The Fighters: Master of Chains Page 5

  Ryder looked down at himself. His shirt was torn and bloodied, but the gash in his stomach was no longer there. He grabbed his gut, running his fingers along the fresh scar where the soldier's blade had cut him.

  "I'm not dead."

  The guardsmen laughed.

  "Not yet," said the captain.

  Ryder swung his feet around and planted them on the floor. He gripped the edge of the cot with both hands. "What is it you want from me?"

  Captain Phinneous spun the bucket upside down, slapped it to the ground, put one foot atop it, and leaned down into Ryder's face. "We want you to tell us all you know about the Crimson Awl."

  Ryder looked at the floor and shook his head. "Afraid I can't do that."

  A sharp thud filled the small room, and the wooden bucket flew off the floor, hitting Ryder. The lights in the dungeon room flashed brighter as the heavy wood hit him in the face and his head flew backward, slam­ming against the stone wall. He could feel blood dripping from a new wound on his cheek, and his head began to thump with pain.

  "That was uncalled for."

  Captain Phinneous's fist connected with Ryder's jaw, and the lights flashed again.

  "And that?" inquired the captain. "I suppose that wasn't needed either?"

  Ryder gripped his jaw, jiggling it a little. It felt as though it might come unhinged. "Yeah, that too."

  Four hands grabbed Ryder by his torn shirt and lifted him to his feet.

  "I want you to know," said the captain, his voice even, "that I don't intend to play these games with you."

  Ryder, held like a rag doll between the burly guards, looked up at Phinneous. "Is that what this is? A game? You boys really need to get out and have more fun. Now horseshoes, that's a good game. This, this is..."

  Phinneous smashed him in the gut with another fist. A dull pain flooded his abdomen and ran up his spine. When it reached the back of his head, it grew sharper and spread out, like a handful of skeletal fingers. The clawing bones scratched at his skull, and Ryder had to close his eyes simply to hold himself together.

  "You're right," said Phinneous. "We do need to have more fun."

  Ryder pried his eyes open to see the captain cross the tiny dungeon cell and lift one of the torches out of its sconce.

  "If you don't like that game, maybe you'll like this one better." Phinneous's face broke into a huge grin as he came back. His upper lip curled, pulled awkwardly to one side by old scar tissue. "I call it 'burn the rebel.'" He lowered the torch next to Ryder's face. "It's one of my favorites."

  * * * *

  Liam sat in the same spot he had for the past two days, looking into the fire. The flames grew quickly, then fell back again. Rising and falling, rising and falling. It was as if they were trying to leap off the log and fly up the stone chimney to escape. But there was no escape. They were chained to the source of their life, stuck to the burning log until it was completely consumed and they were extinguished.

  A heavy knock came at the door.

  "They've come," said Angeline.

  Liam jumped to his feet, grabbing his sword from the table.

  "Calm down," soothed Samira. "It's probably just the neighbors." She glared at the older woman as she crossed to the door.

  Liam lowered his blade but didn't put it down.

  Samira slid aside the wooden slat in the door and peered through. "Yes?" she said. "What do you want?"

  "Ma'am, my name is Captain Beetlestone," came the voice through the door. "I'm here for Liam of Duhlnarim."

  Samira turned to look back at Liam.

  Liam shook his head. He'd been so stupid. That door was the only way in or out of this house.

  Samira nodded and turned back to the door. "He's not—"

  "We know he's in there," said Captain Beetlestone. "Don't make this any harder on yourself than it has to be. Let us in, or we'll be forced to break down the door."

  "Now you listen here," said Samira, leaning closer to the slat. "You can't just come to my house, pound on the door, and call me a liar."

  Liam could see her body stiffen as she wound up to tell the captain off.

  "I pay the overblown taxes the baron levies like every other good citizen, and in return I expect to get some respect from his thugs." She slammed the slat shut. As she backed away, she placed both hands on the heavy crossbeam and gave it a little shove, checking to make sure it was closed tight. The thick wood didn't budge. It was closed as far as it would go.

