A moment later, he stood inside a cell within the palace’s prison.
CHAPTER 22
The Fall
“The city is ours, Supreme Commander,” the warrior told him, falling to one knee, placing his forehead on the floor.
Once the Drammune had stormed the palace, they found and took the prison easily, shooting the two guards where they stood. The older one, the one with the sallow face, had a key ring on his belt. Before the gun smoke cleared, the cell door of Fen Abbaka Mux swung open. Mux stepped out, immediately and fully in charge. The warrior in submission before him was Huk Tuth, Commander of the Glorious Drammune Navy.
“Rise. And their troops?”
Tuth stood. “Fled like cowards.”
Mux nodded.
Then the gnarled old commander added, “Most of them.”
Mux cut his eyes toward him. “How many have we killed?”
“No count yet. We shot many in the back as they ran, but many more escaped. They ran like rabbits. Their blue warriors, however, fought very well inside the palace grounds.”
Mux looked surprised. Commander Tuth did not hand out praise lightly. “The dragoons?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mux knew the report he had just been given was not nearly so good as it might have sounded to the other soldiers listening. The Drammune armies had taken the city quickly, but many more Vast soldiers had escaped than had been killed. Worse, those who had stood and fought had taken a toll on his own troops.
“And their king?”
“Fled also. Of the royal family, only a prince remains.”
Mux grimaced. Their king was alive, their armies intact. “How easily did we rout them?”
“Quite easily, sir, except within the stone walls here.”
“They didn’t stand and fight?”
“Only inside the walls.”
Now Mux’s great brow furrowed. “And how many officers did we capture?”
“None alive.”
“None?”
“None alive, sir.”
“Are our troops pursuing theirs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop them. Immediately.”
“Sir?”
“Call a halt to our advance; all troops are to camp where they stand, and await orders.”
“But sir—”
“Do it now!” Mux roared.
“Yes, sir!” And Tuth hobbled off to find a horseman.
The supreme commander sighed. Maybe they had routed the Vast soldiers that easily. But Vast leaders were wily, and loved deception more than battle. It was likely a trap. This war was far from over.
He looked up and down the putrid cells.
“Shall we kill these Pawns now, sir?” a soldier asked, clearly hopeful.
“No. We are inside the palace grounds. These are political prisoners, trouble to the Crown one way or another. Some might be useful. We will sort them out later.”
He walked over to the cell containing Packer Throme, who was seated cross-legged in the center of his straw bedding, watching. Mux pointed a finger. “This one, I know. I do not know why he is imprisoned, but I know he is a hero to the Vast. He has killed many Drammune. We will hang him publicly tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Packer did not know what all the words spoken by Abbaka Mux meant, though he was able to pick out “Vastcha,” “nochtay” and of course, “Drammune.” Packer also understood that he held a special place in the supreme commander’s plans, and that it was not a particularly pleasant place.
Just to be sure Packer didn’t miss his message, though, Mux grasped the bars with his thick fingers. He put his face in close, so that his beard jutted inside the cell. He was but six feet from Packer. “Nochtai Packer Throme,” he said evenly, looking down on him. Then he waited. “Where is your chant now?” he asked in Drammune. “Where is your Devilfish now?” He waited several more seconds, then asked, “Where is your God now?”
Satisfied the yellow-haired warrior knew who had won, he turned his back, faced his own subordinate. The man was holding a bucket of water with a ladle. “What’s that?” Mux asked.
“Water, sir. Thought you might be thirsty.”
Mux shook his head, then changed his mind. “Give it.” He took the bucket, ignored the ladle, and took a deep drink. Then he held it up toward Packer, spit in it, and poured the rest out on the ground.
He turned back to his subordinate. “Now take me to this prince.”
Prince Ward closed the heavy door, and slid the iron deadbolts back into place. He had heard it all. He was sweating now, and his whole body seemed to shake. He put his forehead on the cold iron.
The cell on the other side of this door, where he had been standing a moment ago, was used for torture. It had no bars, but rather solid wooden walls that were lined with manacles and chains. The single oaken door that led out to the prison hallway locked only from the inside. Dark stains covered the floor. From within that chamber, Ward had been able to make out most of Mux’s conversations. Ward’s skills with the Drammune language weren’t strong, but they were good enough to understand that Packer Throme would be hung in the morning.
But all Ward could think, and it was a thought he couldn’t get past, was that Mather was plenty smart enough to have planned this ahead of time. Why had he not sent Packer away with the Trophy Chase? Why had he not sent him out to fight the Drammune? Why had he put Packer behind bars? Was it really about that girl? Or was there something else?
For my own protection, Mather had said. And now Ward couldn’t shake one thought: What was the one offering a man like Fen Abbaka Mux might accept as evidence of Mather’s goodwill toward Drammun? Who was the one sacrifice that might protect dear Mather?
Ward Sennett felt the need for a good, strong drink.
When Mux arrived in the prince’s suite of rooms, Mather was seated at his desk, reading the Rahk-Taa. He was flanked by two Drammune warriors who guarded him with battle-axes. Several other warriors stood by, on watch, swords unsheathed. The show of force seemed all out of proportion for one slightly built, unarmed, beat-up young man intent on his studies.
