A Mage's Odyssey Ch's 3-4

Chapter III

The sun was already showing its bright face upon Rhilwen when Kuric woke the next morning. Feeling rejuvenated from yesterdays work, he eagerly jumped out of bed to start the new day’s tasks.
When Kuric had come home the previous night, he made up a story about how he had gotten lost on the northeast side of town to avoid another punishment from his father. It wasn’t difficult for Kuric’s father to believe the lie, since they had moved to the vast city less than a year ago and it was understandable that Kuric was not completely familiar with the many streets and alleyways. After Kuric had explained his whereabouts, his father informed him that tomorrow he didn’t have to work in the shop, but was to go to the market to buy another week’s worth of food and other provisions.
He dressed himself, placed his dagger within the folds of his tunic, and made his way to the kitchen where his father had left him a small purse of money atop the table. Kuric grabbed the purse and emptied the coins into his hand to count on his way out of the door.
Kuric walked for several blocks until he turned and passed through the door to the public baths. It was late in the morning and aside from the few townsfolk, the baths were quiet and empty. He timidly undressed and stepped down into the warm soothing water. After soaking comfortably for a half hour, Kuric dried his damp skin, dressed, and started toward the market.
As Kuric entered, the market was booming with noise as the sound of transactions and idle conversation filled the air. Vendors displayed their goods while townsfolk gathered to obtain this week’s necessities.
Kuric bartered with the many vendors in the marketplace for more than two hours until he had finally purchased all of the necessary items. He bought everything he and his father needed and still had a gold ten-piece left in his pocket. Kuric decided that he would tell his father that he spent all of the Tirins in the market, and keep the money as a reward for his good bartering skills.
With sacks from the day’s purchases hanging over Kuric’s shoulders, he gradually made his way back to his home as he watched the clouds roll in from the east, casting a gloom over the immense city. He arrived at his house and put away all of the supplies into their designated places. With almost an entire half-day left to himself, he wondered as to what he would do next. The idea came to him quickly since he had just met his new friend the previous night. He would go visit Kitt.
Kuric ate a late lunch and then headed through the door to his destination, the Azure Wolf Inn. He remembered passing by it a few times during the walks through the city that he so often took pleasure in. The clouds had entirely engulfed the sky and although it was still bright, the sun was no longer visible. Kuric continued his journey; walking the busy streets of Rhilwen, enjoying his freedom from the rigors of the blacksmith shop.
He decided to take a shortcut through the adjacent allies and took an immediate left turn. Kuric noticed the waste and debris that filled the alley and was careful to watch his step. He walked along, stepping in-between each piece of trash, when he heard something rustling near him. After stopping to see what was making such a noise, someone spoke to him.
“Have ye’ come to arrest me?” a raspy voice inquired.
Kuric could see the man who had spoken to him trying to get to his feet. He noticed the many empty bottles that lie in a heap next to the worn and tattered blankets that apparently were used for a bed. The man that spoke to him was covered in dirt from head to toe. He had long greasy hair and wore clothes that were old and ragged. Kuric wasn’t sure if the man was completely sane and thought of what would be the best reply.
“No, I was just-” Kuric was cut off.
“Cause e’m not gonna le’ yoo!” the man erupted.
Kuric barely understood the slurred dialogue and realized the man must be very drunk, or very insane, or both.
“I’m not a guard! I’m only a boy and I’m not here to arrest anyone!” Kuric stated impatiently.
The man bent down looking for something in his blankets as he spoke.
“Yoo guards ‘ave been chasin me long time an ye’ never can catch me. Why don’ yoo leave myself alone!” the man yelled furiously.
“My name is Kuric. I’m not a guard. I’m just a boy. Do you understand? I’m just a boy!” Kuric explained.
The man stood up quickly after finding the dirk he had been searching for. Kuric could see the blade was old and had a brownish red tint from many years of corrosion. Upon witnessing the man arm himself, Kuric instinctively pulled out the dagger Kitt had given him.
“I’ll kill ye’ before yoo take me in, ye’ bastard!” the man barked.
