He pursed his lips and concentrated on his breathing. He had to slow it down. Inhale, hold, exhale. Knowledge gleaned from his great grandfather’s journal seeped to the front of his mind. Inhale, hold, exhale. Good. It was working. Now, he had to assess the damage.
Gritting his teeth, he tried moving his left arm again.
Pain! A sharp inhale. He chewed on his bottom lip and this time he didn’t care. His arm was pinned to the board; the arrow had gone straight through and into the wood.
He was stuck fast.
Wait. What had Straegar said?
Tyran’s eyes snapped open. Tears made the dizzying world a blur of colors. He blinked furiously, unwilling to release the board to wipe them dry. When he could kind of see again, he peered about, careful not to look directly down. Don’t look down! He kept his gaze up. Sliding back and forth, back and forth until . . . There! He found the arrogant captain on one of the ladders. For all his grace and posture on his horse, he seemed less at ease climbing. Perhaps he had a fear of heights as well?
But Tyran couldn’t hope for that kind of luck. Luck was a fool’s game, as his great-grandfather would have said. Allan Weatherall would take advantage of an adversary’s weakness; he just refused to count on it.
Tyran took a deep breath. He knew what that meant. He couldn’t hope the captain would freeze up or fall off. He had to find a way to escape on his own. Tyran turned his head from side to side. There were other boards and platforms and scaffolding and hanging ropes and ladders and across the way on the other side of the courtyard stood the main buildings nearly completed second wing. A rope bridge connected the two wings and had allowed workers to move from one construction site to the other without having to climb down or pass through the main building. Lord Master Vincent Donner had not wanted dirt and debris tracked into the fine old building . . .
But now the fine old building and Lord Master Vincent Donner were no more. Life as he knew it was no more. By now, his father was probably . . .
No more! Tyran struggled against that thought. If he allowed it to consume him right now, all would be lost. He might as well put his head down and wait for Straegar to finish him. No! His fiery temper flared, and he shoved all thought of his father aside. He wouldn’t give that man the satisfaction of ending him too.
Though, if he didn’t find a way to escape, and soon, he’d be no more!
First things first, he had to free his arm.
Hazarding another glance at Straegar, he estimated he had perhaps a minute, maybe a minute and a half before the captain reached him. He had two choices; hope to pull the arrow out of the wood or break the arrow and slide his arm free. Neither sounded pleasant and he wasn’t sure which would be less painful. In the end, he realized either way, he had to get the arrow out, so he slid his right hand back up his left arm until he found the arrow again. Squeezing his eyes closed and clenching his jaw, he wrapped his fingers around the blood-slicked shaft. He could hear his heart beating wildly in his ears. Seconds slipped by as he gathered his courage.
He jerked the shaft to one side. Pain shot up and down his left arm, but the arrow snapped in half. The feathered end slipped from his fingers. Taking another couple of seconds to catch his breath, and a few more to clean the jagged end of splinters, Tyran grabbed his left arm and pulled it down.
This time he screamed.
“What are you doing over there, bastard?” Straegar called out.
Tyran’s eyes shot open. The captain sounded close. Blinking away more tears, he found Straegar near the top of the ladder with only thirty or so feet of scaffolding separating them. Tyran pushed himself to his knees, hugging his injured arm close to his chest. He’d have to stop the bleeding somehow, but right now, he had to move. Move and not look down! Tyran decided his best chance for escape lay with the rope bridge. Once across he could perhaps lose the captain in the other wing and then climb down and flee to the mess hall. Perhaps the warden’s men hadn’t reached that building yet and with Sebastian’s skill and Gertrude’s and Alysea’s help, they’d not only bind his wound but also escape together into the woods as Vincent Donner had suggested.
Not trusting himself to stand yet, Tyran crawled forward to the nearest crossbeam and edged onto it. It was wider than the plank he’d left, but he still didn’t feel like standing.
“Where are you going, bastard?” Straegar hollered.
Tyran glanced over his shoulder. The captain was moving slowly but steadily closer. Had he been walking at a normal rate of speed, Tyran would have been caught by now, but the captain was trying his best to look intimidating while sliding his front boot forward a few inches at a time, shifting his weight, and then dragging along his trailing boot. Any other time, Tyran might have laughed at him, but he wasn’t moving much faster.
