Knights: Book 02 - The Hand of Tharnin (24 page)

Lannon could only shake his head.

"Jerret, go and get Furlus," said Vannas.

Lannon nodded his agreement at the idea.

Jerret hesitated, then rose.

"Sit down, Squire," Jace commanded, his frozen gaze fixing on Jerret. "I'm not done talking yet. We have so many things to discuss."

His face pale, Jerret sat back down.

"I was dreaming in the deep," said Jace, puckering up his lips and blowing fog from his shoulder. "I was...
dreaming
. I saw the Hand of Tharnin crushing our army, while a great beast descended from the heavens. I saw the White Flamestone lying in pieces, and Lannon...Lannon was soaked in blood. The beast of Dremlock's doom is drawing closer..."

Jace closed his eyes. "Yes, I was lost in the fog...in an endless dream." For a moment he was silent, and then he added, "But then the dream did in fact come to an end. It always does. Goodbye, my young friends. I must sleep now and I may never...ever...ever...ever...awaken. Don't mourn me at all. Just forget this old fool..." He fell to one side, knocking over a water jug.

"I'm getting Furlus now!" Aldreya cried, and she leapt up and was gone from the tent so swiftly the others barely saw her move.

***

In spite of his bizarre appearance and behavior, Jace seemed back to his old self the next day. The strange fog that had clung to him was gone, and his skin had returned to its normal, somewhat pale hue. The light of awareness was back in his eyes, bringing with it his usual personality. Massack Fireheart also seemed normal again and couldn't recall acting dazed, though he admitted he'd been very tired while on guard duty and might have simply been daydreaming (which of course earned him some harsh words from Shennen).

 
When asked about his strange condition of the night before, Jace just sighed and answered, "I was seriously injured from a falling chunk of ice--an injury that may take weeks to fully heal, if it ever does heal properly--and I nearly drowned and froze to death at the same time. I got trapped under ice and swam around in a near panic, unable to find where I'd fallen through. As my body was beginning to fail, I barely managed to punch a hole through the ice, thanks to my sorcery, and crawl out into the freezing air. I lay there for quite some time like a gasping fish, unable to get up. Then I had to walk for what seemed like hours with my clothes soaking wet, with only my sorcery to warm me--hence the steam that was rising from my cloak--and again save me from certain death. Now, would you act normal immediately following such events?" Aside from that reply, Jace would say nothing more about it.

 
Still fearing that Jace could be under the Deep Shadow's influence, Lannon tried again to probe him with the Eye of Divinity, but again he saw nothing but a wall of fog. Jace was endlessly shielded to Lannon's power somehow. When Lannon finally asked about it, Jace replied, "Yes, I've learned a few tricks over the two centuries that I've been alive. Does that surprise you?"

When Lannon asked about Jace's predictions of future events, including Lannon ending up covered in blood, Jace replied:
 
"I don't remember. But it may be something worth noting."

And so Lannon got nowhere in his investigation, and the Knights--even Trenton-- didn't seem interested and simply dismissed it all as strange sorcerer business. Regardless, Jace seemed normal enough (at least for Jace), talking and laughing and smoking his pipe. He eventually put Lannon at ease and the lad's mind wandered to other topics.

When they reached the lakeshore, they left their siege engines standing in the snow to wait for spring and were able to proceed at a faster pace across what remained of the Boulder Plains. For one afternoon, the snow let up and blue sky appeared, giving them hope that the wretched weather was behind them. Yet their hopes were soon dashed when the sky darkened again and a furious blizzard drove against them--the worst so far on the journey.

Travel slowed to a crawl as they forged ahead into the raging snowstorm. Visibility was reduced to almost nothing, forcing the Knights to hurriedly set up camp even though there were still a few hours of daylight remaining. They dared not be caught riding after dark, when it would be all too easy for some of them to get lost. They hunkered down sullenly in their tents, hoping the blizzard would let up by morning.

As the Squires sat eating bread and jerky by lantern light, Lannon explained how he was unable to use the Eye of Divinity on Jace. "Perhaps my power is growing weaker rather than stronger," he said, needing to talk about his fears.

"It doesn't matter," said Vannas. "We have a new power now, and there is no reason to fear. The White Flamestone is all we need."

"But you heard Jace tell of his dream," said Lannon, "of the Flamestone shattered and me...well, covered in blood." He winced as he said that last bit. "Jace is a sorcerer of some sort--though I admit certainly nothing like Taris--and his dreams could be visions of what the future might hold."

"Jace seemed out of his mind when he told us that," said Jerret. "He looked confused and maybe just plain crazy."

