The sudden compression made him wince, the subdued pain of his injuries jumping back to the fore of his consciousness. He still said nothing, unsure whether enough moisture remained in his mouth for his tongue to form words, should he deem speaking wise. Instead, he focused on steeling himself for what he expected to follow.
“The butt of a candlestick,” the King-priest continued as he stood, his thick voice surging with repressed anger. “I used to wonder why my own father would treat me so, for I did nothing to provoke him. Then, as I got older and became stronger, I realized the joy of hurting things myself.”
So quickly it surprised Amurel, Ebon Khorel punctuated his last statement by producing a thick, wooden rod from seemingly nowhere and powerfully striking the knee crushed by Bastion’s fall.
A cry of agony escaped Amurel – he was too surprised to stop it. A second thud of wood and bone left him breathless as unbidden tears overflowed from his eyes. He reflexively sought out his punisher’s eyes with his own, pleading for an answer that would not come.
“May the Nine Hells burn forever, I will find a way to kill you for this!” Sir Kilborn challenged from his side of the chamber.
“Why did your angels abandon the castle when I returned?” The King-priest asked calmly, once again ignoring the outburst.
Amurel’s brow rose at the question, but his jaw remained slack. His leg pulsed with pain as if possessing its own, cruel heartbeat. He tried to derive meaning from this new information, but concentration was impossible.
Ebon Khorel sighed. “You’re useless, aren’t you?” He moved again, almost beyond Amurel’s limited field of vision, then returned brandishing an implement that looked like a wicked, leather version of a serpent’s forked tongue. “Well, almost useless.”
He snapped the flail across Amurel’s abdomen, ripping the soiled cotton tunic covering it and leaving blazing red streaks in the material’s place. Amurel hissed and cursed as blow after blow rained upon his stomach and chest, stripping his skin until the raw flesh beneath was almost as prevalent.
“You don’t expect sympathy, do you, Sir Golddrake?” The King-priest’s tone grew in excitement as he inflicted more pain. “After all, you chose this for yourself the day you decided to stand against Gholdur’s anointed vessel.” Excitement then shifted to anger, though Amurel had not said a word. “How dare you attack my fortress, in the heart of my realm!” A final, vicious thrash drew a pent-up scream that had been fighting to force its way past Amurel’s lips.
For a moment the torture stopped, though the air continued to burn the dozens of exposed wounds across his body. Once more, the King-priest seemed in control, but all Amurel could think to do during his respite was pray. He prayed Criesha would deliver him – heal him as she had Jaiden, or at least remove his suffering. Why didn’t she? Had he not served her well? He prayed for Jaiden to stomp through the door and exact swift vengeance on this lunatic monster. Such an abomination could not be allowed to rule.
He heard muffled sobbing and guessed it came from Geldrick. He abhorred his old friend having to witness this treatment, and hoped he would not meet the same end. Amurel’s lids sank and his head drooped on his neck, the will to live gone. Perhaps if he resigned to die, the pain would carry him the rest of the way.
A firm hand grabbed his chin, however, and its squeezing caused his eyes to open. “Not yet,” the King-priest ordered softly, nearly whispering. “You do not get out so easily. Are you familiar with the emblem of the true god, Gholdur?” The King-priest forced his face to the left, where a round shield was propped against a table. It bore the image of a human skull, adorned in a crown of thorny roses. Tracks of blood seeped from the ghastly eye sockets.
“You will be my example, northman. Your countrymen will see you and know what it means to oppose me. You must look the part, however. I will find you a wreath of roses later, but for now, there is one more thing we can do.” The King-priest grabbed either side of Amurel’s head tightly, covering his ears. Then, with agonizing deliberateness, he placed thumbs over his eyeballs and pushed.
Amurel struggled to shake his head free, but the grip was too strong. He cried out, no longer ashamed to do so, and his scream echoed the protest from his friend as Amurel’s eyeballs were pulverized into their sockets.
