Turock shook his head. “We need to know.…We have been trapped here for so long.…”
“If you are trapped, it is of your own doing,” laughed the prisoner.
Ahaesarus and Turock both wheeled around. The man was upright in his binds, head cocked, staring at them. The ice shards had melted, leaving him soaked and covered with tiny, leaking red wounds. He winced, flexed his jaw, and then seemed to shake off the pain.
“Your isolation ended when Uther Crestwell died,” the prisoner continued, and he chuckled even as a bit of blood ran down his lips.
Ahaesarus was too shocked to answer. The same could not be said for Turock.
“So those are your first words to us? We’ll see how much you laugh when your balls are gone.”
The spellcaster stepped back and cupped his hand. The blue glow around it intensified, and the prisoner doubled over, finally screaming. Ahaesarus forcibly grabbed Turock by the arm, spinning him around, and the spell died in a cascade of slaps and curses.
“Out!” Turock screamed at him. “Leave my tower now! Leave my fucking lands as well!”
“I will not, Escheton,” the Warden shouted. “The man is telling the truth!”
Turock stared at him, but at last there was a hint of comprehension in his eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“You wanted me to tell you if he spoke a lie or not. He is speaking the truth now. Allow me to question him.”
Turock rolled his eyes. “Fine. You think you can get more of a response than me, then be my guest.”
Ahaesarus approached the prisoner. “What is your name?” he asked “What is your purpose?”
The man closed his lips and shook his head.
Ahaesarus sighed and leaned in close, whispering in his ear.
“I can end this quickly if you cooperate,” he said. “There will be no more torment. Your death will be painless.”
The prisoner’s eyes lifted to him, and for the first time there was no hardness in them.
“My living torment might cease,” he said, “but my soul will burn in the abyss for all eternity should I betray him. My god is noble and mighty. All I have, all I have become, I owe to the one who created me. I would rather hurl myself into the flames than turn on Karak.”
“You want to burn?” Turock asked, stepping closer, fire on his fingertips, Ahaesarus struck him with the back of his hand. The spellcaster stumbled away, holding the side of his face and cursing. The Warden picked up the sword he had laid on the ground, grabbed Turock by the loose collar of his cloak, and pressed the tip of the blade to his throat. The spellcaster’s eyes grew wide.
“No more,” growled Ahaesarus. His menacing tone scared even himself. “This ends now. Leave this tower. Leave the prisoner to me. If he cooperates, you will know all you wish to know. If he does not, he will not see the sunrise. Am I understood?”
Turock nodded, though his entire body looked ready to explode.
“Good,” Ahaesarus said. “Now leave.”
He spun the dazed, red-haired man around and guided him to the door. Opening it, he pushed Turock out to where his son-in-law Uulon stood guard, blond hair matted and eyelids at half-mast. The young man was shocked to attention by their sudden appearance. Ahaesarus gave Turock a shove and shut the door quickly behind him. With that done he leaned against the wood, breathing heavily. What he’d done was rash, dangerous. Turock had proven himself to be powerful in the ways of magic. Had he not been taken off guard by Ahaesarus’s sudden aggression, the Warden might have found himself set ablaze, transformed into a mudskipper, or worse. Breathing out a sigh, he barred the door and returned to the prisoner, who stared at him, an odd look of gratitude on his battle-scarred face. With a twinge of sadness, the Warden remembered something Eveningstar had told him one evening, after Ahaesarus had expressed frustration about his progress with Geris. The boy had been drifting in his studies, but each time Ahaesarus lashed out at him, the child would draw inward and stop speaking.
“Sometimes saying nothing is better than saying the wrong thing,” the great betrayer of Ashhur had said. “There is only so much silence a man can take.”
It was time to put those words into practice.
Ahaesarus pulled up a chair and sat across from the bound man. He asked no questions and expected no answers. All he did was sit, his gaze never leaving the prisoner’s face. For a while the man was admirable in his fortitude, standing tall in his restraints, his blood-splattered chin held high. But after what felt like an eternity, when the sounds of the first stirrings in camp came seeping through the thick walls, he began to crack.
“Wallace,” he muttered, his voice raspy.
“Say again?”
“Wallace. My name is Wallace.”
“Thank you, Wallace.” He stood, retrieved a pitcher of water from the table in the corner, and poured liquid over Wallace’s parched lips.
There was silence again for a few moments, until Wallace, some of his many wounds still seeping blood, sighed deeply and closed his eyes.
“Karak forgive me,” he said.
“For what?” asked Ahaesarus.
He took a deep breath.
“I will give you two questions. You are a Warden, so you will know that what I say is truthful. After that I will say nothing more, and I ask that you end my life quickly. I do not wish to endure more of the angry man in the funny cloak.”
“Very well,” Ahaesarus said, inclining his head. The aura seeping out of this Wallace told him he was a man of his word. No matter what he or Turock did to him after those two questions were asked, they would get no more answers. The amount of discipline he showed was breathtaking. If this is the type of dedication Ashhur must face…
He retook his chair and threw one leg over the other, his mind racing. Wallace leaned his head back against the post, closed his eyes, and waited.
Settling on his first question, Ahaesarus asked, “How long have you been in the northern deadlands?”
“Too long,” the prisoner replied. His eyes opened sleepily. “Though in truth, it must be eighteen months, give or take. I was the trusted council of Uther Crestwell, whose authority I supplanted after his death.”
It was the truth. Ahaesarus almost asked how many were in his force, which should have been the first question, but he snapped his mouth shut. Wallace was laying a trap for him, one he could ill afford to fall into. Two questions. He cursed his stupidity.
He nodded instead.
“Anything else?” asked Wallace again.
“One moment.”
He mulled it over, trying to craft the one question that would give him the most information. There was simply too much he needed to know. He could ask for Karak’s plan, but Wallace was an underling, a man in command of a force stationed far from those assaulting from the east. It was unlikely he would know anything but his own group’s role. Ahaesarus closed his eyes and prayed to the god who had saved him, asking for guidance. The right question came to him almost at once, and his eyes sprang open.
“How will you rejoin Karak?” he asked.
Wallace sighed, a tired smile coming across his dry lips.
“We won’t,” he said. “My duty ends here, on the banks of the Gihon.”
Again, it was the truth. Ahaesarus gaped at him. “What does that mean?”
“Two questions, no more. You have your answers. Now fulfill your promise.”
Ahaesarus stood once more, his thoughts whirling in his skull. He hovered in the empty space between the prisoner and the door, unsure of what to do. Had he doomed those he had been sent here to protect? He buried his face in his hands, praying again for guidance.
“Your promise, Warden,” said Wallace.
Ahaesarus ignored him. “Please, Ashhur, I am your humble servant. Give me your wisdom.”
He took a deep breath, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling. He felt a presence then, as if another entity were looking through his eyes and weighing his options, with him. As the presence retreated, a vision entered his mind, and a hornlike bleating sounded, so deep and loud that it shook the stone walls surrounding them. He looked over at Wallace, whose eyes were wide with bewilderment.