“I discovered as much in the Under Realm, but unfortunately I have no control over it. I thought I had reimbued it at the mystical river, but my confrontation with the Soul seems to have taken the enchantment with it. I need what your son, Saros, imbued into it. He directed us to the Under Realm, but that ended in disaster.” He shrugged. “Melody informs me that the Under Realm isn’t the only place where that power might be found. Is that true?”
The Grimward didn’t respond.
Silurian asked more forcefully. “Is it?”
“You have no idea of what you seek. It lies in a place you cannot go.”
Silurian crossed his arms. “I was told I couldn’t go to the Under Realm, but still, I did. I was told I would never return, and yet, here I am.”
“What you seek is an ancient source of magic. So old that it stems from the lifeblood of the earth itself. It lies beneath the ground, protected by the wyrm. I cannot take you there. My existence is an abomination to the life source. If I were to lead you to it, let’s just say, it wouldn’t go well. For any of us.”
Silurian frowned at the Grimward’s last words. “We’re not asking you to come with us. All we require is the location. Tell us how to find it. We’ll do the rest.”
“You aren’t listening. The place is protected by something as old as the earth itself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Silurian asked.
“The wyrm that attacked you out in the lake.”
“The serpent?”
“That’s what you people call it.” The spectre fell quiet. Finally, it whispered, “If you truly mean to go after the earth blood, you must be prepared to die. To harness the magic, you will have to venture into the bowels of the Serpent’s Nest.”
To Kill a King
Alhena was adamant. As much as Sadyra argued that it would be suicidal to return to the Chamber of the Wise, especially after what they had done to escape its prison, he wouldn’t be swayed. Even though she pointed out that at least two guards were dead by their hands.
Olmar’s fire crackled and sputtered on the mass of bull rushes and other bits of swamp refuse—most of it far from dry, but with the size of the fire, the flames dried the fuel almost as fast as it was fed to them. Strange animal cries continued to pierce the still air around them.
“Pops,” Sadyra pleaded, her hands gesticulating her point, “if we go back, we’ll be hanged at the very least. As tough as Midge thinks he is, the four of us cannot hope to take on the entire Gritian militia. To what end?”
Alhena calmly waited until she finished her rant. A warm smile creased his wrinkles. “Hear me out. The Chamber council has been compromised, as Solomon claims, but it is worse than that. One of Helleden’s demons has control of the Chambermaster himself, and probably most of the council as well. Vice Chambermistress Gruss of a certainty, but I am sure there are others.”
Sadyra was about to protest but found her argument suddenly lacked conviction.
“Aye, a creature makes the decisions for the Chamber,” Alhena continued. “Believe me, I know. I was interrogated by it at length. It used dark spells. I shudder to think what I divulged.”
Larina’s sweet voice chimed in. “No offense, Pops, but you’re just a messenger. How bad can your secrets be?”
Alhena regarded the brunette with his white eyes. “Don’t be hasty in your judgment of what you know nothing about. Unless you have followed in a person’s path, you have no idea what secrets they hide.”
“So?” Larina said, unconvinced. “That sounds like something a wizard would say. Whatever you told them doesn’t change the fact that returning to Gritian is the last thing we should do.”
Alhena gave her a patient smile. “Perhaps not, but what I learned while in the demon’s clutches has left us no choice. Even though I lay in a trance, I heard everything that went on around me. In fact, I think the creature knew that. It revelled in the knowledge that there was nothing I could do to prevent what was in its mind. Its intentions are troubling beyond belief.” He trailed off.
Larina stared, willing him to continue, but he didn’t. She turned her glare to Sadyra. “I could slap him when he does this.”
Sadyra nodded and sat down beside Alhena, shifting her hips so that she could snuggle up to him. She placed a hand on his outstretched leg. “What is it Pops? What could be so bad that we need to risk our lives by returning to the Chamber?”
Alhena glanced at her hand, and then into her eyes. “The king makes his way south. According to the high bishop, what’s left of the royal forces should arrive any day now.”
