So his screams had filled today’s morning until his voice finally gave out. It did not matter. Nothing he said had any effect. No promise; no declaration of devotion; no wish to serve or amount of crying made any difference. It was like the high general was not even listening to him anymore. Corza merely wanted to break him into a million pieces.
Bronson let his head drop, muttering some incomprehensible words.
“What was that?” asked Corza. He sat nearby, sipping a drink. “I can’t hear you.”
“Wa’er.”
“War? Yes, you could say that we’re at war. Although it is pretty one-sided, so perhaps it is a bit of an overstatement, don’t you think?”
“Wa—ter,” tried Bronson again.
“Oh! Water!” said Corza. “I misunderstood you there. You must learn to pronounce your words properly. Sorry, I don’t have any water. All I have is this ale, which, by the way, is very well cooled. Do you want some of it?”
The high general came over and put the mug against the prince’s split lips. Corza tipped the mug so fast half the ale missed Bronson’s mouth and washed down the side. The brew stung the fresh cuts all over his chest. He tried to swallow as fast as possible, but could not prevent himself breaking out in coughing, spraying the ale all over the balcony.
“Now see what you’ve done,” said Corza angrily. “Wasting perfectly good ale. You’ll pay for that.”
The general pulled out his Roc’turr.
Bronson did not react. He did not care anymore. There was no fear, no anger, no hope. His mind stood at the edge of the abyss.
Perhaps you should just fall.
The thought came out of nowhere, but they were his own words, spoken in his own voice.
You are weak. Nothing. You have no use for this body.
Beside him, Corza waited for a moment and lowered his dagger. The general pulled Bronson’s head up by the hair.
“It seems there’s not much left of you, Prince of Iron. But I’m not done with you yet. I will rebuild you. Make you whole again.”
With unfocused eyes, Bronson stared beyond Corza. He saw himself stand on the edge of the balcony. He tried to laugh, but produced little more than a gurgle.
It’s happened. I’ve gone mad. Delirious.
The image was him, but not like he was now; scarred, weak and beaten. It was him before. A man, proud to be a part of the Iron family, among the best fighters in the court. Fearless. His ghostly image turned around to face him. It looked tired. Bronson stared at himself, displayed in full armor, swords in hand. Blood ran down his face, wet his hair. The image’s head hung low from exhaustion, just like his own on the rack. The man swayed lightly back and forth on his feet, but his eyes…his eyes remained strong. Determination resided in those eyes.
The battles must have been heavy and long, thought Bronson sadly as he continued to stare at his own ghost.
And they are not over yet.
The Prince of Iron was not sure if the words came from himself or from the image. The image disappeared as the general spun him backward into a horizontal position. Corza unstrapped the prince and brought him back up. The unexpected decrease in tension around his arms, legs and head, made Bronson slump to the ground before his muscles could react. There he lay, jerking and twitching. He forced himself to look up at the balustrade, expecting to see nothing but sky. Instead, the bloodied warrior image of himself stared down at him, demanding he get up.
His former self squatted down and extended a hand. It took all of Bronson’s leftover willpower to make his body move. And every time he thought he could not and wished to give up, those piercing fighter’s eyes told him otherwise. He pushed his knees under him. Leaned on his hands and pulled his head back to look up. The vague image of an offered hand hovered right in front of him.
Bronson groaned and stretched his arm. The weight of a mountain leaned on his hand as he brought it up. The prince reached for the balcony railing and pulled himself up with the greatest effort.
When Bronson stood on both feet and leaned heavily on the stone handrail, the high general slowly approached him, as if afraid to startle him.
“Even after all that, you still refuse to let go. I must say, it’s almost admirable.” Corza spoke gently. “But it’s futile.”
The general took the prince’s chin and turned his face toward him.
“I can see it in your eyes, you know? You’d rather die—jump to your death instead of giving in. Just like that morning with those bitches. That iron will certainly is impressive. But you may not die. It is not your decision to make. Your life belongs to me.”
Corza smiled.
“Believe me, I understand. It’s only natural for your situation. That wish for things to end. However, I want you to understand: dead men have no value. And you still do, even if you can’t yet see it. It’s clear that at this point, you only think of yourself. But your life is so much more,” whispered Corza. “Tell you what. Why don’t I show you the value of your life? Allow me to give you purpose once more.”
Corza brought his fingers to his lips and whistled. Across from them, the other tower’s balcony door swung open. A guard urged two women outside. Bronson strained to lift his head. It had been days since Corza brought them out.
“Kayla? Mom?”
“Bronson! Oh, no, look what he has done to you,” his mother cried.
“You monster! Why don’t you let him go?” screamed his sister.
The high general briskly lifted his hand to indicate the women to be quiet. After being forced to listen and watch Bronson’s torture, Kayla and their mother knew better than to defy Corza’s gesture.
“I know you believe it is me you hate. That I cause all this pain and suffering. But you’re wrong. That honor belongs to none other than the Stone King. I am merely a tool in his hands,” said Corza. His disgust did not sound feigned. “He’s the one you should focus on. He planned the attack on Tal’Kabur. He killed your father. And he ordered your torture. Even told me to include the whole family.”
