Siege of Night (9 page)

“I know of whom you speak,” she said, sounding as serious as he looked. “The witch. The old lady who served Dragot, but claims to have betrayed him at some point.” She crossed her arms and gazed upward with an amused smile. “I suppose I would have said the same thing if it were me sitting in a cell.”

“Ah, yes...the very one.” He clapped his bony hands together once more. “I think it would be beneficial for all parties involved if I could have a few words.” He continually rubbed his hands together as he spoke, but abruptly stopped when Ilirra seemed to be taking a bit longer than what he deemed necessary to give a simple answer.

“I am under the impression you would sneak down there anyway regardless of what I say, so I will spare us both the trouble of that and arrange a quick meeting.” She then turned and began to leave. In reality she thought it was actually good idea. Who knew what the witch was capable of, and it was probably best for someone like Berkeni to have a look at her.

She just hadn’t wanted to give in to the man that easily.

* * *

Addel leaned back against the ridged brown stone wall with her bony legs straight out in front of her. Each block was jagged and could easily cut anyone who ran any exposed skin across its cold, rough surface. Two small piles of thick yellow hay were separated into adjacent corners of the dark musty room. One was used as a bed, the other as a lavatory. The choice was entirely up to the prisoner. However, it was always advisable to remember which was which.

The small, dank cell contained no source of light. The only light was provided by four small torches out in the walkway, one of which she could see through the wall of narrow bars, complete with metal cage door. She actually felt fortunate to have a burning torch on the stone wall just outside her cell, for this room got far more direct light than any of the others.
They must love me
. The fleeting thought entertained her enough to crack a small smile as she lay there, pondering what her fate might be.

Her thoughts were not haunting, or even of a dark nature. Nothing mattered now, as even the probability of execution seemed no less than she deserved. Had she stayed in the black crystal tower with Dragot, her death could never have come soon enough. At least this way it would be quick and merciful, or so she hoped. No matter; her conscience was clear, knowing she did what she could to help Eric. In fact, if she hadn’t, things could have gone much worse for him.

She didn’t move at all when the light clicking sounds of the thick iron lock being fiddled with echoed softly down the walkway, nor when the thick wooden door opened then slammed shut. Even the sound of several heavy boots pounding the stone floor as they got closer and closer to her cell were hardly enough to make her raise her eyes.

When she finally spared a glance toward the wall of bars, there stood before her what she at least partially expected. Four heavily armored guards stood there just glaring at her, but the little, bald man with the long, thin, gray beard sure looked out of place with this bunch.

The funny-looking little man just waved his hand in a dismissive flick, and the soldiers turned and left without question. That simple display actually said quite a bit to Addel, as it proved he had some real authority here. “Well, hello there,” came the high-pitched, scratchy voice. “My name is Berkeni. And to whom am I speaking with this evening?”

She cracked a small, sarcastic smile as she leaned her head back flush against the stone wall. “Are you the one they’ve sent to kill me?”

“Why, nothing of the sort!” he replied, looking a touch offended. Then he quickly raised an eyebrow. “That is not to say that I couldn’t...if I wanted to.” She actually let out a soft laugh, but her smile faded quickly, feeling stupid for having been caught off-guard by the little man’s dry humor.

“Don’t tease me, old man. If you are going to kill me, then let’s get on with it. If you want something else from me then just say it.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to embrace death nor hold it in such high regard...old lady,” he said with a sudden hardness in his voice. “From what I can gather, you still have a pulse, and as to whether or not that luxury remains will depend completely on your cooperation.”

“Or what? You’ll put a sword in my hand and send me off to the games?” she replied with a sheepish grin. “I’ll bet I can make it at least two rounds.”

Berkeni moved up close to the bars. “They tell me you betrayed Dragot and provided aid to the Gate Keeper. Is this true?”

“What does it matter what I say? You will believe whatever you want and then find reason to execute me. To be perfectly honest—” The words hung in the air for a moment as she looked away. Berkeni stood with his hands on the bars, patiently waiting for her to finish. “To be honest...it’s exactly what I deserve!” She buried her head in her knees and began to sob uncontrollably.

She couldn’t stop no matter how hard she tried to control her flooding emotions. The shame of what she had done flowed through her like a river. She thought helping Eric had cleared her mind, freed her soul, but it wasn’t enough. The shame of crying like a child in front of the enemy so he would be given one final opportunity to laugh at how pathetic she was before sending her to the afterlife was overwhelming. She thought about her poor family, who had to hide their shameful child and could never lead a normal life; about her betrayal of humanity. It came raging through her in the form of unrelenting emotion that couldn’t be controlled.

Berkeni watched the volatile scene unfold, but his face remained hard as stone... as did his voice. “You still haven’t answered my questions! Did you betray Dragot? Did you aid the Gate Keeper?”

“Yes...yes!” she screamed with tears running down face; her entire body convulsing with uncontrollable sobs. “But what does that matter? It’s such a token gesture in the light of my complete betrayal to humanity. Has my small, pitiful act of courageousness saved my soul? Do I deserve to be forgiven after aiding that snake for as long as I did?”

She rose and hobbled up as close to the bars as quickly as she was capable. Berkeni stood his ground, not backing up an inch. His face remained cold and emotionless. She looked hard into his eyes as she grasped his hands through the bars. He never pulled back or even tried to resist. “Please...kill me. Release me from this torment. The guilt—it feeds on me from the inside. Just make it end!”

She dropped to her knees while still holding his hands. Berkeni was nearly impossible to lie to. There was no doubt of her sincerity. She had indeed betrayed Dragot and helped Eric. Nor was there any doubt that she indeed wanted to die. The guilt of all she had done before switching alliances was breaking her soul.

