by John Marco
But there was no sun down here, and no moon or stars, either. There was only the feeble light of a torch hung on a wall just out of reach. Sometimes his jailers extinguished the torch, leaving him alone in the deepest, maddening blackness. The cell became smaller then, the darkness oppressive and suffocating. There were others down in the catacombs. Lucyler could hear their distant mumbles, but they were far off in the twisting labyrinth, and they didn’t answer when he called. So he had only the mother spider to converse with, and she watched him back with cold curiosity, her multifaceted eyes black and omniscient. Unlike Lucyler, she could easily leave the cell but she never did. She was wholly satisfied with her squalid home.
It had been a long ride from the Dring Valley. Lucyler had only seen Voris that once. Afterward he had been blindfolded, bound, and stuffed into the back of a wagon for the long and rocky ride to Falindar. They had not even undone his blindfold long enough for him to see the spires of his former home, but it hadn’t mattered. He knew the smell of the citadel. The air here had a unique taste, ripe with the salt of the nearby ocean. And he had known he was being taken to Tharn.
‘But why?’ he wondered aloud, absently asking the spider. She didn’t answer him, nor did any of the Drol guards that attended him. They all wore the scarlet robes of Voris’ clan, and only spoke to him enough to order him awake, or to spit ‘traitor’ at him under their breath. Everything else was a mystery, and if there had been a rope or a sharp object in his cell, he would have been dead a week ago.
He sat staring at the ceiling for long moments, counting the spiders and their elaborate webs, and remembering how life had been for him in Falindar. Everything had been plentiful then: food, female company, all the things a man could want. The Daegog had been generous to those who served him. Lucyler closed his eyes and imagined a fine meal. He was eating a delicate pomegranate when he heard a sound out in the corridor. Hoping it was one of his occasional meals, he rose groggily from the mattress and went to the rusted bars. Down the labyrinth, someone was shuffling toward him.
It was a cunning-man, one of the Drol priests. Easily recognizable from his simple saffron robe, the man moved with his head high and his long hair running loose against his back. He walked with an uncertain gait, as if he were in pain or intoxicated, but his eyes were clear and youthful, younger than most of his calling. When he reached Lucyler’s cell he stopped. There was a trace of regret in his smile.
‘I do not need a priest,’ Lucyler growled. ‘Go away.’
The cunning-man came closer to the bars. ‘The Jackal is dead?’ His voice was strong and melodious, with an almost instrumental beauty. When he spoke, his eyes glowed hypnotically.
‘Yes,’ answered Lucyler, then began to cough. The cunning-man waited for him to stop.
‘When?’ asked the priest. ‘And how?’
Lucyler laughed. ‘Are you my interrogator? If so, Tharn will have to do better.’
‘I am Tharn,’ said the man.
It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did Lucyler exploded toward the bars. He reached out an arm, trying to snare the grinning Drol, but Tharn was just out of reach. There was barely an inch between them, yet Tharn did not flinch.
‘Pig!’ snarled Lucyler, balling his hand into a fist and shaking it in the Drol’s face. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘You call yourself Lucyler of Falindar, yes?’
Lucyler spit at Tharn. ‘I do.’
Tharn very calmly wiped at the spittle with his sleeve, studying Lucyler as he did so. ‘One of my jailors,’ said the Drol. ‘But I do not remember you.’
‘I am a warrior,’ declared Lucyler. ‘Not a jailor.’ He turned from Tharn and went back to his mattress, sitting down on it and ignoring his captor.
‘But you are one of the Daegog’s,’ said Tharn. ‘Good. Then you will be even more privileged to see what happens to him.’
Lucyler sat up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen closely to what I tell you. It is not only the Dring Valley that has fallen. My revolution has taken Mount Godon. Like you, the Daegog is my prisoner. So too is the warlord Kronin, and the other warlords that opposed me. You are here to answer for Kalak.’
‘I answer only to the Daegog, Drol,’ said Lucyler.
‘The Daegog?’ said Tharn viciously. ‘And why would that be? Why would you ever give your loyalty to such a man? He is a traitor to the Triin people. Do you not know that?’
Lucyler chuckled. ‘You are the traitor, Tharn. You can hide behind your dead religion, but all Triin know what you really are.’
‘Oh? And what is that?’
