The Spine of the World pod-2

by Robert Salvatore

  This revolving group's cell consisted of a pair of shackles set high enough on the wall to keep them on the tips of their toes, dangling agonizingly by their arms. Compounding that torture were the mindless gaolers, huge and ugly thugs, half-ogres mostly, walking slowly and methodically through the complex with glowing pokers in their hands.

  "This is all a huge mistake, you understand," Morik complained to the most recent gaoler to move in his and Wulfgar's direction.

  The huge brute gave a slow chuckle that sounded like stones grating together and casually jabbed the orange end of a poker at Morik's belly. The nimble thief leaped sidelong, pulling hard with his chained arm but still taking a painful burn on the side. The ogre gaoler just kept on walking, approaching Wulfgar, and chuckling slowly.

  "And what've yerself?" the brute said, moving his smelly breath close to the barbarian. "Yerself as well, eh? Ne'er did nothin' deservin' such imprisonin'?"

  Wulfgar, his face blank, stared straight ahead. He barely winced when the powerful brute slugged him in the gut or when that awful poker slapped against his armpit, sending wispy smoke from his skin.

  "Strong one," the brute said and chuckled again. "More fun's all." He brought the poker up level with Wulfgar's face and began moving it slowly in toward the big man's eye.

  "Oh, but ye'll howl," he said.

  "But we have not yet been tried!" Morik complained.

  "Ye're thinkin' that matters?" the gaoler replied, pausing long enough only to turn a toothy grin on Morik. "Ye're all guilty for the fun of it, if not the truth."

  That struck Wulfgar as a profound statement. Such was justice. He looked at the gaoler as if acknowledging the ugly creature for the first time, seeing simple wisdom there, a viewpoint come from observation. From the mouths of idiots, he thought.

  The poker moved in, but Wulfgar set the gaoler with such a calm and devastating stare, a look borne of the barbarian's supreme confidence that this man-that all these foolish mortal men-could do nothing to him to rival the agonies he had suffered at the clawed hands of the demon Errtu.

  The gaoler apparently got that message, or a similar one, for he hesitated, even backed the poker up so he could more clearly view Wulfgar's set expression.

  "Ye think ye can hold it?" the brutal torturer asked Wulfgar. "Ye think ye can keep yer face all stuck like that when I pokes yer eye?" And on he came again.

  Wulfgar gave a growl that came from somewhere very, very deep within, a feral, primal sound that stole the words from Morik's mouth as the little thief was about to protest. A growl that came from his torment in the pits of the Abyss.

  The barbarian swelled his chest mightily, gathered his strength, and drove one shoulder forward with such ferocity and speed that the shackle anchor exploded from the wall, sending the stunned gaoler skittering back.

  "Oh, but I'll kill ye for that!" the half-ogre cried, and he came ahead brandishing the poker like a club.

  Wulfgar was ready for him. The barbarian coiled about, almost turning to face the wall, then swung his free arm wide, the chain and block of metal and stone fixed to its other end swishing across to clip the glowing poker and tear it from the gaoler's hand. Again the brute skittered back, and this time Wulfgar turned back on the wall fully, running his legs right up it so that he had his feet planted firmly, one on either side of the remaining shackle.

  "Knock all the walls down!" Morik cheered.

  The gaoler turned and ran.

  Another growl came from Wulfgar, and he pulled with all his strength, every muscle in his powerful body straining. This anchor was more secure than the last, the stone wall more solid about it, but so great was Wulfgar's pull that a link in the heavy chain began to separate.

  "Pull on!" Morik cried.

  Wulfgar did, and he was sailing out from the wall, spinning into a back somersault. He tumbled down, unhurt, but then it hit him, a wave of anguish more powerful than any torture the sadistic gaoler might bring. In his mind he was no longer in the dungeon of Luskan but back in the Abyss, and though no shackles now held him he knew there could be no escape, no victory over his too-powerful captors. How many times had Errtu played this trick on him, making him think he was free only to snare him and drag him back to the stench and filth, only to beat him, then heal him, and beat him some more?

  "Wulfgar?" Morik begged repeatedly, pulling at his own shackles, though with no results at all. "Wulfgar!"

