“I say we make a stop at the secret chamber first,” he said finally. “The tunnel under Serranguard is long and we will have to travel fast. It will be a long while before we will have the possibility to eat and drink again.”
“It is too dangerous!” Taz insisted, his eyes narrowing into two yellow slits. “Our luck has worn thin, and if we push it much further the Morg will find us!”
“Maybe it has,” Will said tiredly, “but you’re outvoted Gremul. Let us move on now.”
Without a further word, the three of them got stiffly to their feet and wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Taz gingerly lifted the bolts free, trying to make as little noise as possible, although Adelyis could hear him hissing his displeasure under his breath.
One by one, they filed out into the silent corridor. Darkness surrounded them and no torches lit this narrow conduit. Adelyis took hold of the edge of Will’s cloak and Taz did the same with hers; they would lose each other otherwise. Will took a moment to orient himself before moving left. His two shadows padded softly after him.
It was not as silent in the Keep as it had been the night before. Patrols were moving through Serranguard; the echoes of their boots and flickering light from their torches lit up corridors at odd intervals, especially where passageways converged. Whenever a patrol got too close, the three companions would crouch together against the wall and try to make themselves one with the shadows until the Morg moved on.
Finally, Will came to a halt and drew back so that he could whisper to the others.
“We are almost there. At the end of this corridor, we will turn left and then right. Directly after, there is the secret door.”
Adelyis let out the breath she had been holding. Her stomach burned with hunger. The thought of the dried meat and apples that awaited her made her mouth water.
They were half way up the corridor when their luck ran out.
Not all the Morg patrols had been as noisy as those they had passed earlier; one moved stealthily through this corner of Serranguard. They crept barefoot and without torches, listening intently for any sign of the escaped prisoners. They tracked the three shadows for a while before attacking, and listened to their whispers without understanding their words. Closer and closer they crept, eight cloaked shapes in the darkness, until they were within striking distance.
They attacked from behind, and it was only Taz’s sharp hearing that prevented him and Adelyis from being skewered on the Morg’s swords. The Gremul shouted a warning and launched himself forward, smashing Adelyis against the wall, just as a sword blade whizzed past their heads.
The struggle that ensued moved with violent swiftness. Taz disarmed a Morg and swung his opponent’s sword upwards, just in time to fend off the next Morg that came at him through the darkness. A blue tongue of flame shot out from the top of Adelyis staff and lit up the corridor for a moment. The witch-fire hit a Morg, who fell clutching his chest and screaming. Will dived in-between Adelyis and Taz, sword raised. They were now too close for Adelyis to channel magic through her staff; she risked harming Taz and Will. Instead, she used her staff as a different kind of weapon on the next Morg who attacked her. She swung it hard downwards, and the staff hit the Morg’s shins with a dull crack. He hissed and stumbled forward, only to receive another blow to the head that sent him sprawling.
Will fought mechanically, with two swords now, hacking and slicing at any Morg who came within reach. Behind the Morg, however, he saw a glow of light coming from the far end of the corridor—torches. Soon the corridor would be flooded with Morg and they would be trapped.
“More are coming!” he shouted at Taz and Adelyis through the fray. “We can’t stand and fight like this, there are too many. You need to get to the secret chamber now!”
“Not without you!” Adelyis panted. “If we go, we go together. If you stay, we stay!” She thrust the end of her staff into the stomach of a Morg and Taz finished him off with a sword blade through the throat.
“Hide in the chamber until things die down here and then make for Falcon’s Mount,” Will gritted his teeth with effort as he swung his two blades at the next Morg who came at him. His wound was hurting him and he was tiring fast. “Taz, take her, you haven’t got much longer!”
The Gremul did not reply. Instead, he leaped in front of Adelyis and blocked a blow with this sword that would have cleaved her head in two.
“Taz!” Will roared. Desperation and pain made him savage. He could see the Morg reinforcements bearing down on them now, their eyes glowing like hot coals in the darkness, “take her…now!”
