Dragonhammer: Volume II (25 page)

Apparently I startled the Jarl as well because he violently looks up from whatever he was doing, his eyes wide and his hand gripping his sword tightly.  “I’m here,” I announce.

“Apparently,” mutters Genevieve, taking her hand from the hilt of her sword.

The room is long; large enough that both of the titanic windows I had seen from the port take up most of the back wall.  The ceiling is peaked and crossed with enormous wooden beams.  I stand underneath a balcony that extends around either side of the room.  A series of arches with marble columns, which stand out beautifully against the dark stone, support the balcony and create a sort of hallway within the room.

Without looking away, the Jarl clears his throat, his eyes still wide.  Then he seems to recall the circumstance and, sniffing, says, “Ah yes!  Kadmus!”  His brow furrows.  “I… but I haven’t sent for you yet.”

“I know.”

A little taken aback, Jarl Hralfar proceeds anyway.  “I thought you should know that I spoke with Captain Alastair.  He was anxious to leave and did so promptly after I paid him.”

“As I expected.  He wasn’t happy when I didn’t fork the money over the second we made port.”

“So he voiced to me.  I would suggest being a little clearer in your agreements next time to avoid situations such as that.  That’s not worth losing a valuable ally.”

I nod.  “Of course, Jarl.  Any sign of Sythian?”  The name slithers between my teeth.

Jarl Hralfar notices my vehemence, but unperturbed says, “No.”

“Do you know where he escaped to?”

“There is strong evidence Gurbog Sythian escaped through the dock.  We have several witnesses and it’s completely plausible, given the length of the banner and cords outside that window.  He could easily have reached the wall and run down to the nearest ship.  With his condition, he could not have sailed away alone.  If he did manage to commandeer a ship, he could have gone any direction, though I’d bet on Weathercrest.”

“Where’s Weathercrest?”

“Tip of the Vjurrkstad Peninsula, at the edge of Khaoth’s Gulf.  The last port you can make before hitting the open ocean.”

“How fast can we get a ship ready?”

The Jarl sighs and raises his hands behind his head.  He looks out the window at the port, and then turns and states, “We won’t be following him.”

“What?” I object.  “We had Fearclan’s second in command in our grasp and we let him slip through our fingers?  You’re going to let him escape?!”

“There’s nothing we can do, Kadmus,” the Jarl says calmly.

“Yes there is!” I argue.  “We can chase him down, take his ship and kill him!  End it!”

“That’s assuming we can catch up to him, if he actually did escape by ship-”

“You yourself concluded that-”

“I don’t want to siege one of the most well-defended cities in all of-”

“We can’t allow him to-”

“ENOUGH!” the Jarl barks.  I fall silent.  He takes a deep breath, but before he can say anything I breathe a single word.

“Sorry.”

He shakes his head.  “I understand.  You have lost someone close to you, and you want to find vengeance.  However I am sorry to say that I cannot risk chasing something that may not be there.  We cannot spare the men or the ships.”

I nod.  “What then is our next plan of action?” I ask humbly.

“Archeantus will get in touch with us soon,” Hralfar responds, “But I’m not going to wait for him.  Every day we waste here is a day that more men are lost in the west.  We will leave men here to fortify the city and ensure it does not get retaken by Diagrall when we leave.  It would be especially susceptible to a sea attack, which is the likely direction, so I am looking into building ballistae or catapults on this end of the city to thwart such an attack.”

“I see,” I reply.  “Which city will we march to?”

“We will not be marching,” Hralfar replies.  He smirks at my momentary confusion.  “We will be sailing.  It’s much faster.  We can sail north, take Fort Rocksabre, and march from there to Poalai.  I am sure Lord Archeantus would appreciate the reinforcement.”

“As am I,” I reply.  “When do we move out?”

“I was thinking within the week.  Finalize our fortifications here and get a move on.  By then Archeantus will have heard of our victory and will be expecting us in Watervale.”

“Good,” I reply.  “Is there anything else you require?”

“No Captain,” he says.  “I believe that is all.”

