“Nothing else to say?” Hrul prodded, but when Taegan did not reply, he shrugged. “That’s fine. I have what I need.” He barked out something harsh in orcish, and suddenly two figures were upon him, grabbing him by his arms and lifting him effortlessly off his feet.
“Wait!” he exclaimed, more out of fear than any planned protest. But Hrul glanced back over at him expectantly, and the two orcs holding him paused, so he had to say something, anything. “Whatever Kelvhan offered you, my father can double. Triple.”
Hrul laughed again, but this time it was more of a howl as he threw his head back, his hands clutching his chest. “What he promised me wasyou. Little fool, I already have all I need. Go on, then.”
The warlord waved his hand as if swatting away a fly, and Taegan was hauled off. He struggled against their powerful grips for only an instant before giving up, letting his feet trail limply along the ground as he was dragged between the two orcs.
Much as he tried to look around as they carried him through the streets, he could not glean much in the low light—only glimpses of wide dirt roads, dark wood structures, a handful of torches mounted on poles, and tents set up in the spaces between buildings. Eventually, they approached one of the wood buildings and pushed through the door, striding past another orc sitting at a wooden table who barely looked up to acknowledge their presence before he was hauled past, down a set of stone steps into a dark, even colder corridor. Only a single torch illuminated the gloomy hallway they were in, and in the dim light it took Taegan a moment to realize they were not in a corridor but a dungeon.
Unceremoniously, he was thrown into a cell, knocking the wind out of him as he landed facedown in the packed dirt floor. He lay there panting until the sound of an iron door closing behind him finally spurred him into action as he struggled to push himself up. By the time he stumbled back to his feet, the metal bars were locked shut and the two orcs were gone.
For a moment he wanted to scream, to beg, to demand his release. But he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes closed, forcing himself to remain silent—even if there was no one to hear it now, he would not stoop so low to beg and cry. When the fear boiling in his chest had calmed to a manageable simmer, he opened his eyes and looked around once more.
The cell he was in was fairly small, at least by orcish standards, maybe five or six paces across on either side, with metal bars on one end and stone walls on the other three, packed dirt beneath his feet. A pile of hay with a coarse gray blanket on top of it lay in one corner, and in the other, a low wooden stool and a wooden bucket filled with water. Nothing else was in the room besides him.
The only sound disturbing the stagnant air was his own shaky breathing, but after a moment, the silence in the back of his head sent him spiraling into another panic all over again. Zorvut’s presence in his mind was gone, their bond completely mute. While it was not the sharp pain of their bond being severed, it was an uncomfortable nonexistence, evidence of a distance between them far beyond where the magic could reach. He was utterly alone.
Taegan pulled the stool into the middle of the room and sat down on it before his legs could give out beneath him, centering himself to the best of his ability. He was alone, and afraid, and cold—but he was alive. If nothing else, they had not killed him outright then and there. With every bit of elven stoicism and past training he could summon, he held onto that thought and tried to focus on nothing but the air moving in and out of his lungs. Taegan had no idea how long he sat there with his head in his hands breathing into the darkness, but eventually the impending sense of doom filling his mind began to gradually subside.
Exhaustion settled into him o his heart had slowed to a less-panicked rate and the adrenaline was no longer pounding through his veins, but the thought of trying to sleep now seemed as impossible as walking out the door. There was nothing he could do now, except wait.
Chapter Thirteen
Astunnedsilencefellover the camp when the two elves disappeared. Though he knew it existed and Tom had even mentioned such magic during his training, Zorvut had never witnessed anything like teleportation until now. Only an instant ago, Taegan had been standing there, reaching out for him, more terror on his delicate features than Zorvut had ever seen before, an animalistic fear screaming through the bond, begging for his help—and now he was gone, and the bond was silent. He had not saved him. There had been no sound, no light as they vanished. The only evidence that he had ever been there at all was his bow that he had dropped in the mud at his feet.
The quiet lasted only a beat, though, as rage quickly replaced his shock. With a roar, he turned back to the two orcs behind him, barely registering their uncertain expressions. Despite his effort at seizing the magic inside him, he could not summon another thunderbolt, instead filling his hand with flame that he hurled at the one further away, a male he had already struck who had an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. In a single fluid movement, he swung his burning sword at the closer orc, a woman, carving into her bicep. She howled in pain, but it was cut off as he swung again, coming around the other side to slice into her torso. The heat of the sword meant there was little blood, but the wet splatter of her intestines spilling from the wound was somehow worse. As she fell, Zorvut rushed the other orc, who was scrambling to lift his axe even as his clothes were still smoldering with the fire Zorvut had thrown.
