Victory's Price

Mollen (Part Forty-Two)

Chapter 42

"Karter."

Moll spoke his first words as someone tugged him off the horse. He struggled to keep standing, bound as he was, and rough hands took a hold of his upper arms, dragging him upright. 

Karter's back remained turned, his shoulders hunched.

"It wasn't me, Karter." 

The keep's familiar courtyard seemed so much smaller from a position of captivity. There were familiar faces here now; the small stable boy Moll had tipped too generously, the stable master himself, other recognisable faces from his simpler past. They were everyday people with whom he'd shared words and a mutual respect and now they had come to witness his shame.

Moll held his head high. The train marched past the big throne room and deep into the grey labyrinth. Moll's feet unwillingly followed a route he had never believed he would walk. And, when the gaping maw of the keep's dungeons opened up beneath him, Moll struggled to believe these would be his last living hours.

"Karter." He pleaded a final time. The captain of the guard, remaining in the sun, watched as he was lead into the dark.

Karter said nothing.

The dungeons dripped ominously, the sound echoing hollowly throughout their great expanse. Moll took in a deep breath of stale air, steadying his nerves. His entourage had lessened but a firm grip lingered on his arm and his hands remained tied. These cells were abandoned, empty except for himself. He would spend the rest of his final day alone and in the dark. Moll was less afraid than he should have been. This morning he had danced with the dead. Tonight he would join them.

Bars were pulled roughly open and Moll shoved inside as equally unceremoniously. His hands were freed, the bolt slid home, the lock clicked. He watched his captors slowly turn and leave, taking the last of the light with them. Regretfully Moll forced himself to remember it. He did not expect to see it again.

For a while, he remained calm, his breathing steady. But, inevitably, the darkness got through his defences and played with his mind. The echoes stole his every movement and tossed it back mockingly. Even in the dark they told him where the walls were, reminded him that the rest of his life was not his to control.

Sound frolicked boldly without the limiting factor of light. Every small scratch and each scurry of every distant rodent made him jump. But he was alone, completely alone.

Moll held up his hand, just inches from his face, and saw none of it. He sighed and the distant walls threw the sound back at him a hundred times, overwritten with derision and contempt.

He was going to die. For his sins, he was going to die.

Slipping to the floor, Moll ignored damp stone and rusted bars. He had lived a good life, he had wanted the best and this was where it had lead him. He knew now why the Stars did not like him; Moll was all words and no action, he was cowardice and stupidity and it was about to get him killed. He did not have the relentlessness to be great. There was no fire burning in his soul. He was not cunning, he was not sly and his was a world where such attributes were becoming crucial once more. He would never again get to see Kat, he would not say goodbye to his brother.

But Red had promised him a crown.

Moll laughed, ignoring the spectral voices that joined in. Red did not exist; the morning had been a dream, a hallucination. It had been the delay that had cost him his freedom and his head and it had been nothing more.

Dropping his head to his hands, Moll drew in another shuddering breath. He was going to die. He was going to die.

He was going to die.