“What about questioning him?”
“That should be fine, so long as you keep the session brief, and understand that there might be some confusion or memory loss on the prisoner’s part.”
Memory loss, thought Drish as though it were a silly notion, but then he found the past shrouded in a hazy sort of fog. It hurt to try and look beyond it, but he forced himself to anyway. Something buried behind the gossamer veil of his addled memory had deeply affected him, and the emotional scar was freshly made and throbbed like a burn. He searched, beyond the pain, beyond the fog, and found an image of his father laying in the snow and the mud. That despicable pirate Bar Bazzon was there too, and so was that trollop-somehow-turned-lady, Abigail. They were both standing over his father, and there was blood everywhere.
Arvis was dying, he realized.
“My father,” muttered Drish, and he found his voice strange to behold. It reminded him of Arvis’s handicapped speech, and that sent a sudden pang of terror through him, thinking that he would suffer a similar disability as his father.
An officer in an imperial uniform appeared, standing over him, and at once Drish recognized the humorless face of Colonel Graye, the night commander from the administrative compound. The sight of him, however, only further complicated his muddled memories, and he began to wonder if the fragments he remembered had just been from some dream? It seemed too incredulous to think back on; the clandestine meeting with Dumount…no Domaire, delving into a seedy tavern that turned out to be an insurgent strong-hold, kidnapped by pirates from his townhouse, a high-speed escape to a burned out factory where a ground-battle had raged…and his father dead. All of this was so far outside of anything that Drish had ever experienced that it was easier to chalk it up to a concussion-induced fantasy than an actual reality. Maybe I slipped on the ice leaving the office…
“He was dead by the time my men secured the ruins,” said the officer, unremorseful. And just like that the gilded scenario Drish had created to wash away the terrible truth of events crumbled to dust. However, instead of finding debilitating sadness, Drish found his heart vacant. There was nothing inside of him left to toll the bells of sorrow, and the orphaned son simply lay passively in his medical bed, with his brow furrowed in what could have simply been construed as confusion. The officer must have believed as such.
“I’m sorry, it’s true, Mr. Larken,” he offered more sympathetically.
“Where am I?” Drish tried to sit up, to which the nurse laid a gentle hand to his chest while the doctor advised him not to move. So the noble rested his head back against the soft pillow and scanned with his eyes. He was in a medical ward, no doubt, but it didn’t look a thing like any hospital he’d ever been in. For one, an entire wall had been carved directly from gray granite, which was streaked with veins of pink; and another, its oppose was constructed of plaster and posts, with a ceiling of open beams. Combined with the windows—tall and narrow—it all spoke towards a style of construction more ancient than not, and one Drish remembered from his studies as being favored by the old Oberarch kings of a hundred years prior to the ratification of the Ascellan Kingdom.
“In the safest place you could possibly be.” Lt. Graye strolled to the window and parted the drapes to let the outside world shine in. Snowcapped mountains came staring through the leaded glass, with their summits lost above a sky of wooly-gray. “You’re in Port Armageddon.”
“Port Armageddon…” Drish’s face fell into an open gawk. Though he couldn’t see the cliffs below; or the airdocks, or the platform parade grounds welded to their faces; the tiered buildings or the cloistered causeways that tied it all together; the ancient aesthetic to the construction, and the damp chill to the air confirmed the truth of the Hierarch’s statement. He was up in the mountains of the High Crown, in what used to be the UKA’s Cloudfortress, Ragnarok.
Graye let the curtains fall closed. “So everything is alright now,” the man paced to the sound of his own hard soles echoing through the expansive space, “the Resistance can’t touch you here. You know, I’m really quite glad it was I who volunteered to lead the arrest squad, Mr. Larken, another officer might not have insisted on such a thorough search of the premises, not after the adrenaline rush of such a heated firefight with your resistance. But I’m glad I did, because next to an overturned wastebasket behind your desk I found this.” Graye pulled out a crumbled document from a pocket inside his black trench coat.
