‘Sound the alarm, the queen is missing.’
The guards looked at each other.
‘I told you we should’ve called for her when we arrived so she knew we’d changed over!’ said the taller of the guards to the shorter guard.
‘You liar!’ The shorter guard went red in the face. ‘You said don’t disturb her!’
‘Did not!’
‘Did!’
‘Enough!’ Vilas shouted. ‘Don’t just stand there bickering like imbeciles, sound the alarm!’
The soldiers jostled out of the doorway, their swords clanging against the doorframe and each other.
Shaking his head, Vilas locked the bedchamber’s door behind him. Shoving Oriana’s pendant into the pocket of his trousers, he tore off his dress shirt and flung open the lid to the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Grateful Oriana had insisted he keep a spare set of clothes and a sword in her room, he quickly slipped on a heavy shirt and tucked it into his trousers, not wanting to waste any more time in changing from the brocade, wedding trousers. Choosing one piece of armour which comprised of a breast and back plate, and his sword belt, he buckled the belt around his hips and sheathed the sword.
A sword made with strands of Oriana’s hair.
The only unbreakable sword in the whole kingdom.
Armour infused with an inside webbing of her hair.
Which was why she had been able to be taken.
She had cut her beautiful hair to shoulder length to make a sword and armour for him.
“It will grow back!” she had said with a laugh as he’d grabbed the scissors from her.
“Let me do it,” he’d replied. “You don’t need to cut it so short.”
“You can’t cut it.” Oriana had gently taken the scissors back. “Only I can, no-one else will ever be able to cut my hair again. I always wondered why my mother trimmed her own hair and now I know...our hair can only be cut by the person it belongs to, anyone else is a potential threat.”
“If I threaten you,” Vilas had joked. “Will you not cut it?”
Oriana had stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m cutting it for you. I’ll feel more reassured if I know you have armour and a sword that no mortal blade can break.”
Vilas had pushed Oriana’s hair to one side, kissing the soft, perfume scented skin on the back of her neck.
“But we are immortal; you said we cannot be killed by blade or arrow now we have sipped water from The Pool of Health. You said the only thing which could harm us, truly, was if we were infected with water from The Pool of Youth.”
“True, my love.” Oriana had smiled and her reflection in the looking glass before them smiled at Vilas, looking over her shoulder. “But you can still bleed and be wounded. Wounds will heal but I would rather you did not have the pain in the first place!”
“But it is our wedding day in a week; keep your hair long until after we are wed.”
Oriana had refused. “Think of it as my wedding gift to you. Besides, my hair will grow quickly; it’ll reach to my ankles in a month!”
The memory faded.
Oriana had been right, Vilas thought as he strode over to the secret passageway to one side of the bed.
One week later and her hair already reached her shoulder blades.
But she had insisted on having it pinned up for the wedding.
Leaving her defenceless against an attacker.
With every part of him telling him to run, Vilas forced his feet and mind to slow. He had to do this properly.
He had to track her.
He could not afford to overlook one tiny clue.
The push stone to the concealed passage was sticky and Vilas pulled the cuff of his shirt over his hand, pressing the material against the stone.
More blood.
Unsheathing his sword, Vilas took a deep breath and carefully made his way along the passageway he had come to know so well.
Chapter Fifteen
Vilas
The warmth of the sun contrasted with the increasing feeling of dread squirming within Vilas. Shielding his eyes as he looked to the west, he scanned the green hill outside of the castle which led to the forest, and beyond the farmstead where he and Oriana had first met. The single door, which Oriana had had rebuilt to three times the thickness, was undamaged but unlocked so he knew Oriana had been taken out of the castle this way.
His gaze caught on the slumped bodies of the two guards tasked with protecting the door. Hurrying over to the closest soldier he was relieved when her leg moved, signalling she was still alive. If she could point him in the direction Oriana’s captor had taken, he could fetch his horse from the stable and cover more land faster.
