“Then came one night of a particularly clear sky. The guard picked his way into the camp, avoiding patrols. He set fire to their food stores and their piles of firewood. The very next day, the besieging army pulled its troops out and retreated. Without the loss of life.”
“So? Escape tunnels are meant for strategies like that,” Roy remarked. “Nothing particularly groundbreaking about that.” He sounded unimpressed.
“I’m not done,” Cleo said. “That same guard, after he helped turn the tide of battle, was secretly killed by the king.”
“How is that smart?” Roy asked. “Kill your most loyal guard?
“But with him, died the knowledge of the tunnel. Because soon there came another adversary. This one tried to learn from the mistakes of his predecessor. They spied extensively, rooting around, in the castle and out, looking for the escape tunnel. But because the only living person who knew its location was the king, they were unable to discern where it lay.
“They attacked, and were ultimately dealt a similar blow, causing them to retreat with their tails between their legs. And just like before, the guard responsible for deflecting the attackers away was honorably put to death. And such was how the castle thrived for centuries. No army could topple it, as no one could ever find its secret.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point,” Cleo said, kicking up a cloud of snowy sand, “is that we have to find the secret tunnel leading into this fortress. We find it, and if we go in during the attack. When everyone is distracted, we can rescue Gnochi and his family.”
“Oh.” Minutes later, long after the dunes under their feet had shifted, Roy asked, “So, what ever happened to that castle anyway?”
“Everything changed when guns became the norm,” Cleo said. “I mean, what’s the point in having walls when a small bomb can level them from afar.” She saw Roy frown at her comment, but she was too busy studying the keep’s walls to give his reaction further concern. Flames dotted the tips of its walls and occasional shadows passed before the lights, indicating patrols. As she returned her attention from the fortress, she saw Roy trip on something under the sand and crash to the ground.
He swore as he brushed sand from his clothes and shook snow from his hair. Once he had regained his nerve, he stooped down and dug at the object which had tripped him. “You’re going to want to see this,” he said, his eyes wide.
“What is it Roy?” Harvey asked.
Roy dug with his hand, brushing away sand and throwing snow over his hunched back. After a moment, Harvey joined his friend in the digging. They unearthed a trap door made of pale wood and adorned with a rusted metal handle.
“It’s colder than tundra frost,” Roy exclaimed. He heaved, pulling up on the latch until it finally gave way and opened, revealing a set of stairs down. The hinges screamed in agony at being forced to move. Wisps of wind tore at the sand, pushing it down the opening.
“Roy, you did it!” Cleo wrapped him in a hug and peered into its depths. “You’ve found the secret tunnel.”
◆◆◆
“Remind me to keep my comments to myself,” Roy whispered to Cleo. He led her through the dark tunnel. “Lest they be misconstrued into a volunteer for some other suicide mission.” As they progressed, the further they moved away from the opening, the darker the tunnel became. The faint whistling from the outside winds failed to reach into its heart; as a result, the air felt warmer. He braced himself, pressing both hands against the walls that seemed to slope inwards, steadily narrowing. His breathing quickened and he felt a spattering of sweat down his back.
“This is hardly a suicide mission,” Cleo said, chuckling. “We are just scouting.”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I hesitate before trusting you. The last time you said we were just scouting—which was only an hour ago, mind you—I find out that you’re planning, as I see it, a suicide mission. And is this tunnel getting smaller?”
“It’s probably just designed to dissuade attackers from trying to use it. Breathe easy. And quit your grumbling. I know you’d rather be leading me into some unknown danger as opposed to standing in Harvey’s boots, freezing and constantly shoveling sands, keeping our escape clear.”
“This is true,” Roy said, ducking under a low-hanging beam. The two continued in silent darkness for several minutes. He had to hunch his back as the tunnel narrowed further, though he noticed that Cleo could still stand upright. “So. Aarez. He—uh.”
“I’d rather not go into it, Roy.”
