Inch by tedious inch he climbed. Occasionally, he found handholds in the stone, and he used them to rest his back. He tried not to think about how long he was down there, nor his escape. All he thought of was his father telling him “sorry” before sending him tumbling down into the pit. Whenever Haern felt his legs starting to wobble, or his back locking up from the strain, he thought of that “sorry” and used it to push on higher. The tunnel gradually shifted, the slight variations required to prevent someone from plummeting straight down to their death. Sometimes, they were just soft enough that he could sit for a moment and catch his breath before continuing. Sometimes, they forced him to twist and shift the way he climbed, lest he slide right back down.
At one point, he felt his foot slip into the air, and at first, he thought he’d missed, but then he realized it was a secondary tunnel connected to the first. It was somewhat perpendicular to the one he climbed, and he grabbed ahold of its sides with his fingers and pulled himself into it. Letting out a gasp, he lay on his back and willed his muscles to relax.
“Almost there,” he told himself, though he had no idea if it were true or not. “Almost there.”
The question now was where to go: up, or follow the other chute? In the end, he decided to continue his climb. His gut said the other direction led to wherever the dark paladins tended to dump their victims. The higher tunnel with the ladder? That one he had a feeling they knew nothing about. Well, no one but Luther, if the priest, or his father, were to be trusted.
As much as he hated the thought of doing so, he returned to a crouch, then extended so that he was leaning against the far side. Spinning about so his back was against it, he stepped one step to the left, a firm foot pushing against stone, and began his climb. More time. More inches by painful inches. When the pain in his back didn’t seem able to get any worse, he felt it strike something sharp. Despite the pain, despite the darkness, a laugh escaped his lips that took almost a minute to cease.
It was one of the rungs pounded into the stone that formed the ladder.
Once he had a firm grip and his weight was fully supported by the ladder, Haern hung there, once again debating. He could leave, he knew. The exit was just opposite him. He could crawl through the dark until reaching Delysia, and together they could flee the Stronghold, leaving as if they’d never been. But above him was where Luther should be, and where his father had gone. Leaving now, giving in … he couldn’t do it. He had to know. So, up the rungs he went, and after the tedious process earlier, the ladder felt like a gift from the heavens.
Multiple times he felt the soft blowing of cool air upon his neck, alerting him to side passages, but he never took them. Luther was supposed to be at the top, so to the top he would climb. As he did, he listened to the noises that came to him through the stone. They were distorted, of course, but he still found himself occasionally surprised by the proximity or clarity he heard. Much of it was soft discussion, deep voices talking about things he could only guess at. Once he swore he heard a man in prayer, and on another floor, two men arguing. Whenever he heard such sounds, he slowed his ascent, always fearful that somehow they might also hear him scurrying up the walls like a rat.
At last, he reached the end of the rungs. He reached out behind him, but the wall was solid. Steadying himself, he paused a moment, felt the softest flow of air from his left. Taking his foot off the rung, he tested, and sure enough, he found a tall tunnel. Slowly, he shifted his weight off the rungs and into the short tunnel, at the very end of which he saw the tiniest slivers of light, like cracks in a wooden door. To his eyes, though, they were blinding, and he blinked and kept his gaze to the side until he might recover.
It turned out his comparison wasn’t far off. It did seem to be a wooden door before him, slender and rectangular. He could only guess as to what it appeared to be from the other side, as well as how he might open it. Slowly, he ran his hands along it until he found a single bit of metal for him to grab. Gently, he pushed inward, then pulled toward him, and he found the door had far more give into the room than out.
Putting his ear to the side, he listened for signs of life, heard none. Double-checking his swords at his waist, he pulled his hood low over his face and took in a deep breath. This was it. Time to discover just where he was. He pushed against the metal knob, heard a crack, and then the rectangular slab of wood swung out. The light inside was blinding, even though it was only two separate lanterns on each side of the room with tall slender candles burning within them. Squinting against it, he dipped his head so his hood would block much of the light, and with what vision he had, he checked his surroundings.
