Every few hours, Lysandra allowed the horse to rest while she and the cat walked. Knowing she could not reach the city of Talushazar until well after dark, Lysandra found a campsite not far from the road. In a copse of trees, she rolled out a blanket and ate a light meal of venison, sharing with the cat.
“Tomorrow we’ll be in Talushazar, and I’ll know if my plan will work. If it doesn’t then…” she trailed off, stroking the cat.
Lysandra fell asleep beneath bleak stars, worrying if her siblings were scared and when she would see them again. Nightmares slithered up beside her, feeding off her warmth and fear. In the night she thought she heard the cat hiss once and go silent, but sleep demanded obedience and she submitted.
As the dawn broke gray and dreary, Lysandra woke to an unfamiliar shape beneath her blankets. Pulling them back, a flickering black forked tongue and rattle left no doubt.
“That’s a big one,” said Mitacarnon, standing with the rising sun at his back as if it belonged there.
“When did you get here?” asked Lysandra, never taking her eyes off the venomous serpent. Its tongue shot out, continually testing the air.
“Just now. I was about to wake you but heard the rattles. This is a good example of why you should have waited,” said Mitacarnon.
“I didn’t need your help. I thought you could take a hint.”
“So do you need help now?”
Lysandra frowned, inching back ever so slightly. The snake coiled closer.
“It wants your warmth,” said Mitacarnon, drawing his sword. It was a fine silvery blade with a slight curve, an educated fighting-man’s weapon. He stalked to Lysandra’s right.
The slit-yellow eyes watched, tail rattling furiously.
Lysandra twitched, and the snake faced her, positioning to strike.
Mitacarnon’ sword, cold lightning in his hand, separated the snake from its wedge-shaped head.
Leaping back, Lysandra kicked the serpent’s body away. “Why did you follow me?”
“Is it so shameful of me? I like you,” he said, extending her a hand.
Ignoring the gesture, she stood and said, “You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough.” He gave her that predatory grin again.
Lysandra broke camp as Mitacarnon saddled her horse. “Where is my cat?”
Mitacarnon shrugged.
Calling for the cat brought no response. Once mounted, Lysandra scanned the tall grass and woods near the camp. A black shape lay lifeless nearby.
Jumping from her horse, Lysandra cradled the still thing.
“Looks like the serpent got her,” said Mitacarnon. He pulled a dagger out and dug a shallow trench quicker than Lysandra would have thought possible. He tenderly took the cat from Lysandra, placed it in the grave and covered it over with earth. “I’m sorry. Did it have a name?”
“No,” she whispered. They mounted their horses. “Thank you,” she said, before steeling herself yet again.
“Amazing is it not? Makes the Byzantun ruins look like a child’s footstool in comparison. And I am a proud Avaran saying this,” said Mitacarnon.
“I didn’t think there was any such thing as a humble Avaran,” laughed Lysandra.
They stood on the rim of a great valley, gazing up at the gray stone colossus. The tower’s shadow seemed to fall forever and encircled part of the city of Talushazar. Lysandra imagined the town’s people kept time by the momentous shade.
“Construction began by Talushazar himself two hundred years from the sign in the heavens. It took forty years to finish. Old Talushazar said it would be the greatest temple ever built to the gods. The magical door cannot be opened once it is sealed, save from the opposite side of its use. They say a servant died in there after closing it. It’s almost too bad the church denounced the whole of it as a vain abomination,” said Mitacarnon. “But some people just cannot appreciate great art.”
“I know they prophesied it would fall,” said Lysandra.
“Nay, good lady, look at it. Resting on the base of a firm hill, its foundation is strong and sure. The tower is a hundred paces square at the bottom and almost twice that in height to the pinnacle, a holy of holies unrealized.”
“Just because Talushazar built a grand magic tower doesn’t mean everyone should put their treasures in it,” scoffed Lysandra.
“Well, some did. An Interpreter belonging to some old soothsayer or other, treasures of gold and silver, even some records. But it has remained sealed since the builder’s death.”
