Eventually, the road began to rise and they arrived at the castle itself, the outer wall of the keep built strong and tall with a stout defensible gate and portcullis. They were challenged again but at the mention of his name, Arwhon and his two companions were allowed to ride in. A runner was sent ahead to announce them and when they drew rein at the stairs of the Keep, a Minister was waiting for them.
The three dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy before being led into a dark stone corridor. Before entering, Arwhon asked Krissi to perch somewhere high, out of the way for now, but to keep watch. The Keep was huge and it took them a few minutes following behind the Minister before they reached the spacious hall, where a feast was in progress. Arwhon was staggered at the noise and the smell in the large, dimly lit chamber. Filthy rushes covered the floor where dogs roamed, eating the remains of food thrown to them, snapping at rats which scurried about, competing for those same scraps. He watched as dogs relieved themselves on the floor and saw the dried piles from previous episodes. The smell of rot and decay was almost overwhelming and eye watering. It also carried an aroma which suggested some of the feasters themselves had not bothered to reach the privy.
As the revellers became aware of Arwhon, Shiri and Cringle, the noise gradually diminished until quiet reigned. King Jerome, wearing a circlet of gold on his head, sat at the centre of the high table between two rows of tables arrayed below him. He threw the pork bone he’d been gnawing on over his shoulder and stood, wiping his hands on his clothing. Everyone in the hall rose from their seats.
“You must be Arwhon and his M’Herindar Princess. Greetings. We’ve heard about you.”
The Ring on Arwhon’s finger tingled and what he heard was,
“At last, the trap is sprung. I will be well rewarded for this!”
Arwhon was stunned. Taking Staril into custody had been bait to get him into Encarill. Now he recognised one of the underlying odours in the hall, Q’Herindam evil. He leaned toward Cringle and whispered.
“Don’t ask questions. Just get the horses out of Encarill. Now!”
To give him his due, Cringle did not look alarmed at this whispered command from Arwhon, merely bowed in the direction of King Jerome, turned and slowly made his way back between the rows of tables toward the door.
“Where is that man going?” barked the King.
Arwhon played for time.
“My Servant is just off to fetch a letter we prepared, explaining the circumstances surrounding the events leading to the rebuilding of the family Trading warehouse,” replied Arwhon, hoping Cringle was now out of the hall.
He wasn’t.
“Guards! Stop that man.” King Jerome commanded.
At once, four guards left their stations and ran to intercept Cringle. There was a flurry of limbs and weaponry as they tried to arrest him but when the four guards parted, none of them held Cringle. He’d learned well from Merdon and had, by that time, sprinted out of the Keep and across the cobbled yard to wrest the reins of their three mounts from the hands of the astonished stableman, still on his way to the stables but having trouble with Duran. Cringle leapt onto Vixen and in desperation, kicked her hard in the ribs. She immediately comprehended the urgency and took off like an arrow from a bow. While Cringle was making his escape from the hall, Arwhon had sent a thought to Duran showing him following where Cringle led and the grey stallion had felt the urgency through their bond. Rancid, not to be left out, followed Duran closely and although Cringle could not hold the reins of the other horses as they galloped through the narrow gate tunnel, it didn’t matter. Duran and Rancid were right behind Vixen.
Krissi observed their departure from her perch on the top of the high Keep and laid her ears back.
Arwhon was angered at this deception and after watching Cringle’s tussle with the guards, turned back to the King to use some of his newly bestowed magic but when he did, there stood Staril with a knife point under his chin. His brother’s face was bruised and a cut under his blackened eye seeped blood. Arwhon built the Power in himself, ready.
“I’ve been warned about you Arwhon,” King Jerome said. “Any attempted use of magic will result in the immediate death of your brother. Now, you will accompany the jailer down to the dungeons and he’ll find a cell for you. The Princess will be taken to the Keep. I’ll deal with her later.”
Arwhon considered for a moment. He could easily use magic on the man holding the knife but he smelt a Q’Herindam Mage. Now was not the time to act. He looked toward Shiri, his eyes pleading with her and she understood.