Haern found himself inside what appeared to be a library, with four free-standing shelves of books before him. Turning about out of curiosity, he looked to see what it was he’d emerged from. Shutting the entrance, he saw that it was an enormous wooden carving that had been mounted upon the wall. Etched into the wood with amazing detail was a lion devouring a stag, with the carver having used heat to blacken wherever there was supposed to have been blood. Testing a corner, he found that pulling against it made the wall itself open up to grant him entrance back into the darkness.
Should be easy enough to remember, Haern thought to himself as he reshut the door. If he were to somehow get lost, all he needed to do was find a library and the giant wood lion carving within it. Getting to it without being killed or spotted, however, he had a feeling would be the real trick. Hurrying past the rows of bookshelves, all of which were blessedly empty of any odd midnight readers, he reached the door and put an ear to it. Again, he heard nothing. Opening it, he found himself facing a large set of stairs curling around the outer walls of the Stronghold. To his right, they descended, curving out of sight, and so he hurried left, moving ever higher. A red carpet ran along the center of the stairs, its edges laced with gold-colored thread. The stone shaping the walls and stairs was a deep gray, with spiderwebs of black racing all across the surface. Candles hung above him, high enough he felt glad he wasn’t the poor soul who had to change them somehow when they burned low. A glance out one of the thin windows showed him just how high up he was, and he fought down a shiver. He’d never been inside a building as tall as the Stronghold. Not even the highest towers of the king’s castle in Veldaren could compare. Haern had never considered himself afraid of heights, but peering out that window made him think all men could be made afraid of them if the ground were far enough away.
The stairs curled up into the next floor, the grand wooden door to it closed. Haern heard muffled prayers from within despite the lack of any light shining through the cracks. Deciding to check higher first, he continued on, resolving to return only if he could not find Luther in any of the floors above. A few more steps up, and he knew that his search was over. Lying before an open door, throat opened and armor bloody, was a young man. Haern stepped over him, peering into the final room at the uppermost reaches of the Stronghold. Inside he saw a small bed with violet sheets, a slender, half-empty bookshelf, a glassed window facing the east, and a desk. Slumped over the desk was an older man in black robes.
Haern stepped into the room and drew his swords, even though he knew what he would find. There was too much blood on the chair, too much blood on the floor. Coming up to the man, he pulled on his shoulder, and his body slumped back, head lolling.
“Damn it,” Haern whispered.
His father had beaten him to the top, learned or taken whatever he needed, and then fled. He was too late.
“What did you want from us?” Haern asked the body. The man looked like any other, skin starting to wrinkle, hair all gray. There was dried blood on his left hand, and a fatal wound to the back. Haern had a feeling the wound to the hand had been first, a way to prevent the priest from casting any potential spells. Had Thren interrogated him afterward? A cursory glance showed no additional stab wounds, no obvious broken bones. Whatever information Luther gave, it must have come easily.
His eyes fell on the book that lay open before
him. It was stained with blood, but the lone paragraph on its pages was still legible. Based on the pen and inkwell on the desk, Haern assumed the writing to be Luther’s. The script was tight, carefully controlled, and reading it did little to illuminate matters.
Tonight he comes, I know it. I would pray, but what god would answer? I condemn a city to save a nation. Perhaps Karak would be proud after all.
No answers, just as Delysia had promised. Only death and betrayal. His only hope now was to find Thren, assuming the man even stuck around to be questioned. He felt a momentary rush of panic, thinking of Delysia lying dead by the exit to the building, and he pushed it down. For her to die while he was crawling up from the pit, to die while waiting for him to return from a place she’d begged him not to go …
“Luther?”