"I have to agree with Jerret," said Aldreya. "His behavior was very strange. I too was afraid the Deep Shadow was in his heart."

 
Vannas shrugged. "I should think the Divine Essence would know our fate better than Jace. I believe he was simply revealing his deepest fears."

Lannon said nothing more on the topic. As he drifted into sleep, the Eye of Divinity became the Eye of
Dreams
. Jace's vision merged with his own--as he saw Vannas struck down and the White Flamestone crushed by the swing of a heavy club even as some shadowy, winged horror descended from the sky. He saw himself covered in crimson but could not tell if the blood was his own. And finally, he saw the Hand of Tharnin reaching for his throat, as yellow eyes burned in the shadows. The smoldering gauntlet was far more powerful than the servants of the Divine Essence had imagined--a weapon forged with the will of the Deep Shadow for the sole purpose of destroying Dremlock Kingdom. The Divine Essence had given them the White Flamestone to oppose the Hand of Tharnin, but a third power--even greater than the other two--had awakened from its slumber. This third power, an unimaginable beast, was bearing down on Lannon, and he felt too weak to defend against it. And then the final ugly scene was revealed--the burning towers of Dremlock.

The ride to Rogue Haven was miserable. Timlin was given stale food to eat that he could barely stomach (by having it crammed into his mouth) followed by stale water. It was cold in the wagon and he often lay shivering on the dirty, gritty floorboards. When it rained, the roof leaked in several places, leaving Timlin soaking wet. Also, a moldy stench hung in the air that he never seemed to get used to. The wagon's purpose was obviously to transport slaves, and their comfort was not an issue. As far as the Dwarven master seemed concerned, Timlin could rot back there with the floorboards. And if he happened to take ill and die, what did the loss of a slave matter who'd been found wandering the countryside?

Occasionally, Timlin could hear Tolus whistling loudly, and his hands knotted into fists. He wanted to kill the Dwarf so badly it was like a raging, endless fire inside him. Timlin was trained in escaping ropes and chains, but the Dwarf's knots were so tight and secure that days of working at them produced no results. At last, Timlin simply gave up and lay there in the dark hating his captor.

Timlin wondered what his former friends at Dremlock would think of him now. No doubt they held only anger towards him for betraying the kingdom. They would probably have felt pity towards him as well, had they known the situation he now found himself in. Timlin knew one thing for certain--no one would be coming to his rescue. He was utterly alone in the world. He'd not only betrayed Dremlock, he'd also betrayed his friends. And most importantly, he'd betrayed
himself.
That last realization gnawed at him the most.

At last, the wretched journey to Rogue Haven came to an end, and Timlin was dragged from the back of the wagon. It was a cool fall day, and Timlin found himself in a misty clearing surrounded by towering pine trees. Timlin inhaled the fresh air, wishing he was free to wander where he wished. They stood behind a large, rugged-looking building made of pine logs. The sounds of merrymaking came from within--laughter, shouting, and music.

Tolus grinned. "This tavern is your new home, little man. We've got an arena down below, where you'll be fighting for your life now and then. Bear in mind that how well you eat, how much coin you make, and whether or not you eventually gain your freedom all depends on
you.
If you're lazy, you will get nowhere. You might even get yourself killed. So are you ready to work hard and better your life?"

Timlin shrugged. "All you really care about is your money."

Tolus jammed his finger against Timlin's chest. "Wrong, boy. I care about all my fighters. You'll come to understand that--if you live long enough."

The Grey Dwarf shoved Timlin along into the tavern and down some stairs into a hallway made of stone blocks. Several cells lined the hallway, containing rugged-looking men who were seated on the floor. The musty stench of the hall overwhelmed Timlin. At the end of the passageway was an oval-shaped iron door surrounded by oak carvings of exaggerated and hideous Birlote faces. A single guard watched over the tunnel--a stocky, bald man who held a knotted club. A large ring of keys hung from his belt.

Tolus pointed at the strange door. "The entrance to the arena. It is said that the man who walks past that door leaves his soul on the other side. Later tonight, you shall get your first taste of combat."

Tolus cut Timlin's ropes and shoved him into a cell containing another prisoner. Then he left the hallway. Timlin sat down and groaned.

"No use groaning," Timlin's cellmate said. He was tall, bald, and dark-skinned, with a short, scruffy beard. Muscles, displaying scars, rippled over his frame. He wore only a pair of leather trousers. "Might as well cheer up. You're not going anywhere. And why should a man be unhappy, even if facing death?"

He extended his hand. "My name is Oaran."

