"What?" Xasho sounded shocked by the notion, but Jeina found herself warming to the idea all the more as she thought about it. Suddenly, she was very aware of his arm about her, but instead of feeling entrapped, she felt oddly secure—almost comfortable.
"Come with us," she repeated, turning her head so she could make her plea face to face. "Please, come with me."
Chapter 49: Bokrham
Most days all that Bokrham could manage was a listless stare. Sometimes he would think of all that he had lost, and would decide for the hundredth time that everything truly important had been lost long before he had been thrown in this cell. At other times, he would think of what he had gained—a strange, completely ethereal notion that somewhere beyond the cold stone of his cell, a child of his was growing, and waiting to be born. It was a cruel joke life had played on him. The woman he had dearly loved, the woman who would have been a wholesome, caring mother had been denied her dream of carrying his child, their child. And now, Thilanea, the woman who had betrayed and undone him… Bokrham found he could barely stomach the idea. He had trusted Thilanea only to a point, for he knew she had a lust for power and designs of her own for obtaining it. But this? A child? Bokrham wondered whether that had been Thilanea's plan all along, or if it had been an unexpected effect of her larger design to remove him from power. It was ludicrous, but to Bokrham the distinction meant something, as if the latter were somehow more unforgivable.
Thilanea had betrayed him. The people of the Marsh had turned their backs on him in an instant, along with his newly made father-in-law and wife. It was the power, Bokrham reflected, that had undone him. The higher he had risen, the number of people he could truly trust had dwindled proportionally. How had Vichtor done it? How had Vichtor won such love and dedication from his people that, though they had abandoned Bokrham in an instant, had spent years searching for Vichtor's son before they gave him up for dead? Part of Bokrham wanted to think it was because Vichtor had been the better man, that the people could see in Vichtor all that a ruler should be—regal, composed, powerful, an epitome of honor, wisdom, and justice. But then Bokrham would remember his conversation with Helster Jogan, about Zadain's Ashes and the plague of Hesa's Crown, and his long held perception of Vichtor would waver slightly. Years of war had numbed Bokrham to the sight of the realm's enemies dying on the field of battle, but something in Vichtor and Jogan's scheme made Bokrham feel hollow inside. The feeling only worsened when Bokrham considered that he himself had been willing to continue, for his own purposes, that unnatural and somehow shameful form of warfare. Indeed, there were moments when Bokrham reflected on how far he had strayed from his inauspicious, but docile, days as a woodcutter that made him wonder if the world was better off for his being in a cell. When plagued with such thoughts, Bokrham found it a great challenge to convince himself that he should not just assume the responsibilities he was sure would eventually be assigned to the headsman. But before the last of Bokrham's soul was drowned in his maelstroms of despair and self-loathing, he was saved by the unexpected reappearance of the night warden.
"You?" he breathed, on the night he heard the warden cough softly outside his cell. "Where did you…the Head Warden almost had me believe you nothing but a vision, a product of my own madness. Can it really be you, or have I…"
"Shh," hissed the night warden, "keep your voice to a whisper. Yes, it is I." Though the pitch and quality of the night warden's voice were unmistakable, something about his tone seemed wholly different from what Bokrham could remember.
"How is it that you still have your tongue?" Bokrham asked, whispering the question that had been troubling him for some time.
"You still have your tongue, do you not?" replied the warden.
"Yes, but I am not a warden, I am a prisoner."
"As am I."
"You are…a prisoner?" asked Bokrham, confused. "But, that cannot be. You wander the cells freely, you have news from the outside world."
"Had you not been intent on snapping his bones in half, you might have discovered that James, our jailer, is quite a decent, and I might add intelligent fellow. His tongue is cut out, yes, but he was born into a noble family. This job was offered to him as an alternative to being a guest on the headsman's platform, apparently. He still harbors some resentment. Anyhow, he can read and write. As any man would, he gets lonely, and I have had many conversations with James with the aid of a piece of chalk, and the stones that surround us. He trusts me, and often leaves my cell door unlocked to allow me some exercise at night."
