A Land Without Kings

Chapter 57: Vince

The sound of boots descending the dark, long stairs of dungeon had pricked the ears of Vince as he lay upon the cold ground of his cell. Vince glanced across the from him into the opposing cell where Fintan had not stirred at the noise. He could not tell if Fintan was sleeping or not; for he sat with his back against the back wall and his legs crossed and dark shadows were cast from his waist up so Vince could not see his face. What he did know, is that Fintan had not moved from that position since he had fallen asleep initially, which in truth could have been many hours or only one hour—he knew not.

Vince could hear men stirring in the cells beside him and across the hall, desperate for the possibility of their next meal. Vince was ravenously hungry, and his fingers went to the two charms on his necklace. His fingers were shaking and quivering as he let his fingers run across the dragon horn, and then the Valligian tusk until his finger poked the sharp end of the Valligian tusk and he quickly withdrew it, sucking the small dot of blood that had pricked his finger as a result.

The sound of a dying cough disguised the sound of the boots on the old stone now. Someone hacked away their lung towards the front end of the prison hall, and Vince sat in quiet intrigue in hope that the boots was someone come to rescue him and his master. He had no idea how long they had been in this dungeon, but he was restless and fearful now. They might never get out.

It was a much better alternative than the sewer though; that had been the worst of it. Cramped together with Fintan in so thin a space that one could not even crouch and sit, the sewage waste had left a stingy smell upon him, but his nose had grown so used to it he had forgotten of the odor until a guard would toss him a boar's head or the scraps and bones of the royal supper that night and comment on the stench of him. He cared not; the sight of food was enough to set his mouth into a ravenous frenzy. His teeth licked the bones clean, and every piece of cartilage, meat, and salvageable Hyde was consumed.

Fintan was much slower to taking the food, and he worried that Fintan's body was letting go. He no longer had his strength; his stone. He had a certain dullness about him now. His clever wits and wise words no longer fed Vince with hope, instead he would simply grunt or give a hmph in reply to a question. Vince learned to stop questioning him on things he knew the answer. He had hoped Fintan could offer some hope of escape, but Vince doubted now.

He did not know what to make of the Valligian tusk. It hung from his neck, but it did not respond to his touch nor his mind. He sat for hours muttering things and testing out possible uses for the tusk, yet all he had accomplished was to continually prick his fingers and his body with its sharp end. Even the Dragon Horn had grown dull, and he had not seen the dragon in his visions since he had been captured. Instead, his head was pounding heavily as it always did but his visions were different. He did not ride the back of the dragon any more, flying freely over the landscape of Mestrane and into the stronghold of the dark lord's dwelling. He awoke in a yellow field, a meadow. And he would see the same story unfold over and over. An army stood waiting at a tree line where the groove of thick, green trees meets the swaying yellow meadows. After a time, a person would begin to emerge from the golden meadows beyond, and ascend the crest of a hill, putting him out of sight. The men of the great big army would wait patiently, but with great anticipation. In the end, the king accompanied by his squire would step forward to meet face to face with this emerging figure from the below the hill's crest, and at the top of the crest the mysterious figure would become visible to Vince's watching eyes. White, floating eyes melded into a pasty white skin and the markings off blue streaks ran down his cheeks. A crown grew out of his head as a part of him, and Vince knew it was a king of some sort.

In the end, the inevitable fate of this king would always play out the same, and Vince had sat in the dark of his dungeon and wondered why. Why ought he be shown this same vision over, and over, and over? The squire would seal the fate of the king of the meadows, and with that came a gushing wave of condemnation and death. Vince could feel those things, somewhere inside of himself as he watched, and he would jerk out of the vision with his hand squeezing the dragon horn and his breath coming rapidly. His heart was pounding out of his chest and his eyes lifted to the cell across the hall where the concealed face of his master sat, still as ever. Never moving.