‘A madman,’ said Lucyler.
All the pleasantness disappeared from the cunning-man’s face. ‘In Nar, they think we are all madmen. Did you know that? Did you know that the talk of us in Nar spreads like a disease, and that little children are told tales of us as monsters? We are so white because we are vampires they say, and the little ones believe. Do you know what you would be in Nar, Lucyler of Falindar? A freak.’
Lucyler grimaced.
‘Yes, you know I am right. I have lived among them, and I have seen their shocked faces at the color of my skin. To be sure, they have built some dazzling things, but they are weak-minded and cruel, and the one who leads them is insatiable.’ Tharn stepped closer. ‘I wonder what you truly know of their emperor. You speak of madmen so casually. If you really wish to know one, study Arkus of Nar.’
‘Interesting,’ said Lucyler. ‘Perhaps you are twins.’
‘My insanity is a misconception I expected. That is why you are here, so that I may convince you otherwise. Come closer, let me show you something.’
At first Lucyler stayed seated on his mattress, but when he saw what Tharn was doing he got up and approached the bars. The cunning-man had undone the belt cinched around his waist and was pulling his saffron robes down around his shoulders.
‘Let me show you the good cause you fight for,’ said Tharn. When his upper body was completely naked, he turned his back toward the cell for Lucyler to see. ‘This is how good your Daegog is.’
Tharn’s back was a collection of crisscrossing scars. Stripes of whitened flesh ran along every inch of skin, the telltale remnants of a whip. Still red after all this time, the skin had knitted into a giant, coagulated cicatrix, more like the hide of a reptile than the flesh of a man.
‘Beautiful, am I not?’ said Tharn. He pulled up his robe and turned to stare at Lucyler. ‘The Daegog’s jailors were very thorough. And the Daegog watched every moment of it. They even took a rattan cane to my knees. When it rains I am as crippled as an old man.’
Lucyler was horrified.
‘This is what happened to those who spoke out against your Daegog, Lucyler of Falindar.’ Tharn gestured to the catacombs around him. ‘This lovely place was my only home for months. How long have you been here? A week? A bit more? And you are ready to go mad, are you not?’
‘He did you wrong,’ Lucyler admitted.
‘He did all Triin wrong!’ thundered Tharn. ‘He brought in the Naren devils for his own selfish gain. He thought only of gold and weapons. He lived like a king while others starved. You know all this!’
‘He was flawed, I know,’ said Lucyler. ‘But you have been unspeakable. You are an atrocity, Tharn. Your Drol are demons.’
Tharn sighed. ‘If you believe that, you are more ignorant about my people than I feared.’
‘Your people are fools. Their devotion to your religion is pathetic.’
‘You are here to learn otherwise, Lucyler of Falindar. The Jackal was to be here, but now you must witness for him.’
‘Witness what?’
‘I am not the man you think I am,’ said Tharn. ‘Now I must prove that to you all.’
‘That,’ said Lucyler pointedly, ‘will be difficult.’
Tharn smiled effortlessly. It was a beautiful smile, innocent, like a child’s. ‘I wanted Kalak to see what I have planned for the Daegog. I wanted him to see wh
at I have planned for Lucel-Lor. Will you stand in his place?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ asked Lucyler bitterly. ‘I am your prisoner. You can do to me what you wish.’
‘That is not what I want. True, you are imprisoned. So are the warlords that opposed me. But it was not to torture you. It was to teach you. I wanted you to know what it was like for me here in the Daegog’s play pit. I wanted you to feel at least a little of my pain, to help you see the truth about this man you follow.’
Lucyler couldn’t help but look away. It was atrocious what had been done to Tharn, and it had not been a secret. Some said it was why the Drol master hated the Daegog so very much. Seeing Tharn’s flayed skin, Lucyler could almost understand his ire.
‘Do not expect me to denounce my Daegog,’ said Lucyler wearily. ‘You have won. Be glad in your victory.’
‘It is not a victory for me alone. It is a great day for all Triin. And I will prove it to you.’ Tharn came closer to the bars. ‘Do you know why the Daegog dealt so closely with the Naren devils?’
Lucyler started to reply, but stopped when he knew his answer would be a lie. Publicly, the Daegog claimed he was trying to better the lives of all Triin by dealing with the Narens, but the truth was evident enough. The Daegog was as power-hungry as Nar’s own emperor.
