Something powerful, something dangerous and sure, most certainly something lethal . . . but there was something even . . . more . . . there. He could feel it inside him now. And if he was very, very quiet, he could almost . . . hear it . . .
At times, it almost sounded like it was trying to call him . . . home . . .
chapter 7
The sun was steadily sinking toward the distant Uldran Mountains when Mister Oliver Orrington and his escort detail stopped for the night. While the four royal wardens rode fine white stallions, Oliver Orrington had been forced to ride a smelly old mule. He dismounted gingerly amidst the coarse laughter of his escort and tried not to grimace too much. The thought of those harsh lines forming on his fine face were almost enough to bring him to tears.
He looked around for something soft and pleasant to sit on, and realized his choices were limited to dirt, weeds or a fallen tree. Not sure he wanted to subject his backside to further discomfort; he dismissed the tree and dirt and tamped down some weeds. Once he had created a nest of sorts, he sank down and let out a long melodic sigh.
“Before you get yourself comfortable,” Captain Rivers called over to him in a rather whiney voice. “You need to build a fire and make us supper.”
Oliver Orrington didn’t move. He had no need of a fire or of food right now. If his escort wanted some, let them do the work.
“Hey!” Captain Rivers shouted. He handed his reins to another warden and walked closer. “I’m talking to you.”
The man really did have a poor voice. High pitched, nasally. People like that ought to know better than to open their mouths and speak.
Captain Rivers stood over Oliver Orrington and stared down at him, hands planted firmly on his hips. “Are you deaf as well as dumb?” He bent at his waist. “I said-”
Oliver Orrington’s right hand knifed up. His hard fingers closed around the man’s voice box and in one firm yank, he tore the man’s throat out. Warm sticky blood shot all over him. Captain Rivers fell over dead. The other wardens leapt to their feet, shouting threats. None of them had pleasant voices either.
Oliver Orrington dropped the chunk of flesh and leveled a steely gaze at the three advancing men. After listening to their inane banter all day long, he was ready for some peace and quiet.
Seconds later, he found it.
chapter 8
“What progress have you made? Is he ready to confess?”
“Little and no.”
“Court adjourned hours ago! What have you been doing?”
“Keeping him alive.”
“What do you mean? What happened to him? Gods-dammit, what happened to his face?”
“Some of that he did to himself in the courtroom. The rest of it was done to him by some of the guards. When I got to him, he was barely alive.”
“We don’t have time for this nonsense!”
“I know, but before I could start on his mind again, I had to fix his body.”
“Why?”
“Physical pain can distract the mind. For the best chance of success, I needed to repair him. Next up is his face.”
“He’s dying at noon tomorrow. You don’t need to waste time on his face.”
“But-”
“I said forget about his face.”
“But . . .”
“Forget about his face! I don’t care about his face! All he needs to do is confess that he killed the king! He can do that with a messed-up face, can’t he?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Then do it!”
“Right now?”
“Right now!”
“But . . . I’ve been working my magic for hours and-”
“So? You told me this was something you could do.”
“It is! It’s just . . .”
“Revive him.”
“What?”
“Just revive him. I want to try something else.”
“I don’t think . . .”
“REVIVE HIM!”
Something cold pressed against Ian’s forehead and a moment later he heard . . . felt . . . a low, solid thump. It was as if something large and heavy had slammed against the ground directly beneath him.
His eyes opened, and full awareness settled over him immediately.
“Welcome back, Ian.”
Ian turned his head. Two men stood next to his cot; Lord Devin Ragget and a tall stranger dressed in long black robes with a hood. He looked like a Chondaltian cleric.
“Ragget . . .” Ian croaked. His entire face felt like it was on fire. Especially his forehead. How could Ragget’s face be unbruised? He remembered head butting him more than once. “How . . . what are you doing here?”
“Tidying up a loose end.”
“Killing me now?” It hurt to talk, to move his mouth, his lips. “Wouldn’t you rather wait and let the torturer do it tomorrow?”
Ragget smiled and gestured toward the other man. “Stephano Di Rygazzo will be your torturer.”
Ian sucked in a deep breath, expecting to feel some pain in his ribs, but the pain there was gone. It felt like it had all traveled to his face. “I think there will be a lot of disappointed people at the Tower Square if you start now.”
Ragget shook his head. “Be still Ian, we are not here for that.”
Ian started to frown, but his bruised and battered face did not want to form that expression, so he tried quietly bored instead. That hurt too, but not quite so badly. “Then what? What more could you want from me? You’ve taken everything else.”
“I have taken nothing,” Ragget said. “Cecily came to me on her own, once she learned the truth about your lurid affair.”
“I suppose you were the one who told her.” Ian tried to sit up, but the robed man pushed him back down. Surprisingly, his left shoulder didn’t ache anymore, and his broken arm seemed completely healed too. It didn’t make sense. Why heal him if they only meant to kill him?
Ragget nodded. “I visited with her on the same day as those unfortunate fires.”
“I thought that was Lord Orrington.”
“I temporarily borrowed his carriage.”
“You stole it?”
“I had my man give it back.”
“So, if Cecily was with you the entire time, why did Lord Orrington challenge me to a duel?”