Chapter 31
A Deeper Darkness
T he seasonal, late-spring downpour seemed appropriate, heaping a somber mood upon an already dismal setting. The hood of Rogan’s travelling cloak was heavy with rain, and drops from its saturated cloth streaked past his face onto his saddle with every lumbering step.
Saffron rode quietly a length behind, but he knew she was worrying about Dhania and avoided speaking her fears, lest they become actual. Having cleared the air during their ride to Selamus allowed them to reach a truce, each admitting they cared for one another, but that anything beyond friendship was doomed for failure.
Rogan felt strangely closer to her since, as if yelling at one another freed them to be honest. He understood her better and was learning to anticipate her moods. He didn’t mind her silence now, knowing what was behind it. In truth, he felt similarly, concerned that Dhania’s second capture would irrevocably damage her spirit, even if she remained physically unharmed.
Ymrilad set the pace, tirelessly striding east ahead of the horses. They travelled along the Solepass Road, out from the hills of Dawn’s Edge. His long, emerald-green hair was tied back in a ponytail that dangled between his shoulder blades, almost to the spot where the powerful, feathered wings sprouted from his back. He kept those folded when he walked, their bright tips – the same vibrant color as his hair – standing out amidst the gray of the rainy afternoon.
Rogan didn’t know much about the Aasimar in front of him, other than he often seemed to be of like-mind to Palomar, who vouched for his honor. He had proven more reserved in his communication, though perhaps due to the solemnity of his companions. Whatever the reasons, Rogan had plenty of time to think about what might happen when they reached their destination.
The farmhouse Bremmil mentioned during his interrogation should be coming up on the north side of the road within a league, and he wanted to retain the element of surprise when they arrived. Although the sounds of the rain might mask their final approach, Rogan also doubted Saffron’s fire talents would be as potent under such wet conditions. They would stick to stealth as long as they could.
At last, the raised outline of a dwelling came into view. Back a hundred paces or so from the road, the rain-fuzzed structure appeared to be mostly wood, with a crumbled stone chimney and a thatched roof that sagged as if caught in a permanent exhale. Ymrilad stopped moving and broke the shared silence.
“My lord and lady, I believe this may be the place.” The Aasimar shared his thoughts without looking back at his recipients.
Rogan narrowed his eyes and evaluated the surrounding terrain as best he could through the rain. Open pasture dominated the space between them and the building, though behind the structure loomed a thin stretch of elm trees, bordered by a thicket.
He turned his head and nodded to Saffron, which was enough to prompt her dismount. Rogan did the same, and they walked their horses north to the wood-line. Ymrilad followed tentatively, looking back at the house several times before reaching the modest cover of the elms.
“I know she’s your sister, Saffron, but I have probably had more experience sneaking around over the last decade than either of you,” Rogan said as they hung their reins over some low-reaching branches.
Saffron assented, “So what is your plan?”
Rogan checked the sky to gauge the hour, but the sun was completely shrouded by clouds. “Well, I am fairly certain it will be getting dark before too long. First, we need to know if the place is still occupied. I don’t see signs of other horses, but we need to be sure.” He took stock of their winged companion – his towering, muscular frame and green-tipped, bright white feathers screamed to be noticed. “Unfortunately, Ymrilad, you stick out
like a fox in a hen house. If they have a look-out, you will be spotted for sure if we haven’t been marked already.” The Aasimar managed to look unhappy and confused at the same time.
“Saffron and I will stay low and try to get a look inside from opposite sides,” Rogan continued. “We will signal to you if it is safe to approach, but try to be silent as possible. If Dhania is in there, and not in immediate danger, I want you two to cause a distraction. Lure them outside; I’ll slip in and help her escape.”
Saffron nodded her agreement, then asked, “And if the house is empty?”
