by Ronald Craft
Chapter 4
Bloody hell, Owen thought. He's at it again.
Owen rapped his knuckles against the door. “My lord?”
He pressed his ear against the door and listened.
Nothing.
Owen knocked louder this time. “Lord Rodach, are you all right?”
His question was answered by the sound of glass breaking and something heavy crashing onto the ground inside the room.
The door cracked open.
A head full of disheveled black hair and brown eyes peered back at Owen from within the room. “What is it now, Owen?” Rodach glared at him.
Owen bowed his head. “My lord, I was sent to check up on you after reports of some... noises coming from your chambers.” His eye twitched.
Rodach scratched his head and chuckled. “Don't worry, Owen. Just another failed experiment. You'll not hear another peep from me today.”
“Very good, my lord.” Owen edged closer and lowered his voice. “Keep it down, damn it.”
They were childhood friends, growing up in this very keep. Rodach was royalty and Owen the son of a common servant. However, when Owen became High Aide it had caused their friendship to become a strained and secretive one over the years.
Rodach's smile broadened. “Worry not, Owen.” He opened the door wider and leaned forward. “Oh, and make sure you take care of that matter I asked of you earlier. You'll need to be convincing. He's smarter than he looks.” Rodach vanished behind the door as it clicked shut.
Owen grumbled to himself as he walked stiffly down the hallway. It was the same thing every day. He rounded a corner and jerked to a stop at the sight before him. The Duke of Dalenor was heading Owen's way with his lady in tow. Owen tried to duck back around the corner, but it was too late.
“Owen! I must have a word with you.” His substantial belly bounced as he waddled down the corridor.
Owen groaned. It seemed he was destined for misfortune on this day.
He took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Ah, Duke Lindan. What can I do for you?”
The duke stopped in front of Owen and placed his meaty hands on his enormous hips. Duke Lindan's lady stood next to him, eyes firmly planted on the ground.
Owen fought the desire to sneer in disgust. Fat fool, he thought. One can only wonder how his chicken legs can support such a round body.
Duke Lindan's soft chest puffed up. “Owen, when will my audience with Lord Rodach be granted? I've been idling about here for days with naught but excuses.”
Owen held back a sigh. “With all due respect, Duke Lindan, I am merely an aide to Lord Rodach. I have no control over his schedule.” The duke had been harassing him ever since he had arrived in Escitor. Frankly, he didn't care if Duke Linda never got his audience with Lord Rodach.
The duke snorted. “Surely you must know something, Owen. There are important matters I must discuss with Lord Rodach.” Each word was emphasized with a wave of his fat hand.
Owen didn't think that increasing the quantity of poultry shipments to Dalenor was really as pressing of a matter as the Duke made it out to be. But, he kept such thoughts to himself. “Lord Rodach has a very busy schedule. I am sure he will inform you when he is available.”
Spittle flew from Lindan's mouth as he spoke. “This is ridiculous. I am the Duke of Dalenor. I demand an audience with Lord Rodach.” Duke Lindan's face had turned red and he puffed for air between each sentence. His lady shifted uncomfortably next to him.
Another voice came from behind Owen. “Owen, there you are!”
Owen groaned. And here he thought this day couldn't get any worse. He turned and tried his best not to look openly irritated. “Good morning to you, Lady Selene.” Owen struggled to keep his eye from twitching.
“Good morning to you, my dear Owen.” Selene fluttered her eyelashes at him. Her face was caked with makeup, as usual, which made her look more a jester than a lady. “How are you on this fine morning, love?”
Owen shuddered at the sight. She had been trying to bed him for near on a year now. And yet, despite his polite, but firm rejections, she continually hounded him. “I am doing as well as can be expected, my lady.” Something wet struck the back of his neck as Duke Lindan continued his tirade.
Owen parted his lips and filled his chest with air. Stay calm. You can handle this. He slowly exhaled. You can—
“Don't you ignore me, Owen!” Duke Lindan took another step towards him.
Owen glanced past Lady Selene. A servant skittered by like an ant and vanished down another corridor at the end of the hallway. If only I had been so lucky, he thought.
Lady Selene pushed past Owen and crossed her arms. “Pig. Leave my Owen alone.”
The Duke's eyes widened. “How dare you.” He raised his fist. “Apologize this instant before I strike you down where you stand, lady or not.”
“Strike me down? And, pray you, how are you going to do that?” She rolled her eyes.
The duke's wife tugged on his sleeve. “P—Please, my lord... don't...” Her voice was soft and timid.
Lindan shrugged her off. “Mind your place, wife. I'll deal with you later.”
Owen pushed himself against the wall and edged away from them. Why couldn't he have just one peaceful day?
Duke Lindan took a step towards Lady Selene. “Wench, I'll have your head right here in this hallway.” The duke launched himself forward, but his massive stomach failed to move in tune with the rest of his body. His legs gave out and he crashed to the floor. Sweat dripped from Lindan's face and he gasped for air.
Lady Selene laughed. “Fat fool. I'd skewer you and feed the army you let starve while you stuff your face, but I fear there's naught but fat under your skin.” She turned her gaze to Owen. “I fear I've lost my appetite. Perhaps you'd care to sup with me another day, Owen?”