The man leapt and thrust the dirk at the boy whom he believed to be a city guard. Fear had instantly swept over Kuric as he became conscious of the possibility that he could die in this quarrel. For how drunk and sloppy the man was, Kuric was also amazed at how he could still be so quick and agile. As the blade came at his chest with surprising speed, Kuric barely sidestepped in time to avoid the fatal blow. Immediately Kuric’s attacker whirled the dirk around for another attack. Adrenaline poured through Kuric as he evaded, more easily this time, his opponents assault. Seeing an opening in the drunken man’s defenses, Kuric took this opportunity to counterattack. He lunged his dagger toward his assailant’s chest as the man back-stepped, narrowly escaping the tip of Kuric’s weapon. Kuric had both hoped and expected his blade to slice the man’s chest and stumbled sideways as his dagger hit only air. He immediately glanced back to see what his opponent’s next move would be. Kuric, who was too intently gazing upon his attacker’s dirk, was struck with a right fist to his face. Feeling intense pain and disorientation from the blow, Kuric stumbled backward and tripped over an old chicken crate. Falling rapidly to the ground, Kuric lost his grip on his dagger and heard it clank against the stone less than a second before his body came crashing down. Kuric lay there helplessly on his back utterly fearing the death that silently awaited him.
As he struggled to get up, his assailant pounced on top of him. Kuric grabbed the man’s arm that held the dagger as the tip of the blade inched closer and closer to his chest. With all of his might Kuric worked to keep his attacker’s blade away from his body but, even though the man was drunk, he was still much stronger than Kuric. As the blade pressed against Kuric’s tunic, slowly piercing his skin, he frantically searched with his free hand for his dagger. The blade sank deeper into Kuric’s flesh as he grasped hold of a short slender piece of metal. Realizing that he had located the blade of his weapon, Kuric shifted the dagger around and grabbed hold of the hilt. He brought the dagger up with force as the blade bit deep into the drunken man’s shoulder. A short, deep moan of pain escaped the man’s mouth. Pushing the man off of him, Kuric climbed to his feet.
Turning around to face his opponent again, Kuric’s aggressor had already thrust his blade through the air towards Kuric’s face. Kuric had no time to react as he saw death racing toward him in the form of an iron dirk. The blade, now inches from Kuric’s face, suddenly halted as if there had been a wall between the rusted dirk and himself. Both opponents, dazed by the abrupt halt of the blades mid air flight, Kuric was the first to recover from the stupor and seized his chance. He held his dagger blade-up in his hand and speared the man through his stomach with all of the force he could muster.
The man left out a soft cry of defeat, dropping his dirk to the earth. Kuric could feel the man’s warm blood that began to pour over his hand. He pulled the dagger from his foe’s abdomen. Kuric’s enemy seemed so helpless and fragile as he slowly sank to his knees. The man looked up at him with sadness in his eyes. They told the story of his defeat.
“End it,” the man whispered.
Kuric reached back gathering his strength and impaled his adversary through the throat. Within seconds, the man’s body went limp and sank to the ground. He was dead.
Kuric felt the pain not only from the injury he had sustained from this battle, but the pain one receives from killing another human being. But along with that pain, Kuric experienced another emotion. It was a feeling of excitement and joy. It was a feeling of justice and righteousness. Kuric inhaled a deep well-deserved breath while assailant could not. Kuric was victorious.
He looked up with a smirk on his face and saw, standing at the end of the alleyway, that an old man with a long white beard wearing vibrant colored robes smirked back at him. It was then that Kuric understood why the drunken man’s dirk had stopped just before plummeting into his face. The old man in robes had stopped it. But how, he wondered? The answer came to him just as the man I robes had, unexpectedly. The answer was magic.
It all made sense to Kuric now. The old man had used magic to stop the dirk from killing him. That also explained the oddly colored robes. Kuric had heard stories when he was younger from his father about wizards who wore robes of many vibrant colors and hues. The man Kuric was looking at was indeed a wizard of some sort.
Almost as quickly as the wizard had come, he walked out of Kuric’s view from the alleyway.
“Hold on!” Kuric pleaded as he took off into a sprint towards the end of the alley.
