“Honor,” Yari repeats, the word sounding strange on his tongue. Then, unexpectedly, he pointed a suntanned finger at me. “Owyn... honor.”
I can’t help but chuckle a little. “No, I... well, I try.”
Smiling, Yari looks back out at the hills. After a minute, though, his eyes go wide with shock. He points, then starts jabbering quickly in his language. I follow his gaze, squinting to see what has caught his attention.
Then, I notice the shapes of gorgons flooding down a distant hill toward us.
Many, many gorgons.
“Ah, Hells,” I growl, pulling out my belt knife. “Yari, get the others. We’re under attack!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elias
"Keep your heads down and do only as I do."
The Nightingale warriors all nod beneath their hoods, expressions grim.
"Stay close and keep your weapons hidden. If any of you believe in the Light, now is the time to start praying." With that, I begin making my way out of the alley and down the street, keeping my stride leisurely and slow. Behind me, the team of five men shuffle out as well, their speed matching mine perfectly.
Now comes the hard part, I think to myself, shoulders brushing against those of pedestrians on the street. Let's see if the Light is truly on our side.
It is a grey day in Tarsys, the clouds hanging low and obscuring the sun. Icy slush sloshes underfoot, the sodden result of last week's snow storm, and columns of white smoke billow out from the city's sewers and chimneys, clogging the air with a myriad of contrasting smells. Fortunately, the cold winter air has caused everyone to dress in thick wools and cloaks, so the six of us don't stand out too badly as we make our way through the market.
That's one stroke of luck, at least.
The men accompanying me through the city were hand chosen by the highest-ranking Nightingales, making them the finest swords in the army. Sturgis is with them as well, not wanting to be left out of the action. I still feel uncomfortable at being named their new Protector, but I am grateful for the quality of men in my company. They accompanied me on this insane mission without a word of complaint, and from what I've seen of their martial prowess so far, their reputation as skilled warriors seems to hold up.
We had snuck into the city under the cover of darkness, smuggling ourselves in with the help of a local gang of thieves. For the past several days we have been doing reconnaissance work, scoping out the best plan of attack, and preparing ourselves in every way possible for what is to come. Now, the only thing left to do is to act and hope that our efforts will be enough to save the world from annihilation.
My fears tell me that it is already too late.
Armed with swords, knives, and miniaturized crossbows hidden beneath our cloaks, we weave through the crowds during midday, making our way determinedly toward our destination. Even without the proper training, the way the others carry themselves makes the ranger in me proud. My thoughts briefly go to Owyn, and the months we had spent together stalking through the trees of the Emberwood. I feel a pang of remorse and quickly shake my head to banish the thoughts.
I can't let myself think about that now, I silently berate myself. We're on a mission. When it's complete, then I can worry about springing Owyn out of whatever dungeon he's currently in.
Passing through the market undetected, we duck into another alley and begin making our way deeper into the city. Beggars and vagrants huddle beneath their rags as we pass by, but none of them say anything as we flit from alley to alley, keeping to the shadowed, less-populated neighborhoods of Tarsys.
Soon, we find ourselves at a dead end, a steaming metal grate set into the cobblestone ground.
"Is this it?" Sturgis asks, keeping his voice low.
"It's where they said it would be," I reply, crouching down and wrapping my gloved fingers around the dripping metal.
Giving it a tug, it comes free with a metallic screech. Everyone seems to tense, looking to the entrance of the alley to see if anyone had heard. After a moment, they seem to relax when no one comes to investigate.
I set the metal grate aside, leaning it against the stone wall of the nearest building, then peer down into the gaping, man-sized hole it had been covering. The smell makes me wrinkle up my nose in disgust.
"That smells awful!" One of the men complains, spitting to the side.
"That's our way into the palace," I reply dryly, reaching beneath my cloak and pulling out a small, ceramic lamp. "So, unless you have another way at getting to the king, I suggest you keep quiet and breathe through your mouth."
