Blackie roared, this time with pain, not pleasure.
Barton slipped from the dragon’s grasp and plummeted a hundred feet to the ground with a thud.
“That’s better,” Cass said.
Blackie hung in the sky, hovering, flapping his great wings, struggling to stay afloat.
“Whatever you did, I don’t think that dragon liked it. Do it again?”
Fogle shook his head. “I don’t have enough power to kill it. I’d better protect us.”
The dragon’s citrine eyes leered at him like burning suns. He’d hurt it. He’d made it mad. Now it was coming for him.
It flapped over towards them, long great neck swaying back and forth.
Fogle grabbed Cass, pulled her close, and summoned a spell.
Hanging like a black cloud over them, Blackie opened his mouth and breathed.
The blast of a thousand furnaces came out.
Fogle stood tall, a mystic bubble protecting them, scattering the flames around them.
The heat was intense, like standing at the mouth of a blacksmith’s forge.
The magic shield kept them away from instant incineration. Sweat poured from Fogle’s face. The shield would only hold up as long as he could.
How long can this thing breathe! He felt his air begin to thin, his lungs labor, his concentration waver.
“Hold on, Fogle!” Cass encouraged him, her face as red as a beet, “Hold on!”
He couldn’t. He fought with all his will, but his will was out.
“I’m sorry, Cass!” He shook his head. “I can’t. Cass … I—”
The fire stopped.
Blackie reared up, screeching. Barton was on the dragon’s back, holding onto its wing with one hand and pounding it in the back of the head with the hammer in the other.
Fogle took Cass by the hand and tried to run away.
SWAT!
Blackie’s tail licked out, knocking them from their feet.
Fogle gathered his knees beneath him and summoned more lighting in his grasp.
In front of him, Blackie slung Barton from his back. Wary, Blackie’s eyes focused on Fogle’s glowing hands.
“You don’t like that, do you?” Fogle rose to his feet. “Stings, doesn’t it, Lizard?”
A growl rumbled in the dragon’s throat. The creature was intelligent, thinking, planning.
“Leave us be, Dragon,” Fogle yelled. “Else I’ll unleash all of my fury!”
Twenty feet from his nose, the Dragons’ red tongue licked out over its fangs. There must have been a thousand of them.
“AAAIIEEEH!” Cass screamed.
The tip of Blackie’s tail encircled her waist and dragged her away.
“NO!” Fogle yelled after her.
The dragon tucked her into his chest, playing with her in the palm of his hand like a tiny doll.
Fogle could swear it smiled.
Whump! Whump! Whump!
Up it went, Cass stunned in its grasp, leaving Fogle devastated on the cracked terrain as they disappeared into the clouds.
“CAAAAASSS!!!”
CHAPTER 39
Castle Almen, a character in its own right, had many secrets. Many lost over the centuries, others found. It was spotless; no cobwebs or dust coated the dark wood and velvety furniture. Every piece of metal was polished. Every crystal gleamed.
Lord Almen closed the drapes to a large bay window and sealed the balcony door shut. This was once the bedroom of his father. He and his best Shadow Sentry, a long limbed man, fled the Keep and traversed the castle utilizing the secret corridors, avoiding the commotion caused by the underlings.
Still weak, Lord Almen rummaged through the drawers of a black walnut desk until he placed his hand around a dagger and stuffed it into his belt. Quickly, he made his way over to the fire place and stood on the hearth.
“Come, stand with me,” he ordered.
The sentry obliged, stepping onto the mosaic hearth, fingering the pommels of his swords.
“Tell no one of this,” Lord Almen warned, shoving back a marble block on the fire place mantle. The colorful tiles shifted beneath their feet, then disappeared, leaving a black hole. The lanky warrior in the black ghost armor cocked his head. Rapidly, they were sinking.
“You may want to close your eyes, Virgil.”
A quick rush of air followed, the feeling of one flying, the weightlessness of a feather, and an abrupt halt that bobbled his stomach. Opening his eyes, the first thing Lord Almen saw was his office beneath the kitchen, and the front door was still closed.
