“Nobody said anything about jumping off a dragon!” Marene shouted. “It’s too dark! How do I know when I’m close to the ground?”
“Simple! Listen for the change in tone of the air rushing past!” He ushered her through the flap. “Stay where you land, we’ll find you. King and Empire!”
“King and—aagh!” The Skipper gave her a gentle shove. Marene tumbled head over heels, suddenly thankful she was wearing breeches instead of her Academy gown. The situation was so far outside her normal experience, she forgot to be scared until a bird screeched past. Then she was gripped by crushing terror, twisting in every direction to try and see the ground.
The weight of the backpack forced her to fall face downwards. In the distance, she could see their goal. Backed onto the formidable wall of Mount Lugh, Lord MacNaven’s castle sat on a ledge, light spilling from its windows. A spindly bridge connected it to the next peak. It was a grand building, with conical roofs on its turrets.
The air blew louder in Marene’s ears. With numb fingers, she slowly untwisted the cap and shoved the neck of the bottle in her mouth. Tastes like cherries, she thought.
There was no jolt. One moment she was falling, the next, she was hanging in the air a few feet above the ground. She landed with the same force as jumping off a chair. A dizzy spell hit, and she stumbled backwards.
Vorn and Haig ran up to her. The younger man helped her stand. “Gods, you left that close! Breathe. That’s it.”
Marene gulped air and took in her surroundings. She was on a gently sloping mountain hill, sparsely covered by pine trees, grass and mossy boulders. When she got her breath back, Derrick, Alya and the Skipper had arrived and were busy covering their clothes with brown woollen wrap. The rough cloth was what the Highland Foresters wore, and would let them pass unremarked if seen.
“There now, nothing to it,” said the Skipper. “And I hear your landing was most impressive. We’ll make a Specialist of you yet! Off we go, lads and lasses, our contact is waiting!”
“Rah,” said Marene, the power of speech slowly returning.
Half an hour’s walk led them to a ridge overlooking a road. A steady stream of carts and people passed in both directions, despite the early hour. They crossed over, unnoticed in the traffic, and followed a trail to a small clearing.
A large covered wagon stood next to a rock pool, its two horses drinking the water. The driver, a middle-aged man in the tartan of MacNaven, sat at the reins and smoked a pipe.
“I’ll speak to him,” said the Skipper. “Derrick, you’re up. The rest of you, stay here and keep a look out.”
Derrick disappeared into the undergrowth. The Skipper walked over to the wagon, calling to the man with a Northern accent.
After they exchanged greetings, Derrick came out from the trees behind the driver. The Skipper didn’t miss a beat, his spiel continuing uninterrupted.
Alya whispered to Marene. “Ever seen a Necromancer at work before?”
“A Necromancer?” Marene blurted out. The driver looked in their direction.
Derrick leapt forward. In his hand was a multi-bladed dagger, which he swung up then plunged into the top of the man’s head. The driver fell to his knees, his scream silenced by Derrick’s hand over his mouth. After a burst of convulsive twitching he lay still, the weapon stuck in his skull right up to the hilt.
“Come on, then,” Haig said.
They walked over to the Skipper. Marene stayed where she was, afraid to go near the filthy magic but unable to look away. Derrick set a complex spell in motion, then pulled out the knife with a sickening twist. Now Marene saw they weren’t multiple blades. They were little tentacles, writhing and squirming around themselves, clutching something she didn’t want to think about.
Derrick took off his cap. Underneath was a shiny bald spot, neatly shaved. He raised the hilt over his own head.
Marene covered her eyes. The Skipper sat down next to her.
“You’ll be seeing a lot worse today, Marene,” he said. “But whatever happens, it’s nothing compared to what MacNaven is planning. Isn’t it worth a single life, to save thousands more?”
“He didn’t do anything,” Marene said. “He was on our side!”
“Mmm. Funny thing about people who take bribes,” he said. “Can’t trust them further than you can throw them. Ah, I believe you can open your eyes now.”
She raised her head. Haig and Vorn were unloading barrels from the cart. Alya had a casket by the pool, and was emptying the contents.
“Derrick,” called the Skipper, “did he tell anyone about us?”
