“I do not mean to leave,” said Jordel. “I mean to discover the business of the men within this fortress. They cannot be men of Selvan, for if the king were gathering such an army, I should have heard. Yet if not from Selvan, then who are they, and how have they mustered such strength of arms without anyone in my order knowing?”
“Are you certain no Mystics are aware?” Loren asked.
Jordel stared at her, eyes blank.
“I do not know everything of the Mystics,” said Loren. “Yet it seems to me that your order has many hands, and they do not always know what the others are holding. You say that some in your order will help you once we reach Feldemar, but not all. You say that Vivien reports to different masters. Could not those other Mystics, placed highly and esteemed by your brothers, know of what transpires here? Could they not have withheld such information, for their own schemes and purposes unknown?”
His face grew stony, and when Loren finished he gave a slow nod. “What you say is possible. Yet I hope it is not so. While some Mystics may play at intrigue and politics, still we are unified by our purpose, to maintain a watchful peace over the nine lands. To find that some of our own had a hand in amassing an army, out of sight and without the knowledge of their brothers, would be dark tidings indeed.”
Fear seemed to grow in the Mystic’s eyes.
“Jordel, I think you know who these men are,” Loren said. “Or if not, I think you may at least hazard a guess.”
“I could guess many things. Yet I would not, for it would be of little help, as we would still know nothing of the truth. And some things, some dark thoughts, may be given strength by voice alone. I shall not guess at who the men in this stronghold might be. I will look with my eyes, without fear making things greater than they are.”
“Fear cannot make things seem any darker to me,” said Annis in a tiny voice. “I do not think we will escape this place. I shall find myself back in my mother’s clutches, and once she has me I will ever escape.”
“I will not let her have you,” said Loren. “Not while my heart is still beating.”
“If your heart is all that stands between us, I have little hope,” said Annis. “Do you think she will hesitate to cut it out?”
Loren had no answer. Damaris had spared her before; even when Loren had thought the merchant meant to kill her with a poisonous snake, she had later discovered the serpent’s venom was not fatal. But she had little wish to rely on the merchant’s mercy again. Annis, in her mother’s clutches, might face a terrible rebuke and a lifetime of watchful eyes. Loren would more likely have her throat opened.
She shook off such thoughts. They would not help her. And what was it Jordel had said?
Some dark thoughts may be given strength by voice alone.
“What do you mean to do then, Jordel?” said Loren. “Whatever it is, let us begin, for I wish to be quit of this place.”
“We shall have to get inside,” said Jordel. “Some of the stronghold’s guards and soldiers must know why Damaris is here. That is something I should very much like to know. I think it strange that Vivien and her masters would not know of the merchant’s intention to come here, yet she told me nothing.”
“Get inside the fortress?” said Gem. “Those walls are quite tall. I am not unskilled when it comes to climbing, but I doubt I could scale them.”
“You have never besieged a fortress,” the Mystic said. “Gaining the ramparts will be the easier part, I think. Once inside, we shall blend in to discover what is going on.”
Gem raised a finger and opened his mouth, but Jordel silenced him with a look. “I am sorry, Gem, but you cannot come. You are only a child, however mighty your heart might be. It shall have to be me and Loren, who is young but tall.”
“And Albern, surely.” Loren looked at him in surprise. “He looks like a soldier, and is well advanced in years.”
“Well advanced, eh?” said Albern, giving her a wry smile. “I take it you mean that I am old.” Loren floundered for an answer, but he raised a hand to stop her. “Perhaps I am, to one who so recently left childhood herself. And mayhap that age has given me more caution than I had in my youth, when I marched with sellswords. I will not come on this venture. I bear little interest in this stronghold, except that now I know it is a place to avoid if I ever guide any travelers this way again. I do not know, or care to know, who the men inside might be. And if they are dangerous — which I would assume for safety’s sake, even if the lot of you were not so terrified at the arrival of this merchant — I have no desire to risk my life in their company. I am a guide and no more. You are my employers. If I had my way, we would be thinking of means to bypass the fortress entirely. It is your choice to follow your wish and break inside, but I am not bound to help you.”
