The dungeon guard was fat, and that seemed rare for a Kesh brigand. Dareen took note of this. “Follow me. I got a special cell for that one.”
The fat brigand swung the keys around and whistled merrily as he led them to the middle of the corridor where one area was open and had what looked like an old desk, plenty of candles for light, barrels for water and apples, and other tools, hooks, chains, and manacles.
“Put these on her,” the fat brigand said, giving them to the first guard and walking across the open cubicle area to a cell that was exactly opposite of his work area. He used his set of keys to find a steel key and opened the cell.
Dareen felt the guards placing shackles on her feet and manacles on her wrists, and then they shoved her none too gently across the corridor and into the cell that had its iron gate open, the fat Kesh brigand holding it for her. “There we are, my pretty,” the dungeon guard said, closing the gate and twisting the steel key, which was special looking as it was the only one that didn’t have rust on it.
“Kesh scum!” Dareen shouted in defiance as the echoing of her locked cell faded.
“Perhaps,” the fat Kesh said, grinning and showing a line of blackened teeth, his bad breath wafting over toward her, almost making her gag, “but I can keep an eye on you all the time, my pretty. You can use that bucket in the corner to relieve yourself anytime you want,” the Kesh guard said, laughing at his remark and stepping back.
The other guards seemed content once she was locked in her cell, and they turned to leave with the lead guard speaking first. “Commander Dax will be here later to set her charges and determine her fate.”
“All right, Flames, I’ll keep an eye on that pretty thing till da good commander gets here’z,” the fat Kesh said.
“No funny business, Grimer,” Flames said, pointing at the dungeon guard and giving him a stern look.
“Awe shucks, you boys in the pits don’t know how to have yourselfs any fun nows, does ya?” Grimes put the keychain on his belt, tugging it by habit for good measure.
“That is up to the commander,” Flames said, turning to walk away, his men already walking down the corridor.
“Wait,” Dareen shouted, gripping the bars and pressing her face to it, trying to see down the hallway at the man called Flames. “Why is this one called Grimer?”
Grimer laughed, and Flames turned to face Dareen for the last time. “He is damn grimy. Hasn’t had a bath in years and has a habit of sharing that with the prisoners. Well, the pretty ones, anyway.”
Grimer laughed and then turned to Dareen. “We’ze gonna have some fun before you die.”
Dareen felt anger rising as the Kesh guards left, their booted feet striking the stone and their echoes fading in the distance as the corridor gate was closed behind them. With a great effort, she gathered what spit she could and let it hurl at Grimer, her aim off a bit as it hit him on his cheek and ear.
“Why, you witch,” he said, wiping it off with his hands.
Dareen laughed, a high-pitched sound that elicited screams from several of the other cells. “I just cursed you, you fool. You’ll never please a woman ever again.”
Grimer scowled and then grabbed his crotch, holding it for a moment before walking to the water barrel and using a ladle to clean his face. When he was done, he turned to Dareen from across the corridor. “Oh, you’ll pray for death before I’m done with you, witch.”
Dareen wondered how true that would be.
Chapter 17
Oath
Bran opened his eyes and saw a familiar sight—the dull, overcast sky of the putrid swampland they had been traveling in for the better part of two days. The sun was still out somewhere, shining its diffused light and giving everything a sinister gloom. The air felt oppressive, and he struggled to breathe, trying to sit up at the same time.
“Come around now, have you?” Malik asked, moving to grab a water flask, and kneeling next to the man, he offered him a swig of water.
Bran left all pride behind and greedily drank, spilling a bit down his chin and onto his chest, past his tunic, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be away from this cursed land. “What happened?” he asked.
“Don’t feel bad about it, but you passed out,” Malik said, offering to help Bran sit up, which Bran accepted. “To be honest with you, I did the same thing on my first trip as well.”
“You mean you passed out?” Bran asked the younger man.
“Yes, out like a baby past midnight,” Malik said, stepping back to give the man some room to breathe. “Do you think you can stand?”
“Yes, but why bother?” Bran said.
“Well, for one thing, you may want to sit for a while first and don’t look into the water,” Malik said.
“Why?” Bran countered, looking around to get his bearings about him.
“It took months for my natural hair color to return. I suspect it will take the same for you, despite being older.”
Bran noticed the old tower in the near distance and realized they were on a small jut of land sticking out into the swampland from these ancient ruins. He got to his feet, only struggling once, and saw that Malik just looked away, putting the stopper back on the flask and slinging it on a bare branch at chest level.
Moving toward the first water he saw, Bran leaned over and looked at his pale reflection in the calm water. His hair was clearly white, well white or a very pale grey. He seemed to look much like his king Korwell did, except he was a full generation younger. Instinctively he moved a hand to brush his hair, not believing what his eyes were telling him. “When did this happen?”
“When the Lich got too close to you,” Malik said without turning to face the man, content to let him take this all in. “I think the creature does it on purpose, to make a lasting impression, either that or it’s entirely ignorant of its own powers.”
Bran stood, feeling for his sword, which was still sheathed and attached to his belt. “Where is the creature?”
Malik nodded toward the tower. “He’s waiting for us still.”
