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- Herausgeber: Dragonfire Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Fallen King Chronicles
- Sprache: Englisch
The threads of creation are fraying.
Aramis is betrayed by the Prophet of Edria and finds himself imprisoned. When the Prophet finds the location of the next item that Mordum's follower's seek, he forces Aramis to retrieve it. Yet Aramis has his own plans and finds unexpected help, and disasters, along the way.
Talvaard is at war with the tribal elvish invaders. Garrick, newly crowned king, must find a way to end the war and restore the peace he has worked so hard to achieve. When he reveals the Mark he carries, he encounters mixed emotions - and not all of them are favorable.
Admidst it all, the usurper of Oakvalor's throne - Aramis's brother - also desires to find the items for Mordum's return. His dark past, and the wicked company he keeps, reveal why he hasn't been seen for years. His ties to the kingdom are deep and he has no intention of releasing control.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 280
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Valiant King
The Fallen King Chronicles Book 3
Richard Fierce
Copyright © 2015 by Richard Fierce
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.
Contents
“Like sand in the hourglass, so does time elude our grasp.” - Garrick
Alight breeze blew in from the east, causing Garrick’s cloak to stir slightly. He closed his eyes and breathed the cool air in deep then exhaled slowly. He opened his eyes and saw the sun was just beginning to rise, bathing the dark sky in soothing reds and pinks. The beauty of the heavens was almost enough to forget reality.
Almost…
Garrick turned his gaze to the fields outside the castle. As far as he could see, makeshift tents blotted out the scenery. Here and there he could pick out movement among the camp as they slowly awakened.
He considered, as he had many times since their arrival, why they were here. Thousands of them, slowly encroaching into his kingdom. From the corner of his eye, he noticed one of his scouts approaching.
“My Lord,” the man said as he drew near before dropping down on one knee.
“Please rise,” Garrick answered, turning away from the elvish army. “What do you have to report?”
“Their numbers are growing. More elves show up every day. We haven’t been able to get close enough to find their leader’s tent yet, but we are working on it. It’s not easy to slip past their guards. Magic and whatnot.”
Garrick nodded. “I understand. Do the best you can. That’s all I ask.” He turned back to the fields. After a few moments, he realized the man was still standing there. He turned to him, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
“You didn’t dismiss me, my Lord.”
“My apologies,” Garrick replied. He nodded toward the elvish army. “Why do you suppose they are here?”
The scout shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps they want their land back.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, from the old stories? Supposedly the elves lived in these lands before humans pushed them into the desert. Maybe they want their land back.” The man shrugged again.
“It’s definitely something to consider,” Garrick said. “Thank you. You are dismissed.” The man bowed low and left.
Garrick rubbed his chin as he considered what the scout said. Perhaps the man was right. It had been a long time since he had heard those stories of history. Was there truth to them? He didn’t know. He would definitely need to research it.
An explosion shook the ground beneath his feet.
“And so it begins again,” he muttered. It had been two weeks since he arrived, bringing fresh reinforcements to help stem the tide of elves overrunning his cities. They were using their strange magic to create holes in the walled cities, enabling their warriors to storm through and massacre his people.
After three cities had fallen, he mustered as many men as he could and made his way to the battlefront. He’d sent runners to the outer cities, calling on his generals and their men to follow suit. They were slowly starting to arrive.
Once he had witnessed how the elves were getting through the defenses of his cities, he had placed archers on the walls and ordered them to cut down the elves rushing the walls.
And it had worked. The elves finally stopped trying to breach the walls. The last two days had essentially been a stalemate with neither side attacking the other. Garrick ran to where a group of soldiers had gathered.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“One of them rushed the wall, but Tarn here shot him down right before he hit it.”
“Excellent job, Tarn. Was it just the one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re testing us, probably to see if we are still paying attention,” Garrick said.
“That’s what we were thinking, sir.”
“Keep me posted. If anything happens, I want to be alerted immediately.”
“Will do, sir.”
Garrick left the wall and headed down the steps, walking toward the main keep. The generals who had arrived late last night were supposed to be gathering there now. A messenger waved him over.
“There’s a battalion roughly a mile out,” he said breathlessly.
“I appreciate the update,” Garrick said. The messenger sprinted off, likely to deliver more news elsewhere.
He entered the keep and made his way to the appointed room. Silence ensued and everyone in the room bowed as he entered.
“Thank you for making haste,” Garrick said. “Please be seated.” After everyone had found a seat, he also took a seat and then briefed them on the current situation.