"But then why lie to me?" asked Bokrham. "Why pretend to be a warden?"
Bokrham's question was met with silence. When the man who had called himself the night warden spoke again, his tone was icy.
"What I tell you is against my better judgment, so do not interrupt me. If you do, you will never see me again, understood?"
The thinly-veiled hostility in the man's voice startled Bokrham. He wanted to ask, to find out what he had said to merit such a reaction, but the idea of losing the only companion of sorts left to him kept him silent. The man sighed, as if he could not believe what he was about to say, but then began:
"I leave tonight. An escape I have fashioned is ready. As far as I know, you are the only other prisoner in these cells, and though by all rights I should leave you here to rot for what you have done to me, I offer you this chance at freedom in exchange for your solemn promise that when we have left the walls of this cursed city behind us, you will find a ship, procure your passage by whatever means necessary, sail as far away from here as you are able, and never…never," he emphasized, "return."
A torrent of confusion flooded Bokrham's mind. Escape? Who was this man? And how could Bokrham possibly have wronged him so that he would extract such a promise? But ultimately the choice was an easy one. Bokrham had hardly anything left for him in the Blood Marsh. Had the choice been entirely his, he might have left its muddy rivers behind anyway. Perhaps he could start again. A simple existence on a distant shore where neither swords nor crowns existed, with folk whom he could truly trust.
"Done," said Bokrham. "Though I swear I do not know what I have done to—"
The night warden, or whoever this man was, held up his hand for silence. "No more," he commanded. "Be silent before I change my mind. Just follow me, and pray we have enough time to make it far, far away before our escape is discovered." So saying, the warden produced a key, and a moment later the door to Bokrham's cell, for the first time in months, swung slowly open.
The night warden had spoken true. Though they passed dozens of cells making their way through the dungeon, not one was occupied by another human being. As they continued on, the torches which provided what little light there was in the cells either did not exist, or were no longer lit, and Bokrham had to feel his way forward with his hands. From the absolute darkness, and the many spiderwebs that Bokrham could feel brush his face as they walked, he could tell that this area of the dungeon had long been out of use.
Bokrham's mind was filled with questions, but he dare not ask any, lest the warden make good on his threat and leave Bokrham behind. Had the man actually dug a passage leading beyond the walls? If so, Bokrham worried that the warden had not accounted for Bokrham's size. The night warden was of middling height, and seemed to be all bone and sinew. Any passage he had crafted himself would not likely fit a man of Bokrham's stature. Lost in thought, Bokrham's hand rose instinctively to pat the paunch on his stomach. It had become an almost habitual gesture in recent years, and often accompanied by a promise to himself that he would find some time to revisit his soldier's training regimen. However, this time he found there was barely any paunch left to pat. It wasn't exactly surprising given how little he had been fed in this prison, but it had been a long time since Bokrham had even given a thought to his appearance. How long had the night warden been down in these cells? he wondered, and how much had the man's appearance changed as a result? It was a sobering thought, and suddenly Bokrham began to doubt t
he wisdom of following this man in the dark. What if the warden was someone Bokrham had dealt with in the past? A criminal he had condemned to prison, or political rival Thilanea had locked away in her zealous pursuit of Bokrham's rise to power?
"Here," breathed the night warden just as Bokrham began weighing his options in case the man should suddenly attack. The walls of the hall in which they had stopped felt little different than any so far, although Bokrham could swear that they seemed cooler to the touch.
"I have carved away nearly all the mortar which holds several large stone blocks just ahead. With your aid, we should be able dislodge them completely."
"And then?" asked Bokrham, confused. He had expected a tunnel of some sort, not merely some loosened stones.
"Then we will begin the climb."
"Is there a ladder concealed behind—" began Bokrham, but he was cut short.
"Just push," said the night warden.
Bokrham stood still for an instant. Was this some sort of trap? His training as a solder told him it probably was, but then he realized that it didn't really matter. He had been trapped from the beginning. He could take this chance at freedom, or he could rot in his cell for the rest of his life.
