Free The King of the Vile by David Dalglish

still pointing the crossbow at Tarlak.
    “Walk,” said the apprentice.
    Tarlak exited the door, curious where he was. He’d never been inside either of the two towers, learning of them only through rumors and the stories his master, Madral, had told him during his training. By his guess they were in the apprentice tower, based mostly on the complete lack of ornate decorations on the bare red brick walls. A thin hallway lined with doors led to the stairs. No writing above, no markings of any kind. The floor was brick as well, and cold to his bare feet.
    Cecil gestured with the crossbow. “Come along.”
    Tarlak shambled forward, panic rising in his chest. Stairs? He was going to have to climb stairs? Wincing at the anticipated pain, he flexed his legs with each step, hoping to limber up. It wouldn’t be so bad, he told himself. Just a few stairs, and it wasn’t like his legs were that sore.
    It was that bad. They climbed up and up, the room they’d kept him in apparently as far away from their destination as possible. Tarlak leaned against the wall, bracing his weight after every step. His back was screaming, his legs so sore they burned with the tiniest movement.
    They don’t need to kill me, thought Tarlak. Just make me climb up and down these stairs until I fling myself out a window.
    Not that the windows were big enough, Tarlak realized sadly. Just tiny little triangular slits that he could maybe fit his head through. It was almost like they anticipated his suicidal desire, and prevented it. Muttering to himself, Tarlak forced himself on. He’d endured worse, he told himself. Hadn’t he?
    “One more floor,” Cecil said, and Tarlak took some satisfaction in noting how his jailor also sounded out of breath from the climb. They’d passed many exits to other floors while climbing, and Tarlak had tried to catch glimpses of what they held. Most everywhere was the same, sparse and without decoration or creature comforts. Bare floors. Plain wood furniture. They’d passed a library at one point, but cruelest was early on, when they’d passed a kitchen. The smell of warm food had awakened his dormant stomach. The only thing he’d had to eat and drink were bowls of soup, hand fed to him by the always-pleasant Cecil. This had led to many quick meals and unfinished bowls, for even hunger could not keep Tarlak’s tongue under control.
    Finally they exited the stairs, and Tarlak stood before a wide wooden door.
    “Push it,” Cecil said. “If you can.”
    Tarlak pressed his sore body against the door, steadily creaking it open. Once halfway, the wind caught it, yanking it further, and Tarlak stumbled out into the open air. Beneath him was a long, slender bridge spanning the gap between the two towers, the bricks a mixture of the red from the apprentice tower and the black of the masters’. To Tarlak’s dismay, there wasn’t a railing.
    “Watch your step,” Cecil said as he followed Tarlak onto the bridge. Tarlak peered over the edge to see the Rigon River flowing beneath him. The two towers were positioned on opposite sides of the river. Watch his step? He could barely move without wobbling, and while the bridge was wide, he hardly trusted his balance, and then there was the issue of the softly blowing wind. Of course, he might be able to take a certain snot-nosed apprentice tumbling over the side with him...
    Cecil must have had the same thought, for he remained several feet behind Tarlak with his crossbow at the ready.
    “Don’t get clever,” he said. “I won’t be crossing until you’re at the other side.”
    Tarlak let out a sigh. No fun at all. Turning back to the bridge, he decided that pride and dignity were already beneath him, so there was nothing left to lose. Dropping to all fours, he began crawling across the very center of the bridge. The brick hurt his knees, but he had a feeling the water below would hurt far worse if he fell. When he was halfway across, Tarlak spun on his rear and waved at