  Samira spun around, a smirk on her face. "Let's see them try to break through that."

  As if in response, something heavy crashed against the wood. The door groaned and some dust floated out from between the seams, but it held.

  Liam had helped Ryder install the extra-heavy crossbeam not long after the two of them had joined the Crimson Awl. Ryder had wanted it as an extra precau­tion. "For Samira's sake," he had said.

  Back then, Liam never imagined it would be his life the heavy wood would protect.

  "Get over here, away from the door." Liam grabbed Samira by the shoulder and pulled her back toward the other side of the house, next to his mother. He put himself between the two women and the door.

  Again something smashed the door, but this time it sounded heavier. If the first sound had been a boot heel, this had been a warhammer or a heavy maul. The crash­ing sounds grew in frequency, landing on the door too fast for them to be made by just one man.

  Liam looked back at Samira. "How many of them are out there?"

  Samira shrugged. "Through the slat, I only saw three ... no, four guardsmen."

  Three he could maybe take. Four was pushing it, and if there were any others, he'd be far too outnumbered to have any chance. Liam started to look around the house. There were no windows, and the only other access to the outside world was through the chimney. For a heartbeat, Liam thought perhaps he could squeeze himself up and out onto the roof. But the fire had been burning all morn­ing and afternoon. Even if he put it out, the bricks would be far too hot for him to touch.

  He didn't have much time.

  "Liam," his mother gripped his arm, "We're trapped in here. What are you going to do?"

  Liam gritted his teeth. "Thank you, mother, for your insightful observation," he spat. "I'm working on it."

  "Well, you'd better hurry."

  His mother had a way of getting under his skin at the most inopportune moments.

  Just then the pounding on the door stopped. Despite their best efforts, Baron Purdun's elite guardsmen had been unable to break through the heavy crossbeam.

  Angeline sighed. "Thank Lathander for his protec­tion, it held."

  "It's not over yet," said Liam.

  "Liam of Duhlnarim," Captain Beetlestone's shouting was muffled by the stone walls and wooden door. "Sur­render yourself into our custody, or we will be forced to smoke you out."

  "Liam," said his mother, the sound of worry evident in her voice, "what do they mean?"

  Samira put her arms around the older woman. "It means they intend to burn down the house."

  Angeline gasped.

  Liam could see the fear in their eyes. He felt it too. But more than fear, he felt guilt. Guilt over having caused this. Guilt for having put these two women through so much.

  "Liam of Duhlnarim," came the dull, shouting voice again. "This is your last chance. Come out now, or we'll light the roof."

  Liam looked at the heavy wooden door. He had no choice. Placing his sword on the table, he turned to his mother and Samira and put his arms around them.

  "Take good care of each other," he said. "I'll miss you both very much." Then he turned and headed for the door.

  * * * *

  Ryder lay on the floor. His body ached from the beat­ings. His skin wept from the burnings.

  Captain Phinneous stood over him, a spent torch in his hand, and a line of sweat dripping from his shiny, hairless forehead. "This is your last chance, Ryder. Tell me what I want to know, or you die here and now."

  Ryder's h
ead lolled back on his shoulders. "Go ahead and kill me."

  Captain Phinneous gripped the remnants of the torch tightly in both hands. "Are you so worthless that you don't even respect your own life?"

  Ryder let his head slide gently to the stone floor. "If you kill me now, I will be immortalized." He coughed, a thick ball of phlegm dislodging itself. He spat the mucus and the accompanying blood out beside him, then continued. "The Crimson Awl shall chant my name as they knock down the portcullis and ransack Zerith Hold." He smiled as the image of the resistance marching on this fortress, killing the guards and overthrowing Purdun, ran through his head. It was the most beautiful sight. "I'll become a martyr."

  Phinneous chuckled. "Get a load of this one, boys. Delusions of grandeur." He dropped the spent torch to the ground. "So tell me this. If your death somehow miraculously provides the motivation for the Crimson Awl to overcome this fortress and all the guards inside of it—something they've been unable to do for over two years now—then why didn't you get yourself killed long ago?"