  The barbarian couldn't hear him, couldn't even see him, so lost was he in the swirling fog of his own thoughts. Wulfgar curled up on the floor, trembling like a babe when the gaoler returned with a dozen comrades.

  A short while later, the beaten Wulfgar was hanging again from the wall, this time in shackles meant for a giant, thick and solid chains that had his feet, dangling several feet from the floor and his arms stretched out straight to the side. As an extra precaution a block of sharpened spikes had been set behind the barbarian so if he pulled hard he would impale himself rather than tug the chains from their anchors. He was in a different chamber now, far removed from Morik. He was all alone with his memories of the Abyss, with no place to hide, no bottle to take him away.

  *****

  "It should be working," the old woman grumbled. "Right herbs fer de poison."

  Three priests walked back and forth in the room, one muttering prayers, another going from one side of Captain Deudermont to the other, listening for breath, for a heartbeat, checking for a pulse, while the third just kept rubbing his hand over his tightly cropped hair.

  "But it is not working," Robillard argued, and he looked to the priests for some help.

  "I don't understand," said Camerbunne, the ranking cleric among the trio. "It resists our spells and even a powerful herbal antidote."

  "And wit some o' de poison in hand, it should be workin'," said the old woman.

  "If that is indeed some of the poison," Robillard remarked.

  "You yourself took it from the little one called Morik," Camerbunne explained.

  "That does not necessarily mean. ." Robillard started to reply. He let the thought hang in the air. The expressions on the faces of his four companions told him well enough that they had caught on. "What do we do, then?" the wizard asked.

  "I can'no be promisin' anything," the old woman claimed, throwing up her hands dramatically. "Wit none o' de poison, me herbs'll do what dey will."

  She moved to the side of the room, where they had placed a small table to act as her workbench, and began fiddling with different vials and jars and bottles. Robillard looked to Camerbunne. The man returned a defeated expression. The clerics had worked tirelessly over Deudermont in the day he had been in their care, casting spells that should have neutralized the vicious poison flowing through him. Those spells had provided temporary relief only, slowing the poison and allowing the captain to breath more easily and lowering his fever a bit, at least. Deudermont had not opened his eyes since the attack. Soon after, the captain's breathing went back to raspy, and he began bleeding again from his gums and his eyes. Robillard was no healer, but he had seen enough death to understand that if they did not come up with something soon, his beloved Captain Deudermont would fade away.

  "Evil poison," Camerbunne remarked.

  "It is an herb, no doubt," Robillard said. "Neither evil nor malicious. It just is what it is."

  Camerbunne shook his head. "There is a touch of magic about it, do not doubt, good wizard," he declared. "Our spells will defeat any natural poison. No, this one has been specially prepared by a master and with the help of dark magic."

  "Then what can we do?" the wizard asked.

  "We can keep casting our spells over him to try and offer as much comfort as possible and hope that the poison works its way out of him," Camerbunne explained. "We can hope that old Gretchen finds the right mixture of herbs."

  "Easier it'd be if I had a bit o' the poison," old Gretchen complained.

  "And we can pray," Camerbunne finished.

  The last statement brought a
frown to the atheistic Robillard. He was a man of logic and specified rules and did not indulge in prayer.

  "I will go to Morik the Rogue and learn more of the poison," Robillard said with a snarl.

  "He has been tortured already," Camerbunne assured the wizard. "I doubt that he knows anything at all. It is merely something he purchased on the street, no doubt."

  "Tortured?" Robillard replied skeptically. "A thumbscrew, a rack? No, that is not torture. That is a sadistic game and nothing more. The art of torture becomes ever more exquisite when magic is applied." He started for the door, but Camerbunne caught him by the arm.

  "Morik will not know," he said again, staring soberly into the outraged wizard's hollowed eyes. "Stay with us. Stay with your captain. He may not survive the night, and if he does come out of the sleep before he dies, it would be better if he found a friend waiting for him."

  Robillard had no argument against that heavy-handed comment, so he sighed and moved back to his chair, plopping down.

  A short while later, a city guardsman knocked and entered the room, the routine call from the magistrate.

