by C. Greenwood
Rathnakar stroked the box with both gauntleted hands, as if savoring a long-awaited moment. Then he threw the lid back on its hinges.
Instantly a blinding blue light flooded the room. A great whoosh of powerful wind blasted forth from the box and swirled around the room.
For a moment the oracle could see nothing. When the bright light faded sufficiently, she made out hundreds of glowing shapes forming around the room. Nothing but tall blue lights at first, they rapidly resolved into human shapes. The crackling blue light burned away until they were left standing as solid figures, ordinary but for their tough appearances and the number of swords and knives bristling about their persons.
The rough-looking bunch packed the room, surrounding Rathnakar and spilling out through open doorways and up the stairs. There were too many of them to be contained in the immense chamber, possibly too many even to fit within a single level of the crypts. Rathnakar’s boast of two thousand warriors had not been an overstatement.
If the fully armed and fierce-looking human soldiers were not enough, there were also three monsters among them. These terrible horned creatures were large as great boulders, with crimson-colored skin and spiked metal clubs gripped in clawlike hands.
For a moment human warriors and monsters alike stood frozen, like lifeless statues. The howling wind escaped the chamber, and all fell silent. Waiting.
Then an inhuman roar split the stillness, as one of the monsters raged to life. In a wild fury, the brutish creature lashed out and smashed its enormous metal spiked club into the nearest living thing—the onlooking assassin.
The unfortunate messenger flew through the air to crash, limp and lifeless, into the nearest pillar.
Rathnakar stepped over the crumpled form in its bloody gray cloak to approach the horned beast. “Good, good,” he murmured approvingly. “You have lost none of your ferocity.”
He raised his voice until it echoed like thunder through the cavernous room. “Welcome, my vicious monsters and pitiless warriors,” he greeted the rest of the surrounding crowd, who were beginning to stir and look about in confusion. “You have wakened from your long sleep to serve your dark master once more. Too long we have been banished to the shadowed places beneath the earth. But today it is time to rise up and remind the surface world of the ancient power of the Raven King.”
Even as he spoke, the floor began to tremble. A low rumble sounded from the deepest parts of the tombs of Umanath. Stones tumbled from the walls to smash across the floor. Many of the pillars holding up the ceiling toppled and shattered into shards of rock. The roof of stone and earth overhead was suddenly rent asunder. Bright daylight from far above pierced the gloom.
Even as the earth continued to quake and the cavern crumbled all around, the oracle felt a tugging sensation pulling her away from this place of chaos. The vision slipped away.
* * *
The oracle returned to her physical form to find herself sitting cross-legged on a cushion atop the dais in her audience chamber. The torches lighting the room had burned low, but she didn’t need those to tell her how much time had passed since she had slipped into her vision. Even in the windowless room, she sensed it was early morning.
And the mistress of masks was gone. She knew it immediately.
Thinking back to the scene she had just witnessed, the oracle’s first instinct was to send a temple attendant running after Eydis. Things were not playing out as expected. The assassin had not brought the scepter straight to the wizard in his tower. The scepter was already in the clutches of Rathnakar, making the journey Eydis was just beginning pointless.
But something prevented the oracle from calling for Eydis’s return. There was a reason the mistress of masks had been drawn again to the mountains. It was her destiny to confront the wizard once and for all. None must intervene.
CHAPTER SIX
Orrick
Orrick focused on a point on the ceiling somewhere over the head of Lord Rowen. He sullenly refused to acknowledge the presence of his accusers, the gathered spectators, or even of his hired defender. What difference did it make that the lord presiding over this trial claimed to want justice?
True, execution hadn’t come as immediately as Orrick had expected, after the thieftaker captured him in Towbridge. But in the end, the outcome of the trial remained predictable. The only satisfaction Orrick could take during the proceedings was in a brief glance across the room at the surly thieftaker, Samuil Tracker. Tracker’s hopes for hasty payment had been delayed, and the thieftaker wasn’t pleased about it. He might have turned in his prisoner and claimed his reward anywhere, after Orrick’s capture. Any town in the kingdom would have paid the promised reward for the arrest of the betrayer of Endguard. But Tracker hadn’t wanted to waste his moment of glory on a little fishing settlement like Towbridge. He had traveled out of his way to the bigger town of Jarceaux. After all, he had probably never taken a prisoner as notable as the traitor of Endguard. He meant to enjoy his moment of fame.
But unfortunately for Tracker, the lord of this region had unusual ideas of justice. Or unusual by Lythnians’ standards, at least. On Tracker’s application to receive his reward, Lord Rowen had insisted on first ascertaining for himself the prisoner’s guilt, before sentence could be carried out. The thieftaker’s reward or lack of it would be entirely dependent on the outcome of a trial Lord Rowen would himself preside over.
And so, Orrick had spent the past day and night locked up and awaiting trial.
Now that the day had arrived, he had been hauled into the great room of Jarceaux’s largest tavern. The business had been closed for the day, the room cleared of tables and drinks except for the wooden casks standing behind the bar. In place of patrons were curious onlookers who had gathered to watch the trial. Added to those were the local lord and his officials, the legal defender and accuser, and Tracker and his companions serving as witnesses.
