Valandra: The Winds of Time Cycle (Book 1)

by Tristan Vick

  Suddenly the men are at my door. The lock rattles and there is a click. With a loud creaking, the door opens and the two guards enter my cell.

  Curses, I say to myself, as one of them already sees me holding the rock.

  “Well, looky here, we have a wild one,” he says, pointing out my rock to his comrade.

  The other one laughs at my display of defiance. “Maybe she likes to play rough?” His voice is thick with a foul sort of lust.

  Each man wears a standard issue prison guard uniform with the symbol of Valandra, a double headed phoenix, emblazoned on the armored breastplate. The first guard who enters my cell is taller than the one who trails in behind him. He has a full beard, while the other, who is short and stout, will soon have one if he doesn’t get a shave in the next day or two. Both have messy hair, terrible teeth, no doubt rotted away from poor hygiene, and the scent of malt whiskey still lingers on their breath.

  “Where are my clothes?” I demand, covering myself best I can. The prison rags barely cover any more of me than a bath towel would, and I can practically feel their slimy eyes slithering up and down my exposed flesh, feeding their minds with indecent thoughts.

  “What would a barbarian girl need of clothes?” the first guard sniggers. He then reaches into the bucket and pulls out a ladle filled with an indistinguishable gray muck. “Here, wear this instead, barbarian,” he grunts.

  He flings the ladle and the porridge splatters across my skin, dappling my almost naked body with gray specks. It reeks of rotting meat and spoiled eggs and I feel sick all over again.

  “May the Goddess curse you!” I shout. I spit on the floor in protest of their mistreatment of me. It doesn’t seem to do any good, however, as both of them just laugh off my wrath, as if I were more amusing to them than any kind of threat.

  Their bad manners cause my temper to flare up and I throw the rock at the first guard. It merely hits his armored breastplate and bounces off. Both guards look at each other as if they were surprised at my sudden outburst and then, after a brief pause, laugh even more.

  Unexpectedly, the second guard backhands me across the cheek with his leather-fisted glove. I fall to the ground. I pretend to cower and lay prostrate before my captors, rubbing the smarting weal on my cheek and sobbing fake tears.

  “Please,” I beg in a high-pitched voice that makes me sound more like a little girl rather than a nineteen-year-old woman. “Don’t hurt me.”

  Of course, the tears are all part of the act. The trick of any good fit of hysterics, after all, is to fly from one extreme emotion to the next so fluidly that it seems unnatural. It’s that unnatural feeling that does the trick. So, almost immediately, I go from red-faced rage to teary-eyed sobs. It works like a charm.

  Unwilling to engage with what, by their reckoning, is an obviously hysterical woman, the guards look at each other and, giving one another mortified looks, they turn to leave.

  With their backs turned toward me, I’m certain that I could easily take them both out here and now, but I hold back. At the moment, I’m completely vulnerable. No clothes. No armor. No weapon. Besides this, I don’t know how many more guards are posted to the upper levels. The risk is too great.

  Until I can get a better handle on the situation, I decide to play the part of the weak and helpless damsel for just a little while longer. For all the guards know, I’m just an overzealous barbarian girl from the north who got in over her head. And I’ll continue to let them think so right up to the point I slit their throats. It’s the one time being viewed as a mindless barbarian has its advantages.

  Satisfied that I’m no real threat to them, the guards leave my cell and lock the door behind them.

  27

  The guards turn right after exiting my cell and head back down the corridor toward the stairwell at the end. I listen to their boots stamping on the cold stone floor, fading away as they grow more distant. Still listening, I hear the second prison guard ask his compatriot, “What about the other one?”

  “What about her?” his friend grumbles.

  A loud clangor of the ladle rattling on the prison bars can be heard. “You hungry, trull?”

  There’s no reply to his vulgar jeering. Obviously, the woman, whoever she is, isn’t amused by his insulation that she’s a wanton roundheel and refuses to play his little game.

