EXILED Wizard of Tizare Page 4

  Yarrou caressed Feila’s stomach, his hand trailing down. Feila backed away.

  “Leave. You’ve done your assigned task. Go back and tell your king that all is well. That his troublesome wench will be well taken care of—for as long as she takes care of good King Yarrou.”

  Yarrou laughed, joined by his guards.

  Paralan waited until it subsided.

  “Then she will not stay. My king has made a mistake—”

  Talwe’s counselor took a step backwards, pulling Feila with him.

  “I’m sorry if we have to disappoint you, but ...” He paused, making sure that he had Feila held tight and close.

  But Yarrou moved also, signaling to his guards.

  They drew their swords, and from behind, Paralan heard the door open, the clatter of mrem in armor and swords being unsheathed.

  “We have a saying here in Pleir, Lord Paralan. The dead laugh at no jests. Your plans are not mine, I’m afraid.”

  Then the Lord of Ar felt the swords at his back. He glanced to his left and saw two blades pressing into Feila’s shoulder.

  “Let her come to me.”

  Paralan paused ... and then spoke, quietly, urgently.

  “Go, Feila.”

  She turned to him. “Paralan, Don’t. I—”

  The blades pinched her skin, and she moaned. He felt the blades dig into his own skin, felt the thin trickle of blood. “Slavemonger,” he hissed at Yarrou.

  “Tell her to come,” Yarrou ordered, “or you’ll both be dead, including the bastard she carries.”

  “Go, Feila,” he said. “Go, for now.”

  He watched her stumble forward, he heard her crying, and he saw the heaving of her small body.

  Her face, thank the All-Mother, was hidden from him.

  “Good. Now that that’s settled,” Yarrou said, “what of you?” Yarrou put his nose right to Paralan’s, and Paralan smelled this ruler, a stench as foul as the odor in the room. “We cannot, quite obviously, send you back to Ar with your tales, now can we? And if I were to kill you it might eventually bring the wrath of your King Talwe upon my fair city. That I am not prepared for....”

  Yarrou paused, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “No. I have it. You shall stay, as a guest. Yes, I’ll send word to Talwe that you are enjoying my hospitality so much that you’ve decided to stay and see that Feila is nicely settled in. Who knows, maybe I’ll suggest that your interest in Feila became more than that of a protector.”

  The king stepped back.

  “If you hurt her, I will kill you,” Paralan said quietly.

  “Oh,” Yarrou laughed, “I have no doubt at all that that’s just what you would do. But fortunately my prison cells are even more secure than the walls of my great city.” The king gestured to his guards.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay....”

  Yarrou nodded to the guards behind Paralan, and they circled him, guiding him back out of the room.

  And Paralan turned, and glanced at Feila.

  He saw her then, her tears running down her cheek.

  But the guards pushed him outside of the room, and the heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

  •

  Paralan’s first thought, on walking around the cell, was that this bleak hole would be the place he’d die.

  He saw the desperate creatures he had passed, their arms outstretched, clutching at the newcomer in hope that he’d bring something that would save them.

  Or perhaps simply end their miserable lives.

  And the smell of the place! That was familiar enough. It was death, the foul stench of decay. The rats chattered as the guards pushed him down the dark corridor. He glanced into one cell and saw a small pile of bodies.

  Storage, Paralan thought.

  There was a jail keeper, a bulbous-eyed fellow who stumbled down the corridor as if he were navigating the galley of an overloaded merchant ship in some terrible storm.

  Paralan heard the guards who escorted him snickering about the old fellow.

  He looked at them.

  To try and get away was hopeless. Not counting the jailer, there were three guards, weapons out, ready for any excuse to cut him down.

  His only hope was Talwe.

  King Yarrou wouldn’t risk a full-scale invasion.

  And Paralan was sure that’s just what Talwe would do if he didn’t return soon.

  But Yarrou could trick Talwe—at least for a while. Talwe would merely think that his trusted counselor was staying with Feila. He might even think that Paralan was smitten with the pregnant female.

  That wasn’t far removed from the truth, he admitted. The jailer finished fumbling with the keys and opened the door to a gloomy cell.

  “There you are, nice and clean,” the jailer said, starting a laugh that tumbled into violent coughing.

  Paralan looked inside. The floor was covered with a blackish scummy layer of—who knew what? Blood? Food? The cot was a layer of dirty straw and the waste hole in the center of the floor looked clogged with droppings and old food.

  No matter, he thought.

  Whatever happens here, I will live.

  I will live, I will escape, and I will kill Yarrou.

  And now he permitted himself just a brief, flashing image of Yarrou, skewered on his sword as he twisted it, again and again, wrapping the barbarian’s entrails around his blade like strands of hair.

  “In!” one of the guards barked, jabbing at him.

  Paralan stepped inside, and the door was slammed shut.

  “Enjoy your stay,” one of the other guards laughed. And they left, once again arousing the horrible pleas and begging of the other prisoners.

  Paralan sat down on the cot.

  He could almost feel his fur absorbing the soot and stench of the dungeon.

