Chapter 29
The trail that led to Zollin’s cottage was screened from view by a copse of willow trees. When Quinn came around the small grove, he found a group of almost twenty men watching the home and workshop burn. They didn’t see Quinn and he didn’t make a sound until he was among the men, pushing his way through the group to reach the front where Kurchek was gleefully watching the buildings burn.
Quinn shoved him hard, sending the bigger man sprawling on the ground. There were gasps of surprise, but the group immediately spread out into a circle around Quinn and Kurchek. The miner got to his feet slowly, his face twisted into a hateful snarl. Many of the men began to cheer him on, but Quinn barely noticed. His anger burned hotter than the fires consuming Zollin’s home.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kurchek said.
“Finishing what you started this morning,” Quinn said, his voice tight with fury.
“I don’t know—”
Quinn stepped forward and hit the larger man in the nose. It wasn’t a powerful blow; Quinn was relying on speed rather than strength to shut the miner up. It worked. Kurchek staggered back, both eyes watering, and a trickle of blood seeped out of one nostril into the man’s filthy mustache.
“You waylaid me this morning,” Quinn said. “Now you and your lackeys are burning my son’s home.”
“You bastard!” Kurchek screamed.
Then there was no more time for talking. The bigger man rushed toward Quinn, whose own adrenaline and anger had vanquished his fatigue and pain from being knocked unconscious earlier in the day. Kurchek was taller and wider than the wiry carpenter, but Quinn was strong and fast. He sidestepped at the last second and delivered a powerful blow to Kurchek’s kidney. As the miner spun around, throwing a wild haymaker in the process, Quinn danced away. He stayed on the balls of his feet, ready to move and dodge when he needed to. Kurchek lumbered toward him again, and as he had in the first attack, Quinn slipped out of reach, this time kicking the miner in the side of his knee.
Kurchek stumbled but didn’t fall. He was shouting in anger, and his friends were screaming for him to land a blow. The entire mob knew, just as Quinn did, that it would only take one punch by Kurchek to turn the tide. Quinn hadn’t been able to set his feet and put real power into any of his attacks yet, but he wanted Kurchek angry. And he also wanted to humiliate the bigger man. Quinn had no illusions about what would happen once the miner was defeated. Most of the mob that had come to Zollin’s cottage would be shamed, but Kurchek’s friends would attack Quinn all at once. He would either be stabbed in the back or beaten to death, but everything Quinn had to live for was gone. Zollin and Brianna had left the Great Valley, Mansel and Nycol were nowhere to be found, and now their homes were burning to the ground. Quinn had done so much for the people of Brighton’s Gate, but they had never truly accepted him. Now they would have to survive without him.
When Kurchek attacked the third time, he was expecting Quinn to slip away again, which was why Quinn stood his ground. Kurchek’s attack was little more than a feint; he swung at Quinn, but there was no strength in the punch. He had hoped to pounce on the smaller man when he dodged, but Quinn didn’t move. He raised his arm to block the punch then grabbed Kurchek’s beard. Quinn saw the look of terror in the bigger man’s eyes as Quinn tugged his face down and slammed the heel of his hand into Kurchek’s face so hard it shattered the miner’s nose.
Kurchek staggered back then fell, his hands clutching his face where blood was gushing from his ruined nose. Quinn could have fallen on the man, used his knife and ended the hateful miner’s life, but he didn’t. Instead he waited patiently, taunting the bigger man a little.
“That should improve your looks a little,” Quinn said.
Kurchek roared, then had to spit blood as he got back to his feet. Quinn tensed for the attack he knew was coming, and didn’t see the man who rushed at him from behind. A shoulder slammed into Quinn’s back and sent him sprawling. Before Quinn could recover, Kurchek was on top of him, driving a knee down into Quinn’s chest. All the air in Quinn’s lungs, along with his strength, was driven out of him by the miner’s weight. Quinn saw sparks of light dancing in his vision as he struggled to suck in air to refill his lungs. He felt the blood from Kurchek’s ruined nose dripping down onto his face. His hands came up to twist Kurchek’s foot and relieve the pressure on his chest, but then the first punch landed.
