Dragonhammer: Volume II

by Conner McCall

  “Oh, come on!” Gurbog grumbles. “It’s like you don’t trust me at all!”

  I ignore him and we continue down the last flight of stairs.

  The only light down here is the flickering orange glow of the sporadically placed torches.

  “Really?” says Gurbog.

  “Shut your mouth or you get the dung-heap.”

  “Do you mean it?” he asks with an enthusiastic edge in his voice.

  Once again, I ignore him. The guards on duty notice our presence and one of them comes with the appropriate keys. I walk behind Sythian, enjoying every moment of his agonizing walk, as the guard leads us to his cell.

  There are a few tunnels that branch off to other cells. As soon as we had full control of the Bastion I had the place searched for tunnels similar to the one through which I had entered. There are none down here.

  The stone walls are unrefined and rough, as if the tunnels had been carved out in a hurry with no thought to visual appeal. Not that it matters; they are dungeons after all. Despite the appearance, the cavern is actually quite structurally sound. Sconces hang every so often at seemingly random places on the walls, most with a torch sticking from its metal grasp. The light of the torches is quickly absorbed by the darkness.

  Something drips. Inside the cells, the stone floors are smooth, but the walls keep the roughness of the tunnels. On some of the rocky walls I am able to spot a stream of something shining on the rock. Hear a drip. See a puddle. Look back at the walls caked with grime.

  The lock clinks as it turns and the metal door, made completely of large crisscrossing bars, screeches as it opens. The guards throw Sythian into the rotting hay and he slumps to his left side as quickly as he can. Then he rolls and watches the door clang shut. The sound echoes through the tunnels.

  “You’re not as noble as I thought you would be,” Gurbog says.

  “Keep a heavy guard on him,” I tell the guards. “Someone is always watching him.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As I turn to leave, Sythian, despite his injuries, darts to the door of his cell. The torchlight flickers off of his sweat eerily as he presses his face partway between the bars. “There’s no honor in what you’re doing,” he hisses. “You parade as the honorable hero of Mohonri, but what are you? You just want to see me dead! Watch me squirm as he squirmed!”

  I punch his swollen protruding nose and he rolls back into the hay with a grunt and a moan. “Do not speak to me of honor!” I seethe. “Oath-breaker.” He looks up at me from the hay. “Murderer.”

  I force his gaze down. “Someone get him a clean rag,” I command. “He’s got another nosebleed.” Then I stride away.

  Though I am not looking at him, I can feel the grotesque grin drift across his face as he watches me disappear into the darkness.

  Shortly after, I go to the quarters that have been assigned to me. I need to shed my layer of armor.

  I take a deep breath as the armor slips off and the cool air makes contact with my sore back. I stretch for several seconds and then proceed to strip the rest of the armor.

  In the past I have stayed with the rest of the men in the barracks, where my friends will be staying. Jarl Hralfar insisted that I take the bedroom instead, which I am entitled to as a Captain of the forces of Gilgal.

  The room is like any other. There’s a wardrobe and a desk with a window above it. There are two chairs: one at the desk and one beside the endtable next to the large stately bed. A banner flying the colors of Mohonri hangs on the wall opposite the tall window. I sit down at the desk.

  Hard rain pelts the glass of the window with fury. Distantly I hear the clap of thunder.

  Despite the size and quantity of the furniture, I find the room quite empty. Why should one such as I possess so much space, while the others that fight with me hardly have a bed and a pack?

  On the desk I find a generous dinner. I pick at the chicken, but soon find that I do not have much of an appetite. It has been a long and extremely emotionally scarring day.

  The bed is soft and warm. I am asleep before my head falls against the pillow.

  I wake slowly. I take a deep breath and my eyes drift open. Dim light peaks into the room through the window. It must hardly be dawn.

  Though I find fine clothes in the wardrobe, I ignore them. Not only because they most likely will not fit onto my abnormally large frame, but because I would feel unworthy to wear such niceties while my men wear the same shirts they have had for months. For cleanliness’s sake, however, I do find it appropriate to bathe and change into clean clothing.

