by Jon Sprunk
“A spy,” Caim finished for him. “I know, but suppose I’m not. Suppose I’m exactly what I told your father, a traveler trying to find his home.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re a stranger. We don’t know you and we don’t trust you.”
Keegan glared at his sister before resuming the march. She jogged to catch up to him. Watching them, Caim’s estimation of Keegan rose. The boy was young and largely ignorant of the world outside these parts, but he was tougher than he looked. If he ever got the chance to grow up, he might make a name for himself, but Caim didn’t think the chances of that were very good.
Of course, the same could have been said about him once.
The sentries outside the prison house snapped to attention as Sybelle stepped out of the shadow gate. The sky was darkening into twilight as the solar disk slid beneath the horizon. This was her favorite time of the day, when the light gave way to the inevitable dark.
Sinking deeper into the folds of her snow leopard coat, she swept past the guards and through the iron gates of the prison. It was a massive structure that resembled nothing so much as a colossal stone block studded with small windows. The chamber inside the gates resembled a fortress barbican more than a foyer. This seemed to be the standard form in old Nimean construction. Whatever it lacked in aesthetic appeal, she admired its efficiency. A long corridor with rows of doors extended beyond the entrance. One of the nearest doors opened as she entered, and a uniformed man with slick, black hair exited. He rushed forward to greet her.
“Lady Sybelle, it is my personal honor to receive you. I am Chief Warden Lormew.”
His tone was unctuous to the point of being disgusting, but there was something about the man that intrigued her. Had she the time, she might have been tempted to take him back to whatever little cell he called home in this foul-smelling pit. She offered her left hand, which he took and kissed.
“We did not expect you until tomorrow,” he continued, “but I have put everything aside to assist you myself.”
“Take me to the prisoner.”
With a nod, the chief warden led her down the corridor. A set of large metal keys jangled on his belt. Misery exuded from the cells they passed and washed over her like a shower of warm oil. She reveled in it. She had been in an evil mood for the past few days. Last night, after enduring one of her tirades, Erric had left their bed to find other sport. She knew the reason her emotions were running beyond her control; Soloroth hadn’t returned, or even bothered to contact her. Had he found the scion yet? The frustration of not knowing gnawed at her insides.
The warden ushered her up a flight of stairs at the end of the corridor. They passed other levels where groans and cries murmured from behind closed doors. The warden stopped on the landing at the sixth and highest floor of the prison, where he opened a door and held it open for her. Sybelle stepped into a corridor lined with cells. Guards armed with bronze-capped truncheons walked up and down the hallway. One noticed their arrival and hurried over.
“The prisoner has been moved to the interrogation chamber as you ordered, sir.”
The chief warden turned to her with his oily smile in place. “This way, my lady.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to offer his arm to her, and she wondered for a moment whether she would have taken it or ripped the flesh from his bones at the temerity. However, the chief warden kept his hands to himself and trotted down the corridor like an eager puppy. Perhaps he was looking forward to this encounter as much as she.
The interrogation chamber was located behind a heavy door at the end of the hall. Iron braziers full of burning coals sat in each corner, making the small room too bright for her tastes. Sybelle made a gesture and their radiance dimmed. Two burly guards stood by the back wall, upon which hung an assortment of metal instruments: whips, hammers, pinchers, hooks, thin iron rods, and such. The sight of them made her tremble.
Warden Lormew extended his hand. “Your prisoner.”
A man hung from thick eyebolts in the ceiling. Stripped to the waist and hooded, he was suspended by his wrists so that his powerful arms were twisted up behind his back. His shoulders were swollen and distended from all his weight hanging on them. Burns and lacerations crisscrossed his torso. Sybelle smiled at the sight. The rush was more potent than sex.
She walked up to the captive and ran a hand along his ribs, and felt the slick of sweat and blood. His chest expanded as he took in a deep breath, and then released it in a long, slow exhalation. It was measured and controlled, not like a man condemned, but one who had to know what awaited him.
