Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 30

Nerogun stood at an upper window and watched the girl being dragged across the courtyard by his soldiers towards the Tell Tower. She would not walk and her shoes scraped on the cobbles as she struggled in her captors’ grasp. Two downcast maids stumbled after them clutching bundles of clothing. One of the soldiers put his hand across Janeya’s mouth to stop her shrieks.

Good, he thought. Give the bitch a slap while you’re at it.

But no. He corrected himself at once. That was not for a soldier to do: not to a lady so high-born. When Janeya got her due punishment, it would come from him.

He had not yet decided what form that punishment would take. He wanted to make the most of this opportunity to disgrace Janeya’s uncle Melegan: what an indolent, useless Keeper of the Keys he had turned out to be! But it could not be rushed. Nothing could be done while the Riders of the Vonn were here.

Nobody could accuse me of indolence, he thought as he abandoned his post at the window and proceeded briskly down the stairs. Nobody works harder than me to maintain the power and prestige of Kelvha Castle. Tireless, night and day. Whereas if it were left to nobles like Melegan…

He nodded to Jaul as he passed. “Go now,” he said. “I have no more errands.” Jaul slouched away. A useful man on occasion, but Nerogun did not like him. He had no time for perverts.

And Jaul had failed to entrap the tall Rider despite his assurances to Nerogun that he could do so. Jaul had been wrong about the Rider, that was all; but would not admit it. He seemed almost obsessed with him. Nerogun shook his head. He might have to get rid of Jaul.

Iajo, now, was much more effective at obtaining the desired results. Whether from prisoners or servants, the Armoury assistant could usually extract any information that was needed in a remarkably short space of time. Of course his methods were violent. Nerogun did not mind that unless it caused excessive noise or mess.

By now Iajo should have got a full confession out of that doe-eyed monster, Lorolo. Nerogun slowed down as he headed to the dungeons: partly because of all those pastries, weighing heavy in his stomach, but also through anticipation. He held back from arriving too soon; meanwhile his skin began to tingle as he thought of the pleasures to come.

When he arrived in the cold passage underneath the armoury, however, the pleasure was somewhat diminished, for Iajo had already done his job too well. A full confession was waiting for him, indeed – the long text Nerogun had prepared signed with Lorolo’s weak, shaky scribble – but Iajo had been over-zealous in his extracting of it.

Which meant that not only were the dungeon, and its inhabitant, annoyingly bloody, but Nerogun had missed a great deal of the fun. When he kicked Lorolo to make him roll over on the floor he saw that one of the man’s eyes was missing. The socket was black with congealing blood.

He turned to Iajo. “You could have waited.”

“I thought you wanted the confession.”

“It didn’t have to be that speedy. I would have preferred to watch.”

“I’ll take the other eye out if you want,” Iajo offered, but Nerogun shook his head.

“You can leave us for a while,” he said. “I’ll speak to him now. You can talk to him again later.”

Iajo grinned and walked out, leaving red footprints behind him. Nerogun surveyed his quarry, who lay limply twitching, silent but for the occasional faint gasp.

“Get up,” he said. Of course the slave couldn’t. No strength, no fortitude, no balls; although Iajo had apparently left that area intact. That could be rectified in due course.

He dragged the prone animal to his feet, turned him round, threw him over the stool and pulled down his breeches. He would teach the slave a lesson. A forceful, brutal lesson: that this was what servants were for, that they had no say, that they were subject to his power, that he could do whatever he liked, wherever he liked, as hard as he liked, and no matter how they screamed it would not stop him. In fact he wanted them to scream. The more terrified they were the better.

But Lorolo, after an initial moan of pain, made no sound at all. It was most unsatisfactory. Nerogun had to reach for the bloody eye socket before the man-servant would even struggle. And then he did cry out more loudly: and Nerogun, grunting and twisting his fingers in the socket, held him close with one last brutal thrust and then withdrew.

Rearranging his clothes, he looked down at his victim in disgust, slumped helplessly over the stool. Too much blood and everything else. The dungeon stank. What a pathetic, whimpering excuse for a man.

He went to the door and called Iajo back in. “All yours. Don’t kill him yet.”

