Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin)

by Matthew D. Ryan

Chapter Fourteen

  “How did I let you talk me into this?” Coragan asked as he stuffed a blanket in the small space behind the saddle. He shook his head. “We really should wait for the mages to find whatever they can on the Sceptre of Morgulan before we leave. Otherwise, we are being sloppy ... very unthorough.”

  Galladrin patted his own mare on the neck. At the rogue’s insistence, they had found a local horsetrader at first light and purchased three healthy riding horses for their journey to the castle. With the right suggestions, Coragan could be played as readily as a harp, and Galladrin was all too willing to thumb the appropriate strings. Apparently, the bounty hunter had taken some of the rogue’s words to heart and felt very insecure about his relationship with the wizards. So much so, that it could be easily used to manipulate him. “Oh, posh, Coragan,” the rogue said. “For someone who hates mages so much, you certainly don’t mind running to them for information. Woof. Woof.”

  Coragan shot the rogue an angry glare, and Galladrin almost wished he hadn’t reminded him of the puppy comment. He glanced away and looked at Borak for support, but the warrior just shrugged and, as usual, said nothing.

  Coragan responded in a tight voice. “I’ve been hunting men a lot longer than you have, Galladrin. I think I’d know if we were being careless.”

  “You forget,” Galladrin replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “I’ve done my own share of hunting.”

  “Jewels don’t move. Men do.”

  “Actually, sometimes jewels do move. Anyway, it really doesn’t matter, I have hunted men as well, or tracked them, rather. Besides, the cold season is getting underway and I’d like to get to the castle before the sun goes down.” As Galladrin spoke, he shuffled through his saddle bag until he found a small roll of cloth. He gently unwrapped it and extracted the dying flower it protected. “That won’t happen unless we leave within the hour. If you still insist on worrying ... don’t, I spoke to Regecon, and the sorceress Ambrisia will take the time to research the sceptre. If she finds anything we must know, they can send a rider.”

  “What is that?” Coragan asked, pointing to the flower in the rogue’s hand.

  “It’s a rose.” Galladrin sniffed the delicate petals. “You know, these smell really nice.”

  Coragan secured the last of his packs on the roan stallion he was to ride, then passed a questioning glance toward the rogue. “What do you have a rose for?’

  “I’m going to poke Arcalian’s eyes out with it when we find him, the annoying little bastard,” Galladrin replied. “Besides, don’t you think it goes well with my shirt?”

  Coragan watched as Galladrin threaded the flower through the fabric. “It might. If it weren’t half-wilted already.”

  “Hey, despite what the mages think, it is not particularly easy to get a rose at this time of year, unless magic—that is, lots of gold—is involved.”

  “If you’re stupid enough to wear a rose on your shirt, don’t complain to me about being overcharged,” Coragan said, flatly, then asked, “Is that the shirt Regecon gave you for dinner? Why are you still wearing that? I returned my clothes.”

  “If he wants it back, he can ask for it himself.”

  Coragan shook his head. “It could be worse, you could have draped yourself in garlic, I suppose, or painted Arcalian’s paste on your forehead. Nothing cleans the air like roses and garlic.”

  Borak started and stared at Coragan. Roses and garlic ... A dark shadow flitted in the back of his mind, but eluded his grasp. There was something about those two plants. Something he had heard before, he was sure of it; but he couldn’t quite piece it together. He shook his head and mounted the large stallion that he’d chosen to bear him on their journey, then paused, once more trying to recollect what nagged him about those particular plants. It was useless. His memory seemed empty, like an overturned goblet after a lousy meal. He watched the others as they secured the last of their supplies. Once ready, they, too, climbed onto their mounts.

  They left the guild’s stables with supplies sufficient to keep them alive a week in the wilds. Beyond that they had Coragan’s crossbow and Borak’s hunting skills to keep themselves provisioned. On horseback, they should reach the castle by nightfall, but they did not know the relative scarcity of game and other food near the castle, nor were they certain how long they would have to stay.

  They set out, Coragan in the lead with Borak and Galladrin in his train. Both warrior and bounty hunter were skilled and able horsemen, but the rogue found himself relying on an animal he did not much care for to provide him with transportation. He was far more used to traveling in cities where he often walked or sometimes indulged in carriage rides. Because of that, it wasn’t long before he felt the aches of an inexperienced horserider. He grumbled to himself, but rode on.

