A World Without Heroes
Page 101
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 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.
