Morticai's Luck (22 page)

He didn’t feel Ellenwood grab his other arm, but he saw the red-hot brand that Luthekar was bringing toward him. He was shocked to recognize the Arluthian symbol. He started screaming even before it touched his left forearm, while a distant portion of his mind scolded him for carrying on so. Blackness engulfed him, and as it swept over him, he prayed that he’d never wake up.

He dreamed he’d been sent into the deepest Darkness. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he’d been sent there, nonetheless. With a jerk, he awoke, and the nightmare became reality again. His arms still burned, and as a new sob escaped him, he realized that water had been thrown in his face and on his arms.

His vision began to clear. Ellenwood stood before him, an empty bowl in his hands. Luthekar was leading the congregation in some kind of responsive prayer. Morticai blinked against the tears in his eyes and realized, belatedly, that it was his own sobs that still echoed in his ears. The Droken prayer was apparently complete, for Luthekar turned toward him. Suddenly, Luthekar backhanded him. The Droken prince spoke, and Morticai heard his words as though from a great distance.

“Shut up!” Luthekar commanded.

Amazing himself, Morticai did stop sobbing. Dizziness swept across him, but with it came a calming, and as his vision cleared again, he was able to stay quiet, to somehow detach himself from the searing pain in his forearms.

“… and so shall ye all partake,” Luthekar was saying to the congregation, “for it is your right; it is your duty.”

It made no sense to Morticai—he had missed too much of it.
You’d best stay awake,
he thought wildly,
or you’ll miss your own death!
And then the words of the Droken female echoed back to him:
Silly, you shan’t die tonight!
He wondered if the girl were in the crowd, wondered if she’d have any regrets that she’d not freed him.

The congregation lined up before the dais. Morticai tried to bring his mind back to concentrate on what was happening, to see if he could figure out what they were about.
Snap!
He jerked as he felt the braided leather slam into his back.
Snap!
The whip fell again, and suddenly concentration was no longer a problem.

He tried to turn his head, then wished he hadn’t.
Snap!
This time he cried out. He had gotten a glimpse of the pile of whips that lay behind him.
Crack!
He let out another sob. The congregation was filing past, circling behind him, and as they came to the front of the dais they passed their whip to another Droken.
Snap!
He prayed,
Oh Glawres, please let me die!
It appeared that each member of the congregation would leave a whip mark upon him.

Crack!
He thought,
There must be over a hundred of them!
Another blow fell,
snap!
He cried out freely again spraying blood from his lacerated mouth. The congregation began singing, with Luthekar directing them.
Snap!
He felt himself weakening; the singing rose to a crescendo that almost drowned out his cries. Morticai wondered how many lashes a man could survive; he’d heard stories of such things around the docks while growing up.
Crack!

My wrists, perhaps …
He tried to twist them in the manacles, hoping to nick a vein …
Crack!
… but they were so numb that he couldn’t tell if he’d moved them or not.
Snap!
He looked up as he tried to move his arms.
Crack!
He had moved them some, but not enough to catch a vein. Blood trickled down both arms, stinging as it hit the fresh burns on his inner forearms.

Snap!
This time, the whip snaked around his side; his cry echoed above the Droken.
Snap!
It had caught onto the scar tissue of the sword wound, as did the next lash.
Crack!
Morticai tensed with each stroke.
Snap!
Tears rolled uncontrollably down his cheeks. His strength was ebbing from wounds uncountable.
How long can this go on
, he thought,
before my heart bursts?
He prayed for unconsciousness.
Crack!
He prayed for insanity; he prayed for death.
Snap!
But still, the remorseless whips rose and fell.

* * *

Rylan stared at the small fire and slipped another prayer bead through his fingers. They’d still gained no clues to Morticai’s whereabouts. One of Morticai’s urchin friends had been found murdered, but there was nothing to suggest that it was connected to his disappearance. Nonetheless, that discovery had disturbed Rylan greatly. He’d said an entire set of prayers for the unknown child. Geradon came over and sat down beside him. Rylan looked up.

“Captain Coryden is here to speak with you,” Geradon said.

“Have they …”

“No, they have not found him yet,” Geradon said softly.

“What is it, Geradon?”

