At this point, Raylan entered the chaos. He grabbed the arm of one of Sebastian’s attackers as the man drew it back for a punch. A quick blow in his kidney and an elbow to the face slammed the man onto the floor.
A fist hit Raylan on the back of his head. He turned around just in time to see a wooden chair flying toward him. He dove out of the way, only to crash into Sebastian, who in turn tumbled over the man he had been fighting.
The brawl escalated into mayhem as others were accidentally pulled into the fight. Punches flew back and forth, with no clear winners. Tables were toppled; bottles and mugs flew through the air.
From the sidelines the man called Brenton calmly drank his ale, observing Raylan and his friends handling the group of attackers.
In the corner stood the squad’s weapons, yet none of them tried to reach them. This fight was not on enemy grounds; there was no need to kill the competition. And although Raylan could not agree with the harassers’ comments about his friends’ sexuality, he merely sought to stop the fighting. Raylan had no illusions that they were teaching them a lesson; he doubted it would have made any sense in their attackers’ drunken state.
Raylan punched his current opponent to the floor and turned to the next attacker.
Behind Raylan, the man who had started it all wiped the blood from his mouth and spat on the floor. His hand moved into his pocket and pulled something out that shimmered in the light of the inn’s oil lamps.
The knife was small, but sharp. Raylan pulled back a lanky blond-haired man—who had been trying to put Kevhin’s head in a lock under his arm—by the shoulders, unaware of the weapon that closed in behind him.
Just before the man thrust the knife forward, a stone plate smashed into pieces on the side of his head. The plate was not very thick, nor did it bring the man down.
The bloody-faced man turned around to face his unexpected attacker. Brenton leaned casually against the bar. The Talkarian merchant simply shrugged at him and smiled.
The man felt the side of his head and looked at the blood that stuck to his fingers. His face contorted in a turmoil of anger before he rushed forward, stabbing the knife toward Brenton’s stomach. Brenton dodged the attack, grabbing the back of the man’s head and slamming it forcefully onto the edge of the bar. The man slumped to the floor with a scream and grabbed his nose, now actively spurting blood. The knife fell to the floor. Brenton quickly picked it up and put it behind the bar.
“Thanks for that,” called Raylan, seeing Brenton put the knife away and realizing what had happened.
“No problem,” said Brenton. He leaned back and resumed his role as spectator.
Raylan turned to pull Sebastian up on his feet, but straight away they were both dragged back into the fight by two of the attacking group.
Suddenly, the door of the inn slammed open and two lightly armored men entered the poorly lit interior. Swords at their belts, they looked around the room and headed straight for Brenton when they spotted him, pushing others roughly to the side.
“Sir, city guards are on the way. Can I suggest we take our leave before they arrive?” said one.
Brenton nodded and downed the last of his ale just as Raylan slammed back-first into the bar next to the Talkarian merchant. Brenton stretched out a hand to help Raylan regain his footing and offered Raylan’s own mug of ale to him.
“Better take another swig before it goes to waste,” said Brenton, laughing. “I've got to go, and you probably should too.”
Raylan looked back at his friends, who were starting to get the upper hand.
“Not without them,” he replied with a grin. It felt good to blow off some steam. Nothing like a good honest fist fight to get the blood flowing—figuratively speaking.
“Fair enough. I hope you get things sorted. And about what you said earlier; back home, we always say, ‘those who don’t agree with orders either desert and die like cowards, or step up and lead themselves.’ If I may be so frank, you don’t seem like the cowering type to me.”
Raylan wanted to reply, but was pulled into the fight once more. By the time he was free to look back at the Talkarian sailor, Brenton was gone.
A few more people had left the inn now, trying to stay out of harm’s way. The added space gave them all room to think; the fight slowed down, and the jackals realized they had chewed off more than they could swallow. Rohan, Kevhin, Sebastian and Raylan were all still standing—albeit with a few bruises, and Rohan with a very large black eye. Half a dozen men lay spread across the floor. They were either out cold, or thought it wise not to bother getting back up.
With a bang, the inn’s door burst open. This time a dozen city guards pushed into the room. A large, dark-bearded man stepped into the aftermath of the scuffle, which immediately ceased to exist.
“Alright, that’s enough,” bellowed the man. “Those who were fighting can come with us. I’m only going to ask nicely once.”
For a moment, it looked like Kevhin was going to object that they were merely defending themselves. Thankfully, Raylan saw the archer swallow his words when he looked at the very large—and very serious-looking—city guard. The guard saw it as well.
“That’s what I thought. Take them. They can spend the night in lockup to sober up.”
Bronson lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of blood gushing out of his father’s neck was burned onto his retinas. His stomach turned. How could he have just stood there and done nothing? He did his best to recollect the events on the plaza, but so much from that day was hazy. He was better rested now, his mind slightly clearer, but his body still hurt. His legs and feet were the worst and he shuddered at the memory of the kzaktor beneath his skin. He had dreamed about it, too; sweaty, feverish nightmares in which that sadistic creep laughed at him as he screamed and screamed until his eyeballs bled.