“What has brought them to our doorstep?” Rycroft, one of the generals, asked.
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Garrick motioned to one of the guards standing nearby. The man came over and unrolled a map that was on the table. He placed four small stones onto the map, one at each corner.
“This is a map of the area. Our position is marked with the green square here,” Garrick pointed to a spot on the map.
“Our enemy encampment is here in red. The last two days have been silent. Before that, they had men rushing the walls and using their magic to blow holes in the stone. Our archers put a stop to that.”
He ran his finger from the enemy camp north to the Deadlands. “This is the route they are taking to arrive here. Every day more of them turn up. The curious thing is that they are all men.”
“What do you mean?”
Garrick looked to Rycroft. The man was intelligent when it came to tactics on the battlefield. He was one of the few who had given him a run for his gold when he was working to unify the generals. It seemed so long ago, but only a few months had passed since Garrick was crowned king.
“They are all men. No women or children are among the camps. Curious, is it not?” Some of the generals muttered to themselves.
“Where do you suppose they are?” Garrick asked.
“Perhaps they are still in the Deadlands?” again, Rycroft answered.
“Perhaps. Assuming they are, who do you suppose is protecting them?”
Again, murmurs filled the room.
“If all of their warriors are coming here, it seems likely there is no one protecting their women and children. Which opens a possibility of us ending this battle, or at the very least, postponing it long enough for us to rally more soldiers here.”
“What are you suggesting?” Caidan, one of the younger men, asked.
Garrick rose from his chair and clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes looked from one general to the next, moving around the table and finally stopping at Rycroft.
“I am suggesting that we send a contingent of men into the Deadlands to find their women and children.”
Instead of the murmuring, there was only silence. “Make no mistake, I am not proposing that we massacre them. We are not barbarians. But I believe if we can find them, we can use them to our advantage.”
Caidan ran his left hand over his bearded face. “What’s the plan, then?”
“I need a volunteer to take a few men and follow the route the elves are coming from. You’ll need to act as scouts. Follow the trail and find their source, or at the very least one of their camps. Ensure there are women and children, then send one of the men back here with the location. I’ll dispatch soldiers during the night and the scout will lead them to the camp.”
“What then?” Rycroft asked.
“Then, depending on the situation here, we’ll decide what our next move is. I understand you’ll all need time to think it over. Take the rest of the day and sleep on it. I’ll need to know who is volunteering by tomorrow at first light. Are there any questions?”
“Yes,” Caidan said. “We know their men have magical tattoos. What of their women? Do they have them as well?”
“That we are unsure of,” Garrick answered. “I have scribes searching every library for information on our enemy. That is one of the questions I am looking to have answered.”
“What other information are you looking for?”
“I am looking for the truth,” Garrick said. “I’m sure you all know the stories.”
“What stories are you referring to? Their magical prowess? Their deadly homeland? Their—”
“Where they originated from,” Garrick interrupted Caidan. “I’m talking about the stories of where they came from. There are some stories that say parts of Talvaard and parts of Oakvalor used to be home to the elves until humans pushed them into the desert.”
“Those are childish fairy tales,” Caidan scoffed. “They’re used to scare children into obedience.” His next words were said with a mocking tone: “‘Do as you are told so the elves don’t come for you and drag you off into the Deadlands as punishment for their banishment.’”
“Perhaps you are right,” Garrick replied. “And perhaps you are wrong. We don’t know if they are fairy tales or if they are historical truths. Until we do, I suggest everyone keep an open mind. Suppose it is true. Suppose that our ancestors did indeed push them into the desert. Why do you think they would be here, after all this time, attacking our cities?”
“Revenge?” Rycroft suggested.
“Precisely. What if they have come to take their land back?”
“That’s preposterous!” Caidan barked.
”Is it?” Garrick asked.
“You’re serious?” Caidan said, seeming to realize that Garrick was posing a genuine theory.
“Absolutely. Keep an open mind. Your people are pushed from their homes. They are possibly struggling to survive in a foreign land. Eventually, they grow in strength and they are constantly reminded of what happened to them. What do you think it would lead to?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Caidan confessed hesitantly.
“That’s all I’m suggesting,” Garrick replied. “That it is possible the stories are true. And if they are, I don’t see this being a short battle.”
“You think this will turn into a siege?” Caidan asked.
“No. They will not stop until they succeed. I am sure this will turn into a war.”