  I sit down at the desk, awake and physically refreshed. Someone has taken the dinner plate out and replaced it with a plate laden with breakfast. Suddenly finding myself ravenous, I eat every morsel on the platter. My gaze falls to the left, where I see my left hand sprawled out flat on the wood next to an inkwell. The last two fingers are missing just below the first knuckle.

  I recall the incident and think of my father. The way he had cared for me. How do you love them so much?

  How had I taught Aela to love? Why didn’t she know it before? Everyone develops a bond with someone in their early life. Why not she? Even the friend she lost at the bridge caused her no grief?

  I dismiss the thoughts before I can mull them over too greatly.

  Knowing that my train of thought will destroy me if left to its own devices, I decide to go and see Percival. My boots clomp loudly on the wood in the empty room and the click of the door is a roar.

  By this time the sun has risen and the castle has come to life. Maids rush about, doing laundry or cleaning things. Soldiers walk leisurely about to the smithy, armory, barracks, training grounds, or tavern.

  Slowly I make my way down a few floors and stop on the ground floor. The barracks is near: just across the hall.

  Most every soldier is out, polishing armor, having a drink, sharpening swords, or whatever. It’s not really my business and I don’t really care. It’s their day to celebrate. We have won the city, after all.

  Percival sits on the edge of his bed, reading a letter. He makes no attempt to conceal it as I enter, but a small smile makes its way across his face.

  James lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, probably trying to take a morning nap. Ullrog sits on his cot, once again sharpening his blade.

  Aela sits with her knees up, drawing in her pad of parchment. She offers me a smile when I enter, but does not show her teeth. I return it.

  Percival and James both notice the exchange, but neither says anything. James winks.

  I sit next to Percival, who shies the letter from my view. I nod as if he had acted exactly the way I expected him to.

  “That Serena?” I ask.

  He nods, a little embarrassed.

  “Why the red face?” I ask. “We all know about her.”

  Percival’s smile broadens and he folds the letter to place it in his pack. He glances at Aela and James. “Do you mind if we speak outside?” he asks.

  “Not in the slightest,” I reply.

  “What’s the matter?” asks James. “I’m not allowed to know of your relationship problems?”

  “You may be their relationship problems,” Aela mutters only so I can hear.

  Percival leads me up the stairs. On the fourth floor we walk onto the balcony that overlooks the entrance hall, and then turn into another hall with a pair of light wooden doors at the end. Percival opens them both and we step out into the sun.

  It shines brightly from our left, illuminating the entire sky. Last night’s rainstorm has blown over and the clouds are scattered, wispy, and white. The trees between the delta and city are clearly visible, their vibrant color standing out distinctly against the dull landscape. From here I notice that the barrows are covered with dark green grass.

  The balcony on which we stand is long, spanning almost the entire length of the bastion. A stone railing blocks us from toppling over the edge.

  I lean on the railing next to Percival. “How’s Se
rena?” I ask casually.

  “She’s great,” he responds with a grin, “though she’s beginning to dislike working with her mother as a seamstress. I wonder if she would enjoy baking…” Slowly his smile fades as he continues, “I want to see her again.”

  I nod. “And how are you, Percival?”

  He shakes his head and exhales deliberately. “I’m here, Kadmus.” He breathes again. “I’m here.”

  “I understand,” I reply. “I’m feeling the same way.”

  “I heard about Gurbog,” Percival says innocently. “He’s here in the dungeons?”

  My fists clench. Percival notices and shifts uncomfortably. “Yes,” I reply shortly. “He is. I’d have killed him if the Jarl hadn’t gotten between us.”

  “Why does he want him alive?”

  “He might know something. Or he could be worth some men or some gold.”

  Percival nods. “At least we’ve got him as a prisoner,” he says.

  “I want him dead!” I bark. Percival doesn’t respond. Quieter I realize, “I’m the prisoner.”

