Chapter 25: Captive
Anger.
Misery.
Pain.
This trio of unrelenting emotions swirled around in Dal's head with such ferocity that it actually burned. His mind, often the most proficient torturer of his own self, played the boy, Jona's, death on repeat. It also taunted him, reminding him that he had been so close to freedom: so close to a return to his normal life. And now? Now he was submerged in darkness, both figuratively and literally.
Where am I?
The pain was both in his heart but also in his body—his head, specifically. He had the worst kind of ache. It was one of those that rippled deep inside the middle of his skull, the sort that hurt exponentially more whenever he turned his head even slightly. He also felt nauseous. Every movement sickened him, and so did the rocking sensations he felt around him. Was he in some kind of carriage?
It was pitch black in here, but as he honed his senses, he thought he could make out the patter of horse hooves. He attempted to sit up, but found that he could not. His head, already aching fiercely, banged into something that felt wooden. The same was true if he tried to move his arms or legs. This, he found terrifying, because it meant that, wherever he was, it was only around the size of his body. He was therefore unable to move, which only made him want to move even more. A bout of tremendous claustrophobia struck.
"Where am I?" he screamed. "Let me out!"
"Shut the fuck up!" a voice immediately shouted back to him.
The confines of this…this box-like prison were so tight that he could not even raise his arm to bang. But he could kick. And so, wildly, ruthlessly, he began pounding on the wooden box he was in, ignoring the ache to his feet as he kicked and kicked and kicked.
"Knock it off, kid, or I'll cut your fuckin' legs off!"
The threat was useless against someone like Dal. He'd lost legs before. He'd lost about six in his life, actually, four of them being to monsters in places he probably shouldn't have gone. Regardless, they'd always come back with each shift. So no, having his legs chopped off, painful as that would be, was something he could tolerate—or at least he could tolerate it far more so than he could being stuck in the confines of this dark, wooden tomb.
"What do you want from me?" he shouted. "Why are you doing this?" No one replied, so he shouted again. "Tell me!"
For another moment, he was treated only to the sounds of horse hooves and the slight rattling of what sounded like cargo in whatever wagon he'd been stuffed within. He needed to move. He needed to get out of here—even if in pieces. Angrily he slammed his right foot, then his left one, striking over and over as pain shot through his ankles, which were probably close to breaking.
But then finally, something changed. The rocking stopped, and so did the sound of hooves. Now, Dal heard the sound of wood splitting, and immediately afterwards, there was light—so much light. Enough to blind him. He groaned and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. He didn't realize he was so sweaty. His head was throbbing and pounding to the extent he wondered if he had a concussion. He was dehydrated. He was…miserable.
But at least he was being taken out of the box.
Dal felt two sets of hands grabbing him and lifting him out. Then, before he could orient himself, he was thrown, and he fell several feet off the side of a horse-drawn carriage and onto a patch of dirt, landing with an "oomph" on his stomach. He tried to pick himself up, but his hands and feet had all fallen asleep, and now, all four experienced the "pins and needles" sensation at once. He tried to take stock of his surroundings, but his eyes were still adjusting to the light.
Then came more pain.
A foot snapped up and kicked him in his stomach as he was still climbing up to his feet. An agonizing sensation traveled from his chest to his head, and he opened his mouth, vomiting. Then he collapsed into his own spew—or rather, the foot stomped down on his head and shoved his face into it.
"You mother fucker!" a male voice shouted at him.
"Volorn, take it easy," another voice said. "Boss wants the prick alive."
Dal, confused, asked, "Why are you doing this to me?"
This caused the one called Volorn to shriek with anger. "You fucking know why, you mother fucker! Don't you dare pretend you don't." Dal's vision, only first starting to return, could just make out two feet pacing back and forth along a dirt path as the man began to mutter. "…killed my fucking brother, and now I'm supposed to take it easy? Huh? Huh!"
"Your brother?" Dal asked, lifting his head from his own vomit and wiping it off his face with his sleeve.
"In the Summerglades. Don't pretend. Don't you dare. You killed five of our people. In a pub. We know it was you."
Dal, lifting himself slightly with his palms flat on the dirt, said, "You've got the wrong guy."
"Nah, we know exactly who you are."
"You're mistaken! Use Identify on me. I'm a G—"
"A Goat Castration Specialist, we know," the one who'd been called Volorn said. "But we know what you really are, Dal Rinelocht. Oh, we know exactly who you are. That nice lady, Marina, told us all about you."
"Marina?" he asked, scowling. "What did you do to her?"
"So, you know her." Now, there was laughter, but it was filled with darkness and hatred. "I hope she mattered to you, kid. Ohhhh I really, really hope she mattered to you."
"Why?" he demanded, raising his voice.
"Cause I fucked her and killed her, that's why."
Dal squeezed his hands into fists, grabbing two clumps of dirt in the process. Now, he was propped up on his knuckles. "You killed Jona, too," he said. "Why? He was just a child!"
"Because I felt like it, dipshit." The man knelt down so that the two were nearly eye level. And with his eyes finally having adjusted to the light, Dal could see that the ugly son of a bitch was unquestionably a marauder. Likely a mid-level Soldier. He was a bald, middle-aged man with a scarred face wearing a crudely wrought, iron-armored breastplate and he was wielding a flail with a bloodied, spiked ball.
That's Jona's blood, Dal thought, becoming enraged.
Glancing around, Dal could see that he was now somewhere far east of where he'd been—past Bradford, even. This was confirmed as he turned his head to the right, and the sight of a landscape dominated entirely by six massive, snow-topped mountains filled his sight.
They're taking me to the Hell Mountains, Dal thought, alarmed but not entirely surprised.
It was long theorized that the marauders had a miniature nation concealed in the Hell Mountains. It was a gigantic stretch of land that was too treacherous for any Commoner to travel, as it was the home of very powerful monsters and beasts. Only someone with a Battle Class could last there for very long. And though it technically fell within the territory controlled by the Kingdom of Ostros, it was functionally its own region, as there was no law to be found or enforced once one crossed through Hell's Pass and into the mountain range.
At the moment, Dal was about a day's ride from such a point of no return, and this time around, his captors were only two in number.
"Get up," Volorn said to him. Dal did as he was bid, and he was rewarded for it with a backhand across the side of his head, causing the ache in his skull to nearly bring on another bout of uncontrollable vomiting.
I'm going to kill these two, Dal thought. I swear it in the name of Esreus!
For now, he obeyed.
Time Remaining: 3 days, 11 hours, 10 minutes, 18 seconds