Nail stated, “But Roguemoore believed you yourself were one of the Five Warrior Angels returned. Does that not mean anything?”
“Does it mean anything to know that the dwarf believed the same of you?”
Nail had always wanted to believe there was something extraordinary about himself. It was just the way orphans and bastards thought—that there was a great destiny awaiting them somewhere. So of course it was easy to think that he might very well be one of the Five Warrior Angels returned. It was heady, fanciful stuff.
Yet he also knew, the realities of a bastard’s life were far removed from fantasy.
“It will not be self-righteous blind faith in Warrior Angels that will save the Five Isles,” Val-Draekin continued, “but rather those with humble doubt, those who take it upon themselves to hone the strength of their own will and intellect and fight against the power of suggestion, fight against faith and blind belief . . .”
He paused again, reflective. Then carried on, “But that is unlikely to happen. I know the nature of humankind.”
“And what is our nature?”
“That when it comes to faith, what men fear most is the truth they already know in their hearts, yet deny.”
“What do you mean?”
“They know it is all false. Their beliefs. The fanciful tales and fables and miracles of the past written down in ancient texts. They know deep down it is all nonsense. Yet still they believe. And the cycle of madness and delusion will never cease. It just doesn’t matter. Destroy all scripture? I think not. Everything can be redone. Everything is endless. The disfunction and folly will go on until mankind . . . until mankind is no more.”
Nail thought about the Vallè’s words. “So if you truly feel this way, why did you and Seita go along with Roguemoore’s quest to find such ancient and meaningless weapons and angel stones? Why risk your life for such folly?”
“The thrill of it.” Val-Draekin’s answer was swift and casual. “For the adventure. It is just what we Vallè do.” A crooked, mischievous smile spread over his face. “This adventure is just part of the game we have played for generations, the game we Vallè have played for centuries . . . the game we all still play. It is a game against human nature, a game to master the power of suggestion.”
“But you’ve nearly died many times on this adventure, for this game. Seems like a risk for nothing. You can never know what will happen.”
“Correct.” Val-Draekin’s answer came more slowly this time, more calculated in its delivery. “You see, illusion surrounds us, Nail. That is part of the game. None of us can know what will happen, not even up until that very last moment of our lives. And then, in the end, what you saw . . . might not even be what you thought you saw.”
* * *
Be mindful: the Vallè worship no man; they worship only the power of the witch. They worship their game. They worship at the altar of a human woman they claim changed into a Vallè. A miracle it was. A biological impossibility that the Vallè claim will one day happen again. . . .
—THE BOOK OF THE BETRAYER
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CRYSTALWOOD
16TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
ROKENWALDER, SØR SEVIER
The ribbon had been returned! Krista Aulbrek crept through the silence that shrouded the Rokenwalder dungeon, bare feet making not a sound. Gault’s blue ribbon was again tied around her ankle. She felt more confident with it there.
The passageway between her cell and Borden Bronachell’s was hung with absolute darkness, a suffocating blackness she had grown used to over the last handful of days—she’d lost all comprehension of time. One measured step after the next, her breathing even and precise, Krista moved assuredly, her heart rate only slightly elevated. Despite the total darkness, over the last few days even the smallest movement, gesture, or breath from the bearded man in the cell across from her had become somehow visible. Her awareness of every tick and sound in the dungeon was to the point that she could tell which of Bogg’s gaolers walked the corridor just by the rhythm and shuffle of their feet. And she figured that over five years in captivity, Borden had grown even more attuned to the silence.
She had been patient with the gold coin Squateye had slipped her, meticulously rubbing it against the rough corners of her cell for days, soundlessly working it down into the shape she desired, a lock pick sufficient for her two main needs: escaping her cell, and killing Borden Bronachell. Her newly fashioned needlelike weapon driven far enough into the man’s eye would do the trick.
