To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  Achan’s ear twitched. He reached a mittened hand up to scratch, irons clinking, but could find no way into the layers of fur. “I think my furs have fleas.”

  “It’s always a possibility,” Sir Caleb said.

  Achan groaned. He’d been joking. No matter how many times he had fleas over the years, he never got used to them. Maybe due to Gren. She always refused to be near him until they were gone.

  Achan faced Sir Caleb, but the knight was looking at the torchlights of Ice Island. Achan’s stomach roiled. The lights were so high up. How could they ever succeed?

  He sensed Sir Caleb’s fear and again agonized over the situation. He understood Sir Caleb’s desire to keep him safe, but Achan couldn’t sit around and mope over Lady Tara’s marriage to Lord Gershom. This insane mission not only preoccupied his mind, it affirmed him. He had made a choice.

  His first royal command, perhaps?

  He pulled his knees up. The dagfish hook in his trousers slid from his knee to his thigh. Sir Caleb had insisted they wear their hooks from the start to save time. This way they could fix their belts under their arms and fly.

  But Achan didn’t want to think about that. Nor the fact that he’d left Eagan’s Elk back at the inn, the sword that would no longer belong to him after today. His only weapon was Inko’s small, leather-wrapped knife hidden inside his boot.

  When the sleds stopped, Inko climbed out and took Sir Gavin’s place on their sled.

  Sir Gavin helped Achan stand, torch burning strong in his hand. “You’ve got Inko’s knife?”

  Standing up made his feet sink into knee-deep snow and invited frigid air up his fur cape. Achan shivered. “Aye.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Inko and Verdot drove the sleds away to their position east of the stronghold. Ice Island stood before them, black but for the torches outlining the massive watchtower and surrounding curtain wall, casting pockets of light onto grey stone. Achan trudged toward the imposing fortress between Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb, dragging his leg chains through the snow. With each step, snow fell over the tops of his boots and melted down to his ankles. The dagfish hook slid back and forth, scratching his kneecap every so often with its barbed hook.

  “Keep your shields up to all but us.” Sir Gavin’s breath spewed from his nose like a cham bear. “The prisoners are given âleh, but there may be guards with the ability.”

  Achan repeated the instruction to himself. His cheeks stung from the cold, his nose and ears were numb. He should’ve put up his hood. Too late now.

  They stopped before Northgate, twin towers that loomed five levels high, connected by a black iron portcullis. The curtain wall shot away from each tower. All was dark but for the randomly spaced torches along the parapet and the sporadic arrow loops glowing with light from each tower.

  A nasal voice called through the gate. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Markson Will and Vindo Relz with a prisoner for the Prodotez,” Sir Gavin yelled.

  “Prisoner’s name?”

  “Achan Cham. Also known as Gidon Hadar.”

  Achan’s stomach swayed. How long might it take for Esek to get word he had arrived? Hopefully, Esek had gone south from Carmine and not north like the duchess suspected.

  With a soft clank, an iron gate swung open from within the portcullis. Sweat broke out over Achan despite being half frozen. Two guards, all but their eyes clad in pelts, stepped outside, swords raised, and beckoned them enter. The knights tugged Achan forward and they entered the bailey of the prison.

  Achan glanced at the guard on his right. Their eyes met and Achan sensed conflicting emotions. Hope and despair.

  Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb pulled Achan along as if they knew exactly where they were going. His chains slid over a slippery stone ground. The snow in the bailey had been piled against the curtain walls in huge mounds. Achan tipped back his head to see the towering Pillar. Icy wind snaked down the neck of his tunic. He hunched down, sniffing his watery nose.

  Every guard seemed to stare. Achan opened his mind and a vast array of emotions washed over him. Like the guard at Northgate, the guardsmen seemed conflicted by his presence. Some were a part of tonight’s escape plan. Some were not.

  Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb led Achan into the northern tower of the Pillar and started up the spiraling staircase, deserted and dark but for torches and a guard or two on the landing of each level. It was just as cold in the tower as it had been outside and smelled oddly like dirt. The stomping of three sets of boots and chain banging on the steps echoed in the stairwell.

  Careful to shield his mind, Achan opened to the lone guard on level four.

