Dark Legion (2 page)

I dragged on my boots, slung my satchel over my shoulder, and took a last look at the torture chamber, my home for the past decade. A smile tugged at my lips as I looked at the two corpses. “Two for the one who waits,” I said in offering to my god, and opened the door.

The heavy bolts slid home as I turned the key. I took a deep breath and regretted it immediately. The dungeon's bouquet of old sweat and shit assaulted my nose, and I could taste it at the back of my mouth. It would not be missed.

My fingers ran along the cold stone wall as I climbed the steps from the dungeon. When I reached the top, I saw the two guards at the door but kept my eyes on the ground. I concentrated on walking naturally, hiding my pain.

Two guards may not seem like enough to protect against escape. But in the decade I'd spent in the dungeon, there'd been no escapes. To my knowledge, no one had even tried. Even if a particularly clever prisoner managed to get out of the dungeon, they would still find themselves within the walls of the fortress Castralavi. A hopeless cause for most, but my situation was different. While I was a prisoner of sorts, my master's orders regularly took me beyond the gates.

“Ah, apprentice. What a fine evening to be about.” the guard on the left said.

“Yeah, he's off to feed the reptiles,” the other said. “Full load tonight too, on account of all the customers he's been attending. Gonna have a hell of a time keeping it all in that cart of his.”

I flinched when he mentioned the cart and hoped that the dumb bastard didn't give it more than a cursory glance. But a bottle of spirits peeked out from behind one of their shields, propped against the wall behind them. Their shields were embossed with the swooping eagle of the empire. But these men knew nothing of swooping; they were the chaff of the legion, too stupid and lazy to be on the front lines of the ever-expanding empire. No, they wouldn't notice if I walked past with a sign that read, “Goodbye, arseholes, I'm escaping now.”

“He'll probably get that nice coat a bit… messy,” the guard went on.

“Hey, isn't that Angus's coat?” the first guard asked.

“Now that you mention it,” the second said. I looked up at him. Clearly they were more attentive than I'd given them credit for. “How did you come to wear your master's coat, apprentice?” he asked as he took a step closer.

I stopped, met his eyes, and did not look away. He seemed annoyed that someone of my station dared to do so. “I have a meeting with a noble later this evening, Master Chad,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. While he heard me speak his name, the sound that left my mouth was not quite that. The mind had no way of discerning when a true name was used and instead heard only the word the magic was woven around. So naming again, but what I said could have been true. Angus used me as an assassin as well as a torturer, and the guards knew it. “I needed more pockets to conceal the presents I bring the noble. My master lent me his coat for this purpose, Master Chad. He mentioned it was getting snug.”

Chad burst out in laughter and the other guard, named Dirk, joined in a moment later. I felt relief wash over me. My grip on naming was tenuous at best, but I was on a roll tonight. “Angus is getting fatter by the month,” Chad said through his laughter, and he pushed the door open. “Out with you.”

 

The door slammed shut on my heels, and I stumbled forward. I could still hear their muffled laughter through the closed door, but they were soon drowned out by the pelting rain. It was a very cold night, but I was grateful for it, as my shoulder still burned with heat. I pulled my hood closed as I walked to the rear of the building, toward the horse and cart that waited for me. I secured a loose corner of the heavy cloth covering the cart. It was flapping in the wind, and steam rose from its edges.

“Let's go, you old nag,” I said to the horse as I took her reins. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure nothing was falling out of the overfull cart. The irregular surface of the cobblestone caused its contents to shift about, which made it look as though creatures were stirring beneath the cloth.

 

As I made my way down the dark path, a sense of relief started to build within me. I regularly left the fortress on my master's orders, but this time was different. This time I would not return.

Only the occasional lamp burned along the road, and the old fortress looked deserted. It was dark, but I made my way with relative ease. I was a servant of Svyn, the god of death, and darkness had come to be my friend. I felt at home in its embrace.

