“There.” Royce pointed to an opening in the room below that radiated a yellow glow. “It has to be in there.”
They crept down the stairs to the bottom. Elaborate square-cut designs of inlaid bronze and quartz lined the tiled floor. It picked up the glow coming from the open doorway on the far side. The air warmed dramatically as hot gusts of sulfur-laced air blew in their faces.
“This has to be it,” Royce whispered.
They looked up at the stacked galleries of arched openings circling the walls above them and slowly, carefully, stepped forward together, crossing the shimmering tile, heading for the glowing doorway.
“Halt!” The command echoed through the chamber the moment they reached the center of the room. “Lie face down, arms and legs spread.”
They hesitated.
Twenty archers appeared, moving out from behind the pillars of the galleries, with stretched bows aimed down on Royce and Hadrian from three sides. Pikemen entered the hall in an orderly march, boot heels clicking on the tile. They spread out forming two lines. A dozen more armored men issued down the side corridor from the second stry gallery and proceeded in two-by-two formation to the bottom of the stairs fanning out to block any retreat back the way they had come.
“Now, lay on your bellies, or we will cut you down where you stand.”
“We’re not here to cause trouble, we’re here—” Hadrian’s words were cut short as an arrow hissed through the air and glinted off the stone less than a foot from them.
“Now!” the voice shouted.
They laid down.
The moment they did, troops from in front and behind entered, pinning them and stripping them of their weapons.
“You have to listen to us. There’s an invasion coming—”
“We’ve heard all about your phantom armada, Mister Blackwater, and you can give up that charade.”
“It’s real! They will be here tonight, and if you don’t fix the tower, all of Delgos will be taken!”
“Bind them!”
They brought forth chains, tongs, and a brazier. Smiths arrived and went to work hammering manacles onto their wrists and legs.
“Listen to me!” Hadrian shouted. “At least check the pressure release controls, see if something is wrong.”
There was no reply except the smith’s hammer pounding the manacles closed.
“What is the harm in checking?” Hadrian went on. “If I am wrong, what does it matter? If I am right and you don’t even look, you’re sealing the fate of the Delgos Republic. Just humor me, if nothing else it will shut me up.”
“Slitting your throat will do that too,” the voice said. “But I will send a worker if you two come quietly without resistance.”
Hadrian was not certain what kind of resistance he expected them to give as the smith finished attaching another chain to his legs, but nodded anyway.
He gave the order, and the guards pulled them to their feet. It was hard navigating stairs with hobbled legs and Hadrian nearly fell more than once, but soon they reached the bottom of the fortress and the main gate.
The gigantic doors of stone soundlessly swept open. Outside the late afternoon sun revealed a contingent of port soldiers waiting. The commander of the fortress guard stepped forward and spoke quietly with the Port Authority Captain for some time.
“You don’t think these guys are always waiting out here, do you?” Hadrian whispered to Royce. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”
“It didn’t tip you off when they called you by name?”
“Merrick?”
“Who else.”
“That’s a bit farfetched. How could he possibly expect us to be here. We didn’t even know we would be here. He can’t be that smart.”
“He is.”
A runner appeared trotting up from the bottom of the tower and reported to the commander with a sharp salute.
“Well?” the fortress commander asked.
The runner shook his head. “There is no problem with the pressure release control—everything checked out fine.”
“Take them away,” the commander ordered.
***
The Tur Del Fur City Prison and Workhouse sat back, hidden on a hillside away from the dock, the shops, and the trades. It appeared as little more than a large, stone box at the end of Avan Boulevard with few windows and a spiked iron fence. Hadrian and Royce both knew it by reputation. Most offenders typically died within the first week due to execution, suicide, or brutality. The magistrate’s role was merely to determine the manner of execution. Parole was not an option. Only those known to be serious threats came here. Petty thieves, drunks, and malcontents went to the more popular and lenient Portside Jail. For those in Tur Del Fur Prison, this was the end of the road, literally as well as figuratively.
Royce and Hadrian hung by their wrists with their ankles chained to the wall of cell number three, where they had spent the last few hours. The room was smaller than those in Calis. There was no window, stool, nor pot—not even straw. It was a sml, stone closet with a single metal door. The only light came from the gap between the door and the frame.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Hadrian said to the darkness.
“I’m trying to figure this out,” Royce replied.
“Figure it out?” Hadrian laughed even though his arms and wrists burned like fire from the metal cutting into his skin. “We’re hanging chained to a wall waiting execution, Royce. There’s not that much to it.”
“Not that. I want to know why we didn’t find anything wrong with the spouts.”
“Because there’s a million levers and switches in there and we were looking for just one?”
“I don’t think so. When we got to the bridge what was it you said? You said you didn’t think anyone except I could scale that fortress. I think you’re right. I know Merrick couldn’t. He’s a genius, not an elf. I always outdid him when it came to anything physical.”
“So?”
“So, a thought has been nagging me since they brought us here. How could Merrick get into Drumindor to sabotage it?”
“He figured another way in.”
“We spent weeks trying to do that, remember?”
