The exhausted men were fearful of pursuit, but Jaymes knew they were safe, for now. Following the destruction of the bridge, the army of Ankhar would be stopped at the Garnet River for a long time. Dram, Sulfie, and Salty Pete were not far behind him, making their way to the city as fast as their legs could carry them. Coryn had flown to destinations of her own, riding the wings of magic.
Within the city, Jaymes paid little attention to the disorganized army as he guided the horse along the city’s wide central avenue. A great plaza that had been the site of a teeming marketplace was now so empty he could cross it at full speed. The hooves of his horse clattered across the flagstones as, finally, he rode past the Temple of Shinare, with the great golden scales on the doors, and drew up before the gate of Castle Caergoth itself.
The great drawbridge was down, but several guards hurried into position to block his path. Two of them carried long halberds while the third drew his sword and stood firmly in the middle of the wooden span. Jaymes pulled his own weapon and waved it high.
“Get out of my way!” he snarled, sweeping the great weapon in a circle. “I have business with your duke!”
This proved persuasive, and the men cleared out of his path. One shouted a warning across the courtyard as Jaymes continued toward the keep, his horse stumbling and only gradually slowing.
“Guards! It’s the Assassin! Take him!”
The cry came from Captain Reynaud, who stood with drawn sword before the door of the keep. His black, curling mustache quivered as he glared at the rider. Several knights emerged from a door at the side of the courtyard, but like the guards at the drawbridge they displayed a marked lack of enthusiasm.
“You men-stand fast!” barked the officer. “See that he doesn’t get out of here!”
More men came running, blocking off the drawbridge. Others dropped a portcullis, closing access to the courtyards deeper in the castle complex. After a quick glance to make sure no archers were drawing a bead on his back, Jaymes dismounted smoothly.
“You returned quickly from the battle,” he drawled to Reynaud, still holding the sword in one hand. “You and your boss should have stayed around for the real fighting.”
The captain came forward, holding a great sword in both his hands. “Drop your weapon or die!” he challenged.
Jaymes merely laughed.
“Murderous bastard! How dare you!” spat the captain, dropping into a fighting crouch.
The man called the Assassin took the hilt of his own weapon in both hands. He twisted, and Giantsmiter flared brightly in the castle courtyard. Reynaud put up his left hand to shield his eyes, but he didn’t retreat one step. He waited, his sword extended.
Jaymes advanced and took a swing. The flaming blade hissed and crackled through the air, and there was no mistaking the fear that flashed in Reynaud’s eyes. Jaymes stepped closer, slashed again and again, each blow forcing his opponent back.
“Attack him, you fools!” cried the officer, gesturing to the half dozen men standing before the portcullis. They started forward cautiously, as Jaymes attacked Reynaud.
The captain turned and sprinted for the door of the keep as the other knights closed in-then backed away as Jaymes wheeled to face them, swinging the flaming sword in their direction. Unimpeded, the swordsman stalked up to heavy doors of the keep, doors Reynaud had just slammed shut.
A tremendous blow from the sword of Lorimar smote the barrier in two. Stepping through their smoldering wreckage, he found himself in the entryway of the vaulted great hall.
“You may not come here!”
These words were spoken by a cleric, a surprisingly youthful-looking man in a gold robe who stepped from a side room and held up one hand, gesturing for the warrior to stop. The cleric was handsome-but his expression was curled into a sneer of hatred.
“Get out of my way, priest,” declared Jaymes. “The scales of Shinare will not protect you from this accounting!”
“Perhaps not,” said the priest, the sneer curving into a cruel smile, “but my strength comes from a secret source. Stop where you are!”
The patriarch shouted words of command. Magic coursed through the hall, but Jaymes kept walking. The ring pulsed on his finger, grew warm as it absorbed the cleric’s spell.
