by Mike Morris
Rane pushed himself up, groaning with the effort, and sat up against the wall. Sweat broke out across his face as a wave of pain hit him. He sucked in air, determined not to pass out again. A bone jutted from his leg. His left wrist was broken too, along with some ribs and his nose. One eye was swollen shut. His nose blocked with blood. What was left was battered and bruised, his skin purple and black.
The Legionnaires had beaten him well, holding nothing back. But why? Because he had tried to see Myri? It made no sense.
At least Kibon was close, close enough to keep him alive. So that told him the Legion wanted him alive for now. Alive but not healed.
He looked at the wall opposite once more. No more than six feet away. Then another foot of stone deep. Maybe Kibon was only seven feet from his hand.
With a deep breath, Rane began to crawl across the room. He held his broken wrist against his chest, ignored the stabbing pains that came with every intake of air. He tried to turn his leg but the bone grated with every movement and caught on each slab of stone. Tears ran down his face and he cried out, not caring who might hear. He had no shame — only the need to get closer to Kibon.
Every nerve strained for the slightest hint of the sword's magic as he dragged himself closer. Somewhere on the edges of his mind, he knew he could hear Kibon calling him.
Halfway across the room, he coughed, spitting blood over the floor, but he didn't stop. The voice urged him on. His need forced him on. Inch by painful inch, on one hand and one leg. Smearing his blood across the stone on the way.
By the time he reached the wall, dizzy with the pain, he was sure he could feel a slight tingle of magic. He pressed his face and hand against the stone desperate to get closer. It was on there other side. So close. So far.
By the Gods, he was almost tempted to try and smash the wall down. Use his fists, his feet, his head, anything to break down the barrier separating him from his sword. But no, he knew that was madness. He wasn't that desperate. Yet.
He ran his fingers over the wall, tracing the joins, looking for weak spots, finding none. The metal door was just as unmoving but still he tried, tugging away at the door handle, crying all the while.
He retreated to his bed, somehow managed to haul himself up on to it. He pulled his boot off his broken leg and ripped the trouser leg open so he could see the bone. It had pierced his skin at an angle, and blood seeped steadily from the wound.
Rane screamed and cursed as he tried to push the bone back in, spitting threats to the bastards who'd done this to him, taken Kibon from him. Slowly it slid back inside but with only one good hand, it was never enough. The bone popped back, spilling more blood and unconsciousness took him once more.
It was dark when he came to. Cold. Rane pulled his blanket over himself but found little comfort. He shivered as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Why had they beaten him? Why had the Legion turned against him? It couldn't have been because he'd tried to see Myri? Surely not.
His mind raced. Thought, doubt and suspicion darting back and forth. Nothing made sense. Did the Lord General know what had happened? Was it on his orders? What had happened to Myri? Had she been beaten too? Was she a prisoner too?
But one thought overwhelmed all others, breaking his concentration, preventing him from coming to any conclusions.
Why had they taken Kibon?
Kibon. His sword. He had to get his sword back.
He ran his finger over Kara's locket, tried to picture her, draw up some happy memories to fill the hole inside him. By the Gods, how he hated that sword, hated its hold on him, hated the curse that ate away at his very being. Where was the fucking cure that he'd been promised? The cure he'd crossed half of Ascalonia to find.
What was Jefferson playing at? Why had he allowed Rane to be beaten and locked up? Did he even know? Perhaps the Legionnaires had imprisoned the Lord General too. Was he lying in another cell, beaten and broken? Was this a coup? A way of claiming the rewards? His mind reeled with it all.
If only Rane could hold his sword, use its magic, he could understand what was going on. Do something. He just needed Kibon.
Rane drifted in and out of consciousness, battered by pain from his wounds, hurting for his sword, lost in the madness of it all. At one point, gunshots rang out from the battlements, startling him, but the world soon fell back into silence. The occasional voice carried with the wind but otherwise he heard nothing else. No footsteps in the corridor, no voices, no visitors.
