Chaos At The Castle (Book Six)

by Craig Halloran

  CHAPTER 49

  The dungeons beneath Castle Almen hadn’t changed any over the past few months, but the guards had. Now, they were underlings. Wiry with gem-speckled eyes that didn’t hesitate to punish if you so much as snored.

  Melegal sat with his head between his bony knees, contemplating. Contemplating his next move. He’d been doing it for days, but he didn’t have a next move.

  Keys. Keys. The Keys. Wretched things got me into this mess. The wretched things could get me out.

  Two underling guards in dark leather armor dragged a tall man in and shackled him inside an adjacent cell. Stripped down to his trousers, the man’s chest was bruised and knotted with painful lumps.

  Melegal could feel the man’s green eyes on him, but he kept his head down.

  The underlings didn’t whip the quiet ones, but Creed, he couldn’t help himself. You’d think someone of his ilk would know better.

  “Ooof!”

  An underling kicked Creed in the gut, locked the cell and walked away.

  Don’t speak. Don’t speak. Don’t speak.

  Nearby were the rest of the survivors.

  Jarla lay in her cell, facing the wall in the back. The Brigand Queen hadn’t acknowledged any of them since they’d been there. Instead she, despite her condition, maintained her air of superiority somehow. Melegal wouldn’t be surprised if she was there as more than a prisoner, but a spy. After all, she had assisted the underlings in getting into Outpost Thirty One.

  What are you going to do, Rat? What?

  Stripped down to his own trousers, Melegal might as well have been naked. His hat was gone. Worry gnawed at his stomach: that an underling had discovered its powers, powers that he himself had only recently begun to unlock. It had been long ago when he acquired it, and it had become a companion of sorts. He wasn’t comfortable without it. Not at all.

  Get the hat, get the Keys. Get the Keys, get the hat.

  Hiding his yawn, he couldn’t stop his stomach from rumbling.

  One of the underling guards stepped over and banged on his cage.

  He kept his head down, but was unable to contain the next loud sound his stomach made.

  The ruby-eyed underling, brandishing a black club, opened the door to his cage, stepped inside, and cracked him in the head, drawing bright spots in his eyes. The underling drew back again.

  Slat on this!

  In a single motion, Melegal swept its legs out from under it, snatched its keys, scurried out, and slammed the door shut, locking the underling guard in his cell. He tossed the keys to Creed’s outstretched arm.

  Slice!

  The jagged teeth of the other underling’s sword ripped over his head.

  Melegal leapt over a torment table, snapped up a spear from the wall, and braced himself. The creature, swift as a cat, batted the weapon away and lunged inside. Melegal twisted away, the underling’s blade slicing the skin on his back.

  What am I doing? What am I doing!

  He knew he couldn’t overpower the underling. They might be small and lithe, but their bodies were hardened like animals. He’d seen them rip overconfident men to pieces a time or two. The underling came at him, hard and fast. Melegal sidestepped again, pinned its sword arm on the table, and drove a long metal torture needle through its hand.

  It screeched, ruby eyes widening, and then back-handed Melegal in the jaw.

  His knees swayed.

  The underling pounced on him. Its clawed fingers wrapped around his neck and dug into his skin.

  Melegal’s eyes bulged. At least I killed Sefron. I’d kill him again if I could.

  Glitch!

  The bloody tip of a sword burst through the underling’s chest.

  It fell over dead.

  Creed stood tall, eyes cold and dangerous.

  “Now this is more like it. Just what I’ve been saying all along.” He grabbed Melegal’s arm and pulled him up like a doll. “What’s the plan now?”

  “Yes, what is the plan, Fool?” Jarla pressed her angry face against the bars. “To get us all killed?”

  “’Die doing something, or die doing nothing.’ That’s how I saw it.” Melegal hunched over, catching his breath. “And I don’t recall making you part of any plan. Any of you, for that matter.”

  Creed gave him a look.

  “No offense. I needed you to kill that underling, but I didn’t figure it’d take you so long to operate a keyhole.”

  “Why you sneaky little scarecrow,” Creed was smiling. “I like it. But, I took a moment to kill that other underling first.” He pointed to Melegal’s cell.

