With an anguished cry, a hideous figure with matted hair gripped him tightly through the bars and held on for dear life. Malodorous breath, steeped with the reek of rotten teeth, made him wretch.
‘Get off me, help!’ Coinin cried.
Len’i and the others turned sharply and ran to his aid. Meone, lithe and fast, reached him first and slashed at Coinin’s attacker with her sharp claws. With a howl, the figure let go and vanished into the darkness of the cell.
Behind them, the group heard the distinctive sound of a key turning in a lock.
‘Hide!’ Len’i ordered, and within a few seconds all members of the party had secreted themselves into dark corners just in the nick of time.
A solitary guard, gripping a lit torch in his hand, puffed his way down a short flight of stairs from a doorway at the top.
‘What’s all this racket down here then? I’ve half a mind to beat you black and blue, Cédrick.’
From his darkened hiding place, Len’i stiffened as the guard passed within a few inches and sauntered to the metal cage where, moments before, a bedraggled prisoner had accosted the curator.
The giant orc began to creep forward in pursuit of his prey, only, Meone, as silent as her kin were, had already incapacitated the guard before Len’i had exited his hide. She had the dungeon master pinned to the floor and held a claw to his lips with a sinister hiss.
The guard was wide eyed, and his pudgy face had drained of all colour. He was terrified. Who were these strangers that had dared to enter the dungeon on his watch? More importantly, why hadn’t they chosen to infiltrate the palace during his superior’s watch? The king would have his head, he was sure. If he survived the next few minutes.
He fought back fear and, gulping away terror, momentarily found a voice of authority. At least to him it was; to the others it was a mere squeak.
‘How dare you? Who are you? In the name of the King, I demand that you release me.’ His eyes flicked from one dark figure to another, his expression of anger doing little to hide the pleading in his eyes.
Len’i patted Meone on the shoulder lightly. ‘Stand aside.’
The Felisis hopped lithely from the prone guard, who in turn found himself, with a scrape of leather on stone, yanked into the air and brought face to face with Len’i, a most terrifying creature to look at if you had never seen his kind before.
The guard saw only long protruding canines, glistening in torchlight, and he very nearly fainted, certain that he was dead.
‘Search him for keys,’ Len’i ordered.
Coinin was the first to step forward and had the displeasure of patting down the urine-soaked guard. Coming face to face with an orc had caused an involuntary bodily evacuation, and sure enough, a telltale trickle of foul fluids ran from the frightened man’s pants’ hem and pooled on the ground below.
The guard squirmed, trying to free himself from the mighty grip of the orc, and only after a snarl from his captor did the man quiet, albeit briefly.
Coinin’s fingers gripped cold metal from somewhere inside the guard’s tunic, and he withdrew a ring of iron that held several large keys of varying sizes and thicknesses. With a rattle, he held them up to the captive’s face. ‘Which one lets us into the palace?’
The guard shook his head. Despite his fear, he knew that helping the intruders would mean certain death at the king’s own hand, something the ruler found to his liking.
Len’i flicked out his long, brown leathery tongue and licked the man’s face, cheek to brow. ‘He’ll make a tasty meal.’
The guard screamed and struggled, convinced the orc was about to eat him. ‘Let me go!’ he wailed.
Coinin gripped the wailing man’s jaw and brought their eyelines into alignment. ‘That will happen when you tell me what I want to know. Which key?’
With a guttural hack, the guard launched phlegmy spittle at Coinin in defiance.
Coinin wiped away the sticky fluid with the back of his hand, and half turned. ‘Do with him what you will, Len’i.’
The guard’s eyes widened as Len’i bared his teeth into what his kin would describe as a smile, but a human would see as a snarl.
‘No, please, no!’ screamed the guard and once again struggled to free himself. Striking at Len’i’s thick arms uselessly, he flagged quickly and gave up, resigned to his fate. Instead, though, of making him a meal, Len’i grabbed the keys from Coinin and dragged the guard back into the gloom of the dungeon. Seconds later, the gate to a cage was heard to creak open, followed by a grunt and the slamming of the same gate, which rang out with a finality. The only sound remaining was that of the guard sobbing, perhaps in relief at not being eaten.
