It tore at his heart, to be sure, for he understood the allure and insistence of young love. He decided to give her this one night, without question and without judgment.
*****
Meralda walked through the dark in fear. Not of any monsters that might leap out at her-no, this was her home and the young woman had never been afraid of such things-but of the reaction of her parents, particularly her father, if they discovered her missing.
Soon enough, though, the woman left her house behind and fell into the allure of the sparkling starry sky. She came to a field and began spinning and dancing, enjoying the touch of the wet grass on her bare feet, feeling as if she were stretching up to the heavens above to join with those magical points of light. She sang softly to herself, a quiet tune that sounded spiritual and surely fit her feelings out here, alone, at peace, and as one with the stars.
She hardly thought of Lord Feringal, of her parents, of her responsibility, even of her beloved Jaka. She wasn't thinking at all, was just existing in the glory of the night and the dance.
"Why are you here?" came a question from behind her, Jaka's lisping voice.
The magic vanished, and Meralda slowly turned around to face the young man. He stood, hands in pockets, head down, curly brown hair flopping over his brow so that she couldn't even see his eyes. Suddenly another fear gripped the young woman, the fear of what she anticipated would happen this night with this man.
"Did Lord Feringal let you out?" Jaka asked sarcastically.
"I'm no puppet of his," Meralda replied.
"Are you not to be his wife?" Jaka demanded. He looked up and stared hard at the woman, taking some satisfaction in the moisture that glistened in her eyes. "That's what the villagers are saying," he went on, then he changed his voice. "Meralda Ganderlay," he cackled, sounding like an old gnome woman.
"Oh, but what a lucky one, she is! To think that Lord Feringal himself'd come a-calling for her."
"Stop it," Meralda begged softly.
Jaka only went on more forcefully, his voice shifting timbre. "And what's he thinking, that fool, Feringal?" he said, now in the gruff tones of a village man. "He'll bring disgrace to us all, marrying so low as that. And what, with a hunnerd pretty and rich merchant girls begging for his hand. Ah, the fool!"
Meralda turned away and suddenly felt more silly than beautiful in her green gown. She also felt a hand on her shoulder, and Jaka was there, behind her.
"You have to know," he said softly. "Half of them think Lord Feringal a fool, and the other half are too blind by the false hopes of it all, like they're reliving their own courtships through you, wishing that their own miserable lives could be more like yours."
"What're you thinking?" Meralda said firmly, turning about to face the man, and starting as she did to see more clearly the bruises on his face, his fat lip and closed eye. She composed herself at once, though, understanding well enough where Jaka had found that beating.
"I think that Lord Feringal believes himself to be above you," Jaka answered bluntly.
"And so he is."
"No!" The retort came out sharply, making Meralda jump back in surprise. "No, he is not your better," Jaka went on quietly, and he lifted his hand to gently stroke Meralda's wet cheek. "Rather, you are too good for him, but he will not view things that way. Nay, he will use you at his whim, then cast you aside."
Meralda wanted to argue, but she wasn't sure the young man was wrong. It didn't matter, though, for whatever Lord Feringal had in mind for her, the things he could do for her family remained paramount.
"Why did you come out here?" Jaka asked again, and it seemed to Meralda as if he only then noticed her gown, for he ran the material of one puffy sleeve through his thumb and index finger, feeling its quality.
"I came out for a night for Meralda," the young woman explained. "For a night when my desires would outweigh me responsibility. One night. ."
She stopped when Jaka put a finger over her lips, holding it there for a long while. "Desires?" he asked slyly. "And do you include me among them? Did you come out here, all finely dressed, just to see me?"
Meralda nodded slowly and before she had even finished, Jaka was against her, pressing his lips to hers, kissing her hungrily, passionately. She felt as if she were floating, and then she realized that Jaka was guiding her down to the soft grass, holding the kiss all the way. His hands continued to move about her, and she didn't stop them, didn't even stiffen when they brushed her in private places. No, this was her night, the night she would become a woman with the man of her choosing, the man of her desires and not her responsibilities.
