How could he get through to the Fist? He’d spent so much time thinking about it over the past days, and still he felt no closer to an answer. How could he break their foul hold on Barik and make him see the awful truth of what he was doing to Samkara?
Looking at the place where all those people had lost their heads reminded Fen that he probably didn’t have all that much longer to figure it out. Usually trials happened quickly, the magistrate passed sentence, and then the sentence was carried out the next day. He might literally only have a couple of days to come up with something.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!”
A crack of leather reins across his cheek brought Fen out of his thoughts. Rouk was staring down at him angrily. Fen realized that they had reached the gates of the Gulach. The walls reared up above him, made of black volcanic rock and lined on top with sharpened spikes, so close together that not even a child could have squeezed between them.
Set in the wall was an arched gateway, with double gates bound in coarse iron bands. Two jailers stood in front of them. They wore boiled leather armor set with metal rings and leather helms. From their belts hung truncheons and short swords. Each held a halberd with a curved blade on the end.
“Sadly, it seems our time together is at an end,” Rouk said with a sarcastic smile on his face. “But I’ll get to see you executed, so I still have that to look forward to.”
Right then, for some strange reason, Fen felt pity for the man. How would it be to spend one’s life in such bitterness? Such fruit could never sustain him. It could only bring him misery.
Something in his expression angered Rouk because his mocking smile disappeared, replaced by a dark look of rage. “Gods, how I hate you,” he snarled. “Would that I could remove your head right now myself.” He threw Fen’s chain in the dirt and wheeled his horse away.
“See that the traitor is secure,” he called over his shoulder to the jailers, who left their posts and came forward to pick up Fen’s chain.
They led Fen through the gates and into the heart of the Gulach. In the center of the prison grounds stood the prison itself, three stories of black, forbidding stone. It was a squat, drab building with a single, iron door set right in the center. There were no windows on the lowest floor, and the windows on the upper floors were small and barred. The building was utterly plain except for carved stone creatures set on the roof at the four corners. They were hideous things of curving teeth and hooked claws. Each held the body of a prisoner in its mouth or claws, a dire warning for those unlucky enough to be imprisoned there.
It was a much more imposing place than the jail where Fen and the others in his squad had spent the night after being arrested by the city watch. That jail was for common miscreants. The Gulach was a whole different animal.
The gates boomed closed, and men barred them from inside. The two jailers prodded Fen with their halberds, and he walked in front of them across the open courtyard to the front door of the prison.
The door swung open at their approach, and Fen’s chain was handed off to the man who emerged. He was wearing the same leather armor and helm as the other two but carried no halberd. He was young, an unremarkable-looking man with light blue eyes and a clean-shaven face. He looked at Fen curiously and seemed like he wanted to say something, but then glanced at the other jailers and didn’t.
The jailer led Fen inside, into a dimly-lit room with two smoky lanterns sitting on a desk. Sitting at the desk was a clerk. He was writing in a large, cloth-bound ledger.
“Name and crime?” he asked without looking up. His skin was very pale, and Fen could see the blue lines of his veins in the back of his hand as he wrote.
“Treason,” the jailer said, then looked at Fen. “What’s your name?”
Fen gave his name and the clerk wrote it and his crime in the ledger. The clerk ran one thin finger across the page to a number written inside a box.
“Take him to cell twenty-two,” he intoned. At no time did he look up at Fen or acknowledge him in any way.
The jailer picked up one of the lanterns and gestured to one of the closed doors set in the back corners of the room. He followed Fen to the door and unlocked it. Beyond was a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway, barred doors set on both sides. Another jailer stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He held up the lantern he carried and peered at Fen as he got close.
“Is this the traitor, Robbert?” he asked. There was something in his eyes that told Fen this was a man who enjoyed his job for the power it gave him over others.
“It’s him.”
“We get a lot of scum in here,” he told Fen, “but none of them as low as you.” He poked Fen in the chest with one finger. “I’m going to personally make sure your time in here is hell.”
Fen and Robbert passed through another locked door at the end of the hall. When that door closed behind them, Robbert said, “That’s Wats. It won’t matter what you do, but try not to give him any extra reasons to hate you. He’s a real bastard.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Robbert unlocked one of the cell doors and pushed it open. “At least you get your own cell.” he said. He looked inside. “Looks like it even got cleaned. A little bit, anyway.”
The stench of feces and urine assailed Fen as soon as he stepped into the cell. He swallowed hard against the smell, reminding himself that soon enough he wouldn’t notice it anymore.
“Put out your hands, and I’ll see if I can get those manacles off,” Robbert said. Fen held out his hands, and he began trying keys from the ring that was hooked on his belt. “One of these will probably fit.” He tried several before he found one that worked.
“Thank you.” Fen rubbed his wrists where the metal had rubbed away the skin.
Robbert went to the door of the cell and turned back to Fen.
“Did you really attack the sorcerers?”
“Yeah.”
“Some of the soldiers rode on ahead and got into the city a couple of days ago. I’ve heard stories, terrible stories. Is it true they sucked the lives out of a bunch of people and then turned it on the Maradis?”