‘His reasons are not important,’ replied Lucyler. ‘And I do not need to be reminded of them.’
‘Oh, but you are very wrong. His reasons are as black as his heart. He has confessed them to me.’
‘Confessed?’ asked Lucyler. ‘So now it is you who are the torturer, eh?’
Tharn said nothing, but his eyes betrayed the truth of things.
‘Is vengeance a Drol virtue?’ pressed Lucyler. ‘Was not your own god Lorris called the forgiving one?’
‘Do not task me,’ warned Tharn. ‘Lorris was also the sword of heaven. Now he has touched me so that I may do his bidding. I will not be questioned by a heretic.’
Lucyler snorted contemptuously. ‘Do you really believe that nonsense? Or is it just your means to make others follow you? I have heard the tales of your sect since I was a tiny boy. They made fine stories, but they are for children, not grown men.’
‘You do not believe in the touch of heaven?’ asked Tharn.
‘No, I do not. It is the stuff of fools.’
Tharn’s smile widened. ‘Can you be so sure? Have you never been curious?’
‘Curious?’ countered Lucyler. ‘How can you use that word? Do you kill simply from curiosity, to see how it is to watch people suffer?’
Tharn sighed. ‘Do not be obtuse. Listen, I will tell you a story.’
‘Spare me, please.’
But Tharn went on anyway. ‘When I was a boy, I was privileged. I was like you, content to be on the side of the Daegog and to eat my fill of good food. I was as sure and arrogant as you are now, but as I got older I changed. I began to seek meaning in my life. That is why I went to Nar, to study science and the things of the future.’
Lucyler scowled. ‘I am not interested.’
‘You will listen!’ commanded the Drol. ‘You will because it is important. In Nar I found the science and knowledge I craved, but I also found a heartlessness I never knew existed. I went there seeking answers from the world’s great minds, and all I discovered was misery and hatred. They hated me because I did not look like them, and I knew that all their grand talk of peace and alliance with Lucel-Lor was a lie. I did not know why then, but I know now. And when I returned home I was a changed man. I heard the call of Lorris.’
‘The call of Lorris,’ Lucyler scoffed. ‘Ridiculous.’
Tharn gave a bitter laugh. ‘I see you may be the most difficult of my foes to convince, Lucyler of Falindar. Very well. I accept the challenge.’
The cunning-man called down the corridor, and in a moment a warrior appeared, one of Voris’ wearing the scarlet of the valley Drol. The warrior produced a key from his vestments and handed it to Tharn, who placed it in the cage’s lock and twisted. The lock gave way with a rusty groan.
‘Come with me,’ said Tharn. He opened the shrieking gate so that Lucyler could follow, then proceeded back down the corridor. Astonished, Lucyler scrambled after him. He caught up with the cunning-man, and was surprised when the Drol warrior made no attempt to keep them apart.
‘Where are we going?’ Lucyler asked.
‘Up. Protect your eyes. It will be bright for you.’
The catacombs beneath the citadel seemed to snake on endlessly. Lucyler followed Tharn as quickly as he could, but he was weak and the walking winded him quickly. But the cunning-man moved slowly also, hindered by his ruined knees. When they came at last to a mossy stairway built into the side of a stone wall, Tharn took the first step then held out his hand to Lucyler.
‘Take my hand,’ he directed. ‘It is a long climb, and the stairs are slippery.’
‘I do not need your help,’ said Lucyler. He knew he did, but he would rather fall than accept his enemy’s aid. Tharn shrugged and headed up the stairs, leaving Lucyler panting near the bottom. The Drol warrior stood behind him, waiting impatiently. Lucyler’s head began to spin with each step. He tried to find a grip on the stony wall, but the rocks were as wet and slippery as the stairs, and at last he begrudgingly let the warrior pull him up the staircase. There was brightness at the top of the stairs, partially blocked by Tharn’s body. The cunning-man stepped aside and let Lucyler tumble out of the dungeon.
‘Welcome home,’ said Tharn.