Timlin shook it. "Timlin Woodmaster."

"Woodmaster?" Oaran said, raising his eyebrows. "Sounds Knightly."

"It used to be," said Timlin. "I wanted to be master of the bow and the arrow, but now I guess I'll fight with whatever weapons I'm given."

"You'll fight with the weapon you're most comfortable using," said Oaran, "but not the bow. We fight in close combat."

"How did you end up here?" Timlin asked.

Oaran's eyes narrowed. "You want to know my business? Knowing a man's business can be dangerous."

"I just wondered," Timlin added quickly, "if you were taken prisoner like me or if you chose to come here."

Oaran stared at Timlin as if he were insane. "No one
chooses
to come here. Even a madman wouldn't choose this. I drank too much ale in the tavern above and fell asleep. I woke up down here. That was three years ago."

Timlin lowered his voice so the guard wouldn't hear. "I think we can escape. I know how to pick locks, if I have the right tools."

Oaran shook his head. "Sorry lad, but it's not going to happen. The cells are guarded day and night. We're watched carefully. Your only chance of escape is to do what you're told and win your battles. When I started, my food was terrible. I could barely swallow it. I was given no dressings for my wounds. No blanket, even." He patted the thick quilt beneath him. "Now I eat good, I sleep good, and I'm given a little ale now and then. I even have my own money."

"But you're still a slave," said Timlin.

"And so are you," said Oaran. "What of it? You think I choose this life? No, I want to see my wife and children again someday, who live in the city of Gravendar. I must stay alive for them. Who will you stay alive for?"

Timlin shrugged. The pain of loneliness wracked his heart, but he tried to hide it. "I have no one. I don't really care."

Oaran seized his shoulder and smiled. "You care deeply. I see it in your eyes. You've suffered much. So, you fight for yourself--and that is good enough. You can make a new start here, but you will be forced to kill. Goblins at first, and then later you will face human warriors."

Timlin flinched away from his touch. "I won't give up on trying to escape. And if I get a chance at that Dwarf..."

"Doesn't matter," said Oaran. "I was the same way as you three years ago--desperate to escape and see my family again. But the harsh punishments for disobedience are not worth the effort. Save your energy for the arena. You'll need it." He tapped his bald head. "Use what's in here, lad. Fight until you are free, and then never look back. Today is a new day."

"Not for me," said Timlin. "Today is the same old thing."

Oaran gazed at him with a curious expression. "You've known some troubles in your life, for sure. Something very dark and bitter lurks in your soul. Is that why you're no longer at Dremlock?"

Timlin looked away. "I've seen worse than this dungeon." He wasn't lying. He
had
seen worse--endless days and nights spent living below ground, with barely the space to crawl about. The constant beatings and lashings, the hopelessness of his existence. He'd been treated worse than most animals were treated, but he'd survived to eventually crawl forth into daylight.

"Don't disrespect them," said Oaran, his face deathly serious. "If you do, you'll be forced to fight
me.
And I don't want to have to kill you. I take no pride in killing a skinny lad who has suffered a hard life. No pride at all."

"I won't be treated like a slave," said Timlin, his hands shaking.

Again, Oaran tapped his head. "Keep calm now--and be free later. Or make a stand now and there will be no
later
."

"We'll see," said Timlin, shifting about uncomfortably on the stone floor. "I may not look like much, but I'm dangerous."

Oaran's eyes glittered, and he smiled. "I sure hope so, my little friend."

 
Eventually, the guard served them food and drink. Timlin's meal consisted of moldy food and water that tasted odd. Oaran, however, was given a large platter covered in venison and vegetables--so much food that Timlin doubted he would eat all of it. Timlin's mouth watered as he stared at the platter--the dripping meat, potatoes (Timlin loved potatoes), and a large jug of milk. Oaran glanced at Timlin while he ate, but did not offer to share.

Timlin nibbled on a piece of stale bread, then tossed in back on his plate. "Are you going to eat all of that, Oaran?"

"No," said Oaran. "I'll probably leave some of it. My leftovers will go to the Goblins that fight in the arena."

"Goblins?" said Timlin. "Why would you want to feed them? I'll gladly eat your leftovers. I haven't had a good meal in ages."

"I'm sure you would," said Oaran, "but you won't get them. When I'm done, the guard will take my leftovers to the Goblins."

"Because it's not allowed?" Timlin asked.

Oaran shrugged. "There is no rule that says I can't feed you. Prisoners share food all the time. But I'm
not
going to feed you."

Anger rose inside Timlin. "Why not? I thought you were a kind-hearted fellow, giving me that advice and all."

