Chaos Descending (31 page)

“You need rest, Quinn. You’re pretty busted up.”

“I’ll be fine,”
Quinn insisted, anger and frustration making his voice raw. “There's nothing left for us here.”

“Funny how that happens, isn’t it. The very people we fought to save turn on us, destroy everything we hold dear. These damn mountains were never our home.”

“Get me a horse,”
Quinn said, pulling the pouch of coins from his pocket.

“Don’t get in a hurry,”
Mansel warned. “That was a heck of a beating you took.”

“No worse than you.”

“Yes, you are worse off than me. We aren’t going anywhere tonight. You just rest. I’ll get you a horse and then we can leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,”
Quinn said, fatigue making his tongue thick. “Promise.”

“I promise,”
Mansel said. “Try and drink a little of this.”

He held a cup of strong spirits to Quinn’s lips, letting the drink trickle in. It burned as soon as it touched Quinn’s tongue, but he drank it thankfully. The alcohol numbed his pain as the sun set. Mansel added more wood to the fire, and kept giving Quinn sips of the liquor. Soon, he was able to lie back in an almost comfortable fashion, close his eyes, and escape his pain in the sweet nothingness of sleep.

Chapter 30

Lorik woke up in total darkness. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, and it took him several minutes to remember exactly what had happened to him. His left arm was a raging mass of fiery pain, and his right leg was aching. He could feel blood, thick and sticky on his arm and leg. There was a large bump on the back of his head, and his right eye was swollen shut. Not that there was anything to see.

He lay on a cold stone floor. Not flagstone, or even stone that had been worn smooth over the years. The surface was rough and uneven. For a moment he wondered if he had been buried alive, but then something called to him. Something that was both familiar and terrifying. It was the call of something magical, something even darker than the blackness of his cell. But the seductive longing he felt as much as heard, revealed to him exactly where he was. He had been in the dungeon of the castle in Ort City before, just never as a prisoner.

He did his best to ignore the magical beckoning and focused his mind on trying to explore his surroundings. He could touch the wall on either side of his tiny cell. The back wall was just close enough that he could stretch out his good leg and touch it. The door was near his head. Sitting up was a difficult and painful process. When he managed to prop himself onto the elbow of his good arm, he had to lean over and vomit. His entire body felt worse than anything he’d ever experienced before. He was hot and cold at the same time, the flesh around his wounds was feverish, painful and swollen. He was fairly certain that he would die from blood poisoning if he were allowed to live that long, which he doubted. Growing up in the Marshlands, he had experienced his fair share of accidents, and the first rule of any open wound was to clean and dress it immediately. If anyplace was more foul than the Marshlands, it was the castle dungeon in Ort City.

He took his time and finally managed to prop his back against the rough wooden door. Then there was nothing left to do but wait. He had no way of guessing how much time was passing, and his mind began to wander. He wasn’t sure if he was delusional, or if the magical presence nearby was showing him things. He could see bright meadows full of flowers. Queen Issalyn was there, dancing among the flowers, calling Lorik’s name. He wanted to go to her, but his body would not respond. Then he saw Yettlebor, fat and sickly. He attacked and killed Issalyn.

Lorik screamed in pain and frustration. The dream or delusion always caused him to jerk and twitch; the pain from his wounds drove away the even more painful visions. He tried to understand what had happened to lady Issalyn. She had professed such love for him when he rescued her in Baskla and when they had lived together in the King Tree. She had grown bored there, he knew that, but he had never guessed that she was bored with him. And the fact that she was now Yettlebor’s lover seemed ludicrous, but there was no other explanation. Issalyn had sent Kierian to lure him to the castle. She had betrayed him, and that fact hurt more than any wound. In fact it made Lorik wish for his own death. If he had possessed a weapon of some type he would have slashed his own throat, but he was helpless.

No, helpless wasn’t the right word, he was constrained, he thought to himself. The magic called to him. If he could get to it, he might find the strength to avenge the wrongs that had been committed against him. But he was trapped in the room, too weak to escape. He would have to wait for the right opportunity, which meant he would have to endure more pain. But he could endure anything that Yettlebor might do to him. Nothing could hurt worse than Issalyn’s betrayal, and the hope that he might find a way to strike back at her burned bright in his heart.