No other complaints are voiced.
Pulling out my belt knife and a flint, I scratch out a few sparks and light the lamp, then crouch down once more to examine the hole. The thieves, who call themselves the Red Fisted Dogs, had promised that this sewer in particular led to the bowels of the palace, and that markings scratched into the walls would lead the way. For their sakes, I think to myself, they had better have been telling the truth.
Sturgis crouches down beside me and pulls back his hood. "After you, Protector." The word almost sounds as if it were meant as a slight.
Wordlessly, I hand over the lamp and pull back my own hood, then drape my legs over the side. Gripping both sides of the opening, I lower myself in, then drop the final few feet to the bottom. Water splashes as my feet hit, and the smell becomes almost overwhelming.
"Alright," I call up. "Hand down the lamp!"
Sturgis positions himself over the hold and lowers himself down as well, cradling the lamp to his chest with one hand. Bracing the walls with his feet, he bends down and gives me the oil lamp, then drops down to the ankle-deep muck beside me.
As the rest of the warriors make their way down, I begin exploring the tunnel in front of me, holding the lamp aloft. It is a dimly-lit, dank sewer with barely enough room to stand. Several passages branch off in different directions, but I quickly spot a crudely-drawn image of a fist scratched onto one of the walls. "This way," I declare, pointing down the tunnel. Then, we begin making our way forward, the men cursing and gagging all the way.
The path winds deeply into the bowels of the city, and the further we go, the more unbearable the stench becomes. Still, we press on, grimly following the crude markings until finally we appear to reach our destination.
The sewer tunnel opens up into a wide chamber filled with fetid, stagnant water, a narrow path of stone leading across to a rusted steel grate on the other side. The flickering flame of my lamp casts dancing glimmers of light along the water’s foul surface, making the wall glitter wetly in the oppressive darkness.
“Come,” I say softly, trusting my senses and pointing ahead at the grate. “That is the entrance to the palace cellars.”
“How can you be certain?” Sturgis asks from behind me.
“I’m a trained ranger,” I reply simply, picking my way across the slick stone path. “I can find my way around just about anywhere. Watch your footing... that water doesn’t look pleasant to swim in.”
Carefully, we cross the pool, the six of us gathering on the other side near the great. As I hold my lamp aloft I can see that the grate has been cut, and that it is held together by nothing more than a few twisted wires. Handing the light to one of the warriors, I begin working the wires with my fingers, untangling them until the grate comes free. I set it off to the side then climb into the newly-opened tunnel, accepting the light and peering ahead.
It slopes upward, I think to myself, eyeing the round passage. A good sign.
The men crowd in behind me and we begin moving forward once more, half-crouching as we press on through the gloom.
Eventually, we come to another small grate, this one plastered into the wall with hinges. I stop just before the grate and extinguish the lamp, plunging the tunnel into shadow, but as our eyes adjust, we can see a faint, grey light coming from the other side of the iron bars.
We have finally arrived at the cellars.
Taking care to move slowly, I reac
h forward and gently push on the grate, forcing it open. The metal swings outward, well-oiled hinges turning noiselessly as the way suddenly becomes clear. Relaxing, I step out of the tunnel, feeling more grateful for smuggler ingenuity than I ever have in my entire life.
The tunnel deposits us behind a stack of dusty barrels in a dark, stone room, the temperature cold and the air smelling of old timbers and stale beer. As we creep around we discover that we are alone, the ancient cellar being lit by a small, grime-covered window set into the top of one of the walls against the ceiling, its thick glass letting in precious little light. Wine racks and oak barrels line the walls and floors, along with rat-chewed sacks of grain and an odd assortment of tools. In truth, it looks as if we are the first people to enter this cellar in decades.
