Chapter 40. The Island

ayla was freezing.  The windswept island was nearly completely devoid of trees being little more than a hump of rock and dead grass in the middle of open sea.  There was a spring flowing into a stony pool in the back garden from whence she drew fresh water.  The house was made from the same dour gray slate and limestone that faced the cliffs and thrust from hilltops.  The buildings hugged the bitter earth like a row of decrepit teeth.

She hated the place.  The wind never ceased and was often burdened with rain that lashed the warped glass windows or beat on the shutters.  There was peat chopped up into neat bricks beside the hearth for a fire, but it reeked when she burned it and the heat it produced was damp.

Dragging the prisoners to the house had not been a simple matter.  Tyhric obeyed her when it suited him, and when it did not, she beat him with a cane like a stubborn mule until he did.  She kept him shackled beside the fireplace with his collar chain locked to the iron footings of the grill.  So far he had not managed to pull free although she often caught him testing his bonds when he thought she might not be looking. 

She had enlisted his aid to carry Armand up the dozens of rough cut steps in the cliff from the little dock all the way to the house.  As the prize prisoner and Ashe’s pet project, the man was currently ensconced in the back bedroom locked in ensorcelled sleep.  Ashe need not tell her to leave him be.  She had seen enough of the man during his waking moments to know he was trouble.

Her days and nights were filled with shivering and boredom.  There did not seem to be enough blankets or clothes to keep the chill from her bones.  The boat that had borne them there was gone and she was utterly cut off from civilization.  It had taken a day and a night over choppy seas to reach this bleak outpost.  Once her prisoners were safely locked away she had spent a further day recuperating, huddling alone in the large bedroom on the southern side of the building where the low sun occasionally emerged from the stormy clouds to taunt her with its thin light and even thinner warmth.

The third day she had walked the width and breadth of the island in an hour.  It was made of grim gray rock, much of it covered with guano from spring’s nesting seabirds.  There was a black beach on the southern side near the maw of an imposing cave which had an iron grate jammed into its throat.  The metal was rusted and festooned with seaweed that drifted into it during high tide.  Also to the south she could see a larger land mass, and though she gave little thought to maps in general, she did have a rough idea of Cantha’s primary features.  She assumed it was the distant shore of Shing Jea.

Beyond this initial survey, she tarried outside now only to gather water or fill a basket with more blocks of peat that was conveniently stashed outside under an oilskin.  Ashe had provided minimal comforts.  There was a closet of provisions that included dried rice, beans, a clay jar of lard, flour and cured pork.  It was humble fare but abundant.  Once she overcame her initial disdain, hunger had colored it acceptable.   Happily there was also a small collection of Tyrian wines still corked and unopened in their green glass bottles.  She was rationing those out over the long evenings, a half bottle at a time to help her sleep.

Now it was the fourth day and still no sign of Ashe.  What if he never came back?  He had indicated that the mesmer he was hunting this time was quite powerful.  Probably not as potent as she, of course.  After all, Ashe had taught her a few things that her peers would kill to know.  Nevertheless, being alone in the middle of nowhere was beginning to grate on her.  She spent the morning pacing in the sitting room, pausing only to feed the fire or gaze hopefully through one of the narrow windows.  Tyhric lay curled on his nest of blankets glaring at her.  The welts on his arms and legs were a reminder of a recent beating and he said nothing now for they no doubt still pained him and gave him pause.

Oddly, she derived no pleasure from striking him.  He was a stoic creature and tough as an ox.  Once she started beating him he just sat there and took it, hardly making a sound.  Layla realized she was afraid that he might escape and kill her.  The look in his eye that day certainly seemed to confirm it for he made no effort to hide his hatred.  Shuddering privately, she decided to take her leave from the warrior and look in on Armand.

The mesmer was still wrapped in ensorcelled sleep.  She was grateful that Ashe’s magic made it unnecessary to clean or feed him.  It was as if time stood still for the man, starting up again only when Ashe deliberately awakened him.  That morning she strode into the little room and drew the curtains, letting pale gray sunlight fall upon his wan form.

