The Making of a Mage King: White Star (24 page)

Pieces of what happened came back to him: a house burning, too many bodies, the room, the chair, the cot, the curtain. Sean started again, his eyes flying open wide this time. The unrelieved dark did nothing to vanish the pictures behind his eyes. With a cry choked back to a strangled groan, Sean curled himself around arms he laced around his middle. He did indeed have broken bones.

As soon as he could make himself be still, he healed his broken ribs, then he healed his cracked skull, at least it hurt enough to be cracked. In the complete darkness he couldn’t tell if his vision was blurred or doubled; then again, he didn’t know if that was a symptom of a concussion or not, at any rate, his head felt better.

“How long have I been here?” he asked, as soon as he could uncoil himself enough to sit up against the wall. Judging from the smell, he had been lying on old straw and age wasn’t its only problem.

“You’ve been here ‘bout a day and a half now. You were out all night last night and it’s been some time since breakfast. I thought you might be going to die, you was lying so still for so long.”

“What is this place?” asked Sean, as he tried to see his hand in front of his face. He had to chuckle at himself; he knew exactly what this place was.

“They put us violent types down on the third floor. We might see daylight again, if they remember we’re here.” The man’s voice sounded bitter.

Sean started to chuckle out loud, then he said, “Mattie, can you hear me?”

“My name ain’t Mattie,” said the man.

“(gasp) My lord, I’ve been so worried.”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Where are you?” asked Sean.

“I’m sitting right here. What are you talking about, worry?” said the man, confused.

“We’ve taken a room at an inn. Laon is in a fury. Cordan’s fit to be tied…”

“Head on back to camp and don’t make a scene about it. Everything’s fine,” said Sean.

“You’re crazy, that’s why they put you in here, isn’t it?” asked the man, an edge of panic in his voice.

“No, I’m not crazy,” replied Sean. “I’m an idiot, but I’m not crazy. I had to let my men know that I was okay, so they wouldn’t do something stupid.”

“Your men? Your men named Mattie? You’re a nut case.”

“Mattie is my commander’s wife and the easiest person I can get in touch with. What’s your name, anyway?” asked Sean.

“Your commander’s… What are you doing here if you got an army?”

“I told you,” said Sean, chuckling at himself again. “I’m here because I’m an idiot and I
do
have an army; my name is Ruhin.”

“Yeah, right,” said the man, with derision in his voice. “And I’m the White Star hisself.”

Sean laughed out loud. “No, you’re not.” He brought a three dimensional representation of the white star into being in the middle of the cell, and by its light, looked at his cellmate. “I told you my name; do you know what that makes me?”

The man squinted at the colorful light that turned lazily in the center of the room. His mouth gaped. Then, after almost an entire minute, he turned his gaze on Sean. “Ruhin! You’re not…
him
. You’re too young.”

“If you’re thinking of Ludwyn, he’s finished. I’m his nephew. By the decree of my grandfather, I’m the rightful heir after my father, Ludwyn’s older brother.”

The man was speechless. “What are you doing here?” he asked again. It seemed to be the only question he could manage.

“Because I’m an idiot, I told you,” said Sean, grinning. He didn’t know why he felt so giddy just now, but he found his current predicament hilarious. “I tried to find my mother’s family and was in a temper because I couldn’t. The guards brought me to a room to cool down and…the room… Well, I panicked, hence my arrival here. There’re a lot of whys and wherefores involved, but that’s the gist of it. You never did tell me your name.”

“Name’s Guire, Francis Guire. If you can do magic, if you’re…him, can you make us some food? I haven’t eaten nothing but bad bread for three days.”

Sean made the man a bowl of stew then rested his head back against the wall while he ate. The name, Guire, struck a bell; where had he heard that name before? Then it hit him. “Was your mother or your wife named Lorraine?” he asked, scarcely daring to hope for a connection.

The man choked. “How could you know that?” he managed around a mouthful of hot potato.

“Which was it?” persisted Sean.

“My…wife. My wife is a Lorraine.” He looked down into his half-eaten bowl of stew.

“Eat, before it gets cold,” said Sean.

Sean watched his star revolve while his mind revolved along with it. He would need to question him more about his wife’s family, but it could wait until he had finished eating; they weren’t rushing off anywhere soon. He put the light out and dozed.

“Wake up, you dogs,” said a harsh voice, and Sean jumped, waking up a few leftover bruises. He squinted at the torchlight as someone dragged him roughly to his feet and shoved him toward the door, now visible in the light of yet another torch; his eyes adjusted reluctantly to the glare. Guire huddled curled in his place undisturbed, shaking with fear as guards put manacles on Sean’s wrists, binding them in front to a chain that went around his waist as well.

In the hall, after the cell door had been relocked, Sean whispered, “Laon, here—guard him. Stay there.”

“Shut, you,” said one of his six guards, as he jabbed him between his shoulders with the butt end of a pike, coincidentally hitting one of his arrow wounds. They didn’t hurt anymore, but obviously, they were still more tender than anywhere else on his back.

Sean hissed and hunched his shoulder a bit, which earned him another jab; this one missed the old wounds, thankfully.

Sean’s guards marched him up several flights of narrow stairs and out into the sunlit main floor of the building. He didn’t know which building it was, or what it looked like outside, and he wasn’t taken outside now; instead, he was herded across to the other side of the building and down a long hall. The central section looked like the entry from which two wide halls spread out to either side, several doors led in other directions, one of which was obviously the dungeon, and a wide stairway led to higher floors. The floor was paved with slabs of red slate held in place with white mortar.
Nice floor. Probably takes an entire crew of servants to keep it shining like this.