“That’s a good thing, no? King Malcolm will see the wrong in the Chamber,” Sadyra responded, her gaze flicking to Larina and Olmar. “Actually, if that’s true, you’re probably right—we might as well go back.”
“There is more, and I fear we must hurry. We may already be too late.” Alhena cautioned but offered no more.
Sadyra squeezed his bony thigh through his robes. “Too late? For what?”
“To save the king.”
Olmar startled everyone as he jumped to his feet and staggered, almost stepping into the fire. “Save the king?” he roared. He grabbed a burning branch from the fire, crouched low and disappeared into the tunnel.
Larina rolled her eyes. “What a lunkhead.”
Sadyra stood up, about to call after Olmar, but Larina’s voice cut her off. “How far do you think he’ll get with that branch? The flames have probably fizzled out already. He’ll be hopping about, smacking phantom spiders and whining like a big baby.”
Larina searched for where they had deposited the real torches in the rusted bucket just inside the tunnel. She pulled out half a dozen of the best ones and lit two, passing one to Sadyra. She stashed the unlit brands in the near-empty food sack and waited while Sadyra helped Alhena to his feet.
Sadyra handed Alhena a walking stick she located near the tunnel entrance and brushed ground debris from the old man’s robes. “Are you okay to walk?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.
Alhena accepted the stick. “I am left with little choice. King Malcolm needs us.” He jerked forward, swatting her hands away from his rump. “Stop fussing. It’s just dirt.”
“Just making sure you don’t carry any more than you need to. Don’t want you having a stroke.”
Alhena shot her a stern look and started into the dark tunnel. Olmar was nowhere to be seen.
“Rook? Rook Bowman?”
Rook spun about on his way back to the stables, the heavy crossbow whapping the back of his shoulder. Pollard and Yarstaff, who now walked on his own, stopped and looked back as well, but their attention was divided between the red-robed figure hailing Rook, and a ruckus happening around the stable yards. Up on the hill, a group of militiamen trotted their mounts around the contingent from Carillon.
“Rook Bowman. It is you. May God be praised, I found you,” Solomon Io said between breaths.
Rook frowned. The chamberman’s face shone beneath a sheen of sweat.
“Please, come quick.” Solomon took in Pollard’s massive frame. “And you too, while there’s still a chance.”
“Whoa, whoa, chamberman…?” Rook asked.
“Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io, but don’t worry about my name. We need to save the king.”
“Save the king? What happened? Where is he?”
Sounds of battle reached them from the top of the hill. Pollard’s sword slid free of its double sheath. He broke into a run toward the stable yards.
Rook unslung his bow and was about to follow him, but Solomon’s voice stopped them.
“Not that way! There’s no time. We need to get the king away from Chambermaster Uzziah,” Solomon pleaded and started toward the entrance shed. “This way.”
Rook stood rooted to the spot, confused. A battle was being waged atop the hill. Helleden’s vanguard must have caught up to them already.
Pollard and Yarstaff, his small sword in hand, turned around and ran past Rook, following
Solomon toward the Chamber’s entrance shed.
Before Rook had a chance to piece events together, one of the four guards at the Chamber entrance cut Solomon down as he tried to pass between them. Ignoring Solomon who crumpled to the ground, the guards turned to intercept Pollard.
Rook swallowed. None of it made any sense. These were Chamber guardsmen. Why would they attack Solomon? He pulled two arrows from his quiver and ran after Pollard and Yarstaff.
The three largest guards held Pollard momentarily at bay at the end of their polearms.
The fourth guard swiped at Yarstaff, but the Voil was quick, sidestepping the barbed tip of the man’s halberd.
Rook dropped to a knee. With his bow held sideways, he notched an arrow and let fly. The missile took Yarstaff’s attacker in the ear. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The remaining guards attempted to pin Pollard against the rock face beside the entrance, but Pollard’s double sword caught two of the three polearms between its twin blades. With a quick twist and pull, he yanked the weapons from the guards’ hands, all the while leaning away from the jab of the third halberd.