Len’i returned then and tossed the keys to Coinin. ‘I left him with your friend, that should keep him occupied. Besides, human tastes foul.’
‘Good to know.’ Coinin raised his brow.
‘I jest, young one.’
Coinin shook his head and grinned. ‘Meone, what lays ahead?’
Silently, Meone appeared from nowhere and shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I may have access to the city’s plans, but the palace layout itself remains a mystery.’
Coinin kicked a wooden pail beside his foot, and it was sent skittering noisily across the dungeon floor.
‘Never fear, Coinin,’ Len’i began in deep, gravelly tones. ‘Whatever we come across will be dealt with swiftly and with as little fuss as possible. Meone, scout ahead and report back what you see.’
Meone nodded and held out a paw for the keys to the dungeon. Once Coinin had handed them over, she hurried away with barely a sound and mounted the stairs leading from the dungeon. Within seconds she had vanished behind the oak door at the top of the stairwell.
Len’i gestured to the two Brotherhood soldiers. ‘Guard the doorway.’
Both nodded and climbed the steps and positioned themselves either side of the stone archway, ready for any eventuality.
Coinin kicked his toe into a dirt patch between the cracks of a flagstone and sighed deeply.
‘What is wrong?’ Len’i punched Coinin across the jaw slowly and in a friendly manner.
‘I’m concerned for Meone.’
‘Why? She chose her path willingly, as did you.’
‘And you?’
Len’i considered his response. ‘Indeed, I am here to repay a debt, but there is nowhere else I’d rather be.’
Coinin grimaced, guilt at what could be occurring on the other side of the prison door beginning to build inside him. Again, a faithful follower could be in danger, all because of him. ‘What if she is captured and leads a battalion of guards back here? We are too few.’
‘True. Though don’t worry so. Whatever happens next or comes through that door, know this, that we will face it head on, together, and without fear, yes?’
Coinin nodded.
‘Good. Besides, General Jericho is at our back.’
Coinin cheered slightly at this. He had momentarily forgotten that Jericho was to mount a diversionary tactic from the main entrance of the palace and buy them time to find the king and smuggle him out from under the noses of his guard. With hope in his heart that all would be well, he withdrew his sword from its scabbard and approached the stone steps.
DISTRACTIONS
Jericho, at the head of the column of Brotherhood soldiers disguised as palace guard, marched briskly along a narrow walkway leading from the mainland to the palace, some way out into Lake Rodine. Marrok took up the rear guard, constantly on the lookout for danger.
The palace was a hodge-podge of buildings, added to over time so that the splendour of the original was lost amongst the more industrial structures surrounding it.
Gigantic cooling towers overshadowed the once beautiful palace and belched gigantic plumes of steam into the air. Jericho wondered a moment whether the king was unhinged to ruin the beauty of his palace with such a horrendous sight. He noted how the Golden Temple was in stark contrast to this place and thanked Rindor for such a beautiful location for
the temple.
The floating guard tower, ever present, had been lowered into the expansive palace courtyard to facilitate a change of guard, who could watch the city from a height and report any strange happenings to a small squad of palace guards in the barracks below. Far too few guards to watch over a palace, Jericho had been reassured.
The king ruled with fear and an iron fist. Therefore no one dared question his authority, and he lived with the belief that he was secure in his stronghold with only a few men to guard him. Besides, he had sent most of his men to the front to battle for his gold deposits.
Arrogant fool. Jericho smiled to himself and turned once more to check his column. ‘You there,’ he pointed, ‘straighten that banner.’
The column’s standard-bearer looked up and saw that the banner he was carrying had twisted itself around the pole and obscured the king’s emblem. He quickly lowered the pole, unwound the material and let it fly once more.
