there might be some hope, but Thorin told me Trager’s still alive. I’m furious with myself for letting him live. Now he’ll be coming.”
“He’ll be coming just as soon as he is able,” said Minikin, “And I’m sure he seeks the amulets just as much as he seeks revenge.”
“Then we’ll beat him, Minikin.” Lukien felt his rage boiling over. “I promise.”
“You want to kill him for what he did to Akeela, I know,” said Minikin. “But that won’t be enough. This isn’t about a vendetta anymore, Lukien, not yours and not Akeela’s. This is a war for survival.”
“Minikin, you don’t have to explain it to me. I know what’s at stake.”
“No,” said Minikin, “you don’t.” She continued to toy distractedly with her amulet. Lukien could tell something was troubling her, something more than just his coming countrymen. He waited for her to find just the right words. Finally she said, “The Liirians must not breach the gate. They must not take the fortress or even set foot in it. If they do. . . .” She glanced away, unable to finish.
“Tell me,” Lukien urged.
Minikin caressed her amulet mournfully. “If they do, the Akari will destroy them, and everyone else inside Grimhold.” She looked up at Lukien, her eyes full of fear. “The Akari will burn the halls with fire if the Liirians set foot in Grimhold. They won’t let their home be taken, Lukien. Do you understand that?”
Uncertain exactly what it meant, Lukien decided to be encouraging. “It means we have to defeat the Liirians out in the canyon. And we will, Minikin, I promise.”
“You don’t understand,” groaned Minikin. “What will happen if the Liirians defeat you? What if they take the keep? What of my Inhumans? They’ll be killed, Lukien, burned to death.” The little woman leaned miserably against the wall, shaking her head. “That musn’t happen. I couldn’t bear it.”
Lukien still didn’t comprehend the Akari or their ways, but he knew they had the power to carry out their threat. He said, “Then take the Inhumans to the village, Minikin. They’ll be safer there.”
“No they won’t,” said Minikin. “After the fortress falls the village will be next, you know that. Even if the Akari kill the Liirians inside the keep, there will be many left outside.” She looked at Lukien helplessly. “They’ll find the village, Lukien. They’ll kill my children.”
For the first time since he’d known her, Minikin looked truly afraid. Lukien bit his lip, trying to think of a way out of their dismal predicament. He knew Minikin was right—if the Liirians defeated them, they would storm the keep on foot, but others would remain behind, enough to discover the village and pillage it. And if the Inhumans remained in Grimhold, they would die in the Akari fire. It seemed horribly cruel to Lukien, but he had no reason to question the Akari. Grimhold had been their home for ages, and they had already lost it to foreigners once. As unthinkable as it was to kill the Inhumans, Lukien could almost understand their decision. That left only one option for them.
“Then we’ll have to defeat Trager,” he said. “There’s no other way.”
Minikin nodded. “And I will keep the Inhumans inside the keep. They’ll be safest there, I think.”
“Agreed. The fortress is their best chance for survival.”
It was their only chance for survival, and both Lukien and Minikin knew it. The Mistress of Grimhold put out her tiny hand and took Lukien by the fingers. She did not speak for a long moment. Rather she simply looked at him, sharing the moment. There was very little time left, and neither of them wanted to waste it.
“Minikin,” said Lukien gently, “don’t forget what you told me. The future is always in question. We have the power to change it.”
The little woman finally smiled her bright, enigmatic smile. “I know,” she said. “I just hope I don’t soon regret those words.”
“You won’t,” promised Lukien. “One way or the other, I’ll make sure the Inhumans are saved.”
Minikin frowned. “That’s a promise you can’t keep.”
“But I will,” Lukien insisted. He squeezed her hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“No,” urged Minikin. “Rest first. You’ve been traveling all night.”
“It doesn’t matter. Like you said, there’s no time to waste.”
He bent and gave her cheek an unexpected kiss, then walked off to join Baron Glass and their blossoming army.
