by James Somers
I soon found myself standing outside Belial’s private chamber in the vestibule, staring at the great metal doors that withstood any intrusion. The attendant stood by me, leaving me last minute instructions. “Now don’t be nervous, child,” he began, watching the little bell mounted beside the door. A little chain went back into the wall somewhere. “The chamber will seem dark to you, but there are torches and candles within. Belial likes the darkness. He can see easily in it.”
“But how will I find my way before him?”
“Not to worry. A path will lead you,” he instructed. “Just stay on the path. It will stop at a marble balustrade where you will stand before Belial himself. Now, I don’t want you to be alarmed by the odor.”
“Odor? What odor?”
“Dragon’s are quite musky,” he said.
I had more questions, but the little bell began to ring before I could find the words. Everything was suddenly happening too fast.
“You’ll do fine, my dear,” the old man said. The massive doors parted before me, and I felt a nudge from the attendant to get me going. My feet obeyed while my mind reeled. I was through the doors before I knew what was happening. The doors closed behind me, and the darkness enveloped me.
Ahead, the path led deeper into the chamber down a short corridor with one torch burning on either wall. I stopped only a moment, trying to gather my trembling limbs and have them obey my will again.
“Come, my child,” said a thunderous voice. The entire chamber resonated with its power. I was startled out of my inner turmoil. The commandment overtook me. I moved forward despite my sudden terror. The corridor was soon behind me, the chamber opening up into a cavernous dome ahead.
Candles by the hundreds burned around me on stone tiers where the wax cascaded toward the floor like frozen waterfalls. The elderly attendant had not lied. Already the pungent odor of dragon assaulted my senses. It was like fog in the air—inescapable. The path continued deeper into the chamber, outlined by the glow of candlelight.
I reached the balustrade and stopped. Beyond, the chamber was cast in darkness. I could sense that the floor had dropped away past the place where I was standing. Somewhere out there Belial was watching me from the darkness.
Coals of fire ignited in the dark—a pair of them—moving together as one. It was not the candlelight that made these eyes shine. They blazed with inner luminance, seeming altogether not of this world. My terror broke the dam of my courage, and I fell prostrate to the marble floor at once. “What is thy bidding, my master,” I said, truly not knowing what else to say in the presence of a god, or even if I should speak at all.
A low rumbling resounded from the darkness. Whether a purring or growling from deep within the dragon, I could not discern. I had been taught, as all children were, that Belial the Glorious could bathe the world in fire with his very breath. I wondered if I might feel that terrible flame wash over me at any moment, having stumbled over some nuance of protocol when coming into the High Serpent King’s presence.
Honestly, I had never been taught what to do in such an eventuality. The very assumption, that a common priestess would have this opportunity, bordered on preposterous. Still, Belial did have attendants to serve him, bring his food and attend to his desires in various ways. Surely, there was some training on what to do and not do in a dragon’s presence.
Belial said nothing. And yet, I could feel his eyes upon me, hear his breath and feel the heat of his body permeating the chamber around me. I remained as I was, waiting. In no way, shape, or form would I dare raise myself presumptuously unless bidden to do so.
At last, he spoke. His voice was like thunder rumbling off the walls of the chamber. “So, this is the young woman who withstood the attack upon my sacred temple?”
I started to reply, but felt he had probably only asked the question in consideration of me.
“Arise, Priestess Gwen, Wraith Dancer of the High Guard, and stand before your lord, High Serpent King Belial the Glorious,” he bellowed.
Quivering, I hastened to my feet, careful to keep my gaze downcast. I did not deserve to look upon him. All at once, fire erupted from the darkness before me. I knew that I would be turned to ash in an instant, but the flame did not come for me. Instead, a great pyre had been lit before the dragon, down on the floor far below. A furious heat filled the air around me. I thought I might faint at any moment.
“Look upon me, daughter, and behold the lord of all the earth.”
I feared to do so, but his command was absolute. I could not refuse and live. My eyes beheld him. I did not realize what it would be like to behold a god. I had never felt such complete terror in all my life.
Belial towered over me like a living mountain, even from his resting place far below where I stood at the balustrade. Sharp spines with webbed skin fanned out from his face like the sails of some great ship. His jaws had parted, and a vortex of flame swirled in the depth of his cavernous mouth. Every tooth caught the light of his flame—crimson shards—everyone as long as a giant’s spear.
