by SL Figuhr
“Let’s have a chat, you and I.” She walked over to him, and the underling felt five iron-hard digits and palm press into his shoulder.
He was boggled at the impossibility before the pain of bone grinding upon bone wiped logical thought from his mind.
* * *
A strange buzzing noise in his ears and the feeling of swimming upward through molasses made Tanner aware he wasn’t dead . . . yet. His face and head ached with pain, made all the more intense because the side that had taken the blow lay pressed on the floor. He could barely feel the blood which trickled down. The royal treasurer groaned as he attempted to roll onto his back. Even a little movement caused the room to spin. He closed his eyes and fought back a wave of nausea. When he was able to open them, Tanner cautiously sat up, again waiting for the dizziness to pass.
The room was empty. Where was Anson? Where was the duchess? Did she have his assistant and was questioning him? Maybe this meant he would live, if his subordinate could keep his mouth shut, or lie if he couldn’t.
Tanner realized he had heard more than the buzzing inside his head as it faded. The sounds of voices: some of them shrilly female, pounding, and booted feet. He managed to stand, rage pushing the pain aside. The man cast about for his dagger, but it was gone. He would have to try and make it to his back up dagger underneath his pillow, or his sword, also in his bedroom. The royal treasurer opened his study door to behold two palace guards, one to either side of it, in the hall. Their halberds crossed in front of the doorway. They turned to face him, eyes glinting with purpose.
“Sir,” barked one of the men as they both brought their halberds around to block forward movement. “Stay inside the room. By authority of the Royal Advisor Illyria, in accordance with His Majesty’s proclamations, you are under arrest for crimes against the crown.”
“The hell you say!” he barked. “I demand to be taken to His Majesty! This is outrageous! I am innocent! There is no proof!”
The weapons stayed firm, the guards’ expressions tightening more, expecting trouble.
“Stay inside, sir.” The first guard repeated his warning.
Tanner debated fighting, but a new set to the men’s jaws he had not seen before when he’d had dealings with the royal guard had him discarding the thought. Perhaps they would be open to a bribe?
“Now gentlemen, let’s calm down and think about this a moment, eh? I know how much you men earn. It’s a paltry amount considering all the hard work and royal demands which have to be met. What if I could see to the both of you getting a higher pay? In return, you escort me to the palace, and make sure the king will hear me out.”
Tanner could see the men wavering. “Here, I'll even give you an additional bonus out of my own pocket right now.”
He slowly reached for the money pouch on his belt and drew out four silvers for both men. The treasurer held the coins in his outstretched palm. One of the guardsman licked his lips and shot a quick glance to his fellow guard. The man was reaching out when a cold voice interrupted.
“Allen, Allen . . . taking bribes?” Her Grace commented.
Both Allen and Tanner froze. A look of instant regret and shame flashed across the guard’s face. He didn’t fight his fellow men as they clapped him and Tanner in manacles and chains.
“You have no proof!” Tanner struggled, repeating his mantra.
“Anson was wise enough to rethink his position. He has agreed to testify against you in exchange for a reduced sentence,” the duchess informed him.
“But you have no proof! Neither of you does! I will be pardoned! Just you wait and see!” the head treasurer yelled as Allen was led away, presumably to the dungeons.
“Tanner! Tanner! I demand to see my husband!” his wife screamed from somewhere close by.
The sound of scuffling and more hysterics from his family came to the treasurer’s ears as the duchess shoved Tanner inside his office, the manacles and chains making it hard for him to keep his balance. He fell, butt striking the rug-covered wood floor painfully.
“You monster! You leave my wife and children alone.” The royal treasurer struggled to stand, but a booted foot on his shoulder kept him in a kneeling position.
Her Grace rested a forearm on her upraised thigh, bringing her face close to his. “Unlike Nicky, they will come to no harm from my hand.” She paused. “Assuming, of course, your wife is indeed ignorant of your perfidy.”