“Leave me,” she commanded.
Warden Lormew cleared his throat. “Lady, for your protection we should—”
“Now.”
At a look from their boss, the guards clomped out of the room. Lormew went with them. Sybelle waited for a time—fifty heartbeats or more—before she plucked the sack from his head. While the captive blinked, she studied his features. He had been beaten recently, by the bruises puffing his eye sockets. His lips, full for a man, were split in several places. A line of dry blood ran down his neck from his left ear. Still, beyond these scrapes and cuts, he appeared as strong as the night he was seized. A bull of a man. Then he looked at her, and she glimpsed the intelligence behind his sky-blue eyes.
“I am Sybelle. I hope the warden and his men haven’t been too harsh with you.”
When he gave no answer, she reached out and caught his chin. Prickly stubble rasped against her palm. Muscles and sinew bunched under her touch as he tightened his jaw. She ran her fingers down his neck to his shoulder. The flesh was tight and hot under her touch. Her fingertips continued down to the blue circles tattooed over his heart.
“But I must know where your compatriots hide,” she said. “Tell me and I will grant you a swift death.”
It was a lie, of course. She intended to wring every last delightful ounce of pain from his body before she allowed him to expire. The captive glared straight ahead as if she wasn’t speaking. Sybelle frowned. She could stomach many things, but to be disregarded infuriated her. The circles of ink on his chest mocked her. With a thought, she channeled the energy of the shadows until the tips of her fingers glowed red-hot. Without warning, she pressed them into his flesh. Streamers of smoke rose with the intoxicating scent of burning skin. The captive growled and shuddered as she dragged her fingernails back and forth over his chest, and down across the nipple. The insufferable tattoo was obliterated under a mass of oozing flesh. When she pulled her hand away, he collapsed as far as his bonds permitted. She listened for a moan, or even a sigh, to show that she’d gotten his attention, but there was nothing.
She cupped his chin with her other hand. “You know what I am, do you not?”
His eyes drilled holes in her face.
“Yes, I see you do, Caedman Du’Ormik. I do not care about you or the reasons you fight. I only want to know where to find the rest of your kind. Tell me what I want to know and this—”
She dragged her fingernails across his face. The straps holding him aloft quivered as he tried to break free, but they held.
“—will end,” she finished.
The prisoner growled, bloody spittle drooling from his sliced lips, but he did not speak, not even when she slapped him, over and over, making his blood fly with every blow. When she stopped, her chest rose and fell in short gasps; her hand stung, and delicious beads of anguish rolled off the prisoner.
Sybelle licked her fingers as she considered him. She could employ the tools arrayed on the walls, but it would be a waste of time. The man had resigned himself to death. In his eyes he was making a sacrifice for the greater good, to secure the safety of his comrades. The idea was foreign to her way of thinking, but she understood how it worked. If time were not an issue, she would enjoy breaking him for the sheer sport of it, but her Master’s words were never far from her mind. To fail was to die, and she intended to live long past the conquest of this land.
Sybelle leaned forwar
d and grasped him by both sides of the head. He tried to pull away, but she had opened herself fully to the shadows. Their strength flowed through her hands to hold him as if he were a babe. She forced his face upward so she could stare into his eyes. His fury rolled over her in tiny palpitations. Despite herself, she laughed. They were beyond games. She had tried the gentle way. Now she would take what she needed.
Ribbons of darkness uncoiled from her lips and vanished into his mouth. He tried to jerk away, but she held him steady as the sorcery did its work. It took only a moment. Then he slumped in his bonds. His chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm as if he were sleeping. Sybelle peeled back his drooping eyelids. The pupils had widened to twice their normal size.
Sybelle stepped back. The captive’s gaze followed her. He was hers now. The power of the shadow had infused him, taking by force what he would not volunteer.
“Now,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Keegan heaved his upper body over the side rail as the wagon crossed the bridge. As globs of spittle fell down into the dark waters of the Ascander River below, he was reminded how much he hated riding in the back.