  He balled his hands into fists, great powerful fists. He relaxed his hands. And again, and again, as the day gave way to night, and the night to the new morning ...

  •

  Paralan quickly learned the way things worked in Yarrou’s pit.

  Food and water arrived infrequently. The jailer would rattle his keys and stumble in, throwing chunks of bread into cells, while he drunkenly made jokes. He’d scratch and pull at his tail, a twisted thing that dangled behind him. If he didn’t forget, he’d ladle some milky water into a small trough built right into the cell wall.

  But as bad as all this was, it was far worse to listen to the prisoners’ mewling and pleading.

  After one trip up the aisle, the jailer would quickly leave, ignoring any cells he missed, muttering and cursing under his breath. And he might not return for another couple of days ... usually finding at least one less mouth to feed.

  The first cycle of the moon wasn’t any worse than Paralan imagined it to be. He kept track of each day. He exercised, stretching and pushing against the wall.

  Then one morning he woke up to find that his fur seemed to be shedding, great tufts of it just falling off. He brushed himself and watched the fur fly off, down onto the floor.

  His teeth started to hurt.

  His eyes were pained by even the faint glare from the open crosswalk above the dungeon corridor.

  One morning he woke up, heard the jailer, and he slid off the now even more soiled cot, and pulled himself up to the bars.

  “Here,” he croaked, “here,” joining the chorus of pitiful voices.

  And he stopped ... and started laughing hysterically. I’ve become one of them, he thought. I’m just like them now. He could see his own body carelessly thrown on top of a pile of bodies.

  He pulled back from the cell door, shivering with the horror of his terrible image. As he shivered, the jailer walked by.

  The jailer stopped.

  He put down a steaming bowl. A thick loaf of bread. A jug filled with arbunda milk.


  Paralan looked at the food. His stomach hurt from the sheer anticipation of looking at so much wonderful food.

  The jailer moved on, tossing his small chunks of bread into the cells.

  Thereafter, the jailer came every day, bringing bread regularly to all the other prisoners, and hot, nourishing meals to Paralan. And Paralan didn’t, at first, question his good fortune. He began to feel restored. After who knew how many moon cycles of just lying on the filthy cot, he began pacing his cell, exercising his once-powerful body.

  The terrible keening of the other prisoners also subsided.

  It was not long after this remarkable turn of events that he had the dream.

  It was unlike any dream he had ever had.

  At first, he just saw himself once again back in Ar, strolling its busy streets, sampling the wonderful food found in its marketplaces, enjoying long talks with Talwe....

  Then something happened. Dark clouds filled the sky, and cold winds raced through the alleyways, blowing down stalls and sending people scurrying indoors.

  He saw Talwe, walking merrily along one of the streets. He wasn’t alone. Right beside him was Wydnic.

  Only Paralan could see, quite clearly now, it wasn’t Wydnic at all.

  It wasn’t anyone called “Wydnic.”

  It was Cwynid.

  He had his arm around Talwe, talking to him, whispering into his ear.

  Paralan tried to run up to Talwe, to tell him that this was their great enemy from Cragsclaw.

  But Talwe just smiled, and turned down a corner. Paralan ran, as one can run only in a dream, ever so slowly, as if the ground itself was struggling to hold his feet still.

  Until he came to an alley.

  And Talwe lay at Cwynid’s feet, his head snapped backwards.

  Cwynid turned to him.

  He was wearing the crown of Ar.

  And in blood, smeared on the ground, on the walls of the buildings, a single word.

  Help.

  He woke up.

  •

  So the Eastern Lords are to have Ar after all! Is that the meaning of this dream? Is there no one to stop it? Where is Mithmid?

  Was all this planned? This trip to the north with Feila, this jail cell? All planned to isolate Talwe so that Cwynid could claim power?

  But Paralan also knew that the image was a warning. There was still time, if he could get to Ar before it was too late.

  •

  Feila sat at the table, and stared at her face in the mirror. It was a stranger’s face, a face limned with pain and worry, a face marked by memories of countless debauched nights.

  She picked up a small brush and placed streaks of red into her golden fur. Her eyes were already great dark circles, but she used a tapered brush dipped in a smudgy blackish paste, and made them darker.

  Each detail she labored over. Because if Yarrou was not pleased, thrilled, and absolutely titillated by her appearance, he’d just as easily throw her onto the streets.

  And she couldn’t let that happen.

  Lastly, she dabbed herself with scent, a strong, almost overpowering odor that nearly made her sick.

  But Yarrou loved it, sniffing at her, biting into the soft fur at the back of her neck, chewing at her as he rammed into her, over and over and over.

  Some nights he dispensed her like a gift, giving her to some friend to be played with. And some of them were even worse than Yarrou.

  She stood up wearily, her muscles almost quivering in anticipation.

  Careful, she told herself, nothing must reveal anything different tonight.

  It must simply be another night in his bed.

  She walked into his room and awaited the tall king. Feila heard his footsteps, trudging up the stairs. He drank every night, which only made her work that much harder.

  She lay on the bed, arranging the kilt so that it revealed small patches of her body in the flickering candlelight.

  Yarrou opened the door roughly, slamming it against the wall.