Satisfied, Jericho nodded approval. ‘This is it, men. Be decisive in your targets, ruthless if needed. Above all, incapacitate above killing to honour Lord Rindor. These men merely follow the orders of their captain, and I’d like to keep them alive if possible, in line with the archmage’s orders. Lastly, no talking till we’re inside the main gate. I don’t want to give ourselves away too early. You know the plan, so let’s do this swiftly.’
The giant palace gateway loomed large and foreboding, manned by two guards wielding pikes as tall as two men. The king’s standard fluttered from a pole set into the thick limestone of the archway, the whole structure made from a hard granite with a pinkish hue visible even in the moonlight. A heavy portcullis dominated the top third of the entrance, and Jericho had no doubt that it was capable of trapping he and his men should it be dropped.
Jericho expected to be halted at the gateway and so had prepared himself by questioning Sonny’s contact at the warehouse. Surprisingly, though, the gate guards merely waved the column through without a flicker of interest. As soon as Jericho had vanished from the sight of the guards he signalled two of his best to incapacitate them, and sure enough, seconds later, the familiar sound of unconscious bodies hitting the ground greeted his ears. He knew that his men would be trussing up the prisoners and hiding the evidence from view.
At the far side of the gateway, Jericho stopped and held up his hand. He turned to his troop. ‘General Wulf, could you lead a couple of men and disable the portcullis?’
‘Portcullis?’
Jericho rolled his eyes, remembering that Marrok was still green in his knowledge of the world. He turned and pointed to the great iron gate hanging above the archway. ‘There is a room above that gate from where it can be dropped. I do not wish to be trapped here. Find the room and destroy the controls if need be.’
Marrok nodded and touched the shoulders of two female soldiers closest to him. ‘With me. I think I saw a doorway back there.’
Jericho watched Marrok leave and turned to the remainder of the troop. ‘Get to it,’ he ordered.
As one, his men, in pairs, stepped into the gloom of the palace courtyard, lit only by a series of lamps. They had instructions to seek out the enemy and quell them as efficiently and quietly as possible.
The surprise was on their side, and it was not too long before the courtyard had been cleared. That left the barracks and watchtower. Satisfied their initial work was done, the troop regrouped in a darkened corner of the courtyard and finalised plans. Jericho split the troop into two and sent half to quell any resistance from the barracks. He did not expect much in the way of a struggle but insisted that the men move swiftly and decisively.
He would lead the remainder of the troop and lay an attack on the watchtower.
Swiftly, with only the clop of boots on flagstones, Jericho and several Brotherhood soldiers jogged to the entrance of the watchtower. It was a massive structure, its metalwork glinting in the moonlight. The air sacs used to keep it aloft had been partially deflated and hung limply over the gigantic pipework.
An iron ladder, seated into the rock, led up to the watchtower building, dwarfed and snug between the other massive structures surrounding it. Light from an open doorway at the top of the ladder lit the way, and without hesitation, Jericho ordered a man up the ladder to scout out what lay ahead. After a moment of squeaking of leather on metal, the soldier stuck his head above the parapet and peeked into the open door. After a moment, he signalled to his commander that there were twelve bodies inside.
Jericho waved him down. Twelve enemy trapped inside was an easy thing to deal with, but his jubilation was short lived.
The soldier, bulbous eyed and sweating from his exertion, returned to the general’s side and reported his findings. ‘Sir, there is no way that we can gain access as a single unit. The ladder leads almost directly to the doorway, with nowhere for the troop to stand in preparation.’
‘Damn,’ Jericho cursed. ‘What can you tell me about the door. Is it robust enough to barricade?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If we can’t get in, can we stop them coming out?’
The soldier’s eyes widened. ‘Clever, Sir. Ingenious. Yes, I do believe so. If we had a stout chain or rope, we could tie off the handles and have a guard stand to.’
Jericho turned to his chosen second, who had, until now, kept silent and observed the older tactician’s work. ‘Manis, take two men and bring me back the strongest rope or chain you can find.’
