The Blackguard (Book 2)

by Cheryl Matthynssens

  “No one is in.” Flame shrugged and looked back at Alador.

  Alador peeked in the window as he spoke. “Isn’t that unusual for a merchant?”

  “A bit,” admitted Flame. He looked about them.

  Alador put his hand to the window, trying to see inside. “Things look broken up in there. We need to get in,” Alador said, more anxious now. He couldn’t see much, despite his frantic efforts.

  Flame shrugged. “Easy enough.” He turned and kicked the door hard a few times; it didn’t take long before it flew open. Both Flame and Alador pulled their swords, and Alador took the lead, stepping inside. There had clearly been a fight here – everything was in shambles, and it looked like the place had been thoroughly searched through. He made his way to the back rooms beyond the shop front, which were just as destroyed. In the dim light available through windows, Alador could see few things that hadn’t been turned over or out.

  “Looks like they were robbed.” Flame frowned. “I don’t see anyone anywhere…”

  Alador walked down the last hall and opened the door on the end. A man’s body lay on the floor, face down – Alador moved quickly to his side and turned him over. He was alive, but barely. It was amazing that the man had lived at all – his entrails were spilling out of the wound in his stomach.

  “Where’s Keelee?” Alador asked urgently. The older man groaned, and Alador slapped his face lightly, trying to bring him closer to consciousness. “Where is Keelee?” he asked again.

  The man wheezed out only one word, but it was a word that stilled Alador’s heart. “Trench…”

  “I would offer to run and fetch a healer…But he isn’t going to make it,” Flame pointed out softly.

  “I know,” Alador answered, sighing in defeat. “Get a pillow from the bed,” he ordered.

  Flame did as he was told, and Alador carefully laid the man’s head on the pillow, careful to move him as little as possible. He put a cover over the dying man and took his hand. “I promise you,” Alador swore, “I will find her.” His voice held cold determination, though it was gentle. The man on the floor looked at him and nodded, then breathed his last, rasping breath a moment later. The hand Alador clutched went limp.

  “Where are you going to look for her, Alador? The trenches are huge, and who knows what low-life swooped her up as a prize?” Flame looked down at him incredulously. “You’re in no shape to go traipsing about the trenches.”

  “We won’t have to traipse. I know where she is. You just need to show me where the Trench Lord lives,” Alador stated coldly as he struggled to his feet.

  “The Trench Lord? You plan to march on the king of thieves? And do what? Demand he finds her for you?” Flame’s sarcasm was not veiled. “You’ve gone mad. That wound must’ve gotten more than just your gut. And may I also point out that you are in no shape to do this?”

  “I plan to march in there and demand that he gives her back to me.” Alador pulled his hood up and headed for the door, his anger fueling energy back into his leaden limbs.

  “Woah, woah, Alador. You can’t just go in and demand anything from the Trench Lord. He’s…he’s like a king.” Flame scampered after Alador and grabbed hold of his arm.

  Alador wrenched free. “Show me his home, and then you can return to the caverns, Flame. I don’t expect anyone to come with me. This is between me and Aorun.” Alador’s voice was hard, and his eyes danced with anger as they met Flame’s.

  Flame stared at Alador for a long moment, then shook his head. “I ain’t missing this. If I live, it’ll be a story to buy me drinks for, well…” Flame paused considering, “ever.”

  Alador had already headed out at his first words, but Flame followed him out the door and into the rain. “If we live, Flame, I will buy those drinks forever,” Alador promised softly. He was tired of bullies. He was tired of men who didn’t play by rules that were fair. He was tired of those who preyed on the weak because they could, not because they needed to. Alador had heard once that even animals never killed for pleasure – that it was a mortal failing. Tonight, one man was going to get that pleasure. He just wasn’t sure which one.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Alador strode up the long staircase that rose to the Trench Lord’s hall, so angry that his exhaustion seemed like a memory. He looked around as he climbed the stairs, taking in the impressive walkway filled with statues carved in various acts of depravity and death. They were probably meant to cause trepidation in any who would dare to walk here, but Alador did not feel fear – not now. He was resigned to the fact that he would likely die here today; at least he would die honorably, in a way of his own choosing. His death would not be because of his uncle’s manipulations or at the hand of the Trench Lord’s henchmen. If they wanted him dead, one of them was going to have to do the deed himself. Alador had decided to make the rules.