  "Tell Jerem Boll and old Jharkheld that the charge against Wulfgar and Morik will likely be heinous murder," Camerbunne quietly explained.

  Robillard heard the priest, and the words sank his heart even lower. It didn't matter much to Wulfgar and Morik what charge was placed against them. Either way, whether it was heinous murder or intended murder, they would be executed, though with the former the process would take much longer, to the pleasure of the crowd at the Prisoner's Carnival.

  Watching them die would be of little satisfaction to Robillard, though, if his beloved captain did not survive. He put his head in his hands, considering again that he should go to Morik and punish the man with spell after spell until he broke down and revealed the type of poison that had been used.

  Camerbunne was right, Robillard knew, for he understood city thieves like Morik the Rogue. Certainly Morik hadn't brewed the poison but had merely gotten some of it from a well-paid source.

  The wizard lifted his head from his hands, a look of revelation on his haggard face. He remembered the two men who had been in the Cutlass before Wulfgar and Morik had arrived, the two men who had gone to the boy who had subsequently run off to find Wulfgar and Morik, the grimy sailor and his exotic, tattooed companion. He remembered Leaping Lady, sailing out fast from Luskan's harbor. Had Wulfgar and Morik traded the barbarian's marvelous warhammer for the poison to kill Deudermont?

  Robillard sprang up from his chair, not certain of where to begin, but thinking now that he was on to something important. Someone, either the pair who had signaled Deudermont's arrival, the street urchin they had paid to go get Wulfgar and Morik, or someone on Leaping Lady, knew the secrets of the poison.

  Robillard took another look at his poor, bedraggled captain, so obviously near to death. He stormed out of the room, determined to get some answers.

  Chapter 10 PASSAGE

  Meralda walked tentatively into the kitchen the next morning, conscious of the stare her father leveled her way. She looked to her mother as well, seeking some indication that her father had told the woman about her indiscretion with Jaka the previous night. But Biaste was beaming, oblivious.

  "Oh, the garden!" Biaste cried, all smiles. "Tell me about the garden. Is it as pretty as Gurdy Harkins says?"

  Meralda glanced at her father. Relieved to find him smiling as well, she took her seat and moved it right beside Biaste's chair. "Prettier," she said, her grin wide. "All the colors, even in the late sun! And under the moon, though it's not shining so bright, the smells catch and hold you.

  "That's not all that caught my fancy," Meralda said, forcing a cheerful voice as she launched into the news they were all waiting to hear. "Lord Feringal has asked me to marry him."

  Biaste squealed with glee. Tori let out a cry of surprise, and a good portion of her mouthful of food, as well. Dohni Ganderlay slammed his hands upon the table happily.

  Biaste, who could hardly get out of bed the week before, rushed about, readying herself, insisting that she had to go out at once and tell all of her friends, particularly Curdy Harkins, who was always acting so superior because she sometimes sewed dresses for Lady Priscilla.

  "Why'd you come in last night so flustered and crying?" Tori asked Meralda as soon as the two were alone in their room.

  "Just mind what concerns you," Meralda answered.

  "You'll be living in the castle and traveling to Hundelstone and Fireshear, and even to Luskan and all the wondrous places," pressed Tori, insisting, "but you were crying. I heard you."

  Eyes moistening again, Meralda glared at the girl then went back to her chores.

  "It's Jaka," Tori reasoned, a grin spreading across her face. "You're still thinking about him."

  Meralda paused in fluffing her pillow, moved it close to her for a moment-a gesture that revealed to Tori her guess was true-then spun suddenly and launched the pillow into Tori's face, following it with a tackle that brought her sister down on the small bed.

  "Say I'm the queen!" the older girl demanded.

  "You just might be," stubborn Tori shot back, which made Meralda tickle her all the more. Soon Tori could take it no more and called out "Queen! Queen!" repeatedly.

  "But you are sad about Jaka," Tori said soberly a few moments later, when Meralda had gone back to fixing the bedclothes.

  "I saw him last night," Meralda admitted. "On my way home. He's gone sick thinking about me and Lord Feringal."

  Tori gasped and swayed, then leaned closer, hanging on every word.

  "He kissed me, too."