Owen swallowed. “Nothing would please me more, my lady. However, I fear my responsibilities are rather time consuming...”
She smiled. “You'll make time for me.” Lady Selene slid past him and hummed to herself as she meandered down the hallway.
He hadn't laughed at a jester since meeting Lady Selene. She terrified him.
Duke Lindan's lady was shaking as she stared helplessly at him. Lindan struggled to push himself to his feet to no avail. “Help me up, damn it!” The duke's clothes were soaked and the stench of grease filled Owen's nostrils.
Owen took this opportunity as a blessing and fled back around the corner. He ran until Duke Lindan's shouts could no longer be heard. When he could run no more, Owen stopped and leaned against a wall. His heart raced in his chest and sweat ran down his brow.
What a morning. Owen ran his hand through his damp hair.
“This is why I never get anything done around here.” he said to himself. Owen pushed himself from the wall and took the most roundabout path towards his destination. At last, he'd be able to attend to his duties. There was nothing he hated more than being delayed. The days were too short for him to waste his time with those simpletons. Lords and ladies, dukes and regents, titles meant nothing to him. Owen had seen the best and worst of them all in his years of service.
Owen stopped in front of a large door with a pair of royal guardsmen on either side of the entrance. Their eyes followed his every movement.
“What is your business here?” The one to his right asked.
“I've come on orders from Lord Rodach to council a prisoner.” He held out his left hand, which bore a ring with the sign of the jackal engraved upon it. The symbol was that of Rodach's house and marked Owen as High Aide.
It allowed him many... privileges.
The guardsman nodded. He pulled a key from his belt and bent to unlock the door. “Good luck and remember to hold your nose. It's foul down there.” The lock clicked and he swung the door open.
Owen grabbed a torch from the wall and began his descent into the dungeon. The stairs led deep underground into a series of cells carved from the rock itself by Rodach's ancestors. Not even Rodach knew how th
ey had managed such a feat. The steps were worn from many centuries of guardsmen and prisoners alike going up and down them.
Though, few prisoners ever came back up these steps.
The temperature lowered as he neared the bottom. Hints of what awaited him below assaulted his senses. Rotting flesh, human waste and the smell of fear. A draft sent Owen's torch aflutter and shadows danced all around him. Owen was welcomed by the jingle of keys clicking together as he set foot on the bottom floor.
A voice came to him from the dark. “Who is it you seek?” Keeper Lerik stepped into the edge of the torch light. He had his hand raised in front of his face and peered at Owen between two brittle fingers.
Owen blanched. Lerik had always made him shiver. The keeper lived down here with the prisoners, and if that wasn't odd enough, he preferred to remain in the dark. Owen had walked in on Lerik on several occasions as he hummed in tune with the tortured cries of prisoners.
“I'm here for Amaren.”
Lerik grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “Ya wanna see him, eh? This shou' be... fascinating.” He rubbed his hands together. “Come with me.” Lerik walked off into the dark.
Owen braced himself for the encounter as he followed behind Lerik. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about Lord Rodach's request. But alas, he didn't dare go against his lord's wishes. They may have grown up together, but Rodach was still his lord and it was Owen's duty to serve.
The jingling of keys came to a stop as Keeper Lerik halted in front of a cell door. He pulled the key ring from his belt and, without missing a beat, picked the cell key from amongst the others and inserted it into the door. The lock squealed and clicked open.
Lerik smirked. “Here ya go.”
“Is he still sedated?” Owen asked.
“Once a day, jus' as m'lord instructed. I'll be here if ya need me.” The keeper chuckled and stepped back into the darkness.
Owen walked into the cell.
He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The smell of feces was strong here, but something even more foul lingered in the air. Owen lifted the torch higher and took an involuntary step back as his gaze met that of the man imprisoned here. His eyes were as yellow as the sun. There was a hatred deeper than Owen could fathom radiating from within them.
“Amaren, I presume?” The man was hunched in the corner, naked from the waist up. He had long, tangled hair and scars covered his body. Thick chains were fastened around his wrists and ankles.
“What do you want with me?” The muscles in Amaren's neck bulged as he spoke.
“Amaren, I come on behalf of Lord Rodach. I—”
Amaren spat. “Do not utter his name in my presence.” The man's voice echoed throughout the dungeon.
Owen nodded. “So be it.” He fought to keep his knees from shaking. “The reason I'm here, you see, is because Lo—I mean, the lord has an offer for you.” He swallowed.
Amaren tilted his head. “An offer? What kind of offer do you have for me, light walker? Is it death? Because I have tried many times, but death will not come to me.” He held up his wrists for emphasis. Scars criss-crossed the length of his arm.
Owen's eyes widened. “Y—You will have your freedom if you complete this task.”
Amaren sneered. “Freedom? Even if you grant me my freedom, why should I do what you ask of me? I'd sooner cut off your lord's head and feast on his entrails.”
“Well,” Owen tried to slow his breathing. His heart thumped in his chest. “Lord Rodach—”
“I said not to utter his name in my presence, fool.” Amaren boomed. He was on his feet now, towering above Owen. Amaren's head nearly reached the ceiling.