In the back of his mind he felt a pang of guilt. He was not a vengeful person. He had in fact come to Ort City with the intentions of killing Yettlebor, if that was the only way to remove the fat imposter from the throne. But he had been caught, it was as simple as that. There could be no mercy for traitors, but Lorik had arrogantly assumed that he wouldn’t be caught or punished. The realization of his feelings about his predicament only made him more angry. He had been a fool, and soon he would be dead, but he vowed to wreak as much havoc as he could before he died.

Occasionally he heard the other prisoners. Some whimpered miserably, the others cackled with obvious delusion. Lorik hoped his own mind was strong enough to endure the horrors of the dungeon and the torture that was surely in his future. Then another vision would suddenly appear: his friends, tender moments with Vera, his parents, the thrill of wielding his swords in battle. But each one was marred by some nightmarish scene: his friends dying, the places he loved being suddenly destroyed, his modesty exposed and mocked, visions of his parents’ bodies rotting in their graves. The worst delusion was seeing Yettlebor taking the Swords of Acromin from him and leaving him helpless on the battlefield. He felt the loss of the twin swords almost like a missing limb. They, as much as anything, had been the badge of his right to rule Ortis, and now they were in the hands of the imposter who had taken the throne. And even worse than anything else, Yettlebor had taken Issalyn.

Lorik thought he was having another dream when he saw light come faintly under the door. Then he heard the sound of boots on the winding stairs that led down to the dungeon and the light grew brighter. He heard voices too, and then a key sliding into a rusty lock above his head. He tried to move, but he wasn’t fast enough. His wounded body simply wouldn’t respond to his commands, and as the door swung open he toppled over.

“Look at this,”
one of the men above him said with cruel laugh. “He’s a sight.”

“Not what I expected,”
said the other man.

“Better hoist him up.”

Lorik’s eyes ached from the sudden light of the torch and he was doing his best to adjust to the abrupt change in his surroundings. His wounds made his head swim with pain, and his stomach twisted again, threatening to revolt. He felt the men hook their hands under his arms, then he was hauled upright. But the stress on his arm was so horrible that he nearly passed out. Bright spots swam around him, even though his eyes were closed. The men took hold of Lorik’s belt and began hauling him up the stairs.

The pain made Lorik’s mind retreat. He was awake, but not really aware of what was happening. The men who carried him were talking, but he couldn’t make sense of their words. There were other voices too, people watching as he was half carried, half dragged down a long corridor. The looks on the faces were of horror and despair, but perhaps that was just Lorik’s own feelings projected onto the people he saw.

He passed out after a while, and when he came to he was on a wooden table. His arms and legs were tied down with thick leather straps. He was able to raise his head and see the heinous looking tools that hung on the walls of the small room. High above him was a balcony, and he could make out the round silhouettes of heads as people leaned out and watched what was happening below. Past them all was the clear, bright blue sky. It was so beautiful that his heart ached at the sight of it. After the terror and pain of the dungeon, to see the sky was both a blessing and a curse. It shored up his resolve to find a way to strike back at his enemies. No matter what they did to him, he would survive. He wouldn’t let himself die until he had a chance to hurt Yettlebor the way the fat imposter king had hurt him.

“Good, you’re awake,”
said a grim voice from the space behind Lorik’s head. “I took the liberty of stitching up those wounds of yours. That was some nasty business, but we don’t want you to die on us too soon.”

There was sickening glee in the voice, but Lorik used the fear he felt to harden his resolve. No matter what they did to him, he would find a way to have his revenge.

“Are you ready my lord?”
the voice shouted up.

“We are,”
said a voice that Lorik recognized.

Yettlebor and his boot-licking sycophants were watching Lorik’s torture as if it were entertainment.

“Then we shall begin,”
the voice behind Lorik said. “My king wants to know your plans, Lorik. Tell us what we want to know, and the pain will stop.”