Adelyis screamed as a sinewy arm fastened around her waist and pulled her off her feet. She kicked, wriggled and scratched but the Gremul was far stronger than her, far stronger physically than any Ennadil or Orinian. He carried her away, her arms pinned to her sides.
The last thing Adelyis saw before they rounded the corner was Will Stellan, his face was wet with sweat, facing the Morg alone. The two swords he wielded flashed in the torchlight and his cloak swung around him as he moved. A mass of writhing black-cloaked figures descended upon him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE BAIT
The tall, cloaked figure strode through Serranguard with an entourage of Morg shamans trailing in his wake. Morgarth Evictar, despite his towering, skeletal frame and arrogant stride, moved quietly. The shuffle of Morg boots behind him echoed along the dimly lit corridor.
The shamans kept a respectful distance from Evictar—their master had been irascible of late. Just yesterday, he had lost his temper with one of the shamans who had complained, a little too loudly and long, of the impossibility of finding the permanent weather spell. He had made the fatal error of whining that his master had promised he would look after the Morg if they took Isador for him, and that although he would continue to serve his master willingly, Evictar was not holding to his promise. Morgarth Evictar had not let the shaman finish his sentence before he had lifted his hand and sent forth a whip of flame that set the shaman on fire. The Morg had staggered, screaming, across the chamber and thrown himself to his death from the window of the Lord’s Tower.
Since then, the other shamans had been fawning and apologetic for their comrade’s behavior. Their Master however, remained coldly impassive. His displeasure pained them even more than his punishment.
Fortunately for the shamans, Morgarth Evictar’s attention was no longer focused on them—more serious matters had distracted him. He glided down the last set of steps and entered a cavernous hall. This had once been the servants’ dining chamber but since the Morg’s occupation, it had been transformed into sleeping quarters. The Morg preferred to sleep communally on the floor, packed in close to each other, for this generated more warmth between them and the cold stone. The hall was well lit. Torches flickered along the walls, illuminating the Morg’s keen eyes and the face of their prisoner.
The Morg collectively bowed to the ground upon their Master’s entrance. However, the man they had captured remained standing. Morgarth Evictar pushed back his hood and heard the prisoner’s sharply indrawn breath. He saw the terror flare briefly in his eyes. Evictar bared his teeth and had the pleasure of seeing the man tremble slightly.
“Captain Will Stellan,” the sibilant whisper was more menacing for its quietness, “I was planning on us having a long chat before you and your friends managed to escape.”
The man before him appeared vacant and unfocused, seemingly frozen in fear.
Evictar sighed, “I do hope you are not going to disappoint me Captain Stellan; not a battle-hardened warrior like yourself. There is so much for us to talk about. So much you are going to tell me.”
He saw the prisoner’s face unfreeze and something primal move in the depth of Will Stellan’s brown eyes. A sheen of sweat covered the man’s face, highlighting the scar that ran down his left cheek, but suddenly he was no longer paralyzed. Morgarth Evictar could sense the anger rising up from the man be
fore him; he could feel it reach out and touch him. Will Stellan was neither a tall man, nor heavy set but his body was muscular and his physical presence was startling. He was a leader of men; the first Evictar had met in over two thousand years since his exile.
Morgarth Evictar watched the Captain of Serranguard’s army with something akin to hunger. Being half Orinian he was fascinated by his mother’s kind. They were so much more vulnerable than the Tarzark and yet capable of a far more complex range of emotions. He had grown up amongst men and had been spurned by them. Even two millennia on, the pain of that rejection still burned deep within the Warlock. They thought, because he was half Tarzark, that he was inferior to them and when he had got too powerful they had turned against him; shunning him. The desire for revenge had sent him to the Tarzark and there he had found those who would worship him and kill for him. However, despite having the Tarzark at his side, the Orinians had still beaten him. The thought of revenge was all that had sustained Evictar in the long centuries since, festering and growing until it consumed him.
