A Wizard's Dark Dominion (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 1)

by Lee H. Haywood

  Clyde backhanded Demetry so hard it felt as if he had been struck in the face with a cudgel. He fell flat on his back, his left ear screaming in pain. His cheek was lacerated just beneath the eye. Clyde tossed the bucket on Demetry and what little gruel remained spilled down his chest. Clyde muttered something unintelligible, but Demetry got the point; Clyde had first dibs on food. Always.

  Demetry wiped the food off his chest, letting it splatter onto the floor. He spent the rest of the day fuming in the corner and nursing his injured jaw — not that this bothered Clyde one bit. The evening feeding went much the same way, only this time Clyde overturned the bucket on Demetry’s head.

  Demetry went to bed furious and starving, but the hollow ache in his stomach kept slumber at bay. Finally, his hunger defeated his pride. When he was certain Clyde was asleep, Demetry crawled over to the pile of discarded slop that lay heaped on the floor and shoveled it into his mouth. The gruel had a foul taste, but that didn’t stop him from forcing down every last bit. A few hours later, Demetry woke up feeling like there were mice trying to chew through his intestines. He promptly threw up every ounce of food in his stomach.

  CHAPTER

  V

  THE OLD AND THE NEW

  DEMETRY EDGED TO THE DOOR, slithering along on his stomach until his eyes drew flush with the threshold. He was careful not to wake Clyde. The ogre of a man lay atop his pile of hay snoring loudly; that was the one sound the man was more than capable of making.

  Demetry slowly drew back the flap on the base of the door. The hinge squealed. Clyde snorted, his snoring ceased. Demetry’s breath caught in his throat. An involuntary shiver pimpled his skin. He peered over his shoulder, fearful he had awakened Clyde from his slumber. Clyde scratched at a scab on his forearm, readjusted his body atop his pile of hay, and promptly resumed snoring. Demetry exhaled with relief and resumed his vigil staring into the corridor beyond the cell door.

  A sliver of torchlight illuminated the walkway. The guards were making their rounds. A furry shape preceded the reach of the torchlight, scampering down the passage on all fours with its body pressed against the far wall. It was a rat — Demetry’s rat to be more precise. The rat stopped periodically to raise its nose and sniff at the air, before scurrying forward a few more feet and repeating the process all over again. The rat was a curiously cautious creature, even in death.

  Demetry reached out into the corridor and motioned for the critter. The rat obediently crawled atop Demetry’s outstretched palm and immediately went limp. Demetry stroked the rat’s black body. The rat didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, didn’t breathe. To an outside observer, the rat was dead. But she was so much more than that. He called her Sneak, a suitable name given her purpose. He tucked the rat in his pocket, worried that Clyde might awaken and discover him stroking a dead rat; there was no telling how Clyde would react.

  The rat was a gift from Clyde. A few weeks earlier, instead of sharing the evening bucket of gruel, Clyde decided to eat both portions. When Demetry complained of hunger, Clyde rummaged through his pile of hay and produced the carcass of a long dead rat. He threw the rotten carcass at Demetry. Blinded by his hunger, Demetry almost took a bite, but at the last second an idea entered his head. To a necromancer, a dead rat could be much more than a desperate meal.

  Sneak became Demetry’s eyes and ears in Coljack. He had to make sure she avoided the kennel and the pair of tomcats that prowled the upper floors, but other than that, she could pass freely through the halls of the fortress prison without the guards or prisoners giving her any mind.

  Demetry’s ability to control the undead creature was quickly improving. He could feel the link between his subconscious thoughts and the rat’s actions growing stronger by the day. Sometimes, while he slept, he would dream of walking the halls of Coljack. When he woke up, he would discover that Sneak was gone. With keen focus he could get her to carry out simple tasks — fetch a piece of bread from the larder, explore the upper levels of the prison, find Warden Cendrik’s private chambers, search for a way out. Sometimes Sneak complied, at other times he seemed to lose all control of her. The rat would revert to a state in which she acted on pure instinct. She would seek out food, skirt from sudden noises, or hide in the darkest corner of the room. Such actions left Demetry to wonder if an echo of Sneak’s old consciousness remained.