Rook didn’t hesitate. As bizarre as the unfolding scene appeared, it was obvious the Gritian guardsmen were not friends. His arrow punched a large dent in the largest guard’s shoulder armour, knocking him away from Pollard.
Before the guard regained his stance, Yarstaff jumped him from the side, his sword slicing the stunned man’s neck from ear to ear as the orange furred Voil rode the guard to the ground.
The last two guards drew their swords and warily backed away from Pollard’s superior reach.
Rook loosed a third arrow, burying itself into the left cheek of the man closest to Yarstaff.
Pollard engaged the last guard who met his first swing in stride. The power behind the blow, however, was ferocious and drove the man backward. Pollard’s recovery swing pinned him against the side of the entrance shed.
The sound of pounding hooves distracted Rook. Several militiamen had broken free of the horses circling the stable yards and charged down the trail, weapons in hand, whooping and hollering.
At first, Rook thought they were coming to join in the battle against the traitorous guardsmen, but when he looked back to Pollard, he realized his peril. His friend had already dispatched the last guardsman. The only people left in the trench were Pollard, Yarstaff, and the wounded vice chambermaster.
“To the Chamber!” Rook shouted, putting his head down and sprinting toward the entrance. He would be lucky to reach it before the thundering horses rode him down.
Yarstaff pulled on the entrance doors but they were locked. He backed off to let Pollard try.
Pollard pushed and pulled on the handles to no avail. Roaring, he stepped back and raised a black leather boot. His first attempt cracked the thick wood, knocking it askew of its frame. A second kick demolished the door, sending jagged splinters careening into the tunnel beyond.
A crossbow bolt thudded into the doorframe near Pollard’s chin.
Another bolt whistled by Rook’s head and ricocheted off the stone wall on his left. Hazarding a quick look back while trying not to run in a straight line, he saw that the lead horse was about to run him down. He ducked and stumbled, barely keeping his feet beneath him as Pollard yanked a guardsman from inside the entrance and threw him flailing through the air. The man impacted the lead horse in the head, causing it to crash to the ground and throw its rider. The next two horses went down hard over the top of the first. An errant sword clattered beside Rook’s feet.
“Don’t let them escape!” someone shouted from farther back.
By the time Rook reached the entrance to the main Chamber tunnel, Yarstaff had already slipped inside. Pollard stood outside, clutching the limp form of another guard in front of him—the guard’s body bristled with several crossbow bolts and an arrow. Pollard had used him as a human shield.
Rook stopped outside the entranceway and knelt beside Solomon’s badly bleeding body. The chamberman’s crimson robes were darkened with blood on his right side, but his pained eyes were open. Rook reached under his armpits and dragged him over the shattered remains of the door and into the tunnel. Pollard remained outside—the sound of bolts and arrows impacted dead flesh and bounced off stone.
Rook dragged Solomon into the tunnel and propped the dying man against the wall. Yarstaff stood a few paces farther in, watching for anyone approaching from down the tunnel.
“Leave me,” Solomon said through gritted teeth. “Find the king. Abraham has taken him to his chambers.”
In good conscience, Rook couldn’t leave Solomon to die, especially since he was the vice chambermaster.
Solomon convulsed in pain. His watery eyes rolled back into his head for a moment before he became lucid again. He stared at the crossbow prods extending beyond Rook’s sides and smiled grimly. “I know that weapon.”
Rook had been focused on the unseen commotion outside. Yarstaff ran past them, back to the where Pollard stood. The giant’s battle cry gave him the shivers. He looked back at Solomon. “Huh?”
“That crossbow. I’ve seen it before.”
Rook frowned, his eyes flicking from the dying man to where Yarstaff stood clutching his sword. An arrow slammed into the door jamb above the Voil’s head; Yarstaff ducked after the fact.
“Pollard!” Rook called out, standing up. “Pollard, get in here!” He knelt again, trying to afford the chamberman his undivided attention. He reached behind him and shrugged free of the crossbow’s strap. “You mean this? I bet you have. It was Avarick Thwart’s.”