The sentence lingered in the air. Unsure whether the high general lied, Bronson merely stared at his sister, her image a blurry, blue shape.
“He’s a terror that walks this earth. And he will not stop until he rules it all. Just look at his hand,” Corza continued. “It’s built from the very stones of the underworld. If you want to hate someone, hate him. Loathe him. And then help me kill him.”
Bronson’s head spun. He tried to think of the weeks of torture, but his mind refused, his memories shattered from the pain and herbal mixtures. Was the man with the black hand truly behind it all?
“Take a good long look. Your dear sister and mother are right there. They say twins always have a special bond; growing up together; being so close from the moment they are conceived. And the bond between a son and his mother—well, that’s always special, right? In any case, you wouldn’t want them to suffer. You care for them.”
Corza reached out again. He grasped Bronson’s chin and shook the prince’s head.
“Look. Do you see them, Prince of Iron?” hissed Corza in Bronson’s ear. “Do you see how young and untainted your sister is? Her whole life still in front of her. Just like yours. Hell, even your mother has a good few years before she starts to wither.”
Bronson stared at the other balcony. His heart bled from sorrow and love. From the corner of his eye, he saw the warrior beside him sitting in silence. The ghostly figure stared with him at the queen and princess in bloodied determination; there was no way he would let the high general win. The warrior image grabbed Bronson by the neck and forced him to look down.
There lies the freedom we seek. The words rang inside Bronson’s head. The Prince of Iron looked down into the chasm and back at the women again. Desperation filled Bronson’s mind.
“Let it go. What use is dying?” said Corza. “Give your life to me and under my guidance we shall remove the Stone King from this world. Your family will be free again.”
The small tr
uths within the lies fell into place in Bronson’s broken mind. Had those women not asked him if the high general planned to kill the king? If that was true, the rest must be as well. His iron will strained under the pressure of this flawed logic.
“In fact, your heart will beat for three,” the general’s voice carried on. “See, many of the men have always wanted to get their hands on something as pure as royalty, but I’ve kept them safe. Told Lord Rictor I needed them to get resistance information from you, and to help control the people. That is their value, and mine in turn. Because should I die, they will be robbed of my protection and surely follow me into the afterlife without delay.”
The high general’s face inched closer.
“And then there’s you. Your life, which you believe has no value. But it has value to me. You will be my sword, my tool. But should you so carelessly choose to die without my consent, that value will be lost, and I see no other way than to make those fine ladies my very next project. With my plans ruined by your death, I would need the distraction, and I’m certain your mother and sister will keep my thoughts off things for a while. Just look at that perfect skin. It makes me ache to take them under my care.”
The high general’s words trailed off. He looked engulfed by his own imagination. Bronson smelled the ale on Corza’s breath.
“I have an entire jar of kzaktors that I think would love to get a taste. You believe these weeks have been too much for you? With them, I will keep going for years! I’ll break them down, until they do not recognize themselves anymore. Their screams will fill the night sky for months to come. I will take them with me wherever I go and let every soldier visit them at night. Or perhaps I’ll just let them hold hands and drop one of them over the balcony to see how long they can hold on to each other. There are so many possibilities!
"But they can all be avoided by killing the Stone King. That’s your value, and that’s your purpose.”
Both versions of Bronson—one real, one not—jerked their heads around and stared at Corza defiantly.
“There’s that fighting spirit again. That proud ‘will of iron’. You still think you’re in control. You still think you have a choice,” said Corza. “Fine. I’ll give you a choice.”
The general took something from the ground and put it on the stone railing. Squirming legs and a high-pitched screech greeted Bronson from inside. The pliers lay next to the jar.
“Take it out,” commanded the high general.
Bronson stared at his tormentor in silence, unsure what to do.
“Suit yourself,” shrugged Corza and gave a signal to the other balcony.
Immediately, the soldier grabbed both sister and mother by the neck and held them far across the handrail. His sister screamed in terror. The Queen of Iron struggled to get out of the soldier’s grip while keeping hold of her daughter’s arm.
Bronson quickly grabbed the jar and opened it. He reached inside with the pliers and took the kzaktor from it.
“Careful. Don’t squish it,” said Corza. “Now, listen carefully. I want you to nod if you understand. Your life belongs to me. You will work for me. Fight for me. You won’t stop breathing without my command; you won’t stop living without my order. Your life belongs to me. Fail me, and your sister and mother won’t even have time to grieve over your demise before I start my work with them.”
Inside, Bronson felt his will try to withstand the barrage of pain and doubt. This was it. This was the moment of triumph or utter despair. He felt it in his bones. With every word Corza laid on him, Bronson inched closer to the abyss in his mind. To compensate, he stepped away from the balcony’s balustrade. The warrior image of himself stood and turned around to look at him. His self-image grabbed a new wound that appeared on its ghostly side. Blood seeped through the fingers, but the eyes…the eyes remained strong. Defiant. The personification of his will of iron.