Beside him, Virgil’s knees wobbled, his long arms stretching out for support. Lord Almen didn’t bother. Instead, he searched his office. No one would have suspected a single thing was out of place, but he knew. It angered him. Whoever had been here had some idea what to look for and what they were taking. Tonio’s sword was gone. The shelf that concealed the small secret door was out of place, and the door was open. A variety of footprints had disturbed the dust. Melegal was the first thought that came to mind. Sefron was the second. But, more than that, something lingered in the air. The scent of underlings.
“Virgil, see to it that door is secure,” he said, opening a small case full of vials. “You be keeping post and sending warning if anything comes through there.”
“I hope it’s underlings,” Virgil said. He cracked his neck side to side and eased his sword from the scabbard. “Or any arsehole, for that matter.”
Lord Almen couldn’t see the man’s face behind his cloth mask, but Virgil was one of his best soldiers. A survivor of the Warfield. A friend of danger. Lord Almen favored men like that. Cold blooded killers.
Lord Almen drank down one of the vials, followed by the other. He tossed one filled with a pale red liquid to Virgil.
“Take that,” Lord Almen said. He rolled his shoulders. He was feeling better and stronger already. “It will give you stamina. Improve your focus.”
Virgil pulled up his mask―exposing his rugged chin, split lip and rotting teeth―before he swallowed it down.
Lord Almen took a deep breath through his nose, filling his lungs to capacity and slowly releasing.
Virgil thumbed his blade. “This sword is the finest blade I’ve ever owned, Lord Almen, and I’ll put it to good use in your defense.” He pulled his mask back down. “I feel like killing.”
“So do I.”
Disappointed that Tonio’s sword was gone, Lord Almen grabbed another blade, a poniard with an ivory hilt, and set it on his desk table. Opening a wardrobe, he grabbed his own suit of ghost armor and slipped it on. It fit like a glove, coating him like a thick flexible skin. A smile came to the corner of his lips. It’s been too long.
“Sir, you look dangerous, but I plan on killing them all before they make it to you.”
Almen put his hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “You do that, and I’ll give you your own room in this castle and a personal servant girl, too.”
Black masked, Virgil saluted with his sword. “My life for my Lord. Their life with my sword.”
With that, Lord Almen stepped through the small door’s opening and headed down the stairs on cat’s feet. Stopping, he closed his eyes and slowed his breath. He heard nothing. Not a shuffle, nor a scuffle, nor a scratch. Breathing through his nose, nothing caught his potion-heightened senses. As they passed the bottom of the stairwell, the torches came to life. The large chamber cast his shadow. All six doors were closed.
Where is she?
Making his way back to the alcove where all the Keys usually hung, he noticed the empty pegs on the wall. How in all of Bish had they escaped his grasp? Melegal. It had to be. Or had they been taken by the underlings?
He chuckled, remembering the first time he and his father found the chamber. There’d been more doors. More pegs. More Keys. And rings. Many came, many went. He tried his best to understand it. It seemed the chamber had a will of its own. It would serve him, so he thought, so long as he fed it. A mystery. An advantage he didn’t hesitate to pre
ss. No wonder the underlings wanted it. But how did they know about it? Who made it? Seven Keys last I counted. Eight with the one I gave to Jarla. I hope she still has it. He looked at the floor. The slightest sucking licked at his boots.
Lord Almen paced around the circle of the great chamber. His castle was under siege. The underlings had penetrated for the second time in days. He could have held out in the keep, but the Keys were what he was certain they wanted. He had no plans to part with them. They gave him power. Control. To go whenever and however he wanted to go. And until several days ago, only few knew about his secret. Now that secret had been compromised.
Standing in the center of the room facing the alcove and the ancient doors, Lord Almen stood, watching and listening. Where is that Brigand Queen? He twisted the finger ring that he used to summon her. She never appeared at the same duration, but always she came. Minutes, an hour maybe, but never a day. He frowned.
Perhaps she’s dead.
She had a Key and a ring. Her Key would open the doors and give him access and freedom if the underlings took over. And if the underlings had the other seven Keys, the Keys that they knew about, what would they do? They could strike day or night all over Bish if they wanted to. Just like he had. He couldn’t fight the smile on his lips.
