Healing Wounds in Arabarb
By Charles Matthias
One thing that Alfwig had grown used to in the two months he had been
chained in the dungeon of Fjellvidden castle was the sounds of the
river rushing past. The water lapped at the stone foundations and
when the tide was high, at the floor beneath him. It almost purred as
it flowed to the distant ocean. No matter when he felt tired, it
never ceased to lull him to sleep. Fitful sleep with bad dreams
perhaps, but still sleep nevertheless.
This meant that even he could hear the sound of fighting in the city
when it began. It may not be in the castle, but it was sufficient for
him. Alfwig slipped free of the bonds that Yajgaj had undone, rubbed
his wrist and ankles for a moment, stretched his legs one last time,
and then walked carefully across the dungeon. Even though Yajgaj had
extinguished the torches, after two months, there was not a crevice
in the dungeons that Alfwig didn't know as intimately as his own heart.
The door was unlocked and beyond he saw light at the top of the
stairs. Only a single lantern, but it was enough to make the man's
eyes wince. Alfwig shadowed his eyes with his forearm as he climbed
the steps softly and carefully, listening for the sounds of anyone
approaching. The castle was silent, and now out of the dungeons he
couldn't even hear the distant combat.
At the first landing he saw the lantern hanging from the wall
overlooking a sleeping cot covered in furs suitable to a Lutin. A
pair of chests rested against the back wall. Alfwig found both of
them unlatched. Fresh clothes suited to his frame were tucked into
one, while good leather armor had been carefully arrayed in the
second. He lifted the armor to his nose and smiled faintly. Crisp and
with the familiar scent of the oil he'd used while working in Ture's
tanning shop. This was indeed the armor he had fashioned for himself
a few months ago as he'd looked forward to the day that he would help
his people be free of the tyrants that had unmanned them.
He stripped out of his dungeon rags, able to rip the cloth from his
chest and legs rather than both to take the time to remove them.
Then, he pulled on the fresh cloths and delighted in how good a fit
they were. Yajgaj had clearly studied him well in preparation for
this day. How long had that Lutin been planning to betray Calephas
and Gmork, and why do so only now?
Once he dressed, Alfwig donned the armor and stretched it to make
sure it was still flexible. He then searched for his sword, but
neither was there even a dagger in the trunks, nor was there a sword
anywhere near them. He finally found his blade beneath the cot just
as Yajgaj had promised. A small covered platter of bread and cheese
was waiting for him. There was only enough for a few bites so he
quickly chewed both.
His sword had been freshly oiled and sharpened as if it had been done
by a weaponsmith of Arabarb. Yajgaj surprised him anew. He swung the
sword a few times, savoring the feel of a blade in his hand again.
Alfwig smiled in satisfaction, and then started up the stairs. He
knew the path to Calephas's laboratory; he'd been brought there often
enough. This would be the last time he ever walked that dark corridor
that smelled of death.
"Lhindesaeg," he murmured under his breath when he reached the top of
the landing, "I'm coming."
----------
At the end of a long corridor at the very bottom of the castle, two
levels down from the laboratory, was a solid black iron door. The
only one who ever came to this door was Baron Garadan Calephas. And
so it was now, accompanied by the tiger Weaker, that Calephas came to
it one last time. He threw the heavy latch and pushed the door out
into the crisp air and the small dock beneath the castle. The yawl
stretched against the stone pier, the river slowly moving past here,
but still strong enough to easily carry them out into the main
current and sweep them past the city within minutes.
The Baron smiled in relief. He had hoped he would not have to pass
any of the soldiers, especially the Lutins and most especially any of
Gmork's pups along the way from his laboratory. He'd seen not a soul
and his sword remained unused in its scabbard at his side. He glanced
at the tiger carrying the chest with his potions and gestured for him
to go through. "Set them on the ship and haul in the anchor. I'll
ready the mizzen and then we'll cast off."
Weaker nodded mutely, climbed down the stone steps to the wharf and
then over the gunwale near the bow. Calephas watched him set the
chest in the little niche between either side of the fo'c'sle before
turning to secure the iron door. It took both of his arms to swing it
shut. A large iron bar was attached the stone wall next to the door.
It was free of rust only because the Baron came here and treated it
with his alchemical concoctions at least once a week even in bleakest
winter. No amount of soldiers would batter down this door. Gmork
could do it, but Gmork would be busy defending the castle from the
idiots in the Resistance.
Calephas laughed to himself as he thought on it. Let them fight. In
an hour he would be far downriver and by the evening his potions
would be ready. Come the morning he could stretch majestic wings and
fly wherever he wished to go, a mighty wyrm at last.
How many of his enemies had sought to destroy him over the long
years? His rivals in the Midlands had driven him into exile, but he
had ended up conquering Arabarb with Nasoj's help to gain a land even
vaster than the one his birthright had provided him. Two years ago
he'd been given the task of preparing a mountain assault upon the
northwestern edge of Metamor Valley. The Keepers had driven him back
and slaughtered his men, but not before his spies had found paths
through the forests that could help Nasoj's armies march straight to
Metamor without the fools in Hareford or the Glen any the wiser.
