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Sir Ayran of Louen’s face was red with fury. His old heart was pounding with the same vigor as his feet hitting the marble floor. The situation was intolerable; the actions of certain people were unforgivable. He was not only surrounded by incompetents, but, as he had suspected, traitors. He was too old for this kind of aggravation. The king had sent him to delegate and hand out orders, but it had proven more difficult than initially imagined, especially the matter with Prolur di Sangior, the man who didn’t know how to die. Sir Ayran was convinced he had been contacted by the excommunicated former prince, and to send him on a perilous mission had, of course, been the safest solution—no matter how blatant the reason. Their choice to send the young soldiers into the mouth of danger was indeed a gamble. Either the men would have proved themselves and defeated the barbarians or they would have all succumbed. No matter how the events had unfolded, the kingdom would have won. It would have been too much to ask for that the boys would be any form of difficulty for the superior enemies.
That Prolur had survived only added to Ayran’s frustration. The monk was a traitor on many levels now, and it was beyond the shadow of doubt treason. The kingdom was in a volatile state already, and the story of the hero Prolur might fan the flames of insurrection. Even though they had done everything they could to try and weed them out, small rebel factions still remained in Saurania.
He gave a nod to a guard and began his descent into the dungeons. The dampness of the dark stone corridors with their dripping ceiling and lichen-covered walls was wreaking havoc on the old man’s joints and respiratory system. He halted and was subdued by a coughing spell. For a moment, the dungeon fell silent. The sounds of wailing and the rattling of chains so common amongst the rancid walls slowly picked up again once Sir Ayran’s cough subsided. He leaned on his staff and wiped his brow with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. He moved on down a corridor which housed very few prisoners. Only those who had proven to be a threat to the kingdom, either because of political ideals or because they knew too much. Some awaited death, and others whose death would only complicate matters, were there merely to be forgotten.
The number of guards had been doubled—not that it would make a difference if a similar break out were to happen, Sir Ayran knew this. It had been magic. He almost spat at the very thought of it. And behind the castle walls as well! He had never cared for it and had always been taught to believe that such dealings were best left to the gods. Man should show his power by his own superior abilities, not by trying to harness nature, striving to be something he was not. The Sauranians had desperately tried to use magic against their invaders, but the Haugarian war machine was too powerful a foe to be thwarted by it. The campaign against Dourland had been a different story altogether. Their use of magic had been more effective and more devastating. The loss had been blamed on the king’s ineptitude, and it had cost him his crown and the head it rested upon, but the truth was that no one could have foreseen the effect of Dourish mages. The kingdom could not afford to tell its people in what manner they had lost.
Several guards saluted as Sir Ayran reached the cell that housed his greatest concern at the moment: Sir Prolur di Sangior.
The cell was, as cells tended to be, small, but as Sir Ayran entered, it seemed claustrophobic. In the center of it, Prolur hung from the ceiling. Chains around his arms hyper-extended them above his head. The former general was unconscious; his head was slumped against his chest, with dried blood covering most of his face. His hair was almost completely black from it—as was his beard. In the cell stood a soldier, one of the interrogators, twirling a thin steel switch between his fingers. On the wooden bench that was commonplace in the cells, Lord di Sauria was seated with a concerned look on his face and staring off into space. The sight of the provincial Lord of Saurania made the old emissary sick to his stomach.
He knew His Highness, the king, had believed Mieden to be an effective ruler and he had chosen him solely because of his relation to Prolur. Sir Ayran and the other advisors had been doubtful, but those were tumultuous times, and decisions had to be made quickly. He had managed to control the Sauranians with help from cunning administrators, but it had become more and more obvious how incompetent he was. Something would have to be done once this ghastly business blew over. He would meet with the king and something would be done.
di Sauria rose when he finally noticed that Sir Ayran had entered the cell. The guard had been standing at attention during this time. Sir Ayran gave the soldier a nod, and he immediately returned to his incessant twirling. He ignored di Sauria and instead placed the tip of his staff under Prolur’s face. Prolur moaned at the rough treatment but wouldn’t wake. His face was swollen from the many blows he had suffered, and his left eye was crusted over and obviously of no use anymore. Sir Ayran called for water, and it was brought in short order.
The interrogator threw the water on Prolur’s exposed face, and slowly he came around. Sir Ayran kept his head raised and moved closer to the battered monk’s face, which smelled of blood.
“Finally, your cousin does something correct,” he said with venom on his voice. “You managed to escape this cell and this castle—a rare feat. Someone helped you. That much is obvious. I don't really care how it happened, and we will catch those traitors with or without your help.” Sir Ayran paused and looked at him for a moment. “I am here to give you the opportunity to save your life. The only thing you need to do is tell us about Quale and his plans, what your part is, and who helped you escape.”