As soon as he saw the supreme commander enter the room, Mather slid from his chair to his knees, and placed both hands and his forehead on the polished floor. “I submit to your will, and to the ruling of the Law,” he said in Drammune, his voice quavering.
Mux narrowed his eyes, taking in this show. He looked from guard to guard, read the amusement in their eyes. “As is right,” Mux said at last. “Rise.”
When the prince stood, Mux saw clearly the fear within him. He also saw for the first time his damaged face. “You are a prince of this land?”
“I am Mather Reynard Mason Sennett, first son of Reynard Red-cliff Odolf Sennett.”
Mux looked him up and down. He noted the signet ring on his right forefinger. “Give it.”
Mather took it off, held it out. Mux held his hand underneath it. The prince was careful not to offend the supreme commander by touching him as he dropped the signet into the thick, calloused palm. Satisfied that the blue opal was set within the royal crest, he tossed it back to Mather, who caught it with two hands.
“Who did this to your face?” he asked.
“My brother,” he lied.
“Why?”
“I have turned against my own people.” He said it with a forced smile. “I have worked tirelessly for this day. I welcome you, and all the Drammune.”
Mux snorted. He could read a coward easily enough, and this so-called noble was certainly that. His chin actually quivered. “You know you are a dead man. This ruse will not save you.”
Mather’s eyes grew wide. His conversion was very recent, true, but it was not in any way, by any means, feigned. Sitting alone in this room, one of his own rooms, surrounded by enemy soldiers who were spattered with Vast blood, who smelled of death, who would relish the opportunity to be spattered with royal blood and to smell like royal death, was an experience that invit
ed just the sort of reflection in which he had already begun to engage.
Mather swallowed hard, trying not to appear as fearful as he felt, knowing the Drammune respected only strength. “You have slain many of the Unworthy,” he said, nodding. “You have taken their dominion.” He had to remind himself to quit nodding. He had to tell himself to breathe. “It is now my honor to serve you.” He fell again into a position of prostration. He hoped his body’s quaking wasn’t too noticeable.
Mux looked at his soldiers again, who were trying not to laugh. Mux motioned them to be silent. Then he boomed, “Why should I believe this pretense?”
The prince’s thin voice all but squeaked, as it rose up from his prostrate position. “I have delivered the nation’s hero, Packer Throme, into your hands.”
Now Mux scratched his beard. This, at least, was true. “Why?”
Mather spoke into the floor, chills going through him. “I thought you would like to kill him yourself, Your Worthiness. His dominion is not in titles or lands, but in the leading and inspiring of his people. That dominion should be yours by all rights.”
“Stand before me.” Mather obeyed. Mux tried to look past the abject terror, to see what kind of man hid within, and what his motives might be. “You speak excellent Drammune. And you know the Kar Ixthano.”
He started nodding again. “Yes. I know it. I have undermined the strength of Nearing Vast, that you might arrive here as you have.”
Now Mux hesitated. Could it be true? “Why?”
Mather breathed. He quit nodding. “I did not know why until now,” he said honestly. “But I have studied the Rahk-Taa from childhood. I now understand where true power lies. I know for a fact it does not lie here in this land. We are weak. We are vile. I have contributed greatly to our downfall. This land is Unworthy. I have been Unworthy. But I now welcome the Worthy, who are destined to rule.”
“So you will renounce your loyalty to your own kingdom?”
“I will,” he said without hesitation. “If that is what you ask. I would rule it for you, however, under your Worthy guidance. I know these people. I have knowledge of our secrets. That is, their secrets. The Vast.”
Mux stared hard at him. “You would become Drammune?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, sir. I would welcome that honor.”
The soldiers glanced at one another. This weakling could never pass for royalty in Drammun. And yet, Mux thought, he could be extremely helpful. If, that is, he was truly in earnest.
“Do you renounce the God of your land?”
“Yes,” Mather said instantly. He felt a twinge of conscience as he did, but he pushed it back to its source, wherever that was. No moral qualm could compete with the fear that sat like cold iron in the middle of his chest, like boiling liquid in his stomach. “With your permission, I now serve Fen Abbaka Mux.”
One side of Mux’s upper lip rose to reveal a broken tooth. “We shall see.”
Dog never quite lost consciousness, though he drifted close several times. After waves of Drammune soldiers rushed by, he lay in the bloody dirt and sand for quite some time, expecting he would die. But after a while he didn’t, and then after another while he thought maybe he wouldn’t. This left his situation considerably improved, but also considerably more complex. He was very badly wounded, a Vast soldier lying in a sandbag redoubt in a city now taken by the Drammune. He was behind enemy lines.
So after another while, he realized he had to do something, and so he rolled over. His chest roared its unhappiness. It felt like it had been sliced clean through to his spine.
But it hadn’t been. With great effort, and more excruciating pain yet, he sat up. His arms didn’t work quite right, and when he looked at his chest, he knew why. He saw sand and rocks and dirt and caked blood filling a huge, straight gash across him, right through his shirt and skin and deep into the muscle.
