“Your god is one of weakness,” he said. “An imprisoned child whose dreams cannot live in this world, and whose hope is a pathetic excuse for reason and sanity. Eternity will roll forever and ever on, and one day, the brother gods will war again. Those children, those souls who think themselves safe in his embrace, will kneel before the Lion and face true judgment for their sins. And you … what sins do you hide? I’ll find them all, Haern. I’ll listen to every last one. You’re in the heart of the Stronghold, a place of tremendous power sworn to the true deity of this land.”
The fire began to sear into his skin. Strangely, it did not char the flesh, only ignite horrible pain. He fought, but the magic of it held him still, tightening every single muscle in his body so that he could not run, could not turn away. Even screaming was denied to him.
“Every day you will feel the pain of Karak’s anger,” Carden said, voice like a demon, words the condemnation of a furious god. “Every night, you will weep and cry for salvation. Keep your pendant around your neck. Stare at it. Hold it. Caress it while you weep. Feel it against your flesh as the pain rips through you. Day after day. Night after night. Tell yourself that is your hope. Tell yourself it must mean something. But I know what will happen, know it like I know the sun will rise, come the morrow. I’ve seen it a hundred times before, and in your eyes, I will see it again: the realization that no matter how greatly you suffer, how loudly you pray to your god, he will do nothing.”
The fire was leaping off the blade like water now, curling around him, seeping into his skin like rain into a parched landscape.
“He’ll love you from afar,” Carden said. “Love you as you suffer, love you as you die. That is the sickness you worship. That is the impotence you’ve given your life to serve, you poor damn fool.”
The paladin leaned down so his lips brushed against his ear.
“You may scream now,” he whispered.
Haern did, howling at the top of his lungs, releasing every bit of his pain and rage. The sound echoed within his cell, and to his ears, it belonged to a wild animal. Certainly not to anything human. At last, his lungs gave way, and the pain became something he could bear as Carden stood and sheathed his blade on his back.
“Watch carefully,” he said, and it seemed as if the previous tortures were but a dream, and he was a kind host describing an offered room. Touching the wall, Carden closed his eyes, whispered something in prayer, and then suddenly, a wall of flame rose from the floor, sealing Haern inside his stone cube. It burned, shimmering, black and violet, swirling like water running upward to the ceiling. Just looking at it made Haern sick, no different from the fire that burned around Carden’s blade. The paladin examined the wall of fire, and he nodded, pleased.
“Only the faithful can pass through unharmed,” he said. “Even our younger members find it difficult to endure. The other walls are solid stone, so your only exit is through the flames … but there is no hope beyond, Haern. Here in this dungeon, there is but one door, and it can only be opened from the outside. There is no escape, I promise you. In case you thought to take your chance with the fire, I thought it best you know the pointlessness of such an action.”
The man stepped through the flames, and as the violet fire passed across his skin and armor, it did not burn, nor did he show signs of pain.
“Oh,” the paladin said from the other side. “So you know … these flames are designed to burn, and hurt, but very rarely will they kill. Though if you stay within them long enough, if you can endure the pain, you just might find death. Consider that a gift we offer the strong … but only a very few have managed it. But who knows … perhaps you’ll be one of them?”
With that, he was gone, leaving Haern alone in his prison, sick before the glow of the fire, in pain from the torture, and his chest aching from where the pendant of the golden mountain rested against his skin. Tears running down his face, he clutched it with a shaking hand, felt the cold metal dig into his skin.
“Ashhur,” he prayed, turning his back to the flame. “Please, Ashhur, I know you hear me…”
One day. Just one day, and he felt a quivering in his chest, a breaking of something so vital to everything he knew.
Just one day.
“Delysia,’ he whispered, and his tears fell harder.
CHAPTER 21
Just after dawn, when all his men were in place, Muzien strode into the marketplace, pockmarked Ridley at his side. He kept his hood off, wanting others to see his face, his scarred ears, and know exactly who he was. The four-pointed star was sewn large on his tunic, and it amused him to see the way the commoners’ eyes widened upon his entrance. How long had he been in Veldaren, a few months at most? Already they feared him. But not enough. Not yet.
They would, though, after today.
Waiting for him were several crates stacked together in the heart of the market, and he leaped atop them and looked about. In all directions, he saw members of his guild watching at the various entrances and exits, and each one saluted with their left hand to show they were ready.
“People of Veldaren!” Muzien screamed, and his voice carried over the rest, for he knew how to project his authority, how to command the attention of any in his presence. “Come forth, and witness the rise of the Sun!”
Frightened murmurs rapidly spread, and with his face like stone, he watched their reactions. Many turned to flee, recognizing him, but there was nowhere to go. From all corners came members of his guild, bearing torches in one hand and brandishing swords in the other. Following his strict orders, they said nothing, only blocked the people’s way with fire and steel. Muzien’s reason had been simple. The people were sheep and needed to learn to behave without word or order but by the mere sight of the four-pointed star.
A circular gap spread about Muzien, no one wanting to be near him where he stood. Muzien waited, knowing there was no reason to hurry. The king was in his pocket, the remaining guilds all but crushed. Who else could stand against him?
“Come closer,” he yelled to them, estimating nearly two hundred trapped there in that center stretch of the marketplace. “To me, now, for I would have you watch!”
More members of the Sun Guild came through the alleys, pushing people in, threatening with club and blade when necessary. The two hundred bunched in, unable to flee, unable to hide. Muzien nodded, pleased with the efficiency of his guild. Many members were newly recruited, either from other guilds or the streets, but they were learning swiftly. Again, he felt a pang of frustration. Why had Thren Felhorn struggled for so long, when he lived with such fertile recruiting ground?
Muzien stayed there, merely watching, wanting the people to grow accustomed to his presence above them. Sealing in the circle of people were two dozen Sun Guild members holding torches aloft. It conveyed the feeling of a ritual, and Muzien knew how powerful rituals could be. It gave the humans a sense of awe, of belief that their ephemeral lives might somehow continue on while connected to things greater and more permanent than they. Even the most mundane of events could carry the weight of mysticism and power by adding a few ancient words and predetermined motions.
From the north, pushing through the crowd, came two city guards, prodded on by more members of the Sun. Neither had drawn their weapons, and they looked equally terrified by the sudden events. Muzien crossed his arms at their approach, still saying nothing. At last, he hopped down from the crate and walked toward them. He saw fear in their eyes, and it made him sick.