by Clayton Wood
“Why does everyone who goes into the caves die?” Kyle asked Petra. She shrugged.
“No one knows,” she admitted. “Those who have tried, their skin turns red. They lose their mind, and soon after they fall asleep. Sometimes they fall to the ground and their arms and legs shake. Then they die.”
“Oh,” Kyle mumbled. He caught Ariana looking at him; she was clearly thinking the same thing he was: if Kyle couldn't go into the cave without dying, how could they possibly go forward with their plan?
“And if I refuse?” Ariana pressed. Again, Kyle translated for her.
“Then you will be left in the Barren forest,” Petra answered. “Your magic will be drained, and you will be dead. Your friend,” she added, turning to Kyle, “...will also be put to death for trespassing on our land.”
Kyle swallowed in a suddenly dry throat, glancing at Ariana.
“Sounds like an easy task,” Ariana opined. “We could use her help. If something goes wrong and they attack us, we’ll have to kill them.”
Kyle nodded silently, swallowed in a dry throat. He turned back to Petra.
“I guess we don't have a choice,” he muttered. Petra nodded.
“Then you agree,” she stated. Ariana nodded, and so did Kyle. “Very well,” Petra said. “I will bring you to the mouth of the cave for her test.”
Chapter 23
Sabin rests his back against the cold stone wall of his cell, sitting down on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him. He stares off into space, ignoring the box of food that had been dropped unceremoniously in front of him a half-hour ago. His stomach complains bitterly, but the thought of eating makes him nauseous.
Guilty.
The trial had been a sham, of course. He'd been appointed a lawyer, competent but without talent. With the incredible volume of fabricated evidence Nespo's attorney had revealed, no amount of skill could have saved Sabin. Any suggestion of Nespo having framed Sabin was deemed so improbable that no one had believed it.
Sabin lowers his gaze to his hands, staring at the ring on his right middle finger. They'd taken everything else from him. His clothes, his land. His home. Even his patents had been acquired by the government. They'd taken everything, forever tarnishing his reputation. In one fell swoop, Nespo had nullified Sabin's entire life, robbing him of every accomplishment. The Grand Runic had destroyed Sabin's legacy, and very soon, would take his life.
Sabin stares at his ring, the black onyx with the diamond-shaped emerald. It is the only possession he'd been allowed to keep. A reminder of what he'd been, before Nespo had set him up. A reminder of how far he's fallen.
And now none of that matters. Because tomorrow, he will face death. He will be executed, his limbs removed ounce by ounce, his body mutilated until there is nothing left. He'd seen it once before, this type of execution. Or rather, he'd seen part of it; he'd had to leave soon after it had started, unable to stomach the horrible screams of the man who'd been sentenced. The idea that it is going to happen to him tomorrow is unreal. Impossible. And yet he knows that he will have to face it.
Tomorrow, he will die.
Sabin's eyes scan the room for the umpteenth time since he'd been returned to it after his trial, pointlessly searching for a way to escape. Without magic, there is nothing he can do. There is no way to reach the ceiling ten feet above, where the only exit of the cell is. An exit that, when closed off, is fused to the stone ceiling around it.
He returns his gaze to his hands, staring at his fingers. Imagines himself standing in the courtyard in Stridon square, surrounded by Battle-Weavers, tied upright to a cross made of sturdy wooden beams. Imagines the rough ropes binding his wrists and ankles to those beams, the executioner grabbing his index finger, pressing a serrated knife at the crease of his last knuckle.
He closes his eyes, imagining that blade moving up and down slowly, sawing through his flesh. The grating sound it would make as the metal struck bone. The pain. Watching as his fingertip fell to the ground, rolling on the street below while the remaining stump squirted blood, until the red-hot brand was pressed into it.
Sabin shudders then, his pulse quickening, and opens his eyes, staring at his finger. A low moan escapes his lips, and rises in pitch. His mind continues to work despite itself, imagining the executioner taking one finger after the other. Then his wrists. His forearms. His elbows.
Oh god oh god oh god...