“Go with them Arwhon. I’ll be fine. It’s you they baited this trap for. Think of a solution. I know you can.”
It was all Shiri managed to say before Arwhon was hauled away to the dungeons, fighting not to use his magic and burn the lot of them to ash but Staril’s life depended on him. How could he use his new magic now?
The dungeons under the Keep were dark and dank. Infrequent torches smoked and guttered in the wall sconces as Arwhon was led to a cell, his helm, weapons and mail being removed before he was thrown in. There was no straw or comfort of any kind and the damp flagstones underfoot were cold and covered in slime, or worse. The slovenly gap-toothed jailer laughed as he left, taking the only source of light with him. It didn’t matter. Arwhon sank to the floor and mentally linked with Duran for a moment or two. The horses were outside the city walls now, cantering north on the inland road. Cringle was a good Servant, he would be able to care for them. One less thing to worry about.
Sighing, Arwhon went over the events leading to his capture and realised he had, once again, been far too trusting. It was hard not to believe in the good people did and he didn’t want to turn into a person who saw the worst in folk but the truth was, he would have to be more careful henceforth.
There was no way to tell time down here so Arwhon measured it by checking in on Duran now and again, reassuring his horse he was fine and asking if it was still daylight. Eventually, with images of Duran, Rancid and Vixen, tethered by long ropes on a grassy sward in a thick patch of forest, night fell and Arwhon didn’t bother his horse any further. He retreated inward and ran over some of the hundreds of spells he had received from the obelisk at Trugor. There must surely be something to suit his needs. He fell asleep thinking on them.
How long he slept, he had no idea but it felt like the early hours of the morning when he was woken by the sounds of doors slamming open and the tramp of feet. Two men carrying torches were first to appear, followed by the jailor then two more men dragging Staril between them. He’d been severely beaten and was barely conscious, hanging between his guards, unable to support himself. The final being who hove into view was a Q’Herindam Mage in a cloak with the hood pulled forward.
Arwhon leapt to his feet and fiercely gripped the bars of his cell.
“Cursed Q’Herindam. May the Fate make each and every one of your lives a misery for evermore.”
The Mage shook his head, maliciously amused and approached Arwhon as one of the guards placed the point of his dagger under Staril’s chin ready to ram it home if necessary. The Mage addressed Arwhon.
“Put your right hand through the bars. I won’t ask twice. Any form of resistance from you will result in the death of your brother. Now do as I ask!”
Arwhon shoved his right hand through the bars and it was gripped firmly by the Mage. He was very strong in spite of appearances. Drawing Arwhon’s own Dagger, which he’d stolen, the Q’Herindam Mage smiled evilly.
“This will hurt I hope. Now keep still.”
Without further ado, the Mage started sawing though Arwhon’s ring finger beneath the Ring. The pain was immense but Arwhon steeled himself and used a minor pain blocking spell, looking at Staril while his finger was unceremoniously removed. Blood spurted from the artery in the finger as it was hacked through and when he’d finished removing it, the Mage released Arwhon’s hand and bent to pick up the Ring which had fallen to the floor, now free of the amputated finger. Arwhon dr
ew his hand back through the bars, clasping his wrist with his left hand to stem the blood flow. Staril’s eyes had widened as he observed what his brother was suffering through for him and at that moment, all thoughts of Arwhon being at fault for the death of their mother vanished forever from his mind. His brother Arwhon was totally unselfish and stupidly brave.
The evil Mage smiled, wearing a self-satisfied, gloating expression on his face.
“Now I will be the one to taste the Power of the Ring. I’ve heard so much about it. I shall be invincible.”
The Mage slid the Ring onto his finger and it immediately began to grow into him, joining with the flesh of his finger. An expression of awe appeared on the Q’Herindam’s face as he watched the process of the Ring binding him and felt the first intimation of the Power available through it. The soldiers stood firm with Staril between them while the fat jailer went to sit on a stool in the corner, his great belly resting on his thighs.