“It is a monument to nothing,” snapped Lysandra. “Everyone knows all the real treasures are hidden elsewhere. All I want is The Interpreter, trade it to The Profit for my siblings’ safe return, and I’m done.”
Mitacarnon glanced at her curious. “What about the Order? They will not let things go.”
“I’ll not let things go either, but first I have to see to the safety of my family,” snapped Lysandra. “Let’s ride. I’ve a friend who’ll grant us more information to get inside. If you still want to help me.”
Mitacarnon smiled. “Of course, I do, my lady.”
The Snorting Mammoth was not the finest of establishments; torn leather curtains drooped at the windows, and an irritating sickly-sweet smell permeated the tavern air. Greasy men played with even grimier cards at all but a few tables. Serving girls carried flagons of wine. Pipe-smoke filled the air, nauseating Lysandra.
“Why must we wait in this sty?” muttered Mitacarnon. “This stench may adhere to me permanently.”
“I told my friend I’d be in the seediest tavern. There’s no doubt this is it.” She smiled at his discomfort. “Hasn’t someone of your vocation been in many taverns like this before?”
“Not if I could help it,” said the swordsman. “Look at this fop,” he gestured at a short, bug-eyed man with an awkward bowl haircut walking through the door wearing a ridiculously bright green shirt. “He looks like the deranged offspring of a frog and a Jebusite.” Surprise struck Mitacarnon when the man waved to them and came closer.
“That is my friend, Paanchi,” said Lysandra. “Be kind to him.”
“Lysandra,” greeted Paanchi. “Sorry I’m late. Horses don’t like me you know.” He gave Lysandra a hug and eyeballed Mitacarnon with obvious sourness. “Since when do you need a flamboyant swordsman by your side?”
Lysandra frowned. “Paanchi, be nice.”
“Flamboyant? Have you seen your shirt?” shot Mitacarnon. “And you asked me to be kind to the frogman.”
“Enough, we needn’t draw attention. Let’s go outside,” said Lysandra.
Paanchi looked down his nose at Mitacarnon and followed Lysandra outside, strutting like a proud hen. They went to the stable to be alone.
As Paanchi pulled scrolls from his saddlebags, Mitacarnon asked Lysandra, “What is his problem?”
“He doesn’t have a problem. He just gets picked on a lot,” she said, as Paanchi opened a scroll. “He likes men,” she whispered.
“He doesn’t like me,” muttered Mitacarnon.
Lysandra gave him a disbelieving look of shut up.
“This is everything I was able to find on the tower’s plans. I think your usual method will work best, though this is much taller,” Paanchi said, with genuine concern.
“What is at the top for entry?” asked Lysandra.
“The roof is wood, shingled with copper. It’s green with age and could be very slick. I’ll bet you could pull the shingles up and smash your way in,” suggested Paanchi.
“I don’t smash my way into anything.”
“There is a window. I’m sure it’s shuttered and barred, but perhaps you could get in that way. The top is where The Interpreter should be kept along with any other things of interest,” said Paanchi, pointing at the opened scrolls of dust-laden drawings.
“Nothing else matters now, just the Interpreter. I won’t burden myself with anything else,” said Lysandra.
“What is the usual method?” asked Mitacarnon.
&nbs
p; “Why do you even have this bearded war-monger with you?”
“Paanchi, that’s enough. My business is my own,” snapped Lysandra. She glanced at Mitacarnon, her voice softening. “He wants to help.” She took the scroll from Paanchi and stared at the ancient inked lines.
Frowning, Mitacarnon asked, “War-monger? What are you speaking of, toadling?”
“You carry a sword,” said Paanchi, shaking his head as if that answered everything.
“So?”
“So, you are part of the problem. As long as people in this world make and carry swords there will never be peace,” said Paanchi.
Mitacarnon stifled a chuckle.
“Oh, you think I’m funny? Well, he who lives by the sword dies by the sword.”
“You forget, peace-frog, those who don’t live by the sword can die by them too.”
Paanchi looked up to the taller man and stuck out his chin, saying quite sanctimoniously as he tapped the side of his head, “Some of us prefer to use our minds. We are above such pettiness.”
