In Legend Born (76 page)

Elelar was surprised to hear a noise at the door of her cell so late at night. She'd been about to go to sleep. When the heavy door opened to admit Myrell, she was even more surprised. She hadn't seen him since he'd beaten her soon after her incarceration.

"What do
you
want?" she said.

He stared hard at her, his face distorted by some powerful emotion. She didn't know what was going on in that twisted mind, but there was an intensity about him that was unsettling. He looked... pleased, she realized. Excited. Smug.

I've been denied a trial.

Her insides quivered with fear. Her mind rebelled with mingled fury and despair. Elelar had tried to be disciplined after Ronall's visit and his astonishing news about her possible reprieve. She had tried not to let herself hope. She had fought against the temptation of believing she might live a while longer, perhaps even yet find some way out of this disaster. She had tried so hard, but she knew now that she had failed. She
had
hoped. She
had
clung to a renewed desire to survive. She could feel it in the terror that seized her now as she stared at Myrell.

Will they just kill me, or will they torture me first? Will they do it in tomorrow in public, or tonight with no witnesses?

She tried to control her panic. She would not reveal her fear to the Valdani—and most especially not to
this
Valdan.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated in the most disdainful voice she could muster.

Without answering her, Myrell summoned two Outlookers. They entered her cell and seized her.

Elelar struggled against them, forcing fury into her voice as she demanded, "What's going on?"

"We're taking you to the cellar,
torena
."

Bile rose in her throat. The cellar was where they tortured prisoners. They'd threatened her with it when she was first incarcerated here.

"You can't!" she insisted, struggling against the two strong men who were trying to drag her out her cell. "I am the wife of a Valdani aristocrat! I am awaiting trial by three Imperial Counc—"

"Denied." Myrell's voice was rich with triumph.

She froze. "Denied?"

"Denied," he repeated. "Imperial Councilors have far more important things to do than waste time listening to a traitorous whore try to save her own life by telling lies at a trial. Especially the faithless wife of some half-Silerian drunkard."

She should have known, she realized. She'd been a fool to hope it might be otherwise, despite the influence of Ronall's family. She wondered if the Council had come to these conclusions on their own, or if Borell's influence had swayed them. But it didn't matter either way. It was over. "So now I'm to be taken to the cellar for... questioning."

She forced hatred into her voice, contempt into her expression. She'd been a fool not to prepare herself better for this, not to be ready for this moment day and night. She'd been stupid to let Ronall's optimism and hope affect her. He was weak, and she had known she must be strong. She clenched her teeth to keep her mouth from trembling.

Myrell was gloating. "I suppose this cell has been less than you're used to,
torena
, but at least I can promise you you'll never have to see it again."

"So you're going to kill me now, I take it?" She hoped that he couldn't see the fear bubbling up inside her, prayed that he didn't know how her stomach heaved.

"My orders are to kill you only after you talk," Myrell replied. "And by then, I promise you..." He leaned close and whispered, "You'll be begging me to kill you."

She believed him, though she didn't want to. She tried to banish the images flooding her mind. "Are these Borell's instructions?"

His smirk was oily. "Ah, you haven't heard, of course."

"Heard what?"

"Borell is dead."

"Dead?" she repeated in surprise.

"Suicide," said Myrell.

"He killed himself? Why?"

He shook his head. "Ah-ah, Elelar. I ask all the questions from now on." Grinning viciously, he added, "Before we begin, let me just remind you that how long you take to die is entirely up to you. If you tell me everything right away, it will be better for you."

She would later be tempted to believe him, she knew. She must remember, must keep repeating to herself that he would torture her for a long time anyhow. No matter when she talked or how much she told him, he'd want more. She must tell him nothing, no matter how long it took to die.

Dar, please give me strength. Please give me courage!

Elelar didn't resist again when the Outlookers obeyed Myrell's renewed order to haul her out of her cell. There was nowhere she could go, no way she could escape this. She thought of Corenten of Malthenar, as well as the other martyrs of the mountain resistance. She prayed her death would honor her as theirs had honored them. She prayed for the courage they had shown.

They descended to the ground floor of the prison, then crossed the vast, stone-paved entry hall to reach the cellar door. Elelar looked toward a window, observing the moonglow for the last time. She inhaled deeply, knowing she'd never smell fresh air again. She tried to master the nausea forcing its way up into her throat, tried to conceal the weakness in her rubbery legs as she approached a death more agonizing than most men's worst nightmares.

Suddenly they heard fighting on the other side of the heavy wooden door that concealed the steps to the cellar: frantic shouts, the clang of metal against metal, a scream. The men holding her froze and looked questioningly at Myrell. He reached for his sword. Elelar had only a moment to wonder if another prisoner was attempting to escape, and then the cellar door burst open.

"Tansen!" She could not have more surprised to see Dar Herself emerge from the shadowed staircase behind that heavy door. He was soaking wet, his skin gleaming with moisture in the torchlight, his clothes clinging to his body. His swords were red. The were splashes of red on his clothes and his face, too.

Blood,
she realized.

He never paused, never hesitated, didn't even seem to know she was there. He killed two Outlookers before the second one had even finished drawing his sword, then he moved on to two more. Another
shallah
—Zimran, she saw—emerged from the bowels of the prison and plunged into the hall, bloodied sword drawn,
yahr
swinging in his other hand.

"Take her back to her cell!" Myrell shouted, launching himself into the fray. "Lock her in!"

They've come to free me!

