Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

We descended into the main cavern. The enchanted flares had gone out, leaving a few mundane torches as the only light. The yellow flames illuminated a circle of cracked stone flooring, tracked with mud and littered with packs and saddles. The lovely walls and bridges and staircase were lost in the darkness.

Maceron’s men bound me to a slender column just beyond the pool of torchlight. A sallow-faced young man with a shaven head, bright, darting eyes, and bloodless lips ran his bony ringers over my arms to check my bindings. I shuddered at his touch. He grinned, making his head look even more like a skull. But even his presence was benign beside the three robed figures who now walked into the circle of yellow light. Giano’s voice was an icy claw scraping steel. “You have what we want?”

Maceron had arrived at the same time. “We’ve got him. You are quite trusting of this little vermin.”

“You needn’t worry. A Dulcé‘s bound service is quite reliable. We can afford to be trusting.”

Giano strolled over to Baglos standing stiffly between two of Maceron’s men. The Dulcé would not look at the Zhid, who stared at him with his empty, unblinking eyes. “Though we still have a portion of our contract to fulfill. Somehow the lesser talisman was left with the Prince. The Dulcé will have to risk the Bridge passage to return it to his masters,” said Giano. “Who would ever have thought these little oddities would take such a large part in great affairs?”

Baglos flushed. “But the Preceptors have the sword.”

“Indeed, D’Arnath’s holy weapon will likely serve the sad Dar’Nethi better than D’Arnath’s Heir ever did. We have no objection to the pitiful little city continuing to exist for a while, if the talisman holds the power you believe. We may even find it amusing. The prize is ours. The victory is ours.” Giano spun on his heel. “It’s time I examined our prize. I’ve heard his mind is damaged, and I’ll not be generous if it’s too much.” His cool manner failed to disguise his lust.

Maceron snapped his fingers, and the sallow-faced young man disappeared into the gloom. “I was told that some damage was done ”at the crossing,“ whatever that means. But he’s all of a piece, more or less.”

“And the woman?” asked the Zhid.

Maceron swept his hand toward me. “The lady awaits your pleasure.”

The cool smile fell away from Giano’s face as he sought me out in my shadowy niche. The Zhid stood close enough to breathe on me, and quicker than I could see, his murderous knife appeared in his hand. Ever so delicately, he traced a line across my neck with the knife point. I shrank back against the cold pillar. “Oh, madam, it is most tempting to make a permanent end to your meddling. Rarely have I been thwarted in so blatant a fashion, and I do not care for it…”

His gray eyes seemed to grow larger, sucking away reason and breath. The stench of decay, of burning flesh, of hot blood on stone filled my senses. I was drowning, suffocating in horror. It took every bit of will I possessed to pull my eyes away from his, and even as I accomplished it, I was not sure whether it was my own act or Giano’s consent that released me.

“… but your life is of interest to someone of importance. I’ll have to be content that your interference is at an end, as is that of your rustic allies. I’ve brought you a fond remembrance of one of them.” He motioned to one of his gray-robed companions, who brought him a dark-stained bag of burlap. With a mirthless grin, Giano reached into the bag and pulled out a severed human head. The hair was white and wispy, the wide brown eyes staring. Terrified. Jacopo.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip until I tasted the salty blood, withholding the cry of grief and horror and outrage that would feed Giano’s pleasure.

The Zhid’s thin lips widened into a grin. “The other three who led us astray so briefly have met a similar fate. A pitiful crew they were.”

“No,” I moaned, as the chill of death crept from my feet to my wobbling knees to my hollow belly, paralyzing my heart. Not all of them. Not again.

The torchlight glittered on Giano’s gold earring, and his cold fingers stroked my jaw, as he whispered his morbid litany. “Oh, yes, we left them quite dead on the rocks of Mount Kassarain. The vultures have most likely picked their bones clean by now. Unfortunate in a way. The Dar’Nethi girl could have been amusing. But the noble sheriff had become annoying, and the cripple is no loss to anyone.” The cold fingers on my face then brushed my mind, galling… filthy… detestable… depraved… No matter how I twisted in my bonds, I could not escape his touch.

“Well, enough of that,” he said, removing his touch abruptly, leaving me limp and numb, sagging in my bindings. “We’ve a few surprises yet in store. I hope you enjoy the culmination of your adventure.” He leaned toward me, so close I could not escape him, and pressed his cold lips to mine, his tongue licking away the blood where I had bitten them. I fought not to vomit.

Giano’s attention was diverted by the return of the sallow-faced man and another guard, pushing D’Natheil ahead of them into the circle of light. The Prince was gagged and blindfolded, his feet close-hobbled, his arms and hands twisted awkwardly behind his back, wrists fastened so tightly to a loop of rope about his neck that lowering either head or arms would strangle him. His shoulders bulged with the strain. The left side of his face was mottled with blood and bruises.

Maceron gestured to Giano. “You may inspect the merchandise.”

“Remove its coverings,” said Giano harshly. “All of them. I will see what lives in this body.”

One of the gray-robed Zhid removed the Prince’s blindfold and gag, warning him not to speak unless he wanted a knife in his tongue. D’Natheil coughed and shuddered when the wadded cloth was yanked from his mouth. While one guard held the knife point to his neck, another cut away his clothes, until the Prince stood bound and naked, his body covered with darkening bruises. I stared at his face. The light was so poor. The brow, the jaw. What was it that made me tremble so? He could not have seen me in the shadows, for his eyes were only slits, blinded by his captors’ torches.

Giano walked around D’Natheil, inspecting him like a prize horse. “So, it’s come at last. After a thousand years, the Heir of D’Arnath confronts his enemies face to face. Did you ever think it would be you, or that you would be the last of them? Has the little seed of doubt begun to sprout in your starveling brain, the most minute scrap of understanding that the faith your wretched kingdom has lavished on your family is soon to be put to the test, and that you are quite inadequate?” He stroked the Prince’s straining arm, and as D’Natheil tried to jerk away, growling in fury, the guards tightened their hold. “What a pitiful end to a line of such great promise, no better than any other naked slave. And yet”—he stopped and stared into the Prince’s face, cold and haughty even in his captivity— “something is distinctly odd about you. Dassine, the wily bastard, what has he done? You have so little mind as it is, why would he bother to mask it? It’s made you very difficult to follow; I’ll give him that. You are not the same as you were half a year ago and not even as you were when you made the crossing.” Giano put his hands on the sides of D’Natheil’s head. “So, one closer look to be sure, then we can send these bloodthirsty mundanes on their way.”

The light of the torches dimmed, and a cold wind swept through the cavern, bearing a hideous certainty of death and desolation, cruelty and loathing, unending pain without hope. Even the impassive Maceron looked wan and sickly. His men held their heads and moaned. I shivered uncontrollably.