by Терри Брукс
Its blue eyes fixed on her.
She climbed to her feet, unwilling to give even the appearance of weakness. It required noticeable effort to do so.
«You disobeyed me," it announced.
It gestured languidly, and instantly the familiar pain ripped through her, paralyzing her muscles and dropping her to her knees. She bent her head and clutched her body, trying to breathe.
«Disobedience is an unacceptable response to my commands," the demon continued, and gestured again.
This time, she collapsed altogether, her agony so excruciating she lay curled in a ball, sobbing. Her mind locked down and would not let her think of anything but the pain. She pressed her face in the dirt, feeling broken and helpless.
«Get on your knees," Tael Riverine ordered.
It took her a while to do so, but eventually she managed, still bent over at the waist, her arms wrapped protectively about her body.
«Look at me.»
She did so, lifting her head from the veil of her dark hair, trying to hide the mix of fear and suffering that washed through her as she did so. «Apologize for your disobedience.» «I am sorry, Master," she whispered.
The Straken Lord nodded, cold eyes glittering. «You are only sorry you were caught. I see it in your eyes. You do not respond well to discipline. It is not in your nature to choose obedience when you can avoid doing so.»
It walked over to her, huge and forbidding, and reached down to haul her back to her feet, picking her up like a rag doll and propping her against the courtyard wall. She sagged slightly, but stayed upright, eyes locked on the demon's.
«I would have killed another for what you did," it said softly. «I would have taken my time doing so. I would have made the pain so unbearable that death would have come as a relief. Do you understand this?»
She swallowed. «Yes, Master.» «But you interest me.» It paused, and she waited for more, not yet understanding what that meant. Why would she be of any further interest? Other than the purpose she had already served in switching places with whatever creature the magic had set free from the Forbidding, what reason could the Straken Lord have for taking an interest in her?
«Do you know why you are here, inside the world of the Jarka Ruus?» «No, Master.» The demon gestured angrily, and again the pain ratcheted through her, inducing a wave of nausea that caused her to wretch violently as she dropped to her knees. It was on her at once, hauling her upright and slamming her against the stone wall. «Don't lie to me!» it hissed, fury etched on its flat features, rage mirrored in its strange eyes. «Do you think me such a fool? Speak!»
«I … won't lie again, Master," she gasped. «You are intelligent. You are calculating. You are clever. You can pretend that you are not, but you will be disobeying me if you do and will be punished. Do you understand? Answer me.» «I understand, Master.» Her stomach heaved, but she fought down the urge to empty it. The Straken Lord nodded patiently. «Again, now. Do you know why you are here?» «Yes, Master.»
«Tell me.»
«I was brought here so that something that lives in this world could be transported into my own.»
«Very good. Do you know why I arranged for this?»
She took a deep, quieting breath. «No, Master.»
The demon studied her carefully, then nodded. «Not yet, you don't. But you will, soon enough. You will understand everything, because that inquisitive mind of yours will mull it through until the answer surfaces. If not, I will tell you myself. If you stay alive long enough for me to do so.»
If you stay alive. She closed her eyes and exhaled softly. What were the odds of that? She blinked, feeling the weight of his gaze on her, shifting from place to place, contemplative, curious. She was aware of how ragged and dirty she was, unwashed and uncombed, a used–up plaything. For an instant, she saw herself as worthless, of so little value that she deserved to be discarded without further consideration.
«You are a specimen," the Straken Lord said, as if reading her mind. «Hobstull finds you as interesting as I do. He makes more of a study of such things, so his opinion carries weight. He wishes to find out more about you, but I have forbidden him to use his knives just yet. Still, we both deserve an opportunity to see what sort of magic you wield. You do have magic, I know. It resides in you—a demon trait. His interest lies in that. He thinks you might be one of us.»
She cringed at the idea. She was nothing like them. She was human. No matter what they thought or did to make her seem otherwise, she was human. But she said nothing, keeping what she was thinking hidden away inside.
«I intend to test you, Grianne Ohmsford, Ard–Rhys–that–was, my specimen of such promise.» Its voice had turned oddly soft and soothing. «I intend to test you in a way that no one has ever been tested before. I want to see what you can do. I want to see how strong your survival instincts are.»
As it spoke, its spikes lowered against its body, changing its look entirely. She stared in spite of herself, wondering what it was seeking from her that it didn't already have.
«This afternoon," it continued in the same compelling voice, «I will test you then. I will see how you respond.»
Then it turned and disappeared through the door, leaving her breathless and pressed hard against the courtyard wall.
Hobstull returned with the Goblin guards moments later, and she was taken back to her cell. Although the chains were not put on again, three guards were stationed across from her cell with crossbows pointed in her direction at all times. She sat quietly on the floor of her little room and thought about what the Straken Lord had told her. She would be tested. But what did that mean? Tested how? She did not think the answer would please her. She wished she could find some reassurance in still being alive, but her instincts told her that she would be foolish to do so.
