Chapter Sixteen

 

 

Alesh sat in the castle’s audience chamber, doing his best not to fidget or let his annoyance show. The throne was the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever sat in, seeming to be made only of sharp angles which conspired to poke into his back and sides no matter how he sat. Perhaps, Tesharna had thought it looked elegant—certainly, even he had to admit that it looked more like a work of art than a chair—but an elegant-looking torture device was still a torture device. But then, Tesharna had held her image above all else, so it was no surprise that she would go to such lengths to maintain it.

Still, as uncomfortable as the throne was, as downright malevolent as it was, it was not responsible for his current frustration. That dubious honor belonged to the merchant standing in the center of the otherwise empty chamber save for a few guards stationed along the walls, as still as statues. He was dressed in expensive silk that had likely cost a small fortune, particularly considering his vast bulk—the man was nearly as wide as he was tall. The fingers of both his hands were bedecked with gems of various colors that sparkled and shined almost as much as his long beard, slicked with a perfumed oil the odor of which was overpowering even from a dozen feet away.

Since being given leave to talk, the man had continued on a steady stream of rants and complaints that, despite their inventiveness for which Alesh had to give him credit, and despite their varied subject matter, all managed to boil down the one thing. The man—Beyz, if Alesh remembered the name correctly—was a member of the merchant’s guild and was complaining about the rules Alesh had imposed on them, namely that no one could raise the prices of any essential goods, such as food, for the foreseeable future in an attempt to price gouge during the siege. Alesh had given the order on sound counsel from his advisors believing that, during this time when people were forced to worry about whether or not their homes would be overrun by nightlings, they shouldn’t have to be concerned about whether or not they were going to be able to feed their families.

Beyz, though, saw it differently. To him—or at least as far as Alesh could tell, as he had to admit that he’d stopped paying attention some time ago—the inability to change their price based on demand was an outrage. Supply and demand, after all, the merchant had said, was the crux of what being a merchant meant, many risking the dangers of the road to buy goods which were plentiful in one city only to return and sell it them at a profit, a price that those citizens of the home city were more than willing to pay to avoid having to undergo the trip and risk its inherent dangers themselves.

“So you see, Chosen,” the man said now in a voice as oily as his beard, “it is essential for members of the guild be able to adjust the prices of their goods. After all, the market fluctuates and a merchant who is unable to fluctuate with it is doomed. You understand, of course?” he finished in a question that wasn’t really a question.

What Alesh understood was that he was being patronized, understood, too, far more than he thought the man wished about his greed. But he didn’t get a chance to answer in any case, for in another moment the merchant was going on again, launching into another tirade.

Alesh fought back a yawn, thinking, as he had been for days, about the problems that lay ahead. The Broken and his army would be here soon. According to the few scouts that had returned—most hadn’t been so lucky—the enemy army was on the move, would likely arrive outside the city in the next few days. For the last several days, refugees had been lined up at the city gate seeking safety in the city, the guards stationed there doing their best to make sure they weren’t letting in spies from an army that, according to the reports, was more than five times Valeria’s own, and that was before one took into account the nightlings that would no doubt accompany it.

Grim odds to say the least, but Alesh told himself there was nothing more he could do, that everything that could be done had been. They’d done their best to train those who’d volunteered to defend the city, and Valeria’s blacksmiths were even now rushing to forge as many blades as they could, the leatherworkers hard at work on scabbards and boots—more than a few of those who’d showed up to offer their blades hadn’t actually had blades, hadn’t, in fact, even had shoes. According to the reports, it would still be a close run thing as to whether or not they were able to arm all of the volunteers, and even if they were armed, their training—rushed as it was by necessity—amounted to little more than try not to get stabbed.

Not exactly a comforting thought. What was more comforting, however, was that Darl had been helping in the training, and though he admitted to their lack of skill, the Ferinan seemed to think highly of their courage, at least. Alesh, however, wasn’t so sure. After all, it was easy to be brave when the battle was days ahead. It was a very different thing to be brave when someone was charging at you screaming for your blood. Still, if Valeria was saved, it would be saved by the courage of such men and women, men and women who, if the fat, greedy merchant before him had his way, wouldn’t be able to afford to eat.

