The Sword and The Mountain (Kathardra book 1)

“What?” Golathar roared. His captain of the guard had woken him and delivered the news. “Where?” he demanded.

“The Geldur prison, my King.”

“Are you sure?”

Fellon hesitated, “Sire, they are saying she felled sixteen men before they took her.”

“Surely that is exaggerated.” Golathar rose from his bed and started dressing.

“I cannot be sure, my king. Without a doubt the number was large.”

“Wait for me outside.”

“Yes, my king.”

The captain closed the door behind him and Golathar was pulling on his boots.

“Sire, would you like me to accompany you?” He stared at Solveiga for a long moment.

“No, You wait here.”

“But my king-”

“I said wait.”

Her mouth pursed to a line but she said nothing further.

He could, and would face this girl without Solveiga. He did not need her there. And it would serve the witch well to remember that as well. She had been developing a habit of pushing herself into affairs in which she did not belong.

“My horse.” He did not ask but the question was implied, the moment he stepped from his bedchamber.

“He is being prepared now, my king,” Fellon responded.

Skull-splitting pain woke Lessa. Her moan solidified her return to consciousness. She reached for her head but realized she couldn’t move.

The last memories Lessa had hit her like a tidal wave. How was she still breathing?

Her body jerked and her eyes sprang open. Her cheek was pressed to stone, but moving was awkward with her hands bound behind her back, and her ankles tied together.

There were boots not three feet from her face. Lessa froze. Someone was sitting in a chair before her. Like a worm, she inched away from the boots and managed to roll to a seated position.

The man before her was a beast of a man, broader than Zar through the shoulders, and chest and arms by another half. The close-cropped hair on his head was white, his tight beard was salt and pepper giving him a distinguished air. And upon his head was a crown.

The realization of what was happening stilled Lessa.

Her eyes met Golathar's.

The man she was destined to kill.

He sat back in his chair, a little too fast to be poised.

A thousand years passed between them.

“Storm?” Lessa practically begged to be heard. But there was nothing. She was too far.

Lessa tried to pull on her magic, but it slipped from her. like sand through fingers. She tried again. There was nothing. “They’ve done something to block my magic…”

Despair seeped into Lessa’s bones.

“What is your name, child?” The king asked.

Lessa turned her head away slightly, but her eyes were locked on him. Would this cause any harm? “My name is Lessa.”

“That is… Unique. And you have an accent, where does it come from?”

Zar would come for her. Storm and Zar would both come. Storm would tear the city apart until Lessa was free.

Then a sinking realization hit her. The moment the guards saw a dragon, without a doubt, Lessa would be killed. Fear made her soul tremble like a leaf in the wind, it was wrapped around her core like ice on a winter’s night driving all hope and happiness from her body. She had nothing. No sword, no magic, no dragon. And she was in the hands of someone who had every motivation to see her dead.

Unable to think of a convincing lie, Lessa let silence answer. He did not need to know where she came from and was unlikely to believe her.

She studied his face while he digested the silence. Unless she was greatly mistaken he was angry with her, furious really. The tension in the room escalated tenfold in a matter of seconds. Was it the prophecy, or her determination to not heed his questions?

“I never really did believe I would ever set eyes on you. I will admit I never did put much faith in the prophecy. I had always thought it was a rumor. Exploded into popularity by the hope that a change of ruler would save peasants from the weather. But I suppose there is no accounting for intelligence."

Shock replaced Lessa’s fear. In her mind she distinctly saw the fields in Kathardra, everywhere but Haven. Mineral-rich soil was carefully tilled, plowed, and planted, growing nothing while the weeds just outside of cultivation thrived. And he was mocking the farmers that were slowly starving to death because they knew what caused their crops to fail.

“I still hadn’t quite believed when that soldier was brought before me. A first-hand account of a girl riding a dragon…. And now, here you sit before me. Part of me still does not quite believe. I see no dragon, I see no sword. I only see a child.”

“Weather?” She could not get past his audacity to blame the climate. “The weather does not cause the soil to reject seed. The land is rejecting you as its ruler. You must know this.”

He looked at her like she was manure on a silver platter. “The dirt gives no more thought to its king than an anvil gives the smith.”

With astonishment Lessa stared, she could not believe, would not believe he was so blind. “Do you feign ignorance or have you spent so long lying to yourself that you have started to believe that-”

He cut her off, low and warning, “I will not be spoken to in this-”

Lessa didn’t know what had gotten into her. But he had to hear what she had to say, “The people you have so callously ignored are the foundation that this country is built on. A king is meant to guide and protect, Yet-”

“Enough!” His voice rose trying to end her speech.

“You have treated them as you would a pebble in your shoe. You have bullied and repressed the people until they have nothing but dust. They barely have hope. But you-”

“I said enough!” Lessa saw it coming but she did not let herself flinch or pull away. She took the back of his fist fully on her cheekbone. She saw stars dancing in black. When she looked back she felt a dragon rise within. She wanted to demand that he unchain her, and arm her, he wouldn’t dare hit her then.

