E08 - Chapter 36: Again

They had gagged and blindfolded them, then loaded them into a caged cart that violently rattled with every bump of the uneven path. Cold iron pressed against his back through the thin fabric of his tunic, and the rough weave of the gag bit into the corners of his mouth.

Eventually, the cart lurched to a halt. They were dragged out roughly, their legs stumbling for footing they could not see. Then a blade was pressed to his neck.

“Any trouble and both of you get your necks slit,” came a voice.

Then their ropes were replaced with iron shackles held behind their backs. The cloth gag was replaced by a mouth guard that Brint realized was made for the singular purpose of preventing incantations. It covered the lower part of his face almost like a mask and was locked around the top and back of his skull. Cold metal filled his mouth as he was made to bite down on the balled end.

Once the mouth guards were secured, the chains between their wrists and feet were hooked on long poles that were hoisted in the air. Then they were carried like hunters might carry a slain stag.

Brint could only glimpse the world through a narrow slit beneath his blindfold. It showed him flashes of the ground below. A forest dirt trail and the steps of filthy boots caked in mud and grime.

Again and again he tried to shape a spell as he was carried, but without an incantation, his arcana would not coalesce together into something that he could use. The frustration gnawed at him. He remembered when he had attacked Sylvara. He had done it without an incantation for fear of speaking and warning her of his attack.

He tried to repeat the ability now, but no matter how he strained, no magic answered his call. After what felt like a hundred failed tries, realization finally settled over him for only one spell responded faintly. It was the killing spell he had learned from the talisman.

He understood then. He could only summon the magic he had invoked recently. The reason he had been able to use the earthen spell on Sylvara was because he had used it that morning against Aelric during their duel. Without prior invocation, no other spells would not come to him in this state.

But even if he managed to cast the killing spell now, what could he do with it? If he struck one captor, the others would swarm him in an instant. He would still be blindfolded, still gagged, still helpless. And that was with the assumption he could even get his hands on one of them.

The thought of it made him clench his teeth hard against the metal knob in his mouth until his jaw ached.

His mind kept drifting to the young woman. At times, he could not tell if she was still nearby. She had been captured because of him. He swore to himself that he would see her safe.

Whenever he felt that they might have seperated them, he would call out a muffled cry through his gag. Eventually, he would hear her reply a soft, frightened murmur, answering him.

After what felt like an eternity, he was set down on solid ground, the cold, flat surface hitting his belly hard as he was dropped. The pole was slid out from his chains and the painful tension in his shoulders from being bound from behind released. But before he could move, strong hands seized his arms and pulled him to his feet. Then they guided him roughly down an uneven path.

Somewhere close, he heard the sound of running water, echoing through narrow, stone-walled corridors. The air grew damper, colder, and more foul with every step.

Without warning, his foot caught the edge of a steep step. He staggered, almost falling forward, but the man guiding him yanked him upright again and led him down the flight of stairs.

Then they were on even footing again and a harsh clank sounded ahead, the scraping of metal against metal, and then a low creaking groan as iron gates swung open.

Brint’s gut clenched. They were being taken into a dungeon. The place was dank and smelled sourly of human waste. He could hear the breaths of other souls.

He was shoved down onto the cold stone floor, and he heard the young woman placed beside him. Then there was silence, as if their captors were waiting for something.

Then he heard voices approaching.

Two men were speaking. One brash and mocking, the other slow and deliberate.

“I’m no errand boy, if Zizcor sends me off without an explanation again, I’m throwing a fit.” The first voice was whiny and petulant, but Brint recognized it immediately. It belonged to the dark-haired bandit who had captured them.

“Calm yourself, Rhazin. You cannot defeat the boss,” came the second voice, deep and steady.

“I don’t need to defeat him. I just need to slit his throat when he sleeps.”

“That is treacherous talk, Rhazin. Be cautious of who hears you.”

“What? Kanor does not mind, do you, Kanor?”

A new voice answered from close by. "No."

Kanor. That was the name of the man who led him into the dungeons.

Without warning, Brint's blindfold was ripped off.

Before him stood four men.

