“I’m not gonna be the one to settle up with the innkeeper after that rowdy lot,” Archer said, sliding the purse to Violet. “It’s Vi’s turn.” He grinned at the dark-haired woman.
Vi stared at him for a long minute before she snorted with amusement. “Fine, coward.” She swept the last of the coins into a purse, tied it closed and stood with a harsh scrape of her chair. “I’ll see to the lads, but that makes the captain here your problem.” She smirked, blew Archer an exaggerated kiss, and sauntered out of the inn.
Khoury heard Archer’s long-suffering sigh though he pretended not to notice.
“I know you were doing what you thought best,” Archer said, his voice low and rough, “but you’ve got to promise me, Khoury, promise you won’t leave me behind like that again.”
The captain looked up into tawny eyes that seemed as young as those of the unnamed youth. Eager, desperate eyes that weighed him down with the onus of Archer’s loyalty.
It occurred to Khoury that he’d taken the Northerner on after that last battle he’d crowed about. Ultimately, the Barakan rebellion had failed but that battle had been a glorious rout. He never found out why Archer was fighting for the Barakan lords but it hadn’t mattered. He’d been left behind, and Khoury’s men found him half-crazed defending the body of his kinsman. After wounding three of Khoury’s Swords, Archer had finally been subdued.
The depth of his loyalty and sorrow touched Khoury, and he had offered to let the Northerner swear fealty rather than face execution. Archer hadn’t left his side since. Unless Khoury did something stupid, like today.
“Agreed,” he murmured.
Archer smiled and raised his mug. “Then to victory, Captain.”
The captain snagged Violet’s abandoned mug and toasted with it. “Aye, victory,” he said without enthusiasm, and they both drank.
They sat in silence for a while before Archer scrubbed his face, smoothed his beard, and struggled to his feet. “Piss time,” he announced.
“Good idea.” Khoury pushed his chair back and stood up. His vision darkened around the edges. Pretty strong goat piss, he thought.
Unsteadily, the two mercenaries weaved through the tables to the back door, alternately grunting apologies and returning threats. Khoury stumbled through the door first, and a cold breeze tried to rouse him with little effect. His mind was shrouded in fog, his thoughts clumsy and incoherent. Must be the ale. He tried to remember exactly how many he’d had as he leaned his forehead on the rough wood of the inn and relieved himself against the wall.
Over the patter of spilling water, a sound caught his clumsy attention. Was that a footstep? With reflexes honed over two decades, he whirled to block the strike, but his swing went wild. The world tilted sharply. Then, something heavy slammed into his temple sending him to the ground.
INNER HASTE ROUSED Khoury to semi-consciousness, though he didn’t remember what had happened. His cheek bumped against a lurching floor that smelled of old wood and urine, making his head throb with each jarring bounce. The pain made him wish for oblivion again, while instinct urged him to leap up and fight. He leashed his instinct like an overeager hound so he could take stock of the situation.
Recognizing the familiar sounds of wheels and horses, he opened bleary eyes to the back of a box-wagon—spare and without seats. Small barred windows near the roof admitted a waning light. His lips were parched and stretched around a gag of rough cloth; his knees and wrists tightly bound. His sword and dagger were missing.
Captured. But why and by whom?
He had no answers, but he wasn’t alone. Other men were sprawled over and around him, passed out and reeking of liquor. Among them, Archer bounced limply nearby. Gratefully, Khoury didn’t see Vi.
Some good news then. Wherever they were, whatever had happened, she would eventually try to find them. He thought of his Swords sleeping off their drinking binge. A rescue might take a few days.
Closing his eyes against the daggers in his head, he herded his scattered thoughts to some semblance of order. He remembered Ranceforth and the battle at Balkridge Vale easily enough. The men he’d left celebrating at the Oak and Acorn in the nearby town of Telsedan. He couldn’t dredge up the name of the inn he’d gone to with Vi and Archer, but he remembered that goat-piss excuse for ale. After that, he recalled nothing.
