by CS Sealey
Tirk looked as though he was about to cry. His hands still grasped at the spell that bound his neck. Varren had never seen anyone so pathetic. The man had lied feebly and it was now time for him to pay the price. The people of the empire, the army especially, had been waiting for the man responsible for the general’s murder to be brought to justice. His sentence was death but Varren would use no wrenches, racks, whips, hot irons or sharp metal instruments to extract the confession. He would use only magic.
While holding onto the first spell with his right hand, he raised his left and summoned another spell. Flames began to flicker around his fingers and he smiled.
“For your crimes, you will not die quickly. I will make you suffer and, in that time, you will learn remorse for what you have done. You Ronnesians have had your last chance.”
“They will praise my name for what I did! Without a skilled general, who will lead your armies? Who will bring you victory?”
Varren released his spell in a wave of unnatural fire that sent pain coursing through Tirk’s limbs, though his skin remained untouched. Varren could see the agony in the man’s eyes as though thousands of tiny knives were piercing and ripping his muscles.
“Stop! Please!”
“I am giving you the chance to confess. Tell me truthfully who hired you and I will be merciful.”
Another wave of scorching fire hit the traitor and Varren tugged at his first spell, tightening the loop around Tirk’s neck. The man’s eyes began to bulge and he gasped for air. Varren’s own face, however, remained unmoved. He watched, expressionless, as Tirk crumpled with the lack of oxygen and clawed at his neck to free himself.
You have him, Galenros said, his whisper holding traces of amusement.
Tirk looked up with frightened eyes and nodded frantically. Varren relented and the spells dissipated. The man collapsed onto his front in the dirt and it was some time before he had the strength to rise to his hands and knees.
“Talk,” Varren said, looking down at him with disgust. “You do not know the extent of my abilities, but I have already given you a taste. It is up to you whether you risk lying to me further. Believe me, it will make a difference.”
“It – it wasn’t an infantryman,” Tirk said between sharp intakes of air. “It was someone higher than that.”
“I know. Go on.”
Tirk looked unwilling to say any more but Varren pressed his palms together and then drew them apart slowly, forming a ball of flickering white flame. Tirk’s eyes widened and he staggered back, fearing Varren would release his spell.
“As I said, you will receive clemency for any information you give me.”
Tirk nodded anxiously and then rose to his feet. “I was commissioned by the mayor of Te’Roek, Lord – ”
“Challan?”
“He had one of his men seek me out and arrange an audience. He offered so much money, I couldn’t refuse him.”
As the man told his tale, Varren probed his mind. Tirk was desperately trying to concentrate on his memories, trying not to miss any detail, the fear of death hanging over him. After a while, the sorcerer held up his hand and Tirk fell silent.
“Your order came from Mayor Challan, which means there is a great possibility that it came from the very top.”
“Queen Sorcha?” Tirk exclaimed and frantically shook his head. “Oh, no! No, it can’t have been. The mayor was adamant that she remain ignorant of the details!”
“Regardless, he may have had her unofficial blessing.”
Varren watched the man carefully, searching for any signs of deception. He found none. Tirk truly believed that the queen of the Ronnesians was innocent of this crime. Varren, though, remained unconvinced.
“All right,” he said, straightening to his full and impressive height. “You have said all you can have to say. Stand up.”
Tirk, foolishly believing that he would now receive his freedom, clambered to his feet eagerly. Varren looked him up and down, his face laced with contempt.
“I have no further use for you.”
“Then you will let me go?”
Varren laughed mirthlessly. “Let you go? Are you insane?”
With that, he raised his boot and kicked Tirk in the stomach, flinging him into the dirt. Before the man recovered, Varren strode over to his sprawled figure and brought a foot down heavily on his left knee. There was a terrible crack and an agonizing cry. Varren glowered at him and proceeded to crush the right knee as well. The following scream pierced the silence of the sleeping world around them. The horse stirred with unease.
“I will make you beg for death!” Varren cried. “I will make your throat hoarse from screaming!”
