The leader of the band had ice in his eyes as he gestured for another from the guard to confiscate their packs. Madigan gave a cursory struggle, knowing beforehand that there was no way of fighting now. Will flinched as the rope enveloping his torso was tightened. Madigan imagined the concealed blade pressing against his brother’s flesh and hoped that it didn’t break the skin. Will’s flinch apparently didn’t go unnoticed, and the man gave a cruel smile at his discomfort.
Thoroughly bound, the brothers stooped in pain and discomfort. The leader withdrew a stiletto from a sheath at his side and approached, placing the point of the thin blade to Will’s neck. Madigan shifted and shouted through his gag but was silenced by a strike from the guards. His eyes darted back to Will as he continued to struggle, forcing himself to suppress the building fear and rage as guards began kicking and beating him.
His eyes never left Will as the man pulled his immobilized brother close and whispered something in his ear that Madigan couldn’t hear. He drew back and Will’s eyes were wide with terror. A drop of blood appeared as the stiletto pierced Will’s skin and Madigan watched as his brother screamed through the gag and collapsed to the ground, suddenly silent.
Enraged, Madigan shot to his feet and, though bound, managed to pull himself away from the soldiers. He ran toward the man. With a slight flick of his wrist, the stiletto flew through the air and bit into Madigan’s shoulder. His world exploded as a maddening white sheet of pain overtook his mind before the world went black.
12
Seneschal of the Court
Will’s body was rigid, a useless block of flesh and bone, but his mind raced. His limbs felt weak, his body sensitive to every touch. His senses were muddy; the only part of him that was alive and vivid was the overwhelming sense of pain. It was a crushing weight, locking every limb in pre-death rigor mortis.
Rigor mortis, a distant part of his brain mused. Mortis, from the Latin word mors, meaning death. Feminine, third declension noun, genitive form. He latched on to the memory of the lesson like a drowning man grabbing a piece of flotsam, something to remind him of a world outside of his wrenched body’s agony.
Still, he was alive.
He stayed in that state for some time, unable to comprehend anything other than that he needed to keep breathing. He couldn’t even will his eyes to open. Breathe. Breathe. Periodic spasms of pain wracked his brain and jolted his entire body, but he repeated that one word to himself over and over.
Eventually, the pain finally began to lessen. His heart was still racing from the adrenaline and his mind began to work enough that he was on the verge of a complete fit. He forced himself not to panic. He had no idea where he was or where his brother was or if Mad was even alive.
Gods, please let him be alive.
Another spasm of pain jolted through his body. It subsided much faster, however, and the stiffness in his limbs lessened. The reprieve gave him a chance to organize his thoughts, muddled though they were. A significant amount of time had obviously passed although he had no idea how much. He managed to open his eyelids and was met with darkness. For the briefest of moments, he was convinced he had suffered a head injury that had cost him his eyesight and very nearly panicked again but quickly realized that a hood had been placed over his head. Cursing himself for his own foolishness, he decided his best bet to keep the panic at bay was to try and take stock of whatever he could.
They were moving, that much was easy to determine. His arms were bound tight against his body, but his dragon fang was still pressed against his skin. He feared that every bump and rock in the road might drive the sharp edge into his body. While they never did, they still sent jolts of pain through his aching head. What didn’t hurt, surprisingly, was his neck where the soldier’s awful blade had pierced it.
The soldier. With little to gauge of his surroundings, Will focused on him and his troops. They had been armed with halberds and blades, which meant they probably didn’t have firearms or they would have used them. Their clothing and armor had been weather beaten and tarnished, so they had probably been on the road for some time. So, wherever they were taking him, he probably had some distance to travel still.
Except he and Mad had been in the Ways, the space between realms. They hadn’t gone very far in them and looked far worse than those troops, so perhaps they hadn’t come far at all. Maybe the soldiers had just been through the same kind of hell as he and Mad and pressed on before returning to wherever they had set out from.
At any rate, it seemed he would soon find out. Sound was muffled through the hood, but they had come to a stop and Will heard an exchange of unintelligible shouts. The pain in his head was nearly gone but he still couldn’t fully focus. Horror stories of concussions and permanent brain damage began to race through his head, but Will pushed them out. He couldn’t spare the effort and distraction; there was too much at stake.
A sharp bark from a commanding voice cut off the shouting exchange: the soldier. Will’s mouth twisted at his voice but he took a small comfort in his presence—if he was still here, that meant Mad was probably nearby. That was good. Will had his blade still hidden away, safe and secret, but Madigan would even the score substantially. He couldn’t recall if Madigan was wearing his noctori ring when they were captured. Though, knowing Madigan, whatever happened, he wouldn’t need a blade to defend them. Having one would certainly make things smoother, yes, but his body was its own weapon.
And so is mine, Will reminded himself. Madigan had told him to keep his Shade suppressed, but things had escalated quickly since then. I’m not going to take any chances. If he could find a way to get them to safety using his Shade, he was going to take it. Even if that means zapping every soldier I see.
A nearby groan confirmed his suspicion that Madigan was close. Will couldn’t help but smile a bit. When his brother came to, he would be like a raging bear. As soon as the opportunity arose, the poor bastards wouldn’t know what hit them.
