His escort consisted of three guards, a Yanish Brother, and the prison warden. They were touring Demetry about the grounds of the fortress prison as if he were a distinguished guest. Demetry hardly raised his eyes to take in the sights of his dreary new home — he was having a hard enough time not tripping over his own feet.
“Coljack was once a Wyrm fortress,” explained the warden, leading the procession down a dark passage that seemed to go on forever. He had been prattling on about the history and lore of Coljack since Demetry arrived. “The fortress fell to the Throne of Caper during the War of Sundering and has been a prison ever since. Fortresses make convenient prisons — you only have to turn the locks around.” He smiled at his own joke. No one else did, but the warden didn’t seem to care.
“We’ve done our best to humanize the compound, but relics of the previous residents do remain.” As he spoke, they reached a mosaic set in the wall that must have been a hundred paces in length. Images of winged men battling serpentine creatures were in one scene. The earth was cracked open like an egg in another. A third scene depicted a dozen glimmering stones wreathed in light. They were the fabled Guardian Stones, Demetry knew, ancient artifacts capable of reshaping the world. Here and there along the mosaic, hung tapestries displaying the white tower of the king. It was a vain effort to hide the most profane and sacrilegious images.
“The wealth of knowledge the Wyrm left behind within this building is astonishing,” continued the warden. “The Library of Coljack was once one of the greatest repositories of books in the world. Of course, the most dangerous texts have been carted off to the capital. But the Arcane Council couldn’t take everything. A man with your skill might find some of the volumes in our library truly enlightening. Once you are settled, I’ll be certain to send a few books your way.”
Demetry couldn’t tell if it was a genuine offer or a trap. All Wyrm texts were forbidden, not just the Paserani Haote. Demetry decided it was best to remain quiet and keep his eyes focused on the floor.
As the warden spoke, Demetry couldn’t help but feel that he had already met the man once before. The warden wore a short-trimmed beard in an effort to cover scarring on the left side of his face. His eyes were black-rimmed, sleep-deprived. His pale complexion made it obvious that he didn’t spend much time outside. His left foot dragged behind him when he walked, and he leaned heavily upon a cane to compensate. A burgundy cape hung from his shoulders, the marking of a Capernican officer. Although the hem of his cape was stained with filth, the rest of his clothing was immaculate.
“Common criminals serve their terms here in the west wing,” continued the warden. “While the elves are kept in the east wing.” He pointed down a long corridor that disappeared into shadow. “A treaty with the Luthuanians dictates that the elves receive special treatment. Seems rather unfair, eh, Sighelm?”
The Yanish Brother spit in the direction of the east wing. “A criminal is a criminal,” said Sighelm. The man’s gaunt face twisted into a scowl. “How can you ever repent and rediscover the majesty of the Guardians if you live a life of luxury?” Demetry had met more than a few Yanish Brothers in his life. Worshipers of the god-saint Yansarian, they toured the land trying to recruit disciples. Members were easy to spot — they all wore starched yellow robes and matching conical caps, and they all spouted the same nonsense about repentance and rebirth.
“Sighelm is our resident chaplain,” said the Warden with a lopsided smirk. “My job is to keep the prisoners safe and securely locked away. Chaplain Sighelm’s job is to liberate their souls.”
“Are you a child of god?” asked Sighelm.
“I pray,” garbled Demetry around the horse bit lodged in his mouth. “But the gods seem loath to answer.”
The chaplain smirked. “In here, all men hear the voice of god eventually. Have faith, the weight on your soul will be lifted. You, too, will find liberation within these walls.”
Seeing the disheveled state of the other prisoners caused Demetry to doubt that anyone’s soul had been “liberated.”
Arms snaked between iron bars as they walked through the corridor, grabbing at Demetry. The prisoners asked for food, begged for freedom, cried for mercy. The cells themselves were poorly lit, and Demetry saw little more than skeletal faces and grime-covered bodies. Toothless, filthy, and flea ridden, most of the prisoners wore unkempt beards. More than a few were balding from malnutrition. There was not a hopeful face among them. Demetry saw neither repentance nor reform, just desperation and agony.