Eventually the others began to stir, untangling themselves with growls and grunts. When Archer woke, he squirmed close to the captain. Reading Khoury’s mind, he turned back-to-back with the captain and they tried to undo their bonds. However, the knots were tight and their fingers numb. Khoury slumped back against the side of the wagon with a defeated shake of his head. Archer did the same, a hint of worry on the larger man’s face.
When the pain in the captain’s head subsided and the thinning light carried burnished hues of evening, the wagon jerked to a stop. Khoury leaned on Archer, levering himself up to the barred window for a peek outside. His breath plumed in the frigid air that wafted in.
Outside pine trees studded a snowy landscape. An old tollhouse crouched near the road, all but abandoned. The stump of a broken gate, now useless, leaned into the road. Three dark-clothed men waited astride their horses just within sight, while a fourth dismounted. He knocked at the tollhouse door. The sharp sound of his bare knuckles reverberated in the cold air. When the door opened, the kidnapper disappeared into waiting darkness.
“It’s a good haul, isn’t it, Royce?” said an eager young man leaning over to nudge the second man.
“Five hundred a head between the four of us? It’ll do,” the man agreed gruffly.
“Assuming we get our money,” said the third, reining his horse around to scan the road behind them.
We’ve been sold, Khoury thought with relief. It could have been worse. He and Archer could certainly survive hard labor until they escaped or Vi came with help. He pictured her smug amusement at having to purchase them back from whatever lord they’d been sold to.
“The poor sods,” said the young man, eyeing the wagon with pity. “What do ya think he wants them for?”
“Hush, lad.” The gruff one punched his arm in reprimand and whispered hoarsely, “You don’t ask an Islander what for.”
An Islander! Khoury’s mind whirled. A sorcerer.
Were they to be shipped to the Magus Academy on the barren rocks of the Far Isles? Khoury checked the sun’s position and decided they had gone northeast rather than west. But then what was an Islander doing out here? And what sort of magic did they want them for? Usually a Far Isles master meant an unnatural death, a quick one if a man were lucky.
At that moment, the door opened and the fourth kidnapper returned followed by an old man in a shabby cloak. The newcomer’s stooped gait was slow, and his hands were clasped casually behind his back.
Was this the Magus?
Khoury slid back down next to Archer as the rest of the kidnappers dismounted.
“What is it?” Archer asked, reading Khoury’s concern.
“We’ve been sold. To an Islander.”
“A sorcerer?”
“So it would appear.” Khoury scanned the men huddled in the cage, wondering what the sorcerer would need so many bodies for.
The locks slammed home and the door to the wagon opened. Three kidnappers climbed into the cramped space and without a word began untying the captives’ legs. One by one, all the men in the wagon were handed down and led to a large cage. The cage perched on a waiting sledge harnessed to three enormous white bears. On all fours, the animals’ shoulders nearly reached the captain’s chin. The Clans of the Northlands, Archer’s people, used sledges and beasts like these. Khoury noted the consternation on Archer’s face as he watched the animals wait patiently.
Khoury’s hands were untied before he was roughly thrust into the cage. He caught the cold iron bars and managed to stay upright though most of the others landed on the floor, weak-legged and staggering. They reminded him of spring lambs, their bleating complaints swelling as they rem
oved their own gags. Some dared shouting for help. Khoury spat his gag out and scraped the pasty residue from his tongue with his teeth as he watched the cloaked man carefully. The man was heedless of their noise.
“Another ride,” Archer said, testing his strength against the bars.
“We’ll get our chance. Just be ready.”
“I always am, Captain.”
Khoury smiled grimly as the old man pulled tarps down over the cage. Shifting to where there was a small tear in the cloth, Khoury peered out. The man who had knocked on the door walked up to the old man a few feet from Khoury’s vantage point.
“We did what you asked,” the kidnapper said.
“You certainly surpassed my expectations,” the older man replied.
“Well, your little potion did most of the work. You have our gold?”
“Of course.” The old man pulled a hefty purse from beneath his robes and held it out to the kidnapper briefly, then drew it back. “Actually I’d like to retain your services against any…future needs.”
“You know where to find me,” the kidnapper said with steel in his voice, beckoning with his fingers expectantly.
