guardsmen. Deciding it was a good idea to follow the captain’s instructions, he lifted his arms, placing his wrists together. “If I’d known your dungeon was this nice, I would have given myself up long ago.”
Beetlestone smirked. “And if I’d known you were such a pansy, I would have come to collect you before now.” He finished clasping the irons around Liam’s wrists, then he slapped him on the back of the head.
Liam stumbled forward a step. “That was uncalled for.”
Beetlestone cuffed him again, forcing Liam to one knee. “So was that,” said the veteran soldier. Then he turned toward the door. “Come on, boys,” he said, addressing the other guardsmen. “We’ll leave him to Lord Purdun.” The captain led his men out of the room.
“Stupid bastard,” Liam said under his breath. “Some day it’ll be my turn.”
The door closed and latched as they left.
Liam lifted himself back to his feet and took in the furnishings. The walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves were choked with books. Liam was struck with a sense of awe. He could count the number of books he’d read in his lifetime on one hand. Hells, if the baron wanted to lock him in here for the next few years, it would be all right with Liam. He’d be the best-read farmer in all of Erlkazar.
He took a few steps toward the nearest shelf and fingered a leather-bound tome. He hesitated before lifting it out, watching to see if one of the guards was going to stop him.
Not one of the cloaked figures budged.
Liam shrugged. Guess they don’t consider me a threat to their reading material, he thought.
The book he picked up was entitled The Life and Times of Grooble Stonepate. Liam opened the cover to find a poorly drawn sketch of a rather goofy-looking dwarf. Liam hadn’t had many encounters with dwarves. Though it wasn’t uncommon to see them doing business or passing through Duhlnarim, very few of them chose to make it their home. Those who did had a tendency to keep to themselves. But even so, Liam knew enough to tell that whoever drew this picture of Grooble Stonepate was either a very poor artist or had even less knowledge about dwarves than he did.
Closing the cover, he placed it back on the shelf, the chains on his manacles clinking against the wood as he did. He ran his finger along the row of books. Each had a different feel to it, but none of them had titles on their spines. He wondered how people ever found what they were looking for.
“Guess you just match the color of the cover to the mood you’re in.”
He picked up another book, this one bound in dyed red hide, and turned it so he could see its title: The Art of Waging War, by General Bartholemew G. Blazencrow.
“A wonderful read.”
Liam started and almost dropped the book.
“If you find the time, I highly recommend it.”
Liam placed the book back on the shelf and turned to face the speaker. The young man was not much older than Liam himself. His bright red hair, combed neatly to one side, made a wavy pattern across the top of his head. It was obviously awash in some sort of scented oil. Liam could smell it from where he stood.
The man wore finely made clothes of what looked like silk and a fencer’s belt around his waist. Oddly, though, no sword dangled from his hip. But the man’s most distinguishing feature was a series of three long scars across his left cheek. Though they seemed old and long-healed, they stood out, a bright burgundy against his pale, freckled skin.
The scarred man looked Liam up and down, seeming to take his measure. “So, you’re an educated man.”
Liam nodded.
He offered Liam his hand. “I am Lord Purdun, Baron of Ahlarkham.”
Liam was momentarily stunned. He had seen the baron beforehis portrait hung in every major service building in Duhlnarimbut he’d never been this close before. Standing right beside him, Purdun didn’t seem so imposing. In the paintings, he was the oppressor, the icon responsible for all of
Beetlestone smirked. “And if I’d known you were such a pansy, I would have come to collect you before now.” He finished clasping the irons around Liam’s wrists, then he slapped him on the back of the head.
Liam stumbled forward a step. “That was uncalled for.”
Beetlestone cuffed him again, forcing Liam to one knee. “So was that,” said the veteran soldier. Then he turned toward the door. “Come on, boys,” he said, addressing the other guardsmen. “We’ll leave him to Lord Purdun.” The captain led his men out of the room.
“Stupid bastard,” Liam said under his breath. “Some day it’ll be my turn.”
The door closed and latched as they left.
Liam lifted himself back to his feet and took in the furnishings. The walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves were choked with books. Liam was struck with a sense of awe. He could count the number of books he’d read in his lifetime on one hand. Hells, if the baron wanted to lock him in here for the next few years, it would be all right with Liam. He’d be the best-read farmer in all of Erlkazar.
He took a few steps toward the nearest shelf and fingered a leather-bound tome. He hesitated before lifting it out, watching to see if one of the guards was going to stop him.
Not one of the cloaked figures budged.
Liam shrugged. Guess they don’t consider me a threat to their reading material, he thought.
The book he picked up was entitled The Life and Times of Grooble Stonepate. Liam opened the cover to find a poorly drawn sketch of a rather goofy-looking dwarf. Liam hadn’t had many encounters with dwarves. Though it wasn’t uncommon to see them doing business or passing through Duhlnarim, very few of them chose to make it their home. Those who did had a tendency to keep to themselves. But even so, Liam knew enough to tell that whoever drew this picture of Grooble Stonepate was either a very poor artist or had even less knowledge about dwarves than he did.
Closing the cover, he placed it back on the shelf, the chains on his manacles clinking against the wood as he did. He ran his finger along the row of books. Each had a different feel to it, but none of them had titles on their spines. He wondered how people ever found what they were looking for.
“Guess you just match the color of the cover to the mood you’re in.”
He picked up another book, this one bound in dyed red hide, and turned it so he could see its title: The Art of Waging War, by General Bartholemew G. Blazencrow.
“A wonderful read.”
Liam started and almost dropped the book.
“If you find the time, I highly recommend it.”
Liam placed the book back on the shelf and turned to face the speaker. The young man was not much older than Liam himself. His bright red hair, combed neatly to one side, made a wavy pattern across the top of his head. It was obviously awash in some sort of scented oil. Liam could smell it from where he stood.
The man wore finely made clothes of what looked like silk and a fencer’s belt around his waist. Oddly, though, no sword dangled from his hip. But the man’s most distinguishing feature was a series of three long scars across his left cheek. Though they seemed old and long-healed, they stood out, a bright burgundy against his pale, freckled skin.
The scarred man looked Liam up and down, seeming to take his measure. “So, you’re an educated man.”
Liam nodded.
He offered Liam his hand. “I am Lord Purdun, Baron of Ahlarkham.”
Liam was momentarily stunned. He had seen the baron beforehis portrait hung in every major service building in Duhlnarimbut he’d never been this close before. Standing right beside him, Purdun didn’t seem so imposing. In the paintings, he was the oppressor, the icon responsible for all of
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