by Jess Lebow
"Guess you just match the color of the cover to the mood you're in."
He picked up another book, this one bound in dyed red hide, and turned it so he could see its title: The Art of Waging War, by General Bartholemew G. Blazencrow.
"A wonderful read."
Liam started and almost dropped the book.
"If you find the time, I highly recommend it."
Liam placed the book back on the shelf and turned to face the speaker. The young man was not much older than Liam himself. His bright red hair, combed neatly to one side, made a wavy pattern across the top of his head. It was obviously awash in some sort of scented oil. Liam could smell it from where he stood.
The man wore finely made clothes of what looked like silk and a fencer's belt around his waist. Oddly, though, no sword dangled from his hip. But the man's most distinguishing feature was a series of three long scars across his left cheek. Though they seemed old and long-healed, they stood out, a bright burgundy against his pale, freckled skin.
The scarred man looked Liam up and down, seeming to take his measure. "So, you're an educated man."
Liam nodded.
He offered Liam his hand. "I am Lord Purdun, Baron of Ahlarkham."
Liam was momentarily stunned. He had seen the baron before-his portrait hung in every major service building in Duhlnarim-but he'd never been this close before. Standing right beside him, Purdun didn't seem so imposing. In the paintings, he was the oppressor, the icon responsible for all of Ahlarkham's problems. He was a menace, a force of evil that must be stopped at all costs. But in person, old "Firefist," as he was sometimes called, was just a man.
"I know who you are," said Liam, refusing to take the baron's hand.
Purdun smiled. "And I know who you are, Liam of Duhlnarim."
Liam nodded. "I suppose you do." He shook his shackles without lifting them into view. The chain made a satisfying clink.
The smile drained from Purdun's face, and he snapped his fingers. One of the cloaked guards suddenly came to life, stepping out from behind a bookshelf. As he did, he seemed to grow and grow. The cloak's hem lifted from the floor, and the man's legs extended beneath. What had appeared to Liam upon first inspection as a floor-length robe in fact only came down to the guard's knees.
At his full height, the man (though Liam doubted this was a man, never had he seen anyone so massive) needed to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the ceiling. His bulk had been concealed behind the bookcase, but out here in the open, Liam could see that this was no ordinary bodyguard. Easily nine feet tall, the soldier had arms as big around as Liam's middle. His face was mostly concealed. Only a few glimpses of pale gray skin showed through the golden mask attached to his helm.
This enormous creature crossed the room toward Liam, carrying his massive frame with the lithe grace of a predatory cat. Despite his size, Liam could tell this guard had some speed.
As he approached, Liam took a step back. Stopping beside the two men, the bodyguard produced a small silver key and handed it to the baron.
Purdun took the key from the guard. "I also know about your ambush of my carriage several days ago."
Anger flared inside Liam. He could see the soldiers pouring out of the doors, the guardsmen surrounding him and his brother, and Ryder dropping to his knees after being slashed across the gut.
"Tell me something I don't already know."
"Now, now," said Purdun, trying to smother a self-satisfied smile, "I only did to you what you were planning to do to me. You were outsmarted and beaten in a fair fight. Don't be a sore loser."
Liam lashed out, grabbing for the baron's shirt. "You killed my brother."
Purdun's eyes went wide, and he lunged back. Reaching for his hip, his hand grasped at something Liam couldn't see. One moment, the baron was unarmed. The next, he stood on guard, a rapier materializing in his hand as if out of thin air.
The pain of losing his brother drove Liam forward. In a blink he sidestepped and grabbed hold of the bell of Purdun's blade. Knocking it aside, he lunged for the baron's throat. "I'll get-"
His words were cut off when his feet left the ground. The baron's massive bodyguard grabbed Liam by the back of the vest, wrenched his hands off Purdun's neck, and lifted him in the air. Liam was helpless, dangling a gnome's height above the floor like a baby kitten.
Purdun stood several steps away, his sword pointed at Liam. His carefully coifed hair hung now over one eye. His shirt sat cockeyed on his chest, crumpled at the neck where Liam had grabbed hold.
