by Justin Sloan
The stairs led to the servants’ hallways, many of whom were sticking their heads out in curiosity at the sound of fighting above.
“Return to your rooms,” Alastar commanded, storming past.
Rhona did her best to keep up, but her dress made it hard to move swiftly, and more, the servants weren’t listening to Alastar’s command. Instead, they crowded into the hall with questions about what was happening, hindering their progress.
At the end of the hall, stairways led to the dungeon—a result of transforming this former basement from an old Church ruins into the dungeon.
Rhona turned and shouted, “We’re under attack! Get to your rooms and lock up if you want to live!”
That got their attention, and soon the hallway was empty.
Alastar looked back at her and laughed. “Couldn’t you have done that before we walked through them all?”
“Shut up.”
They descended the stairs as an explosion of flames burst from the far end of the dungeons below, casting a yellow glow their way.
Alastar held a hand up for her to keep back, then crept forward and ducked down to look around. With a nod, he stepped forward and was gone from sight. Whatever awaited them couldn’t be as bad as the terror of sitting here in this dark stairwell, heart thumping in anticipation.
She took the last couple of steps as one, nearly tripping over her dress, only to find Alastar crouching, sword held at the ready. Dungeon cells surrounded them, several with warlocks inside. A guard stood at the ready, club in hand. He wore boiled leather over his tunic, and was certainly no paladin. Another blast came their way, but it was from one of the stairwells that led down—the fight had yet to meet them.
The scream that followed sent a horrible chill up Rhona’s spine, and she found she was hugging herself.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
Alastar clutched the sword, adjusting his grip and glancing at the cell that held the warlock he had captured. The warlock clutched the bars, eyes wide with excitement.
“Is all this for you?” he shouted.
The warlock gave him a wicked smile and said, “I damn well hope so.”
“What do you know of the Sword of Light?”
“Enough to know it won’t matter if we’re all dead.”
Alastar didn’t like that answer, apparently, because he stomped over to the cell and kicked at the bars. “You pull on your flames, and I’ll have your head.”
He motioned to the guard. “Key, now. I’m taking him out the back way. They must not get their hands on this one.”
The guard stared, dumbstruck.
“If they break in here, and by the sounds of it, they will at any minute,” Alastar pointed out, “all that stands between them and this man is you. But if I take him to the paladin’s quarters, we can pray to the Saint for our protection, and there won’t be a chance of them leaving here with him.”
“And me, sir?” the guard asked.
“Hide behind bars, pretend you’re a prisoner. They won’t touch you.”
The guard contemplated this, then nodded and began fumbling with the keys to get the cell open.
Another blast sounded from the passage above, and Rhona shouted, “Hurry!”
Finally, she elbowed the guy aside, took the keys, and fitted them in the lock. They turned with a click, and the door opened, leaving her face to face with the dark warlock. A dull glow from Alastar’s sword, left over from the High Paladin’s blessing, was the only light. It cast an eerie glow on the warlock’s face.
She gulped, anticipating flames to burst forth from his hands at any moment, but it never happened.
Instead, he shouted, “Down here!”
“You maggot,” Alastar said, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him from the cell.
A burst of light filled the dungeon and a clatter sounded. They all turned to see a torch roll across the ground, still lit.
“Oh… shite,” the warlock said, and then he tried to run, but Alastar’s grip was too strong. “Get behind cover!”
A moment’s hesitation nearly cost them their lives, but then Rhona ran, pulling at her brother, snapping him out of it. With the guard, they all ducked into the cell as a woman in thick robes, her face covered, appeared at the base of the stairs with arms raised. Flames erupted from the torch, like a thousand fiery serpents leaping for their prey. A great sizzle sounded as they hit the walls, which Rhona and the rest were hiding behind, and then the lady was in the dungeon.
“Come out, maggot,” she said with a raspy, humored voice. “It’s time to join the winning team.”
Rhona glanced over at the warlock at that, and wasn’t surprised to see confusion on his face. He didn’t know this lady, and that was a sign of something, though she didn’t know what, yet.
Then she noticed the glow of Alastar’s sword, falling across the dungeon floor as the flames died out.
“There you are,” the lady said, and a moment later she was standing before them, on the other side of the bars. Her teeth were pointed, and she wore white paint that seemed to make her face glow, and her eyes had a fiery spark to them.
She raised her hands, palms out, and the smile grew.
A thud behind her drew her attention long enough for Rhona to break free from her brother and push out on the bars, crashing them into the lady, and knocking her to the floor. The first out, she saw a man dressed in similar garb to the woman lying on the floor with arrows sticking out of him. A glow filled the stairs, then a shadow as another, similarly clad man appeared. He scrambled and shot back a flame of fire from the metal torch he held in one hand. He swung a sword with his other, but it hit on the stairwell wall and something appeared through his back—his opponent’s sword, Rhona now saw.
The white-painted lady pushed herself up, turning on Rhona, but by then the attacker had pulled his sword from the dying sorcerer and turned on the witch. Rhona thought she recognized him as one of the paladins from upstairs, but his armor was covered in soot, and so was his face and matted hair.
