Well of the Damned (2 page)

“Who’re
you?” Tyr asked.

The
black-beard struck the iron door with the underside of his fist hard
enough to make it clang. He was dressed in the red and black livery
of the Lordover Tern. “Shut your mouth, wench, or I’ll
shut it for you. Continue, Chancellor.”

The
white-hair unrolled a scroll, and began to read aloud. “I,
Feelic Durras, Chancellor to the Lordover Tern, hereby proclaim, by
the power granted to me by His Lordship, that the following charges
are brought against Cirang Deathsblade...”

Cirang
Deathsblade. The name was unfamiliar to him yet fit comfortably in
his mind like well worn boots.
Yes
, he thought as a memory
surfaced. That had been
her
name, the woman whose body he now
owned.

“...
formerly of the Viragon Sisterhood, in the name of the King of
Thendylath. Charge one: murder of the man Rogan Kinshield, a husband,
father and brother.”

“Wait,”
Tyr said. “I’m innocent of this charge.”

“Quiet,
wench,” the black-beard barked.

“You’ll
have your chance to address these charges during your hearing before
the lordover,” the chancellor said. He looked back down at his
paper. “Charges two through eleven: kidnapping of the woman
Liera Kinshield and her three sons, kidnapping of the woman Feanna
Vetrin and her three daughters, and kidnapping of two Viragon
Sisters, Nasharla and Dona. Charge twelve: treason against the King
and the Kingdom of Thendylath.”

“Is
that all?” Tyr asked. He yawned.

The
chancellor huffed and blustered, rolling up the scroll hastily. “I
suggest, young lady, that you more carefully consider the attitude
you display in the face of such serious charges. Cockiness is
unflattering in a woman. Perhaps you require extra time to consider
your manner before the lordover hears your response.”

Tyr
listened to the men’s footsteps fade down the hall. He had no
memory of kidnapping anyone or doing anything treasonous, and had
only learned there was a king earlier that day. These allegations
were false, though proving his innocence might be challenging.

As
soon as the door shut at the end of the corridor, his fellow
prisoners broke their silence.

“Who’s
the new king, Cirang?” his neighbor asked. “Tell us his
name.”

If
the knowledge was uncommon, then that must have meant Gavin Kinshield
had only recently claimed his place on the throne. There Tyr was, in
gaol, and already he had something to bargain with. “What’s
that information worth to you?” he asked.

“Even
if I had coins to pay for it, you’ll never be able to spend
it.”

“You’ll
be lucky if you don’t lose your head,” someone else said.
“Tell us who the king is.”

“If
I tell you, then you will each owe me a favor, payable at my
request.”

“Yeh,
sure.”

Other
prisoners agreed to the terms, probably thinking that Tyr would never
be able to collect. “All right, we owe you one favor each,”
the first fellow said. “Who is he?”

“The
new king of Thendylath,” Tyr said, “is the warrant knight
Gavin Kinshield.”

Some
of the prisoners cursed or groaned in despair. Others expressed
outrage that a ’ranter could rule a country. Tyr lay back down
on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, smiling into the
darkness.

Of
all the predicaments Sithral Tyr had ever found himself in, the most
annoying was being a woman. The first time he squatted over the piss
bucket, he messed his trousers. The menses came after a few days, and
it embarrassed him to have to constantly ask the guards for rags to
wear between his legs. They made him rinse the bloody ones himself
and drape them over the posts of his bed to dry. The cramp in his
lower belly was terribly uncomfortable, and his request for pain tea
went ignored. He found no relief aside from the passage of time when
the menses ended their course.

Eventually,
Tyr learned to remember bits of Cirang’s life as a girl, a
woman and a sword fighter, yet he also remembered his own life as a
Nilmarion man, husband and father. He remembered traveling to
Thendylath aboard a ship pulled through the water by two huge sea
snakes, committing his first murder, and feeling his soul darken with
the foulness of evil. Over the following few years, he’d stolen
things and murdered people and sold orphans to slavers, whose ships
docked in Lavene — things he’d never have done before his
descent. He had no use for remorse or sorrow. Even in this body he
was unburdened by female sensibilities. Thinking back on the crimes
he’d committed as the man Sithral Tyr, he regretted nothing
except the clues he’d left behind that had gotten one pesky
’ranter closer to arresting him than he’d have liked.