“I shall let him tell you.”

Rylan walked into the study. Coryden stood at the window, looking out into the night, his body tense. Dualas stood by the unlit fireplace, also tense, his eyes concerned.

“Captain?” Rylan asked.

Coryden turned to him. The half-breed sighed and gestured to the chairs. Rylan sat down. Coryden also sat, and Rylan noted the slightest tremor in the first words to leave his lips.

“I have some bad news,” he began.

“Yes?” Rylan sat patiently. It was apparent to him that whatever Coryden had to tell him was upsetting him terribly.

“The Northmarch is to move out at dawn.”

Rylan considered the news. “I am sorry to hear that. Are we at war?”

“No, not yet.”

“Geradon shall continue the search. I must unfortunately continue with our research, but there is still hope, Coryden—”

“We’re not going.”

Rylan looked at him, stunned. “Not going?”

“No.” Coryden looked away from him. “We—the patrol, that is—we’ve talked about it. Berret’s squad, and myself, and of course Dualas—we’re going to stay behind. The other two squads will go with the Northmarch.”

“Isn’t that desertion?”

Coryden looked at him evenly. “That’s what it’s usually called, yes.”

Rylan looked at Dualas. He looked much calmer than Coryden, though he was obviously still concerned.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Rylan asked Coryden.

Coryden’s eyes locked with his. “It’s Morticai’s only chance, now, isn’t it?”

“I—I do not know,” Rylan replied. “You know there is no guarantee that we will find him.”

“I know. But it certainly wouldn’t help if we left, now would it?”

Rylan sighed. “Are you asking for my approval?”

“No,” Coryden said. “I’m just asking that you not turn us in.”

“If I am asked, I cannot lie … but I will not turn you in,” Rylan said. “Where will you and your men stay?”

“We don’t know yet,” Coryden admitted.

“I could suggest that you seek sanctuary at the Sanctorium,” Rylan said, a twinkle coming into his eye. “You know, political refugees are never turned away.”

Coryden smiled slowly, then nodded once. “We just might do that, Brother Glaedwin.”

Rylan nodded and returned the smile.

* * *

Morticai jerked reflexively at the touch of the cloth on his face.

“Hold still.” The voice was Luthekar’s.

He moaned in reply. He couldn’t have said anything coherent if he wanted to. Luthekar’s hood was again thrown back, and he supported Morticai’s head while he wiped his face. Morticai closed his eyes. As Luthekar took the cloth to his back, he moaned again.

He became aware of a tugging, and realized that Luthekar was untying the gag. Morticai was surprised at the gentleness in his touch. Morticai wondered vaguely why Luthekar would show such concern.

He felt a hand under his chin.

“Can you hear me?” Luthekar asked.

Wish they would lower my arms
, Morticai thought, and then he realized that he would be unable to use them if they did.

“You may speak now,” Luthekar said, as though Morticai might not have noticed that the gag had been removed.

“Hate … you,” Morticai whispered.

A rueful smile crept onto Luthekar’s face. “And you have not yet seen the depth of my anger,” the Droken prince replied. “Here, drink this, it will give you some sustenance.”

Luthekar held a cup up to his lips. Morticai thought about trying to resist, then decided to drink, hoping it to be poison. The liquid tasted sweet, and he wondered what was in it.

“You provided quite a spectacle tonight,” Luthekar said. “I was surprised—I would have thought you were stronger than that.”

Morticai spat blood at him, but Luthekar easily dodged it.

“I do wish you didn’t have such nasty habits,” Luthekar said, and then lightly backhanded him, almost as if in jest. “You must have learned such things in the streets.”

Morticai’s head rang from the blow, and for a moment, he thought he would lose consciousness.

“You know, my offer to you still stands,” Luthekar told him. “Tonight was mild compared to what tomorrow night will be. If you do not convert before then, you will most certainly die.”

Luthekar held a key up before Morticai. “This is all that stands between you and death. One word, given sincerely, would allow me to use this key to free you. Think about that tonight.” Luthekar laid the key on the table that still contained the bloody implements of torture, and then, without another glance back, he left him.

Morticai stared at the key and several minutes later realized that tears were running down his face. “Stop it!” he cried out, but the tears continued. He had actually been considering Luthekar’s offer. “Oh Glawres, forgive me!”