He stepped forward, sword raised, and fell to one knee. His eyes rolled back in exhaustion, and the witch stepped forward, laughing.
Her laughter was cut off, however, as two more stairways filled with the clatter of armor, and a moment later, three more paladins rushed into the room.
“Come on!” Alastar said, and he pulled her and the warlock with him, making a break for the stairwell they had come down. With a grunt of uncertainty, the guard followed.
“The war is over!” the witch shouted, pulling flames to circle around her, separating her from the others.
“We’ve won!” another voice said, and suddenly a man with long, blond hair appeared at her side, his eyes flashing white as he turned to look at Rhona. Then the other paladins charged.
There wasn’t time to wait and watch. Rhona led the way, running up the stairs with the others close behind. Men shouted their war cries as fires raged below. Rhona and the others were now running back through the servants’ quarters, Alastar pulling at the warlock.
At a cross in the passages, they darted left, making their way toward the High Paladin and the armory, where the paladins were likely to have formed a defense.
They had barely exited into the great hall when a great blast of ice tore through the room, pelting them and tearing at their skin.
Alastar was fast, kicking over a table and pulling his sister down beside him. He prayed for protection from the Saint, but nothing happened.
The guard and warlock were huddled down next to them, and Alastar glanced over, confused, before returning to his prayer.
Rhona voiced his confusion. “Why are they attacking when they could hit you, too?” she asked the warlock.
He glared, but started when a piece of ice punctured the thick table. With a gulp, he said, “No clansman I’ve ever known could do that.”
Alastar’s eyes opened, and he turned to the warlock, grabbing him by the robes and pulling him close. “You’re telling me
they aren’t with you?”
The warlock shook his head. “Someone wants you to think they are, but—”
With a vibration, the table exploded, and they fell back. Rhona thought for a moment that she was on fire as she felt her skin burning, but a quick check showed that wasn’t the case. Three men stepped forward. They wore thick, black and purple robes, and their heads were shaven. The one in the center waved his hand and a circle of spiraling shards of ice appeared before him.
“Give her to us,” he said.
Rhona glanced around at her brother and the other two men, confused. Her?
She was the only female in the room, but surely, they had to be referring to someone else. Maybe the fact that the warlock was wearing a kilt might have confused them, she thought.
“You’re not welcome here,” Alastar said, sword held in one hand, the other over his heart as he prepared for a prayer.
“This is no longer your home,” the man said, and then thrust out so that the ice shards flew at Alastar.
Rhona was relieved to see the pointed arrows of ice evaporate as they hit the wall of light. The strange man smiled and let his hands fall to his side as the one to his right wrapped his hands around what appeared to be an imaginary ball. Flames emerged from nothing, forming a ball of fire. His eyes took on a malicious excitement, and he thrust his hands forward, shooting the fireball at Rhona.
She stared in dumbstruck horror as it came, and then felt a jolt as someone plowed into her, shoving her out of the way. When she realized what was happening, she saw the warlock standing just where she had been seconds before, hands up, pushing back against the force of the flames with all his might. Both men were pushing harder and harder, so that the ball of flame rolled in place, growing hotter with each second.
A laugh filled the room as the third man stepped forward. “Paladins and clansmen working together? Not for long, I think.”
He held out a hand, and his eyes went blue. Air cracked around his fingertips just before streaks of lightning seared the walls and floor as it shot across the room. It was like the power was almost beyond the man’s ability to control, but he was corralling it, working to convince it to do his bidding. Then, it was upon the warlock and Alastar, flinging them both across the room as sparks flew. The scent of burnt flesh filled the room.
A bang followed as the fireball finished its trajectory, exploding into the wall beyond them and setting a tapestry afire.
Rhona tried to push herself up, barely aware of the guard fleeing. Damn coward.
If she stood by and watched or fled, they would die. Something had happened out at the farmhouse, and as she watched the man with the power of ice step forward, she considered going to that place deep within herself again. Pulling on those powers.
She couldn’t. Not in front of Alastar, who was even now pushing himself to his feet. His hair was frazzled, his armor singed and no longer pure with its white and gold.
This time, instead of shards of ice, the man reached out his hands and the floor frosted over. Within moments, ice had engulfed Alastar’s feet and was creeping upward.
He stared in horror, unable to move except to look to his sister and say, “Go, go, as fast as you can. RUN!”
Her intent was to run, but not away from him. She made a move to reach him and found her feet slip on the icy floor so that she landed with a thud on her back, her breath forced from her lungs.
She lay there, wheezing, as her brother tried to focus on praying for a blessing. He couldn’t, though—with each word, he’d open his terror-filled eyes and look down to see more of his body covered in ice.
The man who had shot lightening at them was laughing as he stepped forward to stand beside the warlock, preparing his next move. Somewhere in the distance, Rhona could still hear fighting in the rest of the castle, and she wondered who was winning.