The scales of the dragon’s belly were black, but blood red in every other place I could see. When I saw him, my strength left me as though my very bones had melted within me. I could find no support within my trembling frame. At that moment, I could not imagine anything more awesome in power and might than this being who had summoned me. What I had seen of Belial from the observation tower had startled me, but not in this way at all.
As I lay again on the cold stone, I heard his voice again—calmer than before, less terrifying. I heard him stamp out the pyre below, instantly removing the great light that revealed his form in the darkness. “My child, find strength,” he said. “I have not summoned you to destroy you.”
I still didn’t know if I would make it, but that statement did make me feel a little better.
“I wanted you to understand the power which you serve—that you’re service is not in vain,” Belial continued from the darkness. “I have a mission for you, wraith dancer; one for which your talents are especially necessary, for you have shown yourself zealous for my name and courageous in the face of true danger.”
I began to gather myself, finding strength I did not know I had in order to stand before Belial as he required. Slowly but surely, I rose to my knees, thankful that his form had once again been shrouded by darkness from my eyes. Through quivering lips I found the courage to reply.
“My lord, I live only to serve your greatness.”
“And you shall serve it,” he said.
“What would you have me to do, my lord?” I asked.
The great head moved steadily toward me, the eyes betraying his position to me. “You know of the Resistance and those who lead the movement against my reign?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” I answered. “I am told a villain called Ezekiah leads the Resistance.”
“Indeed.”
“What would you have me do, my lord?”
The low, guttural rumble resonated again, rolling away in waves from Belial’s massive body. The eyes seemed to blaze with greater light as he spoke. “I want you to kill him.”
COMMISSIONED
Nothing could have prepared me for the commission given unto me by Belial. I realized, of course, that Ezekiah was a mere man—mortal—flesh and blood, like me. But he was also said to be a prophet. And though no one voiced it aloud, I could sense that he was a man who was greatly feared throughout the kingdom.
Still reeling from my encounter with Belial, I was quickly ushered from the Serpent King’s private chamber down a secluded corridor to a meeting with the High Priest himself. Here, I would receive the details of Belial’s plan to assassinate the leaders of the Resistance Movement. The dragon had spared me any further flattery, choosing instead to regale me with the great need to rid the kingdom of vermin like Ezekiah and his kind, as well as telling me how blessed I was to be one of his faithful children and the greatness of this opportunity to serve.
All of this I received with
sincerest enthusiasm. Anyone could see that the Resistance was the blight of the kingdom. Men like Ezekiah, and the other man whom Belial had briefly mentioned, disseminated lies to the public, undermining the faith of those who rightly trusted in the benevolent gods we served. Belial and the other Serpent Kings wanted them destroyed along with their followers. I would have the task of ridding the kingdom of its greatest threat: the so-called prophet, Ezekiah.
As Belial had repeatedly mentioned before dismissing me, this was a great honor. Still, questions nagged at the back of my mind. Try as I might, they would not go away. I could ignore them, but they weren’t going away. Why did a god feel any threat at all from a mere mortal? Couldn’t the dragons, as gods, simply speak their desires and have them fulfilled upon these rebels? Why did assassins have to be sent at all?
Disconcerting as these questions were to my steadfast faith, I had no answers with which to satisfy my growing curiosity. And I had no time. The two robed servants of the High Priest opened the door to his private office, ushering me inside.
The High Priest was seated at the head of an oval shaped conference table. His high-back leather chair resembled the larger one he sat upon when conducting the assembly of the faithful. Also seated at the table, in regular looking chairs, were three young women. All of them were wraith dancers whom I knew personally as friends or acquaintances.
The High Priest did not rise when I entered, but motioned me toward the only vacant chair next to Agnes on one side of the oval table. Rachel and her sister Rebecca sat together directly opposite us. All of them had dangerous reputations as experienced dispensers of Belial’s justice. The sisters were over one hundred years old; twins who had trained together as apprentices to the same Elder Mother. Agnes, the youngest besides me, was still twenty years my senior. Apart from a number, age had not touched their beauty or youthful vitality in any perceivable way. To the uninformed, they might have only just graduated from their apprenticeships.
Agnes slipped me a sidelong smile. I pretended not to notice, deferring to the hard looks coming from the High Priest. Upon entering the room I had noticed that Rachel and Rebecca both appeared surprised to see me, as well as a bit resentful of my inclusion. After all, I was only just out of my apprenticeship, early at that, and had been promoted to the High Guard beyond them all.