“I must say, you Gyunwarians are a rather cowardly race.”
Tyran fought to contain his anger. It would do him no good now to let it out. He’d read that in his great grandfather’s journal. If you must give in to anger, Alan Weatherall had written, give in when you can best use it against your opponent. Do not succumb to taunts. That only allows your opponent to control your anger and by extension, to control you. Keep control of yourself and release your anger at a time of your choosing, not theirs.
It was a hard lesson to learn and an even harder one to practice.
“You’re a stupid race too, aren’t you?” Straegar continued. “Don’t you know the sooner I catch you, the sooner you can join your father again . . . in hell!”
“My father isn’t in hell!” Tyran spat back.
Straegar chuckled. “Trust me, bastard, if he’s not there yet, he soon will be. Do you know what that torturer will do to your father?”
Tyran tried to block out the captain’s cruel words, tried to keep his eyes locked on the bridge up ahead, but he couldn’t help himself. He glanced back toward the city, toward the new plume of smoke rising lazily into the sky. What exactly had the torturer done to his father? He wasn’t so naïve as to not know, but his imagination began to spin wildly out of control.
“Perhaps they’re roasting him alive,” Straegar said. “Perhaps they hammered a spit up his ass like some wild boar but instead of an apple, they shoved his severed cock in his mouth. What do you think, bastard? Should I take you back alive and let them have a bit of fun with you too? Would you like to know what your cock tastes like before you die?”
Tyran started to tremble. Sweat dripped from his face. Keep control of yourself. Keep control of yourself. The rope bridge was only a few feet away. He gathered his feet beneath him and stood. The world started to tilt. Tyran grabbed onto the rope railing to steady himself.
“Perhaps I’ll throw you in the dungeon and when you’re good and hungry, I’ll serve you bits and pieces of your father’s moldy flesh. Would you like that, bastard? Would you like a chunk of his maggoty charred ass meat?”
Tyran turned around slowly, his anger burning hot. Straegar was only ten feet away.
“I’d rather that, than lick Ragget’s bunghole clean after he’s taken a shit.”
Straegar’s cheeks bloomed bright red. “You’ve got a dirty mouth on you, don’t you?”
“Not as dirty as yours. I think you missed a spot.” He gestured toward Straegar’s face. The captain wiped absently at his lips and then when he realized what he’d done, his neck and ears flushed hard too. He charged ahead, eyes wide with rage, but stopped short when Tyran dragged his sword out.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Someday, I’m going to stick it in you and watch you die,” Tyran promised. “It could be today, or tomorrow, or next week or next year. The when, I’ll leave up to you.”
“Bold talk coming from a cowardly bastard,” Straegar sneered.
“Take another step toward me and we’ll make it today.”
“You can’t kill me.”
“Go on then. Prove me wrong.”
Straegar’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
>
“Before you draw that,” Tyran said, “let me ask you something.”
“What?”
“Are you faster than Malcapin?”
Straegar’s eyes flickered down toward where Malcapin had fallen. Rubble stood there now. The tall captain swayed, and his face whitened.
“Why?”
“Because I killed him.” Tyran edged out onto the rope bridge. His anger while strong was starting to give way to the pain again. His left arm throbbed. He’d have to tend to that soon or he’d pass out. “Not Donner.”
He had hoped that revelation would deter Straegar further, but when he saw the rage spark in the big man’s eyes, he knew immediately he’d miscalculated. The brave front he’d tried to construct tumbled as he spun around and fled along the rope bridge. A new sort of pain shot through him as he was forced to use his left hand for balance while he worked to sheath his sword. He’d only taken a couple of steps when he felt the bridge sway hard. Was Straegar following him?
He jammed his sword home. With his right hand now empty, he was able to rush forward, the railings on both sides sliding easily beneath his palms.