“Merchant Beyz,” Alesh interrupted, and the man cut off his steady stream of justifications, blinking as if he’d forgotten there was anyone in the room besides himself. “I will tell you just as I told the head of your guild—the prices of essential items will remain unchanged for the length of the siege.” The merchant started to protest, no doubt preparing to offer some other excuse that would be fifteen minutes in the making, but Alesh spoke over him. “Of course, I appreciate the sacrifice you are all making. After all,” he went on, fixing the man with a hard look, “I would hate for anyone to think you or one of your fellows in the guild was trying to profit during this crisis, especially not while others have had the courage to volunteer to fight and will fight poorly if they are starving.”

The man winced at that, and for a second Alesh had the hope that he was finally at a loss for words. He rallied though, clearing his throat. “Of course, Chosen, nothing could be further from the truth. I and my fellows in the guild have nothing but admiration and respect for those brave souls who will man the walls against this threat, who will no doubt be victorious in beating it back with little difficulty.”

Alesh could have told the man he was delusional if he thought that victory was anywhere near assured—or even likely—but the merchant went on speaking, not giving him the chance. “Yet, as much respect as we have for them, a merchant who does not profit in the selling of his goods is one who cannot feed his family. After all, I have a wife and children who look to me for support, and it is unfair to them for me to—”

“What are their names?” Alesh interrupted.

The merchant blinked. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Your children,” Alesh pressed, “what are their names?”

A confused expression passed across the merchant’s face. “Falla and Dane, lord.”

“Do you love them?”

The merchant’s eyebrows drew down as if he were trying to decide whether or not he was being mocked. “Of course, I love them they’re my—”

“And are they starving?”

The fat man looked uncertain for a moment, off-balance, but he clearly wasn’t ready to let it go. “Not yet, sir,” he said, puffing out his chest, “but if I’m not allowed to make any profit they may be soon enough and—”

“Then let us speak again when it becomes a problem,” Alesh said. “I could not stand the idea of anyone,”—he paused, letting the meaning of that sink in—“in my city starving when I could do something to prevent it.”

Alesh was going to say more, perhaps would have even managed it before the merchant started again, but the door to the audience room swung open, and Captain Nordin strode through. There was a grim expression on the man’s face, and he walked quickly and purposefully toward the throne. Something about the man’s demeanor made Alesh uneasy. The captain brought news, that was much obvious by the fact that he’d been willing to interrupt the audience, and the expression on his face said that it was bad news.

Nordin approached, walking past the merchant as if he was invisible and bowing. “Chosen.”

“What is it, Captain?”

Nordin moved closer to Alesh, speaking in his ear. “Sir, there’s been an incident in the dungeon.”

Alesh frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Incident?”

“Yes, sir,” the captain answered grimly. “An escape attempt.”

Alesh felt a thrill of fear run through him. They had enough problems already with the Broken’s army marching closer. The last thing they needed was to have to deal with problems from within the city as well, especially problems that he’d thought already handled. “How bad?” he asked quietly.

“It’s been dealt with, sir, but…there were casualties. I just wanted to make you aware of it.”

“Show me.”

“Sir,” Nordin said, glancing at the merchant, “it can wai—”

“Now, Captain,” Alesh said, rising. The captain nodded, and Alesh followed him toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” Beyz said. “Chosen, are you leaving in the middle of—”

“I have told you my answer,” Alesh said abruptly, finding that he was angry. A thousand things to worry about and this greedy man wanted to pry extra coins from the very people who protected him. “If your family is truly so badly off as you claim, Merchant Beyz, I suggest you sell some of your rings.” He glanced meaningfully at the man’s sparkling fingers. “It seems you’ve got some to spare. Now leave.”

The merchant looked as if he wanted to say more, but he must have seen something of Alesh’s frustration in his gaze, for he only nodded and started toward the door. Alesh didn’t miss the angry scowl on his features, one that he suspected many of the merchants shared and that he would come to regret, sooner or later. Assuming, of course, that they survived the next few weeks.

Too many threads, he thought desperately as he followed the captain out of the chamber. How can any man hope to hold them together?

Instead of going to the dungeons as Alesh had expected, Nordin led him to a large storage room, one meant, no doubt, to store goods and non-perishables in case of a siege or famine. However, considering how lax Tesharna had been in the upkeep of the city’s reserves, it was empty of both, storing only cobwebs and rats. Empty, that was, save for the nine bodies lying on the floor. Alesh glanced at Nordin, but the man said nothing, only stared at the bodies grimly.

