NOVEL NEXT Chapter 30: Greenspring's Father
I had no idea how long it'd been since Thrig captured me. It took me a while to recover. When I did I had no access to the outside world. Nor did I have any way to talk to the prisoners around me. Thrig gagged my mouth and tied my hands and feet. My ears were covered so I couldn't hear anything except my breath and my heartbeat.
The only sign I had that time was moving was when the guards brought me food. They pulled me to the back of the cell and covered my eyes with a blindfold. Then they ungagged me and shoveled food and water into my mouth. It was quick and efficient, leaving me no chance to speak. Trafford knew what a bard was fully capable of.
Still, I had to do my best to escape. Whenever I was sure I was alone, I crawled to the cell door and banged my feet against it. Enough to make any sound without raising the alarm. Everything and anything could be an instrument. If I could make it sound like music I could make my escape.
But since I couldn't hear, I wasn't sure if I was playing the right notes. Magic is fickle, it requires absolute precision. Sure, you can change how you cast a spell, but the basic features of the spell need to be correct. Rhythm and volume were key. Even humming my songs wasn't good enough. Not for the type of spells that would help me escape. When my spells didn't work, I resigned myself to breaking out of my bindings. Which also didn't work.
It took fifteen feedings before Trafford made his appearance. Had I not already gone insane in the sewers, I would have gone crazy. Well, more bored than crazy. Turns out when you spend most of your time sleeping and eating, time flies by.
Thrig opened my cell door, grabbed me by the collar, and dragged me to the back of the room. Trafford stepped in after him, an annoyed expression on his face. In his hands, he held my mandolin, though he held it like it deeply disgusted him. After Thrig uncovered my ears, he stepped to the side. His hand hovered over his axe.
"Norman, Norman, Norman," said Trafford, shaking his head. "I'm disappointed in you."
I squinted at him. Was this real, or an illusion conjured up by my mind? The isolation of my captivity was making it hard to think straight. All I could focus on was the pain induced by my gag. It was so tight it bit into my lip, cutting through my flesh each time I tried to say a word.
"Have you forgotten our dear master's teachings? Music comes from the heart, our instruments are our soul. You can't cheat good art. This," he said, gesturing to my mandolin. "This is cheating."
Anger surged through me. It cut through the fog in my head. Who was he to judge me? It was his fault my last mandolin broke. If I hadn't been forced to enter his stupid tournament, it would still be here. In some ways it was thanks to him that I had my new mandolin. Cheating, what a joke. He's the cheater.
Glaring at me, Trafford set his fingers on the strings of my mandolin and began to play. My eyes widened as I recognized the song. It was a song of silence. It made it so that music couldn't be played within an area for the next hour. That meant that both of us couldn't use magic.
I would be powerless.
But that bothered me less than hearing him play on my new mandolin. It was a gift for me. I tried to ignore the song, tune it out of my head, but with little else to do I had to hear him play. At least it was a pleasant song, though it irritated me to hear him play well. Like me, he too was taught by the gr—well, by Piopus.
When he finished, he let the silence linger in the air. Closing his eyes, he mouthed words in the language of his homelands. I only recognized it as such thanks to a, at the time very strange, lesson from Piopus. Because sunset elves came from the mad experiments of a crazed wizard somewhere far across the sea, their language was a combination of many languages.
Trafford took my mandolin and held it in both hands. He raised it into the air, his chin tilted toward the ceiling. Then, as fast as he could, he brought it down onto the floor. With a loud crack, my mandolin split in two. Screams from the two gods who bestowed that gift upon me echoed in my ears. There was a flash of green light, purple light, white light, and then silence once more.
I didn't feel anger, I couldn't feel anything. My mind refused to accept what I was seeing as true. Not only had I lost the mandolin gifted to me by my teacher, but also the divine mandolin I had just received. A gift from the gods. A gift from Greenspring. Now it was in splinters and split hairs deep in the dungeons below Castle Denning.
"Pull out his gag, he'll be no more trouble," said Trafford, grinning from ear to ear. Thrig yanked out my gag, spilling spit onto the floor with it.
"How dare you," I spat out.
"I refuse to let you cheat," said Trafford.
"Like you?"
He laughed. "I don't cheat. Everything I've done has been through my own will and power. You see, Norman, people like us aren't meant to climb the ladder of success. We aren't meant to have power. The people at the top: gods, kings, nobility; they want us to keep our heads down and stay in the dirt. So we have to take power ourselves."
I glared at him. "You must think yourself so noble."
"Not really. All I've ever wanted was to have fun, to enjoy life to the fullest," said Trafford with a glimmer in his eye. "I can't do that without dipping my hands into the sludge they dwell in. If I had to work for it, then so do you."
"Have your fun and leave me and my friends alone!"