The male orc got in one good swing, but it barely phased Zorvut—a flesh wound on his shoulder, something he could easily tend to later. Fear was evident on the orc’s face, and his distraction was his downfall, for when his eyes flickered again back toward the place the two elves had stood, Zorvut plunged his sword through the orc’s chest, cutting up through his ribs until the blade was buried to the hilt. The warrior’s eyes met his, wide with shock, before rolling to the back of his skull as the larger form slumped forward lifelessly. Zorvut shoved him away, wrenching his sword from the warm body and releasing the thread of fire that had kept it alight.
Only then did he allow himself to look back at where Taegan had once stood, to stand over his ornate bow sullied by the dirt and water. He leaned down to gingerly pick it up, holding it in one shaking hand.
“Taegan!” he shouted, unable to stop himself. Fury still burned in his veins, but it was fading quickly to something colder. “Taegan! Where are you?”
He made a wide perimeter of the camp, shouting until his throat was raw. “Can you hear me? Taegan! Answer me!” But the silence, the nothing in the back of his head, was already the answer.
When he could shout no more, Zorvut sat down on the log they had set up in front of their campfire only hours before, looking into the cold ashes in a daze. He had to do something. He had to dosomething. He was called the Relentless; he did not give up. There had to be something, anything.
Whether it was the wound that he had left unattended or the dizzying panic that had finally set in, he found himself slumped on the ground as the first streaks of daylight were breaking through the night sky. He couldn’t think long enough to formulate a plan. The only thing he could focus on was the emptiness in the back of his head, as if it were his tongue running over the raw empty space where a broken tooth had been yanked out.
Mechanically, without realizing until he was halfway done with the task, he started breaking down camp, carefully folding Taegan’s bedding and setting it into his pack. It was so much smaller than his own. He would not cry. He could not cry, not now.
When everything was packed and piled onto Ember, Taegan’s little dun mare, he strung a rope through her reins and leashed her to Graksh’t before mounting the larger stallion. Though his hands were shaking, Graksh’t seemed to know the way, following the trail without need of Zorvut’s guidance.
There was nothing else he could do. It would be a long road to get home now.
When Zorvut arrived back in Aefraya, there was no siege. From the moment he could see it in the distance, the shape of the city streets spiraling up the hill with the castle perched at the top, his suspicions that Kelvhan had tricked them from the start proved true. Castle Aefraya looked just as idyllic as ever, the white stone gleaming in the afternoon sun. He did his best to push down the anger and sinking despair that welled in his chest at the realization, and made his way up to the city gates and through to the castle with as neutral an expression as he could manage.
“Tell the king I’ve returned,” he said gruffly to the guard that met him at the gate. Though the guard hesitated—through the elf’s helmet Zorvut could not see his face, but he was sure he was looking fearfully at the prince’s lone horse—he nodded and jogged up toward the castle entrance. A stableboy was already running up to take their horses. Zorvut tossed him Graksh’t’s reins without looking, unable to bear the boy’s nervous expression. He felt as if every guard standing between the gate and the castle was staring right at him, so he kept his gaze firmly on the ground as he slowly made his way up the steps and to the castle door.
As he stepped into the foyer, he could already hear hurried footsteps approaching from the marble staircase. He looked up to see the king, pulling a fine robe over his leisure clothes, descending the stairs quickly, followed closely by his attendant.
“Zorvut!” Ruven exclaimed. The half-smile on his face slowly dropped as he saw Zorvut was alone, recognizing the grim expression he couldn’t hide. “Where is Taegan?”
He took in a long, steadying breath, looking back down at his feet. Already he could not bear the king’s frightened visage.
“Captured,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. He could not cry, not yet. “We were tricked, and he was taken. The elf who betrayed us, Kelvhan, he must have been working with orc forces. He had approached Taegan in disguise, as a merchant, and told him the capital was under siege, that you were in hiding or dead. And he was so worried that we left, and Kelvhan accosted us on the road, and...”
He trailed off, his voice breaking again. Ruven was silent, and he still could not bring himself to look up at the elf. Instead, he first knelt, then lowered his forehead to the ground, prostrating himself before the king.
