Marrok looked puzzled for a second and then guffawed. It was too easy, but this time luck was on their side. ‘Let’s move out. Jericho may need us.’
❖
Manis, followed by her colleagues, dropped a thick rope before Jericho’s feet. ‘Will this suffice, Sir?’
Jericho stooped and picked up the rope, a thick braided variety of hemp. He felt the weight and tested its strength. ‘Perfect,’ he replied, and tossed the end to a nearby soldier. ‘Make yourself useful, D’War. Go and secure the watchtower, and don’t be seen.’
D’War, a slight man, thin and wiry, nodded and wrapped the rope around himself. Fellow soldiers clapped him on the back and whispered encouragement as he strode to the ladder leading up to the guard tower and took hold of the first rung.
❖
Coinin led the way and discarded his cloak on the handrail of the steps. He ran to the top, bitterly regretting his decision to do so, as his ankle twisted slightly and his old wound seared in pain. He gave a yelp and hobbled to a stop, where he sat and massaged the offending limb.
‘This will never heal,’ he cursed.
Len’i approached with a look of concern on his scarred face. ‘What have you done?’
‘Pay me no heed, Len’i. It is an old wound I acquired while possessed by Death himself.’
Coinin went on to recount the story of Mort possessing him in an attempt to gain access to the Tree of Life, and their battle, both in the flesh and in Coinin’s mind. He conveniently left out the location of the Tree of Life, preferring to call it the Book of Life.
‘That is a tall tale indeed.’ Len’i grunted disapprovingly. He despised untruths of any kind.
‘It is no lie. I assure you.’ Coinin scowled, offended at Len’i’s remark.
Len’i bowed his head in apologies and spoke softly. ‘My apologies, Sir. It was never my intention to offend you.’
Coinin smiled and touched the arm of the orc. ‘Forget it. We have things more important to trouble us now.’
The door flung open, and a breathless Meone stepped through and closed the door quickly. She gave a little giggle. ‘That was close.’
Coinin, who had nearly jumped out of his skin at the Felisis’s arrival, relaxed his sword arm. ‘What was?’
‘I was nearly spotted, but I managed to leap behind a suit of armour just as a handful of guards passed by. I was a whisker away from blowing the plan.’
‘Well, I’m glad you think it funny,’ Len’i cursed, and spat on the ground, raising himself to his full height, annoyed by the Felisis’s careless attitude.
Coinin raised his hands. ‘Please, Len’i, relax. No harm was done. Tell us, Meone, about the layout of the palace and the movements of the guard.’
Meone squeezed by Len’i who wasn’t best pleased with her and sat on the top step. Coinin followed suit, eager for knowledge to help him complete his quest. He shivered as a breeze ran under the door behind him and caught him squarely between the shoulder blades.
❖
Jericho craned his neck, trying to see what was happening above him at the top of the ladder. Little had been seen or heard for a series of agonising minutes.
He dared not call out to the brave soldier who had ventured up the ladder with the intent of securing the doors to the guard tower.
A commotion behind him made him and his soldiers turn swiftly to see a white charger, complete with tack and a darkly dressed rider, make a bolt for the exit. The horse slipped and slid on the wet cobblestones but was still in danger of escaping.
The rider had to be making a getaway to warn others that the palace was under attack. He must have hidden and bided his time, Jericho reasoned.
Without having been issued an order, three Brotherhood soldiers raced after the horse and rider across the courtyard, and within moments they had almost caught up to the animal. However, it found its footing on more solid ground and raced ahead and into the tunnel.
Marrok and the others had just stepped out of the winch room doorway and found themselves bowled over by a white blur. With no time to react, they were hit hard and knocked over. Marrok struck his temple on the cold stone floor, and it was several moments before he came to and realised that someone was calling him by name.
‘General Wulf, are you well?’
Marrok righted himself and shook his head free of a fog that had overcome him. ‘What happened? I saw a flash of white and the next –’
‘Be grateful no bones were broken. A horse hit you.’ Private Scroggins held out a hand.
