Fire and Sword

by Dylan Doose

  Cold as frost was his mind as their hot blood gave flow, yet as hammer struck spike, as they screamed, within his soul did the ember of self-hatred begin to glow.

  Man to monster.

  What man made this monster?

  Count Salvenius must pay.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  The Seeds of Friendship

  Aldous felt as if his head had been bludgeoned past the point of pain. It was just numb, a complete lack of sensation, as if he just existed in space. His muscles felt the same. He could move, but barely. Stone floor. Not much light. Have I fallen asleep in the basement again? Why do I feel so weak? Father Riker will scold me terribly. I may even get lashes for falling asleep again.

  “At last, he wakes.” The voice was deep and young, healthy and with good humor. It was not the voice of Father Riker.

  With all his energy Aldous raised himself into a sitting position so he could see the man who was speaking. The figure was no more than an outline at first, but his eyes soon adjusted and Aldous saw him clearly.

  He was a sight to behold; he was standing over Aldous like some golden giant. Perhaps two inches over six feet in height, and broad in shoulder. He had long blond hair and fierce gray-blue eyes. Every muscle was tight and rock solid. He wore nothing but tattered and filthy sack pants, and they looked strange on him, for he looked royal, and so Aldous thought he should be dressed so.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” Aldous asked.

  “I am the honorable Theron Ward, Lord of Wardbrook, at your service. And you are in a dungeon, my dear boy.”

  All of a sudden Aldous was very awake, and he used a nearby wall to assist him to his feet. He looked around, and although he had never been in a dungeon—unless he counted the basement of the church—this place looked enough like a dungeon that he could not question the man’s words.

  Empty, but for a rickety rotten bench on each wall, no windows, and made of stone, with a thick wooden door supported by iron. There was an unemptied slop bucket in the corner, the smell of piss and shit heavy in the air, and the walls moved with filth.

  “What do you mean, I am in a dungeon?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. You are in a dungeon.” At Aldous’ silence, he continued, “You are in the dungeon of Count Salvenius’ keep, where he keeps prisoners under lock and key until they are brought to the torture chambers, and then hanged by the neck until they die.” His tone was perfectly calm, and for some reason this upset Aldous far more than it would have if the man were hysterical.

  “Prisoner? Torture? Hanged?” Aldous asked. He felt very ill, and he broke out in a cold sweat, trying to remember how and why he was there. He could taste bile in the back of his throat.

  “Very good. You have just repeated the three key points of what I just said. It is clear that your mind is semi-functioning.”

  “Why am I a prisoner? I am a monk. I have done nothing wrong. Where is Father Riker?”

  “Apparently you are not a monk. You are a sorcerer, and you burned this Father Riker alive. With your bare hands. Or so I have heard. I sincerely doubt that, though.” The blond man snickered. “A fire mage, with no catalyst, at your young age. Not likely. But something happened and you killed a man, so you’re here.”

  It all came back to Aldous in pieces, little fragments, like remembering a nightmare. Scattered screams and begging. Father Riker begging for his life and the flesh melting off his bones. Aldous could hear his own screams in the back of his mind, yet they were not his own, they were the furious cries of a demon. Not himself.

  His skin began to tingle, to go hot as he remembered the fire… the beautiful kindling fire. He tried pinching himself, like a foolish child seeing if they are in a dream. It hurt; he was awake.

  “No. That did not happen,” Aldous whispered, more to himself than to Theron. He felt the heat of tears in his eyes, and he ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends.

  “Oh, I think something happened.”

  “I did not mean to do it. I swear. I must tell them it was not my intent to do such a thing.”

  Theron gave a deep laugh.

  “That is a good and brilliant plan. It will certainly get you out of your current debacle. Perhaps I shall do the same, right before they hang me. ‘Uh, yes, Count Salvenius, your largleyness, I do swear I did not mean to fuck your daughter in the royal stables. It was an accident, so do release me.’ No, no, young man, that strategy will not do.”