There it was, the handwritten note Drish had tried to dispose of when the pirates were pressing in around him. The wrinkles had been smoothed somewhat flat and the vomit had dried on the corner. On its bottom, his first name stared back at him accusingly: Drish La.
In an instant the officer had the confession turned back around so he could proudly examine it himself. “I must say, though a bit farfetched and suspiciously conciliatory, given the circumstances, it’s quite the extraordinary letter. My investigators assure me—upon preliminary research—that enough of your statement appears to be true to warrant, perhaps, a higher-level of trust between us. Domaire’s… confession helped you substantially in that respect as well. And now I find myself inclined to believe you, despite what prior accusations would have me believe. It seems, in fact, that you are innocent, and have never willfully given aid to those troublesome insurgents. Clearly, in your unfortunate case, you are a victim of a dastardly scheme of embezzlement on your father’s part.
“One more charge to be heaped upon the dead, I suppose,” added Graye. “Of course you are going to receive a formal trial for associating with rebels—due to your capture on the field of battle. That is unavoidable, but as your record is thus-far exemplary, and your confession note so telling, I’m fairly confident the Judge Advocate will recommend leniency; especially with my sworn affidavit to back up your defense.”
Drish’s mood lightened slightly. This was good news, despite everything that had happened he was spared. However, his father’s death seemed to steal away any real zeal over this victory. But just as well, at least this nightmare is over, he reassured himself. And after the conclusion of this whole trial business, he could go back to his home, hopefully his job, and his life; and then maybe, someday, lament his father’s death in peace.
“You see, the Empire’s not so bad after all, is it?” remarked Graye pleasantly, smiling down on the collaborator, but there was something in those white upon white eyes that made Drish suddenly uncomfortable. “Just one more thing however… I am curious, where did the rest of the insurgent fighters retreat to? Intel suggests we engaged about two and half dozen, but we were only able to recover the bodies of seven. The rest seemed to have escaped like the rats they are. So, Mr. Larken, where is this nest they’ve retreated to?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know, Colonel.”
“Hmm…It seems everyone says that: ‘to tell you the truth’.” Graye turned his icy eyes upon the noble, and spoke with gentle reassurance. “Come, come, Mr. Larken, you owe them nothing. The letter you wrote proves you held no great loyalty towards them when it came to your own Candaran hide, so why protect them now? And consider this as well, how they just up and abandoned you in that foundry. So tell me true, where can I round up the rest of this rabble and be done with this troubling nonsense.”
“I don’t know,” repeated Drish, gritting his teeth in frustration, but it turned to a grimace of pain in his jaw. He remembered when Bar Bazzon had struck him in the face, and he wondered if the captain’s body was among those recovered. He couldn’t say he was sorry if it had.
“That’s a pity? You had been so helpful up until now. Are you sure you don’t remember?”
Remember? Drish didn’t like the implications of that allusion. “I never knew,” he snapped back, straining against his bounds till they chafed his flesh.
Graye scowled in disappointment before turning about abruptly on his heels. “When will the prisoner be fit for transport to the stockades?”
The masked doctor’s response sounded i
ndifferent, “As I’ve said, I need to keep him overnight for observation, but by tomorrow I should have a clearer idea of his long-term medical prognosis.”
“Lt. Graye, I’m telling you the truth,” Drish pleaded in desperation. He could see his life slipping through his fingers like the snow drifting outside and melting on the window.
“Regardless of the prisoner’s medical state in the morning, see to it that he’s prepared to be transferred to the dungeons. I want to get him into an interrogation cell before the trail goes cold. I want those insurgents, down to the last man, and he’s my key. And make sure he’s restrained.”
While the doctor and nurse set about buckling him down with leather straps, Drish watched in anguish as Graye spun coolly on his heels and marched the length of the narrow chamber with all the practiced discipline of a career military officer. All that remained of the Hierarch thereafter was in the spicy scent of his aftershave, and the heavy dread he’d left plaguing his captive’s mind.