Kuric ran out into the middle of the street and looked in the direction the old man had walked, but to no avail, the wizard could not be found. Kuric looked around the street, frantically searching for the old man who had twice now suddenly disappeared. With no hope of finding the wizard, Kuric looked up at the building that stood before him, which in big black letters said: Azure Wolf Inn. Although Kuric could not read, he knew this was the place Kitt had spoke of.
A bloody dagger still clutched in his hands, Kuric entered the inn, searching for his friend. He saw her bringing drinks to a group of men sitting at one of the many round tables and screamed her name.
“Kitt!”
Kitt, and everyone else, instantly looked to where the scream had come from. It didn’t take long for everyone to notice the blood that covered Kuric’s dagger and right hand. A man sitting at the table pulled out his dagger from the small scabbard on his belt to protect himself and anyone else this boy might attack next. Kitt gently put her hand on the man’s arm that held the dagger and shook her head. The man understandingly sheathed his dagger without any further persuasion.
“Kuric! What happened?” Kitt asked demandingly.
Kuric hurriedly walked over to her and started to talk in a quick and panicky tone.
“Kuric, slow down. Everything’s going to be alright, just slow down,” Kitt reassured.
Kuric took a few deep breaths and told his story. It took only a few minutes to explain everything and after he had finished, the man behind the bar ran out of the inn.
“Come with me Kuric, let’s get you cleaned up,” Kitt said as she led Kuric to the back room of the inn.
Kitt took Kuric’s dagger away and washed it for him while Kuric rinsed his hands in a large bowl of water.
“Take off your tunic,” Kitt insisted.
“What!” Kuric asked surprised.
“So I can clean the wound you idiot!” Kitt stated, shaking her head as she smiled.
Kuric took off his tunic feeling a little embarrassed and sat still as Kitt cleaned the wound with a wet cloth.
“This is going to hurt,” was all the forewarning Kitt would give before wrapping the cloth around her finger and shoving it into the opening that the dirk had made. Kuric let out a small cry of pain before clenching his teeth and watching Kitt work. Still in great pain, Kuric forced himself to be silent while Kitt ran her finger up and down the insides of his wound to extract any rust or other pieces of debris.
“There, all done,” Kitt notified.
“Thank you,” Kuric said politely.
Kitt nodded her head while Kuric put his tunic back on.
“You still will have to visit the healer to make sure it doesn’t get infected and heals properly,” Kitt informed, “Come on, I’ll take you.”
They left the inn and headed down the street walking at a quick steady pace. After traveling a few feet from the door of the inn, Kuric looked down the alley where his battle had occurred and saw three guards investigating the scene. He wondered to himself what would happen now.
Kuric and the girl thief made their way through town until they finally arrived at the door of the healer, Jer’Rasha. They entered and were welcomed by the humble woman. Kuric saw that Jer’Rasha was a tall, brown skinned woman with long curly black hair and a sweet and kind personality. Kuric did what he was told and removed his tunic to let Jer’Rasha gently apply healing salve to his wound. When she agreed with the quality of her work, the healer bandaged the wound and Kuric dressed in his tunic once again.
“That will be ten Tirins, child,” Jer’Rasha politely informed.
Kuric remembered that he had money in his pocket that was left over from the market that morning. He dug in his pocket, but before he could pull out his gold coin, Kit had already placed two silver coins in Jer’Rasha’s hand. Kuric immediately started to protest.
“Kitt, I can’t let you-” Kuric was cut off after Kitt had thrown her hand over his mouth.
Kitt leaned close to him and whispered in his ear with a smirk on her face.
“It’s the Griffin’s money, Kuric.”
Kuric took part in the humor as a grin crept along his mouth.
“Thank you Jer’Rasha,” Kuric said approvingly.
“Your welcome, child,” the healer replied.
As Kuric and Kitt walked out of the door from Jer’Rasha’s humble home, they saw, standing in the street before them, three city guards and the bartender from the Azure Wolf Inn. Kuric recognized two of the three guards as Lieutenant Hagart Umsil and Sergeant Ryte. He didn’t know why the guards were there, but for some reason he felt scared like he had done something wrong.
“Kuric, we’re taking you to the guard’s keep for questioning. Come with us,” Hagart ordered.
Kuric looked at Kitt.
“Will you tell my father what has happened and where they are taking me?” Kuric pleaded.
