Chapter VII

“He's gone berserk!”

“Barricade the door!”

The guards piled everything they could in front of the door leading down into the dungeons. They threw shelves, tables, bookcases, anything they were able to find in the way. On the other side of the door they could hear the screaming of those whom they'd left behind. Some of those on the other side were clawing desperately at the door or trying to break it down.

“Please! Don't leave us here!”

“He's coming for us!”

And their pleas were cut short by the sound of breaking bones, tearing flesh, and unearthly screams.

“Open the door,” came a voice from within the dungeons. The voice was low, like a lion's growl, and there was a sound akin to gargling or drowning following every word. “It's only a matter of time before I break through.”

Those guards not immediately standing at the door, helping to hold it shut, began loading and preparing crossbows, pointing them at the door. Two guards rolled in a ballista and readied it to fire when the prisoner broke through.

“That's not going to help,” said Grigori, as he came on the scene, “He's a demon, he was just wearing a human form temporarily.”

“Thought he surrendered easily just because he was a coward. Didn't realize he was planning on breaking the others out,” said Duke Jachai. “Sahar, bring me my great-sword!”

“Right here, your excellency!” Sahar replied, handing the duke a large, two-handed blade. Sahar was Duke Jachai's squire, a boy of fifteen years with platinum blonde hair, black eyes, and a thin build. As usual, he’d been ready for Jachai’s request, already had the sword ready before the Duke called for it.

“Very good, my boy. Grigori, bless the ballista bolt and my sword. If you still know some of that old, inquisitor magic it should make these weapons capable of killing that demon.”

“I'm a little out of practice, but I'll see what I can do,” said Grigori. There was a loud bang as the demon on the other side of the door threw himself against it. The guards bracing themselves on the other side fell away from it from the shock-wave reverberating through the wood. Splinters and sawdust filled the air. Grigori quickly whispered over the ballista bolt, and the air around the iron tip turned misty. “Still got it,” Grigori said as he turned to Duke Jachai and did the same for his great-sword.

“Good, now get behind me,” said the duke. “The rest of you, get away from the door, he's going to break through any second and I won't lose any more men!”

Before the guards bracing themselves on the door could react to his orders, however, the demon's fist broke through the wood and a long arm reached through. The demon grabbed one of the guards and yanking him through the hole in the door. The hole was too small for the guard to fit through, but that didn't stop the demon. There was a sickening crunch as the guard's ribs, collar-bone, and shoulders broke to make him fit through the hole in the door. The rest of the guards scrambled away from the door, desperately trying to get out of the demon's reach.

“Wait for it!” Duke Jachai ordered the men at the ballista. He held his great-sword high over his head and prepared to charge at the door. When the demon tore through the door the rest of the way, Jachai shouted, “NOW!”

The men at the ballista pulled the trigger and the bolt was fired. The bolt, the size of a short spear, lodged itself into the demon's chest. They could see the abomination now. It had the shape of the man it used to be, but now was far larger. It had a bloated body and four, huge arms with hands large enough to hold a man's skull between two fingers. The demon shrieked as the bolt pierced its skin. Black blood oozed out of the wound.

“Unto thee I bestow pain!” shouted Grigori, holding out his hand. The demon screamed again, its whole body writhing and thrashing.

Jachai sprang into action, rushing the demon and bringing his great-sword down on its neck. The blade cut deep, but failed to completely behead the beast. In the demon's thrashing, it struck Jachai with the back of one of its hands, and Jachai was sent sprawling and skidding across the floor. The demon screamed and writhed for only a few moments more as its blood oozed out, until, finally, it collapsed on the ground.

Groaning, Jachai pushed himself to his feet, his head ringing and his joints throbbing. Grigori and Sahar both rushed to his side, helping him up, “Why weren't there any paladins in the dungeons?” Grigori asked.

“You haven't heard? The Arch-Bishop doesn't approve of my methods, or my use of inquisitors, so she only sends paladins to protect the towns and villages, none to my castle.”

Grigori hung his head, “You don't win wars by being nice...”

“But the war is over,” Sahar said.

“No. No it isn't,” said Grigori. “Clearly.” Grigori pointed to the body of the demon lying on the floor. “As long as this continues the war will never be over. They still have hope because King Therion apparently left behind an heir to the throne when he died. If we can find this heir and kill him...or better, convert him to our side, we can end the war.”

“You think you can convert Therion's heir?” Sahar asked.

