Legend of the Storm Hawks

Potential

Potential~

Nigel Willoughby

The Pit

Sevmoon, 4399

Water dripped down the thick, twisted roots, sounding plinks and plunks across a dimly lit chamber hollowed from the earth by the hands of time. Nigel’s gloves worked a rope along a timber overhead. The creak of rope against wood echoed in the emptiness below.

Hand over hand, with a sure-fisted grip, he lowered a fishing net bearing twice his weight down into the pit. When its catch began to stir, he secured the rope. The net swung at what he gauged a painful but not lethal distance from the bottom.

Lord Edmund Southall coughed, and his movement set the net spinning. The man’s limbs flailed in the reflexive spasms of one waking to the sensation of falling. Meaty hands clawed at the net until they caught and closed in white-knuckled grasps. Grunts and curses followed as the cretin began to comprehend the futility of his struggles.

Nigel crouched to light a lantern.

The patterns did not demand Lord Edmund die. They were actually ambivalent over the matter. Distasteful as it was to consider, Edmund’s brutality might even be serving a purpose. A life without adversity meanders blissfully through day after day of mediocrity, never forced to test its untapped potential.

Of course, awakening one’s potential is a wasted effort unless one survives the experience. The women subjected to Lord Edmund’s brand of adversity never did.

Nigel boot nudged the lantern to the rim of the pit with his boot and stepped into the light. No, this was not about the patterns. This was personal.

Lord Edmund wrestled about to face the lantern, his piggish little eyes squinting to adjust to the light.

“Willoughby? What is this farce? Release me!”

It was delivered as a demand, but one of the more unfortunate Southall family traits was a voice of equal measure guttural and nasal, rather reminiscent of a poorly played bagpipe.

“This is a sporting chance to escape with your life,” said Nigel. “More than you offered any of them.”

“Do not trifle with me. I never forget a wrong, and my pockets are deep.”

“I’ve faced far worse monsters than you, Edmund. The sooner you reconcile yourself to your circumstances, the greater the chance you will survive them.”

“You’re after something. Your sort always is. What is it you want? Money? A political favor?”

“Justice,” said Nigel. “An unrealistic ideal, I admit. I’ll settle for an accounting.”

Nigel’s blade sliced through the rope, and Lord Edmund’s portly arse met the bottom of the pit with a gratifying thud. The man wrestled free of the net. His eyes darted about at the shadowy web of roots surrounding him.

“Where am I? You carried this farce enough, Willoughby. Get me out of here.” Uncertainty crept into his haughty command, completely ruining the intended effect.

“I could, but then what would be the point in my putting you there? You’re to figure your way out.” Nigel crossed his arms. “Let’s see what sort of potential we might awaken in you, shall we?”

The drip of water became a trickle.

“Perhaps you’ll turn out to be a strong swimmer.”

“I am not amused.” Lord Edmund lifted a soggy boot. “These are new, you know, and quite expensive. It will cost you dearly to replace them.”

“Your boots would be dry if you’d begun climbing when you should have.”

“Climb? You cannot be serious. That’s at least three stories high. A man could get halfway up and slip a foothold.”

“Suit yourself. I’d hoped you would at least give it a try. It’s the reason I left your hands unbound,” said Nigel. “More than you did for any of them. Of course, you couldn’t allow the wenches to fight back, could you? Think of the unsightly scratches you’d have to conceal in polite society.”

“This is becoming tedious, old man. The damned water is halfway to my knees.”

“Let’s see, then. We’ve eliminated climbing and swimming from your hidden potential. Perhaps you’ll prove gifted with a blade. I left a splendid fighting dagger stuck in a root down there, though you don’t have much time left to find it.”

“Blade?” Lord Edmund’s piggish eyes darted about again. “What do I need with a blade?”

“You might find it useful once the water reaches your belly,” said Nigel. “The creatures in the water are quick, and their teeth are sharp. They’re particularly fond of squishy midsections.”

Lord Edmund decided to give climbing a try, after all.

“You want a confession? Fine, you have it.”

Lord Edmund panted as he hauled himself up to another root. Fear had him moving now. It wouldn’t be enough. The trickle of water became a rush.

“Get me out of here!”

“I scratch the surface of cruelty and uncover cowardice. It happens every time.” Nigel sighed. “Awakening your potential has been a bit of a disappointment, Edmund.”

“Something nipped my leg.” The terror was complete now. “Help me, Nigel. Help!”

Nigel crouched at the edge of the pit.

“I already did. You’ll find a silver vial in your waistcoat. It’s a quicker death if you choose.”

Chapter 19