Layla understood why Ashe chose Armand for his foul purpose.  The man had a forlorn beauty about him, a face that was at once wise and childlike.  She ran her fingers through his flaxen hair and he moaned softly, causing her to withdraw.  He had never made a sound let alone a response to her intrusions before.  He was uncharacteristically warm as well.  His eyelids fluttered and she felt the jolt of his conscious mind beating against the enchantment, fighting for control over his body once more.

Layla moved quickly, securing his wrists and ankles each to a brass post of the bed until he was spread out on his back.  She had prepared the shackles the night of their arrival but had not secured him then because it had seemed unnecessary.  She had just finished snapping the final manacle around his wrist when his eyes flashed open.  He roared an oath and lunged against his bonds with a rattle of chain.  There was madness written upon his face, the madness of desperation and helplessness.

“Where is Threnody?” he howled at her, his back arching as he strained to break free.  Then, to her horror, his eyes locked onto her and she heard a familiar incantation rising to his lips.  Too late she ducked beyond the door as the hex burned into her mind.  She reeled with pain., her head throbbing.  How had that happened?  Ashe had declawed him, enchanted him so that he would be unable to strike.  How was this possible?

“Release me you miserable witch!” he roared.

She swore at him, his rage and desperation shuddering through her mind.  With great effort she managed to remove the hex and stood gasping against the wall outside the bedroom in relief. 

“If I come in there you’ll just attack me again.”

“I’ll free myself, then!”

Just her luck she got stuck alone on a desolate island with an insane prisoner.  His chains rattled again as he thrashed against them.  She dared to glance through the crack in the door, horrified that he had somehow gotten his right hand free and was jamming something into the lock of his left wrist manacle.  It clicked open instantly and he sat up, immediately repeating the move on his ankle bonds.  Unholy hells.  Ashe had never mentioned that the man was an escape artist.

There was nothing for it but to fight him while she still had a small advantage.  Rushing to the table, she grasped the cane she used to beat Tyhric and raced back into the bedroom.  One ankle was still tethered but he gazed up at her approach, silencing her effort to burn his energies away with a wicked incantation.  She fell back, crying out in frustration, agonized and frightened.

“That was your last warning,” he snarled at her.  Desperate, Layla raised the cane and lashed out at his hands, trying to stop him even though it was already too late.  He sprung lightly to the opposite side of the bed and lashed her with his dreadful hex, causing her to reel away in agony holding her temples.  She thought her head was going to explode this time, so potent was the headache that beat within her skull.  Instinctively she tried to remove it, but her words came slowly and he lashed out at her again, tearing harshly into her psyche with a massive spike of mental power.  She slumped to the floor on the verge of consciousness.

“Don’t kill me,” she whimpered as he staggered stiffly toward her, his pale visage harsh with hatred and rage.

“Oh, I have no intention of doing it myself.  I think I’ll let your master do it.”

He drew her up by her hair and thrust her toward the bed.  She tried to wriggle from his grasp but he twisted her arm so sharply behind her back she screamed and dropped to her knees.

“I can give you another nasty headache or you will do as I wish,” he snarled, stamping on the cane so that her knuckle was crushed against the tiles and she was forced to release it with a clatter and cry of pain.

She yielded, tears brimming her eyes as she traded places with him, face down on the bed, her arms and legs splayed over the blankets as he locked the shackles in place.

“I’m cold,” she mewed, shivering.

“Tough,” he snapped, picking up her cane and divesting her of her ring of keys.  She prayed he would not let the warrior free for that man would have no compunction about killing her now, defenseless or not.

“Free me this instant!” she shouted, maddened by her fear.

“Or what?” Armand asked, “Be silent or I’ll make you silent.  I assure you, I will not be subtle when I do so.”

Layla blanched, terrified.

“When is your master coming home?” he demanded.

“I don’t know!”

His brows collided ferociously above his nose in rage and he snarled an incantation.  She screamed in misery as the headache tore into her mind once more, drawing tears to her eyes.

“How could you be so cruel?” she whimpered.

“Cruel?” he laughed humorlessly, “What did you call it when your master violated my mind and body and dangled me like a puppet before you?  I hope he returns to find you lying in your own filth.  Maybe after he has punished you for your incompetence and stupidity you may actually know the meaning of cruelty.”