Dark Legion (8 page)

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Scars

 

A nightmare plagued my sleep, recurring time and time again. It was familiar to me, as I paid witness to it more nights than not, and it was always the same. A nightmare I could deal with, but this was no mere nightmare. It was a near perfect recollection of one fateful night twelve years ago.

 

Armored men surrounded the palace as I arrived, and others wore robes. Some red; some white. My father stood in an open doorway, shaking his head. Three flaming arrows flew through the night. They took forever to make their way to the palace.

One hit a wall and bounced off, falling to the ground; another found purchase in the roof; and the last flew through an open window. I heard a scream and saw my mother through a window on the upper floor. My father turned his head to look at the men, shook it again, and ran upstairs. “Get Mother,” I whispered. My father was in there a long time, but when he emerged, it wasn't with Mother. He dragged a heavy chest through the door and left it a short distance away. He looked at my brother Shakir and me for a long moment, and I felt his eyes pierce mine. He turned and ran back upstairs. All the while, more flaming arrows rained down, and bottles of Eagle's Fire were shattered against the wall, coating the palace in flames.

I saw them embrace through the window as flames licked at the walls. Mother was shaking with it all, and I thought I saw him weeping. A white-robed figure approached my brother, Shakir, kicked away his blade, and tied him up. A large fat man came for me and did the same. I did nothing to resist him, I was in shock. I barely paid attention to what was happening around me, my eyes locked on my parents and the flames. The fat man dragged me away and licked at my face. “I am going to enjoy you,” the man I would later know as Angus said. His breath stank of drink, and I was about to pull away when I saw my father cut mother's throat, then stab a blade through his own guts and yank it up sharply, falling out of sight as well.

A man laughed to my side. The sound was so at odds with what I'd just witnessed that it snapped me out of my state. A man in decorative armor sat on a large black steed. He laughed again. I had never seen the man, but I knew of him. Emperor Solas.

I screamed.

 

I woke from the dream, a cold sweat coating my skin. I had turned that memory over in my mind countless times, but the sharp edges were never worn smooth. When my nerves settled, I closed my eyes, drifted off, and relived that night again.

 

The next morning I enjoyed the best breakfast I had in a long time. I found it odd to eat from a ceramic plate. It seemed too delicate, fragile, like it would break beneath the pressure of my fork. The tin dish I'd eaten from for so long was certainly more durable, and equally functional, if less glamorous.

The meal left me in high spirits, but the coffee—that really made my day. The warm sweet coffee sliding down my throat was like a missing piece of me finally returned. How I'd managed to live without it for so long, I did not know.

Neysa came stomping down the steps and out the door. “I wonder if she ever just walks,” I said, staring after her. Marcus smiled at me as he finished his coffee. He looked like a new man. We both had long overdue baths that morning, and Marcus combed his hair out and trimmed his beard. Combing my own would have required an imagination that bordered on insanity, but I shaved the shadow forming on my scalp. The neat and tidy look did not sit right on Marcus, clashing with my image of the man. He looked ridiculous.

“You look happy,” Marcus said. “I like the happy Saul, much less complaining and sneering.”

“I'm sure it won't last. So, what's the plan for today?”

“Let's stop by the dock, take another look. We need to start watching for when the guard changes are, patrol routes, that kind of thing. See if we can spot any important-looking ships. I also need to stop by the blacksmith's—my girls are in desperate need of some love from a big sweaty man.”

 

We stepped out into a frosty morning. The sky was a boiling mess of gray, but I could not help but smile. The town looked a lot nicer on a full stomach. A boy sat on the corner playing his lute, the case open in front of him. He was good, and as we passed, I tossed in a few coppers. The boy missed a beat, but corrected himself quickly and nodded his thanks.

We walked down a street that passed the large port. Seven ships were moored, along with a multitude of smaller craft. The largest of the ships dwarfed the remaining vessels. I knew nothing of boats, or their larger cousins, ships, but it was clear that I was looking at an uncommonly great example. Apart from being enormous, it was also grand. Few would bother to add as many decorations to the hull as this one displayed. It sported the emperor's personal banner, in addition to that of the empire, which explained rather a lot.

We paused to watch as men lowered a large crate to the dock. It was larger than our room at the Shady Oak and had a number of warnings painted on its sides. The men unloading it looked to be taking great care with it.

I looked at Marcus. “What do you suppose that is?”

“If I were to venture a guess, I would say something large and valuable.”

“Could be.” The large ship certainly looked important. The type of vessel one might expect to use for valuable cargo. My feet itched to get aboard. To be that close to the crown and ring, and yet to just stand there… it grated on me.

Men were climbing about the masts and securing sails. My suspicion that the ship had only arrived that morning was confirmed when a gangplank was lowered a few minutes later. A large number of legionnaires walked along it and down to the dock. The first made his way along to the bottom and stepped to the left; the next did the same but stepped to the right. This continued until two long columns of legionnaires were lined up, a couple of meters between them. I watched as the men, used to a rocking ship, tried to stand perfectly still. Many struggled.

A small crowd gathered around us. Any idiot could see that someone of import was aboard the ship, and people were ever nosy creatures.

Four figures in red robes stepped onto the gangplank and slowly made their way across. The rumble in the crowd when they appeared turned to hushed conversation when they were halfway and dwindled with each step they took, until the Dark Legion arrived to deathly silence. They walked through the passage left between the legionnaires and assembled a short distance away. I took a step back into the crowd. While I'd rarely had to deal with the Inquisition directly in Castralavi, I still feared that I would be recognized. Their hoods were up, but I thought I could make out black tattoos across all of their faces. Black tattoos were preferable to silver, but while these weren't sorcerers, they were still high-ranking Inquisitors. The Dark Legion inked their skin with small black letters that covered their bodies. The confessions and last words of those they put to the question were written on their skin. The writing was small, and it took many years to look as black as these men did. I reckoned that if I'd followed their custom, I would have been as black as Marcus a long time ago.

