The sandstone flooring shivered underboot as guards of the next shift began filing along from the other end of the hallway. Jingle of chainmail, clanking of weapon against plate armour and clicking of studded boots sounded around the corner as the soldiers neared them, yet unaware of the prisoner out of his cell and the private helping him.
"Move!" whispered Pertheran, "we haven't a moment to lose!"
The Midaelian's heart thundered in his chest.
He'd been in gruesome battles, where blood and bile soaked the dusty ground; he'd kicked aside with ease someone's still alive, writhing innards, watched men get sliced in halves in one swing without so much as a flinch-- more often than not he'd been the one on the other end of the blade. Even as Reylan, his captor, had sent the young man to sacrifice his soul, he'd embraced his fate without a moment's hesitation.
Commander Brianus Karyk had known no fear.
Until now.
Now as he dashed down winding stairs, turned corners and crossed hallways which all looked the same, staggering blindly through the hellish maze with an undead Drisian private to guide the way, fear clenched around his throat like a noose.
"This way!" Pertheran cried. The commander could hardly hear him over the deafening sound of his own heart pounding.
Down in the dungeon, in the surety of death there was peace-- an assurance that the sufferings would come to an end eventually.
Yet the sudden promise of freedom had instilled hope in him.
"You have to get down from the wagons before the village folk realise you're in there. Go west and get past the border-post when it's dark, you hear me? It's a long way to go, but at least you've got a better chance at survival out there than in here."
Hope... was a dangerous thing to rely upon, for it could be shattered any moment.
He tried to resist it, struggling to unsee the visions of freedom it showed him-- of him being back in the mess hall of his camp, Lieutenant Evander at his side just like he used to be, a mug of Olde Weasel's ale, a crackling fire.
"You hear me, sir?" Pertheran shook his shoulders, coming to a halt.
The words were drowning out in his mind, weary from days of starvation, vision blurring as a fever took hold of him. Commander Karyk nodded nonetheless. Pertheran swung open a door and through a back entrance, which he assumed were meant for the servants, they emerged into the dawn, beneath the pearly white sky.
A gust of fresh, morning air swept across his face-- free from the stench of the dungeon and carrying the smell of grass and dewy earth. Leaves glided down from overhead, surrounding trees swaying with the wind. Birds nested in the high buttresses chirped and flew about.
Pertheran gave him a tired yet bright grin. "So far so good, eh?"
"...Yes," he managed, gulping lungfuls of the crisp air. It felt as though he'd been in that dank cell for all eternity.
The tree-lined, cobbled square in the back through which Pertheran now led him stood empty, workers at the castle having left early to embark on their day's work. Linens, shirts, breeches and skirts hung on a clothesline on one side, the servant's quarters lay on the other.
Hands on his hips, the private smiled broadly. "Timing couldn't be more perfect. Take your pick," he said, gesturing to the plain garments swaying at the gentle touch of the morning breeze.
Commander Karyk's limbs worked mechanically as he seized a pair of breeches and a woolen shirt from the clothesline, discarding his well-worn, grimy ones behind some bushes.
When he emerged, dressed in the unassuming attire of a commoner, his eyes fell on a dark, seething mass on the horizon, swirling over a distant cliff.
Ravens. Hundreds of them.
"What on earth is that?"
Pertheran followed his gaze with an icy nonchalance. "Aftermath of foul sorcery, nothing more."
Yet pieces were beginning to fit together in the commander's mind, as he squinted at the misshapen, avian cloud. Pertheran was the creation of no common necromancer-- but of someone with sorcery strong enough to overthrow the balance between Mortal and Celestial Realms, overpower even the Gods.
And with the ravens caught in such turmoil, it became all too clear which Goddess had been the victim of the virulent magic.
"Sweet Mother Draedona...what have they done to you?"
Pertheran, who crouched with him behind a low fence waiting for the wagons, turned at that, a dark look in his eyes.
"Horrible things sir. Her realm, it's all corrupted," he said, looking down at his black-veined hands, exhaustion clear in his eyes. "No heaven for you, if you die now, only endless torment. Your soul ain't gonna pass on they say, for she's imprisoned."
Commander Karyk's forehead creased in a frown. "How do you know? Have...you been there?"
Had this situation been not so dire, he'd have laughed at himself. Asking a lad he killed whether he'd been to the Realm of the Dead.
"I haven't seen anything particularly chaotic-- when I'd been there. But that's because I'm the first, and there was only one Chain yet." He pulled down his collar to show him a symbol branded onto his skin there. The number 'one', in Drisian numerical, crudely burned into him as though he were a farm animal. "Folk who were raised after me saw the realm descend into disorder-- the higher their numbers, the worse it got. It's all in those blasted Chains, I say."
Commander Karyk would've liked to ask more, but Pertheran got to his feet now, gesturing over his shoulder. He followed his gaze to find several carts filing in through the front gate of the avenue, peasants seated atop stacks of hay, some walking along the wagons with pitchforks over their shoulders.