The baron pushed his hair back out of his face. "I'd rather you didn't do that again."
Liam's arms and legs swung freely. He craned his neck to look back at the gray-skinned creature. The bodyguard held him off the floor with only one arm and apparently little effort.
Liam looked back at the baron. "Or what?"
Purdun took a deep breath, looking a little exacerbated. Then his face broke into a smile, and he laughed.
"I like your spirit." He turned his rapier around and slipped the tip back toward his belt as if he were placing it into a sheath. The blade disappeared slowly, looking as if it were being swallowed by an invisible snake. When the hilt reached his hip, it too vanished, and the baron's fencing belt once again appeared to be conspicuously empty of weapons.
Purdun straightened his shirt and collar and collected himself, then he nodded to the bodyguard. "Put him down."
The creature released Liam, and he fell to the ground, landing on the wooden floor with a thud. Liam scrambled away from the bodyguard and lifted himself to his feet.
Purdun looked him over from head to toe, spared a glance at his bodyguard, then took a step toward Liam, holding the key out.
"Please," he said pointing to Liam's shackles, "I'd prefer if you weren't wearing those."
A shudder ran down Liam's spine. He'd heard about this sort of thing.
He took a quick glance around the room. The other guards were still motionless in their alcoves. The door he'd come in was closed and presumably locked. The only other way out was the stone archways in the far wall that looked out on the bay and the ships in the harbor. It was a long way down-too far for Liam to jump.
Liam shuffled away from the baron. "Is this some sort of game?"
Purdun stopped, still holding the key out before him. "Game?"
The brutality of Purdun's elite guard was common knowledge. Liam had heard the tales of Captain Phinneous letting prisoners free only to claim they were trying to escape. He'd let them get into the courtyard, then sound the alarm. From what Liam had seen on the way in, a prisoner wouldn't stand a demon's chance in heaven of getting out. Anyone caught in that courtyard would be picked to pieces by the first volley of arrows. After that, there probably wouldn't be much left. It was a sick game, another abuse of power and another way to dehumanize the citizens of Duhlnarim.
Liam held up his hands. "Why drag me in here and shackle me, only to let me go?"
Purdun grimaced. "I apologize, Liam. It was never my intention to chain you up."
"I'm not going to give you an excuse to torture me. I'm not going to try to escape."
One of the freighters in the harbor began to weigh anchor, its chain clanking as it rose out of the water. Liam looked out the window, once again longing to be aboard that ship bound for a new place.
Purdun chuckled. "Is that what you think this is?"
Liam's attention came back inside the room. He never would have imagined his life ending like this. Three days ago, before he'd jumped out to attack the carriage, he knew that his actions could get him killed. Somehow though, he figured his end would be a bit more heroic.
He looked Purdun in the face. "There's no one here except you, me, and your goons. You can do what you want to me and make up whatever story you like. You don't need me to play along."
Purdun waved his hand, and the bodyguard took several steps back. "Liam, I have no intention of harming you."
"Then what did you bring me here for?"
Purdun stepped forward again and grabbed Liam by the wrist. Liam jumped back but not before the baron had unlocked and released his right wrist. The shackle swung free.
"I brought you here, Liam," said Purdun, "to offer you a job."
Liam stopped his retreat. "A job?"
Purdun nodded. "Yes, Liam. I want you to join my elite guard."
Liam wasn't sure he had heard the words right. "You want me to join your guard?"
"That is what I said," confirmed the baron.
Liam laughed. "What makes you think I'd want to join your elite guard?"
Purdun shrugged. "The money."
Liam was confused. Less than a tenday ago he'd attacked one of the baron's carriages, and somehow that had qualified him for entrance into the baron's elite guard. "Are all of your thugs ex-criminals?"
Purdun smiled, ignoring the question. "You'd get the best training and the best equipment. Three square meals a day, and extra provisions for your family. You could improve that run-down house of yours. Get your mother a proper wardrobe. Buy your father a new horse."