“And those who don’t carry them can still die by them,” Mitacarnon threatened.
“And that’s exactly the problem, I’m speaking of. Only an ignorant savage needs a weapon like that,” argued Paanchi. “Likely as not, you’re carrying that thing around to make up for something else. Hmmm?”
“She,” Mitacarnon pointed at Lysandra, “carries a pretty big knife, or didn’t you notice?”
“Knives can be used in kitchens. There is only one thing a sword is good for—maiming and hurting other human beings. I don’t hurt people,” said Paanchi.
“You’re trying to hurt my feelings, peace-frog,” laughed Mitacarnon.
“No more either of you!” shouted Lysandra, who had been intently studying the drawing of the tower and trying unsuccessfully to ignore their argument.
“You know I am here to help, dear lady. What role does peace-frog play?”
“He is a resident scribe at the library of Hearthom-Hem in Englentine and has assisted in my acquisitions for many years. Few know more of ancient relics and artifacts than Paanchi. So please, if you can’t be kind, be silent,” said Lysandra.
Paanchi stuck out his tongue at Mitacarnon, who furrowed his brow and shook his head disbelievingly.
Lysandra clapped to get their attention. “Enough, you jackasses!”
The two men, polar opposites in almost every way conceivable relented and just gave each other frowns the rest of the evening.
Night unfolded with deafening silence, and even the boisterous patrons of the Snorting Mammoth went quiet by midnight, drowning in their ale or tears. Three shadows traced from the stables toward Tower Hill. They crept past dozing city watchmen and raccoons stealing garbage. Somewhere a lonely dog howled a mournful tone of doom.
Avoiding moonlit streets, the three came to the backside of The Tower’s log palisade wall. The tower didn’t need a palisade wall to defend it, but the practice had been traditional since at least the days of Captain Butlarian. The only entrance had a pair of guards leaning upon their spears.
“It will be no problem to use them up,” whispered Mitacarnon.
“See how he is? Sword-wielders. All they do is lust for blood,” said Paanchi.
“I suppose peace-frog, you would rather I say I cannot handle them.”
“Yes.”
Lysandra didn’t like that Mitacarnon used the slang of assassins for killing, but it was just talk. Wasn’t it?
“Besides, I never said kill. I could just cripple them,” said Mitacarnon.
“Why must it involve pain?” cried Paanchi?
“Silence,” ordered Lysandra. “We stick to the plan. Mitacarnon and I will take them out. You will keep watch, Paanchi.” Throwing back her cloak, Lysandra handed Paanchi her bag of equipment and took a wineskin, moving toward the pair of guards as if intoxicated. Paanchi stayed where he was, while Mitacarnon, still enveloped in night, followed closely behind stumbling Lysandra. She felt protected knowing he was there.
“Dear friends,” Lysandra slurred, “I am glad to see you. Is this where Judge Zebulon lives?” She smiled waving her bottle slightly. Despite her unkempt appearance, her beauty was not lost on the two sleepy guardsmen.
“Afraid not. This here is the tower. You best be getting along,” said the first guardsman.
The second was still watching her with obvious appreciation.
“Alright but have a little bit of a drink with me first, huh?” she slurred.
“No thank you, mum,” said the first again, “It’s against orders. We’re on duty.”
“Ten years we’ve had this post and in ten years how many times has anything happened?” snarled the second. “I’ll tell you never! We’ve a fool’s job we do. Bring it here gorgeous. I’ll have a drink with you. Got all the curves a man likes, she does!”
She fell into his arms and handed him the wineskin, which he greedily gulped. The first guardsman almost protested but could see it was too late.
Smiling at Lysandra, the guard took another pull on the skin and collapsed in a heap. Before the other could believe his own surprise, Mitacarnon leapt from the darkness like a panther, pummeling the guard into brutal submission.
Sizing up each of them, Mitacarnon took the one he struck and stripped him of his cloak and helm. He then tied and gagged the man and moved him around to the other side of the wall. Lysandra propped the drugged guard against the gate, so he appeared to be sleeping.
