by J. C. Staudt
This one’s for Cronarmark, he thought, sending the first on its way. The door froze solid and ruptured in a hail of icy shards, tossing the entry team to the floor. Darion was dismayed to see far more than a dozen men with Palavar; he’d summoned the remainder of his garrison to the dungeons, another forty strong.
Crossbow bolts zipped down the hallway. Darion stepped in front of Kestrel and raised a hand to scorch the bolts to cinders as they arrived. He lobbed another spell, intending to hit the line of crossbowmen as they reloaded. He aimed too high though, and the spell struck the wall above the door. Curse my sight, and curse my age.
Stone blasted outward across the main chamber, sending soldiers toward cover and shaking the tower on its foundations. Darion twisted a hand to release a vortex of ensorcelled barbs which shredded a path through the enemy. His next spell burst against the chamber wall in a noxious yellow cloud. Men screamed as the barbs cut them down, then choked as the fumes took over.
The Dathiri were faring no better on the other side, where Alynor and Tarber King were hurling spells in a dual assault too fast for them to keep up with. Kestrel had by this time cast a spell of his own, but he hadn’t found occasion to use it. When the tower shook a second time under the weight of a collapsing wall, Palavar’s remaining forces broke and fled for the stairs.
“After them,” Tarber shouted. He took off through the chamber on bony legs, screaming murder with Alynor at his heels.
Kestrel made to join the pursuit, but Darion caught him. “Free Tarber’s garrison. This tower may not hold much longer.”
That was when their remaining spells winked out. Darion looked to Tarber’s cell, where his son’s feet were all he could see sticking out into the hallway.
“Oh, no,” said Kestrel, his face bleak. “No.”
They found Draithon lying on Tarber’s blue robe, his eyes closed in peaceful slumber. The sphere rested against the bars of an adjacent cell. The man inside, whom Tarber had earlier described as one of the most reprehensible criminals in the whole of his dungeons, snatched it through the bars and held it to his chest as if cradling a secret prize.
“You’ll want to give that back,” Darion suggested.
“For a key to these manacles, I might,” the prisoner said with a chuckle.
“I’ve a key of mine own,” Darion said, drawing his sword as he entered the cell. “Let’s see where it fits.”
The prisoner held out the sphere. “All yours, sir. All yours.”
Darion returned to his son. “Is he breathing?”
“Yes,” said Kestrel.
“I’ll stay with him. Find Tarber’s men. Tell them to leave this tower at once.”
Kestrel hobbled off down the hallway and disappeared round the corner.
Darion rolled Draithon onto his back. Not all my children. Not all of them. Don’t take them all from me, he pleaded to whoever might be listening. There was no movement in the boy’s body, and he wondered if Kestrel had been wrong about his breathing. Then Draithon’s chest rose and fell with a soft exhalation of breath, and Darion felt relieved enough to sigh.
He looked at the sphere, this thing which had taken him and the rest of the world unawares. Olyvard’s instrument of madness. Or his excuse for it, more like. Imbuing an object with magic was far from unheard-of; capturing Geddle’s ritual and magnifying it across leagues in every direction seemed impossible.
“Apparently it isn’t,” Darion muttered to himself.
Members of the king’s household emerged from their hiding places as a portion of the cellblock wall gave way, tearing open three cells in a tumble of stone and dust. Free-standing prisoners rejoiced and fled. Those chained to the other walls cursed them and despaired.
Darion took his son in his arms and trudged through the main chamber, navigating a path through the bodies. A group of soldiers in Orothi blue burst out from the second cellblock and headed for the exit. Kestrel emerged behind them and limped toward the third pair of doors. “I’ll just be one moment,” he called, opening the nearest.
“You’ve done enough. Come with us.”
“It shan’t take long,” Kestrel insisted. “There are others here loyal to Orothwain.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool,” Darion shouted, but Kestrel was already through the door and down the hallway.
