Laughing, still laughing.
“You will never breach the Stronghold,” he said. “It is built for war and guarded as if it were the greatest of treasures. Whatever you want in there, you won’t get it, you hear me, you bastards? You. Won’t. Get it.”
Thren ripped out his eye anyway, then tossed the orb over his shoulder so that it landed at Haern’s feet.
“I think,” he said, “we have made a mistake.”
When Jorakai’s screams stopped, he resumed his mocking.
“The windows are barred,” he said. “The doors always guarded. There are no gates, no tunnels, nothing but that front entrance. Who is it you seek there, you fools? One of us? Or do you think you’ll take our gold and jewels?”
Out went the other eye.
“Nothing for you,” Jorakai screamed. “Nothing but a death far worse than mine. Go there, I beg of you. Go willingly into the hands of my brethren and their pits. What I suffered for weeks, you will suffer for decades.”
Thren abandoned his short sword, instead drawing a thin knife from his belt and beginning to work. After finishing with the face, he moved downward. He cut and thrust, opening up the man’s belly so he could reach his hands inside. Jorakai could no longer laugh, only scream as Thren shouted.
“You think I will suffer?” he asked. “You think I fear your pits and lions? Your home is a home like any other, and I will break into it. I will find the man within who has toyed with my life and manipulated me like a pawn in his fucking game!”
Haern put his hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Enough,” he said. “Let him die.”
Jorakai’s face had turned pale, and Haern knew he’d pass out soon enough from the pain. His empty eye sockets looked up to the stars, and the sight of them reminded Haern of the Widow’s victims from months before. To find him party to one doing the same filled him with unease.
“He deserves worse,” Thren said, refusing to look back at him.
“It doesn’t matter if he does. We’ll gain nothing from him. Let him die.”
Thren stood, his hands slick with blood, so red they seemed to glow in the night.
“If you want him dead, then you kill him,” he said. “Otherwise, I want this bastard to suffer. However slim the connection, he is part of what is happening in Veldaren, and we need to send a message.”
“What message?” Haern asked. “Who will know of his death? Who will see it? This is for your own enjoyment, nothing else, so don’t lie to me, nor to yourself.”
Thren froze, his eyes meeting Haern’s, and they were filled with fire. Haern felt a tingle travel down his spine, and more than anything, he wished to have his swords in his hands.
“You of all people are the last allowed to say that to me,” he said, his voice dropping, his words shaking with intensity. “Not you, not a man who is a living lie. Deep down, past the cloak and the hood and all your protective shadows, I know the monster you truly are. Never again, you understand? Never dare tell me that again. No matter what this man says, we’ll go to the Stronghold, we’ll break inside, and we’ll find our prey. No building is impenetrable, not to us. Now clean up your mess.”
With that, he walked away, leaving Haern alone with the dying man. Jorakai was breathing slowly now, each one accompanied by a wheeze due to the damage of his throat. Haern put his foot on a wrist, then withdrew the blade stabbed through the palm. He stared down into those two bloodied caves that were now the paladin’s eyes.
“Why did your god try to manipulate us?” Haern asked him. “Why would he work with the Sun Guild to help move them into Veldaren?”
Jorakai’s lips peeled back into a gruesome smile. Several teeth were missing from where Thren had pried them out with a knife.
“I cannot decide if you’re deluded or merely stupid,” he said, coughing and spitting blood to the side. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you’re from. Whatever you think happened, Karak had nothing to do with it. No priest or paladin worthy of their title would aid the Sun Guild.”
Haern was again perplexed. How could that not be a lie? Luther had worked with Grayson in organizing the Sun Guild’s initial arrival to Veldaren. So, unless they’d been lied to before …
“The priest named Luther,” Haern said. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll give you mercy.”
The paladin let out a chuckle.
“Mercy? Why should I want your mercy?”
Haern knelt down, and he felt a shadow cross over his soul.