“Ladies,” the High Priest began, “You have all been selected for this mission based upon your outstanding skills and zeal for our faith. I realize this comes at short notice. However, the recent attacks upon the palace and Belial’s temple point to a growing brazenness among the Resistance. The time has come to cut off the heads of this movement so that the body may die.”
The High Priest paused here for effect; leveling his gaze upon each of us to be sure he had our undivided attention.
“I am dividing you into two teams,” he continued. “Rachel and Rebecca, naturally paired, have been chosen to carry out the assassination of the rebel, Varen, who has long acted as Ezekiah’s right-hand man.”
Immediately, I noticed Rachel’s eyes dart in my direction, then back to the High Priest. “My lord,” she interjected, “perhaps our special skills and vast experience would better serve the other target?”
Rachel was a bold one. She respected authority out of necessity more than desire. Rachel was well known for believing Rachel always knew best.
The High Priest gave her a wry grin, apparently expecting the warrior’s reaction to playing second fiddle. “Unfortunately for you that is not your decision to make,” he said. “Belial has personally laid out his desires for this mission and his desires will be followed to the letter.”
Any further debate had been silenced.
“Gwen and Agnes have been chosen to carry out the assassination of the prophet, Ezekiah,” he said. “We have reason to believe that something big is in planning within their organization. Whatever fiendish plot they mean to hatch must be stopped at once. The faith of millions may rest upon your shoulders, ladies. You have been given a great honor. Do not fail.”
I waited for Rachel to ask the obvious question, but she had been silenced once and apparently had no intentions of sticking her neck out again.
“My lord,” I asked. “Do you have plans for how each team should proceed?”
“Yes,” the High Priest said, “I have assigned a liaison who will contact you by tomorrow morning. You will meet with her to discuss each mission in detail. Naturally, each team only needs exact knowledge of their own mission, in case some of you happened to be captured. We wouldn’t want these devils torturing the information out of you. Besides, there are spies from the Resistance everywhere.”
With that, the High Priest rose from his chair. “Are there any further questions?”
Our eyes paused upon one another, and then flew back to attention. As wraith dancers this was what we had been trained to do—kill with impunity. As dispensers of the Serpent Kings’ justice, in all places under their rule, we carried out our duties without pity or remorse. At least, that was our training. I had found over my few years of actual service dispensing justice that it was not always so cut and dry a matter to deal with.
Still, the opportunity to kill the man who had perpetrated these heinous attacks upon our city—upon Zora—seemed too good to be true. Obviously, Belial had heard the secret prayer of my heart and granted me the opportunity to exact justice in his name; to have vengeance wrought upon our enemy by my own hand.
ROUNDTABLE
Varen suppressed his displeasure as he mounted the final steps leading onto the open courtyard before the castle entrance. Ezekiah still allowed children to play before his fortress. The prophet seemed so unthreatened way up here on Thorn Mountain. “Makes me sick,” Varen mumbled under his breath. Only Nordin had heard him. The older man gave him a nudge in reply.
Ezekiah’s guards had been waiting for them at the lower camp where most travelers to Thorn Mountain remained overnight. A dozen warriors had escorted Varen and his men all the way to the castle. They didn’t appear particularly formidable to Varen, but he wasn’t here to push his luck. He had presented no threat, nor did he intend to.
The guards led Varen and his men to the main gate. All activity, except the smallest children in the courtyard, had ceased in order to watch the curious procession pass by. When they stopped at the gate, Varen looked for a familiar face, but didn’t find any. The man keeping guard here was evidently someone who had joined Ezekiah after he had left Thorn Mountain. A few of their escorts looked vaguely familiar, but no one spoke to him.
They passed through and were escorted down the entry corridor. Everything remained as it had been when Varen was a resident. The familiarity did not bring fond feelings for him. He remembered only his disappointment with Ezekiah’s pacifist policies.
When he had come to believe the prophet’s preaching about the Serpent Kings, Varen had been fascinated with the man. But after years of serving with him, the luster had faded. Varen grew increasingly angry about what the dragons were doing to the people, rather than any sacrilege against Elithias.