58
General Will Trager sat alone in a dark corner of the cell, watching the handiwork of his subordinate, Sergeant Marrs. The room was dim save for the light of a single torch and the glowing embers of a brazier filled with coals. The cellars were deserted; Trager wanted no witnesses. He knew that men like Colonel Tark were loyal but squeamish sometimes, and torture had never really been part of the Royal Chargers, a unit founded on more lofty stuff. But these were dire days and called for extreme measures. And that was why Sergeant Marrs was here, doing what the gods had gifted him to do. Marrs was a man with no remorse and a heart as hard as iron. He had never flinched in battle nor mourned the death of a friend. To Trager’s knowledge, the sergeant had no friends. He was a loner but a good soldier, and today his particular dispassion was being put to good use.
Sergeant Marrs stood in the center of the cell. In his hand was a metal rod, its tip glowing red. There were three other such rods in the brazier, warming up for the dirty business at hand. Two long chains dangled down from the ceiling, with two stout manacles to hold their naked prisoner. His name was Benrian. And like all the servants in the palace, Benrian had claimed no knowledge of Grimhold. But Benrian was as close to Kadar as any servant had been. He had been the dead kahan’s body servant. And though Benrian still claimed otherwise, another of his fellow servants had not been so resilient under the whip. A woman named Dreana had broken quite easily after only a few lashes, exclaiming in her pain that Benrian had been to Grimhold before. It had taken days for Marrs to get to Dreana, systematically working his way through the palace servants and seeming to enjoy every moment. Trager himself had not bothered with the preliminaries. Like Tark, he didn’t really have the stomach for torture, and he had needed to rest his wounds. He was still very weak, and had to hold himself up with effort. The wounds the Inhuman had given him had laid him up for days, and it would be days more before he could ride against Grimhold. But they were near now to learning the keep’s location, and Trager wanted to hear the words himself.
Surprisingly for a body servant, Benrian was extremely resistant. It was well past dawn now, and Marrs had been working on him for an hour. He had started with the whip, turning Benrian’s dark skin into a coagulated mass of scars. When the whip had failed, he had turned to the pokers. The stink of brimstone filled the dank chamber as the coals in the brazier burned. The single torch made unusual shadows on the opposite wall. Benrian looked like some sort of twisted dancer, dangling in his chains as Marrs worked his naked body. Trager pitied the man. He had come to respect the Jadori in his brief time among them and didn’t like torturing them, particularly the women. It was not what he was raised to do, and he knew his father wouldn’t approve, though his father had beaten his mother as if it were meaningless, swearing it was his right as a husband. Trager had daydreamed about his mother while the woman Dreana was in the chains. Their cries had been so similar.
Sergeant Marrs replaced the poker he was holding with a fresher, hotter one from the brazier. He twisted it before Benrian’s eyes, which widened horribly at the sight of it. Marrs’ thick voice carried through the chamber as he spoke to his victim.
“I’m getting tired of you,” he whispered. Slowly he directed the glowing end of the rod toward Benrian’s left eye. Benrian let out a muffled cry through his thick gag, pleading for mercy. He shook his head wildly. Marrs smiled and pulled back a little. “No? You want to keep both your eyes? Then tell me what I want to know!”
Benrian began to sob, and Trager could
see the struggle within him. Unable to take it anymore he rose from his chair and went to the dangling man, shoving Marrs aside.
“Benrian, look at me,” he ordered.
The Jadori kept his eyes closed, sobbing. Trager roughly grabbed hold of his hair and jerked his head forward.
“Open your eyes!” he growled.
When Benrian looked his eyes were red and full of tears. Badly garbled words spewed from his gagged mouth, begging Trager to end his torture.
“You know what I want to know, and you know I’ll find it sooner or later,” said Trager. His head and ribs screamed with searing pain, but he hardly felt it in his rage. Like many in the palace, Benrian understood his tongue, though not well. “There’s no reason for you to endure this. You know where Grimhold is. Now tell me.”
Benrian stifled his sobs and shook his head.
“Tell me!”
Still Benrian said nothing.
Trager whirled on Marrs and snatched the poker from him. “Give me that,” he snapped, then turned back toward Benrian. Holding the Jadori’s head firmly in one hand and the poker in the other, he began carefully pointing the burning rod toward Benrian’s eye. The man screamed and slammed shut his lids. Trager singed the lashes. “Closing your eyes won’t help,” he warned. “This beauty will burn right through your head and come out the other side. You want that? You want to go bumbling around the desert like a blind chicken?”
