Awakener

by J. C. Staudt

  “Take it off,” someone called down.

  Darion removed the harness, though not without some difficulty due to the close-set walls. They hauled up the rope and slid the iron grate back into place. The torchlight faded and the door slammed shut.

  All was darkness.

  Darion could neither sit nor lie down; he could only bend his knees a little, and the debris on the floor made standing a challenge. Bones cracked underfoot when he moved; tatters of woolen clothing squished in the muck. He was so far down he could no longer hear the other prisoners.

  Time stretched into the emptiness. His legs grew sore, his hips and knees inflamed. It became impossible to distinguish morning from night. After hours untold, he began to feel as though he were under the influence of some heady sensing spell. The chamber shrank beneath the strain of its silence; dungeon stones pulsed to the beating of his heart; rivers trickled through the earth while worms circled him through the creeping soil.

  Olyvard had never meant to release Ryssa and Vyleigh, Darion now realized. His treasons demanded a steep price, and Dathrond’s justice stood absolute. He began to wonder if Olyvard would grant him the mercy of an execution. Anything but to die down here and be added to the pile of rat-gnawed bones and mold-ridden scraps.

  Time passed.

  No one came to bring him food or drink. No one so much as entered the chamber above, or even passed by the door, as far as he could discern. He’d pushed the bones to one side so he could stand on flat ground, but the floor of the oubliette was more sludge than stone. His thighs and calves and backside and the soles of his feet burned with a fury. Soon up became down and serenity turned to delusion.

  Then one day, he heard the door open.

  The chamber above filled with warm light as a torch hissed overhead. “You don’t know how much willpower it’s taken me not to come sooner. Are you down there, Darion?”

  “I’m here,” Darion said, clearing the dust from his throat.

  “I’m so glad I wasn’t too late. Nearly as glad as I was this morning when I heard you hadn’t yet hatched some uncanny escape plot. Things haven’t been quite so simple for you in the absence of your precious mage-song, have they?”

  Darion gave no reply.

  “The oubliette has quieted your spirit. Just so. You’ve brought my red sphere from Deepsail. I’m told you killed one of my Warpriests to get it.”

  “That honor belongs to my wife,” Darion rasped.

  “One more in a long list of crimes. A minor triumph. Shame it’ll be your last. What news from Deepsail?”

  Darion cleared his throat again to expel the rust from his voice. “Tarber’s restored his city to Orothi rule by now, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Tarber will not quell my armies alone.”

  “No, he won’t. He’ll have the aid of my wife. And my son, when he wakes.”

  “Has your son fallen asleep?”

  “Your spheres are not invulnerable. My fourteen-year-old was able to dull their power for a time.”

  “Ah, so that’s how you did it. He battled the sphere, and it broke him. Too bad. He must’ve been a fine boy, your son. The younger one, too, though I’m told he met his end before the last moon. Not my preferred method, but my Warpriests did their best with the tools given them. I admit I am glad it happened, since it brought you here.”

  “My daughters brought me here.”

  “You’ve never been one to let good sense hinder your need for gallantry, have you? You see this as your last chance to redeem yourself. One final attempt to remove the burden of proof from the old Warcaster, Savior of the Realms who never truly saved anything.”

  “I saved you.”

  Olyvard burst into laughter. “You ruined me. Your repeated disobedience cost me years of planning. I saw my careful strategy unravel in your wake. Then, when I was relying on you to do what was right for Dathrond, you turned against me. Never did I expect such fervid betrayal from my father’s trusted friend.”

  “The Korengadi had been wronged. I sought only to make recompense.”

  “Let me tell you how the Korengadi make recompense. Do you know what they did to Dask Gardwald when he surrendered? Were you in Cronarmark the day he opened the gates to Rudgar’s barbarian hordes? Or did you abandon the king of the northmen as you did me, in his time of greatest need?”

  “He sent me away before he retook Cronarmark.”

  “Displeased with your service, was he?”

  “He knew Alynor was in danger on your account, so he bade me leave.”