“I guessed as much,” said Jordel. “You do yourself a disservice by claiming to be nothing more than a guide, but still I will honor your words and ask of you only one favor.”
He went to Albern, reaching into his coin purse before pressing gold into the bowyer’s palm.
“If anything should happen to Loren and myself, I hope you will ensure that Gem, Annis, and Xain make it safely out of the Greatrocks.”
Albern looked down to find eight gold weights in his hand. “This is more than you promised.”
“And upon this journey you have found more than you bargained for. And more still, if you must escape the mountains without us.”
Albern took Jordel’s hand and returned the coin. “It seems I have acquired your skill for bargaining, Jordel of the family Adair. I will not take more than you promised — nor, indeed, will I take as much as was pledged, for I would see the children and the wizard to safety whether or not you asked. And I will not let you march into death with a clear conscience. You owe me more gold when we reach Northwood — and not before. Be sure you are there to pay me when the time comes.”
“Only a guide indeed,” said Jordel with a smile. “Very well, then. I will return your generosity with a promise: if by any action I can ensure our safe return, I will do so. And one more thing.”
He drew Albern aside, near the cave mouth, and whispered to the bowyer. Loren strained to hear, but heard nothing before the Mystic turned his attention to her.
“Come now, Loren. Let us set out, for the sooner we return the sooner we may leave this place. And do not leave your cloak behind — for this is a time when we shall require the Nightblade.”
twenty-three
WHILE LOREN FETCHED HER BLACK cloak, Jordel shed his own and placed it folded within his saddlebags. They slipped out of the cave and into the rain, running first to the castle’s wall before creeping along it as she had already done with Albern.
When they reached the southwestern corner, Jordel paused and turned to Loren. “I told you this place was built by Mystics. And always have our strongholds had a back entrance. We know the value of information, and a messenger sent into the night may break a siege when the army inside cannot.”
“You know a way in, then?”
“Perhaps, but only if they have not barred the door. I hope they have not, and that they do not even know of the entrance I speak of.”
So saying, Jordel led Loren around to the northern side of the stronghold. The great stone shelf grew narrow on that side, only a few paces, and Loren looked at the cliff’s edge with apprehension. She could see the value in such a design; even if an attacking army were to send some of its soldiers around the sides, they could be easily shoved into the abyss by defenders with stones, or long polearms perhaps. Raised ladders could be cast off, flinging men to the valley floor.
But Loren could see nothing of the door Jordel had spoken of, only the same stony surface as the rest of the walls, well-laid with mortar. Yet he walked with clear purpose until reaching the western wall’s center, where he stopped to feel around with his fingers.
“What are you looking for?” Loren whispered.
“There will be a catch. It should be … ah! Here.”
> His fingers slipped into a crack Loren had not seen, and he pulled upon something. She heard a sharp click, and the stones began to shift, swinging in on great iron hinges, though Loren heard almost no sound. Just the small scrape of stone grinding on stone, muffled by the pelting rain.
Once the gap was wide enough to enter, Jordel slipped in and waited for Loren to follow. Inside they shut the door to find themselves in utter darkness. Loren could feel the Mystic’s breath on her face, but could not see him.
“I wish I had brought a torch. Come. We shall have to feel our way. Place your hand on my shoulder.”
She did as he said, and Jordel slowly led Loren forward with one hand on the wall. They did not go far before he stopped abruptly. She reached past him to feel a wooden surface blocking their way.
“A door?” she whispered.
“More likely a shelf. Be quiet a moment.”
Loren felt him lean forward, and she pushed past him to do the same. Together they pressed their ears to the wood, searching for any sound. But after several moments, Loren heard nothing.