The process complete, the Mage gloated exultantly as he raised his hand to show Arwhon the Ring, now bound to his finger, grown to be part of him. His moment of triumph was only that, a moment, as a startled expression sprang to his face and he attempted to tear the Ring from his finger.
“What trickery is this?” he cried as his clothes began to smoke and his face flushed exceedingly red.
Arwhon looked him straight in the eye as he replied.
“Someone forgot to tell you the Ring may only be worn by someone incapable of magic or an honest and truthful Mage. You are neither and my Ring knows it.”
The Q’Herindam Mage was visibly suffering as more and more smoke poured from his clothing. He waved his arms and water sprang from nowhere to wet him down but to no avail. The soldiers holding Staril looked visibly alarmed and drew away from the Mage. Just in time, as there was a bright flash and the Mage burst into flames, the fire becoming incandescent for a moment. As the guards watched transfixed, the Mage crumpled to the floor ablaze. A flicker of movement caught Arwhon’s eye as a dark shape flitted down the corridor and the guard holding the knife to Staril’s throat gurgled and collapsed onto the floor. The other guard gave a surprised yell and turned around to meet a knife thrust to his own throat. He too collapsed to the flagstones. The guard’s death had been so swift the two torchbearers stood stunned for a moment before hurriedly backing away into a corner as the jailer held up his hands in surrender. Arwhon’s surprise was evident.
“Cringle. What are you doing here? I thought you were with the horses.”
“What, and miss out on the fun,” his Servant replied.
“But how did you get in here?” Arwhon asked.
“Merdon showed me a lot of things when I was with him. I came straight back from staking out the mounts and it was easy to enter the city. The Keep was a little harder to get into but there are ways. It was then a matter of sneaking around, listening, until I found where the dungeons were and waited for my chance. I followed this lot down here and stayed hidden until opportunity presented itself. Sorry about the finger.”
Cringle looked over at the jailer. The man hadn’t moved while they were talking.
Hey, jailer, open that cell.”
The man shifted his bulk with surprising alacrity to open the cell door for Arwhon as Cringle assisted Staril to sit on the stool the jailer had vacated. Staril was glad to sit as he’d been seriously beaten up and taken a lot of punishment. Released from his prison, Arwhon turned to the two torch bearers and ordered them into the cell he had just vacated, taking the keys from the unresisting jailer to lock the door before he went to his brother. Laying his hand on Staril, Arwhon thought of what he wanted to happen and Staril felt warmth spread throughout his body as all his aches and pains disappeared. The cut under his eye healed as Cringle looked on and in a very short space of time, Staril was better than new, even the old twinge in his back had vanished.
“You did magic without the Ring, Master.” Cringle observed.
“I don’t need it for performing magic anymore Cringle but I would like to have it back.”
Arwhon looked down at the cooling pile on the floor which was all that remained of the Q’Herindam Mage and Cringle understood, bending to sift through the warm ashes. He found the Ring, still cool to the touch and handed it to Arwhon before instantly spinning around and throwing a knife no one had seen him draw. It buried itself to the hilt in the fleeing jailer’s back. The two torch bearers pressed back hard against the rear wall of the cell in fear. As Cringle went to retrieve his blade Arwhon stared thoughtfully at his damaged hand.
Staril commiserated.
“Which finger will you wear the Ring on now Arwhon?”
Arwhon looked up at his brother with a shy but knowing smile.
“Watch.”
Before Staril’s eyes, a new finger started growing from the stump of the old one. Initially the flesh was almost a translucent pink like a baby’s finger but as it reached its original length, the finger started to broaden then harden and finally darken. Cringle, who’d returned and was now watching the new finger grow, gave a low whistle.
“This is some of what you learned from the column?”
Arwhon nodded.
“In amongst a thousand other things. I don’t know all of it yet. It will take some time before I do.” He wiggled his finger. “Good as new.”
Arwhon slid the Ring back to its rightful place and felt a sense of well being and satisfaction as it bonded to his flesh once more.