She owed it all to Squateye. It had been less suspicious for the dwarf to smuggle a coin for her to shape into her tool, than smuggle an actual lock pick or knife. And once she had fashioned a pick from the coin, it had taken Krista only about fifteen minutes to be free of her collar and to open the lock to her own cell. She took painstaking caution in pushing open the rusty-hinged metal door. Escaping ropes and chains, breaking out of cages and cells, picking locks, these things had never been her strong suit. But she moved with confidence now.
With her own rank and stuffy cell now several steps behind her, the thin, deadly instrument of her long toil clenched in her fist, she drifted ever closer to the man’s cell, mind focused on the next task—murder. Silently she crept. The injury she’d suffered from the heavy iron maul of the Knight Chivalric was still a dull ache in her chest and stomach. She had healed some and felt immeasurably better, but her entire midsection was tender to the touch, breathing a chore.
Once at Borden’s cell, Krista leaned her right shoulder against two of the vertical bars, settling herself into the perfect position. The leverage against the two bars felt just right. All was soundless, but for the snoring drifting from the back of the cell. With long hours of muscle memory built into her delicate fingers, she painstakingly slipped the lock pick into the mechanism. Similar lock . . . fifteen minutes should be all . . .
With each guttural snore from Borden, she eased the shard of coin farther into the lock. When her thin tool passed the first slender metal tine, she stopped, waited for another snore, then eased it farther in, feeling the first tiny click of many.
Borden’s rhythmic snoring reverberated from the back of his cell. He slept against the far wall nightly. In the few times the gaolers had walked through the corridor with torches, Krista had studied her own cell, and also the cell across from her. They were identical in size. She knew—once she had Borden’s door opened—just how many paces it would take to reach her prey. His snoring continued. So did she, working the lock, the rhythm of the man’s heavy breathing relaxing her. She rested the side of her head against the two vertical bars above her shoulder, easing the lock pick ever inward. Slow and smooth. The snoring grew in volume.
A sound . . .
The click of the lock . . .
Her mind barely registered the movement. But when she felt Borden’s skeletal, cold fingers wrap around her neck, she yanked the lock pick straight out of the mechanism and stabbed the back of his hand. His grip only tightened.
And Krista instantly knew she was in trouble.
Borden Bronachell had her head pinned against the bars, strong fingers pressing hard against spots right under both of her ears, the spot her Sacrament of Souls had taught her would close off the carotid arteries and cause a person to black out almost instantly, the spot that if enough pressure was used, could cause instant death.
The thought scarcely had time to flitter through her brain before she felt herself fall into blackness, morbidly intrigued at the speed with which she lost consciousness.
† † † † †
The unspeakable foul putridity that jerked Krista into half wakefulness was beyond unholy. She had taken a whiff of Dugal’s smelling salts several times before, a nasty concoction meant to rouse a person from faking unconsciousness or death. It was horrid. But whatever she had just inhaled was ten times worse.
She heard sloshing sounds and grunts. Torchlight
flickered from a stained cobbled ceiling—a cobbled ceiling that slid above her in jerky motions. It dripped with water, and brown sludge. Or just my wicked imaginings to match the stench. Bile rose up in her throat, and she vomited from the surrounding stink. It was then she realized her mouth was gagged. Vomit shot from her nostrils and seemed to burst straight out the corners of her eyes. Panicking, she retched and then struggled for breath.
“Take the gag off,” a familiar voice said from somewhere behind her, or above her, or both. The gag was removed and cool water dumped over her face. The puke-sopping gag was swiftly replaced and cinched tight.
Still feeling like she was suffocating, Krista could barely grab a breath through her clogged nose. She lay on her back in her prison garb, arms pinned to her sides, body wrapped in rope. She couldn’t quite orient herself or get a grip on the flickering reality—or unreality—moving jerkily above. Is it a ceiling? Then, in a brief moment of lucidity, she realized that someone was gripping her under the armpits, dragging her through a tunnel of sludge, black and brown chunks of filth that lapped up over her bound legs.
