“Stop shouting,” Krista urged. This lady didn’t realize that Hans was no brutish, slit-eyed thug from the gutters of Rokenwalder. He was slick and smooth, aware and lucid always. He carried in his blood some monstrous feral need for butchery and violence that she knew was about to manifest itself in spectacularly wicked fashion.
“Let me go!” Solvia screeched again. “You pox-ridden scum!”
With a quick pull of his knife, Hans sliced her stomach so wide her guts dropped from her fancy white gown to the grass, piling at her feet. Her stomach, lungs, liver, and all the rest followed, spilling down her legs as she toppled sideways, mouth agape.
Two sword-wielding Knights Chivalric burst around the hedgerow to Krista’s right, another exploded from the bushes to her left. All three charged at once, white capes billowing behind them. Hans’ bloody dagger spun through the air, catching the knight from the bushes in the shoulder, sinking deep between plates of gleaming armor. But the knight was not slowed. He swung his sword in a powerful sweeping arch straight at Hans. Krista’s fellow Bloodwood ducked and rolled free and then sprinted from under the weeping willow toward the castle and moat to the east.
The two knights from the hedgerow came straight at Krista, longswords gleaming dully in the mist. She let loose her dagger, striking the nearest knight in the dark hollowed eye slit of his coned-helm. He dropped like a stone in a heap of silver, sword flung wide, tripping the knight next to him. Krista wondered if she’d just killed a man she once knew as she fumbled in her skirts for her next dagger, fingers becoming tangled, unused to her awkward housemaid’s garment.
The tripped knight scrambled to his feet just as the knight who had attacked Hans whirled and swung at her. She leaped straight into the air, catching the low-hanging branches of the willow tree, pulling herself up, swinging her legs high as the blade whistled just under her. She kicked the knight in the face as she swung back around, let go the branch, and dropped to the ground. The second knight immediately grabbed for her, catching hold of her shirt with a gauntleted hand. She swiped at him with a balled fist, knocking herself free of his clutch.
She took that instant of freedom to follow Hans’ lead. She whirled and sprinted after her fellow Bloodwood. Hans was a good hundred paces in front of her, his legs churning as he dashed straight toward the tall castle and its dark moat.
And then the fifth Knight Chivalric came charging around the castle atop a brilliant white stallion. This knight was helmetless, blond hair flapping in the wind, heavy iron maul in one hand, reins of the stallion gripped in the other. Krista did not recognize this new knight. The powerful charger thundered toward Hans as he still raced toward the castle, his pace not slowing when he reached the edge of the moat and dove headfirst, disappearing under green lily pads and rippling water.
Having lost Hans, the knight on the horse drew rein before the pond, changed direction, and headed right at Krista, the stallion’s heavy hooves pounding the wet, dew-covered turf like thunder. Krista could sense the pursuit of the two knights behind her and kept running toward the mounted knight, changing course only slightly, hands frantically grabbing for the daggers in the folds of her skirt, pulling two free. The unfamiliar blond knight on the magnificent white horse closed fast. Krista could now see it was a woman who bore down upon her, a female warrior with a grim, determined face and long arms stout enough to effortlessly wave the heavy iron maul before her one-handed.
They were on a collision course and Krista was at a loss, never having attempted to take down a fully armored and mounted Knight Chivalric before. She veered slightly to the left and threw the first dagger, aiming for the horse’s neck, not knowing if it even struck home as she leaped in the air and whirled around, throwing the second dagger at the two knights chasing her afoot. Again, not knowing if her aim was true, she continued in her spin, whirling back around in midair. She stumbled in the grass, righted herself quickly, and regained her balance just in time to catch the heavy iron maul of the mounted knight square in the stomach. Pain blossomed throughout her body as the crushing weapon lifted her completely off her feet, instantly turning her world into a great black nothing.
* * *
The Five Angel Stones are bound as One. Separate they are Nothing. Ruin has always surrounded them from the beginning. And the first to lay flesh upon the stones, be they not the blood of one of the five Warrior Angels, is bound unto death, separated into Nothing.
—THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
JONDRALYN BRONACHELL
9TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
With the break of dawn came the lowest tides of the day. Squireck had rowed them at a brisk pace from the docks of Amadon around Mount Albion to this place no more than twenty feet from the craggy shore. Hawkwood threw out the anchor. They were all dressed in typical fishing cloaks, hoods thrown over their faces, to stave off the cold and also curious eyes. Their small white skiff now bobbed lively in the dark waters of Memory Bay just off the rocky shores of Mount Albion. The choppiness of the waves turned Jondralyn nauseous. She fancied herself a decent swimmer but had never been one for boats.
Gulls shrieked, floating in the chilled currents of air, flutters of white against the huge gray bulk of Amadon Castle looming above. Waves broke against the ragged cliffs of Albion to the north and south. There was a shallow cove against the mount near where they’d dropped anchor. A canvas-covered dingy beached on the rocks and pebbles was tied to an old wooden quay. A trail winding up the steep face of the mount was just visible through the rocks and boulders and cliffs.
Hawkwood had advised that they make their way to the Rooms of Sorrow when the cavern entrance was only ten feet below the surface at ebbing tide compared to twenty feet at high. A quick swim straight down, he alleged, was the tunnel they sought. And once in the tunnel there were handholds dug into the rock. They could easily pull themselves against the current of the stream and up into the Rooms of Sorrow and the hiding place of Ethic Shroud.
Ever since the king had granted Squireck his freedom fifteen days ago, the Prince of Saint Only had spent every moment with Jondralyn. And his constant presence was growing tiresome.
Squireck insisted on gathering the white angel stone and Ethic Shroud for himself. He professed it was his calling to wield the shield against Gault Aulbrek in the arena.
Hawkwood had argued vehemently against such a course of action, claiming that exposing such a holy relic too early would only invite trouble. Hawkwood’s arguments only prompted Squireck to desire the angel stone and shield all the more. Jondralyn thought it presumptuous to use the shield in battle, and also dangerous. But who am I to judge another’s wants or desires? Squireck had his own destiny to fulfill, a destiny that she was willing to support. She herself still felt a dogged determination to usurp Jovan somehow, to prove her worth. Squireck was only attempting the same.
And now here they were, bobbing on a boat in Memory Bay, about to swim down into the Rooms of Sorrow—a crazy notion if there ever was one.
This could be the death of us all!
Hawkwood and Squireck had removed their fishing cloaks and stuffed them in the bottom of the skiff. They both wore leather breeches and simple cotton shirts, long knives tucked into their belts. In a small pouch at his waist, Hawkwood also carried flint and steel, along with a small vial of pine pitch for the torches he claimed to have left in the caverns below.
Fighting back the nausea caused by the rolling of the boat, Jondralyn shed her own cloak, handing it to Squireck, who stuffed it down with the others. She self-consciously adjusted the bandages tighter around her face and neck, a habit she couldn’t seem to break ever since the dressing had been placed there by Val-Gianni. Her injuries were healing, but slowly, the stitches still holding her face together. She worried what this crazy journey underwater would do to her dressing. Both Hawkwood and Squireck had tried talking her out of joining them on this vent
ure. But she would not be swayed. And they both knew her well enough not to force the issue. She was going with them.
Hawkwood tied a rope around his own waist, then helped Squireck, and then her. Once all the ropes were secure, Hawkwood stood before them and went over the plan once again. “Tied together, there is roughly a hundred-foot length of rope between each of us. I will dive into the water first. When I reach the Rooms of Sorrow, I will pull the rope tight between Squireck and me, tugging on it three times. That will be the signal that I have safely made it into the caverns underneath.” He looked at Squireck. “When you dive in, kick your way straight down, ten feet at the most. You will find the opening in the cliff face below. The handholds are carved into the ceiling of the tunnel. Use those to pull yourself along. I used them when I returned Ethic Shroud the first time. About another ten feet, and then you will be in the chamber. For whatever reason, the current is weak. But it will be pitch-black. I will be pulling on the rope from my end, which should hasten your journey. If for some reason your rope gets stuck or tangled, use your knife and merely cut yourself free and make your way back to the surface of the bay. We’ve more rope in the boat. If I can tell you’ve cut the line, I will swim back out. We can make several attempts if need be.”
