A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [157]
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