“You may have my mercy,” he said, “and if not, I will have Thren return so he may resume his work. Your choice.”
Jorakai let out a sigh, and his entire body seemed to relax.
“So be it,” he said. “Luther is a disgrace, an insult to our order. We are holding him in the highest room of the Stronghold as our prisoner.”
The words left him stunned.
“Prisoner?” Haern asked.
“Prisoner,” Jorakai said. “Are you satisfied?”
Disgraced? Prisoner? Suddenly, his earlier confusion clarified. What if the priests and paladins of Karak were in the dark when it came to Luther’s actions? Given Jorakai’s reaction to the idea, it had a sort of logic to it. Did Luther hide his involvement for fear of retribution from his brethren? Or were his actions the reason for his imprisonment? Above all, what would cause a priest of Karak to risk so much that he’d hide his plan from his own order?
Even more unsettled, Haern placed the tip of his sword against Jorakai’s throat.
“Thank you,” said the paladin. “Send me to my god. Let me find succor in his embrace.”
“I’ve seen the Lion,” Haern told him. “You’ll find no succor, not with him. Only fire.”
He thrust, twisted the sword, then pulled it free. The paladin bucked for a moment as he failed to draw breath, and Haern watched until the body fell still. He felt no pleasure, but no shame either, no guilt. Just exhaustion.
Yanking free his other blade, he held both out wide and looked up to the stars, to where he pictured Ashhur looking down upon him.
“What we do, is it madness?” he asked. “Is it wrong?”
There was no answer, as he knew there wouldn’t be. But deep down, the answer was obvious.
It’d taken both of them to handle a single paladin of Karak, and now they headed for their home, to where they were raised, trained, and sent out into the world to spread their order. What they did, it wasn’t hopeless. It wasn’t madness.
It was suicide.
“I do this for others, not myself,” he insisted. “I do this to save those I love. I have to. Even my father … somewhere in there, he knows I am his son, and he’s ready to die for me. It has to mean something. All of this. Luther, Thren, Delysia…”
There was no confirmation given to him, nothing but the blowing of a cold night wind across the blood on his blades.
CHAPTER
13
Ghost didn’t know where he was going or even where he wanted to go, but he knew he had to keep moving. The pain was unbearable, his skin feeling as if it were constantly aflame. Not that he could see it, his eyes always watering from the pain. He tried brushing at his arms once, but that had only made the pain worse, so much worse. With each step he took, he cursed the damned wizard in yellow and the fire he’d bathed him in.
He was walking down a street; that was the one thing Ghost knew for sure. His eyes were locked on the ground, watching himself as he took step after step. With each one, it felt harder to move, his feet growing in weight. His stomach was tight, and even the slightest movement of his legs sent waves of pain bouncing throughout his body, overwhelming him, preventing him from even knowing the source exactly. Was it his arms, his legs, his face? Did it even matter?
At last, he could go no farther. He dropped to the ground, and at the impact, he screamed. It must have been loud, for the scream made him feel better, if only momentarily. He rolled onto his back, and that helped a little. Lying there, he stared up
at the night sky and wondered what the point of escaping the gentle touchers had been. They’d never hurt him, not like this. Perhaps because they couldn’t. Perhaps because this much pain, this much fire, meant he would soon die.
Ghost closed his eyes. At that moment, death sounded like a fine alternative.
“Mister, are you … oh gods, mister, who did this to you?”
Despite the pain, Ghost cracked a smile and laughed.
“That bastard in yellow,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes. He was dying, he was certain of it now. Better to fade away, to pass in his sleep, the waves of pain carrying him off to an ocean of fire or pearl or whatever it was eternity had waiting for him.
“Yellow?” asked another voice.