‘I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with horses, and a fair few broken bones. This was nothing. Did it escape?’
‘It looks like a guard has made a run for it on horseback.’
Marrok jumped up at the news and steadied himself. He felt a welt beginning to form on his right temple and winced. ‘Did anyone see the direction the rider took?’
Several men and women shook heads.
‘Well, no matter. It just means we’ll need to make haste and storm this palace sooner. Move out.’
With one final check to make sure he indeed had not broken anything vital, Marrok followed the others in double quick time back into the courtyard.
Jericho greeted Marrok. ‘General. Did you succeed?’
Marrok beamed. ‘Sorneeth, here, is a genius. That port … the gate will not be dropping today.’
‘That’s good news at least. But you look hurt.’
Marrok touched his temple again. ‘The escaping horse knocked me down. I shall live.’
‘The horse and rider?’
‘Gone.’
Jericho clenched his fists. ‘Scroggins,’ he yelled, ‘get up that ladder and find out what’s taking so long.’
‘Sir.’ The young soldier saluted and hastened up the ladder at full tilt.
A minute later they heard a muted commotion above, and all eyes looked aloft. A dark shape plummeted to the ground with a rush of wind and came to an abrupt stop with a sickening thump just before them.
Marrok dove forward and moved aside the long hair of the person who had fallen. ‘It’s not one of ours,’ he declared in relief.
Blood pooled around the body, and Marrok stepped back. He retrieved a hessian sack from a pile nearby and covered the poor unfortunate corpse.
‘What is going on up there?’ Jericho cursed. They had to act now before the palace guard realised they were there.
‘Look, Sirs.’ Sorneeth pointed upwards.
Jericho and Marrok squinted up into the darkness and saw that Scroggins and D’War were bidding a hasty retreat down the ladder. Nearer the bottom, Scroggins clamped his boots to the vertical sides of the ladder and was able to descend much quicker. D’War did likewise, and seconds later both men were on solid ground, panting at their exertions.
‘What happened?’ Marrok demanded, and looked upwards once more, for fear that they were followed.
D’War stepped forward and saluted. ‘I was surprised by one of the guards. There was a hidden walkway running the circumference of the building. We struggled and fought, and I ended up on my back with him choking the life out of me, but he came off worse. Scroggins here grabbed the enemy’s cloak and yanked, whereupon he fell over the side, Sir.’
‘The door ... were you able to secure the door?’ Jericho asked.
‘I had just completed the task when I was set upon. But, I should say they know we are here.’
As if to accentuate the fact, a muffled banging on the door was heard above them in the darkness.
‘Then we are out of time. You know the plan: storm the palace and create a distraction for Curator Wulf. We have secured the gate and defeated the guard, let’s make some noise.’ Jericho rubbed his hands together and then extracted his borrowed sword.
Each man nodded and took formation, swords drawn at the ready.
The adrenaline-fuelled peacefulness was broken by the peal of a bell, deep toned and persistent. An alarm none had accounted for. This meant the remaining palace guard
s would now be alert. The surprise was lost. Above them, glazed windows and doors leading to parapets opened and several archers peeled out onto high balconies, while others charged their crossbows from the safety of the windows.
‘Charge!’ Jericho yelled, and led the formation forward at a full run.
They sprinted across the open courtyard, bypassed a non-functioning water feature that resembled a pineapple tree, and headed straight for the main doors of the palace.
The man next to Scroggins fell, an arrow to the neck and a second penetrating his leg. There was no time to stop and care for the him, besides, he would be dead in moments from severe blood loss.
The others raised shields above their heads and hurtled faster to their destination, arrows pinging off the steel of their cover. By a miracle, only one man was lost in the mad dash, and they soon reached the safety of the doorway, overshadowed by a high leather canopy, under which there was shelter from archers. Arrows smacked the thick hide and either embedded in or pierced the skin but lost power and fell harmlessly to the ground in spiralling patterns.
