by Jon Kiln
“My castle will soon fall. There is nothing more I can do to stop it. Harald’s soldiers will storm the keep, but they won’t find you there, my dear. No, they will not.” The Duchess glanced at Myriam as she spoke, and the young woman saw a deep sorrow in her grandmother’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but the Duchess spoke first. “You have Harkan? Your knife, you have it with you?”
Myriam touched the hilt of the ornate dagger, sheathed at her hip. It had been a gift from the Duchess on the occasion of her twelfth birthday. Its blade was milk-white, the hilt elaborately decorated with gemstones. “I have it.”
“Good.” The Duchess nodded her head as she walked. Abruptly, she stopped. Turning to face them all, the Duchess offered her lantern to Ganry. The big man took it wordlessly. “This is where I must leave you,” she told them. “Follow the corridor to the end. Take the second exit on the left from the chamber beyond. Keep them safe, Ganry.”
“I will, m’lady.”
“Leave us?” Myriam shook her head. “Grandmother, what are you talking about?”
“I must return to the castle.”
“But-”
“I must,” repeated the Duchess firmly. “Hush, child. Don’t fret about me. It’s your death Harald seeks, not mine. I’m no threat to his ambitions. I was never in line for that ridiculous, eagle-backed chair he covets so. My lineage is far older, and far more powerful. As is your own, Myriam. Remember that.”
The old woman stepped closer and drew forth her own dagger, the twin of Myriam’s Harkan. She held it up to the light, running her tired eyes along the milk white blade a final time. Then, her lips set in a firm line, the Duchess held out the dagger to Hendon. “Take it, boy.”
Hendon reached out hesitantly and took the knife. The blade glowed with an inner light that intensified as the lad took hold of it, matching the burning fire which had appeared in the milk-white stone of his ring. Hendon held the blade reverently, as if it were the holiest of relics.
The Duchess, too, had a ring. Now she removed it from her finger and offered it to Myriam. The princess stared at her grandmother. The breath caught in her throat. She did not know what to do or what to say. The moment stretched out between them with a heavy finality which Myriam could not bear.
“What is this?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”
“Take the ring, my child.” The Duchess smiled encouragement and proffered the ring again. Myriam took it, though she did not wish to. “Slip it on your finger, dear. You mustn't lose it.”
“But why?” Myriam didn’t like this one bit, but she did as the Duchess had asked. The ring was cool on her finger. She could not imagine why the old woman would give up her ring and knife this way, unless… “Grandmother, what’s going to happen?”
“Nothing, child. Nothing.” The Duchess smiled again, shaking her head. There was a sadness to her smile that tore at Myriam’s heart. “Or perhaps… everything. Now, the four of you must go. Remember what I have said. To the end of the corridor. In the chamber beyond, take the second exit on the left.”
Without another word, the Duchess D’Anjue swept past them and started back up the corridor. Myriam spun on her heels, watching her grandmother fade into the shadows leading back to the castle cellar. She had the most terrible feeling that she would never see the old woman again.
4
“Castle Locke has fallen.”
Arexos tried to hide his surprised gasp, but the two men at the table heard him anyway. His master, Qutaybah, shot him a severe frown. Arexos busied himself once more with clearing away the plates from the table, keeping his eyes lowered and his thoughts to himself.
They were in a spacious, private dining room on the second floor of one of the local inns. It was easily as large as the common room in most of the inns Arexos had ever stayed in, and had cost more to hire for a single hour than Arexos might have earned in a year of his former life. His master had handed over the coin with blithe nonchalance.
Qutaybah was a great big bear of a man, with jet black skin and a smooth, hairless head. The Vandemlander was rich, powerful, and short-tempered when it came to his servants. Arexos had belonged to him for only a few short weeks. The slender young man, barely more than a boy, had been born a free subject of Palara.
It seemed like another lifetime, one which Arexos had become resigned to never seeing again. He had been squired to Henrickson, one-time captain of Duke Harald’s guards. The duke had sent Henrickson into Vandemland as a spy, but the smugglers the captain had paid to sneak them over the border had betrayed them both. Arexos didn’t know what had become of Henrickson after that.