A strange emotion preyed upon Morgarth Evictar as he continued to gaze upon Will Stellan. He felt a deep, lingering sadness for he knew the Orinians would never submit to him willingly. He had beaten the Ennadil into submission but he cared nothing for them. He only felt a mild disdain for their pretentious ways and intellectual superiority. What he really desired was for the City-Lords of Serranguard, Falcon’s Mount and Mirren to come to him and pledge their allegiance. He not only wanted the people of these lands to worship him as their Lord, like the Tarzark had, but he wanted them as his allies. He could make them do it but it pained him to think it would not be by their own will, but his.
“So Captain Stellan,” Morgarth Evictar murmured after he had finished his study, “you did not flee Serranguard after all. You escaped four days ago, and you could have reached Falcon’s Mount by now; and yet you are still here. Why is that?”
“Serranguard is my home,” Will’s voice was hard and flat, “and I will not leave it.”
“Very noble words Captain,” Evictar mused, “but all lies. My Morg saw you with the Ennadil witch and that vile Gremul. What company you keep Captain? Unfortunately, they escaped but I have a feeling they will not flee Serranguard while you are kept captive here.”
“You are wrong,” Will replied between gritted teeth, “they will not return.”
“Lies again,” Evictar shook his head in mock chastisement, “you are such a terrible liar Captain. The Ennadil witch is very beautiful—I saw her myself. As for the Gremul, I have no idea why you would befriend such a creature.”
Morgarth Evictar gazed upon Will Stellan’s face once more and despite his stony expression, saw a nerve flicker under his left eye. “I think they will come looking for you Captain.” He smiled, revealing a double row of sharp teeth. “And we will give them a warm welcome when they do. As for you, I have a lot of questions to which I need answers.”
Evictar turned to the Morg surrounding them. They had been listening without understanding a word. Their master spoke a strange guttural language with the prisoner that was unpleasant to their ears.
“Bring him to my tower,” he commanded.
The Warlock whirled around, his heavy robes billowing about him. He strode towards the door but paused a moment in the threshold and looked back over his shoulder at Captain Stellan before leaving. The man’s face was bloodless; his expression was pained but his eyes burned. Morgarth Evictar snarled. This man would never aid him willingly—he would have to break him. Evictar pulled his cowl back over his face and left the hall.
***
Night was falling on the second day after they had left Falcon’s Mount when Lassendil, Gywna and the two wizards arrived at the mouth of the tunnel. They barely noticed day slipping into night, for the sickly cloud that covered this part of the world had thickened overhead. The air was rank and humid and they all were sweating heavily under their heavy wool cloaks. Even this far out of Serranguard itself, the Morg had positioned sentries. They had spotted two but had slipped easily past them, camouflaged by the dark cloaks they wore and aided by the murky light.
The entrance to the tunnel was well hidden; covered by thickly growing ferns. Without Jennadil’s help they would never have found it—and as it was, Jennadil had wandered around looking confused for over an hour before he finally located the entrance.
“It has been over a year since I was last here,” he defended himself when Gywna threw a disdainful look in his direction, “and we arrived from a completely different direction than the one I took after I left the tunnel.”
“You did well to find it,” Lassendil replied, “and that is good for it means the Morg are unlikely to for a while.”
They pushed past the ferns and climbed into the cool dark tunnel beyond. The air smelt of mildew and it was silent except for the faint dripping of water. Jennadil tapped his staff on the ground and the interior of the tunnel was lit by a soft green glow from the top of his staff. The ceiling was low—just clearing their heads. The glow from the staff revealed the tunnel running straight ahead of them, until the darkness swallowed it. Gywna shivered; she found this place was oppressive and tomblike. Jennadil saw her reaction and raised an eyebrow.
“Believe me Gywna, this tunnel is pleasant compared to what awaits us. Are you sure you still want to come? There is time for you to turn back if you wish.” He spoke lightly to disguise his own fear that crept up his throat like icy fingers.
Gywna looked back at Jennadil and set her jaw stubbornly. “I am not going back,” she replied coolly, “shall we move on?”
Jennadil led the way, followed by Gywna and then Arridel while Lassendil took rear guard. They all wore soft-soled boots so their passage through the tunnel was silent. After two hours of steady walking, Jennadil still did not lessen his pace.
