by Cas Peace
He rolled his eyes. “So, what now?”
Vanyr stirred, but Sullyan spoke first. “I need a proper look. I have to know what the situation is, how they are holding my friends, what their plans are. I will not be gone long.”
“You’re not going alone,” said Vanyr. “Oh, it’s no good looking at me like that. I won’t try to stop you, but I’m not letting you go alone, and there’s an end to it.”
“Listen to him, Lady,” urged Ky-shan. “I hate to admit it, but he’s talking sense.”
She knew it. “Very well, Torman. I just hope you are a silent tracker.”
Mounting their horses, they rode cautiously into the darkness. Sullyan kept a link to Almid, so the pirates would know what was happening. She cast her senses forward, following the echo of Fire, and Vanyr kept his eyes open for scouts from the party ahead.
It took them over an hour to reach the camp, riding carefully through the dark woods. When they finally drew near, Vanyr was disgusted to find no proper sentries posted, just two men keeping a half-hearted watch and drinking from what looked suspiciously like ale cups. Whoever was leading this band did not expect to be followed.
Leaving the horses concealed behind a thick stand of hazel, Sullyan and Vanyr effortlessly skirted the sentries, creeping noiselessly toward the camp. For all Vanyr’s height, he was slim and agile and he moved as silently as Sullyan. Eventually, they worked themselves into a position from which they could see the camp, but were not quite close enough to hear what was said.
There were twenty-one men in the group, including the careless sentries. As Sullyan had guessed, their leader was Sonten. She could see the General clearly, illuminated as he was by a huge roaring blaze. She shook her head. It was foolhardy to build such a large fire in enemy territory. The fact that he was still on Pharikian’s land obviously didn’t bother Sonten, who was lounging on a heap of his men’s cloaks, eating from a plate piled with meat and bread. His men were scattered around the clearing and four were sitting by a smaller fire, as if guarding the dark shapes that lay on the ground.
Sullyan didn’t yet try to establish whether those shapes were actually her friends. Her attention was fixed on what Sonten was watching while he ate his meal.
The General sat facing a large tree. Bound securely to it, his arms wrenched cruelly behind him and his feet lashed together, was Taran. His face was purple with bruises—he had clearly suffered repeated beatings—but Sullyan’s professional instincts also noted that he bore no wounds. Whoever had administered the beatings had taken exquisite care not to damage him severely.
Taran was conscious, but from the way he half-hung in his bonds it seemed he was unable to bear his own weight. He was also uncomfortably near the fire, and Sullyan could see sweat drenching his face and clothes. Around the bruises his face was pale, and fear shadowed his darkened eyes. Looking closely, she could see a knife bound against the naked skin of his right arm. She guessed it was made of spellsilver. This gave her some hope, for ropes could loosen and knives fall to the ground. If each captive had been restrained in this manner, there might yet be a chance.
Gesturing silently to Vanyr, she withdrew. When it was safe, he asked, “Do they have your friends?”
She nodded. “The one bound to the tree is Taran. I think the others are across the clearing. Torman, I need to get closer to them to see what condition they are in. Poor Taran has been beaten pretty thoroughly, and Sonten is obviously not finished with him. If the others are in the same state … or worse … I need to know. If we are to rescue them, we have to let them know that help is at hand.”
“How on earth are you going to do that? You’ll never get close enough to speak to them.”
She smiled grimly. “There are more ways open to me than speech, my friend. Will you stay here and keep an eye on those lazy sentries?” She shook her head. “They would not last a day under my command.”
“Nor mine,” he agreed, and laid a hand on her arm. “Go carefully, Brynne.”
Leaving him to return to their earlier vantage point, she slipped away into the darkness. Slowly, careful of her arm and mindful that with it strapped across her body she was not properly balanced, she circled the clearing. It was a simple matter to keep to the shadows cast by that huge fire, yet she kept her eyes and senses open for any sentries they might have missed. Encountering no one, she moved gradually to where the four guards sat. She crept as close as she dared, and could soon see three bodies on the ground, all bound hand and foot. Their guards were sitting across from them, not really watching them. Thankful for this sloppiness, she edged closer.