  He stepped into the hall boldly and was met by a rather large oaf of a guardsman. “What do you want?” The man eyed Alador and Flame curiously.

  “I am here to see the Trench Lord,” Alador stated.

  “Yes, yes, leave your card and I will see that he gets it.” The man laughed softly. “Look. You don’t just come ask to see the Trench Lord. He calls you to see him.”

  “He will see me,” Alador insisted.

  “Oh, really? And just who are you, to think you’re so important that the Trench Lord will drop everything he’s doing to see you?” The man’s hand was now on the hilt of his sword, sarcasm dripping from his words.

  “Tell him the High Minister's nephew, Alador Guldalian demands an audience. I’m sure he can make time,” Alador answered imperiously.

  The man must have known Alador’s name – or at least his relationship – because he got quiet, glancing from Alador to Flame. The latter nodded. “Yup, that’s him.” His voice was prideful.

  The oaf lumbered off through a door and was gone for some time, but when he came back, he was smirking. “The Trench Lord was able to make some time in his schedule for you. Your man can wait here with me.” The man jerked a thumb towards a nearby chair.

  Flame shook his head. “By the gods, I’m not missing this. I go where he goes.”

  The guardsman just shrugged and led the way through the impressive halls. They were almost, but not quite, as large as the hallways in Luthian’s home. When at last Alador and Flame were shown into the Trench Lord’s office, Aorun sat behind a rather large red desk. His boots were kicked up on the dark red wood and, unlike Flame and Alador, he wore no armor. He looked to have on a dressing robe and a pair of black leather pants.

  “I fear you caught me in bed, gentlemen. When one has a lady visiting, you take the time from your schedule for her. What can I do for the High Minister’s nephew, Alador?” Aorun drew deeply from the flask in his hand, watching Alador. He didn’t look concerned to see the mage.

  Alador stepped forward, his manner formal and his back stiff. “I have come to retrieve my body servant. It appears that you have taken her when I’d given her permission to visit her father. It is time you gave her back,” he demanded with all the authority he could muster.

  “Body servant…Body servant…” Aorun tapped the flask to his lips. “Oh, do you mean the lass I took into my protection after her father had the most fearsome accident?” Aorun was clearly enjoying this; his voice was full of amusement, and he grinned up at Alador.

  “An accident at the end of your blade,” Alador growled out. He could feel the dark anger rising in him, mingling with the dragon’s rage. “You murdered that man.”

  “It happens when one doesn’t pay their dues to the Trench Lord.” Aorun shrugged. “Strange crimes overcome those without his protection.” Aorun put his boots down on the floor to look at Alador, losing the smile. Now his eyes held hatred. “But you have come with no protection, making demands. A lone guardsman out in the trenches…accidents are so common around here.” He rose to his feet, setting the flask on the desk.

  “I am hardly alone, and both of us are ma
ge-trained,” Alador snarled.

  “Odd. I thought the Daezun taught their young to count, right Jayson?” Aorun drawled out.

  Alador began to turn to see who this Jayson was when pain filled his head and lights flashed in his eyes. There was no one else in the room but Flame. It was Alador’s last thought as he sunk to the floor, where someone’s boot connected with his temple.

  Alador awoke to the feel of water in his face. He came to, sputtering, his eyes burning from the salt. Seawater filled his mouth as a second wave washed over him, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the dripping salt water from his eyes. His side ached from being pulled tight, and he realized that his hands were caught in some sort of metal gloves, stretched above him on the ceiling. They were so tight around his wrists that Alador could barely feel his fingers, and they tingled from not-quite-enough blood. His feet were bound tightly to the ground by metal clasps around his ankles, allowing him to stand, but not move. In fact, as stretched out as he was, Alador could barely move at all. He noticed blearily, shivering in the cool room, that he was naked.