Cirang
Deathsblade was not without her own dark past. Though he felt no
shame or remorse for her murder of a Viragon Sister and the framing
of Daia Saberheart for it, he was clever enough not to boast. It was
a crime for which he’d never face justice as long as he kept it
to himself.

Days
stretched into weeks while he waited for the new king to judge him
for Cirang’s crimes. He went hungry at times because some of
the guards claimed to have run out of food by the time they reached
his cell with the slop bucket. In truth, they were afraid of him. He
was certain of it, for he’d heard them arguing in whispers
outside his door over whose turn it was to enter her cell to feed her
or take her waste pail or fill her water bucket. His memory of
Cirang’s life shed no light on the reason for their wariness,
but he saw it in their eyes when they approached and in their haste
in performing their tasks before locking the door and scurrying back
up the corridor.

During
the days, he spent his time staring at his pale, unwarded hands. Sewn
into the skin of every newborn Nilmarion by the village shaman, the
natal ward kept him safe from the evils through childhood. Its
purpose was to protect him until he was old enough for the ward of
readiness. While Tyr had become accustomed to seeing the unwarded
faces and hands of the people of Thendylath, the lines on his own
hands, and the reflection of those on his face, had always provided a
comfort that resonated with the deepest, oldest part of himself.
Although the ward lines hadn’t ultimately protected him from
the evils as he’d been raised to believe, seeing his hands
without them disturbed him greatly.

Nights
were the worst. Time and again, he dreamed of bloody claws sinking
into his skin, twisting his body and breaking his back with a snap.
He awoke gasping for air and clutching at the muscle spasms in his
back. He relived the demon’s brutal attack so many times over
those weeks that he feared falling asleep. The injury that had caused
Cirang’s death had only hurt for an instant, while the memory
of it would be eternal. One night after another, he lay on the bed
late into the mirknight, too tired to stay awake but too fearful of
that awful pain to let his mind relax without jerking awake in
anticipation every few minutes.

Some
nights weren’t as bad. Those were the ones in which the horror
of the demon, reaching for him with its black-clawed hands, made him
scream aloud, waking with a start before the worst part came. Those
nights, his fellow prisoners cursed him unsympathetically and
promised to punish him in the most unpleasant of ways once they were
freed.

One
night, he dreamed the demon had him by the throat in its vice-like
grip, just as it had done to Ravenkind. Tyr awoke gasping, unable to
breathe. Something covered his mouth and pinched his nose shut. He
tried slapping it away and felt what seemed like dozens of arms and
hands pushing him down, wrestling his arms to his sides and spreading
his legs apart. A candle cast shadows of his multi-armed attacker
onto the wall above his bed. Trying to climb on top of him was the
dreaded black-beard — the new gaol warden, appointed after the
old warden was promoted to lordover’s captain. Tyr fought
harder, realizing the warden had brought a friend.

Then Tyr realized he’d been
stripped of his trousers. He managed to shake off the hand over his
mouth. “No! Get off me, you ugly bas—” he said
before he was muzzled once again.

“What’s
happenin’ over there?” asked the prisoner in the adjacent
cell.

“Shut
up and mind your own business,” black-beard snapped.

Tyr
got his right leg free and tried to slam his knee into black-beard’s
groin, but the man was already on top of him. The blow did little to
deter his attacker.

“Hold
her legs, damn it.”

The
guard got a hold of Tyr’s ankle and pushed it down onto the
bed. Tyr bucked as hard as he could under the warden’s weight.
He slammed his forehead into black-beard’s face. Black-beard
reeled, freeing Tyr’s right hand. He drove his thumb into
black-beard’s left eye. The warden rolled off him, screaming,
and fell onto the floor. Now, with his hands free, Tyr sat up,
grabbed the guard’s head, and jammed both thumbs into his eyes
too. The guard screamed and let go, flailing with his arms and
stumbling backwards. Other prisoners demanded to know what was
happening.