It eventually widened up, revealing a lone door. Roy celebrated the space by stretching his neck and shoulders. The door looked to be made of heavy wood. Adorning it was a simple brass handle, tarnished with age and sullied by dirt. Roy placed his palm against its surface, noting how warm it felt compared to the surrounding dirt.
Cleo rested her ear against its surface. “I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.
He leaned close and whispered back, “It’s warm. There’s probably a guard fire on the other side.”
Cleo tugged the handle, though it appeared not to move under her grasp.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Just wanted to see if—”
A loud bolt retracted from within the wall. Roy heard a brace scrape against the other side of the door, crying out warning as though it were in pain. He eased his blade from its scabbard in a quick, quiet motion, imagining that he could feel someone breathing on the other side of the door.
Cleo readied her staff, angling it down.
For his part, he concentrated on taking more controlled breaths. A rattle of metal drew his attention to the handle. He watched as it began turning. A series of explosive bangs sounded far above their heads. In response, the handle stopped dead and reverted to its neutral position. The sound of footsteps led away from the door, followed by more explosions from above.
“They forgot to lock it,” Cleo said, gently turning the handle. She pushed the door open.
◆◆◆
Harvey grew weary of keeping sand from refilling the tunnel’s hatch opening. Cruel drafts of wind tore at the loose sand and snow, threatening to entomb the simple hatch. After nearly an hour, he could no longer ignore the cold ache in his fingers. He contemplated climbing down after them, then considered yelling into the tunnel, but ultimately decided against it, in case anyone else was down there.
They were only supposed to be scouting. The pit of worry that had sprouted in his stomach bloomed. It shot up and ignored the arguments of logic and reasoning that attempted to rationalize their absence. He was making up his mind to go after them when he glimpsed an apparition in the distant desert. A white shape that melded with the flurrying winds.
Harvey mouthed the wolf-deity’s name and the vaguely wolfish shape sat back as if howling. He swore that on the edge of his hearing, concealed by the roaring wind, he heard the call. The white blur took off running toward the fortress. Watching Freki was like watching an ant on the ground. The closer to the fortress it got, the less he could say that it was Freki he was seeing. The shape shimmered as if underwater. When it reached the wall, it scaled the vertical surface as easily as one would a set of stairs.
Finally, after cresting the wall’s height, the apparition turned and seemed to stare back at him. A blur of red smudged the all-white wolf, but he thought that a speck of sand had sullied his vision. The wolf reared up and howled again. This time, the churlish sound flew heavy through the air and smashed into his face.
The wind died down as if flicked off. He was sure that if tempted, he could speak and be heard by those patrolling the tops of the walls. Then, suddenly, other distantly familiar sounds reached his ears. Gunshots. His eyes flew to both camps on either side of the fortress.
Both armies were converging on the castle, dragging large siege weapons. He wondered why he hadn’t spotted them encroach earlier. Two covered rams drudged through the sand toward either wall’s gate, though the shifting surface made moving the rams prob
lematic. A dozen or so wall-ladders snaked between dunes toward the fortress. He even saw a siege tower, assembled by the Lyrinthian army. Heavy wheels sunk straight into the sand and failed to budge, so it stood abandoned of soldiers.
He could not understand why the assault was beginning already. Did Gideon assume that Cleo’s disappearance was evidence of kidnapping? Would that force him to attack early? Or did he simply mislead them all with a false plan.
Harvey stuck his head down into the tunnel, but the constant sputtering of distant gunfire hid any sounds that might be coming from below. He contemplated following after the pair, but ultimately decided that he could do more harm than good. He shimmied his sword between the hinges, prying the hatch from its holdings. Now, when the sand shifted, it fell into the tunnel. While it would eventually obstruct the exit, he imagined that his friends would be out by that time.
He made quick progress back toward Gideon’s camp, not imagining that he even resembled a combatant, especially with the two pronounced fronts of attack. As he stepped out from behind the cover of one dune, a bullet fired from atop the walls narrowly missing and explosive meeting with his kneecap. He dove for cover, waiting while his breathing settled. Peeking over the dune, he saw for the first time that those on the walls held slender guns. One such sharpshooter had taken him in his sights. A second shot rippled out, though it flew wide, kicking up a spray of sand and snow a pace away, icy shrapnel stinging his face and neck.
