Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection

by Meg Cowley

  Erika stirred. “Fine. I do wonder what he wants with the stone...and she is not safe in his path.”

  It was as close to an acknowledgment, and agreement, that they would receive.

  “We are settled then?” Aedon looked at them in turn. “We are going to venture into the jaws of the dragon itself, into Toroth’s very court, to save Harper...and the Dragonheart, if we can...from the clutches of that bastard Dimitrius.”

  He dashed to his feet, bouncing upon his toes. It seemed his entire body sang of the urgency that pulled him towards Tournai.

  “Come on!” he chided them impatiently. Ragnar struggled to his feet, with Erika’s help, as Brand scuffed dirt over the last of the fire to douse it. “We have a girl, a stone, and a village to save.” And a spymaster to foil, he added to himself, wondering darkly what Dimitrius’s intentions were.

  Forty-One

  "No!" shrieked Harper, but before the word was out of her mouth, the Dragonheart was torn from her. A vice-like grip seized her arms, and she was tackled to the ground. Her torso and face smashed into the stone, winding her for a few precious seconds whilst they restrained her with ease.

  She wriggled, trying to buck off the man who held her down, but her strength was no match for his weight. Soon, another man took one arm, pinning it to the ground. Others stamped on her legs until she was entirely pinned to the stone, unmoving, and then tied with bonds that dug into her skin.

  "You are hereby arrested in the name of the king, charged with theft and corruption of a Dragonheart," the man's loud voice boomed across the square.

  Gasps and mutters turned to shouting and curses in a variety of tongues. The only word Harper understood was “Saradon”, which did not bode well. Objects started pelting her, and more than one foot was aimed her way.

  The guards let it happen, watching her with cold disdain for a moment. Harper struggled, fully bound, to hunch into a ball to protect herself. As a hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up, she screeched, but was quickly muffled by the dirty rag that was shoved between her teeth. She nearly gagged on it as she was dumped on the ground again, only to be hoisted up by her arms moments later and dragged away.

  She cried out in pain as her unsupported legs bumped against the sharp edges of the stone slabs, hoping this was the worst she would be treated. Harper tried to shout through the rag, but all that emerged was an unintelligible, strangled moan.

  A hood was jammed over her head – a sack of some sort that smelt of old, mouldy potatoes...and worse. It clogged her nose, making her gag again. Her eyes streamed with the pain of every jarring impact on the ground, and the strain on her elbows and shoulders felt as though they would be pulled from their sockets with every rushed step.

  What have I done?

  The world was reduced to sounds as she was rushed through the city. She could smell nothing but the foul sack, taste nothing but the fouler rag, and see nothing but darkness inside the rough-woven fabric. Darkness that lightened and deepened as she was dragged through patches of shadow and sun.

  Her feet and legs dragged over the stone flags that switched to small, bumpy cobbles. Aside from that, she could feel nothing. The sound of the city rumbling around her was no comfort, either. The maelstrom of voices and sounds was overwhelming, and she could distinguish nothing to give her any point of reference, save for up and down.

  She tried to still her juddering sobs, for they only made the breathlessness worse. Tears streamed down her face. Eventually, she felt cool darkness and heard a door slam shut behind her, then several more banged open and closed in quick succession, her feet stumbling over various thresholds.

  The bag was suddenly ripped from her head and the gag torn from her mouth. She retched with relief and sucked in a huge gulp of air. It was cold and filled with the fetid stench of mould and excrement, but she did not care. It was the sweetest breath of air she had ever tasted.

  She blinked, but need not have. It was dark. Small-wicked lamps threw flickering shadows and paltry light over the rough, dark stone. There were no windows.

  Harper tried to put a lid on the rising feeling of claustrophobia. She twisted her head, trying to see the way they had come, trying to see if there was daylight somewhere, but there was none. A moment later, they hauled her forward again, opened a door, and tossed her into a pitch-black cell.

  The door boomed shut behind her. When she heard a thump from the other side, she knew it had been barred. She scrabbled for it, pushing against the unyielding wood, to no avail.

  Trapped.

  TIME WAS IMMEASURABLE. Harper had no idea how long she sat on the frigid, hard floor. Not even her stomach or energy could mark the passage of time. She was already starving and exhausted.

  Her face pounded from the impact upon the ground earlier, and she felt a crusted trail of dried blood from her nose. She gently picked it off, carefully touching her tender face. One entire side of her body throbbed, sore and angry. She did not need to see it to know a gigantic bruise had probably started blooming.

  Harper's only companion was the dark. The smallest amount of faint light slipped under the door. That one solid, thin line connected her to the outside world, but it was small comfort for it offered no illumination on her situation. In here, the smell was even worse. Even before she explored its cramped confines, it was not hard to determine she was in some kind of prison cell.

  Moving agonisingly slowly, in no small part because of her complaining body, she crawled around the space. It was narrower than she was tall and not much longer. Straw, or perhaps some kind of rush, covered the stone-flagged floor. The shafts were wafer thin and trampled. Some crumbled as she picked them up.