  It was a clear, if somewhat cold, day and the companions made good time. When the sun reached halfway to zenith, they arrived at the Abbey of Drellenor, the last bastion of civilization before the Kirshtar Forest. A solitary structure, it loomed behind a high stone wall. A massive oaken door stood unguarded at the top of a rise, and try as they might, they could see no signs of life. The abbey, Galladrin knew, housed an order of monks dedicated to Drellenor the Healer. Although only one of the lesser gods of healing, Drellenor still commanded a great deal of respect in Drisdak. Galladrin had been surprised when he had found an entire temple dedicated to such a minor deity within the city walls. Here he saw their abbey, a place for retreat and quiet contemplation. Although he knew that if pressed, the monks could provide warmth and food for weary travelers, he also knew they frowned upon those who asked for such without true need. They preferred their solitude.

  The companions turned away from the abbey path, following instead the old road to the north. They crested a final low ridge and looked down upon the forest, a gnarled, wild, woodland seemingly clothed in mist. The thick white eddies whirled and twisted across the ground, offering only brief glimpses of the forest floor. On their right, they saw the river, a furious serpent of turbulent water running clean with melted mountain snow. The noise of its torrents, crisp in the chill air, drowned out all but the most persistent forest sounds. Before them, the old road stretched out as far as they could see, overgrown with twisted vegetation and at parts seeming little more than the memory of a path.

  “I wonder how long this road’s been out of use?” Galladrin asked of no one in particular.

  “If we had waited on the wizards, we would probably know,” Coragan replied, tersely. He then added, “Major traffic probably ceased when the castle was abandoned, whenever that was. After that, it probably saw more use from the local goblins than it did humans ... and goblins are not ones to keep a road maintained.”

  “There are goblins in these woods?” Galladrin asked.

  “Yes,” Coragan answered. “Does that bother you?’

  The rogue paused. His glance passed rapidly from the massive axe borne by Borak, to the sword at Coragan’s side, and finally to his own rapier. “Not unless they can mount an army,” he said.

  “Those were pretty much my feelings as well,” Coragan said. “I’ve seen you with that rapier, and Borak’s axe just scares me. If you include the fact that we have horses ... we shouldn’t have any problems.”

  They started down the road, the horses picking their way with care. After a while they adjusted to the new terrain, and picked up their pace. The road, for the most part, followed the river on its right. Despite being untended, it posed no serious problems. The view above opened to the sky while the view to the left was obscured by the forest’s twisting trees.

  At noon they stopped for lunch, and ate a quiet meal on the river’s edge. Although not an overly difficult ride, it proved much more than Galladrin was accustomed to. Give me alleyways and rooftops… this traveling through wilderness just is not my forte. The rogue rubbed his thigh in vain, trying to restore the cramped circulation. He sighed, then lay on his back to watch the passing clouds. They were thick, white, and blustery,
and stirred up vivid images of soft cotton. Soon Galladrin felt his eyes grow heavy and his thoughts drifted off in slumber.

  A loud splash to his right roused him. Sitting up, he saw Coragan patting his horse’s back as it lapped water from the river’s edge.

  “Have a nice nap?” the bounty hunter asked.

  Galladrin stretched. “I would have preferred a little bit more time, but I suppose we should get going.”

  “Agreed,” Coragan said. “Though I suspect your horse might appreciate it if you led him to the bank.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Galladrin said, nodding. He moved over to his horse. “Any signs of goblins?’

  “No,” Coragan replied. “Everything seems fine ... a little quiet, but nothing too unusual.”

  They traveled on in caution, but it ultimately proved unneeded. They encountered nothing, not so much as a swallow, until they found the castle. They approached the ominous structure with the sun still an hour from its bed.

  An ancient fortress, long abandoned by men, its dark grey walls were cracked with age, and wreathed with long tendrils of groping ivy. Beyond the outer wall, four towers loomed, jutting up from the gloom enshrouded parapet like dark spikes upon a dismal crown. Wheeling and spinning about the towers, like a swarm of insects, a cloud of dark shapes whirled. They seemed small and distant, so much so that even the rogue’s eyes could not make them out.

