by Sandra Kopp
Arris shivered in the clammy air. He pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself and stole a quick glance over his shoulder. The very stone oozed frigid moisture which in places had begun to freeze, riming the roughness with a layer of ice.
So it had been in his dream.
Ponderous footsteps and guttural speech reached his ears. Holding his breath, Arris drew his dagger and crouched against the wall. But both sounds turned into hollow echoes and soon died away. Arris rose and crept forward.
After some distance, the corridor branched into two directions. To the left, the rock floor ran straight and level, while to the right it curved and descended noticeably. Arris’ instincts directed him right, and as he turned, he heard a muffled cry. The torches, spaced farther apart here, glimmered plaintively on the weeping wall. He felt his way over the rough stones, following low, drawn-out moans interrupted by short stretches of silence.
Some fifty feet ahead the corridor sloped sharply toward a stone arch marking the entrance to a narrow passage. A deep voice rose above the moans. Arris’ pulse quickened. Gripping his dagger tighter, he broke into a half-run, slowing again after entering the narrow passage. A bright orange glow illuminated six long, shallow steps leading downward. Turning left at the bottom, one faced a heavy arched wooden door. To the right, steep unlit stairs climbed, Arris guessed, to a gallery where sneering tyrants could watch their victims tortured in the room below.
Gravelly speech and purposeful steps reverberated down the hallway behind him. Arris dashed downstairs, leapt to the third step of the staircase, and groped his way through the darkness to the top. Two massive pillars guarded the landing, and he crouched against one of them while he waited to see whether the guards would follow.
The footsteps quickened. The guards descended and stopped at the door. An iron key grated in the lock. Reluctant hinges squealed in protest.
No one climbed the gallery stairs. Breathing easier, Arris surveyed his position.
He had indeed entered a gallery overlooking the room the guards had entered. The glow from several torches below revealed a sort of amphitheater with three wide tiers of benches carved into the castle’s black rock. A rock wall about the height of a man’s waist rimmed the front, keeping over-eager spectators from falling. In the middle, situated on a platform on the top tier, loomed a tall, well-cushioned, straight-backed chair—Ryadok’s seat of honor, no doubt. It would serve well as a hiding place from which to observe the activity below—if one could slip behind it unseen. Summoning his courage, Arris crawled along the wall toward the middle.
A woman shrieked. The male voice spoke soothingly, but now the screams and gasps of a woman in heavy labor filled the room.
Unable to contain his curiosity, Arris stopped and peered over the wall. On a high narrow bed surrounded by four armed guards and a hooded figure clothed entirely in black lay a grotesquely pregnant woman. A twisted grimace contorted her swollen face. Her entire body ran with sweat.
No human womb could possibly endure this! Grimacing, Arris averted his face.
“Lord Ryadok. . .Great One. . .help me!” The woman’s anguished plea drew Arris back again.
“Stay strong a while longer, my love.” The black-robed man removed his hood, revealing a kindly face topped with a full head of wispy straight blond hair tied back into a tail. His right hand held an ebony rod entwined at the top by four hooded serpents, each facing a different direction. Blood-red stones fashioned into slanted eyes gleamed cruelly above long fangs protruding from their gaping mouths.
Arris dropped down again, shaking his head in disbelief. This was Ryadok. How benevolent, how benign, how caring he appeared! Beside the swarthy, rough-skinned guards he looked like an angel. Yet how much pain and death he had unleashed.
Ryadok’s soothing voice floated up from below. Arris again peered over the wall. The sorcerer bent over the woman, his face inches from hers. She lay frozen, hypnotized, staring up at him through wide, glassy eyes.
“You serve your master well, Hester Baugonril.”
“I would. . .do anything for you. . .lord Ryadok.” She could hardly speak. “I would kill for you.”
Ryadok said nothing. A smile teased the corners of his mouth.
“Now. . .I will rule with you.” Hester’s chest heaved.
“You shall mother an army.” Ryadok’s gloved hand stroked her face. “Our first children suffered a fatal flaw,” he whispered. “But this one, coming from your own body, possesses immortality and indestructibility.”