But Lessa mastered her fury, this may be her only chance to ever peaceably resolve this. He had to see the sense of stepping down to preserve the people. “You can stop this.” She tried to press the importance into her words. “You can save Kathardra, the people would crowd the streets cheering your name, all you have to do is step aside-”

“Kathardra is mine!” Golathar screamed. Lessa pressed herself back into the wall, trying to distance herself from the looming man.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she whispered without looking away. She could change the prophecy here and now. She wouldn’t have to kill anyone. A strange desperate glee bubbled up at the thought.

His tone was tight and controlled “Perhaps.” For a second Lessa was hopeful that he might actually see reason. “That depends on you and I. The prophecy says you will crown the Rhodrin heir.”

Why had this not crossed her mind? Of course, he would want Zar. Golathar would want to end the king’s bloodline for good. Zar was the only reason Lessa was still alive. The hope she had felt a second ago became drawn and rigid but still lived. Golathar would very possibly keep her alive until he knew who and where Zar was. Those were words Lessa would never speak, so she might live long enough for Storm to find her.

“Tell me who he is, tell me where he is, and I will spare you.”

Visibly Lessa steeled herself.

“No?” His voice was an oily smooth sneer that hung implications in the air.

“I am done here,” the king said, rising from his seat. The door behind him opened immediately and a bald man led uniformed guards, and plain-clothed men into the room.

“Put her to question," the king spoke serenely. He could have been giving the order to offer a glass of water, rather than ordering torture.

A magical wave surged up next to Lessa, she reached for magic but was unable to touch it as the spell hit her. She hit the ground, the last thing she saw was the king walking down the hall.

When next she awoke Lessa was hanging from chains, her toes found just enough purchase to keep her in one place. The room she was in was sweltering hot, an open iron stove to Lessa’s left heated the room, several different irons hung out of its orange maw.

There was a table just before Lessa, it had whips, knives, saws, clamps, and other devices Lessa couldn’t name.

Golathar was standing on the opposite side of the table, his grey eyes rested on her, his expression a mask.

“I ask you again. Where is the heir?”

Knowing pain was going to come Lessa clamped her eyes shut and tried to block out the noises in the room.

“I will not die here,” she vowed.

The first sensation was not what she was expecting. Her hair was grasped, and with a shhhnik sound, it was set loose again.

Lessa's hair was grabbed again, and once again the sound loosed her head from the grip. The process was repeated a few more times until Lessa's head felt unburdened, the comforting weight of her curls gone.

When the last handful was cut loose it was shoved under her eyes by the bald man. He stepped around in front of her and ran her hair under his nose with a slimy smile before he dropped it to her feet.

Anger overtook Lessa, unable to reach for her magic once again she grabbed the chains to steady herself and kicked the bald man as hard as she could. He crashed backward into the table, metal clanged and tools fell to the ground. Lessa braced herself for him to come back to her with anger, but he smiled and calmly grabbed a hooked, multi-ended whip from the table. He circled, widely, around her until he was lost to her vision.

The woosh crack through the air gave her half a second to brace herself. Then almost at once a loud multi-faceted crack filled the air and hot intense pain ripped up and down Lessa’s back. She clenched her jaw and fought back a whimper at the pain the many tails had ripped into her. She sucked on air sharply but otherwise did not make a sound.

“Where is he?” Golathar asked again. Lessa wondered if she was imagining it but he sounded amused. That made her mad.

She said nothing, a determined scowl spread over Lessa’s face and she gripped the chains that were binding her hands, readying herself for the next blow.

Again the whip cracked the air. Again Lessa caught the whimper in her throat before the pitiful noise could escape from her. The pain became worse as the whip crossed the welts the first strike had left. Now Lessa could feel open wounds and blood oozing down her back. The tears ran freely as Lessa desperately tried again to use magic. The power still eluded her, leaving her defenseless.

The question was repeated, as well as the punishment for silence. Lessa arched her back in pain but still uttered no noise.

Again the treatment came and again Lessa remained silent but pulled on the chains with all her strength.

The pain continued for eternity, all Lessa could do was tell herself that the next crack of the whip was the last one. Of course, it was a lie, she didn’t know when the misery would stop. She only knew that she had to endure.

Somewhere, someone was asking questions, but the voices were lost on her. The only thing real was the snap of the whip, the pain, and the need to protect Zar.

Unconsciousness became Lessa’s friend, her only respite. But there was always another crack of the whip that dragged her back to the pain.

Something changed. A new pain seared into Lessa’s arm. She didn’t understand what was happening until, through blurry eyes, she saw a hot iron on her arm. It was only pulled away once the white hot had faded and melted flesh clung to it.

Once again the iron was heated and Lessa’s arms, her belly, and her legs, were all blistered and melted upon meeting the metal.

Unconsciousness enveloped Lessa once more. It was a relief, but then, everything erupted.

Liquid fire was poured into Lessa’s wounds. She screamed out for the first time. Her nerves turned to magma.

She was dropped to the ground, limp as a rag doll, her eyes unfocused. There may have been words said but she couldn’t hear them.

She was dragged, but she couldn’t feel it. The only thing she could feel was the fire.

Lessa was dumped again. On an instinctual level she knew there were people around her, but it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered anymore. This would surely kill her.

A face came into her view, but it might have been a dream.

Existence was pain, it was suffering. Lessa pushed herself away from it. Deeper into the comfort of blackness than she had been before.