  Percival looks at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “He isn’t bound by anything. I’d doubt even his loyalty. I…” My voice dies and I look out at the barrows where my brother lies. “I am bound by the love and hatred I have within me. I have no power to escape their grasp. Always I will be plagued by thoughts of vengeance and death, and never be free of them.” I shake my head and look out to sea. “There is no escape.”

  Percival looks at me, and then back down, like he’s trying to convince himself to say something. “Isn’t there?” he asks.

  My mind flies to the forest and I look out at the trees. Somewhere there is a tree with a broken bough swinging helplessly from its trunk.

  My gaze finds the Vrakkjar Plains to the east. The sun shines brightly on them and I am reminded of Aela. The light she brought into my gaping hole of a heart.

  Percival reads my expression and the corner of his lip goes up. “It finally happened,” he says quietly.

  “What?”

  He smirks at me slyly and doesn’t respond for a moment. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  He’s right. I do. That doesn’t mean I’ll say it.

  He glances down again and says, “You’ll find a way out. It may not be until this is all over, but you will.”

  “That’s assuming I survive.”

  “Kadmus, if I had to bet on any one person’s survival, I would bet on yours.” He looks me in the eyes and I can tell he is telling the absolute truth.

  I do not respond.

  “She will help,” he says. “Trust me; I’d know.” Then he pats my shoulder and leaves me to ponder on the balcony.

  Only a minute later I return indoors.

  “What are we doing about Gurbog?” I ask Hralfar directly. “We can’t just leave him to rot in the dungeon.”

  “Certainly we can,” replies the Jarl coolly. His light beard quakes as he talks. “There’s nothing stopping us from it.”

  “But what do we do with him?” I ask. “Because I know that you’re not one to leave useful prisoners in their cells without good reason.”

  “I have asked Archeantus,” Hralfar says. “While we wait for his response there is nothing we can do.”

  “Not entirely true,” I argue. “We can interrogate him.”

  “What good do you think that will do? He’s the general of many great Diagrall armies, and not likely to tell us anything.”

  “But he’ll know everything.”

  “That gains us nothing if we can’t get him to talk.”

  “He’s selfish. He may not be as loyal as we think if he’s given the right price.”

  “Possibly,” the Jarl concedes.

  “We just have one way to find out,” I persuade. With my jaw clenched I wait for the Jarl’s answer.

  “Fine,” he breathes. “Bring him here.”

  I nod my satisfaction. “Yes, Jarl.”

  I stand outside the dark cell, watching the guards wrestle Gurbog to his feet. “Come on,” one of them says. “Let’s get a move on.”

  “We’d like to have a few words with you,” I say coldly. Gurbog spits at my face but I move aside and watch it splatter the wall. With a gesture I say, “After you.”

  “Why all the blasted stairs?” Sythian whines. “You couldn’t have a decent interrogation in my warm cozy little cell?”

  “No,” I reply. “We can’t have all of us going mad.”

  “Why not?” Sythian says with a grin. “It makes life so much easier to bear.”

  I do not respond.

  The guards have to help him up the stairs heavily. Gurbog’s hip likely won’t heal well, and he may be stuck a cripple for life. That’s assuming he survives long enough for it to heal.

  He trips up the stairs and the guards struggle to get him up, but before they can take hold of him he elbows one in the gut and the guard drops to the floor. The other he uppercuts with his hands, which are still tied together. He spins and throws a punch at my face, but I catch his fists and twist them over his head so his elbows point awkwardly at the ceiling.

  “Ow! Not so rough!” he says.

  “None of that,” I say quietly, shoving him forward with his fists pinned to his back. “You’ve got an appointment with the Jarl.”

  He can think of nothing to say, and so his tongue again begins playing with his split lip.

  The guards open the doors for me.

  “Good,” Jarl Hralfar says as we enter. The door shuts and locks behind us. We pass underneath the balcony and through an arch, into the core of the room. I’m still pushing Sythian with his twisted arms. The guards follow me like they’re not quite sure what to do.

