The Rock of Ivanore

by Laurisa White Reyes

  “I will show them this,” said Jayson. He reached into the pouch at his waist and retrieved a flat object the size of his palm, a half-circle of sea-colored crystal. Though the design on it was broken, Marcus recognized it immediately as the same seal that appeared on the banner behind which he stood.

  Fredric’s eyes widened when he saw it. “Ivanore’s royal seal!”

  Jayson ran his fingers over the embossed design. “She broke it in two and gave half of it to me before we were separated,” he said. “She said it was to remind me that my other half waited here until the day we could be reunited.”

  Fredric reached out his withered hand and wrapped it around Jayson’s hand, clasping the seal. “Perhaps, if the gods be willing, this may still come to pass. Now go swiftly. Take my guards with you. Bring back whatever army you can gather,” he said, “and pray we may all live to see another day.”

  Forty-eight

  ord Fredric excused himself from the council chambers, leaving Prost to oversee Jayson’s departure for the mines. Prost ordered fresh supplies along with Fredric’s fastest horses. The two guards assigned to Jayson were given the charge to protect him at all costs—and to see to it that the authorities at the mine heeded his message.

  “The mine keeper is a disagreeable fellow,” warned Prost, “but with Ivanore’s seal at your disposal, you should have little trouble convincing him of your authority, though I think it wise to carry Lord Fredric’s banner, as well.”

  Jayson nodded his thanks and headed for the door, anxious to be on his way. It was nearing midday and time would not keep.

  “One more thing,” added Prost, his voice laced with feigned empathy, “I do apologize for Fredric’s earlier outburst about his son, but you must comprehend the position Arik has put him in.”

  “Arik acted out of grief from a father’s loathing of him,” replied Jayson. “What he’s done is a terrible thing, but you heard Fredric same as I did. Arik need only admit his wrongdoing, and he will be forgiven.”

  Prost preened his bird’s feathers with his fingertips, a cunning smile on his lips. “And will you forgive Arik as well?”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “Then you don’t know,” added Prost, his eyes widening with mock innocence.

  “What are you talking about?” Jayson was becoming impatient.

  The bird walked up Prost’s arm to his shoulder and snuggled against his chin. “That Arik told Fredric where you and Ivanore were hiding, of course,” said Prost. “It was he who betrayed you those many years ago.”

  Jayson’s expression did not reveal anger or surprise. He did not have time to concern himself about a friendship that was already lost. Instead he turned his back on Prost and left to get on with his duty. Thyren followed.

  Outside the chamber door, beyond Marcus and Kaië’s hearing, Arnot awaited his final orders. Prost gave them. “It would be a tragedy if Jayson and Arik died in battle,” he said. “See to it, won’t you?”

  Forty-nine

  inding the council chambers finally empty, Kaië and Marcus slipped out from behind the tapestry. Kaië hurried across the room to the tunnel’s door, but Marcus stopped her.

  “I can’t leave yet,” he told her. “Yesterday a friend of mine was captured by Lord Fredric’s soldiers—a little boy. I have to find him.”

  “Can’t leave? Can’t leave?” squealed Xerxes.

  Marcus tried his best to ignore him. “I have to get him out of here or he’ll be executed.”

  “The holding cells are located in the lower levels of the Fortress,” said Kaië. “Their entrance is on the opposite side of the main corridor, but they are under heavy guard. You won’t get through undetected.”

  Marcus looked around the room, searching for something he could use to disguise himself, but found nothing useful.

  Again Xerxes protested. “I’m not going to any prison cell! I demand we leave this place immediately!”

  Marcus opened the door a crack and peered into the corridor. He saw a long, wide hall supported by massive stone arches. At the far end was a narrow, wooden door barred with a solid beam.

  “There are guards posted everywhere,” whispered Marcus. He felt in his pocket for the key and considered his options. Magic was limited to manipulating the elements of the earth, he reminded himself. He could not conjure something out of thin air.

  “Maybe I could create a distraction,” he suggested out loud.