Sabin clenches his hands, his knuckles going white. He's breathing faster now, the air growing thin around him. He feels a terrible pain in his chest, and pulls his legs under him, lurching to his feet. He staggers forward, staring up at the ceiling, at the exit.
“Help!” he shouts, clutching his chest with his hands. The pressure there is incredible, like nothing he has ever experienced. He feels tremendously lightheaded all of a sudden, his face burning hot. His legs give out beneath him, and he falls to his knees on the unforgiving stone floor. Pain shoots up his legs, and he cries out, landing on his palms.
The cell spins around him.
“Help!” he shouts, rolling onto his side, then onto his back. He clings to consciousness desperately, every muscle in his body clenching. The pressure in his chest remains, making it almost impossible to breath.
I'm having a heart attack, he realizes, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels sweat trickling down his flanks, feels heat rising from him despite the cold stone at his back. And yet, for all his shouting, no one is coming to help him.
It is only then that Sabin realizes the absurdity of his thoughts.
“I'm having a heart attack,” he murmurs, his voice hollow-sounding as it echoes throughout his cell. His lips twitch, then curl into a smirk. He laughs then, an abrupt, barking sound.
I'm having a heart attack!
Elation courses over him.
He closes his eyes, lifting his hands from his chest and laying them out to his sides. His smirk widens into a grin, and he laughs again.
Take me now, he urges silently. Give that bastard one last middle finger.
He waits.
But the pressure in his chest gradually subsides, his pulse slowing. His eyes snap open, and he feels a bolt of panic.
No!
He stares down at his chest, then balls his right hand into a fist, slamming it into the center of his chest.
“No, god damn it!” he shouts, raising his fist and slamming it into his chest again. Over and over his strikes himself, each dull thump echoing off of the stone walls. “No, no, no!”
He stops then, feeling a painful throbbing in his chest. He waits, hoping to feel that pressure again, that horrible squeezing sensation. But it's gone. He takes a deep breath in, clenching his fists.
“Shit!” he screams at the top of his lungs. He staggers to his feet, clutching his hair with both hands, pulling as hard as he can. He screams again, feeling hair ripping out of his scalp, the sudden stinging pain making his eyes water. He steps backward, feeling his spine strike the wall behind him. He lets go of his hair, seeing clumps of it fall gently to the ground. He stares at his hands, curling his fingers into claws, and grabs at his own throat, digging his fingertips into his flesh. He feels his windpipe there, and grips it tightly.
He sucks air into his lungs, hyperventilating now, psyching himself up. He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing once, then again.
One good pull, he commands himself. Do it.
He opens his eyes, then closes them again, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Do it you miserable bastard. You goddamn worthless coward!
He feels his grip loosening, and he shakes his head, letting out a guttural roar. He grasps his neck more firmly, sliding his fingers up around his Adam’s apple, taking in another round of short, quick breaths.
Come on come on come on...
Then he imagines himself with his windpipe crushed, unable to breath, unable to speak. Slowly drowning in a sea of air, the life ebbing out of him. His resolve waivers.
“Damn it!” he shouts, letting go of his neck
and slamming the meat of his fist into the wall behind him. I can't even kill myself! He drops his face into his hands, sliding his back down the wall behind him, feeling his buttocks strike the floor. A muffled sob escapes his lips, and quickly turns into bitter laughter.
Oh don't you worry, he tells himself. Someone else will be happy to do it for you real soon.
He closes his eyes, resting his head back on the wall behind him. He feeling his pulse slowing, sweat dribbling down his flanks. Then he opens his eyes.
A man is standing in the center of the cell.
Sabin blinks, not believing his eyes. Then he rises to his feet, his jaw dropping.
There, in front of him, stands a tall man in jet black armor, his eyes hidden beneath a curved, mirrored visor.
“Ampir!” Sabin cries.
“Sabin,” Ampir replies, nodding slightly. He pauses for a moment. “Catch you at a bad time?”
“How...” Sabin begins, then clears his throat. “How did you get in here?” He glances up at the ceiling, seeing only smooth, unbroken stone and the flickering lantern there. He suddenly wonders if he is going mad, if Ampir is just a figment of his delusional mind.