The prince’s own eyes could no longer hold back tears. They ran over his face as he silently wailed at the agony of his powerlessness. Then the high general spoke again.
“I will not torture you anymore, young prince. From now on, I will not touch you until it’s your time to die. That is now all up to you. Your life means the lives of your mother and sister. Your pain will show me your value. That you’re obedient. That you serve me. That your life belongs to me. You can make sure that nothing ever happens to them. Do you understand?” said the high general. “Your pain will keep them alive.”
Tears kept flowing. His mother and sister watched from the other tower, longing to comfort him and take away his pain. Pain; it made Corza’s threats only more real. Salty rivers flowed across Bronson's face and stung his wounds. He could do nothing other than nod his head in earnest.
“Then do it.”
Bronson held out his hand. With his other, he dangled the tiny kzaktor above it. He lifted his head, diverting his eyes from what he was about to do. In front of him, the ghostly image shook its head. The warrior in Bronson thought about throwing it at Corza. Throw it and grab his dagger, but it would not make a difference. It would doom his sister and his mother. And in all honesty, he could barely stand, let alone throw the tiny creature with intent. This was the only way.
“That’s it. Your pain should be visible. Wear it as armor.” Corza’s voice slithered into his ears. “You let that creature eat away the part that wants to hold on the most. Cut it off. Discard it. You’ll feel better. You’ll be without responsibilities. Free from fear of choosing wrongly. Your life will belong to me.”
Inside him, Bronson’s subconscious stared into the black abyss of insanity at his feet. The darkness pulled him in. His mind strained to the point where it was unable to bend any further.
Slowly, he lowered the kzaktor to his arm.
“That’s it,” said the general under his breath, his words filled with expectation.
“No, Bronson. What are you doing? You don’t have to do that. Bronson! Stop!” screamed his sister across from him.
Her words made his fear drop away. His anger, his doubt. In that moment, he felt nothing but love. Love, and the desire to save his sister; to save his mother, even if that meant he had to condemn himself to a life of pain. In front of him, the wounded warrior with the defiant eyes swayed and stumbled a step back. Shock and disbelief showed on his face. Without another word, the ghostly image fell backward off the balcony and disappeared from sight.
Inside, the abyss swallowed Bronson whole. He broke into a thousand pieces and a thousand more. For it was his voice that screamed the call of defeat as the kzaktor dug itself into his arm.
The Prince of Iron collapsed to the ground, grasping his arm in agony, and entered a world of pain. Everything else was pushed back into the darkness. Love, happiness, independence—all disappeared into this black hole, where the pain enclosed it in a wall of armor.
Behind him, Corza pulled out his Roc’turr. The high general was grinning like a madman.
“Let those bitches try to take him from me now,” he said in triumph to himself, before raising his voice for all to hear. “Let them know that I, Corza Setra, challenged the will of iron and won. I didn’t bend it. I didn’t reforge it. No; I broke it! Nothing is impossible for me. Never again!”
Chapter 20
Sha'cara
Dalkeira had no idea how, but for the first time ever Decan actually heard her. She saw the boy startle at the sound of her voice. Behind him, an animal shot out from the dark hallway. It scurried low across the floor with its jaws wide open, closing in on Decan’s leg.
It looked a lot like the small lizards Decan had tried to catch for her back on the island, but its build was much more muscular and its skin was covered in short, rugged feathers. Its length was impressive, easily reaching half the boy’s height. It had a large, rigid tail and long powerful claws that seemed adjusted for digging or walking in loose sand. Its head was on a short, thick neck, the mouth showing a row of small but razor-sharp teeth as it tried to clamp down around Decan’s calf.
“What’s going on?” yelled Trista from above.
“We’ve got company,” Dalkeira informed her.
The lizard did not seem inclined to give up. It took powerful steps through the sand after Decan, its flat, wide head swaying side to side as it walked closer. A forked tongue flicked in and out of its mouth.
Dalkeira jumped forward between the strange-looking lizard and its prey, letting out a hiss as she spread her wings to increase her size.
Even without her wings, Dalkeira was at least twice as big as the ground lizard, but where Dalkeira’s build was lean and quite skinny, this animal easily outweighed her by half. The lizard, unimpressed by its winged cousin’s flamboyant display of size, let out a hiss of its own and took a step sideways. Saliva spat from its mouth to accompany the threatening sound. On the lizard’s back a row of spikes raised, showing a sail of skin with a deep-red frilled membrane.
Dalkeira was taken aback. This was the first time she had encountered an animal that did not turn tail and run right away. This was clearly a challenge. She circled the low-walking lizard as it followed her movements. She figured it would be best to go straight for the throat. The belly looked like another vulnerable spot, but the sail on its back would make it difficult to flip over.
“Decan, get back here,” ordered Trista.
The boy needed no encouragement. He put his feet under him and ran toward the pile of sand and stone. Dalkeira made sure the lizard remained focused on her as he sprinted away. She used her agility to out-turn the lizard, waiting for the moment it would break eye contact as it tried to keep Decan in sight. As she got behind it, the lizard finally switched directions and turned the other way to meet her.
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