For just a moment, the lantern illuminated the dirt floor of the oubliette. In that instant, Connor had time to see just one thing: A wooden stake lay broken on the earthen floor.
There was a rush of air and something hard hit him in the chest, slamming him against the wall of the pit. Connor felt spiders fall into his hair and onto his neck. A bony hand pinned him against the stone and a leering, leathery face appeared before him. For an instant, Connor took it for a death mask before he realized that it was Lorens.
Hunger glinted in Lorens’s eyes, and he moved swiftly for Connor’s throat.
Fever heat surged through all of Connor’s form at once, and the Wraith Lord broke Lorens’s hold. Lorens hurtled backward, slamming against the wall of the oubliette in a shower of falling spiders.
Connor was free of Lorens’s grip but he fell, jerking to a sudden stop several feet above the floor of the oubliette, hanging facedown by the rope. In an instant, Lorens landed on his back, wrapping his arms so tightly around Connor’s chest that Connor gasped for breath.
The movement sent Connor swinging like a pendulum, and he kicked off the far wall with the Wraith Lord’s might, turning as he did so that he drove Lorens into the other wall. The impact made Connor’s head pound, but it loosened Lorens’s grip, giving the Wraith Lord the space to drive his elbow back hard into his attacker’s chest.
“How did you get free?” the Wraith Lord roared.
Lorens released Connor and disappeared into the shadows. An instant later, the lantern slammed against the wall, sending a shower of glass down into the oubliette and extinguishing the light.
“Down here in the ground, the quakes were quite severe,” Lorens replied. Connor could not have located him, but the Wraith Lord’s heightened senses narrowed in on Lorens’s hiding place. “They jostled me, and the stake loosened. The rats finished it.”
The Wraith Lord was in complete control, leaving Connor a terrified spectator. “You learned to compel the rats?” the Wraith Lord asked, and Connor knew that the ancient talishte was trying to get a fix on Lorens’s position.
The only light was the faint glow that came from the distant lip of the oubliette. From the sounds that reached him, Connor guessed that Penhallow and Nidhud were locked in a battle of some sort. His rope neither pulled him up nor let him descend, giving Connor to surmise that it had been tied off to allow Nidhud to deal with whatever threat had presented itself.
Connor could feel movement where several of the spiders had gotten into his shirt, crawling beneath his collar. The Wraith Lord’s movement triggered bites on Connor’s forearms and through the cloth of his pants, but the talishte’s spirit seemed heedless of the pain.
A shadow moved, and strong hands clutched his shoulders. Lorens’s wizened face loomed just inches from his own, and the talishte had a death grip on his shoulders with bony hands. Lorens leered and began to spin them, hoping to foul Connor in his own line. The Wraith Lord brought the pommel of the short sword down hard on Lorens’s back, snapping ribs.
Lorens let him drop, and Connor’s head swam, but the Wraith Lord was unaffected, slashing at the shadows.
Feathery bits of spiderweb drifted down on him, and Connor heard the soft crunch of hard carapaces skittering against his coat. The sword hit bone, and Lorens cursed, jerking free.
In the darkness, Connor could smell sweat and ichor. Above, he heard sounds of battle. His rope remained taut, but he was certain now that Nidhud’s attention was elsewhere, as he did not move up or down.
A rush of air, a muttered curse, and Connor was body-slammed so hard that it drove the breath from his lungs. His rope snapped, cutting painfully into his skin and nearly dislocating his shoulder as his harness gave way and the knots dug into his flesh. The force of the blow sent him cartwheeling into the darkness. Connor landed hard on the floor, banging his head so hard that his vision swam. His sword flew out of his grip, and a powerful hand closed around his throat.
“I have waited a very long time for human blood,” Lorens whispered, his lips against Connor’s ear.
The Wraith Lord’s power surged, and Connor’s body bucked, breaking Lorens’s grip.