“I shall next bear. . .your child. . .and be your queen.”
Ryadok said nothing. He lifted his hand from her face but continued hovering over her, smiling malignantly. After a moment, he straightened and closed his eyes, lips pursed as if deep in thought.
Arris sheathed his dagger and maneuvered the bow off his shoulder. He must free Hester Baugonril and rid Epthelion of Ryadok’s demon spawn.
He pulled an arrow from his quiver and raised his head. A movement against the gallery’s opposite wall caught his eye and sent him to the floor again.
Cursed luck! He had seen no guards when he entered the gallery, but one had either slipped in from the opposite side or been lurking there all along. If Arris moved against Ryadok or the woman, the guard would likely kill him first. Neither could he kill the guard without alerting Ryadok to his presence.
Arris rolled onto his stomach and inched back to the doorway. Taking cover behind a pillar, he stood and cautiously peered around it. Across the gallery, features indistinguishable in the dim light, the man stared back.
I have no choice. Ryadok must die—and if it costs my life, so be it!
Fitting arrow to bowstring, Arris pivoted around the pillar and aimed. Ryadok had turned away from the bed and now stood behind one of his guards. Arris shifted his aim a hairsbreadth to the right and sent the missile straight into Hester Baugonril’s heart. A second arrow fired simultaneously from across the gallery pierced her swollen belly.
Hester stiffened and gasped. A hideous, pulsating bulge arose in her middle and burst forth in a shower of blood and ragged flesh. A slimy black head reared up, rocking back and forth as the creature tried to pull free. The arrow piercing the woman’s stomach protruded from its tiny neck.
Ryadok’s outraged cries rose above the creature’s dying whimpers. The guards positioned themselves around the witch-king, two covering him with their shields while the other two shot arrows into the gallery.
“Live! You must live!” Ryadok wailed. But ghastly red and yellow fluid poured from the creature’s mouth, dissolving Hester’s ruined shell. Seconds later, its fight for life ended.
Ryadok raised his arms. Roaring with rage, he turned his face toward the gallery. “Bring them down!” he thundered. “I will look them in the face while they die!”
A powerful shoulder rammed the wooden door, which burst open and banged into the stone wall. Heavy boots pounded up the gallery steps. Arris dashed for the top tier platform.
An arrow flew past his ear and lodged in the chair’s back cushion. Gasping, Arris flung himself behind the chair and managed to ready an arrow as the first guard appeared on the landing. Arris let it fly, and the guard fell backward, taking another guard with him as he tumbled down the stairs.
Arris peered around the chair. The remaining guards lay dead, an arrow protruding from each man’s throat. Aghast, he stared across the gallery, but saw no sign of the other archer.
Ryadok stood alone, surrounded by an eerie blue glow which Arris knew no weapon would penetrate. He had composed himself and now stood with eyes closed, head bowed over his staff.
“Who’s there?” Ryadok called softly. “Show yourselves, friends.”
Friends? Arris scarcely dared hope for an ally.
Ryadok called again. “I feel your presence. Who are you? Reveal yourselves, I command you.”
Oh, can you not discern me, Arris thought. Mighty sorcerer of limitless power, do you not know my name?
“
My patience grows thin,” Ryadok warned.
Do what you will, O Dark One. Arris noted the aura around him fading and readied an arrow.
“Very well.” Ryadok raised his head and lifted his staff.
Arris watched through narrowed eyes. From somewhere to his left came a curious scraping sound, which at first sounded like dry autumn leaves pushed and scattered by the wind; but as he listened it took on the softer, rhythmic tone of a broom sweeping smooth stone. Icy horror seized him as he considered the serpents atop Ryadok’s staff. This scraping heralded neither leaves nor broom, but reptilian scales gliding over the stone floor straight for him.
Arris threw himself to the right. A great hooded head streaked past and buried its fangs in the chair’s cushioned arm. Arris rolled onto his back as the serpent wrenched free and reared up. Blood-red eyes glared down at Arris. Bared fangs dripped venom. The massive hood fanned out wider as, swaying gently, the beast towered over him.
