Crull-maldor whispered to Azuk-Tri, Lend me full use of your mind.
The captain calmed himself, let his thoughts roam. In that instant, Crull-maldor seized the man, crawling into his skull and taking possession the way that a hermit crab fills a shell.
It was easy, surprisingly easy—as easy as riding a crow. The feat had not been nearly as easy weeks ago before the great binding, and Crull-maldor found that she liked this man’s mind. It was filled with interesting tidbits of information about this human settlement.
Crull-maldor ordered her men, “Bind the human to the table.”
The wyrmlings lifted the man onto a huge table that was made from planks that were six inches thick. The man’s feet were already tied together. Now the wyrmlings used ropes to truss him to the table, and the human groaned in pain, showing the first signs that he might revive.
When he was secured, Crull-maldor reached down into the captain’s belt, into a compartment in the waistband, and pulled out a harvester spike—an iron spike about six inches long. The spike was rusty at one end, but its tip was black with glandular extracts.
Crull-maldor rammed it into the human’s leg. Within seconds, the warrior’s muscles spasmed and his eyes flew open.
“Yaaaaagh!” He screamed a battle challenge and began to struggle to break the ropes that held him to the table.
Crull-maldor pulled out the spike. The glandular extracts could give a man great strength, but they tended to blank out his mind, free him from all reason.
“Now, do I have your attention?” Crull-maldor spoke in the human tongue of Caer Luciare, a language that she had mastered more than three hundred years ago.
The human’s eyes had gone bloodshot in but a few seconds, and he peered about dazedly, straining to see the wyrmlings in the room.
He’s counting our numbers, Crull-maldor thought, in the hopes of winning a fight.
“Do I have your attention, human?”
The man let his head fall back to the table, then lay panting a moment. “Yes.”
“Why are you here?” Crull-maldor demanded.
“I am Aaath Ulber, and I’m going to kill you all!” the human raged, straining at his ropes. His back arched off the table, and he jerked his arms mightily. Sweat had beaded upon his brow, and his eyes were filled with desperation. Not fear, Crull-maldor decided, but a desperate need to wage battle.
Crull-maldor knew that Aaath Ulber spoke the truth. The glandular extracts filled a man with rage, and in such a state, a man would speak the truth boldly, daring his enemies to defy him.
“Aaath Ulber . . .” Crull-maldor translated, “The Great Berserker?” He would be one of the humans’ darlings. “You killed two of my men today. For that, you must die.”
Crull-maldor held the thought for a moment. If she did the emperor’s will, she would execute the human now. Yet she could not do it. If this man really posed such a threat to the emperor—well, perhaps he would deliver himself.
“But I cannot just take your head,” Crull-maldor explained reasonably. “You killed my men in public. Other humans saw what you did. Hope in an enemy is a dangerous thing. We must kill their hope, by executing you . . . in front of them.”
Aaath Ulber shouted a berserker’s cry full of passion and murder. He strained at his bands, throwing punches at the air, until the ropes around his wrists cut through his flesh and were soaking in blood.
The lich lord patiently waited for him to calm. It took long minutes before the warrior lay panting and exhausted on the table, sweat staining his shirt, eyes peering up at nothing.
Now Crull-maldor planted a seed. “You have come a long way,” the lich whispered, “but you have accomplished nothing. Your people at Caer Luciare have all been killed or captured. Emperor Zul-torac has seen to that. The land is covered in darkness, and all of it is under the emperor’s power. The woman you love is no more. Any children that you sired have likely been eaten. Your friends and comrades—both those whom you admired and those whom you held in contempt—are gone forever.
“There may yet be a few who survive, deep in the dark recesses of Rugassa. Some have been reserved for torture, no doubt. Others have been put to the forcible.
“So perhaps your woman still lives on. Perhaps your children cry in the night, hoping that you will come.
“But you cannot save them. To even try is vain. You shall die to night in front of those you thought to free . . . by the emperor’s command.”
The berserker Aaath Ulber roared at that, and once again he strained at the cords, his knotted muscles bulging, his face twisted with rage and desperation. Though his wrists were cut deeply, he struggled against the ropes, striking at hallucinatory foes, until the thick wooden slats beneath him cracked under the tremendous stress.
Aaath Ulber’s eyes were glazed from rage and pain. Speaking to him any longer would accomplish nothing, for he was past hearing.
Instead, with the fury of a wounded animal he continued to bellow and moan, eager to break free from his bonds, hoping to fight his way south.
In his dreams, Crull-maldor thought, he is already in Rugassa, emptying the dungeons of the emperor.
Crull-maldor leaned back and smiled in deep satisfaction.
20
The Duel
Ah, there is nothing that I enjoy more than the arena, where so many great hearts lie beating upon the floor!
For the first three hours after Aaath Ulber left, Draken managed to keep his composure. A slight wind arose, worrying the sea. Long swells began to rise up and whitecaps slapped the hull, but Myrrima used her powers to keep the fog wrapped around the boat.
Twice in the morning other vessels drew near, but gave Draken’s ship a wide berth.
Draken had spent the night guiding the vessel, but he could not sleep, so he stayed topside to peer out into the fog.
It was autumn, and with the coming of fall the salmon had begun to gather near shore. Draken saw huge ones around the boat, silver in the water, lazing about, finning in slow circles. The sight of them only sharpened his hunger. He’d never liked salmon, but it was better than the rancid bear he’d been eating.
Myrrima spotted some olive-green kelp floating by, and she used a staff to pull it in, then sat on the railing and began chewing it.
She offered some to Draken and the others but they all declined. Draken found that salty food only made him thirsty.
Sage amused herself by singing softly, and for long hours the family waited.
After four hours, Draken told himself that Aaath Ulber must have stopped at an inn for a drink, as his father was known to do.
After six hours, his lips drew tight across his teeth with worry. By mid afternoon, he was sure that there was trouble.
Of course there is trouble, he told himself.
“When’s Father coming back?” Sage finally demanded, well into the afternoon.
Draken was angry by then, angry at himself for letting Rain go into town without him. He felt weak from lack of decent food, and the weakness left his nerves frayed.
“Soon,” Myrrima promised. “If he does not return by nightfall, I’ll go find him.”
“Not without me,” Draken said.
Myrrima gave him a hard look, as if to say, “If I don’t come back, you’ll need to take your sister and flee.” But then her face softened as she realized his predicament. His betrothed was out there somewhere.
“Your sister’s safety comes first,” she said.
Draken didn’t dare voice his own thoughts to Sage. Why can’t the child see? he wondered. Her father is never coming back.
At sunset Myrrima let her cloak of mist blow away in the evening breeze, and then waited until darkness had fallen before Draken lowered the away boat. The evening fog rose from the water, creating clouds at the limit of vision. A waxing moon was just cresting the horizon like a glowing white eye in the socket of the sea. Stars danced upon the glassy waves. A slight breeze had come up from the south, surprisingly cool, like the touch of the dead. Draken almost imagined that he felt spirits on the water.