by Stephen Wolf
Elgris’s voice raised considerably as he shouted back, “And I do believe you were given those funds for the completion of your tasks, so that you would earn the ability to pay for our services!”
“I—” he began, but then his arm shot him a stab of pain, as if reminding him of the real goal here. Defeated, Dariak pulled out the money pouch and spilled six hundred gold across the table, keeping the rest for himself.
It took a few moments for the color of Elgris’s face to return to normal. He looked over at the storeroom keeper. “Brother Brenwel, if you would.” He then gestured aimlessly in front of him.
Dariak was seething, glaring at Elgris for this turn of events. He ignored Brenwel’s approach, assuming he was going to take the money, but instead he threw a rope around Dariak and bound him tightly to the chair.
“Your wounds will be healed, mage,” Elgris said, standing slowly. “We cannot send you to His Majesty oozing disease, now can we?”
“The…What? I don’t understand.”
“Your companion had much to say this afternoon about your attack on his village. To me, this is a warning sign of the next cycle of war. He will escort you to the king as he originally intended. And though our healing will therefore be in vain—as you will undoubtedly be executed—as I said, we cannot send you diseased and bleeding to His Majesty.”
Brenwel had finished with the ropes around the chair and had started tying more effective knots around the mage’s feet. He then forced Dariak’s hands into fists and coiled rope around them.
“You swine,” Dariak hissed. “Making me do all that work for you and now this?”
Elgris glowered at him in contempt. “I had suspected the order of events already. But then a messenger arrived from the castle gates, informing me of your attempted entrance under my name. Then speaking with Brother Gabrion set the other pieces into place. No, I feel we are fully justified in this course of action.”
“Underhanded. Deceitful.” Dariak growled. “Everything ever said in the stories is true about you Kallisorians.”
“Be careful, mage,” Elgris warned, his voice laden with venom. “Continue along these lines and your injuries just might overcome you before you can reach the king at all, if you get my meaning.”
“More cunning and lies, killing me off because you’re angry.” Dariak spat on the ground, not aiming for either man, just needing to vent his disgust. “Very well, do what you will.”
Brenwel shoved a gag in his mouth and placed a sack over his head. The chair tilted back, and he was dragged from the room, after which he felt the energies swirling around him as healers worked to fix his wounds. An herbal tea was shoved down his throat, and because it was laced with sleeping draft, it wasn’t long before he was lost in darkness.
Chapter 8
Gabrion’s Awakening
The young warrior faced himself in a mirror, boring into his own brown eyes, looking for answers. The day before, the master healer had awoken Gabrion, demanding to know of his injuries and the duo’s arrival at the cathedral doors. He had recounted the mage’s involvement in the attack on his village and then the mage’s confusing cooperation on the journey through the forest, including the spells he had tossed at Gabrion’s attacker to help him with his fight. And with Gabrion’s wounds being so thorough, Dariak had ridden the horse hard to get them to Kaison and Gabrion to the healer.
“Then you trust your companion?” Elgris had asked at the end of Gabrion’s story.
“I—don’t really know. He confuses me.”
Elgris had then informed Gabrion of Dariak’s attempted entrance into the castle under false pretenses and his suspicions that the mage had an ulterior motive for being so helpful. The pieces had fallen into place, and Gabrion reclaimed his conviction to bring Dariak to justice before the king. His beloved Mira needed him, and he needed the king’s help.
Fully healed and feeling strong, Gabrion turned away from the mirror and checked his belongings. His money pouch had been returned to him, with the same sixty-three gold pieces that had been there before, as well as a writ of passage into the castle sanctum written in Elgris’s sharp penmanship.
The mage was awake, though mildly sedated. Elgris had assured Gabrion that the king would need to speak to the infiltrator, and keeping him knocked out would not support Gabrion’s call to arms. The warrior spoke no words as he clutched Dariak’s shoulder and dragged him from the cathedral, fully gagged and bound.