Connor swept his arm along the packed dirt floor, seeking a weapon. His hand closed on the broken stake, and he could sense the Wraith Lord’s satisfaction. He brought the stake up in front of his chest just as a gust of air signaled another attack. Its jagged wood tore into leathery flesh, and Lorens screamed in pain and anger, vanishing as quickly as he had come.
“You existed on the rats,” the Wraith Lord guessed.
“We called to them, the disk and I.” Lorens’s voice was a whisper, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “And to the spiders. I held court, here in the darkness. Blood and companionship. It was… barely enough.”
He’s summoned the rats to attack Penhallow and Nidhud, distract them, Connor thought. By the time they fight their way free, it’s going to be too late for me.
The Wraith Lord easily regained his feet. Connor was certain that the fall had broken a couple of ribs, and a sharp pain told him that his left collarbone was probably also broken. The Wraith Lord scanned the darkness, and then Connor gave a mighty leap, one that he knew exceeded his own abilities. One hand caught at the darkness and tangled in long, matted hair. Connor grabbed a fistful of the hair, yanking Lorens back toward him with enough force that it would have snapped a mortal’s neck.
“Stop this. I command you,” the Wraith Lord rasped.
“Can’t see me, can’t compel me,” Lorens returned.
They were falling once more, but this time, the Wraith Lord twisted so Lorens’s body absorbed the worst of the impact. The force still jarred Connor to the bone, making his teeth hit together and sending a jolt down his spine. His sword fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Now that Connor was on the floor of the oubliette, the faint shaft of light from the torches above was enough to enable him to make out some of his surroundings. The bones of countless rats littered the floor.
Lorens bucked against the Wraith Lord’s grip, shifting just enough to sink his fangs into Connor’s shoulder. Connor cried out, and the Wraith Lord shoved Lorens away as his fang tore through Connor’s flesh.
The Wraith Lord and Lorens both dove toward the fallen sword at the same instant, but the Wraith Lord closed Connor’s hand around the pommel first and pivoted just as Lorens sprang for the kill. The Wraith Lord thrust with the sword as Lorens’s momentum carried him forward and the sword plunged into the vampire’s rib cage.
Connor felt the full brunt of the Wraith Lord’s fury coursing through him as he came almost nose to nose with Lorens. Connor’s sword protruded from Lorens’s back, and the hilt rested against Lorens’s chest. Ichor, thick and cold, oozed from the wound, coursing over Connor’s fingers.
Lorens’s face was taut with pain, but he managed a grimacing half smile. “Rest,” he wheezed. “Finally.”
Moving with talishte speed, Connor’s left hand tore down through the rags that covered Lorens’s body. The obsidian disk swung away from Lorens’s chest, and Connor, moving with the Wraith Lord’s strength, effortlessly snapped the leather. A swing of his sword severed Lorens’s head from his body, and both crumbled into dust.
Connor stood. The fever of the Wraith Lord’s presence sent rivulets of sweat down his back despite the chill of the deep pit. In one hand, he clutched the obsidian disk, and in the other, he gripped the sword so tightly Connor did not think he would be able to let go. Movement sent stabbing pain down his left side from the gash Lorens’s fangs had torn in his flesh, the dislocated shoulder, and the broken collarbone. Just breathing made his cracked ribs ache.
I’m alive! Connor thought, though he lacked the energy to move in celebration.
And I’m stranded at the bottom of an oubliette and possessed by the spirit of an ancient vampire, who’s burning up my life force with every breath. The second thought made the prior elation evaporate.
If I leave now, y
ou’ll die, the Wraith Lord said. You need my strength to get out of here. I’ll try not to kill you in the process.
“Connor! Connor, can you hear me?” Penhallow’s voice echoed from the sides of the shaft.
“We’re here,” the Wraith Lord called back. “We’ve got the disk. Lorens is dead. But you’d best get down here if you want your servant back alive. None of the traps remain.”
