The shaft extended nearly all the way across the corridor, the needlelike point of the death trap not more than an inch from the opposing wall. The captain’s hand came away damp with blood.
“I think we chose the wrong corridor, Bakal,” a high-pitched voice piped up.
Swearing, the battle-worn veteran felt around. Enough of a gap existed for them to slide past poor Garon. “All right, I’ll go first this time! Everyone stay close and listen carefully for anything out of the ordinary!”
With trepidation, the survivors backtracked once more. Much to Bakal’s relief, though, the trek back proved devoid of other traps. Even so, no one relaxed in the least. There was no telling what might lie farther ahead.
The party gathered in the intersection, more than willing to take a pause. While they did, Bakal considered the other corridors again. He still favored the one on his right, but his last choice had resulted in the death of Garon. Of course, Bakal had no way of knowing if the left corridor were any better.
“Right it is, then.” Bakal cursed the eccentric Knight who had built this place and wondered if perhaps the Solamnic had been exiled to Atriun because of his insanity. Certainly that would explain much.
Calling an end to the rest, Bakal led the others single file into the new corridor. He reached out with the intention of again using the wall to guide him and was suddenly greeted by dim emerald light.
“Praise be!” a voice called from among his band.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he snapped, then, calmer, “but it could mean we’ve got the right one this time.”
They had journeyed well down the new corridor when Bakal suddenly noticed something different in the gloom ahead. “Rapp! Where are you?”
“Right behind you, Bakal.”
“Rapp, peek around me. Is that a door I see at the far end?”
“A door?” The kender shoved forward eagerly. “Where?”
The captain pointed at a dark spot far ahead. “You’ve got better eyes, I think. Isn’t that a door?”
“I think so … yes, it is. Do you want me to go open it?”
He had to restrain the wiry figure from racing down the corridor. “Easy, boy. We don’t know what other traps might be down this way.”
“Traps!” His eyes grew wider. “You really think so?”
“Just … let’s be careful.”
Slowly they edged their way down the hall. Once, Bakal thought he heard a click, but as no one died, he assumed his imagination had just played with him. At last they reached the door, a simple but sturdy wooden thing that looked as if it could withstand the strength of a charging bull.
Disappointed that they hadn’t found any new traps along the way, the kender put his hopes now on the door. “Is it locked, Bakal? Do you want me to open it? I’m good with doors, just like Uncle Trapspringer was! Did I tell you how he got that name? You see, he was—”
“Another time, boy.” Bakal tested the door. Locked, of course. Nothing could be easy. “All yours.”
From out of his topknot, Rapp produced a lockpick. Bakal knew that kender could carry more than two dozen picks on their person and improvise if those were taken from them.
“It’s rusted,” Rapp murmured. “And it’s a Solamnic lock! They’re fun! They make different designs that look the same on the outside, and opening one sometimes takes hours, even days.”
The thought of staying down here for days while Rapp entertained himself with the lock did not at all suit Bakal. He opened his mouth with the intention of encouraging the kender to speed matters up, but a click from the door halted him in mid breath.
“Oh, that was an easy one! I hoped it would be one of the imperial models! They can take—”
“It’s open, then?”
“Oh, sure, Bakal!” Rapp took hold and swung both himself and the door aside. “See?”
The captain did see. He saw that the door opened into a much wider corridor, one that clearly led to the central sections of the castle. He also saw something else, and that something saw him as well.
The gargoyle opened wide his toothy jaws.
Bakal stumbled back, trying to ready his weapon.
The gargoyle shook his head, then raised one clawed hand toward Bakal and rumbled, “I speak for Stooone.…”
* * * * *
Tyros woke, nightmares of ghostly mages and his own feet and hands turning to crystal still haunting him. That the first image he saw turned out to be the horrific countenance of the three-horned gargoyle peering at him through strong iron bars did not at all ease his spirits.