“I will not kill you,” he said at length. “That would be the easy way out, and you owe a debt.” She began to sob again, only much softer this time as she retracted her hands and placed them on top of her head. “Instead, you will work toward your salvation. Earn the right to rejoin humanity once more!” Then he reached through the bars and gently held her chin, raising her head so she now faced him. Her face was twisted with pain, her good eye bloodshot, flowing with tears.

In the softest, kindest voice, he whispered, “You will aid me personally as my assistant. I promise you, not only will you have the chance to redeem yourself for the sins you have committed because of a lack of options, not because you are inherently evil—I also offer you revenge on the serpent who stole your life!”

In an instant all the sadness in her belly turned to a smoldering fire she hadn’t felt in years. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so alive.

Chapter 6

Athel took several deep breaths before stretching down to touch her toes. With knees locked out and legs perfectly straight, she placed her palms flat on the ground while her gaze drifted past her shins to the stone wall. She wore no clothing that would hinder her physically, aside from a black cloth thong and a thin, tight, black wool strap across her nipples that added support but did nothing to contain neither the top nor bottom of her breasts.

Standing back up from her bent-over pose, she reached high toward the ceiling with her palms facing up. Her sharp release of air made a slight whistling sound through her two silver teeth, turning into a fine vapor mist that levitated into the ever-cool room. She then clasped her palms together and brought them down in front of her chest, holding the position for some time.

Opening her bright green eyes for a moment, she gazed around her private training facility. Crude wooden dummies that were nothing more than smooth, thick posts dug deep into the floor with replaceable pegs flaring out in all directions were scattered about the room in no particular pattern. The wooden floor was covered with thin white carpet, dingy and hole-filled but still slightly better than nothing.

Five oil lanterns flickered away while casting shadows off the training dummies, making them appear to have many more arms than they actually did. There was only one small weapons rack in the corner containing nothing more than a steel-tipped spear and two short-swords. No pictures or art of any kind aided in covering the drab, cold, stone walls.

She listlessly reached her hands high into the air once again, but this time continued the path backward until her palms were placed firmly on the floor behind her. With her body now contorted into a backwards arch, she lifted her feet toward the ceiling, then over her hands once again, completing the slow-motion handspring.

Athel dropped down into a split position with her feet flared out to the side, then reached out as far as she could, placing her heavily muscled stomach flat across the floor. Smooth, dark skin tightly stretched over defined shoulder and back muscles glistened with sweat, reflecting the light flickering from the lanterns as she reached out. The floor itself clearly seemed to be the only limit to her remarkable flexibility.

She pushed off the ground and slowly slid her legs back together, once again standing in her original position. Athel stalked over to the corner of the room with a little bounce in her step, feeling warmed up and limber despite the constant damp coolness of the room she was long used to. Reaching down, she grabbed her two gleaming half-moon blades from the floor and without hesitation began a series of vicious twirling movements as flashing steel began to dance all around her.

The Dronin-blade style differed from others because nearly every thrust was meant to kill. There was no feeling-out process or probing shots meant to test an opponent, and certainly no defensive tactics to speak of—just an offensive explosion meant to overwhelm the enemy quickly. Athel’s reputation for being one of the best was certainly well earned.

In a sudden explosion she tore through the wooden dummies with frightening speed, throwing her full weight behind each leaping and spinning slash. Once solid wooden arms now flew in all directions as the loud cracking of wood being annihilated by cold metal echoed off the stone walls in the small room. Twisting and spinning, with all her momentum behind each and every slash, she paused on one occasion only to drop into a low, coiled crouch, then jumped into a vicious bladed uppercut, splitting the top of the dummy clean in half.

When her dance of carnage was complete only seconds later, she gazed back to see what was left of her assortment of wooden victims. Broken wooden arms with surprisingly clean breaks lay scattered about the floor. A few unavoidable splintered shavings lay here and there, but it was all large pieces of cleanly sliced wood for the most part. She breathed heavily, light steam forming in the air with every puff as she glided back over to where her pile of clothes lay.

The only drawback to the Dronin-blade style was the extensive use of energy, which had the potential to tire the combatant quickly. Of course, the only way to expose this weakness was to hold on long enough for the effects of fatigue to take place—a theory no one in the games or otherwise had ever been able to test to this point.

Although Athel never heard the door open, she knew Grandling was standing in the room. She never made a move for her clothes as she turned slowly and leaned against the cold wall, eyeing the big man up and down with his long, braided beard spilling over the front of his chest. Virtually naked, she finally shook her head back and forth with an exaggerated rattle while raising both palms in an impatient shrug. “Yes?” she said as the silence went on for far too long.

His wandering eyes snapped into focus at last. “Your father wishes to speak with you.”

She let out a long sigh. “Fine. Where is he?”

He paused a moment as his wandering eyes seemed to be acting on their own once more. With great effort, he raised them again and replied, “He is in his den, making final preparations. He awaits you, my lady.”

“Preparations for what?” she asked. He turned his back on her and left the room. She just shrugged and went back to her waiting clothes pile. As she dressed, her mind began to race a bit.

Because of the blood running through her veins, it was true she held a marginal amount of authority in Dronin, but as far as the amount she had earned in her father’s eyes, it was immeasurably small. They rarely saw eye to eye on anything, and he certainly didn’t respect her opinion on any business matters. So what could he be preparing that she was somehow
now
to be involved in?

She suddenly felt foolish for giving the small matter this much attention. He undoubtedly needed her to run an errand or some other such menial task that any servant was more than capable of. When she protested as she always did, he would point out how he could only entrust this task to her and no other, then she would reluctantly become his errand girl for the hundredth time. They had been round and round with this familiar dance many times before.