Lysandra was grateful for Mitacarnon’s willingness to help, and even his jealousy of Paanchi’s friendship. It was a new feeling, having a man who looked out for her.
Paanchi arrived, putting on the cloak and helm. Not an imposing guardsman by anyone’s standards but in the dark, he would pass. He placed a blue lens in front of a slot on his lamp so he could signal Lysandra if need be.
Lysandra and Mitacarnon raced up the steps. The dark tower reached into the night dwarfing all else into insignificance. A great oaken door wrapped with bands of iron, rusting at the edges, mocked them with its locks. Its size was stunning.
“At least we can tell none has opened it,” said Mitacarnon.
“It’s as I hoped,” said Lysandra, digging into her pack and producing curious iron implements.
“So that is your secret,” mused Mitacarnon. “Climbing gear beyond anything I have ever seen.”
“They are my own special design. Nothing else is even close.”
Two foot pieces went over Lysandra’s buckskin boots. They had thin forks of iron protruding from the toes. Upon her hands, she had gauntlets with claw-like appendages that were narrow enough to fit into the tiny crevices in the stone tower.
“You have done this many times?”
“Yes, but never anything this tall. It will take all my strength to reach the top.”
“You could let me try.”
“No. My family, my duty. I’ll come down the stairs and out when I’m done.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Lysandra didn’t know if she was caught up in the excitement of the greatest thievery ever yet attempted or if she was truly feeling something for him, but she turned and kissed him before attacking the wall. Mitacarnon still gasped in surprise as she scaled up the wall.
All the way up the staggering wall, Lysandra pondered why she had done such a thing. Left foot in a crevice, why did I do that? Right hand up and pull, what a fool I am! Her thoughts echoed again and again.
Twice on the ascent, Lysandra had to stop and rest, clinging to the cool stone for a few moments. That no one had been where she was since it was constructed was a sobering thought. Looking down, she could faintly see Mitacarnon watching her. Paanchi was almost invisible beside the lamplight.
In a rhythm, Lysandra forged ahead, surprising herself when she struck her head on the eve of the overhanging roofline. Moving sideways about the tower, she came to the shuttered window. The green paint was sun-faded, rendering it almost unrecognizable.
Even with her b
oots and gauntlets, this was the hardest spot to find purchase on the tower. Pushing on the shutter almost made her lose balance in the crevices, but a snap inside sent the shutters flying inward. Clambering inside, she could see the bar had dry-rotted and snapped with her pressure. Taking off her climbing gear, she adjusted to the gloom and was amazed. The chamber was filled with everything from stacks of gold senines and silver limnahs, to chests overflowing from Talushazar’s investors. More wealth sat forgotten here than she had ever seen before.
Lighting a wall sconce, Lysandra gazed over the chamber looking for The Interpreter. Against the far wall, a box looked out of place among the treasures. Power emanated from within. Opening the lid, a clear egg-shaped stone lay upon a purple cloth.
This was The Interpreter. Could the legends be genuine? Could it reveal truth? Holding the stone up, she could see the brass coins hidden amongst the gold and silver, the dross covered by a thin veneer of precious metal. Almost everything present was a counterfeit or fake. Even the tower itself was not so sturdy as it appeared. The weakness in the foundation was obvious to its sacred eye. Truth in all things was readily apparent with the sacred stone.
Lysandra wondered if the stone could show her truth about people, about herself, as well. She felt a sudden shock course through her. She remembered her first bits of thievery in the Marence market, the first apple she took, first purse of gold she filched, first kiss she stole. All these memories came in a wave consuming her with despair, with guilt, with shame. Then she remembered her parent’s love, their hope expressed when she was young. This, she knew, was her true self. The things her parents taught her were truth; they mattered again.
Clutching the stone to her breast, Lysandra went down the steps in a daze, until faced with the door. Turning the massive ingenious lock took effort and spun about as she pushed it aside. Curious, things could be locked in? That was a bizarre, unexpected feature of such a fortress of wealth.
Swinging the massive door open, she faced Mitacarnon.
Blackest Knights Page 4