“Alright,” I whisper, causing the other men to huddle around me, “the Red Fisted Dogs have gotten us this far. Their information says that the king’s personal chambers are a few floors above us, in the east wing of the palace. We should be able to take the servant stairs in order to reach him. Malik, Renlyn, stay here in the cellar to make sure our way of escape remains clear. We’ll need to take the sewers once more if we are going to make it to the Conclave.”
They nod, expressions grim.
“Sturgis and I will scout ahead,” I continue, eying all of the men in turn. “When the way is clear, one of us will come back down here to retrieve the others. Understood?”
Again, I am met only with nods.
Good, I think, taking a step back and casting off my cloak. Let’s just hope that if things go awry, they will still be willing to follow my orders.
The men follow my lead and begin shedding their cloaks, revealing their leather armor hiding beneath. Then, every man draws his weapons.
Silently, Sturgis and I make for the stairs, quietly making our way up them and opening the door. We find ourselves in a long corridor with polished wooden floors.
Stepping out of the cellar, we begin creeping down the hall, searching for any signs of life that may be lurking around the corners. It appears that this area is empty, and I quickly discover the servant stairs winding up into the castle. Nodding at Sturgis, he ducks away and soon returns with the other two men, their footsteps quiet on the hardwood floors.
Taking a deep breath, I begin making my way up the servant stairs, keeping my hand on my belt knife as I go. The stone steps wind up in a spiral, and when we reach the third floor, I motion for everyone behind me to stop and wait.
Reaching for the door, I push it open a crack, wincing as it creaks slightly with the motion. No one seems to be waiting on the other side, so I open it a little more and slip outside.
I find myself in a much more lavishly decorated hallway, with thick, plush carpets lining the floors and exquisite paintings lining the brightly-lit walls. Many doors branch off down the hall, and I feel a slight sense of apprehension moving forward. This is where it gets tricky, I think, silently making my way down the hall. The king could be anywhere at this point.
Coming up on a corner, I stealthily turn to make sure that I am still alone. No one seems to be on this floor, or else I would hear footsteps or voices. Moving forward a few yards, I discover another hallway branching off from this one, moving north in a slight, uphill slope. This hallway seems even more lavish than the first, and at the doors all seem to be hand-etched and painted, with gold leaf embossing the edges.
That looks kingly to me, I think in satisfaction, turning to go back to Sturgis and the others.
As I make my way down the hall, I hear a faint noise coming from one of the rooms off to my left, and I dive behind a potted plant just as the door opens up. A serving girl in a black and white dress steps out, a feather duster in one hand and an apron tied about her waist. She begins walking in my direction, humming softly to herself as she goes.
Before she can discover me and scream, I lunge at her from behind the plant, wrapping my arms around her and clamping my hand over her mouth.
She freezes, going rigid with fright, and lets out a muffled shout the fortunately isn’t very loud.
“Shhh,” I whisper in her ear, pulling her back to the open room. It looks to be a broom closet. “I don’t mean to do you any harm – but I won’t hesitate to knock you out if you make any noise. Understand?”
Trembling, she nods her head.
“Good.”
I close the door and release her, and she promptly drops her duster and wraps her arms around herself, growing pale.
“Now,” I say, pulling out my belt knife, “hold still.”
She whimpers as I tear away her apron, using the knife to saw off a few strips of fabric. These I use to bind and gag her, preventing her from fleeing, and when I step back, she is sitting on the floor, wrists and ankles tied tightly. A small part of me feels pity for the tears rolling down her cheeks, but I push the feeling away. I have a job to do, I think to myself coldly. The fate of the whole world hangs in the balance.
“Don’t move and keep quiet,” I command as I make my way to the door. “Everything will be alright.”
Then, as quickly as I had entered, I pull out my hand crossbow and slip back out.