“Slay him, my prince!” cried the priest. He brought one fist down into the palm of his hand, his eyes flashing. Jaymes heard a noise and looked up, saw the ghostly image of a hammer swirling in the air above his head. That conjured weapon smashed downward then vanished as soon as it touched its intended target. Again, the ring pulsed with warmth.
“Impossible!” croaked the priest, staring in disbelief.
Jaymes took another step closer to the wide-eyed priest. “Maybe your god has taken a vacation,” he said calmly.
“You dare to blaspheme-you’ll pay for that heresy!”
The priest retreated into the side room. Jaymes followed, saw the man push on a panel of the wall, opening a dark passage. He ducked inside, and the secret door swished shut behind him.
Jaymes sprinted after him, splintering the wooden door with a single blow, revealing a small landing and steps leading steeply downward into darkness. His sword burned, illuminating the way. He followed quickly, descending a spiraling stair for a long way down. At the bottom he raced through a dark tunnel, hearing footsteps scuffing rapidly along in front of him.
The swordsman’s fiery blade revealed a narrow passage with brick walls and frequent overhead arches of stone. These arches separated the segments of the tunnel into individual vaults. Several side passages beckoned, but Jaymes continued straight ahead, still following the footsteps.
Coming to a partially opened door, he saw it was fitted for a lock bar on both sides. Pushing through, Jaymes charged into a place where, very suddenly, he found himself groping through utter darkness. He wondered if Giantsmiter had faltered, but when he raised it up he felt the warmth of the flames against his face.
This was magical darkness, he realized, and his ring was apparently useless to dispel this effect.
A heavy blow from the sharpened corner of a solid object smashed the back of his head.
The darkness swallowed him completely.
“Where did the bastard go?” demanded Captain Powell.
Captains Marckus and Dayr, together with a young knight named Sir Rene, rushed into the courtyard. They had all heard the urgent shouts claiming that the Assassin was on the premises.
Marckus had returned to the officers’ barracks after brooding on his lord’s behavior and on many other things, during the long retreat. He had been pondering his next course of action with Dayr, who was bitter about his own duke’s failings, when the commotion in the courtyard had drawn their attention and brought them out.
“What has happened?” demanded the grizzled veteran.
“Reynaud claimed the Assassin came through here,” Powell replied. “It looks like he shattered the door and entered the keep.”
“We’ve got to find him-but don’t kill him!” Marckus declared urgently.
Powell flashed him a look of surprise-even understanding-then nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
The four knights raced into the keep to find terrified servants milling about.
“Where did he go?” asked Marckus.
“Captain Reynaud ran upstairs to find the duke,” reported a doorman, pointing to a side room. “The Assassin ran in there.”
“Why?” asked Powell, confused.
“He was chasing the priest back to the temple!” stammered a young maid.
“There’s no temple inside the castle walls!” declared Marckus
“Patriarch Issel uses that way-it connects to Shinare’s temple outside the walls! There’s a door in there that looks like a part of the wall, but you can see it now. The Assassin smashed it open.”
The four knights raced over to the dark passage, hesitating at the top of the dark stairs. “Captains!” said Dayr. “We need to split up. Sir Rene and I will go after him in this
tunnel, but the two of you should get up to the living quarters to see to the duke.”
Marckus was ready to argue, but he could see the wisdom of the Crown Knight’s words. “All right-get after him, and we’ll get upstairs.” He turned to Powell, saw the Palanthian was already moving toward the large staircase leading up from the great hall.
“Good luck!” called Marckus as Dayr and Rene ducked into the secret passage. He turned and ran after Powell.
Privately he wondered: Was he going to protect Duke Crawford?
Or to demand an explanation?
Coryn drifted along the corridor of Caergoth Castle, unseen and silent. She had taken the form of a cloud of gas, the potion tingling magically in her senses, allowing her to fly, slip under doors, and evade detection. She glided swiftly as she sought her destination: the inner sanctuary of the duke himself.
She was going to have a talk with Crawford of Caergoth.
