A sellswords resolve, p.11
A Sellsword's Resolve, page 11
part #3 of Seven Virtues Series
“Not all magic surely, highness,” Darrell said.
“No,” Co admitted, “not all magic. But what is left is a shadow of what it once was. And shadows, swordmaster, may only make more shadows.”
Darrell bowed his head low in acquiescence, “As you say, highness.”
Aaron decided to put Co’s identity aside for later consideration. There had been too many revelations in too short a time. This one, at least, didn’t seem to be one that would get him killed. Probably. “Now, Darrell,” he said, “you know my secrets, such as they are. Will you tell me your own?”
Darrell considered that then finally shook his head, “No, Aaron. I will not tell you. I will show you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gryle awoke to pain, his head pounding as if it would come apart. He quested at it with his fingers and whimpered as he felt the tender knot that had formed. He was lying on his back staring up at a wooden ceiling. Moaning, he eased himself into a sitting position. Dull pain throbbed in the back of his head, and his vision swam as he was overcome with a bout of dizziness. He closed his eyes in an effort to still the internal swaying and the sudden urge to vomit.
“Ah, it would appear that our guest has awakened.”
Gryle opened his eyes. He saw that he was in what appeared to be a small cellar. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and he noticed with horror that his clothes were irreparably stained from where he’d lain unconscious. Ruined, he thought, I’ll never get these clean. He wondered what the princess would think if she saw him in his current state, and he felt his face heat with embarrassment. His distress was cut short by a sneeze as he inhaled some of the cloud of dust that hung in the air. Out of habit, he reached for the kerchief he always kept in his trouser pocket but realized with a real sense of loss that it was gone.
The cellar appeared to be small—he’d had occasion to see bedrooms that were larger during his time in the castle—and he realized with a stab of fear that he had been locked inside a cell. He turned to the sound of the voice and saw a man sitting in a chair outside of his cell, his legs crossed, relaxing as if at some banquet, a small smile on his face.
The man was dressed in a fine cream doublet and trousers of excellent make that Gryle couldn’t help but admire despite the circumstances, and he felt a fresh wave of shame at his own filthy, disheveled appearance. Two big men stood behind the seated one, and the only light in the cellar came from a torch one of them held. It did little to illuminate the rest of the room, only casting it in shadow, so Gryle could not see much beyond the three men. “What … I’m sorry,” Gryle said, “but … I believe there may have been some mistake.”
Gryle could see little of the man’s face because of the shadows cast by the torch, but he saw enough to note that his smile grew wider, “Oh? And what mistake is that?”
Gryle swallowed hard. There was something about the man’s smile that struck him as predatory. “I … that is … I have done nothing.”
“Haven’t you?” The man said, clearly enjoying the chamberlain’s discomfort. “And do you not recognize me, chamberlain? I fear that my feelings might be hurt.”
Gryle frowned, squinting his eyes in an effort to make out more of the man’s features, but the shadows hid them well. “Forgive me, sir, I apologize but I … I cannot see your face.”
The man shook his head slowly, as if disappointed, “Ah, but you are an interesting one aren’t you, chamberlain? After all, it is my men and I that have knocked you out and put you in a cage, yet you apologize to us.”
“I …” Gryle screwed up his courage, lifting his head, “a disagreement is not proper cause for one to lose one’s comportment. Manners are the shield civilized society wields against savagery.”
“Ah, you quote Thanium,” the figure said, his smile stretching wider still, impossibly wide it seemed in the torchlight, “You are an educated man, chamberlain, and I respect that. I suppose I cannot be offended at your lack of recognition, considering that blow you took to the head and the poor lighting. I wonder,” he said, motioning the man holding the torch forward with two fingers, “Does this help?”
The big man stepped forward and orange, ruddy light fell on the seated man’s face, illuminating a scar that started beneath the man’s left eye and stretched in a hook-like pattern to his right jaw. His head was bald, and even in the poor light, Gryle could see that he was thin, almost impossibly so. At first, Gryle could not place who it might be but then the memory came flooding back, and he let out a gasp of fear and surprise.
