Dragonhammer: Volume II (26 page)

“I want him dead!” I bark.  Percival doesn’t respond.  Quieter I realize, “I’m the prisoner.”

Percival looks at me, puzzled.  “What do you mean?”

“He isn’t bound by anything.  I’d doubt even his loyalty.  I…”  My voice dies and I look out at the barrows where my brother lies.  “I am bound by the love and hatred I have within me.  I have no power to escape their grasp.  Always I will be plagued by thoughts of vengeance and death, and never be free of them.”  I shake my head and look out to sea.  “There is no escape.”

Percival looks at me, and then back down, like he’s trying to convince himself to say something.  “Isn’t there?” he asks.

My mind flies to the forest and I look out at the trees.  Somewhere there is a tree with a broken bough swinging helplessly from its trunk.

My gaze finds the Vrakkjar Plains to the east.  The sun shines brightly on them and I am reminded of Aela.  The light she brought into my gaping hole of a heart.

Percival reads my expression and the corner of his lip goes up.  “It finally happened,” he says quietly.

“What?”

He smirks at me slyly and doesn’t respond for a moment.  “You know what I’m talking about.”

He’s right.  I do.  That doesn’t mean I’ll say it.

He glances down again and says, “You’ll find a way out.  It may not be until this is all over, but you will.”

“That’s assuming I survive.”

“Kadmus, if I had to bet on any one person’s survival, I would bet on yours.”  He looks me in the eyes and I can tell he is telling the absolute truth.

I do not respond.

“She will help,” he says.  “Trust me; I’d know.”  Then he pats my shoulder and leaves me to ponder on the balcony.

Only a minute later I return indoors.

“What are we doing about Gurbog?” I ask Hralfar directly.  “We can’t just leave him to rot in the dungeon.”

“Certainly we can,” replies the Jarl coolly.  His light beard quakes as he talks.  “There’s nothing stopping us from it.”

“But what do we do with him?” I ask.  “Because I know that you’re not one to leave useful prisoners in their cells without good reason.”

“I have asked Archeantus,” Hralfar says.  “While we wait for his response there is nothing we can do.”

“Not entirely true,” I argue.  “We can interrogate him.”

“What good do you think that will do?  He’s the general of many great Diagrall armies, and not likely to tell us anything.”

“But he’ll know everything.”

“That gains us nothing if we can’t get him to talk.”

“He’s selfish.  He may not be as loyal as we think if he’s given the right price.”

“Possibly,” the Jarl concedes.

“We just have one way to find out,” I persuade.  With my jaw clenched I wait for the Jarl’s answer.

“Fine,” he breathes.  “Bring him here.”

I nod my satisfaction.  “Yes, Jarl.”

I stand outside the dark cell, watching the guards wrestle Gurbog to his feet.  “Come on,” one of them says.  “Let’s get a move on.”

“We’d like to have a few words with you,” I say coldly.  Gurbog spits at my face but I move aside and watch it splatter the wall.  With a gesture I say, “After you.”

“Why all the blasted stairs?” Sythian whines.  “You couldn’t have a decent interrogation in my warm cozy little cell?”

“No,” I reply.  “We can’t have all of us going mad.”

“Why not?” Sythian says with a grin.  “It makes life so much easier to bear.”

I do not respond.

The guards have to help him up the stairs heavily.  Gurbog’s hip likely won’t heal well, and he may be stuck a cripple for life.  That’s assuming he survives long enough for it to heal.

He trips up the stairs and the guards struggle to get him up, but before they can take hold of him he elbows one in the gut and the guard drops to the floor.  The other he uppercuts with his hands, which are still tied together.  He spins and throws a punch at my face, but I catch his fists and twist them over his head so his elbows point awkwardly at the ceiling.

“Ow!  Not so rough!” he says.

“None of that,” I say quietly, shoving him forward with his fists pinned to his back.  “You’ve got an appointment with the Jarl.”

He can think of nothing to say, and so his tongue again begins playing with his split lip.

The guards open the doors for me.

“Good,” Jarl Hralfar says as we enter.  The door shuts and locks behind us.  We pass underneath the balcony and through an arch, into the core of the room.  I’m still pushing Sythian with his twisted arms.  The guards follow me like they’re not quite sure what to do.

I seat him roughly into a chair.  The guards secure his hands behind the back and tie his ankles to the legs of the chair.  Sythian makes no move to resist.

Genevieve emerges from the edge of the room and observes the scene.

“Hello beautiful,” Sythian says quietly.

Genevieve is not amused.

“Come on, ask me some questions,” Sythian urges impatiently.  “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?!  Let’s just get this done with.”

“Jarl Gurbog Sythian of Diagrall,” Hralfar begins.  “We’ve brought you before the-”

“Yes, yes enough with the pleasantries!  The blah, blah, blah, let’s get to it already!”

Hralfar is baffled.  It takes him a moment to formulate his answer.  “You would do well to remember your place, Sythian,” he growls.  “Tell us the location and strength of your armies.”

Sythian laughs.  “Everywhere!” he says, still giggling.  “And nowhere!”  My eyes narrow at the familiarity of his answer.

“I knew this would be a waste of time,” Hralfar spits.

“I’m glad we share the same point of view!” Sythian says, still laughing.

“Shall I kill him now then?” I ask boldly.  My fingers twitch over the knife on my belt, eager for blood.

“Doesn’t the girl have any questions for me?  I should like to hear her sultry voice.”

Genevieve straightens.  “Which part of you would you like me to cut off first, hm?”

Gurbog goes silent.

“Where are your armies, and what is their strength?” Hralfar repeats between his teeth.

“I already answered that one!  Give me a new question!”

“You answered the where,” I correct.  “What’s the strength?”

