Prisoner (2 page)

"Do you think I care?" The prisoner sneered. "At this rate, I will die."

"No, you will not." Dieter gave the orders for his men to march, then continued to speak to the prisoner. "There is too much fight in you. A few days without water and food, and you will be begging for the chance to live."

"I would rather die than beg you for anything."

Dieter merely laughed, pleased at the thought of proving the stubborn prisoner so very, very wrong. "We shall see, prisoner, we shall see." He urged his horse to increase its pace, summoning his Chief of Staff to finalize their new route home.

Half of the Scarlet Army remained at the Regenbogen, under the control of his Commander. The rest traveled with him to the Winter Palace for the remainder of the year. The prisoner had slowed their journey, however, and the risk of more Salharans had forced the change in their usual route home. He had already lost more of the Scarlet than he liked; he would not lose more. The new route was longer, and more difficult, but less likely to be infested with Salharans.

Beside him, walking along the uneven, rocky ground, the prisoner ground his teeth, clearly displeased by what he was hearing. Dieter saw the frustration and smirked. Ordering his men away, he spoke once more to the prisoner. "Thirsty, Prisoner? We have been traveling for nearly two hours."

The prisoner said nothing. Dieter chuckled. "You will beg me before the journey ends."

"I will let death claim me first."

"I do not think so." Dieter watched him for a moment, ordering his thoughts and considering his questions. "How do you know our language so well?"

Silence. "Ah, but you are a Brother." Still the prisoner did not reply. Dieter laughed, "But no—you said they would rather die than call you Brother. Then why do you bear the mark of the Seven Star?"

"Why would you think I'd tell you?"

"You will eventually. Shall we start with your name?"

"Prisoner will suffice."

Dieter laughed. "So stubborn. I will enjoy watching you crumble. But I grow weary of calling you Prisoner. If you will not tell me your name, perhaps I should give you one."

"NO!" the prisoner shouted loud enough to startle most of the assembled men. He lowered his voice, but it was full of hate and a shred of panic. "I will never accept a name from you. Prisoner is all that you need call me."

Narrowing his eyes, Dieter spoke briefly with his aide before pulling off to the side of the camp. He dismounted and strode up to the prisoner, grasping him by the throat and pressing just hard enough for it to be painful without inhibiting his breathing. "You are my prisoner, and I shall call you what I like."

"No," the prisoner snarled, desperate and angry. "I will never respond to anything but Prisoner."

Dieter used his other hand to shove filthy, tangled strands of hair from the prisoner's face, forcing his head up for a closer examination. Beneath a sweaty, dirty face, his amber eyes shone bright with anger. Dieter smiled in a way that made most men recoil in fear. "Beraht," he said softly. "Your name is Beraht."

"I do not accept it," the prisoner said. "I would rather die."

"You keep saying that. I do not believe you," Dieter said. He released the prisoner and mounted his horse once more. "You will grow tired and hungry and weary. Already you are suffering from the lack of your precious drugs. By the time we reach camp, you will be begging me. If you want to live, accept your new name or tell me your real one."

"Never."

*~*~*

"Attack!" a scout called as he crested the hill and raced toward the traveling army. "Salharan soldiers, take cover!"

Dieter wasted no time giving orders to his troops, but the orders came too little too late to avoid disaster. In mere seconds his army was a mess, and it was all Dieter could do to keep them from being overwhelmed completely. Everywhere around him were the screams and cries of men and horses, the smell of blood and steel and fire, the air thick with fear and anger and hate.

There was something strange about it all, however. Dieter fought off attacker after attacker as his mind tried to put together the pieces that were not fitting together as they should have been. As he slew yet another foot soldier from atop his mount, he suddenly realized what was odd. They were not trying to get him. They were trying to get past him.

Dieter fought with the chains that had been secured to his pommel, then all but threw himself off his horse and shoved the prisoner to the ground as more Salharan foot soldiers attacked. His sword found its mark in the chest of the first, the throat of the second. His Chief of Staff took out the last as Salharan trumpets sounded a retreat.

"Get me the counts!" Dieter snarled to his second. Pushing himself to his feet, he yanked the prisoner up hard and shook him. "Why?" he raged. "Why are my men dying for you? Why are your own people trying to kill you?" He shook the man hard, over and over until they both were gasping for breath.

The prisoner stared at him with eyes that had darkened with fear. "We have to go. Now."

Dieter narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Now!" the prisoner screamed. In a burst of strength Dieter had not expected, the prisoner grabbed him and turned, using Dieter's own weight to throw him into the scrubby forest that separated the road from a small, muddy river. Without pause, the prisoner grabbed the reins of Dieter's horse and followed him into the trees.

Dieter struggled to his feet, but before he could the prisoner threw himself on top of Dieter and held him down as best he could. Dieter continued to struggle until a thin, high-pitched whining sound filled the air. Until that moment, he had not noticed the stark, unnatural silence that had fallen, making that sudden whining sound crystal clear. "No…" he whispered. He ceased struggling and instead began to silently recite the prayers for peace in death.

Above him, still holding Dieter down, the prisoner chanted words of his own. Not a prayer, but a spell. Dieter wondered where he had gotten the arcen to cast it.

"Protect us."

*~*~*

"They were not Salharan." It was not a question, but a statement. Dieter's voice was flat. He cursed himself a thousand times for falling for a trick he should never have let deceive him.

"No," the prisoner said. "I should have realized it sooner."