Prolur’s right eye looked up at the elderly knight. He tried to spit at him but could only muster a bloody dribble down his already bloody chin.
“So that is to be your answer?” Sir Ayran said with a sneer. “That is how you repay the kingdom which bore you, fed you, and cared for you. Maybe you never possessed the strength we thought you did. Are you truly a traitor?”
Surprisingly, the dangling, seemingly broken man found his voice with startling strength. “I have not betrayed this kingdom or anyone governing it. The only act of treason I have committed is towards my family or one I could have had, and me.” Prolur paused a moment and then took a deep breath. “I tried to change my destiny and fate itself. I have suffered for it, and this is how it must be.”
Sir Ayran tilted his head and gave the man he hated so a curious glance. “Well you have truly signed your own death sentence, Father,” he said and lowered his staff, letting Prolur’s head drop in the process.
Prolur opened his eyes and could at first only see the red haze again. After a few seconds, the bars of his cell came into focus and beyond them a dark shape standing upright. It was a figure in a cloak, and the person under the fabric leaned towards him.
“Father, it is your prince,” Prince Quale said as he pulled his hood back.
Prolur tried to reply, but his throat was thick with dried blood, and all he could produce was a low cough.
“I hate to see you in such a state,” the prince continued. “I swear to you on my father’s honor that I will make them pay.”
Prolur rolled his head back and forth against the prison wall. “How did you get in here?” he said with a low voice, nearly a whisper.
“The roots of my tree of allies are spread far, deep, and wide,” the prince replied with a slight smile, which he retracted almost instantly. “They even reach as far and as deep as the royal court. To enter these premises is no difficult task.”
“What are you doing here?” Prolur asked in a tired voice, growing stronger through the thickness of coagulated blood.
“I have come to take you away from here, Prolur, to save you.”
Prince Quale took out a key from the dark recesses of his cloak and put it into the lock, but Prolur shook his head and put his hand on the bars.
“I cannot,” he said. Quale was startled, but he quickly regained his composure.
“I understand your concern, Prolur. I know you are worried about the safety of Lady Armana and her son. I will do anything to assure that the three of you are kept out of harm's way.”
“Running and hiding for the rest of our lives?”
“No, join us. I would make you a general in my army.”
“I do not serve you.” Prolur felt himself becoming agitated. “I have done my time. No more.” He coughed so hard that he made the bars shake.
“Who do you serve, Father? Who do you care about?” Quale asked.
“My son. His future. The safety of the ones I love.”
“They are part of this kingdom—people like all Haugarians. Do you not wish that they could live under the true lineage of Haugar?”
“Ha!” Prolur coughed up blood which he spat on the floor. “You know as well as I do that the blood that flows in your veins is not that of Tieto. Even if you had been of his family, it would have been so watered down that one could barely call it divine. There is no godly lineage to protect or uphold here.”
Prince Quale seemed taken aback, and he let go of the cell door. “This kingdom is built on the foundation of that lineage. Would you so readily destroy it?” he said.
“It is built upon a lie; people have constantly been lied to. A lie sent us to conquer other people. You tell me where the divinity is in that?”
“Talk like yours could destroy everything our kingdom is, not to mention the heirs of Abbaloch and the beliefs of the countries in the north.”
“I care not for their lies.”
“You served this country once, why will you not serve it again?” At least you could do it to fight a tyrant.” Prince Quale was also becoming agitated, and his face was becoming red.
Prolur tried to rise in order to meet this barrage of words but couldn’t muster the strength, and he fell back towards the wall.
“I gave everything for this kingdom, and what did I get in return? I have given all I can, and now I will give the ultimate gift, but this time in order to save someone I genuinely care for. I will not give you any more, Prince.” Prolur nearly spat out the last word.
Quale came close to the bars again, and in a demonstrative gesture, he put the key back into the dark recesses of his robe.
“You are a foolish man, Prolur di Sangior,” he said in a voice more sad than angry. “Your death will make you a martyr. A martyr to my cause, and whether you wish it or not, your final stand will play right into my hands.” He pulled the hood over his head and left the room.
Prolur closed his eyes. Quale’s words pained him more than any of Lord di Sauria’s torture had. A trickling of blood ran from the side of his mouth and down his chin as he tried to quell another coughing attack.
Outside the room, Prince Quale leaned against the prison door. “Fool,” he said out loud. “I wish I had half your conviction.”