Orrick’s hired defender was currently making his case for Orrick’s innocence, his dry voice droning on in useless arguments. Orrick guessed he shouldn’t be too hard on the man. He had been engaged by the lord in the interests of fairness, so it wasn’t as if his well-meaning ineffectuality was costing Orrick anything. The eventual results of the trial were inevitable anyway. The only question was how long they would drag it out.
The defender’s speech came to an end, and Tracker was next called upon to speak. As he stepped to the center of the room to stand before the presiding lord, the thieftaker smoothed his oily hair, looking pleased to finally have the full attention of the room
“I am Samuil Tracker of Cassal,” he said, introducing himself when prompted. “I was born in the baselands and make my home there, when my work doesn’t compel me to travel.”
“And by what means do you make your living?” inquired Lord Rowen.
“By the pursuing and apprehending of dangerous criminals,” came the answer.
“So you live upon the rewards you collect?”
When the thieftaker affirmed this was so, he was asked to describe his capture of Orrick of Kroad.
Tracker recounted how he had hunted Orrick for some time, before finally cornering and apprehending him in a dark alley in Towbridge. He left out any description of the cowardly way he had knocked Orrick on the head from behind while his companions had kept him distracted from the front.
Orrick only smirked when Tracker claimed that, upon realizing himself caught, “the barbarian” had made a full confession of his crimes.
Lord Rowen seemed to find that overly convenient too.
Questioned on the point, the thieftaker bristled. “What cause is there to doubt my word, my lord?” he asked. “I’m an honest man doing my simple duty, with no reason to lie.”
There were a few shaking heads and disbelieving hisses from the spectators at this. Thieftakers of Tracker’s sort weren’t known for being overly particular as to the guilt, or even the correct identity, of the party they brought in.
Orrick’s defender spoke up. “
May I remind my lord that this man stands to gain a sizable reward if the accused is found guilty—as do the men who work for him? In such circumstances, it hardly seems just that he should be convicted solely by their testimonies.”
“I can understand your point,” said Lord Rowen. “But it has long been common precedent to allow the proofs of bounty hunters. Even so, the accused traitor will be given an opportunity to defend himself.”
Orrick scowled. He had no intention of pleading for his life, however much the Lythnians might wish to see him do it. He had proclaimed his innocence once before and, afterward, had wound up imprisoned in the Morta den ’Cairn for his efforts. What more could he do here now, without Arik the One-Eyed, the only living man who could swear to the truth of his words?
His defender must have sensed Orrick’s stubborn instinct to remain seated on the narrow bench that held them, for the man poked him with a bony finger.
“If ever you hope to save yourself, now is the only opportunity you’re likely to receive,” the defender whispered. “I strongly urge you to make use of it. If not for yourself, speak up for the sake of any that bear you affection.”
Orrick’s mind flashed to Eydis and Geveral. What would they feel at receiving word of his death? It was likely the news would spread to them eventually. Although he never expected to see either again, he didn’t like the thought of them mourning him, pitying him. Neither did he like the idea of dying under the cursed names of “coward” and “traitor.” Even though it wouldn’t change his fate, perhaps it was time he told his full story, once and for all. As the defender said, this would be his last chance.
And so he found himself reluctantly going to stand before Lord Rowen.
On seeing that he meant to speak for himself, the lord leaned forward in his seat, his gaze sharpening. “Orrick of Kroad, are you prepared to tell us your side of this tale?”
“I am.”
At least the lord looked interested, as he asked, “And do you swear to give a true account of the events leading up to the fall of the border fortress of Endguard?”
“Truer than any that have been given yet,” Orrick answered, shooting a contemptuous gaze around the room. “My story is simple. I was one of many Kroadian and Lythnian soldiers charged with protecting the fortress against assaults from across the border. I served in that isolated spot for two years. The Lostland beasts regularly encroach on Kroadian or Lythnian lands if not driven back by patrols, so it’s usual to keep a small force in place. These skirmishes with the wild creatures are common. But it’s not in the nature of the Lostlands beasts to cooperate. They’re usually as hostile to one another as to us. Neither do they plan carefully coordinated attacks in large numbers. At least they didn’t. Not until the night Endguard was overwhelmed by a massive force of aviads and minohides working together to break through our unprepared defense.”
Lord Rowen frowned. “You imply those creatures were acting under someone else’s direction. That the attack plan was not their own.”
“I don’t only imply it,” Orrick said. “I know who it was giving them orders. A nameless Lythnian wizard turned up at the fortress only days before the assault. He pretended to be an innocent traveler and was treated by our commander like a guest. But I believe his true intention was to find out our weaknesses and coordinate the coming enemy attack from within. His motives for this treachery I don’t pretend to know.”
“Can you prove any of this?” asked the lord.