  The other guardsmen laughed.

  "Seems you've been holding your boys back," said Phinneous.

  Ryder just closed his eyes and tried to focus on the parts of his body that didn't hurt so much. Phinneous wasn't going to kill him. It would be too beneficial to the rebels to have a rallying cry, someone to fight for.

  "You're missing another very important detail," continued the captain.

  "Yeah?" replied Ryder. "What's that?"

  "It was one of your own who tipped us off about the ambush."

  Ryder's eyes shot open.

  "Seems one of your own boys wants you dead." Phinneous leaned over, filling Ryder's view with his scar-encrusted bald head. "Last chance. Are you going to tell me what I want to know?"

  Ryder swallowed hard and shook his head. "Never. I don't believe you."

  "That's what I thought." Captain Phinneous kicked Ryder in the ribs, knocking the wind from him.

  Ryder was already in so much pain that it hurt more to double over than to just lie there and let his ribs throb.

  "Ryder of Duhlnarim," Captain Phinneous's voice became more formal. "I hereby charge you with the crime of conspiracy to kill the baron, Lord Purdun. Furthermore, with the crimes of organizing and leading a criminal organization in the action of attempting to murder Princess Dijara, the king's sister and the wife of Lord Purdun—"

  "What?" shouted Ryder. "I did no such—"

  Phinneous's boot came down on Ryder's stomach, silencing his objection. "And finally, with the crime of conspiracy to overthrow the country of Erlkazar." He leaned down, a big smile on his scar tissue-covered lips. "How do you plead?"

  "This is preposterous—"

  Captain Phinneous punched Ryder in the jaw. With his head against the hard stone floor, there was nowhere for it to go. His skull bounced as it absorbed the entire force of the blow.

  "Right, then." Phinneous stood up. "You all heard the man," he said, pointing to each of the guardsmen. "A plea of guilty will be reflected in the record."

  The guardsmen all nodded.

  "This is no court," pleaded Ryder. "I demand to see the barrister."

  "As punishment, I, Captain Phinneous, commander of Lord Purdun's elite guard, sentence you to a life of hard labor. You will be assigned to a chain gang and marched to the farthest peninsula of the Dragon Coast, where you will be sold as a slave to the traders and businessmen of Westgate. The warehouses there are overflowing with merchandise, and they have need of strong backs."

  Captain Phinneous turned to the door. "Our work here is done, gentlemen." Placing the key in the lock, he let himself out. "Let's leave our friend here alone, so he can enjoy his last few moments as a free man in peace. His life as a slave begins today."

  Chapter 5

  Liam marched across the drawbridge, stopping just short of the portcullis guarding Zerith Hold, Lord Purdun's stronghold in Duhlnarim. The young revolutionary was accompanied by nearly two-dozen guardsmen.

  Apparently the baron considered Liam a very dangerous man.

  Without a word from Captain Beetlestone or any of the other guards, someone raised the portcullis before them. The clanking of the heavy chains as they lifted the iron gate reminded Liam of the sound of a ship's anchor. When he and Ryder were young boys, they used to hang out by the docks in Port Duhlnarim—only a stone's throw from where he was now—pretending they were pirates about to sail away on an adventure.

  The sound of anchor chains meant a ship was about to leave port. Liam had loved to watch the tremen­dous sails being hoisted, snapping taut as they filled with air. He had always dreamed of one day taking a voyage far away from Erlkazar. The clanging of the portcullis raising reminded him of those childhood feelings. Now, more than ever, he wished he were aboard one of those ships, sailing away.

  The iron gate reached its full height and stopped. Along its bottom edge, a dozen sharp spikes angled downward like a set of dragon's teeth ready to devour anyone foolish enough to enter. The sharpened metal had corroded some over the years. Its marred, pockmarked surface was reddish brown, either from rust or the coagu­lated blood of its victims.

