Now there were three...
... and Maggie and Kaylie were gone.
They had been in the cells directly across from him – Maggie in one, and Kaylie beside her. Separated, but in sight.
"Where is my family?" Balkan croaked. His aching head and the miserable state of his body robbed his voice of vigor.
The sorcerer's only response as a smirk.
Picking his head off the floor, Balkan repeated himself, this time finding the strength to shout. The smirk only grew.
Then he could hear footsteps from outside the room, and he sat up at once to grip the bars and catch sight of whomever might come through the entryway. With his face poking partially out from his cell, he could see from the corner of his eyes both of the other sorcerers join the one in front of him in rising from their chairs, standing stiffly at attention.
Because he had heard only one set of footsteps echoing, Balkan was shocked to see no less that five figures enter the room. One look at four of them, however, told him much. They were not human. They wore the shape of men and moved in man-like ways – but with too much precision, a fluidity that was almost feline in nature. Then there were the eyes, which possessed a deep red shine. These things moved entirely without sound – and their eyes were locked on him like an adder's on a mouse.
Two of the creatures took up stations by the entrance. The others followed the fifth figure. This was a normal man, for the most part. His clothing was finely made – richly dyed cloth in deep reds and browns. He wore a circlet much like the sorcerers' - only instead of silver, the metal was reddish of hue, a material Balkan had never before seen. He had heard of it, though. The man who wore such a crown could be none other than the Warlord Mertoris Traigan – the supreme authority of the Enemy.
Without a second thought, Balkan lashed out – death was certain, but killing this man would be a greater service to Bastion than he could have hoped to render in ten lifetimes.
The next he knew, he was opening his eyes, lying flat on his back in the cell. His skull felt like it had been crushed in several places, but when he felt at his face he did not seem to be bleeding. Propping himself up on his elbows, he saw that bare seconds must have passed – for the Warlord was still standing before him, now with a bemused expression. Behind him, the unnatural man-things had bared their teeth, eyes glowing more powerfully than before.
"I hope you realize, now, the futility of that," The Warlord said in the uncouth accent of Pyre. "I am quite safe from you, whereas you are entirely in my power."
Balkan stood, painfully, determined not to speak with this man on his back. "Where is my family?"
"I have no idea. I gave the responsibility for you all over to Turan, here," the Warlord said while indicating the sorcerer behind him. "He tells me you've already caused some trouble."
The one he had pointed out as Balkan's overseer shifted uncomfortably. "Through no fault of mine. Nifre wasn't paying enough attention."
The Warlord only shrugged, never taking his eyes from Balkan's face. "That was impressive. Geralt tells me you are very intelligent, very clever. A pity I don't have very many like you under my own control."
Balkan's face twisted up in fury at the traitor's name. The Warlord took note, and chuckled. "I see you took his actions personally. You shouldn't. He was merely doing his job – he has been my man since before e'er he saw your city.
"But onto the reason I'm here. There is no reason for you and yours to suffer. You have knowledge that I require. Give it to me freely, and you will live – not only that, but I will allow you to return to your own people."
Balkan nearly laughed at the offer. Even to the most gullible of men, it would have shouted Lie! He merely scowled in reply.
"I see you do not believe me. I can understand that, though I speak nothing but truth. Very well – if you aid us as I request, you will remain here with your family. Unharmed, even living in comfort if you wish. I do not care about your circumstances once you have given me what I wish, that is true – but I am not in the habit of killing those who may yet be of further use to me. It is horribly inefficient."
"I'll say nothing until my family is restored to me."
The Warlord sighed slightly and turned his head to the sorcerer behind him. "Where are they?"
A cruel gleam lit the man's eyes. "I sent them to the camp – as punishment for Nifre's life."
The camp? Balkan struggled to think of some explanation other than the one that burst into his mind. The way of life within the Enemy lands was poorly known to Bastion, but some things were legendarily sinister – among them, the lot of women chosen to 'amuse' the soldiers.