Morning came, bringing with it a little warmth. Rane sat, staring at his leg, the blood black and congealed around the bone, already discoloured in the air. How long did he have before gangrene set in? He'd seen enough die from rotting flesh in the war, and watched friends have their limbs cut off while trying not to be sick from the stench. Was that the Legionnaires' intention? To just let him rot away? Kibon close enough to keep him alive just enough to make him suffer for only the Gods knew how long?
He wet his parched mouth with small mouthfuls of water from the jug that was in his room, aware of how little he had. His stomach complained at having nothing to eat but compared to his other pains, it was but a minor inconvenience.
The castle came to life outside his window. He tried to picture what was happening: guards walking the walls, Legionnaires crossing the courtyard to the great hall to eat, others training, swords clashing — just regular army life. Just another day. With Rane as their prisoner.
A crow dipped and dived past his window over and over again, cutting across the clear, blue sky, until it eventually got bored and disappeared elsewhere. He watched a cloud drift past, inching its way with the breeze from right to left. He counted the seconds and marked the minutes and the hours in his head, trying to fill his mind with anything other than his longing for Kibon.
The pain in his leg changed. The wound radiated heat. Infection had set in. The rot had begun.
It might have been midday when Rane found the courage to try to go to the toilet. With the only container in the room still holding his drinking water, Rane's only option was to go in the furthest corner of the room away from his bed. He swung his legs off the bed, gritting his teeth as broken bones knocked against each other. Tears filled his eyes and it took all he had not to cry out. He placed his good foot on the ground and stood up. Using the wall for support he hopped across the room. Each step sent shards of pain shooting up his leg. Halfway across, he slipped and fell, landing on his broken limb.
He woke up once more and found night had fallen and he was lying in his own piss. He had no idea how long it was before he found the strength to remove his wet clothes and retreat to his bed. Once there, he covered himself with his blanket, shivering either from the cold night air or from the fever that was taking over his body.
He'd been imprisoned for two days and he had no idea if he'd survive a third.
If only he had Kibon.
34
Rane used his thumbnail to scratch another mark on the wall. A small line, joining four others. Five. Five days. He'd been locked up for five days. Five days without food. Five days without visitors. Five days of pain. Five days without Kibon. Five.
He would've screamed if he could but his parched throat was incapable of making sounds to escape his dry, cracked lips.
He was a pathetic sight. He knew that. Naked, filthy, stinking of gangrene. His leg was black with it. Good for only for cutting off. But even that was an option long gone. Gone. Like his mind. Thoughts flew back and forth, sliced apart by his need for Kibon. Love, loss, betrayal, friendships, failures, murder, revenge, escape, despair, death, forgiveness, hatred, Kibon. Always Kibon. He weeped at the thought of his sword, cried for it, begged for it, cursed it, loved it, needed it. Kibon. Kibon. Kibon. Kibon.
Outside his cell, outside his window, life went on. He could hear the Legion going about their day, talking, laughing. The sound of gunfire had increased and, somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that more demons were approaching the castle. But he didn't
care. None of it mattered. Let him have his sword and then he'd spare a thought for other things.
“Nathaniel.” He looked up. Myri stood a foot from his bed with a look of disgust on her face. Her hair was shorn back to a Legionnaire’s standard crew cut, and she wore an immaculate black Legion uniform. Her sword was slung on her back, and a cloak covered her right arm.
Somewhere at the back of Rane's mind, he knew he should be feeling some shame at what he'd become but he was just so glad to see someone again. Then doubt hit him. How could it be Myri? The Legionnaires had her locked away. She was just his imagination. He knew that. He’d not heard the sound of the door being unlocked or noticed the door opening. Hadn't notice Myri as she entered. It was his mind. Playing tricks. Lost. Mad.
He closed his eyes, tried to gather his thoughts. When he opened them again, Myri was still there. Was she real?