  I can’t blame her. Brutes like these usually just want to get a reaction out of you. They don’t care if you spit on them or curse them to oblivion, they will relish the fact that they made you look weak by having to defend yourself against their slanderous digs. It’s better to give them the silent treatment and carry about your business as if they didn’t exist than give them what they want.

  After waiting a few minutes in silence, the guard grows bored with her dismissiveness and groans, “Guess not.” He goes on to add, “Suit yourself and starve, for all I care.”

  “Hey,” the second guard says, addressing the female prisoner, “If you do get hungry, just give me a holler. I know of a nice big juicy sausage you can swallow. Fill you right up, it will.”

  The lecherous laughter of both guards gradually fades away as they head back down the hall. By the time they get to the stairwell, the joke has run its course and they are no longer sniggering. I can hear them head up the stairs as they leave the dungeon for the upper levels. Once their footsteps are faint enough that they can no longer be heard, I place my head near to the entrance and ask my fellow prisoner, “Are you all right?”

  She answers with a diminutive, “Yes.”

  I stand in my cell with the gray slop dripping down my neck and over my collarbone. Some of it dribbles down in between my breasts and I let out an agitated sigh. I try to wipe off the gray sludge but it just smears across my chest.

  “Just a fair bit of warning,” the young woman says. “They’ll come into your chamber tonight, with a bucket of ice-water and will give you a rude awakening. They’ll strip you down, scrub you raw, and humiliate you as you lie naked, quivering on the floor. After which, they’ll not so subtly offer to warm you up by taking you back to their bed chambers. I know, because they tried it with me. When I refused their offer, they’ll all took turns spitting on me and then left me worse off than when they came in.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, appalled by her account of what they did to her. “That’s terrible.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Then, after a long pause, she continues on with her shocking story. “The first time they did it to me I kicked and scratched like a saber cat. Even gouged one’s eye. Made him bleed something fierce. I took a swift kick to the ribs for it too. But they left me alone after that. I recommend you do the same.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assure her, “I can handle myself.”

  “I’m sure you can,” she replies.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, who are you?” I ask the mysterious voice.

  “I’m Bethriel Annika Sabine of El Unarith,” she says proudly. She says it in a way that seems majestic, as though she’s royalty.

  “Bethriel?!” I say, excitedly. I never expected to find her here, but sometimes fate has a funny way of working things out in ways you’d never expect.

  “Yes,” she answers.

  “Bethriel from El Unarith?”

  “I just said that,” she replies with a laugh.

  “I’ve been looking for you!” I say.

  “Is that so?” she asks.

  “Queen Sabine sent me to Igthia to find you. When you weren’t at the rendezvous, I came to the palace, but I was sidetracked by the fire.”

  “Fire?” she asks, unaware of recent events.

  “The holy temple was burned down.”

  “I see,” she says in a contemplative tone. “You must be my contact then. Arianna, if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s right,” I reply. “Queen Sabine said you’d have some intel for me. Something of utmost importance.”

  “I did,” she says. “But I’m afraid it may already
be too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  After a brief pause, she asks me, “Do you know much about the island of El Unarith?”

  “It’s known as the island of The Forgotten Ones. It is where widowers and down trodden women go when they have nowhere else to turn.”

  “That’s right,” she informs me. “There, women who have no place to go are cared for and taught the art of seduction. They are trained to entertain guests, to take up the harp, to read and write poetry, and then, once their training is complete, they enter back into the world as highly skilled courtesans. Once a woman completes the work of seven revolutions, she is free to retire from the skin trade and enter back into El Unarith as a teacher and caretaker of the next generation of courtesans.

  “But what you may not know is that we courtesans are not lowly wenches. Sure, we’ll lie with a customer for money, but we’re more than just pleasure providers. We are trained artisans, educated, taught to read, write, dance and sing. More than this, however, the courtesans from El Unarith are trained spies and assassins too.”

  “What?” I asked in a shocked voice. “Assassins and spies? You can’t be serious?”

