by Liam Reese
At the barked command, two of the tall, armored guards shoved their way into the cage and grabbed his wrists, careful not to touch Tiernon in any way. Ice cold and far too strong to be human, they dragged him from the cage, holding his arms out against the wall and stretching them painfully. Tiernon walked across casually towards him with the sound of Thoran’s screams as his fanfare. The king stared into his eyes as he raised his hand, bringing a glowing orb to life. He slapped the orb against Sharova’s wrist, making agony explode along his arm and into his chest. Sharova felt his heart beating hard and for a moment he hoped it would fail, granting him sweet release from this torment.
Thoughts of Thoran pulled him back from the brink of slipping into his own madness. What would happen to her if he died or let his mind slip? His eyes rolled towards her as Tiernon slammed a second orb into his other wrist, seeing her huddled in the farthest corner of the cage, her hands clamped to her mouth and eyes wider than he had ever seen.
Sharova managed to turn his head and see what had been done to him. His hands had somehow fused with the stonework of the wall, and Sharova’s eyes bulged in horrified fascination as he tried to make his fingers move. With no sensation from his wrists downwards, a horrible numbness spread. The skin on his arms actually changed to take on the grey tone of the stones it had been merged with, feeling hard and crusted.
The guards released him, stepping back from where he was fixed to the wall and entering the cell again. Sharova’s heart fell when he realized what was about to happen, and a low moan escaped his tortured chest. Thoran’s screams ripped at his soul as she was dragged from the cage and brought before Sharova. He looked down at her, his sorrow echoed in her eyes.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
Tiernon chortled like a child hearing a weak joke and grabbed Thoran by her upper arm. The sight of his skeletal fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arm made rage explode inside Sharova, and he growled.
“Take your filthy hands off her!”
Tiernon turned his own eyes to Sharova, a grin spreading over his face as he tore the ragged clothing from her. Redness crept up Thoran’s neck when she found herself exposed to Sharova’s gaze and she looked away, embarrassed despite the horrible circumstances.
Tiernon shoved Thoran bodily onto the sickening altar, the silver inlay glowing a sick blue as if in anticipation of being fed. Sharova felt a wash of shame run through him, followed by a guilt that bit deeply into him. What kind of man allowed this to happen to anyone, let alone a woman he had feelings for? Hot tears of frustration rolled down his cheeks as he watched Tiernon push Thoran down onto the altar. All the fight seemed to leave her as she sank down on the wooden surface, the light leaving her eyes as she went limp.
Sharova thrashed against the stone that held him, his own skin cutting into him where it merged with the granite. He lashed out with his foot, kicking at Tiernon when he came in range, but it was like kicking a bunch of sticks. The king laughed at his effort as a freezing wind caressed his chest and abdomen, pulling at his very life force.
“Enjoy your last few hours, Sharova,” Tiernon said with glee. “I shall return soon to butcher your little woman.”
Sharova watched as Tiernon ran his hand down Thoran’s naked thigh, leaving the room with his guards.
“Thoran!” he shouted. “Thoran, wake up! Fight it! Fight it, my love!”
Her head rolled slowly towards him as if underwater, and her eyes struggled to focus on him. Almost as if she had been drugged, Thoran smiled serenely up at him, her lips an inviting bow. Sharova’s heart sank as he realized she was in no condition to do anything, and the pain in his chest grew.
22
Besmir’s army grew slowly as his campaign to unite Gazluth continued. Most of the outlying villages, towns and cities realized siding with the rightful king of the land was in their best interests. News of his benevolence, kindness and charisma spread before him, and many of the settlements welcomed him with open arms, parades and celebrations. Some had prepared grounds for the army to pitch their tents and provided food for them all. Many of the people who had been affected by Tiernon’s violence and civil war joined the army, showing their support for this new king who walked among them.
It was not until they began drawing closer to the heart of Gazluth, nearing the capital, Morantine, that any real resistance appeared. One walled city had built up their defenses and refused Besmir entry when he asked. Camping around the outside Besmir’s army was subdued, their buoyant mood dissipating with the opposition.
“Are we really going to have to lay siege to the place?” Besmir asked as he and his companions studied the gray city walls.
“These towns and cities are loyal to Tiernon,” Zaynorth said grimly. “It will likely take a show of force to make them capitulate.”
Besmir shook his head, wondering what manner of people would be loyal to his uncle.
“We’ll cut their supply routes off,” Besmir said. “Starve them out.”
“That may take months,” Zaynorth pointed out.
“We need to give them a show of force,” Herofic advised. “Smash down the gates and march in as if you own the place.”
Besmir felt sickness rise in his stomach. It was one thing to raise an army but quite another to actually order them to attack, to die for him. He looked at Zaynorth, his eyes begging but the old man shrugged.
“It is your order, lad,” Herofic said when Besmir turned to him.,
The hunter sighed and stared at the city, its walls lined with people all waiting to see what would happen.
“Form up!” He said in a dark voice. “Prepare to attack.”