Derrick had replaced his cap. He touched his temple and closed his eyes. “No. He was clean. Just thinking about getting his family something with the money.”
“Right then! Find something that fits, ladies and gentlemen, and get inside. The next time we see each other will be at First Watch. Oh,” he nodded to the bushes, “now would be a good time to relieve yourself.”
“We’re going to be shut inside barrels?” Marene said. “Who’s going to drive the cart?”
Alya tipped her head to the front. “The driver, of course.”
“But he’s dead!…Isn’t he?” Marene looked. At the front of the cart, the unfortunate man was sitting, smoke rising from his pipe. “How…?”
Haig nodded approval. “You got him to smoke, as well! Nice work, Derrick.”
“So he’s alive?” Marene whispered.
“Oh, he’s dead all right,” Vorn said. “He just doesn’t know it, yet. Watch this—Derrick, make him wave.”
The man waved at an imaginary pedestrian.
“Make him dance!” Haig said. Marene turned away, appalled. This was why Necromancy was outlawed from decent society.
“Here you are, Marene.” Alya rolled a barrel over. “Home, sweet home.”
Marene was about to thank her when the smell of sardines took her breath away. “I can’t go in there!”
“Come, come, Marene! It’s a small sacrifice for the Empire!” The Skipper put an arm around her waist and gently but firmly moved her forward.
She shook him away. “No! I will not!”
The squad stopped in their tracks, aghast at Marene’s flouting of protocol. They looked from her to the Skipper. He was taken aback for an instant, then carried on in the same friendly voice.
“I don’t blame you for having second thoughts, Marene—I’d do the same in your position. Here you are, far from home, asked to do strange and frightening things.
“Perhaps it’s time to tell you the truth about this mission. I’d like to share it with all of you, now. You deserve to know what you’re facing.”
The Skipper made sure Marene was looking straight at him. “You remember I said one of the names for this place was Demonsgate?”
Marene nodded.
“But the gates were destroyed in the war,” said Alya.
“Correct,” said the Skipper. “Marene, tell them about the thirteenth gate.”
All eyes turned to her. “Um…well…There were twelve gates in the demon war that ended the First Era, that’s what everyone learns at school. What’s less well known, is some original texts mention a thirteenth gate, one that was never used during the war. But it was never found, and is generally considered a myth.”
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Skipper, “I can now tell you: Our researchers believe the ground this castle stands on, is the thirteenth door to the Demonic Plane.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the soldiers. “Are you sure about that, Boss?” Haig asked. “Because if we’re going up against demons, I don’t think…”
Alya sneered. “What’s the matter, Haig, afraid of a fair fight?” Haig made a rude gesture at her.
“There aren’t any demons,” said the Skipper. “Yet. And we’re going to make sure it stays that way. Marene, tell them what you studied at university.”
Marene swallowed, her throat dry. “Ancient languages. My thesis was on Cailleach.”
&
nbsp; “The language of the First Era,” said the Skipper. “Your Professor told us you’re the finest scholar of your generation, and a loyal subject of the King. Now the Empire is under a shadow, Marene. We have received intelligence that Lord MacNaven intends to open the gate. Why? We don’t know. He probably thinks he can control them, just like the Lords of the First Days did, and we all know what happened to them. Maybe he just hates the Empire and all it stands for. Whatever the reason, he must be stopped at all costs.”
“So we’re going to take out MacNaven?” Vorn said.
“No. Someone else could take his place,” the Skipper said. “Our target is the gate itself. In his library is the last known copy of the most dangerous book in the world, the book of Demonic rituals. Only a handful of scholars can read it.”
“He’s got a copy of Te Du’anthe?” Marene said, her eyes wide. “But that’s amazing! If I could bring that back to the Academy—”
“You’ll do more than that, my girl, much more. You’ll do what no scholar has done for over a thousand years, and use that book to rid the Empire of a powerful threat. Marene—will you do this for your King?”
She licked her lips. “Does it have to be a fish barrel?”
“Swap you mine,” Haig said. “Pickled onions.”
“Fish it is, then,” Marene said. She wrinkled her nose and climbed into the barrel. Derrick offered her a pot of ointment.