Strings of blackness issued from his fingertips and he lashed out, whipping them at the man’s unprotected flesh, flinging streams of blood into the air. Tirk tried to crawl away, pulling his useless shattered legs behind him. But Varren leaped after him and, raising his boot once more, crushed one of Tirk’s elbows, bending it backward. The resulting scream left his ears ringing but he was not yet finished with the Ronnesian. Varren tucked one foot under the man’s stomach and flipped him onto his back, drawing more cries from his lips.
“You…you said you would show me mercy!” Tirk gasped, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Your wounds aren’t fatal but the animals that have heard your cries will be quick to find you. They won’t care if you’re alive or dead. They’ll rip your body apart and you won’t be able to stop them. But I am merciful. I will deliver you from this world.”
Tirk attempted to speak but a bout of coughing silenced him. From the hatred in his eyes, however, Varren could imagine what he had wished to say. He crouched down beside the Ronnesian and slowly drew the jeweled dagger from his belt. He raised the weapon and let Tirk see the sharp edges of the perfectly crafted steel blade. Then he stabbed once, twice, three times into the man’s side. Tirk screamed, his voice already growing hoarse. His undamaged arm attempted to ward off the attacks but his strength was quickly failing him.
Varren looked down at what he had done. A pool of blood was spreading around the dying man and soaking into the earth. Varren found an unstained corner of Tirk’s ripped tunic and wiped his dagger clean. After replacing it in his belt, he slapped Tirk across the face to wake him from his pain-induced trance. The Ronnesian’s bloodshot and unfocused eyes opened slowly.
“I hope the realm of the dead finds you well,” the sorcerer said quietly, clasping Tirk’s bloodied face. “Your associates shall be joining you soon.”
From his palms, he released a surge of hot magic that delved into every inch of Tirk’s skin, muscles and bones. Tirk’s limbs twitched from the impact, from his face right down to his feet, like a ripple on water. He took in one last, rasping breath, then he was dead.
CHAPTER 23
Just under a quarter of the Ronnesian force had been killed defending the border when the Ayons had crossed the Great River Divide. Despite the Ayons having lost a greater number of soldiers, it was essential that their military numbers be restored at the border. The Ronnesians possessed a strong defensive position, and with winter quickly settling in across Menthenae, the commanders did not want to be stranded there with too few men to adequately defend the front line. Both Tiderius Auran and Emil Latrett had remained at the encampment, agreeing that a few days’ vigil at the northern border would be beneficial, just in case the Ayons planned another attempt to cross the Divide. However, as the days passed, they also agreed that it was increasingly unlikely.
The Ayon commander was among the men who had been captured after the Ayon retreat. He had been identified easily, as his armor had been the most intricately designed, with the Ayon coat of arms on his chest, and a large crimson plume adorning his helmet. Three days had passed since the thwarted invasion and the Ayon commander had not been treated well. After being stripped down to his tunic, he had been paraded through the encampment and subjected to the jeers and laughter of the Ronnesian garrison. Tiderius had not be
en surprised to learn that the Ayon commander had consequently attempted to strangle one of his guards. As a result, the Ayon had been thrown into the stocks. Despite this constant humiliation, his resolve had not yet cracked.
“Name?” Tiron asked, not looking up from the report he was scribing.
Tiderius watched as the defeated Ayon commander gave Tiron a look of pure loathing. Had the man’s hands not been chained securely behind his back, Tiderius had no doubt he would have leaped forward and grabbed Tiron’s throat. However, the Ayon commander spat on the floor and said nothing. The two guards who had dragged their chained prisoner to Commander Tiron’s tent stood silently, hands on their sword hilts, waiting for orders.
Tiron looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Ah, the man in charge of that pitiful attack,” he said, glancing in Tiderius’s direction, trying to hide his smirk.
“Spirits piss on you and your queen for that cowardly act,” the Ayon said through clenched teeth. “Mages fighting within the pack like dogs among sheep!”
