“Come,” Taz got to his feet and pulled on his cape. “We must leave at once.”
“But how will we find the trap door without Will’s help?” Adelyis watched Taz ready himself to leave, and felt the fear she had been keeping at bay till now resurface.
“Lucky for you that Gremul have a highly developed sense of direction,” Taz replied. “Finding the trap door is the least of our worries. Reaching it alive is.”
Adelyis got to her feet and looked on while Taz pushed against a column that jutted from the secret chamber’s left wall. With a slow grating sound of stone scraping against stone, the wall drew back, revealing the dimly lit corridor behind. After Will had taken on the Morg they had made it inside just in time. Seconds after Taz and Adelyis had pushed the heavy door shut, a company of Morg had thundered past. The two of them had stood, frozen, until the sounds of the pursuers faded.
Two cloaked figures, one tall and slender, the other short and bulky, stepped out into the empty corridor. Adelyis and Taz glanced quickly around them; relieved to see the Morg were searching for them elsewhere for the moment. Then, tarrying no longer, they pulled up their hoods and disappeared into the shadows.
***
Myra Brin took a customary deep breath and pushed open the door to Lord Brin’s chamber. Inside, the City-Lord sat on a chaise longue near the window. He had not yet pulled the drapes, and Myra could see it was an overcast night out.
“My Lord?” She curtsied before her husband. “You called for me?”
“I did wife, I did,” Theo slurred.
Myra noted that he was horribly drunk. She waited there, patiently, before her husband and dreaded his next words. When Theo Brin did speak, his voice was deceptively cordial, belying his accusatory words.
“Hugo informs me that it was the bounty hunter, Dael, who brought you to your chamber this afternoon. Hugo saw the two of you together, alone, in your chamber.”
“I was unconscious My Lord,” Myra’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I remember nothing.”
“And how did you come to be unconscious?”
Myra hesitated. She could not tell him that she had tried to take her own life.
“It is as I thought,” Theo hissed, taking her silence as an admission of guilt. Myra watched him curl in on himself with rage, and her heart started to race uncontrollably.
“You have been playing the whore again, haven’t you?”
“No my Lord,” Myra protested feebly, tears welling. “I have not! I was taking a walk in one of the palace’s gardens and I fainted. The Bounty Hunter must have found me and carried me back to my chamber. That is all.”
“You lie!”
“No my Lord, I tell the truth!”
“Deceitful slut!” Theo Brin sprang from the chaise longue and pinned Myra against the wall, his fingers grasping around her throat. “I ought to throttle you right now!”
Theo squeezed harder and Myra felt her eyes bulge and her breath choke off. Terror filled her and she struggled against his grip. Finally, he flung her aside; his face contorted in disgust. Myra hit the adjacent wall and crumpled to the ground. There, she lay panting and choking, waiting for the next blow to come. Myra tensed as Theo’s shadow fell over her. Then, she saw him draw back his leg to kick her.
Myra brought up her knee just in time. The City-Lord’s boot glanced off her kneecap and pain shot down her leg.
“Whore!” Theo bellowed before moving to kick her again, this time with all his force.
Whether it was instinct or courage Myra would never know, but she dived forward, just as his foot swung towards her. Instead of connecting with her ribs, Theo’s foot hit the wall.
Myra heard the crunch of his toes breaking as she scrambled forward. Behind her, Theo wailed and crumpled to the ground, clutching his foot. Myra untangled herself from her skirts and crouched against the wall. She watched him like a cornered animal. “Bitch!” Theo screamed. “I’ll kill you for that!”
A strange sensation stole over Myra then. As she watched her husband hunch over his foot, fear was replaced by a feeling quite unlike any she had experienced before—an intoxicating surge of defiance and self-possession.
Myra scanned the chamber for a means of escape. A collection of decorative swords hung on the wall, on the other side of the room. It would only take a few strides to cross the chamber and retrieve one of them.