He remembered the words he had repeated over and over. My life is yours. Even when his voice had broken, his mind continued to scream the words until it nearly broke as well. But he remembered his last thought, just before he passed out: he would choose death before his mind snapped. He would take back control over his own being, find his opportunity and deny the high general the satisfaction of breaking him.
Bronson grabbed a pillow and pressed it against his face. He screamed. His poor father. He hadn't deserved any of this. The King of Iron was not perfect, but he was a proud and just ruler.
Bronson screamed again. It felt like his mind crawled back from the edge of insanity every time he was allowed to rest, but it was a slow crawl. And every time the high general came in for a session, the road back to sanity was more difficult, a steeper hill to climb.
He cried into the pillow. He could only think of one thing; one thing to show that bastard he was still in control. He would have to await his moment, but when the time arrived, he would end his life. He would take back control and regain that which was taken from him.
The click of the door sent a shock through his body. Bronson froze, pillow still on his face.
Not again. Please, not again.
Bronson heard the metal hinges creak as the door opened and closed. Fear grasped his throat, his brave thoughts instantly forgotten. His breath rasped as he started to hyperventilate. Naively, he pulled the pillow closer to his face, like a shield protecting him from seeing anything bad. He remembered doing the same when he was a child; remembered thinking that if you did not see the bad, scary things, then perhaps they would not see you.
“Do you think he’s hiding from us?”
“I don’t know. If so, he’s not doing a very good job. Perhaps he’s trying to kill himself?”
“But you can’t do that with a pillow yourself, remember? We’ve tried.”
“I remember, but does he know that?”
“Perhaps we should ask him if he needs help?”
The strange conversation took Bronson’s attention away from his fear. Both voices had a deep, warm, melodious timbre that reminded him of his mother’s voice. His breathing
slowed, and after some effort he was able to relax his hands.
The bed moved. Someone sat on the mattress near his feet.
“Are you okay?”
Cautiously, Bronson lifted the pillow and glanced at the unfamiliar visitors. He was welcomed with the warming smiles of not one but two beautiful women. He blushed, immediately feeling foolish for his cowardly, childish behavior. The women were obviously twins, but distinguished themselves with their looks; something Bronson and his sister obviously never had trouble with. Both women had lovely dark brown hair. The one closest to him, on his bed, wore hers down, while the other had it bound in a long braided tail. They were clearly his senior, but by no more than half a decade, Bronson guessed.
“Ehhh,” he stammered, taken aback by the surprising company.
“He’s adorable, isn’t he, Lissa?” said the woman still standing. She put her boot on the foot of the bed and leaned toward him with her elbow on her knee. Bronson pushed himself upright against the head of the bed. The hairs on his arms rose as he looked at her. The warm voice did not match the look she gave at all—her copper eyes mocked him. She was dressed for battle. Heavy boots, tight pants, with greaves and tassets worn over them. Fine, low-cut chainmail and a pair of vambraces protected her upper body. Bronson was certain there would be a matching breastplate and pauldrons somewhere in the castle. A thin leather collar complemented the line of her neck; it held four tiny, black, diamond-shaped emblems.
Her sister wore the same emblem, but on her chest. Her attire was completely different, much more casual at first glance—but when Bronson looked closer, here too he could spot the different armored parts. Long tight pants with high leather boots. Tassets were hidden under the bottom part of a blue and brown leather dress that split down the front and held together tightly around the waist by a double belt. The top part looked like a leather armored corset, with a more flexible fabric running up her shoulders and largely covering her neck. Two large daggers hung from her belt.
“He’s taking a good look, isn’t he?” said the heavily armored woman.
“Don’t they all?”
One of the women pulled back the blanket, revealing Bronson’s fresh scars.
“Leave it to Corza to ruin a perfectly good body,” said the woman closest to him. “Perhaps we should take him with us. Would you like that, young prince?”
“Come on, speak up,” added the armored woman when Bronson did not make a sound. “Or did Corza already cut out your tongue?”
“Wh—who are you?” Bronson finally managed.
“Calissa,” spoke the woman on his bed.
“Taimila,” added the woman in armor.
“Do you work for him?”
“Him? Corza? Oh, honey, who would ever help someone as crude as that crawling weasel?” answered Calissa.
The woman bent forward and ran a warm hand over Bronson’s chest.
“Did he hurt you much?”
Bronson felt like a hare talking to two foxes.
“We can take you away from it all, if you want,” said the woman on his bed. “We just want to know why he’s so interested in you. What does he want?”
The prince looked from one to the other, confused. His head pounded from lack of sleep. It was like an alarm, warning him that the road back to the top of the hill of sanity had just become a very slippery slope. Could it be true? Was there something he could do? To make Corza stop? The man never asked anything from him. Did he? Not information, at least.
