The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars)

by Tom Bielawski

  Gennevera began to weep softly at the horrible sight. Growing up in Grymm’s convent, Gennevera had failed to learn the power that emotion can give or take away. Some of the victims had clearly been children, some impaled alongside adults, others alone. She wept for the children, for their lost innocence; for her own lost childhood. Carym wanted to go to her, but he could not. Each of the group had a responsibility and she was prepared to do her part with the cudgel she’d fashioned from the dead Wasp Dragon’s needle-like foreleg.

  The five made their way to the castle gate with great trepidation and anxiety. Each knew that they were expected, but none knew what to expect. The corpses that littered the sides of the road gave each companion some gruesome ideas about the coming night. Some of the unfortunate victims of the baron had spears in their guts, while others had been impaled between their legs, doomed to a slow death as their own weight forced the spike upwards and into their trunk, finally exiting near or in the head. It was clear that Baron Tyrannus was a bloodthirsty and malevolent force beyond anything Carym had ever encountered. The silent pleas of the dead teased Carym, invading his mind, calling out to him for help. He shook his head, angrily trying to force the voices from his mind.

  The road wound its way up the side of the large hill, switching directions as the way became steeper, until they reached a portcullis.

  The castle was an intimidating sight. The castle walls were fortified with battlements, and there were a number of towers interspersed along each side. Wicked cauldrons hung suspended from long arms along the towering walls, arrow slots were placed at regular intervals to rain murder down on a besieging enemy. And every stone or brick was black.

  The road leading to the castle climbed a gradual slope ending at the gate to the outer wall of the castle compound. This wall was also disturbing to the group, with aged corpses dangling from every parapet. It was as though a war had been fought here and every dead soldier had been hung from the battlements, a warning attesting to the power of the lord of this keep. Yet, by the armor and dress of the soldiers, Carym suspected they were from a dark era long forgotten in Cklathish history.

  It was then that the black iron portcullis began to rise. The rising gate groaned as though screaming in pain from decades or longer of rust and disuse.

  “Stand ready!” said Ederick as he held his sword before him. “Zuhr only knows what happens next.”

  The members of the group spread out, ready to fight. Suddenly from behind them, angry voices shouted commands at the group in a strange language. The companions shifted their formation and stood back-to-back, swords ready, to find several figures aiming bows at them. The creaking of arrows straining against taught bowstrings was all around them, even from the battlements. A melodic voice broke the silence.

  “Untaken! Naut auten zahn morain,” came the command. The companions looked at each other hoping someone understood the speaker.

  “Lay down your arms, trespassers! If you do not comply your lives will be forfeit!” this time the commands were shouted in the Common Cklath language, which all of the group understood.

  “They don’t seem so dead to me!” said Bart. “Let’s fight them!”

  As if in response to the bard’s bravado, the sound of more bow strings being drawn could be heard behind them revealing how badly outnumbered the group was. Ederick was torn. Ordinarily a knight of his station would fight until he was dead or until the enemy was dead. Considering that those he now faced were clearly living beings, there may be a reasonable, living, person in command of castle.

  “You will not be warned again! You are trespassing on the lands of Hessan, the Lord Rider of Cheshire Hollow, Lieutenant of Shalthazar the Great, Holy Prophet-General of Ilian Nah. Stand down or die!” shouted the leader who clearly believed that the group should understand Cklathish.

  Ederick lowered his sword tip to the ground. “My friends, we must yield. It is clear that these are mortals we face and as such there is hope that we may bargain for our freedom. The nature of my mission demands we take every avenue to press on.”

  Carym believed the decision to yield was wise enough; he let out a sigh and lowered his weapons, struggling inwardly. Anger began to win and Carym raised his fighting stick, the call of the black stone in his coat pocket was growing, buzzing, angry. At times drowning out all other sounds. And now it was all he could do to keep his mind clear and focus his anger. Before his stick moved an inch, a barrage of expertly aimed arrows struck the shaft of his fighting stick, bouncing off the incredibly hard wood. This brought Carym’s mind back to the harsh logic and the wisdom of surrender. Gennevera laid her hand on Carym’s arm and his mind righted itself. He regained his inner calm and felt purposeful. He lowered his weapon as the enemy closed ranks.

  As Carym and his friends were stripped of their weapons and bound, he wished his longtime friend a silent farewell and hoped he would evade pursuit. He gave Gennevera a meaningful glance, words of love were silently shared, an unspoken promise of freedom to come.

  Their captors lowered their hoods. Oroks all of them but one; their leader was a human. Again the companions were struck by the relatively disciplined nature of these particular oroks. And by their seeming intelligence. Most oroks of the Northern Realms were stupid, cowardly, and undisciplined, hunting in gangs with mob-style tactics of brute force, sheer numbers, and intimidation. These oroks were nothing of the sort. They seemed to stand taller, their eyes were shrewdly intelligent, and they wore their uniforms and armor in a neat and orderly fashion. Even their speech was coherent.

  The group was ushered roughly through the portcullis and into the castle. The inside of this compound was surprisingly well-lit. There were large glowing orbs atop tall poles placed at regular intervals in the compound, not unlike those in Dalcasia, Carym silently noted.