  “I’ll kill his clan ... cut them down ...” he muttered drunkenly, letting his robe slip off his shoulder. “He’ll not insult me and get away with it. His clan is nothing more than a pack of thieves.”

  Yarrou started giggling. “And bad ones, at that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Feila said soothingly. “Come here and let me touch you.”

  He had taught her how to talk to him, the right words to say to excite him.

  “Come, my king. Let me pleasure you.”

  Feila shifted slightly in the bed, and her gown slipped further to the side. She saw Yarrou eyeing her.

  “Come,” she whispered.

  Yarrou loosened his kilt.

  She saw that his erection was a halfhearted thing. It would still need much coaxing to cut through the fog of so much wine.

  Yarrou came to the bed, stood there. Feila turned over, rolled to him.

  He brought a hand down to her back, extending his claws. He traced a line in her back, gentle at first but then harder, digging into her fur.

  She ignored the pain, as she worked on him.

  Ignored the pain, as she had every night, struggling to keep Yarrou pleased ... struggling to keep herself alive.

  “Yes, my king,” she whispered.

  Yarrou grunted and sat down on the bed. “Won’t you lie back?” she suggested.

  Yarrou stretched out on the bed.

  “There,” Feila said, “that’s much better, isn’t it?” She turned, taking off her gown. And she mounted him, as he lay there, eyes half closed, biting into her soft fur with his powerful hands.

  She talked to him, told him things to keep his mind on her, on her young body ....

  While her left hand dangled down to the side of the bed. She dug around under the mattress, feeling for something.

  “Yes, my king,” she hissed throatily.

  Her hand searched, but found nothing.

  Feila felt panic. Where could it be? She had placed it so carefully, practiced with it. What had gone wrong?

  Then she stretched forward, and her fingers felt the delicately carved handle. A fingertip touched the blade. More pain, but sweet, laced with hope.

  “Yes,” she said one final time.

  She brought the knife up silently, and plunged it down. On the first stroke, Yarrou opened his eyes. Then he tried to scream. But she brought the blade up, tearing a cruel line from the chest up to the soft flesh of his throat.

  His scream became a strangled sputtering, spraying her with deep red droplets.

  His powerful arms closed around her like a vise.

  Feila moaned as he squeezed the air out of her.

  She brought the knife up, dragging bits of his throat out with it.

  Did a monster like this have a heart?

  She plunged the knife into his chest.

  Yarrou’s eyes went wild with the agony.

  His arms fell to his side.

  And, when Feila was sure that he was dead, she pulled herself off him. And she sat there, staring at the body, watching it redden the sheets and the mattress, until there was a pool of red surrounding her on the floor.

  THE GOOD food kept coming, every night. The prisoners even took to talking among themselves.

  Most were simple peasants. Some had protested about their wives or daughters being forced into Yarrou’s bed. Others had been caught pilfering a bit of food, or committing some other petty crime.

  All of them expected to finish their days, however long they might be, in Yarrou’s dungeon.

  Then one night the food didn’t come. And a deathly silence fell over the dungeon. Their good luck had ended, they moaned. Paralan heard a few fall to their knees, praying to the All-Mother.

  Even Paralan grew worried. It had been frightening to watch his body fa
ll apart, his sleek fur turning dull and haggard. If that were to happen again he knew he’d go mad.

  On the night of the second day without food, he heard the door open. Everyone in the dungeon stirred. Paralan grabbed the bars.

  But it wasn’t the jailer. It was someone with a much lighter step, walking straight down the corridor to Paralan’s cell.

  Until Paralan could see who it was ...

  “Feila,” he said quietly.

  She was dressed in a gossamer-thin kilt, laced with tiny strands of gold and silver. Her fur was combed high and tinted a bright crimson. Her eyes were dark and old.

  She was not the same mrem he had escorted to the castle so long ago.

  He licked his lips, remembering for a moment just what he must look like. He scratched at the fur on top of his head. “I—”

  “You’re alive, Paralan. I had told the jailer to bring the food ... but I thought he might be taking the gold pieces and lying to me. But you’re alive.” She looked back to the dungeon entrance. “Here,” she said, digging keys out of a pouch in her kilt. “We must go fast.”

  Then his cell door was open. For a moment it seemed too strange to cross the threshold. But he stepped out, free but still feeling like a prisoner.

  “Me!” “Let me out” “No, here ...” The other prisoners began begging to be freed.

  Feila looked at him.

  Paralan nodded. He took the keys from her and tossed them into the nearest occupied cell. “Pass them along when you’re out!” he yelled at the occupant.

  “Come,” Feila ordered. “Quickly.”

  “Yes,” he said, staring at her even as she took his hand. She was so different, as if years had gone by. She pulled him up the stairs, leaving the clamor and smell of the cells behind.

  “I may be in time to help Talwe,” Paralan said. “There was a sending—Ar is—”

  They were at the top of the stairs. And Feila froze, and turned on him. “You won’t be going to Ar,” she said quietly:

  “Why, yes I will. Cwynid has returned; he has cast a spell over Talwe. Already he must control much of the city. I—”