Her shark’s grin made sweat pour down his back and face. He didn’t believe her, saying as much.
She finally removed her foot from his shoulder, and it burned with pain from being used in such a manner. Tanner didn’t hear any footsteps. He craned his head to see where she went. The duchess sat in his chair, riffling through the drawers.
He refused to kneel before the bitch. After a brief struggle, knees creaking in protest, he managed to stand.
Her voice, a whip, cracked out, “Defiant to the last. Normally I would applaud, but given you are a liar and a thief, I find it tiresome.”
Tanner cast about for something to use as a weapon, finally settling on an ornately decorated and painted vase. His onrushing charge was abruptly stopped by his own momentum as the back of the chair in which she sat slammed into his gut. He pitched sideways, vase slipping from his hands to shatter as he scrambled to keep upright. Without giving himself time to stop and think on the impossibility of how fast the duchess eluded his attack, the royal treasurer grasped the back, meaning to batter her with the chair.
Instead, Tanner found his head painfully yanked by his hair so he stared up at the smoke-stained ceiling. The new abuse on top of the old caused him to yell in pain and let go of the chair, his hands reaching instead to loosen her grip. Dimly, he was aware of his yells turning to horror at the sight of the two ivory fangs among the duchess’s gleaming teeth. In a moment, they pierced his neck.
Pain lanced through his veins as his struggles grew more frantic, rising in intensity the more he fought.
Gold, jewels, precious spices. All left in heaps in the treasure vault. Why should he and his family exist on the paltry pay he was allowed as head treasurer with the wealth of the kingdom at his fingertips? It was laughably easy to steal what he wanted. The only hitch was Anson, whose greed slowly grew to match Tanner’s as the years passed and they remained uncaught. Even the advisor, when he found out, had let them be. He only asked certain boons in return, which Tanner was all too happy to grant. But now . . . now Nicky was gone, and in his place an implacable enemy who would not be gainsaid.
Pain overwhelmed Tanner’s ability to think. He was just a screaming, struggling mass of flesh, bone, and blood. “Make it stop! Make it stop! Pllllleeeeaaaasssse!” He wanted the experience ended.
“It will never end. Not until I get what I want.” A cruel voice lanced through the pain, searing into him with an even greater intensity.
Tanner knew if he gave up his secrets, he was dead. But the pain. He didn't think he could take anymore.
“Please, stop,” he begged, his voice weak.
“Tell me what I want.” A soft voice caressed his mind, bringing a cessation to his agony.
I mustn’t, Tanner repeated to himself with slipping conviction. At his rebellious thought, the pain returned. It didn’t just race through his being, but searched and sheared, destroying who he was.
The head treasurer felt a spectator in his own life, rendered useless as bits of his memories ripped away from him. Each one left an abscess of acid in its place. Gone, his knowledge of his father, mother, brothers and sisters. Gone, his first crush. Gone, his first time lying with a woman. On and on, relentless.
“The cellar! It’s in the cellar! Behind the vegetable bins!”
Tanner woke, lying on his side, vomiting bile upon an icy stone floor. He heard screams, mad cackles from the darkness. Panic engulfed him as he realized he must be in the royal dungeons, his own screams of horror joining, mingling with the others.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Raina and Viscou
nt Martin stood at the top of the bridge, exchanging pleasantries when they heard the far-off sounds of shouting. The palace guard poked their heads out of hastily erected huts. Another blizzard had passed by, leaving more death and devastation in its wake. Homes and businesses weakened by the fire, or of uncertain construction to begin with, collapsed under the weight of more snow and ice. Many who had been inside were crushed or left with horrific injuries. Not a few people ran out of wood or food and froze. Those who made it through, and didn’t think they could survive another storm with what they had, showed up at the palace with all their goods, begging for shelter. The small shanty encampment outside the palace walls grew daily. Despite the cold, the stench of unwashed bodies, booze, and misery permeated the air.
