by Randy Nargi
Chapter Thirty-Eight
GREDARL KAR COULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT HE JUST WITNESSED. A magical battle in his own fortress. Dozens of mages slaughtered in front of his eyes. That meant only one thing. Someone had compromised the Tree Heart.
He raced to find his steward, Manchon Byre, but when he arrived in the man’s office, there was no sign of the steward and the hidden door to the dungeon entrance was open. But wait. What was that on the ground? A piece of cloth…
Gredarl Kar stepped around the desk and saw the corpse of Manchon Byre. It looked like the man had been strangled. This was very bad.
He pushed his way into the passage and, moving as quickly as he could, followed it to the entrance to the laboratory. He cursed himself for not bringing a torch. He could try to go and find one, but he didn’t have time. He needed to check on the Tree Heart.
Moving carefully in the dimly-lit stairway, he made his way down to the dungeon level. He felt the chill of cold air as he descended. It was always noticeably colder down here, but for some reason he seemed to notice it more now.
Feeling his way, Gredarl Kar navigated through the laboratory area until he found the tunnel which led to the Tree Heart. But something wasn’t right. He saw movement in the tunnel.
“Who’s there?” he called.
A whispery voice replied, “No need to be alarmed, Gredarl Kar. All is proceeding as planned.”
There, standing in front of the Tree Heart, was Morin of Thect. His face was smeared with blood and at his feet was the body of Daras Mirth, a big bloody gash torn from his neck.
The dark mage must have sensed his revulsion. “Oh, I did not do this to your friend,” he cackled. “Doubtless one of the intruders got to him, but why let a warm body go to waste? That’s what I say.”
Gredarl Kar staggered back. “What…?”
“Oh, it is the Tree Heart you are truly worried about? I see. Well, I needed to make sure that the artifact wouldn’t interfere with my plans, but it seems our enemies figured out a way to disable it already. They used a lead bar. Quite ingenious.”
“My…My Lord, we must revive the Tree Heart… we are unprotected. Even now a battle rages above our heads. Many of our mages have been slaughtered.”
“It is all according to my wishes.”
“I do not understand.”
“Our enemies thought I was going to use the second Donden Cage to strike against one of the cities, but that was never the intention. I have lured them here into my trap. With Meomannan Quill, Bryn Eresthar, and my other foes all in one place, I can vanquish them once and for all.”
The horror was finally dawning on him. “You’re going to detonate the Donden Cage here?”
“Preparations are almost complete, and the sun is nearly in position. It shall be glorious.”
“I can’t—” He backed away, finally fully comprehending what was happening.
"Don't leave so soon, my friend," the dark mage leered. "I hunger still. Won't you join me for a morning meal?"
FIVE HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, THE COMMAND CENTER HAD WELCOMED REINFORCEMENTS. Thirty minutes before, Grand Guild Masters Tarist of the Red and Ramipoor of the White had arrived with over a hundred of their most loyal mages. And Etthar Calain had been able to hire several dozen mercenaries from Swain as well as a handful of healers.
But right now the reinforcements were anxiously massed outside the gates of Gredarl Kar’s fortress. Even though the gates no longer appeared to be guarded—at least as far as Dusk could tell—the new troops were still waiting for their orders.
“Try again,” Etthar Calain urged.
For the tenth time in the past few minutes, Dusk attempted to use the scrying crystal to contact her team. And, although the device was most certainly activated, the only sound she heard was an unearthly howl of a distant wind.
“Try farspeech,” Ramipoor commanded. He was a tall, bald man who loomed over her.
“I’m sorry, Grand Guild Master, I am not a mage,” Dusk said.
He looked at her quizzically and then stalked off.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked Etthar Calain.
“Not at all, my dear. We’re all out of sorts. And the lack of information is maddening. I have half a mind to go in there myself.”
“With all due respect, Magister, I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Of course it wouldn’t be wise, but we need to know what is happening within.”
“Why not send in some of those mercenaries?”
