David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Pounding on the door. She looked over to it, a growing horror in her chest. This was it, then. No more future. Another pounding, and then the door burst open. Melody wasn’t surprised to see it was Zusa who came rushing in, a dagger drawn, her face revealed in purposeful blasphemy against her beloved god’s command. If only she could have removed her from Alyssa’s side. If only Zusa had not forever tainted her daughter’s opinion of the Lion. Then she wouldn’t be sitting there helpless on a bed as Alyssa’s well-trained attack dog came barking in.

“It’s over,” Zusa said, smacking the chrysarium from her hands and then grabbing her neck with her free hand. Zusa’s fingers tightened, choking the breath from her as she lifted her to a stand.

“Then finish it,” Melody said as she felt the dagger’s edge press against her throat. Their eyes met, and she tried to show the woman the strength of her will, the lack of fear for her death. Zusa hesitated, and when Alyssa arrived at the door, accompanied by soldiers as well as Lord Victor Kane, her indecision only deepened.

“Do it,” Melody insisted, grabbing Zusa’s hand and pushing the tip hard enough to draw blood. “Do it, or I will.”

“Zusa, stop!” Victor ordered, panic in his voice.

“You nearly destroyed everything,” Zusa said, soft enough so that only she could hear. “But you failed, Melody. Know that as you burn in Karak’s embrace.”

Knifing pain, all across her throat. She tried to breathe, but blood interfered, her severed windpipe unable to draw air. As the blood flowed and her vision darkened, she heard her daughter scream her name, not that Melody cared. Alyssa was dead to her, they were all dead, and they’d suffer at the prophet’s hands. Collapsing onto the bed, she reached out, bloody fingers clasping sheets, reaching for the chrysarium. Light-headed, she felt its polished surface, and with the last of her strength, she pulled it to her. Her blood spilled across the shallow bowl, covering the priceless gems. She stared into it, imagining Luther’s face, wondering what his own final words and thoughts had been, and if they were of her.

Luther … she mouthed, unable to force out the air to make a sound. The darkness enclosed around her, her body now a foreign thing. As she fell through the world, she felt the heat of flames, heard the roar of the Lion.

Haern was given no indication of time beyond his own innate tracking. Carden came back twice, his only words delivered with his fists and the sadistic gleam in his eye. After the second time, Haern assumed it nightfall, for no one came to deliver him pain. At no point was he given food or water, and as he lay on the cold hard floor, he could feel his body starting to rebel. All he had were the enclosed walls of stone and the final wall of flame, a fire that gave no heat, no light, only discomfort.

Though the fire was strong, he could still see through it to whoever might stand on the other side. For a long period of time, perhaps half an hour at his estimate, he saw no one. It didn’t mean he was unguarded, but it helped convince him that night had returned. He waited longer, just to be sure, and that was when his guard finally arrived.

“What are you doing awake?” asked the man, though he seemed more of a boy than a man. Seventeen at Haern’s estimation, maybe eighteen. He wore light mail, and at his waist was a sharpened sword. The fire made it difficult to know for sure, obscuring the color of his hair and eyes, eyes that glared at him with surprising hatred. It was that hatred that put a smile on Haern’s face, and he positioned himself to a stand best he could given the manacles, and since he could not walk he rolled along the wall until he was as close to the fire as he dared be.

“I take it you drew the shortest straw of your friends,” Haern said, and he was annoyed at the weakness of his voice. Coughing to clear his throat, he made sure his mocking laughter was much stronger.

“It is an honor to ensure the captivity of Karak’s most hated,” the guard said.

“Oh, of course,” Haern said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He couldn’t quite stand erect, not with how short the chain connecting his wrists and ankles was, but if he bent his knees, he could straighten his back enough so it didn’t hurt. “I’m sure lots of things you’re told to do are an honor to Karak. Heathen fools like me might not see the honor in it, but I’m sure that’s my own failing, not you being lied to. Staying up late in a dark cell while the rest of your friends sleep? Truly an honorable role.”

The man glared, and it was enough to confirm to Haern the Stronghold was indeed asleep. Taking in a deep breath, he willed his strength to return. The sessions with Carden had taken a lot out of him, and being deprived of food and water made matters all the worse. Still, if there were to be any hope of escape, it’d be now. Pulling at his shirt, he felt Senke’s pendant to Ashhur, the cold metal tingling to the touch.

You promised to help me when I needed it most, thought Haern. Well, I don’t think the need gets much worse than now.

Still, he had to make sure everything was ready. The wall of fire was a few feet to his right, and the guard several feet beyond that. He needed him closer. He needed to be sure.

“You really do seem to hate me,” Haern said. “Not sure what I might have done to earn it. Did I kill a family member?”

“You butchered two of my friends last night,” the guard said, and he took a step closer.

Haern grunted, almost feeling foolish. Hard to remember at times the paladins were just people, fellow classmates who’d worked together to take down a brutal invader to their home. People with twisted values and an eager desire to see him suffering, but still people.

“Did I, now?” Haern said, feeling only the tiniest bit of guilt as he prodded the man further. “Care to give me a hint as to who they were? I mean, it’s all a blur, and I don’t think anyone stood out as having any skill…”

The man turned away, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. Haern gauged the distance. Still not close enough …

“That’s fine; don’t talk to me,” Haern said, eyes closing as if he were tired. “I’m capable of talking enough for the both of us when I feel like it. You know, your kind isn’t much for talking, I’ve noticed. Dying, that you’re good at. Living a lie, serving a mad, imprisoned god, now that you’re really good at.”

The man stepped closer to the wall of fire, putting a hand on the stone beyond its reach and leaning closer as he glared.

“You’ll be down here for years,” the young man said. “Decades from now, I will come down here to watch you suffering still. We’ll all take turns breaking you, humiliating you. Do you think your petty little words mean anything compared to that?”

He was inches away from the fire, which cast a purple hue across his skin. If he hoped to make himself look intimidating, it worked, but he also put himself within striking distance.

“My words?” Haern said, pulling the medallion out from his shirt and holding it with both hands. “Not really. But this might mean something. Ashhur! ”

At his words, a bright light flared from the medallion, rolling in all directions like a wave. Without waiting to see what it did, nor daring to give his guard a chance to react, Haern leaped with all the strength his coiled legs could muster, dropping his hands to ensure they could reach full extension. Under the strength of the light, the wall of fire faded away, and as Haern came leaping through, he twisted and lifted his arms as he slammed right into the guard. Together, they toppled to the ground. The landing jarred his shoulder, but he’d positioned his arms perfectly, wrapping the chain around the young man’s neck. Sword trapped beneath them both, there was nothing he could do as Haern lifted his arms and kicked his legs, tightening the chain, strangling the breath out of the man. Twice he kicked, crushing his windpipe, for when he glanced about, he saw he was in the center of a long hallway … and at the far end of the hallway was another man in armor leaping to his feet.