Each night, she struggled to catch sight of Argyll, the druid’s falcon friend who had brought her news, but since her arrival, there had been no sign of the bird for several weeks. She had also tried to use her small hairpin-type wand to open the gate to her cell, to no avail. The magic of the Kesh here was powerful, and the spark from her wand that burned her fingers was proof enough that this was no mere lock cart or simple jail. No, the Kesh were keeping her in a powerful and defensive prison that seemed to have been built for those who had special talents like hers. The Kesh were not stupid, despite the brigand class that begged to differ; at least, to her mind.
So, her chamber pot filled to overflowing, her water ran dry, and no food was available to her for days. Before, she could sometimes smell the faint wisps of a kitchen somewhere close by that must have prepared meals for the prisoners and guards, but there had been no more pleasant aromas since the civil battle that had occurred two weeks ago.
She used to hear the footsteps of the approaching guards and fancy to herself that the door would open and she would see her son Malik decked out in the royal armor of the Korwellian Guard, or perhaps her son Targon swinging his large axe and cutting down her prison guards to free her from her imprisonment. Each time the Kesh wardens opened the door, a little bit of hope left her for good. It wasn’t much every time it happened, but over the days and weeks, it added up to a large portion of what she clung to.
She was fortunate the first week and a half insomuch as it actually rained. Kesh was a semi-arid land, and seldom did it have any appreciable precipitation. Using her crude wooden utensils, she wedged the handle ends between the large stone blocks under the window ledge, allowing the runoff water to trickle out and then fall into her empty cup, bowl, and chamber pot, which she had unceremoniously emptied against the far wall when the rain started to fall. It was the only water she was able to collect. Despite rationing it, she had run out of drinkable water three days ago.
So it was that she leaned against the corner wall, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms folded across them, with her head resting against them. Her hair fell over in front of her, covering her face and hands. She resisted the urge to cry and took shallow, slow breaths to calm herself, thus she was still and silent when she heard the first real sounds of human activity in the last fortnight.
The voice was muffled, but the words were clear. “Are you sure there is no one in here?”
“Yes, my lord, the occupancy chart shows it empty,” said a second voice.
“Actually, the manifest status was pending the execution and subsequent vivisection for analysis of the cadaver.”
“What?” The second voice sounded confused, though clearer now as the two people reached the door to the room.
“Never mind, open the door.”
The sound of keys jingling came to Dareen’s ears, and she pulled a few strands of hair away from her face, not enough to make it visible, but enough to allow her to see who was about to enter the room.
“They’re not working,” the second voice said.
“Try them all,” the first, calmer voice said.
Iron grated on iron as several more keys were inserted into the lock in an attempt to open the door. Each time, the levers inside protested, and the second man started to utter curses under his breath until finally asking, “Can’t you use your magic to open the door?”
The first voice maintained its patience. “No, the room and door are sealed by the High-Mage himself. Attempting to open it through an enchantment either would not work or could result in a serious injury.”
“Allow me?” asked a third, new voice in a low sinister tone.
“Are you sure you wish to make the attempt, Balarian?” said the first voice.
There was a pause followed by a statement that could be mistaken for a question. “The High-Mage is dead.”
Dareen almost gasped, but gritted her teeth and put pressure on her lips to keep them shut. She wanted to cheer for joy at the news, but kept her composure.
There was silence for a moment before the first voice answered. “Indeed, the protective incantations would have faded by now. That means it is simply a mechanical lock.”
Another pause, and then the sound of something being manipulated in the locking mechanism, followed by that distinct sound of the locking lever being pushed back away from the door bolt. With a slam of metal against a metal backstop, the door was unlocked and then opened from the other side.
Three men entered the room, and all three couldn’t have been more distinct looking, or so Dareen thought. One man was a wizard or magic-user, for sure. His blue robe and tasseled hat gave that away, though the metallic staff was proof enough. The man looked very young, which was unusual for the Kesh magic caste.
The second man seemed almost hunched over and was dressed in the usual dungeon garb of leather armor over dirty burlap clothes. He managed a cotton tunic under his leather breastplate, and it, too, was sooty from years of working below ground. The set of keys in his hands also made his position and stature obvious.
The third man wore a black cloak and also a leather-type armor, but better made and intricate in its detail. The man’s clothing was closer to a silk-type fabric, and he appeared clean-shaven, as only his chin and eyes were visible from under the cloak. He quickly put away two small tools into a pocket and rested his hand on a silver-hilted dagger that jutted from his waistband. His eyes darted around the room, and his sinister appearance frightened Dareen. She had seen her share of killers before, and this man most definitely fell within that group.
The wizard seemed bored, and the brigand warden exuded an aura of fear mixed with apprehension. The three men looked around and then approached her cell.
“It appears we have another deceased prisoner,” the wizard said. “The lack of water proved to be too much. This makes how many so far?” he asked, turning to face the dungeon guard.
