by Andy Roberts
‘End.’ The image faded and Gendrick looked away.
When Elba Doss crested the mountaintop he found the drawbridge lowered and several ground-lanterns resting either end. The trail of dim lights led the way to a keep that stood grim and grey against an equally unwelcoming backdrop. The custodian stopped and considered turning back, though he knew to do so would provoke ruin or something far worse. For the time being at least, he would play along and do Gendrick’s bidding. And for that reason alone, he’d let the girl live.
The keep rose to the height of a fully grown oak and was built from the same smooth ashlar as the ruins of the castle that had once embraced it. Its corners were perfectly squared, its stone roof furnished with saw-toothed crenellations and a large dragon gargoyle that appeared to judge the custodian’s every movement. There was just one window to be seen and that was situated up high on the facing wall. Bats danced with the gargoyle and used sonar navigation to avoid sharp shards of rock that could shred a man to pieces. Something unseen moved on the road behind him—a scraping sound on the gravel that was subtle but there all the same. Doss sensed the presence of evil all around and felt death stroke at him with its rough glove.
A lone figure stood in the low arch of the open doorway, ready to receive him. Gendrick took his foot off the wall and stamped his boots. ‘Some people say the keep is alive.’ He came closer, an odd skip to his step. ‘Watching … listening … to everything that we do.’ He stood against the leading wheel of the carriage and offered his hand. ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What do you think?’
Doss didn’t answer, his voice choosing to fail him at an inopportune moment. He climbed from the carriage, too preoccupied to apply the handbrake, too dumbstruck to act when the mare took off along the drawbridge.
‘Is it the smell that renders you mute?’
The custodian shook his head. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
Gendrick led him by the arm and towards a gallows platform situated at the rear of the keep. Composed of a pair of triangular uprights and a sturdy lintel-beam, it supported four ropes, and from those, four men. Doss had seen people hang before—women and children—but this was something completely different. The abdomens of each swaying corpse gaped widely to reveal tentacles of blue viscera, swollen with the gases of early decomposition. The custodian couldn’t help but vomit until his empty stomach had little more to offer than hot bile and slithers of its own slimy lining. Gendrick caught him by the nape of the neck and ushered him towards the open doorway of the keep. ‘Come, you must be hungry.’
Elba Doss stepped across the threshold and promptly froze on the spot. In the hallway just ahead was a pale skinned, hairless creature that had the look of a large mountain cat. It sat and watched him with eyes that were as black as a moonless sky.
‘Feed,’ Gendrick told it and the animal made its way to the steaming pile kindly left outside. The custodian pressed himself tight against the stone wall as the creature’s coarse skin dragged against the fabric of his cloak. ‘You’re a coward,’ Gendrick said, waving an accusing finger at him. ‘Never know where you are with a coward.’
Doss shook his head. ‘Not me, My Lord.’ He reached beneath his cloak and produced the Book of Demons. ‘I’ve been nothing but loyal.’
Gendrick swung the heavy door behind them with a force that had Doss worry that the entire keep might come down on top of them. ‘Loyalty or fear?’ the minister asked as he led the way. ‘Two distinctly different things altogether.’
The hallway was gloomy and smelled of something that yearned to be exposed to the outdoors. Candles burned in deep saucers set at irregular intervals on the damp flagstones, their tired flames lacking any and all enthusiasm. Elba Doss followed up a double-return of steps, his leather soles scuffing at the worn stone with the sound of sand on wood. The staircase was narrow and the walls claustrophobically close—the lack of conversation between them doing nothing to lighten his anxious mood. They reached a landing that was itself no better illuminated than the stairwell, neither man conscious of the shadow that hid in a dark and tight corner. As they passed, it followed behind them, not making a sound.
Gendrick pushed on a panelled door and headed towards a writing desk at the far end of the study. He lowered himself into an oxblood chair, its leather creaking like powdered snow beneath a heavy boot. Doss searched for a place to sit but found the room offered no such thing. He stood and waited while two generous measures of wine were poured—one offered and accepted without question. He took a sip and lay his glass on the table to produce the book for a second time. Gendrick took it and held it with both hands, frowning deeply as he questioned its weight.
‘I have no idea,’ Doss told him. ‘There’s not another like it that I know of.’
The minister ran his fingers over the cover. ‘Written in Gnognethi I’m told?’
‘The Book of Demons no less.’
Gendrick got to his feet and rounded the desk. ‘And you know the name of the one who reads it?’
Doss chanced a grin. ‘And where he lives, My Lord.’
Gendrick placed his arm on the custodian’s shoulder. ‘Then it’s time we ate and hatched a plan for his capture.’
Chapter
— 13 —
‘You think the guards will just stand there while we slide down the other side?’ Griff was still smarting at what he believed to be a very stupid idea.
‘I’ll deal with them.’
The innkeeper came to a halt and wagged a finger in warning. ‘You’re not killin’ anyone else.’
‘Oh be quiet,’ Philly said. ‘We’re already wanted men.’ She giggled and then corrected herself. ‘What I meant to say was—you’re men and I’m a wanted woman.’ She licked her lips suggestively and winked at the druid.