“Yes. We’ll get everything straightened out. Don’t worry,” Kitt assured.
“Thank you,” Kuric said before walking down the steps of Jer’Rasha’s home to join the guards.
The bartender who obviously had informed the guards of the squabble between Kuric and the drunkard departed back to the inn. Sergeant Ryte proceeded to bind Kuric’s hands with a rope. Kuric looked at Hagart who told him that it was standard procedure and he had nothing to worry about. Kuric already felt like a prisoner in the binding rope and wondered why any of this was happening when all he did was defend himself.
It was a long walk to the keep and with each step Kuric become more hungry and thirsty. The clouds had become dark a while ago and now rain now fell lightly upon the city. After walking for almost an hour Kuric and the guards arrived at the keep. The huge stone building rose high into the air as Kuric felt small and insignificant beneath it.
The group entered the keep and the guards immediately brought Kuric up many flights of stairs until they entered a large office with shelves upon which sat many books. There was one chair facing a large oak desk behind which there sat a small fair skinned man. The guard unknown to Kuric indicated that he should sit in the empty chair. Kuric did as he was told and quickly sat down.
“Farthor sir, this is Kuric, son of Arik the blacksmith, charged with murder,” Lieutenant Umsil informed.
Fear suddenly coursed through Kuric. He had been charged with murder. He thought to himself what would happen to him. Would he be executed for this alleged crime?
“Son,” the fair skinned man spoke, “my name is Rolan Farthor. I’m a major in the Duke’s army and the chief magistrate here in Rhilwen. Your very life depends on what you tell me here and now. What happened in that alley?”
Kuric, fear pumping through his veins, shakily began telling his story when he was cut off by the noisy entrance of another guard. Kuric saw Colonel Barrit Griffin, in full uniform this time, walk through the door and then over to Major Farthor. Griffin bent down and whispered something in Farthor’s ear, then glanced over at Kuric distastefully. Farthor gave a short nod and Griffin walked out of the room.
“As you were saying,” Farthor spoke to Kuric.
Kuric then started his story over, explaining every detail of the event down to the absolute smallest detail. When he was finished, Farthor hesitated for a moment before he spoke.
“Well,” Farthor began, “We’ll need some time before we can straighten all of this out. You’ll spend the night in the city jail until we can address this matter on the morrow. Good day to you.”
Sergeant Ryte grabbed Kuric’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Lieutenant Umsil stayed behind to talk to Farthor while the other two guards led Kuric down many staircases and through several doors to the room that contained the holding cells. The entire room smelt like body odor and human waste from the inmates. Sergeant Ryte untied the rope binding Kuric’s hands and threw him in a cell to himself.
Kuric leaned against the cold stone wall and sank to the floor as tears of despair ran down his cheeks. He lay there for hours until a meal of vegetable soup and moldy bread was brought to him. Refusing to eat the bread, Kuric tasted the soup. It was disgusting but he ate it all, knowing that he would have no other option.
Kuric laid in his cell thinking about how he had gotten into this situation and how he could get out. What did his father think of him now? What did Kitt think of him? Who was the wizard and why had he been following him? What was going to happen tomorrow? Would he be sentenced to death?
Tears again began to fill Kuric’s eyes. He knew crying however, was not going to get him out of that cell. He needed to get a grip. Tomorrow, everything would be straightened out, he told himself. Tomorrow, he would be back in his father’s forge repairing swords and horseshoes. He would repair all of the horseshoes in the world if he could just go home.
Kuric slowly drifted off to sleep thinking that, tomorrow, everything would be back to normal.


Chapter IV

The next morning, Kuric woke with a start as the dungeon doors flew open, slamming against the stone wall. Kuric, still dazed from being abruptly roused from his sleep, slowly pulled himself to his feet. Despite the stench of the jail, he fell asleep quickly the night before and now remembered everything that had happened. He wiped the dried tears from his eyes as his surroundings slowly came into focus.
Footsteps moved hastily from the down the hallway toward him. Soon, the footstep’s owner came into view and Kuric was looking upon his father and Kitt.
“I came as soon as Kitt told me, Kuric, but the guards said we would have to wait until morning to see you,” Arik explained. “She also told me the whole story about what happened in that alley and you did exactly what you should have done - You defended yourself.”
