The Lord.
Loren heard in their voices the same reverence — and fear — she had heard from the satyrs. It must be the man sitting on the great chair in the main hall. But who was he?
“You mean that pretty one, eh? I have not heard what she is doing here. What do you know?”
They both stopped eating and looked up at Jordel. “No one has spoke of her purpose, nor will they.”
Jordel looked conspiratorially over his shoulder and leaned forward, fingertips pressed to the table. “Of course — but some whispers always seep through the cracks.”
The thick woman abruptly stood, followed by the ratty man a moment later. Both scowled down at Jordel as though he had given some great offense. “Seems you are as green as your girl,” she said. “Still your whispering tongue, newcomer, or you might find it cut from your mouth.”
They left the common room without another word or glance behind them. Loren moved to leave, but Jordel placed a hand on her arm.
“Stay for a moment while I eat. We must not seem nervous.”
Loren forced herself to sit still, though every part of her wanted to flee the stronghold, and vanish into the mountains as Albern advised. But after a moment, another man came to sit, broad as Jordel, and mayhap taller. Long, sandy hair hung freely to his shoulders, and an easy smile rested at the corner of his mouth.
“Mind those two not. They have just enough experience to make others feel less so.”
“I know the sort,” said Jordel. “But have no fear; it takes more than two ratty guards to put the fright in me.”
“Good to hear,” said the newcomer. “Courage matters more than petty politics in the face of a fight.”
“Is one coming?” Jordel raised his eyebrows. “That would be more entertaining than another day lost to walking the wall.”
“You and I like different kinds of excitement, it seems,” said the man, studying Jordel. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “But mayhap we shall both have our wish. These greencloaks bring cargo for the Lord, weapons or some such. I have heard he wants them badly, but you would never know it — the Yerrin woman’s been waiting for his audience since her arrival. The wait’s nearly over. I brought the message to her room myself.”
Damaris was here to bring magestones. She must have retrieved more, for Loren had destroyed most of her stores before fleeing Cabrus. But Yerrin’s reach was long, and doubtless they had many more of the precious gems stored about the nine lands.
Loren did not want to think what this stronghold, peopled by mysterious men and ruled by an unknown Lord, would need with many wagons filled with stones. It seemed the Mystic was right: the battle in Wellmont had been the first step in a much greater plot.
These soldiers must be from Dorsea. With their army invading from the south, they were amassing a secret strength in the Greatrocks to attack Selvan from the west.
They had to do something, though she had not the faintest idea what. They could warn the king, but Loren could hardly imagine that road, even if she were not riding with an outcast Mystic and a wizard ravaged by the blackest of cravings.
If Jordel guessed at Loren’s thoughts, he gave no sign. He merely nodded and dug the last of his stew from the bowl with his fingers. He licked them clean, then stood and adjusted his belt. “Tis nice to know there is at least one friendly face behind these walls. Well met, friend, and may we sup again another time.”
Loren quickly stood and mumbled something under her helmet, but their friend never noticed, holding his eyes on the Mystic. “Well met indeed. Try not to drown in this rain.”
Jordel gave a light laugh and left. Loren hurried behind him.
twenty-four
JORDEL LED LOREN FROM THE mess hall and around the stronghold’s corridors back the way they had come. At first she thought he must be bringing them out, but he passed the exit on his way to the guardroom. Thankfully it was still empty. He closed the door, then locked the bolt.
“Did I guess right from his words?” Loren asked. “Did Damaris come all this way to bring her magestones?”
“That would be my theory, aye, and it explains why she should reach the stronghold on such a roundabout path. Riding straight for Northwood, she would surely have caught the attention of the King’s law.”
“We must … warn the king, I suppose.” Loren’s mind turned to how they could possibly cross a kingdom with the Mystics and constables both at their heels.
“Hmm? No, we can send no word of this yet,” he said, as if distracted. “Not until we have tended to more pressing matters.”
“What could be more urgent? These are Dorsean men, intent on invading Selvan.”
“I wish that were so, but these are no men of Dorsea, nor any of the nine lands, I fear. They are something far darker. More terrible. I thought I might find them within this stronghold, though I held to a faint hope that it would not be so.”
“Who are they, then?”
Jordel slowly paced the room. From within his helmet, keen blue eyes pierced her.
“You remember in Wellmont when I spent a day speaking with Xain? I told him much that I have told few others, and more mayhap than I should have. I am not eager to repeat my mistake, yet feel I must trust you with at least some of the ugly truth.”
“I have proved myself worthy of such trust.”
“So you have.” Still the Mystic hesitated before nodding. “Then know this: the men in this stronghold are Shades, a name that for centuries was but a frightened whisper in the dark. Yet some among the Mystics remember them, and I recognized the symbol they have hung above the throne.”
“And yet, I have never heard of them. Are they a type of wizard?”
“Nothing so simple. In truth they are much like the Mystics. Some of their number are among the Mighty of the nine lands, while some are simple soldiers like myself.”
“Pardon me, but you have never been a simple soldier,” said Loren. “If these Shades are like the Mystics, why are they so feared? I thought your order obeyed the High King’s will.”