Benrian choked on his own breath as he pleaded.
“Then tell me what I want to know,” said Trager. “Stop protecting those cursed freaks!”
“Just do it, General,” urged Marrs. “He’ll break once you do, I’m sure.”
But Trager didn’t want to do it. So much of his humanity had already been stripped away. “Don’t bloody make me, you black-skinned bastard,” he hissed. His hand was shaking, and so was Benrian. “Speak! You saw what I did to those warriors of yours!”
Finally Benrian screamed, breaking into a chorus of sobs and wildly nodding his head. Trager lowered the poker and stepped back. A wave of relief washed over him. He reached out and yanked down the gag from Benrian’s mouth.
“I take you,” sobbed the man. He tossed his head and stared at the mildewed ceiling, weeping. “I know Grimhold.”
Satisfied, Trager plunged the poker back into the brazier, sending up a shower of sparks. “Release him,” he told Marrs. “Get some clothes on him and let him rest. If he’s hungry give him food.”
Marrs gave a gruff, “Yes, sir,” as Trager left the cell. Eager to be gone from the stinking cellars Trager went at once to the slimy stone stairway and made his way back up to the livable regions of the palace. He was breathing hard and wanted desperately to return to his bed and rest. Worse, the tortures had taken a toll on him, and the way his men viewed him They were following him now because Akeela was gone—probably dead—and they wanted to avenge themselves on Lukien, but Trager knew he could easily misstep. He had to be cautious, he knew, and not break the fragile hold he had over his men.
Up in the palace, he went in search of Colonel Tark. Before he could rest he had to tell the colonel the news. After making inquiries among his soldiers, he found Tark out in the garden, sitting around a stone table with his lieutenants. The men rose to attention as Trager limped into their midst.
“At ease,” said Trager. “Sit.”
The officers took their seats again as Trager stood before them. Colonel Tark looked tired and disheartened.
“Cheer up, Tark,” said Trager. “We’ve found our way to Grimhold.”
All the men but Tark cheered. Trager noticed his aide’s ill-humor but ignored it. Instead he told them all to make ready, they would be leaving for Grimhold within days. The news heartened the lieutenants, who promised to have their troops ready to move on his orders.
“As soon as I’ve recovered,” he told them. It embarrassed him to admit it, but he was hardly ready to face the Inhumans yet. “What about you, Tark?” asked Trager. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready for days, sir,” replied the gray-haired colonel. “The question is how are you? You don’t look well.”
“I’ll be ready to ride, don’t worry about that. I just need a few more days. That should give you enough time to get that sour look off your face.” Trager said to his lieutenants, “You men have work to do now. Get to it.”
There were salutes as the officers dispersed. Colonel Tark leaned back in his chair and stared out toward the mountains. “So, you’ve found the way to Grimhold?” he asked.
“I have.” Trager took one of the vacated chairs, grateful to be sitting again. The wound at his forehead threatened to crack his skull. He rubbed it as he asked Tark, “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not all the men know how you’ve been coming by your information, sir. I’m not sure they’d approve.”
“I see,” said Trager. “And you don’t approve, is that right?”
Tark was characteristically frank. It was one of the things Trager had always liked about his aide. “I didn’t mind killing warriors. They were soldiers, like us. They were well prepared to die. But these people in the palace are servants. They’re civilians, General. And we’re Royal Chargers, after all.”
“Colonel, I do what I must.”
Tark shrugged. “Some of them think you go too far. Some of them say you dishonor yourself, and the Chargers. They say the Bronze Knight would never torture people.”
The statement stunned Trager. “They say that? How dare they speak that brigand’s name? This is war! And I’ll do whatever it takes to win.”
Tark grinned. “Is this a war, General? Or just a vendetta?”
“Both,” declared Trager. “And it’s not just my vendetta, Tark, so stop looking at me that way. Lukien murdered the king. He dragged Akeela’s body off for some sick ceremony. He’s become one of those damned Grimhold freaks. He must be punished for that.”