“The magistrate is going to find you guilty, Kuric,” Kitt informed. “I have heard from my superiors that Barrit Griffin has offered Rolan Farthor three thousand Tirins to somehow find you guilty of murder. I don’t know how they’re going to do it but believe me, they will.
“Which is why we have to get you out of here,” Arik said in a serious tone. “Not now, but we will wait until after the sentencing to buy us some time to come up with a plan. Until then, you have to sit here and act as if we have never discussed such matters. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Kuric replied. He looked at both Kitt and his father with grand appreciation. “Thank you.”
Kitt gave a short nod. “I almost forgot, your father thought it would be best to bring you some food,” she said. She brought out a sack and handed it to Kuric, which he took eagerly.
“We can’t stay here any longer, Kuric,” Arik said, “we have a lot of people to talk to and planning to do if we’re going to make this work. Remember what I told you about acting like nothing is going to happen. Be ready for us at any time after the sentencing.”
Kuric’s father and Kitt said their goodbyes and left the jail. Kuric now felt a sense of excitement and anticipation. Everything seemed to be happening so fast. Only two days ago Kuric was working with his father in the forge and yesterday he had just gone to the market. Now, he was waiting for his sentencing while sitting on the floor of his cell in the dungeon, preparing for his escape.
A few hours had past when the dungeon doors flew open again. This time, however, the guards had come to take Kuric to the magistrate’s office. They unlocked the door and Kuric stepped out of the cell, his hands shackled this time, they led him up the many flights of stairs until arriving at Major Farthor’s door.
The guards led him inside and sat him down in the same chair as before. The office looked exactly as it had before. Everything was in its proper place and nothing had a single particle of dust upon it. Kuric, a bit more relaxed now in contrast to the last time he was in this office, could tell how extremely clean and tidy the magistrate was. Farthor’s small frail form was stationed behind the large oak desk while his hands scribbled intensely across a long piece of parchment with a long feathered quill.
Kuric sat in silence for a few minutes before his father entered the room followed by a couple men who clearly were not guards. These men did not wear the mail armor with the blue wolf engraved on the breastplate that was mandatory among the guards, but rather they were dressed as common townsfolk with the exception of being quite a bit filthier.
A third man wearing the same dingy garb entered the room carrying a pile of long chains that turned into clasps with screws on the ends to prevent escape. Kuric’s coolness drained from him when saw the chains and immediately understood that they were not mere chains, but shackles – and they were for him. These men were guards, not guardians of a city, but guards of a prison.
Although Kuric already wore a pair of shackles around his wrists, he knew that they would soon be replaced confirming his future of imprisonment. Kuric looked to his father for reassurance but found none when his father refused to return his gaze. Farthor finished his task and began rolling up the parchment as Colonel Barrit Griffin entered, followed by three guards who Kuric assumed were the ones responsible for investigating the scene.
Farthor set down his quill, finished rolling up his parchment, and tucked it neatly within the drawer of his desk. He then took out another, smaller piece of parchment before he spoke.
“Everyone seems to be present, we shall continue with the proceedings,” he said smoothly. “Yesterday, the accused told his story. Today, I will hear that of the guards in charge of the investigation. Since Captain Nathan Taryx is the commanding officer, I think we can all agree that his testimony will speak for both himself and his colleagues. Captain Taryx, what have you found?”
Kuric sat uncomfortably in his chair as Taryx stepped forward and humbly addressed Farthor.
“Sir, after many hours of investigation, we have determined that although it is possible that the deceased instigated the fight, no weapon was found on or near his body. With no weapon found to provoke the accused to deal with the situation in the manner he did, this clearly cannot be self-defense, but murder.”
Taryx told Farthor all of the necessary lies in a smooth flowing motion of perfectly articulated words. Without the hope his father had given him of escape, Kuric would have broken down and cried right there as he knew well that his doom was fast approaching. Instead, he sat in his chair, his eye’s burning into Barrit Griffin’s soul, the man who had put an abrupt end to Kuric’s future regardless of what it may have held in store.
“In light of the guard’s findings, I find thee Kuric guilty of murder,” Farthor said in a serious tone. “In the duchy of Duke Garrington, such a crime is punishable by death. However, since you have not yet come of age, for your crimes you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Pant’Raqkan. Good day.”
