“This body does not look that old,” Coragan noted as he studied the corpse lying on the stones in front of him.
“How can you tell?” Galladrin asked. “It looks like a troll did a dance on his head. And the smell ... ghah!”
“Exactly, the smell. It’s strong, but I’ve smelled worse. The death rot is just really setting in.”
They had found the body in the courtyard, near one of the larger buildings. From the condition of the corpse, it seemed obvious that whoever it was had fallen from the tower high above.
“What’s this?” Galladrin asked. He reached down and pulled forth a grisly object—a bloodied shaft of wood that had been lodged between two rib bones.
“Curses on my soul if I know,” Coragan replied, taking the object from the rogue’s hands and peering at it intensely. “Looks like a sharpened piece of wood, with the point broken off. Here, Borak, hold this.”
The huge warrior took the wooden stake in his paw, glanced at it briefly, then returned his gaze to the ravens lining several of the windows up above. They stood silent and still with their heads bent down and their eyes glittering in the last rays of the setting sun. “They are watching us,” he said.
Coragan started at the warrior’s voice, then followed his gaze. “Not the cursed birds again! By the Scythe-Bearer’s Sickle, you two would jump at a grasshopper if it looked at you funny.”
“Hey, they carry souls to—” Galladrin began.
“To Lubrochius. I know, you told me,” Coragan interrupted. He shook his head in exasperation then reached down to pick up a small satchel from the body. He unraveled the package and spread the contents out on the cold stones of the courtyard floor. He laughed when he saw them: three withered red roses wrapped in cloth; a clove of garlic; and a large number of shattered pieces of glass, perhaps the remains of a small mirror.
From beside the bounty hunter, Galladrin knelt down to take a look. “Why do I suspect this is the mysterious third man?” he said. “What was his name? Rufus or something?”
“Or Redegar,” Coragan answered. “The innkeeper was never certain.”
“I shall call him Rufus,” Galladrin said. “Do you think we should give poor Rufus a burial?”
“Maybe in the morning,” Coragan answered. “I’ll just use his cloak to cover him up for now.” The bounty hunter matched his actions to his words.
“How do you think he died?” Galladrin asked.
“That’s a good question,” Coragan said, looking up. “If it weren’t for the stake, I would have said he’d fallen. But now—I don’t know. Keep your eyes open. I sense trouble.”
“Yeah,” Galladrin agreed.
“Come,” Coragan said. “Let’s take a look inside. Maybe we can find a room with a fireplace to stay in for the night. It is bound to get cold.”
“Should we take these along?” Galladrin asked, pointing toward the roses and garlic spread out before them.
“Why bother?”
“I don’t know. Arcalian’s paste was made from these, and now we find them on this man. They might prove important,” Galladrin said.
“Go ahead and take them, if you wish.”
Galladrin shrugged his shoulders, then gathered the plants in the satchel and tied the small bundle to his pack.
The door to the castle proper, made of an old cracked wood unrecognizable to any of the men, was reinforced with ancient steel. A bronze knocker resembling a lion head adorned the door at a height level with Galladrin’s eyes. The rogue watched as Coragan twisted the age old handle and shoved the door open. It groaned and squealed, then swung wide.
A din of chattering squeaks arose and Coragan ducked. Five dark shapes darted through the air above his head, and sped off into the darkening sky. “Bats!” he said, “Keep your eyes open ... and don’t even start with the superstitions!”
Galladrin closed his mouth and coughed to cover the words he was about to say. He turned and cast a mischievous smile to Borak, but the warrior was staring at the departing creatures. He had an odd expression on his face—a frown of deep perplexity.
“It’s dark inside,” Coragan said. “Do you have a torch?”
“Hey, I brought the rope and my own gear. Nobody said anything about a torch.”
Borak shook himself back to the present, then retrieved a torch and tinderbox from his pack. He handed both to Coragan, who knelt and went to work. After several tries, the flame caught and Coragan lifted a burning brand above his head.
A long hallway stretched before them as far as they could see, its ancient architecture skillfully crafted and built wide enough for all three men to walk abreast. Despite that, both Galladrin and Borak indicated that the bounty hunter should lead. Ahead, a trail of footprints in the dust led down the corridor providing an obvious path to take.
“Tracks,” Coragan said. “Should we follow?”
“They might take us to Arcalian,” Galladrin said.
“Or to other answers,” Coragan said. “Perhaps these were made by Clarissa and her companion when first they came here.”
“If so,” Galladrin began, “I am even more curious about how Rufus died. Let’s follow them.”
They proceeded forward, cautious; old doors cracked with age, and long abandoned passageways covered with dust, passed by on either side; occasionally they would stop and take a peek down one of these, but only for a moment before returning to the trail in front of them. They were intent on finding Arcalian and nothing about these side corridors bore any sign of the mage. The trail of footprints, however, showed at least that someone else had been here. It was a start.
They followed the trail for a while until at last the passage ended. A set of carved stone stairs wound in a long spiral to the upper floors. Galladrin met the bounty hunter’s eyes as Coragan glanced at him in question. The rogue shrugged, and Coragan led them up the stairs.
It was about this time that they noticed the smell. An old stale odor, musty and charnel, that hung heavily in the air, clinging to their clothes, and telling a horrid tale of death and decay. Like dead flesh roasting in the sun, yet bound and contained within walls of stone, the odor spread out before them in all directions, growing stronger as they walked.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Galladrin said.
Coragan readily agreed. “This is as bad as Arcalian’s paste!”
“Yeah, and you can’t put a lid on this,” Galladrin added, then coughed. Even Borak looked queasy.
They continued on for perhaps fifty paces, and then Galladrin noticed that, although the trail of footprints did not stop, they became very muddled around a particular door. “Hold up, Coragan,” he said. “Let’s check this out.” The rogue grabbed the handle of the door, twisted it, but it wouldn’t budge. He shoved it with his shoulder, but it still held fast. “It’s locked,” he said. “How inviting. Give me a moment.”
“We could just keep going,” Coragan suggested, but the rogue had already sat down and begun to rummage through his pack.
“No, no. Any door that’s locked is just begging to be picked.” The rogue stood with lock picks in hand. He bent down to study the handle intently for a moment, then he went to work. Within seconds, the door swung wide. Galladrin stood before the archway and bowed, sweeping his hand into the room in invitation for his friends.
Coragan smiled at the rogue’s performance, then stepped through with torch in hand. The light of the torch seemed to grow in brilliance, magnifying itself nearly a hundred times. All three men squinted from the sudden glare. Lining each wall of the long chamber before them, dozens of mirrors shone in the light. A vast and garish collection, it spanned the length of the entire room. Galladrin made a quick estimate of twenty man-sized mirrors amongst an assortment of others of varying size. These large ones had been set up like sentinels, ten on either side. At the far end of the chamber, an open window revealed a lone star sparkling in the darkness beyond.
“Talk about vanity!” Coragan said. “Some noble must have bee
n really impressed with himself.”
“Not quite the treasure trove I was hoping for,” Galladrin said. “And a dead end, as well.” Turning, the rogue shut the door and the three men proceeded further down the hall.
Shortly thereafter, the passage ended.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 24