He tried to say her name but couldn't even manage a croak.
"I brought you something to eat and drink," she said with that beautiful lilting accent of hers. A tray with a bowl of food and a cup of water was in her left hand. Rane barely gave her time to place it on the end of the bed before he fell on it. He attacked it, scoping food into his mouth with one hand while throwing water down his throat with the other. His broken wrist screamed in protest but Rane ignored it. The plea from his stomach was louder, more desperate.
"Go slowly," warned Myri. "You're going to be sick."
The warning came too late. Hot acid rushed back up his throat and Rane vomited the food and water over himself. There was no denying the shame now. He looked up at Myri with tears in his eyes and so many questions behind them.
She shook her head. "I'll come back tomorrow."
Rane watched her leave, tears running freely down his cheeks. Myri didn't look back. The door closed. This time, he heard the lock slam shut, like a gun shot to his heart.
He lay back on the bed never more lost and alone.
Myri returned the next day, looking younger, better than he'd seen her in a long time. The trauma of the road to Orska was gone. The weight of the curse lifted. With the cloak covering her missing hand, she looked like the perfect Legionnaire once more, as if she’d stepped right out of his memories of when they first met.
Another Legionnaire was with her — Rickard. Rane flinched when he saw him but the man simply waited by the door, carrying the tray with food and drink, eyes fixed on the window. Rane wasn’t worth his gaze.
This time, she gave him the water first and held the jug while he drank, forcing Rane to take his time.
The water soothed his throat enough to allow him to find his voice. "Thank you."
"You're a mess," replied Myri.
Rane pulled his vomit-stained blanket tighter over his shoulders. "My sword..."
"It's near," said Myri.
Rane's eyes flicked past her to the door, blocked by Rickard. For a moment, he thought of trying to force his way to Kibon but he had no chance. Naked, weak, ravaged by rot and fever, sitting upright was too much for him.
"You're cured?"
"I'm better."
Myri took the bowl of food from the tray and placed it on the bed. A stew of some kind, still warm enough to give off steam. She took the spoonful, blew on it to cool it down and then fed it to Rane like a mother to a child. "Eat. Then we'll clean you up. Fix that leg."
Rane was too busy eating to reply. The sensation of food in his mouth was almost too much to bear. Anyway, there was no point telling Myri the leg was lost. Anyone could see the black of dead flesh had nearly reached his groin. Even if she hadn't noticed, the stink of it filled the room, polluting the air.
Myri patiently fed him until the bowl was empty. She returned it to Rickard who left the room.
"What's going on?" asked Rane. "Why am I being kept here? You've got to get me out. Get my sword back."
Myri stood up, gave Rane one last pitying look, then followed Rickard out of the room, locking the door behind her. Leaving him alone with his tears. His pain.
Rane screamed, filling the emptiness of the room with a desperate howl. From the hallway, he heard a man laugh. Was this all just a joke to them? Making him suffer just for their amusement? Why was Myri with them? Why’d she not saved him?
His stomach grumbled, unused to having food inside it. Cramps hit, doubling him up. He fell off the bed, knocking his broken leg, jarring his broken wrist. Fresh agony reminded him he wasn't dead yet. Enough of him left still to kill.
35
They came for him on day eight.
Led by Rickard, nine Legionnaires entered his cell. They held him down while one seized his broken leg and pulled. Rane screamed as the bone slipped back through the rotten flesh. The Legionnaire continued to tug until the leg was straight. The others moved quickly, placed strips of wood on either side and bound the limb in position. They stepped back, leaving Rane panting with the exertion.
"What's going on?" asked Rane but they ignored him. Rickard gave a nod and the others seized Rane by the arms, lifting him from the bed. They dragged him from his room, naked, half-dead from rot and fever. Down the stone stairs, not caring what part of him was hit, bumped or knocked on the way. For his part, Rane kept quiet. What was pain now except the only friend that had never deserted him?