The grungy man with the shackles made his way over to the chair where he replaced one pair of shackles for another. Kuric, now completely defenseless, stood up and reluctantly began his walk to the door. While being guided by the prison guards, he passed Griffin who was trying to hide his foul smirk.
Stepping out of the keep and into the warm afternoon sun, Kuric was forced into an old coach with bars in the windows to thwart all possibilities of escape. Looking through the bars, Kuric could see four armed guards on horseback ready to escort him to Pant’Raqkan.
The old stories told of prisons where there was no hope of escape. Townsfolk said they could easily withstand being besieged by an army of five thousand. The inmates were beaten so severely that they either grew accustomed to the pain or died. There were only two prisons like this in the stories Kuric had heard – Hiydenak and Pant’Raqkan.
The coach suddenly jerked forward and Kuric’s journey began toward a future of endless captivity. From what Kuric knew of this prison, it was built in the deep valley of Feaorwenn’Sigilh. Many stories were told about this place for it is believed that the name itself is derived from the Tongue of Aeons when translated meaning ‘Xolk’s Fury.’
It is said that thousands of years ago a great elven city called Awennon warred with their dwarven enemies in the dwarf capital of Hith’ran’gar. Awennon’s armies had many fine eleven soldiers, archers, and sorcerers, but were slaughtered by the might and numbers of the dwarves. Back in Awennon, the women, children, and elderly blamed their defeat on Xolk, the god of war. They continued to insult Xolk, calling him a false god and preaching to others that he did not exist. In retaliation, the god of war used his vast powers to strike down Awennon and all of its inhabitants. So fierce was Xolk’s attack, that it left an enormous valley and the ruins of Awennon in its place. Thousands of years later after the ruins of Awennon had long been buried by rock and soil, King Derrick IV ordered a prison to be built in its place.
The coach rattled on until the sun fell below the horizon and the moon shown bright without a cloud in the sky. The air became chilled as noises could be heard from the nocturnal creatures that were free to go about their lives. Kuric curled up in one corner of the coach in an attempt to trap his own body heat. His stomach growled angrily from the lack of nourishment. He could only sit there and dream about what a normal life would be like. He now realized what was most important to him all along he had taken for granted – his freedom. He laid back and let the friendly touch of sleep overcome him.
He woke as shouting came from close by and the sound of clanging steel rang through the night air. Kuric quickly rose and peered out of the barred windows but did not find what he was desperately searching for. His father was nowhere to be seen and the shouts were coming from the coach driver and guards. He realized that the coach had arrived at its destination and a large steel gate was opening noisily. The driver snapped the horses’ reins and the coach rattled into the courtyard of Pant’Raqkan.
What seemed to have been only a few minutes of sleep were actually more than a couple hours. Kuric was still in a dreary state as the driver finally brought the coach to a stop. He sat for a few seconds trying to bring himself to full consciousness when the door of the coach swung open and two large men pulled him out onto the dirt of the large courtyard.
“Wake up boy,” came a rough voice.
Kuric stood as best he could and looked up at the two men. One was of average size with dark brown greasy hair that stopped at shoulder length. His face covered in dirt and his clothes dingy and worn, Kuric assumed this man probably dealt directly with the inmates. The other man was much larger with a black goatee surrounding his lips and engulfing his chin. His head was shaved completely and he wore the same grimy attire as the other man.
A faint light could be seen just off the horizon in the east, signaling the beginning of a new day. The two men led Kuric through a large wooden door into what seemed to be an office. The office had no books like the magistrates but rather many instruments of torture and pain, many of which Kuric had never seen nor could he imagine what they were used for. Sharp blades, needle points, blunt objects, things that pulled, things that pushed, and even things that ripped flesh off of men for over hundreds of years lined the walls. Behind an old worn out desk there sat a husky man with a cleanly shaven face and long dark hair enveloped in a ponytail.
The two guards led Kuric to the desk where they stopped and held Kuric firmly in place. The man stood and slowly made his way around the desk until he was face to face with Kuric.