Perhaps there really was a creator out there somewhere. If so, Varen was very disappointed by the prospect. For years now, he had been disillusioned with the prophecies of Elithias’ return. All Varen worried about was how to free mankind from the dragons who had subjugated them through deception. Ezekiah had made it quite plain that he would not support open war against the dragons. Varen wanted nothing more.
They were not led far within the castle before the guards stopped before a set of wooden doors set into the stone wall. One of them knocked. Another guard from within opened to their group, looked them over, and let them all file inside. A large round wooden table dominated the chamber within. Ezekiah rose from his chair as Varen and his men entered. “Varen, I bid you and your men welcome,” he began. “I trust you did not have any difficulty along the way.”
Varen and his men began to fan out around the table, taking chairs as they found them in no partic
ular order. Varen sat directly opposite Ezekiah with Nordin to his right. Ezekiah smiled, surveying their group. Varen knew the prophet was sizing them up.
“Nordin,” Ezekiah said, acknowledging the older warrior. “I should have known you would still be with Varen.”
Nordin gave Varen a sidelong glance before answering. “Is there some reason why I would not be?” he offered.
Ezekiah appeared taken a back for a moment. “I meant no insult,” he said. “I only meant to compliment your tenacity.”
“I realize that,” Nordin said, giving the prophet a wry grin.
Varen might have enjoyed Ezekiah’s awkward position, if he didn’t have important business to attend to. He and his men were following a tight schedule, even if he was the only one aware of it.
“Well,” Ezekiah managed, “enough with the small talk, eh? Varen I agreed to this meeting, but I’m not sure what we have to gain by it.” Ezekiah rubbed his stubbly chin. “I’m assuming you haven’t changed your position?”
Varen clasped his hands together on the tabletop, leaning forward. “If anything, I’m more adamant that we fight the dragons with everything we’ve got,” he said.
Ezekiah leveled his gaze upon Varen. “I’ve not changed my position either,” he said. “I follow the will of Elithias, and he’s given me no such instruction. To seek my own way would be disaster.”
Varen did not seem at all surprised by the prophet’s convictions. This was nothing new to hear. “I was hoping you might have come to feel some compassion for the people who are enslaved by these monsters.” Varen pressed his argument, even though winning was not the point. “Have you forgotten the slaves toiling their pathetic lives away in the mines of Urtah? What of them? They know nothing of the kingdom’s prosperity, nothing about anything except being born to hard labor and looking forward to death.” Varen’s anger rose with the pitch of his voice. These same issues were exactly the kind of thing that made him follow his own way apart from Ezekiah. The man just wouldn’t listen to reason, always deferring to the will of his god. Varen had once thought he believed in this savior as well, but with time he fell back on his earlier skepticism.
“You started everyone thinking about freedom from the dragons, but you refuse to step up and help them attain it,” Varen accused. “Who is the greater criminal in that equation, Ezekiah; the dragons who hid freedom from us, or you, dangling it like a carrot that can never be had?”
Throughout Varen’s rant, Ezekiah remained calm. This was the same argument revisited for the hundredth time. It was not that Varen did not have a point. He did, and Ezekiah could understand his feelings on the matter. Making it especially heartfelt was Varen’s own background; a child brought up in the mines and rescued by Ezekiah and his men years ago. But he still could not pursue the matter of war without leadership from Elithias.
When Varen, fuming, finally paused, Ezekiah spoke. “Varen, it is as it always has been between us. I view the situation from faith in Elithias and his plan for the overthrow of the dragons. Shall I choose the reasoning of a man—as logical as it may seem—or that of Elithias?”
The room was still for a moment, almost awkwardly so.
Varen stared hard at the prophet. His anger had been genuine—some people never changed. However, Varen’s expectations of Ezekiah’s response had been dead on. Still, he wanted to allow enough time for the rest of his plan to work. Keep the man talking; anything to get the real job done—the real reason for even making this journey to Thorn Mountain.
Varen suddenly looked much worn. “I might have expected our differences to remain, Ezekiah,” he finally admitted. “The truth is that I did not expect you to join me.”
Ezekiah looked around at his men, not quite sure what to make of this sudden change in Varen’s mood.
“I don’t suppose we might impose ourselves upon you for a hot meal before we are off?” Varen asked. “Hunting was not as good as I might have hoped along the way.”
Ezekiah stood, smiling affectionately. “I’m sorry that you’ve come so far for nothing,” he said.