A long shadow of a looming tower set high above the castle fell across the compound and the carts, blocking out the rising sun.
"That's where the Royal Sorceress lives," said Pertheran trying to sound casual. "Has a grand view of the graveyard. Fitting for her tastes, isn't it?"
Commander Karyk chanced a look above, and felt eyes on him, staring through his very soul.
A shudder shook him right down to his bones. He looked away at once.
"It's time for goodbye," the young man said. The commander noticed only now how exhausted Pertheran looked, face pale and beaded with sweat, one hand pressed against his chest. He was dragging his feet as they were nearing the carts, padding noiselessly from shadow to shadow.
It seemed, the closer Commander Karyk was getting to his freedom, the worse Pertheran appeared.
The last wagon was unguarded. He could easily take cover among the pile of sacks. He looked back.
"You okay, lad?"
"Go." He gave him a tight-lipped smile, slowly rearing back from the wagons, trying not to double over. "...Please."
From where Pertheran's fist clenched his shirt, black blood trickled from between his fingers and down his wrists. With a jolt, Karyk recalled that was the spot where he'd been shot with the arrow before he died.
A thin string of blood seeped from the corner of his lips as he fell, hands clamped over his mouth to stifle a scream.
The price of betraying the one who gave him this sorcerous life.
He paid for it.
✦✧✦✧
"King Krugmann killed my father."
Emric felt her shift against his arms as Avalyn turned to face him, back pressed up against the cold glass panes, her long, flowing hair sprawled like a cloak over her bare shoulders. Curiosity glinted in her dark eyes he could lose himself into.
"Speak, my general. We keep no secrets between us, and I have ever upheld my end of the bargain."
He ran a hand through his pale hair, leaning forward to plant a hand against the glass. "If you insist. But I'm not sure this tale of cowardice will impress you."
She let out something between a scoff and a chuckle. "Neither did the bloody corpses of the court officials. Yet you still went on with your slaughter."
His eyes narrowed. "Well, pardon me for standing up to those who speak ill of you."
Before she could reprimand him for the umpteenth time on why the sword was not always the answer, or why standing up didn't necessarily need to end in massacre, he embarked on telling her the truth and letting it off his chest.
"King Krugmann...I hope you know of the campaign he'd led prior to his coronation."
She nodded. "All Stormvale does. He sought to take over the frontier settlements along Midaelia's former eastern border. A successful conquest, that. Managed to force nearly all of Midaelia further westward," she said, a wry smile on her face. "Barely twenty four, and many a glorious victories under his belt. All Drisia celebrated."
"Glorious, eh? That is one way to put that. Although when I saw him, he'd looked nothing of the sort." A long sigh ruffled the strands of hair hanging over his face. "His men had suffered losses despite their victory, leaving him only with a few troops of light cavalry. He was running short on supplies, even fresh water."
Distant cries of the ravens filled the pause that followed.
"Father found him, collapsed at the edge of a field and carried him home. From his tattered clothes, we'd no clue he was Drisian, let alone the Crown Prince himself. Hunting for game in the woods, he'd been separated from his soldiers following an attack by a plains bear."
His gaze found hers. "Can you imagine what the villagers would've done if they found out that my father-- the village chief no less, was harbouring a Drisian lad?" He answered himself: "they'd skewer him and then us on the spot. He begged us for shelter, Avalyn. The mighty ruler of Drisia, sobbing and on his knees."
"Something about this tale makes me think your father should've given him a boot to the backside and handed him over to the village folk."
"Well, what can you expect from a simple and honest man, working hard to make ends meet for himself and his child?"
Emric strode away to where his shirt lay on the floor, and slid his arms in-- just to have something to do to distract himself from the images the words conjured in his own mind. He was failing.
Unease coiled in his stomach, as though he was about to be sick. He clenched his teeth against it, and continued.
"Father nursed him back to health, kept him hidden-- on a simple condition-- to leave Larton unharmed. And before we let him out through the back door one dawn, he promised he would head back to Glasswolf with the remainder of his troops and put an end to his conquest."
"History says he kept his word. His campaign ended at Larton." Avalyn seized the silk robes folded over a chair, and slipped it on, goosebumps breaking out all over her arms from the cool breeze of daybreak.
"Next few days, things were fine. But then this rumour began to fly around-- that Father had allied himself with the Drisians and an agreement had taken place, so the Drisian armies would pass through Larton and into Midaelia. The fact that all surrounding villages except ours were ravaged by those troops didn't help either. Word was, we were already part of the expanded kingdom of Drisia. And mobs armed with pitchforks and kitchen knives listen to no reasoning."
Emric let out a harsh breath, shaking fingers struggling to do up the buttons and failing.
Robes shuffled against the floor. A soft hand touched his arm. He recoiled from the contact almost immediately-- even though not long ago he'd been begging for it.