The citizens inside the walls jeered and called as they watched the ragged army approach. It was not until Besmir lashed the wooden gates with searing flame that they understood he had the same powers as Tiernon. Unfortunately for them it was too late and Besmir’s army marched through the burned gates, attacking the token force that met them.
Some of the women who made his original army chose to remain in the places they visited, petitioning him to be released as they had met up with people who offered safety and shelter. Besmir denied them nothing. If they wished to leave, he allowed it. If they offered to join his cause, he welcomed them, all the time progressing slowly towards the capital and Tiernon.
Whether the locations he visited capitulated or chose to remain neutral, Besmir did not allow a single drop of blood to be spilled in his quest. Determined to be as utterly different to Tiernon as he could, Besmir made sure all who followed him understood his army was for defense purposes only.
Besmir crested a rise and stared down into the valley beyond. Farm fields lay in various states of disarray. Some were fields filled with trees, pregnant with fruit, while others were brown with rotten crops that were overripe and ruined. A few people tended the fields, but it did not appear as if anyone was managing them properly.
Beyond that, straddling a sluggish river, Morantine squatted, brooding like a depression, with a smog of hatred hovering over her head. Stone towers and tall buildings dominated the city skyline but very few lights shone from any of them.
Zaynorth approached, shaking his head and hissing. He pointed out some of the pertinent features, adding comments and observations as he did.
“To the west sits the University of Morantine with the golden spire at its heart. East of there is the commercial district where anything might be purchased. That hulk in the center is the palace.”
Besmir focused his attention on the palace buildings, seeing how they were grouped together and surrounded by a high wall. Impossible to see at this distance, Besmir assumed there would be a massive force within that wall, ready to defend Tiernon against any invaders. A ripple of concern gripped his gut, twisting anxiously at the thought of his army being slaughtered.
“It looks quiet,” Besmir said.
“Yes,” Zaynorth agreed. “Far too quiet. I cannot believe how different things are since last I was here.”
> “I think we should camp here tonight, send a couple of people inside to see what it’s like in there,” Besmir said.
“A sound plan,” Zaynorth said.
A few hours later, Besmir sat in his pavilion staring at his circle of advisers with anger.
“No one else is as capable to get in there and see what’s going on!” he nearly shouted at them. “If it’s not safe for me to enter, then no one else stands a chance.”
“If you were to be caught,,” Zaynorth started, “Tiernon could win without ever having to try if you offer yourself up to his city like an animal entering a trap.”
Besmir sighed, resting his fists on his hips, and scanned their pleading faces.
“I don’t like the idea of sending anyone else in there,” he muttered stubbornly.
“Then I volunteer, sire,” Ranyor said quietly.
Keluse’s head snapped round to gape at him. “No,” she breathed. “No Ranyor, you can’t mean that.”
“I will slip inside under cover of darkness,” Ranyor said, ignoring Keluse’s words. “See how things are within the city walls and report back tomorrow night.”
Besmir considered Ranyor’s words. It was obvious the tall swordsman believed he was capable of this task. Just as obviously, Keluse did not want him to go. Norvasil nodded almost imperceptibly, staring into the fire while Zaynorth and Herofic merely waited for him to make a decision.
“Take whatever supplies you need,” Besmir said as he watched Keluse’s face fall. “Take no risks whatsoever,” he added as the tall man stood.
“Of course not, Majesty,” Ranyor said, his eyes never leaving Keluse.
“Rest while you can,” Besmir told the remaining members of his council. “When Ranyor returns, we attack,” he added.
“I’m going with you,” Keluse said as she trailed after Ranyor through the ordered camp the army had set up.
Tents and campfires stretched off in all directions around them, disappearing into the twilight as soldiers prepared simple meals, took care of their meager arms and armor or chanted quiet songs, imploring the gods for good fortune and health.
“No, you are not,” Ranyor stated flatly.
His eyes bored into hers when he turned to look at her, and she flinched under the intensity of that gaze. Fear scored the inside of her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Ranyor lifted her chin with a gentle hand and stroked the tears from her cheeks.
“Nothing can keep me from you,” he said. “Not Tiernon nor the gods themselves stand a chance of standing in my way.” He leaned down and kissed her tenderly. “Stay safe,” he added, turning from her.
“We will,” Keluse blurted before she could stop herself.
Ranyor turned, his frown changing to an expression of utter joyful delight as the information sunk in.
“I can’t do this alone,” Keluse said, shaking. “You’ve got to come back to me. Promise!” she said.
“Of course I promise,” he said.
Taking her hand, Ranyor led her through the tents to one where Norvasil was busy regaling a group with a bawdy tale he was obviously embellishing heavily for effect.
“Sixty men lay dead and dying at his feet! Sixty!” the immense warrior bellowed to his audience.
“Norvasil,” Ranyor said. “A word?”
“Ranyor! Keluse!” Norvasil cried as if he had not seen them but minutes earlier. “Come, join us!”
He lifted an earthenware cup and gulped the contents to the rapturous cheering of the crowd.
“Little time for that,” Ranyor said with a smile. “Do you still perform marriages?”