“Use this. Rub it under your nose.”
Marene shrank back. “No, thanks.”
Vorn took the pot from Derrick and thrust it in her hand. “For goodness’ sake, girl, take it. And you’ll want this as well. We call it a one-way window.”
From his pack, Vorn took what looked like an oily rag and wiped it on the inside of the barrel. At first she thought he was cleaning it, then realised she could see through the solid oak. She looked on the outside of the barrel, expecting to see in, but it was completely normal from the other side.
Marene ducked down, trying not to breathe. After the Skipper nailed the top closed, she couldn’t hold it anymore and gagged on the foul air. She opened the little pot from Derrick. It didn’t seem overly Necrotic—if anything, it looked just like face cream. She dabbed some under her nose.
The smell of fish disappeared, replaced by clear, neutral air. Marene almost cried out in relief, then remembered why a Necromancer would carry something to remove foul odours.
Through the makeshift window, Marene saw the rest of the team hide inside containers of various sizes. The Skipper was last, climbing into a chest so big he didn’t even take off his backpack. A neatly worked spell sealed the lid from within.
The driver pulled on the reins and they joined the crowd of people on the main road. All too soon they were on the bridge, which was much bigger and sturdier than it had looked from the air. The drop over the side was still a terrifying prospect, and Marene kept her eyes shut until the wagon was back on solid rock.
Inside the main gates, a quartermaster’s assistant directed them to the courtyard. A pair of labourers came over to unload the cart.
“Ach, Ferdie!” one of them shouted at the driver. “Lang time nae see! How are the bairns?”
The driver stayed seated, his face blank. “Aye, nae bad…Ah’m fair tired. Just want tae…Sleep…”
“Oh, aye! Ah know the feeling!”
They took hold of Marene’s barrel, tipped her over and rolled her down a makeshift ramp of two planks. For the second time in the day, she fought back the urge to vomit. The men made light work of the contents, carrying the Skipper’s wooden chest down last.
“There ye go, Ferdie. Gi’ye lassie a wee kiss from oursen’.”
“Mmmh,” moaned the driver. The wagon rumbled away.
“Strange lad,” said the labourer. “Right, intae the cellar wi’ youse lot!”
Marene braced for more rolling. Instead, she heard shouting and heavy footsteps running their way, plus the clink of chainmail.
“Hold on, lads! Let’s have a wee look, now.” The speaker was a guard with Sergeant’s stripes. He bent over, puffing for breath. “Archie, find the Captain’s barrel, there’s a good lad.”
The other guard checked over the barrels, sniffing them in turn.
“Aye, this is the one.” He tapped the top of Marene’s cask. Her heart skipped a beat. “Captain MacTavish’s wee beastie loves her fish, so she does.”
The Sergeant wiped his forehead. “Aye, ’tis a pity it’s a passion the rest of us dinnae share. On we go then, let’s get it tae the guardhouse afore the bell.”
“Aye, Sarge.”
The rolling started again. With each turn Marene’s stomach knotted tighter and tighter.
They stood the barrel in the corner of a large, communal room. Racks of weapons and armour covered the walls. Men and women in the uniform of the Castle Guard milled around, ready to start the day’s work.
Should I try some magic? Go down fighting? Would I be able to get out of this stupid barrel before they got me? Marene ran through the offensive magic she knew. If she tried very hard, she might give some of them a nasty itch before they killed her.
The bell rang for First Watch. The room emptied gradually, and soon there were just a pair of soldiers, playing cards. Her last hope, of sneaking off unnoticed, was snuffed out when it dawned on her the guardhouse was the one room that was never, ever unguarded. Maybe the Captain will show mercy. He’s an officer. Maybe even a scholar.
She briefly fantasised about a handsome Captain escorting her to the border. He would be tall, strong, with the wind in his hair, and as they parted he would promise that one day, when this was all over…
A familiar voice whispered in her ear. “Found you at last. Keep your mouth shut and listen.”
Marene’s heart almost leapt out of her mouth. She looked around, unable to see where Alya was hiding.