“I could if I was given time,” Orrick said. “It has been said that only one defender survived the slaughter of Endguard, that my very escape proves me to be a traitor who handed over the fortress and my fellow defenders to the enemy in exchange for some bribe. On this weak rumor, many have been prepared to see me imprisoned or dead. But I can tell you now that there were three who lived through that bloody night when the fortress fell. I was one. The nameless traitor wizard was another. The third survivor was a mercenary soldier, a dwarf by the name of Arik the One-Eyed. Ever since the false accusations against me began, I have tried, without success, to locate my friend Arik. I’ve only recently learned where he is to be found—in the wilderness of the Lostlands. I was on my way there, meaning to bring him back to attest to my innocence, when I was fallen upon by Samuil Tracker.”
Orrick curled his lip as he spoke the thieftaker’s name.
At the end of his story, Lord Rowen looked thoughtful and conferred for a few minutes with the surrounding officials. Orrick couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he didn’t like the look on some of their faces or the glances they sent his way.
At last the lord sat back in his chair. “You weave an interesting tale, Orrick of Kroad,” he said. “It is tempting to allow you to continue on your journey, if the Lostlands is truly where you are bound, if only to see what becomes of your plans to find your dwarf friend.”
There arose a murmur among the crowd of onlookers around the edges of the room, and the lord had to raise a hand to silence them so he could continue.
“But as the guardian of order in this part of the country,” he said firmly, “I cannot allow a criminal of your fame to go free. Your story is essentially that you are blameless of the charge against you. That someone else, a conveniently mysterious person without name, is the real villain. But you’re unable to prove any of this. Moreover, your actions since the fall of Endguard are not those of a wrongly accused man. When you were imprisoned in the Morta den ’Cairn, you planned a bloody escape, killing guards in the process. That alone is crime enough to justify your fate. You then failed to turn yourself in, instead fleeing the authorities these many weeks. Anyone can see you are skilled in violence and deception.”
Orrick knew what the lord’s next words would be and betrayed no emotion when they fell upon his ears.
“I pronounce you, Orrick of Kroad, guilty of treason and other criminal acts. I hereby sentence you to death by hanging.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The low-roofed timber house where the town locked up its criminals and public disturbers was no Morta den ’Cairn. There were no tortured screams ringing down long dark corridors here. No chills or foul smells creeping up from the floor. No panicked feeling of being closed in between narrow walls and buried beneath many levels of stone.
Instead, the space was well lit and comparatively clean, with decent food and simple furnishings. Other than the row of iron bars separating Orrick’s cell from the main room, he could almost have thought himself in a private room at a reputable inn. There was even a bar-protected window that admitted the fresh evening air.
If the local lord hadn’t just sentenced him to death a few hours ago, he would have been tempted to congratulate the man on these humane arrangements. Crime must be an uncommon thing in this town, because there were only a handful of cells lined up beside Orrick’s, most of them empty.
As he lay across his cot, watching the last light of day fade from the sky and the first stars begin to twinkle, Orrick wondered if he would ever see another nightfall. This wasn’t the first time he had been given a sentence of death at dawn, and he had always found a way out before. But he could see no hope of escape this time. Eydis and Geveral were, he hoped, safely at the temple of Silverwood Grove by now and knew nothing of his situation. There was no help of intervention from that quarter. He had no other friends in this cursed country, and there were few even in his own who would lift a hand to help him now. All of Earth Realm seemed to have made up its mind about the betrayer of Endguard. And yet, he had been frustratingly close to proving his innocence, if only he could have produced Arik the One-Eyed.
He paid no attention to the sound of a door opening in the main room outside. There were a pair of guards here, who frequently came and went. One of them always stayed behind to keep an eye on the prisoner.
But whoever had entered this time was coming toward his cell. Orrick’s ears pricked up at the sound of slurred singing and the approaching scent of ale fumes. If one of the guards had been drinking
heavily and was foolish enough to come close to the bars, Orrick might figure out a scheme to get his keys away. Feigning sleep, he opened one eye just a sliver to see what was going on.
To his disappointment, he found that the guard wasn’t drunk after all. He was dragging along a stumbling old man dressed in dirty rags. It was the old man who reeked of ale and was alternately humming and singing a disjointed tune.
After unlocking the door to the cell next to Orrick’s, the guard pushed the ragged stranger inside. The old one lurched across the cell to bump into the far wall. He sagged in the corner a moment before slowly sinking down to sit on the bare floor. His singing fell silent, and he tilted his head back, as if he would go to sleep right there, sitting upright.
Orrick continued watching the old stranger, even after soft snoring sounds began to come from his cell. There was something about the newcomer than drew his attention. He had the slender pointed ears of a dryad, like Geveral. And before he had fallen asleep, Orrick had caught a glimpse of his eyes, one of which was milky white, as if it were blind. There was nothing else obviously different about his features. But still Orrick sensed a strangeness about him, and he had a guess what it was. He had been around magic wielders like Eydis and Geveral often enough to feel a subtle difference in such people. They weren’t quite like everyone else.
Then too, even though the stranger was loudly snoring, the pattern of his breathing suggested he was awake and entirely alert.
Orrick had no sooner reached this conclusion when the old man interrupted his snoring with a soft “pssst” sound and whispered Orrick’s name.