The generals exchanged looks.
“That’s all I have for now,” Garrick waved dismissively. “I ask that you all meet here again in the morning. Until then, see to your men and get what rest you can. Dismissed.”
Garrick turned and left the room, likely leaving his generals confused. He tried not to let it bother him. He was just as confused about the motive of the elves himself.
He noticed soldiers running toward the northern wall. Shouting filled the air. He stopped one of the men running by.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“The elves, my Lord! They’re rushing the walls again!”
Garrick dismissed the man with a nod and ran toward the stairs leading to the battlements. He bounded up the stairs two at a time and rushed to the wall. Down below, a group of elves were running toward the castle.
Arrows whistled through the air, some striking the ground around them. A few of them hit their mark and the elves staggered and tumbled to the ground. Caidan and Rycroft came and stood on either side of him, watching the spectacle.
“I thought they stopped attacking the walls with the archers up here?” Caidan asked.
“They did,” Garrick answered. “I don’t understand this foolish move.”
The remaining elves stopped their approach and began lifting their fallen comrades. Garrick assumed they were going to remove their bodies from the battlefield. Instead, the elves used the bodies as shields and continued their trek toward the castle.
“Take them down!” Garrick shouted.
More arrows filled the air. The few elves remaining were quickly killed and a cheer roused from the archers. Garrick watched the encampment. There was no reason to celebrate.
The elves had proven somewhat intelligent in their attacks against the walls. It seemed out of place for them to attack now, knowing their warriors were at the mercy of his bowmen. An unsettling feeling crept into his stomach.
“Something’s not right,” he muttered.
“What’s that?” Rycroft asked.
“Something’s not right. They wouldn’t attack like this. Not with the archers up here.” His mind began racing through scenarios. He looked toward the archers and whistled. One of them jogged over.
“Captain, have some men sweep the walls. Tell them to keep their eyes sharp.”
The man nodded and left, his pace much faster than before.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Caidan asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think they’re creating a diversion.”
As if to prove him right, a horn sounded from the eastern side of the castle. Garrick sprinted in that direction, Caidan and Rycroft following close behind him.
Before they were halfway there, an explosion sounded and the castle walls shook violently. Garrick leaned up against the outer wall to keep his balance.
“They’ve hit the wall!” he shouted.
As soon as the shaking settled, he stood up straight and continued running to where a crowd of archers had gathered. He reached the area just as they let off a volley of arrows. Garrick looked down to see a charred spot on the wall and the body of an elf lying nearby.
“He got right up to the wall before we knew he was even approaching,” one of the bowmen said. “We hit him right before he made it.”
Garrick saw a small group of elves approaching slowly. “There,” he said, pointing to their position.
“They’re out of range, but we’ll hit them hard as soon as they get close.”
Garrick nodded and watched their advance. “Why aren’t they running?” he asked to no one in particular.
“What do you mean?” Caidan asked.
“They normally rush the walls. Why are they walking?”
Everyone remained silent. After what seemed like an eternity, Garrick heard the captain shout an order.
A stream of arrows whistled through the air. Garrick squinted his eyes, thinking he was seeing things. It looked as though the arrows had bounced off the elves.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Rycroft said uncertainly, also squinting into the distance.
“Draw!” The captain shouted beside him. The archers knocked their arrows to their bowstrings and pulled the strings back.
“Loose!”
Another torrent of arrows showered down among the elves. They were still too far away to be certain, but Garrick again thought the arrows had fallen harmlessly off them.
“Someone get me a spyglass,” Garrick ordered. A moment later the Captain handed him one. Garrick pulled on the end of the spyglass, extending it as far as it would go, then placed it to his eye and located the elves.
“Draw! Loose!”
He watched carefully as the arrows descended upon them. This time, there was no mistaking it. The arrows were bouncing off them.
“Impossible,” he breathed.
“What is it?” Caidan asked. “What’s happening?”
Garrick handed him the instrument. “The arrows… they’re, they’re ineffective,” he said, not wanting to say it aloud. Caidan used the spyglass and watched as another volley of arrows filled the air.
“By the Divines,” Caidan whispered in awe. “They’re bouncing right off them!”
“Draw! Loose!” the Captain shouted again.
Garrick considered telling them to hold their arrows, but he wasn’t sure if that was the right decision. If it were some sort of spell, would it eventually wear off as the arrows continued to hit their invisible shield? He looked to the captain and could tell he was thinking the same thing.
