Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  The guards moved on both sides of him, and though Morticai knew he could not hope to escape, he could not help but struggle as they pulled him toward the blood-covered platform and the chains which hung down to it. It wasn’t until they had dragged him onto it that he saw the symbol of Droka that was graven into it.

  “No!” The cry escaped his lips even as the other two guards joined in, holding him face down, on the platform.

  They pulled him to his knees and released him, but he found that he could not move. He lay there, panting like a trapped animal, as the armored shapes moved around him. He discovered that it was his legs that he could not move—the irons he had glimpsed as he had been dragged onto the platform now securely held his lower legs, just below the knees, and at the ankles.

  He managed to turn his head from right to left, but he immediately turned it back from the pain Luthekar backhanded blow had left behind. He felt the guards unfastening the ropes from about his arms; fleeting thoughts of escape danced uselessly through his head. Even if his legs had been free and usable, his arms were so numb as to be useless in a fight, or even to open a door.

  They quickly pulled his arms above his head. Two guards pinned each arm as the shackles that hung from the ceiling were lowered. Another cry escaped him as the shackles were affixed. Pain burst through the numbness to run down his arms as the short spikes affixed within the shackles pierced his wrists. The room momentarily blackened. Small rivulets of blood trickled slowly down his arms.

  When his dizziness had subsided, he found himself completely immobile. His knees, on the platform, were about a foot apart, and his lower legs were securely fastened to the platform. His arms stretched taut, up and out toward the ceiling, with his wrists about three feet apart. He tried to look up at his wrists, but the dizziness rushed in until he had to close his eyes to stop it.

  When he reopened his eyes, he found himself looking into Luthekar’s cold gaze. Other people moved behind the prince. Morticai realized that they all wore Droken robes. Although some wore the usual black he was familiar with, others wore solid red, and yet others had one color or another embroidered about the hem of their robes.

  A red-robed figure came to stand next to Luthekar. When he spoke, Morticai remembered that it was Ellenwood who wore the red robe with the black and gold trim.

  “Cwena has arrived,” Ellenwood said to Luthekar.

  Looking away from Morticai, Luthekar replied, “Good. Bring her in.” Luthekar turned back to Morticai. “I have someone for you to meet.”

  A green eyed, red haired woman came into Morticai’s field of vision.

  “Is this he?” she asked, demurely.

  “Yes, Cwena,” Luthekar said. “I’d like to introduce you to our Northmarch thief, Morticai. Thief, I’d like you to meet Cwena, one of our most faithful, if young, jevanos.”

  She smiled seductively at him. Morticai felt his stomach knot up in fear.

  “He’s kinda’ cute,” she said. “Wearing him might be fun … for a while.”

  “Remember, Cwena,” Luthekar admonished gently, “that it is very important that we keep all of his information intact, so you must leave his soul in place. I want you to feed, but do so carefully. Did the High Priest tell you what information we are seeking?”

  The redhead sighed. “Yes, he told me. You want me to feed now?”

  “Yes. The entire temple could be in danger, and we do not know how much time we have. So be quick, but be careful.”

  Morticai’s breath came in quick, shallow gulps. Despite his immobility, he found that his arms could still tremble, and as she slowly approached him, he fought back the urge to scream. Stupid, stupid, he reproached himself. Oh, Glawres, why didn’t I send a note to Nelerek, as well?

  She came up close, in front of him and caught his head between her hands with an unnatural strength. Morticai felt a sickly warmth gather about him, followed by a strange, revolting alien thought that wormed its way in to touch his inner self. He couldn’t hold back the scream that exploded from deep within him.

  * * *

  Morticai’s eyes slowly unglazed. He was still shackled in place upon the platform. His body was drenched in sweat—or was it blood? He didn’t know. At first, he couldn’t hold his head up. Sounds began to filter into his consciousness. Finally, he found the strength to look up.

