Samual

by Greg Curtis

  “And then there are always rumours of the nameless.”

  “The nameless? The unseen?” Heri knew of them of course. But he doubted they had ever existed save as the tales of the bards. Wizards exiled. Turned away from their colleges and callings. Hidden, living alone, or perhaps in little communities. They were said to be the most powerful of all. And the most secretive. Who they were and what they could actually do, he didn't know. No one knew. As far as he knew they were just a legend. A story for the bards to sing about and parents to tell their children. Sleep tight or the nameless would get you. It was just nonsense. But every so often something strange occurred and the songs started up once again.

  “Only a thought Sire.” Augrim shrugged. “And it may be worse yet.”

  “Worse?” How could things possibly be any worse?

  “Though I cannot detect the presence of the divine, the power suggests Draco, Lord of the Skies. Father of Dragons.”

  Heri immediately understood why he'd mentioned the poxy god's name. And the unseen before that. It was about fear. Augrim did not want to go into a battle with other wizards. As powerful and knowledgeable as he was, he doubted his chances against them. And he certainly doubted his ability to go against a god. If Heri suggested it he knew his advisor would run rather than fight. That was the point. It was a not so subtle statement that his loyalty went only so far. And probably that of his soldiers as well. He decided to change the subject. For the moment.

  “Fire wall?” His guards had said nothing of such a thing.

  “Perhaps it would be best if you saw it for yourself Sire.” With no more than that the wizard turned on his heels and marched out of the bed chamber, leaving Heri with the unfortunate option of having to follow him. Chasing his advisor in his own castle! It was unseemly. And yet still he had to.

  So he followed the wizard out of the chamber and into the hallway, the annoying physicians in tow as they continued to try to bandage his hand. The guards brought up the rear, weapons at the ready. Not that they would be of any use. They'd already proven that once this evening.

  Out in the hall way he followed Augrim to the upstairs audience chamber where he greeted his private visitors and occasionally discussed strategy with his commanders. It was a good room, blessed with huge glass windows that overlooked the courtyard and the walls beyond. It was also a place where he could stand and watch unnoticed as his visitors came calling.

  But this night he wasn't looking down upon the courtyard for visitors. Instead he looked over the broken outer wall to the fire wall beyond. Flames leaping into the air at least seventy or eighty feet high. Maybe more. In fact if the walls were forty feet tall and these were at least twice as high, almost certainly more. And when he turned his head from side to side he could see that they were dancing outside the walls of his keep to both sides and then on around the city for as far as he could see. According to Augrim they completely surrounded the city.

  It was then that he understood why his advisor was frightened. And he knew that his soldiers and his people would likely be as well. Not a one of them would dare go against Samual. And not a one of them would stand by him if he gave the order. They would run. Or they would run him through. Anything to avoid facing down certain death.

  “Alder's balls!” Heri cursed his brother, realising in that moment that there was nothing he could do. Not yet anyway. Not against that sort of power.

  For the moment he would have to spend his time and effort calming the people. That meant coin for street entertainers. More gold for the temples to hold services. And not just for the All Father's temple. He was a dour god. The priests of Vineus would need to be out in the streets. The people loved the god of wine. A festival in his honour might well be in order.

  Heri was going to be busy he realised. Keeping the people calm while they stared at the wall of fire surrounding them.

  Samual would die, horribly. Once he had a plan that was. And some people he could actually trust to do the job. For the moment he would have to content himself with taking his vengeance out on the Fallbrights. And with making sure that none of the other nobles harboured similar ideas of rebellion.

  In fact that was going to have to be a priority. He was going to have to guarantee their loyalty – and he knew of only one way to do that. Taking hostages. It was not going to be popular. In fact the noble houses were going to protest. Maybe some might even think of refusing a royal decree. But given that this night he had been shown to be weak, it would have to be done. He could not allow them to think he was vulnerable. That his throne was there for anyone with the strength to take it.

  It was his throne, curse them all! He would never yield it.

  Samual would wait. But not forever.

  Chapter Eight.

  Ten days passed before Sam made it back to the elves. Or nearly back to them. Ten long, heavenly and yet harrowing days as he watched Ryshal like a hawk, seeing her health slowly improving. It was a slow and terrifying ordeal, and she was far from fit even at the end, but at least by then there was a trace of colour showing in her cheeks, the blotches on her skin were fading, and the very first hint of some desperately needed weight was appearing in her arms and legs.

  It had been a glacially slow trip. Even with the extra horses carrying some of the weight, all of which were in remarkably fine condition, he had scarcely got Tyla up past a trot for any of it. Ryshal simply wasn't well enough for that. And they had to take lengthy rests throughout the day every day for her to eat and nap. But it was worth it to have her back in his arms, and despite his fears he hadn't seen a single sign of pursuit. The soldiers could have followed easily once the fire wall had died away. They hadn't which surely meant that the king, whoever he was, had decided not to risk it. Perhaps he'd taken a look at his castle gate or the wall of fire surrounding his entire keep, and thought better of it? Perhaps he'd just seen the ruin of his hand and wondered how much more he could lose.