“I—I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
Calissa leaned closer, crawling along the bed toward him. The lines of her neck and breast swayed seductively with her movements. Bronson could not help but stare. He had his share of girls who were willing to present their appreciation to him, but none had ever moved like this. Her sweet scent reached his nose. Blood started to flow to lower parts of his body, making his headache worse. He dared not move. Calissa’s face lingered a mere inch away. Bronson involuntarily licked his dry lips, but there was no kiss to receive—not just yet. Calissa’s mouth passed his own. His heart raced at the sound of her whispered words.
“You can trust us, young prince. I’ll take care of you. Corza would not dare touch you under my wing. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to be close to me? Just tell us what the general wants.”
And he really did. He really wanted to trust her; more so to touch her. To have the chance to feel the warmth of this woman’s skin on his own, instead of the cold of a blade. To get a chance to heal, to wash away everything that had happened since his return to Tal’Kabur. Yet there was no answer present to satisfy the question. He looked past her at the woman in armor.
“Do not worry about Taimila. She doesn’t always agree with my choice in men, but she always comes around eventually. She has her needs, too. You’ll see. She can be quite…generous under that hard exterior.”
Bronson swallowed at the mental image the words called forth. But the real appeal was not the sexual insinuation; it was the promise to be taken out of there. Out of this room of horrors. To be free from his captor’s torments.
“I want to come with you. I really do, but I don’t know what to tell you,” he stammered. “He only cuts me and burns me. Does horrible things. But he never asks. Just does. Please, please take me away. Please don’t leave me.”
“Don’t play dumb,” Taimila broke in, but her sister sat up and quickly threw a glance over her shoulder.
“Dear, there has to be something,” resumed Calissa in honeyed tones. “Corza always tosses aside his toys after a day or two. If you’re still alive now—in this comfortable bed—it means he wants something from you. We just want to know what.”
“I told you, he doesn’t want anything—”
Taimila growled. She pushed Calissa aside, stepping forward as she drew her longsword and pointed it at Bronson’s throat.
“This isn’t working and we’re running out of time. Listen, boy. You will tell us what you know, or you’ll get a new breathing hole in that pretty little neck of yours.”
Bronson fought back tears of desperation. He would do anything to know what they wanted to hear. He opened his mouth and closed it again. It was useless. His hands grasped the sheets of his bed and stared at the tip of the sword. Inside, he laughed at himself. Here was the opportunity he had waited for. A way to end his life…only now he was too afraid to take it. Had he not been ready? Had the tiny spark of hope they gave him ruined his resolve?
Bronson called forth his anger. Thought of everything they had done. His sister’s betrothed, his father, their kingdom. It would be the push he needed. Not his desperation, not his fear, but his anger. The prince closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths, tightened his grip on the sheets, and threw himself forward.
The door slammed open. With the speed of a fleeing deer, Taimila pulled back her sword and sheathed it, stepping away from the bed.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Corza, hand on his Roc’turr.
Bronson, who sat upright—eyes still firmly closed, sheets clenched between his fists—looked up in surprise. His trembling hand moved to his throat, but there was no blood, no hole. No freedom. He had missed his chance.
Calissa casually stood up and adjusted her outfit.
“Corza, so nice to see you again. It’s been far too long.”
“Don’t play nice with me, serpent. What are you doing in this room? With him?”
“This here? We’re merely checking in to see how well you’re treating your plaything. You know, in case there’s something we can help with,” responded Calissa.
“That’s none of your business. And what did you do to the guards at the door?” sneered Corza. “Guards!”
“They were all too happy to let us through when we told them to stand aside. You always make them into such good listeners, you know, they listen to anyone that gives them an order. What you need to teach them is loyalty, like our own wordless shadows,” countered Taimila, referring to the Dar
kened under their command. “Come on, dear sister. I think it’s time we take our leave. Let’s see if we can take some of our lovelies and make ourselves useful. I’m sure we can speed up dealing with the unpleasantness in the mining city if we assist the high general’s forces there.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Corza through clenched teeth. “The town is already taken, and it’s only a matter of time before those hiding in the mines are cleared out.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” said Calissa, running her hand along Corza’s jawline. “It never hurts to help.”
The two women strolled past a fuming Corza. Half a dozen guards stormed into the room, only to swiftly move aside to let both leaders of the Darkened pass without obstruction. As the twins walked away, their voices carried through the hallway, gossiping like girls in their teens.
“Perhaps we’re not the only ones with a taste for young men,” mocked Calissa.
“Stop it. The thought of him using that thing at all is enough to make me hurl,” added her sister.
Behind them, Corza roared orders at the room. “You two, get him in his restraints! The rest of you, out!”
Bronson fought back as best he could, hitting, kicking, even biting. He kicked one of the men square in the jaw, but the impact was too soft to do any real damage. He wished he still had his energy and his swords. Things would be different then.
“Idiots! Don’t make me come over there and do it myself,” bellowed the high general.
A few well-placed punches knocked the air right out of Bronson's lungs. Corza panted from rage while the guards strapped Bronson to the rack, then shouted after them as they hurried away:
“From now on, no one is allowed into this room except myself. You hear me?”
He threw the door closed, changed his mind and reopened it.
“And find the two idiots on guard duty and execute them!”
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.
Wavebreaker Page 22