  “What sort of distraction?” asked Kaië.

  “Something that would draw away the guards long enough for us to reach the prison.”

  Xerxes voice was irate now. “I won’t be a party to your killing us all! No, I’ll have none of it!” Then he went silent, reverting to his wooden self.

  Marcus was too concerned about his present situation to worry about Xerxes. He thought of Bryn locked away behind that wooden door. As Marcus contemplated the possible punishments he might already have suffered, the key’s temperature rose in his hand. He knew he had one chance to get by the guards. One chance only.

  The key now burned against his flesh. He held it up and focused his thoughts. Beneath him, the stone floor began to tremble. The entire room shook with such great violence that objects on Lord Fredric’s desk wobbled and fell to the floor. Shouts emanated from the hall, and the sound of running footsteps grew distant.

  Marcus peered through the door once again. The quake was stronger than he had anticipated, but it had worked. The hall was empty. “The soldiers are gone,” he announced. “Let’s hurry before they come back.”

  A peculiar weakness seized Marcus following the quake. But though it alarmed him, he said nothing. He and Kaië ran down the hall toward the entrance to the lower levels. They listened to the confused and fearful voices of the soldiers outside. Marcus was out of breath by the time they reached the opposite end of the hall, the magic having drained him of strength. He and Kaië pushed against the beam across the door. In his weakened state, Marcus could only muster minimal effort, but with a few forceful shoves, it gave way.

  “We don’t have much time,” said Kaië, sprinting down the steps into the cold, damp darkness below. The steps seemed to descend forever, and Marcus fought against the familiar fear that gripped him. He wondered whether they would ever reach the bottom, when suddenly he found himself on level ground. Water trickled down the walls of the chamber, and the dank stench of mildew invaded his nostrils. A single torch scarcely illuminated the area, leaving much of it in shadow.

  “Bryn!” Marcus called out. He felt his strength returning. “Bryn! Are you here?” The clanking of irons and the moans of someone roused from sleep broke the silence.

  “Who is there?” a voice, weak and strained, called back. Marcus peered into the cell beside him and saw the silhouette of a scrawny man with a shaggy, unkempt beard.

  “I’m searching for someone who was taken captive yesterday,” said Marcus.

  “You mean the boy?” replied the man, coming to the bars of his cell. “They put him in the last chamber. We two are the only inhabitants of this hell today.”

  In the dim light, Marcus could now clearly make out the prisoner’s face. “You’re Agoran,” he said.

  The prisoner nodded. “I am Eliha.”

  Marcus thanked Eliha and felt his way down to the end of the hall, leaving Kaië beside the stairwell. His heart pounded furiously as he called Bryn’s name once more. This time he received the response he had been hoping for.

  Fifty

  arcus! You have come for me?” Bryn’s tearful voice called out through the darkness.

  Marcus held the key up to the cell door and commanded the lock to turn. When the cell door opened, Bryn stumbled out and fell upon Marcus, sobbing. “Why do you risk so much to save me?”

  “You did as much for me and Kelvin,” replied Marcus. “But we have to hurry or we may all spend eternity down here together.”

  The Agoran, Eliha, reached through his cell bars and grasped Marcus’s cape as he
hurried by. “Free me as well!” he pleaded.

  “I can’t free a criminal,” said Marcus, pulling away from the prisoner’s grasp.

  “I am no criminal! I was taken from my family to work in the mines. I escaped and tried to get back to my wife and my three children, but I was captured, beaten, and thrown in this hellish pit. Please, I beg of you!”

  Knowing that the guards would soon be returning to their posts, Marcus wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible, but his conscience would not let him leave another living soul to suffer in this place alone. He held the key close to the lock. The latch within clicked open as before. Eliha flew out of the cell, pushed past Marcus and ran up the stairs. Halfway up he stopped and turned back.

  “Hurry!” he said impatiently.

  The four of them reached the top step and paused at the door.

  “Once we open it,” said Kaië, “the guards will know we’re here.”