“Cringle. By any chance, did you see or hear of any other Q’Herindam in the Keep? We must find Shiri now.”
Cringle shook his head.
“Everything was quiet when I followed these ones down here but I overheard a guard mention the Princess with the strange eyes being kept on the third level of the Keep. The one directly above the King’s residence. It will be well guarded.”
Arwhon didn’t seem worried at all as he sorted through the ash pile and located his Dagger, unharmed by the conflagration. He walked over to the pile of gear at the base of the far wall and picked up his hauberk which he slid into before retrieving his sword and helm which he buckled on. Finally, with a look of satisfaction, he sheathed his Dagger.
“You two stay close behind me, and keep a good look out, I’m going to ward us. Now, its time to get Shiri.”
They took the torches from the two guards locked in the cell Arwhon had recently occupied before leaving the dungeon and creeping as silently as possible back up the stairs to the level above. All was quiet in the keep in early hours of the morning but carefully checking around a corner, Cringle spotted a guard at a doorway.
“There’s a guard ahead Arwhon,” he whispered.
Arwhon merely smiled and stepped around the corner. The guard did a double take but before he could raise the alarm, coils of cold fire bound and gagged him. The guard, now unable to move or keep his balance, toppled over and lay still, his eyes bulging at the sight of the cool, living flame binding him. Staril and Cringle were both surprised, this was something neither had expected. To Staril, Arwhon was his younger brother who had left home over a year and a half ago with nothing but an old horse, rusty chain mail and a worn sword. Now he was wielding Firemagic with apparent ease. Cringle knew Arwhon capable of magic but the deft way he now used it took Cringle unawares. He didn’t think the outpouring of Knowledge from the black obelisk would make such a difference to his Master.
The two guards at the bottom of the steps leading up to the next level of the Keep suffered the same fate as the previous one and both were left lying in their fiery bonds. As Cringle and the two brothers reached the first level, two more guards rushed them from the rear but with a bright flash from the wards Arwhon had set around the three of them, the guards were rendered unconscious. The next flight of stairs were guarded by yet more soldiers but they proved no match for Arwhon, who found his new talents came to him as easily and naturally as breathing.
He opened the door to King Jerome’s suit of rooms and they passed quietly t
hrough the living quarters into the King’s bedchamber. The King was sound asleep, lying amongst filthy sheets, an empty wine flask by his bed. Arwhon picked it up and dropped it, the flask shattering noisily on the floor. King Jerome rolled over and groggily sat up.
His eyes widened as he saw who was standing beside his bed but before he could cry out, Arwhon made a small gesture and cold fire gagged Jerome as fire imps danced over the King’s bed.
“I would advise quiet for now King Jerome. You’re a fool to invite Q’Herindam into your court. Their one aim is to rid the lands of Man and you have assisted them. In your lack of judgement, you set a trap for me at their behest which I find reprehensible. You will wait here while we find Shiri. If anything has happened to her or she is harmed, in any way, you will pay with your life. If you move or cry out, these fire sprites will dance upon you and you will burn. Where are the stairs to the third level?”
Arwhon made a small gesture and the cold fire gagging Jerome vanished. The King, his eyes full of fear, shakily pointed to the far wall.
“Behind that tapestry there is a door, the key is in the lock.”
Arwhon turned to Staril and unsheathed his sword, handing it to his brother.
“Never mind the sprites. If he makes a noise. Kill him. King or no he was going to kill us.”
Staril nodded in agreement and adopted a menacing pose. It was all theatre, as Staril wouldn’t kill anyone and hardly knew one end of a sword from the other but the King was unaware of that.
Pushing the tapestry aside, Arwhon unlocked the door and followed closely by Cringle, rapidly ascended the stairs. Shiri was sitting on the bed, awake, arms wrapped around legs pulled up to her chin. When she saw Arwhon she gave an involuntary cry and sprang to embrace him. Arwhon cradled her in his arms.
The Q'Herindam Page 17