"No!" Sten wailed. All else forgotten, he frantically ran to his mother.
He dropped to his knees next to her, his eyes full of tears. Her cloth gag was bloody, and she flinched with a minor convulsion. Her eyes were glazed, staring off at an angle into the sky. The arrow shaft… and the blood… Sten couldn't bear to look at his mother's mortal wound, the wound he gave her.
He untied her hands; they remained limp. He then removed the gag, and regretted it; blood poured out of her mouth. Drowning from her own fluid filling her lungs, she coughed. Sten ignored the spray. He sobbed and told his mother over and over that he was sorry. Baraide took in a shallow, gurgling breath, and never let it out.
Crying with his head on his dead mother's shoulder, Sten felt nothing but anguish and regret. At that moment he didn't hear the roaring house fire, or notice Makers or guards gathering around him. There were only the scents of rich earth and goat's milk and fresh herbs, and the crushing weight of his guilt.
A voice penetrated Sten's shell of pain; a familiar, mocking voice. "Can't sense illusions from a distance, eh? More's the pity."
With a last vestige of rage, Sten hurled himself at the Maker in black and grey. Teeth sank into the robed man's throat as he tackled him to the ground. Despite the hands that pulled at him or the hard blows he received, Sten wouldn't release his bite. He tasted blood and clenched his jaw tighter, taking dark pleasure from the Maker's wheezing screams.
The blunt edge of a shield struck Sten hard in the back of his head; he saw stars. A pair of leather-clad arms then wrapped around his neck and pulled. Sten still had a mouthful of the Maker's throat when he was thrown back. He turned his head to the side, spit out the human gristle, and began to sob once more. There was no fight left in him. Sten's will was sapped by the torturing image of his arrow driven into his mother's delicate neck.
While Sten had his wet eyes squeezed shut, he distractedly heard one of the men ask, "What of your cohort, Maker Night-heart? Can you do anything for him?"
"I can control and manipulate blood, not rebuild tissue. Shade-smith teased the wrong animal. I'll end his pain." There was a pause. "For the most part, Rhone's tactic worked; the hunter has no aggression left… Well, not any more. Shackle him, and then see to Maker Hammer-touch. And you," he called out to someone else, "escort Lady Krin around to the wagon."
Sten felt cold iron clasps being locked onto his wrists, and another pair on his ankles. He didn't care. The Maker was right; he had no more aggression, no rage or wrath. There was no room in his heavy heart for anything but sorrow and self-loathing.
Eventually, the Maker in black and red squatted down next to Sten. "I am Kauldur Night-heart, Inquisitor of the Order of Makers. I must say, Stenhelt, your reputation pales in comparison to what I've witnessed here today. I saw a man who is able to physically manifest the beast in his soul, unleashing it when needed; quite intriguing. The one thing I now am quite sure of is that you're not a Maker. So what are you, exactly?"
Sten didn't answer, or even bother to glare at his captor.
"Not feeling talkative?" Kauldur asked. "I understand. Let's get you to your feet; there's still more of the day ahead of us." He took Sten by the arm and helped him stand, and then began guiding him on a curving route around the burning house. "Ah, what a day I've had," the Maker continued merrily as they made their way to the front lawn. "This part of the country surely is picturesque, although I admit my impatience to return to Vallo. Have you been there?"
Again, Sten didn't answer. He was looking toward the estate's sunny front lawn. Continuing to shuffle forward in the chains, he saw his father's wagon come into view. Tull was sitting in the bed of it, one knee bend and the other straight with a splint of branches and rope around it. Next to the wagon were three more guards and a disheveled Tovira. Over twenty horses were picketed far away from the heat and licking flames.
Further out on the lawn was a new and odd sight. The land was formerly flat, but a low, strange hump had grown out of it. The oval mound had a ridge of upturned earth, and a seam along it like from a farmer's plow. Peering closer, Sten saw a leather-clad hand and forearm sticking out of the seam. At first, he thought it looked like a crop plant budding. Getting closer, he changed his mind; it appeared as if the ground opened up a mouth and swallowed at least one guard. 'At least Lady Tovira had a chance to react before they captured her,' Sten thought.
"Ah, and see?" Kauldur commented. "There is your brother Tullgar and your mentor, Lady Krin, both relatively safe and sound. Now, as for the rest of your family… Well, I'm sure your brother will inform you. Oh, and I suppose you have a tale to tell him as well."
Sten let the cutting words pass. "It's only me you want, isn't it?"
"No, not quite," Kauldur calmly answered. "Lady Tovira of Oma-Krin manor will be facing some serious charges, and is currently considered a criminal until her trial. Your brother is in league with said criminal. I could release him, but I believe he might be helpful to me in loosening your tongue for the answers I seek. Or, you could save good Tullgar the inconvenience now…"
The Maker wanted Sten to give up the secrets he was shown, to offer up Chohla. His first reaction was never to tell, but what if his silence placed Tull in harm's way? He decided to keep his ancestral secrets until the choice had to be made.
"Obstinate to a fault, I see," Kauldur said. "It is of no grave concern. Now that I control your fate, I can be a very patient man. Perhaps your intractability will soften after you and your brother have enjoyed the hospitality of the King's dungeon… for as long as it takes."
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