Chapter 30

Gueryn moved in and out of his dreamlike state, never lingering long enough in consciousness to react to his surrounds. Soft light eased across his senses now and then, together with hushed voices. Pain accompanied his brief waking moments and that in itself would send him fleeing back to the dark…to safety.

Gradually the periods of awareness began to lengthen until the voices belonged to murky faces, which were joined by probing hands. The light that filtered through his fluttering lids, he gleaned, came from candles. The pain itself was all-encompassing but increasingly he could bear it for longer without having to run from it.

He became aware that he was on his belly, his face turned sideways, and the muttering people worked at his back. Slowly, very slowly, like blood seeping through thick fabric, memory returned. He had been struck by an arrow—had expected as much and had fully accepted death as a result.

What am I doing alive? Where am I?

“Drink.” a distant voice said.

He was rolled onto his side, flashes of pain arcing through him. An artfully cut reed served as a clever method of allowing him to sip easily from the proffered cup.

“What?” He groaned. It was all he could force his voice to say.

His mumblings made sense, for the man answered: “Poppy.”

And then oblivion claimed him, the pain drifting in the opposite direction to where he felt he was headed. At regular intervals this blissful state was interrupted, much to his annoyance. And the familiar fingers would unwrap dressings and push deep into his angry wound. He knew they were looking for infection, waiting for the telltale odor. Seemingly it had chosen to be absent on this occasion, which he regretted. Death, he knew, was his friend. The poppy-seed liquor he so gratefully swallowed was all too quickly diluted until he could hardly taste its bitter presence. They were bringing him fully to his wits now so he could face his healers, bear his pain…recover.

On one of these occasions he realized he was fully awake and staring into the leathery face of a man—not especially old but then not particularly young, ageless, in fact—whose single most daunting feature was the amount of dark hair about him. On his chin, around his face. Wild it was.

“Good morning,” the man said.

Gueryn tried to speak but coughed instead, a fresh spasm of pain gleefully taking over from his cough, leaving him panting and perspiring.

“Don’t speak. I am Rashlyn, healer to King Cailech… among other things,” the man said.

Gueryn groaned. Cailech! He was back in the Mountain fortress.

“You must have a strong will to live, my friend. All the early signs told me you were for Haldor’s arms.”

Haldor be damned! Gueryn thought, wishing he could say it aloud but he was too weak.

Rashlyn corrected himself. “Ah, but my apologies. You would be a man of Shar, no doubt. Well, let’s just say you would not have lived but for an extraordinary desire to hold onto life.” He smiled sadly but the words that followed did not match the smile—they sounded cruel. “A pity. I fear death might have been easier.”

“Then kill me now.” Gueryn managed to utter.

The healer was amused. “I like my own life too much to do that.” he said before becoming more serious. “Cailech is to be informed that you have woken. Be brave, Morgravian. He respects courage.”

Gueryn gratefully looked away from Cailech’s man as he was rolled onto his belly.

“This poultice must stay on for the day.” Rashlyn warned.

Gueryn said nothing. In fact he had every intention of ripping off the healing herbs as soon as he was able, hoping to encourage an infection to breed quickly in his wound.

As though he fully understood Gueryn’s mindset, Rashlyn added: “You will be bound, I’m sorry…just in case you have a mind to discourage your recovery. Cailech would not be pleased.”

The man clapped and others arrived to tie Gueryn, belly down, to his pallet. They were thorough. He would not be escaping these bonds with any ease. He had no choice but to lie there and wait, fully conscious now, with plenty of time to wonder at what Cailech had in store for him.

He waited many hours in this position, the once hot, uncomfortable poultice cooling sufficiently to feel cold and clammy against his skin. He had even dozed, waking numb and alarmed to realize the sun had moved from high overhead and was now dipping behind the mountains, casting a pink glow across the sky.

As dusk fell Cailech arrived. He came alone, which for Gueryn made his presence seem even more ominous than when surrounded by his henchmen.

Cailech did not stand on any ceremony. “We meet again, soldier.”

“Sadly,” Gueryn replied, his voice thankfully stronger and clear. He was determined his courage would not fail him now. although his neck, after being twisted for so long, ached badly enough for him to crave more poppy liquor.

“Your companions are dead,” the King offered abruptly.

A thrill of fear initially passed through Gueryn but he halted it, controlled it, and pushed it back out at Cailech, who he believed was bluffing.

“I sense a ruse.”

“Why is that?” The King sounded genuinely interested…and amused, which Gueryn found more irritating. The King’s smile all but admitted he had lied.

“Why am I kept alive with such powerful healings if the others—surely more important to you—are dead?”

