I stopped reading Harlan Coben's Myron Bolitar series for several days just to write this installment.
Enjoy, everyone!
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Legolas had never felt so dirty in his entire life. Although only half conscious, he was mostly aware of how terribly filthy he must be. There was blood on his face, vomit in his hair, and urine down his crotch. He was also covered with dirt from head to foot. He looked ghastly, he knew.
And, Elbereth, how he stank!
Movrak's men were dragging him out of the house. They went hurriedly down the steps and across the front court, heading towards an open area between the stable and the guards' quarters. There, the guardsmen carelessly dropped their prisoner, giving no heed to his obvious pain and discomfort.
Legolas almost sobbed with relief when all movements stopped. Good. Now leave me to my sleep…
But his relief was short-lived. Rough hands were rolling him onto his back. Someone then began to quickly undo the catches of his tunic. The elf tried to ward off this intrusion, but he had no strength left. He could only make a feeble sound of protest as the men jerked down his leggings and yanked them off his feet, along with his boots. Then they started pulling at his arms and legs, tying each limb to a stake. In no time at all, Legolas found himself lying spread-eagled on the ground, all muscles and tendons stretched taut to the limit.
Stripped to the skin and completely immobile, Legolas didn't actually know what to feel. Anger, fear and mortification rolled into one—he had difficulties distinguishing them. It would have been better if they just ended his life then and there. He could feel nothing if he was dead, could he?
But these men would not let him escape the emotional torment that easily. Their rough handling seemed intentional, using every hurting jab and prod to keep him fully awake. They also worked in total silence, which caused Legolas to worry all the more, for he was still unclear what they intended to do to him. He couldn't fight to free himself because the recent beatings had truly weakened him. And then there was this knifing pain deep in his belly that refused to go away, constantly causing him to pray for oblivion.
Oh, and my head throbs too. In short, my life is just peachy!
The elf winced when those men jerked at his bonds, testing the grips. Assured that the restrains would hold, they moved away and out of his vision. That was when he caught sight of a strange-looking contraption hanging right above him.
The blood drained off his face—what was left of it, anyway—when he realized what it was.
Wait a minute. Did they just say 'The Rock'?
It was indeed a rock. And a big one at that. It obviously had been obtained from Movrak's marble quarry, cut into the shape of a rectangle slab. Supported by thick ropes on both ends, the huge slate was hanging from a sturdy high beam. A kind of pulley was attached to a knot at the top of the ropes, and then linked to an even stranger looking mechanism that had wheels and a lever to function it. This would enable the men to easily lower and raise the heavy rock without using too much manpower. Quite efficient.
The rock was heavy. It looked as if it could crush someone to death, which was exactly why Movrak had it constructed in the first place. It was the merchant's favorite way to punish his slaves or, in Legolas' case, to make him confess and execute him—whichever came first.
The elf began to sweat with dread when he heard the machine being activated. The pulley screeched in protest. And then, slowly, the block of marble moved down towards him
Oh, no. this is not good. This is definitely not good!
The rock loomed larger and larger. Sheer terror caused the elf to struggle, jerking and tugging frantically at the bonds that kept him captive. Panic consumed him when he couldn't get free. He was on the point to let loose a hysteric scream when the boulder landed squarely on top of him, cutting off his breath.
Trapped like a squashed bug, Legolas squirmed and writhed frantically. Never had he experienced such suffocating pressure before. It was so unbearable he wanted to yell at the men to just cut off his throat and be done with it but he could hardly speak. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed from inside out, incapable to expand or deflate. He was still able to breathe, though. Just barely, enough to keep him alive to suffer the acute torment.
Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to stay strong. Black spots filled his vision. Loud humming sound was echoing in his ears. His entire body quickly grew numb. Funny that he could feel pain and nothing, all at the same time. Unfortunately for him, no matter how he wished for it, oblivion still wouldn't come—a cruel addendum to his predicament.
Through his tears of agony, Legolas watched the beautiful blue sky. It was morning, he realized. The sun had risen.
His blood instantly ran cold.
The…the sun?
Now he understood the real reason why they stripped him naked. As the sun climbed up, the rising temperature would heat up the earth. Approaching noon, the open space would bake under its glare, as would the large slab of marble. And what was he doing beneath it without a stitch on to cover his skin?
That's right. Apart from being crushed to death, he was also going to be roasted alive!
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Lord Movrak was greatly annoyed when someone knocked on his bedroom door for the umpteenth time in several hours.
"The bloody idiots! Why do they keep disturbing my sleep?" he grumbled as he sat up in bed. He then shouted at the top of his lungs, "Who is it? What the heck do you want now!"
"My lord, you have a visitor," came the timid reply from outside. "He is waiting for you in the parlor."
Movrak cursed. He scrambled to his feet and went to wrench open the door. "Haven't I told you? I do not accept any visitors in the morning! Send him away!"
The servant visibly quaked under the merchant's fury. "But, my lord, the man said it's important. He needs…"
"I don't care what he needs!" Movrak yelled. "I need some sleep! I didn't catch nary a wink with all the troubles last night. Now you go and tell that man—whoever he is—to return at noon."
"But, my lord, it is noon."
Movrak looked out the nearest window, and saw that it was indeed already midday. "Well, tell him to come in the evening. I'm not ready to see anyone yet."
"But, my lord…"
"Didn't you hear what I said?" Movrak raised his fist, as if ready to let it fly. "Get lost! Scram!"
The servant quickly ducked, covering his head with his arms. "But he…he insisted that I tell you, my lord, that his name is Rowan."
Movrak froze. His eyes widened. "Rowan? That bold mercenary?"