“Is that why I’m still alive?” Demetry’s words were almost unintelligible due to the horse bit. “Am I here to repent my sins?”
The warden motioned for the guards to stop. “You’ve worn that thing long enough, don’t you think?” He unfastened the leather thong and removed the bit. Demetry had never known such relief in his entire life.
“Thank you.” It was the first time Demetry was able to speak freely in over a month. His voice sounded odd, almost not his own. His tongue felt clumsy and swollen.
“Common men fear what they don’t understand,” said the warden, giving Demetry’s shoulder a friendly pat. “They fear men like us almost as much as they fear the gods.”
“You’re a magic?” asked Demetry. He rubbed at his jaw, trying to massage away the pain.
“Not exactly,” said the warden. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He shrugged. “In truth, I’m not surprised. I was in my senior year of studies when they brought you into the headmaster’s quarters.” He flattened his hand to waist level to illustrate Demetry’s height at the time. “You were a small lad, not a day past your fourth birthday if I recall.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”
“Cendrik Carveth,” announced the warden, his voice baring a degree of pride. The Carveth family owned a fleet of trading vessels that hailed out of Orith, Demetry recalled. They weren’t exactly nobility, but they weren’t paupers either. Demetry wondered who Cendrik had pissed off to get stationed here.
“I had a class with a Jory Carveth,” said Demetry, feeling a degree of excitement. Having a connection to the warden might be quite beneficial in this abysmal setting. “Any relation?”
“Jory is my cousin. Now there’s a wispy little brat. I’d tell you to wish him well, but it’s not likely you two will ever cross paths.” He laughed at that. His guards forced a snicker. Sighelm frowned — he seemed to do that most of the time. Demetry gave his best false smile, eager not to offend.
Warden Cendrik waved them onward. In case Demetry missed the point, Chaplain Sighelm yanked on the iron collar the guards had locked around Demetry’s neck when he first arrived. The collar bit harshly into Demetry’s neck, causing him to cry out in pain. The warden completely ignored the abuse. That was a troubling sign.
“We keep men of the more dangerous variety underground,” continued Warden Cendrik as they descended a flight of stair. “Dark children and magics, mostly. Criminals with the greatest propensity to escape. Security is my utmost priority.”
The blood-curdling cries of madmen wafted down from the upper levels, and still they went deeper. They entered a cell block that looked more like an abandoned mineshaft than a prison block. Torches lined the walls, but not a single one was lit.
“Demetry, why don’t you do us a favor and illuminate the path.”
Demetry gave Warden Cendrik a confused look.
“Use your magic, with my blessing of course.” Cendrik bowed and stepped out of the way.
Bringing light to an unlit torch was easy enough, Demetry had been able to do it since his first year at Taper. He knew half a dozen illumination spells that would suffice. He chose one that was notably complex, hoping to impress Cendrik with his skills. “Missat majrl re hesi palrir.”
Nothing happened.
Cendrik laughed. “I guess you haven’t figured out why I’ve trusted you without a gag.” He gave Demetry’s collar a gentle shake. There was something dull and pointed set into the back of the collar t
hat Demetry hadn’t noticed before.
“It’s a Sundering Stone, in case you’re wondering,” said Cendrik, his white teeth showing in the dark. Demetry had learned about the magical stones in his studies. Rarer than rubies, harder than diamonds, worth more than gold. The stones had a single useful attribute, they drained away one’s magical vitality. They were rumored to have once been used as weapons against the gods.
“You’ve gelded me.”
“We’ve made you mortal,” said Chaplain Sighelm. “How can you repent when the power of the gods is at your fingertips?”
Demetry thought he might be sick.
“Don’t worry,” said Cendrik. “The results are temporary. Your powers will return in due time. Like I said, security is my utmost priority. You killed the headmaster of Taper, or don’t you recall.”
Demetry lowered his eyes. “It was a mistake.”
Sighelm snorted and glared at Demetry, his weasel face full of hatred. “Dead is dead, mistake or not. The first step toward repentance is accepting the blame.”
