The Reluctant Champion

Prisoner

" . . .Sir, that's all I heard. The foreigner was talking to someone I could not see, but whoever it was told him there would be an invasion from the Alliance and that he should help prevent it."

The voice was low and urgent, not so much that of someone trying not to be overheard as that of a man who has spent so much time in secret conversations that he has forgotten how to speak aloud.

"You did not try to follow the man?"

"No, sir. I thought it more important to be sure of this one here."

Galen lay still, listening as best he could through the throbbing of his head. Two people at least. He couldn't tell if there were more. Was he bound? No way to tell without moving. He was certainly uncomfortable enough, but maybe he was just lying awkwardly.

"Unclear. But you're sure of what you did hear?"

"Oh yes."

"It sounds like the barbarian has a spy network among the Alliance. Better than we've been able to manage."

"Yes sir. But can they be trusted?"

"I'm inclined to think so. They didn't know you were listening, after all, and if Bashanadar has spies among the Alliance it explains a lot. How was this one involved?"

"I don't know. I was tracking the barbarian as ordered, when I picked him up outside the castle gates. It seemed better to hang back and let them sort it out, but he just watched and listened."

"All right. Get out of here now. If he never saw you, there's no point in letting him see you now."

A scuffle of feet on the floor, the noise of locks being drawn, a door opening and shutting.

Then a cold cloth on his face and a hand slapping his cheek lightly. He opened his eyes and tried to move his head away. Then, wary, he tried to sit up.

He was in a dim cell with stone walls. The dank air suggested they were underground. The attempt to sit up was a failure; his hands were bound behind him in some way and a sickening pounding from his head sucked away his strength. He satisfied himself with turning his head slightly instead.

A portly man sat on a chair near his head. The one light in the cell came from a lamp behind him, so at first Galen could make out no features, but then he turned slightly to drop a bloodstained cloth in a bowl by his side and Galen saw that he was old, with several chins and pouchy eyes.

"Who are you?" The question was sharp and preemptory.

"Agh—awg—Galen," Galen managed at last. His tongue felt three sizes too large and his mouth was dry. Then with a sudden stab of panic he remembered what he had seen and why he was here. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what thing Lidah had brought into her city and knew it must be stopped at once. This police official or minor functionary interrogating him must be told, must raise the alarm—he must get word to Lidah somehow.

"That man—" Galen said urgently. It sounded wrong in his ears and he pushed himself onto one elbow to talk more clearly. "That man is a danger—don't let him in—no, he's already in—send him away—send him—"

"My dear boy, what are you talking about?" asked the silhouetted figure in the chair.

There was a roaring in Galen's ears and the room spun around him. "That man—is Death—is death to you—no spy—no servant—Death is here—the barbarian is a servant—send him—send him away—" The words tumbled over themselves jamming against each other in his mouth, refusing to order themselves into any kind of logical sequence. "It is Death—Death is here—send him away—"