Aster’s robed form disappeared from sight, leaving Sergeant Windshot to deal with the toppled crate on his own. He had the sense to not curse her to the seventh realm of chaos and back until after she was out of earshot. Grumbling, the sergeant pushed off from the wall and took an experimental step, testing whether his injured foot would bear his weight. His dark expression concluded that, shattered foot or not, someone was going to have to shove the crate into the far corner. And, unfortunately, the only someone around to do it was him.
Wincing with each pained step, he hobbled over to the cage, seized it by the carry poles, and heaved it into an upright position. Cray’s pet snarled and howled, filling the enclosed chamber with its displeasure. Eventually, it too grew weary of its own noises and settled into a disquieting silence.
Sergeant Windshot had worked himself into a full sweat by the time he got the blasted contraption pushed all the way up against the far wall. Finished, he sank to the ground with a whimpered groan, mindful to keep a reasonable distance between him and the crate. His distrusting glare suggested that Cray’s pet would not hesitate to tip its cage onto him a second time if given the chance.
The sergeant’s dead-eyed stare wandered the cellblock before settling on Sascha. Windshot’s nostrils wrinkled in disgust. “What?”
Sascha considered saying nothing. Or, if not that, next to nothing. Now would have been the time to employ one of his noncommittal sounds, the kind he intentionally left open to the interpretation of his audience. But Sergeant Windshot wasn’t like the others. Sascha sensed there was still a sliver of humanity buried somewhere deep inside. Cautiously, Sascha wetted his lips before speaking. “It’s just telling is all.”
Sergeant Windshot tugged a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and used it to mop the excess moisture from his brow. “Spare me the riddles and just say what you mean. I am not in the mood for the verbal runaround.”
Here it was, the moment that would either make or break him. “It is telling that you would rather be in here, wrangling monsters in the cellblock, than partake in whatever is going on out there.”
“How would you know?”
“Because you could have left the moment Aster did,” Sascha said. “Instead, you stayed and spent the better part of twenty minutes wrangling that cage as if it was a piece of furniture. Which tells me that no matter what that beast is, or how badly it could hurt you, you would still rather deal with literal monsters than be out there watching the ones disguised as people torture innocents.”
Sergeant Windshot’s face darkened but said nothing, unwilling to admit the obvious.
It was risky but Sascha couldn’t stop now. There was too much at stake to remain silent. “You’re not like Cray or his goons. You—”
“Do you take me for a fool?” The man’s shoulders bristled defensively. “I was not born yesterday. I know where you’re going with this and you can stop right there before it costs you your tongue. Do not look to me to change things. Whatever power you think I have doesn’t exist.”
Sascha kept his cool. “Says the man on the other side of the bars.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” The sergeant crumpled his handkerchief into a ball and threw it aside. It didn’t have the dramatic effect he intended. The light, airy cloth drifted gently to the ground.
Dewpetal slunk out from under the cot and scurried over. She placed her clawed hand on Sascha’s arm, pleading with him, wordlessly, to stop prodding the proverbial beast before it tore off their faces.
Sascha held a finger to his lips, promising to keep quiet. It didn’t matter anyway. There was no longer any need for him to speak. The damage was done. His words had struck a nerve with the sergeant. All that was left to do now was sit back and watch as the man’s guilty conscience unraveled before their eyes one tattered thread at a time.
“Will you stop looking at me like that?” Sergeant Windshot snapped.
Sascha raised a single eyebrow as if to say ‘I’m days away from execution. How else would you like me to look at you?’
“That’s not any better!” The man’s shoulders lost their rigidity as his head sagged down into his open hands with an agonized moan. His fingers curled into his hairline. “I didn’t ask for this.”
Dewpetal’s confused expression darted from Sascha to the sergeant, and then back again. She lifted her hands, demanding to know how Sascha had broken the weeping man without saying anything.
Sascha lifted one massive shoulder in an innocent shrug.
She didn’t believe him, obviously, but short of throwing another temper tantrum, there wasn’t anything Dewpetal could do but hang back and watch the peculiar situation unfold.