  “Before the existence of El Unarith,” she tells me, continuing on without a hitch, “a woman with no prospects, no means, and no man to support her was often tossed out onto the street. There she’d face starving to death or else be relegated to a life of prostitution. Imagine the shame of it. The shame of losing the ability to sustain yourself only to be left with no other choice but to sell the last thing you had left, the last thing you had any control over—your own body. Many women, when faced with such a possibility, would rather end their own lives. But El Unarith changed all that. It changed the rules by bringing dignity back to the women by training them and giving them the skills. Skills necessary to help shape a better future for themselves. A future where they had all the leverage and power. So, no, dear Arianna. I’m not kidding. The Lost Ones make the best assassins and spies.”

  “I, um…I’ve just never met a courtesan before,” I sputter nervously.

  “Well, darling, we don’t bite. No, wait, I take that back. Sometime we do. But only if the price is right.” She laughs at her own joke, her voice echoing off the stone walls of her cell.

  “So, how’d you end up getting thrown into the palace dungeon in the first place? A woman such as yourself surely has the means to avoid such situations.”

  She laughs. “As it turns out, Lord Dragoron, a member of Lord Dathrium’s council, wasn’t as foolish as I’d thought and he found me out.” She laughs blithely, amused by her own failure, but her laugh quickly fades into a disappointed sigh. “Anyway, I was careless. As you would expect, he didn’t take kindly to having state secrets stolen. So, he thought seven lashes and a week in the pit would teach me a lesson in humility. Now, I get to spend a lovely holiday in my own personal palace suite.”

  She laughs again at her own joke. But I say nothing.

  “So, what was the secret?” I ask.

  “Dragoron was the one who summoned the wraith knight Ashram and the army of the dead. I sent a messenger dove to Queen Sabine alerting her to the possibility of an invasion. I didn’t know where or when. But I guess, if what you tell me regarding the attack on the holy district is true, it appears that Sabolin is the target.”

  “But why Sabolin?” I ask.

  “It marks the first seal.”

  “The first seal? Seal to what?”

  “The first seal to the Nether realm. Are you familiar with the twelve swords of the realms?”

  “Yes,” I say. After all, I wield the Moon Blade, one of the twelve.

  “Six swords were fashioned to fight the dragons. The other six were fashioned to act as barriers which keeps the spirit world at bay.”

  “So what you’re saying is that Dragoron is going to try and knock out the first seal.”

  “I’m afraid his aspirations include destroying all the seals. Once the Nether realm is unleashed on the world of the living, the world will devolve into a living nightmare. And those who practice the dark arts will reign supreme.”

  “That’s an ambitious plan,” I say. I glance down at my body. I can see that the oatmeal-based porridge has already begun to dry and turn firm on my skin. It still reeks of spoiled meat and rotten eggs though, so I peel some off and toss the flecks aside.

  “Indeed,” Bethriel says. “Which is precisely why we must get out of here and stop Dragoron before it’s too late.”

  I’m about to ask how we go about doing that when, suddenly, there is a voice at my cell door. “Psssst…Arianna, it’s me!”

  Inching over to the door I peer out the barred window and whisper back, “Who’s me?”

  Suddenly a face appears on the other side of my cell window and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “It’s me, Leif. I’ve come to rescue you!”

  “Holy dragon smoke, you scared me!”

  “Sorry,” he replies. Proud of himself, he jingles the keys in front of his face for me to see.

  “How’d you get out of your cell anyway?” I ask him.

  “I picked the lock,” he replies as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

  Opening my cell door from the outside, Leif throws open the door and reaches in to take my hand. I reach up and take his hand in mine and he helps me out into the dimly lit hallway. A single lantern on the wall provides light enough for us to see each other.

  “And stole the keys, I see.”

  “I prefer to use the term…borrowed,” he says, flashing me a smile coupled with a wink. “I borrowed the keys.”

  “Thanks for looking out for me.”

  “It’s my pleasure, chérie.”

  “You mind if I borrow the keys?” a voice calls out.

