Elyas felt happy, perfectly content with the life he’d once yearned to leave behind for some foolish reason. His parents were still alive, his cousin was safe, and Elyas was filled with a young man’s hopes and dreams. He knew nothing of war or suffering or slavery—all terrible nightmares he’d experienced.
He shut the barn door and jogged toward the house, eager to quench his thirst with a glass of refreshing cider and fill his belly with his mother’s delicious pheasant stew.
Then Elyas heard the distant voices—indistinct, yet he was sure they were calling him. He resisted their lure, not wanting to leave his happy life.
But the voices grew more insistent. “Elyas!”
A feeling nagged at him, the thought that he had left something unfinished, some important task. He stopped and cocked his head to listen.
The voices, two of them, were discussing his condition. He felt a flicker of recognition but couldn’t quite place them. He frowned, listening intently and trying to make out what they were saying.
“His pulse is weak but stable,” the first person was saying. “Fortunately, the man is as healthy as a bull. I think the flesh may survive, yet that depends on whether his spirit has the desire to return to this misery that is his life. Such matters of the spirit, I cannot speculate on.” The voice sounded sorrowful, yet it was one Elyas was inclined to trust, that of a compassionate soul.
Then the second person spoke. “Elyas, I have need of you. Return to me.” This voice was gentle, yet it was that of a person unaccustomed to any type of tenderness—that he somehow knew without a doubt. Yet it was strangely compelling.
He frowned, confused as to who could be summoning him, but someone was in need of him, a person whom he had strong yet conflicted feelings about.
I am needed. It can’t hurt to set this pleasant reverie aside for a brief time, can it?
Reluctantly, he allowed the voices to draw him in like a rope thrown from a ship to a man overboard. The lovely afternoon blurred and faded, his home and family gone, evanesced to a dream.
Elyas surfaced into pained wakefulness. He fought through a disorienting haze of pain and confusion, opening eyes crusted shut to the familiar sight of rough-hewn wooden rafters overhead. The smells of herbs and salves and medicinal concoctions were pungent, but underlying those scents was the coppery tang of blood. The room seemed hazy, surreal, and he realized he must have been dosed with a powerful potion, likely containing poppy milk.
The infirmary. What is this? Oh gods, was this not all a bad dream?
“Ah, there you are.”
He blinked at the smiling face that leaned over him, recognition taking him a moment. A woman of middle years, comely, with brown hair and eyes and a kindly face, gazed down at him.
“He’s awake? You’ve done well, Edara.”
Edara’s smile faltered, and she drew away, her gaze flinching away from his, a sorrowful or perhaps even ashamed expression creeping in. Her face was replaced with another, also familiar.
Elyas flinched at seeing the cruel yet beautiful countenance. This woman had ashen hair and striking pale gray eyes, although those orbs were but a glamour, he knew.
“Welcome back, my champion.” Nesnys smiled. “We have much work yet to do.” She ran her fingers along his cheek almost tenderly, causing him to shudder.
The afterglow of the dream barely lingering at the fringe of his thoughts dissolved into nothingness, plunging him back fully into this nightmarish reality.
“Why didn’t you let me die?” he croaked, throat feeling as if it had been scoured with rough sand. “Why, damn you?”
Edara held a cup of water to his lips, her expression pained. “Drink slowly, Elyas.”
Elyas thought to push her away angrily, but he had no strength. And he thirsted like a man dying in the desert. He allowed her to help raise his head and trickle some water between his cracked lips.
“Why not let you die?” Nesnys considered his question. “I do not take kindly to others sabotaging my plans. Your fight was subverted because of your injuries, which Edara here told me of in detail. That matter shall be rectified shortly.” She tucked a loose strand of pale hair behind her ear in a strangely human gesture. Her fingers slid across his bare chest, nails scratching lightly at his skin. “I happen to know that the finest of weapons must spend the longest being tempered in the fires of the forge. I mean to see what emerges from the flames. Will the steel become much stronger, forged into a fine weapon, or will it be flawed and brittle, only to break once wielded? That we shall determine.” She smiled and patted his cheek with what might have been taken as fondness in anyone else.