“Why not?” Grigori shrugged. “If we can get him to stop and think through the Nihilite religion's doctrine he'll surely realize how insane it all is. We're talking about a religion dedicated to destroying the world! A religion that blames everything wrong in this world on its maker and dismisses everything right in this world as just temptation created by an evil God. They summon horrible monsters into this world to commit acts of horrendous violence and destruction, and teach that material possessions of any kind are evil. Doesn't that all sound crazy to you?”

“To me, maybe,” said Sahar, “But I wasn't raised in the Nihilite faith. A little harder to convert people who’ve believed a certain way for as long as they’ve been able to talk.”

“True. Not saying it would be easy, just possible.”

“Not worth trying,” Jachai said, “He could fake the conversion and turn on us later. Men, clean up this mess. I'm going to find a healer.” Jachai limped off with Sahar supporting him. Jachai was considerably larger, though shorter, than Sahar, so the sight of Sahar under Jachai's arm was remarkably similar to the sight of a man hobbling on a crutch.

In the hallways, on his way back to his room, Grigori came across Duchess Liat, Duke Jachai's much younger wife. “Oh, Brother Grigori, pleasure to see you again,” she said, giving a curtsey.

“Not Brother. I'm not an inquisitor anymore.”

“Then what are you?”

“Just a subject of the realm doing his part to keep us all safe.”

“Then by what title shall I call you?”

“Just Grigori, your grace,” Grigori said, bowing his head. “Or, if a title is absolutely necessary, I'll be satisfied with 'Sirrah.'”

“Oh, not 'Sirrah,' I can’t call you that, it's so...distant...and degrading.”

“It is the proper title for commoners, like me. If it seems degrading to you...that reveals much...”

“Are you...judging me?”

“Judging, yes, but not passing judgment.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I'm assessing how you think, but not thinking any less of you for it.”

“Why?”

“Old habit?” Grigori said, shrugging. “For half my life I was trained to assess how people think.”

“Really? If you're so smart then what else do you know about me?”

“You really want me to say?”

“You've piqued my curiosity, Grigori. Now I must know.”

“Very well.” Grigori looked her over, “From watching you at the dinner after Queen Aryn's coronation and during our long ride to the castle afterward, here's what I've figured out. Your marriage to Duke Jachai was arranged.”

“Most noble marriages are arranged.”

“Aye, but you were not born noble. You became noble when you married Duke Jachai, but you were born a commoner, hence your disdain for the title 'sirrah.' When lords and ladies called you that you felt insulted. It was a reminder that they were above you, thought of themselves as better. Your family had money, though. Likely your father was a merchant, or maybe your mother a money-lender?”

“My mother is a money-lender, yes,” Liat said, not sure if she should feel uneasy or excited that this near stranger was able to deduce so much about her.

Grigori glanced back and forth down the hall, making sure there was no one near enough to hear their conversation, before he continued. “You didn't want to marry Jachai. Maybe you found him unattractive even then, as you certainly do now. The fact that you just caught your breath at hearing those words suggests that you're trying to hide it. Honestly, you're not doing a very good job. Anyone who sees the two of you together knows it's a loveless marriage. When you walk beside him your knees are close together, almost squeezed together. Yes, even under the dress I can tell the difference, it's in your stride. This tells me you're uncomfortable around him, and furthermore that either your marriage is mostly sexless or the sex is not very enjoyable, probably both. From what I know of Jachai he likely spends very little time looking out for your needs, likely he copulates with you mostly in order to conceive an heir rather than out of enjoyment, and you cooperate out of a sense of duty, the same reason why you agreed to marry him to begin with.”

“Yes yes yes,” Liat said, her face a deep red, “You've assessed much about my marriage, what about me?”

“You abhor violence. Sure, you know it's necessary, but you hate it, you hate thinking about it, the very mention of it makes you cringe.” Grigori licked his lips and continued, “The divot on your middle finger, in the space between it and your index finger, tells me that you spend a lot of time writing, and that you press too hard with your quill. Probably all of your spare time is spent writing. Letters? Diary entries? No, you need an escape. I'm sure you write plenty of letters to your family, but more often you write fiction. And...judging by the fact that you hate violence so much and are stuck in an unhappy marriage I'm just guessing you write romance.”