“They did.”
“I was hoping it was just wild rumors.”
“I wish it was too.”
“So the rest probably isn’t rumors either?”
“What did you hear?”
“That the Fist also drained some people and when he did he got huge and crazy. Then he smashed down their gates with a big hammer.”
“That’s true too.”
Robbert sighed. “What’s going on these days?” His face went suddenly dark. “I wish you would have killed them. I wish they were dead.”
The door clanged shut, and Fen was left alone.
╬ ╬ ╬
There was a rough wooden cot against one wall, but no blanket or mattress. A battered, metal chamber pot. Moldy straw scattered across the floor. Robbert lit a lantern hanging on the wall of the corridor, and a weak light came through the small barred window in the door.
Fen sat down on the cot. He was trying to remain positive, but there was something about the cell door banging closed that was so cold and final that it was hard. He wondered how long he’d be in here. He wondered if he would be able to hang onto his hope, or if he would surrender to despair. He knew an old soldier who’d spent time in prison, and the man had told him that it wasn’t the filth, or the lack of real food, or the cruelty of the guards, that destroyed a man. It was losing hope that destroyed him. Somehow, he had to hang onto that, no matter what it took.
After a time, he realized something. He could hear Stone power. Since Ilsith poisoned him, he’d only occasionally been able to hear it, very faint in the distance. But now, sitting in this cell, it was stronger. Much stronger. A slow, steady thudding, rhythmic as the waves on the beach.
His pulse picked up a little. He closed his eyes and concentrated on it. It was clearly there. He wasn’t imagining it.
He reached out for it—
And once ag
ain ran up against the icy barrier Ilsith left behind. It loomed before him, forbidding and unyielding. He pushed against it. Nothing. He struck at it and recoiled in pain. He opened his eyes and looked down at new frozen blisters on his hands. Would he ever be able to break through that barrier? Would it weaken with time?
Why was Stone power louder now? he wondered. He looked around at the tiny cell. The answer was right there in front of him. He was surrounded on all sides by stone. Even the floor was stone. That must be why. Somehow, being closer to raw stone made a difference. He stood up and put his hands on the wall. After a moment he began to feel Stone power as well, a faint, steady vibration echoing through the stone.
He looked around his cell and hope blossomed. Maybe being in here was a good thing. Maybe he would grow stronger the longer he was enclosed in stone, and he’d find a way to break through that icy barrier.
He spent the next few hours trying. He attacked the icy barrier with all his strength. He tried going around it. He ordered Stone power to come to him, thinking that maybe it would break the barrier. Nothing worked. It was frustrating. He was used to tackling his problems head-on, defeating them through hard work, determination and sheer will power. But none of that seemed to help here. This wasn’t a physical battle. It was an inner one, waged against a foe that he couldn’t bring muscle power to bear on.
A key in the cell door brought him out of his inner struggle, and he looked up as the door swung open with a squeal of rusted hinges. Wats stood there, a sallow-faced man with a paunch and stringy, greasy hair. He had a tin plate of food in his hand.
“Chow,” he said. There was a cold smile on his thin lips. “Come and get it.”
Fen wasn’t really hungry, but he knew better than to pass up food when he had the chance. Who knew how long it might be before the next meal?
He stood up and walked over. But when he reached for the plate, the jailer dropped it on the floor. The plate hit with a loud clang and the food—some kind of grayish mush and a heel of bread—splashed out across the filthy floor.
“Oops,” Wats said.
Fen straightened and looked at him, keeping his irritation hidden.
“Pick it up,” Wats said.
“I’m not hungry right now,” Fen replied.
The man put his hand on the truncheon at his belt. “I said pick it up.”
Fen looked him over. The man was soft, no real muscle on him at all. From the way he stood—off-balance, his feet too close together—it was apparent he had no real training in fighting. Fen knew he could grab his wrist before he could draw the weapon. A quick twist, a thrust with one hip, and the jailer would be on the floor on his back before he knew what was happening.
Fen crouched and began scraping the spilled food back onto the plate. He picked up the heel of bread from where it had rolled over to the wall and stood up.
Wats knocked the plate out of his hand. “Oops. Looks like you dropped it again.” He giggled.
Again, Fen bent and retrieved the food. He was angry, but he didn’t let it show on his face when he stood back up and faced the man. The man was a bully. He was looking to get a rise out of Fen, and Fen didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, he had bigger problems on his mind than one mean-spirited jailer.
The jailer knocked the plate out of Fen’s hand again, and when Fen went to retrieve it, he shoved him. Fen straightened up and regarded him, keeping his face expressionless.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Wats snapped. Fen said nothing. “Did you give up already?”
“No,” Fen said truthfully. “I already tried that, and it didn’t work.”
“Are you mouthing off to me?” The man drew his truncheon and slapped it in his open hand.
“No, sir.”
The jailer’s mouth drew down, and the unhealthy pallor of his skin seemed to intensify. “You need a beating, is that it? I can have five men in here in two shakes. We’ll pound some respect into you.”
Careful to keep his hands at his sides and his tone neutral, Fen asked him, “What do you want me to do?”
