Shadow's master

floor. Restraint straps hung from its arms and legs. A table sat against the left wall with an assortment of sharp instruments. He tried to stand up on his own, but the soldiers manhandled him inside like he was a child.

The door closed behind him with a deafening clang.

Caim straightened out his left leg slowly-ever so slowly-and released a long groan as the tendrils of pain eased around his knee. At least I should be grateful it's not broken.

He wasn't so sure about other parts. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look. Naked except for his breeches, he made for a gruesome sight in the brilliance of the globes above his cell. His knees looked like joints of meat from a butcher's shop. Half of his toes were burst open, nearly black with blood. Ribbons of skin hung from the back of his right hand; his fingers curled like bony claws crusted with blood. His pinky finger stuck out straight from the middle knuckle. His wrist was swollen and ringed with purple bruises. He tried to move it, and stopped when the pain became too much.

He couldn't say how long the torture had gone on. The Northmen worked with quiet efficiency, applying the various instruments to him in turns. There were no questions asked, no demands made. Just pain.

Afterward Caim was dragged back to his cell. Funny how he had come to think of this little room as his, taking ownership because he had nothing else to call his own. Nothing except a sliver of pride, and he suspected they would eventually take that, too.

Caim stared up at the lights. He was exhausted, but they wouldn't let him sleep. He stared until his eyes ached and forced him to blink. Where were Kit and Malig? Were they even still alive? He tried not to think of that, but then his mind turned to Dray, devoured by shadows. And Aemon buried in a cold grave on the wastes. Their blood was on his hands as surely as if he'd killed them himself. And for what? He'd failed in his grand quest, no closer to the truth about his mother than he had been back in Othir.

As he gazed into the lights, finding solace in the pain, a sensation intruded on his thoughts. It was mild at first, like an irritation on the fringe of his perception, but it grew with the passing minutes, transforming into a pleasant feeling that diminished the pain of his injuries. There was a presence behind this feeling, just beyond his awareness, but it comforted him. Kit, is that you?

Caim's stomach clenched as the cell door rattled. He wanted to roll up into a ball, but forced himself to sit up. Four guards entered the cell. Caim couldn't tell if they were the same ones who had fetched him before or another quartet; they never talked or lifted their steely visors.

They unlocked his shackles and carried him out. Caim tried to work up a little moisture, but his mouth was drier than sand. He couldn't help shivering as they approached the door to the torture chamber. He didn't know how much more he could take. Yet the soldiers passed by the heinous door without stopping. Caim held his breath, expecting them to turn around at any moment, but they kept going, pulling him along. He focused on moving his feet, keeping up with the soldiers' pace. It wasn't easy. He felt pathetically weak.

They passed through an archway and down another hall with more doors. Faint sounds issued from behind some. Moans like the lamentations of the damned. How long before he started to make those same noises? How long would it be before he was beyond hope, crippled in mind and body? Used up and useless.

The corridor ended at a wide doorway framed in large black stones. On the other side was a longer hall. The air was a little less stale. Instead of cell doors, side passages branched off at regular intervals. Caim tried to estimate how far they'd walked, but he had trouble making his brain function properly. Come on. Snap out of it. This is routine stuff. How far since the last intersection? He tried to remember. Twenty-three paces. Another pair of side tunnels arrived at the thirtieth step. He was still counting when the soldiers opened another door and ushered him inside. Caim tensed as they entered a long chamber with a high ceiling. It was as large as the Grand Hall in the Luccian Palace, but darker and gloomier, devoid of windows. Every surface was polished to a rich, black luster.

Caim thought the room was empty until a figure separated from the penumbral shadows cloaking the wall. The swordsman wasn't wearing his helmet, but Caim recognized his armor and weapon. The warrior's features were leaner than he imagined, with the same dusky hue as Sybelle's.

Caim flexed his fingers, wanting to hold his knives one last time before they finished him. Maybe he could goad this one into a duel. Better to die on my feet facing my enemy than on my knees waiting for the axe.

The swordsman tossed a sleeveless gray tunic to the guards, and they put it on Caim none too gently. By the time they were done, the garment was stained with blood from his hand. The swordsman walked away, and the guards dragged Caim after him.

They passed through a set of double doors made of dense, black wood, down another passageway and up a series of staircases that switched back on themselves several times. Caim gritted his teeth as cramps developed in his legs, but he walked under his own power, determined not to be dragged to his own execution. He lost count of the number of steps somewhere around five hundred, but finally they reached another hall. But it was only a foyer. More soldiers stood at attention at the far end. The blades of their poleaxes glimmered in the faint light, but did not move as the swordsman passed between them and pushed open a pair of massive bronze doors. Caim's breath caught in his throat as he stepped into a much larger chamber, and a powerful aura washed over him. It bound his limbs with invisible tethers and stole his wits like a hammer blow to the forehead.

The chamber was magnificent, with great chandeliers of leaded glass. Thick pillars of black granite rose like charred fingers to the vaulted ceiling a hundred and fifty feet above his head. Accents of gold and obsidian adorned the walls. A great basalt throne, almost godlike in stature, rested upon a raised platform at the far end of the chamber. A man sat in the throne. He wore a wine-colored surcoat over deep gray robes, devoid of accessories or diadem, but Caim knew him for the monarch of Erebus. His head was shaved, his shoulders broad. But it was his eyes that drew Caim's attention. Flat, black, emotionless. They were like holes cut in a mask, revealing a vast power within.

A crowd of people turned as Caim entered. He took them for gentry by their fine garb and jewels. Caim recognized the lady, Dorcas, from the palace, though she did not look in his direction. The others were shadow folk, too, but they numbered no more than a score. Caim struggled to shake off his captors. He wanted to face this creature standing on his own feet, but the soldiers held him easily. Then a moan echoed through the hall. Ten Northmen were spiked to a wooden framework erected against the left-hand wall. Blood dribbled from the wounds at their wrists and ankles and the dozens of cuts covering their hairy torsos. Three weren't moving, but at least half were still alive, their chests rising and falling in shuddering breaths.

Caim's bare feet shuffled across the cool flagstones as he was shoved forward. The anger of years past blazed inside him, suffusing his face with its fever. These were the people behind the attack on his father's estate. The aura of malevolence increased as he approached the tall dais, like an army of biting ants was crawling all over his body.

Caim was stopped a dozen paces from the steps of the dais, where a pair of shadow warriors stood guard. A sharp blow to the back of his legs knocked him to his knees. He struggled to stay upright until the blade of a halberd forced his face down to the floor.

“Finally, the feared scion.” The voice reverberated through the hall. “Does he have a name?”

“Caim, Master,” the swordsman answered with a clipped accent. “Caim of the House Du'Vartha.”

“Du'Vartha?”

“He took his human father's name, Master.”

“I see.”

Caim relaxed his muscles as the blade lifted from his neck. He had to conserve his energy and be ready for any opportunity. He straightened up to a kneeling posture, both hands on his thighs. The Shadow Lord's face was lean and taut, especially around his eyes, like the skin had been stretched too far. “Do you know who I am, boy?”

Caim worked his tongue around his mouth. “Where are the others?”

A hard blow struck the back of Caim's head, and he dropped onto his hands. He sucked at the inside of his bottom lip as he sat up again.

“I am Abraxus of the House Thargelia. I am told that you are my eldest daughter's child. That you have come all this way from the Southlands to kill me. Is this true?”

“Where are Kit and Malig?”

Armor clinked as the soldiers shifted behind him, but the Shadow Lord lifted a finger. “Who are these he