"I don't think you get it, Purdun." Liam narrowed his eyes. "I despise you. I hate everything you stand for. It's you who made my family suffer in the first place with your laws and taxes. And now you come to me with an offer to make their life better, bring their lives up to the level they deserve." Liam spat on the floor. "You step on our throats, suffocate us, then act as if you were doing us a favor by letting up, allowing us to simply live. Then you have the audacity to ask me to help you suffocate the rest of Erlkazar." He lifted the open shackle and placed it back on his wrist. "No thank you. I would rather live the rest of my life in chains than be party to such villainy."
Lord Purdun took a deep breath. "Well, Liam, I can certainly understand your position." He placed the key in the shackles and locked them once again. "But it's a standing offer. If you change your mind, you know where to find me." Purdun placed his hand on Liam's shoulder and directed him toward the door. "Come."
Liam didn't budge. "Where are you taking me?"
"I'm escorting you to the front gate, Liam." He smiled. "To make sure you make it out of Zerith Hold safely."
Ryder sat in the bowels of Lord Purdun's dungeon, his legs chained together, his wrists chained together, and the chains chained together. Beside him on the wooden bench were two similarly chained men-one muscular and bald with the tattoo of a blue triangle on his forehead and the other skinny and sickly.
In fact, the entire dank, dripping room was filled with manacled men. They sat side by side by side, three to a bench, twelve benches in all, each man chained to the next. They all wore the same identical clothing: dirty gray baggy hemp pants and matching sleeveless shirts. Down one side of the floor a huge shirtless man, bulging with muscles, paced the narrow walkway between the prisoners. His chest was crisscrossed in old scars, and he carried a whip in his right hand.
"All right, you vermin," started the man. "There will be no talking, no whispering, and no complaining." He cracked his whip against the stone floor. "If you're here it means your life is no longer worth a piss. So until we manage to find someone stupid enough to pay good money for your wasted, worthless hides, you belong to me." He turned and paced back toward the front of the room. "And I'm none too happy about having to spend the next several months with a bunch of criminal low-lifes, inhaling your fumes and watching you wallow in your own filth. Marching several hundred miles across the open plains ain't exactly a picnic with a fair maiden for me either. So mind that you don't make me angry, and you might just make it to your new home in one piece."
He stopped when he got to the front of the room. Atop a raised platform rested a pair of large drums with blackened leather harness straps-the kind that could be hefted over a drummer's shoulders and carried during a parade or festival. The cow hide that covered their tops was stained a deep brown, and there were several tears and holes along the sides and bottom.
Behind the drums was a pair of wooden doors held closed by a monstrous sliding bolt. As an added measure, a heavy metal lock hung from the latch. It was open and unlocked, but having the lock on the inside seemed odd to Ryder. Was there something they intended to keep out of here? Or was the taskmaster really prepared to sacrifice himself if the prisoners managed to break free?
Beside the doors, as if in answer to Ryder's query, hung a half dozen wicked-looking knives, cleavers, clubs, and other implements of pain. Perhaps there was another reason for the latch being on the inside.
The taskmaster picked up a heavy-looking cleaver in his free hand and shook it as if testing its weight. He nodded, seemingly satisfied.
"Now, about the rest of the rules. You address no one but me, and only if you've been addressed first. Any talking out of turn will get you fifty lashes by my own hand." He slapped the whip against the floor again. It made a sharp cracking sound, and a small stone flew into the air. "If I do speak to you, you will address me as 'sir.' If I even think that you are being disrespectful, you will receive fifty lashes. If you look at me funny, you will receive fifty lashes. If I don't like your tone, you will receive fifty lashes." He paused and looked over the prisoners. "And if I just feel like it, you'll receive fifty lashes."
The taskmaster swung the cleaver through the musky air. Ryder watched as the blade glistened in the lanternlight. This scarred, shirtless creature seemed to be enjoying himself. He had a whip in one hand, a cleaver in the other, and was swinging them both like a child might wave its toys. It made Ryder's stomach turn. What sort of man would revel in such torment? What sort of life could have led a man to stoop to such a place? He was barely more than an animal.
