The Witchstone Amulet

by Mason Thomas

  “Hey…,” he said, then snapped his mouth closed again. His accent would certainly flag him as an intruder. Or at least a foreigner. “Ho there,” he exclaimed, mimicking Dax’s inflection, the only voice he knew well enough to emulate. “Well met and good morrow.”

  The two laundresses continued to blink at him. Did he get the accent wrong? Or was a man down here rare enough to stun them into silence? They might have been sisters—they had the same laugh lines around their mouths and both had their graying hair pulled back into identical buns.

  “What…?” the left one began. Her gaze lowered to the clothes strewn about the stone floor, then lifted again to meet Hunter’s wide eyes. She swallowed and flattened the wrinkles on the front of her apron. “What can we do for you, good sir?” Her eyes dropped to his bare feet for a fraction of a second, and then back up again to his face.

  His heart thumped. Ten minutes into the castle and he was already drawing the wrong kind of attention.

  “Nothing. My coin purse. I think it might may have been picked up with the linens.”

  “Needn’t have troubled yourself with that. We’d have searched for you.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he said quickly. “This sort of thing happens all the time. Was only worried someone would swipe it before it was found.” He winced the moment he said that. Fuck. Now he was accusing them of being dishonest.

  The women exchanged glances. The unintended insult didn’t seem to register but some silent exchange happened between them. “Is your hair wet, milord?” said the second laundress.

  His hand lifted to the top of his head as if to confirm it. “Uh… I… came from the baths. That was when I realized the purse was missing.”

  “You’ll catch your death walking around like that,” one of them replied with a shake of her head.

  The other nodded at her friend’s wisdom. “And no boots? Milord, that is unwise, if it’s not too bold for me to say. You never know what you’re apt to step in down here beneath the castle.”

  Hunter didn’t want to think about it.

  “Milord,” the first continued, “far be it from me to tell an esteemed member of the king’s guard their business, but I’d take more care with your hard-earned coin, sir. Too many owls loiter around those barracks ready to prey on the careless.”

  He had to fight to keep the surprise from his face. They assumed he was a guardsman.

  “We’ll keep an eye out for it, but…,” the first replied with a sad shrug and a glance at her friend. They both clearly believed his fictitious purse was already stolen and would not be recovered.

  Didn’t matter. He had to get out of there. “You are certainly right. I’ll leave you ladies to your work.” He glided in the direction the women had come, and with a cheerful wave, hurried out of the chamber and into the underbelly of the castle.

  Barefoot and underdressed, he scurried about the dark corridors like an oversized mouse. He hugged the walls and avoided people when he could, tried to look nonchalant when he couldn’t. He gained some curious looks, but no one stopped him, or seemed even mildly alarmed that he was there. Certainly, no one yelled out “intruder” and went racing off to find a guard with their arms flailing about.

  Zinnuvial had been right. Everyone trusted the guardsmen had the castle securely locked down, and people seemed too occupied with their duties to pay much attention to him. No one had time to consider the half-dressed man aimlessly bumbling about.

  Here, in the grimy underpinnings, he skulked through the convoluted labyrinth of rooms, tunnels, and strange little nooks. He tried to make sense of the layout, but there was no logic to it, and there was too much ground to cover. Storage rooms, soapmaking, distilleries, stone cutters, and a large butchery—all the hidden dregs of the castle system that kept everything functioning up above, but no indication that access to the dungeon was anywhere down there. No guard presence. No cries of anguish. No smell of rot and despair.

  Which meant prisoners had to be kept someplace else.

  Of course it couldn’t be that easy. He had no choice but to explore other parts of the castle grounds—but he was reluctant to head up to the surface. No one seemed to care down here how he was dressed, but up above his lack of attire might draw more unwanted scrutiny. And as Dax always liked to remind him, he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

  The first access to the surface he came upon was a large dumbwaiter at the back of a storage room. As he leaned around the doorway, three men were securing a stack of kegs on the wooden structure with ropes. He considered briefly creeping in, maybe slipping behind the stack of kegs to get hauled up with them, but it seemed too risky. No telling where he’d end up.

