A Sellsword's Valor

by Jacob Peppers

  With that, he turned and unlocked the dungeon door. Evane followed him as he started down the hallway, unable to suppress the grin that came to his face.

  The dungeons were dark, the only light that of the sputtering torches placed at uneven intervals along the wall, bathing the hard-packed dirt floor, the cells, and their occupants in a ruddy orange glow. Evane had thought that the dungeons would be alive with the sounds of prisoners screaming and shouting for their release, begging for another chance or another trial, but he was surprised to find that the prisoners didn’t scream at all. Some few stood at the front of their cells, staring fearfully at a door at the far end of the hall. As the king’s advisor approached, they shrank away and into the corners of their cells.

  As they made their way further down the hall, Evane realized that he could hear screaming, after all. It was muffled, and he realized that it was coming from behind the door. He looked around at the prisoners who watched them with subdued expressions. “I would have thought they’d be more…active.”

  The advisor paused, turning. “The prisoners, do you mean? Yes, well, they were, once upon a time. But my master has been desperate for new subjects on which to perform his…experiments, and, at times, he has culled those he needed from the dungeons themselves.” He smiled, and there was a dark hunger in the expression. “I suspect some of them are worried that they may be next.”

  Evane nodded slowly at that, glancing at the prisoner in the cell to the left of them who watched them with wide, fearful eyes, sucking on his thumb like a child. “And are they?”

  Caldwell grunted. “They are poor specimens, these. Malnourished and weak from deprivation. Still…” He paused, shrugging. “Perhaps. After all, the work must continue, and a desperate carpenter must use what wood as comes to hand.”

  With that, the robed advisor lifted a torch from its bracket on the wall, turned and started down the hall once more. Evane followed him, troubled by something he couldn’t quite define. It’s those damned screams, for one, he thought. It was, he found, very different when you were the cause of such screams, of such pain and terror. There was a feeling of power that came along with the causing of such things, a feeling of invincibility; but to hear them, to know that someone besides yourself was the creator of them…he decided that he did not like it. After all, one man sounded much like another when he screamed himself breathless. It could have been anyone behind that door, screaming. It could have been himself.

  Finally, they came to the door, and Caldwell opened it, motioning Evane inside. The screams were louder now, more real, and Evane found himself hesitating. He could see little more than darkness ahead in the poor, flickering light cast by the torch the advisor held. There could have been anything inside there, anything at all, and he licked his lips nervously, a habit the daytime Evane had acquired years before but one that had never—until now, at least—followed him when his mask was off. “Well, come now,” Caldwell said, amusement in his tone. “After all, you asked to see this, did you not, High Clerk? You wished to understand more of the work we do and now is your chance. Or have you changed your mind?”

  There was something in the man’s voice Evane didn’t like, and he swallowed. “O-of course not, sir,” he said.

  “Then go on,” Caldwell said, “the master waits for us both, and he is not a patient man, Evane. Not patient at all.”

  A sudden, powerful urge to turn and run came over Evane, but he fought it down. He’d seen some of Caldwell’s men in action, had seen them demonstrate impossible strength and speed that beggared the imagination. A man could not run from such things as that. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he stepped through the door and into a hallway. The screams—not so muffled as they had been—were coming from up ahead. Evane’s feet seemed to grow heavier and heavier with each step, but he kept walking forward, knowing that he didn’t really have any choice.

  When they reached the door at the end of the long, dirt hallway, Evane reached for the latch to open it, but Caldwell spoke. “I wouldn’t do that, were I you,” he said. “Our master does not like to be interrupted during his work. We will wait until he is finished and then we will go in.”

  Evane nodded slowly, turning to look at the advisor, the man’s face seeming somehow demonic in the torchlight. “How will we know?”

  Caldwell spread his mouth into a grin. “The screams will stop.”

  Evane swallowed hard at that but managed a nod. “Of course.”