I move swiftly back down the hall to the stairwell and notify the others that the way is clear, then together we begin making our way to the other side of the wing. As the decorations grow richer, the hallways grow wider, and soon, we find ourselves standing in the middle of a wide corridor filled with marble statues and expensive decorations. At the end of the hall, I can see a large set of doors that are carved with the reliefs of two roaring lions. Standing in front of the doors are two guards in polished metal armor. Both of them jump in surprise upon seeing us.
Raising my crossbow, I immediately fire off a bolt, catching one of the guards in the eye. He goes down with a metallic thud as his companion calls out in alarm.
The other Nightingales follow suit, pulling out their ranged weapons and launching feathered shafts at the other man, puncturing his body like a pincushion and knocking him down as well.
I curse, rushing up to the door and the corpses lying before it. “That scream just blew our cover,” I growl, tossing my crossbow to the side and pulling out my belt knife. “Edwin, Kris, watch our backs. If anyone else comes, deal with them. I have a feeling we are going to have to fight our way out of here.”
Both of them wordlessly nod their heads and mutter, “Yes sir.”
“Sturgis,” I say, turning to the other man, “with me. Ready?”
“Been ready for years,” he replies coldly, drawing his sword.
Then, without hesitation, I push open the double doors and rush inside, Sturgis on my heels.
I find myself in a grand audience chamber, lit with a large number of wide windows. The room is richly furnished and shelves of books line the walls, but none of these things hold my attention for long as my eyes are drawn to the handful of armed guards who are making their way curiously toward me.
"Hells," I curse, skidding to a stop. Why can't anything ever be simple?
The guards cry out a half-second later, pulling their swords out and sprinting toward the two of us. There are four of them in total, and they wear bright crimson knots at their armored shoulders, indicating that they are royal bodyguards.
"You go right, I go left," I command, raising my belt knife and pulling out a swordbreaker from a strap on my leg. "Now!"
Sturgis breaks away, and together, we engage the soldiers with deadly intensity.
Using the swordbreaker to catch the blade of the first guard, I propel his sword wide and drive my belt knife into his throat. The blade pierces his mail coif and goes deep into his neck, spilling crimson blood down his breast plate and onto the floor. His body collapses just as the second guard attacks, and I am forced to dodge to avoid being sliced, moving away nimbly on the balls of my feet.
Behind me, the sound of metal on metal indicates that Sturgis has engaged the other guards as well.
Falling into a defensive stance, I
begin circling the guard, watching every subtle movement as he brings up his great sword in a two-handed grip. Then, he lunges, deftly stabbing at my heart with the gleaming point of his weapon.
I bat the blade aside and lean back, warily bringing up my knife as he adjusts his grip on the hilt.
After a few seconds he strikes again, this time feinting with another stab and then switching at the last second to a slashing attack. Fortunately, I don't fall for the feint and am easily able to block the blow.
Using the serrated edge of my swordbreaker to latch on to the cross guard of his sword, I pull down hard attempting to yank the weapon from his hand. His grip holds, but he is thrown off balance, pitching forward and stumbling awkwardly over his own metal-clad feet.
Seizing upon the sudden opening, I bring up my knife and slip it into the unarmored section just beneath his armpit. He grunts in pain, cursing as I pull the twice-bloodied dagger out of his flesh and leap away out of his reach.
He seems unsteady now, lifting his sword up with much difficulty as blood pours down his side. He desperately attacks again, trying to make for my neck but he is far too slow. Dodging the attack, I go in for the kill, ramming the point of my knife through his cheek bone and deep into his brain. He twitches for a moment then falls down in a heap, his sword falling from nerveless fingers and clattering on the marble floor.
Spinning, I see Sturgis locked in the fight of his life against the two remaining guards, one of whom looks to be near collapse from a gash on his thigh.
I run and intercept the wounded guard, finishing him off with a strike to the base of his skull and sending him down hard.
Sturgis pulls his eyes away from his fight to look at me for a split second, renewed energy filling his visage. But the distraction proves fatal as the guard manages to slip the tip of his sword right into the man's belly just beneath the ribcage.
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