“You are too hard on yourself, le Gant. You are important to me.”

“How so? Not long ago—forgive me for losing track of time—you were preparing to roast me over the coals.”

“That’s before I was aware of Romen Koreldy’s interest in you,” the King replied more slyly now.

Gueryn knew he was being toyed with. “What is it you want from me? I have nothing to offer you but the glee of my death.”

“Death is too easy now. soldier. You are far more valuable to me alive.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Why is Koreldy so important to you?”

“He has betrayed my trust.” Amusement was gone. A simmering fury replaced it. Even from his prone position. Gueryn could see the anger glittering in the Mountain King’s eyes.

“I cannot help you,” he replied flatly. If he could have turned his head away, he would have.

“Tell me of Koreldy.” Cailech asked.

“That’s the best part, my lord. I know this man you speak of with less familiarity than you. sir.”

“Nevertheless, tell me what you know.”

How he mustered the laugh, Gueryn would never know. He saw how it infuriated the King, wished he had the strength to do it again—louder, longer. “I know nothing. He is a stranger to me.”

“You lie! I saw how he recognized you. Even a fool could not be aware of his concern for you…and I am no fool, le Gant.”

“Then you have me as baffled as he does, my lord King. I had never heard the name Romen Koreldy until he spoke with me on the night of the feast. I was blinded as you recall, sire, so I could not claim him to be a stranger to me until the stitches were removed. I can assure you, I never set eyes on the man until that moment. In truth,” he paused before adding, “I thought he was someone else until my eyes saw him.”

Gueryn watched the King’s confusion at this last comment melt into fascination as obviously some new thought struck him. He noticed the man’s lips purse, go white. The King was struggling to remain calm. Gueryn fully expected Cailech to hit him. He would not care if he did, especially now that his wound was aching again.

“Riddles! I will have the truth, Gueryn le Gant,” Cailech said.

“I have spoken it. Romen Koreldy is unknown to me. Why he finds me so fascinating I can not tell you. Why he went to such trouble on my behalf is a mystery. And why one of your most loyal men would help me to escape is even more of a conundrum.” Gueryn was just short of smirking. He enjoyed using Lothryn’s treachery as a weapon against this man.

Cailech grimaced. His fists clenched. Ah, that one hit the mark, Gueryn thought, pleased with his efforts. The King made a sign toward the door that Gueryn was not able to see. He could hear footsteps arriving and suddenly he was being untied and hauled to his feet between two huge guards. He was too weak to even struggle, too numb to support himself and the nausea from being stood suddenly upright threatened to render him unconscious. It was only the arrival of a terrified and painfully familiar woman that caught his attention, held it and did not permit him to succumb to welcome oblivion.

It was Elspyth. Bruised and ragged. She was sobbing.

“Behold another proud Morgravian, whom I’ve allowed some of my men to… well, soften up. shall we say.” Cailech said, turning back to watch Gueryn closely. “I have Lothryn too… he is a guest of my dungeon for the time being. It’s true Koreldy eludes me.”

Gueryn ignored him. “Elspyth.” he muttered, all hopes dashed, but the woman did not respond.

Elspyth appeared vague and disoriented. He could see nasty welts across her face and a cut in her hairline that had bled down the side of her face and now dried. She looked abused and distant, frightened. Her mouth was shockingly swollen and bruised.

“We have cut her tongue out. le Gant. I’m sorry she cannot talk back to you,” Cailech said, motioning to a guard who held her. The man pulled open her jaw to reveal a black and bloodied mass. Teeth had been broken in the process.

Gueryn felt waves of fury now. He could feel his despair pounding at the site of his wound, his blood pumping angrily around it. Gueryn wanted to wreak violence on this heinous man who could perpetrate such horror on a woman…on any innocent.

“Shar will see you rot for this and your name be spat upon and ultimately forgotten.” he raged, ignoring the pain.

“I do not fear your god, le Gant. But you should fear me.”

“What do you wish to hear?” Gueryn yelled, feeling his wound burst open again and a trickle of something warm ooze down his naked back.

“I wish to know your connection to Romen Koreldy,” Cailech replied in a soft tone, deliberately giving the impression he was bored as he lifted a huge dagger from his belt. He stared at it for a moment and then back at Gueryn, his eyebrow arched in a question.

Gueryn looked from the pathetic, bleeding figure of Elspyth back to the man whom it appeared would be her executioner. Nothing in Cailech’s expression told Gueryn that he was bluffing this time. The evil-looking blade rested loosely in the man’s large hand and it was clear he would not hesitate to use it.