He sighed. "Believe me, I want nothing more than to never see you again. I had hoped you were more like our master, but I can see that isn't the case. Unfortunately for you, you've mixed yourselves up with the sludge."
"Don't talk about my friends like that!" I yelled.
"You have no idea who you align yourself with, or at least I hope not. It would be a shame to kill you."
"You know nothing."
He stepped toward me, towering over me with a blind fury in his pupil-less eyes. "I know more than you could ever know."
Taking a deep breath, he turned and stepped toward the door. "Why would you accept this?" he asked, kicking the remains of the broken mandolin he destroyed. "From them." He spoke the last words with such venom that spit flew out of his mouth.
"It was a gift."
"Do you understand what they're doing to this world? The druids hope to destroy us."
"What?" I asked, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"I assume you know the origin of the druids' magic?" asked Trafford.
I glared at him, not wanting to humor him for a second. Though I was still curious. Even to the most studious magician, the origin of magic was unknown. All it took was one person figuring out how to use magic, and then it spread to every corner of the land. There were various legends about gods gifting the ability to use magic to the people, but nothing concrete. It was just as likely people discovered magic on their own.
No one knew for sure.
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Trafford sighed. "I thought not. It is a closely guarded secret, after all. You see, unlike you or I, druids are not able to cast magic through willpower alone. No, they found a trick to skip the whole process. They call it the rejuvenation ritual.
"It varies from druid sect to sect, but I do at least know the process for the group your friend is a part of. At the end of a druid's life, they return home to their sacred grove. Some celebrate the event with a large party, while others perform the ritual quietly. No matter what they choose to do, it all ends the same. They stand before the sacred grove and starve themselves until they waste away."
"Why?" I asked, unable to help myself.
"When a druid dies near their sacred grove, all the magical power they've accumulated in their life is transferred into the grove. When it comes time for the youth in their sect to become a full druid, the grove gifts them a portion of that power. More than the first druid earned when it was their turn. Then the cycle begins anew. Each generation the rats grow in strength."
I frowned. "Is that why you've been sending Zadona to hunt druids?"
"In a way. A druid that dies in the outside world can't return their magic to the grove. This permanently weakens them."
"Why do you hate them so much?"
"Would you even care if I told you?" he asked softly. "Tell me, Norman, why do you think I'm hosting my tournament?"
"Because you enjoy watching people suffer."
Trafford chuckled to himself. "In a way, I suppose. But no, that is not the reason. You see, I'm looking for fighters. Great, strong warriors who stand above the rest. That's why I invited you, I wanted to see if you were as strong as Piopus suggested."
Thoughts of Gunner and his plan to arm the harska filled my mind. Did Trafford want to build his own army? Had Piopus told him that I served under Gunner, if only for a short time? No, Piopus wouldn't have known that. Only the harska and my friends knew that. So what was Trafford's end goal?
It was easier just to ask. "Why? What use do you have for 'strong warriors?'"
Trafford held his hands behind his back, turning to look outside of the cell. "I am afraid of what is to come." He spoke in a tone of voice that held none of his usual pomp. "The druids have tried their best to hide the source of the corruption, but I have found it. Roots of corruption grow out of one place: the Temple of the Forgotten."
Goosebumps formed on my skin. The Temple of the Forgotten was in ruins, at the edges of Strabora. Nobody remembered who the temple was built for, hence the name. Cults sometimes rose out of the ruins, attempting to take the legends and use them for profit. Then they would quickly vanish, never to be heard of again. I hadn't heard about that temple in years. Not since a famous historian adventured into the ruins to discover their secrets. He never came home.
"Another cult?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, at least, not in the way you're thinking. Many years ago, two druids entered the ruins. Only one of them came home. The name of that druid? Greenspring. Not an uncommon name for a druid, but only a few Greensprings have ever wielded the power of the wolf. After he left the temple, people began reporting failed crops and plague around the area. Some even said that they saw strange skeletal creatures roaming around at night. Do you know what they looked like? Tigers."
"You think the corruption is Greenspring's fault?" I asked, gritting my teeth. Greenspring was a trusted friend, surely he had nothing to do with the corruption.
"Perhaps, but I think the true blame lies with the other druid," replied Trafford.
"Don't speak his name," said Thrig, speaking up for the first time.
Trafford waved his hand. "His name holds no power. Do not mistake my fear of what he can do with the fear of him. As soon as my preparations are ready, we will have no reason to fear Blac—"
Thrig grabbed Trafford by the throat, cutting him off. "Do not make me repeat myself."
Trafford slapped his hand, causing the large warrior to let go of the sunset elf. Gasping for breath, Trafford rubbed his throat carefully. I felt my own throat begin to burn as I watched.
"Fine!" yelled Trafford. "I will hold my tongue."