Now she could tell which man was which. Cal lay on the right, and he had also been severely beaten, bearing the same carefully administered bruises as Taran. His eyes were closed and she thought he was probably unconscious. Bull lay next to him, and she could see no signs of brutality on the big man. Even so, something about him bothered her, and she looked him over carefully. There might have been a faint blue tinge to his lips, but the light was poor and she couldn’t be certain. His eyes were also closed, but she thought he was awake.
Robin lay at the far end, nearest the guards’ small fire. She caught a glitter of reflected light from his eyes and felt a twinge of relief. He was the one she planned to alert.
As all three lay on their backs with their hands tied uncomfortably behind them, she couldn’t see any more spellsilver. She knew it was there, though; she could taste it in the substrate. Keeping her eyes on the guards, she drew in her strength.
The four men sitting round the small fire were eating their supper, only occasionally glancing at their captives. One of them ripped the final piece of meat from a rabbit leg and tossed the bone into the fire. The flames flared and spat as if he had thrown alcohol, the sudden inferno causing him to scramble backward.
“What the hell?”
His companions laughed and told him not to be so careless. “It was only a bloody rabbit bone,” he grumbled. “It shouldn’t have done that.”
To jeers and insults from the others, he moved farther away from the fire, farther away from Robin. Sullyan studied her lover’s face to see if she had gained his attention. She had been wondering how to prick his soldier’s senses, and the guard’s careless bone-throwing was a piece of pure luck. Now, she was pleased to see that he was watching the guards, contempt on his features but no suspicion. She would see what she could do to change that.
The men soon tired of heckling their comrade and one of them produced some ale, passing it around to the rest. Sullyan waited until they had all taken a good swallow and were talking about something else. Then she reached out and made the fire flare again, although not as violently as before. The man closest to it jumped and swore, glaring irritably at the one who had thrown the bone.
“Moxy, you lackwit, what have you done to this fire? Put a spell on it or something?” Grumbling, he shuffled farther away.
Once again, Sullyan studied Robin. Come on, love, think, she urged silently. The incident had caught his attention, she could see that, but he wasn’t puzzled enough by the fire’s behavior to look for an outside source. Sighing, she decided to try another tack.
This time, it was not Fire she had to control but Air, the most capricious of all the elements. It had the whole world to move around in and was subject to all sorts of pressures and external influences. Being able to Master Air was the pinnacle of an Artesan’s skill.
As Master-elite, Sullyan had been working on the complex nature of Air for some years now. She understood the paradox of working with this element. It needed a firm touch, not a light one, or it would simply slip away. Reaching out, she attuned her psyche and sent a faint zephyr to caress Robin’s face before directing it to flare the fire again.
“What the bloody hell’s the matter with this Void-damned fire?”
This time it wasn’t the guards’ reactions that caused a frown to appear on Robin’s face. Sullyan exulted. Yes, Robin! Come on, you know there has been no breath of
wind all night. To reinforce his growing suspicion, she caressed him with another breeze, this time leaving the fire alone. The last thing she wanted was to rouse the camp.
That final whisper of Air did it. She now had his full attention, and was thankful for his quick wits. It was fortunate that he had not been beaten senseless like poor Cal. He glanced around as unobtrusively as possible, trying to see where she was. Reaching out again, she caused a breath to brush at him from her direction. His gaze followed unerringly and she gently ruffled the dead bracken of her hiding place. She was relieved to see his tight smile.
Having alerted him, she sent a thought to Vanyr, telling him what she had done. Then she contacted Almid, asking him to have Ky-shan quietly bring the men. Backing carefully away, she circled the camp to rejoin the Commander and collect her horse.
+ + + + +
Robin wasted no time wondering what Sullyan’s plan was or how she had found them. She had made her presence known, and he knew they had to be ready. Careful not to alert the disgruntled guards, he nudged Bull with his bound feet. The big man was resting, but the Captain knew he was awake. At his touch, Bull’s eyes opened. They were dull and bloodshot, and Robin felt a pang of anxiety as he saw Bull’s discomfort. He knew Bull’s chest had been giving him trouble. Casting a cautionary eye-roll toward the guards, he mouthed, “Sullyan!”