Hralfar gives me a look that asks me what the dingflies I am doing.  I ignore him and wait for Gurbog’s answer.

“Very,” Sythian decides.  “It’s very strong.  You and all of your men should be afraid.”  He nods as he speaks, as if telling us where he bought the tunic he is wearing.

Hralfar shakes his head.

“Next question!” Gurbog says excitedly.  “I have a cell waiting for me downstairs!  I can’t be here all day!”

“He really is insane,” Genevieve mutters behind my back.

“It’s an act,” I correct.

“Well, he’s a good actor.  How do you tell?”

I ignore her question.  “We’ve got to figure out a way to bring him out from behind the mask.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

I think for a moment, and then say, “I don’t know.”  Gurbog eyes me, but he does not seem to catch on to what we are discussing.  Something moves behind his eyes.  Fear?  Doubt?  Defiance?

“Jarl Hralfar,” I say after a moment.  “Where were Sythian’s chambers in the bastion?”  Gurbog’s eyes flash again.

The Jarl’s eyes flick between Sythian and me.  Then he says, “Commander, keep an eye on him.  Captain, step outside for a moment please.”

I follow the Jarl out of the double doors and into the hallway.  He shuts the door resolutely and says, “Follow me.”

He leads me down the hall and up the stairs.  A maid cleans a particularly large splotch of blood from the wall.

Soon we come into a room much similar to my own, but more grandiose and extravagant.  The four poster bed sits in exactly the middle against the far wall, with curtain rods higher up on either side.  They hang empty, but must have held Diagrall banners before we renovated the place.  On the wall past the curtain rods, windows span the distance to the ceiling.  There’s an oblong table with a few chairs on the right side of the room, and on the left there sit two wardrobes and a desk.  An endtable rests on either side of the bed, and a large chest lies at the foot.

“What do you want that could be in here?” Hralfar asks.

“Anything,” I reply, moving for the left endtable.  “Letters, notes, journals, anything that could give us any foothold on him.”

“What do you plan to do with them when you find them?”

I look up at the Jarl.  “He has to have someone he’s close to.  A friend of some sort.”

Hralfar shakes his head.  “Not that anyone knows currently.”

“Currently?  So there was someone at one time?”

Hralfar nods.  “The only reason I know is because he didn’t come at the High King’s summons.  He was taking time to grieve…”  His tone gets lower as he realizes what I plan to do.

“She’s dead?  Perfect.  Did you know her name?”

Hralfar shakes his head.

I grunt and open the drawer of the endtable, digging through the quills and empty parchment.  “If he really loved her there’s got to be something that he kept around.  Something that reminded him of her.”

Finding nothing, I dart over the bed and to the other endtable, which proves equally as useless.

The chest is full of worthless odds and ends like old clothes and a sword, with a few jewels.

Frustrated, I grab the nearest object, which fortunately happens to be a pillow, and throw it across the room.  As I reach for the next, however, I stop.

“What is this?” I mutter, pulling on the corner of a piece of paper hardly visible beneath the next pillow.

I hold an envelope.  It is yellowing, but only just.  Inside, I find a pile of letters folded neatly.  “This is it,” I say.  “That was much easier to find than I would have thought.”

“Well that’s good,” says the Jarl, swatting a moth out of his face as he emerges from the wardrobe.  “Give me a name.”

I scan the tops of the letters and pick one of them addressed to Sythian.  Sure enough, at the bottom is the signature that reads,
Astrid
.

“Astrid,” I say.

“No last name?” he asks.

“We don’t need one,” I reply.  “That should be enough.”  I replace the letter and stick the entire bulging envelope into my pocket.

The Jarl nods appreciatively but says, “You would think.”

Gurbog looks at me darkly with an expectant glint in his eye. 
Do your worst
, he is saying.

I will,
I reply silently.

His tongue flicks from his lip and back into his mouth as I begin speaking.

“How did she die?”

“She died?” he questions with a grotesque smirk.

“You know who I mean,” I reply coolly.  “How did she go?”

“Every way,” he sings highly.

“Funny,” I remark.  “I thought you had a little more respect for Astrid.”

His expression flickers, but does not give way.  “Astrid…” he says, shaking his head and looking at the floor.  “No bell to ring there.”

“Really,” says Hralfar, suddenly awoken by some memory that has stirred in his mind.  “Astrid, the mother of your unborn son?”

Sythian shifts his jaw uncomfortably.  We’re getting close.

“How did she die?” I ask again.  “Stabbed in the back, perhaps?”  My teeth clench and my grip tightens on the dagger sheathed on my right thigh.  I catch myself and instead slip my hand into the pocket where I concealed the envelope.

Sythian’s lips tighten and he stares at the floor.

“Poisoned at dinner?”

Sythian shakes his head.  “Stop,” he says weakly.

As I pace past him I draw the envelope out slowly.  His eyes follow me, trying to pierce knives into me with their gaze.

“Or, perhaps,” Hralfar suggests, “She was the victim of a seemingly random event, which in actuality was planned in its entirety, but for another person.”  Hralfar looks at Sythian slyly.  “But she got there first.  Didn’t she, Gurbog?”

“ENOUGH!”  Sythian’s face is red and shaking.  “Enough,” he chokes.  He takes a deep breath.  “Give me the letters.”

“Why?” the Jarl asks sincerely.  “So you can ruminate upon what might have been?”

“Give them to me.”

I flip through the letters in the open envelope.  In the back I spot a small glint of gold that had not caught my eye before.  With the slightest of smiles I reach in and pick up a small golden wedding band.  Gurbog wears a matching one on his left hand.

He sags and I know we have him.

“Give it to me,” he says softly.  “Please.”

“Tell us the position and strength of your armies,” I say.  “And then I’ll let you have it.”

His face contorts.  “You are cruel,” he growls.