  The man’s deer-like eyes never blinked. He’s the mirror image of the painting in Lytton Hall.

  Achan let go, curious about this painting.

  The guard on the fifth level turned his back to Achan. We can’t keep him here. We mustn’t.

  On level six, two guards stood together, necks twisting together like twin owls. Achan tried to peek at both minds but only managed to hear:

  Ahh. This one’s too young to be…

  …live to see the day.

  On seven, the guard’s mind was closed. Achan glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at the dark-bearded man, but the continually curling staircase swept him away.

  Achan’s legs ached. He pulled against Sir Gavin’s grip. Can we stop a moment? This hook keeps scraping my knee.

  Sir Gavin slowed his pace. Sorry. I’m a bit on edge. I expected to have to declare you to more than the men at the gate.

  Seems odd, Achan said.

  Aye. Keep your eye out. And remember, Eagan and Kurtz will answer to Chion.

  The name of Sir Gavin’s old wolf dog had apparently been a password amongst the Old Kingsguardsmen.

  The eighth floor guardsman leaned on his sword like a cane. He won’t last the month.

  The ninth floor guard sneered like an angry dog and had an equally comforting thought. Prisoners’ll chew him up.

  The guard on ten had closed his mind. He spat tobacco juice on the floor as they swept past.

  The guard on eleven stared like a starved wolf. Will King Esek give me the bounty if I kill him myself?

  The twelfth level hit Achan with a blast of icy wind that blew open his cape and knifed through his tunic. The roof. Sir Gavin barged past the guards standing there and moved along the northeastern wall toward the eastern tower.

  Sir Caleb ducked his head against the wind. Surprising no one’s spoken to us yet.

  Aye. Sir Gavin sniffed a short breath. ’Tis a mite peculiar.

  They entered the eastern tower, Achan’s chains rattling on the stone steps. This tower had no exits on any levels. No doors or arrow loops. It simply twisted down, an endless spiral lit by an occasional torch. A rank combination of mildew, urine, and torch smoke turned Achan’s stomach. His head began to feel light. His mouth filled with saliva. I’m getting dizzy.

  Almost there, Sir Gavin said.

  They finally spilled out into a stone chamber that sat on the diagonal. Two narrow passages stretched out, left and right, from the stairwell’s corner. A slack-faced guard with shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair reclined with his feet on a wooden table, carving lines into the table with a long knife. Behind him, a wall of stone slats each held a scroll and a key on a ring.

  The guard let his feet fall to the floor and stabbed the knife into the table’s surface. “What you got here?”

  “New prisoner,” Sir Gavin said.

  The guard’s gaze traveled up and down Achan. “Roiz!”

  Pattering footsteps from the right corridor preceded a scrawny old man, hunched and balding. He wore a tattered brown cape. The man grinned, rotten teeth darkening his smile.

  “Where they assign ’im to?” the big guard asked.

  “Prodotez,” Sir Gavin said.

  The guard snorted. “Get that, Roiz?”

  “Old as I may be, Beck, I ain’t deaf.” Roiz drew his hand along the stone s
lats, counting in a whisper. He pulled out a scroll and key, tossed it down on the table, then pointed up to a jar of ink. “Get my ink and quill for me?”

  Beck glared at Roiz, as if standing wasn’t part of his job. But he heaved himself off the chair and handed the ink and a thin, white feather down to Roiz.

  Roiz unrolled the scroll and weighted down the top with the key ring. “Name?”

  “Gidon Hadar,” Sir Gavin said.

  The old man wrinkled his nose. “You tryin’ to be funny?”

  “Certainly not.” Sir Gavin’s eyebrows met in one shaggy white line. “There’s a bounty on this man’s head. We’ve caught him. We want the credit and the gold and we’ll be on our way.”

  Roiz dropped the quill and circled the table. He waved a hand. “You can let go o’ him. He ain’t goin’ nowheres.”

  Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb released Achan’s arms.

  Roiz peered into Achan’s eyes, pulled off his fur cape and mittens, and tossed them on the table. “These’ll only get you hurt. Prisoners fight over clothin’. Gimme that knife, Beck.”

  Beck jerked the knife from the tabletop and flipped it around, handle out.

  Roiz took it, waved the blade at Achan. “Turn ’round.”

