by David Benem
Lannick lay still, terrified. He held his eyes to the box’s lid. With a searing head he recalled the last night at the camp. The fires, the chaos. He’d called out for Arleigh and heard Arleigh answer. Then a crack on the head and nothing after.
Was I betrayed?
The lid above swung open with a squeal, bathing Lannick in a harsh, blinding light. A figure loomed above, a black silhouette framed by the sun. Whoever it was seemed an imposing sort squeezing a knife in a fist.
“Remember me?” The man grunted the words with distinct disgust.
Arleigh?
Lannick raised a trembling hand, shielding his eyes from the light and trying to make sense of the scene before him. He could discern no details, but whoever it was seemed ready to plunge the knife downward into one of his soft places.
“Course you don’t,” the man continued, shaking a head of long hair. The voice wasn’t Arleigh’s, though if anything it sounded angrier. “You don’t remember because you were dead drunk. Well I’m guessing your little ride in that little box has sobered you up some. Good. I want you to be as afraid as you can be, you fucking bastard.”
“Who are you?” Lannick whispered, struggling to make out the man’s features.
“One of your old acquaintances.”
The man slammed shut the box’s lid with a fearsome crack. Lannick cringed as the latch and lock snapped back into place.
The man laughed. “You’ll get yours soon, Captain. Real soon.”
Dead gods.
“Water,” Lannick wheezed. The box seemed a cauldron. The searing, steamy air choked him as he breathed it. His chainmail coat weighed upon his chest and made the heat all the worse. “Water,” he pleaded.
A spiteful grunt. “Anyone want to give the good captain a drink?”
Laughter followed.
“Alright, then,” grated the voice. “Leave it to me, boys.”
Footfalls shuffled outside and the cart shifted and creaked like someone clambered atop it. The ribbons of light above Lannick darkened with shadow. After a moment there came a trickling noise and droplets tumbled through the box’s cracks.
“Drink up!”
Lannick craned his neck, mouth agape as he contorted to catch the drops. At last he managed to wet his tongue. He winced, finding the taste bitter and briny. He swallowed, though, for his throat felt as though it’d been flayed.
The trickle slowed and ended. Lannick twisted his head and tried to seize more of the water but could only catch a tiny mouthful. He swallowed again.
More chuckling.
“So how’s my piss taste, Captain?”
Lannick retched. His stomach turned and he spat, head smacking against the box’s splinters as he did. He heaved up the sour remnants of whatever he’d last eaten and whatever he’d just swallowed. He fell back with a whimper.
“I’ll take that as a compliment!”
Nasty, vile laughter.
Lannick gritted his teeth and hate filled his heart. “You bastards… As soon as I get out of here I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” A boot pounded against the box. “Open this damned thing! It’s high time we got reacquainted.”
The lock clicked open and the lid was yanked aside. Again a black silhouette framed by blinding sunlight. Lannick tried to rise but a rough hand held him and a knife pressed against his throat.
“Easy there, Captain,” said the man, bringing the blade to Lannick’s jugular. “You can’t be dying just yet.”
Lannick drew in a breath and tried to settle his nerves. He squinted and made out a big head draped with long hair. “Who are you?”
“You really don’t remember, do you? You destroy my fucking life and can’t even recall my face.”
At last the features resolved in Lannick’s eyes. An angry face scarred in places. Scruffy, matted hair. Black Jon’s attendant? Confusion clouded his head. “H-Harl? Black Jon’s man?”
“I figured that’s all you’d know me as. A fucking serving boy! Fetching your fucking ale and emptying turds from chamber pots.” Harl’s face twisted to a vicious glower and his knife hand trembled. “You’re why I was reduced to that.”
Lannick’s head still rang from the blows, from retching piss and from the blazing sun above. He had no idea who accused him now.