And then the bridge shuddered again and Tyran realized Straegar wasn’t following him. He was attacking the thick rope with his sword. Fear sped him along. He reached the sagging middle and began the gentle climb up to the other side. He hadn’t gone more than a few feet when the left rail snapped. For a second, he thought he might go over, but he clung to the swaying bridge and inched forward. Sixty feet from the other side. The bridge shuddered again. Fifty-five. Straegar gave up on the railing and went after the bridge itself. Fifty. The rope beneath his feet trembled. Forty-five. He tried moving faster. Go faster! Forty. Faster!
The bridge jerked hard and then it was gone, falling away beneath him.
chapter 54
“Welcome to Hell.”
Lord Ragget’s disembodied words echoed in the suddenly chilled throne room. Kylpin shivered. The mad dash through the dungeon, the garden and up the tower stairs had left him overheated and slightly out of breath. Beads of sweat felt like tiny chips of ice sliding down the center of his back.
Lord Ragget was gone. Josephine was gone. The platform of grass and its podium was gone replaced now by a swollen globe of murky darkness contained within the boundaries of the ring of water. The chandelier of fire remained above the globe, but its flames had lost most of its color and all its heat.
Kylpin approached the Hellgate cautiously. Deep within its stormy darkness he thought he caught a glimpse of Josephine, but her image was gone again so quickly he wondered if he’d seen her at all. Perhaps his tired mind and eyes were playing tricks on him. Or perhaps this was all just more of Lord Ragget’s confounded magic. He had no idea. Give him a ship and a sea to sail it on any day. Magic was beyond him.
Still . . . he was curious about the Hellgate. Should they follow Josephine? If they entered the gate now would they come out near her or would they end up somewhere else, scattered across Hell’s landscape, alone and at the mercy of the damned? He tried to remember what the priests had told him over the years about Hell, but nothing useful came to mind, only that they’d all pretty much agreed he’d end up there unless he turned his life around. He preferred to believe he’d spend his afterlife sailing the Endless Seas. Still, Josephine had gone through in pursuit of Lord Ragget and he didn’t like the idea of her going after him alone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edgar rocking his weight back and forth, perhaps working up the courage to leap through too. Kylpin glanced around for the other three men. Denton was over by the doors presumably keeping an eye out for the Knights. Philson and Garett stood only a few yards behind him, but they both seemed ill at ease. Could they sense something about the Hellgate that he could not, or had they just reached the limits of their helpfulness and were unwilling to take the next step?
Kylpin didn’t blame them if they wanted to stop. Each had done more than he had expected already. But he had lost too much to turn back now. He stretched his left hand out toward the shifting grayness. His fingertips slid closer, closer. His heart pounded. Finally, he pushed his fingers into the stormy void. It felt like water. Oily water. Cold oily water. A prickling sensation tickled his fingers, like little needles. It spread up into his hand. Like little daggers. He winced. Like big, sharp knives. He tried to jerk his hand free. It wouldn’t come. He was trapped. Trapped and suddenly pulled forward! Cold stabbing pain climbed up his arm. He cried out. Struggled. Hands grabbed his shirt, thick arms wrapped around his waist. The pain reached his shoulder. He screamed . . .
Abruptly, he was wrenched backwards, and he landed on the marble floor surrounded by Edgar, Philson and Garett. It had taken all three of them to free him.
“I don’t think we can . . . uh, uh . . . pass through it safely now,” Philson said.
“Jo did.” Edgar glared at the Hellgate.
“I don’t think she . . . uh, uh . . . was supposed to.”
Edgar rounded on Philson. “Supposed to or not, what’re we supposed to do now? Just sit around and do nothing?”
The bartender shrugged. “I’m just telling you it doesn’t . . . uh, uh . . . sound right. The tone has changed.” He pointed at Kylpin’s left arm. “Look what it did to him.”
Kylpin glanced down. His arm was still attached, but the bronze skin from his shoulder to his fingertips was a pale frosty white. He tried to make a fist. His fingers wouldn’t move.
“Here, let me help you,” Garett said.
