The door slammed closed again. The entire room was swallowed by vengeful silence. Bronson heard Corza’s breathing, heavy at first, then returning to normal. He strained his eyes to see where his captor was standing, but the rack prevented him from locating Corza. He startled when the high general’s voice spoke so close to his ear that he felt the man’s breath on his skin.
“You almost had me fooled.”
Bronson jerked his head around—as far as that was possible. The high general stepped in front of him and moved the prince to eye level.
“You almost had me convinced that you had truly broken. Almost. And now I find you helping those serpents to get at me? What a fool I have been,” said Corza, icily calm.
Corza pulled out the straight dagger on his belt and waved it a mere inch from Bronson’s face; the instrument that had inflicted so much pain upon him already. Hate was too mild a word to describe how Bronson felt about it. The dagger was the embodiment of his complete and utter helplessness; of his fear in the face of his inevitable suffering. Bronson’s chest started to hurt as his breathing turned shallow.
“I should ram this Roc’turr straight through your eye,” screamed Corza with such intensity that his voice became a screech. Bronson flinched. He struggled to turn away in his restraints as Corza pointed the dagger toward his eye. The high general let out a sigh. “But that would help nothing. After all, the expectation is half the fun, as my mother used to say.”
A silver bowl flew through the chamber as Corza swiped it violently from its table and roared, “That damned whore!”
Corza jammed his Roc’turr into the table.
“Oh, well. It just means I'll have to start back at the beginning. Let’s get you to the balcony, shall we?”
“No, please, don’t,” begged Bronson. “I’ll do anything you want. Please, no more. No more.”
His words fell on deaf ears. Humming, Corza opened the balcony doors and, with some effort, pushed Bronson into the afternoon sun.
“Please, there’s no reason to do this anymore. I told you, my life is yours. Really, it is.”
“There are those words again, still lacking sincerity. There’s no point in hiding it, young prince. I saw your reaction when I entered the room. You sought death. You expected it. That’s not true devotion. That’s deception. Deception of yourself; allowing yourself to believe there’s going to be any other way. And when you deceive yourself, you deceive me.”
Corza leaned on the balcony’s balustrade.
“But that’s nothing I can’t fix. And with the way things are, we still have a bit of time before we set sail,” spoke Corza pleasantly. “I’m sure you’re dying to get out to sea again, yes? Perhaps we’ll even take one of your ships. You’re not using them for anything else, are you?”
Bronson threw a glance at the harbor at the bottom of the hill. It was still filled with black-sailed ships coming and going. Some of them were docked, and from the looks of it were being loaded. With what, he could not see. A deep hurt put a lump in his throat. How he loved this dirty city of his. How tainted it looked with the black army scurrying everywhere, like a plague of cockroaches impossible to eradicate. Extremely powerful cockroaches.
Corza approached him and turned the rack upside down. Bronson felt blood immediately rush to his head.
“There’s still the little issue of that enticing double pair of…legs,” said the high general. “Oh, everyone knows their story. That they lost their parents at the age of nine. Trying to make a living, the girls ended up in the wrong hands. Such heartache...”
Corza’s voice trailed off as he walked inside. When he returned, he held a familiar glass jar in his hand.
“They were probably kept in the filthiest of holes for years. Starved, abused, raped and humiliated by their captors. Such a sad, sad story. It wasn’t until their seventeenth year that they succeeded in escaping. Some careless drunk had taken his time with them, but the idiot passed out. It cost him his life. The girls slaughtered every single one of their rapists. Some say they’re an example of finding the courage and strength to overcome the unbeatable. I just think they went insane. The human mind is fragile; women’s especially so. And when they turn, they can be real demons.”
The high general held the jar up in front of Bronson. Within it squirmed the tiny kzaktor.