  Gennevera tried to get Carym’s attention a number of times while they were ushered into the compound but each time she was silenced with a jab from the butt of a spear. Inside the compound Carym saw that the castle had been converted into a military garrison. Dozens of troops stood in formation in eloquently designed uniforms and strange armor with pointy leather hats. The troops appeared to be human but Carym had never seen humans quite like these. He had seen the stocky, black skinned Volans with their silky brown hair and brown eyes; he had seen the pale Vaardic men of Isfjell with their blond hair and blue eyes; and every variety of Men in the Southern Realms from Arnathia, to Eastern Kings, to Ash Plains barbarians. These were the tallest men that he had ever seen, most standing seven feet tall. Their skin seemed olive colored in the well-lit courtyard and their hair was raven black. Many of them had long mustaches or thick curly beards and carried curved scimitars and small shields. And there were more than a few women, even Keneerie, among those in the ranks.

  Two dozen well-disciplined oroks stood in formation on the far end of the courtyard beyond the humans. The companions were indeed amazed to find this place bustling with the living. The forces of Umber must be great indeed, if they were powerful enough to wrest this place from the damned who were cursed to haunt it.

  Despite the activity, it was evident that the living here felt out of place. There was a sense of great unease among the troops which Carym attributed to the presence of the Black Baron’s minions. Even Carym felt it, that deep seated loathing that the dead have for the living, that undeniable sense of malice-filled eyes watching every move.

  The butt of a spear distracted Carym from his observations as he was prodded through the compound and down a dark stairwell toward what he assumed could only be a dungeon.

  C H A P T E R

  9

  The Black Baron. The Headless Rider.

  An Unlikely Alliance.

  Carym was not sure how long the group had been locked away in the dungeon. He squinted, trying hopelessly to get his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He was on a cold stone floor; so cold that he could hardly keep his teeth from chattering. Carym tried to move his arms and was rewarded with searing
pain in his muscles. He found that every time he tried to move, a new muscle inflicted the same searing pain.

  Carym’s hands had become numb, useless to him. He wished he had learned more of his craft, for the Sigilbooks hinted at more advanced users who could cast spells through their words and the power of their minds alone. Alas, such was not to be. He prayed fervently that his possessions, specifically Fyrendi’s Home, would not have been destroyed or given to soldiers as loot. Such a loss would be catastrophic. He was not concerned for his spellbook, however, as Mathonry had shown him that it would appear as a blank book to any who did not possess the ability to read Sigils.

  The dungeon was terribly cold and the prisoners were locked away in separate cells, forbidden from communication. Every attempt at speech only resulted in a nasty butt stroke from a spear. He hoped his friends were ok. From what little he saw, they seemed to be in the same state as he, locked in small cells with little room to move. His heart ached for Gennevera, he doubted that she had ever been exposed to this sort of imprisonment before and he wondered what she was thinking. There were no beds, no blankets to keep warm, no straw mats. Just a cold stone floor.

  She was probably thinking that she might never see the sun again, that’s what Carym was thinking. Carym knew that if he tried too hard to talk to her, to console her, aside from the abuse such actions would invite, he would only provide evidence of a weakness the enemy could exploit. The thought of any harm coming to Gennevera simply because of his own feelings for her was overpowering. He had to force the thoughts away, quickly. First and foremost, the companions had a purpose. They must reach the Everpool. And his feelings for the woman must not interfere.

  He wondered how they would escape. Try as he might, no plan came to him in the long hours of his imprisonment. The darkness was suffocating and Carym found that he was constantly barraged with hallucinations of torturous grisly images. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the murderous baron inflicting some horror on a victim. But as the interminable imprisonment continued, the scenes in his head began to change. With little else to do, aside from hearing the whimpering and soft sobbing sounds coming from various cells, Carym beat back his fear recognizing that it was born of the Shadow Sigil and he analyzed the images. Now, it seemed, the victims of the Black Baron’s torturous fantasies were the forces of Hessan.

  He pondered the meaning of this, knowing full well his own mind and heart could never create the fantastic and terrible scenes of torture that were appearing in his mind. Still, it was wearing on him. One could only endure such vivid and ghastly horror for so long before either becoming inured to it or succumbing to madness.

  The ever present sound of soft laughter, a whisper tickling his ear, tortured Carym in other ways. More than once he was rewarded with a jab from a spear after answering a voice that did not speak. More than once he saw shadows within shadows, a streak of darkness within the darkness, movement in his own tiny cell. Was his mind playing tricks on him, playing on his own dark fears? For every now and then, scenes from Carym’s own past would surface. Grizzly scenes in which he was the torturer, the Vaard his victims. Try as he might, he could not fight away the nightmares when they came. And they left him despondent and somber. He was beginning to feel beaten and feared he would not be able to save his friends or lead them from danger.

  His only consolation was that he had hidden the bag of Sigil Stones well enough that the Orokish guards had not found them on him. Whatever the reason, he was grateful that the incessant harassing thought invasion of the black stone had ceased.

