***
Not long after they dragged Callan away, the men returned with pieces of wood fashioned into shovels and their hands wrapped in beaten leather to gather the worms spilled from the dead man’s body. And none too soon, by Khirro’s estimation; the longer the body lay there, the more of the tiny grubs that emerged from it. The leader held Khirro and Athryn at bay in the corner with Khirro’s sword while the others scooped up the worms. They left the corpse and, an hour after they’d taken Callan, the body started to smell.
Khirro sat against the wall, as far from the dead man as he could get.
“Where do you think they took Callan?”
Athryn shrugged and scowled, concentrating on a line scrolled across his left forearm. A few glowing grubs had wriggled their way out of the body since their pale-skinned captors left, but they didn’t cast enough light to read by. Khirro shuffled to his companion’s side, giving the corpse a wide berth.
“Have you figured out how to use your magic?”
The magician looked up from his musings and gazed into Khirro’s eyes.
“I think so. But I cannot know until I try.”
Khirro rolled up his sleeve.
“Do you want me to draw blood again?” He didn’t like the possibility of wounding himself, but it couldn’t be worse than whatever they were doing to Callan and might eventually do to him.
“No. I think it will take more than a few drops of blood.”
“I can cut deeper. I can use my fingernails.”
Athryn’s eyes dropped back to the writing on his arm.
“No, Khirro. I think it will require a life. I felt the power when the worms overtook our friend.” He nodded toward the corpse, then rolled up one leg of his breeches to examine the tattooed writing on his calf. Khirro watched, waiting for further explanation, but hesitated at asking why he didn’t do anything when he felt the power.
A minute passed without words. Khirro shifted and was about to ask the question when Athryn’s gaze flickered up to meet his, then away again.
“I am sorry, Khirro, but I was not ready. When the power comes, the window of opportunity to cast a spell is brief.” He sighed and looked into Khirro’s face. “That is the second time I have let you down.”
“It’s all right, my friend.” Khirro put his hand on the magician’s shoulder. “I know it won’t happen again.”
***
Khirro slept in brief snatches. Each time he woke, he found Athryn sitting cross-legged, examining the incantations inscribed on his flesh. Between the sleep and the dark, Khirro couldn’t tell how much time passed before their captors returned.
The wooden latticework bars scraped against the stone floor and the first underground-dweller through menaced them with the Mourning Sword as they jumped to their feet. The blade whistled; the runes glowed a smear through the air in front of them. Khirro and Athryn retreated and watched others enter the cell, two of them gripping Callan under the arms, legs splayed out behind, the toes of his bare feet scraping the ground as they dragged him in. They struggled to the middle of the cell and dropped him unceremoniously beside the dead man. The way he fell to the ground without catching himself told Khirro he was either unconscious or already dead.
“Watch for any opportunity,” Athryn whispered, his words soliciting a grunt and a wave of the Mourning Sword from the leader. Nerves coiled and knotted in Khirro’s stomach.
He wants me to kill one of them.
Even after all that had happened since the day the king fell atop the wall of the Isthmus Fortress, the thought of killing sickened Khirro.
What choice do I have?
One of the men who dragged Callan in spoke and the others laughed, all except the one holding the sword. He barked a command, silencing them. More words spilled from his lips, all of them unrecognizable to Khirro’s ears; three of the bearded men nodded and moved toward him and Athryn. The companions tensed, ready to fight. Khirro glanced at Athryn and saw his lips moving, practicing the spell he would cast if the opportunity presented itself.
Kill a man with my bare hands.
The men rushed them. One pushed Khirro away while the others grabbed at Athryn, grasping his clothes and pulling him away from the wall. Khirro jumped one of them, got his arm around his neck, but the Mourning Sword’s pommel cracked against his skull before he cinched in.
The impact crumpled him to his knees and set stars swirling about his head. He ground his teeth and breathed deep through his nose trying to retain focus as the world swam. Through the haze, Khirro saw the three underground-dwellers grab Athryn, arms pinned, and drag him across the room toward the door. Khirro shook his head to clear the fuzziness from his eyes.
“No,” he said pushing himself to his feet.
A knot twisted his belly, the pressure of it building and spreading until it filled his chest. Warmth spilled down his arms and legs; his cheeks burned. The cell sprang into flickering view, darkness driven from it by an unseen light that set shadows dancing on the uneven walls. He said again, more loudly: “No!”
Khirro jumped at the men, a tongue of flame trailing behind his fist looping toward the nearest one. The man’s jaw cracked and fire leaped into his beard. He screamed-the most recognizable sound Khirro had heard any of them make.
The others gasped and released their grip on Athryn as they stumbled over each other, rushing for the narrow door. The sword-wielder made it out first; the others pushed and scratched each other in their haste to get away from Khirro’s flames. The latticework bars slammed into place before Khirro got there and the wide, scared eyes of their captors reflected the blaze engulfing his fists as they jammed the logs into place and backed away staring at him.
Khirro reached for the wooden bars-the tinder dry twine lashing them together would burn easily. Before he touched them, the tip of the Mourning Sword came through the widest gap between two of the bars. He grabbed the blade in both hands, stopping it less than an inch from his stomach.
Beneath the flame, the sharp edge of the sword cut deep into his palms, but Khirro held on. The man yanked on the sword, trying to release it from his grasp and Khirro grimaced as steel grated against bone. He held on a second longer before then letting go, sending the man with the sword stumbling into his companions. They gibbered and yelled but didn’t approach the cell door, instead turning to flee, their guttural cries continuing as they slipped away down the tunnel.
Khirro lurched forward, grabbing the wooden bars, but the flames were gone. Instead of fire to burn the wood and twine and set them free, blood smeared across the cell door and dripped to the floor. Elation and despair spun in his head. A manic laugh spilled from his lips, then the world darkened and the wood disappeared from his vision. The last thing he felt before the world went black was his companion’s hands lowering him to the hard stone floor.
Chapter Seventeen
The dreams are getting more frequent, more vivid. This night I dreamed he was three men, not one. All three had their way with me, passed me around like a doll sewn together strictly to give them pleasure, then they beat me and left me for dead. Then I was in a lagoon, bathing with the corpses of all the people he murdered floating around me-hundreds of them. Many of them were women, many more children, and in my dream I hated him more. I wake and wipe cold sweat from my brow, but it isn’t because of the horrible dreams that I’ve woken before morning light.
There’s someone in my room.
I slip my hand to my waist but the smooth-gripped hilt of my dagger is missing. I feel no panic or confusion about this, not now-taking the time for either of these could mean my life. Instead, my muscles coil and I roll to where my sword and scabbard lay beside the straw mattress, but it’s gone. I push myself to a crouching position, ready to spring or defend myself, but there’s little to be seen in the dim room. A shadow flickers to my right and I lunge, but it’s gone before I reach it: a black cloak, almost indistinguishable in the benighted room.