by Brandon Mull
“We have tomorrow and the next day,” Galloran said. “The day after that, Maldor’s armies arrive. If we time this right . . .”
“. . . the war could end with a single blow,” Ferrin finished. “I should get to Lake Fellion at once. I can leave my nose above the water and search for the entrance to the lost mine.”
“Agreed,” Galloran said. “What of the message for Rachel?”
“Evidently, she learned what she needs to know from Orruck,” Ferrin said. “He taught her some words that could prove useful, a command he had developed to overthrow Zokar.”
“Orruck only taught her two commands,” Galloran said. “If Darian thinks they might be useful, we need to get her a message.”
“Telepathy?” Ferrin asked.
Galloran rubbed his chin. “She is inside the castle. If I were out on the water, I might be close enough to reach her. She needs to know that she must flee Felrook.”
“You can’t tell her how we mean to destroy the fortress,” Ferrin said.
“No,” Galloran agreed. “If Maldor somehow extracted that information from her, he might thwart us. We can warn her to escape, and give her a time frame. And we must tell her that the commands she learned from Orruck should prove useful. The rest will be up to her.”
“I should get to the lake,” Ferrin said.
“Right away,” Galloran agreed. “Bring seaweed. The glow will be visible, but you will need the light. Send out several boats, all with seaweed. It should confuse them. They will probably fire upon you.”
“I’m not terribly worried about that,” Ferrin said. “I should go.”
Tark grabbed Ferrin’s arm. “I can help. I was a diver. And a miner.”
“Right. Come on.”
Ferrin started to pull away, but Tark held him. “After we find the mine, somebody will have to start the explosion.”
“Yes,” Ferrin said. “It will not be the sort of task a man could possibly survive.”
Tark nodded, tears of relief shimmering in his eyes. “Since we set out from Mianamon, I’ve wondered why I was included. I don’t mean to sound pompous or selfish, but I can’t help suspecting . . . I think this might be my destiny.”
CHAPTER 29
DESTINY
Staring from the window of his room at East Keep, Tark contemplated the virtues of a singlehanded assault against Felrook. Beneath a sickle moon, pale highlights gleamed on the black stone of the fortress, making it appear only half-substantial in the darkness, a ghostly blend of light and shadow.
Tark gripped the windowsill. His hands were large and strong for his stature. He felt the edges of the masonry digging into his calloused fingers. How would he mount his solitary assault? Paddle across the lake, cloaked in darkness? Quietly scale the cliffs and then the wall? Or would it be more honest to charge up the path in broad daylight? After all, the point was to die.
He bowed his head, reliving Rachel’s abduction in his mind. Lord Jason had charged him to protect her. Io had fallen defending her. Even the displacer had risked his life. But at a word from the girl Tark had stood aside and let the lurker bear her away. She had protected him! It was supposed to be the other way around!
Shame curdled in his gut. It was a disturbingly familiar sensation. He didn’t deserve a clean death. He could have had one many times. Plenty had been offered. He might have had a good death if he had gone off the waterfall with his companions. He would have earned a noble death if he had continued to fight Maldor rather than accept an invitation to Harthenham. It would have been a worthwhile death to go back for Lord Jason at Harthenham. And it would have been a gallant death to perish defending Rachel as his lord had requested.
Tark had found reasons for running away every time. The waterfall had seemed pointless, as had his private war against Maldor. Dying alone at Harthenham had struck him as a more fitting end for a craven. But Jason had come. After Harthenham, Tark had needed to protect Jasher’s seed. And then earlier today Rachel had ordered him to stand down. He would have had no chance of stopping the lurkers. Giving his life would have made no difference. Tark supposed that every coward had his reasons.
Back at Mianamon the oracle had assured him that he would have a role to play before this war was over. She had told him he would know when the time came. Well, the time had come, and he had let the opportunity pass him by. Maldor had claimed Rachel, and there was nothing he could do to change it, except perhaps to surrender his life in a hopeless attack.