  They stood there in silence for several minutes, shivers of dread running up Evane’s spine at each fresh, tortured scream. He looked around the hallway, searching for something to distract him from that terrible sound, and noted that unlike the dungeons proper, the earth here looked recently dug. He mentioned as much to the advisor, and the man smiled. “Yes, my master found it prudent to create a new space for his…work.”

  “It…it must have taken forever to dig out so much extra space,” Evane said.

  “Oh, not so long,” the advisor said, smiling, “my master has some tools at his disposal that few men do.”

  Evane found that he had nothing to say, didn’t think he could have managed to get the words past the growing lump in his throat even if he had. He nodded, and once more they lapsed into silence. After about fifteen minutes, the screams abruptly cut off, and Caldwell gestured to the door. “You may go in.”

  Evane reached a tentative hand out and pulled the door open. Inside, the hallway opened up into a large, hollowed-out cavern. Torches were interspersed along the walls, and in the center of the cavern sat a large stone table upon which lay a bloody figure. As he watched, two of the large, hulking forms of the men who sometimes accompanied him on his missions moved forward and removed manacles that had been fastened to the figure’s wrists and ankles. They lifted him up, carrying him away, and Evane saw the man’s body sag in their grip, lifeless. He stared with a mixture of fascination and horror as they dragged the corpse to a corner of the room and threw it on top of a pile of other such corpses.

  “Unfortunately,” Caldwell said beside him, and Evane jumped, letting out a squeak of fear. He turned to see the advisor smiling regretfully, “Not all experiments are successes. When dealing with such forces as my master employs, sometimes there are…failures.”

  “But there are…so many,” Evane said, finding himself once more studying the mound of corpses heaped in the corner of the room.

  “Yes,” Caldwell said, a note of what sounded like admiration in his voice as he followed Evane’s gaze, “our master does not believe in half measures and, as I believe I have said, he is not a patient man.”

  Suddenly, Evane was sure that he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be in this room with this man, with that heap of bloody corpses, their faces—or what remained of them—twisted from last moments spent in agony, their eyes glazed over with death. Had he truly thought himself a wolf? He was realizing with a growing sense of dread that he was no wolf at all, not really. He was only another sheep. One that had perhaps risen above his counterparts but no more than that.

  “Oh, do not look so afraid, High Clerk,” Caldwell said, “Yours is the privilege of looking on a great work.”

  “Y-yes sir,” he managed, his voice coming out in little more than a croak.

  Caldwell opened his mouth to speak but closed it again as a door opened in the side of the cavern and a man stepped through it. He wore a robe, and the sleeves had been rolled up to display hands and forearms coated in blood. His face, too, was splattered with it, but Evane could see enough of it to recognize King Belgarin. The king was wiping his hands on a crimson-stained rag.

  “Bow before your master,” Caldwell hissed, and Evane dropped to his knees, bowing low to the ground.

  “Rise,” came a voice, and Caldwell pulled Evane to his feet. “Caldwell,” the man said, tossing the rag on the floor. “And this must be the man you told me about.”

  “Yes, master,” the advisor said, bowing low, and Evane felt the weight of the ro
bed man’s gaze as it fell upon him.

  He started to speak, thinking that he should say something, when an agonized, breathless moan came from one of the bodies in the corner, and he turned, staring.

  “Never mind them, boy,” Belgarin said, “they are failures, one and all. There have been many of such, lately. Too many.” He turned to gaze at Caldwell.

  When the advisor spoke, Evane was shocked to hear fear in his voice, “Master, forgive me, but efforts to procure the specimens you need have been somewhat difficult. Given more time—”

  “Enough!” the robed man roared with rage, and Evane noticed Caldwell recoil even as he did himself. “I ask for the best, and you bring me old men and old women, the weak and decrepit, long past their prime. Either that or children too young to be of any use. It seems that I am destined to work with worthless men. First, that fool Aster gets himself killed, losing one of my Virtues, then you, Caldwell, managed to fail so spectacularly that Belgarin’s army lost thousands of its troops to Ellemont’s own before you allowed that fool Belgarin to retreat.”