“So we do. But they are like us only in formation. Where we are light, they are darkness. Where we are red, they are the ghostly grey of death. They serve a master far more terrible than any wizard king you have heard of in tales — or served, I should say, for she has not been seen in many hundreds of years.”
“The man in the main hall? Is he the Lord the satyrs spoke of?”
“I doubt that. She would not be seated so clearly in view, and yet in such a mean place as this. Her place is atop the gilded throne of a kingdom torn to rubble, or else in the shadows of a land about to fall.”
Despite the darkness of his words, Loren sensed a growing excitement within the Mystic, an itching impatience that made his fingers twitch and his feet stamp. He resumed his pacing as the light brightened in his eyes.
“But if she is back — or he, I might say, for it could be — then that means the other, too, has returned. I have not been misled. After all this time, I can tell my masters with certainty. And yet no, not yet. Some other purpose may have brought the Shades to this castle. We must learn more.”
The Mystic was now talking to himself, and Loren could not understand a word. She gripped his arms and turned him toward her. “Jordel. Your words are meaningless. What master do they serve, and if no one has seen her in centuries, how can she still live? You speak of her as if she were elven-kind.”
“No, nothing like that,” Jordel shook his head. “Then we would certainly be doomed. Now there is still hope. But we must learn what Damaris is doing here. And more than that, we must learn how much she knows of the Shades. They are more powerful than I dreaded, if they have kept her waiting so long. Seeing how the man in the main hall comports himself around Damaris will be as valuable as hearing their words.”
“I still do not understand. You have explained nothing.”
“I have told you all I know for certain. They are Shades, and they once served a dark master who means to do no go
od to any within the nine lands. I do not know if they serve her still, nor how great her might may have grown. This could be some forgotten remnant of their number, hiding in the Greatrocks for centuries, who have only recently emerged to claim this stronghold. Yet I do not think so. It is more important to learn what Yerrin is doing here, and what Damaris hopes to gain from associating with such dark partners in trade.”
“And just how do you mean to do that?”
Jordel smiled. “The answer is simple, though you will not like it. I mean to attend her meeting with the master of this stronghold.”
Loren’s stomach clenched. The thought of being in that long hall at the same time as Damaris made her ill. But she steeled herself — this, after all, was the sort of life the Nightblade should expect. “You mean to be one of the guards in attendance, then? At least we are dressed for the part.”
“I do not think so. Who knows if the stronghold’s master will even allow guards to attend? And if so, we should not test our guises so stringently, for no quartermaster would be so easily fooled as the soldiers on patrol.”
“How, then? I can keep from being seen in my cloak, most of the time, but I cannot become invisible — nor can you, unless you have some magic you have yet to reveal.”
“No. I think we require a more ordinary sort of trickery. Did you see the roof of the great hall when we passed?”
Loren remembered great wooden rafters stretching above; and set high in either wall, large windows that lay open to the rainy sky, giving the place a gloomy chill. “You mean to sneak in through the windows? But how can we get there?”
Jordel went to one of the room’s cabinets and searched its drawers. From the bottom he pulled a length of rope. “With this. The rear of the hall is joined to the keep, which rises to the pinnacle of the stronghold — a final refuge against any invading force, from which the commander and his chosen guard can hold off an army. The top of the tower reaches some ten paces above the roof. You should be able to climb down easily enough.”
“I should? You speak as if you will not come with me.”
“Who will lower you down? And if some other guard should happen by, who will turn their eyes from the rope tied to the battlements? It must be you, Loren — but I have great faith, and know you shall not fail me.”
Loren wished she had the Mystic’s faith. Instead, she had little choice but to obey; and indeed, preferred the idea of perching in the hall rafters to the thought of standing in attendance next to Damaris.
“Very well. What must I do?”
“Listen. Keep yourself from being seen — that should be easy, for it is a dark day and the rafters are teeming with shadows. Remember everything that is said, even if you do not understand, then return to me when they are done. You must recall every detail, no matter how slight. The manner in which a word is said can be just as important as the word itself.”
“I understand. Let us go, before my nerve flees me.”
Jordel placed a hand on Loren’s shoulder and gave her a smile. “I admit to knowing little of you, Loren of the family Nelda — less than I should. But I know you have no shortage of courage. Come.”
Loren ran to the drawer where she had hidden her cloak, folded it tightly, and held the black fabric under her arm. Then, tucking the rope beneath the folds of his cloak, Jordel led her from the guardroom and into the stronghold’s torchlit halls.
twenty-five
THE STRONGHOLD HAD SEEMED DARK enough before. Now it appeared even gloomier. Loren imagined a cloaked figure waiting in every shadow. Her heart was a war drum beating hard in alarm.
Fire! Foes! To battle!
But there was no battle, and the guards they passed in the halls gave them no more scrutiny than before.
Jordel took a different way this time, left, around the corner, and soon to a staircase leading up into a small room with a fire set in one wall and pair of guards huddled near the flames. They barely looked up as Jordel proceeded swiftly to the door.
“Close that behind you,” said one of the guards. “The latch sticks.”