Manis nodded and pointed to two soldiers nearby and thumbed that they should join her. Into the gloom, the trio ran, careful not to slip on wet flagstones, slick and deadly. The young officer, Manis, lithe and strong of mind, had remembered spotting a series of stables on the far side of the courtyard, a likely place to hold rope strong enough for the task at hand.
They entered a long hallway lined by stone archways that let moonlight fall at regular intervals across the floor. Their footsteps echoed hollowly and would have given warning that someone was approaching. Thankfully, the courtyard had been cleared.
The stables, twelve in all, lined the far wall of the courtyard and had seen better days. Rotten stable doors looked barely able to hold back a breath of wind, never mind a horse eager to leave. Manis took the first stable, stuck her head over the low door and squinted into the recess beyond. Empty and bare, she moved on. The next dwelling along was lit by an oil lamp swinging at the open doorway. It cast warming shadows deep into the room beyond. The smell of horse and leather was almost overwhelming and reminded Manis of home. A flash of fond memories of learning to ride with her father, and her younger brother running after her with the little legs of a child, pleading for a ride, momentarily brought a smile to her face.
The auburn-haired Manis snapped out of her daydream and slid a thick bolt aside and flung open the door. Inside was warm and cosy, perfect for the half dozen horses locked securely in their pens along the rear wall. The powerful animals stirred with curious interest at the new visitors and snorted or hoofed the ground, sending clouds of dust and warm breath into the air.
‘There, there, my beauty,’ Manis whispered, and stroked the neck of the nearest horse, muscular and as black as the night. A war horse, perhaps, she mused.
❖
Marrok tried the wooden door set into the tunnel leading from the portcullis opening and, to his surprise, it opened with only a slight creak. He poked his head inside and looked up to see a rickety wooden staircase disappearing into the darkness of the stairwell.
Signalling that his two companions should follow him, he ventured forth and made a first tentative step on the staircase. It creaked and wobbled horribly and he knew that there was no option but to move quickly. Surprise would be out of the question, but at least they would have a chance of catching anyone off guard. Hoping that those above would believe it was fellow guards climbing the stairs, the trio raced upward, turn after turn, all the time wondering when the staircase would give way and send them plummeting to their deaths.
The la
st turn of the stair saw them step into an empty room above the portcullis. Marrok was instantly on guard. Too easy, he thought. Nevertheless, he and the others poked at a handful of sacks, looked inside wooden crates and examined the mechanism that held the great iron gate aloft. The cold, stone room, with only a small slit window and lit by a single torch was indeed deserted.
‘Sir, how do you wish to proceed?’ a tall, muscular private asked.
‘Private Sorneeth, isn’t it?’ Marrok enquired, certain he had the name correct.
‘Aye, it is, Sir,’ Sorneeth smiled happily in the knowledge that her superior knew her name.
‘How do you think this thing works?’ Marrok questioned, looking at a handful of gigantic cogs and wheels, supplemented by a stout rope wrapped around a pulley system.
‘My father, may Lord Rindor bless him, was an engineer for The Brotherhood. He worked with Prentis, the architect, in building many of The Brotherhood’s finest buildings. He taught me a thing or two. Let me see now –’ Sorneeth trailed off, a thoughtful expression on her face. She gesticulated into the air, trying to figure out the intricacies of the pulley system, and looked for all intents and purposes exactly like a marionette.
She dropped to her knees and examined the pulley system in more detail. It consisted of one giant brass cog surrounded by four smaller cogs, over which a thick rope ran, and a gear system that ended in a crankshaft to be hand turned by someone with good upper body strength. This, in turn, ratcheted the gears and raised or lowered the portcullis.
Sorneeth stood, faced the room, and laughed.
Marrok looked at her quizzically. ‘What is funny?’
Sorneeth shook her head and spun back to the pulley system. After a moment, she turned back and held aloft the crankshaft which was permanently attached to a smaller cog. ‘They can’t lower the gate without this.’
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 94