Kanor, standing beside him, was older than the rest with a dull, empty expression. The other man who was beside the young woman was a large hulking thug who seemed to wear a perpetual scowl on his face.

Rhazin looked the same as before. His long dark hair framing his face and the sly grin that hinted at both cruelty and amusement.

The fourth man was different. He wore long, tattered dark purple robes that might once have been fine. His eyes were cold and calculating, and upon a second glance, Brint noted that the man’s robes, although not comparable in quality, reminded him of Sylvara’s, and he realized that this man was an arcanist.

Brint turned to check on the young woman kneeling beside him. She was chained and mouth-bound like he was, her expression wide with terror as their eyes met. Then her gaze found something across the room, and they widened even further.

Brint saw it then. The dungeon was filled with other prisoners wearing the same mouth guards as he was. Their faces were gaunt, their bodies stick thin, and their eyes empty of all emotion save for dread. Their hands were bound behind their backs and connected to chains that latched onto the walls.

Brint glared back at Rhazin. He pushed down his fear and replaced it with hate. If only he could get his hands on this man.

Rhazin leaned in close to Brint, smirking. "My, my. Look at his beautiful, fiery eyes. Maybe we should cut them out."

“That would risk infection,” the arcanist said flatly.

Rhazin chuckled. “I was kidding. You’re always too serious. Go on, do your thing.”

The arcanist’s eyes narrowed on Brint and he held out his hand. "Pragnotheia."

A silver glow shimmered from his hand, spreading through the air like mist. Brint felt it wash over him, a light cold over his body.

"Nine hundred and twenty-two," the arcanist announced, his voice plain, but there was a slight raise of his brows.

Rhazin reeled back in shock. “Nine twenty-two? That is higher than the boss!”

The arcanist nodded slowly. “Indeed. This one’s arcavoir is exceptionally high.”

Rhazin’s gaze darted to the young woman kneeling next to Brint. “What about her?”

The arcanist stepped up to her and performed the same spell. Silver light danced over her still form.

“Six hundred and fifty-six.”

Rhazin gave a low, appreciative whistle. “I would have never guessed. Biggest fat cows we’d ever captured, eh? One of them’s the prettiest cow too.”

“The boss will kill you,” the arcanist warned.

“I am just admiring a beauty. What’s wrong with that?”

“If the boss finds out you have touched her…"

"I know, I know,” Rhazin said, his voice becoming suddenly frustrated. “I’m no idiot. But… we don't tell the boss about her right away. Think about your cut of the milk after just a couple of weeks."

The arcanist frowned, considering it for a moment before shaking his head slightly. "He will ask," he said, his tone making it clear that it was not up for debate.

Rhazin sighed, frustration across his face. He looked down at the young woman again, his expression a mix of greed and regret. “Do try your best to survive, lass.”

By those words Brint only understood that more horror was to come. He had to think of something quick. He then caught the gaze of an older man watching him with hollow eyes. The man gave him a small shake of the head.

Before Brint could think, Rhazin struck him across the face, snapping his head sideways. Pain blossomed across his jaw and blood flooded his mouth where the metal gag cracked against his teeth.

"Now’s not the time to go wandering off,” Rhazin said, grinning.

Brint glared up at him, rage boiling in his chest.

“Expel your arcana into a chit, nice and easy.”

It dawned on Brint then what the meaning of this dungeon was. What the share of the milk meant. He’d rather be damned by the devil himself than comply.

Rhazin gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes theatrically. “Another tough guy,” he muttered. He turned his gaze further into the dungeon. “Who’s the weakest?”

The arcanist pointed silently to a young man hunched against the wall. The prisoner began backing against the wall, letting out gagged cries of terror.

Rhazin moved lazily toward him, almost whistling to himself, and grabbed the man by the arm, hauling him upright. The prisoner struggled uselessly, kicking weakly against the stone floor.

Rhazin pressed the blade of his knife against the man's throat, just hard enough to draw a bead of blood.

“I’m not going to ask again,” he said, glancing back at Brint.

Brint’s breath caught. Images flashed in his mind. His father’s death, the blood pooling, the helplessness to stop it all.