Etthar Calain nodded. “That is my opinion as well, but Tarist is convinced that they would die immediately.”
Dusk raised her spyglass and checked the main gate and any windows that she could see. “I still don’t see any sign of the defenders. It’s been nearly an hour. Maybe it would be safe enough to send a small team in.”
“It is not the defenders he is fearful of,” Etthar Calain said. “It’s the fortress itself.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
AS THEY RACED UP THE STAIRS OF THE KEEP, BANDER RAN THROUGH A MENTAL CALCULATION. According to what he had learned earlier, the second Donden Cage was somewhere in the upper part of the fortress. That meant in either the top level of the keep—or in one of the four towers.
Both the northwest and the northeast towers had been seriously damaged by the mages’ initial attack, so that left either the southwest tower—which was across the courtyard—or the southeast tower—which was part of the keep. So, basically, two-to-one odds that the second Donden Cage was somewhere above their heads. He just needed to go up and southeast.
Faramir Boldfist yelled, "Foes approach!"
A half dozen guards barreled down the staircase towards them—armed with swords and bows. Faramir Boldfist had managed to hang on to his sword. But all Bander had was a frying pan. It would do. Of course, no matter how you were armed, it was no fun attacking from below, but Bander had a trick up his sleeve.
He called out the signal word “raven” and immediately Faramir Boldfist and Wegg dove into the closest hallway.
Bander reached down to his belt and snatched one of the ceramic orbs given to him by Etthar Calain’s tyckner. With arrows flying and the guards almost upon them, Bander hurled the orb at the wall with all his might. Then dove for cover.
Bang!
The orb detonated in a white-hot flash of light and the world went silent. Except for the pounding of his heart, which was as loud as a thunderstorm. Then the ringing started.
All six guards had been taken by surprise. Now they stumbled around, blinded and disoriented. He and Faramir Boldfist dispatched them quickly and methodically. Bander traded his blood and hair encrusted pan for one of the guard’s swords and motioned for Faramir Boldfist and Wegg to follow.
They continued up the wide staircase to the second floor. Here it ended in a maze of passageways. Bander cursed the architect of this old pile. He wasn’t making it easy.
Still somewhat deafened by the blast, the team wound their way through a series of chambers and side passages. Eventually, the ringing lessened enough for them to communicate.
“That was fun,” Faramir Boldfist said.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Wegg replied.
Bander motioned for silence and led them into a balcony overlooking the great hall. With any luck, this connected to the southern part of the keep and a staircase up. But as they crossed the balcony, Bander glanced down and saw something bad.
Very bad.
He would need a distraction.
He frantically fished through his pockets until he found the item Etthar Calain had given him. Then he looked for a way down that didn’t involve breaking his legs.
BRYN ERESTHAR STAGGERED THROUGH THE GREAT HALL, CLUTCHING HIS ARROW LIKE A TOTEM. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but he knew that he needed to get help.
He had just left his friend Hirbo Thrang, who was trapped in some sort of unnatural stupor and could not be roused.
At least that’s what he thought he remembered.
Everything was foggy.
This room looked familiar. Was he back in Castle Flower? No, the walls were all wrong. Too dark.
He leaned against a pillar. Why was he so weak? What had happened to him?
Closing his eyes, Bryn Eresthar tried to think of the last thing he could clearly remember.
It was his sister. Halys.
He could see her face. But she looked older. How could she be older than him? She was his baby sister. Dear Halys.
But then he remembered that she didn't answer to that name anymore.
Keryana.
That’s who she was now.
Keryana. In Aberhall.
He had gone to see her. To make sure she was safe. And she was. By Dynark’s blood, she was safe.
But she was still blind. And that was still his fault.
Tears began to stream down his cheeks and he slumped to the ground. How many people had he hurt? How many had he destroyed?
In his mind, he saw faces—one after another. But one face haunted him above all others.
Then a hand struck his face. Hard. His head knocked back against the pillar. He opened his eyes and standing over him, grinning evilly, was Asryn.