  “How kind of him. He was also kind to Dask Gardwald. He boiled his head in brine and sent it here in a pine box. It smelled as fresh as a daisy when Carthag pried it open. Korengad is revered for its vast pine forests, but I’d never before had occasion to enjoy the scent. I suppose you must find that rather amusing. It takes a savage to handle a diplomatic surrender with such complete indignity.”

  “Do you want to know what happened inside Rudgar King’s tent that day outside the walls of Maergath?” Darion asked.

  “Amuse me.”

  “I offered Rylar Prince to his father as a token of your goodwill. Gruske Frosthammer was also in attendance.”

  “Of this I am aware,” said the king.

  “There was someone else in the tent that day. Her name was Axli Viloxe. Bastard daughter of Rudgar King.”

  “So Rudgar sired a bastard. What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Rudgar was adamant about your death and Maergath’s destruction. All the more after I told him you’d invaded his kingdom while his back was turned. It took little to convince him he was better served turning around for home, yet he insisted on leaving an assassin behind; someone who could act upon his orders after he’d taken back his homeland. In an effort to dissuade him from having you killed, I offered to join his cause. In return, he promised to call off his assassin. That was why I pledged him my sword. To ensure Korengad’s liberation… and to save your life.”

  “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard,” said Olyvard. “Do you really expect me to believe you acted for my benefit?”

  Darion shook his head, though he knew the king wouldn’t see it. “I didn’t expect my wife to believe it either. Or my companions. Rudgar certainly doubted me. He suspected my pledge was one of your tricks, and left his assassin behind anyway. An assassin who’s been living in Maergath ever since, awaiting word from Cronarmark to kill you and your queen.”

  “Who is this assassin? Tell me his name.”

  “Not until you release my daughters.”

  The king looked down at Darion through the iron grate. “You lie.”

  “There are some things I would lie to you about, Olyvard, but this is not one of them.”

  “You don’t know who he is.”

  “I know exactly who he is. I saw him when I arrived in Maergath.”

  “Clearly he’s quite inept for an assassin. Elsewise he would’ve killed me by now.”

  “He will not strike until he’s ordered.”

  “So it’s his name for the lives of your daughters. Is that how you wish to bargain with me?”

  “I wish Ryssa and Vyleigh to go free. I’ll take them to Orothwain myself. One of your messengers will accompany us through the desert. When I cross the Fengate, I’ll write the assassin’s name on a piece of parchment and send it back with him.”

  “Liar,” the king screamed. “You will not frighten me into releasing you. Not this day, Warcaster. I will find this assassin myself—if he exists. I will purge the ranks of my household; I’ll have every soldier and servant tortured, if I must. You’ve left me no choice, have you? Their suffering will be on your hands. As for your daughters, I haven’t decided what to do with them. They may yet live. But rest assured, Darion… you will die.”

  “Then you’ve truly departed your father’s will.”

  “My father? Orynn King, who has now lain in his grave for nigh on twenty years? Is that the ghost upon which you would call in y
our final hour?”

  “I loved your father, Olyvard. I wanted to believe you were like him. A man with ambition, yes, but with love for his people also. I’d hoped, in time, you might follow in his ways.”

  Olyvard gave a bored yawn. “Darion Trollslayer. That is a title my father gave you, is it not? You were his underling. His lackey. If you thought he bore an ounce of love for you, as a friend or anyway else, you were mistaken. A wise king finds the best man for every job and sets him to it. The wisest kings express their gratitude over a task well done. Do not mistake gratitude for friendship, Darion. It has ever been your downfall.”

  “My downfall was believing you might offer a reprieve to two frightened children who’ve nothing to do with my past crimes.”

  “Surely you don’t think me incapable of compassion.”

  “You need only offer them clemency to prove it.”

  A pause. Olyvard summoned someone else into the chamber. “Write this down,” he said, clearing his throat. “Darion of Ulther, I hereby sentence you to stand trial before the gates of Castle Maergath in a manner befitting the charges levied against you. Should you confess your crimes, you will be granted a swift death and an outlaw’s burial. Further, your loved ones under my care shall be granted a special leniency so long as they remain true and loyal servants of the Kingdom of Dathrond and its empire beyond. Should you refuse, your guilt or innocence will be determined on the rack. Your trial begins at dawn on the morrow.”