The old colonel nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “You’re right about that, certainly.”
“But?” pressed Trager. “Go on, Tark, speak freely.”
Colonel Tark looked at Trager, his expression gloomy. “You’re a fine soldier, General, and a good leader. The men will follow you anywhere, as long as you don’t cross any lines.”
“What lines?”
“The same lines King Akeela crossed, sir. We follow you because you’re stable, because we know we can count on you. Have you not always had our loyalty?”
Trager nodded, seeing what his aide was getting at. “I have,” he said. “And I’ve been grateful for it. But Lukien maddens me, you see?”
Tark smiled. “Just don’t go over the edge,” he said. “If you remain the man who rebuilt the Chargers, we’ll follow you anywhere.” He leaned forward. “Anywhere, General. Even to the throne of Liiria.”
Excitement pulsed through Trager suddenly. He did his best to control it. “You’re a good man, Tark,” he said. “You give good advice. Now let’s get our army together, eh? We’ve got a war to win.”
Four days later, Trager rode out of Jador at the head of his twelve hundred strong army. Beside him at his right rode Colonel Tark. To his left was Sergeant Marrs, leading a pack mule carrying the still dazed and battered Benrian. The former servant of Kahan Kadar wore a white gaka to stave off the sun and to hide the embarrassing bruises on his face and arms. He did not speak, and probably would not until they neared the distant mountains. He had only told Trager to point his army westward. There, hidden in the high rocks, they would find Grimhold. Trager felt wonderfully good this morning. His ribs still twinged but that was nothing; he was finally, at last, going to face Lukien. Buoyed by his conversation with Colonel Tark, he kept himself erect in his saddle so that all the men could see him. He did not wear his silver armor, nor did any of his men. The wretched heat of the desert would have roasted them, so they carried their armor and heavy weapons with a train of pack animals. The sun was already hot, bearing down on his army as it made its way across th
e desert sands. Most were glad to be leaving Jador behind. Subjugating the city had been unpleasant business. And because they were soldiers and eager to avenge their king, they voiced no complaints about the heat or the long ride ahead. It was only two days, after all. They would endure it. On kreels it would have been quicker, Trager knew, but he was in no great hurry any longer. There was nowhere for Lukien to hide.
Grimhold will be his final hiding place, he told himself as he rode. The city fell away behind him.
They rode through the day, breaking often. At midday Trager went to Benrian, offering him a drink. The Jadori was shocked by the small kindness, but took the drink gratefully. Trager watched him as he drank, sizing up his loyalty.
“Do well and we won’t harm you further,” he told the man. “Just take me to Grimhold. Then I will release you with a horse and enough water to return to Jador.”
Benrian handed him back the waterskin and nervously licked his lips. “I will do as you ask,” he promised. The terror in his eyes was plain. Satisfied, Trager left him and ordered his men back onto their horses.
They rode through the afternoon, until finally the mountains seemed to grow closer. Benrian told Trager that they were more than halfway to Grimhold. Trager told Tark that they would go on a few hours more, hoping to get close enough to Grimhold to be able to reach it early the next morning. After more riding and resting, the sun finally began to dip. Exhausted and still smarting from his wounds, Trager ordered the companies to stop for the night. Sergeant Marrs drove a tent stake into the ground and tied Benrian to it, a precaution Trager thought unnecessary given the rugged terrain and the possibility of attack by one of the desert’s giant serpents. But he let the sergeant do as he thought best, then rode through his men, directing them as they made camp.
The night was blessedly quiet. Because they had no tents with them, they laid their bedrolls onto the warm sand and slept looking up at the stars. The aroma of cooking fires reached Trager as he rested, reminding him how hungry he was. Once his wound had healed his appetite had returned with a vengeance, so he ate heartily before going to sleep. Guards milled nearby as he blanketed himself in his bed-roll. When he closed his eyes, sleep came quickly, and with dreams. He dreamed about the amulets and the power they would give him, and about a glorious return to Koth with an army behind him and no one to oppose him. And he thought of his father, too, and how proud the old man might have been. And how shocked. Even as he slept, Trager smiled.