I bow.  “I’ll take my leave then.”

The doors bang open and I suddenly understand why the others had found it so startling.  Quickly my mind races to other things, however, when I realize who it is that has burst in upon our meeting.

“You’re going to want to see this,” says Captain Alastair.  “Caught the dirty stowaway sneaking around on our ship.”

Two sailors drag a bloodied man into the room.  He wears a sweat-stained tunic and dark pants, his matted black hair falling about his face.  They throw him to the floor and the ragged man rises to his knees.  His wrists are bound.

“Sythian,” I growl.

“Hello Captain,” Gurbog spits.  Somehow my honorable title becomes an insult under his slanderous tongue.  “Been a while.”

The Prisoner

O
ne of the sailors hits him over the head for speaking.

“Don’t!” I bark.  Then I mutter with an evil look at Sythian, “That’s my job.”

I can hear the Jarl’s voice as I advance on Sythian, drawing my hammer.  The words don’t register until my hand is almost upon his throat, “Captain, halt!  Now!”

Reluctantly I stop and eye Jarl Hralfar with an are-you-serious look.  “Why can’t I kill him?” I ask politely.

Hralfar ignores me and looks up to Captain Alastair.  “Thank you,” he says.  “I believe we can handle it from here.”

“No compensation for my efforts?” haggles the Captain gruffly.

Exasperated, with a roll of his eyes the Jarl asks bluntly, “What do you want now, Alastair?”

The captain’s lip turns up.  With purpose he struts forward to Gurbog.  Then he kicks the fallen Jarl squarely in the back, making sure to use the heel of his knee-high boot.

Pain contorts Gurbog’s face as he writhes in slow motion on the floor.  Every second or two he emits a pitiful grunt or moan as he struggles to get back to his knees.

The captain nods curtly and straightens his pompous collared overcoat.  “That’s all, my Lord,” he says.  “I’ll be off.”

Hralfar nods stiffly.  “Thank you, Captain.  Good thing you noticed him before you got too far, isn’t it?”

Alastair nods and with a bow says, “Good day.”  When he rises he tips his feathered hat to me.  Then he leaves with his two sailors trailing behind him.

Gurbog looks up with bloodshot eyes from his kneeling position on the stone.  His tongue caresses the split on his lip, which appears to have reopened when his face hit the floor.  Though he has tried to wash the blood off, his clothes are still stained on his right hip and chest, as if he dribbled blood all over his front.  There is a stream of black, freshly dried, clinging to his upper lip that falls around his mouth and down his chin. 
What are you waiting for, Dragonhammer?
his gaze says. 
I’m right here.

“Let me kill him,” I command.  “End it right here.”  My eyes never leave Gurbog’s.

“He could yet be valuable to us,” Hralfar asserts.  “He has information.  Or we could use him to barter for prisoners or money.  We’ll see how much he’s worth.”

“And if that’s nothing?” I growl.

“If he proves to have no use… I suppose you may do with him what you wish.”

The corner of my lip goes up and I speak to Sythian with my eyes. 
You hear that, Gurbog?

His gaze doesn’t falter.

“Until then?” I ask.

Hralfar shakes his head.  “To the dungeons with him.”

“Oh, that’s original,” Gurbog complains as the guards take hold of him on either side and force him to his feet.  “Always the dungeons.”

“Shut it,” I snarl.  Slowly his lips tighten.  “Move,” I rumble.

“Never the bedrooms,” he adds as we begin into the hall.  “What’s the name of the lass you’ve taken a liking to?  I would much rather share a room than have my own dungeon.  I suspect she must have a room that you visit in the wee hours of the night-”

The back of my hand connects solidly with his cheek.  Unfortunately, because I am not allowed to kill him, I do not allow myself to strike with all the force I have, as that would break his sorry little neck.

However, my gauntlet does plant a new slash across his cheek.  “Shut it,” I growl.  Sythian’s lips purse, but he does not look away from me.

I look up at the guards.  “Move on.”

I walk behind them the entire way down.  Gurbog stumbles down the stairs and leans heavily on the guard to his right.  He doesn’t use his right leg at all if he can help it.  The corner of my lip rises at the thought. 
Serves you right.