Would all paladins, the entire Order of Saint Rodrick, be under attack at this very moment in their various strongholds?
A shout came and more men and women entered the room in the heat of battle. Paladins fighting sorcerers, all in their dance of magic, swordplay, and prayer. And none of it was going to help Alastar or this warlock who had thrown himself into harm’s way for Rhona.
She was their only hope.
With a gasp of air, she closed her eyes and let herself go, let the darkness within take over.
A crack sounded, and she was standing, though she didn’t know how. The attacking trio turned to her, their smiles slowly fading. She heard one yell to grab her, to retreat with her, and that nothing else mattered.
But she wasn’t about to let that happen.
Everything became clouded over, dark. Then, she felt it, the shadows in the room all converged on her and everyone had stopped fighting to stare in amazement and terror as the shadows engulfed her like a thick cloak, propelling her into the air.
Without warning or thought behind the action, the shadows attacked the trio of sorcerers, and she was one with them.
***
Alastar couldn’t pull his eyes away from the horrible sight.
His sister was using magic. Possessed by some demon, she had conjured evil itself to work on her behalf. To save him.
She was in the air one moment, beside a sorcerer the next, clawing at his face with what appeared to be shadow claws. Blood splattered and, before he could react, she had been engulfed by shadow and was at his other side attacking one of the others while her shadow remained to deliver the next blow.
All that was holy within Alastar said to be done with her, to flee and never look back, or destroy her before the evil fully took hold. This was no longer his sister, a voice said in the back of his mind. This was evil incarnate.
Yet, when one of the sorcerers reached out a hand and caught her in a grip that sparked with electricity, causing her to writhe in pain, Alastar’s heart broke.
And suddenly, the ice broke away, and he was free.
“Get your hands off my sister!” he shouted, and charged.
The sorcerer had barely turned his gaze when the sword connected with his arm, severing hand from wrist, and Rhona fell to the floor.
All the shadows converged on her and, with a spasm, she fell, unconscious.
The sorcerer was screaming as blood gushed from his arm while the one with the power of fire lay writhing in pain, and the third had stepped back, eyes wide as they fixed firmly on Rhona. He reached for her, even mumbled something, then collapsed to one knee and curled on the floor.
Everyone in the room was staring now, too, unable to move.
Two things were clear in that moment—the first was that Alastar’s sister had used magic, meaning that she could no longer stay here or she would risk death. The second was that, if that was the case, Alastar wouldn’t stay either.
He prayed for strength of will and body as he spun, sheathing his sword, and strode over to his sister’s side.
The warlock was there, too, slowly recovering, but not too badly hurt.
“What’s your move?” the warlock whispered, eyeing him intently.
“Escape,” was the only word that came from Alastar’s parched mouth.
The warlock nodded, eyes warily assessing the room. “Best hurry then.”
Alastar lifted his sister in his arms without a response, then made for the stairs leading back to the servants’ quarters. The warlock followed him, which still made little sense in the clouded state of confusion he now found himself. All he could process was that he needed to take his sister far away from this place that hunted and persecuted magic users. He made it down the stairs before the commotion started up again from behind, and even saw the servants’ entrance before the first sound of pursuit came. He could only imagine they had been even more stunned than he had been.
“She’s evil,” the voice of Sir Taland said from the base of the stairs. “You cannot let her live.”
“I will,” Alastar shouted as he kicked open the door to outside. “Anyone who tries to stop me will tast
e my steel and breathe their last breath.”
He didn’t even turn back to see the paladin’s response, but stepped out into the night air, vaguely aware of the warlock still following close behind.
CHAPTER THREE
Alastar cursed his luck as he ran from the castle as best he could while cradling his sister in his arms. His armor clanked and his muscles ached, each breath bringing a new agony to his ribs.
He had abandoned the Order of Rodrick for a magic user. An evil, horrible, magic user… even if she was family. He was a traitor to his brothers in arms.
Everything and everyone he knew and loved was behind him now, and they would turn on him if he ever went back. Everyone, that is, but the one thing that mattered most in his life—his sister. There would be no more grand feasts, no more early morning sparring with his brothers in arms, and certainly no holy quests in hopes of earning the High Paladin’s favor. He hadn’t even been able to go on his first mission.
His sense of honor and duty and everything else ingrained into him in his training had been tossed aside.
Instead, he was now a fugitive, no better than the warlock running at his side.
At the tree line, Alastar paused to catch his breath, lowering Rhona to sit up to rest her back against the great spruce. She groaned, eyes moving under their closed eyelids, but she remained fast asleep.
The castle behind them was in flames. Though the foundation was built of stone and would last it out, wood had been easier to use in the rebuilding over the years since the end of the Age of Madness. Distant sounds of battle could still be heard from within, and occasionally blasts of red or blue lit up a window.
“Which clan?” Alastar demanded. “I need to know!”
The warlock shook his head. “We went over this. Those men and women in there? They aren’t from any clan, not in Roneland, anyway. I would know.”
“They weren’t the Storm Raiders, that’s for damn sure.”