Ragget smiled.
“That was you too?” Ian closed his eyes. At least that was relatively easy. Both were almost swollen shut anyway. “That was you too. What was your plan? Have Captain Straegar arrest both Lord Orrington and me in the middle of a duel and have us both banished?”
Ragget shrugged. “But then you decided to kill the king after you attacked me.”
“I didn’t kill the king.”
Ragget paced over to the closed cell door. Looked out. Came back. “Actually, that is why we are here.” He glanced over at Di Rygazzo. “I must have that confession.”
Ian struggled to rise again but the robed man held him down.
“You have my conviction already. Why do you need a confession?”
Ragget did not answer. Instead, he dragged the rickety table out of the corner and placed it in the center of the cell.
“I’ll be dead soon. You’ve won. You have Cecily. You’ve stripped Tyran of his crown. All Gyunwarians are being exiled. You have my wealth, my outpost . . .”
“Confess to killing the king and I will make sure you die quickly.”
“No.”
“I don’t think you understand. Stephano Di Rygazzo is a master at pain. I had him brought over from Bel’yowlye just for this purpose.”
“Bel’yowlye?” Ian studied the stranger again. “I thought you were a Chondaltian cleric.”
Ragget laughed. “Because of the black robes? Yes, I can see how you could make that mistake. No, Stephano Di Rygazzo is no Chondaltian . . . He is . . . well, he is a healer . . . of sorts . . .”
“Doesn’t that go against your nature as a torturer?”
Stephano Di Rygazzo’s craggy face crinkled into
a smile.
“Actually, that’s what makes him one of the world’s greatest torturers . . .”
Stephano Di Rygazzo cleared his throat and shot Ragget a hard look.
“Very well, that’s what makes him THE greatest torturer in the known world, his ability to keep people alive. One time, he kept a prisoner alive long enough to pick up his own severed head and throw it out into the crowd.”
Stephano Di Rygazzo smiled and nodded.
“Perhaps he could perform a similar trick with you,” Ragget said. He leaned in close and glared down at Ian, his violet eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “I’ll make sure your right arm is the last thing he cuts off.”
Ian burst out laughing. His face hurt so much doing it, but he didn’t care. Ragget drew back and glanced over at Stephano Di Rygazzo.
“Perhaps if you had threatened me before you condemned me to death, I might have found your scare tactic a bit more frightening,” Ian said. “I will not admit to killing the king. I didn’t do it.”
“It’ll take your son some time to leave Yordic. You wouldn’t want something to happen to him.”
“If you’re going to make a threat against my son, make it. Don’t dance around it.”
“Admit to killing the king, or I’ll kill your son too.”
“Do you expect me to believe you would honor any agreement we make here once I’m dead? That would imply trust. I don’t trust you to do anything but evil.”
“According to whom? You?” Ragget sneered. “Tell me, Ian, if I am the evil man here am I to assume that you are the good man?”
Ian glared at Ragget. “Yes.”
“Upon whose authority?”
“Society dictates rules. Following the laws and helping others who are in need are signs of a good person, whereas the evil man moves outside the norm and arouses fear.”
“So, society decides good and evil?” Ragget paced around the room. “Are you sure THIS society has declared you good?” He stopped to look Ian in the eye again. “Remember, YOU are the one condemned to die, not I.”
“Because you twisted the truth.”
“Perhaps I did, but this society of savage nobles accepted that,” Ragget said. “Yordicians seek out power. They respect men capable of wielding it and using it to their own abilities. If I was able to twist the truth, it was because you allowed it.”
“That does not make it right.”
“We weren’t discussing right or wrong,” Ragget said. “You declared me evil, based on the will of society, and I say this society respects and understands a man capable of taking what he wants. Is the fox evil because he raids the chicken coop, or is he simply fulfilling his role as a predator? You allowed yourself to become the chicken . . .” Ragget laughed. “And tomorrow, Stephano Di Rygazzo will have you run around the stage with your head cut off.”
Ian opened his mouth but said nothing. Perhaps Ragget was right about the Yordician society. Perhaps it was corrupt and wrongheaded and incompatible with his ideals and beliefs.
Ragget tapped Stephano Di Rygazzo on the shoulder. “Can you get him to confess to it or . . .?”
“Why did you do this to me? Just because you could?”
Ragget considered him for a moment. “Let me show you.”
He removed a thick, leather-bound tome from a satchel slung over his shoulder. Carefully, he placed the metal-hinged book on the table and opened the cover. A strange, yellowish light emanated from the center of the book causing the pages to glow. A black line appeared at the upper left corner of the page and like a slithering serpent, the line snaked across the first page forming a trail of arcane words and letters.
“What does this have to do with . . .?”
“From the great hand of the almighty Chondalt Raggetarius, I bequeath these instructions to my descendants as a guide for your future,” Ragget intoned. “Heed my words and the gates of my glorious realm shall open and accept you into the fold.”
Ian stared at the book, at Ragget, at Stephano Di Rygazzo. What was this about?