Before Kylpin could stop him, the fire mage had grabbed his frozen hand with both of his and bowed his head in concentration. At first Kylpin felt nothing, and then, faintly, a sharp prickling sensation much like before coursed through his entire arm, however, unlike before, the hundreds of stings felt like tiny hot pokers jabbed straight into his flesh. He tried to pull his hand away, but the fire mage was strong, much stronger than he looked. Just when he thought his arm would explode into a thousand fiery pieces, Garett let go. Kylpin staggered away, a curse forming on his tongue, but when he saw the frosty white fading and the healthy bronze returning he swallowed his caustic words and simply offered the young man his heartfelt thanks.
“It’s the least I could do,” Garett replied.
“If you two are done holding hands over there . . .” Denton grumbled from the open doorway. “They’re coming!”
The familiar metallic thumping of marching boots boomed up the stairs. Seconds later, the first row of Knights charged across the antechamber. Kylpin drew his sword and ran to join Denton’s side.
Something long, black and cold suddenly coiled around his legs and yanked him off his feet. He went down hard and was immediately dragged back toward the Hellgate. Edgar leapt to his rescue. He hacked at the thick, sinuous tentacle with his long knife until it split in half. Viscous ropes of fluid shot from the severed end.
“Men, I need a little help here!” Denton cried.
The Knights had jammed the doorway, each fighting to be the first to get their metal gauntlets on Denton. The few who made it through didn’t last long against the burly guard, but Kylpin understood it was only a matter of time before their greater numbers would overwhelm him and force him to retreat. Once he relinquished control of the doorway, they were done for. With space to maneuver, the Knights would eventually surround them and, depending on their magical instructions, either subdue or kill them all. Considering the other lethal traps they’d encountered along the way, Kylpin guessed it would be the latter.
He rushed back into the fray, with Edgar and Garett on his heels. With the four men blocking the door, the Knights began to pile up in the entryway.
“If they keep this up,” Edgar said, sounding slightly out of breath, “they’ll soon block the entire doorway.”
A couple of Knights behind the pile began hauling their fallen counterparts away.
“You spoke too soon,” Denton grumbled.
Edgar grimaced. With a moment’s pause in the fighting, he stepped back to
catch his breath. Another tentacle shot out of the Hellgate and curled around his fighting arm.
“Dammit!” He tossed his knife into his other hand and even before he was dragged a few feet he’d cut the tentacle in two. The severed end flopped on the floor and the injured limb retreated into the Hellgate, leaving a slimy black trail behind it. Edgar kicked the rubbery remains away in disgust. “What the hell is this thing?”
“If it was coming out of the sea, I’d say it was a squid or a kraken,” Kylpin offered. A Knight cleared the pile and rushed toward him. Kylpin parried a couple of brutal strikes and when he saw an opening, he sliced the Knight’s helmet off. The rest of the armor collapsed. It was the quickest way to put one of them down. He glanced over his shoulder at Edgar. “But since it’s coming out of hell, your guess is as good as mine!” He punched another charging Knight with the pommel of his sword and it staggered back. He hit it again and it fell. Before it could rise, another marched over the top of it and came on fast. Kylpin ducked the Knight’s first blow and then shoved his sword straight through the front of the helmet. It clattered to the floor and Kylpin wrenched his sword free just in time to parry another attack. The force of that blow drove him backwards, and before he could reengage it, Denton intercepted it and caved in the side of its helmet.
“Thanks . . .”
Denton shrugged. “We gotta work together or they’ll overrun us.”
Kylpin nodded, but he saw the truth of their situation. Even working together, they were slowly being driven back. Their defensive line was already stretched too thin and any minute they’d lose control of the entryway. Once the Knights overran the room, their only escape might be the Hellgate.
He glanced over his shoulder at the murky globe. A dozen tentacles, each with diameters bigger than most tree trunks, sprang out. They soared high in the air and arced over both them and the Knights. Unlike the other tentacles, these new ones ended in snapping, teeth-filled mouths. Before he could utter a warning, one dropped down on Garett and swallowed him whole. The speed at which the fire mage had been consumed stunned Kylpin and he was almost run through by an advancing Knight. At the last second, he saw the thrust and managed to twist away from it. The blade slid past close enough to pluck at his shirt. He didn’t care. He watched in horror as the engorged tentacle bearing Garett rose slowly toward the ceiling . . .
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