The humor left Tiron’s eyes immediately and he moved around the table quicker than Tiderius would have expected. He had sustained an injury in the battle, a pike wound to his leg, but whatever pain he felt, Tiron did not show it. He angled a powerful fist into the side of the Ayon’s face and the prisoner’s head jerked to the side from the force of the strike, but he merely cracked his thick neck and faced Tiron once more.
“Do what you want with me,” the man growled, “I care little for my life.”
“Indeed, it took three men to restrain you when you turned your sword upon yourself,” Tiron said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Returning to Delseroy unsuccessful would seem a fate worse than death.”
“When freedom is not an option, I would rather take my own life a dozen times over than give a Ronnesian pig the honor of doing it once!” Again he spat, but this time, the phlegm hit Tiron in the face. Closing his eyes, Tiron wiped it off with the back of his hand. Tiderius was quick to reach for his sword, but he had only drawn it an inch before he stopped himself. The Ayon commander was a prisoner of war and killing him served no purpose. It would make him a martyr. It was not Tiderius’s duty to decide the man’s fate.
“Excuse me, sir,” Tiderius said, and hastily left Commander Tiron’s tent, chastizing himself for his lack of control. He strode through the camp toward the east gate. Since the foiled invasion, he had taken to helping the border soldiers go about their usual duties, finding that it took his mind off his brother and, though he tried to convince himself otherwise, Angora as well.
When he was not a dozen yards from the east gate, he ran into Emil, who was descending the stairs from the wooden ramparts.
“Everything seems to be going well,” the shaman said. “Our scouts have reported that most of the force across the river has fallen back. We have bought these boys some time.”
“I suppose another attack will not come before spring, then.”
“We can only hope. How is your brother?”
“All right, I guess,” Tiderius replied, glancing at the field hospital. “He’s healing slowly but he’s in a terrible state…in his head.”
“War madness,” Emil said solemnly.
“Not exactly. He knows the battle has ended and we won, but…Oh, I don’t know. I should probably go see him.”
“Ah, before you go, lad,” Emil said, catching his arm. “I’m heading back to Te’Roek this evening to relay the events of the invasion.”
“I’ll get my things ready.”
“No need. Aiyla informs me the queen has given you leave to remain here until your brother’s condition has improved.”
Tiderius looked into Emil’s eyes. “This has something to do with what Angora said, hasn’t it?” he asked suspiciously. “You’re loosening my lead a little.”
“No, no,” Emil assured him. “What has happened to your brother has shaken you. You might not notice it but I have. In any case, your presence here will help boost the men’s spirits. Do whatever you can to keep them motivated. You deserve a reprieve.”
“A reprieve at the front line?”
“Is it not more straightforward than the politics at court?” Emil asked, raising his eyebrows. “Have a good break.”
Tiderius sighed and trudged along the main passage through the tents toward the field hospital. Since the battle, he had visited Rasmus several times each day to check on his progress. It was very slow. The wounds to Rasmus’s legs had seemed shallow on the battlefield but the healers had told Tiderius in confidence that great internal damage had been done.
“Your brother was lucky no major blood vessels were severed,” a surgeon had said. “Though the lacerations are deep, there is only minor nerve damage. He will have to stay in bed until the soft tissue heals.”
However, Rasmus’s wounds were not healing as quickly as the healers would have liked. It was as though his body had slowed down and become as morose as Rasmus himself. Tiderius was thoroughly perplexed, for his brother had always been the optimist, finding a silver lining in any situation. He distinctly remembered when the two of them had been boys and Rasmus had caught a severe fever during a particularly harsh Nortica winter.
“I’m quite happy about it,” Rasmus had joked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I bet I’m much warmer than you are and you have to do all my chores.”
Rasmus had hardly spoken to Tiderius during his visits to the field hospital. He shared a tent with other victims from the attack, all of whom were in better spirits. “War…” he had muttered to Tiderius on the night after the battle. “Those men I killed could have been our comrades, had they been born on the opposite bank of that river.”