A moment later, Connor could see Penhallow descending through the gloom, heedless of the torn remnants of spiderweb that had not been destroyed in the battle. The spiders themselves had vanished, although Connor felt the pain of several swollen bites along his back and down his arms and legs.
Penhallow touched down beside them. The three of them took up nearly all of the space in the oubliette’s small circle. He took in Connor’s bloodied and battered appearance, the ichor-stained sword, the pile of ash that had been Lorens, and muttered a curse under his breath.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” he said to Connor. “I’ll carry you, since I don’t imagine you’d like us to loop a rope under your arms and hoist you up.”
Just envisioning the alternative sent a jolt of pain through Connor’s body. “I’ll swallow my pride,” the Wraith Lord relayed on Connor’s behalf. Penhallow lifted him as gently as possible for the ascent. As the darkness fell away behind them and they ascended, Connor thought he had never seen anything as beautiful as the torchlight that awaited them.
At the top of the oubliette, Penhallow stepped onto the stone rim. Nidhud looked Connor over with a concerned expression. “What happened?”
“The quakes dislodged the stake,” the Wraith Lord explained in a weary voice. “Lorens had been calling to the rats and spiders to do his bidding, trying to regain the strength to break loose. Imprisonment weakened him, but it didn’t destroy him.”
Connor’s eyes were half-closed, but he could see that the room at the top of the oubliette was littered from wall to wall with the butchered bodies of rats. Blood splattered on the walls, and rivulets of blood ran between the stones in the floor. The whole room stank of offal and blood.
“You can leave him now,” Penhallow commanded the Wraith Lord. “He’s too injured to handle your presence any longer.”
Connor convulsed as the Wraith Lord left him. Without the Wraith Lord’s power, Connor no longer had the strength to stand.
With me you burn, but without me, you are merely mortal, said a voice in his mind.
“We’ve got to get him back to the castle,” Penhallow said.
“What about the grate?” Nidhud protested.
Penhallow shook his head. “Lorens is gone.”
Nidhud toed one of the rat corpses. “Go on ahead. I’ll clean up and meet you there.”
Penhallow nodded and turned his attention back to Connor. “Rest. When all is well, I will awaken you.” The words enveloped Connor like a warm tide, and he drifted into the darkness.
“I hear you were quite the hero.” Lynge’s voice penetrated the fog inside Connor’s head and drew him to consciousness.
Connor opened his eyes and squinted against the light from the window. He was in an unfamiliar room, lying on a comfortable bed. Two facts stood out: First, he was alive, and in relatively little pain, with his shoulder put back into place and his broken ribs wrapped. Second, he lay on crisp, smooth sheets of fine fabric, a luxury he had not experienced since he fled the castle months ago. “Just trying to stay alive,” he murmured.
Lynge pressed the thin lip of a porcelain cup against Connor’s mouth and supported him to rise far enough to sip some of the tea. “Lord Garnoc would have been impressed,” he said as Connor sank back against the pillow.
“Where’s Penhallow?”
Lynge bit his lip nervously. “Lord Penhallow healed you, at considerable effort, I must say. He appeared quite spent by the end of it. He has gone to ground for the day, with instructions for me to care for you, and assurance to you that he will return once he is rested.”
“Nidhud?”
“He came back from the tunnels looking as if he’d been to war – you all did,” Lynge replied. “He made sure you and Penhallow had what you needed, asked for a change of clothing and water to wash with, and has presumably also found shelter from the day.”
“We got it,” Connor said wearily. “We got the pendant.”
Lynge nodded. “So I was informed by Lord Penhallow.” He frowned. “Surely there must have been a better way to go about it. You were on the threshold of the Sea of Souls when Lord Penhallow brought you here.”
“I’m getting used to it,” Connor murmured. If he moved, he could feel the ache in his ribs and collarbone, telling him that even Penhallow’s spit and blood could not knit bone immediately.