“I could ask you the same question,” Ampir replies coolly.
“I didn't do it, Ampir,” Sabin states, stepping forward and grabbing Ampir by the shoulders. To his surprise, no gravity shields appear around the Battle-Runic. “I'm innocent, you have to believe me!”
“Right.”
“It's true,” Sabin insists. He drops to his knees then, ignoring the painful hardness of the floor, sliding his hands down to Ampir's armored wrists. “I'm begging you,” he pleads, feeling tears well up in his eyes. “You have to believe me!”
“Get up,” Ampir growls, his tone disgusted. He yanks Sabin to his feet.
“I was framed...” Sabin begins, but Ampir cuts him off.
“I know.”
“It was Nespo,” Sabin continues. “He...what?”
“I know,” Ampir repeats. Sabin stares at him for a long, silent moment, his mouth agape. Then he snaps it shut, his teeth clicking.
“You know?”
“After you were charged, Vera couldn't believe Nespo's allegations,” Ampir states. “She said you weren't capable of murder. She insisted that I investigate.” His lips twitched then. “She was...persuasive.”
“What did you do?”
“I eavesdropped on Nespo,” Ampir answers. “Neutralized his wards and stood in his room without him knowing it. Listened to every conversation.”
“And?”
“As you said,” Ampir confirms. “...you were framed.”
“You know!” Sabin exclaims, breaking out into a smile. “Oh thank god...” He feels a rush of excitement, his heart hammering in his chest. “You have to help me,” he insists. “You have to get me out of here!”
“Why did he do it?” Ampir presses. Sabin blinks, then frowns.
“What?”
Ampir just stands there, saying nothing.
“Oh...” Sabin stammers. “He...I went to Orja,” he answers. “For my initiation tour. I was expecting to see another province of the Empire, but...” He shakes his head then. “Ampir, you can't imagine what I saw.”
“Try me.”
“The Empire is using the natives as slaves,” Sabin states. “Hundreds of thousands of men and women...even children...living in squalor, worked literally to death. They're free labor for the diamond mines. Our men beat the natives to death on a whim. They bring the women back to Verhan to take turns...using them.”
“Go on.”
“The Council voted unanimously to make the Orjanian colonies legally separate from the Empire,” Sabin explains. “So that they could deliberately remove their authority to prosecute their own citizens – former citizens – for crimes against humanity.”
“And you confronted Nespo,” Ampir states. Sabin nods.
“I did.”
“Idiot,” Ampir mutters. Sabin stares at the man, his mouth agape.
“What?”
“You're an idiot,” Ampir repeats.
“How can you...”
“You're here, aren't you?” Ampir interrupts, gesturing with one arm at the cell surrounding them. “What were you expecting to happen?”
“I wasn't expecting our Grand Runic to be a slave-trading tyrant,” Sabin retorts indignantly. “I wasn't expecting him to frame his Elder Runic for murder!”
“He's corrupt,” Ampir explains, as if it were obvious all along.
“How was I supposed to know that?” Sabin retorts. Ampir rolls his eyes.
“He’s a politician.”
“So am I,” Sabin retorts. “But I’m not corrupt.” And it's true. He never had to resort to that, and never would.
“You're naïve.”
“How can you be so damn...” Sabin begins, then stops himself, taking a deep breath in, then letting it out. “I was just trying to do the right thing.”
“Think strategically,” Ampir retorts. “Politics is war. Your colleagues are your enemies. Blindly charging at a more powerful enemy is suicide.”
“Maybe so,” Sabin concedes. “But I had to do something.”
“All you did was almost get yourself killed.”
Sabin lowers his gaze, unable to refute the obvious truth. He'd acted on impulse, doing exactly as Ampir said...threatening Nespo without really thinking about what he was doing. He should have gone straight to Ampir first. There was no need to go out on his own, making himself a target.
Then Sabin jerks his head back up, staring at his own reflection in Ampir's visor.
“Almost?” he asks. “I almost got myself killed? What does that...”