Seeing the prisoner was awake, the gargoyle hissed, then hurried off. Tyros tried to move, only to find his hands manacled. Further inspection revealed that he lay in a small, dust-ridden cell that smelled as if it hadn’t been aired out since Castle Atriun had been built.
He didn’t remember falling unconscious, but clearly it had happened. He also didn’t know what had happened to Serene. The thought of her at the mercy of the gargoyles, especially the more brutish, triple-horned one, left him cold. Tyros had to escape so that he could find her.
Clearing his thoughts, the red wizard concentrated on his remaining spells. Finding one that would release him from his confinement would be no trouble whatso—
A horrible throbbing filled Tyros’s head, nearly causing him to black out again. Tyros forgot all about spells, Serene, gargoyles, and flying citadels. All he wanted was for the pain to cease.
It did.
The cessation of pain came so suddenly that the captive mage could only blink. He exhaled in relief, praying never to feel such agony again. Now Tyros could begin once more to concentrate on a spell that would—
Again, the pain ripped through his head, this time even worse. Everything pounded, harder and harder. He lost track of his spell, lost track of everything. Tyros’s world became agony …
And just as quickly reverted to normal.
He groaned, trying to put the pieces of his mind back together. Twice now the throbbing had nearly sent him to oblivion, both times as he had been trying to put together a spell. In fact, even thinking of spells made his head pound a little.
“By the Tower,” Tyros muttered. He did not need a third test to know that if he tried a spell, his head would threaten to explode again. Someone had magicked him, made certain that any attempt to use his powers would strike him down. Cunning and not a little sadistic. For a mage not to think of spells was nearly the same as a starving man not allowed to eat food placed around him. Wizards lived and breathed their work.
Tyros suddenly noticed he had company. A shiver ran through him as two murky figures nearly identical to ghostly Kendilious stood before his cage.
They floated—no better word described it—toward him, as if under the robes they no longer had feet. One touched the door to his cell, opening it. The pair flanked him, then each lifted a white, bony hand to his manacles. A simple touch and the bracelets fell away.
He tried to jump up, but despite their emaciated appearance, they gripped his shoulders and held him fast.
“What do you want? Who are you?”
Neither looked at him directly, but one pointed forward, indicating he should leave the cell. The ghastly figures continued to grip his shoulders as he walked. Devoid of his wizard’s staff and dagger, Tyros considered his options. In truth, he had only his physical strength left, which seemed little enough against these strong ghouls.
Yet not to try …
Acting on instinct, Tyros brought his elbows into his guards’ midsections. Unfortunately, striking the phantoms was like striking rock. His elbows felt as if they had shattered. Worse, the ghouls’ grip on his shoulders tightened painfully, a punishment for his actions. He fell to his knees, nearly blacking out from agony.
“All right,” Tyros gasped. “All right! I’ll behave myself!”
The pressure eased, enabling him to stand. They led Tyros down a corridor, then up a lengthy flight of steps. From there, they marched down anothe
r long corridor before finally stopping at a brass door with the mark of the kingfisher emblazoned upon it. The captive mage found it ironic that the home of a Solamnic Knight should become a sanctum of destruction.
The door opened. To his astonishment, Tyros found himself in a sumptuous chamber with silken curtains, golden oil lamps, and furniture so skillfully wrought that the richest monarch would have envied them. Tapestries depicting creatures of the forest decorated the walls.
Taking away from the splendor was a pair of savage gargoyles hunched in the center of the room. They eyed the wizard with dark speculation and perhaps a little hunger.
“Tyros!”
Serene. The cleric stood near open doors leading to a great balcony. She looked untouched, even refreshed. Her face lit up for a moment when she saw him, then grew sad. Curiously the crimson-tressed woman did not attempt to approach Tyros.
“Serene …” He thanked Lunitari that she lived but wondered what she was doing in this chamber.
“Are you … better now?” the cleric quietly asked.
“Better?”
Her brow arched. “Surely you’ve not forgotten … but you have, I see.”