Castralavi was a fortress in more than name; only a fool would mistake it for anything else. It was a miserably dreary place, not well-known for its architectural achievements. It served as the training ground for the legion, where the empire's young men were broken in. It had a darker purpose, too, acting as headquarters to the Dark Legion, as the Inquisition was also known.

As I approached the gate, I heard a shout from the top of the wall. Shielding my eyes against the rain, I made out the silhouettes of six archers at the top. Two legionnaires emerged from a room recessed within the high wall, responding to the call from above. I brought my cart through the gate regularly, and the gates were opened without a word passing between us.

 

The town that surrounded the fortress shared its name. These streets, too, were empty. It was an hour past curfew, and no one dared step outside once the bell was rung—ever the obedient sheep. In all the years I'd made these trips, I'd rarely seen anyone breaking curfew. Perhaps the occasional whore sneaking about, and once, a man chasing a burglar from his home. Mostly though, it was a ghost town after curfew, and I liked it that way.

 

With each turn of the cart's wheels, the surrounding houses regressed further from prosperity. The cobblestone soon gave way to gravel, and gravel to mud. After a time, the gaps between the houses increased until I passed little but the occasional shack, hidden in the dense shrub and the dark of night, with only narrow paths giving hint to their existence. A wheel slipped into a rut, and the cart lurched forward. I thought I heard a grunt, so I spun around and looked behind me for several moments, but I was alone.

 

It took another few minutes to reach the end of the track, which stopped just short of the swamp. Few followed the path to its end. Swamps were unpleasant things, and this one had somewhat of a reputation.

I unhitched the cart and looked up at the sky. The rain had settled down to a drizzle, and stars were breaking through patches of cloud. Through such a gap, I saw the ever-watchful Eye of Svyn, bright against the black of night. The oval shape, formed by a multitude of pinprick lights, watched me. The spiral Eye of Svyn, the watcher in the night. He and I scanned the area, but I was alone. I sighed, leaving a mist floating in front of me, and got on with the first part of my plan.

It was a struggle to untie the cloth, and I looked up at the sky again as my cold fingers fumbled with the stubborn knots. “Are you pleased with me?” I asked. I was sure the god of death smiled on me. I did good work for him, after all, and I'd brought quite the offering this night. When I finally defeated the knots, I threw the cloth open and was assaulted by the overpowering stench of rotting corpses. Stiffened limbs stuck out from bloated bodies. I instinctively turned my head to the side but slowly returned it to observe my handiwork. I had done this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

Risen

 

Most men would be strung up, or worse—probably worse—for filling a cart with corpses. But I was an apprentice torturer. Apprentice… shit on that. My so-called master, Angus, had done no real work since I was enslaved. The fat drunk had a fair crack at torturing me at times, but no longer bothered with the prisoners. Nonetheless, I was to have been an apprentice for the rest of my days, and even that was a lofty title for a slave.

I took the thick gloves from my satchel and pulled them on. These hands, once taught to heal, instead had murdered more people than I could recall. At first I'd tried to remember them, to let them live on as ghosts in my memory, to be my conscience. But I'd become dead to it all, and in less than a year, I had found it hard to care about the lives I took, though at times I still felt guilty for not feeling guilty. I'd been trained as a surgeon when I was young. My people's knowledge of the human body, and science in general, far surpassed those of other kingdoms. But those skills had been put to a darker purpose. Frankly, I was very good at my job. Some said I was the best torturer in the empire. None but my brother ever spoke as highly of my skills as a surgeon. Besides, these skills had saved me from most of my master's darker perversions.

With a sigh, I pulled the gloves tight and reached for an arm that stuck out near the edge of the cart. Placing a foot to the side of the wheel, I put my weight behind it as I pulled. I crashed to the mud with a splash. “Seven hells,” I cursed as cold water seeped through my clothes, and my shoulder throbbed from the impact. Still in my hands was an arm with elaborate tattoos around the wrist. It was somewhat detached from the body. “Oralo,” I said as I stood to my feet. Oralo had been a jester of sorts, an entertainer of the drunk. He'd fallen sharply in the emperor's esteem when he'd tried to grab the princess's arse. He'd had to be tortured, not for information, but simply as a lesson to others. Or, more likely, because the princess wished for it to be so. That cold-hearted witch was more than capable of looking after herself, and I was surprised she had not tortured the man personally. Still, it was hard to feel sorry for a man that stupid.