“It seems the cells are unoccupied,” said Jordel. “That is good. Come, help me move this.”
Together they pushed, and the shelf swung away on the same silent hinges as the stone door through which they had entered. Within, at last, there was light. The faint torch glow seemed bright as sunlight at the end of a pitch black passage. Loren saw a hallway of stone cells stretching away, each barred by an iron door. The shelf stood at the path’s end. There was no one in sight. A torch was set into the wall beside a door at the hallway’s opposite end.
“They have set a torch,” Loren said. “That means they must come here every so often.”
“Just so. We would do well to leave before anyone sees us.”
They pushed the shelf back against the wall, sealing the passageway entrance, then Jordel led Loren in a crouching run to the hallway’s head. Again they pressed their ears to the wood, and heard only silence.
“Beyond, we will find a passageway,” said Jordel. “To the right there will be a barracks, which we should avoid at all costs. To the left there will be a guardroom, empty except at the changing of the watch. Follow me there, quiet as you can.”
He opened the door. Its hinges screamed.
They ran down the hallway, closing the door behind them with another terrible squeak. A few yards down, they found Jordel’s door and slipped inside. The room was empty, and they halted on the other side, breathing hard as they listened to silence.
“A stroke of luck,” said Jordel. “It seems your fortune is not entirely ill.”
“If my fortune were good, I would not be in this place at all.”
“Do not be so quick to judge your fate. Look.”
A hearth burned with a low fire in the room’s rear, and beside it lay many chests of drawers. Jordel opened them, and inside they found clothes of grey and dark blue, as well as shirts of chain and helmets. The helmets had slits for the eyes and another for the mouth, but other than that they covered the face. There were also plain swords, and belts to hold them.
“Guard uniforms, no doubt,” said Jordel. “A great stroke of fortune. Come, dress quickly.”
He threw the clothes on over his own, along with a dirty grey cloak, and traded his own short sword for one of the new blades. Loren, too, put the uniform on over her clothes. They stank of sweat and grease and ale, but she had smelled worse. The helmets were another matter. The reek of foul breath had permeated them, and no matter how many she tried, they all contained the stench.
“Raise your hood to cover your hair. Any woman among the guards would likely have cut hers short.”
When they had finished, Loren hardly recognized the Mystic — or, looking down, herself. “I feel I could walk straight up to Damaris and greet the merchant without her eyeing me twice.”
“Mayhap you are right, but let us not chance it.” Loren could barely see the Mystic’s smile through his helmet’s thin slit. “Come. Let us see what we may. Whoever commands this stronghold will be in the main hall. We shall go there first.”
They returned to the hallway and saw no one about. Jordel turned right, leading Loren past the door to the cells. Next they passed the barracks he had mentioned — thankfully the door was closed, though Loren could hear voices on the other side. The hallway turned left soon after, and there they rounded the corner.
Loren almost froze. Approaching them from down the hallway were two guards dressed as they were, though their helmets were off and under their arms. They did not speak or laugh, and their eyes immediately fell to Loren and Jordel. She barely managed to hold her composure, but after a moment they passed without comment and Loren exhaled a long breath.
“That went well,” murmured Jordel. “And tells us something valuable. Do you know what it is?”
Loren thought hard. The guards could not have seen their faces, but surely had noticed their eyes. And anyone could recognize a friend, or even a comrade, by eyes alone.
“The guards do not know each other well,” said Loren. “So there are a great many, or else none have been here long.”
“Yet you see the wear on the clothes, and tarnish on the blades. There are enough soldiers for it to be no great surprise to see someone you do not recognize. And there may often be new guards arriving on caravans. But come. Here is the main hall.”
A great threshold loomed ahead, with its wide wooden doors thrown open. Loren tried to match the Mystic’s stride, walking in a sort of half-march while resting her left hand upon the hilt of her sword. They passed through the doorway, and she turned to the right as though idly curious to observe the room beyond.