“What do you mean waiting?”
“We had barely begun when you lost consciousness. He has instructions for you.”
Bran turned finally and felt for his own sword, adjusting his belt slightly in the process. “No,” Bran stated firmly, “I don’t wish to see that thing again.”
“Understood, Captain, but you must understand that it knows things, things that can help us,” Malik said, spreading his legs and taking an adversarial stance that brought dread to Bran’s soul.
“You intend to ensure that I talk with it again, don’t you?” Bran asked.
“Yes,” Malik said simply. “Not that you talked with it at all yet, but you must speak with it. This must be done.”
“And if I refuse?” Bran asked.
“Then I’ll be forced to make you speak with it,” Malik said, his voice sounding stern.
“How?” Bran allowed his hand to rest on his sword hilt, which Malik clearly saw and seemed to expect.
Malik allowed his own hand to rest on his sword hilt, but he made a clinking sound as he took the dull metallic wrist bracer that he wore and allowed it to rhythmically tap the top of his sheathed sword hilt. “By force, if necessary.”
“Those are new.” Bran stated the obvious.
“Yes,” Malik said, continuing to tap, “they are a gift from Azor, the creature.”
“So now you use the creature’s name, accept its gift, and do its bidding?” Bran asked, contempt in his voice but concern evident on his face.
Malik tried a softer approach. “The creature has knowledge. It can show you what your heart desires most. Let it speak with you once, and then decide.”
Bran looked from bracer to bracer. They were strapped on by strong leather buckles, protecting the wrists and acting as a glove, but the fingers were free, like a glove that had that part cut off so that gripping a sword hilt or pulling on a bow would be an easy task. The metal was dull and did not shine nor gleam in the
pale light. There was a dull, ebony stone on the back of each one in the exact center of where the back of Malik’s hands were located.
Bran looked back to Malik’s face. “What do they do?”
Malik stopped his tapping and brought his hands up in front of him, turning them front to back and then front again, admiring the bracers. “They do several things, but primarily they provide the wearer with incredible strength and speed.”
“Well, if that just isn’t great,” Bran said, shaking his head and looking down before resuming his complaint, “as if you aren’t strong enough already.”
“The creature is wise. It knows you are the better swordsman,” Malik said.
“Barely,” Bran answered, “and you are the better bowman.”
“Correct,” Malik said, placing his hands on his hips and looking at Bran closely. “They were promised to me if I brought you to the creature, and they appear to be needed to ensure that you don’t leave without speaking to it.”
“You knew you would bring me here?” Bran asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
“Not exactly you,” Malik explained, “but someone of your stature or fighting prowess, able to lead an army if necessary. Things were just fortunate the way they worked out.”
“Fortunate for you,” Bran said, sighing.
“All right, if you can only see things that way.”
“Fine, why doesn’t the creature come here to speak with me?”
“It can’t,” Malik said, turning to retrieve their things and motioning toward the outer wall of the complex a stone throw away. “It is trapped in that tower for some reason.”
“Not reassuring,” Bran said, adjusting his own belt again and walking toward the tower. “Fine, I’ll speak with this creature of yours, and then I will leave or die in this swamp.”
“Agreed,” Malik said, and Bran wondered at which part of his statement the rebel scout was referring to.
The walk took only a couple of minutes, and Bran halted before the doorway, a pale light visible glowing from within.
“Come in, both of you,” the Lich said.
Bran looked at Malik who had led the way the first time, but now Malik seemed to be blocking the only egress from the complex, ensuring that the Ulathan captain had only one real choice in front of him. With a sigh, Bran stepped inside the tower for the second time that day and regretted every minute of it.
“What do you want, creature?” Bran asked as he felt Malik’s large body pushing up against his back.
The creature had its back turned to the men and the door as it fumbled with something on the far wall. It spoke without turning around. “My hands are not as nimble as they once were. A difficult thing it is now to open a mere pouch.”
The voice sounded distant but clear, and then the creature did turn around. It had a large leather pouch in one skeletal hand and a clear orb in its other. Bran cleared his throat, noticing a wooden pillar that stood about chest high in the center of the room. “I asked what you want of me?”
“Tsk, tsk,” the creature scolded the Ulathan commander. “No manners at all. First calling me a creature in my own abode and then assuming my most important business is with you alone.” A wave of evil seemed to literally wash over Bran, and he stifled the urge to vomit, blinking to keep his eyes steady and focused.
Bran watched as the creature shambled over to the center of the room and gently placed the orb in the large wooden depression so it sat protruding out, visible from any angle. Strong arms were laid on Bran’s shoulders as Malik gently but firmly moved Bran over to the pedestal. To Bran’s relief, he saw that the orb and stand would be between the creature and himself. He never thought such a small thing would be such a huge relief to a man such as himself.
“We’re losing the light. Let’s get on with it,” Malik said.
“Yes, you fear her servants too. A wise observation,” the Lich said, appearing to look past Bran with its red lifeless orbs that glowed, representing its eyes. Turning slightly to face Bran again, the creature waved a bony hand above the globe, finally settling it and mumbling words that were not decipherable.
