Descent (30 page)

‘This is
not
the debt I owe. You are evil, Vezzet, and I should have realised it earlier. They all told me, but I wouldn’t listen. I
trusted
you!’

Vezzet sighed. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it? I can almost imagine what it must feel like to be betrayed. Such a shame, really—you’re too valuable to kill, but I can’t have you running off to Accolon, can I?’ Vezzet smiled. ‘You know, I’m glad your father slaughtered my family. It meant you were mine, and you have been the most
wonderful tool a man could want. Riddled by guilt, you would have done anything for me!’

Bayard was frozen where he stood.

Vezzet’s next words were softer. ‘What a joke you are,’ he murmured, his clear blue eyes never leaving Bayard’s. ‘That’s all you’ve ever been to me. But if you’re going to be difficult, I will have to get rid of you after all.’

‘My father killed every member of your family, and you don’t care?’ Bayard said faintly.

‘Quite the contrary. It put you at my disposal.’

‘I should have known you were this perverse. I’ve tried to repay you for the terrible thing my father did. But you didn’t even care. You’re just insane. What have you done to him?’ Bayard’s head swam as he gestured to Luca. Every time he glanced at the boy on the table he could barely breathe.

‘What I usually do. Well, I may have been a little less merciful on this one. But only because he came closer than anyone else has,’ Vezzet shrugged.

‘How did you stop him?’

‘He killed the wrong man. My double.’

‘And what
exactly
have you done to him?’

‘Why do you care?’

‘Because I intend to have him healed.’

Vezzet grinned. ‘There will be no healing this one. I shattered him some time ago. His mind was already in a state of chaos. Mind you, he was a lot harder to crack than I would have imagined. My hardest yet.’

‘
How did you do it?
’

‘Strangely enough, he didn’t bare his soul to me as they usually do,’ Vezzet went on thoughtfully, ignoring Bayard. ‘But then, assassins usually are strong-willed. Only way they can do what they do, I suppose.’ He looked at Bayard. ‘You know how I did it. You’ve seen it before.’

‘I want to hear it from your lips.’

‘All right, though what good it’ll do you I don’t know.’ Vezzet paused, and then smiled slowly. ‘I started by breaking each one of his fingers, for he was a musician, and I wanted him to know that he would never play again. He managed to endure when I cut him open. And he managed to endure when I burnt him with blue fire. So finally, I used my machine.’ Vezzet’s blue eyes clouded as he relived the experience. ‘He didn’t say a word the whole time,’ he whispered, lost in thought. ‘Not even when I used the highest setting. And you know what the most amazing thing is? He stayed conscious for it all. No one else has ever endured as he did. It was beautiful, really. Only when I stopped did he let himself lose consciousness.’

The army captain swallowed and wished desperately that he had not asked. But someone had to bare witness to this crime. He knew that if, by some great miracle Luca ever came out of this, he would need someone to help him bare the weight of it.

Bayard raised the knife he had been carrying. He turned to the executioner and, without a thought, slashed the man’s throat. Bright blood sprayed out, soaking him in the thick, steely liquid. The executioner gurgled and dropped to the ground, dead before he hit it.

Vezzet froze. Bayard turned slowly to him. Usually the Captain could use his anger to control himself, causing a kind of calm to wash over him. It enabled him to focus. But this was different. This kind of anger was all-consuming. The rage was making his hands shake, causing his vision to blur.

‘That was not a good idea,’ Vezzet said softly, his hands raised.

‘You deserve a thousand deaths,’ Bayard said. ‘But I am only human, and can give you only one.’ Without
another word, the Captain lunged. Vezzet dove out of the way, towards the table where Luca lay. Bayard turned towards him once more, but in his haze of fury he didn’t anticipate the obvious. Vezzet kicked out with his boot, catching Bayard in the face. Everything went black, and he might yet have been fine if only he’d had a moment to recover. Vezzet kicked out twice more, even harder. One boot pounded into his ear, the other went straight into his temple and everything turned black once more.

He woke with a pounding headache. Agony was coursing through his neck and skull. Slowly, he tried to move. He couldn’t. His arms were too heavy. No, something was weighing them down.
Tying
them down. There was a sound in his ears, magnified a thousand times because of his headache. A strange, clanging kind of sound. Tentatively he opened his eyes. It took a moment for his vision to clear, and then another for him to figure out what was happening.

Bayard was tied to the stone slab next to Luca. Vezzet was standing over him, sharpening a large, serrated saw—the sound that was sending pain into his throbbing head.

‘Time to wake up,’ Vezzet said softly.

‘What are you doing?’ Bayard grunted, his voice coming out as a kind of muffled cough.

‘I’m teaching you a lesson,’ Vezzet said cheerfully. ‘I’ve always wanted to try this for myself. It seems like the perfect justice for my own misfortune.’