The small group still couldn’t see what or who caused the commotion. The weak sun did its best to shine down. The noises got louder, and people who had volunteered to go out and cut wood for fuel to keep the homeless warm, appeared.
Behind them, men limped or were half-carried by friends. A few bodies lay still on top of the logs, blood soaking in and dripping down the sides. Bringing up the rear was another cart with people inside. The group began the climb up the icy bridge as the patrol stepped outside, waiting for them.
“What happened?” called out a guard.
“Damn bandits attacked us! Must have thought we had supplies of food. Killed a few of our good men. We captured those we didn’t fight off, and some of our boys went after the runners. Found a bunch of their slags and kids, and figured if we took ‘em prisoner, that’d keep the others in line.” A large man with snow-covered beard and hair spoke.
“Dunno what you want us to do with ‘em; we barely have room for our own.”
“Toss ‘em in the dungeon, let ‘em rot,” advised the lead man as he continued on up the steep hill.
The two young people watched in shock as the cart full of captives passed, mostly women, children, and elders with a few young men, all shivering, emaciated, and barely clothed in rags.
“Pardon me, Mistress Raina, but this seems to be a matter which will require my presence at the palace.” Lord Martin bowed good-bye, doing his best to hurry up the slippery hill.
Raina turned to the remaining guard. “What if they’re not bandits? What if they’re really poor farmers?”
He sneered at her. “Don’t matter now, do it? They shouldn’t be attacking people. If they’re starving, they can sell themselves to the people who need and can afford a few more slaves.” He paused to spit on the ground. “Now go on with you. It isn’t any concern of a woman what happens to them.”
The young woman compressed her lips, scowling, turning toward the old Fishton Manor. She didn’t trust the duchess, even though Her Grace had been the one to appoint Raina as the new royal treasurer, including a raise in pay, but knew of no one else likely to care what became of those poor people.
I should just mind my own business. After all, no one came to help Hilel and me when the bad things happened.
The guards admitted her through the gates, escorting her to the front of a small house. Raina had enough time to glance at the bulk of the mansion, the structural work suspended until it became warmer. The young woman could still hear the chink of iron on stone as someone worked, probably on areas independent of needing the correct temperature. She sat waiting in the simple parlor, hands wrapped around a cup of hot cider, feet stretched toward the warmth of a crackling fire. Eventually, the inner door opened, and Her Grace entered.
Raina stood and curtsied, but was waved to sit.
“I did not think to see you here again.” A brief, amused smile curled the older woman’s lips up.
The young woman’s scowl said it all. “I would not be here; however, there is a subject which I feel you should be informed of.”
A brow raised. “More stealing of the royal funds and food stores?”
“No. At least, not that I have come across again, yet.” Quickly she told of what had transpired outside, afraid if she gave herself time to think, she wouldn’t mention it at all. Raina took a sip of cider when she was done.
Her Grace sat silent, eyes narrowed before speaking. “His Lordship is a fine man, the same in temperament and ideals as his father. I am sure he will make the proper inquiries and see the prisoners are fairly treated.”
“My apologies, Your Grace. I do not doubt what you say is true. However, he does not have the respect . . . he hasn’t earned . . .” She broke off, cursing softly under her breath. “His own mother works against him. I have accidentally overheard some of the things she says to her friends without realizing I am around.”
“Lady Elizabeth has many faults. I do not recall abject revenge toward her only son and heir to be one of them. Not when rumors say he is her favorite.”
“I would not know. I only know what I have heard with my own ears. I wanted to make sure the king’s advisor knows what is going on in the town.”
Another smile crossed the elegant woman’s face. “Ah, in which case, I thank you.” She stood to go, motioning for the girl to stay seated. “I trust you are settling into your new position, and your brother is doing well?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very well,” she replied before exiting the room.
