Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven

A scream pieced the air. Florine drew her sword and rushed into the depths of the cave, where some men had been exploring. One man, a locksmith before being drafted into Theodore’s army, was as pale as fresh snow and he stood pointing at the tunnel in front of him.

A robbed figure appeared with a wide smile.

“I knew you would come.”

Florine dropped her sword and wrapped him in a hug. Salmor’s hair, usually brilliant white, was dirty and tangled and his robes smelled as if they had not been laundered in some time.

“I thought you were in the palace,” Florine said.

“I fled days ago.” Salmor shook his head. “It was no longer safe.”

“Tell me everything,” she insisted, leading him to a section of the wall where stone jutted out enough for them to sit somewhat comfortably.

The old fairy took a moment to observe the soldiers. “I had hoped you would come with a larger army,” he said.

“I can assure you that these men will fight their best,” Burn said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“That’s what worries me.” Salmor shook his head. “No matter, we will make due with what we have.”

“How many of the Legion are here?” Florine asked. Salmor was old, even for a fairy, and his mind tended to wander from time to time.

“Not many of the fairies,” he said. “There are Legion guards but most retreated to the coast, and from what I heard, they’re planning a large attack on Normar.”

“I have some good news from the south, at least.” Florine told him of Armaila and Shera.

Salmor clapped his hands together and smiled. “That is wonderful news! I should hope to see the order of dragons and riders restored. Wouldn’t that be magnificent?” His frown returned and worry clouded his face. “There is a considerable storage of food inside the palace, and it was still there when I left. I think Azghar means to keep it as a reserve for his army, to return to as war drags on in Erithor.”

Florine had to admit, it was a good strategy. Azghar had effectively destroyed most of their food production in Erithor, and now he could feed his own army while Theodore’s starved.

Their conversation delved into less serious topics and Florine felt more at ease than she had in a long while, despite her growing apprehension over the war and the fate of her people. Being with Salmor brought back good memories from a simpler time.

Eventually, Salmor busied himself with inspecting the troop's weapons, criticizing them for the poor care they had taken of the metal. The old fairy had been a weapons smith for many centuries, and nothing infuriated him more than an ill-kept blade. Florine had a special dagger he had gifted her years ago that remained in the palace safe because she was too afraid to use it for fear of incurring his wrath if she damaged the weapon.

Florine waited until night fell and then she slipped outside into the cold air. She had told no one of her plan, even—especially—Salmor. Infiltrating the palace was as dangerous as it was important, and she would not put others’ lives at risk. Salmor was too old and the men too clumsy.

She kept to the edge as much as possible to avoid the burning torches. There was a small section of the palace that remained in partial shadow, and that was her best way in.

The walls were smooth so she used a rope with a crude hook fastened from a chipped dagger. After several attempts, it caught on something above and she was able to ascend.

Memories flooded back in a rush as she walked through the ancient halls. She knew the way to the throne room by heart, even without any light. She had spent many nights pacing by the door, waiting for her mother to finish whatever urgent business she had to attend to as queen.

Tapestries that hung on the walls were covered in a fine layer of dust. She almost dared not to breath, for fear the sound would echo.

The room had not changed since last she was in it. The golden throne stood proudly in front of a blue and green tapestry of the waterfalls that surrounded the city. Silken curtains hung over the windows, stirred by the slight breeze from a window left ajar. By comparison, Normar’s castle was a small, dingy hut, nothing more than a building to be used for storage.

A hand slipped roughly across Florine’s waist as a dagger pressed against her throat.

“I've been expecting you,” a voice whispered. It reminded her of ice—the kind that floated up from the bottom of a river in spring, dirty and covered in silt but still as cold as death. It brought back almost as many memories as the halls.

It was the voice of Azghar.

He had wanted her to come, and she had played right into his hand. Again.

“Come,” he demanded. He dragged her down the hall and through the kitchen to the cellar door, where the finest foods and wines were kept.