He now heard footsteps, hobnailed sandals, soldiers speaking in a harsh foreign tongue. He put his head back against the sandbags. He was facing away from the street, toward the Rampart wall; there was a chance they wouldn’t see him. He pulled his feet up toward him, which caused him almost as much pain as sitting up had. But it did the job. The soldiers passed by.
After several more whiles, during which he couldn’t come up with a better plan than to stay hidden, a head popped over the top of the sandbags. “Are you all right?” it asked. This was the face of a well-meaning, smiling man, with merry slits for eyes.
“Fine,” Dog answered bitterly. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Excellent,” it said, and the face was gone.
Dog’s anger rose, then was quickly replaced with a whimper of regret. He did need help. He wanted help. He simply had too much pride, even here at death’s door, to admit it. He closed his eyes. He was a foolish, arrogant old man, and he would die here alone now from sheer orneriness.
But the face popped back up over the sandbags. “Just sit still. I’ll bring help.”
Tears of thankfulness stung his eyes.
Soon, three or four citizens were removing sandbags. An older gentleman had a light jacket that he took off, and without pausing in his efforts, threw it over Dog’s shoulders. The smiling face, Dog now saw, belonged to a priest.
“ ‘In the world ye shall have tribulation,’ ” he quoted gently. “ ‘But be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.’ ” These words were a great comfort to Dog. He wasn’t a very pious man, but the thought that anyone, ever, would have so much confidence as to speak words as bold as those was itself comforting.
“Can you stand?” the little priest asked in a whisper as he tugged at a sandbag.
Pain seemed to rack Dog’s entire body, but when he looked at his legs he saw nothing wrong with them. “I think so.”
“We’ll have to make it look like you’ve been working. When I say so, stand up and walk.”
“Should I take up my bed too?” Dog asked through gritted teeth.
The little priest smiled. It was a very tough man who could attempt humor at this moment. “I’ll help you.”
A moment later, three other men, all older than Dog, one appearing to be as old as Dog and Father Mooring combined, were working on the sandbags nearby.
“All right…stand up!” the priest said in a whisper. He and the coatless man helped Dog to his feet. Dog’s face went white with the effort not to cry out. The priest hummed a hymn.
Standing, Dog could see that the work crew had been carrying bodies to the center of an intersection, stacking them there on wooden debris and straw, making an unceremonious funeral pyre of Vast soldiers. The conscripted Vast citizens were mostly old, infirm, female or, like Father Mooring, otherwise considered no threat to the Drammune soldiers who oversaw the effort. Dog was concerned that the jacket didn’t cover the bloody gash across his chest. But before he could worry about it, someone standing by the pyre shouted to the Drammune.
“Hey! This one’s still alive!” But he wasn’t talking about Dog, he was pointing at a dead dragoon. The priest and Dog stood side by side, watching, their backs to the two Drammune overseers, who now came running to understand what the Vast salamander was yelling about.
“Ana nocht,” Bran said to them as they passed.
The Drammune soldier kicked the dragoon, then calmly drew his sword and plunged it with two hands down through the dead man’s back. “Nocht,” he said confidently. “Charna,” he ordered. And then he watched as the men put the dragoon’s body onto the pyre. Kerosene was poured, and then the fire was lit.
A few minutes later, as the Drammune warriors watched the black smoke rise from the center of the intersection, it occurred to one of them that the little priest had spoken to him in Drammune. He looked around, but the priest had disappeared.
Bran Mooring was by then sitting in the back room of a small, boarded-up inn off a nearby alley, tending to Dog’s wounds.
It was almost noon before Father Mooring set out for his own cottage again. His muscles ached, and his heart beat furiously a
s he picked his way carefully through the city streets. Makeshift funeral pyres were now burning at almost every intersection. The conscripted workers tried to be silent, tried to obey their conquerors, who had ordered silence, but they were exhausted, and so as they watched through tears and terror, an involuntary whimper, or groan, or sob provided a counterpoint to the roar and crackle of flame.
More than one citizen knelt and retched, overcome by the smoke and the stench of burning flesh, the sight of mangled bodies, the ruin it entailed, and the deeper darkness it promised. Other citizens, those who had not fled and who were not volunteered by the Drammune for this detail, stayed indoors and watched. Weeping could be heard from behind shuttered windows.
The Drammune warriors wrapped the bodies of their own fallen comrades in sheets and bedclothes taken from Vast homes, and loaded them carefully, even tenderly, into carts, to be taken to the shores of the Vast Sea, where they would be cremated in a far more ceremonial fashion.
Bran Mooring moved quickly, purposefully, along the edges of these streets, hugging the walls and windows of the closed shops and looted stores, staying in the deepest shadows. An occasional Drammune warrior would look at him, assess him, and let him pass. The priest did not understand this. Certainly he was a marked man, wearing the most visible badge of a God foreign to these people. But he thanked that God, and kept moving.
But it was no great mystery. With blood staining his hands, blood and sweat drenching his robes, he seemed to the Drammune both purposeful and pitiful. Since he had so obviously been put to work already, they assumed he had been sent on some errand. He did not appear to have the backbone to disobey.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 78