A World Without Heroes (58 page)

“Lord Jason of Caberton.”

The guard huffed. “Should have known. Word has gotten out about you. I thought you were captured after fleeing Harthenham?”

“So did my captors,” Jason said mysteriously.

“You’re just a lad,” the man realized, coming up the steps, hands raised. “Well, it was a bold run. I hope you can handle facing the end of it.”

“Me too,” Jason said honestly.

“I’ll have to relieve you of your weapons,” the guard said.

“How do I know I’ll get to see the emperor?” Jason asked.

“At this hour all of Felrook heard that gong,” the guard said. “They all know the rules.”

Jason handed over his sword.

Perhaps an hour later, with the sun poised to rise, Jason and the gong guard boarded a ferry. It could have held a hundred men, but they were the only passengers. They crossed the lake to a quay projecting from a small landing area at the base of the central island. The fortress loomed above them, seeming to stretch upward forever. A switchback path had been carved into the face
of the precipice. As Jason marched up the path behind the gong guard, several other guards fell into step behind them.

Jason imagined at least some of the guards might have bragged if they had apprehended Drake. He hoped their silence meant the seedman had managed to slip away.

As he climbed the path, the Word burned in Jason’s mind. What if one of the syllables was wrong? Did pronunciation matter? He wished he could practice saying the Word aloud, but supposedly, once he uttered it, the Word would vanish from his memory. He would have to wait.

After the long ascent they passed through the two tremendous gates of the thick outer wall, walking under several massive raised portcullises, only to discover an inner wall nearly as high as the first. Nothing in the fortress was beautiful—everything existed to repulse and intimidate attackers. Riddled with loopholes and trapdoors, the battlements projected over the walls, making them virtually impossible to scale. Heavily armed guards patrolled everywhere, some accompanied by manglers. Catapults and trebuchets stood ready to help repel invaders. The main building was a blocky structure, warded by a series of parapets that receded from the courtyard in a progression of crenellated terraces.

Across the courtyard and into the stronghold they strode, down bare, solid hallways and up broad stairways, until they stood outside a massive pair of black iron doors, each embossed with a grinning skull.

A tall man, dressed like a conscriptor, instructed Jason’s other escorts to depart. After they moved away, the conscriptor thoroughly searched Jason, finding no new weapons since the others had already all been confiscated. Then he pulled twice on a chain dangling from a hole in the wall. The doors swung open. “Lord Jason of Caberton,” the tall conscriptor proclaimed.

Clenching his jaw, the Key Word repeating in his mind, Jason entered the vast audience hall. Huge pillars supported the roof, their bases carved like human feet, their tops shaped like hands splayed against the ceiling. Torches blazed in sconces on the walls. Flames leaped up from kettle-shaped braziers standing about the room on cabriole legs. A long black carpet led to an obsidian dais, where a man clad in a sable cloak sat upon a dark throne bristling with spikes. Off to the sides courtiers milled about, all eyes on Jason.

Starting at the base of the dais, on either side of the black carpet, ran long tables draped in black silk. At the tables sat many men and a few women. Most had empty eye sockets and only one ear. Many were missing limbs. Those who could see regarded Jason solemnly.

The tall conscriptor ushered Jason to a position ten yards from the dais, between the black tables, then backed away. The man on the throne had white hair and hard gray eyes. He was clean-shaven, with handsomely chiseled features and a cleft in his chin. A steel pendant featuring a huge black gem hung over his chest.

He sat with an elbow propped on an armrest, a single finger resting against the side of his head. He wore a bemused expression. “Greetings, Lord Jason.” He spoke in a melodious baritone.

Jason felt like everyone expected him to kneel and beg. “Are you Maldor?”

Maldor chuckled. As if this granted permission, low laughter rippled through the room. “I am. Why have you sought audience with me?”

“I want to have a word with you,” Jason said. “Just one.” Maldor leaned slightly forward, eyes sharpening with alarm and disbelief.

Jason wondered what would happen after he said the Word. He was deep inside the fortress. Escape would be highly unlikely.

“Arimfexendrapuse!” Jason shouted.

Jason could feel the energy of the word as he spoke it. For an instant he almost sensed the meaning. The utterance left a buzzing aftertaste in his mouth.

Maldor gazed at him questioningly. Around the room courtiers murmured.

With a jolt of panic Jason realized he must have mispronounced the word. But when he tried to say it again, he could not remember how it started. Or how it ended. Or what came in the middle.

He strained his mind. He remembered
The Book of Salzared
. He remembered Jugard and the crab. He remembered the lorevault, and Whitelake, and the Sunken Lands, and Kimp. But the syllables were gone.

Calm had returned to Maldor. He folded his hands in his lap. “Anything else?”

“That was all,” Jason replied uncomfortably. What else could he say?

“How unfortunate that the one word you wished to share with me was gibberish,” Maldor said, bewildered. “You are dismissed.”

Jason’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“Groddic,” Maldor said. “Take this confused youngster to a holding chamber until I select a punishment.”

The tall conscriptor bowed deeply, seized Jason by the arm, and guided him from the room out a side door. Jason glanced back over his shoulder at Maldor, who returned the gaze with puzzlement.

Groddic led Jason along a hall, then down a cramped, winding staircase to a corridor lined with iron doors. The three soldiers manning the small antechamber at the front of the corridor came to attention and saluted.

