A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 20

The first thing Haern did when he awoke was turn to the side and vomit, his stomach unloading everything it had. Eyes closed, he endured the sensation of vertigo, knowing he might not have very long to react, and his life could still be on the line. The last thing he remembered … what was the last thing he …

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said a deep voice. Haern snapped his eyes open. He was in a small cubical cell, with every wall but one made of solid stone. The open one was before him, and blocking the way was the older man with the silver lion upon his chest. His eyes were a cold gray, his voice deep and demanding obedience.

Haern tried to move from where he lay and found himself shackled. His wrists were bound together with manacles, as were his ankles. A chain connected the two, short enough so that he could not extend to his full height. His swords were gone, as were his cloak, his hood, his various daggers and blades he kept for emergencies hidden across his body, and his belt of tools to pick locks and disarm traps. Haern thought to attempt an escape anyway, but the room was small and dark, and the paladin still had his enormous sword. Dizzy and bound as he was, he had little hope for escape against a man with such skill and presence.

“I hope I wasn’t much of a bother,” Haern said. “Those books I burned, were they valuable?”

“Priceless beyond compare,” the paladin said, reaching down and grabbing him by the front of his shirt. With ease, he lifted Haern up and then flung him against the wall. Haern let out a gasp as his head hit, adding yet another wave of nausea to his already-unhappy stomach.

“Well, then,” Haern laughed, “good to know I’ll have left a mark.”

The dark paladin stood and crossed his arms. He didn’t seem angry, nor amused. Instead, he appeared … curious.

“My name is Carden,” he said. “High Enforcer of our mighty god’s paladins. Who might you be?”

Haern shrugged as best he could, given the chains and manacles. What did it matter if he gave a name?

“Haern,” he said. “At your service.”

Carden’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment.

“Well, then, Haern, would you care to tell me why you killed a priest that was under our care?”

They don’t know about Thren, Haern realized, and he made sure not to let his smile show. Of course they wouldn’t. No doubt they assumed all the deaths had been at his hand alone, for what evidence did they have to the contrary?

“Is this an interrogation?” Haern asked, and he lifted his bound hands before him, rattling the chains. “Forgive me, but I assumed you’d at least rough me up a little before trying to get something out of me. I’m almost insulted you thought an unbarred cell and some manacles would break me. Or was your charming personality to do that instead?”

If Carden was annoyed, he didn’t show it. Instead, it seemed his amusement grew.

“Listen well, Haern,” he said. “In killing Luther, you did me a favor. He was a heretic and a deceiver, and in time, he would have hung by his thumbs from our doorway once we proved his blasphemy. But you also slew students of mine, faithful sons of the Lion. This fortress of ours is sacred, and by all accounts impregnable. Yet somehow, they are dead, and here you are. I’d have your reason, and I’d have your method for entry. That’s all. Once you tell me both, I’ll grant you release.”

Haern grinned at him.

“That’s it? Those two things, and I walk out of here?”

Carden reached down, grabbing him by the neck, and lifted him off the ground before slamming him against the wall.

“You won’t walk,” the man said, deep voice rumbling. “You’ll die, Haern. That’s your release. You are in the dungeons of the Stronghold. No one escapes from here. No one. Your stay can be for hours, or it can be for decades. The choice will be yours and yours alone, but know that in the end you will tell me. My home has a weakness, and I will not relent until it is found.”

The hand closed tighter around his throat, making it hard to breathe. Despite it, Haern smiled at him, choking out his reply.

“Prepare for me a bed,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Carden punched him in the stomach with his other hand. It seemed like he put no strength into it, no real effort, but the blow was like a sledge blasting into his body. He let out a strangled scream, and as crackling black energy leaped from the fist into him, he felt his muscles spasm uncontrollably. Every nerve inside him flared with pain, and it was like being stabbed in the gut, only so, so much worse. Seconds dragged on, and then Carden let him drop with a great rattle of chains. Haern gasped in air, sinking into himself, pulling up the training techniques his father had taught him as a child. Pain was his servant, not his master. Put it away. Shove it into a corner.

The dark paladin paced before him, just two steps before he had to turn around and go the other way. The open exit past him was dark, and dimly Haern wondered how they planned to seal him in once Carden left.