“What is that?” Bran asked as the orb started to glow a dull white light and shapes started to coalesce inside it.
“This is a critir. A crystal ball, I believe those in your civilization call it, do you not?” the creature said.
“Yes,” Bran said, peering at the orb, somewhat mesmerized with the hypnotic glow from within. “We call it a crystal ball if it can see things . . . oh, and if a wizard uses it.”
“Very good, Captain,” the Lich said. “Now look into the orb and tell me what you see.”
Bran complied, not sure if it was willingly or if he was entranced and forced to do so. At first he saw only dim lights swirling within as if it were a living thing. Then he saw a shape standing next to a river. Slowly it took form, a figure facing him in a blue dress with a sword raised above her head. “Agon help me,” Bran said, making a sign of warding in front of him.
“Keep watching,” the creature said with its disembodied but commanding voice.
It was Bran’s wife, Salina, and she struck at a rope that appeared to be tied firmly to a tree, a dead Kesh soldier at her feet. The blow made Bran flush with pride, how she learned the ways of the sword when they first met decades ago, an excellent blow, severing the thickly braided rope with one fell swoop, despite her petite size. Then, to his horror, a Kesh-looking crossbow bolt struck her in her abdomen. She dropped her sword, clutching her wound that now started to seep and stain her beautiful blue dress a sickly red color.
“No!” Bran screamed, leaning forward, almost wanting to grab the orb, but strong hands gripped his own and kept them at bay. Salina turned pale, her eyes rolling back inside their sockets and her eyelids closing. As the orb faded, Bran could just make out his wife’s frail, petite body falling to the bank of the river. “What sorcery is this?” Bran demanded to know, struggling to free himself from Malik’s strong grip.
“Yes, you seem to understand death, now do you not?” the creature asked. Bran said nothing but did cease his struggle, and Malik loosened his grip as Bran’s hands lowered below the pedestal and orb. “What you see are things that were, things that are, and things that may be.”
“That makes no sense. I saw my wife shot with a Kesh bolt,” Bran said, anger now rising and pushing out his fear.
“Yes, and we do not know if that happened, is happening, or will happen. Do you understand, Bran Moross?” the Lich asked.
Bran nodded. “So what does this mean?”
“It means that there may still be time to save your wife. That was your wife, was it not?” the Lich asked.
Bran nodded again. “Yes, that was Salina, my wife, but I don’t recognize the place. It looked like a riverbank, and there are only two rivers near Korwell.”
“That is not important. What is important is that you understand that we have the same objectives in this fight. We fight the same foes; therefore, that makes us allies.” The Lich cocked its head slightly as if gauging Bran’s reaction.
Bran felt conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he felt fear and dread in the presence of this undead creature. On the other hand, he felt anger and revenge rise at the sight of his wife’s plight. The two were raging a war within the man, and he struggled to contain both of them. The Lich seemed to understand. “What do you want me to do?” Bran finally said, his voice subservient.
“Very good,” the creature said, and Bran swore it would smile if it could. “We need to do several things. I trust your memory is up to the task?”
“Go on,” Bran said, not commenting on the potential insult and simply wanting to learn what he had to do to save his wife.
“First,” the Lich said, turning to pace slowly in front of them and the orb, taking two or three steps and then turning to repeat the pacing in the other direction, “I must have a staff. Not any staff, but a wizard’s staff, a Kesh staff. Do you understand?”
The
creature looked at Bran, who nodded, and then the Lich continued. “Good. Second, we must have an army to counter her forces.”
“Whom are you referring to?” Bran asked, wondering which realm was led by a woman warrior, queen, or regent, and why they would have to fight. Every realm he could think of was led by a man.
“It is not important. What is important is that the soldiers must be well trained. Not the kind of brigands and raiders that my Kesh brothers have devolved into using,” the Lich said, turning its skull to face Bran as it continued its pacing.
“The army will defeat the Kesh first. That is what we agreed to, is it not?” Malik said, his voice icy cold as he finally released his grip on the Ulathan captain.
“Of course, my good servant,” the creature said, stopping its pacing and resuming its stance behind the orb.
“I thought you worked with the creature, not served it,” Bran asked, taking a moment to twist his neck and look behind him at Malik.
Malik took a step to the side so that the three could see one another better. “Servant?” Malik asked the Lich.
The creature twisted its head slightly. “Ah yes, a poor choice of words, a slip of the tongue, if I still had one.” The Lich chuckled, an evil sound that put goosebumps all over Bran’s skin.
Bran composed himself, eager to end the encounter. “Your third request.”
The Lich stopped its diabolical laughter, and its red eyes flared brightly as it leaned across the orb, filling Bran with dread. “Request is a quaint word for you to use. We are making an oath, Ulathan. Fulfill it or do not do so at your peril.”
Bran nodded, trying to lean back slightly. “Third?”
The Lich seemed to relax for a moment, returning to its normal posture. “My last request is that when you save your wife, you must bring her here to me for one last task, and then you are free of your vows.”
Bran frowned, feeling duped and stupid by the creature. “Why would you need my wife? What could she possible do that I can’t do?”
Dead Druid: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 2 (Ranger Series) Page 25
