by Unknown
Pulling the dagger from his waist, Gren ran towards the other end of the estate, veering away from the gates. Entering through the front door was too cordial, especially when hidden entrances were better. Thankfully Aeley's given us more options than I originally had.
Seeking refuge in the stand of red trees behind the estate, Gren stared up at the stone wall. They would scale the barrier if necessary. Looking away, he kicked at the trunks of the trees, dragging his foot along the ground.
"The entrance is here somewhere," he muttered. Aeley's voice rambled through his thoughts with her instructions. She had been explicit when they devised their plans, describing each of the hidden passages she remembered from her father's maps. Gren recognized three of the eight, though Allon had shown him only one.
"I memorized them all," she had admitted to Gren. "I was a very bored child. I also expected our father to give me the estate. When Allon got it, he was more interested in using it for gatherings and showing it off. He never asked to see the maps. Silly, since a few of them can't be found without the instructions. From what I know, he has no idea. He'll give you a way in thanks to voluntary ignorance and laziness."
When two of the militia men had protested, she smiled, her smooth voice tinged with sarcasm. "Allon always sounds smarter in his own head than he really is. He has a nasty mouth, but he's a better door stop than strategist."
Gren had not argued with her. He knew her brother's concept of tactics and understood well why Allon hired others to solve his problems. Despite his familiarity, however, he still had doubts.
Stop being stupid! Gren wanted to yell at himself. Doubts get you killed. Get in, get the hostages. Look for Tracel, get her out. Run. Couldn't be more straightforward.
His boot tugged on a metal latch.
Without saying a word, Gren bent down to pull up the long grasses, pleased when Jola and another man bent down and uprooted the small bushes. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Gren stared at the ragged outline of a metal cover. Brushing the dirt aside, he tugged on the small latch. When the cover did not move, Jola gripped the cover with both hands, pulling back when Gren tried the latch again.
The cover opened, dirt flying into the air. Coughing, Gren swatted the cloud away before peering down into the darkness, not surprised when he heard nothing from within.
Lowering himself into the hole, Gren landed in a crouch. Past the light from the opened entrance, the tunnel was dark and the floor dirty under his fingertips. As he stood, he stared at the ground. The only boot prints in the thick dust were his own. No one's been here for a while.
With a shrill whistle, he beckoned the other men and charged ahead, listening as they followed him. He breathed in when the last man closed the entrance behind them, comforted by the darkness.
Gren clutched his dagger in one hand as he drew his other hand along the stone wall. Follow the tunnel, she said. Find the door. Quicker than the other routes… She'd better be right, or we'll be having words.
When his fingers caught on metal, Gren snatched his hand back. Wait. He touched the wall again. Wood. The old door she was yammering about. Aeley had explained the door was meant to be a way in for the family if ever they were forced out of the estate during an attack. It not only served as a marker, but functioned as a stop to keep the other side from being opened. Raises more questions than answers about her family. We'll have to have a talk about that.
He ran his splayed hand over the planks until he found the bolt, pulling it back before running his hand down the door. When his palm slid over the metal handle, he did not hesitate. Opening the door slowly, he cringed when the metal hinges creaked.
"I've got it," Jola whispered from beside Gren, his voice barely audible.
Gren released the door and allowed Jola to push it back further until the metal handle hit the wall. He turned back to where the wood door had been and reached out. His fingertips glided over the stones, sinking into a crevice which ran the height of the wall. Except for the straight space, the second door Aeley had described felt no different than the walls of the tunnel.
He took a breath and leaned against the stones. The door slid under his weight as he pushed, the crevice filling with light as it grew. Gren stopped when there was enough of a crack to peer through. The hallway to the dungeons was ahead, unguarded as far as he could tell.
Voices yelled. Metal scraped against metal. Allon's guards were coming.
Gren jumped back and leaned against the other side of the revolving door to swing it closed. He flattened his body against the door and waited, listening to the sound of the militia men breathe.