“I brought you food,” Lynge said, inclining his head toward a small stand at the side of Connor’s bed that held a tankard of ale and a plate of cheese, bread, dried herring, and sausages. “It’s not quite the fare you were accustomed to finding in the castle, but these days, we’re lucky to have enough to fill our bellies.”
“It looks like a feast,” Connor said groggily. Another thought jarred him awake. “What of the Knights of Esthrane?”
Lynge leaned back in his chair, and Connor could see how much the last months had aged the seneschal. Lynge had not been a young man before the Cataclysm. All that had transpired since then had turned the seneschal’s hair completely white and lined his face so he looked as if a score of years and not months had passed since Connor fled the Great Fire. The death of the king, and the loss of Lynge’s assistant, Geddy, had gone hard on him.
“Where will you go, once you’re well enough to travel?” Lynge asked. “Lord Penhallow asked me to do what I could to put some fresh clothes and a few necessities together for you.”
Connor eyed the food, decided that eating was too much trouble, and sank back into his pillow. “I don’t think I can quite handle the thought of going farther than the garderobe,” he said. “Perhaps somewhere completely nonexciting?”
Lynge gave him a skeptical look. “I was instructed to have your sword cleaned and sharpened and to find you a set of daggers and a short sword.”
“Damn,” Connor murmured.
Lynge nodded. “You’ve become quite the adventurer since you left Lord Garnoc’s service, Bevin.”
Connor closed his eyes and his expression tightened with a twinge of old grief. “I’d take my boring, comfortable life in an instant to have him back again.”
“Aye,” Lynge replied. He was silent for a moment. “You know, we buried Lord Garnoc with the picture of Millicent that he carried around with him,” he said quietly. “Her crypt was on the grounds of his manor, and with the turmoil, we didn’t dare leave the castle to bury him next to her. It was the best we could do.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Connor’s lips. “He was utterly devoted to her,” he said, remembering all the times he had brought the small oil painting of Garnoc’s beloved wife to keep the old lord company while he ate his dinner. “Perhaps it’s for the best that he didn’t live to see what’s become of Donderath.”
“Ah, but he had an inkling what you were made of, m’boy,” Lynge said. “He’d be quite proud of you.”
“I hope so,” Connor said quietly. He opened his eyes, just a slit, to look at the seneschal. “You know something about shouldering what comes your way, don’t you? After all, these last months haven’t been within your normal duties.”
Lynge looked away and made a dismissive gesture. “Nonsense. A good seneschal does whatever is required to keep the castle functioning.”
It occurred to Connor how odd it was to be having this conversation with Lynge. Before the Great Fire, Lynge had always been polite but distant, as befitted the vast gap in status between the king’s seneschal and an assistant to one of the nobility. Now, as survivors of the Cataclysm, they shared an understanding that far transcended the old hierarchies.
“If the world were as it should be, I would be
getting the castle ready for the Solstice Festival,” Lynge said quietly. “Balls to plan. Feasts to prepare. Minstrels practicing their music night and day. Lords and ladies all a-chatter about the holiday gossip. Seamstresses and tailors fitting the king for new robes.” There was no mistaking the wistfulness in his voice. His gaze was on the fireplace, but Connor was quite certain that Lynge was looking past the fire to another place and time that were gone forever.
“I always liked the bonfires best,” Connor said, managing a smile at the memory. “And the lanterns. Oh, and the roasted duck with currants and dates, washed down with a bucket of bitterbeer from the Rooster and Pig.”
Lynge gave a soft chuckle. “A finer beer I’ve never tasted,” he said with a sigh. “I wonder what became of its tavern master?”
“That I can tell you,” Connor replied. “Engraham got me passage on a ship to Edgeland. When it foundered off the coast, he and I were among the survivors.” He grinned. “Have no fear. His bitterbeer isn’t lost to the world. He’s just brewing it up in the frozen north, for a very appreciative audience.”
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