Harvey took his chances and bolted to the next dune, this one further from the fortress. He expected to feel a bullet’s bite any time during his run in the open, but the shot only came the moment he dove toward the sand. He realized that reloading their rifles, much like a crossbow, must be arduous and lengthy. He then timed his escapades above the safety of cover so that he could be safely below a dune before the shot came. Only one guard seemed to be watching him from the southern wall.
After half an hour of dodging the sniper, Harvey arrived at Gideon’s camp. He collapsed to the ground, his heart racing. A guard approached him with his sword drawn.
“Easy,” Harvey said, managing to even out his voice between heavy breaths. “I got shot at too. I need to see Gideon.”
Chapter 39
Harvey slipped into the meeting. Gideon’s gaze met his own for a moment, a look akin to anger flashed over the leader’s eyes. “We’re getting our asses handed to us!” Gideon shouted across the room at his advisors and generals. “Why wasn’t I told before that his guard is armed with guns?” Before letting any of his advisors speak, he turned to Harvey. “You’re here to tell me that Cleo is inside the walls?”
Everyone in the room turned to stare at him, who nodded.
“She’ll kill me yet. Unfortunately, there’s no way to break in. With untold ammunition, Jackal can keep both sides at bay indefinitely.”
“Don’t you have any weapons like that to even the odds?” Harvey asked, the fear of speaking before such a crowd managed to remain hidden from his voice. He hoped that the courage came from the fear he felt for Cleo and Roy.
“What kind of Luddite would I be if I used guns?”
Harvey bit his tongue, suppressing an urge to point out that he used technology to spy on his factions. It seemed hypocritical, but he refrained from voicing such. “I have a plan,” he said. “One that would rescue those inside and help the frontal assault.”
“Well? Don’t wait for an invitation. This isn’t a tavern.”
◆◆◆
With silence surrounding them, Roy and Cleo crept through the fortress’s rooms attached to the escape tunnel. They evaded two jogging patrols. Each guard bore a long rifle.
“Those are guns,” Cleo whispered into Roy’s ear. “How can either side fight against so many?” The sound of gunfire became a drumming constant that she grew to ignore. They opened doors looking for the dungeons but were met with rooms devoid of anything except supplies.
“Maybe we’re in the wrong section of the fortress,” Roy said. Though his voice sounded as loud as a cat’s footfall, someone heard and called out in response.
“Help!” A man’s voice sounded frail, but it was not Gnochi’s, as she remembered.
The two eased up to a door, behind which came the cry for help. Inside, a cell encompassed half the room, the other half remained empty. Just as Cleo thought, an old man stood behind the bars. He bore the visible scars of prolonged imprisonment; a hollow torso sunk below his ribs, which jutted in sharp lines from his skin.
One of Jackal’s guards stood before the cell. He grinned upon seeing Cleo and Roy, then frowned at their brandished weapons. The guard pulled out two knives, each as long as his forearms.
Cleo tested her staff, bouncing it in the air. She felt a similar calm emanating from Roy as he also prepared to fight.
“I’ll take him,” Roy said. “You get the man out.”
“On the far wall,” the prisoner croaked, his voice quiet. “The keys are over there.”
Cleo lunged to grab them but had to jump back as the guard swiped at her neck with one of his knives. She stopped a second attack with a precise jab from her staff into his wrist. Her action knocked the blade from his hand. In the moment when he bent to pick up the felled weapon, she slammed the capped end into the his boot, wincing at the crunch of his toes.
He backtracked, sliding his foot with tender care. Cleo took the moment to grab the ring of five keys and made for the cell.
The clang of steel against steel kissed filled her ears, though she paid it little heed. She tried the first key in the cell’s plain lock, but it held fast. “Do you know where the other prisoners are being kept?”