Hope sprang into Bull’s eyes, but having alerted him there was nothing else Robin could do. He had already tried loosening his bonds to no avail, and he couldn’t even begin to slip past the spellsilver’s dreadful effects. He had tried until he made himself vomit, and he now fully appreciated how desperate Sullyan must have been when she managed to breach Rykan’s collar when he held her captive. All he could do was wait.
Earlier in the evening, he, Bull, and Taran had watched in helpless rage while the guards beat Cal senseless. They had carried out Sonten’s orders with relish. The punishment seemed to have no purpose other than to render Cal unconscious, or perhaps it was meant to intimidate Taran. Cal had passed out quickly, and Robin knew there was no point trying to rouse him now.
He was very worried for Taran, though. The man had suffered the same treatment without breaking for two days. Robin was fearful of what Sonten had in mind. Until now, the four captives had been kept well apart, not even able to communicate by eye, and Robin had no idea what Sonten’s goal was. It hadn’t been lost on him that neither Cal nor Taran bore wounds that might prevent them from traveling the Veils, and he wondered if this was what Sonten intended. There was no guarantee, however, that the General’s plans included Robin or Bull, and he might not be as restrained when dealing with them. Hoping desperately that Sullyan’s rescue would succeed, and quickly, Robin turned his attention to Sonten. The bulky General had placed something in the blazing fire at the foot of Taran’s tree.
+ + + + +
Sonten was beginning to lose what little patience he had. While needing to put some distance between himself and Rykan’s unpredictable, leaderless men, he hadn’t wanted to wait too long before questioning his captives. Time was limited because he knew they would be missed.
His first choice of campsite had been too close to the Citadel and was too easily discovered, much to his rage. The capture of Robin and Bull during the resulting skirmish was an unexpected bonus for which Commander Heron and his eagle-eyed scouts would be rewarded. Now, Sonten had all three of the men who had accompanied Sullyan to Marik’s banquet, and he was certain of attaining his goal.
The human witch, Sullyan, held no great interest for Sonten, as he could not be sure she possessed the information he required. Besides, he was doubtful she had survived the duel with Rykan. Taran, however, certainly did possess this knowledge, and Sonten intended to enjoy himself extracting it. He felt again the satisfaction of seeing the sick look in Taran’s eyes when he learned just what the Staff could do. The beatings his men had administered were only the preliminary stages of the damage Sonten was fully prepared to inflict.
The General had never even imagined gaining an opportunity like this after he had returned with Rykan to Marik’s mansion to find that Taran had slipped the Duke’s cunning net. Although this was probably for the best, Sonten was disappointed. The Albian’s constant meddling in Sonten’s delicately balanced plans had caused the General much suffering and fear. Sonten intended to repay Taran many times over for the torment he had endured.
Ruthless and conscienceless he might be, but unlike the late, unlamented Lord Rykan, Sonten wasn’t wantonly cruel. He only used torture when it was necessary or justified, but he couldn’t deny the enjoyment he found when inflicting it. If only Rykan had controlled his lust and allowed the General his way, Sonten knew he could have forced Sullyan to yield what Rykan craved. Yet, despite his deep misgivings and his contempt for the Baron, Rykan’s so-called Albian ‘ally,’ it hadn’t been in Sonten’s interests to interfere with Rykan’s plans. The Duke made it perfectly plain that he placed no value on Sonten’s opinions, so the General held his peace and left Rykan to enjoy his brutal pleasure.
He huffed to himself. They all knew how that had turned out, and he wondered what the Baron would do now that Rykan was dead. He didn’t think the Duke had communicated with the Baron since beginning his disastrous challenge, and Sonten reckoned the Baron would be apoplectic by now. Would he even know of Rykan’s demise? What would his reaction be when he learned that Rykan’s nemesis was none other than the very woman he had charged the Duke with killing?