The man moved into Lorik’s field of view. He was a thin man, his back was crooked, and he shuffled rather than walked. His hair was thin and greasy, and he wore thick leather gloves, much the same as a blacksmith might wear when handling hot metal. He had a hammer in one hand, but unlike a smith’s mallet or forging hammer, this tool was small. He leaned forward, using his free hand to press down on Lorik’s right hand until his fingers were flat against the wooden table. Then the hammer was smashed hard against Lorik’s pinky. He heard as well as felt the bone shatter, but he didn’t cry out. He strained against his bonds, and focused on breathing through the agony as one by one his fingers were ruined.

His mind soon blocked the pain and retreated deep inside him. His entire right arm was a mass of pain, but he ignored it. He could see the heads bobbing on the balcony above, but he ignored them as well. Instead, he focused his entire attention on the blue sky until he felt like he was a part of the sky. He was in the blue and it was in him. A bucket of water was thrown over him, shocking him back to reality.

“Now, you’re a tough piece of work,”
the torturer said. “But we’re just getting started, unless you want to talk.”

Lorik said nothing.

“He’s refusing to talk, my lord.”

“Carry on,”
the king commanded.

His other hand was next, the knuckles shattering under repeated blows from the small hammer. Whenever the pain took too great a toll, the torturer threw cold water over Lorik’s head. Once his hands were completely ruined, the man shoved long, red hot, metal rods into Lorik’s shoulders. The pain, his burning flesh, and the fetid odor made him feel as if he were truly going mad. His mouth moved in silent curses and at one point the king called down to see if Lorik was talking.

“Hasn’t made a sound, my lord,”
the torturer replied. “Perhaps he’s mute?”

Everything that came before was eclipsed when the rod was pressed on by the torturer. Lorik’s whole world became pain and he was lost in it, like a man drowning in a bottomless sea. Then his shoulder popped out of its socket and the rod was removed. Every breath caused a wave of pain that radiated from his neck down to his feet. Hot tears rolled down the sides of Lorik’s head, but he forced himself to move as little as possible. When both shoulders had been popped out of their sockets, the torture finally ended.

Lorik drifted in and out of consciousness as the torturer saw to his tools and then left the tiny courtyard. The next thing Lorik knew, water was falling from the sky. He thought it was rain, but quickly discovered that it was urine. Someone was pissing on him from the balcony above. His mind grew obsessed with revenge. In his agony, it was all he could think about.

As the sky turned from blue to red, and then began to grow dark, he was left alone. But once night fell, guards returned to the room. They lifted the torture rack with Lorik still strapped to it and carried him out of the castle. The streets were lined with people, and Lorik had seen such mobs before. As expected, the people jeered. Some spit at him, other threw trash or animal droppings at him. Once he was paraded through the city, and every step, every bounce and jar the rack made sent agonizing pain through Lorik, he was finally propped on a tall wooden platform in the city square. Torches lit the area like it was the stage for a troupe of entertainers, The crowd mocked the king's prisoner. He was Lorik the leper, Lorik the unfortunate, Lorik the laughable.

Finally King Yettlebor arrived with an entourage of nobles, including Queen Issalyn. They took their places on the platform where they stared at Lorik. He had trouble seeing them clearly, at least until a servant stuffed a bitter wad of herbs into his mouth. He tried to spit them out, but water was poured into his mouth with such force that he had to swallow and was left coughing and sputtering. The herbs focused his mind so he could feel every cut, every broken bone, but also hear and see clearly. It was as if his mind, groggy from the pain, was suddenly wide awake and aware of everything happening around him.

“This,”
said a man who stepped to the front of the platform, “is the trial of Lorik the traitor. Many of you have heard of the deeds he allegedly performed as he sought to take the throne of Ortis. Those stories, lies and exaggerations all, have no bearing on this trial. What we are concerned with here is the fact that Lorik of Hassell Point, a common man of no family, no title, and no rights whatsoever did knowingly enter his majesty’s castle in secret. He then swore to our good Queen Issalyn to murder the king in cold blood. These statements were heard by no fewer than a dozen of the king’s own men. His guilt is beyond question, but our laws require that we give the offender’s family and friends the opportunity to plead for his life before the king pronounces his sentence. Is there any here who would speak up for this man?”