by J. W. Webb
“Elanion meant for us to come here, Queen,” he assured her. “We must believe in Her wisdom.”
Ariane nodded. “You are right, but I feel we are being drawn into something bigger, much darker than we are aware of. I—” She stopped. Beyond the gates rung the clatter of steel-shod boots on stone. Soldiers were approaching fast!
Barin leapt to his feet. “Wait here,” he told her. “It may be nothing to worry about. I’ll go see.”
Barin crossed the courtyard and eased his bulk through the gap between the gates. Once again he berated himself for leaving Wyrmfang with Fassof. This was a trap, Barin knew that now, certain as dawn following night.
Ariane was right. They had been fools to come here. The thunder of feet grew until it filled the night. Barin waited for them to arrive. He hoped there would not be too many, so he could finish them without excessive noise.
And here they were, ranging out of the night, shaggy guardsmen armed with spears and axes, their faces framed by kettle helmets, some sprouting horns. They froze seeing Barin’s bulk at the gates. At the leader’s signal they filed out, closing on the Northman with spears thrust forward.
Barin strode out to meet them. Too late he realized his error. The gate creaked shut behind him. Iron bolts slammed into place, locking it fast. The sound of rushing feet and shouting filled the courtyard within.
Barin swore and kicked the gate. What an idiot he was. Ariane was trapped and he could do nothing to help her. He glared at the approaching spearmen and channeled his wrath.
“Come on then, shiteheads!” Barin roared. “It will take longer without my axe, but today you die!” Whooping defiance they rushed in, like so many snarling wolves attacking a great bear out of the fabled northern forests of Enromer.
“Valkador!” roared Barin. And so the killing began.
Chapter 25: The Cage
Ariane heard the heavy gate slam shut. She hadn’t seen the men emerge from the other stairs and shut off her escape. Outside, Barin’s thunderous battle cry shattered the night. Derisive hoots followed, announcing the arrival of the enemy.
Ariane had no time to think of her friend. A great clangor of trumpets split the air, deafening her. From the other stairs came the sound of rushing feet. There was nowhere to hide. She was undone.
Ariane watched in horror, mind racing, trying to form a plan. Torchlight flickered as the shouting grew nearer. Dark figures filled the courtyard, moonlight glinting off their spears. Ariane cursed. Her friends had no chance. And she was trapped. The Queen slid her rapier free and braced her feet.
At least I’ll take a few of you with me!
Rael Hakkenon watched with mild interest as the young Queen valiantly fought off his men. He was impressed. She was good with that blade, better than most of his elite guard. Two of the clumsy idiots lay dead already, and a third screamed in agony as she hewed away his right hand after he tried pulling her down to the ground. The Queen fought with desperate precision, cussing and spitting like a wildcat.
It was most diverting to watch. Rael was almost disappointed when they surrounded her with spears and slowly, carefully forced her back against the wall. The spear points held her there. Rael Hakkenon, brandishing his beautiful smile, chose this moment to introduce himself.
Ariane watched the spearmen withdraw to let their leader through. She gasped deep breaths. She felt the cold stone at her back, and she angled along the wall, sword held ready for any attack.
Her body jolted into something hard, a stone griffin blocking her way, its sightless eyes hungrily triumphant as it glared down at her. Ariane almost quailed at that. Instead, defiant fury overcame her as she felt her doom approach. She lunged at the guards again, fast and hard, knocking spears aside, claiming two more lives before a languid voice cut in.
“Enough.” Though lazy in its delivery, there was menacing power in that command. Ariane guessed who had issued it. The guards parted hastily to allow a man through. He was handsome and urbane, slender in build, immaculate from head to toe. This could only be Rael Hakkenon, hated pirate, lethal assassin, and scourge of the Four Kingdoms.
He was garbed in finest purple silk and shiny black, soft leather complimented by silver studs. A long, elegant rapier hung from a slender diamond-studded belt around his waist. Neatly combed shoulder-length silver hair framed his lean patrician face. His thin bloodless lips curved upward slightly in a sardonic smile.
