"No!" Michael shouted back in protest. "It was neither them nor us that caused the light of the tree to perish! You yourself read the ancient books of magic; it was always meant to end this way. Long have we lived under the knowledge that the end was coming," Michael said, reaching for the hand of his old friend as he willed him to leave this failing, watery tomb. "It's only just now that we have ever dared to notice. The tree might have been doomed to die, but I am not so easily convinced that we will share its same fate."
Engelmann blinked his blue-flamed eyes once, twice, and then seven times more until the saddened fires faded to the leafy-green. "Well, perhaps your fate is not sealed yet, my boy."
BOOM! A chunk of earth fell from the rocky corridor above and crashed into the stone passageway. "Then hurry up and leave this place with me!" Michael shouted, tugging on the hand of the Arborist.
Arrows flew and bounced off the falling rock. Engelmann and the five men trudged as fast as their tired and wounded legs would carry them through the cold waters that filled this forgotten pathway. The further in through the pitch black that the lot of them went, the less fearful of arrows they became.
It was Timorets who noticed it first.
"Do you see that?" the brewer blurted out, a bit surprised to hear his own voice that loud.
"See what, my friend?" Celrod grunted through his pained steps.
"The pathway! The rising water! The whole damned lot of us!" Timorets gushed.
"Of course we do-" Celrod began to say matter-of-factly. Then, the reality of the moment began to sink in. He could see the pathway. They could … see. "What in the damnable darkness?"
"Is there a light up ahead?" Timorets shouted to the two brothers in front.
"No!" Fryon shouted back. "None that I can see."
"How is this possible then?" Michael said to his Arborist friend as he searched the lines of his barked face.
The air around them glowed ever so faintly in an almost imperceptible, violet hue. The lines from the masons' tools could now be seen upon the black rock of the passageway as they caught and reflected the light.
"Is this some magic of yours, Engelmann?" Celrod grunted painfully between chattering teeth.
"No, it is not any magic of my own, though I suspect it is one much deeper and much older," Engelmann said with an awe-struck voice and a wondering gaze. "For I will place my light in the hearts of those who..."
"Hope," Michael said, finishing the hauntingly mysterious line of the great and forgotten prophecy. "Is this what that means?"
Engelmann looked around them. The water was now nearly up to their waistlines and he knew that they still had a great distance to travel in this pathway of the forgotten before reaching its point of origin. And yet, the Arborist could not keep the marvel of this development from his heartbroken voice. "I do not know what else it could be, my boy. For hope is the only thing we might be foolish enough to see by," he said with a sad, teasing smile.
"Whatever it is, if we want to see any further effects of this magic, we are going to have to hurry!" Fryon urged them on.
They all agreed with silent nods to put the whole of their remaining strength into moving further into the darkness, which was now unmistakably illuminated by a violet glow. The arrows had stopped some time ago, but the cold waters of the Abonris triggered an uncontrollable chattering of teeth that echoed in a cold chorus off the forgotten walls.
"What I wouldn't give for a few pieces of timber to kiss the sparks of my flint," Celrod mused aloud. "Or even better, a boiling pot of mulled wine to warm me from the inside out."
"Aye, or a bowl of piping-hot stewed lamb," Timorets agreed as they rushed along, trying to occupy their minds with the possibility of life outside the tunnel. "Or two bowls!"
"You can keep your stew, and your wine—just give me a pair of dry boots is all!" Michael told them.
"Shhh! Quiet!" Fryon whispered back to the shivering hovel of waterlogged friends. "Did you hear that?"
The faint sound of the invader's horns boomed into the tunnel through some opening up ahead, and the six of them knew that they must be nearing the end of this wet, cold, forsaken road.
"Look here!" Fryon said as he pointed ahead. "It looks to be a stairwell, and thank the THREE who is SEVEN, it looks to be going up."
"I can taste the mulled wine already!" Celrod mused.
"I'm sure the invaders, whoever they are, have brought plenty to share with you," Timorets said sarcastically. "Or have you forgotten, schoolmaster, that we are under siege?"