* * *
Viscount Martin slowly rode down into the town proper; thin streams of smoke rose from hearths and chimneys. Before he had gone far, a small crowd of women, children, and elders gathered, arms out, pleading for food.
He shook his head sadly at them. “I only have coin.” He offered what he had on him, not much. A few snatched them, others cursed or spit on him. “Go to the palace; you will be taken in,” he urged them before moving on.
The young man knew that many, with their deep distrust of the king and the traitor Lord Nicky, would rather starve and freeze first. How is it none of us saw the depths of evil in the former advisor? He turned his chestnut mare into the sheriff’s office training yard, seeing the recruits hard at work. It seemed to him the group had grown. He handed his reins over to his groom, and walked through the dirty slush to where his father and Saizar stood giving instructions.
“Father, sheriff.”
“Afternoon,” the men greeted him.
Martin asked if they heard about the attack, proceeding to tell them what he’d discovered, which wasn’t much. The prisoners refused to speak with him. He concluded by saying. “I suppose I should inform the duchess.”
“I will handle it,” his father said, “or Saizar, for it is clear any other such parties will be needing protection. I only hope the farms have enough security, as they will no doubt be attacked next.”
* * *
Sydney wrapped his cloak more tightly about him as he descended the dungeon stairs after the head clerk. The walls bore a thin layer of ice, and he could see where ice had been chipped off the stone stairs and floor to allow safe passage.
The fire pit in the guard’s room did little to dispel the chill. The men huddled so close, they were in danger of catching fire themselves.
What must the prisoners be suffering if the guards themselves cannot even keep warm? he wondered with dread.
There was grumbling from the new head guard over having to leave the comfort of the fire, and he didn’t bother masking his annoyance.
“They ain’t gonna talk. They wouldn’t fer the last guy what came here.”
“His Majesty commands me,” the earl lied, which made the man fall quiet as he escorted the noble to a cell.
Sydney peered through the grill set in the door to the new arrival’s cell. He could barely see inside and asked for entrance.
“Damn king and nobles, why you all gotta be bothering with scum when our town is suffering?” he mumbled under his breath as he worked the key.
Finally, the door unlocked and swung open. The guard thrust his torch inside to provide more light. Those inside and nearest cringed, hands up to their eyes to shield them.
The earl entered with his torc
h, heart seizing at the sight. Ice coated the walls and ceiling thinly, which barely cut down on the stench of human waste and unwashed bodies packed tightly inside. Moldy straw littered the floor. The cell was made to hold maybe four people total, but he counted at least a dozen.
Eyes glittered in faces little more than flesh-covered skulls.
“When was the last time these people were fed?” he quietly asked the guard.
“Last night. They only get one meal a day. We haven’t the stores for more,” the head guard explained, while his tone implied even if there was, the prisoners wouldn’t be given extra food.
Sydney addressed the group. “If any of you want to have a fair hearing and escape hanging, now would be a good time to speak up.”
He waited while most turned their eyes or heads away from him. A few stared mutely, eyes dull.
“Please,” he began, “if at any point you want to speak with me, I will come. At least consider it for your children, if not for yourselves.”
He stepped back outside, the guard following and locking up.
“Told you theys wouldn’t talk.” The guard couldn’t help himself as they walked back to the main room.
“I want to know if any of them want to speak with me. I don’t care what time of day or night it is.”
“Why’s a noble like you care? You people never do,” the guard questioned, not caring he could be punished for talking thus with a member of the nobility.
Sydney handed the torch back before replying, “Changes are being made, whether we like them or not.”
“I thought you supported, I mean . . .”—the guard realized he was straying into territory best left alone—“Her Grace.”
“She is a woman of infinite kindness and wisdom. She can see the good in a person that others overlook. Even those accused of crimes.” He didn’t know why he answered, or explained his position, to the crown’s servant before him.
The guard snorted, the look on his face clearly saying he didn’t trust or believe the noble before him but wasn’t going to be stupid enough to argue further.