  Evane stared, his mind a jumble of confused thoughts. The man spoke of Belgarin as if he were someone else, and the Virtues…Evane had heard the stories, of course, everyone had. Myths and legends told to children.

  Caldwell, though, did not seem confused. Only terrified. Gone was the confident, sinister figure which had traveled into the dungeons with Evane. “Master, please. One more chance, I beg you. I will not fail you again.”

  The man seemed to consider the advisor and, as he did, the two large, robed figures stepped toward Caldwell. They were nearly on him when the king raised his hand. “Stop,” he said, and the two figures froze as if statues. “You have failed me twice, Caldwell. Should you fail again, it will be the last time. Do you understand?”

  “O-of course, Master,” the advisor stammered.

  “Very well,” Belgarin said. “Now rise and tell me of this one that you have brought to me.”

  “His name is Evane Baleck, My Lord. He works as a clerk in the merchant’s guild, but has, for some time, spent his nights engaging in the torturing and killing of innocents. There is no compassion in him, Lord, and he will make a fitting specimen.”

  “W-wait,” Evane said, his skin going cold as he turned to the advisor, “p-please, you don’t mean—”

  “Oh, relax, boy,” the robed man said, “it is not so bad as that.”

  Evane fell to his knees. “My king, I have served you faithfully, and I wi—”

  “I am not your king, mortal,” the robed man hissed, and as he did his face twisted and shifted, muscles and bone writhing beneath his skin like snakes. After another moment, he didn’t look like Belgarin at all but a man that Evane had never seen before. “I am your god. And it is you,” he said, and Evane noticed with a shock that even his voice had changed, “who I have to thank for bringing me these worthless specimens.” He gestured at the heap of bodies in the corner, and when he turned back to look at the High Clerk, he was smiling a too-wide grin.

  Evane recoiled, stumbling onto his back, unable to repress the scream that came out of his throat. “P-p-please,” he stammered, “Master, I will do better, I swear it. Only, give me a chance to redeem myself. I will—”

  “Oh, you will have a chance to redeem yourself, of that I can assure you.” He motioned to one of the two robed, hulking men, and the figure started toward Evane.

  Screaming, the High Clerk stumbled to his feet and ran for the door. He’d only just managed to grasp the handle when one thick, massive hand landed on his shoulder, and another grabbed his wrist. The grip was impossibly tight, and he could not pull away. Abruptly, the figure gave his wrist a twist, and a loud crack split the air. Evane screamed as white-hot agony lanced through his body. He fought, struggling against his captor, but he might as well have been a child for all the good it did him. The creature holding him pivoted and suddenly Evane was flying through the air.

  He hit the hard-packed dirt floor of the cavern with jarring force and rolled to a stop a few feet away from the robed man. The man stepped forward and stared down at him as the clerk moaned in pain, cradling his shattered wrist. “Do not worry so, Evane,” he said, smiling in what was almost a comforting way, “there will be pain, great and terrible pain beyond anything you have ever experienced, beyond anything you thought you could experience. But then, when it is done, you will be better than you are now. Stronger and faster, and then you will redeem yourself.”

  Evane barely took heed of the man’s words, his agony too great to allow him to concentrate. His hand and wrist felt as if they had been filled with broken, jagged glass that seemed to cut into him with every movement. He was not too far gone, though, to notice when one of the cloaked figures lifted him up off the floor as if he weighed nothing.

  The figure started toward the stone platform in the center of the room, and as they drew closer, Evane saw that it was coated in fresh and old blood, trails of it running down the sides. He saw, too, what looked like bits of skin and flesh littering its surface, and he screamed, struggling against the thing’s grip. The creature holding him didn’t even seem to notice and, in another moment, Evane was slammed onto the table. He fought, thrashing, knowing what was coming, but the creature grabbed his ankle in a vice-like grip and snapped the steel manacle around it. He proceeded to secure Evane’s other ankle the same way, as well as his wrists.