  Either way it was just as well. That first night, and the morning after had been one of tremendous difficulty for Sam. He'd been torn between the absolute wonder of having Ryshal back with him after so long, the horror of discovering again and again how close to death she was, and the boiling rage at discovering her mistreatment. Any of Heri's soldiers who had been stupid enough to approach would have been reduced to ashes in a heartbeat, regardless of their intent.

  That first night had been difficult enough, feeling how thin she was. Seeing the illness that consumed her. Feeding her, and helping her to rest, terrified that each time she fell back to sleep she might not awaken. Still, the darkness and clothing had concealed much more than he'd guessed. The morning that followed had been worse as it revealed all that he had not seen.

  It had begun with the bathing. He had camped by a stream that night, making sure the horses had plenty of fresh grass and clean water to drink, and in the morning he'd decided to wash the worst of the dirt off her before they made tracks for the day. She had been living in squalor for so long that it was everywhere. Caking her skin and her clothes. For Ry who had always been a finicky clean woman – one who would go over every part of their chambers after he had finished cleaning them, and clean them again – living like this would have been an anathema to her.

  Creating a small dam in the river by fusing the river stones together to become stone walls, he'd built a bath just big enough for him to hold her in it and wash her and her clothes while she lay in his lap in the heated water. It had seemed the sensible thing to do. But he had never considered the horror of what he might find.

  Hunting out the small cake of soap he always kept in his bulging saddle bags, he'd begun by washing the dirt out of her hair in the warm water, and watched with dismay as most of her hair washed away with the dirt. But what it revealed was worse as he realised she was close to bald, and her scalp was covered with festering sores. It was then that he'd realised that she had nits and was covered with lice, something he'd never known of her or any elf. They were always so careful with
their grooming and they expected it of others.

  Knowing there was no choice, he'd shaved the rest of her hair off with his belt knife, weeping as he did so. It was a terrible thing to do. For an elf, especially an elven maiden, her long, beautiful hair was considered a crowning glory and a sign of being truly elven. It was her rowell aylin or golden light. But with no hair the nits would die quickly in the sun, the sores would dry out and heal, and she would recover faster. He could only pray that her hair would grow back as it should.

  Then when he'd tried to remove her clothes, they'd disintegrated in his hands. They'd been little more than rags, again something no elf would wear. He'd thrown their remains away, disgusted by what she had been forced to wear. But he was horrified by what he found underneath them.

  The sores that covered her whole body from the endless flea bites. The bruises that seemed to cover every inch of her arms and legs. The evidence of a whip which had been used on her back and legs. And the terrible thinness that allowed him to see her every rib; her every bone. He wept as he saw the piteous wreckage that had been made of her body. She who had once been so beautiful. Her skin always so soft and perfect, was a mass of wounds and scars. Her breasts once ample and delightful, had become withered lumps of leather. Her graceful womanly hips and elegant long legs had turned into lengths of bones with painfully thin skin stretched taught over them.

  He was a strong man, a soldier who had faced death many times, yet he could not bear to see her looking so ill, and for ages as he'd held her and wept for what had been done to her, he had had to look away. It was only when his sense of duty returned that he'd found the strength to carry on. To bathe her, dress her wounds with the salve he always carried, feed her, and make sure she knew how much he loved her.

  Ever since then, every morning and every evening without fail, he had bathed her, caring for her wounds and desperately watching for the slightest sign of a little more weight being put on. And with the blessings of the All Father, it was happening. Too slowly but still, every day was a little better than the last.

  He had tried to make her eat at least six times a day. Small meals; porridge, soups, bread and dairy, fruit and meats, whatever he could hunt or buy from the local farmers. He knew that eating was the only way back to health for her, and yet she was so piteously starved that she simply couldn't eat a full meal. Her stomach no longer had room for it, and sometimes – too often in fact – even the little he could make her eat came back up as her body could not digest it.

  Sleep was another thing she desperately needed, and even though she spent most of her time passed out in his arms, he made sure that she got at least two decent sleeps during the day, as they stopped for morning and afternoon tea. Yet each time she slept, he still worried that she might not wake up, and he'd spend the entire time watching her, his heart in his mouth, making sure she was still breathing. Watching her chest rising and falling, listening to the air passing in and out, even feeling her heart beating. And somehow, despite his fears, she continued to live, and even to slowly recover.

  Of course the real healing would only begin when she was back in the arms of her family, in a proper bed and under the care of proper elven physicians. He would have run the horses into the ground to reach them if he thought she could have withstood the journey.

  He would have healed her too, if he'd had even a trace of the healer's magic. But that was one of the bitter ironies of his life. He was one of the most powerful fire mages there was as impossible as that seemed. And yet he was still completely powerless when it came to what truly mattered. He could not heal so much as a cut finger.