At the end of the hall was a pair of wide doors, and as soon as they were thrown open, Sean was struck by the odor; he had smelled that odor before only a few days ago. This was the demons’ stables.
Why did they bring me here?

He continued to cooperate out of curiosity. “Manuel, Gérard, armor up, if you think you can face this,” he whispered, which earned him a thunk up side of his head causing him to stagger sideways blinking away stars, which earned him another shove to keep him on track.

The large room beyond the double doors looked like it might have been a barn if it weren’t for the obvious things wrong about it. Along one wall, were ten cells each with barred doors too narrow for a common horse’s stall and the smell wasn’t the healthy smell of grain-fed livestock, it smelled of creatures fed meat that might have been questionable, if they were fed that well. The rest of the room was furnished with a wide assortment of torture devices, some of which were difficult to understand, but the amount of old blood labeled them easily enough.

Sean was shoved unceremoniously into a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room, facing him was a short fat man. “The governor has decided that you deserved a promotion. We seem to have a vacancy to fill and you look tough enough.”

So this is where Gérard had come from.
“How can you have a vacancy?”

The man slapped him as hard as he could, nearly knocking Sean out of the chair, which, he discovered, was bolted to the floor. He also narrowly avoided studs located specifically to intercept victims of actions such as he had just received. “You will speak only when you are spoken to,” snarled the little man.

Sean slowly righted himself in the chair, and in so doing discovered other sharp points waiting to bite into his skin. The bruises up his side robbed him of quick motion, but the whole situation was sparking him into a deadly fury. Slowly, he proceeded to stand. The guards who had brought him leapt to pull him back down, but they could only claw at air, their target only inches from their fingertips and slipperier than greased ice.

Sean tested his jaw and the inside of his cheek then he spit a glob of blood at his tormenter’s feet causing the man to take a step back.

Closing the cut on the inside of his cheek, Sean said, “What would happen if someone found out you had a vacancy you couldn’t explain? What if I don’t
want
to fill your vacancy? What if your problem got a little bigger than just one vacancy?” The manacles dropped in a heap of chains, and the iron-barred gates behind him started to crash to the stone floor, suddenly free of hinges and hasps that were no longer there.

When the first demon appeared to explore this new development, Sean’s guards started to run screaming, but found their escape blocked when more guards flooded in from a nearby location to see what the commotion was. When they turned for the doors on the other end of the room, Sean sealed them tight. He then brought Manuel and Gérard, positioning them to follow behind the incoming troops in order to prevent any of them from escaping and spreading the alarm.

The slaughter was poetic but grizzly, and the trap ate up anyone who could report their actions. Those who had tried to run found themselves facing two men who just as well might have been demons; vengeance and retribution reigned in the hall. Sean was the one quiet spot in the center of the storm.

As each demon ran out of more attractive targets and started to notice the solitary standing figure in their field of vision, they decide to pick him as a target. The moment he came within range of a touch, he found himself healed and senseless at Sean’s feet. When it was all over, Sean was the only man left standing in the room; demons never leave wounded.

Manuel and Gérard barred the double doors as soon as they reached them. When everything was quiet, they eased one of them open. Sean was moving from ex-demon to ex-demon, removing the leather masks that had been stitched on. When they came in, stepping over bodies, trying to avoid pools of blood, Sean stood and said, “Go back to the market. Round up everyone and head back to camp. I’ll meet you there.” He spoke with a soft voice. A lot of death had happened here, and even without black magic, it had left him drained, and the smell of blood turned his stomach. “Mattie, I’m coming in with nine ex-demons. See if you can round up some place for them to sleep it off.”

“I’ll stay with you,” said Manuel.

“You’ll follow orders,” said Sean with a look that could bore holes.

“Yes, sir,” said Manuel. There was no arguing with orders when they were issued like that.

The sight of Mattie seemed to break down some kind of wall Sean had built up within himself over the past few days. While the sleeping ex-demons were carried away, he just stood there and watched her. Suddenly, the here and now came crashing back. He was starving. He was tired. He was lost. God, he missed his wife. He wanted so badly to crawl into her lap and tune out all the blood and pain, to forget all the cares of the world weighing on his shoulders.

Mattie didn’t notice him standing there, she was busy with the men he had brought, but Cordan saw, and he thought he understood. He guided Sean to a camp chair near the evening fire. “You could, you know, I would understand. It was explained to me from the first.”

Sean looked at him confused, but when he noticed how carefully neutral Cordan’s face was, he was suddenly swept back to his aunt’s farm, back to when he first met Cordan. He had been going to talk to him about Mattie and ended up talking about other things, but he remembered what his aunt had told him, he also remembered what Mattie had said. “I would never… My soul and my heart belong to Armelle. Mattie is…like a sister, only closer. She is under my skin…next to my nerves.” His feelings about Mattie were complicated. “Mattie holds me together…just by being there, just by being strong and competent. I trust her…I trust her with my life. I would never jeopardize that.” He turned to face Cordan squarely. “I would never jeopardize what is between us, either. I need you to keep doing what you do. I need you both just the way you are.”

Cordan heaved a deep sigh, struggling hard not to let his relief show. “Where were you, anyway? You smell. And what happened to your face?”

Sean chuckled and reached up to touch his bruised cheek; it had only just cleared up from when Laon had punched him. “I was in the dungeon for a couple days. Send someone in with a couple buckets of water and I’ll take a bath. I need one.” He headed for his tent, still shaken by what Cordan had said, what he had been prepared to allow.

When he came out dressed all in black, Mattie handed him a plate of stew, then took it back. After handing it off to one of the girls behind her, she pushed Sean into a nearby chair. “What did you do? You have blood in your hair.”