The voices grew louder. Gren bit his tongue and gripped his dagger until his fingers felt numb. Through the thin stone door, he heard the guards jostle past, yelling about the fight aboveground. As the voices grew quieter, he exhaled. Aeley's attack was succeeding, drawing Allon's men away.
When he no longer heard voices, Gren pushed on the stones to swing the door open enough to slip through. Ready to fight any man waiting on the other side, Gren stepped out and surveyed the alcove, a small space with barrels and flax bags.
Well, then. Let's hope the rest is that easy. Gren sheathed his dagger and waved at Jola to slip through the door. As the rest of the men stepped into the alcove, he glanced around the corner. At one end, dense yellow light flickered at the end of the corridor. At the other end, a staircase leading upwards. In between was nothing but an empty hall.
He should have been happy to be so lucky but could not ignore the frustration he felt. One way meant freeing the villagers. The other way meant looking for Tracel, assuming she remained with Allon. He hated being caught between choices.
There's only one choice she wouldn't give me grief about.
Gren hurried towards the end with the light, staying close to the wall. Stopping several paces before the wall ended, he pressed against the stones and listened. Boots scuffed the dirty floor somewhere behind the wall, moving closer and then moving away. Metal clinked. A man coughed and metal rattled. A man's voice asked, "How long do you think it'll take?" followed by a knock on wood.
Gren turned to Jola, his gaze falling on the men waiting behind the mercenary. He held up two fingers and twisted his wrist twice. Two, more or less. I hope. The other men nodded, and he looked away, counting the moments to his attack.
Boom!
Gren jumped, the wall shaking under him. Small stones and dirt fell from the ceiling. The floor vibrated. A woman screamed. The guards yelled. He glanced up and wiped the dirt from his forehead. Who had made the fight aboveground a battle of explosive material?
Another explosion sounded, rocking the wall.
"You stay here. I'm going to see who's blowing this place up!" one of the dungeon guards shouted.
Gren resisted the urge to stiffen. By the Four… it just couldn't go as planned, could it? As the guard's feet pounded the stone floor towards the hallway, Gren pulled out his sword.
The guard turned the corner. He stopped, his eyes widening and almost bulging in their sockets. Yelling, he drew his sword and swiped it at Gren.
Ready to catch the strike, Gren was thrown when a hand shoved him aside. As he stumbled across the hall, he reached out to the wall to steady himself. Blinking away his surprise, he felt partially annoyed to see Jola exchanging blows with the guard and forcing him backwards. While helpful, it had not been part of the plan. He liked plans.
A second and third guard appeared. The men stopped, staring at Jola and their comrade before yelling and attacking Gren.
Steadying himself, Gren caught their blades with his and pushed back. He charged forward, ready for another attack, surprised when the militia men jumped on the guards.
"Go!" yelled one of the men, pushing Gren towards the cells. "We'll be right behind." The man turned, his expression alarming Gren—were there more guards coming? The man spun back, holding the tip of his sword to Gren's neck. "Go!"
Turning away, Gren ran for the cells. Without looking
back, he kicked at the doors, pounding his sword on the wood and staring through the small windows. Women yelled, high-pitched voices squeaking among them. Turning, he stared down the corridor. Small movements danced along the bars, almost like twigs tapping the windows. He rushed towards them, peering in every cell. They could forget no one.
He looked back to the militia. Three more guards had appeared, shouting as they fought against the mercenaries and village men. The bodies of two guards lay on the floor among the moving feet; one motionless while one struggled to push up from the floor. At least one militia man appeared wounded.
Women screamed, banging on the doors. Gren shook his head, continuing onwards. He needed to remain focused. Yelling back, he hurried to the first shaking door. A set of dark eyes peered out from behind the window.
"Elia!" he shouted, sheathing his sword. "Move!"