About Rael’s body clung a hint of musk. His sleeves were flared as were the trousers tucked neatly into doe-skinned boots. Over his shoulders was draped an ermine cloak the hue of freshly fallen snow. But it was the eyes Ariane noted, green as jade and twice as cold. They hinted keen intelligence and fast cunning and something else, a tortured blend of pain and expectation.
The eyes of a killer, the eyes of a cat. Rael Hakkenon stood before her, arms folded neatly.
Snake swift, Ariane’s rapier leapt toward his heart.
“Die, Assassin!” she screamed. But Rael was quicker still. He danced to one side, grabbed her wrist, and twisted it painfully, forcing her to drop the rapier. Noisily it clattered on the flagstones.
“Elanion, help me!” croaked Ariane as two of the brutish guardsmen seized her and held her, spitting and cursing.
“The Witch of the Woods is no use to you here, my feisty little Queen.” The Assassin’s voice was elegant, his tone that of patient teacher instructing petulant child. Those green eyes mocked her, she felt naked and exposed.
“However,” he purred, “I am deeply gratified you have chosen to visit my realm. Tonight I shall hold a feast in your honor. No! I insist. Least I could do! I would invite your confederates, but unfortunately they will all be dead within an hour or two. Shame…but there you have it, my dear.”
Rael examined a manicured thumbnail and straightened his cuff. “It is a pity,” he mused. “Soon the renowned Barin of Valkador will be rendered so much dog meat. A brute that size will keep them going for hours.”
Rael cupped his ear theatrically as if listening in concern to the sounds of fighting beyond the gate. Evidently Barin was not dead yet. “As to the others, well, there is no escape from my dungeons, you see. It’s only a matter of time before they are apprehended down there.”
Rael spread his arms wide as if welcoming her embrace. “So with your kind permission we will retire to the great hall. The feasting is already underway. He grinned, showing impeccable teeth. “Going to be a long night. Oh, by the by,” Rael added. “You, my sweet little hell-puss, shall be providing the entertainment!”
“Fuck you!”
Rael raised a brow. “Charming little cunt,” he said, inspecting that thumbnail again.
“You bastard! What have you done with Prince Tarin?” Ariane hissed as they dragged her, feet first, up the gloomy stairway. The Assassin was examining her sword with professional interest. He poked a warrior’s leather-clad buttock with it and giggled.
“No, I think you’ll find young Tarin is the bastard, poor little whore’s get. I had him slain some days hence,” Rael added, sounding bored. “His rat-eaten body is rotting down there somewhere.” Rael’s hand vaguely gestured toward where the dungeons. “Soon your friends’ carcasses will join it in communal festering.” Rael shook his head slowly in mock concern.
“You were a goose coming to my island, Queen Ariane, and soon you will be cooked in your own silly fat. Did you really think I would fall for that priestess nonsense? Your pathetic goddess holds no sway in Crenna, my dear. Here, my word alone is law.”
Rael signaled two burly guards carry her, lest she damage herself on the stairs. They hoisted Ariane up amid more spitting and curses. She kicked one guard in the face whilst poking another in the eye with a finger. Rael shook his head. Useless tossers, his guards.
“Get that bitch under control,” he snarled.” They did, eventually.
Brawly little madam.
No doubt this young Queen would keep Caswallon entertained for a time. But Rael would have some fun with
her tonight. It was a shame: He didn’t want to fall out with the new ruler in Kelthaine, so she would not be broken here.
They carried Queen Ariane through a maze of dark passages deep inside the fortress, finally reaching the great hall. Huge Graan opened the doors, and torches held aloft, they entered.
Ariane wept silent tears. The quest had failed. She doubted not that some grim fate awaited her too horrible to contemplate.
Elanion have mercy.
Walking just behind her, the Assassin‘s emerald orbs bore into her back like a cat eagerly anticipating its prey.
***
Corin and Roman threaded their way down the narrow stairway into the twisting passage. Down and down it led them into cloying darkness. There were no torches, but their eyes adjusted to the gloom enough for them to see.
Occasionally a cold gust of air revealed other passages on either side that then faded into the gloom. It was stuffy and damp down here, and a foul smell reached out to them, promising worse to come.