“Lingers, too. Such darkness. You never really come back from something like that. They probably would have died out in the wilderness, or been killed by bandits, had our glorious leader not passed by the stronghold that very moment. So when both girls emerged from the dark tunnels—leaving a dozen men dead in their wake—they weren’t greeted by their freedom, but by a group of twenty Darkened escorting Lord Leonard Rictor himself.”
Corza used the long pliers to grab the kzaktor from its confinement. It let out a tiny shriek and thrashed around relentlessly.
“Anyone who encounters a Darkened would run the other way had they an ounce of self-preservation. But these girls—half feral, starved and fueled by adrenaline—they screamed a scream of nightmares and flung themselves toward the nearest skeleton face. But the Darkened, they’re disciplined. Too disciplined, if you ask me. Skilled, too. Surely on a whole different level to those untrained drunks who held the twins captive.”
Corza paused, poured himself a glass of wine with one hand and emptied the cup in one go. All the while, Bronson hung upside down, his face burning from his blood rushing to his head.
“And really, that should have been it. They should have died, right then and there. But when both girls lay groggy on the ground and one of the skeleton faces moved to slay them, Lord Rictor stopped him. The fool. It was a grand mistake; one which I now have to live with.
“But their time will come. I’ll make sure of it. Biggest problem is, they’re never far apart. Eating, sleeping, fighting—always together. It’s even said they share their men,” said Corza, bringing the tiny kzaktor close to Bronson’s nose. The little creature snapped its tiny pincers at the prince. “But whispers say their lovers end up dead, most of them not even making it through the night. So I’m feeling a little protective here. I mean, they almost took you from me, my friend. Ruined all the glorious things I have in store for you. Question is, how do I keep them from trying to…upset you? Trying to tear you away from me?”
The high general walked toward the table again and poured himself some more wine one-handed.
“Wow, look at the little thing go,” said Corza, admiring the kzaktor. “It must be really hungry.”
He dangled it in front of Bronson’s crotch.
“It really outdid my expectations last time. Perhaps I should use our little friend to make you a bit less interesting to the ladies. I’ve been told it’s quite effective. What do you think?”
Bronson snorted a cough in reply, saliva spraying everywhere. It was hard to breathe and swallow normally upside down, let alone talk or object. Between his legs, his manhood shriveled in protest instead.
Corza put the tiny creature back in the jar and closed it.
“On second thought, that wouldn’t be much of a challenge. There’s much more satisfaction in the indirect way, and I’d rather prove to them that they can’t stop me even if they try.”
The general knelt and brought his face right in front of Bronson’s.
“Shall I tell you a secret? Some say the Stone King treats them as daughters. Others say as lovers. But I think it’s both. How sick is that?”
The high general disappeared back inside one more time. When he returned, the glass jar was no longer in his hand. Instead, the sunlight reflected off the crossed blades of the Roc’turr.
“Now, time to get reacquainted with an old friend of yours,” said the high general.
Bronson’s screams echoed from the top of the hill all the way down to the harbor. Corza bent down, smiling.
“Looks like it will be another lovely afternoon, don’t you agree, Prince of Iron?”
Chapter 12
Offer
Raylan wondered if he had slept at all when the guards came to rouse them. His stiff back assured him he had, yet the fatigue in his head claimed he had skipped the entire night. Groans and curses rose from all around as a shouting guard woke the others from their slumber. Raylan figured his group should probably be thankful they were split from the troublemakers when the guards dropped them in here.
Raylan let out a groan of his own when he recognized the man who opened the steel-barred door to their cell. Captain Whitflow walked in, his face set in stern disapproval. Sebastian nudged Rohan and Kevhin—who still lay stubbornly on the floor in a corner—to get them to their feet.
“Didn’t I tell you all to stay out of trouble?” said the captain to Raylan. “If it were up to me, you’d stay here for a few more days. A good soldier doesn’t bring his battles home. Unfortunately, it’s not up to me. Lord Algirio wants you released and returned to camp. Something about a meeting you're having.”
“It wasn’t our intention—” started Raylan.