Dieter shook his head, mind in turmoil. Everyone was dead. Everything was gone. He glared hatefully at the prisoner. "Why did they want you?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me!" Dieter roared and threw himself at the prisoner, pinning him to the ground

"I don't know!" the prisoner cried, chains rattling as he struggled against Dieter's iron hold. "My own people don't care if I live or die. Why would the Illussor?" He lay still, gasping for breath, amber eyes glazed with pain. "I don't know!"

Dieter let him go with a rough cry. "I should kill you."

"It would be a mercy," the prisoner said bitterly.

"Which is why I will not." He looked pensively at the prisoner, who was examining the food over the fire. "Are you hungry?"

"I will never be hungry enough to accept your name." The prisoner looked at him with an angry frown, and Dieter would swear there was something of a pout to it.

Dieter lifted the roasting meat from the fire. He ate heartily for several minutes, offering the prisoner none. "Why are you so touchy about a simple name? It is not as though it would kill you to be called something other than prisoner. You could simply tell me your real name."

"What does it matter!" the prisoner snapped. "I am of no concern to you. At least not important enough that you need my name. A prisoner is all I am, and a prisoner is all I shall be."

Dieter considered him. "You could have escaped in the time you had after using your damned pollutions."

"Those pollutions saved your life," the prisoner replied.

"You are still my prisoner."

The prisoner hefted his chains and sneered. "So I noticed. Whatever happened to a life for a life?"

"You took the lives of my men, and the rest of them died because the Illussor wanted you. Tell me why I should not let them have you?"

"Because though the Krians hate Salhara, they hate the Illussor just as much. You will not give them what they want, especially if you think I can be used against them."

"You think you can be used to hurt them?"

The prisoner snorted, "No. But they were after me for a reason."

"A reason you claim not to know."

"I speak the truth!" the prisoner shouted, his words echoing off the rocks just behind them. "I am rejected by my Brothers and my country. I am nameless. I have no purpose."

Dieter stared at him in surprise. "How is a man nameless?"

"None of your business."

"Why did you kill my men if you have no Brother, no country, no purpose?"

"Kill a hundred of my enemies and I shall welcome thee as friend. Kill a thousand of my enemies and I shall welcome thee as Brother," the prisoner quoted softly. He looked at Dieter, eyes burning hot gold in the firelight and setting sun. "The blood of Kria is my only hope."

"Would that I could kill you," Dieter swore. "That is not what the saying means. Sacrificing my men for so selfish a purpose. I will find a fitting punishment if it is the last thing I do."

The prisoner closed his eyes and laughed. "Do your best."

*~*~*

The prisoner was dying.

Dieter had lost track of the days he had been without food or water. At least three as they traveled and one or two after his Scarlet were slaughtered and however many days they had been on the road. He held the prisoner close, expression intent as he looked at the man barely conscious in his arms. "Do you really want to die?"

"No." The prisoner stared weakly at Dieter. "But I will not accept your name. Let me be called prisoner and be content."

"No," Dieter said fiercely. He wished he could explain to them both why it mattered so much. The prisoner was right: his name should matter little to Dieter. He should not care whether the prisoner lived or died. He should want him dead after the massacre of his entire Scarlet.

Except he wanted the strange prisoner, filthy and weak and enemy that he was, to accept the name that Dieter had chosen. On some level, it mattered. Dieter had learned long ago to trust such feelings, whether he understood them or not.

"Do you want to die nameless?" he asked, sensing somehow this was the right thing to say. "Unwanted by the people who should be welcoming you as a hero? Alone in the woods in the arms of your enemy?"

A hundred emotions flickered across the prisoner's face, pain and rage and misery like shadows in his eyes.

"You are Beraht," Dieter said firmly. "Accept it."

"You don't understand—" the prisoner whispered, but the rest of his protest died on his lips. He sighed, nodding feebly. "So be it."

"Say it."

"My name is Beraht."

A sword used well will kill its enemies.

A sword used poorly will kill its wielder.

-Krian Saying

"We lost him." Dressed head to toe in clothing that seemed to blend into the room around him, a man with dark yellow eyes knelt at the foot of a dais, bowing his head at the three men seated there. "I told you not paying the ransom would be a risk."

The man seated in the middle, tall and thin and gray, spoke in a booming voice that shook the dark stone chamber in which they were gathered. His eyes were dark red. "Watch your impertinence. What do you mean we lost him?"

The kneeling man shook his head. "We followed him by tracking his magic. He has used it up. Until he takes another dose, we have lost him."

"Nonsense. Yellow lasts for weeks, and we know he took several vials with him when he left. He should have the magic in his systems for weeks yet."

"Not if he pushed himself and burned it all off," the man said quietly.

On the rightmost side, a man with deeply tanned skin and dark orange eyes moved restlessly in his seat. "Why do you think such a thing?"

The dark-clothed man motioned to the door. "I have brought a guest who will help explain."

"Bring him in, Tawn," the last man snarled. He was pale and sickly, and his hand shook as he raised it to motion the guards to open the doors. His eyes were red, so dark as to appear almost black.

Tawn nodded and rose to his feet, moving with cat-like grace to the doors and vanishing into the hallway. He returned a moment later dragging a man who he threw to the floor when he reached the dais. Gasps filled the room, and more than a few of the gathered members stumbled several steps back.

The tall gray man rose to his feet, voice booming in anger and some fear. "Why have you brought an Illussor into our stronghold?"

Tawn grinned, an expression that made those closest to him shudder, and stepped forward to lift the man up so that they could see his face. The Illussor's skin was a pale, almost silvery white in the light of the candelabra that fought off the darkness of the windowless chamber. His hair was the same, shining like fine silver.