Kurchek’s hands were large, and the punch landed on Quinn’s left cheekbone, slamming his head back into the ground. For a long second the world went dark, and then reality came flooding back as the big man raised his fist for another blow. Quinn tried to twist Kurchek’s foot, but his arms had no strength, his hands were numb, and he fumbled around until the second punch fell. Quinn felt as though he’d been kicked by a mule. The meaty fist smashed Quinn’s nose and dazed him. He didn’t know where he was or what was happening; all he knew was pain. Blood poured from his nose into his mouth and down the back of his throat. His stomach clenched, threatening to vomit, and he still couldn’t breathe.
The third punch ended the fight, if there was any fight left in Quinn. He felt his jaw break. The pain was so intense he shuddered. But then Kurchek stood up, and Quinn could breathe again. The miner was laughing with his friends.
“That’ll shut the arrogant prick up, I’d say,” Kurchek roared.
Quinn had rolled onto his side, spitting out a mouthful of blood and sucking in air as fast as he could. His mind was clearing and the pain grew more intense. His face was numb, but the pain in his jaw was like being too close to a fire, only he couldn’t move away. When he moved his mouth, the pain shot through his head like bolts of lightning, shocking his senses and bringing tears to his eyes.
“You say I attacked you, eh?” Kurchek shouted.
Then a massive boot slammed into Quinn’s side. Ribs fractured and the air was banished from his lungs again.
“Well, that’s the first thing you’ve gotten right since you came here,” Kurchek went on. “I won’t let you and your evil sorcerer son cause any more damage.”
The second kick broke another rib, and Quinn heard himself groan. It was nothing more than a fleeting whine as the air shot out of his lungs again. He wanted to pass out, to simply die and be done with the pain, but he wasn’t fortunate enough.
“And if your friend comes back, I’ll take his eye.”
Kurchek kicked again, but not before spitting a glob of bloody phlegm onto Quinn’s face.
“Then I’ll kill him, just like I’m going to kill you.”
Quinn felt the pounding of hoofbeats but thought it was just his body reacting to the pain. He saw Kurchek raise his foot, the boot heel aimed at his face. Quinn’s only thought was that at last the pain would end, but the boot never fell. Instead, Kurchek’s head went flying from his body. Quinn thought he was hallucinating, but then Mansel slipped from his saddle, slapped the horse’s rump and stepped over Quinn’s body.
“Who’s next?” Mansel shouted. “Which one of you bastards is ready to die?”
The man who had blindsided Quinn in his fight with Kurchek darted forward, but Mansel spun, slashing with the long sword Zollin had fashioned for him, ripping the blade across the man’s chest and stomach. The death scream was horrible, and Quinn saw the coward fall, grasping at his ruined body as blood and organs spilled out of him. The crowd backed away, many turning and running toward Brighton’s Gate.
“If you come back,” Mansel snarled, “I’ll kill you all.”
The rest of the men moved cautiously back, until they too could turn and hurry away. Mansel looked down at Quinn, who was spitting out more blood. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and relief for Mansel’s safety flooded through him, but then the pain returned in such a powerful wave, that Quinn passed out.
When he woke up, he couldn’t move. His face was bandaged, and there was something tight around his chest and stomach. He could hear the river and smell smoke. A small camp fire burned nearby,
but the smoke in the air was from Zollin’s cottage. Mansel sat nursing his own wounds. Quinn opened his mouth to speak, but the pain from his broken jaw surged through him again. He clenched his teeth, waiting for the pain to subside, then spoke carefully, not moving his jaw at all.
“You look like hell,” Quinn said.
“I feel worse than I look,” Mansel said.
“Nycol?”
Mansel shook his head, but didn’t look at his mentor. Quinn’s eyes filled with tears. He had liked the quiet woman from Falxis . She had loved Mansel fiercely, but always with an openness that allowed the young warrior to be himself and pursue his interests. Her death, now that he knew for certain, was so terrible he couldn’t speak for several minutes.
“Sorry,” Quinn said.
“I avenged her,” Mansel said, setting the severed creature’s head that he had cut off in front of Quinn. “But it didn’t help.”