‘Where are you injured?’ Vilas dropped to his knee and helped the soldier into a sitting position.
She pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘I was hit over the head.’ She smiled weakly. ‘We both were.’ She nodded to her co-soldier. ‘Navin was struck first. We’ll live.’
‘The queen?’
The soldier nodded. ‘I saw her. She was bound at the wrists and had a tie around her mouth to stop her from calling out.’
‘Was she injured?’
‘There was blood on her undergarments.’
‘She was not even dressed?’
‘No, she was wearing a slip.’
Vilas felt even angrier. ‘Who took her?’
‘I couldn’t see who it was.’
‘What do you mean? You have eyes, don’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, Vilas, but whoever took the queen was wearing a mask and a hooded cloak.’
Vilas stood back up. ‘What kind of a mask?’
‘A golden mask.’
‘What was it decorated with?’
The soldier pointed to her left cheek. ‘It had a kind of a pattern here.’
‘Could it have been patterned with the head of an eagle and a rose?’
‘I think so!’
Vilas’ felt the handle of sword slipping from his sweat-slicked hand.
No, it couldn’t be...
‘Was it or wasn’t it an eagle?’ Vilas demanded, needing to know.
The soldier screwed her face up. ‘Yes, it was. I remember now.’
A mask to match a golden coffin decorated on the top with the head of an eagle and thorny roses.
A coffin buried deep in the land far away.
Leaving the soldier to tend to her comrade, Vilas sped back up the hill towards the castle although he did not want to. His heart screamed at him to carry on, to find Oriana, but his head told him he had to deal with the coffin first.
He had to dig up the coffin and move it. If Oriana were here now instead of him, she would do the same thing. The coffin must be moved before whoever took Oriana tortured her into exposing its location.
Because once they knew the location, they could bring Hashir back to life.
And Vilas suspected he knew exactly where Oriana had been taken because the only way to harm her now she had sipped water from The Pool of Health was to infect her with water from The Pool of Youth.
Heading straight to the stables Vilas deftly saddled Bron, stroking the horse’s chocolate coloured mane. Someone had recently fed the horses, for which Vilas was thankful. Selecting a shovel from the many stacked against one of the walls, Vilas secured it to the saddle bags by way of a strap. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a reel of thick rope and looped it over the handle of the shovel before mounting his horse.
The courtyard was decorated with wedding flowers: huge garlands swept around the balconies overlooking the square, tall, ornate displays stood proud in each quadrant, and in the centre of the stone courtyard, where the paths converged, was a tree so tall its tip disappeared into the sky and upon its boughs hung posies and golden ribbons tied into elaborate bows.
People, many who lived and worked in the castle, ceased their chattering and stared as Vilas emerged upon his horse from the stables.
Vilas dipped his head, unable to bear the look of pity in their eyes.
Without her, without Oriana, he had nothing.
He was nothing.
‘Bring back our queen!’ a male voice broke the silence.
Vilas raised his head, his determination returning.
He would, he thought, grinding his teeth.
‘I will!’ he shouted, his spirits lifting.
‘Bring back Oriana!’ a female voice cried.
Vilas manoeuvred Bron into the centre of the courtyard and drew up beside the tall tree.
‘Your queen, my wife-to-be, has been taken by someone loyal to Hashir,’ he shouted.
The crowd gasped in unison.
Vilas knew he had to lie. No-one could know Hashir wasn’t really dead. ‘I suspect she was taken in revenge for Hashir’s death. If I find anyone within the castle walls aided her kidnapper, be in no doubt I will show them no mercy. From this moment...,’ he paused while the crowd’s murmurings rose. ‘I take my sword back as a soldier!’
From the edges of the courtyard Oriana’s soldiers stepped forwards.
‘We will follow you, Vilas!’ shouted one.
‘For the queen!’ shouted another raising his sword.
One by one the soldiers in the courtyard each raised their swords into the air.