His chest heaved. The arcana inside him slid loose from his finger tip before he could even think, pouring outward, forming a chunk that dropped against the ground beside his kneeled feet.

Rhazin barked a laugh. “That was easier than I thought. Usually, I have to kill at least one first.”

He released the man, who collapsed to his knees with a shuddering wimper of relief, a puddle forming around his legs.

Rhazin lifted his boots and cursed violently. Without hesitation, he slashed the man’s throat.

The prisoner gasped, his hands bound behind his back struggling in vain as he fell to the ground. Then came a torrent of whimpers and cries amongs the other prisoners.

“Shut up!” Rhazin bellowed.

The arcanist shook his head. “Rhazin. That was foolish.”

“He ruined my boots!” Rhazin shouted, wiping his knife on the dying man’s shirt.

“Let us be done with this,” the arcanist said grimly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Rhazin grumbled. He gave the dying man a casual kick before turning toward the young woman.

Brint fought against his bonds with renewed urgency, but Kanor slapped him across the ear, sending his world spinning and ringing at the same time.

Rhazin pointed the knife at the young woman. "Expel your arcana.”

The girl froze, tears welling in her wide eyes. She stared at him as if she could not comprehend what he was saying. She was in shock.

Rhazin’s expression darkened. “Do it or I start poking holes in your boyfriend here. It won’t kill him, but it won’t be pleasant.”

The young woman clenched her eyes closed and dropped her head. But she complied. She pressed the arcana out from her command finger into her open hand and dropped it onto the ground beside her feet.

Rhazin grinned triumphantly, sheathing his blade. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He reached down and picked up the two chits of arcana, then he turned and headed out the dungeon without another backwards glance. The arcanist gave one final look at Brint before heading after his compatrot.

Kanor and the fourth bandit chained their arms to the wall and soon followed after them, slamming shut the iron doors with an echoing clang.

The young woman slumped back against the wall, tears streaking her cheeks. She trembled uncontrollably, rattling her chains.

Brint wanted to go to her, to tell her she was not alone, but the gag prevented him from speaking.

Minutes crawled by, each one slower than the last. Brint’s mind raced, searching for plans, strategies, anything, but he could not fathom how he could escape without magic or help from the outside. He was completely empty of arcana. They all were.

The door opened again with a dry creak. Kanor entered carrying stacked bowls.

Brint watched him warily as the old bandit moved from prisoner to prisoner, methodically removing their mouth guards with a key that turned at two locks at the top and back of their heads.

When Kanor reached Brint, he yanked the gag away with a brutal tug.

Brint coughed harshly, then rasped, “Rot in hell.”

Kanor did not react. He simply backhanded Brint across the face with a blow so hard it made his eyes flash with light and stars.

“Quiet,” Kanor said, not with anger but with the authority of a man who seemed almost bored of his task.

Brint tasted blood where his lip had split, but he kept his glare locked firmly on Kanor’s face.

Kanor moved on, removing the young woman’s gag just as roughly.

When he was done with the gags, Kanor dropped bowls of sludge in front of each prisoner. The bowls were unwashed, crusted with the remnants of previous meals that made Brint’s stomach turn just looking at them.

But the other prisoners, with their arms bound from behind, had already began to ravenously lick from their bowls like hogs from a feeding tray.

“Eat,” Kanor said.

Then he left, his heavy steps retreating down the corridor, the door slamming shut behind him.

Brint stared at the bowl in front of him. Hunger gnawed at his insides, hollow and painful, but he could not bring himself to the bowl. He would not be turned into an animal. And yet, how would he escape if he had no strength?

He glanced over at the young woman. She still trembled as she stared down at her bowl, looking as horrified as he was by the implications.

“What’s your name?” Brint said to the woman.

“Mari,” she replied faintly, looking up at him.

“I’m Brint. Listen to me, Mari. We aren’t going to die in here, you got me? We’re going to find our way out. I promise you.”

The young woman nodded faintly, blinking away tears.

Brint scanned the dungeon, across the other prisoners, his eyes settling on the old man across from him.

“Where are we?” he asked.

The old man lifted his head slowly. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken deep into their sockets.

