James West - The God King

Ellonlef shivered, trying to reason out how cold could blacken flesh. Distractedly, she noted that the normal crowds of the Chalice had vanished. The only people about besides them and the sporadic mounted patrols, were a few enterprising sorts who had brought wagonloads of wood down from the mountains. Doubtless, they would fetch considerable profits for their effort.

Looking skyward, Ellonlef said, “I’ve heard that the Whitehold is naught but endless plains of ice and snow, even in summer, when the sun never sets.”

“That is true for the far north of Izutar, as well,” Azuri said. “Too, the night of winter lasts months.”

Ellonlef kept any further questions to herself. She simply did not want to hear anymore. And besides, trying not to think about Kian was a useless endeavor.

It took longer to reach Ammathor proper than it should have, for the nearer they came, the more often they had to duck into alleys to avoid soldiers. Ellonlef counted it a blessing that to the last, the soldiers seemed more interested in staying warm than finding their prey, and were generally busy complaining loudly about the cold, and adjusting their thin garb in a vain bid to cover bare skin.

In due course, Azuri turned them into a lightless alley down the road from their destination, and began rooting through a pile of litter. After a moment of searching, he drew out a sackcloth bundle and unrolled it at his feet. In the gloom, Ellonlef could just make out a pair of saffron-trimmed green cloaks of the City Watch and two round, bronze helms, one adorned with a plume of white horse hair, the other bare. A smaller bundle held two thin, wooden dowels, a ball of tacky resin, and a set of wrist shackles linked by a crude chain.

Azuri glanced at Ellonlef regretfully. “To get in, we need a prisoner-one of extreme value.”

Ellonlef held out her hands, pleased they did not shake. “I wish Kian had listened to us, instead of his damnable honor,” she muttered, even as she found her admiration for him growing.

“And if wishes were sheep flop,” Hazad growled not unkindly, “we’d be up to our necks in it.”

Azuri slipped the shackles over her wrists, careful not to scrape her skin. Instead of bolts, he secured the shackles with the small wooden pegs, which in turn were held in place with daubs of resin made pliable by the warmth of his palms. “Do not jiggle these too much, we cannot have them fall off before we need them to.” He looked in her eyes, then spoke with deadly assurance. “And I should warn you, we will give no mercy to those who resist us.”

Ellonlef could only imagine what would come, but had little pity in her heart when she said, “I am ready.”

Azuri donned the garb of a Captain of the City Watch, while Hazad was left with that of a common legionnaire. Lastly, he wrapped his discarded cloak around Ellonlef’s shoulders, the great bulk and length of it ensuring that her sheathed dagger was covered.

“Your costumes are adequate,” Ellonlef said, “but it is quite apparent you are both Izutarians.”

“During your time in Krevar,” Hazad said, “it has become more and more common for Izutarians to serve in the ranks of Aradan’s legions, especially Ammathor’s City Watch. These days, Aradaners simply refuse to take on the mantle of soldiers-especially when our brethren will do it for half wages.”

“Forgive me for any pain you might soon feel,” Azuri said to her, but offered no further explanation.

With her nod of acceptance, he took hold of the back of her neck, drew his sword, and propelled her onto the main road. From there, they moved toward the high stone wall surrounding the grounds guarding the entrance of the Pit. As they walked along, Ellonlef wondered if they would ever get out after they gained entrance. She told herself they would succeed, that all would be well, but she could not quite make herself believe it.

When they reached the wooden gate that led into the most feared place in Aradan, a grizzled solider opened the peephole and stared out. His fierce countenance fell on Ellonlef, then took in the others.

“What do you want?” he demanded, his sudden wide smile ruining the ferocity of his voice.

“Good evening, Durrin,” Hazad said quietly. “Is all in order?”

“As much as can be,” Durrin whispered. “But us standing here jabbering will not help matters. Get on with it.”

Azuri showed smiling teeth in the cold air, but called in an angry shout, “You know why I am here, you poxy wretch! I’ve come with a prize sought by King Varis. Open the gate and let me through, or find yourself spitted and roasting for his pleasure!”

Durrin hurriedly swung the gate inward, whispering, “Take care. The head gaoler, Ixron, is a vile snake at the best of times-which these are not. The rest of these dogs are little better, but they are friends after a fashion, made all the friendlier with your promised gold. Try not to hurt them too much.”

Azuri produced a clinking leather purse the size of his fist. “If you cannot fully turn the hearts of your friends with this, then they will die,” he warned, tone heavy with dark promise.

Durrin weighed the purse in his hand, eyes going wide. “More than promised … this will do. However, Ixron will never yield. Oh, he’d take the gold, but just as soon as you turn your back, he’d stick a knife in it.”

“We’ll deal with him when the time comes,” Azuri said, guiding Ellonlef through the open gate, even as the head gaoler emerged from a small mud brick building built into the wall and strode toward them. He halted them while Durrin was busy closing and barring the gate. A few guards striding along the wall walks glanced down, but showed no more than a cursory interest. Durrin had bought their apathy with the promise of precious metal.

“So, the City Watch has found one of the traitors already?” Ixron said, his steaming breath thick with the stench of sour wine. His dark eyes fell on Ellonlef’s face with a lecherous gleam.

“Yes,” Azuri answered, giving no indication he would say more.

Ixron tugged Ellonlef’s hood from her head to get a better look. His grin was vile and greedy. “Might be we need to interrogate this wench, before we dump her in the Pit.”

“Indeed,” Azuri drawled. “Perhaps, as well, you would like to see your stones hewn off and presented to the king for disobeying his commands?”

“You bloody damned Izutarians have no humor,” Ixron said with a scowl, and waved an angry hand for Azuri and the others to follow.

Staggering a little, he led them to a squat mud brick building in the center of the yard, unlocked the heavy wood door, and pulled it open. Sooty smoke puffed out on a gust of stuffy air. Once the smoke cleared, Ellonlef could make out a narrow, descending stairway lighted by a long procession of guttering torches.

“Well, take the slut down,” Ixron growled. “I have better things to do than stand here freezing my backside.”

“Be ready for my return,” Azuri said. Ixron snorted disdainfully. Then, after a closer look at Azuri’s flat gray stare, nodded in agreement.

Making a show of it, Azuri then prodded Ellonlef through the doorway, and followed after. Hazad came last. The door slammed shut as they made their way down into the hazy confines. The constricted passage, combined with an overpowering stench, made Ellonlef’s chest tighten. No man who had ever entered this place as a prisoner had come out again, not even his bones.

After a hundred steps, the stair let out in a wide chamber hacked into the granite many centuries before. Here the air was warmer, and damp besides. The very rock smelled of horror and death, ages thick. Ellonlef felt as if she could feel the ghosts of thousands of damned souls closing in around her, greedily seeking the heat of her life, wanting to steal it away.