Cendrik gestured for the guard carrying a torch to illuminate the path. They followed closed behind.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” continued Cendrik, hobbling after the torchbearer. “I never really liked Headmaster Rioley. A true bastard, that one. He’s the reason I’m here whiling away in a prison full of cutthroats and lunatics. He wouldn’t recommend me to the Academy Arcanum. Claimed I lacked the talent. In truth, it was the noble pedigree I lacked. Wrong parents. Wrong blood. Wrong connections.” He smirked. “In a way, you and I are both prisoners here.”
They stopped before a wooden door reinforced with metal banding. A small square gap was cut out of the bottom of the door, large enough for a waste pail to pass through, but not much else.
The first inklings of fear entered Demetry’s heart. He had spent all of his time and energy since the incident simply trying to survive. Little thought had gone into how his life would be once he arrived to Coljack.
“Death can be merciful,” whispered a voice within the recesses of his mind. Demetry snorted, unwilling to accept the bitter conclusion. Admittedly, the prison cell lying before him was little better than an empty grave, but as long as he was alive, there was hope. He would have to remember that in the days and weeks ahead — nothing would be easy from this point forward.
The guards removed the collar from around Demetry’s neck, allowing him to see the blue-green Sundering Stone set in the back of the collar. The gem glowed brightly with the magical energy it had absorbed from Demetry’s body.
“Why didn’t the Arcane Council condemn me to death?” asked Demetry.
“Because death wasn’t part of the Weaver’s plan,” said Cendrik matter-of-factly. He smiled. “I’ve always felt a certain connection with my magic guests. Given our history, I think you and I are going to be especially close.”
Sighelm unlocked the cell door. He had to strain to pry it open; the hinges squealed in protest. The black cell opened before Demetry like a gaping maw.
“Don’t go in there,” urged a voice in his head. “You’ll never come out. No one ever comes out...”
Demetry suddenly felt short of breath. He could feel the blood drain from his face. “No, wait. I can’t breathe. I...” Demetry tried to resist, but firm hands latched onto either of his shoulders, inching him toward the door. A boot struck him in the small of his back and he tumbled into the cell, landing on his hands and knees. The door clacked shut behind him.
Demetry had only a split second to take in his surroundings. Four walls, all damp and stained green. The floor was an uneven slap of rock little more than two spans square. The reek of urine was so strong it stung his eyes. In the far corner, seated atop a pile of a hay was a hulking figure, bald-headed, front teeth missing, pale eyes glaring angrily.
Demetry gasped.
The torch outside his cell was extinguished.
“Oh. Make sure to say hello to your cellmate,” called Cendrik from beyond the door. His voice and footsteps faded into the distance. “Clyde is his name. He mostly grunts and growls. Lost his tongue for telling too many fibs. Good old Lying Clyde. A bit irritable, that one. You two have fun. I’ll check on you in a few days. If you need anything, just let me know.” Cendrik whistled merrily as he walked away.
Demetry had never known such darkness. The heavy breathing of his cellmate seemed to thunder in the space. The hay rustled as Clyde shifted atop the mound. The beat of his own heart thudded in Demetry’s ear. He needed light.
“Missat majrl re hesi palrir,” whispered Demetry. Nothing.
“Missat majrl re hesi palrir.” Darkness remained.
“Missat majrl re hesi palrir.” The torch outside his room crackled to life, dimly illuminating the space through the flap in the bottom of the door. Clyde was still seated in the corner, still breathing through his mouth like every breath was a chore, still glaring at Demetry with eyes full of rage.
Demetry tried not to let fear get the better of him. “I’m Demetry,” he managed, his voice a mere squeak.
Clyde sat proudly atop his pile of straw like a king upon a throne. A very filthy king, that is, thought Demetry. The wool shirt and pants worn by the man were riddled with holes and stained with night soil. Demetry imagined he would soon look the same.
Clyde jabbed Demetry in the chest and then pointed to the filth ridden corner opposite the hay pile. “Yours,” he garbled from his tongueless mouth. “Mine.” He patting the pile of hay. The words were nearly unintelligible, but Demetry got the point.
