Part 8 (1/2)
”No!” Trigorah quickly reprimanded. ”Up front with me.”
She opened the door and shoved Myranda inside. A soldier who had been standing guard by the door had already climbed onto the horse she had ridden. Trigorah stepped up on the running board of the carriage and turned to her men.
”Listen! We do not stop moving until we are inside the fort! Speed will not be enough to protect us if that beast chooses to follow! If there is even the hint of his appearance, we face him together! The carriage will continue without us! Do not face him alone! He has taken too many of your brothers-in-arms! If that blade of his touches you, it will already be stained with my blood, that much I can a.s.sure you!” she dictated before ducking inside.
Once inside, she continued to issue orders.
”Turn around and put your arms behind your back!” she demanded.
Myranda obeyed. Her wrists were quickly and securely bound.
”Now face me!” she ordered.
Myranda turned and a collar of sorts was snapped into place around her neck. It bore a jewel much like the one that was fitted to the end of her staff. As soon as it touched her skin she felt an odd sensation. It was faintly painful, as though someone was pressing on a half healed bruise. She turned her mind to healing the pain, only to feel it increase to a sharp, piercing burn that did not subside until she broke concentration.
”What is this?” Myranda asked.
”A precaution. Unless you enjoy agony, I would advise against using any sort of magic,” she said.
The carriage lurched to a speed far faster than the designers had intended. It rocked and bounced so violently, Myranda felt certain it would flip over. As she tried to remain in her seat in the pa.s.senger cabin, a s.p.a.ce clearly intended for one, she could feel the gaze of her captor. Trigorah's eyes were locked on Myranda, almost burning with intensity. The sound of rus.h.i.+ng wind, pounding hooves, and creaking wood filled the cabin, but still there seemed to be a painful silence that only a voice could break. After all, Myranda had dreaded this woman, running in fear from her and her subordinates. Now, only a short time after deciding that she could be an ally, she sat beside her. Myranda spoke.
”It was kind of you to allow me to ride here with you. I have spent time in the rear of a carriage like this before. It was-” Myranda began.
”Do not mistake caution for kindness. You have escaped from me too often to be left unsupervised,” she said.
Immediately the silence seemed to push the tumult of wind and hoof back outside. Myranda spoke again.
”I know why you wanted to find me. I want to help you,” Myranda a.s.sured.
”I wanted to find you because I was ordered to,” she answered. ”You can save your pleading and groveling for my superiors, if you make it that far.”
”Surely they told you why they wanted me. Surely you asked,” Myranda said.
Trigorah sat silently.
”You must have questions,” said the girl.
”Many, but it is not my place to ask questions. I am not the interrogator. You will meet him again soon enough. After being a.s.saulted by you, I am sure he will be pleased to meet you again,” she said.
”Again . . . Arden? Arden is the interrogator?” Myranda asked.
The general was again silent. She reached out and s.n.a.t.c.hed away the bag that Myranda had dropped when she entered. After pulling the dagger out and eying it briefly, she placed it back inside and scowled.
”You do not have the sword,” she fumed.
”No, I haven't had it since Lain first captured me,” Myranda explained.
”Lain . . . ” she hissed. It was the first she'd heard of her target's name.
Trigorah's scowl somehow turned even more serious. Myranda could tell by her look that she was contemplating how best to attain the sword.
”The only way to get the sword and stop them from following is to-” Myranda began.
”Pay them. I know,” Trigorah interrupted.
The General turned the idea over in her mind again and again. To pay was to fail, to admit that she could not do as she was ordered. And yet, the price had been so high already. The best of her men and the better part of a year had been spent in pursuit of this girl and the blasted sword she'd taken. Perhaps the time had come.
”It must be done,” she said.
”Excellent. Once you pay Desmeres, we can attempt to convince Lain to-” Myranda planned enthusiastically.
”Quiet! Your future depends entirely upon what the other Generals decide. I will deal with Lain when the time comes,” she snapped.
There was a defensive tone to her last comment. Myranda had quickly learned how much General Teloran valued duty. After spending so much time attempting to apprehend Lain, it must have become an obsession.
”How long have you been after Lain?” Myranda asked.