She jumped back without hesitation, her arms wrapping around two children who clung to her skirts. Behind them stood more women and children, their eyes wide as they watched him. Pounding the door with his fist, Gren stared at the pins in the threshold. They did not move, welded into place.
"Dammit," he muttered, pawing at the lock embedded in the door. He took several steps back before throwing his body at the door, his shoulder slamming against the wood. The door did not move.
Annoyed, Gren pulled back. He did not recall the doors being so difficult to break. Apparently a few things have changed. Guess I'll just have to go get—
"Looking for these?"
Gren spun, relieved to see Jola. His clothes were torn and his forehead gashed, but his grin was obvious under the blood. His raised fingers clutched a metal ring of keys. Gren stepped back and watched Jola jam one key after another into the lock. The lock clicked and Jola fell back, moving onto the next cell. As Gren pulled the door open, the shrieking women and children escaped from the cell.
Elia crashed into Gren, her nails digging into his arms. "My baby?" she demanded, streaks of dirt painting her face, her hair tangled.
"Safe," he murmured, holding her elbows as she slumped into him. When two militia soldiers approached, Gren pushed her away. "Go. They'll get you out." He glanced at the women and children crowded together, holding hands. "They'll get you all out. Go!"
Jola unlocked the last cells. As the women escaped, Gren took a breath, hoping to see Tracel. Please, let me be wrong about where she is. Give me this one thing. Make it easy for once.
When Jola slipped the keys into his hand, Gren accepted the fact Tracel had not been among them. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to look disheartened as he joined the rest of the militia in the hallway. Every man he had brought remained upright, though a few of them were visibly wounded as they ushered the hostages away. It was as much of a small victory as seeing the women and children run into the corridor and disappear into the alcove with two of his men, jumping over the corpses and kicking at the crawling guards along the way. One glance at the stairs made it clear no more guards came for them.
Jola wiped blood from his eyes with his wrist. "We've got them, but she's not—"
"Yeah, I know." Gren flicked his hand towards the alcove. "You all need to go. Get everyone back home."
"You're going after her on your own? I'll come—"
"We've already had this discussion." Gren growled, pushing Jola forward. "I'm less likely to get myself killed, especially since someone is redecorating with holes. Stick with the plan." He pushed Jola again. "Go!"
Jola said nothing as he cast Gren a concerned glance before turning and running to the alcove.
Standing quietly, Gren listened to the silence. The guards should have been too occupied with the fighting and not able to see the escape plan in action. If he was wrong, there should be sounds of an attack.
He heard nothing. Good. One less problem. Gren stared at the defeated guards and rolled the keys in his palm. If he kicked one of the moaning ones hard enough, maybe they would tell him exactly where Allon kept Tracel.
Boom!
"What are you doing up there?" he yelled, looking up as the floor shook.
A web of fissures began to form in the ceiling, making him tense. When he heard cracking sounds, he ran for the stairs.
His foot met the first step at the same moment the ceiling collapsed around the cells.
Stopping to look behind him, Gren stared at the rubble at the end of the hall. It was almost surreal to see the contents of the kitchen reduced to a pile of rock and wood with bodies and food rolling across the dungeon floor.
This family is insane, he decided, running up the stairs. Standing at the top, he stared down the white corridor leading towards the front of the estate. Voices shouted over the sound of grunts and metal smashing against metal. Two men moved through his line of sight, crossing the hall from one room to another in a flurry of green, grey, and black. Gren looked down, his gaze following the blood trail beneath their feet.
When he realized Allon's guard held a bloodied axe, Gren hurried around the corner to the next door. He was relieved to see the back stairs to the next level remained intact. He needed to keep moving.
As he reached the landing, he ignored the black-armoured body slumped in the doorway and rushed into the hall. The light of the morning reflected off of the white stone walls between the paintings and tapestries, making Gren blink. The corridor seemed quiet, as if no one had come up to the rooms. The sounds of the fight still piercing the air sounded like they came from the floor below. Through the window panes running across the front of the estate, he glimpsed men moving in the courtyard among the bodies lying on the grass.
