The Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame - Book 1 (28 page)

The guards gripped the hafts of their axes more tightly, and Ghaji thought he detected a faint burning smell in the air. The axes were flaming weapons then, and the guards were more than ready to give their two unscheduled visitors a close-up demonstration of how they worked.

“Our apologies, Master Bersi,” Diran said. “This is our first time visiting Dreadhold, and we were unaware of the proper procedures.”

Bersi looked them up and down, scowling all the while. “I don’t see any weapons on you.”

Diran smiled. “We’re scholars. We don’t normally have much call to use weapons. Besides, it didn’t seem prudent to attempt to enter Khorvaire’s most formidable prison armed.”

Bersi let out a short bark of laughter, though the trio of guards remained grim-faced. “You got that right! You’d have been dead before you set foot on shore.” He frowned then.
“Scholars, you say? What would a pair of
scholars
—” at this the dwarf glanced at Ghaji as if he couldn’t imagine a half-orc reading, let alone being a scholar—“want here?”

“Our research interests lie in the field of history and folklore,” Diran said. “We have a letter of introduction from the chancellor of Morgrave University.” Diran started to reach for his shirt pocket, and the guards’ axes burst into flame.

“Go easy,” Bersi warned.

Diran nodded. With exaggerated care he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather wallet. Holding it between his thumb and index finger, he held it out for Bersi to take.

One of the guards stepped forward and examined the wallet closely. When he was satisfied, he stepped back and all three of the guards relaxed, though not much.

Bersi shook the wallet, opened it, and withdrew a folded sheet of vellum. He handed the empty wallet to a guard, then unfolded the letter and read the words written thereon in the chancellor’s ornate script.

The letter was legitimate, after a fashion. Chancellor Luchjan had indeed penned a general letter of introduction for them, but only because they’d helped save the life—not to mention the soul—of one of the university’s true researchers who’d gotten herself into a bit of trouble in Q’barra a while back. More than once this letter had smoothed the way for Diran and Ghaji when, for whatever reasons, it was better not to let people know what their true purpose was.

Bersi read the letter over several times before handing it and the wallet back to Diran. As the priest replaced the letter and tucked the wallet back into his pocket, the dockmaster said, “The letter appears legitimate. From time to time institutions
of learning do send representatives here for various reasons. I’ve seen Chancellor Luchjan’s seal before, and I recognize it on your letter.”

Ghaji felt like grinning but wisely restrained himself. It looked like the letter was going to work its own special brand of magic for them again, but then Bersi gestured at the
Zephyr
and said, “Tell me how a pair of university scholars can afford passage on an elemental vessel?”

Diran and Ghaji exchanged looks, then Diran said, “Research grants, of course. The university is fortunate to have a number of wealthy patrons who are only too glad to fund expeditions like ours.” He leaned closer to Bersi and lowered his voice, as if about to share a secret. “Armchair adventurers for the most part, you know, but their money certainly comes in handy, right, Ghaji?”

Ghaji hated it when Diran decided it was his turn to talk during these sorts of deceptions. He could never think of anything to say.

“Money is good.”

The dwarves looked at him as if he were feeble-minded, and Ghaji kicked himself mentally for playing to their stereotype of a dumb orc.

Bersi turned to Diran once more, as if deciding it would only be a waste of time to speak with Ghaji. “What is the specific purpose of your visit?” the dwarf asked.

“We’re in the process of compiling a new biographical study of the life of Erdis Cai,” Diran said. “We’ve been led to believe that one of his former crewmembers lives and works here, an artificer by the name of Tresslar.”

Bersi’s only reaction to hearing Tresslar’s name was a slight
narrowing of the eyes, but that was enough to tell Ghaji that the dockmaster was surprised, and Bersi didn’t strike Ghaji as a man who was overly fond of surprises.