Time slowed down and Myra could feel her pulse beating through her body. She knew with chilling surety that her husband meant to kill her. A year of mental cruelty, barbed comments and locked doors had finally culminated in one killing rage.
Paradoxically, his violence had finally freed her.
“One day my Lord, I will die,” Myra spoke slowly, measuring each word, “but I promise you, it will not be by your hand.”
Theo looked up from nursing his broken toes; understanding her intention a split second before she acted. His injury forgotten, Theo lunged towards her.
Myra ducked out of the way and Theo slammed into the wall. She reached the far end of the chamber in three strides and pulled one of his smaller ceremonial swords off the wall. It was still in its scabbard. She clumsily pulled the blade free and backed towards the door. The sword was heavy and unwieldy in her hands.
Theo pulled himself up off the floor. His face drawn in pain and his jowls quivered like the wattles of an outraged turkey. He did not curse her this time, but watched her under heavy lids. Even in pain, he was coiled, ready to pounce—and only the sword she held kept him in check.
Sensing the door at her back, Myra let go of the hilt with one hand, reached out and released the door latch. As she did so, Myra wondered how she was going to open the door without lowering her guard. If she took her eyes off Theo even for a second he would be on her.
At that moment, the door flew open and crashed back against the chamber wall.
Hugo the Chamberlain fell inside, hitting the marble floor with a thud. He had been eavesdropping, yet again. Hugo fell onto his hands and knees, and when he saw his Lady standing above him wielding a sword, he squealed and scuttled forward.
Myra considered stabbing Hugo with her sword. This oily little man had caused her much suffering over the past year, and she knew that Hugo had told Theo about Jennadil. Ever since then he had not missed the chance to toady up to his Lord for approval or spy on Myra. The urge to terrorize him was strong but fleeting. She was not skilled with a blade and, while she was distracted, Theo would have time to retrieve another sword from the wall and pounce on her. She would not allow herself to be trapped again.
Myra slipped from the chamber through the open door and ran. She was halfway down the corridor when she heard a shrill scream echo from Lord Brin’s chamber. She considered leaving the sword behind as it slowed her down but she could not lay aside the only weapon she possessed.
Clutching the sword, Myra ran like a hunted rabbit through the palace’s deserted corridors—thankful that the soft slippers she wore made no noise. She made for the palace’s kitchens and laundry. Inside the large palace kitchen, the cook was slumped asleep over the great oak table in the center of the room, snoring gently; the dirty pots, pans and dishes from that evening’s dinner, were still piled up on the benches surrounding him.
Myra tip-toed past the sleeping cook and into the laundry where she sorted through some clean washing, finally choosing a pair of leggings, long linen shirt and leather jerkin. She shed her long, silk gown, and it pooled on the ground like quicksilver. She stepped out of it before pulling on her new clothes. They fitted well, and she was so thin these days she would easily be taken for a boy. She buckled Theo’s sword around her narrow waist—it felt cumbersome and strange to be carrying a weapon.
Next, Myra plaited her hair, coiled it on the top of her head and pulled down a woolen hat over it. Before leaving the laundry, she stuffed her gown behind some barrels. She slipped out of the laundry and stole some bread, cheese, meat and apples, as well as a fl
ask of ale, which she wrapped in a tablecloth she found hanging above the ovens.
Now she had to find suitable footwear; her slippers were impractical and silly with her new attire. Myra moved quietly through to the servants’ quarters and was thankful to find them empty. She searched frantically for shoes and was on the verge of abandoning her hunt and going barefoot when she found a battered pair of boots under one of the beds. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the boots. They were slightly too big and had cracked soles, but they were much more practical than slippers.
Myra knew the palace’s main gates would be guarded so she made her way to the back of the complex. She knotted the tablecloth containing her provisions and slung in over her shoulder. Suddenly, for the first time in a year, she was hungry again. She looked up at the high wall that encircled the palace’s lowest level and felt her heart sink. It would be nearly impossible, trying to scale the wall with her bundle of food – but she did not intend to leave it behind.
