Rogliano grinned through his red-gold beard. “Suffer? On my ship? That part is easy. We’ll skirt down into the Blood Sea and hit the Invisible River current to take us far away.”
“Won’t that make rowing easier for him?” asked Bartleby.
“Not if I make him row against it,” Rogliano said, with a boisterous laugh.
Gathelaus was familiar with the Invisible River far out into the Blood Sea. It was an incredibly powerful current said to be many miles wide. It came down from the Ice Sea and flowed easterly almost to Dar-Al-Hambra then turned south along the coast of Valchiki before going beyond the known lands to the polar regions. If sailors wished for an easterly ride, they could chance the dangers of storms and ride the torrent at nearly twice the speed of the swiftest sailing ships. Such a route was not without peril though, for there were on occasion gyres that trapped ships for decades in their swirling eddies or on the rare occasion that the current warped and flowed back the other direction due to storms or quakes, it would send ships to the bottom like the mouth of the sea opened and swallowed them whole. Most men feared to tread that cursed course and few enough ever returned that did try it. Rumors whispered of lands not far beyond the Invisible River, but not a man currently alive could testify that such a realm truly existed. What was it called? Gathelaus tried to remember. Tultecacan. It was a legend, a myth, but no one knew for sure, just fables in story books.
On board the ship, they kicked Gathelaus down into the rowers’ hold. He ripped open his chin on the fall and new bruises formed over old ones.
“That a good enough start for you?” Rogliano asked Sarvan.
The cripple nodded his approval. “This pleases me. Remember what I said and fare thee well, good captain.”
Rogliano laughed and strode down the steps to where Gathelaus lay dazed. “The gods play dice with you, usurper. Don’t you see that? And right now, Mahmackrah and Libnah are winning against the gods of mercy.” He laughed and picked Gathelaus up none too gently and thrust him at one of the sailors to set him upon a bench. The sailor chained Gathelaus to a set on manacles which were in turn fastened to the rower’s bench. They thrust an oar into his hands and applied a whip to his back.
“Best get to it, King,” snarled the sailor. “Or you’ll be getting a lot more where that came from.”
Gathelaus pulled on the oar with the others to a stern drum beat and took in the view of his fellow rowers. They all had long, matted hair and their backs were covered in long red scars courtesy of the whip.
Gathelaus snarled to himself. He would find a way, eventually, and then he would bring the blood and thunder down on all who had wronged him. First Rogliano and his crew, and then Sarvan, Hawkwood, and especially Vikarskeid. It would come, fierce total vengeance.
***
“Escaped? How!” shrieked Vikarskeid.
“You had men that betrayed you. They took him to the docks and a waiting ship,” answered Hawkwood.
“My men? No.” Vikarskeid stood from the throne, wringing his hands. “It was your men,” he accused, pointing his finger. “You betrayed me.” He looked to his royal guardsmen who then glanced with trepidation at the powerful mercenary.
“Think twice, my king,” said Hawkwood, salting the words with disdain. His hand was on his hilt and there was little doubt that he could cleave through the handful of Vikarskeid’s guards if he wished to. “If I was behind this, I wouldn’t have had my men capture him in the first place.”
Vikarskeid scowled and sat back down. “Then how?”
Hawkwood shrugged. “You have enemies yet, but these I think were but fools who thought to do their own will.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sarvan claimed you called for me, I came, but you had not asked for me, then he and the men holding Gathelaus vanished. It is your own cousin, the minstrel and his men, that took Gathelaus to the docks.”
“To free him?” asked Vikarskeid, incredulous.
“The henchmen claim that Gathelaus was sold into slavery, but I have not seized your cousin the cripple, yet. Trouble is, we know that at least a dozen different ships left port on the river that day. The henchmen did not know which ship took him. It seems Sarvan tried to be careful as to where Gathelaus would be taken.”
Vikarskeid sneered. “Bring him to me. All of them. We will get to the bottom of this and someone will pay for taking the pleasure of his death from me.”
“It shall be done,” said Hawkwood. He turned and left the court.