If you want the key, then take it.

Morticai jumped at the strange thought that echoed in his mind. He swallowed, and forced himself to look at Glawres’s carving on the wall. Nothing about it had changed. Morticai looked again at the key. It was within arm’s reach—if he hadn’t been shackled.

He tilted his head back to look at the bracket that held the chains to the ceiling. He couldn’t tell much about it; he knew it was loose, but couldn’t get a good look at it. He thought about twisting the chain, but he wasn’t certain he was up to it.

If you want the key, then
take
it!
the foreign thought echoed once more through his mind.

Morticai jumped, involuntarily jerking his chains and inviting his muscles to spasm. He gritted his teeth until it passed. “Damn! Cry out less … when there’s no one … else around!”
If I
am
alone,
he thought.
He tried to look behind him. He saw no one. He shuddered, and then chided himself for being scared by hallucinations.

He looked at the chains and sighed. He tried, gently, to twist them. The effort seemed to drain his last energy.
Blessed Aluntas, I hurt!
He let the chains support him and for a while, allowed himself to float on the sea of pain, only dimly aware of his surroundings. Eventually however, he started twisting the chains again, and this time managed to produce a small amount of mortar. He continued twisting them, keeping at it until it caused such pain that he couldn’t keep from moaning. He panted with the effort, and he rested for a moment, but he began again, as soon as he was able.

Finally, he could no longer make his arms move, and exhaustion truly claimed him. His awareness began to fade in and out, his nightmares mixing with reality, lasting for what seemed an eternity.

Chapter Fifteen

Nelerek paused. The small delivery wagon was parked at the mouth of the alley. The shadowy form that was its driver intently watched the busy intersection that lay beyond the alley’s entrance. The sun had just risen, and though small carts and wagons were already traveling Watchaven’s main streets, the dim alleys were still quiet, as cats looked for quiet places to curl up, and dogs scuffled playfully in the dirt with the children who were already emerging from quiet houses.

Nelerek whistled softly.

The wagon driver turned and dipped his head in greeting. Nelerek approached and climbed onto the seat next to him.

“Morning,” Nelerek offered.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it,” Paxton replied, allowing himself to stretch.

“Any activity?”

“Not last night,” Paxton replied, shaking his head. “I think this one’s a dead end, Nelerek. Valdir is lying as low as the ebb tide. From what I’ve heard, he’s been that way ever since Aldwin was killed.”

“You could be right,” Nelerek agreed. “How are you doing?”

Paxton shrugged. “I’ve slept more, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep easy as long we think the Droken have Dyluth.”

“What of the Dapple Stallion?”

Paxton waved a hand, “Don’t worry about the Inn. My oldest boy’s been wanting to run it by himself for years. I think he’s looked forward to a chance to show his younger brothers that he can do it. Have you heard from Heather?”

“Not since yesterday morning.”

Paxton shot him a concerned glance.

“You think she’s all right?”

“Yeah,” Nelerek replied. “She’s been seen around the palace. I think she’s still trying to learn something more there. Now that’s an area I think is a dead end!”

“How about Morticai’s little followers? Have you talked to any of them?”

“Yeah,” Nelerek replied, “but only to convince them to be careful.”

“Ha! You’d have better luck if you paid them to give up looking for Dyluth.”

Nelerek shook his head. “I don’t think so, Paxton. Dyluth has always been very generous to the orphans of this city. I don’t know if you knew that.”

“No, I didn’t know—but it doesn’t surprise me.”

Nelerek nodded. “I don’t think I could pay them enough to keep them from looking. So, I settled for the next best thing and tried to convince them that if they’re going to work with the Arluthians, they must be careful.”

Paxton smiled. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Nelerek—you always make the best of any given situation. So, you going to let me move to Ellenwood’s?”

Nelerek looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you think you ought to get some sleep, first?”

“Very well,” Paxton grudgingly agreed. “I’ll get some sleep—but you come and get me if anything happens!”

“Don’t worry,” Nelerek replied. “I will.”

* * *

A light knock sounded on the door of the tavern booth. Geradon grabbed the unlit candle and stuffed it in his bag.