“You sure don’t know how to stay dead, do you, Eresthar?”
Asryn slapped him again.
"Get on your feet, boy. I'm actually glad to see you alive. You know why?"
Asryn grabbed him roughly, pulled him halfway up, and then swung him into the wall.
“I asked you a question, son! Do you know why I’m happy to see you alive?”
“N-no—”
Bryn Eresthar's head was starting to clear and he began to realize where he was and who he was up against. He stood up but was still shaky on his feet.
Asryn strode across the hall to where a collection of ceremonial weapons were mounted on the wall near the big fireplace. He pulled down a werris, a short-handled axe with a wicked curved blade. Then he faced Bryn Eresthar and hefted the weapon.
“The reason I’m happy to see you alive is because now I get to kill you myself!”
He took a step closer and took a practice swing with the axe. Whoosh!
“You see, as much joy as I felt the moment I saw your pitiful body out there in the dirt, I also felt a little let down.”
Bryn Eresthar took a deep breath. His heart was pounding out of his chest. The fog had gone and something else had kicked in. Fear. Survival. Whatever it was, he was now fully alert. His eyes darted around the room. His arrow was there in the corner where it had been knocked out of his hands. There were other weapons on the wall, but to get to one, he would need to get past Asryn and his axe.
Asryn said, “Once I hack your miserable head from your body, there’ll be no more resurrections so I reckon this is my one and only chance to have a little fun, you know what I mean?”
“Was it fun to murder a hundred thousand people? A hundred thousand of your own people?”
“They weren’t my people. Not really.”
He took a step closer and swung the axe again.
“But they didn’t deserve to die,” Bryn Eresthar said.
“Who’s to say? Maybe some of them did. Besides, sometimes you need to burn a field so that a new crop can grow.”
“So that’s what it was to you? Burning a field?”
“Something like that. But that’s ancient history, Eresthar. We’re talking about me and you, boy. Right here, right now. And the fun I’m going to have with this axe. Maybe I’ll start with your feet. See how you move around on little stumps, eh? That’d be fun.”
Asryn moved closer. Now he was less than a half dozen feet away. Striking distance.
There was no place to escape to, but Bryn Eresthar instinctively backed up into the part of the hall beneath the balcony.
Asryn followed, keeping within range, grinning like an idiot, swinging the axe. Whoosh!
“I’m a reasonable man, Eresthar. Maybe if you beg, I’ll let you pick what gets chopped off first: hands, feet, or that little worm of a pecker…”
All of a sudden, there was a loud thunk that shook the floor as a figure dropped from the balcony behind Asryn. The figure landed in a crouch and stood up just as Asryn whipped around to see who was behind him.
Bryn Eresthar couldn’t believe his eyes.
He saw himself.
Dressed in different clothes, but it was him.
“What the—?” Asryn couldn’t believe what he was seeing either.
The other Bryn said, “I’m a reasonable man too. But not when it comes to vermin like you.”
Asryn lifted the axe up to strike, but the other Bryn was quicker. He exploded in action, lunged in, and grabbed the axe’s handle while it was still over Asryn’s head. Then he ripped the axe from Asryn’s grip, reversed its motion, and punched the hilt back into Asryn’s face in a crunch of bone.
As the other Bryn moved, his form shimmered and changed, growing larger and more menacing, like a monster from a folk tale.
The apparition lifted Asryn up off the ground and held him aloft.
“This is for Vala,” it said. “And for everyone else you defiled!”
It smashed Asryn head first into the stone mantle of the fireplace, over and over, until there was nothing left of the head but a pulpy mess.
Bryn Eresthar backed away from the monster, but he knew deep down who it was—and he was grateful that the monster was there.
BANDER SLIPPED THE MAGICAL RING OFF OF HIS FINGER AND HIS APPEARANCE RETURNED TO NORMAL. He stared down at Asryn’s mangled body. It felt good to finally have dealt with him, but a few moments of bloodlust could never make up for the tragedy Asryn caused.