“An artificer named Tresslar does indeed work here and has for forty years or more,” Bersi said. “He’s nowhere near as skilled as the artificers of House Kundarak, of course, but he makes himself useful by helping to maintain the enchantments on the inmate cells. I’m not aware that the man was ever a sailor, let alone that he traveled with someone as famous as Erdis Cai.”

The dockmaster exchanged glances with the three guards, and it was clear they found the notion of Tresslar being a former adventurer amusing.

“Perhaps the information we gathered was incorrect,” Diran said. “Even so, we’d still very much like to speak with Tresslar. We’ve come a long way to do so, and research is about uncovering the truth, whatever it might be. If it turns out we confirm that the man never sailed with Erdis Cai, then we will have learned something of value from this trip.”

Bersi looked at Diran for several moments, as if considering the “scholar’s” words. Ghaji was beginning to think that the dockmaster was going to deny their request, when the dwarf reached into his jacket pocket and removed a metal token embossed with the seal of House Kundarak—a winged manlike beast flanked by flames. The dockmaster handed the token to Diran, who accepted it with a gracious bow.

“The guards will escort you to the main entrance. This token will gain you passage into the cellhouse. After that, you’ll have to show both the seal and your letter to the sergeant. He’ll be the one to decide whether or not you’ll be able to make your request directly to Warden Gizur. It shall be he who ultimately
approves or denies your request to speak with Tresslar.”

“You have our utmost thanks, Master Bersi,” Diran said. “You’ve helped make a significant contribution to the always vital pursuit of knowledge.”

The dwarf waved Diran’s words away. “Just doing my job.” From the tone of his voice, Bersi sounded secretly pleased.

Diran and Ghaji then fell in with the guards—one in front of them, two behind—and the armored dwarves began escorting them to the cellhouse. It looked as if they’d found their way in, Ghaji thought. He just hoped they’d be able to get out again.

T
resslar?” Diran asked.

The man was middle-aged and thin, almost painfully so, with shoulder-length white hair and a close-cropped beard. He wore a gray tunic with a black belt and sandals, the standard uniform for prison staff who didn’t serve as guards. He was kneeling before a cell door, running his hands across the bars and frowning in concentration. A dwarf guard stood next to him, holding onto a crossbow that was cocked and ready. Inside the cell, a tall broad-shouldered man with black hair and sky-blue eyes sat cross-legged on a sleeping pallet, glaring at the older man as he went about his work. The prisoner wore a tunic that was so white it nearly glowed. All the prisoners in Dreadhold wore the same uniform, the bright color making it both easier to spot inmates and far more difficult for them to hide.

The older man didn’t respond to Diran’s question. He continued moving his hands over the bars and softly muttered to himself.

The guard that the warden has assigned to escort Diran and Ghaji during their stay in Dreadhold cleared his throat. “Tresslar, you’ve got visitors,” the dwarf rumbled.

Still the man didn’t look up.

“Tresslar …”
the guard repeated.

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,” the older man snapped, “but visitors or not, I’m in the middle of examining the ward-spell on these bars, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disrupt my concentration any more than you already have.”

“If you possessed more than a modicum of skill, Tresslar, you wouldn’t be bothered so much by distractions,” the prisoner taunted.

“Shut up, Jurus,” Tresslar said through gritted teeth. “If brains were dragonshards, you wouldn’t have enough to power an elemental nail trimmer.”

The cell was standard size for Dreadhold, nine by five feet, with a sleeping pallet, a wash basin sitting on a small wooden table, and a chamber pot. Not exactly the most ostentatious of accommodations, Ghaji thought, but it was better than being executed, though perhaps not by much.

“Tresslar, these two have come all the way from Morgrave University to talk with you,” Diran and Ghaji’s guard said. “Why they’d bother I don’t know, but they have, and the warden wishes you to speak to them.
Now.”