  There was no mattress, bed, or blanket that she could find as she felt around, her fingers sinking into the corners of the floor. They trailed through dirt, grime, and slime until she was certain she would be a creature of dirt, grime, and slime herself.

  She raised a hand to her face to sniff it, immediately regretting it. Her fingers fumbled for the hem of her cloak, the only place she could think to wipe it. Looking around, she spied a bucket in the corner, which had an even worse smell. Harper recoiled.

  There's the toilet then, she thought with dismay.

  After a period of sitting in the dark, huddled against a wall and wrapped in her cloak, which offered no resistance against the cold around her, she stiffly rose and stumbled to the door, leaning against the hard wood. At least it was slightly warmer than the stone...for what that was worth.

  Yet no matter how she searched for any crack or weakness, pushed it, or slotted her fingers into the edges to try and pull it – there was no handle on the inside of the door, perhaps for good reason – she could not get even a whisker of give in the stout wood. Her palms caressed the worn boards as she rested her forehead against it with a sigh. Through it, she could hear faint sounds. It was low and deep, the drone of men talking.

  Think. There has to be a weakness somewhere.

  An idea struck her. She scraped some of the paltry, slightly soggy straw into a pile and reached down into the middle of herself, feeling for that slight tingle, the deep well where she knew the magic was. Knowing what it felt like to have Aedon's strong magic coursing through her, she knew exactly what to look for.

  Somewhere deep inside, there it was, the tiniest little nugget, slightly bigger than it had been before. She clung to it, muttering the incantation Aedon had for fire. Perhaps she did not have to sit in the cold or the dark after all.

  “Brun.”

  The magic slipped away. She grasped it tighter, focusing on the tiny trickle and repeating the words again and again. The faintest warmth heated the very tips of her fingers, but no more.

  Eventually, she shook with the mental strain and her hands fell to her sides. She slumped against the wall with a huff of resignation. Aedon had made it look so easy. It appeared it wouldn't be that way for her, at least not yet.

  Harper gritted her teeth in silent frustration. There was n
o way out that she could tell. Her weapon, Aedon's beautiful knife, was gone. And she had no means, magical or otherwise, to facilitate her escape.

  She would have to wait for whatever was coming, and that was the most terrifying thought of all. It made her stomach flip and body shake with nerves. Slowly, she pulled her cloak about her, retreated to the far corner of the cell, and slumped onto the floor with her knees drawn to her chest.

  FITFUL SLEEP WAS THE best she managed that night. Harper's eyelids drooped, exhausted, then jerked open again with every small noise from outside. Every sound put her on high alert.

  Were they coming to fetch her? Where would they take her? What would they do? Would she... Could she escape?

  Then the sounds would fade again and she would huddle deeper into her cloak, wishing for the comforting presence and warmth of Aedon and his companions.

  The growing torrent of anxiety also taunted her about him. Every nerve was frayed, and her thoughts were a runaway horse of worry. He had pleaded with her, but she had not believed his nature ran true. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had been wrong about him...about them all.

  She looked about her, from one dark corner to another, glad she could not see anything. If only they could see her now. They were right. Erika most of all. Harper was glad she would never have to admit it to Erika’s face.

  Once more, she was back to worrying about her own hide. Concern over what her own fate would be niggled her again. Not for the first time, she berated herself for making the wrong choice.

  I should have never come.

  THERE WAS NOTHING TO do but wait. Perhaps someone would come to rescue her. Harper laughed mirthlessly at the thought. Who would come for her? Who even could?

  Certainly not Aedon and his crew. They had made their feelings abundantly clear. She could not blame them. She had walked into exactly the folly they had predicted, and now she was in a strange world, about to be charged with a crime that seemed punishable by death...or “worse”, whatever that meant.

  None of her own kin or friends would come. They did not exist. She fleetingly pondered how long she had been gone, stopping that thought before it went any further, wondering what everyone would think had happened when she seemingly vanished without a trace.

  She did not know whether she hated herself or the situation she found herself in more. She had been foolish to believe she would be taken for her word. This wasn't Caledan, but there wasn't justice in either realm. That was blatantly clear.

  No “innocent until proven guilty”. This place was unjust, unfair, and she didn't belong. It was as far from her vision of being a noble knight or intrepid adventurer, or being sent home by a gracious and understanding king, as she could have foreseen.

  "You're so stupid, Harper," she growled at herself. "Should have stayed with Aedon. At least they accepted me, as useless as I was." She scowled and punched the floor, as if she could punch her regret, frustration, and fear. It did nothing other than earn her a new pain.

  NO ONE CAME FOR HER in, well...however long passed. She thought somewhere longer than hours but shorter than days. Harper did not bother moving from her corner, huddled up in her cloak, shivering from head to toe.

  The light and warmth of early autumn seemed like a distant memory already. What had once seemed like a thick cloak, stifling in the heat, now felt like nothing more than her old, thin, tattered cloak, and offered her no shelter, comfort, or protection.

  When the door clunked open, Harper startled. The dim light outside was blinding after so long in the dark. After a moment of surprise, she scrambled forward. A dark form dropped a wooden bowl in the room and set a wooden beaker down, spilling most of the contents of both in the process. Before she could reach the door, it slammed shut again.