“Yes?” Rylan asked, unlatching the door.

Coryden and Berret stood just outside the booth.

“May we join you?” Coryden asked.

“Please do,” Geradon replied, moving the bag so there would be room.

The two weary Northmarchers sank down beside the clergymen. Coryden relatched the door.

“Will you be ordering anything?” Rylan asked.

“No,” Berret replied. “We ate at the Sanctorium.”

Rylan and Geradon exchanged glances. With a nod from Rylan, Geradon withdrew the candle he had so hastily repacked. Coryden looked at it and raised his eyebrows.

“Ah,” Rylan began, “this is a rather special candle. Are you expecting to be joined by any of your men?”

“No,” Coryden said.

“Then, if we might demonstrate,” Rylan said, gesturing for Geradon to light the candle.

He did so, and the noise in the rest of the tavern promptly vanished.

“Blessed Levani!” Berret exclaimed, jumping.

Coryden smiled. “That’s a pretty handy trick. I assume that no one can hear us?”

“You are quite correct,” Rylan said. “In fact, we pay the bartender extra to keep the booths around us empty.”

“And,” Geradon added, “we always sit in this far booth.”

“Does the bartender know about this?” Berret asked, pointing suspiciously at the candle.

“No,” Rylan replied. “But it is essential to our work—Geradon and I have lost important secrets to Droken sorcery in the past. We have burned more such candles on this assignment than on many, I fear.”

Coryden shook his head. “I’ve never seen much sorcery. When I do see it, it always amazes me.”

“’Tis a very dangerous thing,” Geradon cautioned. “There is a fine line between sorcery that furthers the cause of the Faith, and that which furthers the Dark One’s wicked designs.”

“Don’t worry,” Coryden replied wearily. “I have no desire to learn any of it. Besides, I’ve always heard you have to be born with the skill.”

“So,” Rylan said, changing the subject, “has any more information surfaced?”

Coryden looked dejectedly at the drink he had brought with him to the booth. “No.”

“Have, have you prayed about it recently?” Berret asked Geradon.

“Yes,” Geradon said, his face growing grim.

Coryden glanced up sharply at his troubled tone.

“He is still alive,” Geradon assured him.

“But?” Coryden asked.

Geradon paused. “Morticai’s life force is not as strong as it was.”

“He’s been hurt,” Coryden said.

“That is probably safe to assume,” Geradon confirmed.

Coryden pounded a fist down on the table.

“At least we know he is still alive,” Rylan said.

“I’m not certain that knowing doesn’t make it worse,” Coryden complained. “No, no, I don’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’m glad we know he’s still alive—I just feel so helpless. And now we know that if he wasn’t hurt before, he is now. That’s just great!”

“I’m afraid I have additional ill news,” Rylan said.

Coryden threw up his hands. “Great. What more?”

“I believe the Dynolvans will declare war by tomorrow,” Rylan said.

Berret shook his head. “Well, at least that was bad news we were expecting.”

“What has happened, Rylan?” Geradon asked.

“As you know, I spent some time at the palace this morning. While there I heard that Watchaven has seized a shipload of goods bound for Dynolva from Menelcar.”

“Almighty Aluntas!” Berret exclaimed. “You’re right, that will do it!”

The others nodded in grim agreement.

* * *

The touch on Morticai’s face was light, and for once, he awoke without a jerk—his arms were numbed beyond that capability. Pain was certainly still present, however, and the captive Northmarcher pulled in a ragged breath as his body’s senses reminded him of the previous night’s torments. A cup touched his lips; a firm hand supported the back of his head.

“Drink.”

Morticai’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Luthekar’s voice. The dark prince tilted the bowl upward and, unable to resist and uncertain if he should try, Morticai drank. It was the same sweet liquid Luthekar had given him the previous night.

“Can you speak?” Luthekar asked.

“Yes,” Morticai replied, though it came out a hoarse whisper.

“This evening’s service shall begin shortly. Did you think about my offer?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“May you freeze in the Wastes with Droka!”

Luthekar nodded. “That was what I expected.” He shrugged, and said, “Still, I have made the offer. It will stand until you die, though I suspect you will not be sane enough to choose after tonight.”