  Achan obeyed, chains grating over the stone floor. What was Roiz going to do? The man’s cold fingers slid across the back of Achan’s neck, pushing his ponytail aside. Achan’s fingers twitched. Every reflex wanted to move, to pull the knife from his boot. His gaze flicked to the stone-faced knights. They’d step in if he were in danger, wouldn’t they?

  Roiz clamped a wiry hand on Achan’s shoulder. “Stay put. This won’t hurt.” Roiz’s fingers gripped the back neck of Achan’s shirt. The linen ripped in an instant.

  Sir Caleb lunged forward a step. Roiz didn’t notice. He dropped the knife to the table, his cold fingers folded back Achan’s tunic, and Sir Caleb’s posture relaxed.

  “Well, I’ll be the son o’ Thalessa. You see this, Beck? It’s just like they said.”

  Beck shrugged. “He’s a stray. So what?”

  Roiz scratched his balding head. “Prodotez, you say? We call that the Pit ’round here.” He picked up the scroll and studied it. “Men who kill your pappy ’r’ in the Pit, boy.” He snorted. “Cetheria’s got a dark sense o’ justice, she has. After thirteen years, I bet these men’ll like to have a word with you.” He chuckled. “All right, then. Bring ’im along. This way.”

  Roiz lifted a torch from a ring beside the slats and started down the left corridor, brown cape flapping behind. Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb followed, leading Achan after him.

  The dark and cold corridor seemed to stretch on forever. They passed narrow doors on both sides with iron grates at the bottom, staggered, so no two faced one another across the hall. Chains clanked inside each cell. Filthy fingers wiggled out the grates. Voices called out, but Achan couldn’t make out words over the sound of his own chains dragging over the stone.

  Roiz turned right down a short corridor and they stepped into a diamond-shaped atrium. They stood at one wide angle. To their left, in the narrow corner, two fur-clad guards looked their way. A diamond-shaped grate covered the center floor with a narrow stone path around it. Achan blinked and leaned forward. Dozens of sets of eyes stared back from below.

  “Hold him right there.” Roiz whistled, and the fur-clad guards approached from the end of the diamond.

  The knights stopped. Achan looked up. He could see all the way to the roof, twelve levels above, and each floor in between. Torches, mounted between each narrow cell door, lit up the inner cavity of the Pillar. From the second level to the roof, iron grates covered the open ledges.

  Roiz stomped on the floor grate. “Back, you vermin. Back, I say.”

  The fur-clad guards flanked Roiz, swords drawn. The old man crouched and inserted the key into the grate. He swung the door open until it clanged against the grate on the other side. The noise echoed to the ceiling.

  Roiz waved a hand. “Bring ’im over.”

  Sir Gavin gripped Achan’s elbow but didn’t move.

  Achan stared at the glinting eyes peering up from below. That’s the Prodotez?

  Looks to be, Sir Caleb said. Gavin, we can’t let them put the prince down there.

  Sir Gavin released Achan’s elbow. Achan, back against the wall.

  Achan inched backwards. His leg chains sounded so loud, scraping over the metal grate.

  Sir Gavin crept forward, hand on his hilt. Caleb, draw on my command. You take the shorter guard and Roiz, I’ll take—

  “Hold,” a lofty voice spoke from the corridor behind them.

  Achan twisted around to find a sword pointed at his chest. His gaze traveled up the blade to Sir Kenton’s pale face and curtain of long black hair. Behind Sir Kenton, Esek Nathak strode into the atrium, wrapped in a thick red wool cloak.

  Pig snout!

  Sir Gavin drew his sword.

  “Really, Sir Gavin?” Esek shot Sir Gavin a scathing look. “Do you honestly think you stand a chance of escape?”

  Esek’s soldiers spilled into the center hold from every corridor, swords drawn, wearing the black capes of the New Kingsguard.

  “Put it away, Sir Gavin,” Esek strolled, one step at a time, posture straight, nose in the air, “and I might let the stray live.”

  A chill washed over Achan. How’d they get here so fast?

  Verdot told them we were coming, Sir Caleb said.

  Sir Gavin sheathed his sword. You can’t know that, Caleb.

  I can. Sir Caleb glared at Sir Gavin.