The three of them—him, Liana, and the foreigner—had come out of the woods near Shireman’s Way. By a stroke of good fortune, a farmer hauling winter wheat had been driving along the lane just in time to give them a ride. As much as he despised it, riding was faster than walking, and less suspicious. He worried about how they were going to get into the city. The main gates closed at daybreak; after that, those who wanted in or out had to pass through a smaller postern gate where there was more scrutiny.
With a groan, Keegan sat back and tried to make himself comfortable. On the other side of the wagon bed, Caim reclined against the backboard, legs pushed out in front of him among the bushels, as still as the statues on Liberty Way. He never gets sick or tired. He must be a warlock, the way he took down Ramon, and then that Northman. But what does he want?
Keegan couldn’t get what he’d seen at the roadhouse, and again in the woods, out of his mind. It wasn’t natural, the way the darkness responded to this stranger. Like it knows its own kind.
Caim reached under his cloak to rub the small of his back. So he’s human after all. Keegan started to smile, but then Caim looked over. One look from those stone-dead eyes set his stomach to churning again. He would be glad to be rid of this man. He needed to find his friends, those who survived. He could still hear the shouts and screams of the fighting, reminding him of the slaughter at Aldercairn. Once again, he had run and lived while others died. The shame of it burned in his chest.
The wagon slowed as the farmer—Henrick? Heddick?—clucked his tongue and shook the reins. Keegan craned his neck around. The high gray walls of the city blocked out the horizon. A muffled croak issued from the front seat. Keegan looked up to see Liana with both hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide. He followed her gaze to a line of poles erected on the side of the road. A cold lump formed in his stomach as he saw the charred remains chained to the stakes and smelled the stench of burnt meat. He held a sleeve over his nose and tried to make out their features as the wagon passed the gruesome display, but the corpses were little more than blackened cinders without faces or hair. Bloated crows cackled as they feasted on roasted flesh.
“What was their crime?” Caim asked.
The farmer spat over the buckboard. “No need for a crime to find yourself shackled to a stake around here, son. Some days, just breathing seems like enough reason.”
Keegan nodded, glad for an excuse to look away. “He’s right. People are put to death all the time in Liovard, for any excuse. The duke doesn’t care as long as his coffers are full. But they were probably priests, all the same.”
“The duke has a problem with the Church?”
“Why? Are you one of those sun-worshippers come to civilize us ignorant barbarians?”
Liana shushed him. Keegan opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again. He wasn’t in the mood. He just wanted to get to their uncle’s place. Caim had gone back to staring at nothing. A moment later, he grunted. Keegan looked over, but he didn’t elaborate. A strange man.
The wagon rolled to the back of a short queue. Ahead, soldiers searched a hay wain, even going so far as to plunge their spears into the bales of straw. Keegan swallowed and looked to Caim. Of course, he didn’t look concerned.
When their turn came, the soldiers made everyone get out of the wagon. The trooper in charge, a fat corporal with brown stains down the front of his uniform, ordered them all to lift their hands as he struggled to get out of his flimsy seat, which shook under his bulk like it wanted to collapse at any moment. Keegan braced himself to run as the fear of discovery surged through his limbs. Caim and Liana, however, raised their arms without hesitation. While some of the soldiers patted them down, others pawed through the farmer’s produce, all under the corporal’s suspicious gaze as he stood scratching his arse during the proceedings. A soldier walked over to Keegan.
“Lift your arms!”
Keegan glanced around. He didn’t see any archers on the wall, and he was confident he could outrun any of these overfed bastards in their heavy armor, but people inside were expecting him. Swallowing his ire, he raised his hands over his head.
The soldier patted his sides, his back, around his belt, and down his legs. The knife in his left boot was found and held up.
The corporal eyed the weapon. “What’s that for?”
“For eating, your lordship.”
The corporal scowled at him, hard enough to make Keegan consider a mad dash for safety. Then the fat man spat into the mud at his feet.