Two healers helped hoist the mage onto the war-horse, Tumbler, for it was important to return the beast to the king. Gabrion mounted up behind the mage to keep him from exciting the horse and making it bolt away. The two healers walked astride Tumbler, and off they went toward the castle.
It was a misty morning, the day after Dariak’s wounds had been healed. Elgris had sent word ahead to the king of the arrival of these guests. As Gabrion rode through Kaison with the healers in tow, some of the villagers looked on at the procession in disgust. A few items were thrown at Dariak in anger, for someone bound in such a fashion, being paraded through the street, could only be the foulest of criminals. They reacted to a rage they did not understand, and soon the horse was followed by a small horde of travelers who now wanted to be part of the justice that would rid the world of one more thief, or murderer, or spy, or mage.
Gabrion was furious with the mage’s ruse, and part of him wanted to be in the crowd, tossing things up anonymously. But he also owed his life to this man, both for the help against the forest rogues and the mad flight here. At the same time, he wouldn’t have been in either predicament if not for the attack on his hometown in the first place. Yet now a crowd was angry with the mage for unknown reasons, and it felt unjust. Gabrion’s tumbling emotions frustrated him greatly. He focused his thoughts on Mira, keeping Tumbler in line, and nothing else.
When they reached the castle gates, Gabrion showed the writ of passage and guided the horse through. The healers left them to their business, and one throaty voice laughed aloud and called out to the mage.
“Didn’t take you long to find your way back here, did it?” It was the castle guard who had stopped Dariak yesterday. “Too bad you didn’t try sneaking in; we would have enjoyed the chase!” His cackling laughter followed them in through the entryway.
Gabrion looked around at the massive walls in sheer awe. Though he had been away from home before, he had never set foot in Kaison, nor had he seen a man-made place so grand. The walls of stone were enormously high, and he tried to look around without seeming like a lost child. Crenellations ran across each level of the castle, fully decorated with beautiful floral carvings. He could see a few shadows in those cutouts keeping watch on the courtyard below.
The yard itself was wide, with small structures scattered about. Some of these served as guard stations; others were gazebos for passersby. Gabrion could hear fountains on either side and thought it would be a beautiful place for a candlelit dinner with his love. Wondrously carved signposts were strategically placed so as not to distract from the visual balance or grandeur of the area.
Tumbler huffed a deep, rattling sigh, as if bored from it all. The horse also pulled to the right, toward the stable, and the motion distracted Gabrion from his thoughts, bringing him back to the moment. A stable boy jogged over and seized the reins from the warrior.
“Master Andron’s horse,” he said. “How fares the lord master?”
Gabrion wasn’t sure how much to tell the lad, so he just frowned and shook his head sadly, lowering his eyes.
“That’s a terrible shame, but I guess it explains why you’re riding Tumbler. With a prisoner, no less. Come on, off now. You go in over there.” He pointed needlessly to a grand door marking the entrance to the castle proper.
Gabrion dismounted, then pulled Dariak down. The mage’s leg hit the saddle, and he fell in a heap on the ground instead of landing gracefully. Gabrion pulled him up and escor
ted him toward the opulent gold-and-crystal doors.
As they approached, the doors gracefully and silently swung open, held by two young pages in glimmering silk. They nodded their heads to the travelers while a guardsman walked up and took Dariak’s arm to escort him gruffly behind Gabrion.
The young warrior stepped ahead through a line of marble pillars, trying not to fidget, and approached another set of doors. These were softly padded in red velvet, and he would gladly have pulled one door down to sleep on if someone challenged him; they looked so comfortable. These doors also opened automatically when he approached, and another set of pages nodded him through.
Apparently, the king had received Elgris’s letter with serious concern. Twenty soldiers lined the walls of the throne room, four of whom wore special leather helmets and jerkins over their armor that looked to Gabrion as if they could repel any damage, including that from spells.
