David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

A heavy door opened, John barked an order, and then she was physically lifted into the air and carried down the stairs. It was pointless to resist, but she did so anyway.

They more tossed her into the cell than anything else, and she rolled along the cold, hard ground before coming to a stop at the far wall. A blanket followed, landing atop her leg. It was a painfully familiar act of kindness.

“I want ten men down here at all times,” John said. “And that door is never to be left unlocked or unwatched…”

His voice trailed off as he gave his orders. As the cell slammed shut, she heard her mother calling to her.

“I do this for you, Alyssa,” Melody said from the cell door. “To save you, to save us all. You’ll understand one day, my daughter, but I think we all need our moments of darkness first, to humble us and break us down. It’s been a long time since you were humbled. Consider this a needed first step toward the truth.”

Alyssa stood, fighting off a wave of pain from several new bruises. Slowly, and with eyelids wide to ensure her mother saw the torchlight reflecting off her artfully crafted glass eyes, she walked to the bars of her new prison.

“The darkness means nothing to me now,” she said, and she shoved the offered blanket back through the bars. “And it will take more than a cold draft to break me.”

“I endured nine years in a far worse dungeon,” Melody said. “I know what it takes to break a man or woman, and I assure you, I have the patience to wait that long if it will save your immortal soul.”

Alyssa pressed her face to the bars, entire body trembling with rage.

“Zusa will kill you,” she whispered.

Melody’s whisper back was full of venom, a hatred Alyssa had never heard before in her voice.

“Let her try.”

The first thing Haern did when he awoke was turn to the side and vomit, his stomach unloading everything it had. Eyes closed, he endured the sensation of vertigo, knowing he might not have very long to react, and his life could still be on the line. The last thing he remembered … what was the last thing he …

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said a deep voice. Haern snapped his eyes open. He was in a small cubical cell, with every wall but one made of solid stone. The open one was before him, and blocking the way was the older man with the silver lion upon his chest. His eyes were a cold gray, his voice deep and demanding obedience.

Haern tried to move from where he lay and found himself shackled. His wrists were bound together with manacles, as were his ankles. A chain connected the two, short enough so that he could not extend to his full height. His swords were gone, as were his cloak, his hood, his various daggers and blades he kept for emergencies hidden across his body, and his belt of tools to pick locks and disarm traps. Haern thought to attempt an escape anyway, but the room was small and dark, and the paladin still had his enormous sword. Dizzy and bound as he was, he had little hope for escape against a man with such skill and presence.

“I hope I wasn’t much of a bother,” Haern said. “Those books I burned, were they valuable?”

“Priceless beyond compare,” the paladin said, reaching down and grabbing him by the front of his shirt. With ease, he lifted Haern up and then flung him against the wall. Haern let out a gasp as his head hit, adding yet another wave of nausea to his already-unhappy stomach.

“Well, then,” Haern laughed, “good to know I’ll have left a mark.”

The dark paladin stood and crossed his arms. He didn’t seem angry, nor amused. Instead, he appeared … curious.

“My name is Carden,” he said. “High Enforcer of our mighty god’s paladins. Who might you be?”

Haern shrugged as best he could, given the chains and manacles. What did it matter if he gave a name?

“Haern,” he said. “At your service.”

Carden’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment.

“Well, then, Haern, would you care to tell me why you killed a priest that was under our care?”

They don’t know about Thren, Haern realized, and he made sure not to let his smile show. Of course they wouldn’t. No doubt they assumed all the deaths had been at his hand alone, for what evidence did they have to the contrary?

“Is this an interrogation?” Haern asked, and he lifted his bound hands before him, rattling the chains. “Forgive me, but I assumed you’d at least rough me up a little before trying to get something out of me. I’m almost insulted you thought an unbarred cell and some manacles would break me. Or was your charming personality to do that instead?”

If Carden was annoyed, he didn’t show it. Instead, it seemed his amusement grew.

“Listen well, Haern,” he said. “In killing Luther, you did me a favor. He was a heretic and a deceiver, and in time, he would have hung by his thumbs from our doorway once we proved his blasphemy. But you also slew students of mine, faithful sons of the Lion. This fortress of ours is sacred, and by all accounts impregnable. Yet somehow, they are dead, and here you are. I’d have your reason, and I’d have your method for entry. That’s all. Once you tell me both, I’ll grant you release.”

Haern grinned at him.

“That’s it? Those two things, and I walk out of here?”

Carden reached down, grabbing him by the neck, and lifted him off the ground before slamming him against the wall.

“You won’t walk,” the man said, deep voice rumbling. “You’ll die, Haern. That’s your release. You are in the dungeons of the Stronghold. No one escapes from here. No one. Your stay can be for hours, or it can be for decades. The choice will be yours and yours alone, but know that in the end you will tell me. My home has a weakness, and I will not relent until it is found.”

The hand closed tighter around his throat, making it hard to breathe. Despite it, Haern smiled at him, choking out his reply.

“Prepare for me a bed,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Carden punched him in the stomach with his other hand. It seemed like he put no strength into it, no real effort, but the blow was like a sledge blasting into his body. He let out a strangled scream, and as crackling black energy leaped from the fist into him, he felt his muscles spasm uncontrollably. Every nerve inside him flared with pain, and it was like being stabbed in the gut, only so, so much worse. Seconds dragged on, and then Carden let him drop with a great rattle of chains. Haern gasped in air, sinking into himself, pulling up the training techniques his father had taught him as a child. Pain was his servant, not his master. Put it away. Shove it into a corner.

The dark paladin paced before him, just two steps before he had to turn around and go the other way. The open exit past him was dark, and dimly Haern wondered how they planned to seal him in once Carden left.

“Tell me, Haern,” the paladin said. “Do you believe in something?”

“I believe you’ll roast in the Abyss,” Haern said, rolling over onto his side and letting out another gasp as the last of his pain receded away.

“I was hoping for something more interesting than that,” Carden said, halting his pacing. “But I have a feeling you and I will have many hours to spend in each other’s company. You aren’t one to break easily; that much is obvious. I’ve had grown soldiers weep and beg for forgiveness after a single touch of my fist, yet you endured it well, remarkably so. Still, this world is one of challenges, and I should expect no less from one insane enough to break into our home. So, tell me … what is it you truly believe in? Is it Ashhur? Karak? Do you worship coin, revenge, or perhaps does the lust of a woman’s flesh guide your actions?”