“Thirteen, by my reckoning,” the man said, looking at his crude notepad and small stick of charcoal he used to keep count. I’ll mark it under dehydration for cause of death.”
“Good,” the wizard said.
“Except,” the Balarian man said, approaching the cell with his fingers caressing the hilt of his dagger, “this one’s not dead.”
“What?” the guard asked. “She couldn’t have survived this long without water. No one has yet.”
There was silence till the wizard spoke. “Are you sure, Silis?”
There was no hesitation in his response. “Quite sure. Corpses don’t breathe.”
“She doesn’t look like she’s breathing,” the guard said. “Maybe she’s knocked out?”
“Perhaps,” the Balarian called Silis responded, “or perhaps she’s waiting to see what we do with her.”
“What does the manifest say the reason for her incarceration?” the wizard asked.
A paper ruffled as the guard struggled to find the right document amidst several in his hands while still keeping his charcoal pencil and set of keys from dropping. With great effort, he tucked the pencil behind one ear and bit down on the keyring to free his hands, and then triumphantly produced the correct paper. “Ere ut iz,” he muttered.
The wizard took the document, scanned it, and then read aloud. “Genetic anomaly resulting from possible evidence of witchcraft demonstrated during the prison riot of summer in the Ulsthor year of production.”
The guard took the keyring out of his mouth before speaking. “What does that mean?”
The wizard continued to read. “Subject considered dangerous to common castes . . . recommend autopsy following execution for organ examination to ascertain arcane potential in lower, non-Kesh societal subject.”
“Well?” The guard’s curiosity got the better of him.
“Death warrant to be countersigned by Assistant to the High Mage Ke-Grenson. Initial charges brought to the High-Mage’s court by the Acting Wizard of Ulsthor, Alister.”
The wizard paused, looking up from the paper and
directing his gaze at Dareen. The Balarian spoke. “Both are dead.”
“You state the obvious,” the wizard said.
“It explains much,” Silis responded, seemingly unflustered by the mild insult.
The wizard looked down at his paper before turning to the guard. “Open her cell and confirm what the Balarian has said about her health.”
“You want me to go in there alone?” the guard asked.
The wizard nodded. “Of course. The filth in that cell would soil my robe beyond any ability to clean it. Do not worry, we will kill her if she does anything unwarranted toward you.”
The wizard’s words did not seem to have a calming effect on the prison guard. With great apprehension, he tucked the other papers under his arm and started to search for the cell key. “Uh . . .”
“What now?” the wizard asked.
“These may not be the correct set of keys,” the guard said, looking at the wizard to see if the man’s staff was about to zap him.
“Why not?” was the wizard’s simple reply.
The guard shrugged his shoulders. “The Chief Dungeon Warden was also killed in the rebellion . . . Ah, I mean the revolution, and I’m not sure where the set of master keys are at.”
“Did he not keep them in the warden’s office?” the wizard asked.
“Perhaps,” the guard said, “but they were last seen with the deputy warden, ah, on the same evening . . .”
“And?”
“Well, the man’s body, and the master keys, were never found.” The guard shook his head and looked down, obviously remembering something painful in the recent past.
“If Silis is correct, then there is no warding spell on the cell gate.” With that statement, the wizard touched his gem-topped staff to the locking mechanism, muttering something under his breath, and a faint zap of light emanated from the lock as the gate slowly swung outward. “It is open now. Go in and check her.”
The guard nodded and set his papers down on the floor with one hand while pulling a small wooden club from his belt that was tucked behind his back. He took a single step toward the gate when Dareen decided she had to act.
“No need for you to soil your clothes,” she said without moving, startling both the guard and the wizard, though the Balarian seemed unaffected. Her words mocked the statement the wizard had made not long ago. “I’ll answer your questions, if that’s what you want.”
The guard looked to the wizard for guidance, but the Balarian never took his eyes off Dareen. She noticed that and felt a chill run down her spine as the man gripped his dagger tighter than before. Finally, the wizard spoke. “What is your name?”
“Dareen is my name, and would you mind if I asked for water to drink? I’m sure my answers to your questions would come easier if my throat weren’t so parched.”
The wizard looked at her for a moment and then nodded at the guard. He had a leather-skinned flask with a cork stopper on it that was filled with clean water for exactly this purpose, but none of the other prisoners were alive to drink it. The guard stepped halfway into the cell and then tossed the water flask at her feet.
Dareen tried to moderate her appearance so as not to seem too eager and desperate to her new visitors, but she quickly grabbed the flask, yanked the cork out of the mouth of it, dropping it at her feet, and then guzzled several long swallows of the cool liquid almost draining half the flask and causing her to choke, which she suppressed.
Breathing in two large gulps of air, she took another long swig of the drink, but this time, more measured. She wiped her mouth on her dirty sleeve and moved a few more strands of hair from her face that had remained after she had shaken them back when first grabbing the flask. She kept the flask and peered intently at the wizard, ignoring the other two men.
