This was not his chamber, nor was it any other part of the castle he could recognize. Though the walls were dark gray stone much like the castle's, they were rough and unpolished. There were no windows, and the only light in the room seemed to be coming through a doorway across from where Bokrham lay. He gave a weak grunt as he tried to make out what was beyond the doorway, but his eyes had trouble adjusting to the light. As his surroundings gradually faded into view, he could see a set of stout metal bars silhouetted against the flickering light of a torch in a hallway beyond. For as disoriented as he felt, the realization came fairly quickly—he was being held prisoner.
As a sick feeling settled over his body, Bokrham tried to remember what had happened. It was not difficult to recall, for he found the memories still vividly imprinted in his mind. He had forgotten himself, and let all his caution and doubts be drowned out by the lusts he had forced to lay dormant for far too long. Someone had been waiting for just such a moment, hoping to catch the usually vigilant Bokrham off his guard. Obviously, they had succeeded. Had it been Thilanea? Or had she been the unwitting aid in someone else's plan? For someone like Thilanea, whose life seemed an unending sequence of schemes and plots, the latter conclusion was unlikely. Gingerly, Bokrham tested the surface of his skull, but he found neither the swelling nor bruising that would result from a blow which could render him unconscious. It had not been brute force, then, which had so completely deprived him of his senses. It must have been something more subtle—more insidious. A weak poison, most likely; or some other concoction.
His heart heavy with guilt, Bokrham thought back to the many number of ways Thilanea might have caused him to ingest such a poison, so desperate had his hunger been for her body. He cursed himself for a fool. He had known Thilanea's methods of operation—Rekon's blood, he had encouraged her to use them for his own purposes on many occasions. What had made him think he would be safe from her tricks?
Though he felt the burning in his throat was a pain he deserved thrice-over, he nonetheless dragged his weary body to a sitting position, anxious to find a drink. To his relief he saw a small tin cup lying on the floor near the bars of the cell entrance. He shifted slowly to his knees and crawled over to the cup. In the torchlight, he could see the light reflect off something shiny in the vessel. Without stopping to smell or even taste the liquid within, Bokrham dumped the contents of the cup down his throat. The small measure of water soothed his aches for a moment, but then it seemed that his thirst, encouraged by the prospect of more liquid, increased a hundred-fold. Soon, he could feel blood pulsing in his neck and temples and dull pain began to grow behind his eyes as his body silently screamed for more water. Angrily, he banged the tin cup against the bars of the cell; again, and then again and again.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the shuffle of feet. A tall, thin figure appeared before him, obscured by a hooded robe. Bokrham could not recognize the man, nor did he care once he saw that the man carried a large pewter jug.
"Water," Bokrham managed to croak out through his cracked and swollen throat.
The hooded man reached through the bars for Bokrham's cup. Instinctively Bokrham began to reach for the man's arm, a plan forming in his head to bargain for his freedom with the threat of breaking this stranger's bones. But as his hands closed around the other's wrist, Bokrham realized that he could no more break the man's arm right now than snap the stout iron bars which held him captive. Instead, he merely gave the man's arm what he hoped would seem a weak squeeze of thanks as his other hand offered up his small tin cup.
As many times as Bokrham drained his cup and begged for another, the stranger obliged. When the jailer's jug was empty and the thudding in Bokrham's skull had subsided, he managed to ask the silent figure where he was, and what had become of him. In response, the man simply turned and walked away into the darkness. Bokrham was too tired to call out after him. Resigning himself to the fact that no explanation of what exactly had befallen him would be forthcoming, Bokrham lay back down on the straw in his cell and was asleep within seconds of his head coming to rest.
He awoke to the faint sound of footsteps shuffling by his cell. Years of war and conditioning brought him quickly to a crouch, though once on his feet he felt ill and unsteady. The torch on the wall opposite his cell had either burned down to nothing or had been put out, for Bokrham's cell and the corridor outside were completely black.
"I'm sorry, I did not mean to startle you," said a low voice in the darkness.