  The creature leaned over him then, its robed face still covered in shadow, and Evane did the only thing left to him. He jerked his head up and slammed it into the creature’s face as hard as he could. The creature’s head barely moved, but the hood was knocked back, and Evane gasped at the disfigured, twisted features that it revealed.

  The thing’s—for whatever it was it was no man—nose was bloody from where he’d struck it, but it smiled, the expression strange and unnatural on its face, as if it had never smiled before and didn’t really understand what it meant. Something struck Evane then, and he realized with a shock that he recognized this man, or, at least, the man who it had been. “O-Odel?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and desperate, “please, you have to let me out of here. I didn’t want to do it, they made me, you must—”

  “There is really no point in talking to him,” the robed man said as he came up to stand beside the grotesque figure. “You see, High Clerk, the working of the Art in such a way may grant a man remarkable gifts, but as any true practitioner of the Art knows, there is always a cost. The man standing before you could lift a horse over his head with no more thought than you would give to lifting a glass of ale. He could batter a hole into the wall of a house or a castle as easily as you might open the door, yet there is little of that which is human left in him, I’m afraid. Certainly, there is no compassion or empathy and that is just as well, for the tasks he will perform for me might only be made worse by such trivialities.”

  “P-please,” Evane sobbed, “please, don’t do this.”

  The robed man smiled reassuringly, patting Evane gently on the head even as his other hand withdrew a wicked looking blade from the inside of his robe. He leaned so close that Evane could feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek. “It is not so bad, High Clerk. Come,” he said, grinning and bringing the knife closer, “let me show you.”

  ***

  Caldwell stood in the room and waited as his master went about his task. As he worked, Boyce Kevlane muttered words that Caldwell could not make out, and that he would just as soon not know. He was no god, after all, only the god’s servant, and that was not such a bad thing. As long, at least, as one stayed in the god’s favor. Nearly two hours had passed before his master had finished his first working, and he motioned for the hulking figure that had one time been a blacksmith to take Evane—long since passed out from pain—away. The creature removed the manacles from the High Clerk’s body, lifted him easily, and carried him into the adjoining room where he would be caged with the others who were waiting for his master’s attentions.

  Boyce Ke
vlane turned to Caldwell then, his arms and robe, even his face, covered in blood. “You have pleased me, Caldwell,” he said, smiling. “This one, I think, will take to the working well. That is good, for I had begun to think you had outlived your usefulness. The specimens that your men have delivered to me of late have been of poor, low quality. Such weak mortals as that cannot survive the changing, do you understand?”

  Caldwell swallowed hard. His master might seem pleased enough just now, but his temper could rise from nowhere, striking as swiftly and unexpectedly as a snake hidden in the grass. Just as unexpectedly, but much more deadly, and Caldwell saw the trap before him. “I understand, Master,” he said, bowing his head, “only, the ones Evane and the others bring to you are the best that the city has to offer.”

  “The best?” his master said, his voice low and deadly.

  Caldwell opened his mouth to speak, knowing that his life hung by a thread then he paused, rethinking his words. “Master, if you wish for me to travel to some of the neighboring villages, to any city, to find you what you need, I will do so.”

  Boyce Kevlane studied him then, and Caldwell saw his life and his death dancing in the man’s gaze. Finally, he spoke. “No. No, Caldwell. I want you here. It is important, at least for now, for those of the city to still believe that Belgarin is king, and your presence helps to maintain that fiction. Already, some of my agents have told me of rumors in the city about people disappearing in the night, about creatures taking them. So far, none of those rumors have been connected back to me, and you are to keep it that way.”

  Caldwell resisted the urge to frown. “Agents, master?”

  “Oh yes,” Belgarin said. He smiled, but there was no humor in it, “Yours are not the only ears I have, Caldwell, nor the only hands. You would do well to remember that. No, you will have to find what I need here, in Baresh.”

  Caldwell felt a shiver of fear run through him, but he knew that he had to speak. “Master, the city is not full of warriors as it was during the tournament. Most of those who live here are simple people—merchants, nobles, beggars and prostitutes. People who, I’m afraid, would not be worthy of your attention.”