  He found a stairwell, wide and well-lit, and ventured up it slowly. But as he rounded the second landing, he caught the sounds of a large group laughing farther up, and he doubled back down again.

  This was taking too much time.

  After searching further, he happened upon a flight of rugged circular stairs tucked inside an alcove. He ascended the unlit and twisting stairwell at a cautious speed, hand to the wall to guide him through the dark. It turned about dizzyingly for a long time—he was deeper underground than he’d thought. At last, light filtered down from above. Around the final turn, he arrived at a heavy door, banded with strips of iron, sunlight squeezing under the bottom edge.

  He checked the latch. Unlocked, which surprised him. He held his breath and listened with his ear turned toward the door. Some distant banging and the wind was all he heard. So he gingerly eased the door open and stepped out.

  The narrow yard beyond was wedged between the castle itself and the towering outer wall. The ground, shaded by the castle, was a lifeless strip of hard packed soil and gravel with only a few patches of stringy weeds making a go of it at the base of the wall. Little was around. A staircase made of logs and roughly hewed planks led to the top of the wall. He spotted movement up there, patrols pacing the ramparts, but the attention seemed outward and not down in his direction. At the base of the stairs was a stubby stone building not much bigger than a garden shed. It seemed quiet and he couldn’t tell if anyone was inside it.

  To the right, past the corner tower of the castle, the area opened and was basked in warm morning sunlight. A long building hugged the rampart wall. When the wind shifted, the smell of manure and hay was undeniable. The stables.

  The northern door that Zinnuvial mentioned was nearby. Finding Dax was foremost on his mind, but if it was here….

  He stayed close to the castle and headed west.

  Two men, dressed casually in tunics and leather aprons, sat with their backs to the wall just past the small stone outbuilding. They shared a pipe and mumbled softly to each other. Their eyes shot up when Hunter marched by, but then they relaxed again and went back to their pipe. The two were clearly hiding out to take an unscheduled break from their duties.

  Farther ahead, Hunter spotted a black tunnel in the wall. It was wide enough for maybe a small cart to get through but not much more.

  Hunter glanced behind him. The two idlers still paid him no attention. Hunter strolled closer and peered inside the dark opening. There was a heavy iron door at the far end, with a guard seated on the ground, his back and head against it. His helm was placed next to him and his hands loose in his lap.

  Asleep on the job.

  Why wouldn’t he be, Hunter thought. Assigned to this dark hole all day to guard an unused door was likely the most mind-numbingly boring post there was. This job was likely a punishment for something. But his day was about to get a whole lot more exciting.

  Hunter had to make this quick and make sure he didn’t alert the two idlers enjoying their pipe. Any cry from the guard would be easily heard.

  On the balls of his bare feet, he slunk into the dark tunnel. The guard didn’t move, and Hunter could hear him gently snoring. Hunter held his breath and lowered to one knee next to him; then he thrust his forearm under his chin and pressed his palm against the guard’s mouth.
>
  The man’s eyes bolted open. He stared up at Hunter in alarm, and he thrashed about to break loose. But he was no match for Hunter’s strength. He tried to cry out, but only managed to make a muffled gurgle against Hunter’s hand.

  Hunter increased the pressure against the side of his neck. The man tried to twist free, but Hunter shifted more of his weight against him. The flailing intensified as true panic took hold, and the guard’s eyes bulged. It was gruesome to watch and made Hunter’s stomach wedge into his throat.

  The writhing subsided, and then after a few final kicks, stopped altogether. The guard fell limp. Hunter released the forearm from his neck but kept his hand over the mouth just in case this was a ruse.

  “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead,” he mumbled to himself.

  He pulled his hand away and he heard the whoosh of air entering the guard’s mouth. But he remained unmoving. Out cold.

