Messenger of the Dark Prophet (The Bowl of Souls: Book Two)

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  “Small things? Small things, you say?” The words were syrupy sweet, but the duke’s eyes glowed with anger. “There are no small things! Not in my castle! Not with my special prisoners! Do you hear me?” He pointed one writhing finger with a surge of power and Kenn doubled over in pain, clutching his stomach.

  “Yes, Master. Sorry, Master. Please . . .”

  Finally, Ewzad released him with a sigh. “Oh dear me, Kenn, the stress you put me through. It's horrible, isn't it, Rudfen?” The scarred man stood in silence as Kenn slowly straightened up. “Ah, well. It's over now, so please, finish your report if you would. What are these ‘problems’ you are running into with my special prisoners? Hmm?”

  “Well, the king's soldiers that survived the orc attack are mostly dead. Several of them refused to eat, and I am also afraid that Kyle got a bit overexcited and two of them died while in the torture chambers. Only two of them are left and one of those is the captain. Uh, Demetrius is his name I think.”

  “Hmph! Oh, my. He would be the one to live I suppose,” Ewzad said. When the king’s soldiers had unexpectedly come back triumphant from the ambush that Ewzad had set up, the wizard had been furious. Even though the soldiers had taken heavy losses, they had succeeded in killing half of the ambushing goblinoids before scattering the rest. In his fury, Ewzad had ordered the surviving soldiers sent into the dungeons.

  “Um, there is also a problem with the group that was brought in a week ago.” Kenn said.

  “Oh? Who?”

  “The two men and the ogre that were brought down from the mountains last week, sir. You had them ordered to the lower levels, Master. They were to be tortured into submission . . .”

  Ewzad waived absently. “Yes-yes. I have plans for them. What is it? Have you been having trouble with the ogre?”

  “No, Master. The ogre isn't much of a problem. He just sits in his cell and weeps. It’s the two humans. I mean, one of them I’m not sure about. The skinny one seems to be quiet. But it’s the other one, the Dead One. He's the main problem.”

  “The ‘Dead One’ you say?”

  “That’s what the orcs called him when they brought him to the dungeons. They said that he lay as though dead during the journey and yet he still killed six of them with his bare hands when they got too close to his cage. Well, since he has been here . . .” Kenn cleared his throat and his eyes darted about nervously, not meeting his master in the eye. “He has killed seven guards. But don't worry, master, they are easily replaced.”

  “Seven?” Ewzad Vriil's eyes blazed. “Blast you! Seven of them? Seven of my dungeon guards? Dear, dear Kenn, how is it that one prisoner could wreak such havoc under your care?”

  “Master, it is not my fault!” Kenn fell to the ground and groveled. “Somehow, he got hold of a metal wire of some kind. Maybe it was hidden in his clothes, I don't know, the orcs didn't find it and he was so quiet that I didn’t worry, but then we found two orc guards outside of his cell with their heads . . . d-detached.”

  Kenn’s words flowed together in a constant stream. “At first we didn’t know how it happened. We figured that you had let one of your monsters loose or something. Then when I sent Lug and Dwan to take the bodies away, I heard screaming and ran back down the corridor. When I got there, Lug was howling and grabbing his shoulder and there was blood everywhere. Dwan tried to help him and I saw the Dead One’s hand shoot through the bars and snap Dwan’s neck. Then Lug’s arm just fell off and I saw a silvery cord slide back through the bars. Now no one dares to go past that door. Two more guards have died while trying.”

  “Then freeze him, you fool! You have a wand. Freeze him and take his weapon away. Then send him to the torturer until his spirits are broken!”

  Kenn pressed his face to the hem of Ewzad’s robe. “I’m so sorry, Master! I have tried! I have sent men down there, but that is how the other two guards died. Now no one will go. The only one that the Dead One doesn’t kill is Ralvo, the old guard that brings the food. So I tried to make Ralvo do it, but the Dead One wasn’t fooled and warned him off.”