Elelar struggled wildly, resisting the two Outlookers trying to haul her back to the staircase she had just descended. But they were big, strong men. They simply picked her up and carried her to the stairs while she fought them. When she felt one of them lift his foot to find the first stair, she poked him sharply in the eye. He howled and stumbled blindly—right into more men who were running down the stairs. They tumbled and fell. Someone landed heavily on top of Elelar. She lay there winded and dazed as the fight continued around her.

She heard the screech of metal-on-metal, the screams of dying men, and the panicked shouts of Outlookers in the stairwell overhead and in the courtyard outside.

There are too many! We'll never escape.

How could she help? What could she do?

She felt an Outlooker's hands on her, grabbing, scrabbling, trying to seize her again. She rolled over and slid her hand down his belly and over his groin. Before he realized her intention, she squeezed as hard as she possibly could, driving her nails into the yielding fabric of his gray uniform. She yanked with all her might, picturing herself tearing his genitals off his body, then let go and leapt to her feet as he lay there screaming.

Fire
, she thought suddenly, remembering how Mirabar had held the assassins at bay in Kiloran's lair. The fallen men struggled to get to their feet. Several brushed past her, racing for Tansen, whose flashing double blades and whirling motion left bodies littering the floor around him. Elelar seized a lantern from the wall and, not allowing herself to think about this horrible act, swung her arm around and threw it against the stone wall at the bottom of the steps. Oil and fire spread everywhere. Men who had been descending the steps fell back, shouting. Men lying dazed at the bottom of the stairs screamed in agony as the flames and lantern oil swept across them, burning them, incinerating their clothes.

Tansen swung his arm and cut the throat of a staggering man who gurgled in agony as his clothes burned.

"Go!
Go!
" Tansen shouted at Elelar as four more men poured in from the courtyard, entering the hall through the main entrance, alerted by the noise and flames.

Elelar ran to the entrance as soon as it was clear of Outlookers. Behind her, she heard Tansen shout, "
Not that way!
" She ignored him. She pushed the enormous wooden door closed, then smashed another lantern against it, setting it on fire and effectively blocking it for the time being.

"Kill her!" Myrell screamed. "Don't let them take her! Kill her now!"

"Zim!" Tansen shouted.

Realizing that she had just become the center of attention again, Elelar ran along the wall trying to reach Zimran. Tansen moved to block the Outlookers who were lunging for her. Someone lost an arm right in front of her. Her hands came up to her mouth in horror as blood flew into her face.

"MOVE!" Tansen shouted at her, very close suddenly.

"Elelar!" Zimran's shout gave her confidence. She seized another lantern from the wall, flung it into the center of the hall, and used the explosion to cover her flight to Zimran's side.

"Behind me," he ordered, fighting off another Outlooker, using the
yahr
much better than he used the sword.

She crouched behind him, keeping an eye out as the two of them backed toward the cellar door, Zimran fighting a shouting Valdan the whole time. A torch, rather than a lantern, blazed at the top of the winding cellar stairs. Elelar grabbed it and stuck it in the man's face. When he flinched and turned his head away, Zimran seized his chance and killed the man.

"Into the cellar," he told her. "There's no one left alive down there.
Go!
I'm right behind you."

"Tansen!" she cried. He was surrounded by four men, including Myrell. Two more were coming down the stairs now that the flames were subsiding.

"GO!" he shouted, felling one of the Outlookers.

"Go," Zimran repeated, trying to push her down the stairs.

"No! We can't leave him!"

An Outlooker screamed as Tansen slashed him across the face.

Zimran grinned. "Ah, I guess you haven't seen him fight before,
torena
. Go!" This time, his shove nearly sent her flying headlong down the stairs. "He'll catch up."

Zimran was right behind her when she reached the cellar, the foundation of whatever castle or fortress had existed on this site even before this 600-year-old Kintish structure. She tried not to look at the four gray-clad bodies down here, even though she knew they'd been awaiting her, prepared to help Myrell slowly murder her. She tried even harder not to look at the tools Myrell would have used on her to make her talk.

"Where are we going?" she asked, hearing how breathless and scared she sounded.

"To our old friends," Zimran replied with a sly glance.

She gasped. "The tunnels!"

"We found a way into this place from the tunnels by going through old—
really
old—sewage conduits."

"
That's
why you're both so wet." 

"You probably haven't noticed the smell, in all the excitement," Zimran said, leading her through a dark passage and into a small, stinking cell. "But before long, I guarantee it will be all you'll think about."

There was a hole in the floor in the corner of this tiny, low-ceilinged room. There'd been a rust-encrusted grate over the hole; now it lay on the floor next to the hole, ready to be replaced when they escaped. The edges of the hole, like the floor around it, were coated with ancient, hardened substances and stains that Elelar didn't even want to think about, let alone touch. The smell rising from the hole was truly indescribable.

"We're going down
there?
" she choked.

"We have only two choices," Zimran pointed out. "And I want to go back upstairs even less than I want to go down there."

"Oh, Dar shield me," she muttered. Knowing he was right, she pulled her delicately embroidered sleeve over her hand, then used it to cover her nose and mouth. She glanced at Zimran and said, "After you."

Tansen fought in eight directions and on three levels, as he had been taught. He caught a few cuts on his forearms but ignored them, as he had been trained. He saw the way his opponents' shoulders moved, the way their weight shifted, and so he knew where their blades would go as soon as
they
knew; even sooner in the case of the inexperienced ones. He moved economically, never wasting motion or breath. A
shatai
divorced his emotions from his work, never let the combat become personal, and never let rage or hatred cloud his judgment or diminish his skill. Never, that is, unless he was facing a man such as Myrell the Butcher.