Ryder stared down at the chains on his arms and legs. They were trying to turn him into an animal as well. He looked back at the taskmaster. He was still flailing around with his whip and cleaver. The taskmaster's chest and forehead were beginning to shine from, sweat. That would be Ryder's challenge here. He could never let himself become like this man, never let them take from him the only thing he had left: his humanity.
A pounding on the door caused the taskmaster to stop his display.
"Prepare the prisoners," yelled a voice from the other side of the door. "The mounted guard is ready to leave."
The taskmaster was visibly deflated by this. He bowed his head then hung the cleaver back on the wall. "All right scum," he said after a long sigh, "that's your cue." He wound his whip around his right hand, making his fist look like a giant's. With his other hand, he grabbed hold of the length of chain on the floor that connected to the first set of three prisoners.
Giving it a rough tug, he shouted, "Get up."
All thirty-six prisoners stood up.
"To your left." He gave the chain another tug. "Move."
Ryder, being on the farthest left side, sidestepped as far as he could. There was enough chain between the shackles on his ankles for him to take a full stride. But the chain between him and the bald man on his right was not as long, and the two of them got momentarily tangled. Ryder came to an abrupt stop, almost toppling over. The bald man reached out and caught Ryder by the wrist, righting the falling revolutionary.
Ryder looked at the man. He had a gruff, surly countenance. His forehead sported a vivid blue tattoo shaped like a triangle. His left ear had a long tear in it, covered with a fresh scab-likely an ornament recently removed by force. His nose was bright red, a telltale sign of one who's consumed a lifetime's worth of mead in much less than a lifetime, and his face was covered with deep pockmarks. Despite his outward appearance, his eyes had a kindness to them, and the man nodded when they made eye contact.
Ryder nodded back, acknowledging the man's help, and continued to shuffle to his left. With several quick steps and a hop to avoid tripping over the chain again, he managed to move far enough for him, the bald man, and the third prisoner in his row to get out from behind the bench.
Once the entire group of prisoners was ready, the taskmaster gave them a once-over and nodded. Clipping
the lead chain onto a hook on his belt, he turned around and hefted the drum harness onto his shoulders.
"All right, you worthless pile of dragon dung, this isn't difficult." He pounded one of the drums with his fist. It made a deep boom. "Listen to the beat and move your feet. If I stop beating the drum, you stop moving your feet. If I turn left, you turn left. If I turn right, you turn right. Got it?"
No one said a word.
The taskmaster looked back over his shoulder, shouting this time. "Got it?"
"Yes, sir," said several of the prisoners.
"First beat," he shouted over the drums, "you step with your left foot. Second beat, you step with your right foot. Anyone who can't keep up or keep the beat will force me to stop beating the drum, and if I'm not beating the drum I'll be beating you." He slammed his fist against the first drum.
Ryder stepped his left foot forward. The tattooed man did as well. The skinny man at the end of their row, however, was caught off-guard. He was yanked forward by his shackles, only catching his balance at the last instant. The prisoners in the next row bumped into the skinny man's back, nearly causing a pileup.
"Second beat," shouted the taskmaster. He brought his other fist down against the drum.
Ryder stepped forward with his right foot. This time the skinny man caught the beat, and he moved in unison with the rest of the group. As the prisoners shuffled forward, the chains rattled, sounding like some sort of angry spirit.
"First beat!"
Ryder stepped again. The bruises from the beating Captain Phinneous had given him burned from the strain.
"Second beat!"
Ryder looked up at the taskmaster. The taskmaster beat the drum again, this time without any verbal instruction. Ryder's lip curled with the disdain he now felt toward the man.
As a group, the prisoners, led by the drum-beating taskmaster, marched in a wide circle around the wooden benches in the center of the room. When they reached the same place they had started from, the taskmaster abruptly stopped beating the drum.