The minutes passed, leaving Lord Almen alone in his thoughts, his memories.
For years Lord Almen had used the Keys, slipping into rival bedrooms and parlors, strangling or cutting their throats while they slept. Already a Master Assassin, the Keys had made his job all too easy. Castle Almen had moved up the ranks quickly on account of it. The ancient chamber was a recent discovery, come upon by accident by his father. Slowly over the years, they had abused the power of the ancient chamber, never truly understanding it. But he knew, he’d always known, someone would come after the power one day or another. And now it seemed that day had come.
He froze. Up the stairwell echoed the sound of wood exploding into splinters. He shifted his stance. Readied his sword. Chitters and the clash of steel followed. A human cry of alarm went out. Silence fell. The room went cold.
Something clopped down the stairs, rolling to a stop at the bottom. It was Virgil’s head. A clean cut through the neck. Blood spilled into the mosaic. A sucking sound followed. Lord Almen sheathed his sword.
The first past the torches was an underling, copper eyed with a bandolier of knives around his chest. He was tall, over six feet, the tallest underling Lord Almen had ever seen. Blood dripped from the tip of his sword, and a fierce grin parted his lips. Behind him, others came: two, then four, then six. Some were in black plate armor that didn’t clank or rattle; the others wore little more than leather or a cloak. Blades of many kinds hung loose in their grips, and their eyes were bright with color.
Lord Almen rubbed the sweat from his hands. So many adversaries were to be expected, but everyone else in the castle flooded his thoughts. It was entirely possible that his family were being wiped out one by one. I hope they made the Keep at least.
Still, he stood tall, a statue by comparison. “I am Royal Lord Almen, Liege of this castle, and I request a parlay.”
Coming closer, the copper eyes of the first underling narrowed to slits, a sinister chuckle erupting in his throat. “Parlay,” he said, slipping his sword in the sheath in a wink of an eye. “I don’t see any need for a parlay, Human Lord. After all, we’ve seized your castle, within your city. I think there is little you can do to help us.”
About then, a wheezing sound caught his ear. Sefron the Cleric was huffing down the stairs, oversized robes hanging from his body, his gnarled staff clacking on the steps. Lord Almen’s usual frown expanded when they locked eyes. Traitor! Lord Almen didn’t hide his rage as the underlings formed a tight circle around him.
“Sefron, you sickening slaggard! It was you that gave up the castle! I’ll cut open that fat belly of yours!”
Sefron groaned, straightening the bend in his back with a chuckle. He rubbed his saggy chin and blinked his bulging eye. “Master Kierway, may I have this one?”
“Fool,” Kierway said, “this man will prove to be a better resource than you, certainly.”
Sefron came closer, trying to push past the underlings, his hand reaching out.
Lord Almen recoiled back the ever slightest. He knew Sefron’s secret and what the man was capable of. It was why he recruited him in the first place.
“Don’t you dare, Servant,” Almen said.
“Stay back, Sefron, you disgusting fool.” Kierway shook his head. “You bother me, but this man, he doesn’t bother me so much, other than being a human.” He scratched his cheek with his long black nails. “Tell me about this parlay, Lord Almen. I’m curious.”
Tearing his eyes away from Sefron, Lord Almen cleared his throat. “I’ve a history with your kind, Master Kierway. It was I who aligned myself with you at Outpost Thirty-One.”
“So you are a traitor?”
“A survivor.” Lord Almen nodded. “A master planner. My family and my castle are what mean the most in life to me. I dare not guess what the underlings have in mind with my castle or this city, but I will assist you. I’m a man of many secrets. Tell me what you want, and I assure you that I can help.”
Kierway moved with the ease of a cat, sauntering through the chamber, tugging on one door handle after the other. Standing in the alcove near the key posts, he said, “This architecture is strange, but similar to many chambers in the Underland. Hmmm, so, Lord Almen, tell me, where are the Keys?”