“Indeed, I do.” The old man dropped the gold into the waiting hand. Then he uttered something in a low voice and tossed some sort of powder into the kidnapper’s face. Khoury watched as the kidnapper dropped to the ground, unconscious.
A chill gripped Khoury’s spine. He was stunned at the speed with which the man had been subdued. The old man dragged the kidnapper away. A sharp whistle pierced the air and the sledge lurched forward. Khoury settled on the cage floor close to Archer to keep warm in the increasing chill. They rode in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
In the hours that followed, the weather changed drastically. A fierce wind began to blow, making the canvas dance with sharp snapping sounds. Frigid air invaded the cage. Beyond the flapping cloth, Khoury glimpsed driving snow. He and Archer remained close to each other, but their backs now pressed up against the others who huddled in the center of the cage. Every head was down; bare faces and hands tucked inside what little clothing they wore.
The storm’s howl died to a distant shriek as the sledge came to a halt. When the tarp was released, it leapt from the cage and fluttered away like a giant bat. The arctic wind stung the captain’s face as he looked around at a barren snow-covered bailey. Nearby, the severe lines of a stronghold rose darkly into the whirl of white flakes. It was unlike anything Khoury had ever seen. The Keep proper had been carved from the living rock of the mountains to the north and east. The unusual masonry gave the structure an alien aura. A thick curtain wall of black stones surrounded the bailey to the south and west. Two stories tall and strongly built, its ironbound doors were tall enough for fabled giants to pass through. The storm within the walls was mild compared to the howling winds he saw beyond the gate.
Khoury studied the battlements, but no one walked the walls; no one was stationed at the guard tower; no one manned the gate. There weren’t even flags fluttering along the parapet. The Keep waited empty and quiet as a tomb. The whistling wind alone broke the eerie silence in the strange snowy half-night.
Archer’s nudge drew the captain’s attention to the sledge bears that, once released, lumbered quietly around the side of the building like well-behaved hounds.
“What?” Khoury wasn’t sure what he should be looking at.
“Sledge bears are half-wild and ornery. We never let them roam.”
“A spell, perhaps?” Khoury mused. Beyond Archer’s shoulder, he noticed a second, smaller cage set on the sledge in front of the main one. In it were the men who had kidnapped them.
Double-crossed, he thought with a certain satisfaction.
“Gentlemen!” The old man’s voice rang out clearly against the storm. “My name is Sidonius, and this is my Keep. Beyond these walls is a land of giants and of snow and a hundred other dangers. If you try to escape, you will die and not by my hand.” He paced before the cage, his hands clasped behind his back. Rheumy eyes studied each man in turn. “I offer you simple accommodations, food and shelter. And in return I require your service….”
“Do you see any guards, Captain?” Archer whispered, scanning the battlements.
Khoury shook his head.
“There’s just one of him by the looks of it,” Archer continued softly. “We can take him.”
If their captor had been an ordinary man perhaps. Even weaponless the two of them should have been able to overpower a much larger man or even a few regulars. But the memory of the driver falling to the ground with a few words and a handful of powder flitted through Khoury’s mind.
“Patience.”
The Northerner grunted with annoyance and turned back to what the sorcerer was saying.
“As you have no choice, please accept my hospitality until such time as I have need of you.” Sidonius turned to the doors of the stronghold, which opened at a wave of his hand. Glowing firelight beckoned from within.
From where Khoury stood, the interior looked warm and inviting, making the cold wind even sharper on his skin. He detected a whiff of food, and his mouth watered. Next to him, Archer’s stomach grumbled.
“You’ll find a feast on the other side of these doors. Please eat your fill.” The sorcerer gestured and the locks on the cages released of their own accord. As the old man headed up the stone steps, he called back over his shoulder. “Oh, and mind the steps. They’re a bit slippery.”
The men limped out of the cages on stiff legs and milled around, looking from the storm outside to the old man climbing the steps. Khoury was impressed by the sorcerer’s show of power, but everyone had a weakness. He surveyed the yard, noting the Keep’s layout as he stepped down out of the cage.