Varen rose from his chair, begging him off. “Please, I knew my chances before we came,” he said, seeming mollified. “I just felt it was at least important to try one last time. Nevertheless, we will continue our struggle, even without you. I hope you can understand.”
Ezekiah nodded. “I will not pester you with matters of faith you do not wish to hear. But I must admit that had liberty been given me by Elithias, I would gladly have fought side by side with you and your people.”
Varen grinned. “I appreciate that, even if it is not to be.”
Ezekiah looked around the room, finding one of his men. “Jacob, please inform the kitchen that our guests are ready, if they have finished preparations.”
Jacob, a young man, nodded before hurrying out of the chamber to be sure dinner would be ready for them.
Ezekiah gestured after him, toward the door. “Perhaps a tour of the castle for your men, before we eat?” he asked.
“Please,” Varen said, “lead on.”
ESPIONAGE
Dressed completely in black, Jillian prepared to enter the castle at Thorn Mountain. She had followed Varen’s party from the valley, giving them a good one hour head start. Only two of the company of guards waiting at Ezekiah’s base camp had remained there while the others escorted Varen and his men to the castle above. One of these had been hurled from a cliff; taken by surprise while relieving himself. The other man had been seated next to a thick slab of beef roasting over their fire inside the deep cave.
Jillian had casually walked in from the cold, wearing a gray wolf skin coat, with the hood pulled tight around her face, and matching leggings, which protected her from the weather while blending well with the snow-covered rocky terrain. The man had reacted instantly, loosing his sword while calling for his fellow guardsman. Following the usual inane questions—“who are you and where’s Talen?”—the guard had attempted a feeble attack.
Blocking the man’s sword arm at the wrist, Jillian had quickly disarmed him and tossed the weapon to the ground behind her. Staggering backward, the man had shaken the pain out of his wrist, and then came at her with a dagger. Jillian had easily allowed the dagger to pass by before using the Touch to shatter the bones in his forearm. He would have screamed out in pain had she not thrust two fingers under his chin, silencing any cries.
Barely able to gasp for air, the guard made one last futile attempt. Jillian triple kicked with the Touch, connecting in one fluid motion with his left thigh, left shoulder and left temple, shattering the bones there. Dead already, he collapsed in a heap to the cave floor. Jillian had been playing with the man. He never had a chance.
She had shed her gray wolf skins before entering the stairs and terraces taking her up the mountain. Stuffing them in a crevasse to retrieve for her return trip, she had made good time behind Varen’s party, carefully keeping just enough distance between them and her. Fortunately, there were no guards posted along the way—something that would have presented a higher level of difficulty, but still easily manageable. Jillian was glad to experience the thrill of action again. Her current position in Tarris presented far fewer opportunities than she might have hoped.
She waited another hour for darkness to fall before making her way finally to the courtyard lying before the wall with its iron portcullis. Jillian clung to the shadows, watching as parents gathered their children from play. The guard at the side door of the gate ferried them through rather than raising the gate itself. Still, more guards remained in the courtyard situated around fire pits scattered across its area.
Jillian mapped out the shadows in contrast to places where light was plentiful from the fires. Fortunately, the moon was obscured by relatively thick cloud cover. A snow storm appeared to be imminent. If so, this might help her flight once the deed was done.
With catlike grace, Jillian made her way from shadow to shadow, slipping easily by the guards, pausing here and there behin
d large stones that had never been cleared away, making her way around the perimeter to a place opposite the door guard. Here, she found climbing the wall a minor inconvenience.
In moments, she was up on top of the wall. A patrolling guard lazily made his way away from her. By the time he turned at the far end and started back, Jillian was already over the side and creeping toward the main entrance.
She found the main door unguarded, slowly opening it and slipping inside. The main corridor beyond carried distant voices to her, but when utilizing the Gifts of Transcendence she found no one nearby. By the gifts her hearing had been enhanced as well as her eyesight, sense of smell and touch.
The corridors within the castle were sparsely lit with lengthy patches of darkness sometimes lying between gas lamps—curious technology for those who were interested in such things. Jillian never had been. She had grown up learning how to kill a hundred different ways. This was her interest and her joy: the thrill of intrigue and battle.
At this late hour, most were either finishing their supper or settling in for the night. She paused by an open door, finding a group of men enjoying a hearty meal by the light of a roaring fire. Varen and Ezekiah were among the group. They never suspected anyone had been there watching them with disdain. No guards had been present to guard their company. Foolishly, they felt secure.