“The other eye?”

“Save it till later,” said Nerogun. He picked up the confession and went out.

Not as enjoyable as he had hoped. It was the slave’s fault. He should have screamed. They usually did, although sometimes the girls were silent. Of course you could always do it face to face with the girls and see their terror. But treat a low-born worm as he deserves.

“He got what was his due,” he said aloud, although there was nobody to hear him but the stone walls of the castle. “He asked for it.”

What he himself had just done was entirely justified. Although Nerogun was dimly aware that in the early days he hadn’t required quite so much pain to give him pleasure, he did not dwell on the thought. This was his right. It proved his power. It was a necessary part of the job, to show the slaves their place.

Still unsatisfactory, though. Perhaps the girl…? He thought with a tremor of excitement of what he could do to Janeya, up in the Tell Tower where nobody could hear. But he would have to get rid of the maids first, and the guards outside the tower door; and as for Janeya herself–

A wild, disobedient, self-willed woman. She too deserved it. But with one so high-born the risks were too great. He needed her alive and unhurt, to parade as an object of disgust before the relatives; with no tales that she could recount beyond those of her own crimes. He had learned his lesson there.

Let her stay up in the tower for now, he thought. As Meya had said, the experience might just sober her. If anything could. No better than a bitch in heat, that will offer itself to the first mongrel that it sees, without any shame…

And then his mind turned to Meya, with some dislike. Mrs Propriety: an upright woman, but too forceful. She assumed too much responsibility. Although he did not doubt her sense of duty to the castle, he would be glad when she was gone.

He had thought it a strange choice by Huldarion, but in retrospect, given Janeya’s appalling behaviour, it had been a safe one. Even the childish princess Idria had started making eyes at the young Riders. However, she would easily be kept in check. At least the stately Meya would never go running around the castle on secret assignations. The thought of Meya running at all made him chuckle in amused contempt as he unlocked his door.

Not a bad day, all things considered: and Lorolo would still be there tomorrow, waiting for him in the dungeon. Once back in his own rooms, Nerogun spent a little time imagining what he might do about that other eye. Or other parts. So many possibilities.

Then he washed and did some paperwork – there was always paperwork – before taking to his bed for a few hours’ sleep. He prided himself on how little sleep he needed, for he was tireless on his country’s behalf, and generally awoke before the dawn even in these days of early summer.

Tonight he got less sleep than usual, for the busy activity of his thoughts kept him awake. Those Vonn: perhaps it would be best to hasten their departure from the city. They could meet up with the returning scouts en route. He himself would follow later, from a safer distance, for he had no wish to get involved in battle personally.

The Vonn, however, would need little urging. They were battle-hungry. Jeveran would do the business for them: the man was very capable. In fact his capability made him a man to keep an eye on: perhaps even to beware of...

Still, any unseemly aspirations could be dealt with later on, if necessary, after Caervonn had been won. And it would be won. Then Kelvha – so great and powerful an ally – would eventually rule Caervonn in all but name. Nerogun allowed himself a smile in the dark.

Adonil had bid him wait a while longer, but it would not do for him to bow too often to Adonil’s wishes. The wizard had been useful, but how far could he be trusted? There was no reading that unnaturally youthful face. Without the golden mask it was as bland, unmarked and tranquil as the mask itself.

As for Adonil’s idea of maligning Huldarion, that would never work. The low-life temple-going rabble that Adonil said might be persuaded to rise up in Huldarion’s name would be too easily put down again to cause any more than temporary annoyance. And in any case Nerogun did not want Huldarion stigmatized just yet; not until Caervonn was conquered.

So meanwhile he would obey Adonil only when it suited him. Adonil was not his master. Nerogun had no interest in the wizard’s grudge against his fellow-wizard Leor, which seemed to occupy him so much. It would be politic, he thought, to keep both wizards on his side for now. After all, it was Leor who had supplied him with the darkburn.

And Nerogun had plans for that too. He smiled again, remembering how the stonemen had shrieked on being thrown into the darkburn’s cell beneath the northern wall. Their agony had been all too brief. But it had been extreme. Most satisfactory.

Then, at last, he slept.