Lucyler surveyed his surroundings, and knew at once that he was indeed in Falindar. Even the hall he had spilled into, so close to the torturous catacombs, was splendid. The walls were of a bleached white stone, radiant and perfect. And the hall was gigantic, too grand for a mortal’s dwelling. The ceiling reached up into a roof of crystal glass that let in all the powerful light of the sun. Lucyler put a hand to his eyes and closed them tightly. Sunlight pierced his eyes.
‘Can you walk?’ asked Tharn. Lucyler felt the Drol’s hand on his shoulder.
‘A moment,’ replied Lucyler. ‘My eyes . . .’
‘They will adjust,’ said Tharn, and without waiting took hold of Lucyler’s hand. ‘Come. We are expected.’
Lucyler let Tharn guide him through his former home, uncomfortable with the Drol’s assistance but unable to continue without it. His eyes became slivers, and the sunlight made them tear. They moved slowly through the giant halls, passing by Drol warriors who stared at them in disbelief. Some even offered to help their master, but Tharn refused their services, guiding Lucyler carefully down the splendid corridors. Then at last they stopped. Lucyler forced his eyes open a bit more, and found that they had reached the throne room.
‘Come,’ directed Tharn, guiding him into the grand chamber. A hundred triumphant Drol faces turned to regard them. They had all lined up for this moment, flanking the path to the glass throne. Voris of Dring was there, a massive white wolf sitting dutifully at his side. There was also Gavros of Garl, and the wondrously cruel Shohar, the warlord of Jhool who had sided with Tharn early in the Drol crusade. The fanged warlord Nang had come from the Fire Steppes with a trio of his bare-chested warriors. And there were some Lucyler didn’t recognize, all splendidly garbed for this long-awaited moment, when their master would ascend the throne of Lucel-Lor.
But Lucyler’s heart sank when he noticed the other warlords, those who had stayed loyal to the Daegog. He recognized the long-haired, long-faced Kronin at once, his head bowed in defeat, his wrists manacled to his ankles. The other warlords, maybe five in all, were similarly chained, and shared with Kronin the same lost and ruined expression. They were all closest to the throne, kneeling at the foot of the golden dais. Drol warriors flanked them with drawn jiiktars, waiting to sever their heads from their shoulders.
‘Is this your mercy, butcher?’ spat Lucyler as Tharn led him toward the throne. ‘Will you make a display of us?’
Tharn leaned into Lucyler’s ear and pointed toward the throne, whis
pering, ‘Do you see him?’
Lucyler followed Tharn’s finger. Behind the kneeling warlords, a large, round object squirmed on the dais. The Triin leader was trussed up like a prize turkey, his arms bound behind his back and roped to his tethered ankles. He lay on his side, sweat beading on his forehead, a huge knot of fabric stuffed between his teeth.
Lucyler groaned, pulling free of Tharn’s grip and stopping halfway to the dais. ‘What have you done?’
The Daegog had been badly beaten. There were scars on his neck from a garrote, and his cheeks were puffed out with bluish bruises. One eye was closed, forced shut by an oozing contusion, and his white hair was plastered to his forehead by a crust of dried blood.
‘You bastard!’ cried Lucyler, backing away from the dais. ‘Is this Drol justice?’
‘Hold!’ ordered Tharn. Voris stepped out from the line to assist his master, but Tharn raised a hand to stop him. ‘Choose where you stand, Lucyler of Falindar. You must witness this. Do you stand with your Daegog?’
Lucyler straightened. ‘I do,’ he declared. ‘Then come with me to the dais. Stand with Kronin and the others.’
Tharn turned and went toward the dais. Lucyler, unsure what he should do, followed the cunning-man to the throne. When he reached the dais he stopped beside the bound Kronin and stood there, watching as Tharn climbed the dais and hovered over the Daegog. The Daegog whimpered as Tharn put a booted foot onto his chest.
‘Warlords of Lucel-Lor,’ he cried. ‘I am Tharn, the Storm Maker. I bear the touch of heaven within me.’ He pointed down at the man beneath him. ‘This thing at my feet is the former Daegog of Lucel-Lor. He is a criminal. He has confessed his crimes to me, and now he will confess them before you all.’
Tharn stooped and pulled the knot of material from the Daegog’s mouth. No sooner had it popped out than the Daegog screamed.
‘Help me!’ he shouted through the mucus clogging his throat. ‘He means to kill me!’