“Keep firing,” Garrick commanded. The captain nodded.
“What does this mean?” Caidan asked. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Neither have I,” Rycroft chimed in.
Garrick remained mute. He didn’t know what it meant, and he didn’t like it. The tattoo on his forearm began to itch. Subconsciously he rubbed at it. It was covered by a thin piece of material that looked like his skin and was held in place with sticky resin. Besides that, it was hidden beneath the sleeve of his shirt.
What is this threat, Mordum? He prayed mentally. He glanced at his generals from the corner of his eyes. No one knew he was a follower of Mordum. Not a single soul. Not even his wife knew. He despised keeping secrets from her, but this was different. This could destroy everything he had worked to build and protect.
He turned his attention back to the elves. They were much closer. He didn’t need the spyglass now to see that the arrows had no effect. He watched as the arrows struck the elves innocently and then fell to the ground like twigs.
They looked different from the other elves. There was something odd about their skin color. Garrick frowned as he studied them.
And then he realized the danger. Located in the center of the group of elves, hunched down and hidden by their odd skinned brethren, were more elves. Just like the others who rushed the walls. His eyes widened in understanding.
“Captain, in the center! Aim for the center of the group!”
The captain looked intently at the elves and then snapped his gaze to Garrick, the fear evident in his eyes.
Garrick pointed toward the elves. “Aim for the center, Captain!”
The man shook his head as if waking from a dream and started directing the bowmen. Arrows filled the air again, raining down among the elves. Garrick began formulating plans if they should break through the wall.
Once the wall was compromised, it would be hard to keep them out. He had read the reports from the previous city that had fallen. The elves would throw themselves into a group of soldiers and use their explosive magic to destroy men as easily as they destroyed stone.
He turned to Caidan and Rycroft. “If they break through the walls, we have to do everything we can to hold them off. Seal the hole if possible.” His generals nodded their understanding.
The wall shook as an explosion rocked the ground below. Garrick and his generals pressed themselves up against the wall. Several more explosions went off and the wall shuddered intensely. The Captain was still directing the bowmen.
Garrick waited a few moments before looking over the wall again. Several of the elves lay dead, full of arrows. The odd skinned ones began stacking the bodies up against the wall. He watched as the arrows continued to assail them, all to no good. They continued to bounce off harmlessly.
A horn sounded from the north. Before Garrick could turn his attention that way, hundreds of elves suddenly came into view. They were sprinting across the field toward the wall. He looked about frantically, trying to figure out what they were doing.
He looked back down at the elves stacking bodies. Realization dawned on him. With no time to shout a warning, he watched in horror as one of the elves leaped through the air toward the pile of bodies.
A brilliant light blinded him. Garrick’s eyes watered up as an explosion jolted the wall, much harder than the others. He lost his footing and fell to the hard stone. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Rycroft was standing over him.
“Are you all right?”
Garrick nodded. He accepted Rycroft’s arm and stood up. Shouting erupted below and Garrick realized the elves had blown a hole in the wall. He looked over the wall’s edge and saw hundreds of elves running toward the breach. He knew what he had to do. He considered alternative options, but he knew none of them were guaranteed to work. They had to close the opening and seal the hole.
He turned to Rycroft and Caidan. “You two are in charge. Do your best to keep them from overtaking the castle. If it comes down to it, pull back and regroup at the closest city on this route. That’s likely their next target. There’s a battalion less than a mile out. Make sure they know to divert there as well.”
“What are talking about?” Rycroft asked.
“Just do as I command,” Garrick answered sternly. “We don’t have time to debate.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Rycroft looked questioningly at him.
“What is it?” Garrick asked.
“What are you going to do?”
Garrick clenched his jaw. “I’m going to crush them.”
He climbed atop the wall and watched as the mass of elves coalesced on the breach. He looked back to Rycroft and Caidan, nodded once, then leaped off the wall.
“Greatness is reached through perseverance.” - Jerik
Release me.
Aramis startled awake, kicking off the thin piece of cloth that served as a blanket. Though his prison cell was dark and cold, his skin was burning and he was covered in sweat. Ever since he tapped into the power of the tattoo, it seemed as though his visions were more real.
“Another nightmare?”
The voice came from the cell across from his. Aramis didn’t bother responding. He didn’t know who was also being held prisoner, and he didn’t care. He just wanted out.
Sitting upon the stone slab that was his bed, he rubbed his hands over his face. He considered how the Prophet of Edria, the leader of Mel’s order, had betrayed him. He shook his head, knowing Mel would have been crushed by it.