The descent was steep. The passageway was narrow, and completely dark. Seizing an opportunity, she thrust her weight into Azghar, knocking him against the wall. He groaned but didn’t loosen his grip on either her or the dagger.

“Try that again and I'll cut your throat.”

He held her tightly the rest of the way down, making another escape attempt impossible. As a former dragon rider and a fairy, Azghar was strong.

The cellar had been emptied of its contents, including shelves that once housed wheels of cheese, cured cuts of meat, and crates of fruit and vegetables. A dim torch burned on a table, and there were two chairs. A chest sat in one corner, though Florine didn't care to speculate as to its contents.

“What do you want?” she demanded. He had been in her head once, and she was determined not to let it happen again.

Azghar shoved her forwards. She fell against the cold stone, but picked herself up quickly and spun to face him. His features had hardened over the years. They were sharp, like chiseled stone, and cruel. His hair, a dark blond color, was tangled and flattened, suggesting he had worn a helmet recently. To humans, he would appear no older than thirty, as she did.

“It's good to see you again,” he said. The corners of his mouth curled into a small smile.

Florine didn't respond.

“Please, have a seat.” Azghar pointed to a chair with the dagger blade.

Florine knew the blade well—it was a decorative piece with a black dragon-bone handle and ruby pommel, the same as Salmor had made her years before. Yet it was not the exact same, with a curve that was unfamiliar.

Florine lowered herself into the seat. “Tallon didn’t deserve to die.”

Azghar sighed deeply. “I know you loved him, but he did not love you back. He was a cheater and liar, and I did you a favor.”

“You’re the only liar.” She struggled to remain calm, unwilling to let him have control over her emotions. “Sending me his head was beyond cruel.”

“I admit that may have crossed a line,” Azghar said. He took a chair in front of her so that their eyes were level. “You, as part of the Ravens, had caused me a lot of trouble at that time. I was acting out more than I should have.”

Florine waited in silence.

After several minutes, Azghar walked to the trunk and opened it. He retrieved a small leather pouch with a glass vial inside. “I promise you that tonight is business only. I have questions about Theodore that you will answer.” He returned to the chair in front of her. “What do you know of his research into the missing bluestones?”

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She spat.

Azghar rose and walked behind her. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he whispered. The blade of his dagger was as cold as his voice as he drug it across her skin. He began with her neck and worked his way down her arms, pausing to ask questions with every cut. Red lines told the tale of where the blade had traveled and a small puddle of crimson formed on the floor.

“I know nothing about Theodore and bluestones,” Florine said.

“You are close to him,” Azghar whispered. “You know something.”

She closed her eyes and forced herself to keep silent. I will not give him the satisfaction of breaking me again.

Azghar paused to wipe his blade on his dark cloak, and Florine wondered how many stains it hid. “I know Theodore has had dealings across the sea in Drungatta,” he said. “A bluestone is a source of great power… Do you really want that sorry excuse of a man to have one?”

“Better him than you.”

“Ordering the murder of your own child his hardly the mark of a good king.”

That memory hurt more than the lines Azghar had carved across her body.

Azghar returned the dagger to his belt and selected a simple dinner knife. He held it over a candle flame and then pressed it against Florine’s stomaching, causing her to cry out in pain as her flesh burned.

“You won’t like what comes next,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

“May your flesh rot as crows pick your eyes.”

Florine did know something about a bluestone, but it was not recent knowledge. Theodore had nearly acquired one in the past, but she knew its dangers and she hid it from him. She had to hide it from Azghar too.

He set the small vial of clear liquid on the table. She knew all too well what it contained.

“Where is Theodore’s bluestone?” he demanded.

After he was satisfied the blade was hot, Azghar pulled it back from the flame and poured a small amount of the liquid from the vial on it. It sizzled and steamed for a moment, though it wasn't enough to cool the blade.

Florine could not hold back her screams. He ran it along her stomach, cutting deep into the muscle. The liquid, acid harvested from the Anól beetle, intensified the burning sensation from the fire.

