Jaleigh Johnson - Unbroken Chain

A massive weight slammed Ashok in the chest, driving him back against the wall. Dazed, he slid to the floor. When he looked up, the cleric continued to approach. Weaponless, Ashok put his hands up in front of him.

“What have you done to yourself?” the cleric demanded. He pointed at Ashok’s bleeding wrist, the crescent-shaped bite wound.

Ashok ignored the question. “Who are you?” he said as his blood dripped onto the floor.

The cleric clasped his arms behind his back, but Ashok wasn’t appeased by the gesture. He stayed in a crouch, an animal cornered. I’ll take your eyes first , his stance promised.

“I am a servant of Tempus,” the cleric said. “You were brought to His temple because your wounds were life-threatening. I bandaged and treated them with herbs, but you still need healing. I was waiting for you to awaken so I could ask your permission.”

“My permission?” said Ashok, a snarl building in his throat. “You ask a slave’s permission before you put the knife to him?”

“You’re mistaken,” the cleric said. “There are no slaves here, no torturers.”

“Aren’t I a prisoner?”

The cleric shook his head. “Perhaps someday you will see how we treat our prisoners,” he said. “No, you are here at the behest of Uwan, Lord of Ikemmu, Watching Blade who guides us all.”

Ashok felt his gaze inadvertently drawn to the sword carved on the wall.

The cleric followed his look. “Tempus’s hand,” he said. “Will you allow Him to heal you, through me? I swear no harm will come to you.”

No harm. Ashok knew better. The magic would bore into his brain, expose his enclave’s secrets. No, he couldn’t let that happen.

Ashok turned to the wall. He would bash his head on the stones. One quick impact was all it would take.

“No!” the cleric cried, too late.

Ashok slammed his head into the wall. He collapsed on the floor, his vision hazy. The cleric moved above him, but his face seemed very far away. His lips were moving; Ashok could barely make out the words.

“Forgive me, but I cannot let you die. Father of Battle, touch your warrior,” the cleric chanted. “Give him the strength to fight anew and the wisdom to see the folly in harming this most perfect vessel. Tempus, bless us both.”

The cleric fell silent. He had one hand on his chest and the other on Ashok’s head. A serene quiet overtook his visage, as if he were waiting patiently for someone to whisper a secret in his ear.

Between one breath and the next, Ashok felt the sharp pain in his head and wrist subside to a dull ache, and then his vision slowly cleared.

When Ashok looked at him in confusion, the cleric said, “Now do you believe that I will not harm you?”

Cautiously, Ashok rose to his feet. He sat on the edge of his bed and stripped the bandages from his thigh and shoulder. He wiped away the herb concoctions and saw that the wounds were healed.

“You need more sleep,” the cleric said. “To replenish your strength. My name is Natan. What may I call you?”

Ashok hesitated, then gave his name.

The cleric nodded. “Where do you come from, Ashok?” he asked.

So the interrogation begins, Ashok thought. He stayed silent, watching carefully as the cleric wadded up the soiled bandages and straightened the blankets on Ashok’s bed. Briefly, he went to check the fevered man, and his face creased in disappointment.

“He won’t last to Pendron,” Natan said. “Blood-thirsty Beshabans.” He threw the bandages on the floor in disgust. “Fight your enemy -never neglect your own.”

A feeling like hot iron swam in Ashok’s chest. He stared at the dying man, whose entire body lay rigid, as if he were already a stiffening corpse.

“Just do it,” Ashok said. “He’s helpless. He won’t fight you.”

The cleric looked at him in mild surprise, then shook his head. “That is not His way. A warrior has the right to choose his own death.”

Ashok turned away. The chamber door stood slightly ajar, beckoning.

Natan saw where he was looking. “Do you come from the empire, Ashok? Is that where you will run?”

“No,” Ashok said. “I’ll run far across the plain until the Aloran Tor is a black hillock in the distance, and the Mire River runs dry. I’ll hide in the kindling forests and bury my trail in the trees. You’ll die in the wilderness trying to follow me.”

Natan sighed and raised his hands in surrender. “As you wish. Though the path to the surface is not an easy one. Stay here at least until the next bell chimes. By then you’ll be rested enough to travel.”

The cleric moved from bed to bed as he spoke, checking the other wounded. He lingered next to one, his hand on an older shadar-kai’s chest. After a few breaths, he shook his head.

“Another waste,” he said, “a prayer unanswered.”

Natan went to the door. “Bring a litter in here,” he called out to someone. “This one is gone.”

Ashok tensed when two more shadar-kai clerics entered the room, but they paid no attention to him. Between them, they placed the limp body on the litter and carried it solemnly out of the room.

Natan watched them go and turned to Ashok. “We have not harmed you. Don’t waste your life. Rest here, and then we’ll talk more.”

“Do I have a choice?” Ashok said.

The cleric looked at him for a long time in silence. “No,” he said finally, and left the room.

Natan locked the sickroom door behind him, though he sensed it was a futile gesture. If Ashok wanted to, he could tear the door off its hinges.

The clerics set the litter with its burden on the floor.

“Well, my lord?” Natan asked. “Do you believe he is a friend or a foe?”

The body on the litter opened its eyes and sat up. Uwan stripped the fake bandages off his arms. “A rough beginning,” he admitted. “But I still believe the will of Tempus brought him here. He will serve Ikemmu.”

“Or doom it to the fire,” Natan said. “He believes we are the enemy.”

“Not surprising,” Uwan said. “You were right. He comes from the Shadowfell.” He looked at Natan. “We can’t let him leave the city.”

“Keeping him here might be difficult, my Lord,” Natan said. “He gave his name, but he will answer no questions. It is only a matter of time before he attempts to escape.”

“He was practically feral when he awoke,” Uwan said. His face turned thoughtful. “I lay in that bed because I wanted to get an impression of him, unfettered by any outside influence. I haven’t seen that reaction in a long time. I’d forgotten the desperation, the lack of control, how it transforms and imprisons a body.”

“Like a hound himself,” Natan said. He hesitated then added, “But it seemed that he showed pity for Arnare in his fever.”

“At last, something to thank the Beshabans for,” Uwan said. He picked up his discarded armor and donned the shadowmail vest. “We have to earn his trust by giving him ours. When he wakes next, give him food and let him leave the tower.”

“Alone?” Natan said tightly.

“I’ll send Skagi and Cree to watch over him,” Uwan said. He belted his greatsword at his waist and threw the black cloak of rank over his shoulders. Tempus’s sword cut the fabric down the middle in silver embroidery, the blade a phantom of the weapon at his belt.

“What if he tries to escape?” Natan said.

“I fully expect he will.” Uwan smiled. “It promises to be an interesting day.”

Ashok descended a spiral stone staircase. His prison was a tall tower. At the bottom of the stairs there was a guarded door. A shadar-kai woman in plate armor with a helm and hood covering most of her features stood at attention beside the exit.