“She stuck that poker into my hand enough times before she dropped,” a second voice said, also somewhat familiar. Borden Bronachell!
“But the needle she made of that coin,” the original voice said. “It worked on that lock just like I said it would, no?” It was Squateye speaking.
“Worked on opening the sewer grating too,” Borden continued. “Slipping her the coin worked. You are the truest of friends. But your dungeons of Rokenwalder proved easy to break out of, with the right tool. Not like Purgatory under the Hall of the Dayknights in Amadon. Now that’s a prison no man can escape.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Purgatory is impenetrable.”
“Truth is,” Squateye said, “most dungeons are a joke. All of them have their weaknesses.” A moment of silence as they dragged her along, and then the dwarf continued, “Bogg was growing suspicious. We needed to act fast.”
“Just as long as these wounds on my hand don’t get infected in this sewer.”
The only thing keeping Krista somewhat awake was the murderous odor blanketing her, but she felt herself quickly losing consciousness.
The dwarf said, “We must get her to Wyn Darrè as swiftly as possible. Seabass and what he may have gleaned from The Angel Stone Codex await us.”
“Does she know the truth?”
“Dugal and Aevrett treated her like a pet, both controlling her for opposing purposes, both keeping her from her real destiny.”
“Bogg is not easily duped, Ironcloud.”
“Aye, he will know of your escape by now. He knows these sewers as well as I. He and his pet may very well be awaiting us when we spill from them, shit-stained and dirty, into the bay.”
“And I hear his pet is even deadlier than her . . . but we need him too.”
Krista felt her mind drifting, the two voices continuing their conversation. The reek of the place was so overpowering. The two ethereal and dreamlike voices talked of nothing and everything, not much of it making any logical sense now.
Before she lost all awareness, Krista imagined they were talking of Dugal and Bogg, talking as if her master and the dungeon warden were the same.
† † † † †
Krista woke abruptly, gasping for breath, her entire body plunging into ice-cold water. Clear thought instantly assaulted her brain. She struggled, her arms and legs still bound. Then her head broke the rippling skin of Straits of Sevier. The night sky above was moonless—a velvety, impenetrable black. A stout wooden quay was within arm’s reach, tendrils of low mist spilling over it, thick with the bitter stink of the sewers. The buildings of the city rose above the shadowy dock, grim and tall amidst a faint haze of fog. The uppermost window of the stone tower behind the dock glinted a pale yellow, reflecting square patches of light back into the choppy waters around her.
Coarse hands grasped Krista around the waist, brushing at her rough-spun prison garb, scrubbing, washing. She could sense the chunks of shit and sewer filth floating and bobbing in the surrounding waves. In the commotion, the gag around her mouth had come loose. But before she could call out for help, she was hauled from the water and dumped forcefully into the bottom of a wooden skiff among two long oars and an iron anchor. The gag was lashed tightly over her mouth again, and the ropes securing her arms to her body pulled tight.
Krista rolled onto her side in the bottom of the boat, gazed up at her captors with a hard, pointed stare. The gruff visage of the dwarf, Squateye, loomed above, two narrow eyes glinting down on her in the faint light of the moon—his black eye patch was gone.
Borden Bronachell stood just behind the dwarf. He gave her no more than a passing glance, then bent over bulwark, unhooking the skiff from the dock. He gave a powerful shove and the boat drifted from the quay. Krista kept her cold gaze trained on Squateye, wondering at his betrayal, wondering at his game. Or is his name Ironcloud? By the look in his squinting eyes, Krista could tell the dwarf knew what she was thinking.
Does he not know nothing escapes Dugal’s awareness, nothing escapes Dugal’s grasp. Especially something as majestic as this—an escape from the dungeons of Rokenwalder and the capture of one of his precious Bloodwoods. One thing was certain: Borden Bronachell would soon be a dead man. And the dwarf would suffer worse.