  “Tamboor the Fearless.” Rudfen spoke from the shadows. “That is the name of the human that Kenn calls the ‘Dead One’. Hamford recognized the man and told me who he was.”

  “Ah, good. Rudfen, you never disappoint,” Ewzad said. “And what do you know about this man, this killer of my guards? Hmm?”

  “He is one of the greatest swordsmen that the DremaldrianBattleAcademy has ever produced. He is a deadly enemy, but I don’t think that he did all of this. Surely he knows how to fight with his hands, but the garroting wire, that isn’t Tamboor’s style. It is an Assassin Guild trick. Perhaps the other man in the cell with this Tamboor is an academy graduate too.”

  With a snarl, Ewzad kicked Kenn away. “You placed both of those humans in a cell together?”

  “Like I said, Master, the dungeon is crowded. I was more worried about getting the ogre in a separate cell than the two humans!”

  “Silence! You may disturb the princess, and that wouldn't do, would it?” Ewzad's fingers writhed wildly with his anger. “Now, Kenn, I will give you one final chance to correct your stupidity. I am far too busy to deal with small matters like this. I have a dukedom to run and an army to command, and so, so many-many plans of my own. If you force me to deal with this myself, just remember this. Seven dungeon guards can be easily replaced, but so can one Dungeon Master.”

  “Thank you, Master! You are most kind, Master,” Kenn whimpered.

  “That is true. That is true, isn’t it? Now if your report is finished, I must go. My dear Elise is waiting for me.”

  Kenn crawled forward on the rough rock floor. “Wait, Master. There is one more thing. One request I have.”

  Ewzad paused. “Oh? A request, you say? My-my, you have a request from me after such a blatant failure?”

  “Th-there is a prisoner that you brought in three days ago. A boy from Reneul. Th-the one you brought in for killing Huck. Well, I knew him at the Training School, an-.”

  “You aren't trying to get me to let him go are you? Because that would not be proper, not proper at all. I have promised him pain and death, and that is all he shall have, oh yes.”

  “Of course, Master. He is no friend of mine. He is my enemy. He humiliated me and deserves the pain and death that you promised him. I-I'm just asking that you let me be the one to do it.”

  “My-my.” The duke chuckled. “What a vengeful little man you are. How can I say no to such a hate-ridden plea?”

  “Th-thank you Master,” Kenn said and with his forehead pressed to the floor, Ewzad could not see the grin on his face.

  As Ewzad turned to leave he had one more thought. “Oh, Kenn?

  “Yes, Master?”

  “I have an answer to one of your problems. Why don’t we kill two goblins with one arrow?”

  “O-of course Master . . . how?”

  “Release my dear Talon into the dungeons tonight and bar all exits. Leave open one cell door out of every five. By morning I believe that our little overpopulation problem will be solved. After all, Talon needs the exercise.”

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Gwyrtha paced back and forth near the edge of the campsite, impatiently kicking up snow and leaves. Her focus never left Justan and every moment that she was awake her eyes were fixed on his position. Every once in a while, she would let out a sound that was a mix between a whine and a growl.

  It had been three days since Justan’s friends left the city of Dremald in search of his captors, and the weather was steadily getting colder. Their path had been taking them higher in elevation until they were close to the edge of the TrafalganMountains. A large snowfall had caught up to them on the beginning of the second day and they had been miserable ever since.

  “She is still looking in the same direction.” Qyxal said from within the cowl of his cloak, his breath leaving frosty trails in the air.

  In the beginning, they had been sure that Justan’s captors had left just ahea
d of them. Their hope was that they would be able to overtake them quickly. But Qyxal hadn’t been able to find recent signs of a group of soldiers on the road. The only thing that kept them convinced that Justan had been taken in this direction was Gwyrtha’s unending gaze.

  Gwyrtha let out another whining growl.

  “Dag-nab it, can’t she be quiet for a gall-durn minute?” Lenny grumbled, stirring his pot of pepperbean stew. He looked at Qyxal. “I’m tired of followin’ these varmints! Where’d you think they are?”