Cold air hit his skin. His eyes burned with the bright sunlight. It all seemed so alien after so long confined in his room. He struggled again, not really wanting to escape anywhere, just tried to be free, to get anywhere other than where they were taking him.
"No. No. Take me back. Back to my room," he pleaded. At least he knew his room, knew the pain that lived there, knew how his life would end there.
But the Legionnaires marched him on. Across the bailey over to the mural tower.
Inside.
Back into the darkness. A torch burned in a bracket on a wall but its light had little effect. Rikard led them on without saying word, taking the stairs down.
Rane could hear Kibon whispering once more in his mind. His hand twitched as the need to draw the blade grew inside him. Someone had it near. He glanced back, desperate to look at his sword. See who had it. One of them did. It was close. Close enough. He squirmed in their grip but still he couldn’t break free.
He was dragged down more steps, past more torches burning stale air. Deeper than Rane thought the Castle went. Through a metal door and down more stairs. Silent but for the stomp of the Legionnaires' feet. Along a corridor, twisting turning. Past doors that housed the Gods only knew what. On they went, dragging Rane. On and on. Until they came to a door of their own. A door for Rane. Made of old iron, all beaten and worn, a small spy hole in its centre and a set of iron bolts to lock it shut when the time came.
Fear hit him hard. He didn't want to know what waited behind that door. Not after what he'd been through. Only misery waited for him in the other room. He wriggled and thrashed in the Legionnaires' grip, desperate to break free, but the Legionnaires held him firm. Blows struck him around the back of the head encouraging him to be still.
Rickard cranked it open, hauling its heavy weight back. As thick as the castle wall, it moved slowly, revealing a large open space within. Another cell. A bigger cell. Torches lined the walls, just enough to lift the gloom. Enough to show the shadows of the people inside. People waiting for Rane.
"No. No. Take me back," he pleaded. Even his words had no strength.
They hauled him into the room, stopping before Jefferson in the centre, with his back straight, proud. Myri was next to him, beautiful, dangerous.
"Sit him on a chair," commanded the Lord General.
A stool appeared and was placed in front of Jefferson. His escorts dropped Rane onto it. He nearly toppled to the ground as the Legionnaires released their grip on his arms but Rickard grabbed a hold of his head to keep him up right. The others stood at attention near the door.
Rane's heart hammered away, eager to keep him alive. Fresh sweat broke out over his naked body as his eyes took in the room. He wa
sn't the only prisoner. Three others, in civilian dress, were chained to the wall in front of him. Samuel Miller and the blond haired bounty hunter looked on him with beaten faces. The third was a stranger but shared their injuries. At first he thought it was a boy with short black hair, but a second glance told him it was a girl. Her sex hadn't saved her from the Legionnaires' attention. Her chest heaved with silent sobs. They were all just as broken as Rane.
But suddenly Rane didn't care why they were there. No longer afraid.
Isaiah had walked over to the Lord General with Kibon in his hands.
His sword sparked some life back into Rane. He lunged for the weapon, throwing his weight forward, hand outstretched. But his broken leg betrayed him, and he fell to the ground. Hands picked him up. Dragged him back. He fought, trying to break free, trying to get to Kibon. But they were too strong and he too weak. They placed him back on his stool and held him there.
The Lord General looked on him with a pitying eye. Whatever friendship between them was gone.
"Please," begged Rane. "What's going on? Why are you doing this to me?"
Jefferson held out his hand and Isaiah placed Kibon in it. Rane twitched. The blade was so close. He could feel its power, feel its pull. He licked his lips. Eyes wide. Pain gone. Kibon.
"I gave you this sword when you first took your Legionnaire's oath. Years later I placed power in it for you. Now I’ll set you free with it — if you wish."
"Please," croaked Rane, his eyes fixed on his sword. Nothing else existed in the cell other than Kibon. It was so near, so close. It would take all his pain away, make him whole once more. All he had to do was touch it.