“Oh Mel,” he sighed, thinking of his friend. The man had willingly stayed behind to face a templar of Mordum in order to save Aramis’s life. A sacrifice, it seemed, made in vain by the Prophet’s treachery.
Grinding his teeth in frustration, he began pacing his cell. It wasn’t very large. He guessed it to be six feet wide and ten feet long.
And it was always cold. He figured the dungeon must be underground because the walls and floor were cool to the touch and there were no windows. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night. The little bit of light available belonged to a single torch a few cells down. It illuminated almost nothing, but Aramis had quickly realized it wasn’t meant for the prisoners.
Eventually, he stopped his pacing and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. He yawned and pondered how many days he had been locked in the cell. His thoughts wandered to how his people were faring. The nobles had always relied so heavily on his father.
From his conversation with Lord Bavol, the nobles seemed divided on their loyalty to this new king. Aramis still didn’t believe the man was his brother. He would need a lot more proof than the word of a blind seer and the whispers of the court.
A scratching noise drew his attention. He held his breath and listened intently. It was coming from the edge of his cell. Rising slowly, he stepped over to his bed and continued to listen. It was definitely coming from somewhere close.
He knelt down and crawled to the left corner of the cell. The scratching got louder. He thought at first it might be a rat, but as he felt around on the floor, his hand bumped something smooth.
Hesitantly, he felt around the smooth object and picked it up. He realized the scratching was coming from inside whatever he was holding. A soft cracking sound echoed in his cell. He dropped the thing as he felt it move in his hands. He wished he could see what it was. Looking at his arm to where he knew the tattoo of Mordum was, he wondered if it would be any help.
Aramis had tried to use the tattoo to escape his cell shortly after being thrown into it, but nothing had happened. Other than his ability to run faster, he hadn’t discovered any other powers from the mark.
He placed his fingers on the tattoo and closed his eyes, willing the tattoo to bless him with sight in the dark. Not sure if it worked or not, he opened his eyes and gasped slightly. It had worked! Somewhat, at least. He couldn’t see perfectly, but he could see vague shapes.
The bed, the outline of the stones of the floor and walls, and the egg-shaped item that was moving. He squinted his eyes and leaned forward.
Suddenly a phiebus leaped at him. He shouted in surprise and scrambled back. The creature was quick and leaped on him, scratching and biting. Aramis used his hands to shield his face and rolled onto his stomach, trying to protect himself.
He lay there for a moment, waiting for the creature to jump on his back. Nothing happened. Rolling onto his side, he looked to where the phiebus was. Only it wasn’t there. And neither was the egg. None of it was real. Aramis slowly got to his feet. Were the visions happening while he was awake now?
“Are you okay over there?”
It was the man in the cell across from him again. His first instinct was to continue to disregard the man. But if he was going to be here indefinitely, he might as well pass the time with someone.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
“Ah, you can speak. I was beginning to wonder if you were mute until I heard you shouting.”
“I’m not mute,” Aramis smiled as he talked, “I was ignoring you.”
The man laughed. “Ha! Honesty is my favorite attribute in men. I appreciate that.”
Aramis laughed as well, the feeling of hopelessness fleeing momentarily. He tried to use the power of his tattoo to see the man, but that ability must have also been part of his vision, for it didn’t work.
“So what did you do to get thrown down here?” the man asked.
“It’s a long story,” Aramis answered, not wanting to think about it.
“I don’t know about you, but all I’ve got is time.”
Aramis considered the man’s words and knew he was right.
“I was betrayed,” he said softly. Aramis started talking, telling the man everything he had been through the last few weeks. His father’s murder, the man who tortured him thinking to get a confession of the murder, and the Prophet’s betrayal. The more he talked about it, the less it stung.
“My friend Mel threw himself into the path of danger to let me get away. He was a loyal companion. A hero.”
“Did he die?” the man asked.
“I’m sure he did. He stood against a powerful force.”
“I’m sorry that you’ve gone through so much in such a short time.”
“Thank you,” Aramis said. “What about you? How did you end up down here?”
“I’m in exile,” he replied. “And the Prophet didn’t like what I had to say.”
“Why are you in exile?”
“My homeland was attacked and I had to flee to survive.”
“I didn’t think you were from Oakvalor. You have an odd accent.”
“No, I am not from Oakvalor. My home is far from here.”
