The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #3)

The interior was hazy and wreathed with smoke. She smelled something burning. It was a sharp smell, an unfamiliar smell. Her heart lurched with despair.

The room had three men, two of which were Dochte Mandar. In the center of the room was a Leering. She could not see its face, but she saw its pocked surface glowing red hot. Kneeling before the Leering was Martin, in chains, his hands smoking as they were held and pressed against the burning stone. The Leering was blackened, diseased, constantly burning as the one in the grove she had seen before. The torturers were pressing Martin’s hands against it, and he howled with pain.

Lia shook with rage and she felt the hands tighten around her arms. She tried to quell the Leering with her thoughts, but it would not obey her. She ground her teeth, breathless with agony at seeing him suffer. Her mind went black with fury.

With a quick pull on her arms, she slammed her heel on the foot of the Dochte Mandar holding her. He yelped with pain as she tugged her arm free. With her free hand, she struck the other Dochte Mandar in the throat and he let go as well, gagging at the blow. Lia rushed the two holding Martin and that was when she saw the other man, the third who had been there all along. He clipped her from behind, grabbing her arm and then she found herself face first on the floor, arm yanked back so hard she wailed in pain.

“Thank you, Kishion,” said the Aldermaston. Her cheek scraped against the floor. She could only see the Aldermaston’s fur-lined boots. “Chain her hands and ankles. She is as dangerous as this one. Just as Dieyre warned. Strip her weapons.”

Lia wanted to struggle, but she could not think beyond the excruciating agony happening in her shoulder. The kishion controlled her as the chains were brought. Her boots were removed and her ankles shackled. Her leather bracers were stripped away and replaced by iron locks as well. Lia struggled as they took away her rucksack, her dagger, her gladius, but she could not resist. Someone untied the pouch at her waist and opened it.

“Ah, a Cruciger orb!” the Aldermaston crooned. “How delightful. You are gifted, as we were told. Wonderful. Take the other wretch to his cell. I would speak with her a moment.”

Lia was dumped unceremoniously to the floor, her shoulders still throbbing in agony. She panted, blinking the tears away as Martin was dragged to a door made of iron bars and thrust inside.

“Leave us,” the Aldermaston said pleasantly.

“Be wary,” the others warned. “Be on your guard.”

“The kishion will keep me safe. He is trained to kill mastons and hunters. Even Pry-rian hunters.” The others of the Dochte Mandar abandoned the chamber and the door was shut and locked from without.

Lia scooted away from the Aldermaston as he approached her. The feeling of everything light and good was sucked from her as he approached. The kishion loitered in the shadows, his eyes on her constantly. She glanced about the room, seeing five doors made of bars on five of the six walls and the other one they had entered from made of solid iron. She could see Martin slumped on the floor, trembling and moaning.

“The only reason you would have this,” the Aldermaston said, hefting the orb in his hand. “Is if you could use it. You are strong in the Medium, child. That will serve you well here.”

Lia clenched her jaw, staring at him with fear and loathing.

He crouched down, squatting close to her so his eyes could focus on hers. The feeling of blackness made her dizzy, forced her to tremble and cower. Her arms were heavy with the chains. “I know who you are,” he said. “Who you truly are.”

She swallowed, amazed but wary. “You do?” she asked, wondering if the binding would prevent him from speaking it.

“What did the Aldermaston of Muirwood tell you? Or did he ever tell you?”

Lia was silent, waiting for the other man to speak. She slowly slid away from him, until she felt the cold iron of the door press against her back.

He rose, looming over her. Every feeling of warmth and goodness disappeared from her heart and soul in his presence. Every spark of kindness or love sapped away. She shivered with the feeling, even though the Leering in the room made the dungeon stifling.

“Almaguer recognized you,” he said softly, almost in a kindly tone. There was nothing kindly in the way it made her feel. “I see it before me as well. You are a Demont. Rub away the dirt and grime and you have your grandmother’s features. The slope of your chin. The clever expression when you smile. You are a Demont, child. It is plain for anyone to see.” He stepped closer, squinting at her thoughtfully. “It is a wonder Garen Demont did not recognize you. But then the man has always been self-righteous and blind. Yes, child – you are a Demont. How old did they tell you that you were? When was your name day?”