The young prince directed the rear action himself. The rear of the column was mostly the wounded soldiers that still had the strength to keep moving but were slower than their companions and naturally fell to the rear. Wilam moved the few archers he had remaining to the sides of the rear column. He rode his horse, and when the enemy moved forward he blew a war horn that signaled the archers to fan out to either side. They dropped to one knee and fired their arrows before turning and jogging backward again.
Usually the volley of arrows was enough to stop whatever force tried to close the distance between the two armies. They weren’t set on destroying Wilam’s troops, at least not yet. In fact, Wilam doubted that King Zorlan’s main force was even within a day’s march of his troops. But, the Falxisan king had been smart enough to send a band of cavalry and archers to harass their retreat. If they survived the retreat, they would be worn out and exhausted for days. Wilam, his whole body aching and his stomach twisting in knots, rode silently, half turned in his saddle so he could keep a watch on the pursing force.
The Oslan countryside was arid and dusty. There were few farms and fewer villages along the road, most spaced a full day’s walk apart. Food was plentiful throughout Osla because of trade, but most of the land was unfit for farming. Silk production and diamond mining were the chief industries, but those were found south of the Grand City. In the almost barren plains leading to the capital there was no respite from the sun’s heat or the dust that seemed to fill the air, invading Prince Wilam’s nose and mouth. His eyes burned from the dust, and as the day wore on he had trouble even seeing the enemy behind them.
Then, when the young commander thought things couldn’t get worse, a strong wind began to blow from the north. It should have been a good sign-having the wind at their backs-but the wind blew the dust tramped up by the troops pursuing them into Wilam’s face. It billowed out like a dirty, brown fog that obstructed his view. The wind blew for three hours before arrows fell from the pursing force. They struck with no warning, landing all around the rear of the retreating column. Two hit Wilam’s horse and he was thrown when the animal reared in pain. He fell hard on the unforgiving ground, his head whipping back and hitting so hard he was knocked unconscious.
When he opened his eyes again, it was dark. He was in a tent, the wind making the canvas structure flutter loudly. Nearby was a man Wilam took for a healer. He wasn’t in armor or a uniform of any type. Of course, that could have been because he was sleeping, but the man slept in a camp chair, slumped over uncomfortably, and Wilam could feel the bandage wrapped around his aching head. He tried to remember what had happened, but the last few moments before he lost consciousness were lost.
His mouth was so dry his tongue felt twice its normal size. His eyes seemed full of grit, and as he raised his hands to rub his eyes, his arms felt heavy.
He groaned and the healer woke up. The man uncovered a lamp, casting light all around the tent and hurting Wilam’s eyes further. He squinted in the sudden light.
“You’re awake,” the man said in surprise. “That’s good.”
“Water,” Prince Wilam said, his voice croaking.
“Yes, of course. Here you are.”
The man slid his hand gently behind Wilam’s neck and lifted the prince’s head slightly before dribbling water from a long handled dipper into his mouth. Wilam felt like a helpless child, but the water was cool and sweet. He slurped at it greedily. After several moments, he lay back. He felt better after his drink, and truth be told he wanted more, but he was too tired. His gritty eyes burned with fatigue.
“How long was I out?” he asked.
“Just a few hours,” the man said. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Stay awake, the king will want to question you.”
“Question me about what?” Wilam asked, and then as if a dam had burst in his mind, the memories came flooding back. The healer didn’t bother to answer, but hurried from the tent. Wilam lay in shock as he realized what he had done. He remembered going to Lodenhime with Mansel and Quinn. They had been returning to Yelsia, but the witch had cast her spell. He remembered building her army, remembered killing her steward in the Castle on the Sea. He recalled sacking the Grand City and killing innocent people who were trying desperately to flee their homes. He recalled his confrontation with King Oveer and how he’d slain the sovereign ruler of another kingdom.
Tears welled in his eyes as he remembered what he had done. Shame, as bitter as bile in his mouth, settled in his heart. He wished for death and felt around him for a weapon or instrument with to end his life, but there was nothing but blankets and bandages.