The thin man’s mouth twisted strangely for several seconds as if unsure of what expression he might make then he finally grinned widely, his eyes going large in his face, “Ah, I think you do remember me, after all.”
“Y-you’re Aster Kalen,” Gryle stammered.” You … you attacked us in Avarest and chased us on the Clandestine.”
The man’s smile suddenly vanished, and his face twisted with an insane rage. He bared his teeth, a hiss issuing from his throat and madness dancing in his eyes. “Yes,” he growled, “and you fled like cowards.” The last came out in a shriek, and Gryle let out an involuntary whimper, scooting backward in his cage until he fetched up against the bars.
In another moment, the rage that had so transformed the thin man’s face vanished, and he was smiling once more. “Ah, forgive me,” he said, rubbing his fingers over his eyebrows, “I do sometimes lose my temper. Still, it is good that you remember. It will save us time.”
“What … what do you want from me?” Gryle said, his forehead beading with sweat.
The thin man cocked his head strangely, studying Gryle. He was silent for several seconds then, “We’ll get to that soon enough, chamberlain, I assure you. There is something that I will have you do for me. The least you could do, really,” he said, his expression twisting into anger again, the transformation all the more shocking for its abruptness, “considering the trouble you and yours put me through. I do not forgive easily, chamberlain, and you have caused me much difficulty.”
Gryle opened his mouth to speak and found that his throat had gone dry. He swallowed and tried again, “Sir, I’m sorry for any trouble we might have—”
“Oh, there’s no need to apologize, Gryle,” the thin man said, smiling once again, “Truly. You see, I have already discovered a way that you might pay me back, and you will pay me back, chamberlain. For now, though, I think that I would like to see you in pain.”
He motioned to the big man not holding the torch, and the man stepped forward, producing a key from the pocket of his trousers. “Please, sir,” Gryle squeaked as the big man worked the key into the lock, “I don’t … there is no need—”
“Perhaps there is no need,” the thin man interrupted, “except that I will enjoy watching you scream. And you may scream, chamberlain, as loud as you like. This cellar is quite sound proof.” He paused, winking, “It’s the reason why I chose it, after all.”
The big man stepped inside the cage, and Gryle gave a cry of fear as the man grabbed hold of his tunic and jerked him to his feet. “Ah, Gryle,” the thin man said, producing what appeared to be an apple from the inside of his tunic and taking a large bite, “it is very good to see you again.” With that, he nodded at the big man.
The man moved, shockingly fast, and a fist that felt as if it was made of iron struck Gryle in his stomach. The air left him in a whoosh, and he would have collapsed if not for the fact that the big man’s other hand held him up. Gryle tried to scream but all that came out was a choked whimper, and the big man struck him in the stomach again. This time, he released Gryle, and the chamberlain fell to his hands and knees, gagging and vomiting on the dirt floor. He was still dry-retching when the man’s open hand caught him in the face, a ringing slap that sent him sprawling in the dirt, his ear instantly numb.
“Not in the face, you fool!” Aster screamed, but if the big man responded, Gryle could not hear it over his own gasping wheezes.
He was still trying to get his breath back when strong hands pulled him to his feet, and he cried out as fists began to rain on his body, everywhere except his face. He was struck in his stomach, his arms, his thighs, even in his back, and excruciating pain beyond anything he’d ever known existed—beyond anything he’d known could exist—engulfed him. And soon, breath or no breath, Gryle began to scream.
Before he passed out, he thought he heard a woman’s voice screaming for them to stop, but if the men heard, if the voice was even real, they gave no sign and the beating, and the pain, continued. Gryle wept and begged and screamed, but the beating did not stop, and when the darkness rose up in his mind and vision, Gryle welcomed it gratefully.