His voice, sudden as it was, nearly made Loren jump in fright. She nodded, Jordel opened the door, and immediately she understood for they found themselves outside in a courtyard.
Loren glanced around to gather her bearings, trying to be inconspicuous. They had emerged from one of the gate towers in the stronghold’s eastern wall. Beside them was a great corral, and many horses stood inside it, pressing close for warmth against the rain. The weather seemed even harsher than it had upon arrival; she could not see more than fifteen feet in any direction. Yet Loren noted that the eastern gate was now closed, and dim shapes in the gloom seemed to be the Yerrin caravan, arranged around the courtyard in rows. Drivers sat atop the wagons, tightening their cloaks and shivering in the downpour. Loren knew those wagons held magestones — those drivers would not be allowed to leave their posts for any reason, even if fire should rain from the sky.
Though more Yerrin men stood in rings around their wagons, they were not the only ones present. Loren saw many stronghold guards as well, forming another ring around the caravan. But these guards were not present to keep anyone from straying near the wagons; they were there to keep Yerrin guards from wandering too far. The two groups faced each other in the downpour, both sides glaring, trying not to shiver or show their obvious discomfort in the soaking cold.
Jordel pressed on, turning left and leading Loren to the stronghold’s other wall.
From nowhere the great hall loomed before them, and above it, the keep. Tall and imposing, the stone was like a mountain in itself, and though the real mountain loomed high above, still Loren thought the keep was the more impressive sight. It was round, not square like most of the other towers, stretching into the sky for what seemed twenty paces.
But they did not make for the keep — and drawing closer, she could see that the courtyard held no entry door. Instead they made for a building built into the southeastern corner, to a door much like the one in the gate tower. Inside was a room filled with arms: swords, spears, bows, and arrows lined the walls.
“The armory.”
“I would never have guessed,” said Loren. If the Mystic knew it was a quip, he did not smile.
A sharp turn and one more door placed them in yet another corridor, like the one they had found when they first entered the stronghold. Loren realized that they now stood within the southern wall. At the end of the hallway stood a great door that swallowed the wall, made of iron and thick. Jordel knocked. A moment later, the hatch slid open. Two beady eyes squinted at them from the other side.
“What is it?” said the woman.
“Orders from above,” said Jordel, sounding weary. “Seems the keep has some a leak in the roof. We have been sent to inspect it.”
The eyes squinted further, moving to Loren before drifting back to Jordel. “I have seen no leak.”
Loren’s heart wanted to skip, but Jordel barely reacted. He shrugged and tossed his head behind him. “Nor have I, but then I have yet to enter. I know only what I was told. I was once a mason, and so they have sent me to see if there’s aught I can do.”
“Who sent you? If there was a leak, I would have heard.”
“We are newly arrived. I know not his name — only that his rank was higher than mine, and most likely yours. A captain, I think.”
Through the viewing hatch, her squinted eyes finally widened. “A … a captain? Ah … well, you had best come in.”
The view hatch slid shut with a rusty shriek, then Loren heard a thump as a bar was moved on the other side. The door slid inward, grating on the stone floor to fill the corridor with its groan. Jordel stepped in once the gap widened enough to invite him. Loren was quick to follow.
The room seemed small, but when she took a second look Loren saw that it stretched far in every direction. But the ceiling was low enough to touch, if she jumped, making it cramped. Fine weaponry lined the walls. Two swords crossed over a shield above the fireplace.
Well-made spears stood in rows, and there were bows on display that put even Albern’s finest to shame. A great tapestry hung against the back wall, bordered in red and worked through with gold and silver threads. In it Loren saw a tall figure in black armor holding a silver sword high, though she was not close enough to see its details. To their right was another iron door. If she had her bearings right, that was the door leading into the stronghold’s hall, behind the throne they had seen upon arrival.
“Take the stairs all the way up,” said the guard. Loren saw a small table and a single chair nearby. Though modestly carved, there was obvious skill in their making. Otherwise, the guard was alone.
“Thank you,” said Jordel. “Though I certainly won’t enjoy going out into that rain again.”
“Welcome to the Greatrocks,” said the guard, her expression sour. “I wish we had never left the forest behind us.”
Loren’s ears perked, but Jordel seemed not to hear. “I would know little of that. Stay warm.”
Against the opposite wall a narrow stone staircase without a bannister vanished into the ceiling. They climbed and found themselves on another floor like the first — except this one had no weapons or tapestries. Just a great table in the middle surrounded by many fine and cushioned chairs. A council room, from which the stronghold’s commander could coordinate defenses. The staircase ended, and yet spiraled up on the opposite side.
“Why did they build it that way? Why not have only one staircase going all the way up?”
“Anyone who breaks into the keep must cross each floor before they can keep climbing,” said Jordel. “It gives the defenders many places to retreat. Attackers cannot push all the way up one staircase in a single surge. They must fight for each floor, and conquer every staircase anew.”
Loren nodded, imagining the battle. Men fighting and dying for every foot of stone floor, blood pouring down the steps of each storey. She shuddered and hoped she would never know a battle like that, men killing to gain purchase of a few stone walls.
Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm Page 16