Jaka reached down and pulled the gown halfway up her legs and wasted no time in putting his own legs between hers.
"Slower, please," Meralda said softly, taking his face in both her hands and holding him very close to her, so that he had to look in her eyes. "I want it to be perfect," she explained.
"Meralda," the young man breathed, seeming desperate. "I cannot wait another minute."
"You don't have to," the young woman assured him, and she pulled him close and kissed him gently.
Soon after, the pair lay side by side, naked on the wet grass, the chill ocean air tickling their bodies as they stared up at the starry canopy. Meralda felt different, giddy and lightheaded almost, and somehow spiritual, as if she had just gone through something magical, some rite of passage. A thousand thoughts swirled in her mind. How could she go back to Lord Feringal after this wondrous lovemaking with Jaka? How could she turn her back on these feelings of pure joy and warmth? She felt wonderful at that moment, and she wanted the moment to last and last for the rest of her life. The rest of her life with Jaka.
But it would not, the woman knew. It would be gone with the break of dawn, never to return. She'd had her one moment. A lump caught in her throat.
For Jaka Sculi, the moment was a bit different, though certainly no less satisfying. He had taken Meralda's virginity, had beaten the lord of Auckney himself to that special place. He, a lowly peasant in Lord Feringal's eyes, had taken something from Feringal that could never be replaced, something more valuable than all the gold and gems in Castle Auck.
Jaka liked that feeling, but he feared, as did Meralda, that this afterglow would not last. "Will you marry him?" he asked suddenly.
Beautiful in the moonlight, Meralda turned a sleepy eye his way. "Let's not be talking about such things tonight," the woman implored him. "Nothing about Lord Feringal or anyone else."
"I must know, Meralda," Jaka said firmly, sitting up to stare down at her. "Tell me."
Meralda gave the young man the most plaintive look he had ever seen. "He can do for my ma and da," she tried to explain. "You must understand that the choice is not mine to make," an increasingly desperate Meralda finished lamely.
"Understand?" Jaka echoed incredulously, leaping to his feet and walking away. "Understand! How can I after what we just did? Oh, why did you come to me if you planned to marry Lord Feringal?"
Meralda caught up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "I came out for one night where I might choose," she explained. "I came out because I love you and wish with all my heart that things could be different."
"We had just one brief moment," Jaka whined, turning back to face her.
Meralda came up on her tiptoes and kissed him gently. "We've more time," she explained, an offer Jaka couldn't resist. A short while later, Jaka was lying on the grass again, while Meralda stood beside him, pulling on her clothes.
"Deny him," Jaka said unexpectedly, and the young woman stopped and stared down at him. "Deny Lord Feringal," Jaka said again, as casually as if it were the most simple decision. "Forget him and run away with me. To Luskan, or even all the way to Waterdeep."
Meralda sighed and shook her head. "I'm begging you not to ask it of me," she started to say, but Jaka would not relent.
"Think of the life we might find together," he said. "Running through the streets of Waterdeep, magical Waterdeep! Running and laughin
g and making love. Raising a family together-how beautiful our children shall be."
"Stop it!" Meralda snapped so forcefully that she stole the words from Jaka's mouth. "You know I want to, and you also know I can't." Meralda sighed again profoundly. It was the toughest thing she had ever done in her entire life, but she bent to kiss Jaka's angry mouth one last time, then started toward home.
Jaka lay on the field for a long while, his mind racing. He had achieved his conquest, and it had been as sweet as he had expected. Still, it would not hold. Lord Feringal would marry Meralda, would beat him in the end. The thought of it made him sick. He stared up at the moon, now shaded behind lines of swift-moving clouds. "Fie this life," he grumbled.
There had to be something he could do to beat Lord Feringal, something to pull Meralda back to him.
A confident smile spread over Jaka's undeniably handsome face. He remembered the sounds Meralda had made, the way her body had moved in harmony with his own.
He wouldn't lose.