Let them, she thought.
A part of Jillian wanted to enter the room full of rebels and show them what an experienced wraith dancer could really do. But that wasn’t her purpose. Stealth was the key tonight.
Following the instructions she’d been given, Jillian moved swiftly, silently padding through the stone corridors until she found the room she’d been looking for. There was no one outside; not a soul standing guard over a room that contained the key to locating one of the greatest treasures in all the kingdom. She tried the door. It had been latched from the inside.
Jillian pressed against the door, allowing her heightened senses to guide her to the spot that gave the least to her pressure. The latch would be directly on the other side. She found it two thirds of the way up the door. Utilizing the Gifts of Transcendence, Jillian thumped the door in that exact spot as quickly and quietly as possible. She felt and heard the latch break through its mount on the door facing. The door itself barely moved, vibrating only slightly before she pressed her hands against it to still the wood.
No sooner had she entered the half-lit room than a guard emerged from the shadows. A sword flew to her throat, only she wasn’t there anymore. Instantly she evaded the man when her heightened senses felt his body heat and the movement of stagnant air in the room. Jillian appeared behind him. She used the Touch, striking the base of his skull with such force that his brain stem was eviscerated within. A lifeless lump, the guard fell forward heavily to the animal skin rug upon the floor; the soft fur dulling the noise of his landing.
Jillian smiled down at the man through the black wrap hiding most of her face. She had almost been surprised. The thrill of almost being discovered provided an extra rush that left her feeling elated. “It will never be that easy,” she whispered to the dead man.
She turned to the room, finding few personal affects. Ezekiah didn’t keep much here where he slept. A writing desk with quill and ink, parchments with writing scrawled in lines across them and a rack next to the desk containing many rolled scrolls; likely holding the precepts and prophecies of his religion.
Jillian had heard the preachers spreading their message of life without the rule of the dragon gods before. A lot of empty promises and superstition, as far as she was concerned. Ezekiah could keep his unknown god.
She quickly found the bed around a stone wall partition and the particular wooden trunk she was looking for. An old padlock held the front of the lid secure. Jillian gauged the wood for a moment, and then used the gifts to increase her strength a little. She smashed down through the top of the arched wooden lid, shattering it.
A quick search of the trunk’s contents yielded a particular scroll encased within a silver tube. She removed the end-cap and slid the parchment out into her hand. Jillian unrolled the scroll and found what she had been hoping for: the exact location of a weapons cache unrivaled in the kingdom of the Serpent Kings.
Jillian secured the parchment again within the silver tube to protect it for its long journey to Tarris. She left Ezekiah’s room, shutting the door as securely as possible with its ruined lock and made her way back the way she had come. The return trip through the castle was only slightly more difficult, made so by several mothers and their children who were carrying blankets down the corridor where Jillian had to pass. She waited in the shadows, and then moved swiftly to the main door and out into the courtyard. Her trip back over the wall was as uneventful as it was the first time.
By the time Ezekiah and his guests were finished with their meal and conversation—which ended badly—Jillian had already silently crossed the courtyard, retrieved her wolf skins and begun her descent down through Thorn Mountain’s stairs and terraces. Normally, she would have relinquished her hold on the gifts once she was safely away from any danger. But tonight she was so giddy with excitement and in need of a good head start on Varen’s company that she held on to speed and endurance, allowing her a swift flight down the mountain. The use of the gifts would require additional sleep in order to recover from their draining effect, but holding a scroll near her breast that could potentially change the balance of power in the kingdom made it all worthwhile.
UNSAVORY DEEDS
Ezekiah sighed as he stood staring down the main entrance corridor of the castle. The main door had just been kicked open by Varen on his way out; fuming over Ezekiah’s denial for weapons he had just requested. The escort guard had followed with instructions by the prophet to be sure Varen’s company, all of them, made it down to the base camp before they left them.
“Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse,” Donavan stated, half a grin sidling across his face.
Ezekiah nodded solemnly. “I had not expected much to be accomplished,” he admitted. They turned and began walking leisurely back into the castle. “I’m still not sure what the point was. Why would Varen come?”
Donavan kept pace with the prophet, feeling exhausted by the evening with Varen and his men. “He had to know how you would respond to such requests,” he said. “I know I would.”
Ezekiah nodded, pondering the evening’s events. “Strange,” he murmured, more to himself than Donavan.