“Are you hurt?” he asked Bryn Eresthar.
“What did I just see?” Bryn’s voice quavered.
Bander held up the ring he had been given by Etthar Calain. “Some sort of polymorph ring. One of the artifacts stolen from Skydagger. The first time. They keyed it to your image so they could set you up. Secret meetings with bad guys. That sort of thing.”
He tossed the ring to Bryn Eresthar. “Keep it.”
Bander wiped his bloody hands on Asryn’s cloak and picked up the werris. And then he saw something extremely odd. Asryn’s blood began to vanish. No, not exactly vanish. More like it got soaked up. Right in front of Bander’s eyes, the pool of blood that had seeped into the thick carpet got smaller and smaller until there was no trace of it. Likewise, the splashes of blood and hair and brain matter that had been smeared into the fireplace mantle were all disappearing into the stone, like water drying on hot cobblestones, but much quicker.
“Are you seeing what I am seeing?” Bryn Eresthar asked.
Bander nodded. “What’s causing this?”
“I have no idea.”
“Must be magic. Where’s Hirbo Thrang?”
“I…I don’t know…in the other room somewhere.”
Bander called up to Faramir Boldfist and Wegg to stay up on the second floor, but to keep out of sight. Then he and Bryn Eresthar returned to the storeroom in the buttery.
Hirbo Thrang was still there—sound asleep. It was a deep, unnatural slumber. Bander wasn’t sure what to do. He knew that sometimes mages who expended too much energy entered some sort of hibernation state—and supposedly it was very dangerous to wake them from that type of slumber. He wished Silbra Dal were here. Or Meomannan Quill. He needed answers.
“Let’s cover him at least,” Bander said. They moved some casks and barrels in front of the mage and draped a tablecloth over them. Now, Hirbo Thrang was completely hidden. He should be safe enough until Bander could find another mage to help.
“Now we need to get you out of here.”
“I’m fine,” Bryn Eresthar said. “I was a little groggy, but nearly having my head cut off woke me right up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. What’s the plan?”
“The other Donden Cage is here. Somewhere upstairs. Priority one is to get it. Priority two is to find the rest of th
e team.”
Bryn Eresthar nodded.
They went back to the great hall, where Bryn Eresthar picked up the relorcan arrow—as well as a falchion off the wall. Asryn’s headless corpse was still there, but every drop of blood was gone.
“I don’t like this,” Bryn Eresthar said.
They dragged in a table and an empty barrel from the other room and stacked them up so they could climb up to the balcony. It was not easy, but Bander didn’t want to retrace his steps all throughout the keep.
Once they were all together, Wegg quickly examined Bryn Eresthar and nodded in approval. “You must be blessed with a good constitution, Your Grace. You’ve recovered admirably.”
“Tell that to my sore rear end.”
“Enough chatter,” Bander said. “We have an artifact to find.”
NIAM MOVED THROUGH THE FORTRESS AS QUICKLY AS HE COULD. He had to find someone—anyone—and tell them what he had just overheard.
But he also couldn’t get himself killed.
So he mainly stuck to back passages and corridors that looked like they were rarely used. Thankfully, the keep was so large that there were rooms and halls covered with so much dust that Niam knew that he was fairly safe passing through them.
He also carefully listened at every door and identified at least one immediate hiding place in any room he entered.
Now—somewhere on the second floor, amidst endless empty guest rooms—he wondered if his caution got him lost. He had no idea where he was going. It was very strange. As a locestra, he had a remarkable sense of direction.
He sat on the edge of a bed and tried to recall what he knew of the—
What was that?
He thought he had heard something odd.
A person.
Crying.
Yes, definitely crying. It was muffled, but there was no mistaking the sniffling, quick gasping, and low whining. Someone was crying.
He couldn't help but follow the sound. Two rooms away, he saw footprints in the dust. They led to a dressing room. Niam raised his short sword and nudged the door open.