Now
free, Tyr leaped to his feet and into a fighting stance. “The
warden and his guard are trying to ravish me,” he said.

“Who
the hell cares?” said one prisoner. “Just shut up and
take it.”

“The
lordover’ll hear about this,” said another.

“Extra
meal rations for a week might keep us quiet about it, though,”
said a third.

Such
a mixed reaction from his fellow inmates reminded Tyr that he hadn’t
made much of an effort to win friends here, but at least the attack
was halted. For now. He hated to think he would have to call in his
favors to corroborate this assault.

Black-beard
got to his feet and yanked his trousers up. “You gotta go to
sleep sometime,” he said with a sneer.

The
guard picked up his candle. In its flickering light, Tyr could see
his eyes were bloody. He smirked, certain he could use this proof to
get the warden and guard fired for their attack or at least branded.

He
was wrong. He had only the guards to hear his complaint the next
morning, and it went unreported, as did his demands to see the
lordover. Over the next few weeks, he slept as he could during the
day and remained watchful at night.

One
afternoon, he was awakened by the bells in the temple tolling. He
counted twenty times, though it may have been twenty-one. The other
prisoners speculated and bet each other on the reason for it, but Tyr
had no guess as to why they would be ringing. Later that day, a new
guard with puppy eyes and a boyish smile arrived with the slop bucket
and spilled the news: dignitaries across Thendylath, as well as a few
visiting from friendly nations, had come to watch Kinshield receive
his crown in a huge ceremony.

So
it was official, Tyr thought. He wasn’t surprised. The warrant
knight had taken the gems from the rune tablet — a feat Tyr had
attempted many times over the years — and that was proof enough
to the people Gavin Kinshield deserved to rule Thendylath.

It
started raining the next day. It rained for one week, then another,
then another. Tyr couldn’t help but wonder whether the gods
were drowning Thendylath in retribution for putting a ’ranter
on the throne. It seemed fitting somehow.

Late
one morning, roughly three weeks after the coronation, the clang of
the door being unlocked echoed down the narrow corridor, followed by
two pairs of boots clomping rhythmically on the stone floor. With
every approaching footstep, keys on an iron ring jingled a tune that
made Tyr’s grumbling stomach sing in anticipation. The other
prisoners began to complain loudly when the guards didn’t stop
at their cell doors. Not feeding time. Perhaps someone would be
freed. Or put to death.

The
warden’s ugly bearded face filled the small window of his cell
door and Tyr’s heart with apprehension.

Chapter 3

Water
ran down the slopes of the mountains that embraced the capitol city
of Tern, streaming from every direction to converge and rush down the
main road. It covered the street, gushing downhill and threatening to
carry with it anything or anyone not heavy enough or tied down
strongly enough to resist its force. Those whose homes sat at higher
elevations used bags of sand and gravel to direct the water around
their houses instead of through them. Others weren’t so lucky
and had to abandon their homes and seek refuge with relatives or
friends whose houses had not yet flooded.

The
River Athra, swollen to the tops of its banks, roared through the
city like an angry beast. The river that provided the citizens of
Tern its drinking water now threatened their lives with its crumbling
banks and overflow.

Gavin
Kinshield called for a halt where the water had started to spill over
the eroded bank and form a rivulet that, if left unchecked, would
damage the homes and businesses in its path. “Let’s build
this bank up here,” he shouted over the roar of the river. He
swung down from the back of his warhorse and joined the dozen others
with him in unloading sandbags from their wagon. The people working
alongside him, men and women who served as battlers and carpenters
and cooks and acolytes of the church, formed a line and began passing
sandbags from the wagon to where Gavin received and stacked them on
the bank. With his great height, every time he bent down to place a
bag, the cloak on his back shifted forward and got in the way. It
wasn’t keeping him dry anyway, and so he pulled it off and
tossed it over Golam’s gray rump, then turned back to the task
at hand. He’d lost his hat at the last spot upstream, and now
rain dripped into his eyes and mouth and soaked his tunic and
trousers, making them cling heavily to his body.