  Hunter allowed himself a long exhale that puffed out his cheeks. His hands were shaking as he doubled back to the tunnel opening and leaned out. The smokers were on their feet. Hunter’s heart thumped, afraid they’d heard something. But one tucked his pipe into a pouch on his belt, and the two strolled back the other way.

  Hunter stripped the man of his uniform. He pulled the stained tunic off over his head, and gripping the top of it in two fists, tore it in half. Hunter used one half of the fabric to tie the unfortunate guard’s wrists behind his back. He stuffed as much of the other as he could into the guard’s mouth.

  The uniform fit better than he expected. The tunic was a one size fits all variety, and the leather armor had adjustable lacings at the flanks. Even with the girth of his chest, he was able to buckle the front.

  The armored door was heavily secured with both several bolts and a thick beam across the width of it. Hunter lifted the beam out of the brackets, then gently guided it between the guard’s back and his tied wrists. If the man woke, the beam would prevent him from running off to get help. If all went well, he’d be here a while.

  Each bolt on the door was fixed with a padlock of comical size. Hunter rummaged through the satchel the guard had with him and found a ring of keys at the bottom. In short order, he located the key that popped each lock open, and he slid each bolt aside.

  He caught himself breathing a little easier. A bit of luck had landed him a passable disguise to get him around the castle grounds.

  He checked the knots on the guard’s wrists one more time and made sure the fabric shoved in his mouth was still secure. The man was still out cold but still breathing. He’d probably wake up with a terrible headache, but hopefully nothing more than that. Hunter returned the keys to the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. With a bit more luck, the keys would open more than padlocks. He tucked the helm under his arm, stiffened his spine, and marched out of the tunnel like he belonged there.

  31

  A RUSH came over him. The same kind he felt when jogging out on the pitch before a match. Both apprehension and determination were fused in an adrenaline-fueled cocktail that pumped through his bloodstream. His heart punched him from the inside. He kept his face locked in a stern scowl, like someone annoyed and on a mission, hoping it would keep people away.

  The eastern yard of the castle was a hive of restrained commotion. It felt part village, part farm—but wholly industrious. Gray plaster buildings with thatched roofs were packed in, some pressed right up against the outer wall. Hunter ventured in, shoulders back, his eyes on everything while trying to seem like he belonged. He felt obvious and out of place. But no one paid him any mind. Everyone went about their business, parading about, heads low, some dragging small carts or with packs hoisted on their shoulders. Few bothered to glance his way.

  At first, it seemed peaceful here. Tiny herds of sheep and goats wandered about, nibbling any grasses that sprouted up in corners and along the foundation. A queue of women waited by a well. As the first in line hauled up the bucket to fill vessels, the others looked grateful for the opportunity to chat and do nothing for the moment. Hunter could hear a doleful twinging of a stringed instrument floating on the air.

  Yet no one smiled. He heard no laughing or the sound of kids playing. The looming bulk of the castle seemed imposing and watchful. The air around him was taut—like a locker room after a humiliating defeat.

  He had no idea what he was looking for or where he was going. His only hope was that he’d stumble upon something useful, some clue that might lead him somewhere, give him a direction.

  “Guardsman,” someone barked to his left.

  Hunter’s stomach clenched, and he came to a stiff halt.

  “Off on a stroll?” a voice purred. The man who rounded Hunter’s flank into view was nearly equal in height. He wore a three-quarter-length coat, the same deep red color as the leather Hunter wore, but it was embellished with gold to highlight his superior status. Hunter shifted his eyes enough to get a glimpse of the grizzled beard and cold eyes before he shot his gaze forward again, military style—the effect of obedience and discipline that was likely ubiquitous, regardless of the world.

  “On an errand, s—milord.” Hunter’s mouth had dried up and his stomach was in his throat. He found it hard to form the words. But he was careful to keep the sound of Dax’s accent in his head as he spoke. And the less he said the better.

  “Here? In the bailey village?” the officer scoffed. He leaned in and Hunter could feel his hot breath on his cheek “Looking for a whore, more like.”