“They’re all through out,” the old prisoner replied. “Who are you looking for?” His voice held a calm warmth.
Cleo tried a second key in the lock, but it also failed to open the cell. She had to tune out the grunts of exertion from Roy and the guard, as their fight distracted her. With a clear mind, the clang of clashing blades sounded as distant to her ears as the gunshots above.
“My friend. He’s old. Well, not as old as you, maybe forty with his beard out. Otherwise, he might be mistaken for thirty.” Cleo chuckled. “Fancies himself a bard. His name is Gnochi.” Tears welled in her eyes. Her hands continued to manipulate the keys even though her vision blurred. The third key moved the door no more than the first two.
“Gnochi? I remember him.” The man’s hands shook. He leant onto the cell walls for support. The iron bars pressed into his wrinkled skin.
“Yes, Gnochi. And his sister and niece. Do you know where they are?” Cleo’s fourth key out of the five unlatched the door. She swung it open.
The old man retreated to a corner. He slumped to the ground as though his legs had failed to support his gaunt frame.
“You know them? Zelda and Pippa are their names. Where are they being held?”
“They’re dead. They always were. Jackal never had them.” The man choked on tears.
“What do you mean? Gnochi said that Jackal kidnapped them and forced him to work for their release.”
“It wasn’t their physical bodies that had been stolen, but the memory of their souls.” The man motioned Cleo to the ground and offered his palm, which she noticed was chalked with pale scars.
She knelt before him and reluctantly took his hand. In a rush, she felt as if she were burning; her eyes failed to see through a blanket of smoke which had descended over her head. Her voice, too, failed to vocalize her fears. Through the smog, Cleo heard Gnochi call out.
“Pippa? Zel?”
The rushing footfalls sounded close. Suddenly Gnochi appeared from below. He spotted her immediately. “Pippa, are you all right?” He cupped her body in his arms and hurried down from where he had come. Soon a blue sky loomed over her head, though it was a grim blue, like one that precedes a vicious maelstrom.
Gnochi set her down in the damp grass away from the smoke-filled home. He left her field of view. For a minute, Cleo only watched the passing clouds
tumbling through the sky. The wind shifted and a plume of black smoke crept into view, suppressing the natural sky. She tried to move but found her muscles stone. She tried to call out but found her tongue numb.
A loud crash sounded in her ears. She was faintly aware of a wave of warm washing over her body. Gnochi once again filled her vision. He was calling out, but her ears felt stuffed with wool.
“No, Pipps.” His voice sounded quiet and from a distance.
Fists pounded into her chest. Each thrust shot numbing pain through her body. Cleo struggled to cry out. As time progressed, she became immune to the rhythmic pressing on her heart. With clear eyes, she watched Gnochi give up and rest his head on her body.
Warm teardrops dripped through her poncho, prickling against her skin. They came quicker and colder. Rain.
Cleo saw Gnochi high above her, walls of dirt tunneling her vision. A flash of color under his face represented the poncho. Her chest took the brunt of the rain. It pelted down against her skin. As the water assailed her body, she opened her lips to scream. Soon, chunks of muddy dirt rained in her mouth. She felt like she was dying. Grimy mud seeped thick into her lungs.
Cleo sat up from the vision with a gasp. Roy stood over her, offering a reassuring hand, which she leveraged to stand. Looking down, she saw that the prisoner had died.
The expression on his face was one of peace.
Roy had killed him, piercing his heart with his sword.
“He did this,” Cleo whimpered. “He stole Gnochi’s memories.”
“And now you have them. You have to save them for him,” Roy said. “The man asked me to kill him. Said I’d be providing an eternal mercy.”
“Was it? Did it feel different?” Cleo asked, eying the guard’s decapitated corpse. “From that?”
“Yes,” Roy said. “Come on. Let’s go. He said that Gnochi would be close to Jackal’s private quarters.” They exited the cell and were walking back into the hallway when an infant’s shrill wail split the air.
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