Even through the fog of the poppy milk, one thought struck Elyas above all others. Anhur must truly be displeased with me. I fought as best I could, but it wasn’t enough. I’m cursed to never be free of this fiend, even in death.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his fate. Instead, he closed his eyes and fell back unconscious, the bitter toll too much for him to withstand so soon after returning from the threshold of death.
***
When Elyas reported to the training yard at first bell, he saw the cause for the tormented screams during the past night. Sometime after midnight, a man had begun screaming and hadn’t let up until nearly dawn. The agonized cries had reverberated through the barracks, chasing sleep away for the duration. Elyas wasn’t able to bring himself to care enough to investigate the source of such woe, although he heard others moving about the barracks in the night to do so, concerned voices conversing in whispers.
Now, in the breaking light of day, the sight of the tormented man brought Elyas a certain grim satisfaction.
Caul the Crusher, champion of House Pasikos, had been chained naked to the wall of the training yard. His flesh was a tormented canvas of dried blood, livid bruises, and a host of ragged cuts. He had been beaten and flayed severely, his body swollen with contusions and striped with bloody whip strikes. His tongue had been torn out and his hands and feet crushed, possibly with hammers or heavy stones. On top of all the other punishment the man had endured, he’d also been gelded. A prodigious amount of blood had streamed down his legs and soaked into the dirt beneath his mangled feet. The gladiator must have finally bled out at some point during the waning hours of night, Elyas guessed.
The other men, gladiators and guards alike, made warding signs against evil, and Elyas heard the word “warlord” on more than one tongue. He honestly didn’t know how he should feel at the thought that Nesnys had avenged his shameful loss in the arena by going after the man most responsible for his injuries. Pleased? Disgusted? Angered or shamed that she fought his battles for him? Perhaps all and none. He surely wouldn’t be fighting any of his own battles worth a damn anymore. Under better circumstances, he might have felt amusement at the irony, for ultimately Nesnys herself had set the chain of events in motion by demanding the prime match be reassigned to Elyas.
I’ve got my own avenging demon, it would seem.
His missing arm was somehow afire despite the fact he had lost it five days prior—hewn from his body by the Sledge’s massive greataxe. At times, the nonexistent limb hurt like the Abyss, a phantom pain that kept him awake at night. Other times, he felt nothing at all, other than the curious awkwardness as his body was forced to try to acclimate itself to its uneven balance, caused by missing a sizable bit of its mass.
The morning run was less onerous than the rest of the training, and Elyas contented himself with falling in with the others as they passed Caul’s broken form and exited the gate. His body shuffled along with an awkward gait, left arm swinging with his natural motion, the right a dull ache of loss. Shoat must have pitied him, for he didn’t even bother to shackle him to the others anymore.
The rest of the daily routine, which he had previously come to—if not quite enjoy—at least take comfort in the monotony and pleasant exertions of training his body, had instead become something he dreaded. Every minor task now was much more difficult. And wieldi
ng a weapon in his left hand was fruitless. He’d grown somewhat proficient at fighting with a dagger in his off hand as a secondary weapon. But he’d never been dextrous enough, like his friend Harlan, to pull it off very well. With no choice but to use his left hand to wield his sole weapon—a longer, heavier sword—well, that was naught but another harsh reminder of what he’d lost.
Thump. Thump. He smacked the training blade awkwardly against the stuffed dummy like some green worm. The other men’s pitying looks only added to his bleak mood.
He constantly wondered why he was even alive and still housed in the barracks among the warriors. Other gladiators before his time, if disfigured too badly to continue fighting, were usually sent to work in the fields with the other slaves or assigned other duties. Those who were untrustworthy simply disappeared in the night, likely put down like rabid dogs. Elyas suspected he fell into the latter category, yet he saw no signs that he would receive such a fate despite his wishes to have such an existence ended.
So why am I still alive? Nesnys means to temper me in the forge, whatever that means. More of her damn games, no doubt, since as a cripple I’m useless to her plans of conquest.