Tark scowled. Would a hopeless assault against Felrook be a penitent act of courage or a wasteful display of self-pity? He would not be attacking. Not really. He would be abandoning his duty yet again. His duty to Galloran. Maldor’s armies were coming. Jason had not only charged Tark to protect Rachel—he had also directed him to serve the king. Rachel had charged him with the same mission. If he had no hope of rescuing Rachel, he would be a better servant if he stayed and died beside Galloran.
A knock at his door startled Tark from his brooding. Who would be calling at this hour of the night? He heard no commotion outside the keep, no evidence of a sneak attack. Curious, Tark went to the door and opened it.
Ferrin stood there, looking dazed. “I thought you might be awake.”
“What is it?” Tark wondered.
Ferrin gave half a smile and tapped the spot on the side of his head where his ear was missing. “I have news. I was on my way to Galloran, but I thought you might want to hear as well.”
“News of Lord Jason?”
“He did it,” Ferrin said simply. “He learned the prophecy. I had myself convinced that there was no way some words could repair this debacle, but Galloran was right. The information is everything that we were promised. It could enable us to destroy Felrook.”
“What did Lord Jason learn?” Tark exclaimed.
Ferrin shook his head. “Galloran has earned the right to know first. But you deserve to be there.”
Tark’s mind whirled as he followed Ferrin toward Galloran’s quarters. What could the information be? It must refer to a secret way into Felrook. If they could sneak their forces into the castle discreetly, the battle might be quick and decisive. They might rescue Rachel! When Maldor’s armies arrived, they would find their leader dead or captured, with Galloran safely behind unassailable walls. Jason had learned of a secret entrance. What else could it be? What else would leave Ferrin proclaiming a possible victory?
Two seedmen, two drinlings, and two men of Trensicourt guarded the doors to Galloran’s quarters.
“I have urgent tidings for the king,” Ferrin said with certainty.
The lead guard turned and knocked. Lodan answered, having replaced Io as Galloran’s assistant and bodyguard.
“Rouse the king,” Ferrin said. “We bear urgent tidings.”
“The king has not yet slept,” Lodan said. “He seems to have lost the knack. But he excels at pacing and at consulting maps. Come inside.”
“Not for a moment,” Ferrin replied. “Have the king put on his blindfold. My presence at this hour could provide hints.”
“As you will.” Lodan stepped away. A moment later he returned. “All right.”
Tark followed Ferrin through the open door. Lodan closed it, then followed Tark. Galloran faced them from across the room, still fully clothed, standing beside a table buried in maps. He had his blindfold in place.
“You are toying with my hopes,” Galloran said.
“Not toying,” Ferrin replied. “He did it. Jason told me the prophecy.”
“Will it help us?”
“It is a precious secret. We should limit those who hear it. If the secret becomes known, Maldor could counter us.”
“Yet you brought it to me,” Galloran said. “Thank you for your integrity. Who is with you? I heard another enter. Tark?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tark said. “I could wait outside.”
“Nonsense. But not a word leaves this room. For now we keep it between the four of us. Let me be the judge of who else
should know.”
“Two messages,” Ferrin said. “One is for you. It is the key to fixing all of this. Apparently, the other message could help Rachel. The message for you is that Felrook is built atop Mount Allowat.”
Galloran froze. Then he raised a hand to his lips, covering an irresistible smile. “The mountain where orantium was mined anciently.”
Ferrin nodded. “The mining was abandoned because they encountered a vein too large to extract. They sealed off the mine and kept the location a secret.”
“And millennia later,” Galloran murmured, “Maldor unwittingly built his fortress on top of it. Esmira saw true. Indeed, our hope is white, like a flash of orantium.”
“They must have sealed the mine with the lake,” Ferrin said. “Who knows what other precautions they took. Accessing the vein could be difficult.”
“We have tomorrow and the next day,” Galloran said. “The day after that, Maldor’s armies arrive. If we time this right . . .”