  What’s dead is dead, he often reminded himself. He would not allow himself to feel guilty for reanimating rotten flesh that would have otherwise turned to dust. Besides, Sneak was proving an invaluable asset. The rat provided Demetry with glimpses of a world he could not visit himself.

  Coljack was a vast complex, much larger than the weathered fortress and collection of derelict outbuildings Demetry had seen when he first arrived. There were levels below Demetry’s cell that delved deep into the earth — snaking tunnels with forks aplenty and rickety lifts that lowered into abyssal pits. There were doors inscribed with protective wards, stone tombs untouched by light, and at the deepest levels, the chime of working hammers.

  Sneak’s discoveries were all very intriguing, but in truth, it was really just a way to pass the time. Sneak couldn’t unlock the door to Demetry’s cell — he tried that already. And she couldn’t chew through the wooden door — her front incisors were already worn down to useless nubs. In truth, walking the dark corridors of Coljack was really just a way for Demetry to avoid the crushing monotony of prison life.

  The pad of steel-toed boots sounded in the corridor. Right on time, thought Demetry, as he settled back into his corner and waited.

  Life within the cell followed a numbing routine. Shiver at night. Breakfast at dawn. Go mad with boredom during the day. Dinner at dusk if Clyde felt like sharing. Try to ignore the nagging voices that resounded in his head all the time.

  “I’m as much a prisoner here as you are.” The voice in Demetry’s head sounded much too similar to Joshua for Demetry’s liking. He shifted uncomfortably and punched at his brow with the flat of his hand, trying to drive the whining voice into silence. The voice only intensified.

  “Why are we here, Demetry? The punishment for necromancy is death, yet someone has decided to keep you alive. Why is that?”

  “I’m supposed to repent and reform,” muttered Demetry, repeating Warden Cendrik words.

  “You don’t actually believe that.”

  The voice was right, Demetry had his doubts. On sleepless nights he toyed with thoughts of remorse, wondering if salvation could be achieved if he repented for his past sins. But what did repentance even look like? Regret. Sorrow. Acceptance of blame. Try as he might, Demetry found himself drawing short of such feelings. He truly did feel awful about Headmaster Rioley’s death, and he regretted not stopping to aid Shep in the woods. But why should he feel remorse over someone else’s actions? Joshua was the one at fault. Joshua was responsible for destroying Demetry’s life — first by getting himself killed and then by going on a murderous rampage.

  “Headmaster Rioley deserved to die,” whispered the voice in reply. “Shep deserved to die. Hanberg deserved to die. Blowhards, fools, and bullies. They all deserved to die.”

  Demetry shook the discordant thought from his head. They deserved to die no more than Demetry deserved to live the rest of his life in this dungeon.

  If Demetry felt regret over anything, it would be that he didn’t flee north while he had the chance. Joshua’s rampage was the opening he needed to slip away. That was the single greatest mistake of Demetry’s life. If such an opportunity arose again, he would not flinch, he would not falter, he would act, consequences to others be damned.

  Demetry was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not notice a guard had stopped outside his cell door. A slop pail slid through the flap in the door and the guard moved on. It was filled to the brim with pale gray sludge. Despite the grumble of his stomach, Demetry kept his distance from the food. He knew better than to eat any without his cellmate’s permission. Clyde always got first dibs on food. It was one of Clyd
e’s five rules. The others — stay off the hay, piss on the hinges, shit in the bucket, and never ever bother a sleeping Clyde. Demetry had learned each of Clyde’s rules the hard way.

  Not keen on adding to the collage of bruises that covered his back, Demetry crouched in the corner and waited. Clyde would eventually wake up and eat his fill. Demetry would be free to eat whatever dregs remained. An unfair arrangement in an unfair world, but what was Demetry to do? Clyde was a head taller than Demetry, and a great deal stronger. Stubbornness and feigned ignorance had only bought Demetry pain.

  “So what is compliance buying you?”

  “A slow death,” Demetry muttered. He was unable to ignore the reality that was staring back at him every time he glimpsed his own reflection in a pail of water.

  His health was deteriorating fast. By the end of the first month, his clothes ceased fitting properly. By the end of the second month, he could feel the divots between every rib in his chest. By the end of the third month, he ran out of notches on his belt. Unable to cinch his belt any tighter, he tied the loose ends in a knot around his shrunken waist.