Jericho and the others whirled around at the sound of the palace’s great iron doors being unbolted and slowly opening with squeals of protest.
‘Positions for entry! Arrow formation!’ Jericho bellowed, and then faced Marrok. ‘Stick with me.’
Marrok nodded, withdrew his sword and made himself as small a target as possible.
Before him, brave Brotherhood soldiers formed into the point of an arrow, interlinked their shields and placed one foot behind the other to stay any threat from being bowled over. Sword tips poked out between the steel shields, an extra level of deterrent.
Two soldiers with long pikes stood at each side of the expansive doorway, ready to strike any advance.
At first nothing stirred and then a rumbling sound disturbed the anxious breaths of the men ready for battle.
From the darkness of the hallway, behind the large doorway, a large iron cage was wheeled into view upon man-sized wheels, the metal bars unable to hide the contents.
Above, holding a rope connected to the main door of the cage, a single soldier sneered, hungry for blood.
He yanked at the rope and at first it held fast. Yanking again, the line gave, as did the door, which crashed to the floor with a clang.
❖
Meone led the small group of infiltrators through a maze of high, badly worn corridors inside the palace. She stopped now and then to listen and sniff the air, expecting at any moment for a palace guard to wander around a hallway and for her to have to dispatch him quickly and quietly. Oddly, though, the corridors were eerily empty, which was a godsend since Len’i was far too massive to quieten his footsteps upon the marble tile.
It soon became apparent as they ventured deeper into the palace that the guards were busy elsewhere, and from the sounds reverberating around the corridors, Jericho had initiated his distraction.
‘The king’s quarters are just around the corner,’ Meone hissed, and signalled for the others to remain still. She quietly slunk to the ground and poked her head around the corner of the whitewashed wall.
Ahead lay a far more extravagantly decorated corridor, and finely carved seating with plush pillows lined the walls beneath portraits of former royal personages. Meone noted that one painting had been removed from its mount, and knew instantly that the missing artwork would have depicted the rightful King, Riley. Fine silk carpeting led to what appeared to be a series of luxuriously decorated rooms at the far end. This was indeed the king’s quarters.
The only trouble seemed to be the squad of palace guards between them and their prize. Several lounged on the king’s furniture quite openly, unfazed by the sounds of battle seeping in from outside.
Meone slid back behind the wall and stood once more. She looked grim, in the only way that a Felisis could look grim, her sharp teeth protruded, her brow furrowed and her ears were pinned back along her head. ‘Twelve men, big and strong.’
‘No doubt the king’s elite. These men will not go down without a fight.’ Len’i grinned.
Coinin rolled his eyes, perplexed at Len’i’s reaction, and then acquiesced to his own thoughts, realising, of course, that Len’i would react favourably to the idea of battle. To die honourably in battle as a warrior was, after all, what orcs of his standing were traditionally bred for. He had rebelled against his enforced role and branched out, ultimately leading to his downfall at the hands of his own kind and the pirate king.
‘Let me see,’ Coinin whispered, a notion of an idea forming. However, in reality, it was one of the many voices of former curators inside his head yelling suggestions. He had kept this side of his transformation quiet, for fear the others would consider him unhinged. Every waking moment, one voice or another guided him, and even though at first he was disquieted by the experience, Laliala had assured him that the voices were normal and would subside with time. She had, after all, undergone the same rite of passage as he, and was once a former curator herself. Coinin found her voice piping up now and then to offer sage advice.
Strange as it was to hear Laliala whispering in his ear, he stood and smiled at Len’i and Meone.
‘How fast can you move?’ he enquired of the Felisis.
‘As lightning.’
Coinin nodded. ‘Then move fast.’ He stepped into the open hallway and closed his eyes. Immediately, a cry rang out from the guards, and the sound of footsteps and drawn swords reached his ears.
‘Coinin, what are you doing?’ Len’i hissed.
