In Service Of The King (Book 2)

by Steven Styles

  The heavy keep door opened slowly on creaking hinges. Stepping our, the young guard gave the newcomers a small bow.

  “Sir, ‘twas two of the Magistrate guards; they carried away the Magistrate’s son,” the guard replied, looking at each of the three men. “Some lunatic put ‘im out cold.”

  “Stand aside,” Tyrus ordered. He pushed past the youth and looked from one empty cell to the other. The gaoler walked up to him, his ring of keys jangling. Hezekiah stood near Tyrus; Dunner took his place by the main door.

  Tyrus showed his ring to the gaoler.

  “Where is the man who created a disturbance at the Inn this evening?” he demanded, looking down at the man. “He was brought here, and we have come to take charge of him until his trial.”

  The jailer looked down,briefly, and then back at Tyrus.

  “As you can see, sir,” he said, indicating the cells behind him, “there is no one here.”

  Eyes narrowed, Tyrus cleare his throat.

  “Joseph of Rishown,” he repeated, glaring at the jailer. “Where is he?”

  “Are you blind, sir?” the jailer shot back. “There’s no one here!”

  Hezekiah already had his sword in hand before the jailer’s could react. With one swift jba, he’d thrust the thin blade through the jailer’s heart and pulled it back. Wiping the blood off of his sword, Hezekiah turned to face the young guard. The youth stood against the wall, his face white; he watched, horrified as the gaoler gasped and writhed on the floor.

  “Where did they take the man brought here tonight?” Tyrus asked him, somewhat more gently. The boy tried to speak but could not; with a shaking hand he pointed towards the back of the building. Grabbing the young guard’s arm, Tyrus led him forward.

  “Show us,” he ordered. “Or suffer your master’s fate.”

  The boy stumbled as he hurried down the passage and into the secret cell. He lifted the lid of the bed as Chamberlain had done and pointed downward.

  “The caves,” he stuttered. “I’venever been down there, but they always send the prisoners there. Only the guards come back up.” Tyrus drew his sword and pointed it down the dark steps.

  “You can lead the way,” he commanded. “Dunner… a torch.”

  Only the gatekeeper occupied the stone chamber. Tyrus held onto the youth’s arm as Hezekiah and Dunner approached the table. Seeing Joseph’s vest and shirt—sticking partially out of the trunk—Dunner gave a cry and pulled them out.

  “What have you done with the lad?!” he growled.The murderous look in his eye seemed to bring life to the gatekeepers face.He stood up partially, his hand on his dagger. Before the man could draw a breath, however, the tip of a sword was at his throat.

  “Open the gate, if you value your life,” Tyrus told him. The gravity of his tone belied the anger present in the man’s eyes.

  Without a word, the gatekeeper stumbled towards the stone door in flickering torchlight.

  FIVE

  As Joseph threaded his way back through the cavern, he caught sight of the thin worker who had warned him, working by one of the forges. The massive timber structure towered over them, and no one seemed to know what had gone on in the passage.

  Coming up to the thin man, Joseph nodded and picked up a piece of ore.

  “What is your name, friend?” he asked, quietly, glancing around. He placed the ore in the wheelked barrow and continued working.

  “William Jensen,” the man answered him hoarsely. He slowly bent down and gathered more ore. Several thin, red scars criss-crossed the man’s back.

  “I am Joseph of Rishown village. How long have you been here?”

  “More than six months, by my reckoning, which is longer than most my age last.”

  “How did you get put in this place?

  “I’m a farmer near Pauldosus; I was in Hoggen going to Fehale for market day. The magistrate’s men took me outside the innn that night. I only pray that my wife and children are well.” At this he broke down weeping, letting his load of ore fall into the barrow.

  Joseph watched the far passage door; no one, or thing, had emerged from it, yet.

  “Is there another way out of this cursed place?” he asked the farmer. Collecting himself, Jensen looked puzzled by the question.

  “I heard there’s a back shaft, that goes to the surface,” he said, slowly resuming his work. “The bishop uses it and I have heard his servants complain it is not wide enough… but I have never seen it, myself.”

  “The bishop is dead,” Joseph told the man. “If we are to escape, now is the time. Are there any trustworthy here?”