“Which body part shall I remove first?” he asked, running the flat side of the blade across her face without cutting.

“I won't play your game.”

“If you don't choose, I will be forced to make the decision for you,” Azghar replied. He pressed the blade underneath her left eye and began to apply pressure.

“You son of a whore,” she cursed. “My toe.”

“Which one?”

“You bloody choose.”

He brought the blade down across the little toe on her right foot. She screamed in pain has he worked. The knife was sharp, and had no difficulty cutting through the thin layer of flesh, but it took several excruciating moments before the bone finally gave way at the joint. Azghar wrapped a small wad of cloth around the stub afterwards to stop the bleeding.

Satisfied with his work, he leaned back in the chair and watched her groan from the pain. She fought it as best should could, but her flesh felt like it was on fire, taking her pain tolerance to the max.

“You will tell me everything before we are finished.”

* * *

Three days. A week. Florine didn't know how long she had been in Azghar’s grasp, constantly forced awake. He delighted in seeing her pain, while showing no signs of exhaustion himself.

She didn't know when the hallucinations had started, either. Sometimes she would see Tallon, reaching out his hand to her and telling her to run, but every time she tried to grip his hand, he faded into nothing. Or sometimes it was worse, and he would turn into Azghar. Other times, she would see her mother and father together, when they were still happy.

Azghar had done unthinkable things to her flesh. Whenever the wounds got too bad, he would disappear for a few moments, then returning to heal them just enough she so wouldn't bleed out. He reattached her toe only to cut it off again.

At some point, he brought out a hammer from his trunk. One by one, he broke every single bone in the fingers of her left hand. But the pain was still not enough to make her forget sleep—the thought consumed her.

Azghar wiped her blood from his hands nonchalantly. “Does Theodore have a bluestone in his possession?”

Florine hesitated. “No.”

“Do you know where one is?”

A tiny spirit of defiance remained in Florine.

“I see we have more work to do,” Azghar said. With deliberate slowness, he began slicing away the flesh on her forearm.

* * *

She was alone. She hadn't seen Azghar leave, but the chair was empty. The room was filled with dull light from a dying candle, choking on its own wax. A figure appeared in the stairwell. Tallon's black hair was wild and his clothes were stained with blood, like he'd been fighting. The tip of his sword was bright red.

Florine tried to call out his name, but her voice wouldn't work. Tallon knelt behind her and deftly cut the bonds. She flexed her hands, trying to work what little blood remained back into them.

“We must go,” he whispered.

She stood up to kiss him. Her heart pounded in her chest and she thought she would burst. Just as she brought her lips near, his face changed. It was no longer Tallon holding her, but Burn.

“No...” she croaked. Tallon was the only man she had ever loved—would ever love. She would not betray him.

His face began to change again, twisting into something sinister. Azghar grinned back at her, his blue eyes almost glowing. They were a light blue, so light they seemed transparent sometimes, like she could see into his very soul through them.

His stare consumed her, reminding her she would never be free.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Azghar to discover the cruelest method of torture. He would let Florine drift off, then wake her within minutes. Sleep was all she could focus on. Nothing else mattered, and nothing could rival it, not even the pain of being mutilated daily. Sleep, or death. That was all she cared about. But the latter never came, and the former never stayed long enough.

“I have something special planned today,” Azghar said. At least, she thought it was Azghar's voice. It was hard to distinguish his from the hundreds of others she knew, they had all began to blend together and clamor loudly in her skull.

She was vaguely aware of the door opening. Azghar pulled something inside—it took a moment for her eyes to focus on the small creature. Fredgar stood in front her, bound and gagged and bleeding.

“Release him,” she demanded as forcefully as her broken voice allowed.

“Not yet,” Azghar said. “Your friends were foolish. They insisted on coming after you, and attacked when they should have run. As you can see, they were not successful.”