  One of the guards entered the dark hallway outside the cells. In the very dim light Carym saw the orok guard stop before each cell and toss something in. A chunk of stale bread landed in Carym’s cell with a thud; very stale bread. The guard did not close the door to the passageway and Carym was able to better see his companions. From his vantage point in the cell he could only see Ederick across from him and someone he had not seen before in the cell adjacent to Ederick’s. The prisoner was a beautiful woman; human, as far as he could tell. Then the food-bearing guard exited the passageway, leaving the companions in darkness again.

  During the remaining hours or days of their imprisonment, Carym did not see any more of his companions. He knew they were alive, as he had been tracking the movements of every guard coming and going - he had even given them names to enable him to tell them apart - and none of the companions had been disturbed. At least, nothing beyond what their immediate guard, “Toes” as Carym had named him for the curiously strong odor, dealt to the group for making too much noise, breathing too hard, or just because he felt like it.

  Carym must have dozed off when “Chuckles” entered the passageway and grumbled to his partner, Toes. This was followed by the sound of keys rattling in the lock and noisy hinges protesting loudly.

  “Up! Get up! On your feet!” Chuckles stuck a long polearm into the cell and hooked it behind Carym’s back, the point biting painfully at his back. Then the orok pulled, forcing Carym to his feet, shaking with fatigue. Soon other orok guards had prodded and pulled the other captives from their cells, lined them up in the passageway and chained them to each other.

  “Bring them!” commanded the first guard as he stalked out of the cell with authority. The other guards followed, dragging Carym and his friends through the door, feet unshackled enough to hobble. The strange woman was roused and dragged away in another direction, still unconscious.

  Slowly they shuffled, irons clanking all the way, down a long passageway, which ended at a door that looked as though it had been carved from blue ice. The guard leader opened the massive door and Carym saw with amazement that it was at least three feet thick.

  Carym was confused - and relieved - to feel a blast of warm air as he entered the icy chamber ahead of his friends. The room itself appeared to have been an extension of the dungeon. It was as though the architect of this room had chosen to build it long after the dungeon’s completion, yet it went unfinished. The door closed behind them and Carym saw why this room was warmer than the rest. In the center of the chamber was a pool of crystal clear water with steam rising from its surface. Maybe this natural hot spring was to be the personal bathing chamber of the castle’s lord, long ago.

  Another door opened on the far end of the chamber and two strong looking Keneerie women entered. They wore leather sandals and sheer robes that barely covered their bodies; heavy iron bracelets marked them as slaves. A larger male, similarly dressed in a robe and sandals, wearing iron bracelets, entered the chamber and freed the group from the shackles that bound them all together. Carym looked at Gennevera, her eyes smoldering with anger. Many of her people had been enslaved, viewed as an inferior race.

  A profound darkness gripped Carym’s soul, seeking to choke the light from him. He fought the sensation with all his might thinking that the black stone must be responsible after giving him a respite from its madness. He tried something he hadn’t done before and mentally called to the Flamestone. He was rewarded immediately by the cessation of activity from the black, and by a warming sensation which took the edge from the chill air and warmed his bones. He felt strength returning and sensation returned to his hands. Soon, he was keenly aware of each of the other stones in that pouch, wherever it was, each giving him a different but strong sense.

  Why didn’t I think of this sooner? he thought, ruefully.

  Feeling more confident, Carym surveyed the occupants of the chamber. At the far end he saw a dark throne upon which sat the dark form of a tall man with a hood pulled low over his head.

  “Lord Hessan of Cheshire Hollow; Lieutenant to Shalthazar, the Great Lord of Nashia, will now see you,” announced the slave. Carym almost didn’t believe it. But, he could not deny what lay before his very eyes. The very creature of his childhood nightmares, which his own mother had more than once threatened to call when he was being unruly.

  The door behind Carym opened and the other woman from the dungeon was ushered in, still manacled han
d and foot and naked. Sir Ederick looked at her with pity then looked toward the dark figure on the throne. The creature possessed an air of command, exuding an air of power and authority. The hooded head swiveled towards the companions, two pinpoints of red light visible from the depths. A wave of bone numbing cold assaulted him as the creature faced him. His friends, too, must have been similarly assaulted by the groans that escaped them.

  Carym tried to survey the room, looking for avenues of escape, for an opponent he could overpower. There would be no overpowering the great Hessan, the Headless Rider. That one would be a powerful foe indeed. He wondered if his Sigil use was up to the task. As he glanced around the room, he noticed no more than a dozen armed oroks and men. There was nothing special about them, he noticed. And no archers or crossbowmen.

  A dozen fighters, a dead knight who lives in children’s nightmares, and no weapons. He was just beginning to feel the talons of his emotional demons grasping at him, fueling his guilt. Images of the bloodshed left in the wake of this journey began to crowd his vision. But wait! A glimmer of hope began to shine, and beat back the darkness encroaching upon him. There, on the floor before the throne of the Headless Rider. Their belongings! He saw his fighting sticks, all their backpacks, swords and armor. A plan was beginning to form in Carym’s mind, but he wasn’t sure it would work. It all relied on the presence of the stones in his pouch. His plan was a wild one, something he had not yet done with the Sigils and he thought he found a way to do it!