“. . . the war could end with a single blow,” Ferrin finished. “I should get to Lake Fellion at once. I can leave my nose above the water and search for the entrance to the lost mine.”
“Agreed,” Galloran said. “What of the message for Rachel?”
“Evidently, she learned what she needs to know from Orruck,” Ferrin said. “He taught her some words that could prove useful, a command he had developed to overthrow Zokar.”
“Orruck only taught her two commands,” Galloran said. “If Darian thinks they might be useful, we need to get her a message.”
“Telepathy?” Ferrin asked.
Galloran rubbed his chin. “She is inside the castle. If I were out on the water, I might be close enough to reach her. She needs to know that she must flee Felrook.”
“You can’t tell her how we mean to destroy the fortress,” Ferrin said.
“No,” Galloran agreed. “If Maldor somehow extracted that information from her, he might thwart us. We can warn her to escape, and give her a time frame. And we must tell her that the commands she learned from Orruck should prove useful. The rest will be up to her.”
“I should get to the lake,” Ferrin said.
“Right away,” Galloran agreed. “Bring seaweed. The glow will be visible, but you will need the light. Send out several boats, all with seaweed. It should confuse them. They will probably fire upon you.”
“I’m not terribly worried about that,” Ferrin said. “I should go.”
Tark grabbed Ferrin’s arm. “I can help. I was a diver. And a miner.”
“Right. Come on.”
Ferrin started to pull away, but Tark held him. “After we find the mine, somebody will have to start the explosion.”
“Yes,” Ferrin said. “It will not be the sort of task a man could possibly survive.”
Tark nodded, tears of relief shimmering in his eyes. “Since we set out from Mianamon, I’ve wondered why I was included. I don’t mean to sound pompous or selfish, but I can’t help suspecting . . . I think this might be my destiny.”
CHAPTER 30
JUSTICE
The castle was finally silent. Nedwin had waited long into the night, prowling the hidden passageways, listening to feet walking, armor jangling, clothes rustling, fire crackling, doors closing, locks clicking, liquid pouring, utensils clinking, lips smacking, and furniture creaking. He had caught fragments of hushed conversation and heard muffled giggles. He had listened to a woman humming an infant to sleep. But eventually the fires had burned low and stopped snapping, the quietest discussions had ceased, and people had quit haunting the corridors.
There would be guards posted at certain doors, and many sentries out walking the walls, but the halls of the castle were as deserted as they would ever get. Soft snores and skittering mice were the loudest exceptions to the silence. In another hour the kitchens would revive as bakers got an early start on fresh bread, but until then the castle belonged to whoever could furtively claim it.
The target he had chosen for tonight was not a matter of vengeance. After weighing his options for days, Nedwin had concluded that his decision to pay Copernum a visit was not driven by personal prejudice. It was an important step toward reclaiming Trensicourt. It was a matter of justice.
Galloran had treated Copernum with leniency. And how had Copernum repaid the undeserved mercy? With treason. He had stolen the kingdom while his king was away. He had murdered good men in the night. He had openly claimed Trensicourt for the emperor.
Copernum had not even tried to conceal his crime. By announcing it publicly, in essence he had confessed to high treason. The punishment for treason was execution.
Despite his many unsavory characteristics, Copernum was an excellent strategist. While he survived, Trensicourt would be much more difficult to reclaim. The usurpers already lacked their giants. Without Copernum’s leadership, the false government would be significantly more vulnerable.
It would not be easy to reach him. Copernum had abandoned his former rooms and claimed the royal residence as his own. Nedwin knew of no secret ways into the royal tower. If Galloran were familiar with any, he had kept the knowledge to himself. In the interest of making the tower secure, it was possible that no such passages existed.
But long ago Nedwin had noticed a single vulnerability. A certain balcony was theoretically accessible from a particular window across the way. Nedwin had never been able to avoid noticing such things. Taking advantage of the vulnerability would require skill, and a little luck. Nedwin felt sure he could do it.