  The stagnant moat circling the castle wall gave off a pungent cloud ripe with the scent of decay. Its still, green waters oozed with an abundance of primordial filth and slime. Across the width of the moat, the dilapidated shape of a long-forgotten drawbridge secured a precarious path to an ancient gate and portcullis. Like iron teeth in a mouth of stone, the portcullis dug deep in the ground, its hue discolored by centuries of rust.

  “Well?” Galladrin asked.

  “Let’s take a look at the portcullis,” Coragan said, edging his horse forward. “Maybe we can find a way to open it or get through.”

  “Hold up, Coragan,” Galladrin said. “I wouldn’t trust that drawbridge to these horses. It doesn’t look very sturdy. Perhaps we should tie them to a tree out here.”

  “A castle this size probably has an old stable beyond the wall,” Coragan pointed out. “I’m sure it would still be well-suited to our needs.”

  “We have an hour before sunset. We can come back for the horses once we’ve taken a look inside.”

  “True,” Coragan agreed, then dismounted. He led his horse to a nearby tree and tied the reins to a sturdy branch. Galladrin and Borak followed.

  The horses snorted and nervously stamped their feet as the sound of fluttering filled the air. Galladrin saw three black shapes descend and land in the branches of a large tree. He frowned as six beady eyes stared back at him. “Ravens are a bad sign,” he said.

  “Only if you’re superstitious,” Coragan replied. A black bird squawked above his head in disapproval. Apparently, it found Galladrin’s words more to its liking.

  “They’re supposed to carry souls to Lubrochius,” Galladrin added.

  “Like I said ...” Coragan countered, “a fairy tale.” The bounty hunter then turned and headed toward the drawbridge. He took three steps along its length, then cursed as his foot fell through.

  “Are you all right?” Galladrin asked as he approached. “Did you twist anything?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” Coragan righted himself, delicately testing his footing. “Though I think you were right… we’ll be leaving the horses out here for tonight.”

  They proceeded to the castle gate, picking their way carefully along the rotting bridge. Coragan’s foot fell through one more time, but again he escaped unharmed. The others were more fortunate and crossed the bridge without mishap.

  They found the portcullis rusted shut with no visible means to open it. Beyond its bars, they saw a vast courtyard sprawling in front of a large and foreboding central stone building.

  “What do you think Borak?” Coragan asked. “Can you lift it?”

  Borak just stared at the bounty hunter, his shocked eyes saying all the words. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

  “You could at least try,” Coragan said.

  Borak shrugged, then grabbed the metal bars and heaved. The bars squeaked and groaned in protest, but simply refused to budge. Coragan stepped up and motioned Galladrin to do the same. All three men shoved, straining to lift the heavy gate. Again, it groaned in protest. It struggled upward half an inch, but then crashed down with an ominous thud.

  “Bloody Hell,” Coragan swore, grabbing his hand.

  “What?” Galladrin asked.

  “I caught myself on the gate ... my palm’s bleeding.” The bounty hunter started wrapping a clean cloth about his injured hand. “Don’t worry, it’s not serious ... just a bit of bad luck.”

  Galladrin said nothing.

  Coragan drew a deep breath and leaned back against the gate. “Well, how are we going to get in?”

  “A castle this size might have a smaller secondary entrance.” Galladrin kneeled down to wrestle with a pack he had carried from the horses. “Perhaps even two. However, finding them might take some time. I suggest you leave this to me.” The rogue rummaged through his pack for a moment, then withdrew a coiled rope and a grappling hook. He secured the rope to the hook, then stared up at the wall. “Stupid bird,” he said, and hurled the grapnel at a raven perched above.

  The raven fluttered to the side, and the grapnel clattered past. The rogue gave the rope a quick tug. It slid a moment, then caught, holding firm. He tested it a second time, suspending all his weight. When satisfied, he began to climb, ascending with the practiced ease of a skilled thief. Moments later, he sat atop the catwalk, drawing the rope up behind him.

  Searching his surroundings Galladrin spied a small door leading to what looked like a guard tower. He examined it, listened for sounds beyond, then kicked it open. It broke wide with a crash, leaving a trail of rotting wooden flakes.

  Coragan called out from below. “What was that?’

  Galladrin called back. “Just a door. Don’t worry about it.” The rogue ducked inside the tower, then took a quick survey of the room. Shortly, he found the winch, and set to work lifting the portcullis from the dirt.