Hobstull reappeared after a while with a basin of hot water, a clear indication that she was to clean herself up for whatever was going to happen next. He deposited sandals and a shift at her feet as well. She waited for him to leave, then turned her back on the Goblin guards, stripped off her rags, and used them to wash her aching body. Then she dressed in the sandals and shift and sat back down again to wait.
The wait was longer than she had expected. She had no accurate way of measuring, but she thought afterwards that it must have been several hours. When Hobstull led her back up the stairs and out of the tower and into the light, the day was edging rapidly toward nightfall, the gray of the sky gone darker and the endless clouds and mist dropped lower against the heights. The Catcher replaced the chains about her wrists, and a phalanx of Goblins surrounded her. She was taken across the courtyard through an outer wall to where a rolling cage similar to the one that had brought her to Kraal Reach was waiting. She was placed inside, and the chain that bound her was fastened to the bars. The Goblins formed ranks to either side of the cage, and Hobstull climbed onto the seat next to the driver. The driver snapped his whip over the heads of the massive horned creatures hitched up front, and the wheels began to roll.
They went out through a set of bigger, bulkier gates, heavy oak toughened with pitch and bound with iron plates. There demon–wolves joined the procession, panting and slavering, yellow eyes shifting to find her, their muzzles drawing back. She felt their hatred for her, read the warning in their snarls.
Down through the buildings of the fortress they wound, heading east into the growing darkness, toward the mountains against which the keep was backed. The earlier crowds had thinned to a wary–eyed few, some of them Goblins, some of them Gormies and kobolds, and some of them creatures she could not identify. When they were outside the walls, they turned south, bending with the land toward a vast depression that dipped into the flats overlooking the countryside beyond. Scrubby and desolate, the depression was rippled by a maze of deep gullies and sharp ridges born out of massive erosion. They followed a cart path marked by wagon wheels and animal tracks, the dust rising in heavy clouds, the air hazy and gritty.
She sat quietly in th
e center of the cage, rocking back and forth to its uneven sway, one sleeve of her tunic held across her mouth to help keep the dust from her breathing passages. They had advanced far enough that when she looked back at the keep, its walls and towers had shrunk to the size of a child's toy. She watched as the image grew smaller and less distinct and finally vanished entirely.
As they arrived on the valley floor, the roadway straightened and the landscape opened up again. The denizens of Kraal Reach, absent before, were now clustered everywhere she looked, fingers pointing, eyes and faces bright and eager, their conversations animated as they watched her pass. They understood more about what was going to happen than she did, — that much was clear from their behavior. It was not a stretch to think that most of the city had come out to watch.
An embankment rose in front of them, a wall of earth more than thirty feet high. A pair of tall gates opened through the wall, and when the cage reached the other side, she found that the embankment wrapped around a bowl of earth and rocks that was perhaps a quarter mile wide from end to end. Seated atop the embankment were thousands of Kraal Reach's denizens, sharp–faced and gimlet–eyed, hunched over in their robes as they cheered and gestured in greeting. It was not a comforting welcome; it was a welcome of dark expectation and impatience, the kind reserved for those who would provide a form of blood sport. Certain that her testing was to take the form of combat against a carefully chosen opponent, she did not like what she felt in that moment.
The wagon rolled to an unsteady stop in front of a set of tall risers formed of an iron framework and wooden slat seats. In the center of a group of unidentifiable creatures hidden within robes and hoods sat the Straken Lord. As the cage ceased its forward movement, the demon rose and walked down to greet Hobstull. Heads lowered and hackles raised, the wolves slunk away at his approach. The Goblin guards stepped back and bowed low. Only Hobstull made no overt movement of submission, his angular body unbent, his expressionless oval face lifted watchfully. The Straken Lord spoke softly to him, then nodded at Grianne.
She took a deep, steadying breath as the Catcher approached her, keys in hand. If she was going to attempt another escape, she would have to do so now.
But she fought down the urge, telling herself to wait, to be patient. A wrong move would mean the end of her. She stayed quite still while Hobstull opened the cage door and stepped inside, then walked over to unlock the chains that bound her wrists. He stepped back, beckoning her outside. She did as she was told, rising gingerly to exit the cage and stand on the floor of the arena, facing the Straken Lord.
«Bow to me," it ordered quietly.
She did so, deeply and slowly. It cost her nothing. She felt no respect for the creature, only a deep–seated wariness. She would do what was required of her until the time was right. She was good at waiting.
«Are you washed and rested?» the demon asked.
«Yes, Master.»
«It is the time of your testing. Are you ready?»
«Yes, Master.»
«The Jarka Ruus that are my subjects have come to watch. If you disappoint them by showing fear or cowardice, I will give you over to them to be killed. If you try to escape, I will kill you myself. You have only one choice. Complete the test successfully. Demonstrate that you are worthy of being kept alive.»
She waited. She knew better than to speak without being spoken to, better than to ask questions. She held herself erect, her hands clasped before her, her fingers working slowly over her wrists, where the manacles had numbed the nerves.
The Straken Lord gestured, and the rolling cage was pulled away. With it went the Goblin guards and the demonwolves. Only Hobstull remained, bright eyes fixed on her. His specimen, awaiting her trial. She did not look at him. She would not give him the satisfaction.