  Whatever strength he once had was long gone. The knobby joints of his knees periodically gave out when he tried to move, and if he stood too fast he risked passing out. There were days when he didn’t even bother to stand. When he ran his hand over his lice-ridden scalp, hair came out in chunks. His teeth were loose in his gums. His vision seemed to be worsening as well — sometimes Clyde was no more than an indistinct blob seated atop his throne of hay.

  Was this the penitence that Chaplain Sighelm spoke about so fondly? Demetry shook his head. “There’s no penitence here, just misery and suffering.” Demetry was so tired and sick that he didn’t care that he was talking to himself. “Perhaps this was what the elder council truly wanted. Death was too merciful a punishment for my crime. I’m damned.”

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. A second bucket slid under the door. Demetry blinked in disbelief. The first bucket still stood there, untouched.

  Had the guards made a mistake? Perhaps Demetry had passed out and lost track of time — it wouldn’t have been the first time that happened. Clyde stirred from his slumber, roused by the chime of voices in the hall.

  Demetry looked at the two buckets, each filled nearly to the brim. It was a feast; there was more than enough gruel for them both to eat their fill. Demetry edged as close to the bucket as he would dare. He looked to Clyde with pleading eyes.

  Clyde shoved Demetry to the floor and stepped over him to get to the food. He returned to his throne of hay, greedily clutching a bucket in each hand. He devoured the first serving in record time and then went straight into the second pail without taking a break. Demetry gaped in disbelief as Clyde slurped down the food. He clearly had no intention to share.

  Demetry was tempted to attack Clyde, to try to wrestle the slop bucket from his grasp before the last bit passed his lips, but he knew it would be a losing battle. Demetry might have had a chance when they first locked him in the cell, but now he was just skin and bones.

  “Please, I’m starving.” Demetry was embarrassed by the frailness of his voice. A sound passed Clyde’s lips that might have been a laugh.

  More footsteps in the corridor. The guard was returning, having completed his rounds.

  Demetry crawled to the door, placing his lips to the flap.

  “Please, I need food!” The words squeaked from his mouth. There was silence in the corridor. He was unsure if anyone was still out there, if anyone cared, if anyone would reply. “Warden Cendrik told me to call for him if I needed help. Please, fetch me the warden!”

  A pair of boots clacked to a halt on the far side of the door. The hem of a dirty yellow robe lay just on the periphery of Demetry’s vision. A Yanish Brother.

  “I need help.” This time, Demetry’s voice sounded weak, his request hollow. He had overheard the Yanish Brothers “helping” other inmates. It usually involved a flail.

  Not surprisingly, the Yanish Brother did not reply. For a while he simply stood there, unmoving. The lock on the door slowly turned over. Clyde whimpered, the first sign that something was wrong. Demetry edged away from the door, his hope turning to fear.

  The door swung open, groaning on its corroded hinges. A yellow-robed figure strode into the room. It was Chaplain Sighelm. The weasel-faced man stood in the doorway and slowly surveyed the cell. He spotted Clyde first and his lips stiffened into a grim frown. A wooden club rested in Chaplain Sighelm’s hand.

  The chaplain lunged toward Clyde, swinging the club like a man cleaving firewood. Clyde threw his arms over his head just as Sighelm struck. There was a crack and a pitiful cry as Clyde’s arm broke at the wrist. Sighelm turned his attention to Demetry. Demetry didn’t even bother to raise his hands in defense, he simply sat there in stunned silence and took the club square in the jaw.

  Darkness ensued.

  DEMETRY AWOKE TO A MERRY WHISTLE.

  “I heard you were asking for me,” said Warden Cendrik. All Demetry could see of the warden was a pair of impeccably polished black leather boots and the tip of his wooden cane. Demetry was lying on a table, his stomach pressed flat against the coarse hard wood, his face dangling over the edge.

  “You should have called for me sooner,” continued the warden. “Time has not been kind to you.” He gave Demetry’s back a reassuring pat.

  A Yanish Brother stood beside the table working at Demetry’s belt while another tried to strip off Demetry’s shirt.