He couldn’t even muster up hatred or spite for her any longer. Those were the thoughts of a man who still had a future—a reason to keep fighting. Elyas was no longer such a man. The toll of loss had been too heavy, and finally he had succumbed to despair after being pushed well past his breaking point.
His tormented dreams had been strange of late, and he felt a certain longing to see Nesnys again. She was the only one who seemed real anymore, not like others who were merely phantoms belonging in the past to the man he had been, a man who had died in the arena.
Mayhap I can convince her to strike me down in anger next time I see her. Yet that desire was a false one, for it wasn’t the reason he wished to see her, though he still resisted admitting it to himself.
He sighed and tried to focus on swinging the training blade confidently, with the smooth, natural stroke that had been second nature to him. The blade missed the padded part of the dummy by an inch, striking the solid post hard and sending a reverberation through the hilt and up his arm. The sword slipped from his clumsy grasp and tumbled to the dirt.
Elyas cursed and retrieved his sword. He tried to summon to mind the peaceful and comforting dream that had felt so real just before he had been revived in the infirmary.
It would have been better had I never answered that call and come back to this horror.
Chapter 3
Ferret, Taren, and Mira arrived back in Llantry on a brisk early winter day. Flurries of snow swirled in a cutting wind. Few people ventured out on the streets even though it was only afternoon, judging by the position of the cloud-shrouded sun. The mood in the city seemed even grimmer than on their previous visit, although the weather could have played a role.
Ferret stalked through the streets unbothered by the weather, even though her friends were bundled up in their cloaks, Taren especially. She trailed a couple of steps behind Taren and Mira, the pair pausing on occasion to check street signs and once even asking Ferret if she recalled the directions, which she did. She had always had a knack for remembering the path she had taken—a big help while exploring the foreign city of Nexus over the past month.
As they walked, her thoughts were mostly fixated anxiously on the path awaiting her. The knowledge that a cure to her condition might be found at the mysterious Shirak Research Station, another facility created by the Order of Artificers, filled her with excitement, even though the unfeeling metal shell she inhabited ticked and clanked its way along, unfeeling as ever.
Between the three of them, they were able to locate the Giantslayers Inn after taking only one wrong turn, and that was before her friends had bothered consulting her. Walking into the warm, inviting inn felt almost like returning home. Even though Ferret couldn’t feel the warmth or smell the roasting food, she had a capable imagination and could envision it all very well. The hearth was blazing, and people filled the common room, looking happy while partaking enthusiastically of their food and drink. At a nearby table, a plate stacked high with slabs of roasted turkey and potatoes drizzled in gravy looked delicious enough to make her drool, if such a thing were possible.
Mayhap I could drool some oil, she thought sarcastically.
The dwarf maid Tilda spotted them as they congregated just inside the door, stomping the snow off their boots and unfastening cloaks. Ferret liked Tilda and thought they might’ve become friends in another life—one in which she was still a real person.
“Welcome back,” Tilda said with a smile. She waved for them to take a seat in the curtained-off booth they had sat in on their prior visit. “Me da’s out right now to the butcher’s shop, but he’ll fill ye in on the news when he returns in a short while. In the meantime, can I get ye some food and drink?”
Taren and Mira ordered mulled wine and tea respectively but no food, since they had just eaten a short time ago. Ferret shook her head at Tilda’s inquiring glance, and the dwarf reached out and patted her arm sympathetically. A short time later, Tilda returned with the drinks.
“Creel and Queen Sianna never made it to Carran, did they?” Taren asked in a low voice.
Tilda looked distressed. “Nay. Well, Creel’s gone to Carran now, but there was treachery when they went to the castle. The queen was kidnapped, and Creel barely escaped the dungeon with me da’s and Rada’s aid. He’d best tell ye what’s happened when he returns.”
