The cell was no longer than a man's height, a dripping cave hewed
out of the rock under the palace foundations. Corun crouched on the
streaming floor in utter darkness. The chains which they had locked to
ringbolts in the wall clashed when he stirred.
And this was how it ended, he thought bitterly. The wild career of the
exiled conqueror, the heave and surge of ships under the running waves,
the laughter of comrades and the clamor of swords and the thrum of wind
in the rigging, had come to this--one man hunched in a loneliness and
darkness like a colder womb, waiting in timeless murk for the day when
they would drag him out to be torn by beasts for the amusement of fools.
They fed him at intervals, a slave bringing a bowl of prison swill
while a spear-armed guard stood well out of reach and watched.
Otherwise he was alone. He could not even hear the voices of other
captives; there was only the slow dripping of water and the harsh tones
of iron links. The cell must lie below even the regular dungeons, far
down in the very bowels of the island.
Vague images floated across his mind--the high cliffs about Iliontis
Bay, the great flowers blooming with sullen fires in the jungle beyond
the beach, the slim black corsair galleys at anchor. He remembered
the open sky, the eternally clouded sky under which blew the long wet
winds, out of which spilled rain and lightning and grew the eerie blue
of dusk. He had often wondered what lay beyond those upper clouds.
Now and then, he remembered, one could see the vague disc of the
Heaven-Fire, and he had heard of times when incredibly violent storms
opened a brief rift in the high cloud layers to let through a shaft of
searing brilliance at whose touch water boiled and the earth burst into
flame. It made him think of the speculations of Conahur's philosophers,
that the world was really a globe around which the Heaven-Fire swung,
bringing day and night. Some had gone so far as to imagine that it was
the world which did the moving, that the Heaven-Fire was a ball of
flame in the middle of creation about which all other things revolved.
But Conahur was in chains now, he remembered, its folk bowed to the
will of Achaera's greedy proconsuls, its art and philosophy the idle
playthings of the conquerors. The younger generation was growing
up with an idea that it might be best to yield, to become absorbed
into the thalassocracy and so eventually gain equal status with the
Achaerans.
But Corun could not forget the great flames flapping against a
wind-torn night sky, the struggling forms at ropes' ends swaying from
trees, the long lines of chained people stumbling hopelessly to the
slave galleys under Achaeran lashes. Perhaps he had carried the grudge
too long--no, by Breannach Brannor! There had been a family which was
no longer. That was grudge enough for a lifetime.
A lifetime, he thought sardonically, which wouldn't be very much
protracted now.
* * * * *
He sighed wearily in the stinking gloom of the cell. There were
too many memories crowding in. The outlaw years had been hard and
desperate, but they'd been good ones too. There had been song and
laughter and comradeship and gigantic deeds over an endless waste of
waters--the long blue hush of twilight, the soft black nights, the
gray days with a sea running gray and green and gold under squalls of
rain, the storms roaring and raging, the eager leap of a ship--frenzy
of battle at the taking of town or galley, death so close one could
almost hear the beat of black wings, orgy of loot and vengeance--the
pirate town, grass huts under jungle trees, stuffed with treasure, full
of brawling bawdy life, the scar-faced swaggering men and the lusty
insolent women, ruddy fire-light hammering back the night while the
surf thundered endlessly along the beach--
Well, all things came to a close. And while he would have wished a
different sort of death for himself, he didn't have long to wait in
this misery.
Something stirred, far down the narrow corridor, and he caught the
flickering glow of a torch. Scowling, he stood up, stooped under
the low ceiling. Who in all the hells was this? It was too soon for
feeding, unless his time sense had gone completely awry, and he didn't
think the games could have been prepared in the few days since his
arrival.
They came up to the entrance of the cell and stood looking in by the
guttering red torchlight. A snarl twisted Corun's lips. Shorzon and
Chryseis--"Of all the scum of Achaera," he growled, "I had to be
inflicted with you."
"This is no time for insolence," said the sorcerer coldly. He lifted
the torch higher. The red light threw his face into blood-splashed
shadow. His eyes were pits of darkness in which smoldered two embers.
His black robe blended with the surrounding shadow, his face and hands
seemed to float disembodied in the dank air.
Corun's eyes traveled to Chryseis, and in spite of the hate that burned
in him he had to admit she was perhaps the loveliest woman he had ever
seen. Tall and slim and lithe, moving with the soundless grace of a
Sanduvian pherax, the dark hair sheening down past the chill sculptured
beauty of her marble-white face, she returned his blue stare with eyes
of dark flame. She was dressed as if for action--a brief tunic that
left arms and legs bare, a short black cloak, and high buskins--but
jewels still blazed at throat and wrists.
Behind her padded a lean shadow at sight of which Corun stiffened. He
had heard of Chryseis' tame erinye. Folk said the devil-beast had found
a harder heart in the witch's breast and yielded to her; some said less
mentionable things.
The slitted green eyes flared at Corun and the cruel muzzle opened in a
fanged yawn. "Back, Perias," said Chryseis evenly.
Her voice was low and sweet, almost a caress. It seemed strange that
such a voice had spoken the rituals of black sorcery and ordered the
flaying alive of a thousand helpless Issarian prisoners and counseled
some of the darkest intrigues in Achaera's bloody history.
She said to Corun: "This is a fine end for all your noble thoughts, man
of Conahur."
"At least," he answered, "you credit me with having had them. Which is
more than I'd say for you."
* * * * *
The red lips curved in a cynical smile. "Human purposes have a habit of
ending this way. The mighty warrior, the scourge of the seas, ends in
a foul prison cell waiting for an unimaginative death. The old epics
lied, didn't they? Life isn't quite the glorious adventure that fools
think it to be."
"It could be, if it weren't for your sort." Wearily: "Go away, won't
you? If you won't even let me talk with my old comrades, you can at
least spare me your own company."
"We are here with a definite purpose," said Shorzon. "We offer you
life, freedom--and the liberation of Conahur!"