Shadow War Part 29

"Will you send me your armies should I ever need them?" she asked in a very quiet voice.

Albain froze. His one good eye narrowed, and his jovial mood vanished. For an instant he was like a hawk sighting prey, still and dangerous.

"I swore an oath to you today. What more do you seek?"

"The oath was sworn to the throne," she replied, taut with nervousness at what she was daring to ask. "I ask you now for more than that."

"You mean when the cloud descends and you and the prince will fight for what's left of the empire?"

"Yes," she said.

Her senses seemed to heighten. She heard the music, glimpsed the dancing and laughter, but her being remained focused on him and his answer. Time came to a halt around her, and she almost ceased to breathe. She must have one piece of solid ground, one true a.s.surance to count on for insurance against what might possibly come in the future. Even if it was only refuge.

Albain drew in a deep breath and glanced around slowly and openly to make sure they were out of earshot. He put his back to the company so that no one could read his lips.

"Elandra," he said in a quiet voice, "if ever you have need, I will unleash my armies and rend the empire from one end to the other. Merely send me word, and my sword arm is yours till death."

Chapter Fifteen.

A dash of cold water in his face brought Caelan back to consciousness.

Suppressing a groan, he slitted open one eye and found that nothing had changed. He was still hanging by his shackled wrists from a hook, his feet swinging above the floor. His dripping hair hung in his eyes. He was naked to the waist and freezing cold. His amulet pouch still hung safely around his neck, untouched in this dungeon h.e.l.l where only superst.i.tion received respect.

The blurred face of his torturer peered up at him, a pale orb of flesh with merciless eyes bobbing above a brown leather jerkin stained with dried blood and grime.

"Man ready speak some?" the torturer asked.

His voice was a ruined croak, as though his throat had been crushed long ago. His accent was strange, his words barely understandable. He seemed to speak an odd mixture of Lingua and pidgin. And although the man was no longer quite in focus, Caelan would never forget his first sight of him. The torturer's ears came to slight points that jutted up through his greasy hair. His fingers had delicate webs between them.

A shudder ran through Caelan. This was some kind of demon-sp.a.w.n, a creature half human and half of shadow, as horrifying in its way as a moag or a lurker. To find it here in the heart of the city, clothed and employed, had shocked Caelan deeply.

Yet why should he be surprised at anything in Irnperia? After all, the gladiators consorted with the monstrous Haggai-female creatures with siren voices and the bodies of huge, slug-like worms. The Vindicants exercised an official religion for the public, and a very different kind of blasphemous observance for private ceremonies. The empire was based on hypocrisy, and the emperor himself lived only through some kind of unholy bargain with the darkness itself.

But such things were hidden away for the most part, not talked about openly, concealed from all except those who actively sought them.

The torturer, however, was an official of the palace- no matter how lowly his status. Corruption was spreading; truly the end of the world must be nigh.

Even to look on the creature's pallid face filled Caelan with revulsion. As for the torturer, he knew Caelan was afraid and why.

Baring his teeth, the torturer laughed softly in Caelan's face, close enough for him to feel the creature's warm, fetid breath on his skin. Caelan averted his face, but the torturer gripped his jaw with viselike fingers and wrenched him back.

"Speak some!" he said angrily. "Man die slow. Man die hard way. Speak some, man die not. No speak, man die hard."

Caelan met the thing's eyes. They were human eyes, green and round, fringed with lashes as thick as a woman's. But the light in them was madness. Gathering himself. Caelan spat in the torturer's face.

"Gah!" Howling, the torturer struck him across the mouth.

Caelan's head rang, and the world melted into dizzying colors, shapes gone crazy against his half-closed eyelids. He swung back and forth by his shackle-chain, and his wrenched shoulder sockets screamed in agony.

A sharp command rang out, and the icy water dashed over Caelan, bringing him back yet again. Coughing and s.h.i.+vering, he sputtered and squinted against the water dripping into his eyes from his matted hair.

Time had become lost to him. He did not know how long he had been here. As yet they had not put him on the rack or in the glove, a large wooden vise that could crack him like a nut.

The dungeons were a foul, gloomy maze of holes sunk in the floor and fitted with iron grates. The unfortunate inhabitants were dropped into the holes like rats down a well, and left in the dank coldness and filth until they were dragged out for questioning or until they died. Food was dropped in on top of them. They lived without light or warmth or hope, miserable wretches forgotten by all save their jailers. Their wailing went on all the time, an eerie, primal sound of raw anguish that never diminished.

Overlaying that were the screams of the tortured. A man currently lay stretched on the rack, babbling in delirium. A woman, recognizable as such only by her long, matted hair, sobbed in a cage that swung high from another rafter on the other side of the forge. The round stone pit glowed a dull red, hot with hissing coals, the smoke curling forth to blacken the ceiling. A short time past, some convicted thieves had been brought in, kicking and screaming for mercy, to be branded with the hot iron.