They started moving again. Will figured that they had to be in some kind of old-time horse cart as there were no sounds of engines nearby. In truth, now that he paid close attention, there were no sounds of the sort anywhere. There were noises of people and commotion, to be sure, but it reminded him more of a large mob, like a crowd at a stadium. The dull roar of people moving about, voices and action, the sounds of movement and life and working. They had reached somewhere populated.
A city perhaps? The road was certainly smoother, and those shouts from before could have been the guards gaining entry. That has to be it, it would make sense. A city would be good. He and Mad could get out of this tangle and disappear into the crowds and lose anyone who might try to chase them. They knew how to blend in. They knew how to quite literally disappear, some of the time at least. They knew how to survive.
The cart turned through the streets for some time. Will tried to gauge the speed and distance, memorizing the path and turns, but eventually his skills fell short. All he could really make out was that they were moving slow and had gone farther than he’d like from whatever entrance they had come from.
It hit him, then, that he knew literally nothing about this place. He knew nothing about this world beyond stories and visions, nothing about where to go or where they were or how to get back to the Ways, how to get back home.
Panic again crept into his stomach, the blinding hood suddenly claustrophobic. They were lost, stranded in a foreign world without a map or currency or guide of any sort. He tried to think back to the cliffside and whether he had heard his grandfather tell Madigan where to go. Surely he had. Surely Mad had a plan. Mad always had a plan. It might end in split knuckles and bloody noses but Mad always had a plan. Mad will get us out of here.
They stopped again and more shouts were exchanged outside. After a brief moment, the cart began to lurch forward and upward so steeply that Will nearly began to slide. Up and up the cart climbed, still winding, still weaving its way along. While time was nearly impossible to tell, an hour at least must ha
ve passed as they ascended before the path finally leveled out.
A loud, grating creak ripped through the darkness. Something massive was moving in the distance ahead and Will’s mind danced with pictures of castles and drawbridges and moats. Childish fancies, he knew, something safe for his brain to latch on to, to keep terror at bay. It helped.
The cart continued to press forward, never stopping or slowing. After a few moments, the loud creak again pierced the blackness inside the hood, but this time it was behind them. They had entered something large, something that had a big gate. And they had reached it only after climbing for a long time. Alright, maybe escape isn’t going to be as easy as I thought. But it was still doable, they would get it figured out. They could still get through this.
The cart stopped. There was more commotion outside, more shouts and commands barked. Will smirked. Apparently they were generating quite the fanfare.
“They give you any trouble?” the head soldier’s voice called from a short distance away.
“None at all,” said an unfamiliar voice. “The small ’un has been awake for a few hours but the big guy is still out cold. Little ’un hasn’t said a word.”
“Get them moving.”
Will froze. How had they known he was awake? And if Madigan was still unconscious, well, that wasn’t good. Their window of escape was shrinking rapidly. His mind raced. Should he try to get them both out? Should he make an effort to fight? Even if he did try, how could he get Madigan out?
He didn’t have a chance to act before rough hands closed around his ankles and yanked without warning. Will left the vehicle unceremoniously and was momentarily airborne. When he crashed to the ground below, the air was forced from his lungs. He desperately tried to fight off that awful feeling of suffocation and panic. Even as they started to fill again, the hood covering his head caught in his mouth and made breathing difficult and forced. A thud next to him signaled that Mad received the same treatment.
“You bastards,” Madigan said, gasping as he seized air. “You goddam bastards.”
Good. Awake and angry. Will suddenly felt a bit better about their chances.
“Ensure they’re bound tight and get them moving,” a soldier said. “The seneschal awaits.”
Will was pulled to standing, the ropes around his wrists biting sharply into his skin. Still blinded by the hood, he was forced forward, taking tentative steps as he sought any pitfalls that might send him tumbling. The going was rough but he only stumbled a few times and managed to stay on his feet.
Every few moments Madigan uttered a curse at their captors. Each time, Will could hear the sound of something blunt meeting something soft. Will could feel his brother seething. He grit his teeth and moved forward. This isn’t going to be easy.
They stopped and started multiple times, passing through various checks and points of entry before they finally came indoors. It was cooler there and the smell of smoke touched Will’s nostrils. He could hear the crackling and snapping of wood in a fire, reminiscent of so many summer nights with his grandfather around the firepit. The same firepit where a great sword had been hidden, where he had died to give them a chance to escape. And look how far it got us.
They were drawing nearer to the fire, so near that Will could feel its warmth radiating against his skin—a small comfort stretching toward his ragged wrists and torn clothes. But they didn’t stop moving. He was pushed continuously forward. Quickly, his comfort from the flames faded. In its place was plain fear as the temperature increased, the flames growing too close, their warmth intensifying into uncomfortable heat.
Sweat trickled down Will’s back. He shortened his steps. Still, he was forced forward. Madigan began to protest more and more as both were corralled toward the roaring fire. The heat continued to rise and Will began to fight against the forward motion, digging his heels into the ground and leaning away from them. Hard shoves from behind propelled him forward and onto the scorching stone floor, the heat from the fire surrounding him.