  Yet while he was terrified for her and desperately wanted to get her into the care of elven physicians who were some of the finest healers around, the very slowness of the trip was its own reward as it gave him more time to spend with his wife. Renewing their love, renewing their memories. And with each day that had passed she would rouse for a little bit longer, and they could talk a little more.

  If she had been healthier and he less angry, it would almost have been like a second honeymoon. If only he could be less regretful or more forgiving of what had been done to her. But he couldn't. Maybe it was the half human side of his nature, but Sam still ached for revenge. The only thing holding him back was that he wanted his wife more. So their conversations tended to be almost stilted, something that they had never been before. Yet at least they were finally able to talk.

  As Sam had told her of his life for the previous five years, he had also shared with her his love and pain. The same love and pain that Ryshal had endured in her tiny prison cell. But even as she told him of her relief at finally being free, Sam just kept hearing more reasons to get angry. Many more.

  It wasn't enough that his brother had imprisoned her, that he had nearly starved her to death. He had locked her up in a basement dungeon, one with barely a scrap of light from a high window, and left her to rot. That was surely the very definition of suffering for anyone, but for an elf who lived for the forest and the fields it was worse. Add to that her confinement in a tiny cell barely large enough to lie down in. For a woman born to dance under sunlit skies, it must have been torture.

  Worse still, she had been allowed little in the way of visits from her family. The most they could do when they did get permission was to speak to her from the high window, and to pass her a few scraps of food through the bars. The good stuff went to the guards, another group he dearly wanted to punish. She had committed no crime and they must have known that. There could be no excuse.

  They had beaten her too, though that had only begun about three months before when a new gaoler had arrived, and Sam guessed that that was Harmion's doing. If she had actually died he would have won everything, so long as Heri didn't suspect and kill him first. But he couldn't kill her directly. Not without getting caught. So he had no doubt bribed or coerced the guards to allow his man in to do it for him. She was a hostage not a criminal, but that had apparently not stopped the blackguard in his criminal duty. And her bruises were recent. In as terrible state as she had been, he had still had her flogged until she just lay on the ground and no longer moved. It was a miracle she had survived as long as she had. Only her faith had allowed her to survive. To wait for him to save her. Sam envied her that faith. In her place he had no certainty he could have clung to life for so long.

  In time maybe, Sam would find that blackguard and teach him a lesson in beatings. He so desperately wanted to. But not until after Ry was well again. Nothing could come before that.

  The only indignity she had not suffered was rape. His brother would not dare to cross that line, though once, when he and Ryshal had first been married, he too had desired her. He had made an improper advance. That was the only time Sam had ever crossed him – until just a few days before of course. It had also been the first time he had ever used his magic against his own family, and he recalled vividly the shame he'd felt at doing such a thing. And in hindsight it had been a mistake.

  But the flaming sword he had levelled against his brother's neck all those years ago seemed to have done the trick. Heri had at least learned fear. Nothing of decency or even family though. Enough so that he would not dare cross Sam again. Or so he had thought. Unfortunately he had been wrong. That had perhaps been the most stupid mistake of his life, and one he would not repeat again. If Heri crossed him again he would kill him. There would be no negotiation.

  Recently Heri had learned a lot more of fear – assuming he still lived. His injury would remind him of the truth of that for the rest of his life, and his castle's repair might also remind him of what real power was. But even if he hadn't learned, Sam would never allow him near Ry again. He would kill Heri before he came within a thousand leagues of her. He swore it on his life.

  Part of Sam knew that his anger was a mistake. He even understood what it was costing him. His future. His hope. His joy. She was his aylin mi elle. The light of his heart. And his rage obscured that light. Already he could see the har
m in it. Once they had been able to talk forever of anything and everything as they danced their dance of love, oblivious to the world around them. Now, they spoke of their wounded love and the pain of their time apart until either Ryshal fell asleep again or he grew too angry for words. But he could not let his anger go. The best he could do was force it down into the darkness of his soul. That he promised himself, was something he would work on over the years, as long as he had Ry with him.

  Revenge was only worthwhile for those who had nothing else, as his father had told him long ago. To spend his life on it would be to waste his life. And for the first time in far too many years, he had the promise of a life again. Perhaps when they reached the elves it would be time to speak with the elders about his anger. It had granted him great power for sure – he could think of nothing else that had allowed him to grow so powerful as a wizard. But power was not the equal of love.

  He understood that best in the quiet times. At night while Ryshal slept and he held her close while studying the books and scrolls he'd recovered from the library. Every so often as he tried to read by the light of a fire brand, he would glance at her face as she lay curled up into him like a small child. She was so thin and so frail that he knew there could be nothing more important in the entire world than protecting her. He promised himself over and over again that he would keep her safe and happy while he made her feel the most loved woman in the world. All else compared to that was nothing.