Arexos himself had been purchased by a steward from Qutaybah’s household. Soon after, Qutaybah himself had taken a liking to the boy. At least, it often seemed as if the big man liked him. Arexos couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that his master had brought him along on this journey to serve him on the road.
The other man at the table with Qutaybah was an officer in the local garrison, Varton by name. They had reached the port city of Brammanville the night before. Qutaybah had left the soldiers of his retinue, one hundred men in all, camped in a secluded cove further down the coast away from Palara. Bringing only Arexos with him, he had come to Brammanville to seek the latest news and gossip.
“I had not expected the Duchess to hold out forever,” he said now, shaking his massive, bald head. His voice rumbled from deep in his broad chest, but there was a gentle thoughtfulness to it. “But for the castle to fall so soon…”
“That rabble of hers never stood a chance,” countered Varton with a sneer. “Not against trained men of Palara. I’m surprised they managed to hold as long as they did. ‘Twas the old hag herself, I’ll wager. Used her witchcraft to hold our men beyond the wall, she did.”
Qutaybah snorted with derision. “The Duchess D’Anjue has no witchcraft,” he said. “There is no such thing as magic, Varton. An educated man such as yourself must surely know that.”
Varton’s cheeks flushed at the barb, but he did not rise to the bait. He changed the subject instead. “Expect we’ll get orders to clear out the forest soon enough. What with Berghein Valley coming under Palaran rule and all, it’s only right. Can’t have brigands running around them woods between the valley and Castle Villeroy, now can we?”
“The Cefinon Forest?” Qutaybah shook his head slowly with a wry smile. “You think so, eh? Don’t think your Duke Harald has a target farther afield in his sights?”
“Heh? What are you getting at?”
“Why, Vandemland, of course.” Qutaybah leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak alarmingly. He spread his hands wide and grinned. “Why would he waste the most powerful army in the world on a bunch of outlaw woodsmen when there’s a rich and powerful country like Vandemland just the other side of the Damatine Sea?”
Varton narrowed his eyes, sudden suspicion plain on his pinched face. Rather than answering right away, he leaned back in his own seat and scratched his stubbled jaw as if he were thinking it over. Arexos, under cover of refilling the wine goblets, stole a glance at the man and barely repressed a shudder at the cold calculation he saw in Varton’s eyes.
“Vandemland,” Varton said at last, stretching the word out as if testing it out for the first time. “Aye, there’s Vandemland. I hear it’s mostly desert, filled with savages and slave-drivers.”
Arexos held his breath, but Qutaybah showed no sign of taking offense. Best that he did not; Qutaybah had told Varton they hailed from the lands south and west of the Basalt Mountains. That was about as far from Vandemland as one could get, but the scruffy Palaran soldier probably had his suspicions all the same. If he had hoped to have them confirmed by some reaction to his comment, however, he was to be disappointed.
“I have heard much the same,” Qutaybah said, still smiling. “But I wouldn’t know. My trade has never taken me so far from home before.”
“Hm.” Varton sat forward again, leaning over the table. “Be glad of it. Savages
and slavers. You went to Vandemland, like as not you’d never come back.”
“All the more reason I’d think your Duke Harald would want to invade. You share a land border with Vandemland as well as the Damatine Sea, is it not so?”
Varton sniffed. “Aye. Maybe so, maybe so. I certainly wouldn’t know anything about it. Alls I know is the Cefinon Forest lies alongside the river Walsall. Bandits in the forest threaten trade on the river. I’d think a man like you would be keen on seeing that threat diminished.”
“Oh, I am,” Qutaybah assured Varton, his smile beaming brighter than ever. “I certainly am.”
Varton eyed the Vandemlander across the table for a long, silent moment. Qutaybah returned the soldier’s gaze with placid calm, and it was Varton who broke eye contact first. The scruffy man looked around the room sourly and pushed back from the table.
“I’d best get back to the barracks,” he announced.