And how well he remembered that attack the previous winter.
Everything had seemed to go according to plan at first, that was,
until one of Nasoj's divisions decided to ransack the Glen as they
passed. The Glenners had found his encampment despite the winter's
grip and a betrayal from within his own rank had handed him over to
them. How he longed for the day he could feast on Andrig and
Gaerwog's flesh. The thought of ripping their bodies to pieces with
serrated teeth and cooking their flesh with his very breath brought
an icy thrill that made him shiver as he crossed the pier to the aft
of the yawl and climbed aboard.
Even though the Glenners had captured him, he had still escaped and
while leading the remnants of his army north, led those overrated
Long Scouts into a trap that very nearly decimated them. A magical
artiface alone had saved them, one that Nasoj had long sought vainly.
And of course, Calephas could not forget his alliance with Lilith and
the gift of the draconian potions. From every defeat he grew
stronger. And now he would never need to fear defeat again.
He laughed to himself as he pondered all of these events, hands
carefully readying the mizzen mast. He was so wrapped up in his joy
that he didn't even bother watching Weaker haul in the anchor. The
tiger stood staring at the anchor chain and crank for several long
seconds before bending over the side and grabbing the heavy chain in
his paws and lifting it up with his own remarkable strength. His lips
curled back with each pull revealing sharp fangs and a long raspy
tongue. Golden eyes narrowed as the anchor, a massive rusted piece of
metal that weighed at least twenty-five stone, emerged above the
surface of the water and clunked against the side of the ship. This
he grabbed and hauled over the gunwale along with the chain, and held
in his paws as if it were a holy object.
Calephas, finished with the mizzen, moved to the port to undo the
ropes lashed to the pier when he noticed Weaker standing next to
fo'c'sle with the anchor in his paws. "Weaker, what are you doing?"
The tiger glanced at him and his lips curled in a snarl. "Wicked."
His hand reached for his sword and his voice deepened with the
authority that he had once used to break this tiger. "What did you
say to me, slave?"
The tiger lifted the anchor a little higher, the chain clinking as it
dragged across the wood of the yawl. His voice hissed with predatory
exhilaration. "My name is Wicked!" With a heave he drove the anchor
down into the chest at his feet. The wood cracked and splintered, and
the three exquisite bottles with his precious potion shattered and
spilled their contents across the deck.
"No!" Calephas shouted in fierce rage. His sword leaped into his hand
as he dashed across the short distance. He swung the blade at the
tiger's side, but the Keeper swung the anchor up to meet the blade.
He was faster than Calephas had imagined carrying so heavy a weight,
as he deftly parried blow after blow from the heavy sword. Calephas
had to yank his sword back each time to keep the blade from snapping
against the anchor.
The tiger's eyes were fierce with triumph as he stepped to the right,
moving slowly around the baron. Calephas felt only rage and hate for
this traitorous slave. The loss of the potions was devastating, but
he knew enough now that he could create them anew. It would take
months, but he would do it. First this tiger would die.
His voice was ever one of his weapons. "You little shit! How dare you
try to stop me from striking you! You are nothing without me, Weaker.
You are a weakling without me. You are dust! An ant! Dung! I am your
master! I am your god, Weaker. Drop that anchor and face my wrath as
you ought! I am your god!"
Weaker smiled at him and kept turning to the side. He never lashed
out with the anchor, only deflected Calephas's sword blows. All the
baron needed was for this foolish Keeper to try to strike him once
and it would be over. No matter how fast he could move that heavy
weight, Calephas could slip through his attack. His sword had already
nicked the tiger in the upper arms three times and the trails of
blood were staining his orange and black fur as they dripped down to
join the mess of purple and gray smearing the deck.
And then, after the tiger was finally back on the gunwale side, he
shifted to his right with the anchor and Calephas drove home in the
slight window between his arm and chest. The blade sank deep into his
flesh, piercing just beneath his lung. Blood spurted along the haft
of his sword and the tiger's expression of delight became blank with pain.
"Weaker," Calephas sneered as he slid the blade further into the
tiger's belly, curving it as he drew it back out. Another moment and
the craven beast's innards would spill across the deck.
But the tiger lowered his right arm and grabbed the chain dangling
from the end of the anchor and grinned. "More Wicked," he said with a
vicious hiss before he turned and threw the anchor over the gunwale.
The chain which had been dragged along as the tiger had circled him
snapped into the air, caught Calephas behind the back and shoved him
into the tiger's chest, the sword driving completely through the
tiger's middle as the breath was forced from his lungs. Calephas
tried to scream as he clawed at his slave's shoulders to break free
before the sinking anchor vaulted them from their feet and carried
them both down into the water tangled in the heavy chain.
The yawl rocked back and forth for a moment after they disappeared.
The water rippled with the current that babbled briskly in the sudden silence.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
!DSPAM:4dda1d2d126631804284693!
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