Griff thrust a finger in her general direction. ‘And how in the name of Amaethon are we gonna get that over the wall?’
Philly kicked at the innkeeper’s missing leg. ‘The way I see it, you’re the only lame duck around here.’
Griff lifted his crutch in warning. ‘I swear I’m gonna kill her before the night is out.’
‘Well if you’d left me alone in the first place,’ she told him. ‘Save me, kill me, save me—’ Tamulan put a hand to Philly’s mouth and whispered against her ear.
‘What you tellin’ her?’ Griff wanted to know.’
‘Nothing.’
Brae stood in a small clearing, waiting for the moon to shed some light on his dangerous situation. He tried to orientate himself, struggling to figure out which way led home. A branch snapped in the darkness with the crack of a long-bone in a trapper’s snare. He didn’t dare wait to find out what it belonged to and headed off in what he hoped was a north-westerly direction. He walked at first and then ran like a market cow that had somehow broken free of the slaughter-house waggon, low lying branches slapping at his cheeks as punishment for the trouble he’d caused. They snagged his waistcoat and shirt, tearing at the material as easily they did his flesh. He pumped his arms and legs and lost a shoe for his efforts. He bent and removed the other, tossed it aside and continued bare-foot; the carpet of needles plunging deep into his soft skin as he went. Brae’s imagination worked overtime, every sound in the forest making itself out to be something it wasn’t.
They passed the student accommodation, lamps flickering in the grimy windows, laughter burning brighter than any flame. Someone played the tanore-ten, though not with the same finesse as Brae, Griff opined. A couple argued, another made love, and a girl smoked in the street while her partner urinated against the garden wall.
Griff had no idea what Tamulan had said to her, but Philly was definitely becoming more lucid, the earlier swings from normality to delirium and back again, were all but gone.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said falling into line beside him. ‘My comment about your leg was crass.’
‘Heard far worse, so I have.’ Griff plodded on more slowly, the gradient of the hill getting distinctly steeper.
‘Did it happen in the war?’ The innkeeper stopped momentarily but said nothing before walking off again. ‘Suit yourself.’ Philly moved ahead of him easily, preoccupied now with the sight of the looming wall.
Brae willed himself to keep calm. There were four of them: three men and a woman. Not students for sure. The forest had taken on a milky-blue hue in the filtered moonlight, every sound magnified and belonging to something evil. Brae crawled into the cramped space beneath a bush of thorns, sat on his hands and kept very still. His chest heaved and his tongue stuck to the roof of his cork-dry mouth. They were still a good stone’s throw away, hunting methodically, pulling at branches and checking the shadows beneath. As they widened their search, his view of them became patchy at best. At times, he saw all four night-dwellers. Then, just a pair of legs, or the sounds of their purposeful movements. He closed his eyes and turned his head from them as he awaited the inevitable.
Several guards stood on the ramparts high above the tree-line, warming their hands over braziers of red-hot coals while they shared stories and told lies.
‘Where did you go?’ Griff asked when Tamulan appeared out of the shadows behind them.
The druid pointed to the third tower at their right. ‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘The guards are preoccupied.’
‘With what exactly?’ Griff asked.
‘Smoking and playing cups.’ Tamulan led the way, using the garden wall of the university accommodation to keep them hidden. ‘Didn’t leave their tower even when I threw a stone onto the walkway.’
‘And just how do we cross to the steps?’ Philly wanted to know. The city wall was a good dozen strides from where they stood and it meant stepping out into an exposed area of ground to get there.
‘The fires will night-blind the guards,’ Tamulan told her and Griff nodded in agreement. Philly looked along the upper wall, at the indistinct faces bathed in bright, orange light, the steel of their helmets reflecting the white of the moon.
The druid crossed the space unseen, then indicated for the others to do likewise.
All three stood at the foot of the spiral steps, none caught by the wayward glance of an overly inquisitive guard. Philly led the way. Griff went next, with the druid bringing up the rear. The treads of the steps were narrow, centuries of daily use leaving their surface worn smooth like riverbed pebbles. The heel of Griff’s crutch slipped on the edge of a tread, lurching him against Philly’s ankles, bringing her down onto hands and knees. She dusted herself off quietly and continued upwards into the darkness. The muffled chatter they’d heard down below was more distinct now, the guards speaking of rumours circulating from the Oval. The Senate was mentioned, as was the awful word—war. Philly stopped at the top of the steps, waiting for the others to join her on the breach of the walkway. Tamulan nodded and she rounded the corner and marched straight into the guardroom.
The two men sat opposite one-another on upturned vegetable boxes, a third and larger box positioned between them, functioning as a make-shift table. A fish-oil lantern burned near the foot of one of the men, a stout candle standing proud of the table’s battered surface. The shorter guard stood immediately, knocking his wooden cup to the floor, spilling six pea-sized stones. ‘What are you doing up here?’ he asked, their game now ruined. The guard was young, spotty and unshaven, his hair in desperate need of soap and water.