Sonten grinned. Hadn’t he said all along that the entire thing—the Albian invasion, the trip to Cardon, Sullyan’s imprisonment—was a total waste of time? If the Baron had only waited until a victorious Rykan used the Staff to absorb the Hierarch’s powers, then the young Albian witch would have stood no chance against him. Rykan could have stolen her metaforce and then slaked his lust for as long as he pleased. And the Staff would never have been stolen.
The General almost giggled. The Staff was as surely lost to the Baron as Rykan was to life. For should Sonten succeed in recovering the thing—and it was a virtual certainty now, he thought, mentally rubbing his hands—he certainly wouldn’t make the Baron a gift of it. Although, he mused, he might be amenable to a deal, should the Baron put forward a sufficiently tempting offer.
Satisfied, Sonten dragged his thoughts back to the present. He might not casually indulge in torture, but right now, knowing Taran possessed the information he so desperately needed as well as Artesan powers which could be used to feed the Staff once he had it, Sonten wouldn’t hold back.
Heron had explained why he must keep Taran whole if he wasn’t to die when they crossed the Veils into Albia, so when Lieutenant Arif presented him with two captives, Sonten quickly realized that Cal was the ideal sacrifice. However, as Taran’s companion, it was possible that Cal also possessed the information he wanted. Insurance was a useful commodity, so when Bull and Robin fortuitously fell into Sonten’s hands, it gave the General other expendables to work with. Taran might not talk to save his own skin, but Sonten was pretty sure he would talk to save his friends.
Wheezing as he bent over the fire, the General removed the broad blade he had placed in its heart, holding it by its cloth-wrapped handle. It was glowing nicely. Stepping forward, he thrust it under Taran’s nose, causing the man to twist his head aside and gasp in fear.
Sonten laughed. “Oh don’t worry, my friend! This blade’s not for you.”
He turned to the guards round the smaller fire and snapped his fingers. They stood and laid hold of their largest captive, dragging the big man nearer. Despite the man’s weakened state, it took three of them to do it and four of them to hold him down once he realized Sonten’s intentions. The General merely smiled, waiting as his men subdued the captive.
+ + + + +
As Taran watched the greed and pleasure grow in Sonten’s eyes, anguish swelled in his heart. He had taken the taunting, the beatings, and the awful numbing effects of the spellsilver, and he had watched in desperate
silence while Cal endured the same brutal treatment. The younger man’s dark eyes had warned Taran not to cry out or protest, asking him to trust that Cal could take the punishment just as well as Taran. Yet what Sonten intended for Bull was another matter entirely.
Taran knew he couldn’t watch Bull being tortured or mutilated. He struggled vainly to dislodge the spellsilver. Yet even if he could get free of the knife, he didn’t know who he could contact for help. During his first night as Sonten’s captive, the General had told him that Sullyan was dead. However, when Robin and Bull were brought in, a swift glance from Robin gave Taran the impression she lived. He was sick and confused, beaten and frightened. He didn’t know what to believe.
Sonten’s leering face snatched him from his wretched thoughts. Smiling at the fresh sweat beading Taran’s face and the abject terror in his eyes, the General brandished the red-hot knife. He indicated the struggling Bull. “Well, Albian? Are you going to tell me what you did with it? Or shall I play awhile with your big friend, here?” He brought the knife toward Bull’s face.
The big man made a violent upward lunge, nearly dislodging the guards. “Don’t tell him!” he panted at Taran. Two of Sonten’s men wrenched his arm against its socket, and he let out a yell.
Taran struggled harder, staring in horror at the blue tinge to Bull’s lips. “For the gods’ sake, Sonten, don’t do this!”
Sonten just smiled and laid the hot knife on Bull’s arm. A harsh scream rang out across the clearing.
+ + + + +
Sullyan heard it from where she waited on Drum and her heart froze. She sent a searing thought to Almid, Forget stealth, man. Come quickly! She urged Drum forward, leaving Vanyr to rendezvous with the pirates. At a gallop, it should only take them minutes to reach the clearing.
Ducking her head to avoid low branches, she drew her long knife from the scabbard on her belt. She had to block out Bull’s harsh roars of pain as Sonten once more applied the hot knife. She could hear Taran screaming, presumably trying to make Sonten stop, but she couldn’t make out the words.