“Look, you’re right, alright?” Sergeant Windshot lifted his teary-eyed face from his hands with a gasping breath. He collected himself and then, glancing suspiciously from left to right, lowered his voice to a venomous whisper. “I’m not like them. No one should be like them. But I’m here now, aren’t I? Stuck in an impossible situation, forced to stand back and watch as Cray wreaks havoc on an entire village for kicks.
“This isn’t what I want either. Believe me, I’d do something if it would matter, but it won’t. Others have tried. People braver than me tried and failed.” Whatever complicated emotions had kept the sergeant up for the past week were slowly starting to trickle free. A hairline crack had fractured the metaphorical dam. There was no stopping it now. The words slid free of his trembling mouth uninhibited. “I’m only a sergeant. What do you think happened to the captain? Or the lieutenant? They stood up to Cray, that’s what. And paid the price for it, too.”
There was more to the story. Alas, the only way to get it was to prod a little further. Sascha temporarily redacted his vow of silence and asked, “He killed them?”
Dewpetal stomped her foot in protest.
“Made it look like a mishap,” Sergeant Windshot muttered. “It happened during the raid. They claimed it was a freak accident. Accident, my ass. I saw their bodies. The only thing that could have done that kind of damage doesn’t come from the wrong end of a sword.”
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Both of Sascha’s eyebrows went up this time, feigning his surprise.
“My money’s on Aster. The carnage had her name all over it.” The sergeant gathered his feet beneath him and crept closer, keeping close to the ground. “And that’s exactly what’s in store for me if I so much as look at Cray wrong. Understand? So whatever it is you want me to do, forget it. It’s not happening. I’m sorry. It’s not fair, I know. But someone’s gotta hang, and I’d rather it not be me.”
The sadness Sascha willed into his expression was genuine. “I’m sorry, too.”
A heavy door slammed open from near the front of the jailhouse. Sergeant Windshot tilted his head to the side, revealing the pointed tip of an ear, and listened as several sets of footsteps moved down the hallway in their direction. Panic flooded his haggard features. As nimble as a cat, the sergeant jumped back onto his feet. He didn’t bother with the door. Given the estimated size of the oncoming party, there wasn’t room in the hallway for him to slip past. Sergeant Windshot tucked himself against the wall instead, doing his damnest to pass for a stone fixture.
The new arrivals filed swiftly inside. Two of Cray’s goons led, dragging Judge Belfast between them, with their commander trailing casually behind. Trant’s beaten body sagged between his escorts, a bent, broken shadow of his earlier self. The goons tossed him into the open cell and the old faun went down like a sack of potatoes. Trant curled into the fetal position and went still.
A wave of Cray’s hand sent the goons filing out the door. Sergeant Windshot slipped in behind them.
Cray noticed. He tilted his head curiously, but said nothing. He, alone, lingered, waiting for the room to clear before he approached the bars with a sad shake of his head. “That’s another two dead, Trant. Two deaths you could have prevented. I’m afraid your village is going to run out of people before my point gets through that thick skull of yours.”
Cray allowed the weight of his words to settle as he unconsciously fiddled with the ring on his left hand. The blue stone caught a stray beam of gray light filtering in from the barred window. For the briefest of moments, the gloomy cell block was cast in a cascade of sparking glimmers. Cray quickly tucked his hand back into his sleeve. “I’m beginning to fear you won’t break, no matter what pressure I apply to your neck. That only leaves me with one choice, you know. I’ll have to break Novera, not you. Perhaps your loving wife will finally come around when she’s forced to watch you dance on a rope.”
A rumbling growl filled the room.
Cray did not appreciate being interrupted. Pulling a face, he turned and approached the crate. He traced his fingers along the cage’s silver inlay. “Sorry, my pet,” he crooned. “This one’s not for you, I’m afraid.”
Cray knelt in front of the bolted door and slid the narrow view slot open. “You poor dear. Did Aster forget to open your window? No wonder you’re so feisty.”
The sight of its master sent the beast into a rage. Unearthly snarls lit the air as the armored cage lurched and shuddered. The beast threw itself against the bolted door over and over again to no avail.
“There, there. No need to be so upset. I’ll have you know I’m saving you for someone better.” Cray’s smug smile pulled tighter across his thin lips. “A few someones, actually.”
Ice bolted down Sascha’s spine when he realized Cray was watching him from the corner of his eye.
