by R. J. Grieve
He now found himself in a maze of narrow passages that intersected each other at right angles, and making full use of the confused network, he twisted and turned, first taking one direction, then another, in an attempt to shake them off. Finally, running flat out, he rounded a corner to discover that luck had finally forsaken him. It was a dead end. He was faced with a blank wall too high to scale. He spun round with some idea of retracing his steps, but it was too late. The guards had arrived in force at the end of the passage, trapping him. Clearly not in a pleasant mood at having been led such a dance, they closed upon him in a body, confident they had their victim cornered, but they had underestimated him. Suddenly he picked up speed again, only this time he was not running away from them, but towards them. Before they knew what was happening, he charged into them, knocking down several. The unexpectedness of the attack almost made it succeed. He had nearly broken though, when one of the soldiers, more quick-witted than his fellows, threw a punch that caught Vesarion on the side of the jaw and sent him staggering. With his forward momentum stopped, in an instant the others were upon him. He fought fiercely, landing punches of such force that it did nothing to endear him to his opponents, but there were too many for him and at last they combined to wrestle him to the ground. Pinning him roughly face downwards, they wrenched his hands behind his back and bound them tightly with a rope. Once secured, they hauled him, dishevelled but still pugnacious, to his feet.
Their commander, a red mark blossoming into a spectacular bruise on his cheekbone, eyed him coldly.
“I don’t know who you are, stranger, or what you intended to do, but you are now going to face Prince Mordrian and not for all the gold in Adamant would I stand in your shoes.”
They hustled him along the streets, past curiously staring crowds, until they approached a walled compound that had a severe, military look to it. A tall archway patrolled by two armed soldiers pierced the crenelated walls and he found himself in what might have been some sort of parade ground. In one corner stood a large, grim building built of massive blocks of sombre brown stone. Its military appearance was enhanced by the fact that its only door was a heavy, steel-studded affair approached by a flight of steep steps. Although it was several stories high, it had few windows and what it had were small and securely barred.
He was roughly shoved up the steps and into a long, dark corridor at the end of which were more steps leading to the upper floor. He passed an open door which revealed an empty guardroom, before being pushed into a large, bare ante-chamber furnished only with a rough table and a few wooden chairs. A guard, seated at the table, leaped to attention when his superior came in with the prisoner.
His commander, a man of few words, merely said: “This is one of them. The Prince wants to interview him personally, so lock him in the cell until he arrives.”
He indicated a stout, barred door behind the gaoler. Lifting a huge bunch of keys from the table, the man cast a curious glance at the silent prisoner, before unlocking the door to the cell. Vesarion was pushed in with such force that he stumbled, and as he could not use his hands to save himself, fell heavily on his side on the stone floor. The door slammed shut and the curiously final sound of the key turning in the lock was heard a moment later. The captive raised his head and struggling into a sitting position, looked around him. His prison was utterly bare, without so much as a chair or a mattress. It had one small, heavily barred window and, unsettlingly, a pair of manacles hanging on a chain attached to the wall. Apart from that, all it possessed were its stark walls, and an absence of hope.
He began to struggle with the rope that bound his hands, but whoever had tied that rope knew his business, and all he succeeded in doing was to chafe his wrists. The guard’s words did at least suggest that he was the only one to be caught, and despite his situation, he experienced a sense of satisfaction that, so far, the others had managed to elude their pursuers.
“Iska will know places to hide in the city where they will never be found,” he reassured himself inwardly.
He knew he should try to prepare his mind for what he guessed must be coming, but instead he found himself thinking of Sareth, regretting that he had said nothing that day at the inn when he had watched her sleeping.
“I have so many regrets, Sareth,” he murmured inaudibly. “Now all I can do is to try to keep you safe.”
By the time the door opened and he was dragged out into the large anti-chamber again, he was under no doubt as to what he must do. He must buy time for his friends to get into hiding. He suspected that the price would be high, and the moment he set eyes on Prince Mordrian, he knew with complete certainty, that it would be.
The Prince was flanked by two guards and by an immensely broad-shouldered man with the battered face of a pugilist. Although of medium height, he was so powerfully built that he contrived to appear almost squat. However, he was past his prime, his heavily muscled torso running a little to fat. His eyes, set under scarred brows, bore no emotion and certainly no pity.
The Prince, in contrast, was as tall as his prisoner. A physically strong man but intelligent with it. His amber eyes and black hair reminded Vesarion of Iska, but the icy coldness in his stare set him far apart from the warmth of his half-sister.
The two men appraised each other in silence for a moment. When the Prince spoke, it was not to his prisoner, but to the powerfully-built man at his side.
