Stalking Darkness

presence of others, the necromancer maintained an impassive demeanor. Left alone with Alec, the searing hatred spilled out like acid.
    “You and your vile companion cost me great status that night in Wolde,” he’d hissed in Alec’s ear as the boy lay trembling in the darkness after one of the dyrmagnos’ assaults. “At first I thought only of killing you, but now, you see, I am given by the Beautiful One to relish my revenge.”
    And relish it he did, until Alec came to dread the sight of him more than any of the others. Ashnazai’s attacks left no marks, drew no blood. Instead, he salted his spells with lurid descriptions of the murders he’d helped carry out at the Cockerel.
    “It’s a pity you didn’t arrive earlier that night,” he told Alec. “The old woman never said a word, but how that foolish son begged. And the girl! She stayed proud right up until they hacked off the old bitch’s head, then she screamed, those great breasts of hers heaving. The men wanted to take her right there on the bloody floor—”
    Held silent and immobile by the magic, Alec could only shudder as Ashnazai passed a clammy hand over his chest, then traced a hard line down his breastbone. “Did you ever take her on that floor, boy? No? Ah, well, I suppose other things happened there, eh? But then,
snik, snik, snik
, like so we had the heads off for the mantel decoration. I must say, your reaction was all that I’d have hoped for. I nearly added your head to the collection, but then I thought of a more—how would you say?”
    The necromancer traced the line down Alec’s chest a second time with a look of almost dreamy pleasure. “A more
satisfying
revenge. You shall pay for the difficulties you made, and be of great use.”
    The implication was clear enough. Thinking of the bodies Micum and Seregil had seen, with their chests split open, ribspulled back on either side like wings, Alec wished they had killed him that first night.
    The rounds of torture continued for several days and when they’d finished with him, Alec finally understood why Nysander had told Seregil and him so little. They wrung everything from him, though it was nothing more than the fragment of the prophecy.
    “There now. Well done, Alec,” Mardus said, smiling down at him when the dyrmagnos had finished. “But your Guardian is dead, this mysterious band of four he spoke of sundered, broken. Poor Seregil. Even if he did desert you in the end, he must be feeling a bit guilty at having brought such destruction down on so many of his friends.”
    Torn loose from any shred of hope or pride, Alec could only turn his face away and weep.
    After the torture ceased, the soldiers became Alec’s chief source of daily misery. Among them were Mardus’ captain, Tildus, and the men-at-arms who’d bullied him in Wolde. With Seregil’s training to guide him, he looked for a weak link among them, a man with some fatal streak of sympathy, but Mardus had chosen his personal guard with care.
    A harsh, brutal lot, they’d crowded to the grate to listen when he was tortured. Now they were the ones who dragged him above for the daily airings on deck that Mardus insisted upon. They stood over him at meals, sniggered when he begged for a pail to relieve himself. Few of them spoke any Skalan, but they managed to get their crude jests and insults across. A few of them made free with their hands, too, and laughed when he lashed out at them.
    The worst among them was a hairy, muscular brute called Gossol. During the brief struggle at the Cockerel the night of his capture, Alec had smashed him in the mouth with the hilt of his sword and broken off the man’s front teeth. Gossol held a grudge over it and made a special effort to torment him at every opportunity.
    On the morning of Alec’s sixth day aboard, Gossol showed up alone to escort him above. One look was enough to make Alec brace for trouble.
    “Corne you, man child,” Gossol ordered in broken Skalan. The stumps of his broken front teeth showed as he leered slyly and held up a cloak, the only garment Alec was allowed except for his clout.
    Alec understood. He’d have to go get it.
    “Come quick, not
seshka
Mardus keep wait,” Gossol chided.
    “Toss it here,” Alec said, holding out his hand.
    Gossol’s grin widened dangerously. Leaning against the door frame, he gave the cloak a taunting shake. “No. You come, man child. Now.”
    Getting to his feet, Alec cautiously reached for the cloak. Gossol