The young man seemed to understand, and with a gentle nod, he asked, “Are you a witch?”
“I don’t think so,” Dareen began. “What is your definition of a witch?”
The wizard brought his free hand to his chin, resting it there and rubbing it slightly while pondering her question. Whether he needed time to actually contemplate the question or assess whether she was being coy with him, it wasn’t clear by his body language, but his response appeared sincere. “Can you perform magic?”
Dareen shook her head. “No, I can’t, and from what I understand, only you Kesh have the ability to harness the arcane and use it in ways that we do not understand.”
Her words were carefully designed to placate the wizard while trying to sound worthy enough to spare her life, and the fact that it needed sparing became obviously clear when the guard interjected, “Shall I kill her, then, Master?”
“You could try,” the wizard said simply. “You do know what happened to the last dungeon master who was in a cell with her?”
“Ah, no . . .” the guard said, eyeing her intently and bringing his club up in a striking position.
“Do you not read the reports of your own prisoners?” the wizard asked.
“I’m only the shift leader here . . . Master.”
The Balarian added, “He was promoted after the warden and his deputy were . . . removed from their positions.” The emphasis on the word removed was obvious.
“What did she do?” the guard asked, his voice lowering to an almost reverent pitch.
The wizard allowed a small hint of a smile to cross his face before speaking. “Perhaps she should tell you.” It was a statement, not a request.
The guard looked at Dareen. “Well, go on, witch, what did you do?”
Dareen remembered the repulsive man who had locked her in the deep dungeons of Ulsthor. How could she forget him and his name—Grimer? The name fitted the disgusting man. She answered quickly and with a hint of glee in her voice. “I killed him.”
The guard looked at the wizard. “She killed the chief warden of Ulsthor and was allowed to live?”
The wizard seemed to take a small measure of delight in the guard’s uneasiness. “Yes, from what I understand, she melted the man’s eyes from his sockets and ripped his arms from his torso.”
That wasn’t true, and Dareen almost corrected the man before realizing the effect it had on the guard who spoke to the wizard. “You must kill her, then, Master, before she casts a spell on us.”
“Perhaps you are correct,” the wizard stated. “However, Ulsthor is still in chaos and the first two dispatch riders were never seen again. The third was found with his steed mauled not far from the town only a few days ago. Perhaps she knows something about the situation there? At any rate, it would be prudent to allow the High-Mage to decide her fate, especially if her information is valuable.”
“I thought you said the High-Mage was dead?” Dareen asked.
“The old one is. The new one ascended to the top of our order and is . . . shall we say . . . reorganizing our leadership.” The wizard did smile now.
“Better to be done with the witch once and for all.”
“The order was never countersigned,” the wizard told the guard without looking at him. “Will you sign the order and send it to the High-Mage, then, after killing her?”
The guard shook his head and lowered his club while taking a good step back to place him slightly behind the Kesh magic-user.
There was an awkward silence before Silis spoke. “I’m not sure Darker could finish the deed.”
“What?” the guard now known as Darker protested.
“He could end up as another victim of this woman’s wrath. It is not clear that she is not a witch. She could be lying.” The wizard motioned with his staff at Dareen.
“I told you she needs to be executed,” Darker said almost pleadingly. “Please, Master, do something before she harms us.”
“Harms you,” the wizard corrected the man. “I do not fear this woman’s witchcraft or sorcery, if that is what she commands.”
“Why not?” Darker asked incredulously.
“Because,” the wizard explained as if talking to a child, “if she had
any ability at all, then she would have freed herself from this cell weeks ago instead of dying of thirst.”
“But she’s alive,” the guard corrected the wizard.
The young man scowled at Darker and then corrected his statement. “Almost dying of thirst.”
All three men looked at Dareen with different intents and assessments. Dareen spoke to the wizard. “Do you have any further questions for me, Lord Kesh Wizard?” The young man looked at her intently, pondering if there was mockery in her voice or if she was trying to be polite. Dareen understood the danger, and added, “I apologize if I have your title wrong, but you never properly introduced yourself to me, so I did the best I could.”
Comprehension dawned on the wizard’s youthful countenance. “Indeed, how rude of me. However, in my defense, we assumed you were dead when we first met.” Dareen nodded in understanding and allowed the wizard to finish. “I am called Jakar, and the next solstice of the twin sisters, I shall be officially initiated into the order as Ke-Jak. You may call me Jakar for now.”
“It is a pleasure and honor to make your acquaintance, Lord Jakar,” Dareen said in her most formal voice and with as much respect as she could muster for the despicable Kesh magic-user. She learned in Ulsthor that flattery and manners went a long way when dealing with the wizard caste of Kesh.
The grin that Jakar exhibited proved her point, but his words were more chilling. “You may regret the pleasure and honor if I am forced to sign the order for your execution.”
Dareen shrugged nonchalantly, feigning indifference. “You must do what you must do. I won’t hold that against you.”
Mad Mage Page 3