‘Came to say hello,’ Philly told him. She leaned against the wall and looked around the small room. ‘Do you have any wine up here?’ she asked.
Spotty glanced at his chum and the older man took a small flask from inside his tunic. ‘It’s not wine,’ he said offering it with a nod of his head.
Philly took a swig and shook all over. ‘It certainly isn’t,’ she said taking another drink, winding a curl of hair around her finger. She recognised the look on the men’s faces and saw them exchange hopeful glances.
‘Don’t drink it all,’ the older man said, much to spotty’s obvious annoyance.
‘Why don’t you come over here and take it from me?’ Philly rested a foot against the wall and let her skirt rise above her knee. Both men were on their feet and moving towards her, the air charged with something distinctly more dangerous than playful banter. Philly looked to the open door and shifted her position, turning the men’s backs towards it. Tamulan and Griff were onto them in no time, the innkeeper hampered somewhat by the cramped environment of the tower. He held the crutch mid-way along its length and applied an extra measure of effort to compensate for the loss of momentum. He caught the taller man on the temple, sending him to the floor with little more than a whisper of sound. The other guard reached for his lightning-staff but got nowhere near it before Tamulan caught the angle of his straining jaw with a well-placed boot. Philly whistled in acknowledgement of the duo’s impressive teamwork, another swig stolen from the guard’s flask doing nothing to quell another foray into delirium.
‘Give me that.’ Griff snatched the flask from her tight grasp and sniffed it. He looked along the walkway in both directions and saw that nothing had changed.
Tamulan tied the rope to the base of the tower’s flagpole. ‘You first,’ he said. Griff peered over the edge and into the darkness below. He puffed his cheeks and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers.
‘Pretend it’s the ocean,’ Philly told him, hands held before her in a prayer-like pose, ‘and just throw yourself in,’ she said in a fit of giggles.
Griff rolled his eyes and let the crutch fall out of sight. It caught a branch of a tree on the way down and shook it loudly. The guards didn’t move, all was good. Lacking the luxury of two legs to slow his descent, the innkeeper wrapped the rope around his already skinned forearms and lowered himself over the side.
Chapter
— 14 —
Gendrick drove the sole of his boot into the brass door-handle and cheered as the catch gave up its grasp on the wooden frame. The door pivoted violently on its hinges, slamming hard against the stone wall with a rattle of twisted metalwork and a puff of old dust. He stood aside and let the custodian enter before him. Doss saw a long, central table with enough chairs to seat a dozen men, a wheel of candles hanging above it from the low ceiling. He felt a hand nudge his back and crossed to the farthest side of the room, to where an open fireplace devoured a clutch of burning logs with a ferocious appetite. The wood was green and damp, the fireplace belching copious amounts of pungent smoke in protest at the sub-standard cuisine.
‘Sit.’ Gendrick drew a chair at the fire-end of the table and held it still. Doss lay his palms on the smooth tabletop, his eyes drawn to a pair of candles standing either end of the mantelpiece like malnourished sentries. The draught from the open door had their flames flicker like serpents’ tongues tasting the air—tasting him. Doss jumped at the sound of a loud and hollow thud, the book coming to rest between his trembling hands. ‘Just how many people do you think speak Gnognethi?’
Doss rested a hand on the book’s cover. ‘Next to nobody, My Lord. The boy and—’
‘And the druid.’ Gendrick nodded. ‘That’s right. He’s here in Randor; come to pit his wits against the Dragon Lord one final time.’
‘Surely not? Am-Thamnoch is the one demon the druid avoids.’ Doss shook his head. ‘Folklore has it that he lost his entire village—every last one of them killed because of him.’
‘It’s fact, not tale,’ Gendrick told him, a sting of irritation adding weight to his opinion. 'You see, he too once spoke with the wind before understanding its foolish ways.’ He reached into a drawer and removed a small, brass bell. ‘To call upon one, is to summon the other,’ he said ringing it.
The door to the dining room opened and the custodian shot to his feet, spilling his chair, such was his haste. He breathed quickly, eyes searching for an exit other than the one situated behind the night-dweller. Taenon entered the room with an exaggerated swagger, his shadow pouncing through the doorway only moments later, circumnavigating the table in the opposite direction. Snake and Tyne-Sly completed t
he unsavoury ensemble, the poisoner closing the door with a loud thud.
Gendrick took a second object from the drawer and set it next to his empty wineglass. ‘If you’re not seated before I take my next breath, I’ll have him eat you.’ Doss righted the chair and threw himself upon it, leaving the minister to pick at a resin block that was no bigger than a cube of sugar. He peeled at the waxy paper and used a dirty thumbnail to scrape himself a slither before addressing the night-dweller. ‘Enlighten our new friend.’
Taenon unbuttoned his waistcoat and spoke as though he’d recently gargled with coarse grit. ‘In the window of the inn,’ he rasped, ‘the druid sleeps.’ He beckoned his shadow close and patted it. ‘Sour dreams,’ he added in an exaggerated whisper.