Myra slipped out into the shadowed courtyard and maneuvered her way around a stack of barrels towards the rear gate. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the portcullis was down and an iron gate blocked her escape. However, her luck was holding this eve for the area was deserted—the guards must have been changing shifts.
On approaching, Myra noticed a cleft in the wall next to the rear gate. It was a narrow door secured by an iron bar, presumably only used in emergencies if the portcullis jammed. Myra put down her bundle of food and managed to lift the rusty bar out of its cradle. Then, she pushed against the heavy door.
It opened with an unnerving screech. Myra froze and looked over her shoulder, but no one seemed to have heard. There was just enough space for her to slip through. She picked up her bundle and slipped out into the empty road beyond.
Outside, the darkness was all-consuming. Myra realized her carelessness at not bringing a lantern with her; she did not know the streets of Falcon’s Mount. She had lived for so long in great castles and palaces that she felt vulnerable in such an open space. The only thing she knew of the streets of Falcon’s Mount was that they were famous for their labyrinthine layout.
Theo would already be searching for her; she had to get as far away as possible from the palace. She would not feel safe until she had lost herself deep in the city.
Myra crossed the road and took a side street that sloped downwards. She reached a set of stairs and nearly fell headlong, grabbing hold of the corner of a building to steady herself just in time. Shaking with relief and chiding herself for her clumsiness, Myra made her way slowly, step by step down the stairs, feeling her way along the wall as she did so. The worn stone steps curled down from the city’s highest tier where the richest families resided, down to the second level.
Reaching the wall at the bottom of the hill, Myra found set of narrow steps. She climbed up onto the high wall that ringed the conical-shaped citadel and sat on the edge, gazing down at the city beneath her. The upper level of Falcon’s Mount had seemed largely deserted. It was eerily silent and dark; none of the windows had shown any light from within. However, from her vantage point on the wall, Myra could see the flickering gold of torches below. There was some noise and activity in the lower levels. Dogs barked and the mournful strain of an Orinian pipe floated through the evening’s stillness from one of the city’s many taverns. Now and then, she caught the sound of voices but there was no laughter on this eve; not with war almost upon them.
Darkness shrouded the land around Falcon’s Mount. It was not a cold night but Myra shivered at the thought of the army of Tarzark, marching this very moment from Hammer Pass. Word had reached Falcon’s Mount late that afternoon. It was not the Morg but their old foe, the Tarzark, who would bring doom upon them.
Myra knew that there was no way out of this city—escaping her husband had only prolonged her life for a short while. Despite this, Myra had never felt so alive or so comfortable in her own skin. She had displayed a courage she never thought she possessed. She had freed herself of her prison.
Myra suddenly felt ravenous. She opened her bundle of food and ate some of her bread, meat, cheese and apples. She chewed slowly and washed the simple meal down with ale. Then, she sat on the edge of the wall, kicking her heels like a young girl, and marveling at what it felt like to be free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IT BEGINS
The guttering torchlight illuminated the first moss-covered steps leading down into the rock below Serranguard—to the trap door and freedom.
“I can’t believe you found it!” Adelyis ducked her head and followed Taz down the steps. It had taken them a few hours but they had finally reached Serranguard’s dungeons undetected. The Morg, it seemed, were hunting for them elsewhere.
“Didn’t you believe me?” Taz grumbled.
They descended slowly down the steps and there at the bottom, unlocked as Will Stellan had left it, was the trap door. Looking upon it, Adelyis was reminded of the last time she had stood here. She then looked at the staff she gripped in her left hand. Taz had spoken the truth; she had risked all of their lives to retrieve it.
“Taz, forgive me,” Adelyis whispered, “but I cannot leave.”
The Gremul let out a long hissing breath and turned to her. His eyes glowed like a cat’s in the torchlight.
“I am sorry.” Adelyis took a deep, steadying breath. “But I can’t leave Will behind.”