Liat's lips pulled back into a bright smile at the sound of this, and her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. She hadn't told anyone about her romance stories; she'd kept them to herself. Truth be told she was always a bit worried that if people read them they'd tell her she wasn't any good, and even if she was good she was worried about all of the questions that would come with people reading some of her more erotic scenes. A few times she had considered publishing the books under a pen-name and donating them to libraries for noble lords and ladies, mostly ladies, to read and enjoy.

Grigori could tell by her reaction just how secret her fiction was, but at the same time how much she truly wanted other people to read what she’d written. This poor young woman lived such an unhappy life, and Grigori felt, for a moment, that he had a chance to brighten it. “When I have down time I would like to read what you've written, my lady. If you don't mind me teasing out more of your innermost secrets. There's much to be learned of artists from their art.”

“I would like that, Grigori, but you must swear to keep it secret. No one must know about the stories I write.”

“Of course not, my lady. The world may know when you are ready for them to know.”

“I may never be ready for them to know.”

“And if you're never ready they'll never know.”

Elsewhere in the castle, Sahar was helping Duke Jachai undo the straps of his armor so that the healer could have a look at his wounds. The armor was restricting, as plate-mail tended to be, and as such Jachai had trouble reaching up to his own shoulders to untie the leather straps.

“Every time I look at you,” said Sahar, “I see all the suffering you've gone through to keep this kingdom safe.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely, my lord. Your scars, every one of them tells me of some battle you fought, some soldier who nearly cut you down, and some bastard you cut down in the name of the Queen.”

“I've never killed anyone in her name,” Jachai curled his nose, “She's weak, soft. I fight for Arx, not for her. She's less than her father's shadow.”

“I actually meant Queen Sarahi. For a moment I forgot about Queen Aryn’s coronation. You don't feel Queen Aryn appreciates everything you do for the realm?”

“Of course not! Haven't you been paying attention? She favors the peasants, lowly commoners and beggars, those who sweat for the land but have never bled for it like I have!”

“I see...” Sahar removed Jachai's breastplate, and the castle's healer unlaced Jachai's shirt so he could look at the bruises and wounds. “But surely if the Council made her queen she must have SOME redeeming qualities.”

“She's Hadar's heir,” Jachai said, wincing as the healer touched his bruises and began uttering soft prayers, “They probably see more in her than that, but I think it's the only thing keeping her on the throne. A foolish child with a head full of nonsense, that's what she is!”

“My lord! Isn't such talk treason?”

“The Void with that! If that child wants to arrest me let her try! I'm the only reason the Nihilites haven't torn the kingdom apart from within. Sixteen years ago we crushed their armies, but we never truly conquered them.”

“How many men did we lose today?”

“During the demon attack in the dungeon?”

“Yes.”

“By my count, six.”

“That's horrible!”

“Yes, losing six soldiers is horrible. So is losing even one. Never forget that! Every one of those soldiers had a family. Loving mothers, wives, husbands, and children. And they gave their lives so that the people of Arx could go on pretending everything's right in the world.”

“Sounds like the people of Arx need to wake up.”

“Aye,” Jachai winced as the healer said another prayer over his bruised ribs, and the internal wound healed up. “But enough of this griping. We can't change it, so there's no use dwelling on it. Go practice your swordsmanship.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sahar's swordsmanship practice typically involved swinging a large, two-handed, weighted, blunt sword at a stationary dummy over and over. Occasionally Jachai would give Sahar more hands-on training regarding how to avoid enemy blows, but Jachai had generally taught Sahar that in battle he simply needed to be as strong as he could and strike first.

Jachai always gave his squires the harshest training he could. He would have them run laps on snowy nights, wearing very little, or on hot days wearing full plate. When they took baths he'd always make sure the water was nearly scalding hot. When their bodies had been pushed to the point of total exhaustion and they couldn't train any more, he would make them study books on strategy and tactics. They'd read about historical battles, and how said battles were won and lost. Every month he would test them on this knowledge by presenting them with a map on which were marked the positions of two armies, as well as a fake scout report of how many soldiers each side had, and he'd ask them how they would suggest winning the battle; first as the commander of one army and then as the commander of the other. The training was so intense that one squire had already died and another gave up and went home in disgrace, but Jachai never thought for a second that he should make the training any easier. As far as he was concerned going easy on his squires was a sure way to get them killed later, in a time when other knights would be counting on them. No, any squire Jachai trained would be a great knight, a strong warrior whom others could always count on. Sahar had shown surprising promise that he might one day become just that.