Owen stuck his hand into his pocket and fingered the pouch he had tucked inside of it for reassurance.
It'll be fine. He must be struggling to stand with all the sedatives in his body.
“My apologies.” He took a deep breath. Best to get this over as quickly as possible. “I am told there is but one thing that you desire.” Owen pulled the pouch from his pocket and dumped the contents into his hand. A single, round stone lay there. He raised it to his lips and breathed on it.
The stone burst to life and drove back the shadows in the cell with a brilliant white light. Lerik squealed behind him and jingled further away.
Amaren took a sudden step back, his chains rattling with the movement. His eyes were wide and his jaw slack. “It—It can't be. Where did that bastard find it?” Amaren raised his hand as high as his restraints would allow. “Give it to me. Now.”
Owen dropped the stone back into the pouch and shadows enveloped the cell once more. “If you do what my lord requires, it will be yours.”
Amaren dropped his hand to his side. His eyes glistened in the torchlight. “What would you have me do?” he whispered.
“There is a certain person that my lord needs... taken care of. This is a task someone with your talents would excel at.”
“What is this person's name?”
Owen folded his arms. “Ilian.”
Amaren nodded. “His remaining breaths grow fewer even now. It shall be done.”
“Splendid.” Owen turned from the cell and began the long walk to the surface.
Owen allowed himself a smile. Everything is going according to plan.
—
Rodach surveyed the scene around his room. Scrolls, flasks and colored tubes of powder lay scattered about. On the other side of the room, several broken flasks lay in pieces on the floor. He kicked the larger pieces aside. A small, silver chest adorned with foreign glyphs lay on a table nearby.
“I need to decipher the last glyph,” he mumbled to himself. Rodach traced his finger along the edges of the glyphs, admiring the craftsmanship. One thing that he had noticed right away was that the chest was always cold. It had perturbed him at first, but he soon forgot about it as he delved further into his research. There was something about the last glyph that was different from the rest, but its meaning escaped him. It didn't match the others and it seemed to be from an entirely different language; one he did not recognize.
Rodach rubbed his cheek. The answer was so close and yet so far. Without unlocking that last glyph he only had partial control of the power within. If the damage throughout the room was anything to go by, his results so far has been less than favorable.
“There's something I'm still missing.” Rodach grabbed a nearby scroll and unrolled it. He scanned the scribbled writing for the hundredth time. “Blood. Tears. Flesh. It's all right here. But the last one... what could it be?” Rodach slammed his fist on the table and sent another flask crashing onto the floor. He had used much of his resources in acquiring the chest and, after years of study, he was no closer to translating the final glyph.
He grabbed three beakers, each with a different substance inside. First, the blood. He placed a drop on the first glyph.
It glowed blood red in response.
Now tears. He placed a single tear drop on the second glyph.
The glyph glowed a bright silver.
Lastly, flesh. Using a pair of tongs, he grabbed a piece of flesh from the beaker and placed it onto the third glyph. The flesh vanished within as the glyph began to glow a dark brown.
Rodach grabbed another beaker which held a white powder. Ground bone. This has to be it.
He sprinkled a bit of the dust on the glyph and held his breath in anticipation.
And...
The glyph remained dark as it had so many times before.
“Why can't I figure this out?” His face flushed with anger. “I've had it with this damn chest!”
Rodach grabbed the chest and cocked his arm back, ready to smash it against the wall. The chest rumbled in his hand and something inside of it chimed. Rodach lowered it in front of him and eyed it.
“What was...”
The chest burst into flames in Rodach's hand. He screamed and tried to throw it away, but the chest had seared into his palm. Rodach's vision swam and the smell of burning flesh stun
g his nostrils. Pain shot up his arm and spread throughout his entire body.
The lid of the chest cracked open. Something dark churned within.
Embrace it. Embrace the hatred. The voice spoke into his mind.
“Who are you?” Rodach asked, but the voice did not answer.
A dark mist poured out of the chest and wrapped itself around Rodach's arm. It numbed his flesh as it crawled across it, embracing Rodach with its dark tendrils. He tried to distance himself from it, but his body wouldn't budge.
He was trapped.
You, who desire power. I give unto thee this curse.
The mist filled Rodach's mouth and dove down inside of him. It coiled around his body and bathed Rodach in darkness. Rodach tried to shout, but his voice was lost to him.
The colors around Rodach blurred together. His vision spun faster and faster and his body rose from the ground. Rodach's back arched and all the muscles in his body tensed.
Please forgive me, another voice spoke into his mind. I cannot... fight... it.
The voices faded and the chest snapped shut. Rodach landed on the floor with a thud.
Everything went dark.
Some time later, he awoke to the sound of Owen's voice.
“My lord? Lord Rodach? Are you all right? No, don't get up. Wait here. I'll get the healer.” Owen started towards the door.
The chest, now closed, lay next to him. Rodach held up his hand expecting to find charred flesh, but the only remains of his encounter with the voice were several glyphs engraved into his palm.
Rodach's voice seemed distant as he spoke. “That won't be necessary, Owen. I'm fine.” He smiled and rose to his feet. “Just fine.”