"Yes, yes. That's him!"
A slow smile spread on Movrak's lips. He was surprised but incredibly delighted. He never thought he would meet that mysterious man again. The last time they had seen each other was over five years ago, when the mercenary had come to claim for his fee. The merchant had hired him to track his runaway slaves and kill them. As proof to his completed task, Rowan had presented him with the slaves' dig out hearts—still fresh and red, all bundled up together in a sack.
It was one of the stories that had made Rowan so famous among the Haradrim communities. And so feared. He was a hired assassin—a polite and courteous one, but still a killer. People called him a cold heartless bastard, an enigma not to be reckoned with.
Working alone, Rowan answered to no one but himself. He would do anything for a fee. His sterling reputation preceded him. Nobles and scums alike craved for his flawless service. No one knew who he really was or where he came from, and that just added to his invincibility. He was slick, agile and fast. Some even called him a phantom, for he moved like one. One moment he was there, the next he just disappeared altogether.
And then, out of the blue, he was back.
Handsome and dangerous Rowan, Movrak happily thought to himself. I wonder if we could pick up where we left off.
"Er…my lord?" The servant was still waiting for the merchant's response.
"Oh, right." Movrak controlled his expressions, "Make sure that Rowan is comfortable waiting there. See to his refreshments. And tell him I'll be right out."
The servant bowed and hurried away. Movrak stepped back into his chamber. He ran straight to the bell cord and gave it impatient tugs. A string of servants rushed in not long afterwards.
"Quick! I have an important guest to see," he told them, already disrobing. "Now make me presentable!'
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Keldarion was staring at a huge painting of an oliphaunt hunt on the wall when the awaited merchant burst into the room.
"Rowan!" Movrak enthused as he approached, his arms opening wide. "It has been so long! Welcome back, my lad!"
"Lord Movrak." Playing his role, Keldarion bowed respectfully in return. He let himself to be embraced, when in truth all he wanted to do was shoved a fist down the man's throat.
"It's so good to see you again." Movrak was beside himself with pleasure. He gestured at the brocaded chairs. "Come, have a seat."
Keldarion sat, nodding his thanks. "You look exceptionally well, my lord."
"Truly? Nice of you to notice." Movrak gazed fondly at his guest. "You are looking great yourself, Rowan. You don't change much. Handsome, like always."
"My lord is so kind," Keldarion replied with a slight lowering of his eyes, as if flattered.
The merchant stared at his guest for another minute longer, silently appreciating Keldarion's attractiveness. The mercenary was wearing a turban, but his face was left unmasked. Against the darkness of his attire, the blue of his eyes sparkled like polished sapphires. His shoulders were wide and strong, and his hands were so well-shaped they looked almost feminine.
Always a lecher, Movrak was already thinking of various obscene methods to put those graceful hands into use.
Keldarion tried not to squirm with repulsion. Aware of Movrak's penchant for good-looking lads, he could fathom what the man was fantasizing. His sword was hidden from view, strapped to his waist beneath the fold of his cloak. And he had this wild urge to take the blade out and impale Movrak's throat with it.
If the man would not stop leering at him that way, Keldarion might surely do just that.
A couple of servants bustled in to set more trays of refreshments onto the table between them. Movrak waited for the servants to leave before he cleared his throat and resumed speaking, "So, what brings you here? Are you under hire?"
"Actually, no, my lord. I'm here for business."
"And what business would that be?"
"I'm supplying arms and weapons now."
"Oh, really? How come? Why change profession?"
"This venture is a lot more profitable, compared to the previous tasks I used to do. Bigger market this way. Cleaner, and a lot less hassle—if you catch my drift."
Movrak nodded in agreement. He leaned eagerly forward, his interest piqued. "That's impressive to hear. Where did you get such supplies?"
"Oh, here and there. The weapons mostly came from Gondor and Rohan. Swords, daggers, spears, maces—anything, you name it. I even have the twin blades that use to belong to Legolas of Mirkwood."
"Legolas, you say? Are you by any chance talking about the elf of the Nine Walkers?" The man was practically jumping up and down in his seat with excitement.
"Exactly."
"But they said he is a legend!"
"Not to me, he isn't. A legendary warrior will not be so…er…careless with his weapons. So I stole them from him."
"You stole them? Ho ho ho!" Movrak laughed uproariously, slapping his thigh with his palm. "That's the best tale I've ever heard in years, Rowan!"
"You think I made that up?" Keldarion coldly asked. His eyes were as hard as steel.
Hearing the mercenary's dangerous tone, the man swiftly sobered. "Of course not. I believe what you told me, my friend. Please, take no offense."
"None taken," the mercenary responded, his gaze still sharp and penetrating.
"Now, you already have the buyers?" Movrak was quick to ask, pulling the main discussion back on track. He was not the one who liked to miss any opportunities. Once a merchant, always a merchant.
"I do receive some requests from the Harodem common artillery. But, for friendship's sake, I thought I should come to you first, and let you see the goods before anybody else does."
The merchant was obviously pleased. "You thought right, Rowan. I can pay you more than what they can offer."
"And you will sell back to them for three times that price, I reckon?"
"That is how I do business." Movrak shrugged.
"My lord, before we agree on anything, let me show the merchandise to you. You shall see how beautiful and lethal Legolas' twin blades are, as well as the other weapons. High quality products, I can assure you. I have them all in my wagon, which is now sitting out front at your doorsteps."
"Then, what are we waiting for?" Movrak was already standing. "Take me to them."
Keldarion smiled inwardly as he also rose. "As my lord wishes."
TBC…
Want more? Chapter 23 coming right up!