"Who's there?" asked Bokrham, his voice still hoarse, but stronger than it had been. There was a pause before the strange voice answered.
"The night warden."
"Oh," said Bokrham, slowly regaining his bearings. Hoping that this man would be more forthcoming than the last, he tried once more to ascertain what had happened to him. "Where am I?"
"In prison, of course," replied the warden. "I take it that you are a newcomer to this small corner of Esmoria."
"I don't belong here," said Bokrham. "Listen, this must be some mistake, I…I am the Lord Martial."
There was a long pause, but then the strange voice replied, "You'd be surprised how many folk in here say things like that. There is a man five cells down who claims he is a prince. Of course, princes do not usually sleep on straw."
"But it is true," protested Bokrham. "I am the Lord Martial. You would recognize me in the light, and even if you didn't there are hundreds in the city who would. Call upon Lord Edgmere, Lord Spondil, any Lord can vouch for my—"
"Lords don't usually listen to a simple warden's request. But it would be pointless anyway, for there is no Lord Martial anymore."
"What do you mean?" demanded Bokrham.
"Martial law has been repealed," said the warden, "The Blood Marsh has a new king."
Bokrham's heart jumped. "Did Kazick come back?"
The warden laughed. "Kazick!? Good grief, no. It's his cousin, or half-cousin, or something of the like. Used to be called Lord Dovorst. Now he's called King Dovorst."
"What!?" exploded Bokrham. "That scrawny swine! How could the people stand to see him crowned?"
"Well, it was the strangest thing, from what I hear," said the warden. "Mind you, I wasn't there myself. I seldom get out of these moldy corridors. But apparently Dovorst has a strong backing from the Church. The Sumpadri even sent his most trusted Alpadri to personally give the Church of Rekon's blessing at the coronation. When the people saw that the Church was behind Dovorst, they flocked to his banners."
"And the people, what do they think happened to me?" asked Bokrham.
"To you? Oh right…the 'Lord Martial.' He was condemned by the Church. Something about being too soft on the Curahshar. Apparently he ran off somewhere with his tail between his legs, nobody really knows. I don't think they care, either. There's a new head of the army now, a man called Shardon. He's become quite popular with both the public and the Church by tossing anyone with hint of sandy blood out of the city."
Bokrham was speechless. Dovorst on the throne? With the Church's blessing? Shardon at the helm of the Blood Marsh Army? There was no doubt who had orchestrated that. And the people, after all he had done for them, had turned on him in an instant. Anger, hopelessness, and betrayal flooded through Bokrham, but strangely he managed to keep his calm. For though his efforts for the past few years were now all for naught, he could not help but feel relieved.
"Thank you," he said, "for telling me. I…I need to rest now."
"Suit yourself," said the warden. "You won't be doing much else anytime soon."
Chapter 36: Xasho
When Xasho heard that two foreigners had been captured by a local clan along the nearby shores of the lake, he had wondered whether the incident was even worth investigating. They had recently come across the border from the Silver Mountains, and from the brief descriptions he had heard, neither sounded like a prince. Still, he had no better ideas and no other leads to follow, so he found himself traveling northward, into clan territories he had
not seen since he was a child. Though technically the northern clans were all honor-bound to the Grand Johalid, they had their own system of governance, with each clan presiding over small stretches of land. Though generally the clans were cooperative, and all Curahshar could expect to ride freely throughout the clan territories, disagreements had been known to break out. Such conflicts were like fights among kin—normally brief, but dangerously passionate.
It had been several days since Xasho, his progress slow and wandering, had left the true desert behind. The sands had given way to rocky soil slightly more hospitable to vegetable life. As he drew still closer to the waters of the great lake, he began to notice grass growing in cracks in the rock, and eventually found himself surrounded by small leafy bushes and large patches of the hardy white flower the locals called Djesin. Fresh water from the lake also brought with it an abundance of food, and by the time he finally could see the smoke rising from early evening cookfires in the village, he had passed several crops and orchards which were already heavy with the season's bounty.