Chapter 11 ALL HANDS JOINED
"You will tell me of the poison," said Prelate Vohltin, an associate of Camerbunne. He was sitting in a comfortable chair in the middle of the brutally hot room, his frame outlined by the glow of the huge, blazing hearth behind him.
"Never good," Morik replied, drawing another twist of the thumbscrew from the bulky, sadistic, one-eyed (and he didn't even bother to wear an eyepatch) gaoler. This one had more orcish blood than human. "Poison, I mean," the rogue clarified, his voice going tight as waves of agony shot up his arm.
"It was not the same as the poison in the vial," Vohltin explained, and he nodded to the gaoler, who walked around the back of Morik. The rogue tried to follow the half-orc's movements, but both his arms were pulled outright, shackled tight at the wrists. One hand was in a press, the other in a framework box of strange design, its panels holding the hand open, fingers extended so that the gaoler could «play» with them one at a time.
The prelate shrugged, held his hands up, and when Morik didn't immediately reply a cat-o'-nine-tails switched across the rogue's naked back, leaving deep lines that hurt all the more for the sweat.
"You had the poison," Vohltin logically asserted, "and the insidious weapons, but it was not the same poison in the vial we recovered. A clever ruse, I suspect, to throw us off the correct path in trying to heal Captain Deudermont's wounds."
"A ruse indeed," Morik said dryly. The gaoler hit him again with the whip and raised his arm for a third strike. However, Vohltin raised his arm to hold the brutal thug at bay.
"You admit it?" Vohltin asked.
"All of it," Morik replied. "A ruse perpetrated by someone else, delivering to me and Wulfgar what you consider the evidence against us, then striking out at Deudermont when he came over to speak-"
"Enough!" said an obviously frustrated Vohltin, for he and all of the other interrogators had heard the same nonsense over and over from both Morik and Wulfgar. The prelate rose and turned to leave, shaking his head. Morik knew what that meant.
"I can tell you other things," the rogue pleaded, but Vohltin just lifted his arm and waved his hand dismissively.
Morik started to speak out again, but he lost his words and his breath as the gaoler slugged him hard in the kidney. Morik yelped and jumped, which only made the pain in his hand and thumb all the more exquisite. Still, despite all self-control, he jumped again when the gaoler struck him another blow, for the thug was wearing a metal strip across his knuckles, inlaid with several small pins.
Morik thought of his drow visitors that night long ago in the small apartment he kept near the Cutlass. Did they know what was happening? Would they come and rescue Wulfgar, and if they did, would they rescue Morik as well? He had almost told Wulfgar about them in those first hours when they had been chained in the same room, hesitating only because he feared that Wulfgar, so obviously lost in agonizing memories, wouldn't even hear him and that somebody else might.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if the magistrates could pin on him, as well a charge that he was an associate of dark elves? Not that it mattered. Another punch slammed in, then the gaoler wont for the whip again to cut a few new lines on his back.
If those drow didn't come, his fate, Morik knew, was sealed in a most painful way.
*****
Robillard had only been gone for a few minutes, but when he returned to Deudermont's room he found half a dozen priests working furiously on the captain. Camerbunne stood back, directing the group.
"He is on fire inside," the priest explained, and even from this distance Robillard could see the truth of that statement from the color of the feverish Deudermont and the great streaks of sweat that trailed down his face. Robillard noticed, too, that the room was growing colder, and he realized that a pair of the six working on Deudermont were casting spells, not to heal, but to create cold.
"I have spells that will do the same," Robillard offered. "Powerful spells on scrolls back at Sea Sprite. Perhaps my captain would be better served if your priests were able to focus on healing."
"Run," Camerbunne said, and Robillard did him one better, using a series of dimensional doors to get back to Sea Sprite in a matter of moments. The wizard fished through his many components and scroll tubes, magical items and finely crafted pieces he meant to enchant when he found the time, at last coming upon a scroll with a trio of spells for creating ice, along with the necessary components. Cursing himself for not being better prepared and vowing that he would devote all his magical energies the next day to memorizing such spells, Robillard gated back to the chamber in the chapel. The priests were still working frenetically, and the old herb woman was there as well, rubbing a creamy, white salve all over Deudermont's wet chest.