Then the tent opened again and three men entered. One was the healer who had given Wilam the water, the next was a man the prince didn’t recognize, and the third was King Zorlan. He no longer looked as pampered and disinterested as he had in the Grand City when he had arrived for the Council of Kings. Now he looked stern and focused. It was a look Wilam had seen often enough from his father-a look he had tried to imitate many times.
“See, he’s awake,” the healer said.
“Good,” King Zorlan said. “Prince Wilam. My how the tables have turned. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Wilam just stared silently at the king. He didn’t know if he should tell them what he knew or not. His loyalty was divided. His first duty was to Yelsia and his people, although the witch’s spell had made him somehow forget that duty. Before him was one of the kings who had invaded Wilam’s homeland, causing untold damage to Wilam’s people and their homes. For that alone Wilam wanted to resist aiding King Zorlan in any way. On the other hand, he knew that Gwendolyn was dangerous. He didn’t want to see the Grand City destroyed in a useless war, but he didn’t see how that could be avoided. The men left in the city had specific orders and there was no way to break the witch’s spell. Wilam had no idea how he’d managed to break her influence now.
“How noble,” said King Zorlan. “You don’t want to talk. That’s just what I expected. Unlike our brothers, I knew you would be a good king-perhaps not wise, but noble at least. You have that stubborn character that most kings have, the kind that won’t allow you to change. And you shouldn’t feel bad that I defeated your army in battle. Our cavalry are unstoppable.”
“It wasn’t my army,” Wilam said, his throat still so dry his voice was a ragged whisper. “The witch had us all under some type of spell.”
“How convenient for you,” said King Zorlan. “And quiet political too. Passing the blame is a crucial part of good leadership. Tell me more about this witch of yours?”
“You can’t get close to her,” Wilam said. “You have to surround the city and cut off their supplies. It’s the only way to beat her.”
“You see, that’s your problem. You rely too much on traditional tactics. That’s how I knew how to beat you on the field of battle. I could see your plan the moment my scouts reported your position. Perhaps in Yelsia you could have found a place to make a stand, but out here, in the wide-open plains, your tactics were antiquated. Flanking you was a little too easy, and after my troops had been given plenty of time to rest, pursuing you immediately was not difficult either. Now you advise me to lay siege to the city, but you see you’ve already given me the information I needed. This witch of yours is the key, can’t you see that? We don’t need to lay siege to the city. No, that would take months and put thousands of lives at risk. What we need is a little more information about this witch, so that we can kill her. Then, her spell will be broken. I’ll send King Oveer back home with a slap on the wrist and Osla will be absorbed into Falxis.”
“I knew that was your plan,” Wilam said in disgust. “You have no honor. You are breaking the treaty-”
“No, King Oveer and King Belphan broke the treaty when they pushed for war on Yelsia. I just knew how to turn those events to my advantage.”
“You were driven out of Yelsia.”
“True, our wizard deserted us when yours bested him in battle. That was a sight to behold too. T
here hasn’t been anything like it in centuries. Still, the old man had enough strength left to kill Belphan. I saw the opportunity to improve my fortunes and I took it. There’s nothing in the treaty about that.”
“King Oveer is dead too,” Wilam sneered. “I guess that means fate is handing you another kingdom.”
“Perhaps…” King Zorlan said. “Oveer is dead, are you sure?”
“I killed him,” Wilam said.
“Oh, you are a nasty boy, aren’t you?”
“I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“Of course you were. Oveer was a pompous, power hungry fool. A bully of a king, always looking for ways to get more than his share. You did the Five Kingdoms a favor. How did you do it?”
Wilam looked away. He was ashamed of what he’d done. He agreed that King Oveer had been a pompous, power hungry fool, but that didn’t make what Wilam had done any less dishonorable. He had murdered men because of some misguided passion for a woman he couldn’t even remember. He could visualize Gwendolyn, at least everything but her face. In his mind she seemed to be in a silhouette, her face an indistinct blur.