Florine tried to pull free of her bonds, but as always, they held fast. To her surprise, Azghar came to her side and cut them after seeing her struggle. She heard the soft thud of rope hitting the floor.

“I will let you sleep,” he said, “if you do something.”

“What?” she asked, too exhausted to say more.

He pressed his dagger into her right hand, which he had so carefully healed. “Kill him.”

“No...” She recoiled at the thought.

“Then you will not be allowed to sleep.”

Florine wept bitterly as she crawled over to Fredgar. His eyes filled with fear, but also pity. Pity at what she had become, at what had been done to her. Raising the blade high, she thrust it into his gut.

The realization of what she had done hit her as his hot blood trickled down her hand. Fredgar fell to the floor, moaning through the gag, but not quite dead. She raised the blade again for another blow.

She plunged it into her own neck.

* * *

Florine’s entire body screamed in pain. She opened her eyes, and struggled to focus on her dim surroundings.

I’m alive.

She had slept, that much was certain, but not enough.

Fredgar.

The spot of blood from where she stabbed him remained, but there was no sign of the boogie. How could she face his wife?

“Florine.”

She turned to see Burn shackled to the wall behind her. His wrists were crusted with blood from struggling against the heavy metal.

“A guard saw you leave that night,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“We didn’t. The Legion came to us.”

Of course. Azghar’s abilities as a former dragon rider made him far more dangerous than most spellcasters, and even she didn’t understand the full capability of his powers. Part of her, a selfish part, was glad to not be alone.

Azghar came before the candle sputtered and died. He replaced it with a fresh one, taking care to set perfectly in the center of the table.

“Perhaps I have been too harsh.” He leaned back in the chair with his feet on the chest and sighed. “It’s unrealistic of me to expect you to know everything about Theodore. The old fool probably doesn’t even know his own plans half the time.”

Florine was wise to his technique—acting nice was designed to throw her off balance. She had used it on enemies herself, although rarely.

“I talk with my advisors and I came to a decision,” Azghar continued. “I spent years—centuries—running from my past and those who hurt me. If I am to be a good ruler, I must face those conflicts, no matter how uncomfortable.” He handed her a folded page. “Open that when you wish.”

“Let Burn go. He has no part in this.”

“I’ll do even better.” Azghar waved his hand and uttered a simple spell, causing the chains on both of their shackles to break.

Florine moved her fingers as she attempted to work blood back into the veins.

“My soldiers have orders to let you pass through. As long as you don’t return, you can both live a long and happy life, under my rule.”

Burn spat. “And what about my men?”

“They’re not dead.” Azghar waved his hand nonchalantly. “They were far too easily threatened into joining me.”

Florine walked stiffly through the halls, cursing to herself with every step. This is not over.

They passed through the gates under watchful eyes. She had never thought her childhood home could feel so foreign, so uninviting. The golden arches and bright tapestries that once health warmth were now cold.

It was dusk, and even the dim light hurt her eyes. She heard Burn’s footsteps behind her but neither said a word as they pressed on.

They stopped only once they reached the cave. The vines covering the entrance were torn away, and there was evidence of the fight—bloodstains and patches of bare dirt.

“We can rest here for tonight,” she said. “I don’t believe Azghar will come for us yet.”

Burn closed his eyes and leaned against the stone wall without replying.

Despite begging for sleep for so long, Florine no longer felt capable of it. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Fredgar, and…

No.

She had hidden those memories. They were not allowed to return.

To distract herself, she pulled out the slip of paper Azghar had given her. It was a drawing, with such detail the figures almost appeared alive. A family with two children. Florine recognized her mother, dressed in a velvet robe and golden crown, beside her father. She was only a little girl and she was resting on the second child's lap, a young man of about twenty.

The parchment slipped from her hand in horror.

Seeing them together in the photo, the resemblance was unmistakable, so blatantly obvious. Blond hair, high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes. Her parents had hidden a brother from it.

The young man was Azghar.