Making Bron pace around the tall tree, Vilas said, ‘I want the best trackers sent west into Wolmwood. The door breached was on the west wall so I presume whoever took the queen went back westwards. Scour the ground carefully; we are not dealing with an amateur. I want this castle on lock-down, no-one comes in and no-ones leaves. I want each and every person within these walls questioned.’ He led Bron from the centre and towards the exit. ‘But no-one is to be harmed, am I understood?’
‘Yes, Vilas!’ chorused the soldiers.
‘I will return,’ Vilas shouted, prompting Bron into a trot. ‘And if anyone is found to have had anything to do with Queen Oriana’s kidnapping they should savour their last breath!’
The crowd parted in hushed silence as Bron carried Vilas to the exit and broke into a canter.
The sun was hot, scorching the back of Vilas’ neck as he rode eastwards. Bron seemed to sense Vilas’ urgency and his hooves barely touched the ground as he took them both in the opposite direction of where Vilas had sent the soldiers.
He could not risk anyone seeing what he was about to do.
There was no-one else other than Oriana that he could trust.
After having ridden hard for an hour, Vilas drew Bron to a stop and led him to a small watering hole. While the animal eagerly lapped up the cool water, Vilas turned back to face the direction from which they had come. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the early afternoon sun he was relieved to see no-one had followed him.
Taking his water flask from the saddle bags, he filled it and poured the liquid over Bron’s forehead, rubbing it into the horse’s soft face. Bron peeled his lips back and blew a raspberry, making Vilas laugh despite the way he felt inside.
‘That’s it, boy, it’s time to move on.’
Vilas mounted the horse and patted Bron’s neck, directing him on. Fertile fields of soil and crops soon gave way to vast stretches of burnt amber grass. Earth, which before was soft and rich brown, became hard and cracked under hoof. A solitary dry, dusty track stretched like a gnarled snake through the scrubland. In the near distance craggy, red mountains rose unevenly into the cloudless sky.
Abandoning the single track, Vilas and Bron headed towards the mountains. Bron’s hooves made no indent in the hardened ground; instead they succeeded in kicking up the film of loose, dry earth which had settled in the cracks. Dust engulfed them as Bron charged onwards, making both the horse and Vilas sneeze.
A warm, southerly wind picked up, whipping through the jagged mountains to blast Vilas in the face. He licked his lips and wished he had not done so, having to spit out the dry, bitter tang of red dust. The wind almost forced him to stop as he directed Bron down a narrow, wending path between two mountains. Loose rocks tumbled from the steep, red rock face as they passed through, shattering on their descent and showering Vilas with fragments.
At the end of the narrow path, past the mountains, the land stretched into a wider track around the red rock. The arid land was bare, for nothing grew here, and wind swirled around the foot of the mountains. Not far away the ground dropped into an immense ravine, like a gaping mouth surrounded by ragged, mountain teeth.
Dismounting, Vilas patted Bron, and instructed him to stay. Grabbing the rope and shovel from the saddlebags, he dropped them on the floor and used his sword to cut off some of the rope. Looping the rope around the shovel’s handle, he made a larger loop which he slung over his head and onto his right shoulder so the shovel hung over his back. Looking around, he mentally kicked himself for not bringing something to secure into the ground so he could make a safety rope. Tying the remainder of the rope together he slung it over his shoulder, on top of the first rope. Choosing to leave his sword behind as he did not want to risk losing it, he strode across to the ravine edge and peered over.
So deep the bottom disappeared into darkness.
Vilas sat on the edge with his legs dangling over. Although he was not particularly afraid of heights, not being able to see where the ravine ended made his toes tingle. Scuffling over onto his front he lowered his bottom half over the edge and used his toes to find a foothold.
His fingernails were ragged and bleeding by the time Vilas found the opening in the rock face a fair distance down from the edge. This time it had taken longer to descend the twenty feet than when he had come with Oriana and the golden coffin because he had not had the benefit of a safety rope.