It struck Xasho as odd that he had seen no one guarding or tending to their plantings. The orchards, in particular, were the primary source of fruit for the northern Curahshena region, and the exportation of dried apples, cherries, and pears was largely responsible for the relative wealth of the local tribes. The orchards were often at the heart of tribal land disputes, and were usually guarded jealously. However, as Xasho drew nearer to the village, he noticed that it was not just the orchards that seemed deserted, but that everything seemed unusually quiet and still.
An unsettling sense of foreboding began to creep into Xasho's mind as he took a closer look at his surroundings. Ahead, a wagon was left unattended. To either side of the path were baskets of newly picked fruit lying scattered and forgotten. People had been here recently, but they had left in a hurry, though Xasho could find no clues as to why. Then, Xasho's eyes fell upon something far more ominous—a body lying sprawled on its back in the grass on the side of the road, limp and unmoving. His horse pulled up short as it smelled what Xasho saw, and he decided that it would be best to continue on foot, and to try and stay as concealed as possible. Leaving his horse tethered to a stout bush so that it was partially obscured from view by the thick leaves and branches, Xasho made his way swiftly and quietly towards the body.
It was a boy, no more than twelve years of age, and as soon as Xasho got a good look at the child's face, its features slack and covered with flies, it became obvious that the boy was dead. Spots of red flecked the grass around the body, but Xasho could see no wound, nor other indication of how the boy might have died. Swatting the flies away from the corpse, Xasho gently rolled the boy over, and balked at what he saw. The ground underneath the boy was still soaked with the child's blood, stemming from three long and jagged wounds that traversed the boy's back. The force of the blow had gone through the skin, biting deep into the layers of muscle below.
Xasho quickly laid the child's body back down in the grass. The wound was fresh enough that whatever had caused it could still be nearby. Xasho had seen a similar wound once, on a man who had been mauled by a lion. But surely there were no lions this far north of the riverlands?
The sound of a scream, faint, but unmistakable echoed in the distance. It had come from the village. For a moment, Xasho hesitated, wondering whether he should just get back on his horse and ride away as fast as he could from whatever menace was plaguing this village. Then, he found himself running towards the commotion, each stride bringing him closer to the increasingly loud sounds of panic and struggle.
As he entered the town, he saw lifeless bodies strewn everywhere. Warriors half-armed for battle, women clutching large metal cooking utensils, and children, their eyes still wide with shock, all lay stiff and unmoving everywhere he looked. Some bore the same, horrible claw marks that he had seen earlier, others however bore signs of being hacked to death by the edge of sharpened steel. Still following the sounds, Xasho turned a corner and stopped, frozen by what he saw before him. This was evidently where the greatest of struggles had taken place, for many of the tribe's warriors lay dead or dying before him. Two men, or rather a single man and woman, remained, both looking exhausted and terrified as they crouched defensively, cornered by the most hideous creature Xasho had ever seen. Though strangely reminiscent of a man, the thing crouched on all fours, its scaly stone-gray skin glinting in the waning sunlight. Long tendrils extended from the creature's head, coiling and uncoiling in the air like long, thin sand vipers, and a horrible, gurgling whine seemed to be coming from a thin and toothy snout.
The cornered man was cradling his head, moaning in incoherent agony, while the woman, though much smaller and more delicate seeming than her companion, was clutching the man about the shoulders, her expression full of fear, but still coherent. The creature seemed to be taking its time, approaching the pair confidently but cautiously, as though choosing the best manner to finish off its prey. Xasho saw the sinewy muscles of the creature's rear legs tense, and all of a sudden it launched itself at the two figures before it with startling speed. The blow sent both humans backwards, their bodies thudding heavily into the dirt. The creature ignored the man, choosing instead the small woman, and looming over her prone form raised a large clawed paw for what Xasho knew would be a fatal blow. But as the claws fell, Xasho saw the man, clutching at his head, hurl himself at the creature, the full weight of his body knocking the creature off balance, and causing the swipe of the claw to fly wide. With a scream of anger, the creature rolled on the ground, gracefully coming up into another crouch and lashing out with its claws, this time at the man. He tried to dodge, but was not quick enough as the claws raked across his shoulder and chest, causing him to scream in agony and collapse in a heap on the ground.