***
He awoke in agony, each breath sending a sharp pain lancing through his bruised and battered body. He had no concept of what time it was, or how much time had passed since he’d fallen unconscious. He only knew that the dirt beneath his face was cool and soft and welcoming. Some part of him warned that he should get up, should try to figure a way out of his cage, but even the thought of moving was enough to make him whimper. Not just with pain but also a fear of how much more pain he would feel if he did, for that was one thing he’d learned in that interminable length of time when the man was beating him—however much pain a man felt, he could always be made to feel more.
He remembered Aaron Envelar telling him once that life was pain. Gryle had not believed it at the time, but he believed it now. There was no hope of rescue, no urgency to escape. There was only the pain. That and nothing else. All else had been beaten from him. He wondered only why they had not killed him, and some part of him wished that they had. Another part, though, the small, logical part—weak and cowering in a corner as it was—whispered something into his memory. Not in the face, you fool.
The words, at first, seemed to have no meaning, no substance or significance. They were only words, existing far beyond the pain, far beyond Gryle himself. Something was clogging his throat, and he coughed, his whole body convulsing at the agony that lanced through him as he did and some liquid, wet and dark, came out of his mouth to land on the dirt inches from his face. He stared at it with eyes swollen from weeping in confusion for several moments and it took him some time to realize that it was blood. His blood.
He realized then that he’d been a fool, rushing off to save the princess like some knight out of a story. He was no knight, he knew that well. Knew it now even if he had not known it before, and the world was no children’s story. The world was not made for knights and such things as happy endings were fancies and no more than that. He found himself weeping then, the tears streaming down his face, blubbering uncontrollably like a child. He was sickened, ashamed of his own weakness and that only made the tears come all the harder.
By the time they stopped, his breathing was shallow and ragged, his body shaking with small tremors. “Gods help me,” he croaked.
“My ma always told me, the gods help those as help themselves.”
Gryle started at the sound of the voice, and his fear gave him strength, allowing him to ignore the pain for a moment, as he slid across the cage until his back was against the wall. “Please,” he wheezed, “no more. Please.”
“Easy there, easy,” the voice said, and Gryle realized it wasn’t Aster’s voice, but a woman’s and from close by. The same woman, he realized, that he’d thought he’d heard screaming for them to leave him alone. “I’m not going to hurt you, friend,” she said, “couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
Gryle looked at the room, really looked at it for the first time since he’d woken. A torch hung on the wall nearby, its sputtering flame illuminating the cellar in its orange, ruddy glow. On the far end of the room, an old woman in filthy rags sat in a cage identical to his own, studying him. He could see that the woman, too, had been beaten and whatever prohibition had kept the man from hitting Gryle in the face, it had not been extended to her.
Her nose was twisted at an odd angle, obviously broken, and her face was little more than one big, wrinkled bruise. “I … I’m sorry,” He said, holding a hand to his stomach where he thought a rib might have been cracked and flushing with embarrassment, “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
“Sorry for what?” The woman said, “crying? Nah, there’s no need for that. You weep, if you need to. The gods know I’ve done it enough. Sometimes, it’s the only cure there is.”
“I don’t … feel cured.”
He couldn’t tell for sure in the near darkness, but he thought the old woman smiled at that, “No, I don’t expect you do. Neither did I, the times I did it, but I was healing anyway. When my Franklin passed, I did it. When my daughter Hannah passed too. I recognize the type of cry—it’s the weeping of a body that’s lost someone or something they thought they’d have forever. So what it is that you’ve lost?”
Gryle shook his head slowly, “I always thought the world was a good place. There was pain, sure, but not only that. I thought ….” He laughed but there was no humor in it, “I thought that I could help her and the others. I thought that I could be a hero.”
“And now?”
“Now, I realize I was a fool. I’m no hero. I’m not strong or smart—the pr—she would be better without me.”
The old woman let out a cackle at that, “Smart is it? Strong? How about fast, lad? Many heroes you know fast?”