The king was covered in a vibrant bloodred cape that covered a shining plate of armor. The king’s advisor stood nearby, as did several other court officials. It looked to Gabrion to be a massive trial, with a panel of witnesses who were in the king’s employ. He approached the king and knelt down on one knee, bending his head in homage.
“Rise, champion of Kallisor,” called the king in a somewhat high yet commanding voice. Gabrion did so and looked into a tired set of hazel eyes that scrutinized him deeply. The king’s hair was a shiny, dark brown, and even though he was rather young, Gabrion could see threads of gray laced within. He wondered idly if they were natural or for effect.
“Your Majesty, King Kallion,” he replied.
“We received word from Master Elgris of the Kaison Sanctuary. What have you to say on matters?”
Gabrion recounted the events that led him there, cutting out superfluous details and sticking as close to the facts as possible.
“Indeed?” the king muttered when Gabrion was finished. “It is well that your first priority was to come inform us of these tidings. A lesser man would have pursued his lady, and not only would he and she be lost, but so would the great kingdom of Kallisor.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Let us have a look at this foe of our land. And do allow him to speak.”
The guard holding Dariak removed the gag but also unsheathed a dagger and pressed it into the mage’s spine, clearly alerting him not to speak out of turn or act rashly in any way.
“I see. A mage from Hathreneir,” the king said in disgust. “What have you to say of these crimes?”
Dariak’s hands were bound tightly in fists, and he could feel his knuckles pulsing in agitation. “Sire, forgive me,” he said. He lowered his head, knowing his only hope was to somehow appease the king. If only his hands had been released, he could have reached up to his chest in a feigned salute and summoned the Shield of Delminor. But realistically, it couldn’t help him against so many foes. “I did knowingly enter this land to help a troop attack one of the border towns.”
“Clearly,” the king returned, a note of anger coming to his voice. “Perhaps I must ask questions of you more succinctly? What was the motivation behind your attack?”
“Sire, I merely needed money for food and experience to broaden my skills. I was hired by the group and joined them for that one foray so I could eat.”
The king stood up. He cast an imposing figure as his cape swept outward and his armor gleamed in the sunlight beaming down from a cutout in the ceiling. “Tell me why this group infiltrated our lands. Was it a declaration of war?”
Dariak’s answer had the benefit of absolute truth, and he didn’t need to hide any words or dodge any meanings. “I do not know why the attack was ordered. But a hostage was taken from the village, so I would assume it had to be an act of war. Why else pillage the town? There was nothing impressive about it from what I saw.”
Gabrion tensed at this assessment of his hometown but otherwise controlled himself. The guard pressed the dagger more deeply into Dariak’s back, but he didn’t cry out or flinch in any way. He had actually expected more of a reaction.
The king paused his interrogation for a moment and started pacing. “How do we know for certain that this girl was taken as a hostage by the royal family of Hathreneir? How would we know that she wasn’t simply abducted by one of the mercenaries to be—for lack of a better term—used?”
“No!” Gabrion gasped, horrified at the very thought.
“Silence!” the king demanded, and Gabrion struggled to calm himself. The king turned to the mage. “What are your thoughts on the matter?”
When Dariak hesitated, the dagger was pushed more tightly against his spine, and the pain made it hard to think clearly. It was bad enough he still had a mild sedative in him. He couldn’t consider the pros and cons of honesty, nor could he fabricate any alternate story. The dagger dug deeper still, and he fell to his knees in agony, blurting out what he knew while straining to keep in his own quest. “It was one of His Majesty’s soldiers who brought the band together, and it was he who led the charge into your kingdom. I came to his call at the very last. I don’t know his true intent, but I don’t doubt he was of the royal guard.”
The king stared at Dariak intensely for a few moments, then decided he believed the tale. “Curses,” he spat, then nodded for the guard to bring the mage back to his feet. “You speak of the royal guard,” the king started, and Dariak suspected what was to come. “You have slain one of my own, have you not?”
