Gritting my teeth, I push myself to my feet and go to assist Tamara. The sooner we can put an end to this fighting, the sooner we can restore sanity to the Lodge.
I decide to take the long way around, circling a crackling brazier in an attempt to get behind one of the rangers attacking her flank. Gripping my hatchet, I move out of the shadows, striking the ranger in the sword arm and knocking his blade free.
The guard curses and spins, shoving me back and then bending down to pick up his sword with his off hand.
I stagger backward, bumping into the side of the Master Warden's chair, then move forward again, determined to neutralize the man before he can kill Tamara. However, as I move forward something grabs me from behind, wrapping around my neck and choking me with an iron grip. I stumble to the ground, dropping my hatchet and bringing my hands up to keep myself from being strangled as the ranger in front of me continues his assault on Tamara.
Light! I think as I gasp for breath. Is it Carr trying to kill me?
No, I realize, looking up at the leering face above me. It isn't Carr.
It's the Master Warden himself.
The blind old man, with his wrinkled skin and frail body, has his arm snaked around my throat in a powerful hold, his grip like a vice that is slowly choking the life out of me. I buck, arching my back and turning my head in an attempt to break free from his arms, but it is like I am struggling against a much stronger person, not a frail old man.
Unable to get him off me, I reach a hand up in an attempt to gouge out his eyes, anything to keep him from continuing his chokehold. The edges of my vision have already started to turn black.
Frantically, I tear at his leather blindfold, ripping it free and going for his eyes. I can hear him growl like a feral animal as I begin to dig into his eye sockets.
He releases me, dropping me gasping to the ground, but in an instant he is back on top of me, grabbing my throat with his hands and choking me with too-strong fingers.
Why is he so strong? I think as I claw at his fingers, attempting to dislodge them.
Looking up into his face, I see a man who has gone absolutely mad. His lips are curled back into a snarl, revealing yellowed teeth that are uneven in his gums. His milky eyes look directly at me, as if he can see me, and then suddenly I realize something – I have seen the swirling pattern in those pupils before. The Master Warden is not blind. He was never blind.
Master Warden Thorne is a mind slave!
"You couldn't leave well enough alone," he hisses, flicking my face with spittle. "You had to meddle... to stick your nose where it didn't belong. Well, now you will join those filthy villagers. Now you will die!"
I croak, trying to cry for help, but no air escapes my mouth. My chest feels like it is about to burst, and I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as the darkness creeps in.
This is the end.
Suddenly, the tip of a sword rips through the front of Thorne's robes, piercing his heart and causing crimson to bloom on his chest.
He lets out a ragged breath and collapses, slumping to the ground and releasing his grip on my neck.
Sucking in a breath, I begin to cough, grabbing tenderly at my raw throat and rolling to the side. Standing above me, as if he cannot believe what he has just done, stands Gareth Carr, holding a bloodied sword over the corpse of his former master.
The commotion in the room stops as everyone turns to regard the two of us, me lying on the ground and him standing above me.
Still gasping for air, I push myself to a sitting position, glancing about the room. Tamara managed to dispatch the man with the wounded arm. He now lays in a growing puddle of blood at her feet. The other guard who had been fighting her now stands with his jaw hanging open, the tip of his sword dipping to the ground. Talon, standing on the other side of the brazier, covers his mouth, and the honor guard who had been chasing him has stopped as well, his eyes wide with shock.
Glancing coldly at the crumpled body of Thorne, Tamara turns to regard the two rangers standing in the entryway.
"Go and inform the others in camp that the Master Warden is dead," she commands, her voice measured and cool. "I shall address everyone shortly."
They nod and rush out into the open, leaving the rest of us alone with the deafening silence that has now filled the hall.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Zara
The darkness of the cell feels like a physical weight, crushing me from all sides and making it difficult to breathe. I struggle against my constraints for perhaps the hundredth time, attempting to break free but to no avail, the chains are too thick and the ropes too strong.
Escape is impossible.
Resigned, I hang my head in defeat, letting my hair cascade loosely around my face. The salty tears that roll down my cheeks make me hate myself more for getting captured.
How could I be so stupid?
My wrists have been rubbed raw from struggling, the coarse ropes digging into my flesh painfully as I hang forward, but the pain has long since faded to a dull throb. The aches in my shoulders and back are all I have in the darkness – the only distraction I have from my traitorous thoughts.
The indignity at being captured, the fear of being executed are almost enough to make me consider joining the Harbingers.
But no, I think as I blink away more tears, I would never be able to live with myself if I betrayed the Conclave. Some things are simply worth dying for.
There is no telling how long I have been chained in this cell. Hours maybe? Days? My rumbling stomach is empty, my lips are dry and cracked, and my throat is parched from lack of water.
Why in the Light are they keeping me here so long? Why not just get on with it?
To keep myself from going crazy, I let my mind wander beyond my current miserable condition. I begin to think of the things I have learned on this insane mission of mine.