“Leave me alone.”

Luthekar smiled a cold smile. “As you wish, Arluthian.” The silver-haired corryn moved behind his chained captive, and with a sudden jerk, he pulled the silk gag, once again, tightly into place. “Pray to your god,” Luthekar whispered into his ear. “See if he will save you—in one hour you shall learn for yourself how easily Glawres abandons those who worship him.”

Morticai did, indeed, spend the hour in prayer—praying that somehow the Droken army would be discovered, that the plot would be broken, that his death would not be meaningless.

The main doors opened and, as before, the large room filled with masked Droken. Ellenwood stood with Luthekar on the dais, but unlike the previous night, Luthekar began with a responsive prayer and a hymn. The mere sight of the lit brazier reawakened the pain in Morticai’s forearms, and the Northmarcher fought the knot of fear that threatened to overwhelm him.
Oh, Glawres
, he prayed silently,
should I go mad, please keep me from telling them about the Arluthians. Please.

The hymn came to an end.

“We have sung our praises to the Almighty Droka,” Luthekar began. “Now, we must turn our attention to the dispensing of his justice.”

Luthekar moved out of sight. Morticai tensed. A pair of strong hands grabbed his head and with a jerk, snapped it back so that Morticai looked at the distant ceiling. Morticai gasped, thinking the dark prince planned to break his neck. Instead, he found himself looking into Luthekar’s cold eyes, unable to free himself from the prince’s iron grip.

“It is proven,” Luthekar said to the quiet congregation, “that this abomination, this
thief
, is a worshipper of Glawres, an Arluthian, and a Northmarcher. It is proven that he has actively fought against us. For these crimes, justice must be done.”

Luthekar bent down and whispered to him, “This is the last time I shall ask. I will allow your head to move enough to answer me—will you repent?”

Morticai shook his head.

“Then, so be it,” Luthekar whispered. He straightened, but kept Morticai’s head in his iron grip.

The prince nodded to someone out of sight. A body moved against Morticai’s arm—it was Ellenwood. Then Morticai saw the glowing iron rod. As Ellenwood slowly lowered it toward his eyes, Morticai’s scream filled the temple. He nearly wrenched his hands through the manacles, and would have doubtless broken every bond that held him, had it not been for Luthekar’s unnatural strength.

* * *

A heavy veil of silence hung over Grandhaven Sanctorium. War had been declared, and the Sanctorium’s doors had been closed. Only those deemed faithful by the knights who guarded the fortress—and the hundreds of corryn refugees who sheltered within it—were allowed to enter.

The Inquisitor and his assistant moved with purpose through the great structure. At every intersection, a knight of the Faith waved them through. Rylan paused as they passed the section that sheltered the refugee families. A woman’s muffled sobs echoed toward them from somewhere within the great chamber. Geradon gently laid his hand on Rylan’s arm, and with a sigh, Rylan continued on.

They stopped at an intersection. The knight standing guard there nodded in silent greeting. Rylan addressed him. “The Grand Patriarch has reassigned you to our service, Sir Dualas. Please, come with us.”

“At your service,” Dualas replied, dipping his head in respect.

They continued through the structure and eventually stopped before a plain wooden door. The knight standing before it smiled warmly at Dualas.

“Welcome aboard, Dualas,” the knight greeted, opening the door for them.

“Thank you, Richard.”

The small room’s sparse furnishings were littered with books and papers. Once inside, Geradon gestured for Dualas to sit down as he cleared a space for Rylan.

“Please, excuse the mess,” Rylan apologized. “We are still unpacking. As soon as we heard that war had been declared, we returned here. I trust that Captain Coryden and his men returned safely this evening?”

“Yes, sir,” Dualas replied. “After last night’s riot they decided not to search past midnight. They came in this evening just as the news that war had been declared reached us.”

“Thank the Levani,” Geradon whispered.

“Sir Dualas,” Rylan said slowly, “does Captain Coryden resent the fact that I have continued my work and not helped with the search?”

“No, I do not believe so,” Dualas said. “Coryden has always understood that it was Morticai’s own choice to face danger. Pardon me, Inquisitor, but … do you ask me this because Morticai has died?”

Rylan looked at Geradon.