The great hall was many yards long, with large stone pillars rising into arches that supported the ceiling. White stone was set in the floor, though it had grown dirty and Loren could see rubbish in the corners. High above, near the ceiling, the space was crossed by many thick wooden rafters, the largest yawning across the room, to small windows that brought blue moonslight to battle the torch glow throwing orange along the walls.
At the other end of the hall sat a large wooden chair upon a dais — almost a throne, though not quite grandiose enough to earn the name. Upon that chair sat a huge brute of a man, bare arms thickly muscled and covered with designs inked into the skin, leaning an elbow on the chair’s arm, chin rested in his palm. Long black hair hung thin and filthy. On his chin, a thick scrub of beard. He wore a dark breastplate over a leather tunic without sleeves. Plates covered his legs, which ended in great steel boots with small spikes worked into the toes. Several guards stood in resting positions about the room, metal from head to toe, with great longswords hanging from their hips. Before the man knelt a page in green — a man of the family Yerrin? — whose head was bowed and speaking words she could not hear.
But more than the man on the chair, Loren’s eyes were drawn to the symbol hanging over his head: a great design worked in black metal and gold, affixed to the wall behind him. Black was woven into sharp, twisting shapes wrapping each other in an endless knot, jutting out with sharp points in every direction. Though Loren did not recognize the design, it still seemed somehow familiar.
With a start she realized it resembled the one on her dagger, and her hand fell to its hilt.
She could feel Jordel seize up beside her as they passed the door, though she could not be certain why. Mayhap he had recognized the man on the chair, or the symbol meant something to him. Out of sight, Loren whispered, “Who was that? What did you see?”
“Speak later. We should not be seen trading murmurs.”
The hallway stretched for a ways before again turning left, continuing a circuit that would lead them around the stronghold walls and back to where they had started.
Jordel peered casually into every open door. They saw another barracks, and once they passed a door just as a guard came through — beyond was another room full of cells, much like the one they had entered. At last, when they had neared the southeast corne
r of the fortress and the hallway’s end, they spied a room with many tables laid out, and a cooking pot resting on sticks above a fire. A handful of guards sat eating, fortress men in grey and blue alongside Yerrin men in green. Jordel paused and turned to Loren.
“We will go in here for a moment. Do not remove your helmet for any reason, nor speak. If anyone asks, I shall answer. We cannot risk the Yerrin men recognizing you — but they will not know my face, for I have had few dealings with them.”
Loren almost answered, but instead only nodded. Jordel smiled. “Well done. Come.”
He entered the room, bold as daylight, heading to a table near the fire and removing his helmet as he sat. Two stronghold guards sat next to a thick woman with hair so dark it was almost black, and a thin ratty man with one of his front teeth missing. They barely looked up as the Mystic sat.
“Ho,” he said, nodding. Jordel scooped up a half-eaten bowl of stew, abandoned by some other guard, and dug in with his fingers. The ratty man eyed him for a moment, then looked back at his own food.
Loren studied the group, trying to see if she could learn anything from their actions. They seemed almost determined not to notice anyone or anything around them, hardly raising their eyes from the table, nor speaking at all. She looked past them to the Yerrin guards a few tables over. Their eyes roamed more freely, but in them Loren could see distrust and annoyance. They did not want to be here, and most likely saw these guards as beneath them.
The thick woman looked at Loren and raised her chin. “Do you mean to eat, or sit sweating in that helmet all night, girl?”
“A new recruit,” said Jordel. “Said she lost her appetite.”
“New and green, that’s plain to see,” said the ratty man. “And I don’t just mean her eyes.”
“Speaking of green,” Jordel nodded toward the Yerrin guards. “What about these ones, eh? A lordly bearing for certain.”
The thick woman grunted. “Tis what happens when you work for lords and ladies — the high ones on the King’s Seat, anyhow, not like the Lord.”
Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm Page 15