***
To their credit the two black-armoured knights hardly flinched as Xirik and Vildor emerged from the shadows of the dungeon. The knights bowed and one moved to fetch their captain. The second stood awaiting orders.
“The druid, where is he being kept?” Xirik asked.
“The end cell, m’lord.”
Xirik nodded and he prowled with Vildor down the corridor. They passed a half-dozen cells along the corridor. Vildor stopped abruptly and peered through a grill into an empty cell.
“The Artorian tracker and the Fire-mage—where are they?”
Xirik turned and slowly approached Vildor. “Master, I thought you knew. They... they escaped, not long after you came to the dungeons... just after your Return.”
“Of all the prisoners to lose,” Vildor yelled. “Where is the captain of this dungeon?”
“M’lord?” a voice said behind Vildor.
Vildor turned, his dark cloak swirling. A knight stood before him trembling.
“How did they escape?”
“We... we are not certain, m’lord. There was some animal down here that killed several knights. We have sent a party after them—with a craven hunter.”
“Why are you concerned?” Xirik asked.
“I had much planned for them, Xirik. Get them back.”
Xirik nodded and indicated for the captain to leave. Vildor stood head lowered, grinding his teeth.
The captain had managed three steps before Vildor struck. His arm punched out into the captain’s back and the metal screeched as the pale hand ripped through it. Vildor lifted the captain into the air, blood pouring down his arm, then tossed him across the floor of the corridor. The captain jerked several times before becoming still.
Vildor stalked off down the corridor, little pools of blood marking his path.
The druid was slumped in the corner of a cell, heavy manacles around his neck, wrists and legs. His face was a mush of bruised and bloodied tissue. The spiral tattoos were interrupted by burns and cuts over his torso and belly.
The knight pulled him to his feet as Vildor and Xirik stood silently. A few slaps brought the druid back to consciousness.
“Druid—you have a name?” Vildor said.
“Farsan, fifth tier druid. You waste your time if you think I’ll tell you anything, ghast.”
“Oh, words are not the only way to discover what I wish. Why were you in the Wastes, near the Ebony Tower?”
“Go to the Pale.”
“It’s on my list. But I have been away for such a long time that I have one or two things to sort out first. One or two little mysteries to solve.”
“You speak madness,” Farsan said. Blood dribbled from his swollen lips.
“I am madness! Sanity is overrated, it limits one so. My mind has travelled to the fell niches of this world, contemplated sights that would drag your feeble intellect into gibbering lunacy. But my query is rather rational, all told. Xirik tells me that you spied upon us in the shape of a stag?”
“It is the gift of Nolir to the blessed. A divine power...”
“Yes, yes, blah, blah. Praise be to the saggy breasted harlot of nature. How can you utilise magic, as a human, without a gem of power?”
“It is a matter of faith. It comes from the soul, the heart...”
“The heart you say,” Vildor said. He drove his hand into Farsan’s chest, the bone fragmenting like glass. A spray of blood coated Xirik as Vildor ripped the beating heart out.
Vildor rolled it in his blood-soaked hands, watching as the pulsations faded. He put it to his mouth and began to chew it, the strips of muscle dangling down his chin.
“Master?” Xirik asked.
“There is something different, Xirik. A subtle taste, like an old friend. There is much more to this druid paradox than meets the eye. But we digress, my disciple. My dreams tell me our attentions should be directed east of the Khullian Mountains... to Thetoria. Tell me what young Garin has been plotting these last few years...”