“I was a fucking Scarlet Sword!” Harl roared. “For five years I answered only to General Fane! Then you cut my hamstring outside your shit-stained quarters in Ironmoor and I lost everything! General Fane discharged me from the ranks because of you! I found my way back into the army, but the only work for a man with a leg like mine was doing the shit no one else wanted to do. The shameful jobs. The work of the wretched and the wounded. Well, you’re my way back, Captain. You’re my way back to the general’s side.”
“I-I…” Lannick stammered, struggling to recall foggy details of that morning after his night with Fane’s daughter.
Harl shoved himself away from Lannick. “Lock it,” Harl growled. “Let this fucker soak in piss for a while.”
Lannick awoke in the dark, head stinging and body aching in every joint. He shifted but could find no comfort in the box’s confines. His throat burned though he dared not ask for drink.
He turned his head and spotted the glow of a fire not far from the cart. He heard the snap of flames and foul, guttural voices upon the night’s still air.
He drew in a shuddering breath. He wondered how many of his comrades lay dead, how many of the old soldiers of Pryam’s Bay had perished that night at the camp.
All of them?
He felt a sick, cold pit in his guts and his lips trembled.
Has this all been for naught?
He fought away tears. He thought of his family, of Brugan, and of his many old comrades.
And he thought too of General Fane, the man responsible for every last one of their deaths.
He cursed and bunched up his fists then heard shuffling steps approach. He heard the click of a lock and felt the box lurch sideways. “What?” was all he could say before tumbling out into the night and onto the wet ground.
“Pick him up!” Harl growled.
Hands heaved Lannick upward then slammed him against the side of a cart. Three burly soldiers wearing the red and black sashes of Black Jon’s deserters faced him with hateful eyes. Behind them, on the other side of their campfire, moved Harl. He limped through tall grass and drifts of mist, dragging his bad leg behind him. He was a big fellow, clumsy but undoubtedly strong.
Harl made his way toward Lannick. “Keep him standing,” he said and the soldiers held Lannick firm against the cart. “Good. General Fane wants him alive, but he probably won’t mind if he’s missing a piece or two.”
Lannick saw then the gleam of a sword—his own prized sword—in Harl’s hand and the former Scarlet Sword gripped it with certain intent. Lannick struggled against the soldiers’ grasp but it was no use. His eyes darted madly about. “Help!” he screamed.
His words died in the steamy air.
Harl moved closer. “Turn him round, boys.”
“Help!”
The soldiers did as ordered, spinning Lannick about and forcing his head down to the rough wood. He squirmed, turning his head aside. In the darkness he spotted a purse, his purse, just a few feet away atop the cart. My Coda! If I can but grab it…
He twisted and jabbed his elbows backward, flailing against the men holding him. They loosened their grips for an instant and Lannick lunged toward the satchel. He managed to tug it close, near his box, but the soldiers grabbed him and held him fast once more.
There was a hot breath in his ear. “It’s only fair, you know,” said Harl. “Folk where I come from say dark work brings dark rewards. Well, Captain, you’re about to get yours.”
“No!” he wailed. “No!”
“A fine blade,” said Harl. He chuckled. “You probably never guessed it’d be used this way. Well, fate’s a funny thing, Captain.”
“This one?” asked one of the soldiers.
“Why not,” Harl said with a laugh. “We can start small. We have plenty of time.”
Lannick gasped as he felt the small finger of his left hand yanked upward. The soldier gripped it in a fist at a painful angle, pulling it against the joint’s bounds. Then, with the soldier’s sudden twist, the finger snapped.
Lannick stared slack-jawed at the digit, its tip now pointing sideways from the middle knuckle. The pain was awful.
“It hurts?” sneered Harl. “You fuck!” he screamed against Lannick’s ear. “You turned me into a cripple!”
A fist or knee smashed into his crotch and crushed his jingles. He heaved out what air remained in his lungs and sucked in a shallow, stunned breath. He wheezed and wilted against the wood.
“Up, now!” spat Harl. “Keep him up! We’ve more work to do!”
Lannick felt hard hands seize him and slam him against the cart. They yanked his left arm outward and splayed it upon the rough wood. One of the soldiers tugged at his broken finger and he wailed.