The opening had a slight lip at the lower level, meaning Vilas was able to carefully drop down onto it, pushing himself forwards to make sure he did not tumble out and fall to his death. With the position of the sun in the sky the usually dark opening was partially cast in a dusty light.
Lucky for that, Vilas thought, having forgotten to bring equipment to make a torch as well.
The cave stretching inwards from the cliff wall was not large and Vilas could not remember for how long he had known of this cave’s existence, all he could remember was his father used to store things here he did not want anyone else to find.
All that had been kept there was a wooden box which Vilas had not even bothered to open. He knew his father had not possessed anything of worth; he’d just enjoyed the drama of having a secret hiding place.
It was the one secret his father had shared with him.
Vilas smiled wryly, it would appear his father had even kept things from Acapf and Hashir, just as he had first hoped upon choosing this location. The ground had not been disturbed since his last visit, which was a good sign and went some way to reassure him.
It took Vilas a short while to dig up the cave floor and drag out the golden coffin. Although he did not want to look once more on the face of the man he had long considered a friend, he prised off the lid with the edge of the shovel.
Hashir’s face was frozen in the same expression as when Oriana had injected him with the water from The Pool of Youth.
‘Can you hear me, Hashir?’ Vilas asked.
No response.
‘Oriana thinks you can, even if you can’t answer.’
Nothing.
‘Well,’ Vilas continued, ‘I apologise in advance for the bumpy ride.’
Did his eyes move?
Vilas jumped back. Laughing, he reached for the coffin lid and started to slide it back into place. He froze momentarily, his own eyes caught by an invisible pull.
They really moved...Hashir’s eyes moved!
Completely unnerved, Vilas pushed the lid on and banged it in with the handle of the shovel. Working quickly he knotted the rope securely around the coffin like a net and hooked the free end over his arm. Hoping he had brought enough rope, he pushed the coffin up to the cave mouth and a third of the way out. After which, he began the daunting climb back to the top of the ravine, all the while making
sure not to drop his end of the rope.
Hashir’s eyes had definitely moved.
There had been so much hatred in those eyes.
So much darkness.
No, that wasn’t the right word...so much evil.
Unable to shake off the feeling that Hashir’s eyes followed him still; Vilas hauled himself over the ravine edge and collapsed on the dry ground. If not for the dust he would have kissed it.
Time was running out.
Jumping to his feet, Vilas beckoned Bron over to him.
‘Sorry, old boy,’ he said, securing the end of the rope around Bron’s muscular neck. ‘But I won’t be able to pull it up on my own.’
As if in answer the horse scuffed the ground with one of its front hooves.
‘On my pull,’ Vilas commanded, pulling on the rope. ‘Backwards, Bron, go backwards!’
Together they pulled and pulled until there was tension on the rope signalling they had managed to pull the coffin out of the cave. Rapidly feeding the rope through his hands, Vilas hurried backwards with Bron. Both man and beast used all of their strength, hooves and feet slipping in the dust, to pull the golden coffin up the rock face. The coffin stuck awkwardly on the edge, wobbling up and down.
Bron neighed, his neck dipping. The rope slid back through Vilas’ hands at such speed it burnt his palms and the coffin disappeared back over the edge.
Vilas cried out but refused to let go. ‘Backwards, Bron...you can do it!’
Instructing the horse to stay still, Vilas raced over to the edge and reached over, grabbing the top of the makeshift netting.
‘Come on, Bron,’ he shouted. ‘Pull!’
Praying his trust in his horse was not misplaced, Vilas pulled on the netting.
If Bron gave up the coffin would not be the only thing falling into the ravine.
Sweat trickled down Vilas’ forehead, stinging his eyes.
Bron neighed again.
With an almighty, combined tug, the coffin reappeared over the edge and Vilas pulled backwards, collapsing onto his back as the coffin was secured. He lay for a moment, drawing in heaving, raspy breaths until Bron loomed over him.
Always Golden Page 15