“Save it for your commander,” said Captain Whitflow formally. The man pointed behind him to where Richard waited, just outside the cell. The use of his official title left a bad taste in Raylan’s mouth.
His brother’s dutiful replacement kept his mouth tightly shut as they were all escorted from the building by the city guards, his steps those of an impatient man. The new morning’s sunlight greeted them as they came outside. Raylan blinked to let his eyes adjust.
He flinched when Richard slammed the door behind them. Multiple voices started speaking, but before any of them could offer anything that resembled an excuse or explanation, Richard launched into his own tirade.
“What in the king’s name is wrong with all of you?” he burst out. “First, Peadar and Marek are chucked from a brothel, then Raylan and Sebastian decide to show up late—which by itself is a great insult to our host—and then you all decide it must be a good time to get drunk? You know what? Fine. I can understand the need to blow off some steam. But you’re still in the service of the king, and on a mission—most of you, anyway—so bloody act like it. Starting a brawl in a bar is not the way to do it.”
Richard, who had been marching down the streets toward the outer gate near their encampment, suddenly stopped and turned around. A vein on his temple pulsed dangerously.
“And who waits for the city guards to show up, anyway? You should have been long gone. In and out.”
Richard’s face was red with anger, yet his eyes were hollow with bags under them, his knuckles white from clenching his fists. Raylan suspected they were not the only ones with a short night under their belt.
“It wasn’t our f—” began Raylan.
“Who cares,” shouted Richard. “We’re guests of the Lord of Azurna; our actions reflect directly on our king and council. We finally have a moment’s respite; we’re able to rest and have plenty of food. Why would you disgrace our host like that? Not to mention that worrisome creature, which I could barely keep from tearing the city apart when you didn’t return home last night. If Xi’Lao had not stepped in, I’m not sure I could have kept Galirras at the camp. Innocents could’ve been hurt. You could’ve been hurt. Your actions put you in a position where someone could easily have cornered you. Taken you. Killed you. We know they’re out there; these people with their bad intentions. Who knows what they might be planning? But none of you thought about that, did you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Richard turned away and stormed off again, giving Raylan and the others no other option than to try and keep up. They sped through the city, still simmering from the previous night’s festivities. They navigated between those who either considered themselves the most dedicated workers or simply could not afford to take it easy. But Raylan was certain that most of Azurna’s citizens—those who could, in any case—were still fast asleep in their beds.
What I wouldn’t give to join them.
He really did not see what the problem was. No permanent damage had befallen them. He admitted that things could have been handled better, but that hardly seemed to justify their new commander’s level of anger.
“It was just a little bar fight. No harm done.”
The comment slipped out before his tired mind had a chance to filter it. As soon as the words left his mouth, Raylan knew he would regret it.
“Gavin always said you had a tendency to ignore the proper way of things. I never really said anything, as it wasn’t my place, but I see where his frustration came from,” Richard snapped at him.
Raylan’s own anger flared at the remark. He felt Sebastian’s hand touch his shoulder, offering restraint. Still, it took all the trained discipline of his exhausted mind to prevent a growled reply. They looked at each other, but with no words offered back to him, Richard turned again and stormed down the street.
“I’ve not seen Richard so angry since the ‘proper versing in the Ballads of Bravery’ debate,” said Kevhin in a whisper.
The debate in question had occurred during their travels on the Dark Continent, when Richard was still Gavin’s second-in-command. Their companion had unexpectedly burst into anger about the correct version of a hero song well known throughout the kingdom. Things had gotten quite heated, though the argument was mostly one-sided.
Later, Gavin had explained to Raylan that Richard’s grandfather was forcefully dismissed from the guild of musicians. It had left the entire Brand family with a bad aftertaste that would carry on for generations.