Tresslar continued working for a moment before finally sighing and removing his hands from the bars. “As usual, when Gizur wants something done, he wants it done yesterday.” The artificer stood, interlaced his fingers, and loudly cracked his knuckles. “Very well, then.” He turned to the dwarf holding the loaded crossbow. “I’ll return as soon as I can. If Jurus so
much as takes a step off his pallet, skewer him.”

“You don’t need to tell me my job, artificer,” the dwarf said, his gaze fixed on the prisoner.

“Just do what I say. Jurus, despite all his posturing, is a skilled artificer in his own right. We can’t afford to give him the chance to neutralize the wardspells on his cell.”

Without waiting for the guard to acknowledge his warning, Tresslar turned toward Diran and Ghaji. “Come with me, you two.” He glanced at their escort. “I see only one guard has been assigned to you. Gizur must not consider you much of a threat if he only ordered the one guard to keep watch over you.”

“Well, we
are
only scholars,” Diran said.

Tresslar looked them up and down, truly seeing them for the first time. “Scholars, eh?” He then turned and started walking down the corridor at a brisk pace. After a moment’s hesitation, Diran and Ghaji hurried after him. However, the guard assigned to them by the warden walked off in a different direction. Ghaji figured that now that they’d found Tresslar, there was no need for them to have a personal escort, not when the cellhouse was crawling with dwarf guards, all of whom were no doubt keeping sharp eyes on their visitors.

After gaining entrance to the cellhouse and being taken to see the day sergeant, Diran and Ghaji had been permitted to speak to Warden Gizur himself. The dwarf recognized not only the seal of Morgrave’s chancellor but also his handwriting. Gizur granted them permission for a two hour stay at Dreadhold, after which the scholars were expected to promptly depart the island, and the warden had made certain to emphasize the word
promptly
. The time limit shouldn’t prove to be a
problem, Ghaji had thought at the time. After all, how long would it take to ferret out the location of Erdis Cai’s location from Tresslar?

As it turned out, quite long.

Tresslar may have agreed to speak with his two visitors, but that didn’t mean he intended to make it easy on them. He never once stopped working. He hurried down one corridor or another, checking bars, examining locks, running his fingers over the stone blocks of walls and floors, forcing Diran and Ghaji to keep up with him. Ghaji would have preferred to grab the front of the artificer’s tunic, lift him into the air, and shake the location of Erdis Cai out of him, but the corridors of Dreadhold were continuously patrolled by dwarf guards who would no doubt take a very dim view of such an action.

As they scurried throughout the prison, Ghaji got a good look at the inside of Dreadhold. The prison had been designed for security and efficiency, not beauty. Gray stone walls, black iron bars, all straight lines and right angles. Everbright lanterns lit the prison, but no amount of light could lend warmth to these cold and forbidding stone corridors. The prison was solid, sturdy, grim, and implacable, just like the dwarves of House Kundarak who’d built it.

While the inmates of Dreadhold represented every race on Khorvaire, including some warforged, the prison staff was primarily made up of dwarves. Tresslar was one of the few non-dwarf staff members they’d seen, and from Tresslar’s constant complaining, this was something of a sore point with him.

“This is what my life is like here, day after day, year after year. The artificers of House Kundarak think they’re the finest in the world, just because their house carries the Mark of Warding.
They
are
skilled and powerful, I’ll grant them that, but they lack subtlety, a feeling for the more delicate ways that spells function, as well as how they can be disrupted. Dreadhold contains the highest percentage of mystically abled prisoners in Khorvaire, like that braggart Jurus you saw me putting up with earlier. They’re constantly testing the wardspells on the cells, trying to lift them or at least alter them enough so that they can escape. That means I constantly have to run around this gigantic stone tomb all day and double-check the dwarf artificers’ work. I can’t tell you how many escapes I’ve prevented over the years, but am I recognized for my contributions? No, I am not!
I’m
not a dwarf;
I’m
not a member of House Kundarak! Go back to Morgrave University and tell them that, why don’t you?”