  I seat him roughly into a chair. The guards secure his hands behind the back and tie his ankles to the legs of the chair. Sythian makes no move to resist.

  Genevieve emerges from the edge of the room and observes the scene.

  “Hello beautiful,” Sythian says quietly.

  Genevieve is not amused.

  “Come on, ask me some questions,” Sythian urges impatiently. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?! Let’s just get this done with.”

  “Jarl Gurbog Sythian of Diagrall,” Hralfar begins. “We’ve brought you before the-”

  “Yes, yes enough with the pleasantries! The blah, blah, blah, let’s get to it already!”

  Hralfar is baffled. It takes him a moment to formulate his answer. “You would do well to remember your place, Sythian,” he growls. “Tell us the location and strength of your armies.”

  Sythian laughs. “Everywhere!” he says, still giggling. “And nowhere!” My eyes narrow at the familiarity of his answer.

  “I knew this would be a waste of time,” Hralfar spits.

  “I’m glad we share the same point of view!” Sythian says, still laughing.

  “Shall I kill him now then?” I ask boldly. My fingers twitch over the knife on my belt, eager for blood.

  “Doesn’t the girl have any questions for me? I should like to hear her sultry voice.”

  Genevieve straightens. “Which part of you would you like me to cut off first, hm?”

  Gurbog goes silent.

  “Where are your armies, and what is their strength?” Hralfar repeats between his teeth.

  “I already answered that one! Give me a new question!”

  “You answered the where,” I correct. “What’s the strength?”

  Hralfar gives me a look that asks me what the dingflies I am doing. I ignore him and wait for Gurbog’s answer.

  “Very,” Sythian decides. “It’s very strong. You and all of your men should be afraid.” He nods as he speaks, as if telling us where he bought the tunic he is wearing.

  Hralfar shakes his head.

  “Next question!” Gurbog says excitedly. “I have a cell waiting for me downstairs! I can’t be here all day!”

  “He really is insane,” Genevieve mutters behind my back.

>   “It’s an act,” I correct.

  “Well, he’s a good actor. How do you tell?”

  I ignore her question. “We’ve got to figure out a way to bring him out from behind the mask.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  I think for a moment, and then say, “I don’t know.” Gurbog eyes me, but he does not seem to catch on to what we are discussing. Something moves behind his eyes. Fear? Doubt? Defiance?

  “Jarl Hralfar,” I say after a moment. “Where were Sythian’s chambers in the bastion?” Gurbog’s eyes flash again.

  The Jarl’s eyes flick between Sythian and me. Then he says, “Commander, keep an eye on him. Captain, step outside for a moment please.”

  I follow the Jarl out of the double doors and into the hallway. He shuts the door resolutely and says, “Follow me.”

  He leads me down the hall and up the stairs. A maid cleans a particularly large splotch of blood from the wall.

  Soon we come into a room much similar to my own, but more grandiose and extravagant. The four poster bed sits in exactly the middle against the far wall, with curtain rods higher up on either side. They hang empty, but must have held Diagrall banners before we renovated the place. On the wall past the curtain rods, windows span the distance to the ceiling. There’s an oblong table with a few chairs on the right side of the room, and on the left there sit two wardrobes and a desk. An endtable rests on either side of the bed, and a large chest lies at the foot.

  “What do you want that could be in here?” Hralfar asks.

  “Anything,” I reply, moving for the left endtable. “Letters, notes, journals, anything that could give us any foothold on him.”

  “What do you plan to do with them when you find them?”

  I look up at the Jarl. “He has to have someone he’s close to. A friend of some sort.”

  Hralfar shakes his head. “Not that anyone knows currently.”

  “Currently? So there was someone at one time?”

  Hralfar nods. “The only reason I know is because he didn’t come at the High King’s summons. He was taking time to grieve…” His tone gets lower as he realizes what I plan to do.

  “She’s dead? Perfect. Did you know her name?”