"Where?" Bokrham asked.
"Stand beside me, and do as I do," replied the warden. Together they braced their shoulders against the adjacent wall and pushed. At first, nothing happened. This section of wall seemed as solid as all the rest, and Bokrham's heart sank.
"It's not moving," he grunted.
"It will move," said the warden, resolutely. "I will have my freedom from this prison." So saying the man threw his weight against the wall once more and struggled mightily. "Help me push!" he cried, "What strength I have will not last long."
But though Bokrham dug his heels into the ground and pressed his shoulder to the wall, the pair only succeeded in further loosening some mortar from the cracks between the stone. At last they fell to the floor, panting.
"So much for the fabled strength of Lord Bokrham," wheezed the night warden, dejected. "It seems even that has been taken from you."
Anger and shame flared inside Bokrham. His physical strength was something that had always been there for him when he had nothing else. For better or worse, it had set him apart from other men all his life, and he had grown used to living with the confidence such strength brought. Now, had even that failed him? Would his limbs, like the men and women of his kingdom, betray him when he needed them most? A new energy surged though Bokrham, and, without warning, he began to throw himself against the stone, charging again and again until he began to hear the stone squeal in protest. More than once Bokrham heard a sickening crunch in his shoulder, but he was beyond pain as his frustration and anger took hold of him. Dust and mortar began to fly in all directions, and soon the stones were shuddering with each blow from the Lord's large frame.
"It's working!" exclaimed the warden, his voice cracking with excitement. "But be careful! Once the stone falls there will be nothing to—"
His voice was drowned by a loud groan as the wall before Bokrham began to tilt outward. Small cracks of light appeared, and all of a sudden Bokrham saw the wall fall away; not just crumble and fall to the ground, as he had imagined it would, but completely fall away into nothingness. Light poured into the hallway, blinding him momentarily as his eyes, unaccustomed to the day, shut in pain. It was a few moments before Bokrham, squinting, could see that it was raining, and that there was no ground outside to speak of, at least not straight ahead. Creeping toward the hole he had just made, Bokrham was shocked to find that they were not, as he had assumed, below the ground, but rather in a stone tower, high above the treeline. There was only one such tower Bokrham knew of, and that was only used for… The realization hit him like the stone he had just shoved to the ground. He knew who the night warden was.
But shocking as that revelation was, it did not linger in Bokrham's thoughts for long. Borne upon the gusts of the wind that now spilled into the stone halls of the tower came a chorus of screams - shrill, unmistakable cries of pure terror. Peering down, Bokrham saw the streets filled with crowds of people, so many that they seemed merely a colorful mass flowing over the stones of the city. These screaming waves of humans moved in odd, chaotic patterns, often abruptly changing direction and colliding with a similarly frenzied mob. It made no sense to Bokrham. If they were running from something, why suddenly stop, and turn around. Why not open the gates and flee into the forest? The more he watched, however, the more a pattern seemed to emerge. Here and there, amidst the swarms of fleeing people, were odd spots of darkness. So small were these spots that they couldn't have been comprised of more than a few bodies, yet these tiny specs of black seemed to control the motion of the masses in a manner that vaguely reminded Bokrham of a sheepdog herding a flock of sheep.
"What in Rekon's name is going on down there?" he wondered aloud, turning to look at the night warden, who was now squinting down at the scene below. A fierce look flashed across his face as he glared up at Bokrham.
"Vengeance," he hissed, and for a moment Bokrham, hundreds of feet above the ground and with his back to nothing but thin air, feared for his life. But then the malicious light left Eathor's eyes as suddenly as it had come, and he said, in a voice tinged with sadness. "And a terrible, terrible mistake."
Chapter 50: Xasho
Something inside Xasho crumbled as Jeina looked at him, her face a mix of pleading and excitement. For a moment all he could do was gaze back, marveling at her guileless candor and how her eyes seemed the exact color of the sky on a perfect spring day. Though he had barely noticed before, he was now acutely aware of his arm still about her waist, and for some reason the sensation thrilled him.