“I'm getting you out of here,” Ampir interrupts. Sabin's eyes widen, and he lets out a single, barking laugh, clutching at Ampir's arms. He laughs again, his eyes filling with tears, and he embraces the silent Battle-Runic. Then he pushes himself back, staring into that mirrored visor.
“Thank you,” Sabin says, his voice cracking. “Thank you Ampir!”
“Don't mention it,” Ampir replies. “Seriously, don't.”
“My lips are sealed,” Sabin promises. Then he frowns, staring up at the ceiling again. “How are we going to escape?”
“The same way I got in,” Ampir answers. Sabin's eyebrows knit together.
“How did you get in here?” he asks. Ampir smirks, and Sabin feels a slight vibration in his skull. He feels his eyelids growing heavy, the urge to sleep overwhelming. He slumps into Ampir’s arms.
“I blinked,” Ampir replies.
* * *
Kalibar squinted against the fading sunlight, using one hand as a visor to shield his eyes as he stared out of the window of the carriage that raced across the highway leading toward his estate in Bellingham. It wasn't the usual horse-drawn carriage he'd used during his retirement; it was a levitating carriage without a horse, steered by the dozen elite guards levitating all around it. It was capable of taking him from Stridon all the way to his mansion in Bellingham in a few hours, a trip that would've taken three full days by horse-drawn carriage. He'd undertaken the trip a few hours after notifying the Council of his decision to take his vacation.
That had not gone well.
Councilman Goran had led the impassioned revolt against the very idea of Kalibar leaving, citing the terrible timing, what with the recent attack on the city. How could Kalibar even think of taking time off for leisure at a time like this? Not to mention what the citizens of Stridon might think, knowing their esteemed leader was off vacationing while Xanos lurked in every shadow, ready to strike. Kalibar had listened patiently, having expected such a reaction. When Goran had finished, Kalibar had simply replied that he felt he was leaving the Empire in excellent hands, what with Goran taking over the office of Grand Weaver temporarily. That silenced Goran – to refute it would be to refute his own abilities, something the man was loathe to do – and to the rest, Kalibar said that he planned on spending his vacation pondering the p
roper strategy for dealing with Xanos once and for all. This, he'd proposed, was something he simply could not do effectively while shouldering the many burdens of his office.
Surprisingly, that had worked.
The carriage slowed, then came to a stop before the grand front doors of Kalibar's mansion, parking on the dark brown cobblestone driveway. An elite guard opened the carriage door for Kalibar, and Kalibar stepped down, his black boots clicking on the stone below. He nodded at his guards, then walked up to the front double-doors of his retirement home, hardly surprised when the doors opened before he'd even reached them. Out stepped his property manager, a short, studious man wearing glasses and a gray suit. The man's name was Reo, and he had proven to be a most trustworthy and capable man in the six years that Kalibar had known him.
“Welcome back Master,” Reo greeted. “Grand Weaver,” he corrected immediately, with obvious embarrassment. Kalibar smiled.
“Good to be back Reo,” he replied. He noticed his elite guards fanning out around him, some walking into the mansion while others made their way into the front yard. They were ensuring the mansion's security, of course. Not that it was likely to be necessary; when Kalibar had started his second term as Grand Weaver, the mansion had undergone a complete security overhaul. He'd nearly been assassinated here only a month or so ago, after all. “How is your family?”
“Quite well,” Reo answered. “Carla and the boys went fishing today at the pond.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kalibar replied. “Any outstanding issues with the property?”
“No Master,” Reo answered. “Everything is running smoothly.”
“And my accounts?” Kalibar pressed. His fortune – a considerable one at that – was also managed by Reo, along with a team of gifted accountants and lawyers. Reo sighed.
“Your investments suffered with the recent attack on Stridon,” he admitted. “But you'll find that they are still quite healthy. The market is recovering slowly.”
“Indeed,” Kalibar murmured, only half-listening. He was rich beyond the wildest dreams of his youth, wealthy enough not to care about money anymore. It was only a tool now, a means to an end. He'd mentioned it to Reo purely to make the property manager feel that his efforts were acknowledged, so that he would feel fulfilled in his role. That was what most people wanted, after all...to be acknowledged. “Well done Reo,” he said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”