The three of them sat there in thoughtful silence, for Taren had known of Sianna’s capture already, a dream from the goddess Sabyl the source of his information, of all things. Ferret would have laughed if someone told her a month earlier that Sabyl was Taren’s grandmother, but she believed it now after having spent the past month in his mother Nera’s company, she who was the Lady of Twilight, the ruler of Nexus.
“What do we do now?” Mira asked after a long moment.
“Find Dak,” Ferret said.
“Rescue Sianna,” Taren added.
Brom Stormbrew returned a few minutes later. Ferret could hear him in the kitchen complaining to his wife about the increase in the price of meat from the week prior. Tilda brought drink refills, and Brom joined them shortly after. The dwarf greeted them then pulled the curtain shut and sat beside Ferret with a tumbler of his precious spirits in hand. He related the story of Mayor Calcote’s betrayal and Sianna being spirited away in the night. He and Rada had sprung Creel from the dungeon although Rada tragically lost her life during the fierce fighting to escape. The dwarf was clearly saddened by her death. Ferret squeezed his thick, gnarled hand sympathetically, struck by his emotion, and he gave her a sad smile in return. She couldn’t help but wonder how Creel was taking the woman’s loss.
“Creel took the younguns and went to Carran to hold a conclave with me people and the elves, as the queen directed them,” Brom said. “Reckon he’ll try to raise some support to free the lass soon as he can. Problem is, there’s no tellin’ where those bastards took her. Nebara, most likely.”
Taren pulled out a smooth, flat stone from a pocket and held it in the palm of his hand. One edge of it glowed a very faint orange. “She’s somewhere west of here, but quite a distance away,” he said. “Not Nebara, fortunately.”
Ferret perked up, studying the stone in his hand with interest, as was Brom. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“This is a locator stone, part of a set. I gave Sianna the other stone before we went our separate paths.”
“How very thoughtful of you to give her that.” She regarded Taren with interest for a long moment, not able to pass up the opportunity to rib him, but he kept an admirably straight face, pointedly ignoring her comment. That didn’t stop her from kicking his foot gently under the table, however. “Good thinking,” she admitted.
Taren flashed her a quick grin.
Brom grunted what might have been agreement. “West o’ here, eh? Well, that be a good sta
rt.” He frowned at the bottom of his tumbler, apparently not realizing he’d already drained it in a couple healthy gulps. “Are ye meanin’ to go to Carran and join up with Creel?”
Taren shook his head. “No. From what I’ve gathered, a rescue attempt already failed once, and if I was to wager, I’d say Creel would have been involved. We’ll try to find out where they are holding Sianna first and then decide what to do.” He looked at Mira then Ferret for confirmation.
Ferret nodded emphatically. If Creel needed her aid, she’d do anything she could to help—she certainly owed him that. She did like Sianna too, even if she gave Taren some grief over his obvious feelings for her. If a rescue attempt meant kicking some Nebaran arses, then her current form was perfectly well suited to do so.
“I’ll have Tilda prepare rooms,” Brom offered. “Ye’ll be stayin’ the night?”
Taren shook his head. “We’ve a few hours of daylight left yet, and the sooner we try to rescue our friends, the better. I’d wager Creel would do the same.”
“Aye. Anything I can do to help, lad, just let me know.”
“Thank you, Brom. You’ve done quite enough for now, I think. If you’ll direct us to a reputable stable, we’ll be off shortly.” He pulled out a coin purse.
Brom waved his gesture away. “Nay, me friends don’t need to pay for food and drink, especially when ye’re out there risking yer hides for the good o’ the kingdom. I’d recommend ye try Kerrol’s stable, a few blocks west o’ here. He’s an honest enough fella and keeps a good stock o’ horseflesh, according to Creel.” He gave them directions while they finished their drinks.
They clasped hands with the dwarf, thanking him for the news and hospitality, then ventured back out into the cold.
Chapter 4
Nesnys stood alone on her balcony in the Pasikos manor, drinking a goblet of wine and watching the stars come out. She wore only a silk robe hanging open in front, her customary armor left in her room a few steps away. Even her weapons were out of reach, not that she was ever truly without any weapons.
Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3) Page 2