Ragget slowly turned the pages, taking great care not to rip or tear any corners or edges. When he found the right page, he cleared his throat and began reading again. “Find thy enemy’s weakest fiber and attack with great vigor. A good-natured man filled with innocence and naivety will provide the most tempting and obvious choice. He will love his fellow man. He will help those who are downtrodden. He will display kindness, a warm heart, humility, patience; all of these will make him despicable in thine eyes. He will be easily controlled and manipulated. Usurp dominance of his life, his wealth, his love, his mind and reduce him to a shadow of his former self. Strip him of his innocence. Reveal his naivety. Replace them with cynical thoughts and vile deeds. Only when the newly fallen welcomes this new identity and admits the most foul of deeds shall my gate open to you. My realm awaits.”
Ragget stopped reading and closed the book. “Admit your guilt . . .”
“Who wrote that?” Ian demanded.
“Weren’t you paying attention? Chondalt Raggetarius.”
“Chondalt is one of your mythical gods,” Ian said. “Who really wrote that?”
Ragget bristled at his words. “This book was written over two thousand years ago by my ancestor.”
“The One is the only God.”
Stephano Di Rygazzo snorted.
“There are no other gods or goddesses in either heaven or hell,” Ian said, ignoring the torturer. “Did you write that yourself?”
Ragget’s violet eyes narrowed. “This tome was written by Chondalt and his words have come to pass, here and now!” He stepped closer and glanced around the cell. “If your One is so powerful, why has he forsaken you?”
“The One does not abandon his followers.”
Ragget laughed. “Your pathetic Gyunwarian god is no match for our strong-willed Gods and Goddesses. He has left you here to die alone.”
Ian bowed his head. “I will not argue with you about my faith.”
“Then you won’t mind if I put it to the test,” Ragget replied. “If your god is all-powerful, then he surely won’t allow you to die at the hands of heathens.”
“If it is His will that I should perish, then I will die,” Ian replied evenly. “I cannot barter my life . . .”
Ragget snorted. “A typical response by you Gyunwarians. When proof of your god is requested, it’s always the same.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t care if he exists or not, for he is obviously not omnipotent or all-powerful. I KNOW Chondalt lives, and when you admit to killing the king, the gates to his realm will open for me.”
Ian shook his head. “I will not admit to something I did not do.”
Ragget laughed again. “We will see.” He turned to Stephano Di Rygazzo. “Do it now.”
Ian glanced at the torturer. A flicker of magic passed over his suddenly pale white eyes. Stephano Di Rygazzo extended an arm and placed his cold palm against Ian’s forehead.
“What is he doing?”
Ragget smiled triumphantly. “Don’t worry. You won’t remember a thing . . . no, I suppose I can’t rightly say that. As I understand it, you won’t remember a thing, except the pain!”
The cold turned warm than hot and Ian thought his head had caught on fire. He started screaming. And screaming. And screaming . . .
chapter 9
Josephine’s first hour of captivity contained some rather intense excitement provided by the stone-faced men. Trago remained standing by the front door, and Como walked across the room and stood in front of the open balcony door. Neither said a word. Even when she asked them questions, they said nothing. It was thrilling.
She sat. She stood. She paced. Something hadn’t been right with Edgar, but she couldn’t figure out what. Her stomach growled. She summoned a man from the hotel and asked for food. Out of habit, she asked the stone-faced men if they wanted to eat too. They said nothing.
“Are you capable of eating with those stone masks on?”
N
othing.
“Are you able to speak?”
Nothing.
“Do you have faces under those masks?”
Nothing.
She gave up. Let them starve. She ate.
Across the street, a roaring noise erupted from inside the courthouse. Josephine walked over to the balcony. Como barred her way.
“I just want to see what’s happening over there,” Josephine said.
Como didn’t move.
Josephine sighed. She glanced around Como’s wide body and caught a glimpse of someone on the courthouse roof. The figure was dressed all in black and was crouched next to one of the open windows. Was that Edgar? She hurried over to her pack and pulled out her Farseeing Scope.
Trago and Como snapped to attention. Their mighty hands curled into fists.
“Don’t worry, boys, it’s not a weapon,” she said. With a snap of her wrist, the scope slid open and she held it to her eye. “See . . .?”
The pair relaxed.
She stood next to Como and studied the caped and hooded figure. Even through her father’s scope, she couldn’t tell who it was, though she knew it wasn’t Edgar. Edgar moved with cat-like grace. He could walk across a roof beam with as much ease as he walked across a street. This man had an air of cautiousness about him. He still feared falling.
She wondered what he was doing up there, besides the obvious.
Since staring at an unmoving spy on a rooftop was infinitely more exciting than staring at the two unmoving stone-faced men in her room, Josephine stayed put. Another roar sounded from within the courthouse and then some screaming. Josephine’s heart raced. What was going on over there? Could Bolodenko be wrong about Lord Ian’s trial? Was it possible he could win the day and be set free? But then, what had caused the screaming? Had Edgar attempted a daytime rescue, deciding to snatch Lord Ian away during the trial instead of waiting for him to be returned to the dungeon? Had he taken such a foolish risk in hopes of freeing her from Bolodenko’s clutches sooner rather than later?
Stolen Crown Page 4