He didn't notice the Warlord turn a harsh glare on the man, and missed when the sorcerer paled. "Only for a short time," the man added swiftly. "Merely to give them a taste."
Turning back to Balkan, the Warlord had to start several times to get the forlorn wizard's attention.
"They will not be harmed much. It is simply important for you to understand that I will do what I must to get what I need from you. Your wife and daughter are exactly as important to me as they are to you – cooperate with me, and they will be treated with the utmost care. Refuse," the Warlord's face adopted a mock-sorrowful expression as he let the threat hang, ripening, in the air, "and the camp will be the least of their worries."
Inside, Balkan was frantic – but somehow he maintained a thin veneer of calm. "Only until we die."
There was a pause before the Warlord answered. Slowly, the man with the crimson crown lifted his tunic on the right side to show Balkan a hideous scar, just below the chest. It was an angry red, and the skin looked rough and inflamed. He twisted a bit to show that it ran across his back as well, nearly to the spine. To have acquired a mark like that, the man must have been nearly cut in two.
"I've heard much about the Angels from Geralt. Mostly how they Heal. Demons can, as well – in their way. It is not something I wish to endure again. Better to die. Understand that, should I wish it, you all will live – and suffer – for a very long time."
It seemed as if the man was about to continue when a young soldier with intelligent eyes entered and, without hesitation, approached the Warlord.
“Warlord, your presence is requested in the Globe room.”
Turning from his prisoner at once, the Warlord nodded calmly. "Return," was his only reply. The young men left as swiftly as he had entered, and the Warlord rose. Without another word to Balkan, he took the sorcerer named Turan aside, and spoke in hushed tones. There was little reaction from the sorcerer except an early, halfhearted protest which was cut off swiftly. When their exchange was over, the Warlord departed, taking his hellspawn with him. Turan came back over to his chair.
As the sorcerer sat again, Balkan rose to his feet. The Warlords strangely gentle manner had not dulled the threat – if Balkan did not cooperate, Maggie and Kaylie would be the ones to pay.
Tears streamed freely down his face and his throat constricted with terror. It all hit him at once. Before, he had been preoccupied with comforting his family – reassuring them with promises that he'd known were meaningless even as he made them. Now the full weight of their situation descended on his spirit, and Balkan nearly collapsed to his knees.
They were prisoners of the Enemy.
He leaned his head against the cold stone and wept.
"The Warlord was sincere in his offer," the sorcerer said. "He does not make such claims lightly."
Balkan did not even look at him. It was a lie, all of it – it must be. If he let himself start to believe them, it would be the first step in giving in. He wanted to respond defiantly. He wanted to tell them to save their breath, but he did not have the spirit.
Not twenty minutes after the Warlord departed, more sounds could be heard from the corridor. Balkan came out of his durance of despair as the sounds separated into the noise of booted feet approaching. Soon after the high pitched sobs of a child could be distinguished. Balkan moved quickly to the front of his
cell, grasping the bars so tightly his knuckles went white – both eager and afraid to see his family again.
The first man who came in was a hulking brute who carried Balkan's daughter over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Kaylie!" Balkan shouted when he saw her. She turned her head to look at him. Her face was red, cheeks swollen by tears, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.
"Daddy..." Kaylie responded plaintively, her voice quiet with exhaustion. "They... they hurt mommy," she said, and the bewilderment and shock in her voice tore at Balkan's heart.
"I know, dearest, I know," he answered, voice nearly breaking. "But she will be okay."
"Oh yes, she will," spoke up Turan. "For now," he added, looking at Balkan with eyes full of evil promises.