He turned around to see a boy no older than twelve carrying a lit candle in one hand, five more unlit in the other. The boy stood just before the body of the dead guard, his jaw hanging open. Haern swore, leaping toward the door in hopes of stopping him before he could escape and sound the guard. But the boy had no desire to run. The candles dropped from his hands, and before Haern could reach him, he’d already drawn a slender dirk from his belt and begun shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Intruder! Intruder! Intr—”
Haern batted aside the meager weapon, and momentum unchanged, he slammed into the boy with a sword leading the way. The boy’s cry halted as he doubled over, a sword buried to the hilt in his gut. Haern stared right into his eyes, horrified by the sight. There was no doubt, no sorrow, no confusion … just rage.
No different than I was at his age, thought Haern, and he felt a chill as if a ghost had crossed over his grave.
Cries from below quickly echoed the boy’s warning, and Haern swore again. He had to get out of there now, before they could overwhelm him. He flew down the stairs, trying to push the memory of the boy’s dying face out of his mind. At the floor beneath, he found the door open and a man standing before it. He was stout and not very tall, but he held an enormous sword in one hand, its blade wreathed with black flame. Contrasted against the plain white bedrobe he wore, the sight would have been comical if not for how the paladin nearly skewered Haern as he ran down the steps.
“Who sent you?” the man asked, pulling back for another thrust as Haern dodged the first.
“Luther did,” said Haern, hoping to confuse him. Based on the glare he received, Haern decided he’d hit a nerve, and the burning blade slashed down with all the man’s might. There wasn’t much room in the stairway, but Haern was more than agile enough to slide to the side, the fire and steel cutting the air before him. The sword smacked into the stone steps, immediately charring the red carpet and cracking the step in two. Haern gave him no chance to recover, his right arm swinging out so his sword opened the man’s throat. A follow-up kick sent the body tumbling, the sword clattering along with him. Haern winced at the cacophony it created. If there was anyone in the Stronghold who hadn’t realized he was inside, they knew now.
No time, no time, no time.
Haern ran, wanting nothing more than to see those beautiful oak shelves full of books. Instead, he found two more men armed with swords rushing up the stairs, the blades of both paladins wreathed with flame.
“Sorry, can’t stay long,” Haern said as he lunged with both weapons. He knew they would successfully block the attacks, and when they did he felt a tingle in his hands, as if the sting of the flames had traveled through the steel of his swords, through the hilt, and into his flesh. It kept them back, though, just enough that he had room to leap headfirst into the library. He rolled along the carpet, then skidded to a stop so he could turn and fight. He had room now, and every intention to use it.
“You will suffer for this insult!” one of the paladins cried, and Haern grinned at him. Suffer? No, not today. He attacked the man just as he tried to rush through the doorway, sabers a blur. The paladin tried to block, and there was no moving that dark blade, no forcing its position like he might against a normal opponent. But Haern had speed, and due to the surprise nature of the combat, neither paladin had their armor to rely upon. When the paladin tried to counter as a way of buying himself some space, Haern blocked it with ease, then stabbed him through the belly. As he doubled over, the other paladin shoved the body forward, using it to keep Haern from attacking while he was limited by the doorway.
“Karak guide my hand,” said the paladin as he grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands. The dark fire around its steel grew stronger, and the very sight of it made Haern’s head ache. He moved to attack, but the fire flared, and without knowing what it meant, Haern fell back. So badly did he want to flee to the wood carving, but if any caught sight of where he was going, there was too much of a chance they could decipher where he might exit. Better they thought he vanished like a ghost than into a cramped tunnel in their very walls.
“Karak be my strength.”
The paladin swung, and it was as if he wielded an inferno with his hands. Haern retreated until his back was to a bookshelf, bumped it, scattered books to the floor.
“Karak be my victory!”
A massive downward chop, but Haern was already moving. The sword hit the stone, the books erupted in flame, and then came the smoke. Haern slid to one side, then pushed off into the air. Twirling, all cloaks and swords, the paladin could only guess where to position his blade in defense. He guessed wrong.