Restrained and helpless, Drish could only stew in solitude within the empty wing of the fortress’s infirmary, while the long curtains filtered any outside light into a nondescript twilight. Time, it seemed, was lost once again, and how long Drish was forced to lay there was left to speculation. He’d entered a sort of purgatory to contemplate his sins for eternity, and only the occasional visiting nurse broke the monotony. But as they changed his intravenous jar, they refused to spare him a single word of comfort.
At some point night fell, and a restless dark came settling over the room. From the thick shadows clinging to the fissures in the rock wall, ghosts came crawling out to haunt the ancient building. These green vaporous forms rose in moaning choruses; mocking the cowardly noble for being weak, taunting him of treason, begging for his help; and though Drish tried desperately to shut them all out, they rang true in his head. Eyes wide with fear, he watched as one dressed in a doctor’s uniform approached, parting through the other ghosts like an airship through clouds, and as he neared, he began peeling off the medical scrubs. With it came chucks of flesh, and in horror, Drish found his father’s undead corpse taking shape, emerging like a ghastly newborn from the cocoon of his death shroud. Gore pulsated and bubbled out from a gaping wound in his chest, while the left side of his body decayed to rotting flesh and yellowed bone.
Arvis came shambling closer with his arms held out, and his milky gaze locked on his son. “Son,” he moaned pleadingly, reaching out with boney fingers. “Why did you kill me?”
Drish woke with a violent start, finding his hospital gown soaked in sweat. Around him the soft light of morning gathered to drive away the nightmare, and he shuddered with cold relief, though it hardly made him feel better. Moments later, he heard the creaking hinges to the ward door swing open in protest. Had the colonel come to haul him away? Drish gripped the sheets and wondered if he could hold himself in place when they came for him. Finally he worked up the courage to look, and found it was the doctor strutting on course for his bed, presumably to check his vitals one last time before they decided whether or not to ship him off to an imperial torture chamber.
It was all too much, the events, the dream, the impeding dread of what was to come next. The fugitive bureaucrat had had enough. He grumbled at the approaching figure, saying unkindly, “I’m fine. I would rather just be left alone until the soldiers come for me, if it’s all the same to you.”
“I’m sure you would,” muttered the doctor in a low growl. The man’s voice was rough and deep, and not as Drish remembered it from yesterday; and when he looked up, he found the doctor staring back down at him. A dreadful connection to his nightmare was forged in that instant, and he looked away from the man’s fierce yellow eyes, up to the wisps of red hair protruding from just under his medical cap.
No…this isn’t the same doctor from earlier at all. This is someone else; someone else entirely. Drish couldn’t shake the feeling he got from the man’s devil-be-damned eyes either. He’d seen them before, staring at him—just before the butt of an imperial rifle sent me here. Drish wanted to cry out for help when he realized who this was. Bar Bazzon…Here! He’s come for me! Arvis must have told this pirate the damning truth for him to risk this place in order to exact his revenge for my betrayal… Help! But he found his voice had failed. Only a garbled gagging broke the silence between them.
“Keep quiet,” snapped Bar as he slapped a hand over the collaborator’s mouth.
Suffocation, that was to be his method? Terrible suffocation, and with no way for Drish to save himself? His hands were bound and all he could do was thrash his head from side to side.
Suddenly there was movement at the door; a nurse and an orderly had appeared; and with them they pushed a gurney into the room.
I’m saved! “Mmm mmm mmmm!” Drish struggled desperately to scream through the brute’s calloused hand. Or was he? Neither seemed particularly concerned that this doctor was trying to smother him, even when they looked right at him. Instead, they hastily shoved the gurney his way until it crashed into the IV rack next to the bed, and sent it smashing to the floor. Terrified confusion gripped Drish’s heart in runaway beats. Again he tried to shake the hand away, but it was locked in place; powerful and rough against his dry lips.
The nurse leapt to the bedside and tore away her mask, and Drish could hardly believe his eyes.
“Abigail! Have you come to witness my demise as well?” He accused in muffled vowels, though he found he couldn’t fault her if she had.