“Did you hear all of that?” Vikarskeid asked Kefir, who was skulking in the shadows.
“I did, my lord.”
“King,” Vikarskeid corrected.
“Yes, my king. It seems that Sarvan thought to take revenge his own way.”
Vikarskeid frowned. “It’s like I can’t trust anyone anymore. Everyone is scheming. No one values the divine right of kings anymore.”
“No, your majesty,” agreed Kefir. “I do have a message from the oracle you sought.”
“Send her in, send her in. Why have you kept me waiting?”
Kefir hesitated a moment then said with an awful grin, “She refused to come, my king.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I did not wish to interrupt your conference with commander Hawkwood.”
“Bah! We cannot let this flagrant disrespect for the king stand,” shouted Vikarskeid. “Where is she?”
“She was in the ruins of the Temple of Herkatay. She bid that you wait until the stars are right. She suggested that would be in the new moon.”
“Then we shall go to her today and she will regret that, I promise you.”
“That is not necessary my king. I handled it.”
Vikarskeid cocked his head and snorted. “What did you do? You didn’t kill her, did you?”
“Nay, my king, I did not, though I was sorely tempted. When she refused to come, I slew her handmaidens and dragged her by the hair to my horse.”
Vikarskeid chuckled with evil glee.
Kefir continued, “I think the riding I gave her took some of the bite out of her tongue. Then I brought her here.”
“You dog,” said Vikarskeid with a laugh. “I always wanted an oracle, but I’ll not be tainted with your seconds this time.”
Kefir grinned, bowed, and strode to the rear curtain and held it open. A tall, slim woman entered. Her pale skin stood out in contrast to her long, dark hair and bright crimson gown. There was a welling bruise on her right eye and her gown was torn and dirtied in a few places.
“I am Sibyl,” she said in a proud tone.
Vikarskeid gave a grunt of defiance in response.
“I was sent for by your brutes. You wish to know your fate.”
“I do, witch.”
She looked at him scornfully. “I am an oracle. I am no witch.”
“Just the same,” continued Vikarskeid. “I would have you divine for me. Tell me what you know of the future.”
“That is simple enough. The future was written in the past by those wise enough to see it,” Sibyl said scornfully.
Vikarskeid slammed a fist on the armrest of the throne. “Then share your wisdom with me and you will be richly rewarded.”
She strode to him. “Your dagger. Give it to me.”
He shrunk back. “I think not.”
“I need a drop of your blood, preferable from the palm, and then I can divine your fate.”
He looked at her sidelong, then took out his dagger and cut a small gash across his own palm and held out the bleeding hand to her.
She took the hand in hers, closed the fingers upon the palm then opened it again and looked deeply at the welling redness. “Just as you would cut your own hand, you have sealed your doom.”
“Doom? What? How?”
“The man you tried to strike down will return and enact vengeance upon you and your house. He will skin you and hang it as a banner from the top of the tallest tower. He will spare none of your folk from the sword, sa
ve a new born son.”
Vikarskeid shook his head and pushed her away. “Ha! You fraud. I have no sons. I have no children. You are casting aspersions upon me to induce fear and loathing. But I have no need to worry over your threats.” He said this loudly for all in the room to hear, but it was quite plain that he was afraid and inwardly recoiling from the oracle.
“They are not threats. They are destiny that I saw in your spilt blood,” Sibyl said firmly.
Vikarskeid looked to Kefir who avoided his king’s gaze. “Kefir, where did you find this liar? This witch who seeks to provoke me.”
“She is indeed the oracle of the wood. Of that I am sure, but perhaps she seeks now to cast fear into our souls for the transgressions I did to her.”
Vikarskeid rose from his seat and pointed a long finger. “She has seduced you into believing her treachery. This woman is not the oracle, but an impostor sent to vex the new-found kingdom and she must be dealt with.”
Sibyl stared Vikarskeid down. Her strong, high cheekbones denoting beauty and fierce devotion. “Truth is eternal, king,” she said. “But I understand it takes courage to accept truth. Cowards always prefer lies.”