There was another option, much less subtle. Nedwin knew where to find the stash of twelve orantium globes. With liberal use of the spheres he could probably blast his way through doors and guards quickly enough to reach Copernum. But Nedwin knew that if he entered with orantium, he would never escape. The commotion would rouse too many guards.
Nedwin wanted to survive. There would be many other targets besides the giants and Copernum. The deceitful chancellor had started a dishonorable war, a sneaky war, the kind of war without banners or trumpets, a quiet war waged in the darkest hours of the night, and Nedwin was uniquely suited to this form of combat.
Galloran would not want him to throw his life away. How could Nedwin keep serving the king and his causes if he let the guards cut him down? The other men still loyal to Galloran needed his leadership and expertise. He would enter quietly, claim Copernum, and escape to fight another day.
The castle remained still. The hour to act had come.
Nedwin passed into an empty room through a hidden panel. He wore moccasins and quiet black clothes. Stealth was his armor. He wore a short sword nearly broad enough to pass as a cleaver. The heavy blade would serve well for tonight’s errand.
Listening carefully, Nedwin hurried down a hall and then climbed a winding stair. He reached the desired door, a monstrosity of wood and iron. With slender tools he coaxed the lock. The resultant click boomed like a gong to his ears. He held still, senses straining. The sleeper within breathed evenly.
After putting the tools away, Nedwin produced a handkerchief. Among the vials around his neck he found the desired solution, and he dampened the cloth. He eased the door open and strode to the bed. A stocky man in his fifties lay on his side. He had bushy eyebrows and black hair poking from his ear.
Nedwin firmly placed the handkerchief over the sleeper’s nose and mouth. The man gasped, shuddered, and fell still, his breathing slower than before. His eyelids had squeezed but never opened. He would not wake until late in the afternoon.
After pocketing the handkerchief, Nedwin shut and locked the door. Pulling a rope and grapnel from his pack, he crossed to the window. Using tools belonging to Nicholas, Nedwin had fashioned the grapnel himself for this very purpose, sizing it to grasp the desired balustrade. His life would depend on it.
Setting the grapnel aside for a moment, Nedwin checked his three crossbows—two small, one large—all excellent weapons designed and crafted by Nicholas and his niece. He knew from experience that
the small bows would fling their quarrels with astonishing velocity for their size. The larger bow could be fired twice, as it held a pair of quarrels. All three bows were loaded and ready. He strapped them into handy positions on his body. If a shot was not fatal, the substance on the tips of the quarrels would leave a man unconscious in seconds.
Opening the window, Nedwin gazed at the balcony of the royal tower, above him and separated by a wide gap of empty space. Too high to reach from the ground, the balcony was only available from this solitary window. Leaning out, Nedwin could see the kennels.
He took a deep, steadying breath. He would have to be quick. He had no room for error. There was no guard on the balcony, but at least two awaited inside. The balcony was three floors below Copernum. If he failed to dispatch the guards silently, the endeavor would fail. If the guards reached the balcony before him, he was a dead man.
This maneuver was risky. It was by far the greatest risk he would take tonight, the price he had to pay for access to a very cautious man. Hefting a crossbow, Nedwin aimed at the kennels and fired. Out and down the quarrel flew, finally thumping against wood.
As he desired, the dogs started barking. Grapnel in hand, Nedwin climbed onto the windowsill. The barking dogs might offer some cover for the upcoming clamor. Nedwin threw the grapnel and leaped from the ledge before knowing whether it would catch.
As Nedwin fell through the darkness, the grapnel pulled the rope higher, using up the slack. He took solace that the throw had felt true. Somewhere above him the grapnel clanged against the balcony. Even masked by the barking dogs, the noise of the grapnel seemed to rival an orantium blast. The rope jerked taut as the metal claw took hold of the balustrade.
Instead of free-falling, Nedwin was now swinging toward the tower. The balcony projected far enough that he had some upswing before reaching the wall. Nedwin extended his legs to absorb the impact. It felt like he had jumped off a roof but had landed well. As he swung back away from the wall, he was already climbing.