Eventually we pass into a level with no windows.  The guards move to exit the stairwell, but I stop them.  “One more,” I say.

“Oh, come on!” Gurbog grumbles.  “It’s like you don’t trust me at all!”

I ignore him and we continue down the last flight of stairs.

The only light down here is the flickering orange glow of the sporadically placed torches.

“Really?” says Gurbog.

“Shut your mouth or you get the dung-heap.”

“Do you mean it?” he asks with an enthusiastic edge in his voice.

Once again, I ignore him.  The guards on duty notice our presence and one of them comes with the appropriate keys.  I walk behind Sythian, enjoying every moment of his agonizing walk, as the guard leads us to his cell.

There are a few tunnels that branch off to other cells.  As soon as we had full control of the Bastion I had the place searched for tunnels similar to the one through which I had entered.  There are none down here.

The stone walls are unrefined and rough, as if the tunnels had been carved out in a hurry with no thought to visual appeal.  Not that it matters; they are dungeons after all.  Despite the appearance, the cavern is actually quite structurally sound.  Sconces hang every so often at seemingly random places on the walls, most with a torch sticking from its metal grasp.  The light of the torches is quickly absorbed by the darkness.

Something drips.  Inside the cells, the stone floors are smooth, but the walls keep the roughness of the tunnels.  On some of the rocky walls I am able to spot a stream of something shining on the rock.  Hear a drip. See a puddle.  Look back at the walls caked with grime.

The lock clinks as it turns and the metal door, made completely of large crisscrossing bars, screeches as it opens.  The guards throw Sythian into the rotting hay and he slumps to his left side as quickly as he can.  Then he rolls and watches the door clang shut.  The sound echoes through the tunnels.

“You’re not as noble as I thought you would be,” Gurbog says.

“Keep a heavy guard on him,” I tell the guards.  “Someone is always watching him.”

“Yes sir.”

As I turn to leave, Sythian, despite his injuries, darts to the door of his cell.  The torchlight flickers off of his sweat eerily as he presses his face partway between the bars.  “There’s no honor in what you’re doing,” he hisses.  “You parade as the honorable hero of Mohonri, but what are you?  You just want to see me dead!  Watch me squirm as he squirmed!”

I punch his swollen protruding nose and he rolls back into the hay with a grunt and a moan.  “Do not speak to me of honor!” I seethe.  “Oath-breaker.”  He looks up at me from the hay.  “Murderer.”

I force his gaze down.  “Someone get him a clean rag,” I command.  “He’s got another nosebleed.”  Then I stride away.

Though I am not looking at him, I can feel the grotesque grin drift across his face as he watches me disappear into the darkness.

Shortly after, I go to the quarters that have been assigned to me.  I need to shed my layer of armor.

I take a deep breath as the armor slips off and the cool air makes contact with my sore back.  I stretch for several seconds and then proceed to strip the rest of the armor.

In the past I have stayed with the rest of the men in the barracks, where my friends will be staying.  Jarl Hralfar insisted that I take the bedroom instead, which I am entitled to as a Captain of the forces of Gilgal.

The room is like any other.  There’s a wardrobe and a desk with a window above it.  There are two chairs:  one at the desk and one beside the endtable next to the large stately bed.  A banner flying the colors of Mohonri hangs on the wall opposite the tall window.  I sit down at the desk.

Hard rain pelts the glass of the window with fury.  Distantly I hear the clap of thunder.

Despite the size and quantity of the furniture, I find the room quite empty.  Why should one such as I possess so much space, while the others that fight with me hardly have a bed and a pack?

On the desk I find a generous dinner.  I pick at the chicken, but soon find that I do not have much of an appetite.  It has been a long and extremely emotionally scarring day.

The bed is soft and warm.  I am asleep before my head falls against the pillow.

I wake slowly.  I take a deep breath and my eyes drift open.  Dim light peaks into the room through the window.  It must hardly be dawn.