“I’m going to take out these two. As soon as I do that, you’re going to get out and put on a uniform. Got that?”
“Yes,” Marene squeaked. “Where are you?”
Marene heard a disembodied sigh. “I’m right next to you, idiot. Specialties, remember? This is mine. Now get ready. This is where the fun starts.”
The guards continued their game. Marene tried and failed to see any sign of Alya in the room.
There was a flash of silver near one of the men. He slumped forward. The other looked up from his cards.
“Och, if that’s how ye’re gannae play, I’ll nae bother…”
There was another flash near his head. Blood poured from his eye and he fell backwards. Marene gaped in horror, then yelped when Alya appeared from nowhere, standing over the barrel.
“Come on!” She pressed a knife in the lid and prised it open. “Find a suit and put it on. Now.”
Marene climbed out and did as she was told. While she struggled with the chainmail, Alya took the fallen corpse and stuffed it in the barrel. She propped up the other in its chair like a ghastly mannequin, pondering his next card.
“Sit down here with some cards. Glasses off, helmet on and cover your face as much as you can. We’ll be back soon.”
Marene put a helmet on and pulled up the collar on her tunic. “But what if—”
Alya was gone. Marene sat opposite the dead man, cards in hand. A patrol walked by the doorway. She returned their wave, heart racing.
Seconds later, the corpse fell forward in slow motion, his head hitting the table with a heavy thunk. Touching him as little as possible, she pushed him back into a seated position. The body refused to stay upright, and she had to keep one hand on his shoulder. She was still in that position when the Skipper walked into the room with Vorn, Derrick and Haig close behind.
“Good work, Alya. Vorn, Derrick—time to play dress up like our knight errant, here. Haig, wait until the Half-Watch bell, then make your way to the scrying room with as much noise and fuss as you can. See you up top.”
“Aye aye, Skip.” Haig sat on the floor, cross legged. He closed his eyes and be
gan to chant in a foreign tongue. Marene hadn’t seen the technique before, but she could tell he was gathering magical energy, lots of it. The spiral tattoo on his scalp glowed a faint red.
“We’re guards on patrol now,” said the Skipper. “Try not to kill anyone. Alya, take point. Let’s go to the library, boys and girls.”
They left the guardroom, Haig’s soft chant falling behind. Marene fell into the marching rhythm, keeping pace with the team.
The more of the castle she saw, the more impressed she was by the wealth and status on display. Corridors were clean, and lit by oil and magic lanterns where light from the huge windows did not reach. Hardwood doors had intricate decorations carved on their panels, and the walls were covered in tapestries. Not the ancient moth-eaten variety Marene was used to at University, either, but bright, bold designs of modern scenes.
A small, arched door swung open, pulled by Alya’s unseen hand.
“Stairs,” she whispered.
They followed the Skipper up the narrow, spiral steps, smooth from years of use. At the door to the third floor, they hung back to let Alya scout the exit.
“Clear,” she said. They stepped into a corridor with a polished wooden floor. The windows were covered with shutters, and magical lights blazed a bright, icy blue from wall mounts.
“This should take us to the library if we follow it round,” said the Skipper. They made their way along the corridor.
A door burst open behind them. From inside, a man was shouting.
“Och, ye bampot animal! Can’t ye let me eat ma breakfast in peace? Away then, let’s see whit they’ve got in the kitchen.”
A giant cat, big as a wolf, shot out of the room and looked straight at Marene. She stood perfectly still, stupefied by the beast’s amber eyes. It padded over, claws making a loud tack on the floor with each step. Sleek black fur reflected the colours of the rainbow like a bird’s oily feather.
It sniffed at her feet, then moved upwards.
“Don’t move,” said the Skipper.
A giant of a man came out of the room. He was a true man of the North as Marene imagined them, with long red hair and a great, bushy beard. A scarf of MacNaven tartan covered his shoulders and wound around his chest, held in place by a gold Captain’s badge. Full plate armour glinted underneath. A small knife hung on his hip, but even Marene could tell it was just for show. The man was a magical powerhouse, his mere presence in the hallway making the lights glow brighter.
Lucky or Unlucky? 13 Stories of Fate Page 6