“Of course, my friend.” Qutaybah rose, arms outstretched once more. “It’s been a pleasure dining with you. I do hope you’ll do us the honor of joining us again?”
“To be sure,” said Varton before he left. The moment the man was gone, Qutaybah dropped his arms to his sides. When he turned around, Arexos saw he wore an irritated scowl.
“We must go,” said the Vandemlander. “Now, Arexos.”
“Sir?”
“Come along!” Without waiting for a reply, Qutaybah went to the servant’s door at the back of the room and threw it open. Arexos hastened after his master as the big Vandemlander started down the narrow back stair.
“You think he knows who we are?”
“It matters not,” rumbled Qutaybah, without slowing his rushed descent. “He suspects, and that’s enough. Even if he did not, this is not a particularly good time to be a foreigner on Palaran soil.”
Arexos thought about that, and realized his master was no doubt correct. Under the old King Ludwig, Palara had enjoyed many years of peace and prosperity. The Kingdom had enjoyed good relations with its neighbors, and border crossings had been largely a formality. Since Duke Harald’s coup, however, things had changed. It had begun even before Arexos left Castle Villeroy with Captain Henrickson, and everything he had seen here in Brammanville indicated that the change had only accelerated.
Unlike his brother, Harald was a militaristic nationalist. For years, he had tried to convince Ludwig to take a more expansionist stance, pitting the Kingdom of Palara against its neighbors rather than co-existing in peace. Harald never trusted foreigners. Vandemland, Llandaff, even the hill tribes of Ashfield: the duke had seen them all as potential foes, just waiting for their chance.
Arexos saw that same attitude reflected in the faces of the men and women they passed in Brammanville’s streets. As they came out of the inn’s back entrance, Arexos experienced a creeping, paranoid feeling that eyes were watching them. Shoulders hunching, he peered around the shaded back alley into which they had emerged.
“Run,” said Qutaybah in a quiet voice.
“Master?”
“I said run,” repeated the hulking Vandemlander, drawing his broadsword. “Get back to the men. I’ll join you if I can.”
Arexos turned to run, but saw it was already too late. The mouth of the alley, where it let onto the street running along one side of the inn, was blocked by six men standing side by side. They wore boiled leather armor, and each man carried the flat bladed swords of the Palaran army.
5
Arexos spun in place, thinking to run in the other direction and find another exit from the alley. His hopes were dashed. Six more leather-armored Palaran soldiers had slipped out of the stable situated behind the inn. They brandished their flat-bladed swords as they advanced.
Qutaybah’s great, bald head swiveled from side to side as he took the measure of their attackers. He sank into an easy crouch, broadsword held at a ready angle. Arexos had no sword, only a long dagger at his belt. Before misadventure took him to Vandemland and slavery, he had lived all his life in Castle Villeroy. First as a page, and later as Henrickson’s squire, he had trained at arms near every day. But he had never faced true combat.
Arexos drew his dagger.
“Vandemland!” Qutaybah’s bellowing war cry split the air. The dark man surged forward, broadsword singing and flashing in the sun. For a fraction of a second, their assailants stood frozen in stunned surprise. Then, with a rallying cry of their own, they leaped forth to press their advantage.
It was six against one, but right from the onset it was clear Qutaybah would prevail. He was the superior warrior. These were half-trained men, garrison soldiers stationed in a cushy port town. Even so, they had numbers on their side. Six more of their fellows advanced from behind the hulking Vandemlander.
Only Arexos stood between these six and his master. Hesitation stayed his hand for what seemed an eternity, but was in truth only a moment. The ebony-skinned slaver had treated him well, so far, but so what? Arexos had heard horror stories of beheaded slaves and worse. When he had first been taken, all he could think of for days had been rescue. When it became clear rescue was not forthcoming, he had resigned himself to his fate. Here was something he had not considered: escape.
Qutaybah was a foreigner, in Brammanville under false pretenses. But Arexos was a true-born Palaran, the scion of a minor noble house. He had been raised in Castle Villeroy itself! That was where he belonged. The decision made, Arexos threw down his dagger in the dust and dirt.