“We must be getting close to the dungeons. This stink offends my nostrils,” gagged Roman. “Does this sodding passage go on forever? We must be almost underneath the mountains by now.”
“Aye, it’s clammy enough,” agreed Corin. “I shouldn’t think there are many that venture down here out of choice. Let’s hope our idiot Princeling is still in one piece and not the cause of the stink.” Roman grimaced hearing that.
Their pace slowed. The passage floor had become slippery with moss clinging to the age-old stones. Corin detested this darkness; he wondered how long it had been since they left Ariane in the courtyard. It felt like ages.
He hated the thought of her waiting in that awful place with only Barin to protect her, and him without his battle-axe too, the great lump. Perhaps Galed had been right. They were mad coming here. But it was too late.
After what seemed like hours but had probably only been a few minutes, the passage leveled out. Ahead, sticky with cobwebs, hung an iron gate.
They had reached the dungeons at last. A large bar held the rusty gate locked in place. This they removed and, gagging at the stink, they pushed open the gate. They had to heave hard as the hinges were stiff from disuse. The gate ground noisily.
They squeezed through, stopping for a minute to catch their breath. Corin, who had been looking back down the passage, heard something coming from that direction. He listened for a minute, then cursed
“Do you hear that?” he hissed.
Roman nodded grimly. It was what they dreaded most. Far above and very faint, the sound of marching feet echoed down the passage.
“We had better hurry,” he said. Entering the dungeon, they noticed odd shapes in the murk. These on closer inspection turned out to be the bones of long dead prisoners. Some were chained to the walls, others spread over long tables. Most of them bore the gruesome signs of a horrible fate.
The two didn’t dwell on that. They had a job to do—a shit one, but it had to be done. The further they went the worse the stench became. The corpses here were more recent; rancid flesh still clung to some in various stages of decomposition. Fat rats scurried beneath their feet, and cobwebs clung to their faces.
“Ugh, it’s foul down here!” gagged Corin. He shuddered at the scene surrounding them. Here and there were racks, wheels, and clamps, all supporting what had once been men and woman. It was horrific.
He nearly jumped out of shock when he heard the voice.
“How very observant you are!” It came from somewhere in the gloom ahead. They exchanged quizzical glances. Whoever it was certainly didn’t sound like Prince Tarin.
They hurried forward. Roman crashed into a spiky thing that sported an array of severed body parts. He winced and pushed it out of the way. Then he slammed into Corin’s back. He too stopped and gawped.
A suspended cage creaked at them out of the murk. It was occupied, and this occupant was alive—very, by the way he was stamping his filthy feet and clucking at them. Corin and Roman exchanged glances.
What the…?
They approached warily. Closer inspection revealed an old man, emaciated and filthy, with matted beard and wild, staring eyes. The cage danced and rattled as he squatted froglike, gripping the sides and grinning at them like a lunatic.
“Who might you be?” asked Corin, looking up at the figure in disgust. “Speak swiftly! Maybe you can tell us where we can find the one we are seeking.” He stopped to listen. Shouting could be heard from the passages above.
“Come, Corin, we had better hurry,” urged Roman. “Let’s try further on. Tarin must be here somewhere.” Roman shook his friend’s shoulder.
“It’s too late, fools. You are already trapped!” The bony figure laughed from his rusty cage above them. He seemed oddly unconcerned about his predicament. “You had better free me fast if you want to see your companions again,” he told them.
“Tell me where Prince Tarin is held and I will release you,” barked Corin. “Otherwise you can fucking rot!” The sound of feet was close.
“How remarkably charitable of you, Corin an Fol—and so eloquently put, I might add.” The prisoner chuckled slowly, a strange sound in that awful place. “It is difficult, however, to know exactly where Prince Tarin is at this precise moment,” he continued, as if amused by the question.
“I would hope he is currently bound where I sent him, just a few days past. Before commencing his journey south, he has to reunite himself with the remnants of the crown, hidden in that graveyard a mile outside Fardoris.”