The mage didn’t like the sound of that. “Forgotten what?”
Before she could speak, someone behind her interrupted. “A side effect, my Serene, and one that could not be prevented.”
From the balcony emerged a hooded, ebony-clad wizard. A little older than Tyros, with black and slightly gray hair and a fancy goatee, the newcomer radiated power on a level that Tyros hadn’t experienced in some time. The dark mage gave him a congenial smile, yet one that also hinted of threat. Even the bright, cheerful blue eyes didn’t entirely hide some menace.
“Welcome again, Master Tyros,” the black wizard called, exuberance in his tone. He clasped gloved hands together.
A flash of memory hit the captive. He remembered those gloved hands reaching for his temples.
“I trust that this time we can speak a little more friendly with one another. After all, your very life depends upon it!”
Both Tyros and Serene started. Tyros noticed the cleric’s expression shift momentarily and realized that she tried to keep hidden great misery, as if she had just learned some terrible, heart-wrenching truth. The mage could only imagine that it concerned her imprisoned love.
The dark mage put a hand on Serene’s shoulder, caressing it. She did not flinch, but Tyros saw the dismay in her eyes.
“I think, my dear Serene, that once again introductions are in order. After all, I doubt he remembers the first time.”
“Tyros.” She nearly choked on her words. “This is Valkyn.”
Valkyn … Tyros knew the name from his research. Valkyn, who had also studied the history of the flying citadels. But that Valkyn had been a member of his own order, not a Black Robe. And yet … “Valkyn of Culthairai?”
“Aaah, very good! I feared I might have injured that scholarly brain too soon. Yes, I am Valkyn of Culthairai.”
“You wore the robes of the Order of Lunitari.”
“The color of a robe hardly dictates our lives, despite what those in the tower might desire.” He touched Serene’s red locks. “I can be giving just as much as any white-robed follower of Solinari. She knows that. My darling Serene has always known that.”
At last he had said it. Had Tyros needed any more verification, he had only to look at the terrible struggle going on within the cleric. Valkyn might not see it, but Tyros could read the turmoil, the battling emotions.
Serene had found her missing love … the master of Castle Atriun.
Chapter 11
In the Heart of the Beast
The master remained occupied with the female, a creature he had known from the past. Stone, too, had known of her, at least her existence, although she had never met him nor obviously even realized that her love had trafficked with gargoyles. In fact, Valkyn had seen fit not to mention to his female any of the darker elements of his life, especially his increasingly disturbing experiments. He had realized even then that Serene would not tolerate all of what the spellcaster thought a necessary part of his research.
When the time had come to delve even deeper, he had finally, with some regret, abandoned her and returned to Atriun, where the gargoyles and a few others already prepared for his arrival. Stone had occasionally noticed him wandering the wooded garden, perhaps recalling his time with the fire-tressed woman, but never had Valkyn voiced any notion of seeing her again. His work had been his mistress.
Now she had returned to him, however accidentally, and did not seem pleased by his success. It had occurred to the gargoyle leader that in this there might be some use. Perhaps this female might distract the master, or at least soften him for the kill. The sleek gargoyle had no compunction about slaying Valkyn, not after so many of his people had perished serving the human. Even Crag’s people had suffered much.
Thinking of his rival, Stone anxiously moved on. Crag would have dearly loved to catch his rival in such a situation, doing the unthinkable beneath the master’s very eyes. If Valkyn discovered his treachery, then Stone could expect a most painful and slow death.
In a darkened part of the castle well below even the chamber housing the secret of Atriun’s power, the gargoyle leader reached a thick rock door with an iron handle. Stone grasped the handle and pulled with all his might, the rust of ages adding to the already difficult task of dragging open a rock door almost a foot thick. As he pulled, he hoped that doing so would not leave him a target for those within.
No blade split his gullet. With eyes accustomed to the dark, Stone peered inside, hoping nothing had gone amiss.