He slunk to the corner Clyde had designated as his, feeling suddenly envious of the time when Shep was the scariest person he encountered in his day-to-day life. He let the torch in the corridor gutter to darkness, deciding it was best not to draw the attention of the guards. The last thing Demetry saw before darkness engulfed the cell was Clyde, staring at him and licking his lips.
“FLEE. FLEE NOW!”
The disembodied voice echoed through the empty forests.
Demetry’s eyes darted to and fro, searching for the speaker. “Where are you?” he called. The ceaseless babble of the nearby stream was the only reply.
I’m alone, he realized. Hanberg was gone, as were Joshua and Shep. Demetry was free to set his own fate without having to fear that someone might intervene. All he had to do was cross the stream and venture north. He could leave his old life behind and start over, free from the weight of his past sins. One foot in front of the other — that was all it took. He breathed deep and stepped into the stream.
Somewhere in the woods Shep screamed, a pitiful cry full of desperation and fear. Demetry didn’t turn back. He trudged onward into the stream. The rushing water rose to his knees, then his thighs, then his waist. The stream was deeper than he imagined, but he would not be deterred.
The water splashed behind him. Demetry was not alone. Joshua trailed in his wake stabbing at the water with a letter opener. The orphan boy was desperately trying to turn back the rising current with his feeble blade. It was no use — the current was rising. Headmaster Rioley’s limp body came bobbing down the stream. Demetry tried to ignore the stab wounds in the headmaster’s back, but his eyes were drawn to the blood. The laugh of a madman sounded on the far bank. Demetry discovered Shep standing there. He was pointing and laughing, but his face was twisted in a grimace. The water rose higher. To Demetry’s chest. To his neck.
“I can’t swim,” cried Demetry as the water lapped at his chin. He lost contact with the stream bed, his feet floundering in the depths. He beat his arms against the water, desperately trying to stay afloat. “Please! Somebody help me!”
Joshua was eager to assist. He leapt on Demetry’s back and forced his head beneath the waves. Headmaster Rioley joined in, and together they pulled Demetry deeper and deeper into the depths. Demetry’s world became shades of black, shadows upon shadows. Demetry’s body began to spasm, his strength ebbing fast. He couldn’t hold his breath forever.
“Why don’t y
ou just swallow water and kill yourself,” he heard Shep say, as the boy’s bloated body washed by in the current.
Shep was right, Demetry was only avoiding the inevitable. There was nowhere else for him to go. He breathed in deep, feeling the sting of water fill his nostrils, his mouth, his throat. The water was warm and tasted sour. He coughed and spasmed, his lungs inadvertently drawing in more water as they desperately sought out air. And all this while someone was laughing, a guttural broken laugh that wracked at the nerves.
Demetry opened his eyes to discover he was lying face down in an ever-growing puddle of piss. A deep throated sound that might have been a laugh echoed in the small prison cell. Clyde was standing over him, his legs straddling Demetry’s body. The man was peeing on the hinges to the cell door — drenching Demetry was just a happy byproduct.
Demetry scurried to his feet, frantically wiping at his face with disgust. He was horrified to discover his chest and sleeves were drenched as well. Demetry gagged, and would have likely thrown up had he any food in his stomach.
Clyde laced up his breeches and returned to his pile of hay as if nothing had happened.
One look at the cell door made it clear that this wasn’t Clyde’s first time performing the deed — the metal hinges were badly corroded, and the wooden frame was beginning to fail. Demetry almost had to admire the will power it took to pee on the same hinges day after day, month after month, year after year with the hope of one day breaking down the door. Almost.
He was just beginning to conjure up the courage to say something when a bucket of pale gruel slid through the flap at the base of the door. Clyde was on the gruel before Demetry could take a step toward the bucket. He slurped it down in hungry gulps, not bothering to chew. Within a few second he had downed most of the pail.
“Wait a second, some of that’s mine!” cried Demetry, reaching for the pail.
A Wizard's Dark Dominion (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