The Curator ignored him and instead held out his arms at full stretch before him and clapped hard.
Len’i and Meone saw a wave of energy that was almost invisible to the naked eye travel from the clap, which itself was deafening, and move down the corridor.
One by one and in quick succession, the oil lamps were extinguished and the palace corridor was left in total darkness.
‘Move,’ Coinin yelled and strode forward. He withdrew his sword and found to his satisfaction that he could see quite clearly. He had expected this. The Ritual of the Wulf had imbued in him certain powers and abilities that a wolf would possess, such as being able to see clearly in the dark. Right now, he knew, his eyes would be glowing a yellow hue. He hoped they wouldn’t give him away or, if they did, terrify anyone who saw them.
A rush of wind beside him was followed by Meone darting forward to take the battle to the blinded guards ahead.
Meone was swift and dealt deadly blows to those she met, slicing, biting and clawing her way forward.
Somehow the guards had managed to group together and form a solid line of armour, though they hadn’t counted on Len’i, who needed no persuasion to join the fight.
With a terrifying roar, Len’i barged forward, knocking Coinin aside. It was just as well that he had since a palace guard had begun to swing his sword wildly and would have cleaved Coinin’s head from his shoulders.
Coinin stood once more and swung his own sword to deflect an incoming blow. The power of the strike took him by surprise, and he felt a searing pain run down his arm. He dropped the sword with a yelp, and saw that the guard had pinpointed his position. The large male was out for blood and bore down on him.
Coinin scrabbled for his dropped sword and felt a kick to his side. His ribs exploded in agony and he clutched at his torso, winded, and struggled to breathe, his gasps for air exacerbating the pain in his side.
‘I’ll kill you,’ the guard screamed and roughly grasped Coinin. He turned the young man to face him, and Coinin could see a look of insanity in the man’s eyes.
Strong, coarse hands seized Coinin’s throat, and he felt the very life leaving him. He tried to release his assailant’s hands fruitlessly and even attempted to claw at the man’s eyes, but his strength sapped quickly. Inside, he screamed for help, but none came. There was no one to save him this time, and he knew he was on his own. With death imminent, he closed his eyes and gave into his fate.
Coinin, Coinin, a voice
in the distance called desperately.
Coinin opened his eyes, seeking the source.
Your time is not yet. Fight boy, fight.
Coinin immediately recognised the voice of his father, Ædelmær, calling to him, pleading for him to fight back.
With a renewed vigour, Coinin brought his knee up hard into the groin of his attacker and while the man was distracted found himself able to take a breath.
Fresh, delightful air flooded his lungs and gave him the strength to reach into his boot and withdraw a thin dagger. ‘No more running!’ he snarled, and struck. Something sticky and wet ran over his fingers and in no doubt what it was, his stomach lurched.
The attacker howled in pain and rolled off Coinin, clutching his chest right where the heart was.
Coinin felt an overwhelming desire to run to the man’s aid, but the others needed his help. If the guard were still alive when he returned, he would ensure he received adequate care.
He stopped for a moment to thank his father and his brother. Marrok had been correct, the weapon did save his life, and he was thankful that his father had stepped in once again to save him.
With a determination to win, previously unknown to him, he stood and wiped his hands free of blood and gripped the hilt of his sword. He stepped over the prone guard and charged forward, his sword raised.
As Coinin arrived, he saw that Len’i had dispatched the last of the warriors and sat panting, cross-legged on the floor, while Meone busied herself lighting one of the oil lamps to throw some light on the scene.
Coinin wished she had not after seeing the carnage left behind. Limbs and other assorted body parts littered the hallway, and pools of blood ruined the carpeting. He raced back to the guard who had attacked him and saw instantly that the man had perished. He hung his head in shame and guilt and returned to Len’i.
The giant orc looked up as Coinin joined him at his side. He nodded, grim-faced. ‘Well done, young one. The first is never the easiest, but neither is the next, nor the last. There will be more before this day is out. A true warrior you will make.’
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 95