Gueryn shook his head in silent disbelief. He was helpless. He could no more save this woman’s life than his own. All the years of training, all the skills and talent at his fingertips, all the arrogance of being from a noble line and attached to a family of such prestige and power was suddenly worthless. He could not help her. She would die because he was so helpless…so worthless…so pointless.

He lifted his eyes back to the searing gaze of his keeper, King Cailech. “I beseech you. lord King. Let her be.”

“I have run out of patience with you, Gueryn le Gant. She is Morgravian. She is little more than worthless scum to me.”

The words cut as sharply as the blade the King held. Rage returned to Gueryn le Gant. “Romen Koreldy knew a man called Wyl Thirsk whose family I worked for. That is our only connection. I have never seen Koreldy before—I can tell you no more…nor would I if I could!”

He regretted his tone and his harsh words the instant they fell out of his mouth. Anger—normally something he had in control—betrayed him and the woman. He watched with horror as Cailech calmly turned away from him and punched the blade into Elspyth’s belly. As she doubled up, the King stepped away momentarily to ensure Gueryn could see him wiping at the spattering of blood that had hit his jerkin.

“Let him watch,” he said and the guards held her upright as Cailech ripped the blade, still embedded in her. across her abdomen.

Her face became waxy white, and a terrible sound issued from her throat. She gurgled as blood welled up and spewed from her ragged mouth. Cailech calmly removed the gutting blade, wiping it on the woman’s garments as her head slumped forward. The guards and their King made a show of avoiding the spume of blood and turned their heads from the smell of ripped bowel. Gueryn could not tear his eyes from the horrific scene. He watched her lifeblood creep slowly yet inexorably toward his boots in a thick line and then curl around one of them, molding itself to his feet…forever marking him with her death.

Forever reminding him that he had killed Elspyth.

She shuddered and groaned once more before mercifully letting out her last wretched breath. Fiery Elspyth with the kind voice and tender, steady hands was dead.

“Take her away. Throw her to the wolves. We need to give them a taste for fresh Morgravian meat.”

As she was dragged away, Gueryn took his guards by surprise as he hurled himself at the King. It was the young woman’s blood that undid him; he slipped and, before he could reach Cailech, he was falling heavily on his face, his legs flipping under him. The ravaging pain newly erupting at his wound was the last thing he was aware of. When he woke he found he lived an even bleaker existence.

Cailech had imprisoned him again in the dungeon. There would be no escape this time.

Cailech sat brooding over a spiced wine. In the shadows of his great chamber overlooking the lake. Rashlyn waited patiently. They had been like this for some time. It was a familiar scene for both. The King finally hurled his clay goblet at the fireplace where it shattered loudly, breaking the silence, klaxoning his fury.

Rashlyn spoke quickly. “The glamor was effective, my lord. The likeness was extraordinary.”

“But it didn’t work, Rashlyn! He still didn’t break.”

“Perhaps it was too effective?” the sorceror said.

Cailech turned on his man. “What do you mean?”

Rashlyn shrugged. “Only that I imagine for him there was no point in cooperating beyond her death. Perhaps he never thought you would do it, my lord?”

“Trust me, he knew. And he allowed her to die. You’re right, the likeness of your glamor was extraordinary—he could never have guessed it was not her. Who was it, by the way?”

“The Morgravian whore we captured him with.”

Cailech nodded. “Why is he protecting Koreldy!” This time the King kicked over a small wooden seat in his frustration.

“Calm, my lord,” Rashlyn soothed. “Send out more men. The Stones tell me they have followed Haldor’s Pass. In the meantime we must think hard on this. It will come to us… we will find a solution.”

Hours later—Gueryn had no idea of day or night—the door swung back and Cailech was outlined menacingly in the archway. Gueryn pretended he was asleep but the King ignored this fact. He knew full well the Morgravian would hear him and he was filled with energy at having resolved his dilemma. Rashlyn’s advice was sound. Keep him alive. If he was so important to Koreldy, use him as bait.

“I hope you like it here, soldier. for this is your home now. Make yourself familiar with these granite walls, welcome the damp and embrace the darkness. There is no light for you, . no warmth… very little sustenance will I offer, save what will keep you alive.”

“Why bother? Koreldy’s escaped your clutch. He won’t be back,” Gueryn said, not even turning toward the King. It was the only way he could show that the Morgravian spirit remained strong in him.

“Because as long as you’re alive I know Romen Koreldy will find my Mountain fortress irresistible.”

“I don’t know him!” Gueryn roared with the little strength he possessed.

“Ah. but he knows you. le Gant. and he has saved you once—he will do it again.”

The door slammed with finality.

Gueryn wept. Rashlyn was right. Death would have been much kinder.