  “The last sign of passage I saw was a day old, but that was yesterday and the snow has obliterated the trail on the road,” Qyxal replied. “Zambon is down at the road as we speak looking for any trace that remains, but I doubt he will find anything worthwhile.” He edged closer to the small fire the dwarf had started, but there was only enough heat to warm the side of his leg.

  Since the start of their journey, they had not dared to start a fire for fear of tipping Justan’s captors off to the fact that they were being pursued. Luckily Lenny had brought enough cold provisions to last for at least four days, but cold food in a snowstorm was a bitter cure for hunger and after constant complaining, the dwarf had convinced Qyxal and Zambon that it would be okay to start a small cookfire as long as they were able to conceal the light and the wood was dry enough that it wouldn’t leave a smoke trail.

  It was hard to find dry wood in the dead of winter and it had taken the dwarf a long time to gather enough for a cooking fire. Qyxal had been against the cookfire despite the cold, but now that the dried pepperbeans were simmering and the smell wafted up to his nose he felt that it was well worth it.

  “Yer mouth is waterin’ ain’t it, elf?” Lenny’s mouth split in a wide grin beneath his thick mustache. “Pepperbeans have that effect on most folks. Especially elves like yerself. There’s somethin’ ‘bout the smell that uncurls somethin’ inside of you. It makes yer mouth fill with spit and yer belly growl like a hungry troll-lion.”

  Lenny chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’ll be done soon and one scoop of my stew will start a fire in you that’ll burn from the tips of yer toes to the ends of the hair on yer head. There ain’t been a winter day yet that could overcome Lenui Firegobbler’s pepperbean stew!”

  Just then Zambon ran up to the fire. “I found the remains of a trail about three hours old in the snow ahead. Something must have slowed them down during the storm. From the signs I saw, there are six men on foot and a wagon pulled by four horses.”

  Lenny slapped his knee. “Ha! That’s the first bit of good news we’ve had! It’s a good thing you found it, son. The elf was makin’ me feel a bit down in the beard if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  Qyxal shook his head. “I don’t know. Gwyrtha is still acting about the same as she has since the night they took him out of the city.”

  Lenny scowled. “See what I mean? Ain’t the elves supposed to be jolly people, singin’ and dancin’ in the trees and all? This’un ain’t sung a single song this whole trip!” Usually Lenny respected elves without reservation, but his concern about Justan and Qyxal’s attitude towards dwarves had rubbed him the wrong way.

  “My sect is not like other elves,” Qyxal snapped. “I’ll sing a song the minute you pull out a pickax and start digging a mine shaft!” Before Lenny could respond, Zambon raised a hand.

  “Please calm down both of you. This isn’t the time to be arguing. We need to solidify our plans. If we can keep up the pace we have been making, we should catch up to the men who left those tracks tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think that Justan is with them,” Qyxal said.

  “Where in the hell else would he be?” Lenny barked. “Gwyrtha let us know the minute the boy’d been taken outta the town. We been trackin’ ‘em fer three days now and with the pace we’ve been makin’ no one else could be in front of us!”

  “But it doesn’t make sense!” Qyxal retorted. “When we started out the trail was already old. They couldn’t have been able to get that far ahead of us. The more I think about it, the more I think that there is more to it then we are seeing. My biggest concern is the fact that Justan hasn’t tried to communicate to us through Gwyrtha again since that first night. To tell you the truth, I think that there may be magic involved.”

  Zambon sighed. “It doesn’t matter who these people in front of us are. Even if Justan isn’t with them, the men who have Justan may have passed them on the road. At the very least they may be able to give us some answers.”

  “Durn right,” Lenny said just as Gwyrtha let out a particularly loud yowl. “Gall-durn it, Gwyrtha! Stop that yollerin’. We can’t save the boy if you give us away!” He turned back to Zambon. “I swear, rogue horses are usually smarter than this. Can't the elf just put her to sleep or someth-?”