"Emric," she said, "you don't have to continue." Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard, yet full of disbelief. "I...I had no idea-"
That I'm such a weakling? He hated this. He hated how his whole system was rebelling against him at the simple recollection of an event long past. He despised how vulnerable he appeared-- all shaking limbs and catching breath.
This was why he had simply avoided this discussion with her. Yet this night, he'd promised himself he'd be honest with her.
"Pathetic, isn't it, this sob story I can't even finish?" He laughed shakily. "You wasted your night, my sorceress. A tale of cowardice, didn't I tell you? They burned my father at a stake, and what did I do? Escape through the back door."
He paused, awaiting contemptuous remarks, harsh laughs or cruel jests to be flung his way.
"This is the story of a coward, indeed," she said. "Yet you and I may have different opinions on who it is."
The mattress beside him sank as she primly took a seat.
"Coward," she said, "is the one who slaughters unarmed peasants and calls it victory. Not a frightened child who runs for his life."
In her otherwise stern eyes there shone compassion, one hand resting on the sheets-- a respectful distance from his, but still there if he needed her.
Slowly, struggling against his stiff muscles, he reached for her hand and clasped it in his shaking ones.
In the grate, where crackled a small fire, Emric could see patterns taking shape.
Angry faces, contorted in rage, their eyes and mouths gaping holes. People of Larton.
A face, screaming. Father.
His own thudding heart-- loud bangs against the front door of his home. And Krugmann appeared then, Crown Prince of Drisia, high and mighty on his stallion, galloping out of the dark like a divine savior. His men butchered the mob in mere minutes.
The young conqueror took the thirteen-year-old Emric in. Gratitude for your father's hospitality, he'd said.
Yet only after decades of loyal servitude would the foolish little Midaelian boy discover, in a hushed conversation he overhead-- it was Krugmann himself who had his men spread the rumours about his father, the man without whose hospitality the king would've frozen to death alone in that field, long before the Drisian crown ever had a chance to adorn his golden head.
Emric strode to the windows now, fully dressed and doing up his cuffs.
"Krugmann knew with what little of his troop was left, he couldn't even stand against a few hundred villagers. But what if the stupid peasants were distracted, setting one of their own on fire? He needed only spread the false words and wait. You know the rest." He finished the sordid little tale at last, slightly proud of himself. He glanced back at Avalyn, who perched at the edge of the bed.
"I will write his fall with my own hands," he told her.
"What about those Midaelian soldiers from Kinallen your men killed, or the officer you're holding captive?" Avalyn trailed off.
He smiled. "I have nothing against the Midaelians-- well, not personally at least. I myself am one of them, aren't I? But if they get in the way, they perish."
Outside on the tree-lined compound below, soldiers were unloading the wagons of supplies. Blue-grey eyes fixed upon them, he pulled on his gloves. "Even so, my lady, Midaelia must be brought under control, for it seems they have discovered a way to overpower the Vasaeni. Skirmishes with the smaller garrisons near the frontier like Kinallen aren't worth the trouble. Let us strike the core," he said, then added with a chuckle, "a simple jab to the heart accomplishes more than a dozen dull blows on one's limbs. Wouldn't you agree?"
Avalyn's pale hands gripped the windowsill beside him, her grin sour. "You want the capital. Byton city."
He reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Worry not, I'll leave the academy untouched. That is yours to ruin."
Bathed in the soft light of dawn, she was an ethereal sight, a delightful smile spreading across her shapely lips at the promise of destruction. Emric wished this moment would last forever.
His silver ring, in which the sorceress had imbued the power of the Chains, shuddered around his finger. A sharp tug pulled at the invisible chains of sorcery-- even though he wasn't using it at this moment. His eyes shot up to meet hers, which were wide in alarm.
"Betrayal," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Someone has turned traitor."
The air of the tower swelled with sorcery at once, restless and resentful. With a soaring whistle of wind, like waves crashing against a stormy shore, pitch-black Chains began to materialize all around her. With mind-numbing precision, her dainty fingers grabbed one of the many.
This one Chain stood out from all the others in its vastness. It was the greatest, the heaviest, the strongest of them all, the tether belonging to the first of the Vasaen.
Emric clenched his teeth. Pertheran.
Avalyn's demeanor had changed at once, no longer the kind soul who'd held his hands moments ago. She was the murderess he fell in love with.
A savage pull on the Chain.
A distant cry reached their ears, but not clear enough to pinpoint the location. Down in the compound however, the soldiers and servants broke into disarray.
Impatient, Emric awakened the sorcery in his ring, adding the effort to the Chains. "Oh, come out already, you piece of filth!"
A blood-curdling scream, deafening and inhuman, echoed across the compounds below, near the carts of supplies.
The fire in the hearth blazed high from the sorcery that roiled in the air.
Emric dashed to the window, hands pressed up against the glass where cracks had begun to appear.
There in the distance near the wagons, crouched a figure in the shadows, limbs twisting in pain. Slight build, ginger hair.
He knew the traitor all too well.