The torturer had picked up one of the irons, its tip white-hot fading to a dull red higher up the shaft, and he had held it close to Caelan's face, so close Caelan could smell the hot metal, could hear it singing and hissing, could feel its scorching warmth against his skin.

"Want this?" the torturer asked, moving the iron back and forth.

Caelan could not help watching it, his eyes s.h.i.+fting back and forth, mesmerized with horror.

"Man eyes, gone far!" The torturer grinned and let his tongue flick back and forth across the edges of his teeth. "Blackness, hot blind. All time blackness. Speak some!"

Sweat broke out along Caelan's temples, but he didn't flinch. After a few moments when the iron began to cool slightly, the torturer growled in disappointment and flung it back in the fire.

Now he returned, pacing and rubbing his webbed hands together. "Man think smart, but not smart. Think, master maybe change, maybe say torture not man. Maybe not!"

He laughed in Caelan's face, then drew back sharply as though afraid Caelan would spit at him again. "Speak some, or many hurts. Here!"

Drawing a flat, wide strap of leather from his belt, he swung it back and forth. One end was perforated with numerous holes. He brought it around with a rapid flick of his wrist. The leather struck Caelan's arm with a smack of fiery pain. He drew in his breath sharply, biting off a cry.

The torturer grinned. "Man speak some now. Man scream high!"

The beating commenced expertly, each blow landing on vulnerable flesh in an overlapping pattern of agony that only intensified. It was like a scourging, yet the wide strap inflicted a different kind of pain than a narrow whip did. After a few moments when Caelan felt himself begin to waver badly, he severed severed himself from the pain and endured it, detached in the cold void of elsewhere, and always waiting for a chance, however slim, to retaliate. himself from the pain and endured it, detached in the cold void of elsewhere, and always waiting for a chance, however slim, to retaliate.

He had confessed hours ago, spilling all that he knew. But he had spoken too soon and too eagerly. The torturer had not believed him and was demanding another confession.

Caelan had nothing left to say. Gritting his teeth, he shut his eyes and tried to endure.

"Stop!"

The voice cried out the command loudly enough to silence the wails of the prisoners. The clatter and racket ceased as the jailers stopped their tasks and looked around. The torturer lowered his strap and turned sullenly, standing almost at attention.

Through the sudden silence, there came only the faint constant sound of dripping water and the soft moans of the man on the rack.

Swinging in place, Caelan struggled to turn his head so that he could see the visitor.

Through the smoke and gloom he glimpsed a figure in a soldier's breastplate, feet spread apart, head high with arrogance.

"Who is in charge here?"

The soldier's voice rang out strongly, sternly. It was a voice of command, and it sent jailers and turnkeys scurrying into a motley line as though for inspection.

A burly man, broad-shouldered, running to fat, shuffled forward. "I'm the head jailer," he said.

"Clear this room."

"What, of all-"

"Clear the room!" the soldier barked. "Immediately!"

Grumbling, the jailer turned around and gestured. His minions set to work unbuckling the unconscious man from the rack. The woman in the cage was lowered and dragged forth. She couldn't walk, and the men half dragged her, half carried her out of sight.

In the distance came the screeching of rusty metal as the grate of one of the holes was opened. Caelan heard the woman scream; then the sound was brutally silenced. The other prisoners resumed their wailing, crying out for mercy, pleading their innocence.

The torturer brought a stool and stood on it to reach the hook Caelan was swinging from. He fished out a key to unlock Caelan's shackles, and Caelan tensed himself in readiness. With even one hand free, he could attack.

"Not that one!" the soldier said, striding over. He paused before Caelan and looked him up and down. "Is this the Traulander? Prince Tirhin's property?"

"Is," the torturer admitted. He half turned away from the soldier and drew up a dirty hood over his head. "Not hurt."

"Leave him where he is." The soldier looked around, his face drawn with disgust. "Very well. All of you, clear out!"

The torturer glared at Caelan but went, along with the jailer and the others.

Caelan swung alone in front of the soldier, bruised and battered, his skin on fire, his shoulders bursting with agony. Even with the aid of severance, severance, he found it hard to focus on anything more than a moment at a time. His wits were wandering. It would be so easy to sink away into unconsciousness, such a relief, but the soldier touched his chest lightly, setting him swinging again, and the resultant pain sent a choked cry slamming to the back of Caelan's throat. Gray and yellow misery washed through him, and the world was on fire. There was no pa.s.sing out, no escaping it. Even he found it hard to focus on anything more than a moment at a time. His wits were wandering. It would be so easy to sink away into unconsciousness, such a relief, but the soldier touched his chest lightly, setting him swinging again, and the resultant pain sent a choked cry slamming to the back of Caelan's throat. Gray and yellow misery washed through him, and the world was on fire. There was no pa.s.sing out, no escaping it. Even severance severance did not contain it. did not contain it.