“Then we look for signs of use, stay there tonight, and remain vigilant in case our prey returns.” Rogan rested a hand on Saffron’s shoulder and held her gaze. “If she is not here, we’ll still find her.” He nodded slightly, and she took a long blink before mirroring the gesture. “Let’s go.”
He crouched but still managed bounding strides through the wet grass, its slick surface sinking beneath his boots. Rogan swiveled his head while progressing across the yard, checking the road, the farmhouse, and the woods for any movement or signs of presence. Though no horses were tied up nearby, as they drew within an easy stone’s throw of the dilapidated structure’s rear, he noticed a hatchet lodged into the highest log of a woodpile. He pointed it out for Saffron’s benefit, and headed around to take a closer look. Indeed, splinters of recently-split wood littered the nearby ground.
The roll of the land put the window on the back side of the house lower than the front, so Rogan left it to Saffron and continued circling the abode to make sure no one else was around. On the far end of the house was a worn, wooden door, attached only by the top hinge. A design had been scratched into its surface – a clawed hand with unrecognizable runes on either side. Numerous boot prints marked the dirt before it, heading both in and out. He checked the horizon to the east and south but no creature, orc or otherwise, stirred. Still, he drew his uril-chent dagger and found comfort in its sphere of dimness.
He listened at the door but all he could hear was the rain, and the portal was in such poor shape he couldn’t move it unobtrusively. So, Rogan continued warily to the front of the house, past another door showing no signs of traffic, and backed against the stone wall beneath a window. Ever-so-slowly, he rose until he could peek over the protruding sill.
The panes were filthy, but he immediately caught the flicker of candlelight inside. Four or five shapes, concealed under dark cloaks, stood around a large, single room in an uneven, inward-facing circle. The light was too dim and the window too grimy to tell the number for certain.
He also found it impossible to tell if Dhania was among them, but he doubted she would be standing in any case. More likely, she would be bound somewhere out of sight, and it looked as if the figures were conspiring. He doubted any of them actually lived here – the congregation seemed too secretive.
Rogan quickly evaluated they could take five men if necessary, knowing just the sight of an Aasimar might make them reasonable. He crept back from the window and signaled for Ymrilad to approach. Even if they had someone watching, Rogan would still be able to get inside before warning could reach them. He peeked through the window once more, making sure the figures were still in place, before sneaking to the back of the house to join his companions.
“I did not see my sister,” Saffron’s hissing whisper accused as he approached.
“Nor did I,” added Rogan, “but we cannot lose the opportunity to question those inside. Whoever they are, they seem to be meeting in secret, which likely makes discovering them dangerous.” He noted Saffron was unarmed, and looked back toward the horses. “You should have your spear—”
“I do not need my spear. If these men have hurt Dhania they will burn in the flames of my wrath.”
Rogan closed his mouth and drew back slightly. He had never seen Saffron’s eyes so resolute. He unsheathed his sabre and handed it to her. “Still, it may make them think twice about not cooperating if we’re armed. Ymrilad, there is a weak door on the side of the building. You should be able to kick it in. Lady Saffron and I will file in behind you. Be ready, but don’t attack them unless they initiate, alright? I want to talk to them first.”
“Of course, Baron.”
Rogan looked at Saffron, raising his eyebrows when she didn’t respond. She finally shrugged, “Agreed.”
They moved to the far end of the building, where Ymrilad drew his sword and counted to three before smashing the door to splinters with the sole of his foot. If those gathered inside were surprised by the intrusion, they recovered quickly. By the time Rogan squeezed past the Aasimar they had spread out, the larger two drawing weapons.
Coming into the sheltered darkness, even from the suppressed daylight of the rain-soaked evening, made it seem deeper. Rogan had difficulty discerning more than the outlines of black cloaks and curved steel. There were five, after-all, though the armed pair stood a head taller than the others and possessed bulk to rival Ymrilad.
“Wait, there is no need for bloodshed!” Rogan shouted, hoping they hadn’t already made up their minds. He held out an empty palm, but did not loosen the grip on his dagger.