The Harbingers' connection to the demons is still so unnerving to me, their worldview so strange that it defies all logic. It seems that the cult is bent on sowing chaos within the Arc of Radiance, to help the R'Laar with conquering the realm. Perhaps they are the ones causing the Heart of Light to fail; that would certainly align with their apocalyptic vision of the future.
And what was that they were saying back in the tavern? I think, trying to remember exactly what was being said before those spiders began to crawl on me. The deep-voiced man had mentioned that they had made initial contact. That had seemed to get everyone in the room excited. Who were they making contact with?
Then it dawns on me.
Could they be talking about contacting the demons outside of the Arc? The realization makes me feel sick. If the Harbingers can coordinate with the demons beyond the Arc of Radiance, then the situation with the kingdom is more dire than I realized.
I grit my teeth in frustration, my childish tears forgotten.
These creatures cannot be allowed to win!
I am shaken from my thoughts as the sounds of footsteps begin to echo down the hall. I look up and see the flickering light of torches emanating beneath my cell door. Beyond, I can hear somebody fumbling with keys. Before long the door to my cell is creaking open, revealing three hooded and cloaked figures standing in the entryway before me.
"Good evening, Magus," one of them says in a mocking voice, bowing. "I hope that your stay here has been satisfactory."
The other two snicker at the man's joke.
Looking up at the figures, I force my lips into a pleasant smile. "My accommodations have been most comfortable, thank you very much. I would like to lodge a formal complaint about the smell, however. It seems to grow worse when you three are around."
The sniggering laughter dies as the figures regard me. It's almost as if I can feel anger radiating from behind their black-colored masks.
"You still have quite the mouth on you," the first one says, stepping into the cell and holding his torch aloft. "Let's see you mouth off when an axe opens that pretty little neck of yours." He looks back at his
companions and gestures for them to come inside. "Come on. Let's take this one to the headsman's block."
The figures shuffle in and begin unlocking my chains, removing me from the post but leaving my hands bound behind me with rope. They are not gentle with the way they handle me, jostling me around and being far too free with their hands. One of them grabs my backside with a chuckle, and I feel the sudden urge to burn him to a crisp with magefyre. If only I had my talisman with me...
Roughly, they shove me out of the cell, one of them leading me by the arm down the dark hall with the other two walking behind us.
My legs feel like jelly after being chained in the same position for so long, but I manage to move forward without stumbling. Somehow, I think that these men would not be too kind if I were to fall to the ground and cause them to trip.
As we go, I cannot help but feel like a sheep being led to the slaughterhouse. Despite my stomach being empty, I feel like I am going to throw up, my mouth going dry and my insides convulsing.
There has to be a way out of this, I think desperately, casting my eyes about. This can't be how it ends!
The hallway is long and dark and nondescript, with no weapons or hidden tunnels for me to run down. Ahead, I see the light of a smoldering brazier, illuminating a staircase leading up and a heavy wooden door set into the far wall.
My captors lead me past the staircase and we approach the door, one of them using a gloved fist to pound three times on its dark surface. After a moment it opens a crack, revealing another masked face on the other side.
"What is it?" A harsh voice asks through the opening.
"We've brought the prisoner," the man holding my arm explains. "She is to be pressed for information then beheaded, as per the prophet's orders."
The mask on the other side regards us for a moment before nodding, opening the door all the way and then waving us into the large chamber beyond.
I am struck by the pungent smell of lye and smoke, the arched room in front of me bright with the light of braziers and candles. The men hand me off to the man inside, who is dressed differently from the others. He still has a black, featureless mask covering his face, but he is wearing a sleeveless tunic of the deepest blue and brown trousers tucked into leather boots. He has on a white apron, which is stained with old bloodstains, and I can see a small azure crystal hanging from a chain at his neck.
A talisman.
"You may go," the sleeveless man says, grabbing my arm with one hand and waving the others away with the other.
The others stand sheepishly in the doorway, staring at me from behind their masks. "We were hoping to watch, Morthal," one of the men says, apparently using the magic user's name. "We want to see you work on this girl."
Work on me? I think, panicking. What does that mean?
Then I get a good look around. The chamber is wide and rectangular, filled with a myriad of devices constructed from wood and metal. Long shelves adorn the wall carrying knives and other sharp instruments, and the stone floor is stained a deep crimson, especially around a drain set into the center of the room.
They had said they were going to press me for information, I realize with horror. They mean to torture me.
Morthal seems to consider their request before finally nodding. "Fine," he says, jabbing a thumb to some chairs set up on the far side of the room. "But don't interfere with my work, or you'll be answering to the prophet."
The three nod their heads eagerly and go to the chairs, sitting down and chatting quietly with one another.
My nausea intensifies as I am led to a long wooden table.
Morthal draws a knife from his belt and steps behind me, using the blade to slice free the ropes binding my wrists. As soon as my hands are free, however, I can feel the shimmering power of radiant magic as he channels new restraints to bind me.
This man must have been trained by the Conclave. How could he betray his own kind?
I grimace as the man puts his hands on my waist and lifts me up on the table, his powerful arms picking me up seemingly without much effort.
"Lay back," he commands gruffly, grabbing my arms and stretching them out across the width of the table.