  The blond man slid down the wall he was leaning against with a long, dramatic sigh. Behind him, painted on the wall, was a strange symbol, the same blue as the eyes of the men that Aldous had seen right before his curtain was pulled. The paint seemed to glow, and looking at it made Aldous feel weak.

  “What is that marking behind you?” Aldous asked, his voice quaking.

  Theron looked up.

  “A seeker’s sigil. All prison cells in the country have them, as far as I know. At least the cells of any major city.”

  “What is a seeker’s sigil?”

  Theron scowled at him. “You don’t bloody well know anything, do you? It prevents you from doing any of your wizardry so, in here, you are as weak as you look.”

  “I know no wizardry.” Aldous tried to sound fearsome, then felt red as Theron just laughed.

  “I believe you, but what I believe doesn’t mean much right now.”

  * * *

  They had been sitting alone in the cell mostly in silence for hours, except for Theron’s occasional yelling outbursts to the guards, who may or may not have been outside. Theron was now kicking the door repeatedly and with all his might. He did this for perhaps five minutes straight, and his endurance amazed Aldous. Five straight minutes of furious kicking. Of course, the door did not budge, and so an exhausted Theron returned to his corner and sat.

  “Damn me. Damn my irresistible features. I always knew that one day my pelvic propensities would result in my death, I just thought it would be in old age, my heart failing as a buxom beauty gave me one last ride.” Theron looked down at his crotch and simply yelled. Aldous thought the man to be quite mad.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Theron looked up. His eyes went wide and he contorted his face into a scowling underbite. Aldous would have backed away if he weren’t already against a wall.

  “I told you who I am,” Theron said calmly, his distorted facial features immediately returning to normal. He scurried across the floor, running his hand across the bottom edges of the wall, as if he were looking for something.

  Aldous was not sure if he was more terrified of being in Norburg’s dungeon or of who he was in it with.

  “What are you doing?” He did not mean for his voice to come out as sniveling as it did. “You are really not making this situation any easier for me.” Aldous began rocking back and forth, hugging his knees against his chest as he watched the handsome madman scurry across the floor muttering to himself.

  Theron burst to his feet and stood in front of Aldous in a flash of speed that was hard to comprehend. The blond man aimed an imaginary sword at Aldous’ throat.

  “Who the hell are you, boy? What makes you think I care at all about the ease with which you are able to endure your current conundrum?” Theron slowly leaned his face down until it was inches from Aldous’.

  “I am Aldous. Aldous Weaver,” he whispered, and closed one eye, shying away from the imaginary sword.

  Theron sheathed his phantom blade and sat back down, nodding to himself.

  “Ah, Weaver. That’s a good name. ’Twas the name of my favorite author. Darcy Weaver.”

  Aldous’ heart thumped at the mention of his father’s name, and he leaned in now, his fear momentarily replaced with interest.

  “They burned his books, the bastards.” Theron squinted. “Your order burned his books. But you redeemed yourself in my eyes. Good riddance to that priest you burned alive. They burned him, too, you know. They burned the great Darcy Weaver.”

 
“I know,” Aldous said, his voice hollow.

  “You would have been a wee lad then. I was quite young myself. About your age now.” Theron paused and squinted at Aldous. “What do mean, ‘I know’?”

  “I know about Darcy Weaver. They said he was a sorcerer. They said that when he burned he went to the devil.”

  “Bastards,” said Theron, “They burned him in a city not far from here.”

  “Yes. Aldwick. They burned my father in Aldwick,” Aldous said, very quiet, almost a whisper.

  “What did you just say?” Theron again sprang from his corner and grabbed Aldous by the shoulders, lifting him from the ground, as if he were a small child. “What the bloody hell did you just say?”

  “Darcy Weaver was my father,” he yelled.