Hawkwood turned to her next. “Once Squireck has made it into the Rooms of Sorrow with me, wait for three tugs on the rope. Then do exactly as I instructed Squireck. We will be pulling on the rope from our end, so your journey will be quick.”
His gaze fell on Squireck again. “Are we ready?”
The apprehension on Squireck’s face mirrored that in her own heart.
Hawkwood stepped up carefully to the wooden bulwark and dove straight down into the water, rope unraveling behind him. Watching him vanish into the cold deep, Jondralyn’s heart lurched into her throat, the gravity of what they were attempting settling in fully.
“I hope the fool is not leading us to our deaths,” Squireck said. “I do not trust him.”
“He is no fool, nor has he any reason to lie,” she said in retort. “I saw Ethic Shroud myself. It was real. I saw it. I held it, Squireck. And soon you will hold it too.”
“It is all very suspicious, Jon. Look around you. Look at where we are, for Laijon’s sake.”
“We’ve no reason not to trust him.”
Squireck’s gaze was fixed on the rope slowly slithering down into the dark water. “I have every reason not to trust him.”
It seemed an eternity they waited. But finally the rope pulled tight against Squireck’s midriff, quickly followed by three tugs. Squireck’s eyes met hers. And in his look, Jondralyn detected both astonishment and fear that he was to now supposed to follow Hawkwood into the depths of the sea. He swallowed deeply. “I think I’d rather face Shkill Gha in the arena again than jump into this water, Jon.”
“Trust him, Squireck. He tugged on the rope thrice as promised. He is down there in the Rooms of Sorrow alive.”
The Prince of Saint Only swallowed again, wary eyes fixed on the choppy waters of Memory Bay. It was as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. Jondralyn herself couldn’t believe they were about to do it.
Squireck stepped swiftly to the rail and dove headfirst into Memory Bay. As the skin of the choppy water closed over him, Jondralyn was now alone. Vulnerable. She watched the rope coil out of the boat and snake down into the sea. Her heart was beating so fast she almost couldn’t contain it in her chest.
Standing in the rollicking skiff, watching Squireck’s rope slowly crawl out over the sidewall, Jondralyn felt herself struggle for breath. Panic was setting in—a suffocating, all-consuming panic. It reminded her of when she was a young girl, continually contending with all of Jovan’s cruel torments. And he still lorded over her. By forcing the arena bout between Squireck and Gault, he was again able to prove before everyone that his sister was still under his power, under Denarius’ and the quorum of five’s power, even lower than fools like Leif and Glade Chaparral. Her stomach twisted and churned with such force she thought she might vomit.
Then the rope suddenly tightened about Jondralyn’s waist, almost pulling her over the wooden rail. Regaining her balance, she waited for the three tugs. When they came, she knew it was her turn to dive into the water and her heart froze. I mustn’t linger in fear. She stepped to the sidewall of the boat, took two deep breaths, and jumped in feetfirst, protecting the bandages around her face with her arms.
The water closed in around her with an icy grip. Her head bobbed to the surface, and she took one quick look at Mount Albion rising above and ducked back under. Arms flailing, she spun in the water, reorienting herself downward. She kicked with frantic purpose. She felt the rope tighten around her waist. Soon Hawkwood and Squireck were pulling her faster than she could swim. She grabbed the rope with both hands. A dull ache immediately spread across her face as she quickly descended. She opened her eye. All she could see was a stiff growing darkness and churning bubbles and then total blackness.
She felt herself scrape against rock and braced herself with one hand, searching for the tunnel opening. But the two men at the other end of the rope were still pulling and she was swept up the passage and into the current. The left side of her body scraped the underside of the tunnel as she fought for purchase. She kicked, completely helpless, desperately trying to orient herself before the rope squeezed her right in half. Her face was on fire under the bandages. Her lungs burned for just the slightest breath. She felt one of the handholds carved into the rock above slide by, completely at the mercy of the current and the taut rope.