The man’s body crumpled to the ground as Haern landed. He was given no chance to celebrate nor retreat, for more men were running into the library, all wielding swords or axes. Knowing his time had long since run out, Haern did not engage them, instead racing toward the fire and knocking more books into it. As the smoke billowed, Haern grabbed one that was already aflame, the violet fire consuming it eerie to witness and powerful in its heat, and then hurled the book into another shelf. It caught as if doused with lantern oil.
Deeper toward the back of the library he ran, dodging desperate swings as the men rushed into it. They were trying to be methodical, sealing off the exit and lining the far wall so that there’d be no aisle he could hide in, but that only gave him more time. He knocked over another shelf, then assaulted a paladin that had been chasing him. Their weapons clashed, and though all feeling was gone from his hands, Haern still managed to slice out his heel, then finish him with a stab to the neck in passing. From the other side, he heard men shouting, asking where he was, and debating what to do about the flames that were leaping from bookshelf to bookshelf as if containing a life of their own.
Keep on arguing, thought Haern as he raced for the enormous wood carving and his escape.
Just before he reached, it a burning blade swung into his vision. On instinct, Haern dropped to his knees, the sword searing the air above him. The heat was incredible, terrifyingly so. Whirling about to face his opponent, he found an older man with gray hair, his black armor decorated with the silver skull of a lion. His strength was incredible as he pulled the enormous sword back around for a second swing, faster than most men could wield a dagger. Haern knew blocking was impossible, and trying to time the swing right, he dove underneath, hoping to come out of his roll beside the man and stab him in the neck while he was vulnerable.
Except as he dove into the roll, the sword dipped, swung with only one hand. Coming up for the stab, Haern found a mailed fist already waiting. It struck him square in the face, blood blasting from his nose.
“Karak!” cried the man, and suddenly, that fist felt like the hammer of a god. The blow rocked through his body, straining his bones, filling his throat with a scream that sounded far too horrific to be his own. Legs suddenly resisting him, he dropped to one side, limbs curiously asleep. Trying not to panic, he glared up at the older paladin, who knelt down before him.
“You’re either a brilliant man or a fool,” said the paladin as arms grabbed Haern from all sides. “In our dungeon, we’ll see which of the two you truly are.”
Some
thing hard hit him from behind, and then the darkness took him.
CHAPTER
19
The last thing Alyssa did that night, as she did every night, was remove her eyes. Despite the insistence of the craftsmen who’d formed them, despite her own fingers that could confirm their smoothness, she still felt as if they were covered with a thousand jagged slivers that sliced into her vacant eye sockets. Only once had she tried sleeping with them still in, and she’d awoken halfway through the night to find her fingers digging into her sockets, which were wet with tears.
There were no servants with her in her room, Alyssa at last left in solitude. They’d check on her occasionally, she knew. At the foot of her bed, resting atop a table, was a brass bell she could ring if she ever needed anything, not that she ever did. She was blind, not an invalid, and whenever she needed something, she left her bed, walked across the cold floor, and opened the door to ask the servant waiting outside. She remembered when Melody first suggested the bell, except the bell was to have been hooked to a rope hanging beside her head. She’d threatened to set the entire bed on fire if she ever discovered such a set up.
What I’d give to have seen their faces, Alyssa thought as she set the eyes into a glass with a thin layer of alcohol at the bottom. They must have thought me out of my mind.
It wasn’t that much of a stretch, really. She’d long felt the eyes of her enemies circling her. Now without her own, she knew it was only a matter of time before they closed in, snatching at whatever they could get. Her only hope rested in people like Zusa and John Gandrem protecting her interests, and even then, they faced an impossible task.
Alyssa removed her robe and slid naked underneath the silken sheets. They were cold, and she shivered, arms crossed and knees drawn to her chest, as she waited for them to warm. Her breathing steadily slowed, and head sunk into a giant feathered pillow, she tried to relax. Yet she couldn’t. Something bothered her, even as the rest of her body warmed. A window, she realized. The quiet of her room was not complete, the soft rustle of air she felt on her cheek not supposed to be there. Sitting up with the blankets pulled to her chest, she addressed the darkness.
Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts Page 25