  The thin prisoner stared at Joseph. The younger man’s intense eyes held no falsehood. After a moment Jensen put down his piece of ore.

  “There are only four of us left whom have not eaten the cursed meat,” he whispered, his sunken eyes glancing towards the forges. “The rest become meat themselves.”

  “Get them,” Joseph told them. “Do it quietly. We must go, and quickly.” Jensen nodded once and scuttled away through the forges, out of sight. Pushing Jensen’s cart of ore, Joseph directed it by the nearest forge.

  Nearby a strong, hairy blacksmith shoved wood into a blazing fire built under one of the smelting cauldrons.

  “Put that in the pile and get to work crushing the ore!” the hairy man ordered. His teeth flashed as he spoke. He pumped the bellows harder, sending the flames shooting up around the blackened cauldron.

  Spying a large, heavy hammer with a long handle Joseph hoisted it above his shoulder and began swinging it down upon the ore; as he broke the rock, he kept watch for return of Jensen and his fellows.

  “Faster, fool!” the hairy man bellowed at him. “Work or I’ll see you taste the Master’s whip!” He threw a wide shovel at Joseph’s feet; taking it, the young man scooped up the broken rock. He carried it to the cauldron and dumped the heavy contents inside. Looking over the edge Joseph flinched at seeing its contents. The cauldron was nearly filled with molten gold; a bit of dark dross flaoting on top of a fortune in hot precious metal. Staring at the glowing mass,Joseph shook his head and turned back to the ore pile again.

  Before too long, he spied Jensen crouching behind a massive pile of broken stone nearby, along with three others; all looked wasted away, but each face bore a desperate hope, as each strained to look at the new stranger. He gave Jensen a quick nod and motioned for them to wait, out of sight. He broke rock and shoveled, waiting for the burly smith at the cauldron to turn away.

  Suddenly, a strange, piercing cry filled the air. It sliced through the noise and silenced all voices, echoing off the rock walls. All work seemed to stop and the workers cowered down in fear. Even the hairy smith sank to his knees. Joseph kept on his feet, looking around for the source of the cry.

  “Joseph!” the voice screeched. “Joseph of Rishown! The new slave! Kill him!”

  All over the structure and below it, the workers stood up and slowly turned—in an eerie display of synchronization—directing thier eyes upon Joseph.

  “Kill him!” they said, almost in one voice. “Kill him where he stands!”

  The hairy blacksmith stood from his work, an evil grin on his glistening face. Swinging the borrowed hammer Joseph let it fall full force on the hairy brute, knocking the man over. Jensen and the others clambered up onto the rockpile and took up rocks; with what strnegth remianed in them, they threw ore down upon the fiend until he moved no more.

  Joseph turned to the cauldron as his fellows finished off the smith. The smelter stood close to one of the massive timber supports of the wood-structure overhead. Wedging the handle of his hammer at an angle—at the base of the cauldron—Joseph pushed with all his might down upon it. Slowly the cauldron began to tip. Molten metal splashed out onto the cavern floor with short, hissing sounds.

  “Help me!” he called out, bearing down on the hammer. Using planks, Jensen and his fellows aided Joseph to tip the cauldron further; the steaming gold flowed out like a flaming river, right up against the
timber column. The wood support began smoking, bursting into flames within a few seconds. Cries of “fire!” rang out in the levels above. Losing no time, Joseph ran to the next forge and it’s cauldron of molten gold.

  With the help of the thin prisoners, he fought off the workers and tipped the next cauldron over like the first, running away from the work structure. Hot, smoking metal swirled around under the open building and around it. The workers lost interest in finding their quarry; some fled the structure, others crowded the ramps to escape. Flames roared up the bottom columns and first level of the great structure, rising at a breathtaking speed. What men were not caught in the structure were hemmed in by the smoking pools of liquid metal under it.

  His back to a pile of ore, Joseph motioned for Jensen and his fellows to move behind him. Stepping in front of them, he faced what guards and workers had escaped the fire. The raging fires ahead reflected in his eyes as his fingers gripped the handle of the gold-spattered hammer.

  AT THE base of the winding staircase the gatekeeper fell to his knees, exhausted. Tyrus grabbed the man’s tunic and dragged him to his feet.

