Immense power slammed into his mind and a new kind of pain in his chest twisted fiercely. "This is the power you wished for!" she whispered viciously. "This is the power to be king! It will be used as I deem necessary."
Melshek could barely breath, his mind reeling as he tried to comprehend the dream turned into a nightmare.
"Of course," he said aloud, relenting to the power assaulting his mind. "As long as in the end I am king."
"Of course," she cooed softly, like an abusive mother comforting her child in between beatings.
Chapter 17
"I need to speak with the warden," Kaltor explained as he entered the dungeon’s thick, iron-reinforced doors. "I just want to speak with one of the prisoners."
"I bet you do," the stockier of the two guards grunted. "Most escape attempts start off with those words," His taller companion nodded in agreement, putting his abnormally large hands around the shaft of his spear.
With a sigh, Kaltor pulled aside his collar. "If I were here to break him out you wouldn’t see me until it was too late," he replied simply, drawing on a bit of Varadour power to illustrate his point.
The guards glowered at him, their muscles and power smoldering within them as well, daring him to strike. A few other guards walked past, glancing toward the potential combatants with mild interest. Then they saw the Battleborn brand. Weapons leapt from their sheaths and shields rose defensively. "You let the prince die!" they shouted accusingly.
Great! Kaltor thought sarcastically. The regent sure works fast at deceiving people.
He considered putting his hands behind his head, but since a dozen throwing blades still protruded from their sheaths on his biceps he thought better of it. "That was the regent’s story," he clarified calmly. "That Sight Seeker wasn’t even at the battle."
The second guard, the one with the big hands, smacked him across the mouth, splitting his lower lip against his own teeth. "You weren’t anywhere near him!" he spat. The other guards tightened their grips on their weapons anxiously, eyeing Kaltor’s attacker, as if waiting for an order. Salty blood seeped into his mouth.
This is not good, Kaltor thought nervously. All they have to say is ‘he was trying to help a man escape,’ and they could do whatever they wanted to me. I doubt the regent would give my fate a second thought.
"The prince ordered us down that corridor," Kaltor growled. "My only mistake was in trusting his judgment," The steel hilt of a sword collided with his head, knocking him to the ground. A flash of skin vision revealed one of the guards holding the butt of his sword in the air, face red with barely contained fury.
"The regent told us how you Battleborn just stood by as he died," the second guard said softly. They closed in, forming a semi-circle around him as they pushed him against the wall. They paused at that comment, eyeing each other uncertainly. Pain radiated through his skull from the blow, his eyes watering from the pain.
"You really believe the word of your regent?" Kaltor hissed, blood running down his chin.
There we go! he thought triumphantly,.Make them back down.
Kaltor slowly rose to his feet, eyeing all six of their weapons and the narrow confines of the dungeon’s hallway. I can’t afford to kill all six of them. It would cause chaos. With a lingering glance at some of their stances, he gulped a steadying breath of air. Then again, these are obviously war veterans. I don’t know if I could kill them all before they killed me. A seed of fear settled in his stomach and took root.
"You must have been working with the regent, then," the big-handed leader said. Every weapon rose into the air, deeming itself both judge and executioner. "So the best course of action is to avenge the prince and move on."
Kaltor gulped again, envisioning the coming attacks and selecting his targets. I’ll have to kill the most experienced ones first, he decided, his hands slowly rising to his throwing blades. This is going to get messy.
"Soldiers!" a deep voice bellowed, reverberating off the walls with impressive strength.
Every weapon hesitated, still hovering on the edge of bloody conflict.
"Yes sir?" they asked. Their voices were docile and obedient, trying their best to look innocent, despite surrounding a bleeding man with their weapons drawn.
"I will not have any vigilantes under my command," the tall man approaching them said, speaking much softer this time, though somehow it proved more threatening. He wore brown leather armor and stood a few inches taller than Kaltor, his scowl attesting to his direct, military demeanor. He spoke with the confidence and presence of a man who expected obedience and got it.