  Harper cried out. The muffled thump of the bar slipping into place rattled the door, then footsteps and silence.

  She felt around the floor for the bowl and cup. Water. It didn't taste very savoury, but she downed it in one gulp all the same. The gruel in the bowl was weak and smelled of nothing in particular that would be edible. The hunk of bread was so stale that she could have mistaken it for a stone. She ate it all anyway, grateful for something to fill her stomach.

  Once finished, she retreated back to her corner. Her stomach still rumbled unhappily. A few mouthfuls of paltry food and tainted water did nothing to still its mutiny. She hung her head.

  Her forehead pounded mercilessly, as though she had the world's worst hangover. Unfortunately, Harper knew she would not be able to shake it off so easily. She could not help but wish that this was nothing more than a bad dream. The assault on her senses told her it was very real indeed.

  THE NEXT TIME THEY came, she had no idea how long it had been, but she was ready. There was only one name that might curry her some kind of favour, or chance, as much as she hated to use it. It had repeatedly taunted her, but would it help or damn her? She had no idea. She hoped it would not land her in a worse predicament.

  When the door slipped open to allow a meal in, she shouted past the burn in her throat. “Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian! I demand to speak with Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian!”

  The dish paused in midair, before the hand holding it dropped it. The door shut a second later, but with a quieter slam than before.

  Harper’s heart pounded. What have I done? Will it work? Will it help? It cannot make things worse... I hope.

  Forty-Two

  Dimitri longed to run, but he forced himself to take measured, unhurried steps, schooling his features into boredom with a hint of indignance at being disturbed for such paltry matters. Under the surface, he was a torrent of crashing anxiety.

  Is it her? Why is she here? How?

  “My apologies, Lord Ellarian,” stammered the guard again. “She asked for you by name, and we weren’t sure whether she was one of your...associates.”

  Dimitri waved a hand in dismissal. The man resumed scurrying ahead, taking fearful looks back at the spymaster, who stood a good head taller and was a good deal more imposing than the human guard.

  The rank air inside the dungeons did nothing to help his nerves. He stifled a retch at the foul stench of damp and decay, gritting his teeth against the insipid freezing chill of the place. A flick of magic warmed him and banished the scent, as well as bounced a faelight above him in the constricting corridor.

  The guard led him to a cell at the end of a passage, heaving open the door with a grunt. Dimitrius sent his faelight in first. He stilled as their eyes locked, and his heart stopped for a beat before thundering back to life.

  It’s her. Dragons save us.

  Steel-grey eyes met his. In a moment, she changed from fearful surprise to anger.

  “You! Tell them to let me go at once!”

  Dimitri raised an eyebrow. He had not been expecting that. Feisty, he thought with a twinkle of amusement.

  The guard’s mouth dropped open. He barged into the cell, an arm raised to strike her.

  “Stop!” Dimitri barked. “There’s no need for that. Where is the item she carried? I need it at once.”

  “M’pologies, Lord. It’s already been sent to the king.”

  A flash of fear spread through Dimitri, but he crushed it swiftly. I hope not.

  He pressed his lips together in a thin line, biting back his anger. “Of course. Release her at once then.”

  “M’pologies, Lord. The king’s orders...”

  “You know my position.” Dimitri advanced. “Release her to my custody. I shall deal with the king.”

  The man shrank away from the brunt of his full attention. Harper had the good sense to stay quiet, her attention flicking between them with confusion. She has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. Why is she here? The questions could wait. First he had to get her out of there, away from the king and his scrutiny, which Dimitri feared would eventually fall upon himself.

  “I–I can’t, m’lord. I can give you her property, if you wish.”

  “Fi
ne,” he said after a pause. He knew she would have little on her worth anything to him, but it never hurt to collect such things for whatever useful means he could find.

  Harper glared up at him, though she remained huddled in the corner, covered in filth. She knew she was no match for him. He stared at her coldly in return, before spinning around and striding away. Part of his anger was directed at her, at how stupid she had been to walk right into the king’s hands. But most of it was just anger at himself. Fury that he had dallied too long.

  The anger masked his fear, too. I cannot let it fall back into the king’s hands, he worried. I’ll never see it again, never have another chance. In the wake of the thefts, the king had doubled the security upon his vaults. Besides which...

  What if there is some way to discern that it was I who stole it in the first place? Dimitri could not dwell on that. It was a dark path to walk down. What the king would do to me...

  It provoked his desire for self-preservation and success more than ever. His thoughts jumped back to Harper, sitting in the cell. To his surprise, he felt a wisp of pity for her. He could still see her grey eyes staring him down. For a nobody, she had a compelling presence, a challenge in her gaze he rarely received from anyone given his fearsome reputation.

  He stifled a dry laugh. She had no idea who she dealt with, free from such prejudices, yet she still disliked him. He supposed he had never given her any reason to feel otherwise. But even though he had demonstrated just how powerful he was, she did not seem to fear him. She was an interesting one.