“Search him, Ursor,” he ordered casually.
Vesarion found his pockets emptied onto the table and knew that what was there condemned him.
The Prince approached the table and sifting through the handful of coins, lifted one between finger and thumb. His eyes travelled to his captive. “Eskendrian mint,” he observed. “I think we can dispense with any attempt you might make to try to persuade me that you do not come from that accursed land.”
Then his eye fell on the silver box, and never had Vesarion so ardently wished that it was in Gorm’s possession.
“Now here’s a pretty thing,” said the Prince, lifting it to the light. “An engraved hunting scene set with a border of turquoises – an expensive item.” He opened it and read aloud the inscription inside the lid. “To Vesarion from Meldorin – may it prove useful.”
Once more Mordrian glanced towards the silent man before him. “It has indeed proved useful, for it has allowed me to identify you. We, in Adamant, may be a little remote from the rest of the world, but we are not entirely cut off. I have my ways of finding out what goes on. This little trinket was clearly a gift from King Meldorin of Eskendria, but to whom would he give it?” He smiled pleasantly. “For all I know, Vesarion is a common name in Eskendria, but I am aware of only one to whom the King would give expensive gifts and that is Vesarion of Westrin, the greatest of his barons.” He turned to Ursor, waiting impassively beside him. “Look what we have caught in our net, Ursor! A very big fish indeed, it would seem. Not only is he Lord of Westrin, but he is a descendant of that scoundrel Celedorn, whom some men misguidedly call Erren-dar.”
Setting the little box back on the table, he walked round his prisoner first one way, then the other, assessing him. Vesarion, his hackles rising in dislike, nevertheless kept his face calm and expressionless and remained staring fixedly ahead, ignoring the Prince.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, my lord of Westrin?” purred Mordrian, confident in his mastery of the situation. “You would not, by any chance, be seeking to recover your ancestor’s sword?”
Vesarion strove to remain impassive, but something of his thoughts must have flashed across his face and the Prince was quick to interpret them.
“Ah! I see. A noble attempt but doomed to failure, I fear. For you, my friend, will never leave this kingdom, neither will any of your companions. Now, I can see that you are a stubborn man, determined to tell me nothing, but believe me, it would be best for you, if you tell me all that I want to know. For you will tell me, you know. In the end, they all do. Is that not so, Ursor?”
“Indeed so, my lord Prince. You can be most persuasive.”
“There. You see? All you have to do is tell me a few simple things. I want to know who your companions are, where they are, and what exactly they plan to do here. Not complicated, is it?”
Vesarion, well in control of himself, experienced a flood of relief at the Prince’s words, of which not a shadow crossed his face, for now he knew for certain that Sareth was still free.
“Still silent?” probed the Prince, seemingly amused. “It is just a matter of time until they are all captured, you know. We already have their descriptions, so you may as well save yourself from - how shall I put it? – an unpleasant experience.”
When Vesarion still did not respond, he added: “Not convinced? Very well, let me disabuse you of any idea you might entertain that I am in a state of ignorance about your companions. First of all, there is the fat, middle-aged man who gave the baker the coin of Eskendrian mint. Then there is a young man in his twenties with dark hair. He is of medium height and slim, athletic build. Does this sound familiar? There are two women. One in her mid-twenties, tall, with light-brown hair. The other is younger and shorter, with dark hair. So you see, we know what they look like. The guards at the gates have their descriptions, so they will not escape the city, but you could save me a little time and trouble if you would just be co-operative. You see, I really don’t like to be defied and your silence is becoming tedious.”
At that, Vesarion turned his head and looked the Prince full in the eyes, but still said nothing. For some reason that the watching guards did not understand, this appeared to infuriate the Prince. For a moment his urbane smile slipped and a cruel, malevolent look came into his eyes, but in an instant the smile had returned and when it did, it was made of cold, hard steel.
“Let me introduce you to Ursor,” continued Mordrian smoothly. “Now Ursor used to be a pugilist, and a famous one, too. You never lost a fight, did you, Ursor?”
“No, my lord.”
“Many a wager I have placed on him, in his day, and I have always won handsomely. But as he advanced in years, he decided that life as one of my personal guards would suit him better, however, I fear that he misses his old profession. Do you not, my friend?”
“I do indeed,” answered the man with alacrity, eyeing the prisoner with a certain hunger.
The Prince moved closer to Vesarion, his eyes narrowing. “His methods are crude but yield results. He knows ways to hurt a man badly - but without killing him. So I fear that if you prove recalcitrant, your ordeal may be a long one.”