That infernal singer will never learn. Darion lumbered up the winding tower steps and emerged breathless into the nighttime yard. Palavar and his men were nowhere to be found, but Alynor and Tarber were standing at a safe distance with the members of his household and the Orothi soldiers Kestrel had freed. Someone had thrown a heavy cloak over Tarber’s shoulders to cover him.
Alynor cried out and came running when she saw them. She took Draithon’s hand in her own and walked with Darion as he carried the boy to the waiting assembly and set him down in the grass. She felt his forehead for fever, hovered a hand above his nose and mouth to check his breathing. When she looked up at Darion, her eyes were cold. “How could we let him do this?”
Darion could conceive of no adequate response.
“Your boy just saved all our lives,” said Tarber. “He’s a hero.”
“He’s fourteen,” Alynor snapped. “He’s got no place in battle.”
“Battle has come to him. In such times, we must all find our place.”
“He didn’t ask to be dragged halfway round the world. We were at home, minding our own affairs. We built a new life for ourselves. Olyvard, in his spite, tore it down.”
“I know your pain, my lady. The Council of Mages included many wizards of great renown whom I once called friend. Two, I called son.”
Darion looked up. “Your sons were on the Council?”
“Thellyn and Lleftwyn, my second and thirdborn.”
“What of the others?”
“Taibor, Traichar, and Bernathan are elsewhere; alive and in hiding, I’m told, thank the gods. I’ve little enough to thank them for anymore.”
Another group of Orothi soldiers stampeded from the dungeon tower. Thunder rumbled overhead. Clouds gathered, and a steady rain began to fall.
Alynor looked around. “Where’s Kestrel?”
“He was below, last I saw him,” said Darion. “Freeing the rest. He’ll be along shortly, I’m certain.”
Castellan Tolthus jogged over to the king and stood at attention.
“Report,” said Tarber.
“The castle is ours, sire, yet Deepsail remains fast under Dathrond’s control. It appears Palavar has fled into the city with the last of his garrison.”
“To find reinforcements, no doubt. My city is infested with Dathiri men-at-arms. They’ve been invading homes, searching commoners in the streets without cause, demanding free food and drink from inns and taverns; I’ve even heard rumor of their taking liberties with womenfolk against their will.”
“In the meanwhile,” said the castellan, “I’ve made arrangements to see the men fed and rested. Those able to stand watch will be posted to the curtain walls at once.”
“See them cared for. I want every man we can muster standing the walls by the morrow, but not at the expense of their health.”
“As you will, sire. Is there anything else?”
Tarber pointed to the Dathiri keybearer, now bound by the wrists and in the custody of his household guard. “Bring him here.”
When he came to stand before the king, Tarber sized up the keybearer before speaking. “How are you called?”
“Artem, your majesty.”
“I am not your majesty, Dathiri cur. You are not my subject. However you refer to that charlatan you call a king, you will not dishonor me by the same terms.”
“As you say, your maj—your—milord…”
“How would you like to live out the night, Artem?”
“Rather a lot, milord.”
“I imagined as much. When this night began, your sole duty was to keep me imprisoned. Now you find yourself on the other end of the spear you once stood behind. How quickly thing
s change, eh?”
“Yes, milord.”
“I’ve need of you, Artem. You are to be my emissary. Do you know what an emissary is?”
“A messenger?”
“Clever lad. You’ll need your wits about you tonight. Do you know why?”
“No, milord.”
“Because I’m going to release you. You’re going to find Commander Palavar, and you’re going to tell him he has one week to gather his armies and retreat for Dathrond. Should he fail to do so, not a man wearing the Dathiri colors shall be spared. Understand?”
“I understand, milord.”
“Good. Set him free, lads.”
“Sire,” said one of Tarber’s soldiers, “the key to these manacles is in the dungeons below, with the man who set us free.”
“You needn’t take off the manacles to set him free. Artem is our enemy. Aren’t you, Artem?”
“Y—yes, milord.”