“Mouth off so I can thump you. Or sit in the corner and cry. Some do that, you know. Big, strong men even,” he sneered.
“I don’t see the point.”
The jailer pointed the truncheon at him. “You’ll crack. They all do eventually. When the executioner’s axe gets close, you’ll cry like a baby.”
“Okay,” Fen said. What else could he say?
“You have a smart mouth. It’s going to get you into trouble.”
This time Fen didn’t reply. He simply stood there and stared at the man. Pretty soon the jailer grew uncomfortable. He stomped out of the cell and locked the door, muttering unintelligible threats the whole time.
Over the next few bells, Wats periodically banged his truncheon on the bars in the window and hurled insults at Fen. Fen ignored him. This only seemed to make the man madder. Finally, he unlocked the cell door and charged in, truncheon swinging.
Fen realized something. Fighting back would make things far worse. Not showing anything at all would only make the man angrier. He made a quick decision.
When the jailer swung the truncheon, Fen got his arm up enough to stop it from hitting him square in the head and acted like he’d been knocked down. He stayed down, covering his head with his arms, crying out every time another blow landed, begging the man to stop.
The blows stopped after a time, and Wats stood over him, breathing hard. “Did you learn your lesson, or do I got to repeat it?”
“I learned. Please don’t do it again.” Fen did his best to sound frightened.
Wats grunted, kicked him in the side once, and left the cell.
Fen got up, rubbing at the sore spots on his arms. He took more punishment than that sparring with Strout.
╬ ╬ ╬
Fen was awakened by the door squeaking open. It was Robbert. The food he brought didn’t look any more appetizing than the first meal, but there was an extra piece of bread and a small sliver of dried meat. Not having it thrown on the floor helped too, Fen thought.
Robbert had a thin blanket tucked under one arm which he handed to Fen. “Even in the summer, this place is always cold for some reason,” he said. “Thought this might help.”
Fen took the blanket gratefully. “Thanks. It is cold in here.”
“Don’t thank me too much. It ain’t much of a blanket. None of them are, you know. Lots of holes and stains that don’t ever come out.”
“That doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. It was the simple humanity of Robbert’s gesture that mattered. Though Fen hadn’t been in here that long, he already realized how much imprisonment could get to a person. The effects went beyond simply being confined. It was being locked away like an animal and subjected to random cruelty by the jailers. No wonder so many prisoners turned into animals eventually.
“I brought you a little extra food,” Robbert said. “Wats threw your first meal on the floor, right?”
“He did.”
“He always does that with new inmates. A lot of the jailers do. I guess it makes them feel strong or something.”
Fen paused in eating and looked up at him. “But not you?”
Robbert shrugged. “I haven’t been here that long. The others say I’ll do it too, eventually. I sure hope not.”
“No offense, but you don’t seem like the jailer type,” Fen said.
Robbert made a face. “I’m not. I hate it here. I was hoping to get on with the city watch, but they stuck me here instead. I feel like I’m just as much a prisoner as any of you locked in here.”
He went to the door, but then stood there without leaving. “You saw the other ship, I guess.” Fen nodded. “It got here a couple days after the army left. More Ankharans, but not sorcerers. Sailors and workers and such. They’re building more ships, did you know that?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Is it true the ships are to carry the army to invade some place across th
e sea?”
“Yes.”
“It’s those blasted Ankharans. They should be fighting their own battles and leave us out of it. I wish the Fist would kick them out of Samkara.”
Chapter Six
The Fist pushed his plate aside. “Take it away.” He was sitting at the table in his personal dining room. The room had a large window and a good view of the city, but the heavy drapes were closed as they always were these days, and the room was dim and stuffy.
Ravin looked down at the plate. It was clear he hadn’t eaten any of the food. He’d pushed it around a little, but that was about it.
“But you didn’t eat any of it,” she said.
He gave her a look that was almost like a little kid, caught by his mother in a fib. “Of course, I did. Just not very much.”
“You hardly eat anything anymore, sire,” she said carefully. He didn’t appear to be in one of his black moods today—he seemed sad more than anything—but it was best to be careful. “How will you keep up your strength?”
“Are you my mother now, is that it?” One corner of his mouth twitched upwards in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
“No, only one of your subjects who doesn’t want to see you sicken yourself by not eating.”
“I don’t seem to have much appetite anymore,” he said. “Food doesn’t taste right. It doesn’t satisfy.”
His words worried her. Anyone could see that the Fist wasn’t well. His color was off. He looked almost gray. He’d lost weight. He complained of being tired and spent a lot of time in his rooms, lying down. Besides that, his moods had become very unpredictable. One minute he was filled with energy and enthusiasm. The next he was sullen and withdrawn. None of the servants wanted to be anywhere near him. He frightened them.
Somehow the job of waiting on him had mostly fallen to Ravin since they’d returned, especially after the other girl who was helping came running out of the room one day pale and in tears. Ravin didn’t try to get out of it, thinking that maybe a chance would come when she’d get to put in a good word for Fen. Or maybe convince the Fist to go see him. So far the opportunity hadn’t arisen.
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