  “Yes, milord,” Hunter replied. “A whore. But not for me. A visiting emissary has requested one, and he has particular tastes.” Risky, he knew. He had no idea if such a thing existed here, but he had to say something—something that would give him license to search the area, and this was the first thing that came to his head. “I was instructed to keep it in strictest confidence.”

  He could feel the heat of the officer’s eyes on him, considering him closely. Trying to gauge if he was lying. Hunter kept his eyes forward, staring at nothing in the distance. His heart seemed to go hollow in his chest while he waited. The crowd around him went about its business without taking any notice of him.

  It must have held enough of a ring of truth to it, for he heard the man grunt low in the back of his throat. “Errand or not,” the officer growled, “maintain a complete uniform.” He snatched the leather-studded helm from under Hunter’s arm and slammed against his breastbone.

  Hunter grabbed it and flung it onto his head, shoving it down over his ears. A careless mistake—he wanted to kick himself. The helm was too small, and it pressed tight against his head. But if he could survive the skull-breaking pressure within a scrum, he could tolerate a snug helmet.

  “Resume,” the officer said.

  Hunter heard the crunch of boots behind him as the officer marched off. He exhaled and waited for his head to stop swimming. Then he hurried off through the yard.

  Up ahead, two men gripped the bridles of a pair of horses pulling a large enclosed wagon. They led the team between the buildings. Newly arrived and heading to the stables, Hunter guessed. He moved against a building as it wheeled past with squeaks and groans. The side of the wagon had small windows with iron bars. It was a paddy wagon. Bringing in prisoners.

  Hunter hurried onward. Just beyond the bailey village, as Hunter suspected, was the main gatehouse, flanked on either side by stout towers that rose up above the walls. The sound of grinding gears rose above all other sounds, and as Hunter drew closer, he could see the lowering of the portcullis. With a crunch and a thump, it dropped into the trench that crossed the cobbled road.

  His eye was drawn to activity closer to the castle. A dense cluster of guards stood at the base of the broad staircase that swooped upward toward a pair of massive gothic doors—the official and primary entrance into the castle. The guards loitered about as if waiting for direction, talking casually among themselves.

  Hunter positioned himself in the shadow of a porch overhang to watch. Among the guards, a man
and a woman were on their knees, arms bound behind them. The man’s face was covered in crimson. He’d been beaten, and the gash over his eyes had bled down his face and neck. Hunter didn’t recognize either of them, but they certainly didn’t look like dangerous criminals. They were resistance members. Or suspected ones anyway. After the raid, the city guard was rounding up anyone they could find.

  The queen was going to make a very public show that the resistance was crushed beneath her heel. And the crowning moment would be the execution of Dax.

  Time was running out. Already midday and he was no closer to finding the dungeon where Dax was being held. But those two were the first solid chance of finding it. He closed his eyes a moment to ward off the flaring urgency in his gut. He had to keep his head, not rush this and make matters worse by getting himself captured too.

  The two prisoners were dragged to their feet and shoved into motion. They shared a quick doleful look as they staggered forward. The man looked defeated, crestfallen. Yet Hunter saw strength and resilience in the woman’s gaze as she glared at the two guards pushing them along. The rest of the troop fell into marching order and paraded behind them with stiff backs and weapons drawn. For two people who looked like nothing more than modest shopkeepers, the show of force was over the top, like putting a choke collar on a bunny.

  Hunter understood what was happening. The guardsmen were sending a message to everyone in the bailey village: members of the resistance would be severely punished.

  Hunter quickened his step to edge in closer to the procession. He followed in their wake, matching their pace, careful not to drift too close. The prisoners were herded southward, across the yard and past the gatehouse, toward a stone building that seemed to have grown right out of the curtain wall itself, like a distended tumor. Drab and utilitarian, it had a cold functionality about it. A group of men and women sparred within a wooden pen while others cheered them on from the perimeter.