  Lenny didn't get to finish his sentence. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground looking up into Gwyrtha’s sharp teeth mere inches from his face. She stood over the dwarf with one clawed foot on his chest. Her growl was a throaty rumble. Qyxal rushed over and began whispering in her ear to calm her, but Gwyrtha ignored the elf and pressed down a little harder.

  Lenny looked away from her teeth and into her eyes. There he saw a level of intelligence and understanding that surprised him. Not only was she worried for Justan, but she also understood that he had slighted her.

  “Dag-blast it, I . . . I'm sorry, girl.” The dwarf ignored the pressure on his chest. “I'm worried about him too.” Gwyrtha's only response was a snort. She turned away and moved to the edge of the firelight, staring into the trees silently.

  “What was that about?” Zambon asked.

  “She wanted to make sure that they had an understanding,” Qyxal said and joined Gwyrtha, whispering to her gently in the elven tongue.

  Lenny slowly got to his feet and brushed the snow off of his winter traveling clothes. He didn't say anything, but stood quietly instead, absently stroking his mustache as he stared into the small fire.

  The minutes stretched out and Zambon shook his head. Before, the camp had been too loud for Zambon's tastes with Gwyrtha’s constant growling while Lenny argued with Qyxal or just complained in general. Now it seemed too quiet. He leaned over the fire. The spicy smells coming from the dwarf's cook pot made his mouth water.

  “Is it done?” he asked.

  “Sure, son. Grab yerself a bowl.” The dwarf waived absently at the pot. Zambon pulled a small metal bowl out of the dwarf’s pack and ladled some of the thick mixture into it.

  “You know, the last time I had this was back on the road from the academy to the MageSchool and I have been craving it ever since.” The dwarf grunted but didn’t say anything. Zambon took a bite and gasped. Tears began to stream from his eyes. “Glyfstag! This is much hotter then I remembered!”

  Lenny laughed. “Yer darn tootin! This is my winter brew. I added in some of my pepperbean wine to enhance the heat. Just you wait, it’ll keep you warm all night! The only downside is you’ll be findin’ the bushes in the mornin’!” He paused and looked at the academy graduate curiously. “Say, where’d you learn orc curses? 'Glyfstag' is a particularly nasty one. 'Course, all orc curses are pretty durn nasty.”

  Zambon coughed and sputtered as he explained. “My father used to use them every once in a while. My mother didn’t like him swearing and I think he figured that if she didn’t know what it meant, she couldn’t get mad at him.”

  The dwarf patted Zambon on the back. “Feels better now, don’t it?” Lenny asked with a wink.

  The burning in his mouth was still unbearable, but to Zambon’s surprise, the dwarf was right. The heat flooded from his stomach and traveled throughout his body, pushing the tendrils of cold away. He even began to sweat.

  “Actually it does. Thank you.”

  The dwarf nodded and began to stare into the fire again, the grin slowly leaving his face. “Say, uh. Whaddya think the chances are that this’s the group that took the boy?”

  Zambon shrugged. “I think that Qyxal may be right. There’s
no way for us to know until we catch up to them, though.” Lenny slowly nodded and began to twist his mustache over and over with one thick finger. Zambon cleared his throat. He hadn’t dared to take another bite of the stew yet.

  “Hey, why don’t you take a bowl of this fine stew over to Qyxal? He seemed pretty excited to try it when Justan told him about it on the way to Dremald.”

  “Really?” The dwarf looked at him with one bushy eyebrow raised. “Well there ain’t no sense in makin’ him wait, now is there?”

  Zambon watched with quiet amazement as Qyxal accepted the bowl of stew from the dwarf with a smile. The elf devoured the bowl with rapture and asked for more, quite to Lenny’s delight. The dwarf slapped the elf on the back and went to bring him another bowl. Zambon shook his head and grinned. Perhaps they could rescue Justan without tearing themselves apart first.

  They caught only a few hours of sleep that night, though with the help of the dwarf’s stew it was the best rest they had taken so far. Before the light of the sun reached over the horizon, they were up following the trail of their quarry. They moved quickly and it looked like they were going to catch up to the men they hunted, but they ran into a snag.