“How much farther is it?” Gywna replied. The darkness and eerie silence in the tunnel, as well as the knowledge that a mountain’s weight of stone sat above them was making her feel hemmed in and panicky. She was perspiring heavily and her breath was coming in short gasps.
“Still another hour I should think,” Jennadil replied. He continued a few paces on, but came to an abrupt halt at the sound of a loud thud behind him.
Jennadil turned to see Gywna slumped on the floor of the tunnel.
“Gywna?” he crouched down next to the unconscious girl. “What’s the matter?”
Lassendil pushed past Arridel and hunkered down next to Gywna’s prostrate form. He placed a hand on her forehead and murmured something in Ennadil. Gywna groaned and her eyelids flickered.
“Are you unwell?” Lassendil asked.
“No,” Gywna took hold of the hand Lassendil offered and let him pull her to her feet. She braced herself against him for a moment to gain her balance, “I just felt as if the walls were closing in around me. I couldn’t breathe and then I blacked out.”
“It is only your mind playing tricks,” Lassendil replied. “Let me help you.”
Without waiting for her reply, he reached out and placed his fingertips on Gywna’s temples. He then closed his eyes and spoke low, soothing words in his tongue. Jennadil and Arridel looked on in silence, watching as Gywna’s eyes closed and the tension went out of her body. Lassendil removed his hands and looked down at Gywna. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him.
“Do you feel better?” Lassendil asked.
“Much,” Gywna replied, her cheeks coloring, “thank you.”
“What did you do to her?” Jennadil asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Just an ancient Ennadil healing rite,” Lassendil replied with a smile.
“It looked a bit more than that.”
“I think it is time we moved on,” Arridel interrupted from the shadows, his voice tinged with impatience, “every moment we waste here could risk us arriving too late.”
***
Adelyis chewed hungrily on a piece of dried meat an
d glanced over at where Taz was gulping down a tankard of cider. “We must go back for him,” she said finally. “We cannot leave Will.”
Taz lowered his tankard and fixed Adelyis with his glowing yellow eyes. “He sacrificed himself to save us. If we give ourselves up as well, he won’t be thankful. We must escape Serranguard as he wished and go directly to Falcon’s Mount.”
“Foolish man,” Adelyis hung her head and blinked away stinging tears. “Why did he do it?”
“To give you a chance,” Taz replied before giving a loud belch. “He wouldn’t appreciate you trying to save him, believe me.”
Adelyis noted the grudging note of respect in the Gremul’s voice. “I should have been able to use magic against them.” She looked down at the half-eaten piece of dried meat she held. “I tried but there were too many and they were too close to give me time for the cloaking spell.”
“Magic is no substitute for a sharp blade and quick reflexes,” Taz replied, stuffing a piece of dried meat into his mouth and chewing vigorously. “I think you rely too heavily on that staff of yours. We risked our lives to get it back for you and yet the spell you used to free us from the dungeons was far more effective than anything you’ve done since using that thing.” Taz cast a baleful glance at the staff that lay at Adelyis’s feet.
Adelyis felt her anger rise. At times, the Gremul was far too free with his opinions. “If you did not wish to aid me in recovering my staff you should have said,” she replied coldly.
Taz shrugged, her wintry anger was lost on him. “No one tells a Gremul what to do,” he reminded her, “but relying on anything, or anyone, is risky.”
Adelyis glared at him; her temper boiling. Yet, for the first time in ages she did not defensively jump in to negate the words of someone who had so openly criticized her. Instead, she took a few deep breaths and let his remarks hang in the air between them.
Maybe there was something in what he said. If nothing else, recent events had taught her how unprepared she had been for the situations she had been thrust into. Will and Taz had reacted admirably well, but they were used to violence and coming face to face with their own mortality. Without their help she would have perished days ago—she knew that. Her powers were untested and her belief in herself was shaky. She had put up a front before Will and Taz, playing the role of the Ennadil sorceress, but the Gremul had seen past the façade. He was not fooled; and neither was that sorcerer she had encountered on the top of the Lord’s Tower.
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