“That one hurts, does it?” said Harl. He leaned forward, his angry face coming even with Lannick’s. “Don’t worry. I’ll not let you suffer that pain for long. After all, you’re a decorated hero!”
He pressed back and shoved Lannick against the cart as he did. He kicked Lannick again in the crotch. Harder this time.
Lannick slumped against the cart’s side. His head spun with pain and he let out a cry.
Harl laughed his ugly laugh. Then he braced Lannick’s hand and chopped away his broken finger.
Lannick looked in horror at his bloodied hand and groaned.
“You see, Captain!” crowed Harl. “I’m a man of my word! I told you I’d not let you suffer the pain of that broken finger!”
His men chuckled. “Another?” said one.
“No…” Lannick whimpered, sinking against the wood. “No…”
Harl snorted. “Sure. Try the one beside it.”
A hand around his finger. A twist.
Crack.
The pain made him swoon. His vision blurred red and black and then, just barely, focused on the image of the ruined hand.
“There, Captain!” Harl said, a sick satisfaction in his tone. “Boys, after he’s admired his new hand you can bandage him up.”
“Bandages?” asked a soldier.
“I’m a charitable man!” laughed Harl. “General Fane wants him alive. No doubt he’ll want to finish this bastard himself. We should let the general have his due.”
The soldiers laughed and dropped Lannick to the dirt.
“Perhaps we’ll take a few more parts before Riverweave,” growled Harl. “When you bandage him, find our filthiest rag and wrap it good and tight around that wound. Then bind his hands together and throw the bastard back in the box.”
Lannick winced, a terrible pain searing through his left hand and up his arm. He’d tried shifting the wet rag about his hand but it proved no use—his mess of a hand remained trapped in an agonizing contortion. His eyes welled with tears and he drew in a slow breath. He reckoned he had precious few of those remaining.
He had no means of escape, he knew, not unarmed and trapped in what might as well have been a coffin. But at least it seemed he’d have one last audience with General Fane—at least these foul bastards were taking him exactly where he wanted to go.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll have one last chance to stick a knife in Fane’s black fucking heart.
He blinked away tears and squinted through the cracks of his box. Dawn had broken upon a steamy landscape. Frogs croaked and cranes chattered. He caught the scent of bacon on the air and realized he’d not consumed anything in days.
Unless you count Harl’s smelly piss, that is.
He convulsed, not sure whether it due to an aborted laugh or a near retch. The pain seared up his arm anew.
Someone belched. “Two more days, you think?”
“Likely,” came Harl’s gruff tone. “This ground between the rivers is a shitty mess. But give us two days more and we’ll reach Riverweave.”
“You sure the general will take us back? You sure we’ll be pardoned?”
“Of fucking course. He’ll not have forgotten me. Named me a Scarlet Sword, he did, and for good reason. And with the gift we’re bringing him? Ha! We’ll be real soldiers, promotions and all!”
Low laughter. Another belch. “Captain Harl. Has a fine ring to it.”
“Damned right it does. Toss me another rasher of that bacon. I’m soon to be a captain, after all.”
They laughed all the more.
Lannick smelled again the pork and his stomach roiled and rumbled. “Food?” he chanced.
Silence.
Then a chuckle. “Why not. General Fane won’t want him too close to dead. He’ll want to do most of the killing himself. Open the box.”
A shuffle sounded, then the click and squeak of the lock. An arm tossed open the lid and another two plunged into the cart to yank Lannick to a seat by his bandages. Lannick gnashed his teeth but managed to keep quiet. The rough-faced soldier dropped Lannick’s hand with a snicker.
Lannick blinked, eyes adjusting to the light of morning, and turned to see Harl pressing himself upward with a grunt. He limped the few strides between the campfire and the cart, mouth curled to a sneer. Then he dropped a bowl of fatty bacon and crusty bread in Lannick’s lap.
Harl regarded him with a nasty look. “As I said, I’m a charitable man. But you’ll eat with that hand. Boys, unwrap that and bind his good one behind him.”
