Chapter Seventy-Four. Of Dungeons and Cells.
Seventy-Four
Of Dungeons and Cells.
As I’m dragged along with my hands tied behind my back, there’s a bag over my head that smells of woodle root, and the weave of it is tight enough to hamper my vision, but loose enough to let enough air in so I can hyperventilate without losing consciousness.
I don’t know how far I’ve gone or what’s going to be done to me, but I know that Merc is dead and—
The shove pitches me forward, and I land face-first in a rancid puddle.
There’s a clanking that suggests bars are being locked into place, and then a rattling of keys and fierce conversation between two men.
Footsteps recede, after which all I hear is the dripping of water somewhere close by and the squeak of a rat.
Lifting my aching head, I shake myself to get the wet patch of the bag away from my nose and mouth.
With my hands immobilized, there’s no way of taking it off.
My feet are untethered, though, so I’m able to maneuver myself into a sitting position.
I don’t trust myself to stand up for so many reasons.
“Merc…” I whisper between heaving breaths.
I can still see him slump over in the saddle, his broadsword falling from his hand.
I kept screaming until Lavante was caught with a lasso and I was dragged off him and struck on the back of the head.
I came to in some sort of carriage or cart, and then I was yanked off and made to walk.
I knew we were going underground by the tilt and the musty smell, but other than that?
Now I am here, wherever this dungeon is, and the way I turn my head to look around is nothing but habit, a waste of effort—
“There’s no way out, I’m afraid.”
I shuffle around on my bottom toward the taunting male voice. It’s the ranking soldier, and he’s very close by, so I guess he’s locked us both in together. When I hear a creak of wood, I guess he’s sitting down in a chair.
Sure enough, his words come to me from a slightly lower position, his accent making brisk work of the syllables. “What is your name?”
“Take off this hood,” I say. “Release my hands.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands.” There’s another creak and I picture him leaning forward. “You could ask politely, however. Or perhaps even better … beg.”
“Where is M—” I clear my throat. “Where is my husband.”
“There is no reason to concern yourself with—”
“Where is my husband!”
There’s a rush of movement, and then I’m slapped so hard, my torso twirls around and I land with my face in the puddle again.
Inside the bag—inside my skull—I see stars, a whole galaxy spinning around me, and now there’s a different taste in my mouth, not just the liquid rot and mineral deposits of the puddle.
Copper.
My lip is bleeding.
The chair accommodates the soldier’s weight once again. Then there’s a fabric shift, as if he’s brushing off slacks he prefers to keep pressed and very clean.
“We are not getting off to a good start, you and me.” He chuckles softly. “And I have plans for us. So many plans.”
Instinctively, I retract my knees up. As a wave of nausea tackles me, I don’t know if it’s my head injury, Merc’s death, or what this man wants to do to me.
The chair tells me again that my captor is moving, and the next thing he says is right in my ear. “You will tell me your name now.”
When I don’t reply, my head is yanked back so hard, my spine bends. As I grunt in pain, his voice remains icy calm. “I would much prefer you to resist. So please, indulge your urge to defy authority for as long as you like.”
A hand moves to the front of my felt cloak, and I feel him fishing for access to the skin under my clothes—
“Sorrel,” I grit out.
He stops. The chuckle weaves its way into my ears again. “I am disappointed with your compliance. But I am a man of honor—who also believes pleasure is better with anticipation.”
The soldier drops his hold on me and I barely catch the weight of my head before it slams into the concrete floor. As I recover from the strain in my neck, I hear heavy boots pacing around at an even pace, and I use the rhythmic noise to get a sense of the confines of my cell.
“Where is my husband?”
“How did you get through the Forbidden Land?”
I swallow through my dry mouth and taste more of my own blood. “We broke down the Crystal Gate—”
“Liar.” His voice is close by once again. “How did you get through the Forbidden Land—”
“We broke the barrier down and proceeded through a red forest—”
The slap shuts me up, my teeth humming. “No one can break down the Crystal Gate or survive the Field of Fire and all its contamination. It has been thus for millennia, and shall always be. Now tell me, how did you—”
“It is the truth.”
“Do not play stupid with me. We have had spies attempt to infiltrate our territory before, none who have come the way you have, granted, but that is—among other reasons—why you are getting my special attention. You are a very lucky, lucky woman … Sorrel.”
There’s a hand on the ends of my hair, I can feel the subtle pull. And I brace myself for him to yank my head back once more.
“The red land with the fire,” I whisper. “How is it contaminated.”
The exhale is exasperated. “You are just my type, Sorrel. Anticipation, delay … by whatever means.” The laugh is very nearly self-deprecating now.
“You know how to pique a man’s interest, but I am afraid teasing only goes so far.
Thus I shall take what I want from you, and then send you the way of your husband.
If you are good for me, I will make your death quick and easy. ”
There’s a jerking back and forth—
With a whoosh, the bag is removed.
The soldier’s face is right before mine, and before I can stop myself, I look into his pale, cruel eyes—
I gasp, and jerk at the tie that rounds my wrists. My stomach is on fire, the pain so intense, I feel a tide of blood coming up my windpipe. Gurgling now … a gusher coming out of my straining lips—
“What ails you, woman,” the soldier mutters. “Are you diseased then—”
Moaning, I fall to the side, my mouth gaping as I suffocate and strain with pain. My eyes blink as I look up and—
I see myself.
Standing over me.
My clothing is wet and dirty, my hair in a tangle, and the expression on my own face is a combination of horror and vengeance.
In my hands … the crystal knife Thale gave me to protect myself with.
And it appears that I use it in the exact fashion he advised me to.
As I struggle to stay conscious in the midst of the death throes, I fight against the terrible conclusion that cannot be denied.
This is the next evolution past asking Merc to do what he did to the cook.
This is me as a murderer. Except it has to be wrong.
How could I ever get out of this cell if I kill him—and anyway, there’s no way they left the knife with me.
In addition to taking my pack, they must have searched me for anything and everything.
It’s as I pass out that it occurs to me … I am far more concerned about how it will all play out.
Instead of the act of killing itself.
Then again, that bastard murdered the man I love. Right in front of me.