“Let him go, and enjoy watching him run through the dark with his hands behind his back.”
“Aye, we will, sire.” The soldiers took him away.
“That was quite a threat to have made,” said Darion. “How will you follow through on it?”
“That’s where you come in, old friend. We stand no chance against the Dathiri unless the mage-song is allowed to flourish here once more. You must take that sphere and leave Deepsail with all haste. You’ve seven days to bear it hence; I can only hope you’ll have carried it far enough by then to remove its influence from my city.”
“Would you not prefer to have me by your side? Perhaps we can discover the secret to the sphere’s destruction.”
Tarber shook his head. “We cannot afford the time. Nor is it likely we’ll find a solution so quickly. The best thing you can do for me is to ensure magic’s return. Given that much, we will rise against our oppressors, and we shall prevail.”
“What of my son?”
“Your son may stay here until he recovers. I owe him my life, and the lives of my household and garrison. He’ll be safe here. You have my word he’ll be provided the best of care. And when magic returns, I’ll do everything I can to see him restored, should there be any lasting damage from his conjurations.”
“We’ve others to think about too. Kestrel’s wife and sons are hiding out at the Morning Dew Alehouse.”
“I’ll have them summoned. They may also stay here in my castle. I promise you, should you take that detestable sphere far away from here, I’ll not allow any harm to befall those you love.”
Another herd of Orothi soldiers emerged from the dungeon tower, shielding themselves from the rain. The ground rumbled. A section of the turret roof broke away and tumbled to the yard, sending them scrambling.
“Where is that fool singer?” said Darion. “He’s been down there far too long. I’ve a mind to go in after him.”
Alynor gave him a sharp look. “Don’t you dare.”
“He’d better come up soon. That’s all I’ll say.”
A portion of the tower wall crumbled, exposing the upper staircase. Stones thumped in the mud and clattered over others previously fallen. Darion was seconds from sprinting toward the tower when a figure staggered out through the doorway and came toward them through the gloom.
Kestrel’s flaxen hair was wet in seconds. He smiled and gave them a friendly wave. He was moving slowly, the fallen stones proving difficult for him to maneuver in the dark. He tripped a few times across the first short stretch of grass. Now the thrill of battle’s worn off, he’s feeling his wounds all the more, Darion realized. Hurry, he nearly shouted. Hurry, you fool singer.
Kestrel shuffled along with an easy determination. Darion imagined himself dashing across the yard to throw the singer over his shoulder and carry him to safety. There was no time to do more than imagine it before the worst happened.
The tower gave a shudder. The inside wall slouched away in a cascade of stone. Kestrel looked up. His smile flattened.
Darion shouted his name.
The tower’s top half leaned inward. A wave of stonework erupted from the sidewall to shower the yard in blocks the size of bread loaves. One moment Kestrel was standing there in the wet darkness; the next, he was gone beneath a torrent of stone.
Chapter 26
Dalahmet’s temple gave Maaltred a cramped, stifled feeling. He tugged at the collar of his robes as he and Norne entered the looming stone structure through a doorway thrice the height of a man. Smooth granite floors stretched across a soaring narthex where graven snakes twisted round slender columns toward a ceiling patterned with grotesque scrollwork and domineering arches. Maaltred could hear the hiss of the congregants further in, a steaming pot ready to boil over. This was no ceremonial cleansing to be performed in the street. This was Dalahmet’s work; something darker than the laws of kingdom or city would allow.
Norne wasn’t any happier about being here than Maaltred was. “Olyvard’s orders are worth a great deal to me,” he’d argued, “but they’re not worth dying for.”
The vicar had only agreed to come on the condition that Maaltred heal his wounds from the fight with Briynad. Maaltred’s curing spell had blown away during the scuffle, so Norne had inscribed a more powerful healing incantation on a new sheet of parchment, repeating his warning that such spells ought not be used except in dire need. The spell had put a new wrinkle on Norne’s forehead and deepened the rings beneath his eyes. When Maaltred had tried to give back the leaf of paper, Norne had refused. “Keep it. We’re about to do something foolish. I trust this isn’t the last time you’ll need that spell.”