That was when Bayard saw Vezzet’s wooden hand and his stomach flipped over.

‘Get away from me, you scum!’

‘Now, now, there’s no need for hostility. All I want is one little hand.’

Bayard started to pull against the bindings, but the rope was thick; it burned against his wrists and his
shoulders started to ache with the effort. A great roar of terror and fury left his mouth as his back arched in pain. Vezzet stood calmly. He moved forward and pinned Bayard’s wrist in place with his wooden hand, holding the enormous saw aloft with his good one.

‘No!’ Bayard screamed. Luca hadn’t moved at all, just moaned slightly where he lay.

‘Hold still, or this is going to be a lot worse,’ Vezzet muttered.

Bayard felt a wave of nausea pass over him, and he decided, then and there, that he was not going to let this happen. He was the best god-damned fighter since Prince Fern himself, and he was not going to let some weak, rat of a man take one of his hands! Turning his head away, his eyes scanned the room quickly, coming to rest on the machine. It was on a table close by him, having only just been used on Luca. There was a wildness about that machine—even Vezzet, who had created it in his mad brilliance, didn’t quite know how it worked. Bayard let his foot drop off the side of the table. Thankfully his ankles hadn’t been tied—a hasty mistake. As quickly as he could without attracting attention, he reached his foot out and hooked it around the leg of the small table. Then, careful not to make a sound, he began to drag the table towards him. It was almost within reach of his hand when he felt the saw connect with his wrist.

Pain shot from his hand all the way through his body, and he screamed in agony, struggling to concentrate because, for some hideous reason, Vezzet was sawing slowly. The pain was worse than anything Bayard had ever known. The only tiny consolation was that Vezzet was focusing so hard on his gruesome job that he hadn’t yet noticed what Bayard was doing.

The table was in reach. With only his fingers, Bayard grabbed hold of the side of the machine and deftly
turned it to face him so that one of the cords was in reach. There was a force of desperation driving him now. Beyond losing his hand, he knew that if he didn’t get them out of here, he and Luca would both be dead before the night was over.

Another scream was torn from him as the saw cut deeper. All thoughts of escape left his mind as the agony took over and he finally knew what it was like to be one of Vezzet’s torture victims.

‘Hold still,’ Vezzet muttered, pausing a moment to wipe the blood clear.

Clenching his teeth, Bayard turned his head to the machine once more. The rope was biting deep into his flesh as he strained against it. His middle finger grazed the button, once, twice ... on the third time he pressed it properly and a tiny whirring noise began. Dark magic, this machine was. Evil magic. The only person in the world who deserved to have it used on him was its creator.

All this time, the rope had been sawing against the side of the table, fraying and loosening. It tore through the skin, chafing it raw, but now Vezzet was down to the bone and Bayard couldn’t care less how badly the rope was hurting him. He didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to stay conscious.

Finally he managed to wrench his hand free and take hold of the machine’s cord. Then he flung the tip of the cord into Vezzet’s chest. A kind of spark ignited and Vezzet’s whole body began to shake. Bayard didn’t know much about what was happening; he knew only that there was some sort of force being sent through the man, setting every part of him alight from the inside. Vezzet screamed and dropped the saw, recoiling but unable to get away from the cord of his own machine. Bayard held the metal tip against the man’s chest for as
long as he could before finally letting go. Vezzet fell to the floor, his body still twitching.

Bayard sat up as best he could and looked at his hand. It was still there, still connected, though only just. Breathing heavily, he untied the rope and lifted his agonized hand to his chest, cradling it to try and stop the blood. There was a cloth that usually covered the machine, and he grabbed it quickly to tie around his wound. On shaking legs he moved to stand over Vezzet.

‘Don’t! Vezzet tried to say, his mouth slack, his eyes drooping as he stared up in terror.

That crazed fury was inside Bayard again, but this time his left hand was steady as he sliced his sword straight into Vezzet’s heart.

Bayard sheathed his sword, still bloody, and went to Luca’s side.

His wrist was a mess; the pain was beyond anything he’d ever known, and as he stood he had to lean away to vomit onto the stone ground. But what was in his mind and heart was a deep despair for the boy lying on the table. Luca’s face was almost angelic where it lay untouched. The lad was
so
young.

As gently as he could, the burly captain gathered the small, broken body into his arms, and carried him from that room of death. Tears welled in his eyes, his heart near to breaking with the horror of it.

Through the gate, head covered by the cloak. Through the streets, keeping to the shadows, past the sleeping tradesmen, to the fortress. Around to the side, where there are no guards. Up the sheer brick wall, clasping at the slight gaps in the stones. Up to the only window. Silent now. Not even a whisper.

