Marcellus gazed at the Lord of Bruallia calmly. "Blood is shed in all wars. But Kaerleon brought unity in the midst of chaos, and peace to a world all but consumed by war."
Valdemar's voice heated. "That is not all it has brought. You forget to mention the rule of the iron fist, and the determination to rule all of Erseta regardless of protest."
"The will of Kaerleon is peace, and the only people who oppose it are the barbaric sort on this side of the Dragonspine." Marcellus looked Valdemar in the eyes. "Your people."
Valdemar's mouth thinned, and his eyes narrowed. "Such is the cavalier attitude of the Leodians, looking down your noses at people you think are beneath you. Take a look at what my father has built. Do you see a muddy caste of savages dwelling in caves? Look and tell me what you see!"
Marcellus turned and beheld Castle Basilis, a towering fortress made of dark stone so cunningly placed that it seemed the castle was hacked out of a mountain of granite, with towers at the corners that stretched toward the sky. The Red Dragon and the Sword of Deis adorned the banners that fluttered in the wind. Dragons of stone and mortar decorated the ramparts, staring down with baleful eyes, ever watchful of the populace below.
Marcellus shook his head. "I see darkness and madness. Madness to believe that you will ever be able to bring your brutality within a hundred leagues of Leodia."
"Leodia." Valdemar spat the word. "You speak of it as if it were the Light of Deis himself. It has blinded you, deluded you into thinking your ways are absolute. Deis knows the love of my people. We serve him faithfully, knowing that he has allowed us to undergo hardship to gain strength. Leodia is despoiled, allied with ungodly nations like Jafeh and Komura. Your king is at odds with your Pontifex, refusing to establish Divinity as the official faith of the kingdom. Your nation is corrupted from the inside out, yet you accuse me of madness. You know nothing, Sir Admorran."
Marcellus turned to him. "I know enough. You dare to speak of piety? Your devotion is a glittering mask covering a rotting skull. I know well of the deeds of your father, whom men named Dragon. Did he not worship the old gods of Bruallia? It is no secret that he gained his reputation from indiscriminate slaughter and the merciless torture of his enemies. Under his command children were thrown into the fire, and even his own family hung from the walls of this very castle. The same spirit resides in Aracville and Ravynna, the same bloodlust. A thousand battles would be worth the cost if it keeps your kind from crossing the Dragonspine."
Valdemar trembled with silent rage, his pupils practically vibrating. His fists clenched as though trying to fight lunging at Marcellus' throat. But he slowly regained enough composure to curve his lips in that shadowy smile. "I would suggest that you never mention my father again. Or I fear you will face the same fate that your men already have."
The world swam around Marcellus; he had to fight to keep his balance. "What have you done to them?" The words grated out raggedly between clenched teeth.
The mirthless smile stayed on Valdemar's lips. He pointed to the far wall of the courtyard, where ravens and vultures rose and descended in a living cloud just outside.
"Bring him."
The guards barked a laugh as they seized Marcellus by the arms. He had neither the will nor the strength to fight them. He already knew what lay beyond, yet knew he could not escape the sight.
Valdemar stepped through the outer gate and spread his arms wide. "See." His voice rang with pride. "This is what becomes of assassins. The Lord of Bruallia does not take an attack on his life lightly."
Row after row of upraised stakes were upraised in plain view of any passersby. Impaled on them were the remains of men after they have been left to die in the sun for weeks. Putrid flesh and bones still fed the carrion eaters that lazily flapped on them. The stakes had been thrust through the crotch or buttocks of the bound victims and worked to protrude out the mouth or chest. Marcellus knew the men had been alive when the torture had begun.
Many of the men still had scraps of their red Komuran uniforms, but his eyes dragged to the men who had been raised on longer stakes to stand out among the others; ragged crimson scarecrows in the tattered and torn uniforms of Kaerleon. Their faces were far too long rotted to recognize, but the wind whipped through at that moment, bringing the rotting stench full into his nostrils.
"Your trespass is an act of war," Valdemar said. "All treaties to the border are dust, any chance of compromise negated. Do you think the deaths of your precious Companions were terrible? You think correctly. So just imagine the plans I have for you, the so-called Champion of Kaerleon."
As the shock stiffened his muscles, Marcellus heard a voice from his past. He again recalled the words of Stigandr, who first trained Marcellus how to fight when he was just a lad known as the Coward's Son.
There be a bear somewhere within that scrawny chest of yours, boy. When the time for killing comes, he will awaken in a storm of fury.
Something wild and terrible roared in his ears. It had been long since the bear roused within him, that beast of rage that he had eventually been forced to contain. Stigandr had always said the bear would speak to him, but it never had until that moment. Marcellus heard the voice, harsh and guttural in his ears.
Rise up. Kill many men.
Marcellus spun and slammed the heel of his hand into the neck of the nearest guard, crushing his throat. The closest guards instantly sprang, seizing Marcellus before he could snatch up the dying man's blade. A man might have fallen, but he was not a man. He flung them aside, snapping one man's arm in the process. Bowling over another pair, he furiously tried to reach Valdemar, who smiled softly with his hands clasped behind his back. The guards cursed and shouted, struggling to hold him back.
Soldiers ran from their posts to join in the scuffle. Spear butts and gauntleted fists struck him, but a bear did not feel pain. Marcellus yanked a spear from one startled guard's hands and rammed it into another's chest. Snatching it out, he whirled it like a quarterstaff, striking helmets and armor with ringing blows to keep the bellowing soldiers at bay. A helmetless guard shrieked and fell, clutching the side of his head where his ear used to be. For a moment Marcellus believed that somehow he could fight his way clear.
The moment ended swiftly.
Screaming soldiers fell upon him. He howled in rage as he tried to rise, but the armored avalanche bore down mercilessly. Fists and sword pommels pummeled him back to his knees as Valdemar stood motionless with a half-smile on his lips.
"Do not ruin his face badly. I want him to be recognizable."
Marcellus lunged and managed to throw one of them off, but the others fell on him before he could take a step. They laughed as their boots and gauntleted fists pounded until he finally collapsed in a cocoon of agony. Still the blows fell, until his vision blurred and blood spattered across the dust.
Valdemar was a hazy figure that walked away without a backward glance.
Chapter 9: Nyori
Nyori awoke early with a haunted mind. The dreams that plagued her slumber had not faded with the light. A shuddering breath wrested from her lungs.
Someone was going to die.
The knowledge was obscured as if by dirty hand, but the result was undeniable, no matter what she wished. She did not know who or how many. Ayna told her that the future was a river: ever shifting and moving, making it impossible to determine many details.