  “Just cut the rags off of him,” called a shrill voice. It was Chaplain Sighelm. There was a swishing noise, the sound of shears cutting through fabric, and Demetry’s tattered clothes were stripped away. Gooseflesh shrouded Demetry’s naked frame.

  “I want those lice-ridden rags thrown in the fire,” instructed Warden Cendrik. He lifted Demetry’s chin and turned his head from side to side, inspecting the wound on Demetry’s brow. “The chaplain got you good. Lucky he didn’t break your skull. I always tell him not to use the club. Sighelm has a tendency to get carried away.” Cendrik probed the wound with his finger, causing a blinding pain to flash through Demetry’s head. “You’ll need stitches, I fear.”

  “I... I haven’t eaten in a few days,” managed Demetry. He was suddenly self-aware of his state, embarrassed even. His clothes were soiled with filth, pus, and piss. He had gone half-bald, and his teeth were rotting out of his head. He tried to cover his mouth with his palm, but found he couldn’t draw his hand to his mouth.

  “Don’t try to move too much,” said Cendrik, more an order than advice. “You’re in fetters. It’ll keep you from thrashing around too much once the trial begins. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  Demetry tried to lift his arms and legs. When that didn’t work he tried to turn over on his back. He was held fast by leather bindings cinched around his ankles and wrists.

  “My trial? What’s happening? What are you doing?” A cold panic seized him. He pulled against his bindings to no avail. One of the Yanish Brothers cinched his wrist bindings even tighter. “Take me back to my cell. I want to go back.”

  “There’s something in his pocket,” reported a guard that was rummaging through Demetry’s clothes. The guard’s face curled with disgust as he held up Sneak by her tail. “He’s a sick one. It’s a dead rat.”

  Sneak’s body suddenly sprung life, her legs kicking wildly. She swung like a pendulum in the man’s grasp and managed to lock her nubby jaws around the guard’s wrist. There was a flash of red, and the guard howled in surprise. He flung Sneak across the room. The rat hit the ground running, and before anyone could react she darted from the room.

  “Get me that rat,” ordered Cendrik.

  The guard looked as if he might object, then thought better of it. Clutching his bleeding wrist, he ran after the rodent. Demetry was quite certain Sneak would not be caught.

  Cendrik drew his face level with Demetry’s eyes. “Made yourself a friend, I see. Have you forgotten that necromancy is
a sin? Chaplain Sighelm doesn’t take kindly to such dark transgressions.” He was smiling from ear to ear.

  Light flared as Demetry’s clothes were deposited in the fireplace, briefly illuminating the room in full. Examination tables were lined in neat rows, while fetters and chains, hooks and pincers, choke pears and iron masks, hung on the far wall. He was in a part of Coljack he had never seen before, deep down or high up. He couldn’t be sure.

  “You’re in the Tower of Repentance,” said Sighelm, coming to stand beside Demetry’s body. “Once the trial begins, it is best that the other prisoners hear your cries of penance. Forgiveness comes to those who openly and honestly beg the gods.”

  “I beg the gods for forgiveness,” declared Demetry in his loudest voice.

  Sighelm snorted. “Without pain, how can we know you’re being sincere.”

  Demetry’s stomach lurched as the table suddenly spun on a set of hinges. He was hoisted upright, his face drawing level with the warden’s.

  “Calm, Demetry, be calm.” Cendrik gave Demetry’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We’re old chums from school. I wouldn’t do anything that would cause you permanent harm. We’re going to put you through a few tests, that’s all.” Steel clattered just outside of Demetry’s view as the Yanish Brothers made preparations. Images of razors and curved knives, saw blades and pincers blossomed in Demetry’s mind. His body broke out in a cold sweat.

  There was a sharp crack as Chaplain Sighelm snapped a whip in the air.

  Demetry felt like his heart might leap from his chest. “Warden, please. I’m tired and hungry and weak. I...”

  Cendrik waved off his plea. “We had to wait until you were desperate, your body beaten down, your spirit dwindling. Only then would your will to survive be most instinctual.” He shook his head. “I apologize ahead of time — this test will seem cruel. But when we are finished, you will be reborn.”

  The whip cracked again, this time coming so close it moved the hairs on Demetry’s head.