As Tiderius entered the tent, he hoped his brother’s spirit had lifted somewhat. Some of the pallets upon which soldiers had been lying that morning were now vacant. Tiderius wondered whether that was a good or bad sign. He crouched at Rasmus’s bedside and glanced at the healer who was redressing his wounds. Both gashes on Rasmus’s head had been stitched and half of his face and most of his shaved scalp were covered with bandages. The wounds to Rasmus’s legs had been dealt with to the best of the surgeons’ abilities, but it was Rasmus’s hand that now caused Tiderius the greatest concern. Though it was his left, with two missing fingers, his brother would not be able to perform as well as he had done on the field of battle. He might be forced into early retirement with the mail service, shipped off to one of the trading offices dotted around the provinces, or perhaps behind a desk at the Te’Roek barracks. That would completely shatter what was left of Rasmus’s spirit. He would feel ashamed and spend the rest of his life mourning what might have been. He would consider himself incomplete and a failure.
The healer dabbed at Rasmus’s hand with a damp cloth that smelled richly of herbs and then reached for the dressing. Rasmus averted his weary gaze as she smoothed the orange-colored paste onto the stitches. Tiderius saw his brother’s eyes water from the pain, but he did not utter a sound.
“Emil is allowing me to stay for another couple of days,” Tiderius told him when the healer had finished and gone to tend another patient.
Rasmus nodded wordlessly and shifted himself in the pillows. He slipped his arm out of the sling the healer had given him and glanced at his bandaged hand.
“The healer told me it’s mending well,” Tiderius said.
“What is left of it to mend,” his brother muttered.
Tiderius wanted to tell him that it was not very much to lose, considering that he may well have lost his life like so many others, but decided against it. His brother lived to fight, it was the center of his being. He was not bloodthirsty but understood the necessity of battle, and reveled in the strange elegance of swordplay. “It could have been much worse,” he said finally. “At least you’ve still got most of it. I saw another man who lost his arm just below the elbow.”
Rasmus only grunted in reply.
Wandering the camp later, Tiderius wondered whether he would have been sta
tioned here as a common infantryman had the Spirits chosen Rasmus instead to wield Anathris. He never would have lived in the castle and concerned himself with politics. He may have led a normal life. Hell, he may have married already and had sons. Despite the wounds his brother had been dealt, he suddenly felt as though he would have given a lot more to trade places with him.
*
That evening, Tiderius was sitting by one of the campfires after having eaten his rations when Emil joined him. “Thought you’d gone to the capital.”
“Yes, I did,” Emil replied, “but I had to hurry back. Something has upset the Circle. I’m afraid we must return at once, there is a very real threat in Te’Roek.”
“A spy?”
“Much worse than that,” Emil said solemnly.
After arriving back at Te’Roek castle in a flurry of mist, it did not take Tiderius very long to understand what had worried the Circle. Four bodies were lying in front of the castle gates and guards were preventing civilians from stepping onto the forecourt. The bodies, though covered with sheets, were undoubtedly the castle guards and gate wardens of the night shift.
“Why are the wardens on this side of the gates?” he asked but Emil shook his head and continued into the castle. He only answered the question once they were climbing the stairs to the level above, well out of earshot.
“I can only assume that they were lured out and killed.”
“Has anyone else been hurt?” Tiderius asked anxiously. “Has anything been stolen?”
“Not as far as we know. It appears that he simply lured them out, killed them, then left a note for us to pick up.”
“A note?”
Emil nodded. “It was left in one of their mouths.”
Tiderius entered the meeting room a moment later, sat himself down in his usual chair and fixed his eyes on Markus Taal, who had a small piece of paper in his hand. He rose to his feet once the five protectors were present and began to read: “General Carter’s death was uncommonly advantageous for you, Your Majesty. I was surprised at your choice of weapon. Was he truly the best you could find? He certainly was not the best at staying silent before he died. No doubt, his death is of little concern to you. He was, after all, merely a hired blade. All who were directly involved with the assassination will meet their fates at the hour and manner of my choosing. Nomanis Tirk and the whore are dead, Briel Challan will be next.”