  “Who’s that?” Leif asks.

  “It’s my prison mate,” I say. I take a left and head toward the cell at the end of the hallway. After a couple of steps Leif reaches out and grabs my shoulder and stops me. “The exit is this way,” he says thumbing back over his shoulder signaling that we need to go in the other direction if we hope to get out of this place.

  “I know,” I inform him. Taking the keys off of him, I make my way toward the back of the dungeon corridor. “But there’s someone we have to get first.”

  “There’s no time,” Leif tells me, checking nervously over his shoulder in case some additional guards stumble upon us attempting to break out. “The next guard change will be any minute.”

  I open Bethriel’s cell and she steps out and joins us in the hallway. She’s wearing an ivory dress made of the finest silk. Batting her fiercely blue eyes, she tosses her blonde wavy hair over her shoulder and looks right at Leif. Hi jaw hangs agape from the unexpected shock of seeing such a beautiful woman emerge from such a dank and musky jail cell.

  Awestruck by Bethriel’s beauty, Leif takes her hand in his, kisses it, and then looks up at her with his big brown eyes. “Please, allow me to be of assistance in any way I can.”

  Bethriel raises and eyebrow, pleased by the prospect of Leif’s pledging himself to her. “You’re too kind,” she insists.

  Rising back up, Leif takes a bow. “The pleasure is all mine, chérie.”

  Rolling my eyes, I urge Leif to hurry it up. “Come on,” I begin, “let’s go find Lisette and get out of here.”

  “I thought she’d be here with you,” Leif says.

  “You mean she wasn’t with you?”

  “No,” he says in a worried voice. “If she had been, I’d have brought her along with me. I’m afraid I haven’t seen her.”

  Bethriel lets out a disgruntled sigh and then says, “I think I know where she is. Follow me.”

  Bethriel storms down the hall as if on a mission. Leif looks at me with a baffled expression on his face.

  “Well, you heard the lady,” I say, motioning for him to and follow Bethriel.

  “All right,” Leif replies, trailing after Bethriel. “Bu
t if this turns out to be a trap, I’m placing the blame entirely on you.”

  As we trail behind Bethriel, I vow to myself that once we find Lisette, somehow, some way, we will figure out how to stop Dragoron from unleashing hell on the realms, and prevent the destruction of Valandra.

  28

  Arriving at the main entrance to the dungeon, we sneak up on two palace knights standing guard. With a sturdy knock to the base of their skulls, Leif and I render them unconscious. Before anyone can detect our presence, we drag them back into the dark mouth of the dungeon entrance. Safely out of sight, we quickly strip them of their armor and then put it on. Our plan is to disguise ourselves as palace guards and escort Bethriel through the palace as our prisoner without drawing any attention.

  Unfortunately, at only nineteen, with short bobbed hair that accentuates her sharp jaw line and aquiline nose, and a slenderness most men find attractive, Lisette is cursed to be a little too pretty for the dungeon, and has caught the eye of Lord Dragoron Zoriel of Koroth. According to Bethriel, he has an unhealthy fondness for petite, young women.

  The way Bethriel tells it, Dragoron is the one behind the recent attacks. Which is why she’s agreed to accompany us and help rescue Lisette.

  As we enter climb the stairs to the palace, Bethriel whispers to us. “Dragoron Zoriel is one of Dathrium’s long-time advisors, and a loyal friend. More importantly, though, he’s quite dangerous. As a tenth-level mage, he has the power to manipulate the dark arts. But the more you use the dark arts the more they corrupt you. And if the rumors I’ve heard are true, Dragoron has been corrupted by the darkness for a long time.”

  “Exactly how dangerous is this guy?” Leif asks, his curiosity getting the best of him.

  “Let’s just say he has a rather sadistic streak and enjoys running his depraved experiments on prisoners. Last week, at a banquet celebrating the unification treaty, he swapped the consciousness of a thief and a rat, and then set the palace cat on it for the amusement of all the guests.”