“Tell me, Haern,” the paladin said. “Do you believe in something?”

“I believe you’ll roast in the Abyss,” Haern said, rolling over onto his side and letting out another gasp as the last of his pain receded away.

“I was hoping for something more interesting than that,” Carden said, halting his pacing. “But I have a feeling you and I will have many hours to spend in each other’s company. You aren’t one to break easily; that much is obvious. I’ve had grown soldiers weep and beg for forgiveness after a single touch of my fist, yet you endured it well, remarkably so. Still, this world is one of challenges, and I should expect no less from one insane enough to break into our home. So, tell me … what is it you truly believe in? Is it Ashhur? Karak? Do you worship coin, revenge, or perhaps does the lust of a woman’s flesh guide your actions?”

Haern felt a numbness spreading from his stomach, tickling his other limbs as Carden knelt down and gripped him by the neck one more time.

“Do you know who I worship?” the paladin asked as he pulled Haern closer so he could whisper into his ear. “Karak.”

At the name of his god, power flared through his hand, this time with the pain focused solely on Haern’s neck. Every muscle in his throat constricted, robbing him of breath, straining his neck, whipping his head back with terrible force. Haern did everything he knew to push it away, to put himself into a different place where the torture was a distant, foreign thing, but there was no way, not against that pain. Unconsciousness was his only hope, and he tried to let himself go, to fall back into the empty embrace, but Carden was far too skilled for that.

The pain relented, Haern sucked in air like a drowning man, and then to the ground he dropped. On his back, he groaned, staring up at the flat stone ceiling above him. What was it Tarlak had told him before he left? Damn it, Haern, I’ve heard horror stories about their dungeons …

“It’s interesting, the way you break a man,” Carden continued, deep voice calm as ever. “Some you can break through fear. Fear of promised pain, fear of death, fear of a return of the pain they’ve already experienced. That’s the easy kind, though you have to be careful. Some men try to trick you, pretending to break easily, thinking their lies will both protect and spare them. Time and patience root out those deceivers.”

Carden tapped a mailed finger at his lips as Haern’s heart finally returned to a normal pace.

“Some, though, are too strong to give in to fear,” he said. “Some find a way to endure the pain. Hope, you see. They cling to a hope, no matter what it is, and hold on tight against every punishment imaginable. Sometimes, it’s hope for escape. Sometimes, it’s hope for a better life. Sometimes, it’s gods or a belief in their ceasing existence come death. Which means pain becomes pointless in breaking this type of man. Instead, I must break their hope.”

The paladin’s cold, hard boot pressed down on his chest.

“So, I ask again … what is it you believe in, Haern?”

Don’t tell him, thought Haern. Tell him nothing. Deny him everything.

Smoothly, as if terribly pleased with himself, Carden bent down, reached into Haern’s shirt, and pulled out Senke’s emblem of the golden mountain. He casually twirled it in his hands, the slender chain still around Haern’s neck. A gleam seemed to shine in Carden’s eye.

“And there it is,” he said. “Did you think we missed it when we searched you? Come, now; think better of us than that. Ashhur’s symbol of endlessness, his reminder of humanity’s inability to reach his own holy heights. You surprise me, Haern. Is this merely a good luck charm? Your cloaks, your sabers … you have the look of a man from the thief guilds of Veldaren. They tend to view themselves as gods, with no patience for others. Chance is their friend, guilt a thing to be mocked and ignored. They live in sin, and they love every minute of their squalor. Is that you, Haern? Does this emblem mean anything in your shadowed life?”

Haern wanted to deny him even the slightest information, but to lie meant to deny the god he worshipped. He couldn’t decide if it would be right to do so, so instead, he kept his mouth shut. At least with silence, he told no lie.

“Well, then,” Carden said, shrugging. “I take it you won’t mind if I destroy this.”

His fist tightened, dark fire sparking from his fingers. Seeing the emblem starting to bend, Haern could not help himself. Before him was the last remnant of his friend Senke, the last reminder of the risks the man had taken to help him and of how integral he’d been in pulling him out of the streets and into his new family, the Eschaton. Through everything, he’d kept it with him, always around his neck, always reminding him of all the things his father would have him reject.