Suddenly the rock ceiling above was gone and she was breathing real air again. Her eye flew open, but all she saw was an overwhelming black nothingness. Hands were grabbing at her arms, and she was hauled from the water and dragged over a cold and unforgiving stone floor. She lay there gasping in the darkness for a moment.
Then, shivering, she stood. Her only thought was how furious was the pain stabbing through her entire face and head. The bandages were still there, soaked and wet and clinging tight to her skull.
“You made it.” Squireck’s muscular arms enveloped her in a tight embrace.
“Try not to move about too much,” Hawkwood said, “until I get a torch lit.”
Jondralyn couldn’t move anyway, still caught in Squireck’s clutch. She squirmed away from the Prince of Saint Only’s grasp. “Everything hurts,” she mumbled, kneeling, bandaged head in her hands, trying to battle the pain. “I can’t even see.”
“None of us can see.” She felt Squireck’s hand on her shoulder. He helped her stand again. The floor seemed to crunch under her feet. Shivering, she tried to gather her composure, wanting to scream out, fighting the pounding pain in her face.
There was a flicker of a spark to her right and the first torch was lit. Hawkwood handed it to her. The bright flame of the torch was a warm relief in the cold. She cast her gaze around the rough-hewn cavern. Fish bones littered the floor, and several black tunnels branched off into the darkness to her right. To her left was the river she had just swam up—or rather that she had just been dragged up. So fast were the rushing waters, she wondered how it had been so easy for the men to pull themselves up the handholds and into this cavern. Then she wondered why this cavern wasn’t completely flooded so far under sea level. This place is full of dark magic! Her mind panicked at the mystery of it all. Why aren’t we all dead?
Hawkwood held the second torch aloft, troubled eyes roaming the cave. “There’s much evidence of merfolk in here.” He glanced at the fish bones scattered at their feet. A third dark torch was lying there in the middle of the mess. “I imagine we’re lucky any of the torches are left at all. If merfolk have been swimming up in here, those horrid scavengers will snatch anything.” His eyes drifted back down to the fish bones on the floor, and the dark torch in the middle of them, worry creeping over his shadowed features. He looked up at her. “Follow me.” He strode swiftly toward the nearest tunnel. “The altar is not far.”
Guttering torch held before her, Jondralyn trudged after him. Squireck followed. Hawkwood led them around a sweeping bend. The passage widened, continuing straight and slightly up. It emptied them into a strange round room, walls beset with gems and crystals that blazed orange and yellow in the torchlight. Spiderwebs fluttered between carved columns that rose up in a spiral pattern into a dark, black nothing above. Stone coffins lined the floor of the circular room, most naught but rubble, pale bones spilling from holes in their sides. Jondralyn found herself still shivering. In fact, she couldn’t control her shivering and almost dropped the torch she held.
The place was exactly how Hawkwood had described it previously.
Hawkwood moved to the center of the room, toward a cross-shaped altar capped with an altar stone that looked far too heavy for any one man to budge. Without hesitation, Squireck stepped toward the altar beside Hawkwood, placed both hands against the capstone, and pushed. The slab of stone slid easily aside and crashed to the floor like rumbling thunder. He gazed down into the altar, then looked at both Jondralyn and Hawkwood, his face a stiff mask of anger.
Hawkwood looked into the altar too, horror and confusion spreading over his features. Jondralyn stepped cautiously toward the altar and held her torch over the rim, looking down inside. There was no shield. No Ethic Shroud.
All she saw were two dark cutlasslike swords lying at the bottom of the altar, their familiar spiked hilt-guards black against the stone. “They’re your swords,” she blurted, looking up at Hawkwood, stunned.
“How?” he muttered. “But Leif gave them to . . .”
“What does it mean?” Squireck asked. “The swords?” His eyes, angry, pointed and accusing, were bouncing between Hawkwood and Jondralyn. “Whose are they really?”
“Mine,” Hawkwood said. “But Leif Chaparral stole them from me, gave them to his younger brother.”
The Blackest Heart Page 41