“Come now, Prince Wilam, don’t fret. Your secrets are safe with me. In fact, if you help me defeat the witch and take Osla, I’ll help you defeat King Ricard. You shall be king of the northern kingdoms and I shall rule the south. What do you say? Let’s work together.”
“No,” Wilam said in a whisper. His body was beginning to shake. Fatigue was overcoming his strength and he wanted to die.
“Don’t be unreasonable. You could be my right hand. Together we can return peace to the Five Kingdoms.”
“Don’t you mean the ‘Two Kingdoms?’”
“Soon enough. Don’t you see that united we will be much stronger and more prosperous?”
“I can see that you will be more prosperous.”
“I did not start this asinine war,” King Zorlan said angrily. “I was content with my kingdom, but Belphan and Oveer insisted. You were not there to defend Yelsia-what were we to think? But now the die is cast and it cannot be taken back. Osla and Ortis are without a king. It is my duty to rule them.”
“Your duty? What about Belphan’s sons?”
“They are children,” Zorlan argued. “And sickly ones, from what I hear. I doubt they will live long enough to fill their father’s role as king of Osla. And if they do, they will need guidance.”
“And you are the person to give it to them, I’m sure, as long as they pay you tribute?”
“Your insolence is beginning to wear on my nerves. I think perhaps it is time that Ebain took a turn with you. Getting stubborn people to see reason is his specialty, although I dare say you won’t enjoy it as much as talking with me. I shall return in the morning to see if you are not more willing to cooperate.”
King Zorlan stood up and walked briskly from the tent. The other man that had come in with the king opened a pouch and pulled out a long metal device that tapered to a point.
“I cannot watch this,” said the healer, hurrying from the tent.
Ebain didn’t speak, but rather laid his instrument to the side and removed a set of leather manacles. Wilam tried to resist when Ebain bound his hands and feet, but he simply had no strength. He struggled, but Ebain subdued him easily. Wilam was panting by the time Ebain had him bound hand and foot, and his vision began to blur. He wanted to be left in peace, to close his eyes and never wake up again, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Ebain returned to his metal device. He handled it lovingly, as if it were the dearest thing in the world to him-a prized piece of art rather than a torture device.
“I won’t bother asking questions,” Ebain said, his voice almost monotone and completely without emotion. “The king will come back in the morning. If you answer his questions then, the pain will stop. For now, that is all you need to know.”
Wilam’s heart was racing. He struggled futilely against his bonds, but Ebain merely watched and waited. Terror of what was about to happen felt like a giant weight had been dropped onto Wilam’s chest. He struggled to breathe and sweat began to pour off of him. Then, moving quickly, Ebain dropped onto Wilam’s stomach. There was a large spike and heavy mallet in his hands. Wilam’s vision narrowed and then he passed out.
Ebain seemed unconcerned. He merely lifted Wilam’s hands over his head and drove the spike into the ground through the links in the leather manacles. Then he returned to his long, metal device. At first glance the tool seemed like nothing more than a highly polished spike, or some type of villainous piece of art, but on closer inspection its deadly nature became clearer. The tip was pointed and smooth for several inches, then two small blades protruded slightly. They were thin and delicate looking, but honed finer than a razor blade. Beyond that, the instrument became serrated with tiny teeth-like edges that grew taller and further apart. Ebain could skin, gut, and dismember a body with the instrument.
He started by driving another stake through the leather manacles binding Prince Wilam’s feet. Then he sat back on his heels and stroked the prince’s foot. Wilam was completely unconscious. They had removed most of his clothing shortly after they found his body on the side of the road. His troops, if they had seen him fall, had either believed he was dead or didn’t care enough to rescue him. They had moved on, leaving the bodies of dead or dying soldiers in the road. Prince Wilam was found not far from his wounded horse, which lay in the dirt too exhausted to move.