Sudden, angry voices erupted as two burly men charged Sidonius. Khoury recognized them as two of the kidnappers. They grabbed the hooded figure, one on each arm, and spun him around roughly.
“Listen, you stupid old sod. You got no guards, and you still think you can keep us?” The man spat on the stairs. “There won’t be anything left of you when we’re finished with ya.”
Sidonius looked from one to the other. Then he threw his head back and cackled with gusto. The cowl slipped from his head, and his thinning shock of disheveled gray hair sprang to attention, adding to the demented picture he made. He stood on the icy steps in the snow, laughing. His wild eyes blazed.
And then his cloak did too. At first the flames were barely visible, licking the hem. But soon they grew, enveloping his clothes, climbing his robes. And still the old man laughed. The two men released him when they saw the fire, but it was too late. The flames jumped from the sorcerer to his attackers like pouncing cats. Screaming in pain, the men backed away, but the fire clung to their hands and crawled like a living thing up their arms and across their shoulders, igniting their hair and clothes.
Writhing in panic, they tried to beat out the flames. Twisting frantically, they slipped one after the other and tumbled to the bailey, human fireballs with clothes ablaze. In moments, high-pitched shrieks filled the air, grating on Khoury’s ears.
“I told them to mind the steps,” the sorcerer said.
Khoury looked up to see the old man enveloped by flames, yet untouched. Fear snaked through the captain as the sorcerer watched the men’s death throes unperturbed.
“Such a waste,” Sidonius said with a sigh as their screams turned to wet gurgles and finally silence. Then he snapped his fingers and the flames vanished, leaving only smoke and the smoldering bodies at the foot of the stairs. The stench of charred flesh filled Khoury’s nostrils.
“Come along,” the sorcerer commanded. He turned his back to the men once more and walked into the Keep.
A wide-eyed Archer met Khoury’s look in shocked silence. As they climbed the steps, Khoury pushed the grisly scene from his mind. What else was this sorcerer capable of?
Sidonius hadn’t lied. The banquet tables in the great hall were covered in a resplendent feast.
Two roaring hearths provided cheery warmth and light, though the atmosphere was subdued as the captives sat down to eat. Khoury sniffed the food with suspicion, but Archer reached past him to grab a plate of roasted meat.
“Might as well eat, Captain,” he said around a mouthful of crusty bread, crumbs dusting his thick beard. “Who wants to die on an empty stomach?”
“And if it’s poisoned?”
“We’ll be dead that much quicker.” Archer tore meat from a drumstick and winked.
The captain chuckled sourly. That might even be a blessing, he thought. Though he had little appetite, he ate the meat and fruit, washing it down with the weak ale that didn’t begin to relieve his thirst.
“So,” Archer said in low tones, “he controls fire. That’s a problem.”
“And I saw him knock a man out with a few words,” the captain said. He looked over the other captives, hoping for allies. He wasn’t impressed. Most of them looked like they hadn’t had a decent meal, or bath, in weeks. His best bet for help would be the two remaining kidnappers, one of whom was no older than the Sword who had come to get the coin for Ellis.
“Think Vi knows we’re gone yet?” Archer asked.
“Doubt it,” Khoury replied. “Even if she’s sober, no one else will be roadworthy for at least a day. But you know her; she won’t rest until she gives us a good tongue-lashing for getting taken.”
“Might prefer to stay kidnapped then,” Archer joked. “Damn bastards took my bow. That one was my favorite.”
“My blades as well,” Khoury said.
“And our gold.”
Khoury frowned. “Aye. At least Violet gave the men their pay.”
“Think she’ll be able to find us?” Archer asked.
“She’s tenacious,” the captain said, surveying the room. There were only two sets of doors, the ones they had come in through and ones leading deeper into the stronghold. Sidonius had disappeared and all of the doors were shut and, no doubt, locked. On the bright side, the food was warm and satisfying.
By the time their stomachs were full and the ale steins had run dry, Khoury noticed other men slumped over their feast, snoring. He himself felt dull and slow-witted.
Quest of the Dreamwalker (The Corthan Legacy Book 1) Page 2