I waited patiently for Trafford to continue. He took a few seconds to clear his throat and regain his previous composure. Thrig returned to his spot on the side of the room, his hand hovering over his axe. There was still some tension between them, tension that I wondered if I could exploit.
"Greenspring's father is to blame for all this corruption. Happy, Thrig? Bah." Trafford paused as he glared at Thrig. "His father messed with magic beyond mortal understanding and doomed the world," said Trafford, a look of disgust on his face. "So what did the druids do once they found out? They covered it up."
"I've heard some of this from the harska and now from you. Apparently they didn't do a good job," I replied.
"It is their responsibility to restore order to the world, they have failed in that regard. That is why I will be the one to fix the corruption. Bla–" He bit his tongue. "Greenspring's father still draws power from the druid's sacred grove. By destroying every trace of them, I can weaken him and deal the killing blow."
"And then what?" I asked.
He smiled. "Then I will spend the rest of my days enjoying a peaceful world."
"What about the innocent druids? The druids who know nothing about this?"
Trafford answered, "There are no innocent druids."
If it weren't for the druids, I would still be working for Gunner. If it weren't for them, Henry and Arienne would still be held captive. Even if what Trafford said was true, even if they were hiding the greatest evil in the world, I didn't care. They helped me at my lowest point. Because of them, my daughter was safe. The only danger to my family's safety was standing in front of me, pretending to be the world's savior.
I had heard enough.
"So what I'm hearing is, you're cheating?"
Trafford scoffed. "I'm not cheating."
I shrugged. "Killing druids to weaken Greenspring's father? Handpicking warriors and making them fight so the strongest rise above the rest? Sounds like cheating to me."
"Listen here—"
"I mean, aren't you just letting other people fight your battles for you?"
"Yes, but—"
"And don't pretend to be doing this out of the kindness of your heart," I said as Trafford's face turned from red to scarlet. "You're just doing this so you can live a life of luxury."
"Well, I—" Trafford started to say. His jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists. He looked like he was going to explode.
"All this to say, you're cheating because you're afraid you're going to lose."
"Blackwater is a threat to all!" yelled Trafford. He grabbed me by the collar and lifted me up. "I'm the only one doing anything about it!"
Thrig immediately grabbed Trafford by the shoulder and threw him into the wall. I was pulled with him. The ground shook from the impact. Trafford let go of me, allowing me to slip away from the two of them. Still bound, all I could do was crawl as they bickered. If I could reach the door, that would be enough, I just had to reach the door.
Trafford glanced at me, his eyes widening as he saw where I was going. He tried to push past Thrig, but the massive warrior wouldn't allow it. Towering over Trafford, he bellowed curses and waved his axe wildly. When he finally calmed down enough to look over at me, it was already too late. I was at the door.
While Trafford had been smart enough to silence the room, he failed to extend that spell to the outside of the cell. Pushing the door open with my face, I stuck my head outside and whistled the counter song to Trafford's spell. While whistling, I continued to crawl out of the room. I was lucky the counter song wasn't very long, as Thrig grabbed my leg and pulled me back in.
He raised his axe over his head, aiming it directly at my leg. To keep myself from panicking, I closed my eyes and focused on whistling the correct notes. Sparks flew from my mouth, making their way down my body. Just as Thrig brought his axe down, lightning shot from my mouth at his hand.
A flash of light, the crack of thunder. Metal hitting the floor. Sparks flew everywhere as the lightning made contact with Thrig. Some of them landed on my bindings, burning through them like they were made of paper. Trafford ran forward and covered my mouth with his hand, but the damage was already done.
Snap!
I broke my bindings and punched Trafford in the face. He took it easily, barely flinching even as I used my full strength. But it was enough for me to break out of his grasp and kick him in the stomach. That made him recoil back, allowing me to jump up and sprint out of the room.
Escape wasn't on my mind. No, I had another plan. The chances of me breaking out of this dungeon by myself were next to none. I either had to slip out, or break out by force. Sneaking out didn't seem likely, so I decided to go with the other option. But I needed help. Help from someone I loathed.
It was easy to find his cell. Trafford had placed the two of us around the corner from each other. Maybe that was on purpose, or maybe it was all luck. I didn't know. What I did know was as I stared at the cell door, terrible memories of the Sapphire Mountains flashed through my mind.
After taking a deep breath, I began whistling the song of strength. I didn't have time to pick the lock on the door, I had to break it down. As energy flowed through me, I kicked open the door. It flew off the hinges, crashing into the cell as a cloud of dust shot into the air. Yellow eyes peered through the doorway, the figure they belonged to slightly obscured.
As the dust settled, a furry hand gripped the doorway. "Norman Benson, what a surprise." Gunner, former king of the harska, gave me a toothy grin. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"