  Behind the portcullis, a set of huge wooden doors, banded together with iron, swung open. Liam imagined it would take an elephant, or perhaps a pair of them, to knock them down. He could honestly say they were the largest doors in Duhlnarim. Hells, they were the largest doors he'd seen in his whole life.

  Captain Beetlestone shoved Liam with the butt of his sword. The pointed metal dug into his back and Liam lurched forward through the opening. He had never been inside Zerith Hold before. This had always been the prize the Crimson Awl had coveted. He could hear Ryder's words echo in his head. "When the time is right, we will storm the gates and kill the oppressive bastards inside.''

  Liam had always believed those words. But he could see it was going to be a lot harder than they had imagined.

  Just inside the front gate, the stone walls were lined with archer's ports—murder slits, Liam had heard them called. As he was marched by, he could see that even now they were manned. Past the entryway, the front courtyard was built exclusively to repel invaders. An open staging ground filled most of the space between the stone walls, but there were raised platforms, perches for more archers, arranged around the edges. From his vantage point, Liam thought you could likely station thirty, maybe forty men on these platforms. Anyone entering this killing field would be surrounded, faced with arrows from all sides.

  Across the open courtyard, Beetlestone shoved Liam from behind again, forcing him to follow the other guardsmen up a shallow flight of stone stairs. At the top was another doorway. This one, though not as grand as the portcullis and monolithic wooden doors they'd just passed through, would likely hold out against any invading force the Awl could muster.

  The double doors were manned by four fully armed soldiers. As Liam and his escorts approached, the guards separated, two on each side, and pulled the doors open. The huge iron hinges made a grinding noise, not the complaint of a rarely used mechanism suddenly having to work after a long rest, but simply from shouldering the burden of a heavy weight.

  Liam was ushered inside through an opulent entry hall and up another flight of stone stairs, these covered with a fine red rug. It was like nothing he'd ever seen. Paintings of regal-looking men and woman lined the walls. Treasures of all kinds filled nooks and decorated tables. Suits of antiquated armor, relics from past wars and from foreign nations, stood motionless along the wide hallways. The spoils of war were arrayed in every possible location—a strong word of warning to visiting dignitaries.

  At the top of a final flight of stairs, Liam's entourage came to one last set of doors. Unlike the others they had encountered, these were small and unguarded. The dark wood was polished to a high shine, and the ornate brass doorknobs shone brightly in the late afternoon sun.

  Captain Beetlestone pushed the doors open, and Liam was ushered into a large, well-appointed room. There were tables an
d chairs situated in little clusters all about, as if the primary use for this room were for small groups of people to carry on intimate conversations. On the opposite side of the room was another, single door. It was closed.

  In the corners, each partially hidden by a tall wooden bookshelf, stood four well-disciplined soldiers. They wore white capes, closed at the front. Their shoulders were adorned with golden embroidery, and their helmets had what appeared to be silver-etched runes running along their edges. All of them had their heads bowed. From this distance, Liam couldn't tell what sorts of weapons they carried. Their capes covered everything.

  Though they were tucked away behind the furniture, they didn't appear to Liam as if they were trying to stay out of view. On the contrary, they seemed to be stationed in easy sight of the front door and the windows along the far wall. Anyone entering the chamber would see—and be seen by—them.

  Unlike the guards who had escorted Liam from his home, these ones were oddly different. They stood stock still, each in his place, not seeming to care about the events unfolding before them. They stared, eyes to the floor, as if they were golems waiting patiently for their orders.

  Captain Beetlestone produced a pair of manacles and held them out before Liam. "Keep your wrists together," he said, "and this won't even hurt."

  Liam glanced again at the guardsmen. Deciding it was a good idea to follow the captain's instructions, he lifted his arms, placing his wrists together. "If I'd known your dungeon was this nice, I would have given myself up long ago."

  Beetlestone smirked. "And if I'd known you were such a pansy, I would have come to collect you before now." He finished clasping the irons around Liam's wrists, then he slapped him on the back of the head.