  Hezekiah stepped up to the wooden door and knocked. When the door cracked open, Hezekiah and Dunner threw themselves against it, knocking the cloaked servant back. As the Shamar entered the room, the servant picked himself off the floor and fled towards the passage and cavern entrance. Whether it was fear or adrenaline, the man manaed ot open one of the doors just enough to get through.

  Tyrus looked around, still holding onto the gatekeeper.

  “Let me go!” The grizzled man quaked in fear. “I can’t go in there… he’ll kill me!” Dunner unsheathed his scimitar and took the gatekeeper by his shirt.

  “You can stay here, if you like,” he said, brandishing the curved weapon. The gatekeeper said no more.

  All three Shamar looked around the dim room, walking slowly past the white attar of water. Smoke began ot curl throughthe door at the far end. Smelling it, the men rushed forward, through the small passage and up to the great doors. It took both Tyrus and Hezekiah to draw back on the partially-open door. Dunner pulled the blubbering gatekeeper along after them.

  A horrific scene greeted them on the other side of the door. A raging fire lit up the entire center of the cavern.Swirls of what appeared to be hardening gold lay on the uneven floor amid piles of broken rock. A dozen men ran around, trying to put out the blaze; a thick blanket of smoke descended from the cavern roof.

  Looking around, Hezekiah started. He slowly took out his blade, his shoulders stiff. A few yards in front of them, a half-naked man leapt and yelled. Covered in gray paint he screeched and stamped as if in a rage, his bare feet pounding the rock floor, his wild hair sticking up like feathers. Dunner likewise stared at the figure; he readied his sword, not letting go the gatekeeper.

  Suddenly, the screeching figure stopped still. He turned his head, staring with one eye at the newcomers. Dunner glared back at him. In a flash, the gray figure reached out towards them. He had no weapon, but the giant stone door behind the Shamar shifted and then slammed shut. It closed with a force great enough to embed itself in the rock frame, sending cracks towards the ceiling. The noise resounded in the chamber, mixing with the flames and cries coming from the structure.

  The cloaked servant ran up to the wild man, speaking to him in some strange language; he appeared to be pleading with him. Pulling back one hand, the painted figure hit the servant on the shoulder; the man flew back as if struck by lightning. He landed several yards away and did not move again. Keeping his eyes fixed on his prey, the wild man crouched slowly to the ground. With a catlike spring he flipped over backward and landed on his feet. He stood up and let out a shrill, unnerving laugh that echoed on the rock walls.

  Hezekiah took an involuntary step backward. The gatekeeper slithered to the floor, unconscious. Dunner let the prisoner fall, not taking his eyes off the madman before them. Drawing a long dagger from his belt, Tyrus held it at the ready, a hard look in his gray eyes.

  “What in the blue-blazes is that?” Dunner demanded.

  “I have heard of these,” Hezekiah replied, somewhat recovered. “It appears to be a high priest of Zo. I’ve never seen one before

  “Never has one dared step foot on Kingdom land, before,” Tyrus corrected.

  “Seen or unseen,” Dunner growled, turning over his shiny scimitar.

  “Joseph!” Hezekiah called out, pointing towards the structure.

  Tyrus and Dunner looked as well, squinting to see through the smoky air. Hezekiah was not deceived; Joseph indeed stood near the outskirts of the fire—about fifty feet away—fending off a handful of shirtless prisoners wlith a long hammer. A few, skinny men crouched behind the young Shamar, as if he were protecting them.

  “Joseph Asher!” Dunner bawled out; the sea-captain’s voice cut through the chaotic noise like canonfire through a storm. At his name, Joseph looked over and saw the three familiar figures, standing by the entrance gate. Relief swept over his features. With renewd vigor he made short work of the remaining attackers.

  Gathering Jensen and the others, he looked towards the main entrance again. Only then did he see the painted figure standing still and looking at his fellow Shamar.

  “Find the escape shaft you spoke of,” he told Jensen and his fellows. “I will follow after you. Quickly!” Jensen grabbed Joseph’s arm.

  “It begins somewhere in the Bishop’s quarters,” he said, pointing to a shadowy part of the cavern, not far from the main entrance. “Through the door in the wall… we will pray you safely find us!” Joseph nodded at him before turning away.