“Mind your tongue, boy. Or you’ll be missing it.”
Keegan nodded and tried to look scared, which wasn’t much of a stretch. Caim, Liana, and the farmer had all been searched and cleared. At a nod from the sentries, they climbed back into the wagon. The corporal squinted at Keegan, and then let him join them. As they rolled past, the soldier who had confiscated Keegan’s knife flipped it back to him.
“It worked!” Liana whispered when they were through the gate.
Keegan slipped the knife back into his boot. “Of course. They’re as dumb as rocks.”
“Is that why you almost pissed your britches?” Caim asked. Then Keegan saw the faint hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Go sod yourself!”
The wagon coasted to a halt under a huge stone arch straddling the road. Keegan didn’t like looking at the edifice, erected by the Nimeans to commemorate some big battle up north back in his father’s time. It made him feel small, which was something he wrestled with on a daily basis anyway. Everyone climbed out of the wagon. Caim shook hands with the farmer, and coins passed hands. Keegan thought he saw the shine of silver, and hoped he was mistaken. One silver plate was more than the man probably earned in a month. It would make him suspicious, but Caim didn’t appear concerned as he knelt down beside the wagon and retrieved several items, including their weapons and the mysterious bundles he carried. The soldiers hadn’t come close to finding the cache hidden under the wagon bed. Keegan wondered what Caim would have done if the weapons had been found. Probably something very unpleasant.
Keegan accepted his sword back, thrust it under his cloak, and took Liana by the elbow. “Good fortune to you,” he said with a nod.
Caim returned the gesture as he slipped the long bundles and bag over his shoulder. He looked just like a normal traveler, except for the nasty scabs down the side of his face. And his eyes.
“Wait.” Liana yanked her arm free. “We can’t just abandon him here in the street, Keegan.”
“We have someplace to be, Li. And so does Caim.”
“Where will he stay? He doesn’t know anyone.”
“I’ll find someplace to bunk down,” Caim said.
“No,” she said. “You can come with us. I’m sure our uncle would let you stay for a couple days, at least until you get on your feet
. And you shouldn’t be going off on any expeditions until you’ve had proper time to heal.”
“Li!”
Keegan looked around. Passersby paid them little mind, but the duke’s spies were scattered throughout Liovard like fleas on a dog. His sister was going to land him in trouble with her big mouth. He thought of the blackened bodies on the stakes.
By a stroke of luck, Caim shook his head. “I need to be going. You two be careful.”
Keegan grunted. They should be careful? He knew this city better than any foreigner would. Warlock or not, Caim was the one who needed eyes in the back of his head.
Liana reached out to put a hand on Caim’s arm. “If you change your mind, the shop is in the south ward. Turnstile Lane. Look for a sign with a hammer and two nails.”
Caim nodded. “Farewell.”
Keegan started walking. It was too damned cold to stand around. If his sister didn’t want to follow, that was her problem. Would serve her right to get lost out here.
He reached the corner to turn toward the south ward and looked back. Liana was still talking to Caim. Then, as he watched, the foreign killer shook his head. Liana turned and walked away.
When she caught up to him, Keegan asked, “What was that about?”
She didn’t meet his gaze. “Nothing. I’m cold. Let’s go.”
Shrugging his cloak higher around his neck, Keegan headed toward their uncle’s store. Whatever was going on with Liana was her own fault. What was she thinking, following after him in the woods, and now practically begging Caim to come with them? The girl had gone crazy. And he was stuck with her, at least until he could figure a way to get her back home.
Keegan sighed as he tromped through the streets. His responsibilities never seemed to end. But it was good to be back in Liovard again. Although he’d been raised out in the sticks, he loved the feel of the city. Its busy streets, the tall buildings with their roofs sheathed in black wooden slats instead of rotting thatch, the energy of the people as they passed by. When they got rid of the duke and his cronies, he wanted to live here. He could run an ale hall, or a stable. He was good with animals.