“Maybe he bribed someone on the inside, or maybe he paid someone to break in.”
“Who?” Royce thought a minute. “This is too important to trust to someone who might be able to do it—he would need someone he knew could do it.”
“But how do you know someone can do something until they’ve actually—” Hadrian stopped himself as the realization hit. “Oh, that’s not good.”
“Throughout this whole thing we’ve been following two letters, both written by Merrick. The first we thought was intercepted and delivered to Alric, but what if it was intentionally sent to him? Everyone knows we work for Melengar.”
“Which led us to the Emerald Storm,” Hadrian said.
“Right. Where we got the next letter—the one to be delivered to that crazy Tenkin in the jungle, and it just happened to mention that Drumindor was set to blow.”
“I’m not liking where this is heading,” Hadrian muttered.
“And what if Merrick knew about the master gear?”
“That’s impossible. Gravis is dead. Crushed, as I recall, under one of those big gears.”
“Yes. He is dead, but Lord Byron isn’t. He probably boasted about how he saved Drumindor by hiring two no account thieves.”
“It still seems too perfect,” Hadrian tried to convince himself. “In retrospect sure, it sounds like the pieces fall into place, but there are too many things that could have gone wrong along the way.”
“Right. That’s why he had someone on board the Storm making sure it all worked—Derning. Did you see the way he took off the moment we hit dock? He knew what was coming and wanted to get away.”
“I should have let you kill him.”
Silence.
“You’re nodding, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Bastard,” Hadrian grumbled.
“You know the worst thing?”
“I’ve got a pretty long list of bad things right now, and I’m not sure which one I would put on top. So, I’ll bite.”
“We did exactly what Merrick couldn’t do himself. He used us to disarm Drumindor.”
“So, he never sabotaged anything. That would explain why Gile laughed when I told him Drumindor was going to explode. He knew it wasn’t. Merrick promised he would have it intact. Merrick’s a bloody genius.”
“I think I mentioned that, once or twice.”
“So, now what?” Hadrian asked.
“Now, nothing. He’s beaten us. He’s sitting somewhere with a warm cup of cider smiling smugly with his feet up on the pile of money he’s just been paid.”
“We have to warn them to re-engage the master gear.”
“Go ahead.”
Hadrian began shouting until the little observation door opened flooding the cell with light.
“We need to speak to someone. It’s important.”
“What is it?”
“We realized the mistake we made. We were tricked. You need to tell the commander at Drumindor that we locked the master gear. We can show him where it is and how to release it.
“You two never stop, do you? I’m not sure if you’re really saboteurs or just plain nuts. One thing’s for certain, we’re going to find out how you got in, and then we’re going to kill you.”
The observation door closed casting them back into darkness.
“That worked out really well,” Royce pointed out. “Feel better now?”
“Bastard,” Hadrian repeated.
Chapter 24
The Escape
Arista stayed in the corner of the stable, wrapped in Hilfred’s arms most of the night. He stroked her hair, and from time to time without any particular reason, kissed her passionately. It felt safe and lying there, Arista realized two things. First, she was certain she could be content remaining in his arms forever. And Second, she was not in love with Hilfred.
He was a good friend, a piece of home she missed so dearly that she drank him in with a desert-born thirst, but something was missing. She thought it strange she came to this conclusion while in his arms. Yet she knew it with perfect clarity. She did not love Hilfred and she had not loved Emery. Hilfred was the big brother she had grown up with, and Emery she had barely known. She was not even certain what love was, what it should feel like, or if it existed at all.
Noblewomen rarely knew the men they married before their wedding day. Perhaps they grew to love their husbands in time, or merely grew to believe they did. At least she knew Hilfred loved her. He loved enough for both of them. She could feel it radiating off him like warmth from smoldering coals. He deserved happiness after so long, after so much sacrifice; she would make it up to him. She would return to Melengar and marry him. She would make him Archduke Reuben Hilfred. She laughed softly at the thought.
“What?”
“I just remembered your first name is Reuben.”
Hilfred laughed then pointed to his face. “I look like this, and you’re making fun of my name?”
She took his face in her hands. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I think you’re beautiful.”
He kissed her again.
Periodically, Hilfred would peek out at the sky and check the position of the moon. Eventually he returned and said, “It’s time.”
She nodded and once more Arista transformed into the morose visage of the Regent Saldur.
“I still can’t believe it,” Hilfred told her.
“I know. I’m really starting to get the hang of this. Care to kiss me again?” she asked, and laughed at his expression. “Now remember, don’t do anything. The idea is to just walk in, and walk out. No fighting, understand?”
Hilfred nodded.
They stepped out of the stable. As they did, Arista looked up at Modina’s window. It was dark, but she was certain she saw her figure sitting framed within it. Once again, she recalled her final words and regretted not asking her to come. Maybe she would have refused, but now that it was too late. She wished she had at least asked.
Nipper came out of the kitchens, yawning and carrying two empty water buckets. He stopped short, surprised to see them.
She ignored him and headed directly to the tower.