“I don’t know, he looks…”
And then the voices faded, and he knew darkness, but not for long. Movement, something lifting him, multiple hands on his arms and legs. He opened his eyes once, and he realized he was screaming again. It was odd, for he could not hear it, but he knew he was. He had to be. His lungs burned, his throat tense, his mouth open, and in the distance, he heard a sound that just maybe might be him …
When he awoke, he lay on a bed and was dressed in a simple robe that felt like little more than a white sheet sewn together with three holes left at the top. His tongue felt swollen, his throat parched. Something was missing, he knew, and he felt afraid to move as he looked around, as if movement might awaken whatever was missing. And then he realized what it was. The pain was gone. Somehow, it was gone.
“Gods damn it all,” Ghost said, and he sat up, taking in more of his surroundings. He was in a small room lacking any decorations, and the only furnishing beyond his bed was a chamber pot in the opposite corner. The walls appeared to be made of a pale stone, and above him was a small window with light streaming in. The place felt familiar, but it was still taking him time to figure out where. There were cobwebs in his mind, and a distorted feeling, like a reminder that a great amount of time had passed since he fell in the road. The daylight in the window alone helped confirm that.
There were no signs of his clothes, and Ghost felt panic when he saw his weapons were missing as well. The panic ebbed when he realized how foolish it was to think whoever had kept him alive would suddenly wish to do him harm. Ebbed but never vanished. So many times, the gentle touchers had come with their bandages, sewing kits, and alcohol, fixing him up, allowing him to heal, all so they could start anew in a week’s time, eager to try something different on his chained body. The window was tall and thin, and for all he knew, the door was barred from the outside.
Ghost lay back onto the bed, and he took a deep breath. He’d delayed long enough, but now he had to look. He had to know. Pulling back the blankets, he looked to his exposed arms, and he winced at the river of scars, pale white veins that swirled into one another to mark the fire’s damage. Casting aside the rest of the sheet, he saw his legs were no better. Forcing his dry mouth to swallow, he closed his eyes and touched his face with his fingers, feeling along the skin of his cheeks and forehead. Even there, he felt the subtle change, the mark of deep scars.
“All over,” he whispered, and he tried to decide how he felt. Truth be told, he didn’t even know. His physical appearance was not something he cared much for beyond what he could convey to others, to manipulate or frighten with the size of his muscles or the contrast of the white paint across his face. But for the burns to have healed already, the pain gone and replaced by scars, gave him a clue as to where he might be. Who else could possibly have such skill?
Gingerly, he swung his feet off the bed, stood, and then made his way to the door. Deep in his chest, he felt shame and embarrassment. Gods help him, how many times had he come there in desperate need of aid?
“Calan,” he said, banging on the door. “Calan, I’m awake.”
Twice more he had to knock before he heard movement from the other side. The door swung open, and a young priest stood in a hallway before him. Despite his best attempts to hide it, the boy was clearly disturbed by the sight of him.
“I will fetch the High Priest shortly,” said the boy. “I was told to tell you to stay here when you awoke, while I go get him.”
“Then go fetch him.”
Ghost flung the door shut, then sat back down on his bed. He ran his hands along his arms, feeling the scars. More and more, it felt like his body was awakening, and with it his scars were beginning to itch. He desperately hoped it would stay that way, just an itch, and not the searing pain he dimly remembered.
Several minutes later, the door opened, and Calan stepped inside.
“I must say, this is hardly how I wished to meet you again,” said the priest.
“I agree,” Ghost said. He’d stood upon the old man’s entrance, and now he felt unsure of what to do. By the Abyss, he didn’t even have real clothes, just the thin sheet. So he sat back down, looked to his hands.
“How did I get here?” he asked.
“Two nights ago, some men found you in the middle of the road on their way home from a night of drinking,” Calan said, sitting on his knees in front of Ghost and reaching out to take his left arm and examine it. Slowly, the priest ran his fingers along the scars, and a faint glow shimmered across the fingertips. With their passing, the growing itch faded away.
“They carried you here,” he continued, switching to the right arm. “Well, carried might be generous. You’re a large man, after all, so they more dragged than carried. They dumped you at the doors to our temple, waited until someone came for you, and then left.”
