Jon Sprunk - Shadow's master

Caim worked his tongue around his mouth. “Where are the others?”

A hard blow struck the back of Caim's head, and he dropped onto his hands. He sucked at the inside of his bottom lip as he sat up again.

“I am Abraxus of the House Thargelia. I am told that you are my eldest daughter's child. That you have come all this way from the Southlands to kill me. Is this true?”

“Where are Kit and Malig?”

Armor clinked as the soldiers shifted behind him, but the Shadow Lord lifted a finger. “Who are these he speaks of?”

A throat cleared on the dais, and a slim shadow man in a crimson brocade robe appeared beside the throne. Caim recognized him as the silent observer at his torture sessions. “Great Lord,” the official said, “the scion was captured with two mortals. A male and a female. Nothing of interest. They appear to have been his companions.”

Nothing of interest? Through his pain-haze, Caim eyed the swordsman, who had seen Kit appear from thin air. But while Caim waited for the man to speak up, the Shadow Lord waved his hand. “Then deal with them, Lord Malphas. Now you, Caim, tell this court why you have striven so hard against your own kind, who only wish to dwell in this realm in peace.”

Caim almost choked on his tongue. Peace? He wished he had enough saliva to spit. “You know nothing of peace. You're all a pack of conquering, slave-making monsters. Everywhere you go, people suffer.”

“We are alone in this hostile world, surrounded by enemies. We must conquer or perish. That is the law of survival.”

“Where is my mother?”

The Shadow Lord frowned. “Ah, yes. Isabeth. She is here, of course. But she cared nothing for you. How could she? You are a mongrel. A mistake.”

Caim exhaled until his lungs were empty. His gaze locked on the Shadow Lord's eyes. Ignoring his injuries and pains, he delved deep inside himself looking for any scrap of energy. He found a vein of power, far below where he'd ever searched before. In his mind, it pulsed like a white-hot wire. He tried to grab hold of it and aim it toward the throne, but it was like trying to catch a greased serpent, writhing out of his mental grasp. Finally, with beads of sweat dripping down his face, he had to give up.

The Shadow Lord shook his head. “This one is no blood of mine.”

At a signal from the robed official, the soldiers hauled Caim to his feet and marched him out of the hall. None of the nailed Northmen moved as he passed. Perhaps they were all finally dead.

Caim held his composure until the doors slammed shut behind him, and then he let his chin drop to his chest.

The boom of the closing doors sent a tremor through the floor stones as Balaam watched the scion depart from the hall. The assembly whispered among themselves. Their words traveled through the hall. “The grandson…heir to the black throne…dishonored…death…”

Balaam glanced around. There were so few of his kind left in the citadel, less than a score, but they had become strangers to him. Even the others of his clan were like odd creatures in a menagerie, and he was locked inside with them.

Malphas cleared the chamber with a command while the Master sat silently and gazed at the doors at the end of the hall. Balaam stood with his hands clasped behind his back. When they were alone, Abraxus sighed. He looked fatigued. “He is strong. Stronger than I had reason to anticipate, considering his mixed lineage.”

“He is an untrained abomination,” Malphas said. “Forgive me, my lord, but that is all the more reason to execute him immediately. So that his deviancy and the threat he poses to your empire will die with him.”

The Shadow Lord gazed down from the throne. “What is your opinion?”

Balaam considered his words carefully. There was something in Malphas's expression he did not like, something predatory. Is this what we have become? We surround ourselves with slaves and servants, but are we all just tools like this scion, to be used and discarded? “He is dangerous, Master.”

Lord Malphas began to nod in agreement, until Balaam continued, “But I counsel you not to slay him out of hand.”

Malphas sniffed, but the Shadow Lord asked, “Why not? Do you believe he could be one of us?”

“No, Master.” Balaam groped for some reason to defend the scion's life. What shall I say? He fights well, and with honor, which is more than I can say of everyone in your court. “But he may be the last of your line. With one of your daughters departed, and the other-”

Abraxus waved his hand. “I will not be swayed by the virtue of blood alone. Are you sure he cannot be convinced to join our conquest?”

“Quite sure,” Malphas said before Balaam could reply. “I attended his interrogation personally. Believe me, my lord. There is nothing of your greatness in him.”

Balaam considered challenging those words. He had tested the scion in personal combat. He knew the man's mettle better than anyone else in Erebus. But then he thought of Dorcas. If he crossed Malphas and lost, who would care for her? “Master, I do not agree.”

Malphas stepped to the edge of the dais platform, where he towered over Balaam. “The court is grateful for your efforts in capturing this enemy, but be mindful of your station, Talon.”

Balaam felt the muscles in his arms and legs contract as cool detachment filled him. His gloves creaked. But Abraxus stood up. “Prepare the scion for execution. Tomorrow at the high diurn.”

Malphas bowed. “Yes, Master. I shall see to it myself.”

Balaam lowered his head and kept it down until Abraxus had departed. When he looked up, Malphas was gone as well. Taking a deep breath, Balaam turned toward the doors. Why did he care if the scion was put to death? The man was nothing to him. But then he recalled the execution of Lord Oriax.

This is not the empire we once knew.

Balaam pulled the hood of his cloak down over his eyes as he opened a portal to a place far away.

Kit muttered one of Caim's favorite curses as her hand slipped.

She sat, naked as the day she was born-the humiliation of that was something she would not soon forget-trying to pick the lock of the golden cage in which she'd been placed. The room around her was large and fancy, but with hardly any furniture except for her cage. Her hand shook as she bent the copper wire and jammed it back into the lock.

She didn't remember much of her sojourn back to her grandmother's retreat. She had been in the garden, running from…something. She vaguely recalled a pair of yellow eyes, and then a sharp pain in her chest. The next thing she knew, she was falling into Caim's arms, and he caught her!

Kit sighed as she relived the memory. Touching Caim, being held by him, had affected her more than she thought it would. But then she had been pried from his arms and…and…darkness. She awoke here, caged up like an animal, being pawed by an old shadow man with large, black eyes. She had nearly spit in his face when he told her that she was his slave, but she didn't. Because he, Lord Malphas, had known at once what she was, or what she'd been. The way he looked at her, devouring her with hungry eyes, made that abundantly clear. So she remained quiet and demure until he left.

For a while she sat in the cage and stewed, but then her anger turned to motion as she searched everything she could reach through the bars, which wasn't much. But the leg of a decorative table had yielded a short length of pliable wire. Picking a lock had always looked easy whenever Caim did it; just push in the tool and move it around until the lock popped open. Yet she'd been working on it for the past candlemark with nothing to show for her efforts except cramped fingers and fraying nerves. With a sob, she tossed down the wire and buried her face in her hands.