  Finally, his vision cleared enough for him to see Aorun. They were alone in what appeared to be a wine cellar. Alador’s heart filled with fear when he saw the number of tools on the table – Aorun wasn’t just going to kill him. He was going to torture him. Alador tried to speak, only to realize that he’d been gagged with a mass of rounded leather. Unable to curse Aorun properly, Alador growled out his anger. He couldn’t see the Trench Lord, but he could sense him in there with him.

  “Ah, good, you are awake.” Aorun sounded eager.

  A whip snapped behind him, and Alador’s body tensed despite himself. Aorun just laughed. “Do you know how long I have been dreaming of the time we would spend here together? All the ways I would make you beg for death?” He grinned at Alador as he came around in front of him, whip uncoiled in one hand. “The many ways I would make you pay for my mother’s death?”

  Alador wanted to scream at him that he hadn’t even been born yet when that had happened, but Aorun was clearly mad. Even if he could speak, there was no way he could get the man to see reason. Aorun stepped back behind Alador, and this time the crack of his whip brought the pain Alador had expected. Fire lanced across his back as the crystal-embedded leather dug into exposed flesh. Alador moaned despite his determination not to give this man the pleasure of hearing his pain.

  Alador forced his thoughts to things that would make him angry; he was always able to cast better when he could use his anger as a focus. He thought about Flame, who must have been the one to betray Alador and Keelee, giving her to Aorun. He thought about all the secrets he’d entrusted to the light-hearted redhead. Alador wondered if Sordith had betrayed him, too.

  Maybe he’d been set up to die in the brothel. He kept these thoughts between the searing cracks of the whip, drawing on its anger to see him through, but even that didn’t help him contain the cries of pain that only the gag muffled. Eventually, Alador lost count of the cracks – and lost track of his thoughts – and slipped into oblivion.

  A searing, cold wash of water snapped Alador back into consciousness as water drained down his back and legs, the salt inflaming the open wounds on his back. He whimpered – he couldn’t help it. Aorun walked easily around Alador and set the empty bucket next to five others, three of which were still filled with water. It was going to be a long night, Alador realized. Aorun obviously did not intend to kill him quickly.

  “Ready for death yet?” Aorun asked, his tone eager, clearly hoping Alador was not.

  Alador could think of a few things he wanted to offer the leering man before him, but satisfaction was not one of them. He shook his head no, hatred radiating from his eyes and in the tension of his body.

  Aorun moved to the door and called out loudly. “I was hoping you would say that. Jayson, bring her in.”

  The man Alador had known as Flame dragged Keelee in by her tied hands and tossed her to the floor in front of Alador. The past three days had obviously not been kind to her; Keelee’s hair was matted, and one side of her face was bruised in the definitive shape of a man’s hand when she looked up at Alador. He looked down at her with sorrow; she had tears on her face.

  “I tried to warn you,” she sobbed up to Alador. She tried to move to him, her simple shift doing little to cover her. Flame stood behind her, arms folded.

  The warning Keelee had given him washed over Alador – that, because of her, he would be horribly hurt. Now he wondered…which hurt? This? Or the fact that she’d hidden Mesiande’s letter? In some ways, her betrayal in regards to the silver case was worse than Aorun’s torture. Alador could only look down at her and nod sadly.

  Aorun moved from where he leaned against the table and jerked her up by the hair. She squeaked in pain. “Tell him you have decided that we will be properly bonded.” He held Keelee before Alador. “Tell him how much you hated being bedded by some low half-breed.”

  Alador wanted to yell at her, tell her to say the words, to buy herself some mercy from the Trench Lord, but he couldn’t do anything except pull angrily at his wrists.

  Keelee growled out in pain and fear, “I would rather bed a korpen than bond with you!”