“I need a holding cell for this one,” the tall conscriptor said.

One of the soldiers produced a key ring and opened a door on the left side of the hall. Groddic manhandled Jason into the room, which was bare except for an iron chair bolted to the floor.

“Secure him,” Groddic said.

Jason saw no use in resisting. What could he expect to do, run wild through the fortress, find a way out, swim the lake, and escape into the wilderness? Still, he pushed off one of the soldiers and lunged for the door. A large hand caught him by the back of the neck and flung him brusquely to the floor. From a supine position Jason looked up at Groddic, who had so easily thwarted his escape. The tall man glowered.

“Sit in the chair.”

Two of the soldiers had swords drawn. Jason went and sat in the hard chair. One soldier approached and began fastening him in. There were manacles on the armrests for his wrists, manacles on the legs for his ankles, and an iron collar affixed to the high back of the chair that clamped around his neck. The soldiers secured straps around his chest, thighs, and upper arms.

Groddic and the soldiers departed without a backward glance. A feeble ribbon of light glimmered into the room from under the door.

Jason had no way to measure time.

The confining straps and manacles allowed him virtually no room to even squirm. The iron collar was so snug he could feel every pulse of blood through his carotid artery. The darkness and confinement made him begin to feel claustrophobic. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly, tried to pretend he was strapped to the chair by choice and could release himself at will.

He could not believe the Word had failed. He had gone through so much to obtain it! It would be one thing if absolutely nothing
had happened. But the Word had felt powerful as he’d spoken it, and it had erased itself from his memory, which meant the syllables had probably been correct, and he had pronounced it just fine.

Maldor had not burst into flames. He had not melted into a bubbling jelly of biomaterial. He had not vanished with a thunderclap, empty clothes falling to the floor. The ground had not rumbled, the castle had not tumbled to ruins, and the courtiers had not fled the room in terror.

Instead Jason had been the focus of an awkward moment for less than a minute and then unceremoniously escorted from the room. Now he sat chained to a chair.

What if the Word worked slowly? What if the effects took time to manifest? Hours, days, weeks? It didn’t seem likely. Magical or not, the Word had been a dud.

Jason sighed. He kept trying to ignore the restraints.

He tried counting heartbeats but gave up when he reached a thousand.

He imagined happier times. He pictured his dad drilling a tooth. He envisioned his mom walking Shadow. He imagined Matt turning in an English assignment. He visualized Tim cracking jokes at lunch, getting the whole table laughing.

Then he pictured Rachel. She was on the run with Tark someplace. He found that he missed her more than anyone, perhaps because he knew the others were safe. What would become of her? Somebody needed to warn her that the Word was a dud.

Hours passed. His mouth became dry. His stomach gurgled. He pictured himself dining during his arrival banquet at Harthenham.

How long would they keep him here? Besides being hungry and thirsty, he was developing an itch beside his nose. He attempted to reach it with his tongue but could not come close. Eventually he quit trying.

Much later—it was impossible to determine exactly how long—the door opened, bringing blinding light. Jason squinted while his eyes adjusted.

A pair of men carried a table into the cell. A third brought a cushioned chair. The two men spread a clean white cloth over the table and placed a bottle in a silver bucket of ice beside a glass. The other man set a lantern on the corner of the table.

“At least this place has room service,” Jason said, his voice cracking. His mouth was dry. He had not spoken for hours.

The men did not acknowledge his comment or his presence. They exited the room and closed the door.

Not long after they had departed, the door opened again.

Maldor entered unaccompanied.

The door closed behind him.

“Greetings, Jason,” he said, sitting in the chair at the table.

Jason swallowed. The pulse in his neck quickened.

“You are in a difficult situation,” Maldor said, pulling the bottle from the bucket and wiping off the beads of moisture with a linen napkin.

“I have an itch by my nose. It’s beginning to fade though.”

Maldor set the napkin aside. “Oklinder, with a hint of lumba berries.” He uncorked the bottle. “Let us speak plainly, man to man.”

“Sounds good.”

“Congratulations.” Maldor poured pink liquid into the glass and raised it toward Jason. “You have uttered the dreaded Key Word in my presence. You surprised me. I would not have chosen to let you speak the Word in public. I did not realize you had all of the syllables. Those who heard it will not remember it, but still, I dislike being surprised. Although you were not rewarded with the desired effect, you had the Word right.”

Jason stared blankly. “I did? Then what happened?”

Maldor gave a small smile. “You tell me.”

Jason frowned. “The Word was a hoax?”

“Perceptive.”

“A big diversion,” Jason realized.

“What value does the Word have as a diversion?” Maldor coaxed, taking a sip.

Jason’s heart sank. “It would keep your enemies busy, chasing after false hope.”

Maldor inclined his head in agreement. “You have the idea. Only myself and Salzared know the truth. And now you.”

“Salzared was in on it?” Jason felt dizzy. The faceless hero who had stolen the Word was a fraud!

“The displacer Salzared lives a life of pampered luxury inside this stronghold. It is his skin that binds the book scribbled in his blood, his eye on the cover.”

“What about the people guarding the syllables?”

Maldor waved a dismissive hand. “Everyone else who knows of the Word believes it is real. Those who guard the syllables believe they reside in magical refuges beyond my reach. They are very well protected, but were the Word an authentic way to destroy me, I would have found a way to eliminate at least one of them long ago.”