The King's Justice by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

all that remains of him into his right arm and
pulls
. He pulls until his heart threatens to burst.
    Grit trickles from the hole made by the bolt. The bolt wobbles. For an instant, its resistance is greater than Black can endure. Then a cruel effort draws the iron from the stone.
    His arm is free.
    He is close to fainting, but he does not hesitate. One guard notices his success. Sought himself notices. They will act. One two three, Black slaps the places on his marred body that demand the King’s awareness. And with his summons, he sends a piece of his soul. He cannot do otherwise. It is his soul that the King will hear, his soul that the King will understand.
    By so doing, Black commits himself to death. Even a shaped man cannot live long when so much of his soul is gone.
    Still he regrets nothing. He is near the end of all fear.
    And he does not falter in his purpose. A guard rushes toward him. Sought turns in surprise and outrage. Black responds as swiftly as his failing strength allows. He claps his hand to the glyph on his hip that manifests his longsword. With the hilt in his grasp, he swings outward. The tip of his blade catches the guard’s throat, but Black does not pause to observe the effect of his slash. His return stroke hacks at the rope binding his left hand to its bolt.
    The rope is tough. Though it is damaged, it does not part.
    The old man is shaken to the core of his ambitions, his hungers. He knows what Black has done. He knows his peril. But he also does not hesitate. He has come too far for too long to draw back. He snarls an instant’s incantation. With one trembling hand, he sketches an arcane symbol across the air.
    Black’s longsword becomes smoke in his hand. It dissipates quickly, tugged away by the breezes from the tunnels.
    The guard is on the floor. He clutches at his neck. Bloodgasps from the severing of his windpipe. Already he is too weak to seek help from his master. In moments, he is dead.
    Two servants remain to the old man. They await his bidding.
    â€œCurse you!” Sought yells at Black. He is incandescent with rage. “Curse you to all the hells that were, or are, or will be! Curse you eternally!”
    Black replies with a smile that does not encourage confidence. He has taken the hierophant’s measure now. He knows that Sought’s knowledge is incomplete. He knows the ways in which that knowledge is incomplete. And he knows that the old man’s hungers will overcome both his outrage and his danger.
    Also Black knows that his own task is not done. His purpose demands more of him.
    Writhing in his robe, Sought masters himself. He has only one hope left, and his craving for it is endless. He turns away from Black. To his remaining men, he shouts, “The organs first!
Quickly!
We must complete the ritual before the King can intervene!”
    The guards do not delay. They have no personal fears. Despite their great skill with weapons, they are Sought’s puppets. As one, they turn to the tub of lungs and livers. Carrying it to the crevice, they heave it and its contents into the depths.
    A roaring from the fissure answers them. Black hears louder boiling. He sees flames at the lip of the rift.
    â€œ
Now the wheelwright!
” shrieks the old man. “Let him see how I keep my word!”
    The guards obey. Returning to the wall, they lift the cross between them. Haul Varder attempts some weak protest, but he is not heeded. Carrying him bound to his crucifixion, Sought’s servants approach the fissure. Without ceremony, they drop their victim into the seething heat, the flagrant light.
    The roar in the rift resembles the priest’s eagerness. It resembles his hunger. A gyre of flame rises into the cavern, circling itself until it is sucked into the funnel of the ceiling.
    â€œNow!” Sought exults to Black. “Gaze on what I have wrought! Gaze and know despair!”
    His men stand as though they have forgotten themselves. One or