  “Say it again, and don’t you dare be lying. I shall kill you here and now if you’re lying. That man’s words made me me. There is no one like him. He made me understand what a man must try to be. In my darkest moment when I thought my world was over, his words pushed me to become something better, something more, to become a monster hunter. He made me fight for what is good. Do you understand that? Do you have any damn idea of the importance in that?” Theron was nearly frothing as he yelled, his wide, crazy gray-blue eyes a maelstrom swirling down to the madness of his soul. “Don’t you dare be lying!”

  “Darcy Weaver was my father! I watched as they burned him alive. They took our lands. They burned his books and they sent my mother to a nunnery, where she slit her wrists. They sent me to the church. They sent me to the fucking church, where I burned Father Riker alive, where I cooked him as he screamed. I don’t know how, but I did, I did, and so fuck him, fuck him right to hell!”

  Theron stared down at Aldous and suddenly embraced him as the tangent reached its conclusion and the confusion that now entered the mixture of emotions he was feeling became almost too much to bear.

  “This is destiny,” Theron said. “You will not die here, not in Norburg. I will slaughter every single man in this city if I must, but I will get you, Aldous Weaver, safely from here. You will write. You shall write just as your father did, not copying out scripture in a fucking church, but truly write! My adventures will fuel your dormant talent. It is fate, most certainly fate.”

  * * *

  Theron could not believe it. In his arms he held the living heir to Darcy Weaver.

  The two of them sat in the cell, and for hours Theron spoke to Aldous about his father’s writing. Things that the boy had no idea about, and in return Aldous told Theron about what Darcy Weaver was like as a man and a father, full of ideals, patient with his son, who had two questions for every answer. He sounded a lot like Theron’s father in many ways, and this pleased him greatly. The hours went on and on until they were hungry, and then a few more hours passed until some slop was slid into their cell across the floor.

  “I’d rather die then eat that filth,” Theron said to Aldous, then screamed the same thing as loud as he could to notify the guards outside what he thought of their hospitality. Much to his regret, a good while later, he ate the slop with the wooden spoon provided. Aldous tried to eat his, but it only made him retch.

  “Would you like my bowl of filth, Theron?” Aldous asked after trying to take a second spoonful and once again failing.

  “You are sure you don’t want it?” Theron asked, his hand already outstretched and on the bowl.

  “I am sure.”

  “You are too kind.”

  “Please, it is nothing really. It will do me no good, and if you are going to be saving us, you will need your strength,” Aldous said.

  Theron chuckled.

  The seeker sigils gave a quick glow, then faded. It was the seventh time they had done so since Aldous and Theron had arrived.

  “What were you just thinking about?” Theron asked.

  Aldous looked up from the finger drawing he was making in the dust on the ground between his legs. “Dogs.”

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about dogs. I used to have three, and I was thinking about them. Great big wolfhounds,” Aldous said.

  Theron looked at the dust drawing on the ground. It was indeed a poor dust drawing of a dog.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Not magic? You weren’t thinking about magic?” Theron asked, as he glanced suspiciously at the sigils. They gave another glow. “There it is again. They just glowed again.”

  Aldous looked at the sigils now, but by the time he did they had already faded. “I did not see it,” he said.

  There came the slightest rumbling in the ground, or perhaps Theron just imagined it, but right after the sensation came again the sigils glowed, and this time for longer.

  “Look.”

  “I see it. Why are they glowing?”

  “Some sort of spell is being cast somewhere nearby, or something magical is active. Are you sure it’s not you?” Theron leaned in and examined the boy. He put his hand on Aldous’ head to see if he was taking on an absurd body temperature, but he felt normal.

  The sound of a key turning rang through the cell and the reinforced oak door opened.

  “I do hope I’m not interrupting, but the two of you are to come with us,” said the jailor, a swarm of men behind him, all armed.

  “Actually, you are interrupting,” Theron said, and kept his hand on Aldous’ forehead for an extra moment then slowly withdrew it. “I’d appreciate if you left us be.”