  “Then we should be as subtle as possible.” Marcus held up the key. He focused on opening the door with a gentle push of air, but his anxiety surged into the key, and in a powerful burst of energy, the door exploded off its hinges and skidded across the hall, taking three soldiers by surprise.

  “Well,” said Marcus as the soldiers turned and faced them, “I say we run!”

  Marcus, Kaië, and the others sped through the doorway back toward the council chambers, but the guards blocked the way, their swords drawn.

  “Up here!” shouted Kaië. The group turned back the way they came, heading for the flight of stairs leading up to the second floor of the Fortress.

  “Where are we going?” shouted Bryn.

  Kaië did not respond but continued down the hall at the top of the stairs. Marcus knew immediately what she intended to do. She was heading for the throne room and from there down the private steps to the council chambers and out through the tunnel. They reached the second floor and found themselves in front of a massive, ornately carved wooden door. Surely this must be the entrance to the throne room, thought Marcus, relieved that they would get out alive after all.

  Suddenly two armed guards stepped between them and the door.

  Marcus drew his sword and managed to injure one of them. But his full strength had not yet returned, and the confrontation weakened him even more. The other guard struck at him; Marcus barely warded off the blow.

  Two more guards came up behind them, having followed them from the first floor. Marcus, Kaië, Bryn, and Eliha found themselves surrounded.

  “I’m sorry, Bryn,” said Marcus. It was all he could think of to say. He considered using magic to fight the guards, though he feared doing so might leave him without the strength to escape. Magic is my only choice, he thought. But as he held out the key, the guard to his left struck him with the butt of his sword. The key flew from Marcus’s hand and clattered across the floor.

  Marcus was relieved that the soldier had not noticed the key, and he determined a way to get it back. But with each passing moment, the soldiers tightened their circle around him. There are too many of them, he thought.

  Just when it appeared that he and the others would be forced to surrender, Bryn grabbed the nearest soldier by the arm. With a surge of inhuman strength, he flung the stunned man against the wall. Marcus watched, horrified, as the small boy who had been his companion, his enemy, and his friend for the past five days mutated into a grotesque monster. Black hair sprouted across his back and arms. His torso stretched to four times the boy’s normal height, and his face contorted into that of a ferocious fanged beast. The Groc threw back its head and howled. The guards screamed in terror. Even Kaië and the Agoran prisoner huddled together, trembling in fear.

  Marcus watched as Bryn, wielding dagger-like claws, dispatched another guard in a single blow. But the shouts of a dozen more guards from below told him that Bryn would soon be outnumbered.

  “Hurry!” shouted Kaië, pointing toward the throne room door. “If we go now, we’ll make it!”

  She grabbed Marcus by the hand and pulled him through the doorway, with the Agoran close behind. The Groc ran to the door but did not pass through. Instead he turned to face the advancing soldiers.

  “Go!” he shouted. Bryn’s low, animal-like voice no longer bore the soft, high pitch of the child’s form he held before. “I will keep them from following you!”

  “No, Bryn!” answered Marcus. “You can’t fight all of them! They’ll kill you!”

  Bryn turned to Marcus. Behind him Marcus could see the soldiers running down the hall, the blades of their swords hungry for blood.

  “You are my friend,” Bryn said. “It is an honor to die for a friend.” Then Bryn grabbed the edge of the door with his claws and pulled it shut. Marcus ran to it, flinging his fists against the wood.

  “No! Bryn! No!” Through the door he could hear Bryn’s roar and the soldiers’ screams. A loud piercing howl tore through him, and then all went silent. Someone grabbed Marcus from behind and pulled him through the throne room, down a flight of stairs, and into a dark tunnel. He didn’t pay attention to what was around him; all he could think of was Bryn. It wasn’t until daylight struck his eyes that he realized he and Kaië and the Agoran were free. They had emerged at the end of the tunnel on the side of a grassy hill overlooking the ocean. Bryn—and the key—were gone.