Ebain placed the point of the device just under the edge of Wilam’s big toe. He waited for just a moment, his hands holding the foot steady and the torture device ready, his eyes never leaving Wilam’s face. Then he pushed the device down. Blood welled up around the toenail and Wilam squirmed, but didn’t wake up. Then Ebain gave the instrument a sharp thrust. The toenail was ripped from the nail bed with a wet pop, and Wilam screamed. His eyes opened so widely that Ebain could see whites all around the irises.
Ebain watched for a moment, letting Wilam struggle against his bonds again. He watched the prince’s face as it grew red. He ignored the blood running down Wilam’s foot. It was a minor injury and he knew it would clot on its own soon enough. As Prince Wilam’s cries began to die down, turning from screams of pain to whimpers, Ebain took hold of the other foot.
“No!” Wilam shouted. “Let go of me you bastard!”
Ebain moved with efficient precision. He drove his torture spike under the toenail on Wilam’s other big toe. Then he proceeded with the smaller toes, his hands working like a musician’s, seemingly with a mind of their own. Ebain was practiced in the art of pain, never looking down to make sure he was doing things correctly. The toenails were driven from their nail beds slowly, with a wrenching, prying action that increased Wilam’s discomfort.
Sleep was no longer an option. Wilam’s heart was racing, sweat poured from his scalp, face, and underarms. His voice, already hoarse from dehydration, was soon lost from his uncontrollable screaming. For the next six hours, all Wilam knew was pain. Ebain used his instrument and hands to pull each toe from its socket before slowly sawing through the Achilles tendon of each foot. Then, Ebain moved on to Wilam’s knees. He started by tying thick straps around each thigh to constrict the blood flow to Wilam’s lower legs.
“Please, stop,” Wilam said, his voice a ragged whisper. “I’ll give you anything.”
Ebain ignored the prince’s pleas. Instead, he stabbed his device under Wilam’s right kneecap. The pain was so intense Wilam passed out. Ebain dumped cool water in Wilam’s face, rousing him before he returned to twisting and sawing Wilam’s knee with the long metal instrument. What seemed like random actions were actually practiced movements that grated against bones and severed ligaments. There was only one incision point, so bleeding from the wound was minor-although Wilam’s knee swelled to almost twice its normal size, the skin turning purple.
Wilam’s screams sounded more like whispered exhalations. Tears streaked from his eyes. His skin was white with bright red splotches. Somehow the pain
grew more intense. The hours dragged on. Ebain crippled first one knee, then the other. Wilam’s wrists and ankles were rubbed raw by the rough, leather manacles until they bled freely. Wilam strained so hard against his bonds that he pulled several muscles in his back, which spasmed and added to his pain. Bile rose in his throat and he vomited, but laying flat on his back he was forced to spit and spew the bile from his mouth. Inevitably some made its way down his windpipe, the stomach acid searing and burning the delicate lining of his lungs and causing him to cough and sputter.
The night seemed to never end, but eventually it did. Ebain’s last act was to use his instrument to pry Wilam’s left hip from its socket. Wilam passed out again, and this time it took more than water to rouse him. The healer was brought in and used thick, greasy salves to stop the bleeding. His feet were swollen and unrecognizable. His knees were gross mockeries of normal joints. And his left hip protruded at an impossible angle.
The healer used a mixture of potent smelling herbs to rouse Wilam. His eyes fluttered open and gazed around weakly.
“It seems you haven’t enjoyed our accommodations,” King Zorlan said. He was standing over Zollin and gazing down at the crippled prince. “I’m afraid you’ll need to start talking or the pain will start again. Ebain has only just begun, really. Soon he’ll work on your manhood. It’s a vile art, torture, but necessary nonetheless. And they say you really haven’t felt pain until Ebain breaks each of your ribs, one by one, so that every breath you take is sheer agony. I don’t want that for you, no, no. You are of noble blood, after all-even if Yelsia is a backward land of lesser people. You could still be king of the stooges, after all. I’ll send you back to Yelsia once I’ve slain your father and taken control of your kingdom. You can be a puppet king, a permanent example to everyone who sees you that I am a master both cruel and compassionate. What do you say?”
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