Chapter Two:
Into the Hellrock
"I have walked the path; the shadowed roads
that led to terror's breast. I have plumbed the depths of
Hatred's womb and scaled Destruction's crest."
-The Adept
He could have struggled, could have made it difficult for his captors to contain him. But instead, he was still, fear and despair held him silent and motionless. He prayed that it was only a trick, that Master Renaud had used an Illusion as he sometimes did and faked his own death. Or that he'd somehow lived and was waiting for the moment to strike and rescue his apprentice. But in his heart, he knew Renaud was gone. The Sense was smothering him in panic now. Surrounded by enemies and without allies. How could Ibn have done this?
He had been bound at the wrists, knees, and ankles before being thrown over the back of a horse facedown. The smell of the beast in the hot sun wasn't helping the feeling of suffocation. His left arm burned like fire, blood flowing down his fingers to drip freely into the sand.
His mind was working furiously to dredge up every random and unconnected thought it could, flooding his attention with complete tripe, all to keep the memory away. And still it was failing. Every few seconds, the boy's mind would snap back to the splash of blood that soaked the ground as the dagger opened Renaud's jugular. But maybe Renaud had survived. He'd lived through so many things in the years Zachary had known him. Things a normal person couldn't have. Clinging desperately to that thought, the boy closed his eyes and began to calm himself. The jostling of the horse, the feeling of asphyxiation, and the Sense pounding against his mind made it easier said than done.
Voices chatted merrily around him, muffled by grotesque silver masks. They spoke of victory, of the kill, of the captured boy. He tried to shut them out, seeking just an ounce of peace in a day that had gone horribly wrong and would haunt his memories and nightmares for the rest of his life. He cast his mind back to better days, easier days. Recollections bubbled to the surface; standing on the deck of the Corone Galleon Quicksilver with Renaud, practicing with their daggers, laughing together as they bantered and danced inside ribbons of flashing steel. He could almost feel the spray of the ocean on his face, could almost hear Renaud's comforting voice.
Time crawled forward, the boy's eyes shut tightly against the outside world. Tears leaked out between his eyelids, blood from his wounds, sweat from his pores. He needed to be calm, and prepare for what was coming. He was being marched into Hell, and he had to do more than survive until Renaud came to rescue him. He had to finish the mission. He would have to find a way to kill the emotionless monster that led the column of guards. He was wounded and scared, but he would not fail. He would kill Marcel Axelandre de'Travoin for the Mortalis. And Ibn, he would kill for free.
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