Gren stared at the door at the other end of the corridor: Allon's bedroom, with the door wide open. He knew Allon well enough to know he kept his prizes close. If Tracel were anywhere, she would be there. Allon would not drag her along with him when things were so dangerous. His only interest would be saving himself.
The thought stirred rage within him, making Gren feel warm, as if his blood boiled under his skin. She had better be there—and alive—or Allon would have to answer to more than just his sister.
Gren looked into the rooms as he passed. A couple of the rooms were occupied by guards lying on the floor. The fight had occupied the entire house, leaving it broken and tainted with blood. It sounded so much simpler last night, he mused as he stared at the bloody handprints on the wall.
He stepped into the doorway of Allon's bedroom, disappointed that the man lying motionless across the bed was not Allon. Moving to the centre of the room, Gren spun slowly, looking for Tracel. Could she be hidden? Tied, maybe? Unconscious? He threw open the doors of the closet before rushing across the room to open the armoire. No one. Falling to the floor, he peered under the bed, disappointed to find nothing but a fallen weapon.
She couldn't have just disappeared. He has to have done something. Peering out the window, Gren wondered if she had escaped already.
"Can't leave until I know," he murmured, turning away from the window. He would check every room until he had an answer, even if she lay buried in the rubble of the blasts.
Gren shivered and tried to ignore the images in his mind. He refused to think of her as a discarded body lying in a broken heap. As he swallowed back his fears, he stared at the ceiling. By the grace of You Four, don't let that be it. You and I don't get along, but You like her, remember?
Without another thought, he hurried through the other rooms, his frustration mounting. When he reached the last room, he wondered if he should have focused on finding Allon instead. Kicking walls and dead guards did not dispel the rage lingering inside him.
"Looking for something?"
Gren whirled around, ready to yell.
Aeley stood in the doorway. Blood and white dust smeared her cheeks and hair. He could see her armour through the holes in her tattered cloak.
"You're alive," he said. A flash of the dungeons ran through his mind. "And would you stop trying to kill us all by blowing holes everywhere? I thought you said y
ou wanted to keep the damn place!"
Aeley raised her hands. "It isn't me doing it. It's whoever he's hired. Besides, it's not the house that needs to be dragged to trial. Speaking of which," she gestured to the room, "haven't seen my brother, have you? He seems to be hiding."
If I did, he'd be at my feet and missing a few appendages. Gren shook his head and looked away. He said nothing as she stepped into the room, her slight limp noticeable.
"You're still looking for her. Have you checked everywhere?"
"Not the level below."
"She's not there. I would've seen her. I don't think she ran, either." She touched his shoulder. "Did you check every cell?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? Even the hidden ones by the stairs?"
Gren stared at her through narrowed eyes. "What?"
"So, he didn't show them to you. Didn't trust you as much as I thought." Aeley's lips twisted as she thought. "Wonder if he's hiding down—" She stopped and tugged Gren out of the room before rushing down the hall.
Gren followed, confused when she stopped and stared at the tapestry on the wall near the landing. He crossed his arms and debated yelling at her for wasting his time.
"Down there," she instructed, pointing at the tapestry.
"Have you been hit in the head recently?"
Aeley flashed him an annoyed glare. "Do I really have to do everything?" With one quick pull on the tapestry, she revealed a thin door with a flattened handle.
Gren opened his mouth to give her a sarcastic apology, but he clamped his jaws shut when a man screamed from below.
Aeley turned and glanced over the railing. "I have to go." She flicked her hand towards the wall. "Down the stairs. You'll figure it out" She jumped when several voices yelled her name. Without glancing at Gren, she hurried towards the main staircase, pulling her sword as she hobbled down the steps.
Maybe she'd be worth fighting for, after all. Gren yanked on the door and stared down the long staircase, barely lit by the dim light at the end. Assuming loyalty doesn't kill me now.