Arris gulped. His left hand held the arrow intended for Ryadok and he froze, trying to calculate the serpent’s next move.
The serpent gathered itself for the death strike. Swift as lightning, the head descended, and with a strangled cry, Arris drove the arrow up between the deadly fangs and out the top of the head.
The serpent hissed and spat, writhed and thrashed. Arris scooted backward and leveled a kick at the flailing head, crushing it against the chair. The entire floor came alive as he retrieved the arrow, leapt to his feet, and bounded down the tiers to the wall.
Ryadok shouted. Arris ducked as yet another serpent sailed into the gallery, struck the stone tier behind him, and lay still. The glow surrounding the sorcerer vanished.
Arris jumped to his feet and readied his bow, but the second archer had reappeared and discharged an arrow into Ryadok’s shoulder. Ryadok staggered backward but quickly recovered. Brandishing his staff, he fired blinding balls of electric blue into the gallery. Arris dropped to his knees and pressed himself tight against the wall.
From across the gallery the other archer frantically waved him over. The light from Ryadok’s missiles revealed his face—Davon! Keeping low, Arris scurried along the wall and joined his brother on the landing of a second staircase.
Heavy footsteps pounded the stone steps. “Bring me the assassins!” Ryadok thundered, and now swarms of soldiers ascended to both gallery entrances.
Davon pushed Arris into a narrow hollow just off the landing. “In here! We’ll have to climb!”
The stones in that wall protruded just enough to provide adequate, albeit precarious, hand and foot holds. The brothers clambered out of sight as the first soldiers reached the landing. Only when they reached the granite ceiling did they stop, clinging to the slippery rock as more troops flooded the gallery.
“Where are they?” a soldier shouted.
“I don’t see them,” another answered. “They must have escaped.”
“Oh, they’re up there!” Ryadok hissed. “Search every crack and corner. I want them now and I want them alive!”
The soldiers fanned out. One stepped into the hollow’s entrance and stared up the wall into the inky darkness concealing the brothers. Smiling slyly, he fitted an arrow to his bow and aimed it upward. “This’ll find you blackguards, if you’re up there!” he sneered, and let the missile fly.
Arris had already drawn his dagger. His keen ears detected the arrow’s approach and he knocked it aside, sending it clattering back to the bottom.
“Hmph!” The soldier groped around, retrieved the arrow and shot it again. Again Arris swatted it away. The soldier found his arrow and this time returned to the gallery.
“My leg’s cramped.” Davon shifted his weight, but his left foot slipped, striking Arris’ leg and dislodging his foot from the wall. Arris regained his hold, but while reestablishing his own footing, Davon’s other foot cramped and he held his breath, trying to will his knotting muscles to relax. “I can’t hold on much longer. And they’re not leaving.”
“Keep still. I’ll think of something.” Arris breathed deeply and closed his eyes. His own body was knotting up, and his frigid feet and fingers scarcely felt the stone to which they clung. He concentrated, letting his mind reach beyond his body, and sensed that events beyond the castle would soon draw Ryadok elsewhere.
Davon groaned softly and again shifted his weight.
“Patience. ‘Twill not be long now,” Arris whispered.
At that moment the door to the room downstairs burst open. “Lord Ryadok! I bring news! Rissling has fallen!”
“What?” Ryadok screamed. “To who?”
“I don’t know, my lord. We saw only a handful of the invaders retreating into the forest as we approached.”
“How many in Rissling remain?”
“None, my lord. The soldiers, the chatkahs, the keepers. . .even the beasts—all destroyed!”
“Ten of you stay and seal this room,” Ryadok barked. “Continue the search. The two hiding here must not escape. The rest of you, come with me!”
“What of Hester, my lord?” the messenger asked.
Ryadok spat in disgust. “That torn and stinking bag? Throw her in the moat!” He stormed from the room, his black cape billowing behind him like a thundercloud in a rising wind.
A captain selected the ten and then left with the others.
“We can take ten,” Arris whispered.
“That we can,” Davon agreed.
They waited until the soldiers’ footsteps died away. “Now!” Arris whispered.
Blindly they groped their way down. A little over halfway, Davon’s feet slipped, leaving him dangling. “I can’t hold myself.”