  Fifty-one

  n horseback, the distance from Dokur to the mines took little more than an hour. Jayson arrived flanked by Lord Fredric’s two guards, Thyren and Arnot.

  The three men approached the guard post, a small wooden structure situated on an outcropping of rock overlooking the mine. A sentry stood warming his hands before a small fire. He was a stout fellow with a mass of disheveled hair on his head and chin. A dull plate of metal covered his chest, and a leather whip curled into a loop hung at his waist.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Thyren spoke first. “We are sent by Lord Fredric of Dokur with a message for Sergeant Damen.”

  “I’m Damen. What’s the message?”

  Jayson handed the sentry a rolled piece of parchment sealed with wax. Damen cracked the seal and read over the scroll.

  “Dokur is under siege,” said Jayson. “We haven’t time to gather troops. Lord Fredric commands you to free the slaves.”

  Damen’s lips spread into a jeering grin. “Which of you is in charge?”

  “I am,” said Jayson.

  Damen glared at Jayson with contempt and spat on the ground. Then he rolled up the parchment, tucked it underneath his arm, and began to walk away.

  Thyren dismounted and caught Damen by the shoulder, turning him around. “You will obey these orders, sir!”

  Damen shouted, waving a finger at Jayson. “I’ll take no orders from the likes of him. That mongrel belongs in the mine with the rest of his kind.”

  In half a breath’s time, Thyren drew his sword and had the point of it pressed behind Damen’s left ear. A sheath of perspiration formed along the sergeant’s forehead. “You will take his orders,” he said, “or I will see to it that you never hear any orders again!”

  With a noticeable gulp, Damen nodded and turned his full attention to Jayson.

  “Dokur is in danger,” continued Jayson. “We need soldiers immediately. You are to free the slaves and distribute the weapons from this wagon.”

  “Give them weapons?! Are you insane? They would kill me and all the other guards the moment a blade is placed in their hands!”

  In one swift motion, Jayson reached down from his horse and grabbed Damen by the collar, lifting him several inches into the air. “Killing you would be more than you deserve, you rotten parasite! I have known your kind, and I have killed them without a second thought. The world would be better off without you. Lord Fredric has promised these men their freedom in exchange for their loyalty, and I will wager any one of them would gladly risk his life for such an offer. You, on the other hand, would rather cower behind a child than lift your sword in battle. Now, you will call the s
laves together and instruct your men to fulfill his Lordship’s orders, or I will gladly let the slaves have their way with you before we go.”

  Damen’s body shuddered as Jayson let him fall to the ground. The sergeant scrambled to his feet and ran to the guard post. A loud horn sounded. The slaves laid down their tools and assembled in a wide, flat area just below them. Though the men were lean in stature, they were fierce looking, hardened from many years in the mines.

  “Speak loudly and slowly,” instructed Damen. “The walls of the canyon naturally amplify your voice.”

  Jayson stood before the silent throng and looked from one angry face to another. These were his people, his brothers, and his friends.

  “Agorans,” he began, searching for the right words, “I bring you a message from Dokur. An enemy fleet off the coast is preparing to attack. Our army is scattered and cannot be organized in time. Dokur’s survival rests on you.”

  A low rumble rose up from the crowd. One man stepped forward. He stood a foot taller than most of the others, and though he was obviously young, the scars across his back revealed a strong and proud will. “Impossible!” he shouted. “No enemy can approach Dokur undetected!”

  “The tower has been compromised,” explained Jayson. “Lord Fredric has commanded that you be given weapons and asks that you come to Dokur’s defense.”

  “Fredric?” scoffed the tall slave. “He is the one responsible for these scars on my back. He tore our wives and children from our arms and drove them to the marshlands like cattle! Tell Fredric that we slaves will gladly take his weapons and will use them to exact revenge upon him!”

  Jayson waited for the crowd to quiet down before he continued. “What is your name?” he asked the man, obviously the leader of the group. The slave spoke with such courage, such ferocity, that Jayson could not help but respect him.