The cellar should have been dark, by rights. When one imagined a prison, the images that swam across their minds eye were of dank, rough-cut stone. It should be damp and uncomfortable. Chains would festoon the walls. The atmosphere would be cold and lit only by flickers of candlelight, matching the moods and thoughts of those trapped inside.

Deniel couldn’t square his mood with the wine-scented cellar, lit brightly by slitted windows set high on the walls. The stone-faced officer who’d briefly questioned him had gone above, leaving him to stew.

His attention snapped back to the present as the door creaked open. The stairs squealed in counterpoint as someone mounted them, slowly descending at a leisurely pace. Deniel could feel his heart beating to the rhythm of the steps, feeling like it would burst out of his chest. Is this it? Was I too blunt with the officer – is this the end? Mixed in there was a faint hope; maybe they’ve decided to believe me. I really don’t know anything worth knowing. Maybe they’ll just let me loose. Hells, it was even a wise choice if you squinted. If they let him go and he made contact with the guerillas again, he might bring the Stanmarkians right to them.

The grim-faced officer wasn’t alone this time; Instead, he was accompanied by two others. One, unobtrusively in the background, was younger than the other two – blonde and tall, with a horseman’s unconscious straddle-legged stance. The other was older and shorter, with grizzled salt-and-pepper hair and stubble. His face was worn and craggy, life writing lines down it. The two senior officers had a look to them Deniel couldn’t quite place; they didn’t look related, but the set of their eyes, the empty expressions and the way their faces froze into a thing of slabs and angles were near identical, as if the gods had taken their seal and stamped it across two wax disks.

Deniel expected the younger man to stay by the door – he had guessed him for an underling. Instead, all three made their unhurried way into the cellar, looking him over. From the blonde man, he saw curiosity. The other two were too guarded. I can’t tell if I needled the first one too much. Is this the end?

“What is your name?” The older man’s voice was soft. It had a carrying quality, the timbre of a man who was used to projecting their untrained voice, but for all that had none of the gruff rasp Deniel had expected. Instead, it had an undertone of authority – subtle, but able to snap out like the lash of a whip. Almost unconsciously, Deniel replied.

“Deniel Jahnsson.” Belatedly, catching the blonde man beginning to frown and shift, he hurriedly added “My Lord.” He didn’t know the man’s rank, but the other two Easterners deferred to him – “my Lord” seemed safe enough.

“Deniel Jahnsson. Do you know who I am?” Deniel shook his head mutely, feeling queasy dread worming back up through his stomach. In his experience, nothing good ever came from someone who asked that question.

“I am Reichsgraf Falkenrath, Marshal of the Kingdom of Stanmark. In this time and place, I hold the justice – the High, the Middle, and the Low.”

Deniel struggled to keep his face steeled and calm, affecting the impassive blankness facing him across the empty cellar floor. Inside, his mind was reeling.

When he’d been a boy, the baron had ridden through Akenhof. The monastery had held a special sermon that evening, and the lord of the local manor had declared a feast day. The visit had been an event, one not to be often repeated. That man had been unimportant compared to the mild-mannered, iron-faced man standing across from him and regarding him with eyes that seemed to carry nothing but a mild curiosity.

“You stand here accused of being involved in sedition and waging war on the crown.” The high noble spoke idly, as if it were a pleasant aside during a stroll through the woods. “Lord Commander Hoffman has informed me of the particulars.” A brief silence followed. Deniel could hear his heart pulsing in his ears, deafeningly loud. Seeing there was no response forthcoming, the noble prompted, “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Deniel forced moisture back in his mouth with an effort. “I already told the Lord Commander everything I know.”

“I know what you told the Lord Commander.” There was something wrong about the voice, a corner of Deniel’s mind insisted. It was still offhand, casual, as if the speaker was discussing the weather. But there was something about the noble’s eyes that didn’t quite fit. There was an intensity there, a sharpness. Don’t get cut. “I want you to tell it to me.”

“As my lord commands. Where would you like me to start?”

“The tower.” Lord Falkenrath’s hand gently tapped his belt. There was a soft chinking sound of metal on metal as it shifted, unpleasantly reminiscent of knives and blades in the dark. “In particular, I am interested in how you came to the tower with the Waccewaldian armsmen.” Deniel went to speak, before a gentle but perfunctory gesture cut him off. “I have, shall we say, little faith in the version you gave Lord Commander Hoffman. I want the truth, whole, and unvarnished.”

What did they tell each other upstairs? Deniel wondered, his mind casting about for a truth not too dangerous to tell. For that matter, why is someone this important interested in details? The man had said he commanded the High Justice; he was entitled to order punishments of death under his kingdom’s law, if such niceties were even needed here and now. Something didn’t fit.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“As I told the Lord Commander,” he began carefully, watching the trio for any reaction. “The men came upon me in the wood and took me to the tower. They assumed if they threatened to kill the alderman’s son, the garrison would open the gates. If the gates didn’t open, your men would lose face with the valley settlements.”

“This is what you told me, yes.” The Lord Commander’s voice was less offhand, more clipped and precise. “It doesn’t explain why they abandoned this plan, and why you voluntarily walked to the gate with them.” His eyes narrowed. “You told me they opened the tower to let in a woodcutting party; how did they know the tower was rationing their fuel?”

Deniel floundered for an answer, aware that his silence was in itself incriminating. Lord Falkenrath cut across his deliberations before he could weave together an answer: “Have you ever led, boy? Organized people, made plans, given orders.”