As I lay down, I am chagrined to realize that the spell he has cast on me has caused my wrists to stick to the table's surface. I might as well be bound with iron for the amount I am able to move.
Looking down, I can see that my ankles are similarly bound with blue radiant bands, completely immobilizing me on the flat of my back.
Letting out a breath, I rest my head back on the table and prepare myself for the worst.
To the side, Morthal walks over to the wall of instruments, seeming to consider which one he should pick up and use on me. The others sitting in their chairs fall silent as the spectacle is about to begin.
"They say that you are a spy from the Conclave," Morthal says, picking up a twisting instrument that looks like a corkscrew. He holds it up to the light, looking at it like a jeweler inspecting a fine piece of jewelry. "The prophet wants me to squeeze every ounce of information out of you before cutting off your head. But that is not why I am here." He returns to the corkscrew, shaking his head slightly as he considers the other instruments of torture.
"I am here," he continues after a moment, "to inflict pain. It is a job that I take very seriously, and one to which I am very well suited." He finally settles on a long, hooked knife, picking it off the wall and holding it delicately in his fingers. "There is not a doubt in my mind that by the time I am finished, you will tell me your deepest, darkest secrets in order to stop the pain."
My insides writhe as he turns to face me, his dead, black eyes filling me with an overwhelming sense of dread, more terrible than I have ever felt before. I can feel my heart begin to beat faster, as if trying to escape my chest.
"Ultimately, the information you will give me will be useless," he says casually, walking toward me with a slow, deliberate gait. "The prophet has already begun to move against the Conclave. In the morning, your High Magus will be discovered in her chambers, slain by an assassin's blade. I only wish that I could be the one to slide the dagger into her heart."
He approaches the side of the table by my right hand, reaching forward with his hooked knife and slitting the front of my robes. The fabric tears easily, revealing my shift underneath, and I let out a terrified whimper.
"Hush now, my dear," he whispers, brushing a lock of hair out of my face. "Save your screams for when the real fun begins."
He playfully taps the flat of the blade against my cheek, the edge cutting a shallow gash in my skin. I barely feel it at all. Right now, I feel like a mouse cornered by a massive, bloodthirsty cat. This sadistic freak seems to actually be enjoying this.
Breathing fast, I prepare myself for the pain I know is about to be inflicted on me.
I am about to squeeze my eyes shut when Morthal's talisman catches my eye, clutched in the hand not holding the knife. It is glowing blue with an unearthly light, strangely comforting as I prepare myself to die. Time seems to slow down as I gaze at that source crystal, reminding me of a lesson I had learned in my early days at the Academy. When someone is holding a source crystal, another person can channel when making skin-to-skin contact with them. It is such a simple truth, one that I learned young. I can remember touching the arm of one of my classmates, channeling source energy from the talisman they held in their hand, using their body as a conduit between me and the crystal.
And at this very moment, Morthal's forearm rests not an inch away from my hand.
Reaching out with my forefinger, I touch the torturer's arm and feel an instant connection to the talisman in his hand. Desperately, I begin to channel, filling my body with as much source energy as I can in just a few seconds.
No doubt feeling my channeling, Morthal glances down at me, his gleeful demeanor turning to one of confusion. "What are you doing?"
I look directly up at his mask and utter the words, "Fos lasair."
Magefyre flar
es to life in my hand, burning Morthal's flesh and igniting his arm. He lets out a shriek of pain, jerking away from me and waving his arm about like a flickering blue torch. His curved knife falls from his grasp and clatters to the floor, forgotten.
With his concentration broken, the magical bands binding my hands and feet evaporate, allowing me to roll off the table and land unsteadily on my feet.
The three men sitting on the far side of the room leap up from their chairs, cursing and pulling out daggers from their belts. They begin moving toward me, murder in their shadowy black eyes.
Thinking fast, I reach over and grab Morthal's burning arm, his charred skin cracking as I wrap my fingers around it. By now the flames are beginning to envelop the whole left side of his body, but they do not burn me.
Magic does not harm the one who conjured it.
Morthal screams and falls to his knees, writhing in agony, but I pay him little heed. Instead, I pull in more source energy, filling my body with its invigorating warmth.
"Fas morag ti ma'tel," I bellow, forming a tight ball of energy in my fist.
I release it, sending a bolt of pure light streaking across the room, blasting a hole through one of the men. The force of the blow knocks him back, sending him colliding into his companion, but already I am filling myself with more power.
The third cultist approaches me at a full sprint, his knife held high, but I raise my hand and speak the words for more magefyre, engulfing him in flames as well.
He screams, falling writhing to the floor, just as the third and final man pushes himself to his feet. The cultist looks at his fallen companions, and for an instant I think that I see genuine fear in his eyes. Before he can flee, however, I pull in more energy, holding the torturer's burning limb as he continues to shake violently.
"Fos lasair!"
Hurling the ball of magefyre, I watch as it flies through the air and explodes on the man's chest, hungrily enveloping his body and eliciting a scream of pain.
Bringers of Doom Page 25