“First, Oralia,” the elf told his pet, watching the blood drain from Sascha’s face. “One would think, being with child, she would know to stay away, but I have just the thing to draw her out into hiding. Her downfall will be her own bleeding heart.”
Cray’s gleeful stare settled back over Judge Belfast’s still form. Unknowingly, like a child toying with their hair, his fingers returned to the ring on his hand. “And then, my pet, you can have the judge’s dear sweet boy. And whomever he brings back with him. Someone powerful, I hope. It’s been so long since you’ve had a good bloodbath, isn’t it?”
Sascha could not tear his terror-stricken gaze from the elf’s ring. He swore he saw the opal change color. A distant memory tugged at the back of his mind, demanding he pay attention, look closer, and remember why the strange static sensation rippling up and down his arms felt eerily familiar.
Cray’s gray eyes hardened, noticing the way Sascha was openly gawking at his ring. The elf touched his finger to his temple and a bolt of searing hot pain erupted within Sascha’s skull. “My, oh my.” Cray’s voice sounded inside and outside of Sascha’s head at the same time. “You’ve seen a powerstone before, haven’t you? Tell me where.”
A slew of images flashed before Sascha’s eyes. The pressure pushing against the inside of his skull swelled as his memories darted past in a nauseating blur of color. He relived the battle on Mount Hook, and that pivotal moment when the tide turned and Daana defeated the dark entity by channeling it into an empty power stone.
“My gods,” Cray gasped.
The searing pain relented. Sascha slumped forward, gasping for breath as Cray’s thoughts untangled from his own. He refused to lift his eyes and look his deranged captor in the face. He didn’t want to face the reality of what he’d just done. To witness the secrets he’d betrayed.
Sascha felt Cray’s unnerving smile widen.
“A dark entity trapped in a powerstone? Not only that but Oralia’s the one carrying it?” Cray’s tone bordered on giddy. “Oh dear, Sascha, thank you! You have no idea the gift you’ve given me.”
The elf’s ominous steps approached the bars. “All that’s left now is to draw her in. For that, I’ll need your help. It’s nothing personal, of course. I have to exploit what weakness Oralia possesses. Unfortunate news for you, my friend, I’m afraid. As far as weaknesses go, you are her worst.”
A better orc would have flown into a blind rage right then and there. Threatening him, the love of his life, his unborn child, the unspeakable things Cray had done to innocents — it had all the makings of a rampage, and still, Sascha couldn’t channel his fury into something useful.
Weakling. Coward. Useless fuck!
“Now, now, good sir. There’s no need to torture yourself.” Cray flashed another winning smile. “That’s my job.”
The elf meandered to the exit, cherishing the way each purposely drawn-out step made his captives shudder. He called over his shoulder to Judge Belfast. “I’m feeling unusually generous today, Trant. I’ll give you a few days to reconsider my offer. You’ve proven willing to let others die for your moral convictions. It’ll be interesting to see if your own life is held to the same standards.”
Cray paused in the doorway, tracing the heavy grain of the wooden door with his fingertip. “I want you to know that, no matter how much you irk me, I will be kind to you even in death. You will not have to meet your end alone. I’ll see to it that Sascha and the little green one here keep you company. The three of you can swing lifelessly in the breeze together.”
Sascha winced when the door slammed shut. The terror pumping through his veins refused to settle. He didn’t want to look at the crate. He wanted to turn a blind eye to it. Pretend it didn’t exist. Live out his few remaining days ignorant of the horror that awaited Oralia’s arrival. The cold static buzzing up and down his arms, however, refused to be disregarded so easily. It commanded attention, demanding Sascha acknowledge the source and face his fears. Reluctantly, Sascha’s gaze moved to the crate.
The open viewing slot was empty.
Something inside shifted. Darkness moving within darkness, the undefined edges of the creature’s shape melded as one with the shadows. Every hair on Sascha’s neck stood on end when a pair of silvery eyes materialized from within the shifting veil of black. The eyes, framed by the narrow viewing slot, gazed back at him. There was no voice to accompany the beast’s stare. There was no need. Its unbridled fury transcended spoken word.
The eyes spoke of pain, of death, of an unbridled desire to wreak vengeance upon the unsuspecting world.