A voice spoke in the distance, and the soldier stepped away from Caelan. "He is ready, Majesty."

By the time Caelan managed to lift his head again and somehow throttle back his misery, the emperor had come down the steps and crossed the dingy, splattered room. He circled the forge, where the glow of the coals threw a ruddy glow across his face. At last he stopped in front of Caelan.

The emperor wore a tunic of cloth of gold and a crown on his head. He seemed to blaze in the gloom, and his jewels winked and sparkled at his slightest movement. His yellow eyes gleamed balefully at Caelan, and his face might have been carved from stone.

"You dared attack my son," he said in a low, furious voice. "You miserable wretch."

Caelan struggled to pull his wits together. By some miracle, he had his audience with the emperor. It was not what he had hoped for, but it would have to do. "Majesty," he said, his voice a hoa.r.s.e croak, "I must denounce your son as a traitor and a-"

"Silence!" the soldier shouted, and struck him.

The man's fist slammed into Caelan's jaw like a battering ram. He spun around on the chain, the pressure sawing through his armpits, and felt his consciousness dribbling away.

"Get back, Captain," the emperor said as though from far away. "I do not require your a.s.sistance."

A murmured apology, and retreating footsteps.

Then a hand gripped Caelan's hair and jerked up his head. "Talk to me, you overgrown brute," the emperor muttered. "But take care. I have risked enough, giving you this chance to defend yourself when by rights your entrails should have already been fed to the gulls. Talk!"

Caelan tried, but his brain felt as though it had come loose in his skull. He gasped, struggling for the breath to answer, praying he could pull himself together one last time.

The emperor shook his head impatiently. It felt as though he might pull Caelan's hair out by the roots. "Talk, d.a.m.n you! Is your confession the truth?"

"Yes," Caelan whispered thickly. "Traitor ... it's true. I saw."

"What did you see?" the emperor demanded, his voice lower now, still tight with anger and impatience. "Tell me quickly!"

"Bargain ... Madruns to come ... take city." Caelan drew in a shaky breath, knowing he needed to be more articulate. He tried harder. "Sien and the prince ... secret meeting on Sidraigh-hal... Sidraigh-hal... met with Madruns. Prince wants throne. Resents the-the lady empress." His mind stumbled and failed him for a moment. Then it came back. He frowned. "Prince plotted against you. Made alliance. Gave them ... gave them ..." met with Madruns. Prince wants throne. Resents the-the lady empress." His mind stumbled and failed him for a moment. Then it came back. He frowned. "Prince plotted against you. Made alliance. Gave them ... gave them ..."

To his frustration his strength petered out, and he could not finish. Panting, he hung there and railed mentally against his own weakness.

"And you were there?" the emperor said grimly. "You partic.i.p.ated in this plot?"

Caelan rested his cheek against his arm, his eyes half-closed. "No. Followed master. To protect... didn't know. Watched outside the hut. Heard. Saw him give them the paper."

The emperor's face turned pale. "The pa.s.swords?"

"And forged orders ... strategy ... way through the border. Everything. City in danger. Five days, then they will come."

The emperor's grip s.h.i.+fted to his throat. "When did this occur?"

"Day before coronation. I tried to warn you. Couldn't. Only to you could I speak. No way to reach you. Prince hurt."

"He will hurt even more," the emperor said furiously. His eyes were blazing, and he dropped his grip from Caelan's throat. "You're a slave. You could say anything. Why should I trust you?"

Caelan managed to meet his eyes. "You believed me. You came to see me for yourself."

The emperor's mouth quirked in a thin smile before he turned serious again. "I have seen you in the Dance of Death.

Only men of great courage attempt it. Courage and honor are sometimes found together." His eyes narrowed. "Then you attacked my son when you found he was a traitor."

Caelan shook his head. "No attack," he said wearily. "Lies."

"But the servants witnessed it."

"No attack."

Disbelief filled the emperor's face.

Caelan grew desperate. "Please," he whispered. "The accusation made by the healer against me is a lie. The servants saw nothing. There was nothing to see. Ask Orlo, my trainer. He will tell you the truth."

"Why should the servants tell this falsehood, lay accusations against you? My son has been injured. You struck him-"

"No!" Caelan said vehemently, daring to interrupt. "I swear to you on all my G.o.ds that I did not strike the prince. I brought him back from the mountain and sent for my cousin-for the healer Agel to tend him. The prince was attacked by the shyrieas. shyrieas. They hurt him, not I." They hurt him, not I."

"None of this makes sense," the emperor complained. "It is all babble, as I feared it would be. You accuse a man, yet you carried him back and sought help for him? Bah!"

"Could I accuse him unconscious?" Caelan asked, his desperation rising. "Could I be heard unless he were in a condition to be judged? I have no reason to lie. My very life is endangered by what I have said. If you do not believe me, then I am a dead man. I would be safe had I kept silent."

"And why has the healer accused you?"

"I do not know."