  Aorun’s mouth was near her ear when he hissed, “Fine by me.” He dragged her by her hair and tossed her to Flame. “Jayson, you wanted her so badly, take her.”

  Flame grinned brightly as he caught her, grabbing her by the bound hands and clearly intending to take her back out of the cellar. “Yes, milord!”

  “No! Here! In front of him.” Aorun grinned coldly, pointing to the floor across from Alador. “Let him see his little slut rut while I bring him the pain his people deserve.”

  Flame looked a bit uncertain but then tossed Keelee over to one of large wine casks. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you.” He began to unbuckle his weapon belt.

  Rage flooded through Alador: Flame’s betrayal, Alador’s helplessness, the realization that what happened to Mesiande was going to happen to Keelee, and he couldn’t stop it. He thrashed at his bindings furiously. He could hear Keelee sobbing.

  The dragon’s voice – Renamaum’s voice – sang through Alador, so loud and commanding that it was like someone shouting into his ear.

  If you can’t fly...you swim.

  Alador stood in shock, grasping onto that thought. He had to do something before Flame could violate Keelee, but he didn’t have his hands, so half the spells he could work were out. He didn’t know how to focus them without words and movement. His body relaxed as the answer came to him, the pain of his back fading away slightly as he turned his eyes to Flame – not Aorun, who was at his table of tools, picking his next toy. It was so simple. Alador watched as Flame tossed his sword aside, but his mind was on his thoughts.

  “I could kill someone creating water?” Alador asked, alarmed.

  “Not likely, but with the powers of water granted by a blue dragon, you can kill by pulling water from them,” Henrick said bluntly. “It would be a frightfully horrid death.”

  Alador had practiced that spell so often that he didn’t need much to do it anymore – and he certainly didn’t need his hands or words. His eyes slowly moved to the empty bucket, and he began to pull the water from Flame – and only Flame. Time seemed to lose all meaning as Alador stared into the bucket.

  He heard a choked sound over where Flame had just been kneeling down to violate Keelee, but he didn’t stop the spell. He didn’t stop when he heard Keelee scream. The bucket began to overflow, and still he didn’t stop. Something twisted inside Alador, sending wracking pain through his body – and still, he did not stop.

  At first, Aorun had assumed that the strange sounds he was hearing belonged to Jayson, doing as he’d been told. But when Aorun turned, he stared open-mouthed at what he saw. Jayson was on his knees before the wench, but he held his hands out in front of him – they were wrinkling, aging before his eyes…and then his fingertips just fell off and blew away. Jayson crumbled away
into a pile of dust, while Keelee screamed and tried to scramble away from him in horror.

  “By the gods…” Aorun whispered. Fear pounded through him. His eyes immediately flew to the man he’d stretched from the ceiling to floor; the gloves that should have prevented him from casting were still secure. Aorun didn’t move till he heard Sordith speak though he hadn’t heard his right-hand man enter.

  Sordith put a hand on the terrified woman and pulled her up, leading her to the door and slicing the ropes that bound her hands. “Keelee, get out.” His calm words sent the wench scurrying out, and he shut the door firmly behind her.

  “By the gods, Sordith, did you see that? I have never seen anything like that before,” Aorun whispered. His eyes returned to what was left of Jayson – a pile of ashes that lay like soot on the floor.

  “I think you may have taken on more than you should have, Aorun.” Sordith leaned back against a barrel and crossed his arms as he looked from Alador to the Trench Lord.

  “I will just kill him now.” Aorun moved to grab a knife to finish the half-breed mage.

  “I would not do that,” Sordith warned firmly, standing back up.

  “Well, we can’t let him go, not after that, and I am not letting him turn me to dust.” Aorun moved towards Alador with the knife. He saw the hilt of the throwing knife, quivering from his side, before he felt the pain of it. He turned to look at Sordith in shock. “Why?” Aorun’s hand went to the dagger in confusion, pain searing through the wound.