The wizard would have transported herself directly, but she did not know the precise location of his apartment, never having visited there, and that fact made any attempted teleporting very dangerous. Instead, she had appeared in the public hall of the castle, materializing to startle several servants who were sweeping the floor. They had fled, and Coryn had proceeded to float up several flights of stairs, passing galleries and parlors in her search.
Now, in this wide hallway, she probed underneath a few doors, finding mostly unused guest rooms until she noticed the chamber at the end of the hall, where a Knight of the Rose stood guard. Guessing that his presence marked her destination, she drifted past the knight, unseen, and flowed beneath the door.
Duke Crawford was alone in his bedchambers, pacing back and forth. He was wearing a dressing down of silvery silk. Coryn dispelled the magic to appear in front of the man, her white robe bright, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, down her back.
“Hello, my lord duke,” she said coldly.
“Get out of here!” Crawford squawked, paling.
“No. I came here for some answers,” she replied, advancing into the luxuriously appointed chamber, which boasted multiple wardrobes, several dressing tables, and a set of tall glass doors leading onto a balcony. A massive four-poster bed with a gauzy canopy tied up above a quilted surface was at the far end.
“How dare you?” demanded the duke. “I am lord here-and I command you to leave at once!”
Coryn had been prepared to be calm and reasonable, but she felt her temper rise. Stepping towards him, she fixed her dark eyes upon his face.
“Does being lord mean that you can commit murder at will?” she snapped.
“You mean-the duchess?” he cried. “Don’t be ridiculous! That was the Assassin!”
“It may have been an assassin,” she said with a shrug, “but I don’t believe it was Jaymes Markham.”
The duke edged away from her, interposing the great bed between himself and the white wizard.
“What reason could you possibly have for killing her?” she demanded, taking another step closer, pointing an accusing finger.
“You’d never understand!” Crawford snapped. He glanced up at the large curtain over the bed, but the wizard was not distracted.
“Is this where you killed her?” she asked, indicating the huge mattress. “In the very bed she shared with you?” Trembling with rage, Coryn felt a flicker of magic spark at her finger, a lethal lightning bolt that she felt tempted to release. Angrily she shook the deadly impulse away-she wouldn’t strike him down, not like that, but she wouldn’t let him go, either.
He stared at her, fidgeting on the other side of the bed, as the wizard took another step nearer, stopping on her side of the large, four-posted mattress. She leaned forward, trembling with fury.
Her mind conjured the perfect spell to capture and immobilize the man. With her left hand she found a bit of spider web in one pocket. She pulled it out, chanting the simple incantation:
“Aracnis-”
She was momentarily taken aback as Crawford lunged toward a bell-rope and pulled. She tried to continue casting her web spell, but the gauzy net above the bed fell down, covering her head. Immediately the sound of her voice ceased, swallowed by magic.
The wizard recognized a spell of silence, and-though she didn’t know how the duke had cast it-understood her own spell was wasted. She was even more startled when the duke dived across the bed, seized her by her wrist, and pulled her down onto the soft mattress.
She wrestled, but he was startlingly strong. Intense fury took over. A dangerous spell came into her mind, one that would burn him badly but leave him alive, but when she tried to bark the single necessary word of command, still she could make no sound.
Now, for the first time, she felt afraid. The filmy gauze shrouded them in silence-no doubt the same silence that had muffled any sounds of Lady Martha’s murder. Coryn struggled, kicking and flailing. She clawed at the duke’s face as he pushed her down. His fingers closed around her throat, choking her, strangling her. Her lungs strained desperately for air.
Coryn felt the world go dark.
Finally the duke released his grip. She coughed and gasped, but her violent gagging was eerily soundless under the magical silence.
Shaking her head, drawing ragged breaths, Coryn didn’t have the strength to resist anymore as he lashed her wrists together with a braided cord. He tore a pillowcase and roughly gagged her, tying it around her so tightly it cut her cheeks and forced her jaws open.