"I cannot." The words were a reflex, an idea ingrained in his mind since his childhood. He did not mean them, but once they were spoken, he knew he must.
"Please," begged Jeina, as if that one word could change everything that Xasho knew he should be; could overcome a lifetime's worth of instruction in hierarchy, obedience, and deep-seeded mistrust of other races. Once again at a loss for words, he watched her as she waited for the different reply she hoped would come.
Xasho's second answer was given for him, however, as in the silence which hung between them he heard the unmistakable rumble of approaching hoofbeats.
Why now? he found himself asking. Did it have to be now? When the horsemen came into view, Xasho counted no less than a score of warriors. So many? he wondered inwardly. He had told Sidhir that Kazick was no longer a threat. Did the Johalid fear Xasho had underestimated his quarry?
"You are Xasho?" spoke one of the warriors, an older man with small, squinting eyes. Even at a halt Xasho could see the man was tense in his saddle, his hands still clutched at the reins as he expected his horse to start galloping again at any moment.
"I am," replied Xasho.
"Who are these men?" whispered Jeina. She had slipped from Xasho's grasp and now stood nervously behind him, eyeing the Curahshena warriors with distrust.
The lead rider nodded in the direction of the shed. "The mudman, he is in there?"
"Oh no," Xasho heard Jeina breathe, as she realized what was happening. When he turned around to face her, she was staring up at him, crestfallen. "What have you done?"
The rider barked some commands to the other warriors, and in moments a half-dozen riders had dismounted and dashed into the shed. Xasho was about to answer Jeina, to try and explain that it was not his choice. To tell her of his promise to the Johalid, and how he was bound by his word to complete the task entrusted to him. But he held his tongue and turned away. He could not answer her, not here, in front of the other warriors. They would see it as folly, as a weakness. Kazick was an enemy, a man who had raised steel against his own. He was the Prince of a people at war with the Curahshar—Xasho needed no other explanation for his actions.
There was no sound of a struggle, not even a shout of surprise from within the shed. For a moment, Xasho wondered if
they would simply kill the Prince where he lay, but it soon became apparent that the warriors had other orders. As Kazick was carried out by two warriors, Xasho could see that the Prince's hands had been bound with thick rope, and a black sack had been tied loosely around his head so he could not see.
"No please, leave him be!" Xasho cringed as he heard Jeina's inevitable plea, but the warriors paid her no heed as they lifted Kazick up onto a vacant horse, and tied his hands to the saddle. It seemed as if Kazick's slumped form would slip from the saddle, but a warrior soon clambered up onto the horse behind him, and held him firmly in place.
"He is not well enough!" cried Jeina, her voice choked with tears. "He won't survive like th…" Then, suddenly Jeina was dashing past Xasho towards Kazick.
"Don't be a fool!" shouted Xasho, but it was too late. In an instant two of the warriors had blocked her path and knocked her to the ground. While one pinned Jeina under his boot, the other drew his sword and leveled it at her throat.
"Wait!" shouted Xasho. "Stay your weapon! Leave her be!" The warrior with his sword drawn looked up at Xasho quizzically.
"What do you care what happens to this mudwhore?" he demanded.
"She is not of the marsh," said Xasho. "She is Hinnjari."
The warrior spat. "An older war," he said, "but a war nonetheless." As he prepared to push his blade through Jeina's throat, Xasho cried out, "I said stay your weapon, warrior!" in what he hoped was an authoritative tone.
"Are you giving me an order?" asked the warrior, astonished. "On what authority do you claim to command me?"
Xasho reached into his pocket, and closed his hand around the small leather pouch inside. Slowly he drew it out, upturning it on the palm of his hand so that the sparkling zharata was plainly visible.
"Do as I say. Let the girl go."
Surprise filled the warrior's face, and he lifted his weapon from Jeina's throat and looked uncertainly at the lead rider, who still sat tense and silent upon his horse. Xasho expected the man to be surprised at the sight of the zharata, but he merely shrugged.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 46