Gryle frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion, “I suppose so. Yes, there have been tales of men and women with great speed with the sword or the bow. The histories—”
“Aw, let the histories be the histories, boy. All those heroes are dead and gone now anyway. And it isn’t speed or strength, makes a hero, lad. It ain’t even a fancy sword or how fine he might look without his shirt on. It never has been.”
Gryle sniffed, not ready to stop feeling sorry for himself. “It’s an easy thing to say,” he said, “but that doesn’t make it true. I’m useless to her. I can’t fight, I can’t do anything.”
“Sure seems to me you worry an awful lot about this ‘her’ whoever she is.”
“Yes,” Gryle said, “it’s my duty.”
The woman snorted, “As you say. Anyhow, I’ve got something to show you. I don’t make a habit of this, but I don’t suppose it matters much now, one way or the other.”
Gryle cleared his throat, “Ma’am, please, I appreciate your attempts to soothe me but, truly, there’s no need to—”
She cackled again, “To what? What do you think I’m planning on doing, givin’ you a look at my teats? Lad, they haven’t been worth lookin’ at for a long time now. Not exactly the thing you want to show a man, you’re trying to cheer him up. Like as not, you’d take your own life right now. No, this is something different, so shut up and let me do what I aim to.”
She held out her hand above the floor and suddenly a yellow light appeared, blossoming above her outstretched fingers.
Gryle gasped in surprise, “Gods … which … which is it?”
The old woman grunted, “Which, not what, huh?” She peered at him, “Seems to me, you know more about it than I would’ve expected.”
Gryle nodded, “A friend … well, a man that I would like to call friend has one.”
“That so?” The woman said, “well, this here is Davin. A nervous chap, much like yourself but a good enough sort in his own way.”
“Nervous?” The Virtue said in a hurt tone, “I don’t think that’s fair.”
“Well,” the old woman said, “mayhap it is, and mayhap it ain’t, but I’m old enough I’ll say what I want.”
“You do realize,” the Virtue said, “that I’m thousands of years old, don’t you?”
She rolled her eyes at Gryle, “It’s a good thing he is just a ball of light, otherwise, I don’t suppose he’d be able to move, what with that big head of his he’d be lugging around after him.”
Gryle found himself smiling at that, the pain forgotten for a moment at the wonder of seeing another of the Virtues in front of him.
“Beth, please,” the Virtue said, “we can still try to make it out. The next time they come—”
“The next time they come’ll be the same as the time before it,” she said, “they’ve got Michael either way, and we both know well enough what happens, we don’t do what they want.”
“But ma’am—”
Beth grunted, waving her hand and suddenly the Virtue vanished back inside of her again. “You’ll have to forgive him,” she said, “a good enough sort, like I said, but he does harp, sometimes.”
“Forgive me,” Gryle said, “Beth, is it? But if you’ve got a Virtue then why are you in here?”
She snorted, “I’m here because I’ve got a Virtue, lad. That’s why. Anyhow, back to the point I was tryin’ to make. Davin is the Virtue of speed. Means that I’m the fastest old hag you’re ever likely to meet. You’d be shocked how fast I can sew a quilt.”
“That must be … amazing,” Gryle said.
The old woman, Beth, snorted again, “Is it? How old do you think I am, boy?”
Gryle fidgeted, “Ma’am, forgive me, but it wouldn’t be polite to guess.”
“Not polite to be thrown in a cage and get the shit kicked out of you either, but here we both are. And keep the ma’am stuff bottled up, you’re around me. My teats sag a little more every time I hear it. I’m old enough I don’t need reminding. Just call me Beth. Not Elizabeth or Bethany, just Beth. I’m a simple woman with a simple name and that’s how I like it.”
“Yes ma—” Gryle cut off as she narrowed her eyes and he cleared his throat, “That is … yes … Beth.”
“Good,” she said, nodding her approval, “Might be there’s hope for you yet. Now, how old am I? And no more of this hemming and hawing. That might be fine for those noble women spend their time picking out dresses, their noses held so high lest they accidentally see one of us little folk.”