  A few feet away, Luthekar held Cwena in his arms, and the red-robed Ellenwood knelt before her. Could her assault on his mind have somehow hurt the wicked thing? Luthekar looked over at Morticai and studied him with an odd look of curiosity in his eyes. Cwena stirred, as though she was awakening from sleep. The jevano sat up and looked at Luthekar, then at Morticai. After a moment’s study, she spat at the Northmarcher.

  “Did you learn anything?” Luthekar asked.

  She looked down and closed her eyes a moment before replying. “Yes, but very little. His mind is fear, chaos, madness.”

  “What did you learn?” Ellenwood demanded.

  When she looked back at Morticai, he could see the hatred that burned in her eyes. “He is working with the Inquisition, but no one knew his whereabouts tonight.”

  “Thank Droka!” Ellenwood exclaimed.

  Morticai blinked in surprise. He had hoped that he could hide the truth from her and had concentrated on the fact that, as far as he knew, Rylan still hadn’t received word of where he was. Apparently, his gambit had worked. The only problem was that it was true—he didn’t know why Rylan wasn’t here yet. If Rylan didn’t show up soon, it probably wouldn’t matter. There was nothing left for him to do.

  “What else?” Luthekar asked Cwena.

  The jevano seemed to be thinking, remembering, as though it were a thought from long ago. Finally, she replied. “He did not know about the temple. He did not know that you,” she nodded to Ellenwood, “were the High Priest.”

  Ah, that’s what the red robe with the black and gold means, Morticai thought.

  “He worships Glawres,” Cwena spoke the name distastefully. “And he is an Arluthian.”

  Morticai said, “She lies!”

  “I doubt it,” Luthekar said. His cold smile returned.

  Glawres, what did they learn from me? Morticai thought. He stifled a sob. He knew that he could not deny what she had plucked from his mind, knew that they would believe her.

  Luthekar knelt down before Morticai, pulled aside his ripped jacket, and picked up the symbol of Glawres that hung around the Northmarcher’s neck. “So,” he said, “you serve two masters, then.”

  “Arluthes is not a god,” Morticai replied.

  Luthekar raised an eyebrow. “Truly?” he said. “There are Arluthians who would argue the point.” He broke the talisman’s cord with one quick pull, and then, turning back to Cwena, he asked, “Did you learn what rank he holds?”

  Morticai took in a sharp breath.

  “No,” she answered.

  Morticai released the breath. It was small comfort, but comfort, nonetheless.

  “We should let her feed again,” Ellenwood said.

  “No!” Cwena cried. She flinched at the look Ellenwood gave her. “I … I am sorry, Your Eminence. I meant no disrespect. I simply doubt that I could learn more.”

  “I agree with her,” Luthekar said. “No, you need not feed again, Cwena. You may leave us now.”

  Morticai sighed with relief. Cwena left quickly, as though she, too, were relieved.

  Luthekar turned to Ellenwood. “You must be gentle with her—she is still very young. When she has been a jevano for a few centuries she will become a great asset to us. But until then, her skills must be honed slowly. You took your last jevano for granted—now that he’s been killed you must be patient until Cwena can master her abilities. Besides,” the prince added, turning again to Morticai, “now we know that we are not limited to a few hours with our thief, here.”

  Ellenwo
od came over to Luthekar. “I presume you have something in mind?” he asked.

  Luthekar walked slowly around Morticai. Morticai reflexively tensed as he passed slowly behind him, out of his view. When he had come full circle, he stood with his hands on his hips, in apparent thought.

  Morticai licked his dry lips, wishing they would get it over with.

  Luthekar unfastened his dagger and drew it from its sheath. Morticai stiffened; Luthekar casually slipped the dagger under Morticai’s shirt, ran it up the front, and pulled the shirt open.

  “This is something I wanted to look at,” Luthekar said, gesturing for Ellenwood. “Hmm. See? You can tell by the scar—they cauterized it.” He pointed at the wound Morticai had received from Ducledha.

  “But,” Ellenwood said, “they should not have had time to cauterize it. Correct?”

  “Correct. As I suspected, he could not have survived without help.” Luthekar tapped the medallion of Glawres he held in his hand.