Norvasil’s expression changed at that, becoming serious in a heartbeat. He led the pair out of earshot to speak to them privately.
“I have not done so in a long time but yes I still have that privilege,” he replied with a smile.
Ranyor glanced at Keluse then back at Norvasil before he said anything. “I wish us to be married,” he said. “If you would have me?” he added to Keluse.
Utter shock took her breath and robbed her of her words as she stared at him in the light from the campfire. Tight heat blossomed in her chest as she gazed into his open, honest eyes, seeing the love he had for her.
“Y-Yes,” she said. “O-Of course.”
“I will need but a few minutes to prepare,” Norvasil said in a completely different voice. “Have you rings?”
“Oh,” Ranyor said. “Er, no.”
“Could you procure some?” he asked. “It is a vital part of the ceremony.”
“Let me,” Keluse said, darting off through the tents.
“How are you?” Besmir asked as he stroked his hands over Arteera’s stomach.
“Sick,” she said. “All the time. I feel sick during my waking hours then dream of feeling sick when I finally sleep.”
“Anything I can do?” Besmir asked, taking her in his arms.
“I do not think so.” Arteera shook her dark hair. “Unless you can carry our child for me?”
“I do not think so,” Besmir echoed her words. “Have you spoken with other mothers in camp?”
“I am not popular among people here since Marthius exposed my secret,” Arteera said sadly.
Besmir sighed and hugged her tightly. “They’ll have to get used to having you around,” he said. “Especially as you’ll be their queen.”
Arteera pulled back, searching his face for any sign of jest, but could see none, and allowed a smile across her face. As her lips met his, she heard Keluse calling to them both.
“Come in,” she said.
Breathless and flushed, Keluse entered and looked at them both. Arteera could see her expression was a little wild, like a foal about to bolt.
“Whatever is wrong?” Arteera asked in concern.
“Ranyor... I...w-we need rings,” Keluse stammered.
“Rings?” Besmir echoed in confusion. “What for?”
Arteera rolled her eyes and shoved him, pushing him from the pavilion without a choice.
“Go find us some rings,” she commanded. “Quickly now.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Besmir grinned as he trotted off.
Arteera turned and looked at Keluse standing awkwardly in her tight leather hunting clothing.
“Strip,” she said sternly. “You cannot be wed in that.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“What?” Keluse asked, aghast. “No!”
“Trust me,” Arteera said.
Norvasil stood beside a fire, his back straight as he thought over the words that would marry the couple, his eyes glazed in thought..
A clearing had been fashioned with a massive fire built at its center, crackling and hissing as thick logs were consumed by flame. Stars peppered the dark blue and purple sky, the twin moons hanging low in the sky providing a warm glow that added to the firelight. Everyone had gathered around to see what was happening, shocked and surprised to see Norvasil was also able to marry people .
Ranyor stood beside him, nervous under the scrutiny of so many eyes yet anticipating the arrival of his bride-to-be. Besmir stood beside him, having persuaded some of his people to part with prized rings of their own.
Arteera appeared at the edge of the firelight and an improvised band played a traditional wedding tune as she led Keluse into the clearing.
All heads turned to stare, some to gape, at the blonde huntress as she approached the three men. Ranyor stared in wonder at the transformation Arteera had wrought in such a short time.
Keluse had a patchwork dress Arteera had made from scraps, furs, skins and swathes of fabric she had spent months sewing and decorating. With a plunging neckline that reached almost to her slender belly, Keluse showed off far more skin than she was used to, but Ranyor could see she was managing well. Her golden locks had been pulled, curled and piled atop her head, leaving her slim neck and shoulders bare.
Ranyor felt the sensation of falling as he set eyes on her, his stomach flipping over and over with every step she took towards him. The fir
elight flickered, reflecting from her eyes and making them twinkle as she looked back at him. That she carried his child both scared and delighted him, setting a determination in his chest to protect her from any harm at all.
Arteera led her to him and he took her hand, feeling the slight tremble in her fingers.
“Friends,” Norvasil bellowed, raising his arms.
The wrappings around his thickly muscled arms flapped in the wind blowing in from the east.
“Let us gather and witness the joining of this man and woman who have declared their love for each other. In the presence of all, in this place here, let none sunder the bonds which I place. Ranyor, Keluse, please join hands.”
Ranyor took Keluse’s hand, offering them to Norvasil, who wrapped one of his red bindings around their wrists, running it up their forearms until he reached their elbows.
“Red signifies the blood that ties this couple together, the bond of life and love,” Norvasil shouted.
He unwound the white ribbon from his own arm and wrapped it round theirs over the red until their arms were completely bound together.
“I love you, Keluse,” Ranyor said as Norvasil turned to the crowd once more.
“The white represents the love of Cathantor that overlays all, sealing the love these two have for each other. What is set today, let none attempt to sunder or destroy. Have you rings?” Norvasil asked.
Ranyor looked at Keluse, who turned to look at Besmir. The king smiled at his apprentice and his friend, producing a pair of gold rings.