  “You would count it as compassion to keep my daughters as hostages?”

  The king made no reply.

  Footsteps, the door again, and the accompanying fade to darkness.

  In that bleakest of moments, Darion rested his weary head against the cold stone wall and wept. He wept for his children. For his friends, both gone from this world and still in it. And for his wife, whose love had emboldened him across oceans, and with whom his time had passed too quickly. In the end he wept for Olyvard, the king he might’ve served, whose legacy would be death and terror and ruin.

  Somewhere through the long hours, morning must’ve come, for Darion heard the door open; saw the torchlight; heard the grate scrape away; and felt the leather harness brush the top of his head. He put it on.

  They lifted him, one heave at a time, into the round domed chamber. The torchlight made him squint, and the soldiers were rougher binding his weakened limbs than they needed to be. They gagged and shrouded him again before leading him out by the chain.

  From the moment he came outside he could hear the crowds assembled before the castle. His execution was to be a spectacle after all. The air was crisp, and the wind blew sharp and cold. He stumbled through the inner ward, passed beneath the gate in the curtain wall, and made his way across the outer ward toward the gatehouse while the soldiers laughed and jeered behind him.

  “Use your magic, spellsword,” said one.

  “Aye, put a curse on us all,” taunted another.

  The crowd heckled him, throwing mud clods and rotten vegetables and worse. When they removed his shroud, Darion was surprised to find a thin layer of snow covering the ground and a flurry falling from the sky. An uncommon occurrence for a city on the edge of a desert, but one he would not disbelieve in the presence of the spheres.

  Two stout draught horses, sorrel in color with white markings and thickly feathered legs, stood at opposite ends of a wooden scaffold where ropes hung through heavy wooden pulleys. The soldiers stood Darion beneath the scaffold and removed his bonds, then tied him to the apparatus. They cut off his clothes and left him standing naked in the snow while the crowd called for blood.

  When Olyvard appeared atop the gatehouse, curses turned to cheers. The king lifted his arms and waited for silence. “Good people of Maergath. We are here today gathered in witness to a trial by ordeal. Darion Ulther, a Warcaster once sworn by knighthood to protect the lands and peoples of the realms, stands accused of high treason against the crown of Dathrond.”

  The crowd raged.

  Olyvard waited. “He appears before you now to receive judgment for his crimes. I urge you to treat him justly under the evidence provided among his charges. Master Carthag?” Olyvard stepped aside to let the old castellan come forward with scroll in hand.

  “Darion Ulther. You are charged with murder on innumerable counts; conspiring with enemies of the realm; disobedience to the king’s commands; acting against the king’s ordained representatives; evading capture under authority of the crown; obstructing strategic military maneuvers; and practicing the dark arts of magic in a manner heretofore forbidden. You may confess your guilt and receive the mercy of death, or refuse and see your fate left to the judges who stand before you. How do you plead?”

  Darion scanned the faces in the crowd, knowing his fate would be the same no matter his plea. Then a face caught his eye. A face beneath a hood, altogether familiar. Her expression was stern and cold, and at the collar of her plain brown cloak Darion saw a shimmer of fabric which shifted before his eyes from the green of spring grass to the icy blue of winter.

  “The absence of a plea is akin to a pronouncement of guilt,” Carthag announced nervously. “Darion Ulther, I ask again… how do you plead?”

  There were other faces in the crowd. Faces Darion recognized.

  He lowered his head in silent thanks, breathing a single word. “Hyrana.”

  “Very… well,” said Carthag, confused. “Punishment for your crimes shall be decided by the judges before you. And so I ask of you, people of Maergath: how will the traitor be punished?”

  “Stretch him,” someone shouted. “Tear him in twain.”

  Others joined the chorus. Stretch him, they screamed. Stretch him, stretch him, stretch him.