  Any one of Verdot’s guards could have passed on the information.

  Esek locked eyes with Achan. “I see you are still trying to hide your scars with this pathetic excuse for a beard. I thank you for putting yourself into prison. Saved me a lot of trouble.”

  Achan clasped his hands, ducked under Sir Kenton’s blade, and bashed him in the temple.

  Sir Kenton staggered long enough for Achan to lunge past and tackle Esek, knocking them both to the stone floor. Achan landed on top. He gripped the chain on his shackles in both hands and pressed it over Esek’s neck.

  Esek’s face flushed. Achan pushed harder, furious this coward had tried to hurt Gren. Esek croaked.

  A hand grabbed Achan’s hair and lifted. Achan flailed for a decent foothold. His attacker threw him backwards.

  He tumbled over the grate and met the eyes of a prisoner below. He flipped over in time to take Sir Kenton’s boot to the chest. The kick knocked the air from his lungs. Another kick rolled him to his side.

  Sir Kenton grabbed the back of Achan’s tunic and lifted. His cut tunic ripped further, and he fell back to the grate. Sir Kenton snagged the back of Achan’s belt and swung him forward.

  Achan flew—inches over the grate floor—then sailed headfirst through the door of the pit.

  The prisoners broke his fall. Several sets of hands caught him, set him on his feet in a dark, rank, chamber. Someone tackled him, knocking him onto the cold, sticky stone floor that reeked of human waste.

  Hands grabbed his foot and wrenched. Achan’s skidded over the floor on his rear. He put his hands down to balance himself and bent his knee, trying to free his foot. But his boot slowly slipped down his leg, under the loose shackle, and popped off.

  Achan fell onto his back. “Hey!”

  He could barely see the shape of a man step into his boot, then lunge forward and grab Achan’s other foot.

  Achan sat up and kicked the man with his bare foot, but the man held fast until the second boot tugged free. The boot knife clumped to the dark floor.

  Achan dove for it, unwrapped it, and held it out. He pushed to his feet and turned in a circle, his bare feet tacky on the cold stone floor.

  “Back away, all of you!” he yelled.

  Several prisoners laughed.

  “Home at last?” Esek’s voice carried down into the pit. The open door in the grate above framed his pompous face.

  “If you fight me alo
ne, without the aid of your overgrown shadow, I’ll kill you,” Achan said. “But you know that, don’t you? Which is why you’re unwilling to give me that chance.”

  “You’re not worth my effort.” Esek pulled his head back, and the grate door slammed shut.

  Achan trembled and lowered his gaze to those around him. A shadow shifted to his left and Achan jerked his knife that way. “Stay back!”

  “What’s your name, boy?” a deep voice asked.

  Sir Gavin? What’s happening?

  We’re going to fight Esek’s men. The guards are freeing prisoners and giving them weapons to join us. Find my men. They’ll protect you.

  Shouts broke out above. Swords clashed and a dozen guards trampled over the grate. Achan cringed at the sound it made in the pit. The footsteps receded until there was silence.

  Achan inched forward, knife ready, until the faint grid of torchlight fell over a group of haggard, hairy men. Most had beards as long as Sir Gavin’s, many of them grey or white, though Achan spotted some dark hair in the bunch.

  He swallowed and released a shaky breath. “I’ve come for the friends of Chion.”

  A man cackled, the sound a cross between a gowzal call and a woodpecker. Achan waved his knife and backed up.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” the nasal voice said.

  Achan sidestepped toward the wall. He didn’t want anyone sneaking up behind him. But as he reached it, his right foot fell into a trench. He caught himself with his right hand and found the wall as moist and sticky as the floor. He pulled his foot up and it scraped the sides, coated with cold wetness.

  Snickers rang out.

  “He found the pot!” a man yelled. The cackler. He broke out into another jarring fit of laughter. Achan cringed.

  “Privy’s along the perimeter, it is,” another man said. “Two-foot wide trench. No one knows how deep it goes before it drains out, eh?”

  “’Cept those we’ve thrown in,” the cackler said.

  Achan scraped his foot over the floor, not that it probably made much difference. He faced the crowd, shaken at the squalor these men endured. “What crime does a man commit to end up here?”