“Hello Koric. My name is Ardon Gar’an,” he said with a hint of dark sarcasm. I am the warden here at Pant’Raqkan and let me be the first to welcome you to our humble establishment.”
Kuric knew that this man would have no compassion or mercy for anyone who crossed his path. His speech was formal and nicely articulated. Kuric wondered if he might be of nobility. This man, aside from Barrit Griffin and the magistrate, would be responsible for whatever happened to him in the very near future. Kuric thought quickly and decided he would have better chances of survival if he never insulted or even disagreed with the man who stood before him.
“Kuric sir. My name is Kuric.”
The warden leaned close to him and gently whispered in Kuric’s ear.
“Ah, you will very soon see, my boy, that here, your name doesn’t matter. In time, you’ll probably forget it anyway.”
Gar’an smiled wide and let out a short chuckle before addressing Kuric again.
“The large man on your right is Cahz and the smaller man on your left is Jerot. If I were you, and I’m glad I’m not, I would do what they say and stay out of their way as much as possible. Trust me, for your own sake.”
“Gentlemen, Take young Kuric here to his cell,” Gar’an ordered, “and be sure to give him a proper welcome.”
Cahz and Jerot then led Kuric out of the warden’s office and down two flights of stairs into a vast hallway containing dozens of thick wooden doors. The doors had small windows big enough to stick a head through if it weren’t for the bars obstructing the way and preventing escape. Torches lined the walls and at the end of the hallway was a door larger than the rest but lacking a window.
Jerot walked ahead as Cahz pushed Kuric down the hallway toward the door. Jerot opened the door and all three of them stepped inside. Kuric let out a gasp and tried to step backwards but only succeeded in bumping into Cahz’s burly chest. Cahz gave Kuric a small grunt and tightly grasped Kuric’s arms.
Kuric looked around the room at all of the strange contraptions. Hundreds of years of blood stained this room. The red blood of men but also the blood of other creatures, some black, some silver. Tools used for this kind of work sat on benches on the other side of the room. Contraptions used to pull men apart, cut limbs off, and other devices that kill slowly were all located in this single room of pain. Just the smell of it made Kuric cringe, made him fear. It was the smell of over hundreds of years of death.
“Kuric, this room is part of our rehabilitation program,” Jerot informed with an evil grin, “You see, the best way to make people realize that what they did was wrong, is to give them time to think about it while inflicting upon them the very same kind of pain that they inflicted upon others.”
Fear coursed through Kuric’s veins. He accepted that there would be no escape from this. It was inevitable. He decided to keep any dignity he still had and remained silent. Cahz took off Kuric’s shackles only to immediately replace them with ones that were chained to the wall. Jerot pulled a knife off of the bench and proceeded to cut down the middle of Kuric’s tunic. Cahz pulled off the tunic and Kuric now stood bare-chested with his hands shackled above his head. He was completely defenseless and never wanted to feel that emotion again in his life.
“Shall we begin then,” Jerot inquired.
He pulled out a very small knife and started to make small incisions in Kuric’s chest. Kuric felt the warmth of his own blood as it seeped from the wounds. He screamed and struggled to free himself from the pain but found no solace.
For almost an hour Jerot and Cahz used different tools on Kuric’s flesh while tuning out his cries. Where Kuric once stood he now hung from the shackles that bound him. He remembered back to the alley and the look in the man’s eyes just before he killed him. He remembered that miserable look of defeat and he knew that he now possessed that same look in his eye. “End it,” that man had said. Kuric now had a full understanding of what that man had felt. He hoped to all the gods that his captors would just end it as he had.
Kuric woke up on the hard stone floor of a cell somewhere within the depths of Pant’Raqkan. Every movement he made caused him more pain than he had ever experienced, with the exception of the previous night. After a few minutes of debating with himself, despite the pain, Kuric pulled himself to a sitting position and leaned against the wall next to the cell door. The room was small and made completely out of stone except for the wooden door. A small barred window on the far side of the cell allowed for half the room to be softly lit. The other half was shadowed, but Kuric could guess what was there. The same thing on his side of the cell – a stone wall and floor.
Kuric looked down at his naked torso and saw the scars from the night before. These scars he would carry with him for the rest of his life and there would probably be many more to follow. Where were Kitt and his father? Would he ever be rescued from this hell? His thoughts were interrupted by the steady sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Kuric quickly threw himself back into the position he woke in and closed his eyes.