  “Glawres?” Ellenwood asked, surprised.

  The Dark Prince looked at Morticai thoughtfully. “Have you ever performed a Ritual of Retribution?” Luthekar asked Ellenwood.

  “No,” Ellenwood replied. “We have never before been able to lay hands on anyone who was worthy of it. The Ritual of Retribution is rather long, isn’t it?”

  Morticai blinked and tried to follow their conversation.

  Luthekar shrugged. “It lasts three days.” He smiled. “And perhaps, during that time, we might learn some things about the Inquisition, or perhaps, the Arluthians.”

  Ellenwood’s red hood nodded, “We might, indeed.”

  “I think you will find it good for your congregation. It stirs one’s faith to see what is done to such an anathema.”

  “I must read up on it, I fear.”

  “Do not worry, I will help you with it. I know this is a rare ritual here, but in Cuthaun at least one is performed each year.”

  “It would be an honor, Prince Luthekar.”

  Luthekar came close. Morticai tried his best to stare back defiantly.

  “I want you to think very carefully, Arluthian,” Luthekar said. “Tonight, you shall be allowed rest, but starting tomorrow night, you shall wish that you had allowed Cwena to take both your mind and soul. I do not expect you to talk with me tonight. That will be better saved for tomorrow night, or perhaps the day after, once you’ve had a taste of how you shall die. I will allow you a choice, however. If you give me the information I am seeking, I shall make your death as painless as the Ritual allows. If not …”

  Morticai spat in Luthekar’s face. Luthekar’s eyes narrowed. With his jaw set, he wiped it away. His muscles flexed in anger as he slowly drew his hand back and repaid Morticai with another backhand, given full force. Morticai’s world filled with blackness.

  * * *

  The doorkeeper at the Hilltop Tavern greeted Rylan and Geradon with a pleasant smile.

  “Good evenin’ mates!” he hailed. “Do ye need a lamp or would ye be joinin’ the evenin’s entertainment?”

  He gestured to the side door that led into the tavern; lively singing could be heard from the other side.

  Rylan returned the smile. “I am afraid we must take a lamp, my friend,” he said. “We have much to do on the morrow.”

  Nodding, the doorkeeper quickly lit a lamp and handed it to the waiting Geradon.

  “Ah, well, then I wish ye a good night’s sleep, mates.”

  “Thank you,” Rylan replied as they headed upstairs to their room.

  “Locguard accent?” Geradon asked when they were beyond the doorkeeper’s hearing.

  “Correct, almost,” Rylan replied, pleased.

  “Almost!” Geradon exclaimed. “How can it be ‘almost’?”

  “There was something else there, as well. Can you tell me what it was?”

  They climbed several steps without conversation.

  “Are you referring to his usage of ‘mate’?” Geradon finally asked.

  “Indeed! Locguardians rarely use the term; however, here in Watchaven it is quite common. So either the man picked it up from living here, or perhaps one of his parents came from here and one from Locguard. Geradon, I do believe that in a year or so you shall be fairly good at distinguishing accents.”

  They had reached their door. Geradon held the lamp up as Rylan unlocked it.

  “Then,” Rylan whispered, “once you have learned to distinguish human accents I shall teach you how to distinguish corryn accents.”

  Geradon grimaced, but Rylan didn’t notice. Turning to Geradon, he placed a finger to his lips, reminding him to be quiet. Geradon nodded and handed the lamp to Rylan, who was now in the lead. Rylan turned the lamp down and cautiously entered the room, heading for the door that led into their bedroom.

  “He’s not here,” Geradon suddenly announced.

  “What?” Rylan asked, turning the lamp up.

  The door to Morticai’s room stood open. The bed still made. A note lay in the middle of Rylan’s worktable.

  “What a waste of paper,” Geradon muttered, before reading it aloud. “‘Have gone out. Should be back by morning. M.’ Good gods, who taught him to write?”

  Rylan came and looked over his shoulder.