Again, silence was the only answer, a silence that would not be broken for hours. The carriage stopped only once, and only long enough to change horses. The cabin was hardly a luxurious one, built to keep those outside out, and those inside in. As a result there was barely a slit for a window. Myranda tried to turn her mind from the hunger that had been steadily gnawing away at her. Periodically she would glance at the General. The elf sat stoically, her eyes always locked on Myranda, as though at any moment the girl would mount an escape. Her armor, though no doubt exquisite when it was first made, showed the wear of decades of use. Here and there Myranda recognized a s.h.i.+ny gash in a plate as one left by Myn. Trigorah adjusted a sagging plate on her arm, only to have it fall away again. The belt that held it had been torn through, as had whatever clothing she wore beneath it. Myranda wondered how long ago it had happened, and if she was responsible. Between the tattered edges of leather and cloth, bare skin could be seen, as well as something else. Something that caught Myranda's eye. There was a gold armband. It was not cloth, but a cuff of gold that was clamped onto her arm in much the same way that the collar was affixed to Myranda's neck. The sight of it stirred something in her mind. There was something someone had said. Beware those who wear gold . . . The look of recollection must have shown on her face, for Trigorah broke the long silence.
”What is it?” she said, a demand, not a question.
”Nothing, just . . . something an old man said once,” she said.
Myranda decided it was best to remain silent for now. A combination of exhaustion and weakness from hunger allowed her to drift off despite the uncomfortable bonds and violent motion of the carriage. It wasn't quite sleep, but it was better than nothing. Consciousness wavered in and out until she was jarred out of the doze by the abrupt end to her journey.
”Close your eyes,” Trigorah ordered.
”Why?” Myranda asked.
The door was flung open and the light stung viciously at Myranda's darkness-adjusted eyes. Trigorah stepped out and a pair of the attending Elites pulled Myranda into the painfully bright light outside. She wavered briefly, forgetting that her hands were bound when she tried to catch herself on the edge of the carriage. Trigorah caught her and steadied her.
”Take a deep breath. This may be the last time you feel fresh air in your lungs,” she warned.
Myranda's eyes adjusted and she took in her surroundings. She was in a courtyard kept meticulously free from snow, surrounded by a low, st.u.r.dy wall. Filling the courtyard was row after row of soldiers. They bore general issue armor that seemed crude in comparison to that worn by the Elites. Not a face could be seen, each hidden behind a visor or mask. At the center was a square stone building that seemed a bit small to warrant such defenses. She was being led inside. The doors were pulled open by the two guards stationed beside them.
Inside was pure darkness, not the merest flicker of light could be seen. Eyes that had only just adjusted to the light were faced with the task of penetrating the darkness again. A faint glow that Myranda soon found to originate in the gem of her collar was the first thing she was able to see. The pale blue light did little more than transform the darkness into a collection of ill defined shapes.
”Close your eyes,” Trigorah ordered.
Myranda swiftly obeyed. There came the familiar hiss and sizzle of a torch being lit. Carefully the girl opened her eyes. The dancing yellow light revealed a scene she wished had remained hidden. The whole of the interior was a single large room with only the occasional pillar. The walls were lined with bars, divided into dozens of different cells, all empty. They approached an arched doorway that led to a set of stairs leading downward.
The stairs led down only one floor. The next staircase was at the far end of the floor. In this way it was impossible to move quickly up or down. Each floor had to be traversed in its entirety to reach the next. As she was escorted downward in just this fas.h.i.+on, descending further and further into the ground, some of the cells began to show occupants. She glimpsed at the people locked away. With each new floor she found herself feeling that she had seen these faces before. Some seemed to show a look of recognition themselves. A few showed something far stronger than recognition. In the short time that the torch illuminated their faces, these individuals s.h.i.+fted from shock to anger and hatred. She left at least one person on each floor screaming for her blood. With their cries echoing in her ears, she shut her eyes tight and allowed herself to be led onward. Finally she came to a floor that brought no new cries. She opened her eyes.
It must have been the bottom floor, deep below the surface. While this place was as large as the other floors, there were no cells. In fact, it was practically empty. All that could be seen was a pair of chairs, a pile of chains, a table, and the interrogator. It was he, Arden. From the looks of it, he hadn't changed from the ravaged armor he had worn when they last met. His halberd was in the corner of the room, far outside the sphere of light cast by the torch, but betrayed by a glow identical to the one from her collar. The look of clarity and intellect that had appeared fleetingly during their last encounter was now a permanent fixture on his face. Myranda's arrival added a look of pleased amus.e.m.e.nt to the collection of out of place expressions.
”Finally managed to bring her in, have you? Splendid. And the sword?” he asked.
”They were not carrying it. In the interest of timely and secure retrieval, I believe the best course of action is to pay the ransom,” Trigorah recommended.
”Well of course it is. Had we gotten the payment to them before one of the other squads had shown up and spoiled things we would have been saved a considerable amount of time,” he said.