Tales of the Vangen: The Siege of Middengard (Book 2)

Chapter 21: Blackglass

{Beat a dog and it will grow to fear you. Beat a man and it will grow to hate you. Fear can only control someone for so long before it twists itself into vengeance, a form of courage fueled by spite and anger. How long must I wait before my fear runs out. How long must I wait before I find my own vengeance?}

-an excerpt from the personal journals of Brand Golbeggar, heir to house Golbeggar

"Wake up."

Brand gasped just before a gloved hand clapped his mouth shut. The stench of horse leather and tobacci pressed into his nostrils, the tip of a knife gleaming keenly in the moonlight just above it. A man leaned over the side of his bed, two hard eyes glinting from a face hidden in shadow.

"Don't move a fething muscle or I'll cut you. Got it?" The man brandished the knife and Brand realized the gleam came not off metal, but of glass. He nodded his head vigorously, realizing just how in the shit he was. If the man had a Blackglass dagger then he surely meant his business.

"Good," the man said. "Now, I'm going to let go of your mouth and your going to step out of bed. If you scream, I'll cut you. Got it?"

Again, Brand nodded in compliance. Mostly in preservation for his own life, that much was a given, but if the man wanted him dead he would have gutted him in his sleep already. The fact he wanted him alive meant something, and if he played along then maybe he'd soon find out why.

The man removed his hand, making sure to flash the knife once more to make his point. When Brand didn't scream as promised he took a cautious step back. "All right. Get up."

Brand obeyed, peeling back the sheets with the same delicacy he took bending silver, one of the more malleable metals. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he stood up, the shapes in his room taking form now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He could see the bare accoutrements given to him by his father. A dresser for his clothes in one corner, a table and chair for his studies, a pot to shit in. And, of course, his bed.

"Go to the door." The man demanded. Brand did as he was told, trying to get a good look. Two flinty eyes gleamed back at him, his mouth obscured by a dark cloth. "Open it."

The door slid open as silent as the grave, it's hinges gliding effortlessly over one another. One of the many wonders of Stelecaster magick Brand thought humorously, despite his situation. Even the gentlest squeak might have helped him in some capacity.

"Now," the man hissed in his ear. "Take me to Reylein's forge."

The warmth drained out of Brand and all his humor left with it. He'd thought the man had come for money and was going to be damn well surprised to find out there wasn't any. Sure there was the dagger, but even a common thief knew to come prepared against a Stelecaster. But this was worse. Much, much worse.

"Where?" he squeaked. The silhouette of a hand shot past his vision and he felt it grip around his mouth, yanking him back till he slammed back first into the man's chest. The knife was in his face again, gleaming like polished obsidian in the dark.

"Act dumb and I'll cut you. Got it?" the man hissed in his ear, so close it was almost painful. Brand nodded, his eyes transfixed on the evil looking weapon.

"Good. Now start walking." He pushed Brand forward and they started down the hall. Cold stone walls stretched on either side as they moved, their sconces long since guttered out, the need for new candles an oversight by Brand's father. In the past there would have been servants and guards too, bustling down the halls as they went about their duties, but now there were none left save for a handful of loyal tagalongs, another considerable oversight.