"I need every soldier focused and disciplined. Two armies lie on our doorstep. It is not the time to start killing each other. Relieve him of his weapons," His weathered skin and lean muscles testified to his extensive combat experience afield.
"Yes, warden!" the guards replied, saluting obediently before sheathing their weapons. Their eyes revealed the same killing intent as they unstrapped Kaltor’s throwing blades and took his daggers, even checking his boots for hidden weapons.
"You can collect your weapons at the front entrance afterward. Walk with me, Battle-born," the warden ordered. Kaltor found himself falling into step alongside him. The first two guards remained at their posts, their comrades returning to their various duties.
Perhaps it will help to flatter him first, Kaltor decided.
"Your men are very disciplined for simple prison guards," Kaltor noted aloud.
"They have been under my command for years," the man admitted. "They are the few who had no families to return to after the war. This was Prince Tyran’s idea of a retirement for us," It was then that Kaltor noticed the sword sheathed at the warden’s side.
"You have the prince’s Sage-blade I see," Kaltor said. "You two must have been very close. Did you help train him?" A few drops of blood ran down his armor, reminding him to heal the wounds in his mouth. With a trickle of healing energy the blood coagulated within the small wound.
"Indeed," the warden said, stopping next to a large window overlooking the courtyard and inner keep. "We were once treated as war heroes," He glanced out toward the glowing blue eyes of the guards on duty. "Now we are the rabble," He sighed, fingering the hilt of his sword as his mind sank deeper into the past.
Kaltor chose to give him some time to ponder on the day’s events. Every dozen feet a tent popped up from the grass-trampled yard, attesting to the arrival of another group of refugees. After a minute the warden looked up.
"We still have our duty, however," he said with an air of defiance. "And I will not see the performance of our duty stained with the loss of our honor as former soldiers of Prince Tyran! There are still many Varadour nobles as well, willing to support the people. We are not beaten yet."
Wow, Kaltor thought. I didn’t realize Prince Tyran had this kind of impact on those he led. He suddenly felt very small and inept. I can barely give the Stunts orders and assess a combat situation without getting everyone killed. Could I ever be so capable and fearless?
"I did not wish to cause such a stir," Kaltor apologized, leaning against the opposite wall, trying to appear sincere and relaxed. "But I need to speak with the prisoner Reeth. It’s about how to deal with Melshek."
The warden glanced his way, brow furrowed, as if working on a puzzle in his mind. "Every Varadour under Prince Tyran’s reign blames you for allowing his death, and you march in among us all just to speak with a prisoner?"
"I admit, at the time I didn’t know the regent had spread such rumors so— convincingly," Kaltor grunted, rubbing the knot forming on the back of his head from the previous blow. "But without what Reeth knows I’ll be putting my Stunts in too much danger."
The warden sighed, glaring at him. "Don’t misunderstand," he said. "We are the protectors of this city. We still follow the regent, the rightful leader. Obviously, he didn’t think your talking to Reeth worthwhile," He stroked his chin, eyeing the Battleborn thoughtfully. "Then again, he didn’t give me any orders to the
contrary."
With a long sigh, he called further down the hall. Two soldiers appeared, one in his late teens with an unbalanced stride, his companion quite the opposite. "These two will escort you, Battleborn," the warden said. "You’ll have only a few minutes in which to talk with the prisoner, or they’ll assume you’re planning an escape," The soldiers nodded, understanding the implications with a dangerous glare toward Kaltor.
Oh, for the love of the Gods! Kaltor thought, eyeing the soldiers grimly. All he did was throw me back to the soldiers. Now they can do what they like and say I ‘spoke too long’ with the prisoner. This will be interesting. The veteran soldier motioned for Kaltor to follow him, his fresh recruit falling in step behind them. After a few twists and turns they sank into the dark corridors of the prison, going below ground without windows to light their way.