“I shall slay you myself,” Vikarskeid cried, as he reared up and drew his sword.
Sibyl didn’t move. She was planted on the floor of the court like an oak. “I knew my fate when I was brought here. I bore the truth boldly and yet the craven before me cannot face it.”
“Silence witch! Meet your doom!”
“Yours is sealed,” she said, as he thrust the blade. She clasped his arm as she went to her knees, and Vikarskeid gasped in surprise at the iron strength in her fingers. “He is coming for you,” she gasped. Her head fell back in death, yet her fingers still held the hem of his cloak. Vikarskeid had to tug fiercely to wrench it away, tearing the fine silk.
“Did you hear that?”
“I did, my king,” answered Kefir.
“The wretched lies this impostor hoped to spread. I have silenced them. Me, I did that. I am king!” he shouted, to reassure himself. “I fear no man,” he looked back at Sibyl’s bleeding corpse. “Or woman.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Summon the town criers. Tell them how I slew the witch impostor.” He stepped over her body and the crimson pool beside it. “And get someone to clean this up.”
A Loose Tongue
Gathelaus lost track of the days and nights as food and water was seldom given without a curse from the slavers. He gauged that more than a week had passed and he raged inwardly as he sent the oar plowing through the wine dark sea.
Each day Rogliano whipped the slaves and hurled insults at them. Later he charted their course and took them farther out to sea. Toward the Invisible River? Gathelaus had no idea. He overheard a pair of sailors discussing that they were almost to that point and how they could tell because of the swift clouds in the distance and the cooler breeze on the air. He had never been in these waters before and as much as he could read of the sun and stars, he thought they were bordering those uncharted realms to the far south and west.
Days passed and the sun bronzed Gathelaus as dark as he had ever been. The whip kept fresh wounds on his back and blowflies attempted to sup on him. Every day he plotted how he would destroy these men and those back in Hellainik who had put him here. Those who had stolen his kingdom and slain his bride. There was no hell he would not wade through to bring bloody handed revenge crashing down on their heads.
They met a ship coming the opposite direction. It belonged to dusky men of Dar-Alhambra and they traded jokes and two of the rowers a bench up from Gathelaus. The captain of the Dar-Alhambran’s chirped in his sing-song language that he wanted Gathelaus too, but Rogliano said he would not part with such a strong back.
“He will not always have a strong back chained to an oar like that,” offered the Dar-Alhambran. “Let me put him to work as a gladiator. He would be worth much more gold in my country.”
Rogliano pondered a moment but then shook his head. “I gave my word, he would never set foot on land again. The only reason he isn’t dead yet is because I swore to keep him chained to an oar for the rest of his days. But I see your point, he would have been a great gladiator.”
“Where are the infidel dogs you made such a bargain with? They will never know, for even as a winning gladiator they will never hear talk of such a man far away in my country.”
Rogliano’s greedy eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. “How much gold are we talking about?”
“Hmmm. I gave you two hundred denari for those two rowers, but this one, he is much bigger, much stronger and has the fire of a warrior in his insolent eyes. I will pay you five hundred denari for him, if you will throw in a cask of your finest wine.”
“If my paymasters up the coast hear about this, I’ll never be able to go to that port again. I gave them my word.”
“A word to those land dwelling dogs is no word at all, as they are not of the Brotherhood of the Sea,” argued the Dar-Alhambran. “Besides we shall come about and head back to KhoPeshli after we trade with the Derenzi ships that should be in these waters.”
“Aye,” answered Rogliano, “I saw some yesterday. But they may have been heading for the Invisible River, though to head southwest.”
“Then I shall make for that as well,” answered the Dar-Alhambran. “We have a deal, yes?”
“Aye, we do. I’ll get the cask.” He called to his strongest two sailors, “Ferno, Borgan, take hold of the Northerner and bind him. Then take him to Tariq’s ship.”
Now at least Gathelaus knew the name of his latest captor. Revenge would come for everyone that would treat him thusly.
“And you,” Rogliano addressed Gathelaus now, “It seems are but a dice in the hands of the gods. They play with you and move you about the board in some mad game. I pity you.”