Solomon smiled at the mention of the deceased Enervator. “Ah, good ol’ Avarick. Despised by most, feared by all. We could use a man like him right now.”
Rook gave him a nervous laugh. “Ya, I don’t think he’ll be coming.”
“Give me the crossbow.”
Rook watched the entrance. Yarstaff was calling to Pollard. Rook glanced questioningly at Solomon. “What?”
“The crossbow. Leave it with me. Lay the quarrels beside me and call your giant. I’ll hold the bastards back.”
“You’re a chamberman. I can’t leave you here. Malcolm will have my head.”
Solomon tried to laugh but ended up coughing so hard he spit up blood. Controlling himself, he said, “I’m not naïve, Sir Rook.” The honourific made Rook swallow. “The healers cannot save me now. Let me do this. I have never been much of the hero type, but my gut tells me this is the proper thing to do. Allow me my last wish.”
Rook didn’t know what to do. Solomon made sense. Perhaps it would buy them time to locate the king. But to leave him to die, a chamberman, no less, didn’t sit well. The crucifix attached to the shiny gold chain dangling about Solomon’s neck denoted the man as a bishop as well. The prospect of abandoning him scared the hell out of Rook.
Rook stood again, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure what Pollard was doing out there, but as big as the Songsbirthian was, one well-aimed arrow would be all it would take to fell him, and that would nix any chance they had of rescuing the king.
Rook ran to the doorway in time to see Pollard’s broad shoulders backing into the shed—the big man holding aloft a different guard as protection now. Blood stained his arms and hands, but he didn’t appear to be wounded. Hopefully, the blood wasn’t his own.
Pollard cried out and hurled the limp body at a group of militiamen making their way forward. A crossbow bolt and an arrow thudded into the second door that now hung open. Pollard roared and attempted to go back out to threaten them but Rook grabbed the neckline of his brass cuirass and pulled him into the shed.
Yarstaff jumped out of the way as Pollard stumbled into the tunnel, whacking his head off the door jamb.
“Leave them! We need to find the king.”
Without waiting for a response, Rook backed into the tunnel and paused before Solomon.
Solomon forced a pained smile. “Go.”
Swallowing his conflicting emotions, Rook charged up the
tunnel with Yarstaff on his heels and Pollard running hunched over, doing his best to keep up.
They hit the first fork in the tunnel just as a loud roar rose up behind them, causing them to stop and look back down the passageway.
Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io had somehow managed to get to his feet and confronted an increasing number of militiamen pushing into the shed.
Solomon shouted, “Halt, in the name of the Chamber!”
Rook couldn’t hear the heated conversation that ensued, but Solomon held the group at bay. Rook wanted to run back down the tunnel to assist him, but to do so would be suicide. It was only a matter of time before someone shot Solomon. They were wasting the precious time the chamberman gained for them.
“Come on,” Rook said, his voice lacking conviction. Yarstaff and Pollard followed him past the healer’s chambers.
They kept left at the second fork and passed the dining halls. Reaching the intersection where the main tunnel veered right, heading to the Chamber proper, Rook couldn’t recall whether Solomon had said the king was taken to the chambermaster’s chamber, or the Chamber? If he remembered the layout correctly—it had been so long since he had last been here—the smaller tunnel would take them to the council’s personal quarters. If he wasn’t mistaken, that tunnel also came to a dead end. They would be trapped within tight surroundings.
The main tunnel would take them to the voluminous cavern housing the Chamber of the Wise. Again, he believed it to be a dead end, but at least they would have room to swing a sword. He sighed. That was the problem with the Chamber complex; there was only one way in, except...
Rook looked back the way they had come. No one had appeared around the distant bend beyond the healer’s chambers yet. Solomon was doing an admirable job of holding off the masses.
It had been almost twenty-five years ago that the former Chambermaster had shown the Group of Five an alternative exit. Where was it? Rook was sure it hadn’t been in the council’s personal chambers, but he didn’t think it had been in the Chamber, either.
Soul Forge Saga Box Set Page 61