Though I find fine clothes in the wardrobe, I ignore them.  Not only because they most likely will not fit onto my abnormally large frame, but because I would feel unworthy to wear such niceties while my men wear the same shirts they have had for months.  For cleanliness’s sake, however, I do find it appropriate to bathe and change into clean clothing.

I sit down at the desk, awake and physically refreshed.  Someone has taken the dinner plate out and replaced it with a plate laden with breakfast.  Suddenly finding myself ravenous, I eat every morsel on the platter.  My gaze falls to the left, where I see my left hand sprawled out flat on the wood next to an inkwell.  The last two fingers are missing just below the first knuckle.

I recall the incident and think of my father.  The way he had cared for me. 
How do you love them so much?

How had I taught Aela to love?  Why didn’t she know it before?  Everyone develops a bond with someone in their early life.  Why not she?  Even the friend she lost at the bridge caused her no grief?

I dismiss the thoughts before I can mull them over too greatly.

Knowing that my train of thought will destroy me if left to its own devices, I decide to go and see Percival.  My boots clomp loudly on the wood in the empty room and the click of the door is a roar.

By this time the sun has risen and the castle has come to life.  Maids rush about, doing laundry or cleaning things.  Soldiers walk leisurely about to the smithy, armory, barracks, training grounds, or tavern. 

Slowly I make my way down a few floors and stop on the ground floor.  The barracks is near: just across the hall.

Most every soldier is out, polishing armor, having a drink, sharpening swords, or whatever.  It’s not really my business and I don’t really care.  It’s their day to celebrate.  We have won the city, after all.

Percival sits on the edge of his bed, reading a letter.  He makes no attempt to conceal it as I enter, but a small smile makes its way across his face.

James lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, probably trying to take a morning nap.  Ullrog sits on his cot, once again sharpening his blade.

Aela sits with her knees up, drawing in her pad of parchment.  She offers me a smile when I enter, but does not show her teeth.  I return it.

Percival and James both notice the exchange, but neither says anything.  James winks.

I sit next to Percival, who shies the letter from my view.  I nod as if he had acted exactly the way I expected him to.

“That Serena?” I ask.

He nods, a little embarrassed.

“Why the red face?” I ask.  “We all know about her.”

Percival’s smile broadens and he folds the letter to place it in his pack.  He glances at Aela and James.  “Do you mind if we speak outside?” he asks.

“Not in the slightest,” I reply.

“What’s the matter?” asks James.  “I’m not allowed to know of your relationship problems?”

“You may
be
their relationship problems,” Aela mutters only so I can hear.

Percival leads me up the stairs.  On the fourth floor we walk onto the balcony that overlooks the entrance hall, and then turn into another hall with a pair of light wooden doors at the end.  Percival opens them both and we step out into the sun.

It shines brightly from our left, illuminating the entire sky.  Last night’s rainstorm has blown over and the clouds are scattered, wispy, and white.  The trees between the delta and city are clearly visible, their vibrant color standing out distinctly against the dull landscape.  From here I notice that the barrows are covered with dark green grass.

The balcony on which we stand is long, spanning almost the entire length of the bastion.  A stone railing blocks us from toppling over the edge.

I lean on the railing next to Percival.  “How’s Serena?” I ask casually.

“She’s great,” he responds with a grin, “though she’s beginning to dislike working with her mother as a seamstress.  I wonder if she would enjoy baking…”  Slowly his smile fades as he continues, “I want to see her again.”

I nod.  “And how are you, Percival?”

He shakes his head and exhales deliberately.  “I’m here, Kadmus.”  He breathes again.  “I’m here.”

“I understand,” I reply.  “I’m feeling the same way.”

“I heard about Gurbog,” Percival says innocently.  “He’s here in the dungeons?”

My fists clench.  Percival notices and shifts uncomfortably.  “Yes,” I reply shortly.  “He is.  I’d have killed him if the Jarl hadn’t gotten between us.”

“Why does he want him alive?”

“He might know something.  Or he could be worth some men or some gold.”

Percival nods.  “At least we’ve got him as a prisoner,” he says.