“I suppose I should be grateful.”
“Given the condition you were in, you should be glad they didn’t leave you for dead,” Calan said. “It wouldn’t have taken much longer, I assure you.”
Ghost let out a sigh.
“Forgive me … and did you say two nights ago?”
Calan nodded.
“You’ve been in my care all the while. Ashhur’s blessing has allowed me to keep you asleep through the pain and recovery.” He turned Ghost’s arm over, and he ran a finger over one of the deeper scars. “I’m sorry, Ghost; I did my best, but the burns were so terrible and covered so much of you. I could do nothing about the scars.”
“A mirror,” Ghost said. “Do you have a mirror?”
Calan met his gaze.
“I’d suggest you wait a bit longer before that,” he said.
The answer did little to ease Ghost’s mind.
“If you insist,” he said.
“I do,” Calan said, now moving to the legs. More blue-white light swelled on his fingers, barely perceptible. “Do you know who did this to you?”
“Whoever they are,” Ghost said, “it is of no business of yours.”
Calan stopped what he was doing, and he stood.
“If you do not trust me, then so be it,” he said. “You are healthy enough to leave this place. Go and do so with my blessing, but I have others who need my attention, and should go to them instead.”
“Wait,” Ghost said, before he could go. “Please, forgive me. Just, having you help me makes me feel … ashamed. I will better control my tongue, I promise.”
Calan hesitated, then returned, standing before Ghost, and he put both his hands on Ghost’s face.
“I can do little to help the scars,” he said. “But I will do what I can, at least for your face. This will hurt, but I trust you can handle a bit of pain.”
Ghost closed his eyes and waited for it to begin. Calan began whispering words of a prayer, and then he felt it, a sharp tingling as if spiders were crawling across his face, each one with little hooks at the ends of their feet. The sensation increased, and he heard a ringing in his ears so loud, it overwhelmed Calan’s prayers. Sudden as it began, it ceased. Ghost opened his eyes, and the priest took a step back to observe his handiwork.
“Better,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ghost; this is the best that I can do.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a small circ
ular looking glass. Ghost accepted it and, refusing to show any reluctance, held it up before his eyes.
The scars ran over every inch of his face, starting from the top of his head down to the base of his neck. The work of Calan’s magic was evident, for the skin, while raised, was not discolored like the rest of his body. It still gave his entire face a sickly, distorted look, and he put away the glass, unwilling to look at it more.
“My things,” he said. “Where are my things?”
“Just outside your door,” Calan said. “Your clothes were burned beyond repair, but we purchased you replacements that should fit well enough. As for your swords, though, you will have to wait until you are ready to leave.”
“I’m ready now.”
“Are you sure you would not prefer something to eat first?”
The rock in Ghost’s stomach shifted, reminding him of just how long it’d been since he ate or drank. But staying inside the temple was something Ghost just could not handle right now.
“I’ll swing by the market,” he said. “Thank you for what you’ve done.”
“Of course,” Calan said, though he did not step aside, instead leaning his weight against the door so that he blocked the way. He stayed there, arms crossed, examining Ghost.
“The man who burned you,” he said. “Were you trying to kill him?”
This was it, of course, what the priest wanted. Ghost swallowed down an exasperated sigh.
“Yes,” he said. “I was.”
“Did you want to?”
The question was so odd, and not what he expected. He opened his mouth to answer, then paused so he might think it over and answer truthfully. The priests had clearly done much for him. Was it really so much to ask in return to tell him the truth?
“No,” he said.
“Then why? For money?”
Ghost shook his head.
“I do this because I must, priest. I owe someone my life, my life and beyond. She saved me from the darkness, pulled me out. Killing is what I’m good at. It’s what I’m best at, and if I must kill a few more times before I am free, then I will do so to repay my debt.”
Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts Page 17