Chapter Eight: "Jonathon"
Several days had passed since Numair saw Daine. He started to flinch, even quake whenever the sound of footsteps echoed down the halls of the dark, murky dungeon. That's what it was, he now knew... a dungeon. Over the past days, two things had plagued him. The torture of the cliff, and what Daine had said.
Kaddar.
That name was what had pulled him through his ordeal, he must get to him... but he was dead... no matter, he was a black robe. Why not bring him back and make him undergo torture?
The already lanky mage had become, if possible, several inches taller. The cliff...
Kaddar... NSíP... The two words he knew. The first, a central for hatred, the second, fear.
NSíP...
Numair Salamalín... Powerless...
N...S... í...P...
Like cracking a code in something that was more than a game, Numair now knew what was at stake. First the brand...then the cliff.
It started as rope. Wrists bound, the already too weak Numair was lead to a cliff... A large shelf over an ancient crater. With knots put around each wrist, knots that grew tighter when weight was added, Numair was pushed off the edge... but the rope was attached to a strong bar high above. Dangling, the mage was forced to pull himself up, or allow the rope to dig into his skin.
He pulled.
Laughing, the guards that had led him there, pulled his body towards them on a rope that was attached to his legs. Magically adding an extra weight in the form of a ball, the released him, a man hanging over a gully, weighed down by a large, bronze ball, hanging on for dear life.
They left him there. Until he could hold on no longer, he prevented the thick twine slicing his skin, but not long enough.
Sitting in his cell, Numair rubbed his wrists, they burned with an ache that would probably last to the end of his days. Provided that he didn't die here...
The horns from the outer perimeter of the castle called. Bleating their warning, the callers retreated to claim weapons. War was raging. What kind of fool would attack the castle dead on was not yet determined. Well, it was of course the AKT, but if they were fools... that was yet to be proven.
High in the air, Daine, in the form of an eagle, flew in circles, it looked bad. The village had burned to the ground. The people, all but a few were dead, most of the livestock had run, flown or been massacred. Survivors were few. Unknowing what position to take, Daine screeched in fury mixed with fear as Jonathon, King Jonathon himself rode out to fight the soldiers.
With Thayet and the children in the Castle's Keep, Alanna...gone, Raoul busy with the King's Own and most of the knights being half killed on the battlefield, it left no one to tell Jon to stay back... Daine was the only one in a position to do so, and do so she would. Hurtling towards the king, she was too late, a well aimed ax swing broke through his collar bone, piercing through his armor. With a thud, the king fell from his horse...dead.
End Chapter Eight