The soldiers’ heavy metal boots echoed endlessly down the cold, windless stone corridor. They wore full armor and carried serrated battle axes in hand as they led the way. After descending another flight of stairs they turned down a hallway completely devoid of torches or light from the surface. In his trouser pocket, Kaltor fingered a dozen ‘special’ pebbles, painted black. All three Varadours used skin vision to see a black and white rendition of their surroundings. The pebbles were difficult to notice, though, if you didn’t know what to look for.
They’re very serious about protecting this prisoner, Kaltor thought, stroking his empty dagger sheaths longingly. Only a capable Varadour or Sight Seeker could even find his way down here in the dark, and the whole place is built like a maze to confuse any trying to escape.
The guards led him halfway down the hallway, turned toward a cage door, and put a rusty key in the lock. As the mechanism clicked open, the younger of the two leaned over to Kaltor and whispered, "You get five minutes to talk to him. If I suspect you of anything besides that, I’ll leave you in an unmarked cell so far down only the rats will hear you cry."
"Not a problem," Kaltor said sarcastically, pulling aside his shirt collar to emphasize his Battleborn brand. "I can live off of rats just fine."
Idiots, he thought as he eyed their armor. That design covers your head and chest just fine, but your necks are very vulnerable right now. The guards stared at him and his mark, unsure of how to take his comment. They backed away, however, so he could enter the cell.
The inside was covered in mold, rotting straw, and puddles of stagnant water. A faint stench of urine and excrement meet his nostrils, along with the odor of long-unwashed flesh and vomit. The prisoner lay in the fetal position on a thin bed of straw, pulsing with the faintest glow of Varadour power as he pierced the darkness as well.
With a hacking cough the man stood, leaning against the wall for support as he gradually rose to his feet. Even through his skin vision Kaltor could see the bruises and cuts. The guards had already spent some time working him over.
"A Battleborn," the man rasped hoarsely. "Have you come to kill me, then?"
"Actually, I want to know how it is you’re still alive."
"Really?" the man asked in surprise. "First time anyone’s asked that."
Got to work fast, Kaltor thought. Won’t be long before the soldiers get impatient. "You weren’t a part of Melshek’s attack at the prison. Why?"
"Ah, that’s what you want to know," the man said mischievously, settling back down on his haunches, looking Kaltor’s way, despite the darkness’ making his physical eyes useless. "Why would you care?"
"We all have our secrets," Kaltor said simply, pulling a strip of salted venison from his belt and tossing it to the prisoner. "What’s your name?"
The man caught the meat eagerly, but paused a moment, looking suspicious. Might as well try to befriend him a little, Kaltor decided. He’s had precious little compassion in his life, lately.
"Quietly," Kaltor advised. "Or the guards will hear you eating."
The prisoner took a huge mouthful of meat and turned his face skyward as he savored the juices, salts, and spices. "In prison, they called me Reeth," He answered in between mouthfuls.
"Pleasure to meet you, Reeth," Kaltor said, walking over to the wall and squatting down to face the prisoner. "I need your help."
"If you haven’t noticed," Reeth answered sarcastically. "I’m not in much of a position to help anyone," He gulped down the last of the venison and licked his fingers, relishing every drop of the precious flavor.
"I’m here to kill Melshek," Kaltor admitted. "To do that I need to know what happened in the prison. Why didn’t you change with the others?"
"How should I know?" Reeth replied bitterly. "I was too busy vomiting."
"Why was that?" Kaltor asked.
"Ate a bad biscuit," the prisoner admitted, pulling the straw under his feet into a thicker pile. "They said the black powder on it was a spice of some kind. But to me it tasted more like dried blood," He shuddered. His eyes took on a haunted expression.
"That’s it? You just got sick without changing?" There’s something else, Kaltor realized. Those eyes saw something horrible. Something rooted down deep in his mind.
Reeth stared at his hands, counting something on his fingers and mumbling to himself. "It’s a shame you need what I know," he said. "Since the council has decided to have me executed."
"Sadly, Melshek has reduced my standing among the city’s leaders, as well," Kaltor countered. "It would be impossible for me to even postpone the execution. They have to show the people they’re making some progress. The prince himself was murdered yesterday."