The creature then turned its attention back to the woman, who was desperately trying to crawl, not away, but to the fallen body of her comrade. "Fezi!" she wailed, as she saw him writhe on the ground. As the creature advanced on the woman, who seemed momentarily oblivious to her peril, Xasho snapped out of the initial shock of the horror before him, and to his surprise he felt the familiar tingle of pain run along his forearms and his hands gripped the hilts of his blades. Then, just as the monstrous creature reared up for a final attack on the incapacitated pair, Xasho sprinted forth from where he had been watching, and swung both his blades in a wide arc, aiming for the creature's back. He braced himself for the pain he knew would erupt in him after such a strike, but though he felt the metal of his blades bite deep into the grayish flesh of the creature, there was no discomfort, no jarring backlash of pain.
The creature roared in agony and surprise, turning on Xasho in a fury. As it did so, Xasho could see that the thing was actually wearing some type of harness, with large leather blinders covering its eyes. What type of man keeps a beast like this? thought Xasho, as the creature swiped angrily at him, its large hooked claws hurtling towards Xasho's head. But the beast was not quick enough, and Xasho ducked under the swipe and buried his daggers once again in the beast's exposed torso. A horrible, guttural howl erupted from the creature's snout, and it suddenly took several frenzied steps back from Xasho. Something in the air seemed to shift, and Xasho heard the man on the ground begin to scream again. Something in Xasho too, seemed to tug at his thoughts, and he felt as if he should be feeling something, but could not. He was too wrapped up in the song of his blades, and he could sense only the steel in his hands and the rush of danger coursing through him. After a few moments, for reasons Xasho did not understand, the creature gave a frustrated shriek and turned its back on the humans. Without another sound, it sped off into the distance, lost from sight within seconds against the rapidly approaching darkness.
When Xasho sheathed his blades and felt the rush of battle slowly ebb from his body, he saw the small woman kneeling over the limp body of her companion, anxiously shaking him and calling out his name. When Xasho approached, she looked up at him, her eyes filled with a wild despera
tion.
"His wounds need to be bound quickly, he is losing too much blood! Find something to use for bandages, quick!"
Xasho obeyed without thinking, a single glance at the man's pallid features telling him there was not a second to be lost. He went to the body of a fallen woman, the handle of a broomstick still clutched firmly in her hands. She had worn a long white smock at the time of the attack, now streaked with blood and dirt. Xasho tore off the cleanest patch of material he could find and rushed over to where the injured man lay.
Tears were in the small woman's eyes as she quickly pressed some of the cloth into the wound, but her hands were steady as she used the rest of the cloth to wrap the man's shoulder in a bandage and tie it tight. Though the man did not make a sound, his chest still rose and fell perceptibly, and occasionally his eyes seemed to wince in pain.
The woman looked over the bandages worriedly, and Xasho saw that the muddy white cloth had already taken on a crimson hue.
"We need clean water, and a better dressing," said the woman sharply, "Is there some place you can take us? Some place clean and out of sight?"
"I don't know…" said Xasho, taken aback. "I've never been here before. I only just arrived when I saw a dead body, heard someone screaming, and saw you—"
"Nevermind that," interrupted the woman. "We need to get out of here, to some place safe. The gröljum, all of them, will know what has just happened, and it won't be long before Tobin hears about it from them, if he hasn't already. Do you have a horse?"
"I left it tethered not far from here," answered Xasho, pointing faintly in the direction of his mount. He had no idea what the woman was talking about, and he wasn't sure he wanted to get himself involved. These were foreigners after all, and if the villagers hadn't all been dead, or at least hidden, he might have helped them drive these two out of the drylands, or worse. He had saved them from that awful creature, but he hadn't volunteered to aid them further.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 36