As they rounded the corner, shouts echoed to them from the bisecting corridor ahead. “Master Ezekiah! Come quickly!” Tobias shouted.
Donavan noticed the boy first as he ran toward them. “Isn’t that the boy from the Conroy massacre?” he asked.
Ezekiah started toward Tobias, answering Donavan’s question with a sidelong glance.
“Master Ezekiah,” Tobias shouted again as he reached the two men, gasping for breath, having ran all the way.
“What is it, Tobias?” Ezekiah said, not imagining that there could actually be any real trouble here inside Thorn Mountain.
Tobias locked eyes with the prophet. “There’s a dead man in your room, sir.”
Donavan seemed as though he hadn’t understood what the boy had said. “A what? Dead man?”
“Are you sure?” Ezekiah asked, gripping Tobias by the shoulders.
“Yes, sir, I think it might be a guard,” Tobias said.
Ezekiah could sense only truth emanating from the boy. He didn’t know how it could be, but either Tobias thought he had seen something, or he was right.
As he let go of the boy, Tobias shot ahead of them, leading the way down the corridor toward Ezekiah’s room. Donavan and Ezekiah followed on his heels, both growing more concerned the closer they came.
Reaching the doorway, Ezekiah’s heart sank in his chest. He could see that the lock had been forced, letting the door stand open slightly. Inside his room, they found the body of Bartholomew, one of the infantry soldiers who ha
d volunteered to stand watch over Ezekiah’s room while Varen and his party were at Thorn Mountain for their conference.
The young soldier laid face down looking as though he’d merely fell over dead. Ezekiah knelt next to Bartholomew’s body, examining him for any apparent wounds. His face was beginning to discolor, and his eyes were fixed and dilated. “Let’s roll him over,” Ezekiah said, beginning to reach under the corpse for leverage.
Donavan knelt beside him and together they turned the body. Both men looked at Bartholomew and then one another, puzzled. “Where’s the wound?” Donavan said, asking the obvious question.
“Very strange, indeed,” Ezekiah said, taking a closer look at the man’s neck. “If I hadn’t seen the forced lock, I might think he had suffered a heart attack or some other quick killing episode.”
Probing around to the base of his skull, Ezekiah stopped. “Here is something,” he said. “Donavan, feel back here.”
Donavan did as he was instructed, if reluctantly. “His neck—the bones seem disjointed, out of place.”
“My guess is that he was struck with such force as to shatter his cervical vertebrae,” Ezekiah said.
“A club of some kind?” Tobias asked from behind them.
Ezekiah looked at Donavan thoughtfully. “Perhaps something more refined.”
“The Touch?” Donavan guessed. “But only a wraith dancer could—”
“Indeed,” Ezekiah said, standing to cross the room.
Tobias followed behind him. “Master, what is a wraith dancer?”
Ezekiah did not turn to him, but rounded the partition where his bed sat. “Very dangerous assassins employed by the Serpent Kings. They have the ability to kill with a touch, among other things,” he said.
Donavan, frustrated, examined the body again. “But what would a wraith dancer be doing way out here?”
“An excellent question,” Ezekiah said. “I may have found the answer.”
Donavan and Tobias found Ezekiah kneeling next to a heavy wooden chest sitting next to his bed. The top had been caved in, like a boot smashed through the lid.
“It may look like a hammer strike,” Ezekiah said, “but I would guess it was the same feminine hand that struck poor Bartholomew dead with a single blow.”
The trio stood there taking in the ruined chest, trying to understand the power involved in forcing a woman’s supple hand through the thick mahogany planks. Donavan had heard stories of the priestess assassins, but had never witnessed their handiwork. Tobias had not even heard the stories.
“Ezekiah,” Donavan asked, “what was contained in the chest?”
“A map,” he said. “It leads to a cave where a cache of weapons from the old world have been stored for safe keeping.”
“Can it be a coincidence that Varen was just with us requesting weapons?” Donavan asked.
“That would mean an alliance between the assassins of the Serpent Kings and the leader of the Rebellion,” Ezekiah said. “Considering the attacks Varen mentioned during our dinner conversation, I find that possibility hard to fathom. The dragons would not deal kindly with the very ones attacking their palaces and temples.”
“Then who and why?” Donavan asked.
The prophet turned to the young preacher, smiling though looking suddenly weary. “I can honestly say, I don’t know.”
DE