  Olyvard gave the castellan a nod.

  “Your king has heard your judgment,” said Carthag. “Drivers? Prepare to move your animals.”

  The handlers took hold of their horses’ bridles.

  Snow fell.

  When Carthag gave the signal, the animals plowed forward.

  The ropes lifted Darion off his feet, and the swirling sky spilled open in a sweet breath of utter pain.

  Chapter 31

  When Master Carthag read the list of charges and requested a plea, Darion Ulther lowered his head and spoke a word Maaltred could not discern from his post atop the southeast tower. Norne stood beside him, watching the trial with a staid look. Talk of the Warcaster’s execution had inundated the city in recent days, unceasing even amongst the king’s servants. Most wanted to see the spellsword die; many, including Norne, wanted to watch him suffer before he did.

  Now was Maaltred’s opportunity to rescue the Warcaster’s daughters. Now, while everyone’s attention was turned. The castellan gave the order, and the horses began stretching the traitor. The crowd cheered as the ropes went taut, suspending him like a pendant from a chain. Maaltred turned away and started down the tower steps.

  “Where are you going?” asked Norne.

  “I haven’t the stomach for this.”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve seen plenty of your stomach. Go, then. Looks as though this won’t last long.”

  Maaltred rushed down the stairs and crossed the yard to the keep. He tried to step lightly as he hurried to the upper room where Ryssa and Vyleigh were being held. He fumbled through the parchments in his pocket until he found a suitable spell.

  A curious feeling came over him when the wild-song burst to life before him; a feeling of tightness, the air itself stretched thin. No one awaited him at the top of the curved staircase leading to the front bedchambers, so he tiptoed down the silent hallways with his spell in hand. Something was going on outside, but he dare not lose his focus now.

  When he rounded the next corner, the pair of guards who should’ve been standing outside the girls’ chamber were at the window instead. He flung his spell. A glittering powder dusted the hallway.

  The guards turned. One sneezed. They exchanged looks, then slumped to the ground in a clatter of besteeled limbs.<
br />
  “Simple enough,” Maaltred muttered.

  It was then he heard more clearly the commotion from outside. The mood of the crowd had shifted. Shouts and screams overlaid the clash of singing steel. There were panicked footsteps. And in place of rage, terror.

  Maaltred waited for the dust to settle before running to the window. The people were scattering. Warpriests were casting spells on the tower tops. The snow was stained red with blood. A man in a dark cloak severed the traitor’s bonds while other cloaked figures formed a protective wall around him. Could the Warcaster be a Servant of the Dusk? Maaltred wondered. It would not surprise him. Yet these cloaks were not made of black velvet; they were a drab brown wool lined in fur, thick enough to withstand a northern winter.

  As the crowd fled, Maaltred saw with horror that those left standing were cloaked in much the same way as the traitor’s rescuers. All at once they cast aside their cloaks to reveal shimmering earthen garb which shifted from color to color as they moved. Some held spells at the ready, and lobbed them at the towers where Dathrond’s Warpriests were casting. The traitor has called upon his traitorous friends, Maaltred realized. A mage with friends who practiced the wild-song, though? Who were these people?

  Stone ruptured. Bodies flailed. Vicar Norne clambered to his feet and stumbled to the rampart with a spell in hand. He didn’t use it against his attackers, though. He thrust his arm toward the gatehouse, where Olyvard was being escorted from the rooftop.

  A pillar of flame lanced down from the heavens to blast a huge hole in the gatehouse’s stone roof. A soldier shoved Olyvard out of the way just before the collapsing roof swallowed him and half a dozen others. The king scrambled down the stairs and disappeared from sight.

  Maaltred was confused by what he’d just seen, but there wasn’t time to sit and mull it over. He used a sleeping guard’s key to unlock the bedchamber door. Ryssa and Vyleigh were seated on the floor playing with a collection of finely embroidered poppets. They wore flowery dresses, their hair done up in curls. Jastlyn Newarth, their governess, reeled back in surprise.