“It will…in time.”
They sat in silence for several minutes. The fire crackled and Quinn managed to turn his head. They were a few hundred yards from the remains of Zollin’s cabin. The smoking heap of rubble was like a fresh wound to Quinn. Coming back to the Great Valley had seemed like such a good idea a year ago. Quinn had believed that the locals would eventually come to accept them. Zollin had saved Yelsia after all, and held back a tide of evil that would have swept away every good thing in the Five Kingdoms. But their exploits in the south were nothing but stories to the villagers of Brighton’s Gate. And now those same villagers had destroyed everything Quinn and his family had worked so hard to build.
“I’m going to help Zollin,” Mansel said. “Something evil is stirring. These monsters didn’t just come out of the mountains on their own,” he said, pointing at the severed animal head. “I wish he was here to help you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Quinn said. “I’m coming too.”
“You need rest, Quinn. You’re pretty busted up.”
“I’ll be fine,” Quinn insisted, anger and frustration making his voice raw. “There's nothing left for us here.”
“Funny how that happens, isn’t it. The very people we fought to save turn on us, destroy everything we hold dear. These damn mountains were never our home.”
“Get me a horse,” Quinn said, pulling the pouch of coins from his pocket.
“Don’t get in a hurry,” Mansel warned. “That was a heck of a beating you took.”
“No worse than you.”
“Yes, you are worse off than me. We aren’t going anywhere tonight. You just rest. I’ll get you a horse and then we can leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Quinn said, fatigue making his tongue thick. “Promise.”
“I promise,” Mansel said. “Try and drink a little of this.”
He held a cup of strong spirits to Quinn’s lips, letting the drink trickle in. It burned as soon as it touched Quinn’s tongue, but he drank it thankfully. The alcohol numbed his pain as the sun set. Mansel added more wood to the fire, and kept giving Quinn sips of the liquor. Soon, he was able to lie back in an almost comfortable fashion, close his eyes, and escape his pain in the sweet nothingness of sleep.
Chapter 30
Lorik woke up in total darkness. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, and it took him several minutes to remember exactly what had happened to him. His left arm was a raging mass of fiery pain, and his right leg was aching. He could feel blood, thick and sticky on his arm and leg. There was a large bump on the back of his head, and his right eye was swollen shut. Not that there was anything to see.
He lay on a cold stone floor. Not flagstone, or even stone that had been worn smooth over the years. The surface was rough and uneven. For a moment he wondered if he had been buried alive, but then something called to him. Something that was both familiar and terrifying. It was the call of something magical, something even darker than the blackness of his cell. But the seductive longing he felt as much as heard, revealed to him exactly where he was. He had been in the dungeon of the castle in Ort City before, just never as a prisoner.
He did his best to ignore the magical beckoning and focused his mind on trying to explore his surroundings. He could touch the wall on either side of his tiny cell. The back wall was just close enough that he could stretch out his good leg and touch it. The door was near his head. Sitting up was a difficult and painful process. When he managed to prop himself onto the elbow of his good arm, he had to lean over and vomit. His entire body felt worse than anything he’d ever experienced before. He was hot and cold at the same time, the flesh around his wounds was feverish, painful and swollen. He was fairly certain that he would die from blood poisoning if he were allowed to live that long, which he doubted. Growing up in the Marshlands, he had experienced his fair share of accidents, and the first rule of any open wound was to clean and dress it immediately. If anyplace was more foul than the Marshlands, it was the castle dungeon in Ort City.
He took his time and finally managed to prop his back against the rough wooden door. Then there was nothing left to do but wait. He had no way of guessing how much time was passing, and his mind began to wander. He wasn’t sure if he was delusional, or if the magical presence nearby was showing him things. He could see bright meadows full of flowers. Queen Issalyn was there, dancing among the flowers, calling Lorik’s name. He wanted to go to her, but his body would not respond. Then he saw Yettlebor, fat and sickly. He attacked and killed Issalyn.