“Stop!” he cried. “Just … leave it be.”

Carden tilted his head to the side.

“So, you do believe,” he said, his fist easing its pressure. “Not some trinket, then. Good. This will make the breaking that much more pleasurable.”

The paladin drew his sword, and across its enormous blade, fire immediately burst to life. It was dark as night, if not darker, with the very center a deep violet that made Haern’s stomach twist just looking upon it. Releasing the emblem, Carden lowered the blade so the fire burned mere inches from Haern’s neck.

“Your god is one of weakness,” he said. “An imprisoned child whose dreams cannot live in this world, and whose hope is a pathetic excuse for reason and sanity. Eternity will roll forever and ever on, and one day, the brother gods will war again. Those children, those souls who think themselves safe in his embrace, will kneel before the Lion and face true judgment for their sins. And you … what sins do you hide? I’ll find them all, Haern. I’ll listen to every last one. You’re in the heart of the Stronghold, a place of tremendous power sworn to the true deity of this land.”

The fire began to sear into his skin. Strangely, it did not char the flesh, only ignite horrible pain. He fought, but the magic of it held him still, tightening every single muscle in his body so that he could not run, could not turn away. Even screaming was denied to him.

“Every day you will feel the pain of Karak’s anger,” Carden said, voice like a demon, words the condemnation of a furious god. “Every night, you will weep and cry for salvation. Keep your pendant around your neck. Stare at it. Hold it. Caress it while you weep. Feel it against your flesh as the pain rips through you. Day after day. Night after night. Tell yourself that is your hope. Tell yourself it must mean something. But I know what will happen, know it like I know the sun will rise, come the morrow. I’ve seen it a hundred times before, and in your eyes, I will see it again: the realization that no matter how greatly you suffer, how loudly you pray to your god, he will do nothing.”

The fire was leaping off the blade like water now, curling around him, seeping into his skin like rain into a parched landscape.

“He’ll love you from afar,” Carden said. “Love you as you suffer, love you as you die. That is the sickness you worship. That is the impotence you’ve given your life to serve, you poor damn fool.”

The paladin leaned down so his lips brushed against his ear.

“You may scream now,” he whispered.

Haern did, howling at the top of his lungs, releasing every bit of his pain and rage. The sound echoed within his cell, and to his ears, it belonged to a wild animal. Certainly not to anything human. At last, his lungs gave way, and the pain became something he could bear as Carden stood and sheathed his blade on his back.

“Watch carefully,” he said, and it seemed as if the previous tortures were but a dream, and he was a kind host describing an offered room. Touching the wall, Carden closed his eyes, whispered something in prayer, and then suddenly, a wall of flame rose from the floor, sealing Haern inside his stone cube. It burned, shimmering, black and violet, swirling like water running upward to the ceiling. Just looking at it made Haern sick, no different from the fire that burned around Carden’s blade. The paladin examined the wall of fire, and he nodded, pleased.

“Only the faithful can pass through unharmed,” he said. “Even our younger members find it difficult to endure. The other walls are solid stone, so your only exit is through the flames … but there is no hope beyond, Haern. Here in this dungeon, there is but one door, and it can only be opened from the outside. There is no escape, I promise you. In case you thought to take your chance with the fire, I thought it best you know the pointlessness of such an action.”

The man stepped through the flames, and as the violet fire passed across his skin and armor, it did not burn, nor did he show signs of pain.

“Oh,” the paladin said from the other side. “So you know … these flames are designed to burn, and hurt, but very rarely will they kill. Though if you stay within them long enough, if you can endure the pain, you just might find death. Consider that a gift we offer the strong … but only a very few have managed it. But who knows … perhaps you’ll be one of them?”

With that, he was gone, leaving Haern alone in his prison, sick before the glow of the fire, in pain from the torture, and his chest aching from where the pendant of the golden mountain rested against his skin. Tears running down his face, he clutched it with a shaking hand, felt the cold metal dig into his skin.

“Ashhur,” he prayed, turning his back to the flame. “Please, Ashhur, I know you hear me…”

One day. Just one day, and he felt a quivering in his chest, a breaking of something so vital to everything he knew.

Just one day.

“Delysia,’ he whispered, and his tears fell harder.