"Oh, I have not forgotten, brewer," Celrod said as he pointed to his arrow pierced leg.
"Come on now, let's be quick about this," Michael chided. "The waters are not going to cease their rising, and I for one don't want to spend another moment in this place."
The stone stairs climbed in an uncomfortably narrow ascent, barely wide enough for two men to walk side-by-side. There were no iron torch holds upon these steps, for the cursed travelers who had descended these stones before had neither the need nor the opportunity to find their way back. Up and up they climbed, spiraling higher into fresher air, anticipating the swell of commotion that waited above. It was Fryon who spotted the simple, arched opening first. "There, see? Right there; have we made it to the top, then?"
The small band of soaked and sodden men looked back to Engelmann, desperately hoping that this was indeed the end of this forgotten path. "Yes," he said, sadness coating his words. "This is the end, or ..." He let a nervous chuckle escape through his thin, frowned lips. "Or rather, this is the beginning; I guess it all depends on the traveler's perspective, doesn't it?" The Arborist returned the weighty looks of his friends, and the gravity of double-layered doom hung heavy in the moment. "For our journey, this is indeed the end of this road. But there, right there—that is where many an innocent life became truly lost," he said, pointing to the small archway.
"Maybe that is where ours might find its second chance?" Michael replied, the hope in his voice surprising even himself.
"Well said, my boy," Engelmann said, quite pleased with his pupil. "Well said, indeed."
The six climbed the last leg of the stone steps, each pace dimly illuminated by the faint violet glow that had somehow colored the air around them. They passed under the archway, and their eyes slowly widened in sickened horror as the room they were standing in came into shadowed focus. The chamber was rounded and rather snug. All along its stone walls hung the high-strung chains of a half-dozen manacles, their binding irons limply littered about the floor. At the near end of the rounded room leaned a score of spears and halberds, and a few oil-skinned swords, stacked against an iron rack. A smattering of blacksmith's tools was arranged upon a small stone table, although there was no hearth or kiln here within the darkened bastion that would have necessitated such instruments.
"What ... what was this place?" Timorets asked.
"Some kind of prison hold?" Celrod suggested.
"No. It feels much too sad to be a mere prison cell," Michael gulped as he spoke.
"A sad place, indeed," Fryon mused in agreement.
"Do you know what this place was?" Timorets said as he ran his hands upon an oddly placed stone chair in the center of the room, directing his question to the Arborist.
"I do, my boys, I do indeed. This was a place where unanswerable questions were relentlessly asked. A black secret of our shining city, right in the heart of the Citadel," Engelmann answered.
"But I don't understand," said the younger brother.
"Neither did they—and truly, neither did Kaestor," Engelmann said as he fingered the edge of one of the forgotten blades. "Grief often demands answers that honey the ears, even if that is all that they are good for."
GAROOOM came the sound of the invaders' horns, much closer than any of them had dared to fear. The sickly tone woke the fugitives from their sad speculation and sent a freezing shiver of terror down their already cold, soaked necks. The sounds of boots running in formation erupted outside t
he iron-barred door of the chamber. As the guardsmen above came closer, they began to make out their voices, shouting in hurried tension.
"Fall into formation!" sounded the voice of a commanding officer from outside.
"They seek an audience with the Priest King!" came another.
"What do we do now?" Michael said. "We are traitors to the Citadel, fugitives! If we go out those doors, they will have our heads!"
GAROOM! The horns of the Raven Army sounded again.
"Someone approaches ... a rider!" shouted a gate warden. "Make ready to parley!"
"They must have already reached the Kings' Bridge," Engelmann said as he handed each one of the men a weapon. To Michael, Fryon and his younger brother, he gave the three simple, utilitarian long swords; to Timorets and Celrod he gave a pair of beautifully crafted halberds.
"What do you suggest we do with these?" Celrod said, a bit flabbergasted at the notion of this band of ragamuffins doing anything worthwhile by force of blade while an entire invading army and full brigade of guardsmen waited there on the other side of the door.