Lorik screamed in pain and frustration. The dream or delusion always caused him to jerk and twitch; the pain from his wounds drove away the even more painful visions. He tried to understand what had happened to lady Issalyn. She had professed such love for him when he rescued her in Baskla and when they had lived together in the King Tree. She had grown bored there, he knew that, but he had never guessed that she was bored with him. And the fact that she was now Yettlebor’s lover seemed ludicrous, but there was no other explanation. Issalyn had sent Kierian to lure him to the castle. She had betrayed him, and that fact hurt more than any wound. In fact it made Lorik wish for his own death. If he had possessed a weapon of some type he would have slashed his own throat, but he was helpless.
No, helpless wasn’t the right word, he was constrained, he thought to himself. The magic called to him. If he could get to it, he might find the strength to avenge the wrongs that had been committed against him. But he was trapped in the room, too weak to escape. He would have to wait for the right opportunity, which meant he would have to endure more pain. But he could endure anything that Yettlebor might do to him. Nothing could hurt worse than Issalyn’s betrayal, and the hope that he might find a way to strike back at her burned bright in his heart.
In the back of his mind he felt a pang of guilt. He was not a vengeful person. He had in fact come to Ort City with the intentions of killing Yettlebor, if that was the only way to remove the fat imposter from the throne. But he had been caught, it was as simple as that. There could be no mercy for traitors, but Lorik had arrogantly assumed that he wouldn’t be caught or punished. The realization of his feelings about his predicament only made him more angry. He had been a fool, and soon he would be dead, but he vowed to wreak as much havoc as he could before he died.
Occasionally he heard the other prisoners. Some whimpered miserably, the others cackled with obvious delusion. Lorik hoped his own mind was strong enough to endure the horrors of the dungeon and the torture that was surely in his future. Then another vision would suddenly appear: his friends, tender moments with Vera, his parents, the thrill of wielding his swords in battle. But each one was marred by some nightmarish scene: his friends dying, the places he loved being suddenly destroyed, his modesty exposed and mocked, visions of his parents’ bodies rotting in their graves. The worst delusion was seeing Yettlebor taking the Swords of Acromin from him and leaving him helpless on the battlefield. He felt the loss of the twin swords almost like a missing limb. They, as much as anything, had been the badge of his right to rule Ortis, and now they were
in the hands of the imposter who had taken the throne. And even worse than anything else, Yettlebor had taken Issalyn.
Lorik thought he was having another dream when he saw light come faintly under the door. Then he heard the sound of boots on the winding stairs that led down to the dungeon and the light grew brighter. He heard voices too, and then a key sliding into a rusty lock above his head. He tried to move, but he wasn’t fast enough. His wounded body simply wouldn’t respond to his commands, and as the door swung open he toppled over.
“Look at this,” one of the men above him said with cruel laugh. “He’s a sight.”
“Not what I expected,” said the other man.
“Better hoist him up.”
Lorik’s eyes ached from the sudden light of the torch and he was doing his best to adjust to the abrupt change in his surroundings. His wounds made his head swim with pain, and his stomach twisted again, threatening to revolt. He felt the men hook their hands under his arms, then he was hauled upright. But the stress on his arm was so horrible that he nearly passed out. Bright spots swam around him, even though his eyes were closed. The men took hold of Lorik’s belt and began hauling him up the stairs.
The pain made Lorik’s mind retreat. He was awake, but not really aware of what was happening. The men who carried him were talking, but he couldn’t make sense of their words. There were other voices too, people watching as he was half carried, half dragged down a long corridor. The looks on the faces were of horror and despair, but perhaps that was just Lorik’s own feelings projected onto the people he saw.
He passed out after a while, and when he came to he was on a wooden table. His arms and legs were tied down with thick leather straps. He was able to raise his head and see the heinous looking tools that hung on the walls of the small room. High above him was a balcony, and he could make out the round silhouettes of heads as people leaned out and watched what was happening below. Past them all was the clear, bright blue sky. It was so beautiful that his heart ached at the sight of it. After the terror and pain of the dungeon, to see the sky was both a blessing and a curse. It shored up his resolve to find a way to strike back at his enemies. No matter what they did to him, he would survive. He wouldn’t let himself die until he had a chance to hurt Yettlebor the way the fat imposter king had hurt him.
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