  "Better than Lord Feringal?"

  Meralda sighed and nodded, closing her eyes as she lost herself in the memory of that one brief, tender moment with Jaka.

  "Oh, Meralda, what're you to do?" Tori asked.

  "Jaka wants me to run away with him," she answered.

  Tori moaned and hugged her pillow. "And will you?"

  Meralda stood straighter then and flashed the young girl a brave smile. "My place is with Lord Feringal," she explained.

  "But Jaka-"

  "Jaka can't do nothing for Ma, and nothing for the rest of you," Meralda went on. "You can give your heart to whomever you want, but you give your life to the one who's best for you and for the ones you love."

  Tori started to protest again, but Dohni Ganderlay entered the room. "You got work," he reminded them, and he put a look over Meralda that told the young woman that he had, indeed, overheard the conversation. He even gave a slight nod of approval before exiting the room.

  Meralda walked through that day in a fog, trying to align her heart with acceptance of her responsibility. She wanted to do what was right for her family, she really did, but she could not ignore the pull of her heart, the desire to learn the ways of love in the arms of a man she truly loved.

  Out in the fields higher on the carved steps of the mountain, Dohni Ganderlay was no less torn. He saw Jaka Sculi that morning, and the two didn't exchange more than a quick glance-one-eyed for Jaka, whose left orb was swollen shut. As much as Dohni wanted to throttle the young man for jeopardizing his family, he could not deny his own memories of young love, memories that made him feel guilty looking at the beaten Jaka. Something more insistent than responsibility had pulled Jaka and Meralda together the previous night, and Dohni reminded himself pointedly not to hold a grudge, either against his daughter or against Jaka, whose only crime, as far as Dohni knew, was to love Meralda.

  *****

  The house was quiet and perfectly still in the darkness just after dusk, which only amplified the noise made by every one of Meralda's movements. The family had retired early after a long day of work and the excitement of Meralda receiving yet another invitation to the castle, three days hence, accompanied by the most beautiful green silk gown the Ganderlay women had ever seen. Meralda tried to put the gown on quietly and slowly, but the material ruffled and crackled.

  "What're you doing?"
came a sleepy whisper from Tori.

  "Shh!" Meralda replied, moving right beside the girl's bed and kneeling so that Tori could hear her whispered reply. "Go back to sleep and keep your mouth shut," she instructed.

  "You're going to Jaka," Tori exclaimed, and Meralda slapped her hand over the girl's mouth.

  "No such thing," Meralda protested. "I'm just trying it out."

  "No you're not!" said Tori, coming fully awake and sitting up. "You're going to see Jaka. Tell me true, or I'll yell for Da."

  "Promise me that you'll not say," Meralda said, sitting on the bed beside her sister. Tori's head bobbed excitedly. "I'm hoping to find Jaka out there in the dark," Meralda explained. "He goes out every night to watch the moon and the stars."

  "And you're running away to be married?"

  Meralda gave a sad chuckle. "No, not that," she replied. "I'm giving my life to Lord Feringal for the good of Ma and Da and yourself," she explained. "And not with regrets," she added quickly, seeing her sister about to protest. "No, he'll give me a good life at the castle, of that I'm sure. He's not a bad man, though he has much to learn. But I'm taking tonight for my own heart. One night with Jaka to say good-bye." Meralda patted Tori's arm as she stood to leave. "Now, go back to sleep."

  "Only if you promise to tell me everything tomorrow," Tori replied. "Promise, or I'll tell."

  "You won't tell," Meralda said with confidence, for she understood that Tori was as enchanted by the romance of it all as she was. More, perhaps, for the young girl didn't understand the lifelong implications of these decisions as much as Meralda did.

  "Go to sleep," Meralda said softly again as she kissed Tori on the forehead. Straightening the dress with a nervous glance toward the curtain door of the room, Meralda headed for the small window and out into the night.

  *****

  Dohni Ganderlay watched his eldest daughter disappear into the darkness, knowing full well her intent. A huge part of him wanted to follow her, to catch her with Jaka and kill the troublesome boy once and for all, but Dohni also held faith that his daughter would return, that she would do what was right for the family as she had said to her sister that morning.