“We’re in the mountains,” he said. “Deep inside a cave. The leader’s name is Zizcor, a bandit wanted dead by the Emperor. Over two hundred kidnappings I’d heard before I was captured myself.”

Brint scanned the dungeon, counting. Only fifteen prisoners.

“There are so few,” he said.

The old man gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “Zizcor is not good at keeping his hostages alive. I have been here the longest. Three months. If there is a way to escape, I have not seen it. His men are strong, and even if you escape the dungeon, there is no getting past their camp above.”

Brint dreaded asking his next question in front of Mari, but he needed to know as much as he could. “Where are the women?”

The old man shook his head, a slow and hopeless gesture. “There were none when I arrived.”

Beside Brint, Mari shivered. “What will they do to me?”

“I’m sorry,” the old man said. “I don’t know.”

Brint sat frozen, watching her as she trembled beside him. Her face was pale, her lips nearly colorless, and her eyes stared into nothing.

“I’ll get us out,” he said with determination “I swear it.”

The young woman turned to him, blinking slowly, tears pooling in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s my fault you got caught. If you hadn’t stopped to help me… you could’ve kept going. You might’ve missed the bandits.”

Brint shook his head slowly, a bitter edge to his breath. “I doubt it. They were probably waiting no matter who came along.”

She looked away, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Where were you headed?”

“Elduros,” Brint replied. “How about you?”

The young woman nodded slowly. “I was going to Elduros too. To attend the Spire of the Chandra.”

Brint blinked. “Is that a university?”

She nodded, a fragile smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “One of the great ones. With an arcumen over four hundred, I qualified to apply. I was going to study… to become a mage.”

The smile vanished. Tears fell freely again.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice low and urgent. “It’s not over yet. They need us alive. We’re too valuable.”

But even as he said it, Rhazin’s words echoed in his mind. And he knew she was thinking of it too.

“If I don’t survive,” she said suddenly, “my village is in Eiren, southwest of here—”

“No,” Brint cut in. “Don’t say that. You can’t think like that.”

“Please,” she begged. “If I don’t, will you send a message to my sister? Her name is Kari. Kari of Village Tetil. Tell her that… that I failed.”

“You failed?” Brint frowned. “The school?”

There was a pause. Just a second. Her eyes dropped to the ground.

“Yes,” she said finally. “The school.”

Brint didn’t understand. Why would she want her sister to know that? Why not just tell her what happened?

He opened his mouth to ask more, but the heavy clang of the dungeon door silenced him.

Kanor had returned, and he watched as all the other prisoners placed their mouth guards on. Kanor went around and locked them into place with his key.

Kanor then came up to Brint and Mari, and stared down at him with those cold dull eyes. He waited.

Brint knew there was no point in resisting, but now he wished he had eaten something. He placed the ball of the mouth guard in his mouth and bit down, and Mari did the same. Then Kanor came around and secured their mouth guards tightly.

Brint understood now. Their arcana would be emptied again before the next time they fed. They would never have access to their magic.

Kanor collected the bowls, but before he left, Rhazin stepped into the dungeon with a sour look on his face. His eyes found the young woman immediately.

“Well,” he muttered, “seems like the boss has already heard about you. He wants to meet you.”

Brint roared, trying to rise, but the chains held him to the wall behind, biting into his wrists.

Rhazin paused. A long, mocking smile crept over his face as he looked at Brint.

Brint glared, breathing hard, every muscle taut with fury and useless resistance.

Rhazin knelt beside the young woman and unlocked the chain that held her to the wall.

She struggled, whimpering against his touch, her eyes wide with fear. Her muffled cries went unheard as Rhazin threw her over his back and carried her out. Kanor followed after them, the metal gate clanging shut.

Brint screamed with rage from behind his metal gag. He pulled at his chains until he felt his ligaments screaming in pain in his shoulders.

The footsteps up the stairs faded and then there was only silence that replied to his cries.

He sagged back against the wall, sweat running down brow, his hands trembling with fury, fists clenched so tightly that his nails broke skin. Blood ran down the sides of his palms, dripping onto the ground.

How could this be happening again?

How could he be so powerless?