"You thought wrong," said Oaran. "I'm not going to be kind to you, because
kind
will get you killed. You want to eat this good? Then you better win your battles. This food is a reward for hard work."

Timlin tossed his plate aside, scattering moldy crud across the floor. "I refuse to eat this. I'd rather starve."

Oaran shrugged. "If you say so. But I'm still not sharing. Nobody shared with me, and the desire for better food kept me going in here. I fought for what I have."

"Yet you're still a pathetic slave," said Timlin.

Oaran nodded. "I'm alive, though."

Timlin sat down and sighed. "Not even a small potato?"

Oaran lifted a tiny potato, studied it thoughtfully, then popped it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his gaze fixed on Timlin.

Timlin leaned against the cell bars and closed his eyes. But a moment later, the guard seized his head through the bars and shoved Timlin away. "No touching the cell bars!" he growled, as he pushed Timlin.

Timlin turned with instinctive, blazing speed and seized the guard's arm like a striking snake. The stocky fellow's eyes widened, as if he couldn't believe he'd been snared. Immediately, Timlin released him and backed away.

"Keep your filthy hands off me!" the guard muttered. But his eyes showed a glint of fear. "Grab me again like that, and you'll get the whip."

Timlin bowed. "Sorry, it was instinct."

"Instinct will get you killed," said the guard, walking away shaking his head. Moments later, the guard bellowed and smashed his club against something metallic, clearly frustrated by Timlin seizing him.

Oaran frowned. "You're a quick little devil--like nothing I've seen. There is a lot more to you than meets the eye."

"I was well trained," said Timlin. "But who cares? It was all a waste."

"Not a waste," said Oaran. "Not yet."

"What do you mean?" said Timlin. "I've already betrayed Dremlock. I've pretty much sealed my fate."

"You've still got a heart," said Oaran. "You can still use those fine talents to do some good in the world."

"Whatever you say," Timlin mumbled. Soon he would have to fight for his life for the amusement and profit of others, and the notion sickened and terrified him. Timlin wasn't afraid of ordinary combat--such fears had been diminished by his training. But something about fighting to the death in an arena made his stomach feel like it was full of boiling acid. He realized he was trembling from head to toe. He wasn't just afraid to die--he was also afraid to kill. He didn't want to slay a foe in close quarters for no honorable reason. He pondered that realization, deeply confused by it. As part of the Blood Legion, he would have been expected to kill whoever they told him to kill--even innocents if need b e. But Timlin realized his Knightly training, and his conscience, was still affecting him deeply and demanding he only take a life if given no choice.

"I don't want to kill anyone," Timlin said aloud.

Oaran nodded. "You'll fight a Goblin tonight. Later, it will be a man who faces you. And it will be to the death."

"I'm not ready to kill a man," said Timlin. "It's not right. I thought I was ready for all that when I left Dremlock, but I guess I was wrong."

"You won't have a choice," said Oaran. Then he added, "Well, you actually will have a choice. You can choose to die." He gazed at Timlin in pity. "You're young and you're afraid. You've got a good soul in you, as bad as things have been in your life. But you'll soon learn to live like the wolf or the hawk--taking lives to preserve your own. This place will make you an animal."

Timlin shuddered, feeling cold inside.

***

Later that evening, Tolus and two men with crossbows came and let Timlin out of his cell. Timlin stepped into the hall with his hands raised, his eyes fixed on the weapons of the men who confronted him. He considered going for a weapon and fighting to the death--which would have been justified considering the circumstances--but he doubted he would prevail and he didn't want to die. At least in the arena he had a chance. He figured if he could buy some time and watch for an opportunity to escape, something might turn up. He harbored a lot of skills and secrets his captors likely didn't know about. They might underestimate him.

"Watch that little fellow," the guard muttered. "He seized my arm earlier, just like a snake striking at a rat. He's a dangerous lad."

Tolus frowned. "Are you going to seize me, Timlin? Better think twice before trying anything. I'll kill you for it!"

"I'll follow your orders," said Timlin.

"Good," said Tolus. "Perhaps Oaran has talked some sense into you. That's why I put you in with him. Now, are you ready to fight? We like to test the new ones before we waste too much food on them. If you can't handle a lowly Goblin, you deserve to die. It's all up to you. This is just business, lad. Don't hate me for it."

Timlin didn't reply.

They herded him to the end of the hall, where the strange, oval-shaped iron door stood. Timlin glanced up at the oak frame that surrounded it--the ugly, grinning, Birlote faces carved into knots in the wood. The depiction of the Birlotes as grotesque and demonic angered him.