His bonds were seized and yanked above his head. The dragon fang shifted against his side but somehow stayed put. He was forced to kneel backward against a tall stone pillar. The ropes binding his wrists were secured to it and the flames seemed to lap at his broken skin. Every time he tried to shy away, he was struck and forced back against the pillar.
“Enough.” A voice like slime oozed through the darkness. “I believe they are sufficiently secure. Now, Commander, let us see what you have brought me?”
Will flinched as the hood was ripped from his head. He gasped for air but immediately froze in terror. Tall flames surrounded him, leaping and dancing an arm’s reach away. He could feel his skin reddening. Every inhale was filled with scorched air. Eyes darting frantically, he scanned the room and saw his brother tied to a pillar just a few feet to his left.
Madigan’s face was bruised and bloodied and filled with rage. One eye was swollen almost shut but still he glared out toward a figure beyond the flames. Following his gaze, Will witnessed their captor standing on a raised platform, leaning over to stare down at them, a sick, predatory smile on his face.
“Children?” he said, the repugnant voice creeping its way into Will’s ears. “You bring children before me, Commander? How quaint. Might I inquire as to why?”
“They were found trespassing within the Ways, Master Seneschal,” said the leader of the band who had captured them. Will twisted away from his brother and saw the man more clearly than before as firelight danced across his armor. “They were attempting to hide near the Ruins of the Breaker. We bear them to the Crow.”
The seneschal raised an eyebrow at that and looked toward the brothers, bound and blistering. At a gesture from him, the flames suddenly diminished, the scorching heat blessedly lessening. The respite gave Will a chance to glance around and take stock of his surroundings.
They had been brought to a large, enclosed chamber that was shrouded in an oppressive darkness despite the roaring flames. The roof must have been above, but he could not make it out. A haze hung over all things, grime and smoke staining the nearby colonnades. There were no windows to be seen, no lights other than the flames. Even the entryway was somehow hidden, clouded from sight.
Beyond the border of flames, their captors surrounded them, seemingly at ease. Their leader, the commander, stood ahead just below the seneschal. The seneschal himself was small and mousey with pinched lips and eyes that looked like he’d find joy in plucking the wings off flies and watching them suffer. He stared at Will unblinking, seemingly salivating with pleasure at whatever machinations his mind was turning.
“The Ruins of the Breaker? My, my, my, now doesn’t that create quite the conundrum for you, little ones. As you know, passage through the Ways is strictly forbidden, but to enter the Ruins of the Breaker?” He made a sloppy tutting noise. “Well, the punishment for that is more severe, I’m afraid, even for such sweet, delicate babies.”
“Cut me loose and I’ll demonstrate just how delicate I am,” Madigan said in a low growl, his voice iron.
Laughter filled the room. The seneschal’s mouth stretched into a wet grin, his weepy eyes gazing at them hungrily. “Oh, I have no doubt that you’re quite the warrior, little one. You have all the anger and rage of a mewling kitten, and I’m sure your little claws are no less ferocious.”
More laughter sprang forth from the surrounding soldiers. Will’s mind was darting this way and that, sizing up the room and the opposition while trying to loosen the bindings at his wrists without notice. All of the room’s attention was focused on Madigan who had forced himself to his feet in defiance.
Will used the distraction to shift position to get his feet under him and into a crouch. The cool tingle of the key at his neck was soothing, grounding. He focused on it, allowing him to think beyond the panic of the moment. The heat from the fire was not as bad as he had thought, not really, and the bindings had not rubbed his wrists nearly as raw as he had thought. Yes, they were painful, but not really. Not
by half.
The laughter died as the seneschal spoke again. “Commander Shifter, I truly must thank you for this little joy. It has been too long since I last saw such defiance. This is no matter for the Crow. No, no, I shall gladly deal with this myself.” He began striding around the dais and down toward a break in the line of flames. There, he halted a moment then walked forward toward Madigan, withdrawing a jagged dirk from the folds of his cloak.
“You see, little ducklings, as I stated before, trespassing at the Ruins of the Breaker carries a rather harsh penalty. Only Necrothanians dare attempt to enter there. While I am surprised at the brash nature of your passage, by process of elimination you must certainly be Necrothanian. Therefore, the penalty is death.”
“What?” The shout erupted before Will could stop it. He had been focused on his slowly loosening bindings, but hearing a sudden death sentence brought him back to reality in an instant. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Necro-what-ians?” Mad’s brow was furrowed but he maintained eye contact with the seneschal. The man began to needle his fingernail with the tip of the dirk as he walked. “Look, I told the commander, we got lost down there and—”
“Enough lies, little sweetlings, there is no need for them here,” the seneschal said, cutting Madigan off. “This is a house of truth and honesty and purity. You have already defiled this place enough by your mere presence.” He extended his empty hand and placed it on Madigan’s shoulder. “The only remedy is a cleansing from your blood. Don’t worry, little one, the blade will go in so much smoother if you relax.” The hand on Mad’s shoulder gripped it hard and he raised the dirk to strike.
Shadowborne Page 12