Julian Brand, free-spirited man that he was, had challenged the guild’s council on the proper origin of the Ballads of Bravery, and lost. His son–Richard’s father—had been dragged down in the resulting fallout. The entire situation resulted in the ruling that no member of the Brand family would ever be accepted into the guild of musicians again. With their name put to shame and the guild pushing them out, Richard’s father struggled to find work. It was a dark stain on their family’s history, rich with many generations of musical talents. Since then, Richard’s father had detested his own father for abandoning the rules of the guild.
To feed their family, Richard’s father had to secure income somewhere else, and thus began their time as an army family. Young Richard had grown up alienated from his grandfather, but admiring of his father’s perseverance in supporting his family.
“The rules are there for a reason, Richard,” his father had always said. “They shape order in chaos; protect the honorable and proper citizens of this world. Those who cross or break them are a disgrace.”
For Richard, they became words to live by.
As they followed Richard through the streets of Azurna, it dawned on Raylan that Richard’s mindset was probably one of the reasons he and Gavin had gotten along so well, both as people and as a leadership team. Gavin always had a natural interest in other people’s lives and cared about the rules that were set to live by.
In that way, Raylan was the complete opposite of Richard. He often tried to avoid rules and regulations, especially after he left Shid’el and headed out to sea. In fact, there had been very little he truly cared for during those days—except his carefreeness. It was not that he was afraid to work, but he had enjoyed his freedom too much to easily give it up. Getting drafted into the king’s army had not sat well with him. During those first months, he frequently got into trouble, with all kinds of disciplinary consequences. In particular, he'd frequently clashed with their training commander.
Such talent in the hands of such a hothead. Those words had been thrown at him often.
Still, some of the army’s teachings had rubbed off, such as the value of taking care of each other on and off the battlefield. Though thinking about it now, it was not until he went with his brother’s squad that things truly fell into place.
In front of him, Richard’s lecture went on and on, until at last they reached the encampment outside the city. Never before had Raylan been so glad to feel Galirras slip back into his mind, even though the dragon asked a million and
one questions about what happened.
By now, the four of them had officially been forbidden to leave the camp until they departed for the capital, Shid’el. Yet as soon as Richard made the order, it was counteracted by events outside of his control; in his anger, Richard had completely forgotten about Lord Algirio’s invitation during the feast.
“They want us to visit the castle this afternoon,” said Raylan to Galirras after the official messenger left later that morning.
He sat with a bowl of hearty soup, leaning against Galirras’ front leg. The dragon bent his neck. Galirras’ nostrils flared wide as he drew in the soup’s smell.
“What did you say was in there? Pirk?”
“Pork. It’s corn soup with pork fat,” Raylan answered calmly. “Did you hear what I said?” he added, fully aware that the dragon’s appetite was the only thing that could overrule Galirras’ natural curiosity.
“I did, and I will be happy to go, but can we hunt first? You were gone so long, and then immediately went to sleep when you got back. I did not get a chance to go out, and I hate fighting on an empty stomach.”
Galirras sniffed again.
“This smells wonderful,” he added.
Raylan felt a smile creep onto his face. He had been able to finish his tasks quickly that morning and catch up on some much-needed sleep after his long night, but that was not the reason he was grinning. He found that he often smiled during their private conversations. He got a lot of happiness from them, even the tiniest remarks or curiosities.
He felt Galirras’ hunger course through him, intensifying his own. He quickly ate his remaining soup, with a slight twinge of guilt that Galirras had to wait a tad longer. The physical sensation of the warm soup mixed with the warm emotional feeling that was part of their unusual bond. Galirras moved his head closer to peer into the bowl.
“Almost done, insatiable little one,” teased Raylan, using the nickname he had given Galirras when the dragon had just hatched. Since that time, Galirras had grown many times larger than any man. Being the only dragon in existence—as far as they knew—Raylan had no idea what to expect, but Galirras had grown tremendously fast. He constantly continued to mature into a lean-muscled, scaled and graceful creature—even more so after he finally took to the sky, despite his traumatic wing dislocation when he hatched.
Wavebreaker (Book II of the Stone War Chronicles): Part 1 - Trickle Page 23