"Politicians these days do have a tendency of feeding you to the viper hounds when they need to control the masses," Reeth said with a withered sigh. "Town watchmen and nobles alike."
Town watchmen, too? Kaltor thought. The men who arrested you—
"Wait," he cut in, eying the other’s expression carefully. "You weren’t supposed to be in that prison, were you?"
Reeth chuckled. "Just crossed the street at the wrong time," he admitted with a resigned shrug. "At least they didn’t catch the pick pocket, though. I don’t think my wife would have forgiven me for letting our son go to prison."
With a tired sigh, Kaltor leaned against the wall. Cool stone pressed against his arm and shoulder, reminding him of the stern realities of Shaylis’ corruption. Such a man as Reeth, though, willing to go to jail to protect his family, could be easily bargained with.
"Your family is still in the city," Kaltor said grimly, glaring at the prisoner as intently as he could. "And Melshek is killing all he can’t turn to his cause," The prisoner stared at his feet and licked his lips indecisively.
Let Reeth ponder on that for a while, Kaltor thought. Then a better idea struck him.
"What if I swore to get your family out?" If they aren’t infected already I can bring them to the safety of the castle before sunset.
Reeth groaned in resignation. He stepped forward and they shook hands, sealing the deal. "Please," he pleaded. "I was never any good at bartering. If you can save them I’ll tell you everything. They’re all I have left. Get them within the walls of the castle and safe I’ll tell you everything you want to know."
"Where are they?" Kaltor demanded.
"Two blocks south of the central market place," Reeth explained, steadying his tears at the promise of his family’s safety. "She started a small bakery after they put me away. Look for the Three Golden Loaves."
"Thank you," Kaltor said sincerely.
A guard banged on the door frame with the flat of his battle axe. "Time’s up!" he said gruffly. "Come out or we’ll come help you out."
Keeping his back to the soldier, blocking the guard’s skin vision, Kaltor pulled have an apple from his pocket and passed it Reeth’s way. As he stood, Kaltor grunted his thanks and left the cell. Have to find Honmour, he decided. Reeth told us more than he realized, but without that last detail we still don’t know why he survived.
The guards escorted him toward the stairs. The veteran soldier led the way, limping from an old wa
r wound. The teenager, obviously a new recruit, followed close behind. He looked around the prison with a bored expression.
I need to pretend like Reeth didn’t tell me anything at all, Kaltor decided. If the soldiers are certain Reeth was useless to me, they’ll talk less about it, and hopefully it won’t reach the regent’s ears.
Kaltor sighed aloud. "Dead men truly don’t talk, whether they’re still breathing or not."
The new recruit behind him laughed, his booming voice filling the dank confines and reverberating off the walls. "He’s dead either way, Battleborn. Why would he talk to you?"
"I was hoping for more information about Melshek," Kaltor admitted, following them through the tangle of corridors and weaving tunnels. "But I guess he’s more afraid of Melshek than us."
"Can’t say I blame him," the young recruit added. "My friend worked over at the prison. He told me about those— things," The boy’s thin shoulders shuddered nervously.
"They aren’t easy to kill," Kaltor admitted. They turned to a stone staircase, winding back up to the main levels of the prison. Flickering torchlight was a welcome change from the cold, damp darkness.
"Well, safe travels, Battleborn," The old veteran said when they reached the main chamber. "I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for."
"Me too," Kaltor said grimly. "For all our sakes."
Kaltor stepped out into the castle courtyard. Archers patrolled the walls, bows at the ready. Soldiers hurried about preparing their weapons and armor in case of attack. The outer wall hummed with the thick tension of a battle on the horizon.
The Sight Seeker guards of the inner keep, though, glared angrily at the rambling Varadour soldiers with disdain. Their leader was now regent and those not capable of or skilled enough at Sight Seeker powers were beneath them.
Indignation burned in Kaltor’s chest. I hope they don’t get too many of us killed with their bull-headed ideals, he thought.
"You don’t look so good," Honmour said, emerging from the shadows. His anxious and confused temperament did not look much better than Kaltor’s.
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