Immediately the blood drained from Alun’s face and his heart pounded. He feared that he would be called upon to betray Daylan Hammer, to speak against him here in public, and he was almost as afraid of speaking before the king as he was of dying. He swallowed hard, looked around.
Daylan had asked Alun to lie in his behalf. Daylan claimed that his own plans were superior to those of Warlord Madoc.
But were they?
Did Alun dare let the immortal steal off with the Princess Kan-hazur? Did they dare throw aside their shield now, when the castle had burst apart at every seam?
“What do you advise?” King Urstone asked Daylan Hammer.
“I think,” Daylan said, “that the Wizard Sisel speaks wisely. I think that you should look to your defenses, mend the walls of your fortress. It has served you well for many years, and you will need all of your strength to hold it now.”
The king nodded his head in thought, and Alun knew that he was persuaded to keep his troops home. It was the safest course, and to provoke the wyrmlings would be to condemn his son to death. Even after these many years, the king was loath to do so.
“Wait!” Warlord Madoc said, stamping his foot to gain attention. “Your Highness, before we give heed to the counsel of Daylan Hammer, there is something that you should know. Thrice in the past six weeks, he has left the hunt and gone off on his own. Four weeks past, I sent Sir Croft to follow him, and Sir Croft was found dead. Today, I sent young Alun here.”
He turned abruptly. “So, what did you learn?” Warlord Madoc demanded.
Alun caught his breath. If he told the truth, the warlords would test to see if Daylan Hammer truly was immortal.
If he lied, it could mean death for everyone else.
And then there was the matter of his reward…
“Daylan Hammer went to the Tower of the Fair Ones. There…he met with a wyrmling-” Alun said.
There were howls of outrage from the lords, “Traitor! Death to him!” Instantly the room flew into a commotion.
There was no time for questioning Daylan Hammer. He reached for his saber in a blinding flash, even as he tried to dodge toward the door. The angry lords took this as a sign of guilt.
Among commoners, he would have escaped easily.
But he was among warriors, men bred for battle for five thousand years. War clubs were thrown, and he dodged one, took another in the back. It sent Daylan sprawling, and he flashed his saber and neatly sliced the hamstring of Warlord Cowan. Madoc’s son Connor took that moment to lash out with a vicious kick to the head that knocked Daylan Hammer halfway across the room, right into the arms of Madoc himself, who grabbed the immortal and pinned him to the floor with his bulk.
There were shouts of “Hold him!” “Grab him!” “Ow, damn!” “Throw him in the oubliette; maybe a swim in the piss will settle him down!”
Soon, half a dozen of the younger warlords each had a piece of Daylan-an arm here, a leg there-and though Daylan thrashed and kicked at them, they went lugging him past Alun, taking him to the oubliette.
Alun saw Daylan’s face red with rage and exertion as he passed.
“Alun?” Daylan said in dismay, astonished that the lad had betrayed him.
And then the young warlords were gone, dragging their prisoner to the oubliette.
The king hunched upon his dais, looking old and bewildered, while the warlords waited upon his word.
Alun found himself staggering forward. He wanted to explain what Daylan had done, his reasoning, for he was sure that that would earn Daylan some leniency.
But the very notion that Daylan was conspiring with the wyrmlings proved his treachery as far as the warlords were concerned.
“Uh,” Alun began to say, but a huge hand slapped him on a shoulder, startling him. It was Drewish, leering down at him threateningly.
“Well done,” Drewish whispered. “You will dine at our family’s table tonight. And tomorrow, you will come with us into battle, as one of the warrior clan.”
At the promise of reward, Alun fell silent.
The old king nodded at his men, his face filled with endless sadness.
“Madoc is right. There may never be a better time to attack,” the king said. “For long I’ve hoped to win my son’s freedom, and I’ve listened to Daylan’s counsel. But I can hesitate no longer. The good of my people must outweigh my own selfish desires. Prepare for battle.”
A MAN OUT OF FAVOR
Peace can be found in any clime, and any circumstance. He who has learned how to face death and dishonor without fear cannot have his peace taken from him.
Daylan Hammer struggled against his captors as they bore him to the dungeons. He thrashed and kicked, but even with four endowments of brawn, he couldn’t match the combined strength of the warrior clan. These men had been bred to battle over too many generations and were too large. In fighting them, he only risked breaking his bones.
So he battled them, but at a measured pace. He didn’t want them to guess his true strength.
They dragged him to the dungeons.
There were fine cells at the top, places where nobles had been held captive in ages past. Now, only a few scraggly paupers filled the cells. Justice in Caer Luciare didn’t lend itself to long prison stays. A few lashes with a whip for disturbing the peace, a lopped-off hand for stealing, a day in the stocks for questioning a lord’s character- those were the kinds of punishment that were dealt out. The prison was used mainly to hold criminals for a few hours before sentencing.
So Daylan hoped for a nobleman’s cell. But they bore him below, past the torture chamber where tongs and forges and bloodied knives gave mute testimony to past retributions.
The Princess Kan-hazur was in a cell near the door. He saw her sitting, dressed in gray rags, her dark hair a ragged mat. She was larger than most of the warriors, topping eight feet, and though she was but eighteen, her long, powerful arms looked as if they could snap a man in half.
She growled as the warriors passed, and lunged, grabbing one by the collar and ramming his head into the bars.
Daylan kicked hard then, using the diversion to nearly break free.
But years of confinement had left the princess weak, and within a moment the warrior had her by the hair, twisting her head around until he could get her in a stranglehold.
The warriors carried Daylan past her cell, to a small grate, and Daylan fought fiercely at that point, managing to kick one warrior in the face and loosen a few teeth, just before they shoved him into a foul hole.
He slid down a rough incline perhaps forty feet, before he landed in a pool of feces and urine that was chest- deep.
There was little light in this place. He peered up above, perhaps a hundred feet. Light shone through a few privies. He was below the soldiers’ barracks.
The walls were slick with excrement, the slope far too steep for a man to climb.
The dark waters were hot and smelled of sulfur. Obviously, they had trickled in through some crack in the rock from the hot springs that were used to warm the city in the winter. The water was too hot for comfort.
There was a jangle of keys up above as his captors locked the iron grate. Someone laughed and shouted down at him, “Dinner!”