Just as before, the Seret Knight stood at attention in the center of the room, his face hidden, his shoulders back, the jeweled sword at his side.
“I am going to see Degan Gaunt. Open up.”
The guard drew his sword.
There was a brief moment of terror when Arista’s heart pounded so loudly she thought the seret might hear. She glanced at Hilfred and saw him flinch, his hand approaching his own weapon. Then the knight bent on one knee and lightly tapped the stone floor with the pommel. Immediately, the stones slid awrevealing a stair curving into the darkness.
“Shall I come with you, Your Grace?”
Arista considered this. She had no idea what was down there. It could be one cell or a maze of corridors. It might take her a long time to discover where Gaunt was. Just outside, she heard Nipper filling his buckets; the castle was already waking up.
“Yes, of course. Lead the way.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” The knight pulled a torch from the wall and descended the steps.
It was dark inside. The stair was narrow and oppressive. Ahead, she could hear the sounds of faint weeping. The same heavy stones that made up the base of the tower formed the dungeon. Here however, decorations adorned the walls. Nothing recognizable, merely abstract designs carved everywhere. Arista felt she had seen them before, not these exactly, but similar ones.
Then she felt it.
Like the snap of a twig, or the crack of an egg, a tremor passed through her body—a sudden disconcerting break.
She looked down. The old man’s hands were gone. Revealed in the flickering torchlight she was seeing her own fingers, her own sleeves.
With his back turned, the knight continued to escort them. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he began to turn saying, “Your Grace, I—”
Before he was fully around, Hilfred shoved her aside.
He drew his sword just as the knight’s eyes widened. Driving his blade at the man’s chest. The black armor turned the tip. It skipped off, penetrating the gap between the chest plate and the right pauldron, piercing the man’s shoulder.
The knight cried out.
Hilfred withdrew his sword. The knight staggered backward, struggling to draw his own. Hilfred swung at the knight’s neck. Blood exploded, spraying both of them. The seret made no further noise as he crumpled and fell.
“What happened?” Hilfred asked picking up the torch.
“The walls,” she said, touching the chiseled symbols, “They have runes on them like in Gutaria Prison. I can’t do magic in here. Do you think anyone heard that?”
“I’m sure the kid fetching water did,” he said. “Will he do anything?”
“I don’t know. We should close the door,” Arista said, picking up the sword with the emerald and looking up the long staircase at the patch of light at the top. What they covered so casually minutes ago now appeared so far—so dangerous. “I’ll do it. You find Gaunt.”
“No. I won’t leave your side. There could be more guards. Forget the door, we’ll find him together and get out of here.” He took her left hand and pulled her along. Her right hand held onto the sword.
The hallways were narrow stone corridors without any light, except what came from the torch they held. The ceiling arched to a peak not more than a foot above Arista’s head, forcing Hilfred to stoop. Wooden doors began appearing on either side, so short they looked more like livestock gates.
“Gaunt!” Hilfred yelled.
“Degan Gaunt!” Arista shouted.
They ran down the darkened passageways pounding on doors calling his name and peering inside. The hallway ended at a T-intersection.
With only one torch, there was no option to spilt up even if Hilfred could be convinced. They turned right and pressed on finding more doors.
“Degan Gaunt!”
“Stop!” Arista stopped suddenly.
“Wha—”
“Shush!”
Very faintly—“Here!”
They trotted down the next corridor, but reached a dead end.
“This place is a maze,” Arista said.
They ran back, and took another turn. They called again.
“Here! I’m here!” Came the reply, louder now.
Running once more they again met a solid wall. They retraced their steps, found another corridor that appeared to go in the right direction and followed it as far as the hallway allowed.
“Degan!” she cried.
“Over here!”
It was coming from the last door in the block.
en they reached it, Arista bent down and held up the torch. In the tiny grated window, she saw a pair of eyes. She grabbed the door handle and pulled—locked. She tried the gemstone but nothing happened.
“Damn it!” she cried. “The guard, he must have the key. Oh, how could I be so stupid? I should have searched him before we ran off.”
Hilfred hammered the wooden door with his sword. The hard oak, nearly as solid as stone, gave up only sliver size chips.
“We’ll never get the door open this way. Your sword isn’t doing anything! We have to go back for the keys.”
Hilfred continued to strike the door.
“We’ll be back, Degan!” Arista said, before starting back down the hall carrying the torch.
“Arista!” Hilfred shouted, as he chased after her.
They rounded the corridors, turning left then right and then—
“Arista, my dear! What a surprise,” Saldur greeted her as they nearly ran into the regent.
Around him were five Seret Knights with swords drawn and torches held high.
Hilfred pushed Arista back. “Run!” he told her.
Saldur laughed. “There is nowhere to run to, dear boy. You’re both quite trapped.”
Saldur, his hair loose and wild, wore a white linen nightgown over which he had pulled a red silk robe that he was still in the midst of tying about his waist. “You’ve been very clever, Arista, but you’ve always been a clever girl, haven’t you? Always poking your nose into places you shouldn’t.
The Emerald Storm Page 33