She gazed at him pityingly. "How many men have you slain, Sir Admorran?"
He opened his mouth, then hesitated. "That is…different. The causes that I have fought for have been just."
She shook her head sadly. "So the inhabitants of this land say of their war and their king. There is no difference other than perspective. Blood stains the hands of any that lift a sword. My service is to Deis, and my work is needed everywhere, not just in lands of peace. Be well, Sir Admorran. Pray that Deis has mercy on your soul."
The door closed gently, and he heard the lock turn. Once again he was trapped, his fate sealed like the door.
But not so. He was alive. Which meant he could escape. It wasn't the first time he had been held captive. He thought of Evelina, and a lump rose in his throat. What news had she received about the fate of his expedition? Did she mourn his death already?
I will return to keep my promise to you, I swear.
The Matron was right about one thing. He would have to regain strength. He snatched the bread off the tray, cursing his weakness. Tearing off a piece, he ate determinedly. One chance, one slip was all he needed. He would not die without trying. He was alive, which meant he could escape.
For weeks he was bedridden. Weeks of visits from the Matron while he moaned and feigned to be weaker than he was. As soon as she left, he rose and stretched his muscles, limping around the room to strengthen his legs. Every morning, Umalla smiled like a grandmother at a mischievous grandchild, not sure what he was up to, but certain it was no good. For weeks he ate extra portions of food, stashing away what he couldn't eat under the bed for later.
His window was not large enough to attempt an escape, and the view was poor. He saw a limited view of a courtyard and a large stone wall, nothing else. Below he heard the din of men training at arms. He assumed his room was above the guards' barracks, an ideal location to place a highly ranked prisoner. No escape would be possible there. He racked his brain, but without an idea of what his surroundings looked like, forming any sort of plan was futile. But the time would come. They could not keep him locked in there forever.
The time came. The door opened as normal, and he prepared his sick face for Matron Umalla. But it was two black-armored guards that entered with their hands on their sword hilts. They were without the monstrous helmets he saw on the battlefield. The room became even smaller as they loomed over him. Both were medium in height, dark of hair and eye, and sported long, thick mustaches. The one with gray streaking his hair spoke.
"Prisoner, you are in the presence of Valdemar Basilis, King of Bruallia. Let he who is wise fear the Dragon Lord." The guards bowed as another visitor swept into the room, searing the air with the haughtiness of his presence.
Like most men of Bruallia, Valdemar Basilis was not tall, but looked stocky and strong beneath his finely cut garb. His long wavy hair hung to his shoulders, framing a narrow face with high cheekbones and large, penetrating green eyes that smoldered beneath thick eyebrows. Marcellus felt unusually uneasy, as though Valdemar was a snake he didn't know was poisonous or not.
"At last we meet." Valdemar's voice was rich and heavy with the Bruallian accent. He fingered the gold brocade on his rich sable coat. Thin lips curved beneath his thick, curled mustache in a smile that never touched the unblinking eyes. "I have heard so much about the famed Marcellus Admorran. Word of your exploits are well known here in my country, and to meet in person is an honor."
He paused. "Of course it would have been finer to meet on the field of battle, as warriors. Regrettably, that will not come to pass. Can you rise, Sir Marcellus? I would have you walk with me for a moment."
Marcellus winced as he pushed himself up to a full sitting position. "I would like to." He tried to sound as weak as he could. "But I'm afraid my wounds have left me weakened, and I have yet to regain the strength in my legs. Another few days and I will be able to accept your offer."
Valdemar stared with a hawkish gaze. A dangerous silence stretched until Marcellus could almost see the tension as it thickened.
Valdemar finally gave a casual shrug. "I see."
Quick as an adder, he snatched the sword from the scabbard of the younger guard. The blade hummed as he swung it at Marcellus' legs. Marcellus instinctively snatched them away and rolled to his feet. He automatically grabbed the cracked vase and hoisted it.
Valdemar's rich laughter stopped him.
"I believe you underestimate yourself." The Lord of Bruallia withdrew the blade from where it had cut the mattress in two and handed it back to the guard, who sheathed it with a hard glare at Marcellus.
Valdemar was quite amused. "Your ruse was a worthy effort, but it is not so easy to deceive the Matrons. Contrary to what you Leodians think, we are not a race of mindless outlanders. The Matrons are quite learned in medicine and health, as you should have remembered. They know when their patient is feigning illness. But again, it was a worthy try. I might have done the same were our situations reversed. But now we have business to attend to." He clapped his hands. Instantly a white-robed young woman entered with her head bowed and a bundle of clothes in her arms.
"My servants will provide you with garments so that you can accompany me. There is something that I wish to show you."
Two more white-robed young women entered. Marcellus let them dress him in a drab gray woolen robe over threadbare trousers and an equally worn jerkin.
Valdemar gestured toward the door, and Marcellus hobbled out with him. The guards immediately fell in place behind them with naked swords in their fists. Marcellus noted only the two guards followed him. Apparently Valdemar did not want anyone to think he needed a large bodyguard to protect himself from one man, no matter what his reputation.
The stone hall was wide and decorated only by the banners of fallen foes. Marcellus counted the flights as they descended and figured he was imprisoned on the thirteenth floor of the tower. They walked into the sunlight, but the eastern wind was not friendly. Its bite was cold, sinking straight through his garments. His wounds flared, but he grinned inwardly in spite of it.
Pain lets a man know he's still alive, boy. It's when you feel no pain that you know you've bled your last. Those were the words of Stigandr the Wroth, the knight from Norland that Marcellus squired for as a boy. Stigandr was a man of many memorable phrases, most having to do with pain and killing.
The courtyard was small, walled off to block any view of the surrounding area. The only people visible were soldiers and servants hurriedly going about their business. Upon Valdemar's entrance, the soldiers cheered and shouted, waving their weapons. Yet when their eyes fell on Marcellus, their expressions quickly changed.
"Yes," Valdemar said. "You feel their hatred. Did you expect differently? These men come from generations of families slain in the name of Leodia. And now you and your men come in your arrogance, a hundred men to slay one man. So much for the precious honor of Kaerleon. It was only a matter of time before your true colors revealed themselves. Murder and betrayal have long been a part of your dealings with us."
"You know who I am." Marcellus continued to scan his surroundings. "You believe I would personally lead my Companions on a mission to assassinate a warlord that has never seen Leodia? You think highly of yourself, milord."
Valdemar's face flushed red. "It is not beneath you, Knight of Kaerleon. Your people have long desired the extinction of mine own. It was not enough that you robbed us of our lands and heritage. You mean to make sure that we never rise again."
Marcellus glanced at him askance. "You speak of the past as if it were yesterday. The war between our kingdoms has long been over."
"Easy for you to say." Valdemar's gaze darkened. "Your people were not driven from green lands into a wilderness where they had to hack out a living. And your people did not bleed as mine did. Generations pass, but we do not forget. The blood of the fallen still calls to us from the darkness of the past."