“I regret that I did,” Dariak admitted. He truly did regret killing the soldier, because he was certain that it would now mean his own death, as if being Hathren and a mage weren’t reasons enough for the grumpy king.
“That is a grievous crime against this kingdom, yet before I assign your punishment, I would hear again from the warrior who brought you here.” He turned to Gabrion. “This mage infiltrated your village, slew your mentor and many people of your village, facilitated the loss of your lady, and attempted illegal entry into this castle. Yet you spared his life.” The king’s gaze turned cold. “How do I know you are not in league with him?”
Gabrion felt the floor drop away from him, and his mouth fell agape at the accusation. “Your Majesty!” he stammered.
“How do I know?” the king screamed, punctuating each word with anger. “You could easily both be spies from Hathreneir, sent to spark a revolt. Perhaps you are working together to incite this war for your own gains. Perhaps you wish to trick me into casting the first blow, marking us as the aggressors to your kingdom? I ask again, warrior, how do I know?”
Gabrion cast around for anything to stabilize himself before he spoke. No one was moving except for the king, whose chest heaved with his rage. The whole place seemed unreal to Gabrion. He lowered himself down to his knee again in homage to the king, not sure what he could say that would sway this irate master.
“Your silence says much.”
“A—Andron, sire,” Gabrion tossed out. “He said my training was going well. He said he was recommending my promotion, Your Majesty.” He didn’t know what else to say. “Wasn’t I supposed to bring him here?”
The king remained quiet, waiting to hear more, but Gabrion, shaken by the king’s attitude, couldn’t find any more words. He just looked up, agape, from the floor, completely lost. The king wasn’t satisfied. He waved his hand out to the side, and one of the guards approached from the edge of the room. A blade was pressed into Gabrion’s hand. The guard gave him a shove meant to tell him to stand upright.
“This mage is clearly an enemy of our kingdom and must be dealt with as such. Show your loyalty to us and prove that you are not in league with him. Carry out his sentence now,” decreed the king.
The guard holding Dariak turned him to face Gabrion while the warrior looked down at the jeweled dagger in his hand. It was such a pretty object; it was a cruel irony that it should be used for anything violent. It was obvious what
he was meant to do. Trembling, he raised the knife until the sharp tip touched Dariak’s heart. One thrust would show his liege that he was not in cahoots with the mage.
He looked into Dariak’s deep-blue eyes and saw a firm resolve there. Even the mage knew what was coming, and he wasn’t shying away from it. Gabrion swallowed hard and held the blade in place, but pushing it through didn’t seem possible. The mage was responsible for so much, and Gabrion needed to continue on to pursue Mira, but killing the mage in cold blood didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t why he was on this quest.
He lowered the blade. “I can’t.”
“Take them both away!” the king bellowed. “Order a public execution of these traitors. We will remind the citizens of their proper duty in the face of such as these!”
Chapter 9
Cold Stone
A group of soldiers roughly escorted Dariak and Gabrion from the throne room. Gabrion’s sword was taken immediately from his side, but he was in such shock it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They were pushed and shoved down various corridors, up a flight of stairs, then down two others. They turned left, right, went down more stairs, and eventually Dariak was so lost he didn’t think he would ever find a way out, even if he had a chance to look. He guessed it was more demoralizing to let the prisoners see they had no way out, rather than to blindfold them and escort them to the dungeon directly.
The final corridor was easily a couple of flights underground. The air was heavy and dank, and the stone walls were coarse and moldy. Crevasses lined the way with pools of oil, every other one lit with fire. The only other breaks in the walls were the cells themselves, plus an occasional guard station. Large iron bars ran floor to ceiling, only a handspan apart, with supportive crossbeams that prevented the bars from bending wider. Many of the cells held prisoners of various sorts, but only a few prisoners were alert enough to pay any heed to the newcomers. Most, in fact, pulled back from the passersby, as if afraid they were being summoned for execution. Only one older man thought it was highly amusing that more criminals were coming to a new home. His wheezing cackles echoed hauntingly through the dungeon.