“Let’s slide,” Arris returned and, stepping off the stones supporting him, let himself drop.
Somehow they managed to grasp enough stones on the way down to slow their fall, but the protruding rock battered their shins and rib cages and skinned their knuckles. Mercifully they landed quickly, bruised and shaken, but otherwise uninjured.
Arris stepped onto the landing. A burly, shaggy-haired soldier glanced up from the sword he had just sheathed. His eyes widened, but before he could react Arris felled him with an arrow through the neck. Davon stepped up beside Arris, and together they felled two more.
“There!” A fourth soldier pointed from across the gallery. Arris shot another arrow, but his target ducked behind a pillar.
Heavy boots stomped up the stairs behind them, and across the gallery three soldiers took cover against the low wall. A fourth darted for the chair, but Davon’s arrow brought him down.
“Six left,” Arris breathed.
“Look out!” Davon pushed Arris against the pillar. An arrow sang past his ear and sailed over the wall, driving itself into the door below.
The three soldiers on the stairs approached, swords drawn, while the three across the gallery trained their arrows on the hapless Marchants.
“Stand down, boys,” one of the swordsmen jeered. “Let’s have some sport with these Nimbian dancers.”
Laughing and sneering, the archers lowered their weapons.
Arris and Davon exchanged glances. “Shall we engage these gentlemen,” Arris queried.
“Indeed, yes.” Davon drew his sword.
“Gentlemen!” the soldier spat. “We’ll show you fair-haired ladies what gentlemen we are not!”
He raised his sword and slashed at Arris’ belly. Arris lithely sidestepped and drew his own sword, expertly parrying his opponent’s next strike. All three fell upon the brothers, who stood back to back, confidently holding them at bay.
“Might we even the sides a bit, gentlemen?” Arris said.
“Aye, you are right,” the first swordsman bellowed. “Three—against two; we have an odd number on our side.” He beckoned to one of the archers. “Lars! Let’s oblige our guests and even our number!”
More guffaws as Lars eagerly drew his weapon and joined the fray.
“Not what I had in mind. Such rough manners these soldiers of Ryadok have
,” Arris remarked to Davon over his shoulder.
Davon grunted as he parried one thrust and sidestepped another.
Two soldiers backed Arris into a corner, and he found himself hard pressed to ward off their onslaught. Mustering all his strength, he swung his sword upward, sending one opponent’s weapon tumbling end over end through the air and into the shoulder of an onlooker. Lunging forward, Arris cut the unarmed man’s throat.
The uninjured onlooker pulled the sword out of his wounded comrade and rushed in to take the slain man’s place. Clashing steel and the fighters’ labored grunts filled the gallery. Davon disemboweled one opponent and sliced open the arm of another.
Two engaged Arris near the chair. As Arris circled around, he stepped on the dead serpent. The cylindrical body rolled his foot forward, sending Arris sprawling backward. The burlier of his two opponents lunged, training the tip of his sword on Arris’ throat. Arris rolled to the side and swung, slicing the man’s leg to the bone. With a strangled shout the man went down but dragged himself away to retrieve his sword, which had flown from his hand. Again Arris raised his sword, barely in time to parry a thrust from the second man. Somehow he struggled to his feet, parried another blow, and stabbed his opponent through the heart.
“Behind you!” Davon shouted.
Arris turned to find the wounded onlooker rushing toward him, sword raised. Arris sidestepped, and as the soldier careened past, buried his sword between the man’s shoulder blades. Wide-eyed and gurgling, the soldier fell.
Arris leapt to the front of the gallery to help Davon with two more assailants that, despite their wounds, still fought furiously. These the brothers quickly dispatched.
“Davon! Down!” Arris shouted. The brothers ducked as the sword hurled by their last opponent hurtled over their heads. Swiftly Arris drew his dagger and threw it, striking the man through the heart.
Sweating and gasping, the brothers sank to the floor and leaned against the low wall.
“Finally. . .it’s over,” Arris panted.
Davon smiled and then managed a shaky laugh. “For a while, though, I thought they had us.”