“No.” Yes. The memory of a door wedged open by piled firewood swam across Deniel’s vision. With it came a waft of woodsmoke, sharp and acrid. The noble smiled; the expression was chilly, with an undertone of triumph.

“I think,” he spoke softly, “that the answer is ‘yes,’ isn’t it.” When Deniel stayed silent, the man continued. “And unless I miss my guess, it felt good. Didn’t it? The thrill of seeing a plan come off? I would like to think I am still a fairly good judge of men, and you are not half as good at hiding your expressions as you think.” The smile widened. The resulting grin wouldn’t have looked out of place on something that came ravening out of a darkened wood.

Deniel took in a breath and held it, then another. You’ve not wasted the time you spent in the monastery, have you? You are a man and you are in control of yourself. So act like it. The man speaking to him was cutting too close to the truth, guess or no. But it can only be a guess.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, my Lord.” The tone was dangerous, but he had to walk the edge of the knife. “I have no training at arms, to go attacking my Lord’s men. Nor do I have a reason.” Seeing the man incline his head, he continued. “I am an Alderman’s son, and an initiate in the Akhe Valley Monastery. My life is no way tied to your wars.”

“Your life is wasted, if you’re taking that talent to a Godsworn life.” The smile never wavered. “And you’d never make your own decisions and feel that thrill again.”

Deniel saw it then, as his heart beat against its cage. The smile was familiar, and as he looked the Lord in his eyes he saw a familiar Demon smiling out through them, beckoning. “What do you want?” He blurted before he could catch himself. The smile stayed fixed, looking unnatural on that previously stony face.

“What do you want, Deniel Jahnsson?”

“To live.” Deniel responded immediately, seeing the Demon cackling madly behind that smile. In his mind, Bertrand’s manic grin mirrored it while Valeth sharpened his knife.

“A most unambitious desire.” The war leader’s voice chided. “Do your Godsworn Monks not teach you to reach for the heavens?” The quotation was a twisting of the original and out of context besides, but a true one, nonetheless.

Not at the end of a rope. I don’t hunger for the Martyr’s Crown. “Reach above to the heavens, for the reward that is held as yet out of your grasp.” Deniel spoke the true line. “And my Lord will remember I am in a cellar with a man holding the High Justice, accused of murder. Life and peace is ambitious.”

“I can offer more.” The smile vanished as if by magic, like curtains drawing across the stage. “But let’s stop dancing around the topic.” The hand stopped tapping at his belt. “The burning of the watchpost was your idea. I thought so when Hoffman spoke of it, and now I am certain. You cannot escape the consequences for it. You could try to sell out the Waccewaldian forces in exchange for clemency, I suppose, in which case you would be trading the noose for a knife in the dark.”

“This is what the Lord Commander offered me, yes.” Don’t admit to anything, not even on accident, not even implicitly. “I already told him, I don’t know anything more of them than what I have already told.” The truth, the unvarnished truth, and they think it’s my greatest lie.

Lord Falkenrath glanced at Hoffman for confirmation. Seeing a terse nod, he continued. “There is another alternative I can offer you. One that would meet your ambitious desire,” a trace of a mocking sneer breaking through the veneer, “and present you a stair by which to grasp for your heavens, no matter where you find them.” The hand rose and opened, revealing a decorated leather badge.

Deniel stared at it dumbly. It was a palm-sized, shield shaped leather plane, pierced at two points. Through the holes ran a square cord, draping across the lord’s fingers. The shield itself was quartered – blue and white quarters, overlaid with a white sun. He had seen their like since the day the Easterners came. He had seen them on the armed men marching through the village.

He had seen them in the tower.

Deniel tore his eyes from the badge, back towards the waiting men. Lord Falkenrath’s eyes shone from a face framed in graying dark hair, shadowed by the cast of light. Within them, the demon was laughing fit to burst. Choose, boy, choose. No more staying on in the background for you. You knew you were committed, that night. Why act surprised now?

“What exactly am I being offered here?” He asked eventually, surprised at how even his voice sounded. Lord Commander Hoffman answered: “Besides your freedom? Enrollment in the ranks of the New Army of Stanmark. Initially in an auxiliary role, subject to future changes.” Seeing Deniel’s blank face, the man sighed. “You don’t know what any of that means, do you.”

“Now is probably not the best time for a history lesson.” The blonde cavalryman in the background suggested, his superior nodding in response. “Suffice it to say, you are being offered a way out of your…predicament, shall we say, as well as a place in the new order and the possibility of rank and influence given time.”

Falkenrath smoothly took over: “I don’t know what motivated you to throw your lot in with the Waccewaldian forces in this valley, though I have my suspicions. Whatever perceived wrong you were trying to address or whatever threat you had to face, this would give you the means to do so. You would be leaving the valley, at the least, so any threat to you personally is irrelevant.”

And they’d have no reason to harm my family, Deniel reflected. They wouldn’t know what has happened to me, but as long as they’re not hunted by name they’ll have no suspicion I gave them away. On the heels of that thought came stabs of guilt and uncertainty. Leave the valley? Leave his family alone with the local garrison, angered by bandit raids? Leave the kindly monks who had assured him he had a place in the world?

You do have a place in the world, boy. The demon whispered, leering in his mind. And that place is with me.

Deniel closed his eyes in silent prayer.

And chose.