Harl’s men did as instructed, the bandages ripping away scabs and jerking about Lannick’s broken finger as they unfurled from his left hand. Lannick winced, yielding defeatedly as his right arm was tugged, twisted and tied.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” said Harl with a snort. “You try and run and we’ll add a few limbs to your list of missing parts.” He returned to the campfire and plopped to the ground with a thump.
Lannick studied his hand beside the bowl, fresh blood trickling from the hole left by his severed finger and the one next to it turned in ways fingers weren’t meant to turn. He pinched just his forefinger to his thumb but even that shifted the wounds and sent a pang through his hand. He tested it a few more times before gingerly drawing the bacon to his mouth. He chewed and it tasted delicious, though he reckoned just about anything would now.
“Two damned days,” said Harl to the soldiers seated again beside him. “Two damned days and we’ll have our lives back.”
“How you figure we’ll find the general?”
“With our prize? We just need to get to Riverweave—he’s known to be holed up there. Once in the city we’ll have no trouble finding him. We’ll have the attention of a Scarlet Sword soon enough, and those fellows are certain to remember me. We’ll get our introduction.”
Lannick’s hunger prevailed against his pain and he swallowed the last of his bacon. His eyes drifted. All the land about seemed a flat, steamy mess, broken by rare, gangly trees and tall reeds and nettles. There seemed no one—no help—anywhere near.
His wounds brushed against his bread’s crusted edges. He hissed and looked to his bowl. The crust seemed to have been salted and he felt the sting of it. He tilted his elbow outward and pulled the bread from the bowl with the few whole digits left on his hand.
He gnawed at the chunk, wanting water but knowing better than to ask. He looked around the cart and there—just there aside his box—slouched his satchel. He remembered it used to hold a flask, but then recalled it held something far more important.
My Coda.
He glanced to Harl and his men. They hunched over their bowls near the fire, seemingly content to spend their morning feasting over glories yet to come. They paid him no mind.
He set his bread back in his bowl and flexed his wounded hand again. It hurt, terribly so, though he could still use it. He twisted and pressed it outward, fumbling briefly with the flap of the satchel before easing it open. He slipped his ruined hand within—eyes sh
ifting back to Harl and his henchmen and seeing them occupied—and at last found the box holding his Coda.
He felt about and used thumb and forefinger to draw the metal from its container. He pressed it open and slid his hand between. With a twist of his wrist the metal closed upon his forearm with a dull click. He withdrew his arm from the satchel and watched as the iron began to glow a cool green.
“Find me, Ogrund!” he willed through the torrent of visions. “Find me, Wil and Alisa!” He looked wide about his surroundings, hoping someone would recognize the landscape, the location. He threw his thoughts outward, where he’d been and where he knew his captors were taking him.
“What the fuck is he doing!” snapped Harl. “Get that fucking thing off his wrist! I’d heard he was a witch of some sort. The general will want that! If our prisoner here puts it back on his wrist then cut his whole fucking arm off at the shoulder.”
The soldiers pried away the Coda and tossed it somewhere atop the cart. They shoved Lannick back in his coffin and turned the lock. The air was steamy and the confines tight, though Lannick knew the message had been sent.
He just hoped his former brethren had heard it, and that they’d prove more loyal to him than he’d been to them.
He shook his head, vowing to one day make amends for his many mistakes.
“Find me,” he hoped.
“Find me,” he prayed.
20
DESPERATION AND DEPRAVITY
“War,” said Fencress, the word a curse upon her tongue. She tugged at her cowl and stared though the swaying sedge of the hillock to the darkening landscape beyond. It was a flat expanse of trampled weeds and grasses leading to the sea a league or so distant. Countless pools of water reflected the setting sun, shining like a fortune of gold spilled across the plain.
And upon it all seethed the battle. Several thousand poor fools clashed in the waning light, Rune’s soldiers in their rectangular bunches with shields raised and mounted Arranese swirling about them like tongues of fire.