You don’t know where he is. This time you are blind. Through the window into a bedroom. Check the bed—it isn’t him. Into the corridor, then through several other rooms, but none are lavish enough for the leader of this fortress. Finally, a large room decorated in royal purple, like the arrogant fool he is. No, there is no time for emotion.

Over to the bed. Two people in it again: kill them both, but silently. Don’t slit the throat—too much blood. Stab straight into the heart, and leave the knife, for it carries a message in itself. Cover the corpses with the sheets—
no!
It isn’t him! But who else would be in such a room?

Now there are guards grabbing you. Kill one, two—you cannot be caught. You’ve killed three, now another and another. You are captured. You have been careless, and foolish, and now you’re to pay for it. He is there, the right one. He’s smiling, and taking you down below. Down stairs and dripping hallways of cold stone. The knife has been taken, and you cannot reach the other blades in your boots.

Past a steel door, and then into another room. The guards put you on a table—tie you to it—and there is some kind of machine next to you. Everyone leaves except two. Him, and one other. A torturer.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered, Luca,’ he says. ‘No one is good enough to kill me.’

Stay silent. You cannot have emotion. Oh, but there is too much emotion in you now. Too much
feeling.
It is why you failed.

They are hurting you now. But don’t scream. Don’t give them that.

Pain. Pain like you’ve never felt, and you don’t even know what they’re doing. Except that they broke your fingers. Not your
fingers,
please! You scream now—you cannot stop it. Now it’s only about you, and the pain, and your broken hands. But don’t tell them anything. They will have nothing from you but your screams.

Then there is the machine, and you know what it is now, better than anyone in this world. You and five others alone in Paragor have cause to understand.

You are being electrocuted.

It’s a different kind of pain. Deep within, reaching every crevice of you, seeking out every nerve ending in your body. Making it impossible to think about anything else, impossible to escape inside your mind.

They keep hurting, and they are beginning to take away who you are. You must hang on, must not let them have it. You are Luca, and they cannot take that. But they are! No, don’t lose yourself, remember who you are.

Remember who you are!

More pain, and finally, only blackness. Space. Nothing.

Part 5

‘Don’t go in there!’

The words were flung in desperation, and it was only the fact that she never spoke with such urgency that made him stop. He turned to look at the two of them.

Amara was standing with her hands stretched out to him, and as he looked at her she dropped them to her sides. Harry was next to her, frowning deeply, his arms folded over his barrel chest.

‘I didn’t find you in that first battle,’ Harry said calmly, ‘and bring you to the palace in order to train with me so that you could throw your life away getting caught up in all of this.’

‘
All of this
?’ Luca repeated. ‘What are you talking about? The High King has asked me to help him. How do you expect me to deny the High King of Paragor?’

Amara shook her head. ‘My father is not ... right, at the moment. You don’t need to do as he says. Not in this. Not in hurting people.’

‘Extracting information,’ Luca corrected bluntly. He looked away from her, from the judgement in her eyes, because he couldn’t bear it. Not from the woman he loved, had loved from the first moment he’d met her. Predictable, really. Everyone seemed to be in love with her a little bit.

Her story was the most famous in the world. Who could have imagined that the High Princess would fall in love with the lowly son of a blacksmith? It could boggle the mind—until one actually came to meet that man. It didn’t matter what class he was born into—they were a match. It was impossible not to understand why Amara
loved him, and impossible not to understand that he was the only one worthy of her.

Luca sighed as the blacksmith’s son rounded the corner and approached them quickly.

Fern stopped, his grey eyes darting from Luca to the people opposite him. ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked. ‘Am?’ he reached out to touch her shoulder in a way only he was allowed.

Amara shook her head, never looking away from Luca. ‘Not really,’ she said. Fern took in her expression.

‘You’re helping the king after all?’ Fern asked flatly.

‘Of course I am.’ Luca replied.

‘Then you are lost.’

Luca looked at the ground, something hurting inside him. The king saw something in him, a skill, a talent, and he needed that talent in this war. They all needed Luca’s talent, they just didn’t want to admit it.

‘None of you understand,’ Luca said softly. ‘This is a war. It’s bloody, and dark. There aren’t any heroes. There are only the people who die, and the people who survive.’ He paused, spreading his hands wide.

‘You look at me as though I’ve fallen. But we’ve all fallen, and we’re all lost amid this darkness. The only way to get through it is to act with as much decisiveness and brutality as our enemy. We need information. When we capture his spies, we have to be able to learn what they know. And if that job falls to me, then I’ll do it, no matter how distasteful you all find it.’

This time he looked only at Amara. ‘We all have blood on our hands,’ he whispered. ‘The only difference is that you can see it on mine.’

Slowly he turned and walked to the stairs that would lead him down into the belly of the palace, into the darkened room where he would begin to learn the arts of the torturer.