  “Hm. Considering his background, you should be surprised he can write. And I would wager that he did not learn how in a Sanctum.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Geradon grudgingly agreed. “But he could have told us more. ‘Should be back by morning.’ Now that is a lot of information!”

  Rylan scowled. “I agree. The city is far too dangerous now for him to be about at night.”

  “And don’t forget,” Geradon said, “King Almgren had no idea who issued the order to have Morticai detained. The king may have rescinded the order, but we have no guarantee that whoever issued it will not issue another.”

  “You are correct, of course, Geradon. Do not worry, I shall speak with Morticai about it first thing on the morrow.”

  * * *

  Morticai awoke with an involuntary moan on his lips. The temple was deserted, and the tall candles stood several inches shorter than he last remembered. His entire body ached, his head pounded, his shoulders occasionally spasmed, and his arms were painfully numb. He was certain that, had the chains not been holding him upright, he would have been too weak to do so alone.

  He slowly tilted his head back to look at his wrists, which were stretched above him. They had quit bleeding, and only an occasional throb penetrated the numbness to remind him of the spikes. One thing was certain—he wouldn’t be slipping his hands through those manacles.

  He found that by grabbing the chains above the manacles he could relieve a little of the pressure. Then he discovered that he could rotate his arms slightly at the shoulders; at least the chains would allow that much. It seemed to help awaken his arms, so he slowly turned his impaled wrists back and forth, gritting his teeth until his eyes were filled with tears. Finally he was assured that, should they lower his arms for some reason, he would not find them totally useless.

  He carefully surveyed the rest of the temple. Everywhere he looked, he saw carved pictures of Droka. It wasn’t until Morticai spotted Glawres’s likeness that he realized the scenes were of Droka fighting the Levani. He scrutinized the scene with Glawres and finally determined that Droka was supposedly drowning Glawres, the patron Levani of water and the sea. As if! Morticai thought.

  The only doors he could see were the huge golden doors he faced. He knew they had brought him in through a smaller door, somewhere behind him, but he could not turn his head enough to see it; besides, the effort increased the pounding in his head. He was glad that he could not see the large idol of Droka that stood behind him—the bas-relief carvings were depressing enough.

  Morticai sighed. There was no way to escape his bonds. Had he been able to s
lip his wrists through the manacles, he could have reached the small pick sewn into the hem of his pants—assuming it was still there. No, his only hope of escape would depend on the Droken unchaining his wrists, which seemed unlikely. Perhaps they would let him eat a last meal?

  The likelihood of rescue seemed even more doubtful. Morticai cursed himself for not having told Nelerek his plans. At the time it had seemed too much of a bother. Heather would miss him in the morning, and she would certainly tell Nelerek. By now, he had to assume that his note had not reached Rylan. If that was the case, the Inquisitor would also miss him by morning, but he might or might not tell Coryden. There was a chance that Nelerek would remember that he’d mentioned Ellenwood’s estate at their last meeting—a chance. Again and again, Morticai turned the thoughts over in his head. His emotions swung like a pendulum from meager hope to despair and back, over and over.

  His arms began to go numb again. Taking a deep breath, Morticai again grabbed the chains and began to twist his arms awake. He felt a small trickle of blood run down his right forearm. He found himself wondering if he could commit suicide by twisting his wrists inside the manacles, and then quickly pushed the thought from his mind. The trickle was small, and he realized that it would be close to impossible to move his wrists enough to catch a vein. He thought about the slaughtered cows that they put on hooks in the market, and then he shoved that thought away, too.

  White specks danced before his eyes. He blinked, realizing that they had not come from within his weary mind. He looked to the ceiling, scrutinizing the anchors that held his chains. He twisted the chain again … and was rewarded by a few more specks of dust that drifted past him to the floor.

  Morticai twisted harder and, this time, he pulled. His effort, however, was rewarded with a searing agony that shot down from his wrist, eliciting an unwanted cry and plunging him close to unconsciousness. He gasped in ragged breaths as the pain slowly ebbed. Fortunately, his cry seemed not to have been heard by any guards—he assumed that some were posted outside the doors.