7
Kayman walked slowly, his hands bound behind his back. The four guards surrounding him were not taking any chances; the warrior had already tried to break free of the ropes securing him when they separated him from Kalen. He didn’t know what they were going to do with his brother, but he was determined to get to the bottom of it. When Kalen was hauled away, the warrior had actually managed to free his hands, though he hadn’t been able to reach a weapon before he was clubbed over the head and knocked unconscious. When he awoke, four armed men—all of whom were twice his size—were standing over him and peering down, a look of amusement painted on their faces. The ropes around his wrists were now much tighter than before; he winced with each painful movement. Coarse fibers bit deeply into his wrists, and he dared not attempt to wriggle out.
Kayman’s head ached—as did every muscle in his body—but he followed the lead of the guards, not willing to spark their anger again. Both brothers had been accused of murder, and he was unsure of what the sentence would be for such a crime. Most rulers would send you to the headsman, but no one in Forrenwake had ever committed such a crime. The last he knew, the town did not employ a headsman.
Had that changed?
They rounded a corner and continued down a series of steps into a dark corridor. Kayman’s escort didn’t bother lighting torches, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to see. He decided the men knew where they were going, and so he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. After what seemed like far too long of a time to be stuck in a dark passageway, they neared a door with bright candlelight escaping though the cracks. The warrior was relieved that he could finally see, even if he could only make out the outlines of the men guarding him.
“Where are we?” He asked. “We came in through the jail, but I never knew there was an underground passage. Where have you taken me?”
One of the men turned and spat on the ground just short of Kayman’s feet. “Master Rahbin wants to see you.”
“Who is this Rahbin, anyway?”
The guard didn’t answer; he pushed the door open and shoved the warrior into the room. The door slammed shut just as quickly as it was opened, and Kayman found himself standing in a sparsely decorated room. A sturdy table and two heavy high-backed chairs made up the entirety of the furniture. Two candles—one on either side of the table—were burning with a ferocity that seemed unnatural. Most unsettling was the figure sitting in the chair behind the table. He remained enshrouded in shadow, though the candlelight still glinted against his polished crimson armor. He wore a helmet of matching color, which served to shield any features of his face not hidden in darkness. Great metal wings—likely of the fabled dragons said to rule the skies of Daakligar—adorned the top. A massive spike jutted up from the middle of the wings, extending a whole hand above them, as though it wished to pierce the sky.
The figure leaned forward, exposing long mustaches and a stern gaze that chilled Kayman’s bones.
“You had something of ours,” he said, his tone gruff. “Why?”
Kayman gulped. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know damn well to what I refer! The box! Did you open it?”
“No sir,” Kayman lied. “We found it on the road. We simply wished to return it to the rightful owner.”
It wasn’t like the warrior to lie, but he did not like the expression on this man’s face. It made him look dangerous; it told him that this was a man who was not afraid to take a life.
“I do not like dishonesty. It is an ugly trait. You took the box, and I believe you opened it. I also believe you killed the mage who was guarding it. How you did that—I do not know. The man was a fool, but he was also quite powerful. I once saw him reduce an entire village to rubble with a single spell.”