  “Sorry, Ward, can’t be done. It’s time to go down.” The jailor’s deep frown and sad eyes made Theron not much like the sound of the word down. “Really wish I didn’t have to,” the jailor continued. “I’ve always liked the ballads the bards sing of you. But an order is an order, you know how it is.”

  “No. I don’t believe I do know how it is.” Theron scowled at the man, but he was unarmed and knew there were several fighting men in the hall. He didn’t have a chance, and he had to be certain of his actions, for he’d just vowed that he would protect Aldous Weaver. He looked at the boy then, his black hair all disheveled, his posture pitiful and hunched forward, in his tattered monk’s robes. The world had broken him, and that broke Theron’s heart. It broke his heart and it stirred a rage in him that he had not felt since he had been forced to eat the slop for lack of more appetizing alternative. I will save your son, Darcy Weaver. I will save him from these bastards.

  “All the same, you have to come with us,” the jailor said with a shrug.

  Men flooded the room, two of them seekers, just in case Aldous actually was a wizard, Theron guessed. Nasty-looking fuckers, pale as snow, heads shaved, and lifeless in the eyes. Lifeless until they turned that burning blue.

  Theron and Aldous were bound and shoved roughly forward.

  They moved down a long, dim corridor toward stone steps that went ever deeper under the earth. The echo of anguished screams carried to them from the stairwell ahead.

  “I think now would be a good time to start carving us a way out of here, if you really meant what you said back in the cell,” whispered a sniveling Aldous, as he took a hard shove from the back.

  “Have no fear, my boy, the frenzy will start in due time. But as of now I am shackled and unarmed,” Theron whispered back.

  “Is due time soon?”

  “It had better be, because I have no intent of joining that symphony of screams.”

  * * *

  “How do I know when I have a friend, Papa?” asked the golden-haired boy.

  His father smiled and tilted his head in thought.

  “I am not entirely sure how to put that into words, my son, for I suppose every man and woman would give a different answer to that question.”

  Now the golden-haired boy tilted his head in thought.

  “A friend is someone you trust, someone you trust with your life and their own life as well, until you do no longer. I suppose that is a friend,” the father said and nodded now, more to himself than his son, feeling that he had just given both of them a valid explan
ation of friendship.

  “But how do I know when I have a friend?” asked the golden-haired boy.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  Sown in Blood

  Kendrick didn’t scream. Thirteen lashes in and he still didn’t scream. The pain was there, but he focused not on that, not on the whip. He focused on his stroke of good luck, for his captors had brought him to the keep of Count Salvenius. All that separated him from the man who had created the monster were the ropes that bound him, the door that blocked him, and the stairs he would ascend to his goal.

  Another lash from the cat-o’-nine shredded across the flesh of his naked back. Still he did not scream. It wasn’t about shame, it wasn’t about whether or not he cared for the torturer’s satisfaction, it was simply about calming his mind before he started a massacre, and the one that was coming was going to look like a royal slaughterhouse the night before Yule.

  “You know what they told me to tell you?” the torturer asked.

  Ken stared at the door, willing it to open.

  It did, and a squad of the count’s men shoved in two more prisoners. When Ken saw them, he felt a little burst of hope. The more elements in the equation, the greater the chance for chaos, and two more men in the dungeon were elements that Ken liked.

  The prisoners were roughly pushed forward, and their shackles were chained to the rusty rings attached to the floor right at the bottom of the wall. The group of guards and the two seekers left the chamber after placing the keys to the new prisoners’ bonds on the torturer’s table of tools.

  The two men were perfect opposites. One of them was tall, blond, and built like a sculpture, handsome but he looked tough; he looked a killer, and Kendrick knew a killer when he saw one. The other was a short, scrawny lad, a bit younger than twenty years; he had a mop of greasy black hair, and he hunched like a kicked dog. Shoulders like a trout, and not a bit of muscle on him. He didn’t much look like a killer; he didn’t much look like anything.