"Well, you can steady yourself until that leg of yours is mended!" Timorets replied. "I, for one, could use some relief from the full weight of your burden."
"Well, then, maybe you could hand me those snips over there," Celrod said, gesturing to the pile of blacksmith's tools, "and help me rid myself of this vile Raven's bolt, huh?" Celrod plopped his soaked, heavy frame down upon the stone chair, grunting back the pain as he crossed his left leg up and over his right so that he might examine the full measure of the wound. "Well, it's not all that bad," he surmised. "It hurts like the darkened hell that it came from, but if I can remove the barb ... come on then, brewer, let's be done with it already."
Timorets handed him the iron snips, and it wasn't but a moment later that the blacksmith's tool did its job, and the curled, angry point of the Raven's arrow clanked upon the stone floor.
"When we find some of that mulled wine you've been talking about, we are going to have to pour it in there," the brewer said sorrowfully. "It's going to hurt worse than when that bolt got itself lodged in your leg to begin with. Here," Timorets said as he handed him the broken, barbless shaft of the arrow. "You might want to keep this so you have something to bite down upon when the time comes."
Celrod grunted unenthusiastically to Timorets, then wrapped up his leg in the torn sleeve of his sodden shirt. He steadied himself as he rose to his feet, testing the strength of his wounded leg. "Alright then, Arborist, since I don't believe that you mean to get us all killed this dark day, what would you have us do?"
Engelmann looked about the room, taking in every detestable device as if it were the first time his eyes had beheld such a sad and sorrowful place. "I do not trust that the poison of fear has not already toxified the good senses of our leaders, nor do I suppose that it will be the last time that hopeless circumstances will make a madman out of a mighty king." The Arborist mumbled to himself, ignoring the question of the wounded brewer.
The horns of the guardsmen cut the conversation in two, and from the inside of the chamber, the men listened with anxious attention for all that might unfold just outside their hiding place.
Chapter Thirty-Three
FOR ALL THE MADNESS THAT had decimated the order and decorum of his great city, the Priest King would not dare to cower undignified behind his white, jeweled walls. No, he would heed the traditions of his forbearers and conference with the invaders as a man of pride and nobility. His royal guard marched in a most disciplined cadence, boot upon pavement in direct defiance of the chaotic happenings around them. They formed an armored column about the Priest King and his Chancellor as they made their slow and wary way down the stone-paved streets of the Capital. In the courtyard of the Capital, the remaining force of Haven stood assembled and ready to defend their city against the enemy that waited for them just on the other side of the Kings' Bridge.
"Lieutenant," the Chancellor summoned as they approached the front lines. "Who is this army that dares to desecrate our holy city? Who are these invaders who march under the cover of dragons?" Chaiphus said with a deliberately proud demeanor.
"They speak of a Raven Queen," the lieutenant said, his own face now paled to a sickened, ghostly white. "You must have heard their voices?"
He looked to the Priest King for confirmation, but Chancellor Chaiphus cleared his throat with an angered force. "Ahem! Do not assume what we have or have not heard. Give us your report, lieutenant."
"Yes, of course. The invaders, they have sent a rider to parley, only ... the rider, he is not a man—or at least he is one no longer."
Jhames looked out across the last of his glittering-helmed battalion, past the lowered portcullis of the Kings' Gate. What he saw made his blood run cold with fear. There, at halted attention across the wild waters of the mighty Abonris, stood a vast and menacing legion of the green-eyed invaders. The Priest King took a step backwards, overcome with the terror at the sight of such monsters, and in such great numbers. Grief and despair clawed at his pious throat as the impotence of his defenses became quite evident.
Almost as if they had sensed the erosion of confidence, the twin dragons erupted with a fiery blast. Still perched upon the lifeless trunk of the once great tree, they roared out their green flames in violent, punctuated fury.
"What kind of man or monster leads this army of darkness?" Jhames whispered to his trusted Chancellor. "What magic drives them?"
