The War For Vishera ✔

TWENTY-EIGHT: Captured

Someone had hit him in the head and he fell to the ground, left at the mercy of those that had left Emrick. After a while, he had passed out, with no knowledge of what had happened to Rina and Nerin. Surely, they wouldn't kill the Crown Prince, but if they were the people from Huton, then anything was possible.

For some reason, he wasn't dead. The wanted posters, while none of them had his face, had asked for Rina and Emrick to be handed in dead or alive. From the looks of things, Emrick would be handed in as a corpse and that thought alone made Isiah's stomach clench painfully with grief.

If Emrick was dead... He didn't know what he would do. Rina and Nerin were his friends, but Emrick had supported him through everything over the last couple of weeks. They barely knew each other, but Isiah felt like he'd known the man for years. Isiah wanted to know as much about him as he could, but if he was dead then that was impossible.

He didn't want to lose anyone else, but it seemed like he had no choice in the matter. Tears welled in his eyes and he closed them to stop them falling, but doing so only made the sight of Emrick on the ground imprint on the backs of his eyelids. It wasn't fair. Emrick had been so scared of dying and in the blink of an eye, it had happened.

His thoughts cut off at the sound of footsteps and he held his breath. Somewhere in front of him, a doorknob rattled and a small stream of light flowed into the room. Isiah narrowed his eyes as the door opened and tried to shield his eyes from the light, but his hand couldn't move down to his face.

"Ah, you're awake," a hoarse voice said as Isiah winced at the light. "I was wondering if you would make it."

Isiah said nothing as the door closed behind the man, drowning them in darkness again. There was the hiss of a match being lit and dim orange light filled the room. It wasn't as painful the second time around, but it still took a while for his eyes to adjust.

The room was exactly as he expected, made of cracked stone and covered with dust. Other sets of chains hung from the other walls, empty of people, and in the middle was a small wooden table where a candle sat. The man stood before it, the match in one hand and a plate in the other. His face was covered by a dark hood, but if his accent was anything to go by, he was from the border towns.

"Are you going to speak?" the man asked, crossing the small room to crouch down in front of him. Isiah met his eyes but didn't say a word. His skin was darker than most people he had seen in Huton, almost the same shade of orange as his, but his eyes were deep indigo, reminding him a little of Rina. "Of course, you aren't. You want to eat, don't you?"

He resisted for a second but eventually nodded when his stomach grumbled. It had been a long time since he had eaten and while he knew whatever his jailer would serve him would be bad, he'd rather not starve. The man huffed in satisfaction and spooned up something Isiah couldn't see clearly.

It tasted awful, like burnt porridge. Knowing his luck, it had been spat in before it was served to him, but it was still food, or so he hoped. It didn't do much to satiate his hunger as the man shovelled it in by the spoonful, but it did stop his stomach from screaming at him.

"Taste nice?" the man asked as he spooned up the last of it.

Isiah gagged. "No," he whispered in a gravelly voice. Those first words made him realised just how thirsty he was. His tongue was heavy in his mouth and his lips were dry. He needed water. "Please, can I have water?"

The man moved away and when he came back, a ceramic cup in his hands. "Can't get much out of you if you're dying of thirst, aye," he muttered, more to himself than to Isiah. The boy went to tell him to stop, but the moment he opened his mouth, the cup was between his lips. It was water, but it tasted off, sour, as it had been contaminated. Even so, he sipped it slowly, his mouth thanking him silently.