Alesh stepped closer. Most he recognized as prisoners, either because he had personally assisted in their capture or from their dress and the ragged state of them, proof of time spent in the dungeons. Two, though, looked different, not wearing the cast-off rags or filthy attire of the prisoners, but the uniforms of castle guards.

Alesh didn’t recognize the first guard, might not have even had he known the man. The body had been savaged. It was covered in deep lacerations and bruises, scratches that appeared to have come from fingernails, and perhaps most disturbing of all, there were gouges in the flesh that could only have been made by teeth.

His stomach roiled threateningly, but he did not turn away, forcing himself to look at the face of the dead man, a man who had died following his orders. “How did it happen?” he asked softly.

Nordin winced. “Chosen,” he said slowly, “there are so many prisoners, and with the walls needing to be manned, there aren’t enough soldiers to guard them.” Nordin gritted his teeth, and Alesh saw some of the man’s own anger, his own emotions leak onto his expression before he regained his composure. “From what I’ve gathered, one of the prisoners pretended to have a fit, and the two guards on duty inside the cells went to see about it. The bastards jumped them as soon as they were inside. They put up a good account of themselves, but there were too many, and the prisoners fought like animals, with no regard for their own safety.”

Alesh could see that much from the marks on the body before him, but his thoughts were on what else the captain had said. So many prisoners. There had been no note of accusation in the man’s tone, but there needn’t have been, for Alesh heard it clearly enough. For days, Nordin had been telling him something needed to be done, but he had stalled, hoping some miracle, some solution other than mass execution would present itself. None had, and so he had continued to stall. Now, because of his indecision, two men were dead.

Gritting his teeth, he moved to the next body, looking it over, forcing himself to take in each bloody welt, each cut and toothmark. Then his eyes fell on the corpse’s face, and his breath caught in his throat. He recognized the man from his last visit to the dungeon. It was the same guard who’d told him something needed to be done, the same guard who he’d thanked by showing him his temper and dismissing him. He had meant to apologize, but he had been distracted by other things and had never gotten the chance. “Willem,” he said softly. “That was his name, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Nordin said grimly.

Alesh became aware of a pain in his hands and glanced down to see that his fists had knotted at his sides, hard enough for the nails to drive into the flesh of his palms. Blood leaked slowly between his bone white fingers. Nordin had warned him, so, too, had the dead man, and he had done nothing. Now, two men were dead and for what? Rage built in him then, rage at himself, at the servants of the Dark, and at Shira and her followers to whom human life was so cheap, something to be used up and discarded.

“Did they have families?” he asked in a choked whisper.

Nordin nodded to the first man. “Jonas has parents. No wife or child, I think.”

Looking at him again, Alesh looked past the wounds and the blood covering his body to see that the guard was far younger than he’d first taken him for, perhaps no more than eighteen years of age, and a fresh wave of self-loathing roiled through him. “And Willem?”

“Yes, sir,” Nordin said reluctantly. “A wife and two little ones. Sons, I believe.”

Two parents had lost their son, a wife her husband, children their father, and no one to blame but Alesh. Had he done something, anything, they would still be alive, but he had not. “Bring them to the castle,” he managed past the lump in his throat. “The families. They’ll stay here until…until it’s over.” A small kindness, largely useless, and one that would do nothing to bring back those they had lost, but he could think of nothing else.

“Of course, Chosen,” Nordin said.

“And I want Willem and…Jonas, you said? I want them both buried with full honors.”

“Of course,” Nordin agreed. Then, after a moment, “And, forgive me, sir, but…what of the others? The bodies, I mean.”

Alesh felt his lip rise in a snarl. “Burn them.”

“Yes, sir,” the man answered in a carefully controlled tone, revealing nothing of his own feelings.

I failed you, Alesh thought, staring at Willem’s ravaged body, thinking of the wife and children waiting at home for a husband, a father, who would never return. When he was young, both of Alesh’s parents had been taken from him, and now other children would grow up without their father and it was his fault. I failed you, but I will not fail again.

“Gather the prisoners at the western gate. I would speak to them.”

“Chosen,” Nordin ventured, “do you think that’s a good idea? Perhaps, once you’ve had a little while…”

Alesh glanced down at his hands, opening them to see that his palms were stained with blood. He had failed. First, he had failed Tom, now he had failed Willem. How many more will die because of my failures? he thought. “No, Captain,” he said. “I will not wait, not any longer. I want to talk to the prisoners. Now.”