“Fool, woman!” Taz growled. “Is there no end to your childishness?”
Taz’s words stung but Adelyis pressed on. “I cannot leave him here to die!”
“He is probably dead already,” Taz replied bluntly, “and you will be too if you stay.”
“My life isn’t important,” Adelyis replied stiffly. “One person alone cannot save Isador.”
“You are the last of your kind,” Taz snarled. “You are our only hope!”
Adelyis was about to respond when a gently creaking sound reached her. She and Taz turned their attention to the trap door at their feet—and watched as it slowly inched open.
Adelyis and Taz watched transfixed for a moment before they suddenly came to life. They leaped back, weapons drawn.
“Wait!” a voice echoed from below. “I heard something. There’s someone up there!”
“Who goes there?” Adelyis called out, her voice tremulous.
There was a moment’s silence before a man’s voice replied.
“Adelyis, is that you?”
That voice—the timbre and lilt she knew so well. She had never thought to hear it again. “Lassendil!”
A scuffling sound could be heard from below before a man burst through the trap door. He scooped Adelyis up in his arms, and Taz needed no introduction to see this man was Adelyis’s brother. He had the same silky black hair that fell straight and long down his back, and the same lithe grace and delicate features. Dressed in hunting garb and wearing a travel stained cloak around his shoulders, he carried a sword at his side and a longbow and quiver strapped to his back.
Adelyis started to cry, and her brother seemed at a loss for words.
“Let us through—I cannot stay in this tunnel a moment longer.”
Taz watched as a tousled auburn head emerged and a tall, athletic man with a short ginger beard, wearing a green cape and carrying a staff, climbed through the open trap door. A young woman with curly brown hair, who carried a jeweled sword at her side, followed him. Lastly, a tall, angular man of indeterminate age, wearing a long grey cloak and carrying a staff, emerged into the small space above the trap door. It was at that point, when Taz had observed each of the newcomers with interest, that he realized they were all staring at him.
“What’s the matter? Never seen a Gremul before?” he grumbled.
“Well no actually,” the girl replied. She was staring at him with unabashed curiosity. “I didn’t realize Gremul were quite so hairy.”
“It is a pelt, not hair,” the Gremul in question growl
ed. “My name’s Taz, and yours girl?”
The girl raised her chin haughtily. “Gywna Brin.”
“And I am Jennadil Silverstern.” The man in the green cape bowed with a smile. “I was once wizard here at Serranguard.”
“And I am Arridel Thorne,” the older man introduced himself with a terse nod. He was a forbidding presence; his face was grim as if it was hewn from stone. “I was wizard here after my predecessor lost his job.”
Jennadil threw Arridel a sour look and Gywna smirked.
Lassendil turned to the others, his arm around his sister’s shoulders.
Arridel Thorne stepped forward and surprised both Adelyis and Lassendil by giving a formal Ennadil bow; leaning forward and clasping his hands behind him.
“I thank the wraiths of my ancestors that we have found you,” he said solemnly. “For I feared we were too late.”
Looking on, Gywna Brin observed Lassendil’s face and saw, for the first time since she had known him, the naked emotion that flickered across his handsome features. His sister was also smiling through her tears. She was tall and elegant like Lassendil and, despite herself, Gywna felt a stab of envy. Brother and sister were so beautiful. This woman, even wearing stained clothes, and with her face dirty, had the kind of grace that not even a lifetime of deportment lessons could give Gywna. She was tempted to hate her for it but smothered the uncharitable thought.
“Time grows short,” Arridel continued. “Adelyis, tell us what you know of the warlock who leads the Morg?”
Adelyis nodded, her smile fading. “I was brought before him a few days ago,” she replied. “He is a terrifying being, at least seven foot tall, with a bloodless face and reptilian features. I can still remember his chilling, pink eyes. We managed to escape from our cell before he had the chance to interrogate me properly. Did Will Stellan’s soldiers reach Serranguard safely to warn you?”
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