Behind came two more soldiers. The rearmost of them carried Maggie just as the first had Kaylie. Balkan could see that she was unconscious. Then he noticed the rest, and bile rose in his throat. Her dress – made from a beautiful blue cloth which he had given her for their eighth anniversary – was torn and dirty. There were bruises, already a livid purple, on her legs – finger marks, Balkan realized. The soldier turned to place her in the cell directly opposite Balkan's own, bringing his wife's face into view. Balkan cried out and was forced to drop his eyes from her to control his nausea. His beautiful Maggie's face was covered in blood and dirt, one eye swollen shut and a cut on her left cheek still oozing blood.
Balkan wanted nothing more than to attack – save only, perhaps, to hold his family in his arms – but even then he could feel the sorcerers' readiness, feel their senses brushing his skin, alert for any signs of trouble.
They set his daughter down unceremoniously onto the floor of her cell, and Kaylie immediately scooted to put her back against the stone, curling into a ball. Maggie was dumped roughly into the cell next to her daughter's, as far from Balkan as they could be – but in sight.
"Did you have any trouble?" Turan asked.
"A couple of the men wanted to get rough, but we sorted them out," came the answer from the large man.
"I meant with the prisoners."
"Oh, that bitch is lively for sure. Fought plenty at first – and when they slapped 'er a bit to quiet 'er down, the gremlin bit me."
The big man held up a hand with a bandage around the palm, giving Kaylie a look that was more amusement than anger. "They both settled down after a bit, though. She even seemed to enjoy it by the time I had my turn."
"She was out cold by the time you had her," said one of the others.
The big one only smiled. "Naw, she was still plenty warm."
"Very well," Turan interrupted. "You've done well. Tell the messenger outside that our replacements should come. Go."
Through the conversation Balkan had glared at them with naked hatred, his hands squeezing the cage bars until his fists were skeletal and white. The looks they returned were ones of cruel amusement. The soldiers left, talking amongst themselves with crude gestures that left no doubt as to what they spoke of, and it drove Balkan's rage to new heights.
The sorcerer's gaze slid slyly to Balkan, and in that look Balkan could see that the entire conversation had been played our for his benefit.
"Give up now, man," Turan said. "She spent only an hour among the warriors. She'd be hurt more slipping and falling in the street." He leaned close, lowering his voice to a perversely intimate whisper. "Imagine when I send her out for a day, or a week? Next time she may not have my guards to protect her – the men can do as they please. If you are still stubborn after all this..." This time his gaze slid to Kaylie, who was still sniffling in her cell. "I'm sure I can find men with more exotic tastes."
The corners of Balkan's vision had gone red, a killing haze that threatened to overwhelm his mind. He clung to control, knowing that attacking would do nothing but give them another opportunity to prove their power over him. He would not do that.
Oh, but how he hated them. There was nothing he wouldn't give to see his family safely out of this nightmare – and after that, if there was anything left, he would give it to see this man dead.
Unbidden, a symbol formed in his mind's eye – the Angelic rune of destruction. Far from being just a mental picture, it seemed a thing alive. It called to Balkan's roiling soul, and the wizard's hate swelled beyond mere emotion, and became power – power that rushed towards the place in his mind where the symbol dwelt.
Instinctively, Balkan banished the image, halting the strange reaction. He looked to Turan in alarm – but the man's expression had not changed. He glanced to either side at the sorcerers who had maintained a silent guard since he awoke. There was nothing to indicate they had noticed anything amiss.
Turan mistook his expression, and chuckled. "There is only one way to help them. Give us what we ask and they will be as safe as the Warlord himself."
Balkan barely heard the words. He looked back to Turan and again conjured up the image of the Rune of Destruction. He built the symbol in his mind as if he were etching it upon a stone tablet, as he had done so many times before. Balkan once more felt his hatred – even his very soul – drawn inwards. By dint of will he halted the surge of power, restraining its desire to unite with the purpose he had summoned. Balkan studied Turan – whatever he was doing, the sorcerer did not seem to notice.
Movement from behind the sorcerer caught Balkan's eye, and both hatred and curiosity were forgotten, the symbol evaporating from his mind. Maggie was stirring. Balkan moved so the sorcerer was not blocking his view of his wife.