Robillard prepared the components-a vial of ice troll blood, a bit of fur from the great white bear-and unrolled the scroll, flattening it on a small table. He tore his gaze from the dying Deudermont, focusing on the task at hand, and with the discipline only a wizard might know he methodically went to work, chanting softly and waggling his fingers and hands. He poured the cold ice troll blood on his thumb and index finger, then clasped the fur between them and blew onto it, once, twice, thrice, then cast the fur to the floor along a bare wall at the side of the room. A tap-tapping began there, hail bouncing off the floor, louder as the chunks came larger and larger, until, within a matter of seconds, Captain Deudermont was laid upon a new bed, a block of ice.
"This is the critical hour," Camerbunne explained. "His fever is too great, and I fear he may die of it. Blood as thin as water pours from his orifices. I have more priests waiting to step in when this group has exhausted their healing spells, and I have sent several to other chapels, even of rival gods, begging aid." Camerbunne smiled at the wizard's surprised expression. "They will come," he assured Robillard. "All of them."
Robillard was not a religious man, mainly because in his days of trying to find a god that fit his heart, he found himself distressed at the constant bickering and rivalries of the many varied churches. So he understood the compliment Camerbunne had just paid to the captain. What a great reputation Deudermont had built among the honest folk of the northern Sword Coast that all would put aside rivalries and animosity to join in for his sake.
They did come as Camerbunne promised, priests of nearly every persuasion in Luskan, flocking in six at a time to expend their healing energies over the battered captain.
Deudermont's fever broke around midnight. He opened a weary eye to find Robillard asleep next to him. The wizard's head was cradled on his folded arms on the captain's small bed, next to Deudermont's side.
"How many days?" the weak captain asked, for he recognized that something was very wrong here, very strange, as if he had just awakened from a long and terrible nightmare. Also, though he was wrapped in a sheet, he knew that he was on no normal bed, for it was too hard and his backside was wet.
Robillard jumped up at the sound, eyes wide. He put his hand to Deudermont's forehead, and his smile widened co
nsiderably when he felt that the man was cool to the touch.
"Camerbunne!" he called, drawing a curious look from the confused captain.
It was the most beautiful sight Robillard had ever seen.
*****
"Three circuits," came the nasally voice of Jharkheld the Magistrate, a thin old wretch who took far too much pleasure in his tasks for Morik's liking.
Every day the man walked through the dungeon caverns, pointing out those whose time had come for Prisoner's Carnival and declaring, based on the severity of their crime, or, perhaps, merely from his own mood, the preparation period for each. A "circuit," according to the gaoler who regularly beat Morik, was the time it took for a slow walk around the plaza where the Prisoner's Carnival was held, roughly about ten minutes. So the man Jharkheld had just labeled for three circuits would be brought up to carnival and tortured by various nonmortal means for about half an hour before Jharkheld even began the public hearing. It was done to rouse the crowd, Morik understood, and the old wretch Jharkheld liked the hearty cheers.
"So you have come to beat me again," Morik said when the brutish gaoler walked into the natural stone chamber where the rogue was chained to the wall. "Have you brought the holy man with you? Or the magistrate, perhaps? Is he to join us to order me up to the carnival?"
"No beatin' today, Morik the Rogue," the gaoler said. "They're not wantin' anything more from ye. Captain Deudermont's not needin' ye anymore."
"He died?" Morik asked, and he couldn't mask a bit of concern in his tone. If Deudermont had died, the charge against Wulfgar and Morik would be heinous murder, and Morik had been around Luskan long enough to witness more than a few executions of people so charged, executions by torture that lasted the better part of a day, at least.
"Nah," the gaoler said with obvious sadness in his tone. "Nah, we're not so lucky. Deudermont's livin' and all the better, so it looks like yerself and Wulfgar'll get killed quick and easy."
The Spine of the World pod-2 Page 15