The door to his cell opened and two men entered carrying two small bowls of soup and a loaf of moldy bread.
“Still hasn’t woken yet,” one man stated, “Probably should let him rest. Cahz and Jerot sure gave him a beating last night.”
“Yeah, if he dies, he won’t get the pleasure of next months rehabilitation,” the second man chuckled.
The men set the soup and bread on the stone floor and made their way toward the door.
“What are you looking at? You know, I think your entire race is nothing but hideous beasts. If I had my way I’d have all of the armies in the kingdom hunt every last one of you down.”
The door finally closed and Kuric could still hear the men talking as their footsteps died away. He sat up again and lifted one of the bowls to his lips. He let the warm liquid pour down his throat. It was absolutely disgusting. Spitting the soup all over the wall, he set the bowl back on the floor.
“Drink it. It’s all you’ll get,” came a deep beastly voice.
Startled, Kuric looked around to find the source of the voice as a tall muscular yithian stepped out of the shadows. Kuric could feel the fear rush through his entire body. He tried to scream but couldn’t. He tried to run to the door but found his legs wouldn’t answer his request. He was sitting in front of the same kind of creature that had brutally murdered his mother only a few years ago. With nowhere to run and no weapon with which to defend himself, Kuric bowed his head and accepted his fate.
The yithian walked over to him, bent down, and grabbed the piece of bread. Kuric, wondering why he wasn’t already dead, looked up at the creature in confusion. The yithian had dark green skin with long gray and white hair on both its head and its face. Large ivory fangs protruded from the bottom of its mouth and where earrings once hung from its ears were now scars. Men like Cahz and Jerot had clearly ripped them out. The yithian broke the bread in half and set one of the halves back on the floor. It then picked up a bowl of soup and walked back to the shadows where it sat. Kuric could hear the beast slurping up the soup. He was in shock. The beast had just grabbed some food and walked away.
Not sure what to do or say next, Kuric decided to simply ask the beast why it hadn’t killed him.
“Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”
“Trust me human, I still have that chance. But, it wouldn’t do me any good to kill you. They’d probably just leave your corpse in here to rot and make my life more miserable.”
“I thought yithians were unintelligent creatures. Your supposed to just kill everything,” Kuric informed.
“Yithians are unintelligent creatures, but since I am obviously intelligent enough to talk to a young fool like you, then I am not a yithian am I? I am an orc,” the creature said somewhat irritated.
“Aren’t orcs and yithians cousins,” Kuric dared to ask.
“That is a fact, although that doesn’t mean we like it.”
“What is your name?”
“Dreg Gerzhab of the Bloodshed Clan.
“Orcs have clans?”
“There is much you don’t know about us, human. That is partly because your people don’t want to know, and partly because my people don’t like to be watched and studied like we’re some kind of animal.”
“How did you come to live in Pant’Raqkan?”
“There will be much we can talk about in time. I am eager to talk just as much as you are, but it can wait for now. We have all the time we need to talk – the rest of our lives in fact. It is unusual that you are here. They only allow one per cell, but the cells must all be full. Tonight I will leave you for a while and we shall talk when I return. Until then, be silent, for I must prepare my mind and body.”
Kuric did not speak another word to Dreg. Later that evening, the guards came and took him away. Kuric didn’t know where for sure, but he had a good idea. His idea was confirmed when the deep earthshaking growls could be heard from a room behind a thick wooden door at the end of the hall.
Dreg was carried back into the cell four hours later. His green skin turned black from his own blood, Dreg lie motionless on the floor. Kuric knew what the orc just went through and hoped that he was now sulking in the comforts of death. But as Kuric watched Dreg’s torso move slightly with each breath he knew that the beast was not enjoying such a luxury.
Nothing was said that night. Kuric knew that it would be far too strenuous for Dreg to find words. Instead he decided that he would talk to him in the morning. He lay down in the corner of the cell as the cool night air surged in from the window. As the night grew colder Kuric found it all the more difficult to find sleep. That night he thought of his mother and his home back in Gnilos, then drifted into an uneasy sleep.