Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [142]
Caelan dismounted, the shackles on his wrists clanking softly. He still wore the mail shirt Elandra had given him, and during the past few days he had been grateful for it. The long sleeves had protected his wrists from being rubbed sore by his chains. As his mount was led away, he stretched himself carefully, taking care to make no sudden moves that would get himself beaten. It felt good to stand on the ground again.
The soldiers exchanged information. Caelan learned he was a special prisoner of the emperor-elect, to be kept in a solitary cell until he was sent for. No visitors. No one was to talk to him, on pain of death.
The irony of it made Caelan smile without amusement. Some men walked a path of life that progressed in a straight line from birth to death. Others meandered, finding what accomplishments they could. Still others walked in a circle, ending up where they had started. Thus it was for him. He had begun life in Imperia as a slave, chained and beaten, imprisoned beneath the arena with his only future seeming to be a quick death in the ring. Now he had returned, once again in chains, once again under the dominion of Tirhin.
His head lifted, and he gazed out into the darkness. Tirhin would not own him long this time, for indeed the world was ending. Time was running out for all of them.
The tip of a spear prodded him in the back. “Get moving.”
“Watch him!” another said in warning. “He’s a big brute.”
“Aye, Giant was always dangerous.”
Their fear made them nervous and sweaty. Caelan had fears of his own. Imperia was no place to be shackled and weaponless. If anything attacked, the guards would protect themselves, not him.
Nervously, he flexed against his chains, but they were well forged and held him.
Something that sounded suspiciously like a shyriea shrieked nearby. One of the soldiers flinched, and nearly ran his spear through Caelan’s side. The rings of his mail protected him, but Caelan turned on the man.
“Have a care, you fool!” he said angrily.
Another soldier stepped between them and rammed Caelan in the chest with the butt of his spear. “Quiet!”
Caelan drew in a painful breath, his temper hot, but he restrained himself, knowing that to argue would only bring on another beating. He’d had enough of those.
“I want to see Prince Tirhin,” he said hoarsely. “I am a member of the Crimson Guard. I demand—”
The spear shaft swung again, cracking him across the jaw and knocking him down.
Caelan lay there, stunned, his head ringing.
They kicked him. “You’re a deserter. Now get up! Get moving!”
They stripped off his mail, then kicked and pummeled him, thudding into the sore places. He pulled himself to his hands and knees, swaying as his head spun. Blackness dipped and swooped at him. By the time he drove it away, they had yanked him forward by his arms and were shoving him down a ramp into a torchlit maze of passageways. He walked past beat-up wooden doors banded with iron. The smell was even the same—musty and damp, sour with old sweat and blood.
He was shoved into a dark cell, hard enough to make him stumble into the back wall. The door slammed, and he heard the bolts shoot home. Caelan clung to the wall, fighting off his dizziness. Pain was still exploding in his jaw. He felt it gingerly, decided it wasn’t broken, and spat out a bloody tooth.
He stumbled over an object that went skidding across the dirt-packed floor. A stool, he thought. The door had a narrow opening set with bars. Meager illumination from the torchlight in the passageway barely reached into his cell. Exploration told him he had a stool and a pile of dirty straw, but nothing else, not even a pail of water.
Ignoring his thirst, he sat down on the stool and bent over with his elbows on his knees. The bruises were nothing. He would mend ... if he lived long enough.
No one brought him food or water. He listened as the guard was changed about sunset. Shortly thereafter someone came through with a barrel of pitch. The man replenished the torches, keeping them burning brightly, as though light alone