“I’m sorry you’ve lost your homeland. For what it’s worth, if you make it out of here, I welcome you to Oakvalor. You are more than welcome to build a new life here.”
They continued talking until one of the priests brought food. Aramis’s stomach growled and he realized he didn’t know how long had passed since they fed him last. The priest was carrying a tray which he set down on the floor.
Grabbing a bowl off the tray, he then unlocked the cell door and kept Aramis at bay with a sword. He knelt down and placed the bowl on the floor inside the cell, keeping a wary eye on Aramis.
“I’m not going to do anything,” Aramis said.
“I don’t trust your words, vile scum of Mordum,” the priest retorted as he closed the door and re-locked it. Picking up the tray, he left without another word.
Aramis picked up the bowl and sat on the edge of his bed. His mouth watered from his hunger. He raised the bowl to his lips and began to drink whatever was in it.
It was definitely watered down. A few pieces of what he assumed was meat were tough and hard to chew. He paused suddenly when he realized the guard had not given the other prisoner any food.
“Hey,” he called out, pausing a moment when he realized he didn’t know the man’s name. “The guard didn’t leave you anything, did he?”
“No,” came the answer.
“Would you like to share mine?”
“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you.”
“Are you sure?” Aramis asked. “I don’t mind.”
“I am sure,” the man answered. Shrugging, Aramis finished off what remained and left the bowl by the door.
“What do they call you?” Aramis asked.
“My name is Tael. And yours?”
“Aramis,” he answered. “It’s nice to have someone to speak with.”
“I agree,” Tael said.
“I think I’m going to rest now,” Aramis informed him.
“Enjoy,” Tael replied.
“I’ll try,” Aramis laughed as he laid on the hard bed of stone.
Aramis slowly opened his eyes, waking for the first time from a sleep that was not riddled with nightmares. He sat up and noticed that the bowl he set by the door was gone. He didn’t remember hearing the gate open. He must have been in a deep sleep. He stretched and began to perform his exercise routine. He did several sets of pushups and sit-ups, pushing himself until his muscles burned with the exertion.
“A fit body equates to a fit mind,” as one of his father’s generals always said. He didn’t know when he might get out of the cell, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be ready when he did get out. He assumed Tael was sleeping, for the man wasn’t trying to talk his ear off again.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention. Aramis stepped up to the bars of his cell and peered out. A group of priests was approaching. They stopped in front of his cell and one of them unlocked the door.
“The Prophet wants to see you,” the one with the keys said.
Aramis shrugged and stepped out into the hall. The priests formed a circle around him and led him through the dungeon to the stairs that spiraled up into the main portion of the temple. As they climbed the stairs, Aramis’s thought ran wild with what the Prophet might want. Regardless of what it was, he would refuse.
As they reached the door that led into the temple, the light blinded him. He stopped mid-step, shaking his head and blinking back the tears that overwhelmed his eyes. The priests didn’t appreciate the abrupt stop and pushed him, causing him to fall onto the floor.
One of them kicked him several times in the side. He grunted under the force of the priest’s blows and tried to block the kicks with his arm. Finally, the priest stopped and the others grabbed him, lifting him roughly onto his feet.
Aramis felt as though fire was burning inside his ribs. He gritted his teeth against the pain and tried to move at a pace that kept the priests from shoving him. They turned down a long hallway and he immediately knew where he was.
They stopped at the Prophet’s door and led him inside. The room was the same as it was the first time he had been in it. There were no windows in the chamber, just several candles on the desk. And standing behind the desk was the traitor himself.
Aramis didn’t bother to hide his hatred for the man. He glared openly at the Prophet. If his look bothered the man, he did well not to show it. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His black hair gleamed slightly in the light of the candles. The priests pushed Aramis forward until he was standing a few feet from the desk.
“Prince Aramis,” the Prophet greeted. “I hope you are enjoying your stay here.” Some of the priests snickered at the comment.
“What do you want?” Aramis asked tiredly.
”Is that any way to speak to your host?”
Aramis spat on the desk. One of the priests smacked him across the back of his head. His anger flared but the priests held him too tightly for him to do anything. He growled in frustration.
“Come now,” the Prophet said, “do not act like an animal. We are civilized men here. Let us talk together as such.” He walked slowly over to a small table and motioned Aramis to come near. When he didn’t budge, the priests moved him by force.
Aramis recognized the map on the table. It was the same one he had seen previously when the Prophet had tricked him into retrieving the blood from the shrine. There were several red pins at random points.