A slow snake of fear began to uncoil in the pit of Vesarion’s stomach. He remembered the Keeper’s words, that one of their number would suffer greatly and he knew that the time had come. But the Prince then made a mistake, for he could not resist the pleasure of baiting his captive.
“They tell me that the taller woman was rather beautiful. I can assure you, Vesarion of Westrin, that by the time I have finished with her, no man will ever want to look at her again.”
He could not have said anything more calculated to stiffen Vesarion’s resolve. The thought of Sareth in the hands of such a man, filled him with such dread that he knew without doubt that he would rather lose his own life than betray her.
In the knowledge that what was coming was unavoidable, he decided to have the satisfaction of one act of defiance. Looking the Prince in the eye, he said contemptuously: “You are a very small man for a Prince.”
A flash of red flamed in Mordrian’s eyes and turning sharply to Ursor, he snapped: “Do what is required of you – just don’t kill him, not yet.”
He then seated himself comfortably on one of the wooden chairs, negligently crossed one leg over the other, and prepared to be entertained.
Ursor, slowly took off his jerkin and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He ordered the two guards to hold their prisoner fast. Vesarion strained unavailingly once again to free his hands. His heart was cold with fear but he held his ground as the pugilist approached him.
Without warning, Ursor slammed his powerful fist into Vesarion’s stomach. The breath exploded out of him, leaving him gasping for air as he doubled up in agony. The next blow caught him on the temple, throwing him back against the two guards. Vesarion burned to fight back, but was utterly helpless. All he could do was to try to deprive the blows of some of their force by riding backwards against his two gaolers.
In the guardroom next door, despite the thickness of the walls, the off-duty guards could hear the sounds of the blows and looked at each other uneasily.
“That brute Ursor is enjoying his work, I hear,” said one older man and spat contemptuously. “Whatever the stranger has done, he is paying dearly for it.”
Mordrian at first enjoyed watching his henchman’s technique. He watched with the hint of a smile playing around his lips, as Ursor split open the skin of the prisoner’s cheekbone, causing blood to stream down his face and drip onto his shirt. He watched as his henchman slammed his fist into his victim’s ribs and stomach repeatedly. But after a time, he began to realise one salient fact – the man being beaten was not going to speak. Blow after cruel blow landed, until Vesarion was running with blood and unable to stand, but his determination never wavered.
Finally, tiring of the repetitive scene, Mordrian put a stop to the torture and called his servant to his side.
Ursor approached his master, his shirt stained with sweat and blood and his knuckles raw.
“Enough,” commanded the Prince in a bored voice. “We must try another approach, for he is stubborn in the extreme.”
Rising from his chair, he approached the man doubled-up in a pool of blood on the floor and pushed him over using one elegantly booted foot.
Vesarion, his head ringing and waves of blackness threatening to overcome him, struggled to his hands and knees.
“Such determination,” mused Mordrian, looking at him clinically. “All this was so unnecessary, if only you were prepared to be reasonable. However, we all have our weaknesses and I can see that you are a proud man. I suspect that a little public humiliation is what is required to break you.”
Sareth felt that she was enduring one of the longest days of her life. It was still only early afternoon and yet so much had happened that she felt that their early morning breakfast together had been a century ago.
Iska was out, hunting for their companions, and Sareth, frustrated by having nothing to do, paced back and forth across the wooden floor of the belfry like a caged bear. Which one of them had been captured? Was it her brother? She thought it unlikely, for Eimer could run like the wind and had the ability to land on his feet like the proverbial cat. Bethro? All they would have to do to get Bethro to crumble would be to refuse to feed him. He wasn’t usually quick-witted but had a strange ability to come through adversity unscathed. But her greatest fear was that it was Vesarion. He was distinctive, standing out in any crowd, but he, too, was fast on his feet. She worried about them all, but in her heart she longed more than anything to hear that Vesarion was safe.
“Please let it not be him,” she murmured as she paced the floor. “Please let it not be him.”
When Iska returned, she found herself pounced upon for news. Yet her expression had already told Sareth that whatever she had found out, it was not good.
“I have scoured the city for our friends,” said Iska, “avoiding search-parties by taking back alleyways and going over the roof tops. They have found Eimer and Bethro’s belongings at the inn, but thankfully, neither of them had returned there. I confess, I am totally at a loss to work out where they have gone. They seem to have disappeared, as if by magic, into thin air, but….” She halted, then said with a rush: “But I know where Vesarion is.”
Somehow Sareth already knew. Somehow, despite her plea, she had known all along. “He is the one who has been captured, isn’t he?”
“Yes. They are holding him in the old armoury. My brother has already questioned him and unfortunately…I…I don’t know how to tell yo
u this but…but…”