Before Corin could respond and ask how this strange prisoner knew his name—and more, their business—a shout issued from the passage beyond the dungeon. Cursing, he unsheathed Biter and waited. Seconds later a score of guards emerged, crashing and cursing their way out of the gloom. The cage’s occupant was right. They were already trapped!
Chapter 26: Sorcery and Steel
Corin and Roman met the Assassin’s guards in a whirl of steel. Back and forth they fought, ducking low under unspeakable devices and lunging over tables stacked with filth and detritus, slashing and stabbing, lunging and hacking.
Three men lay dead on the ground before them, and a fourth stumbled gurgling as Roman’s broadsword spilled his jellied guts on the dirt at their feet. But they were hard pressed and surrounded, and still more men poured angry into the dungeon.
“Release me, you idiots, before you get yourselves killed!” The cage dweller sounded peeved. “Release me, and I will get rid of these pests.”
Corin parried a thrust from one man while lunging forward to finish another. Beside him, Roman hewed a guard’s head from his body and blocked a spear thrust from another. But on they came. It would only be a matter of minutes before the two swordsmen were overcome.
“Hold them, Roman!” hissed Corin. Cat lithe he spun round and hacked the rusted chain above the prisoner’s cage. Twice more he struck, badly pitting Biter’s edge, until the cage crashed noisy to the floor, bursting open and disgorging its filthy inhabitant. The prisoner emerged grumbling from the wreckage and cursing Corin’s clumsiness.
“At last,” the wretch muttered. “I was beginning to despair at the obtuseness of mankind.”
Corin and Roman were hemmed back to back; they hewed about in increasing desperation. Ignoring them, the emaciated prisoner grinned at the guards. He said something unintelligible under his breath.
The air shimmered and warped around him. There came a weird noise, a sucking, clicking sound, and the old man’s thin body slowly altered its shape.
The Crenise warriors backed away in horror, terrified. The figure standing before them was no longer disheveled and feeble. He was very tall, broad shouldered and strong.
Gone were the filthy rags. He wore an embroidered cloak of sky-blue hue and gold trimmings that let off a sheen in the darkness surrounding them.
The stranger’s hair was long and silvery gold. His eyes were large and impossibly blue. Weirdness emanated from him, a hypnotic will both powerful and coerci
ng. That fusion reached out to the guards with smoky fingers. Their resolve melted like heated candle wax. They turned in panic, fleeing down the passageway.
“Be gone, and trouble us no more!” intoned the stranger in a melodic, resonant voice. He then turned to face Corin and Roman, who stood goggling, too startled to speak. This stranger, whoever he was, was clearly a magician, which though handy, was very disconcerting.
The warlock towered above them. He was nearly as tall as Barin. His skin emitted a faint golden glow. He looked down at the exhausted fighters with an enigmatic smile. The voice that spoke to them was urbane and rich, totally different from the earlier foolish cackle.
“You asked who I am, Corin an Fol.” The stranger smiled expansively. “A moot question, I’ll concede. I am called Zallerak at this time and in this place. In other places I have other names. Zallerak will serve here. My present home is far away in the east, but once I had a dwelling in your small country—a wee cottage by the coast.”
Corin shook his head. This is bollocks. He would not be hoodwinked, especially after all the weird shite of the previous week. He glared at the stranger, his expression grim. Corin had no fondness of wizardry, particularly now. Despite being saved by this Zallerak, he wasn’t about to trust him.
“I once heard tell of a sorcerer that dwelt in a tower in the far west of Fol,” he replied. “That was years ago, when I was a lad. He would be long dead by now.”
“Indeed he would. Sorcerers do not live overly long in these troubled times,” responded Zallerak. “Caswallon the Usurper has learned much of late. He won’t tolerate rivals. Few can stand against him, bolstered as he is by the craft of Morak and his unpleasant kin.”
“Who is this Morak really?” asked Roman, but Corin knew the answer.
“However, I am not a sorcerer,” continued Zallerak, ignoring the question. “Not in the traditional sense. I merely know the odd trick and can occasionally, should the inclination occur, create an illusion to baffle the simple minded. I view myself rather as a travelling bard.”