Only then did Crawford rise and once more pull the bell-rope. The silence dispelled, and he chuckled, almost a giggle.
“Yes, she died right here!” the duke cried triumphantly. “You were right-it was me. Now I will kill you too!”
CHAPTER THIRTY — FOUR
The Game Room
J aymes recovered consciousness. He could see again-the magical darkness had been dispelled, and he realized several torches crackled and flared in wall sconces. He was in an underground room, apparently some kind of shrine. His skull felt as though it was about to implode, and there was sticky wet blood on the back of his head.
The next thing he saw was Giantsmiter, across the room from him, upright with the tip of the great sword resting on the floor. The blade reflected the bright torchlight, and at first that was all the swordsman noticed. Only gradually did he realize a priest was here, standing with both of his hands on the hilt of the blade. Unlike the cleric Jaymes had chased down here, however, this priest was dressed in a tight-fitting cloak of red, which included a mask of the same color that concealed his identity.
The warrior’s head throbbed. Trying to focus through slitted eyes, he looked around the oval-shaped chamber, which, remembering his long run down the dark tunnel, he judged to be located under the Temple of Shinare. Besides the door he had come through, several other doors led into dark passages. He saw a set of golden merchant scales in an alcove at one end. The chain supporting one balance was broken, and that half of the scale lay on the stone floor. The other half, apparently counterbalanced by nothing, swayed in the air.
“I see that my blow did not kill you-more’s the pity,” the priest remarked. A studded mace, gleaming with inlaid gemstones, swung from his belt. No doubt this was the weapon that had knocked Jaymes out and left his head ringing like the inside of a gong.
“What kind of temple is this?” Jaymes asked, feeling as though he were talking through a mouthful of cotton. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he leaned his back against a damp stone wall. His hand went to his scalp, rubbing a bloody bump.
“This is the temple to my true god, the Immortal One who will soon become the master of all Solamnia.”
Although the words came from behind the red mask, Jaymes was fairly certain it was the voice of the Patriarch, but this priest was not wearing the garb of Shinare. Instead, the swordsman was reminded of Hiddekel, the god of thieves and brigands.
“Hiding out in the dungeon under your regular church?” he asked.
“I serve Shinare during
the day, but my true lord is the Prince of Lies,” said the cleric. “I am the Nightmaster! Let Shinare collect her tolls and her tithes-I measure my wealth in the souls of men!”
“Do you serve the duke as well?”
“Let the mirror in his game room lead him!” declared the priest, with a harsh, dry laugh. “He knows that we serve the same master. He has recruited others to our cause, as well. He knows I am the Truth to him!”
The priest started to pick up the great sword then rested it on the floor again, cocking his head, listening.
“Hmm, visitors,” he said calmly. “No doubt the arrival of a killer such as yourself caused some consternation in the castle.”
Jaymes could hear the sounds, too-footsteps of running men, mingled with clinking armor, creaking straps. Some of the knights in the keep had finally chased him into the darkness. The sounds came closer, but the priest made no move to shut the door.
Moments later, two knights charged into the secret shrine, as the cleric held up a commanding hand.
“Halt!” he cried, and both running men froze, as though their feet were stuck to the stone floor. Magic tingled in the air.
Jaymes recognized the two-one was Sir Dayr, formerly a captain in the service of the Duke of Thelgaard, and the other was Sir Rene, who had commanded the defense of Mason’s Ford. They glared at the masked cleric and struggled but could not budge.
The warrior’s head throbbed, and he leaned back against the wall, trying to marshal some strength.
“By Joli-who in the Abyss are you?” demanded Dayr, waving his sword at the masked priest.
“He wants to be called the Nightmaster,” Jaymes said wearily.
“I am the Nightmaster!” the cleric insisted.
“It seems the duke and one or two of his cronies are secretly working on behalf of the Prince of Lies,” the warrior explained. His vision had cleared. He flexed his fingers, feeling strength slowly return.
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