«Walk out into the center of the arena," the Straken Lord ordered. The blue eyes glittered with an excitement she had not seen before. «There, you will find your opponent waiting. You may use any magic you possess to defeat it. You may call on any of your skills to protect yourself. So long as you do not attempt to escape this arena, the conjure collar will not be used against you. Your sole responsibility while you are here is to yourself. Your obligation is to survive. If you do, Ard–Rhys–that–was, your future is assured. There will be no need for further punishment. You will be given a place among us, one I shall choose for you, and it will be a place of honor. Now go.»
She walked away at once, not daring to look at him another moment, afraid that the incredulity and disgust she was feeling would show through in spite of all that she was doing to hide it. What was the demon talking about? What could it think she would find to be honorable about life in this desolate prison world? All she wanted to do, all she lived for, was escape. The Straken Lord had an overblown opinion of what it could expect of her if it thought anything would change that, and she had no idea what fueled it.
She stared out into the flats as she walked, searching. There was nothing to see, no sign of movement in any quarter, no indication of any life. What sort of opponent had the demon chosen for her that an entire city would come out to see? What manner of creature was she expected to defeat in combat that would indicate she was worthy of keeping her life?
She glanced skyward momentarily, then out onto the horizon, thinking the attack might be coming from outside the arena. Nothing. She was aware that a hush had settled over the assembled denizens of Kraal Reach. They were waiting now, anticipating. All conversation had dropped to a barely audible whisper. Movement had stopped. All eyes were on her.
When the mewling sound began, soft and low, she had almost reached the center of the arena. She knew it for what it was immediately. A chill washed through her, causing her skin to shiver and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to raise. She stopped at once, mouthing a single word voicelessly.
Furies.
She experienced an odd sense of calm. The uncertainty was gone, the waiting over. At least she could derive some small sense of satisfaction from knowing her opponent's identity. What better way to test her than with creatures like this? She breathed slowly, deeply, trying to steady herself. The mewling was rising steadily, building in intensity. She had only moments.
What shall I do?
Hers was the stronger weapon, her magic against their teeth and claws. Hers was the superior skill and cunning, her craft honed in a thousand battles. But the Furies were driven by instincts that did not value safety or self–preservation. A pack mentality ruled them when they found prey, and they would attack and keep attacking until either the enemy or they were destroyed. No quarter would be given and none asked. Furies knew only one way, and that way eschewed any identifiably rational behavior. She had been put into a den of madness, and the source of that madness was a legion of relentless, inexorable killers.
She tested the magic of the wishsong to see if the Straken Lord had told the truth about using it, thinking that if the demon had lied, she would be rendered unconscious fast enough that she wouldn't feel it when the Furies tore her to bits. But the magic blossomed at the end of her fingertips on command, gathering force, taking shape, waiting to be used, and the conjure collar gave no warning. Hope welled up within her at the realization that it would be an even battle. She would have her chance to survive.
A small chance.
She would have to kill all of them, if she was to walk away. Nothing short of that would save her. They would come at her in a rush, and they would keep coming until the life was bled out of them. Once, the task would have been a challenge she would have embraced, a struggle of dark magic against dark intent, the wellspring of the Use Witch's indomitable self–confidence. But she was no longer the Use Witch, and her desire for combat had fallen away with the identity she had shed.
Her strength must come from her life as the Ard Rhys.
What shall I do?
They began to appear, small shadows in the failing light, feline faces and slanted eyes, sinuous forms sliding from holes in the ear
th and from behind bits of scrub. Like ghosts, they materialized in the gloom, their mewling rising and falling in waves of expectation. They were all around her, perhaps a hundred of them. Too many for her to overcome, no matter how much magic she used, no matter how strong her determination. Like the ogre she had seen on her way to her confrontation with the shade of the Warlock Lord, she would fight with passion and fury, but in the end she would be pulled down.
Instantly, she began to rethink her strategy for surviving the confrontation. Strength alone would not be enough. Cunning was what would save her. Innovation and surprise. The unexpected might turn aside these little terrors. They were inching closer, some of them within twenty yards. She saw the madness glinting in their eyes. She felt the heat of their bloodlust. The longer she took to respond, the bolder they would grow. They were stalking her with a certain amount of caution now, but the testing would be finished all too soon, and then …
The testing.
Of who and what I am.
As swiftly as the thought was completed, she knew what she had to do. She didn't pause to consider the consequences or weigh the risks, — she just did it. She reabsorbed the magic gathered at her fingertips, pulled it back inside, changed its form, and redistributed it throughout her body. The effect was instantaneous and irreversible. She lost control almost immediately, swept away by the magic's implacable response. Gasping in shock, she dropped into a crouch, her appearance changing as she did so, her form altering. The magic burned within her, turning her feverish as it stripped away her look and smell, her thinking, her reasoning, her conscience. She began to mewl like those that stalked her. Like those she confronted. Like a Fury. She made the change in a heartbeat, the magic sweeping across her until Grianne Ohmsford, Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Council, simply vanished from the valley floor.