“Stand where you are, gargoyle,” a human voice within demanded.
“No enemy,” the gargoyle hissed. “I am Stone.”
A painfully high voice cut through the gloom, echoing far too much for the gargoyle’s ears. “It’s Stone, Bakal! The one that Tyros spoke to! Remember? He snatched Tyros while the mage was sleeping and could’ve dropped him or taken him to the citadel, but he didn’t—”
To the gargoyle’s relief, one of the humans quieted the painful voice. “Be still, boy! You’ll give us away.”
A figure wielding a lengthy sword stepped forward, an elder warrior with eyes of experience. Stone respected this one, knew that even without a sword this human could very well have defeated many of the gargoyle’s people. The warrior eyed him suspiciously, then said, “So you’re our savior, eh?”
He didn’t quite understand the human’s word. It did sound like “save,” though, which made some sense. On a hunch, Stone replied, “I … saved you.”
“For what? To be your dinner?”
The gargoyle quickly shook his head. “No. To help you. To help us!”
“I think he means it, Bakal,” the high voice said, this time mercifully quieter.
“Yeah, I think he does,” the man before Stone replied.
Stone gazed back in the hall. No one lurked nearby, but he felt uneasy standing in the open. “Please. Must enter!”
The human Bakal considered this for a moment, then finally nodded. The blade lowered a little, and the man stepped back a few paces. “All right, but just enough to close that thing.”
With some relief, the gargoyle entered, dragging the heavy door shut behind him. A dim light suddenly filled the room as several of the humans brought forth emerald crystals like those illuminating most of the lower corridors. Stone had seen to it that the humans would have them, knowing that the race disliked living in total darkness. Valkyn would never miss so few, especially since he never traversed the lowest levels.
“Why have you brought us here?” Bakal demanded. “Why do you want to betray your master?”
Was the human daft? Why else? “To be free! We are Valkyn’s slaves, human! Slavesss!”
“Some of them looked pretty eager for slaves,” another human muttered.
“Aye, they looked like they enjoyed killing for their master,” a second added.
The blades focused on him. Stone felt no fear, only resignation. If they charged him now, he would die, his dream of freedom for his people unfulfilled.
“Easy now,” snapped Bakal. “Let him speak his mind.”
“Stone’s flock will not harm you, but cannot speak for Crag’s.” Stone indicated three horns. When Bakal nodded understanding, the gargoyle continued. “Master very busy. Has female and other mage, Tyros.”
“They’re alive?”
“For now. Tyros …” Stone shrugged. “Maybe not for long.”
The scarred warrior nodded. “Then we’d better act soon. Without the mage, it’ll be a lot harder to take this place.”
A small figure rushed up. Stone hissed. Even the gargoyle felt uneasy around a kender.
“What about Taggi and the others? What about my griffons?”
Annoyed by the seemingly useless question, Stone answered briefly. “Live. Caged near other side of castle.”
“A good question, Rapp,” Bakal said. “We’ll probably need them.” He rubbed absently on his scars. “Tell me, Stone. The central tower. That’s where this Valkyn directs the citadel’s flight from, isn’t it?”
“Yesss.”
“And the power that makes it fly? Is that there, too?”
The gargoyle shook his head. “No. Below in great room.”
“Where is that? We’ll have to go there.”
“Will show, but not now. Not yet.”
The warrior clearly did not like that. “Oh? And when would be a good time?”
Stone repeated what he had said to Tyros. “When clouds thin, human … when clouds thin.”
“And when, by the gods, does that take place? You told Tyros that, too, but the clouds never thinned while we followed this place!”
The gargoyle summoned his best command of Common, for now he had to explain things that even he did not quite understand. “When clouds thin … that is when the master will be most unguarded.… Master must work to keep castle in air and will need time. Must use magic of castle for his spells.”
Bakal’s eyes widened. “Which draws from that unnatural storm outside! That’s when the storm fades and the clouds thin!”
The Citadel Page 17