I tossed the arm down the bank as I looked Svyn in the eye—so to speak. I would hate to know how many bodies I had thrown down there as offerings. The pile of bones had not escaped the attention of the locals, who swore that the swamp was filled with large reptiles that snatched people from their homes and dragged them into the swamp. There were a few nasty creatures down there, that was true; but I was the one responsible for their deaths. Many had been removed from their homes in the dead of night not by reptiles, but rather by the emperor's Dark Legion.

Next, I dragged out a large fellow who'd gone by the name of Brutus. Brutus was a “big fellow” name, and he had a “big fellow” attitude to boot. He had not been particularly cooperative. I'd told him what I told all my victims—that all he had to do was to tell me what I needed to hear and to sign the acknowledgment of guilt. That I would give him an easy death if he did so. Brutus had finally spoken when his second eyeball was teased from its socket, and it had taken entirely too long to reach that point. Much wasted pain on his part and wasted effort on mine. The big fellow made a big splash as he slid into a pool below.

 

A moaning came from the cart behind me. I peered in. “Which one of you has more to say?” I asked. It was not uncommon for corpses to moan. Especially when fresh, and when recently moved. Gasses escaped from one of two likely orifices.

I avoided a particularly bloated torso and instead took hold of a wrist that protruded beside it. Panic filled me as the fingers closed around my wrist and yanked me forward. Only my free hand on the side of the cart stopped me from being pulled into the foul mess. I tried to twist my wrist free, but even with the adrenaline pumping through me, I was inching ever closer.

A head shot out, nearly smashing me in the face. I screamed. Wild eyes stared up at me. Long, braided hair was plastered to the dark face, covered with blood and shit. The eyes slowly focused on mine, and a toothy smile appeared from within the beard, like a crescent moon on the darkest of nights.

“Gods, help me up,” the man said. I punched him in the nose instead and freed myself. The man laughed. He pulled himself up out of the mess and jumped down with a splash, covering me in mud. He stretched and rotated his arms. I was still clutching my burning shoulder when I found myself in the large filthy man's embrace. “Gods above, you took your damn time,” he said, squeezing me. My face pressed into his disgusting beard, covered in all manner of shit, and his chin rested on top of my head. I could feel some vile liquid running down my neck. “I was starting to wonder if our plan was going to work,” he said as he let me go.

“Our plan, Marcus? I don't recall
this
being any part of our Gods-damned plan,” I shouted, pointing at the cart. I tried to wipe off the bits of human from my coat but only managed to smear them in. “The plan, if I might remind you, was for you to make your own way here after I broke you out.”

“And so I did,” Marcus said. “Hitching a ride is kind of my thing.”

“Your thing… I see. Care to remind me how you ended up in that dungeon?”

“Well,” Marcus said. “You win some, you lose some. Got what we need?”

I reached into the back of the cart and brought out a large oilskin bag, handing it over to him. “Clean clothes for both of us. I have Angus's money purse in my satchel, and it's heavy with gold. Your weapons are strapped to the bottom of the cart.”

“And Angus?”

“Oh, Angus is quite dead, and colder than a fish's tits,” I said with a smile.

Marcus frowned at me. “I didn't think you actually took pleasure in that sort of thing.”

I shrugged and snatched the bag back. “This was different.” I stuck the bag between two wheel spokes. I did not generally enjoy my job, but it did not bother me overly much either. “Give me a hand, will you?” I grabbed the legs, he took the arms, and we lifted out the body, covered down to the hips by a large sack. We lowered it against a tree stump, and I grabbed the sack and yanked it off. “Tada…”