“Yield. I yield!” Hands thrust over his head, Arexos fell back from the onrushing soldiers. “I’m not your foe,” he cried, praying the heat of battle would not deafen their ears. “I’m a slave! I’m a prisoner! I am a Palaran!”
“Damned, treacherous dog!” snarled Qutaybah. Hard-pressed by the first six, and with the others advancing from his flank, the huge slaver was unable to quench his rage with his slave’s blood. Instead, he laid into his foes with a vigor renewed by fury. His sword dripped blood as he hacked and slashed, punctuating each savage thrust with a steady stream of curses and epithets.
Two of the Palaran soldiers slowed, approaching the cowering Arexos with their swords at the ready. Their fellows rushed past, intent on joining the struggle against Qutaybah. Arexos sank to his knees in the alley, clasping his hands before him, beseeching the soldiers for mercy.
“Please,” he cried, “I had no chance to escape. Now that you’ve rescued me, you’ll be rewarded. Promoted! I’m a squire in service to the royal house!”
“You’re a damned coward, is what you are!” Qutaybah spun on his heel and drove the thick blade of his broadsword into the guts of a Palaran soldier. Its keen point ripped through the man’s boiled leather and bit flesh. Blood fountained around the blade as Qutaybah drove it deeper and then savagely ripped it out. Wearing an expression of horrified disbelief, the man fell to the ground.
Qutaybah had felled three of the Palarans, but four more came forward to take their place. He stood, nearly surrounded by the seven wary brutes. Keeping their distance, the soldiers sized up the Vandemlander and searched for some opening to strike. Eyes narrowed, Qutaybah glared back at each man in turn. Raw hate flashed in his eyes. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, making his cheeks glisten and shine.
The slaver turned his furious stare on Arexos, still kneeling in the dirt. His lips twisted in a snarl of distaste. Burning eyes seemed to promise some future retribution. But not today. With a wordless roar, Qutaybah turned away and charged the alley mouth.
Startled Palaran soldiers staggered out of the way as the enraged Vandemlander advanced. He shouldered aside one man too slow to move, and then he was free. Startled shouts sounded from the street as the sword-wielding foreigner plunged into the pedestrian crowd.
“Stop him!” cried one of the soldiers, whom Arexos only now recognized as Varton. The officer waved his flat sword over his head and spittle flew from his lips. “Somebody stop that man! In the name of the King!”
But it was too late. Qutaybah was gone
.
6
The subterranean corridor ended abruptly before an ancient, stone door.
“This must be it,” said Myriam, gazing up at what blocked their path. It was enormous, its upper reached draped in shadow. “Ganry, hold up the light, please.”
The muscular warrior raised the lantern the Duchess had given him, stepping back from the exit to let the light play across the intricate carving. Rearing taller even than Ganry, a majestic stallion stood frozen in stone, emblazoned across the door. Myriam recognized the emblem from the green and white banners that flew from Castle Locke’s towers. It was the sigil of her grandmother’s house.
“Looks heavy.” Hendon crossed his arms over his chest and ran his eyes up and down the huge door. “And old. Like it’s not been opened for years.”
“Centuries, more like.” Ganry clucked his tongue. “Here, Linz, hold the lamp.”
Linz took the lantern and stepped back. The boy glanced at Ganry, then back to the door. He shook his head doubtfully. Ganry scowled. Stretching his hands out in front of his chest with his fingers interlocked, he cracked his knuckles. The door did indeed look heavy. The lower hinges were caked in grit and dust. There were no handles or knobs, no visible means of opening the portal.
Ganry walked up to the door and placed his palms flat against the stone. Planting his feet firmly and flexing his knees, he pushed. At first there was no effect. As Ganry strained, the cords stood out on his neck, and the muscles of his arms and legs bulged. Sweat shone on his brow and his face flushed red with exertion. Still, the door did not budge.
At last, Ganry gave up. He stepped back from the doorway, breathing heavily as he dusted his hands together. He eyed the stone exit with a disgruntled expression.