“Now who is this?” Marcus asked. “I'd like to meet
her
.”

I took my eyes off the Inquisitors and looked back to the gangplank. A woman came walking across, looking down on those below as though she owned the place. She wore a dark blue dress, her black hair tied back in a bun. A rather ordinary-looking woman, but she was far from ordinary. “No… You really don't want to meet her.” I said.

“Why? Do you know her?” Marcus asked.

“Not personally, no, thank the Gods. That, my friend, is Princess Milliandra.”

“The princess? I have not heard good things… she's nice to look at, though.”

She had the face of a street dog licking piss off a nettle, which Marcus would have known if he'd looked up from her ample bosom. It did not really matter how she looked; I could never find her attractive. She was a coldblooded woman, brutal and ambitious. Milliandra made even the twisted shell that I had become look divine.

Behind the princess came a white-robed man. I felt an anger rise within me. There were few I hated more than slavers. My brother and I had been thrown into their wagons once, and on that day our lives had changed forever. The slaver held a chain wrapped around his wrist, and behind him came a dozen slaves. The slaves were young, many yet to grow a beard. And they were my people. The chain passed through their manacled hands, its other end held by another white-robed man at the rear.

The princess joined the Inquisitors and talked with them. I tried to read her lips but only made out the occasional word, not enough to get an idea of their conversation. I'd hoped to catch a reference to the treasure I sought, but no such luck came my way.

There was a gasp in the crowd, and I turned to see what they were pointing at. One of the slavers, the one at the rear, had a bloodied nose, and the rearmost slave stood facing him. Another blow fell as the slave smashed him in the face with his manacle. The slaver let go of the chain as he tripped, fell hard on the gangplank, tipping over the edge to splash into the water.

The slave at the back ran a few steps, then leapt from the gangplank, cleared the couple of meters of water, and landed to the side of the legionnaires. He displayed the grace of a lion and the speed too, and I doubted he would be caught. Just as I started to smile—the boy well on his way down the street—that damn sensation curled up my spine again. I'd felt it far too often over the past two days.

A flash of light erupted from behind me, casting long shadows for the briefest of moments. Then, what looked like a ball of lightning surged past me and toward the boy. He looked behind him, his mouth wide in shock; then the ball hit him full in the face and threw him head over heels. He writhed in agony, clutching at his face. Princess Milliandra walked up to him slowly, the Dark Legion close on her heels. She kicked him hard, then again. Her sleeve was rolled up, and I could see silvery tattoos up her arm. Not as many as on a sorcerer, but there was no mistaking them.

“Want us to teach him a lesson, Princess?” one of the red robes asked.

“No, leave him,” she said, and looked at the crowd. “Nobody touch him! He stays there till he rots. Anyone who interferes will answer to me.”

Much of the crowd dispersed at that point, and Marcus and I joined them, walking past the boy in the road, clutching at his face. Between his fingers, the skin on his face was raw, and his eyes were swollen shut. There was an odd smell too, like burning, but not something I could put my finger on. I wondered if the boy was blind, and I felt for him, but I was powerless to help. He looked to be in a bad way and I doubted he would suffer long.

 

We made our way to the noticeboard by the port, and as we stepped up, I could see the board was bare apart from the small nails that would, under better circumstances, be used to pin up job announcements. That, and a poor sketch of someone's missing dog, though the sketch was old, barely visible, and took me a moment to discern what it was. I reckoned the dog would be lucky to still be alive. I was staring at the sketch when Marcus pulled me closer.

“That centurion is on the corner of the dock,” Marcus whispered.

I peeked past the noticeboard and spotted the man. It was hard not to, with his decorated armor, his thick red cape, and the red plumes of his helmet sticking up like a peacock's tail. “He's facing the other way.” I said. “We should just walk away, but don't rush.”

We walked down the street, and I looked behind me as casually as I could, but not directly at the man. He was looking in our direction. When we rounded the corner I looked again, but the centurion was talking to another legionnaire, no longer facing us. “See,” Marcus said. “Nothing to worry about. I bet he wouldn't recognize me if I walked right into him.”

“I wouldn't bet on that,” I said. “You're like a cliff with arms and legs. I don't like his presence here—it could ruin our plans. Permanently.”

“Unfortunately, there's not much we can do about it,” Marcus said.

Marcus was wrong, of course, there was plenty we could do about it. As we rounded another corner, Marcus pointed at the smithy. “Actually, I might go into the forest for a bit,” I said. “I need to clear my head, and I want to gather some herbs and such. It's been a long while since I made salves and tonics, and I need some supplies to practice with.” Marcus shrugged.

I walked with Marcus to the blacksmith. He handed over his weapons and sat down to talk with a young boy while he waited. It was likely the blacksmith's son—he shared the man's red hair. I looked at the swords on display. While I was next to useless in a fight—at least a fair one—I could recognize a good blade, and the smith clearly did too. My attention was drawn next to a row of daggers, which more suited my style. A dark alley; a turned back. I decided to buy one and picked out the best of the daggers. Not the largest, not the best-looking, but the most practical. I paid the smith's wife and walked to the edge of town.

 

Leaves crunched underfoot as I made my way into the forest, and while my progress was slow at its edge, with the trees shrubby and the undergrowth dense, I soon walked beneath the tall canopy. I tripped several times on the steep slope, with my eyes lost in the leaves high overhead, scanning the branches for the plant I sought.