Behind Squateye, Borden was unfurling the sail.
A streaking shadow launched itself from the dock straight into the boat, crashing into the man. Borden and the shadow landed hard in the bottom of the skiff next to Krista, clawing and fighting.
The shadow was Hans Rake, Bloodwood daggers flashing like lightning in both hands as he struck at the man. To Krista’s surprise, Borden blocked the blows as quickly as Hans could strike, and he threw the boy off. Together they stood, Hans backing away from Borden, wary, his glaring eyes meeting the other older man’s challenge.
Squateye snatched one of the oars from the bottom of the boat and swung. Hans ducked under the blow. He dove on top of Krista, his black blades suddenly punching into her chest and neck and arms. “Bastard!” Borden yelled.
Krista could do nothing to stop his unexpected assault but roll onto her side, stunned, bleeding, the pain sharp and harsh. What poisons I cannot tell. Or ’twas just the frosty sting of a naked Bloodwood blade piercing warm flesh over . . .
There was a loud thump. Hans slumped unconscious and slid off her. Borden Bronachell looming over the boy, a second oar clutched in his hands.
“Ain’t never seen a man best a Bloodwood like that, much less two Bloodwoods in one day.” Squateye dragged Hans’ limp body away from Krista, eyes on Borden. “You blocked his blows with naught but your forearms. Had you a blade of your own, I reckon Shadowwood would be dead, rather than knocked out cold.” The dwarf hauled Hans up by the armpits, shoving the limp body against the side of the skiff. “Help me throw him over.”
“No.” Borden tossed the oar down. He jerked a coil of rope from under the sidewall. “I told you we needed him too. He will be of more use to us alive.” He began wrapping the rope around Hans’ inert form. “We need all of Dugal’s pets.”
“I’m not sure it wouldn’t be best to just kill them both now.” The dwarf helped with the rope. “Now that they are both disabled. You continually surprise me, Borden. I only knew one man ever bested a Bloodwood. And that man was Ser Roderic Raybourne.”
“Lest you forget,” Borden said, “I taught Shawcroft everything he knows.”
Borden secured Hans, binding him the same as Krista was bound, arms tight to his body, legs tied together at the ankles. When he was done, his eyes cut through the darkness toward the dock. “It’s Bogg,” he announced.
“Aye.” Squateye looked toward the wooden quay. “You mean Dugal.”
“One and the same,” Borden whispered. “Like Squateye and Ironcloud. Two people at once.”
Krista levered herself into a sitting position, blood pooling
under her. Hans had poked her good. She could barely see over the bulwark. The dock was now fifty feet away, shrouded in shadowy mist. But she could clearly see the blocky form of Bogg. His vile dog, Café Colza, circled at his feet. She breathed deep. A stab of pain arched through her and she swooned, clenching her eyes shut.
And when she opened her eyes, the scene on the dock had changed. Bogg was gone. She spied the unmistakable silhouette of her master standing there in the gloomy shadow where Bogg had been. Black Dugal stood tall. He stood in a position of both coiled restraint and looming threat, eyes like faint red slits. His Bloodeye stallion was there with him, its breath a white pluming mist, eyes like blazing coals biting through the night. But neither Dugal nor his mount stirred as the boat drifted away from the wooden quay. Still, Squateye and Borden looked on, concerned.
But something was in the water, splashing its way toward the boat.
Krista couldn’t see what it was. Her strength failed and she slumped back down, head cracking against the hard bottom of the boat. The pain in her chest and arms was almost too much to bear. She could feel warm blood seep from the many holes Hans had created.
“We must tend to her.” Squateye pressed thick hands to her wounds, attempting to stanch the flow of blood. Krista barely registered what was happening. She felt grim sleep creeping over her. How must Dread be doing without me? A deep sleep from which she feared she would never awake. Has the Bloodeye missed my nuzzles against her neck?
The Blackest Heart Page 67