Beyond a set of doors lay the vast sanctum in which the temple’s visitors were now gathered. The snake motifs and serpentine statues lining the walls were not what Maaltred would’ve called pleasing to the eye, yet they were wrought with some of the most exquisite craftsmanship he had ever seen. So was the ornate limestone altar standing upon the high dais at the front. Priests in black velvet robes sat in seats of honor along either side of the room.
As for the templegoers, they were not altogether as unseemly as Maaltred had expected. He passed a man in common clothes wearing a simple woolen coif on his head. Not a bloodthirsty zealot, black of soul and dark of countenance, but a man he might’ve encountered at any market stand in the city. Such apparent normalcy only added to Maaltred’s discomfort.
He and Norne wove toward the front and found an opening in which to stand. Maaltred could feel eyes on them as they stood facing the altar in silence. He was fairly certain they’d eluded the city watch, so he took some small comfort that none of Lord Chancer’s men were in attendance.
A hush fell over the sanctum when one of the molded white panels at the front swung open. The crowds pressed forward to fill the empty spaces as a slender man in black velvet robes emerged and came to stand behind the altar. It was none other than Eril himself, now with the three-headed snake pendant of Dalahmet dangling from his neck. The red jewel at its center gleamed in the hazy light of the sanctum’s high windows.
“The formalities will begin in few moments,” Eril announced. “We’re still waiting on the arrival of a few essential implements.”
Maaltred leaned over and whispered in Norne’s ear. “He’s talking about the ones we took from Briynad.”
“I imagine so,” Norne whispered back.
“In the meantime,” Eril continued, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Erilliamonn Eloriad; I have served Dalahmet all my life. To those of you who are new to this congregation, I say welcome. I myself am visiting in celebration of the festival, and thus far I must say I’ve been impressed by the way Haruspex Jolthor conducts his affairs. You’re all quite fortunate to be under the leadership of such a—” Eril broke off as he noticed Norne in the crowd. His mouth twitched. Then he cleared his throat and continued. “—such an exemplary member of our church. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned and exited through the hidden door in the molded panel.
A curious murmur rippled through the crowd.
&n
bsp; “Where do you think he went?” Maaltred asked.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s bad for us. We shouldn’t have come.”
Maaltred pulled Norne back as he tried to leave. “Oh, no you don’t. You promised. What’s a haruspex?”
“Someone who reads the entrails of the church’s blood sacrifices to interpret prophecies from the gods.”
“That’s a thing?”
“In the faith of Dalahmet it is.”
The sanctum’s rear doors burst open. A score of Forandran city watchmen entered in golden sunburst tabards, matching pennons fluttering from their spears. Some of the templegoers darted for the exits while others began chattering loudly with their peers.
One of the watchmen cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Pardon the interruption. We’re looking for Master Blinch Kromhelde. Is there a Blinch Kromhelde here? I’m looking for—”
“That’s me,” said Blinch, lifting a hand as he stood from one of the seats of honor along the edge of the crowd. “What’s the trouble?”
“It’s your brother Briynad. He’s been killed.”
Blinch’s tattooed face went pale. “Not my brother, but alright. I’ll see him.” He began pushing his way toward the back. Everyone could see him coming, and before long a path opened up for him. He spoke briefly with the city watchmen before following them outside.
“Now’s our chance,” said Maaltred. “How much are you willing to bet the Ulther girls are back there in the preparation chambers behind the altar?”
“Had I a copper to my name,” said Norne, “quite a lot.”
“Then what are we waiting for? With Blinch gone, we’ve got Eril all to ourselves.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Norne pointed.
Black-robed figures were converging on them from the edges of the crowd like snakes through tall grass.
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
“What could I possibly do? It’s over, Brother Maaltred.”