Lord Almen kept his relief concealed. He’d lost track of much while he’d been down for several days. He eyed Sefron briefly. He could tell the cleric must have had something to do with that, or had he? The wound between his ribs should have been fatal, and he vaguely remembered Sefron coming to his aid, only to betray him now.
“Stolen,” Lord Almen said.
Kierway crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder over one of the doors. “So, you are waiting for the thief to return with them? Certainly that wouldn’t happen in the middle of a siege. Not unless the person with the Keys would have a reason to come back, and into that question you might have more insight than I.” He raised his eyebrows. “Of course, perhaps you are down here because you are expecting someone else. Seven pegs. Seven Keys. Six doors. Interesting opportunities.”
One of the most frustrating things that Lord Almen had encountered about underlings was that they weren’t stupid. Every one he’d dealt with had a calculating mind and cunning demeanor. He admired that about them. And something else. Unlike men, they weren’t greedy, at least not in terms of material things. Instead, they thirsted for something else without distraction. Power.
“I can’t readily say, and I cannot refute the possibility either.”
There was a long pause. Surrounding him, standing like statues poised to strike, the breathing of the underlings was barely audible. Lord Almen glanced over at Sefron, who now sat wheezing on the stairs. He should have rid himself of the slaggard long ago, but Sefron was so resourceful when it came to digging information from his enemies. And there was another thing. Perhaps Sefron was still his ally. The man gave no sign of it.
One by one, Kierway slid three throwing knives from his bandolier. He juggled them with one hand. The blades flashing in the air, hand moving in a blur. Kierway’s expression was lax and bored. “We wait, if need be, Lord Almen, but it might be a very long time. Of course, through our sources, we know where the Keys are. They are with a man, one of your own. What is his name, Sefron?”
“Melegal.”
Feigning surprise, Lord Almen said to Sefron, “And how do you know this?”
Sefron sat with his legs crossed and sighed. “He’s the last one we saw with them in here.” He pointed at his ruined eye. “Thanks to him I have this.”
Kierway snapped his wrist.
Thunk!
A knife jutted in the support beam by Sefron’s head, causing him to jump.
“No.” Kierway’s eyes narrowe
d at Sefron. “Thanks to me you have that.” He turned to Almen. “This man, Melegal, created the ultimate dilemma. Acts like an underling, that one. Cool and cunning.” He resumed his juggling.
Inside of himself, Lord Almen was astounded. Melegal had found the Keys! But how? And why? Hmmm… I see. The underlings recruited Sefron to find the Keys, meaning they must have known they were here. But why now? Why after all these years? It seems they have even darker secrets than I.
“What’s this?” Putting away his knives, Kierway drew a sword.
By the stairs, Sefron rose to his feet.
A faint yellow glow outlined the door where Kierway was leaning. “Chit! Chit!” he said. Underlings moved into the shadows. Some in full armor, some little, others none. “You, stay with Lord Almen!” He pointed to one then to another. “You, stay with the other one.”
Lord Almen was pushed back into the alcove, where on tenterhooks, he and two of the underlings waited. Finally, he thought. For what little good it will do.
The yellow light disappeared, and the ancient door swung open.
CHAPTER 40
“What is this place?” Creed fumbled through the dark.
“Silence, Creed.” Melegal held his stomach.
You’d think I’d be used to this miserable feeling by now.
Creed moaned. “Slat, I feel like I’m hung over. What just happened?”
“You’ll see.” Melegal searched the darkness for a handle or a knob. “Listen to me, Creed. When I open this door, we’re going to be in a chamber. People might be there, and underlings for all I know, so get your guts in order, and be ready for anything.”
Creed scoffed. “I’m always ready for anything; just give me a moment.”
Melegal pressed his ear to the door. If anything was moving on the other side, he wouldn’t know. The door was as thick and hard as stone―and magical, for all he knew. Still, he worried. He assumed the Key took him back to the chamber beneath Castle Almen, but maybe it didn’t. Maybe it took him somewhere else.
“What’s that?” Creed huffed. “Did you feel something? Something’s in here.”
Chaos At The Castle (Book Six) Page 21