"Maggie!" he called to her. She raised her head and looked around, dazed. Then her eyes focused on the men around Balkan's cell, and on Balkan himself. They went wide in realization and squeezed shut the next moment. Balkan saw her begin to shake as the memories of what had happened to her gripped her mind.
"Maggie!" he shouted again. "No, Maggie, open your eyes!" He kept shouting urgently, wanting to snap her out of that vision. "Please, Maggie! Look at me!"
She did, at last, and there was a depth of horror there that hurt him more than all the rest. He opened his mouth again to reassure her, but all that came our was a strangled croak. "Oh, Maggie... I..." he could not go on, could not bring himself to voice another impotent promise.
"Balkan," Maggie said – but too quietly. Balkan did not hear her over his own choked attempts to reassure her.
"Balkan!" she said again, and this time her voice was strong and calm, as if she were scolding him for bothering her while she was preparing dinner, or for letting his mind wander while they had been speaking. He quieted and looked into her eyes. The horror was gone. Then she did the last thing he could have expected – she smiled.
"I am all right, my love," she said.
The moment was shattered when Turan laughed. "That is a strong woman you have there!" he said. "It may take longer to break her than it will you – but break you shall. All of you."
Before he could continue there were again footsteps in the corridor. Through the doorway came three more sorcerers. At the sight of them, the three who had been guarding the prisoners rose. Words were exchanged between them. Maggie used the distraction to move to the edge of her cell on the side near Kaylie. She put her hand through the bars and reached as far as she could, so that her hand reached the next cell. Their daughter moved forward and grasped her mother's hand. Balkan wished he could do the same.
Their new guards – or rather, his new guards – did not speak at all. Kaylie complained of hunger, but Balkan could only tell her to try and sleep. Eventually both Kaylie and Maggie did sleep. Balkan did not. He feigned it, but in truth his mind was a storm of activity, considering the powerful reaction which had risen inside of him – and which the sorcerers had not noticed.
What had prompted the rise of such power? It was the sort of question that might have kept him occupied for days in Bastion – but he was not in Bastion, and he did not have days. To his own thinking, he did not have any time at all.
The brazier was kept burning throughout t
he night, stoked and replenished by servants who came and went with mouse-like caution. The guard was changed once more as well – Balkan slitted his eyes open to see that Turan was not amongst the newcomers, and then went back to thoughts which had turned dire as the hours slipped away.
He only knew that morning had come by a parade of new arrivals – servants placing charcoal in the brazier, others carrying shallow bowls that were no doubt the prisoners' meals. With them came yet another change of guards – and Turan had returned.
The man looked positively jovial – having a wizard and family at his whim seemed to agree with him. A small, petty spirit made powerful by his talent of wielding magic. It was the sort of injustice that life with the Enemy seemed to embody.
Balkan ignored them all. A moment later he was showered with dirt and pebbles, and he opened his eyes to see Turan's foot drawing back to kick more detritus at him. Balkan raised his arm against the cloud this time, blinking his eyes in a facade of grogginess.
"Wake up, my friend!" the sorcerer said. "It is going to be a very long day for you." He knelt and placed his face nearer to his prisoner. "And even longer for them," he said with a motion of his head to indicate the females who were just waking.
Balkan raised his head to meet the man's eyes, and in his own stare was an expression wholly different from what Turan had expected. Balkan saw the man's brow knit in confusion.
"There is no need for that," Balkan said. His voice was so low the sorcerer was forced to lean closer. "I will give you what you asked for."
Surprise lit Turan's face, then slowly gave way to a sneer of contempt. Clearly, he had been looking forward to tormenting his subjects for awhile longer. Balkan knew that, were it not for his value to the Warlord, this man would have punished him for that alone.
Balkan wanted to snarl at the sadistic creature, but he needed to keep himself in check. He would not let more harm befall his family.
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