The sailors roughly bound Gathelaus, then carefully unlocked his shackles from the iron rings that secured him to the bench.
“Not so strong now, eh?” taunted Ferno, getting in Gathelaus’s face.
He jerked and head-butted Ferno, but Borgan grasped him by the back of his hair and slammed his head into the bench behind—all went black.
***
The man on the rack screamed as the wheels stretched him farther than was ever humanly meant.
“Will you talk now, fool? Or must I cut you to pieces?” asked Vikarskeid.
Bartleby, the mad minstrel, screamed and frothed, shaking his head to and fro in vain, as if the manic gyrations could evade the tearing pain.
“I grow weary of asking the same questions,” sighed Vikarskeid. “Where is the usurper?”
“I don’t know,” howled Bartleby. “We sold him to a slaving galley. That’s all I know. Ask Sarvan!”
“I’d really like to ask him,” lamented Vikarskeid. “But you see, he didn’t last nearly as long as you have. He up and died on me before I could get a name,” said Vikarskeid. He reached down and held up the severed head of his cousin Sarvan. The eyes were rolled back and the tongue lolled out. “Do you wish to ask him in hell for me?”
Bartleby screamed again, “Please. I will try and remember. Loose these ropes. I beg of you.”
Vikarskeid looked back at his fellow torturers and chuckled. “He begs of me.” Wheeling back to face Bartleby, he shouted, “You stole from me! You and my cousin! I was to relish the usurper’s pain and death and now I have to be sated with yours! Give me a name! I need to know which ship!”
Bartleby cried out again as Vikarskeid cranked the wheel a notch, then the tortured minstrel fainted.
Vikarskeid cursed in frustration. “By the gods if I had only known that I had surrounded myself with such fools! I am amazed I even succeeded in retaking my throne from Gathelaus.”
Hawkwood coughed.
“What? I know you desire credit for the scheme, but that’s what you are paid for, isn’t it?”
“You said it,” replied the taciturn mercenary commander.
Vikarskeid guffawed.
“You pay me for results, not my opinion” Hawkwood brushed a hand over his bushy red beard.
“And you’ve been silent for some time on these matters, so what is your opinion? Hmmm. I’m paying for it now.”
Hawkwood put his thumbs in his belt and said, “You’re wasting time on this worry of Gathelaus’s fate. Either he is dead and will never return or he will survive and come back for revenge. And if he does, you just kill him. You’ve defeated him once, you can again.”
“Ah, but this time I would be the unsuspecting monarch on the throne, ripe for the plucking. I can’t trust anyone,” said Vikarskeid. “Everyone plots against me and I must cut out the rot in my own kingdom’s body.”
Hawkwood rolled his eyes. “Take my advice. Enjoy your kingdom. Enjoy your women and your wealth, we all die sometime. Well. Most of us anyway.”
Vikarskeid stared hard at the mercenary commander and pointed an accusing finger. “Do you wish for my crown?”
“No,” replied Hawkwood flatly. “If I was to be king of anywhere, I would seek a warmer clime that doesn’t have snow upon it nearly half the year.”
Vikarskeid narrowed his gaze suspiciously at the giant of a man. “A kingdom is a kingdom.”
Hawkwood smirked. “And some kingdoms are bigger than others.”
“Rogliano! The Kentisian pirate,” cried Bartleby suddenly. The torturers gathered about the stretched minstrel. “It was Rogliano!” he cried again. “I remember. Let me go, please.” He began weeping.
Vikarskeid turned to face Hawkwood. “Do you know of whom he speaks?”
Hawkwood nodded. “I do.”
“Can you find him and retrieve Gathelaus for me?”
Hawkwood frowned. “That is an enormous waste of my time and resources.”
“I’ll pay whatever you ask, but I want this worry eliminated.”
“Worry?”
Vikarskeid hung his head. “The witch, she told me that Gathelaus would return. That he would skin me alive and use me as a banner on the tallest tower.”
FIERCE: A Heroic Fantasy Adventure (BRUTAL TRILOGY Book 2) Page 6