"Your Brightness!" came the distant, guttural, mocking voice of the enemy consort who waited for them upon the bridge. "My queen demands your audience!"
There, atop a ghostly pale steed, sat the herald of doom. The cold, north winds caught his inky, feathered cape; it danced in an eerie likeness of a carrion foul's wings descending upon its wounded prey. The rider's face was unique among the ranks of the invaders; it was only half ashen in color, and only one of his eyes glowed with the sickly, green hue. As for the other, by some twist of vile magic, it was permitted to cling to it former human glory.
Jhames looked back and forth from the eyes of his frightened lieutenant and then again to the rider upon the Kings' Bridge. He thought for a moment before he met the gaze of his Chancellor.
"I will not ride out there to speak with the likes of that devil. Make ready the Capital's defenses, we will strike the night with the edge of our flints if we have to!" he said as his voice cracked with the tension of his powerless pride. He whirled around, his long, stately robes flowing behind him. As he began to march himself back through the courtyard and into the relative safety of the royal chambers, the voices of the dragons stopped him in his tracks.
Laughter, sickly and mocking, spewed from the sorceress' twin dragons.
The once-bright Priest King has gone mad, has he?
His mind erupted with their tandem voices as their laughter shook him to his core.
Only a pitiful fool would put his trust in the bite of a blade or the strength of a wall, for there are none who will escape the reach of the Raven Queen, nor withstand the assault of her nocturnal armies. And foolish, it would seem to us, you are!
Jhames clawed at his ears and pulled at his long white beard. He yelled into the black sky, desperate to silence the dragons. "No! You cannot have it, you will not have my kingdom!"
"Your Brightness?" Chaiphus asked rather nervously. "Who are you speaking to?"
Jhames looked at his friend and confidant and then slowly raised his trembling arm to point his spindly finger in the direction of the dragons.
The remaining army of Haven watched in horror as their leader crumbled, nearly instantaneously, before their eyes. He fell to his knees and screamed in enraged agony, twitching and writhing as if he were possessed by a score of foul spirits. Though none could hear the words the dragons spoke, they could see that the fruit of their meaning had gone rancid, sickening the spirit and strength of their leader with their bitter intent.
Do not trouble yourself so, Priest King of Haven. Th
ere is nothing that demands you to fall prey to our hunger. Your Brightness must simply parley with the general. You might very well save your precious city after all.
Jhames knelt there on all fours, like an animal cornered in the back alleys of Westriver. His greying eyes shone wild in the light of the torch fires, and his chest rose and fell in a pounding rhythm of terror.
There is magic to be found within the darkness of this world; there is power to hold, even still for you, Priest King.
Chaiphus gestured to two of the royal guards to help the Priest King back to his feet. "Your Brightness? Your Brightness!"
"I have changed my mind," he said with wild eyes as he looked up towards the holy mountain. "Order the column. I will parley with the invader." Jhames brushed off his robes and tried to stand tall, but his body was shaking so severely that he could hardly will himself to find any semblance of posture. He swallowed back his tears, nearly choking on the ever-present fear as he forced the defeated words from his parched lips.
The thirty-seven men who made up the King's guard fell into position around him, but Chaiphus was seized by the dread of a more ancient fear. He pushed his way through the guard and up close to the Priest King. "Your Brightness, if I may? What is ... why the change of mind?" he managed to ask without breaking the decorum that he so tightly held to.
Jhames looked his trusted Chancellor in the eyes while trails of blood began to trickle from his ears. "Our hope has failed us. The colony has either deserted us or has been smashed upon the shores of that dark land across the damned Dark Sea. There is no light coming for us." Jhames looked down to his pale hands that would not cease their wild shaking, then back again to meet the gaze of his friend. "Would you have me carry the blood of our city upon my hands as well, Chancellor? Would you have me see to the ruin and destruction of every last part and parcel of the great city of Haven? See its Citadel and its citizens alike devoured by ... by them?" he said, pointing a quivering finger towards the green-eyed pair of dragons.
The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2) Page 30