“Who are you?” The question came from a deep, stilted voice belonging to the foremost silhouette. Though the words made sense, the effort with which they were spoken suggested casual familiarity with the language. A pair of short, arced swords stood ready in the creature’s hands. Rogan’s instincts told him those hands were orcish.
“We are only looking for a friend of ours, and were told she was last seen here.” Rogan tried to sound as non-confrontational as possible. As his eyes adjusted, he thought he could make out tusk-like incisors within the hoods of the armed creatures.
A second voice, more natural and calm, answered from behind. “There are no women here now, save the one you brought; and you have trespassed where you are unwelcome. Why should we not slay you where you stand?”
No sooner had the man finished his sentence than Saffon replaced it with a low chant. Four candles and a dull, gray rectangle from the doorway provided the only light in the farmhouse, but it suddenly doubled as those flames pulsed on their wicks, growing in intensity.
“Do you think it would be easy to do so?” Rogan countered. “Violence is not what I want, but if she keeps singing you are going to have worse to deal with than my blade. So I suggest you tell us what you know, and we can be on our way…”
“Lady Saffron!” one of the men in the rear exclaimed, as if suddenly placing her face and unable to stifle the thought. The other cloaked heads turned in the man’s direction, and he bowed his hood in apparent shame.
Saffron ceased her singing and the candles dimmed. “Do I know you?”
The man owning the once-confident voice stepped forward, between the drawn blades of either side, reconsidering his stance after the outburst. “Of course, there is no need for bloodshed, for we are not enemies.” He walked to a table against the wall, lifted the candle resting on it, and took a seat in its place. “That is quite a trick you did with the candles, my Lady. You might find you share much in common with our master.”
“And who might that be?” Rogan inquired, unnerved by the change in the man’s demeanor. He almost preferred open antagonism.
“He shall make himself known to all, in time. As for the Lady’s sister—”
“What do you know?” Saffron stepped forward, the naked blade of her borrowed saber a threatening reminder of the action she barely held in check.
The man seated on the table lifted the candle closer to his face, until its soft glow turned it into a mask of light and shadow. “We had nothing to do with it, but heard she was given to Nejuk the Gouger as tribute. She is probably in his camp by now, south of the Black Hills.”
“Given by whom?” Rogan hoped the question would shed light on the identity or affiliation of this gathering. The mixture of men and orcs spoke of something bigger, something more threatening than suggested on the surface.
“The men of blee
ding skulls give gifts to unite against the pale-skins,” answered the dual-bladed orc.
“I am afraid if you want to get your sister back, Lady Saffron,” the seated man continued, unflustered, “then you are going to have to offer the orc chieftain something more valuable – and I couldn’t guess what that might be.”
The previously silent orc gave an amused grunt. “Hmph, or challenge Nejuk for leadership, and take her back yourself.” Both orcs followed with an eruption of gargling laughter that Rogan found horribly unpleasant. Despite the sudden levity of the orcs, he kept his eyes active and his dagger ready.
“Where can we find Nejuk?” Saffron demanded.
The man on the table shrugged. “Keep following the road east. Before you hit the mountains you will either find the Gouger or, more likely, his orcs will find you.”
“I do not trust these men in black.”
Ymrilad’s sudden contribution startled Rogan, though he imagined the words were not shared with the cloaked strangers. In all honesty, however, he had to admit the three of them probably appeared just as untrustworthy. “Is that the only help you can give? How do you know Lady Saffron?”
The man shrugged again, pulling the candle away from his face. “Tales of her singular nature have spread to far corners… as have those of the silent angels.” His eyes coolly poured over the Aasimar. “I sincerely wish you success in finding the one you seek.” He considered the saber Saffron still held in his direction. “For as I said, we had nothing to do with her abduction.”
“What do you have to do with?” she almost spit her response. “Why are you gathered in secret?”
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