  Running around the pools of molten gold and over piles of ore, he halted some twenty feet from the painted-figure.

  The priest of Zo stood barring his way to Tyrus and the others. He snapped his head sideways, glaring directly at Joseph. Tyrus gripped his dagger closely, taking a step toward the figure. Joseph saw his action and kept the madman’s gaze. The surviving workers gathered on the right of the wild priest, glaring angrily at the Shamar.

  “I am Muuth,” the priest announced; his voice seemed to shake the ground, like the sound of many horses running through a ravine. “You,” he pointed at Joseph, “will be first to die.”

  “The Lord rebuke you!” the young lord yelled back, his feet planted firmly on the rock floor.

  With a dreadful scream, the priest covered his ears with his painted hands; he stamped the rock floor madly with his bare feet. As suddenly as he began, he stopped, his gaze again on Joseph. He outstretched his hands towards him, a horrible smile on his gray face.

  A deep cracking sound rang out, overhead. All faces turned upward in time to witness a huge bolder fall through the smoke and crash onto a corner of the burning structure. Deflected, the boulder fell back, squarely onto the high priest of Zo, crushing him into dust. The noise was deafening. Teetering off balance, the blazing structure fell onto the slaves of the madman.

  “These doors are sealed!” Tyrus shouted, glancing apprehensively toward the cavern ceiling. “We’re not getting back out the way we came!”

  “Come with me!” Joseph called, racing around the boulder. In spite of the smoke, he could see the corner where Jensen had pointed. “There is another shaft. Quickly!”

  True to the workman’s word, the group found an open wooden door embedded in the rock, with a strange symbol carved in it. Leading the way through, Joseph grabbed a torch from the wall. A narrow staricase beyond led them upward. The Shamar climbed one after the other, until they met another wooden door. The room beyond was made of cut stone, finely furnished with delicate tables and chairs, dozens of lit candles in gold holders and rich carpets; tapestries hung on the walls and a large, elaborate bed nearly covered one wall. Joseph spied a door across the room and walked towards it; the door had crimson designs painted on it.

  A thin man stood up from behind a chair. Jensen smiled as he recognized Joseph; his fellow workmen stood as well.

  “We feared you wer
e dead,” Jensen said. “This must be the door to the shaft; there are no others in the chambers.”

  “Hurry through it, the smoke is fast on our heels,” Joseph told him.

  About to take hold of the door handle, a peculiar sight arrested Joseph’s eye; against the wall by the Bishop’s bed stood a high table covered in a heavily embroidered cloth. A silken money bag stood on it, and some scrolls, along with four unusually shaped spectacles, the type he’d seen wealthy men hold up to one eye when reading.

  “Take those!” Jensen said, excitedly, pointing at the table. “The Bishop regards them very highly! We make those spectacles, here in the cavern.” Without a word Joseph swept up the corners of the cloth and put it over his shoulder, like a bag. As he turned to address the men, he saw smoke curling up under the chamber door.

  “Make haste!” Joseph told them, opening the painted door.

  The door led to a long, dark passageway. Hurrying along it, the men followed Joseph. They ran until Jensen and his fellows had to rest; Tyrus urged them to move onward before the smoke overcame them. The men moved ahead valiantly, despite their fatigue. Several minutes later, the passage turned sharply to the right; rounding the corner, to their dismay, the passage became three separate tunnels.

  “Which way do we go?” Jensen asked, looking up at Joseph. “I have not heard of this place.” Joseph glanced back; fingers of smoke swirled after them, curling around the heads of the men with him.

  “Stand aside,” he ordered, stepping back against the rock wall. The others did the same, bewildered. One, long tendril of smoke drifted past them, only to be caught by some unseen force, disappearing into the furthest tunnel. Joseph pointed to it. “That way,” he said, stepping after the smoke. The group ran along the corridor, their candles and torches flickering with the movement, until they came to a winding staircase cut out of the rock.

  “Hurry!” Joseph ordered, pointing up the stair; the smoke drifted thicker about them.

  “We’ll follow you!” Jensen said, holding up a candle. As Joseph moved swiftly up the stair, Hezekiah and Dunner helped the weary workers catch up. They climbed the twisting stair with a desperate energy.Smoke billowed up the steps after them.