“Bar, you’re going to kill him before we’ve even had the chance to save him.”
“Sorry, Abby, but he won’t shut up. Tried to tell him it was me, but he went crazy the second he laid eyes on me. I don’t know what his problem is?”
“Glad to see me, Drish,” Abigail spoke tenderly, and there was her beautiful face leaning in close to his. He could smell the jasmine perfume, light and flowery, on her supple skin. “I’m glad to see you. We’re going to get you out of here, so please, be quiet. Are you going to do that for me?”
The girl was as radiant as ever, and Drish was compelled to nod; even if he believed Bar was here to kill him. How could the pirate not, after the look he’d had given him in the foundry—one of pure vengeful rage. How could the man not want him dead? But then there was Abigail’s face to stay his fears. It was filled with kindness, even if it was clear she had been crying recently; morning Arvis no doubt.
Could he really have meant that much to her?
Drish had yet to shed his own tears on his father’s behalf, and yet this girl, who only days ago had been a stranger, was more distraught over the death of his father than he. It was clear Arvis had lived a double life, but who could ever have imagined to this extent. Drish realized he had never truly known his father at all in his final days.
Abigail moved in closer, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his forehead, and the downy hairs of her arms on his own as she worked the straps. He watched her red eyes—like pools of saffron powder—as they lingered over the bandage wrapped around his head. Beneath the obvious signs of sadness were betraying hints of excitement.
“Are you alright?” she asked him breathless.
Drish felt a quickening in his chest just hearing her voice playing off the fine hairs in his ears. “Minor concussion, bump on the head…” he tried to sound nonchalant about it, but his voice was dry and harsh. “But just what the hell are you doing here?”
“That should be pretty obvious,” she replied tartly. “We’re here to rescue you, Mr. Larken.”
Rescue, Larken didn’t know whether to be happy or terrified. At least rescue meant Bar wasn’t going to kill him; at least not immediately. But still, everything had become so muddled over the past few days he wasn’t sure where he stood anymore.
Bar revealed his face “That’s two you owe me now,” he said with a broad grin, but Drish felt anything but reassured.
“But here? Here! We’re on Port Armageddon…are you crazy?”
�
��I prefer Ragnarok Cloudfortress,” corrected Bar with a glower, as he and Abigail sought to unfasten all the restraints. “And yes, we are nuts, but that’s all best left for explanation once we’re safety off this rock.”
“You guys done taking your sweet-time over there with Mr. Fancy?” hissed the gangly teenage Hierarch. He had his ear pressed to the doorway, but straightened and looked back at them, expectant. It appeared the kid had shaved his head for the occasion, which just made him look the part of a buffoon, now more than ever. “There’s an awful lot of activity in the hallway out here.” He backed away and drew an oversized gun from the waistband of his baggy scrubs. “So just get on with it.” Drish couldn’t understand why they’d elected to bring this pubescent henchman on a mission like this.
“There,” said Abigail as she freed Drish of his last bonds and urged him to his feet. “We don’t have much time. Bar, you know what to do.”
The pirate captain was already stripping the sheet from the unfortunate patient on the gurney, but it turned out not to be a patient at all, just some crudely fashioned mannequin made of waded cloth and topped by a scraggily mound of black hair. Drish looked again at the Hierarch and then gagged when he puzzled out the hair’s origin. “Is that atrocious monstrosity supposed to be a likeness of me,” he grumbled in revolt as they guided him to his feet.
“A spitting image if I should say so myself,” replied the captain as he hauled the doll into Drish’s bed. After the blankets were pulled up high they all stood around it for a moment, gazing upon Bar’s handiwork. “Well?” asked the pirate captain, looking for praise.
“Hair looks nice,” stated Fen with a shrug, as he rubbed a hand over his bald scalp.
“No idiot in their rightful mind will fall for such a ruse,” snapped Drish, tetchy.
Aethosphere Chronicles: Storm of Chains Page 7