  The other underling lay back against the wall, a large gash in his head.

  “At that point, I wasn’t certain I needed you either.” He winked. “But you won’t be going anywhere without me.” He wagged the dripping sword in Melegal face. “At least not without my sword sticking through you.”

  “Hah, hah, hah.” Jarla was still sneering. “You don’t have any plan. Do you, Fool?”

  Actually, I do. Just not a very good one.

  Melegal had learned many secrets about Castle Almen in his stay here, many thanks to Sefron. He knew of the secret rooms and corridors, not all, but some. He figured that should be enough to save himself.

  “No, no I don’t, but right about now, you’re in the cage, not me.”

  Creed grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it. “We’ll need all the strong arms we have if we’re to carve our way out of here.”

  “Let out! Let out!”

  It was Tonio’s voice, crying out from behind a wooden door with a closed-off portal.

  Melegal hadn’t forgotten about the man, but he wished he had. The deranged man rattled even the underlings, who seemed to avoid him.

  “We’re going to need that big fellow too, you know.” Creed was making his way around the room, gathering up weapons. “I don’t know what he is, but he swings a heavy piece of steel like a needle. Let the monster out.” Creed gazed at Jarla up and down. “Perhaps this raven-headed princess can control him.”

  “You dare! You, a misfit from the Royal hounds of the sewers?”

  Creed forced a laugh, shoulders dipping.

  “You have the cell keys, Creed. Do what you want.” Melegal made his way over to the iron door. It didn’t appear to be locked. He pressed his ear against it.

  “Let out!” Wham!

  Melegal shook his head. So far as he could tell, the way past the iron door was clear, for now, but they needed to move fast.

  Just lead them out, Melegal. Once they start swinging, you’ll disappear and be fleeing. Heh. Heh. Crafty as a serpent, I am.

  “Let the monster out then,” he said, looking at Jarla, “and Tonio too.”

  I hope she dies first.

  Sword ready, Creed unlocked Jarla’s cage.

  “Idiot.” She made her way across the room and sorted through the weapons on the table.

  Melegal kept his eyes on her.

  Tall, dark and arrogant. A Queen of Brigands indeed. Other than those hips and legs of hers, I’ll never understand what Venir saw in the evil hag.

  “Your word: you won’t be stabbing any of us in the back, Jarla.”

  Her smile looked as dangerous as a viper. “Unlike you? No, I’ll not be giving you my word, you little ghoul of a man. As a matter of fact, I see no reason to follow you.” She came closer, sword ready. “For all I know, you’ll lead us into a trap.”

  Creed stepped between them. “The underlings are the enemy now, Jarla. Survive their invasion. We can settle our differences later. Now, I’ll give my word. You give yours, Jarla, and Detective, yours as well.”

  Bang! “Let out! Give Word! Let out!”

  “The word of a liar is as useless as the slat of pigs.” Jarla stuffed a dagger in the waistband of what was left of her clothes. “All men are liars. All men are filth. But I’ll give you both my word―and my word is ‘Slat on you both.’”

  Melegal huffed a laugh.

  That’s good enough for
me.” Creed eyed her up and down again. “And if we do indeed survive this, I’ll like to share some drinks.”

  “Pig!” She slung a pair of shackles at Creed.

  He caught them against his chest and winked. “Just lighting a fire in you, Man-hater. Now, let’s get on with this.” He tossed the cuffs to the ground. “You’ve got some ornery ideas for such a fine woman.”

  Jarla’s face reddened. “I’ll clip your—”

  “That’s enough!” Melegal stepped around Jarla and strapped on a sword. “Creed, get the door.”

  Creed unlocked Tonio’s door.

  The tall half-dead man stepped outside, morbid and scary, rubbing the hole in his head.

  Melegal’s spine tingled.

  Hate that man.

  Even Jarla’s breath hastened.

  Creed’s eyes were wary. “Grab some metal, Tonio. Detective, lead the way.”

  Swinging the dungeon door inward, Melegal felt something crawling in his stomach.

  Why haven’t they killed us already? What do they need with us, anyway?

  He remembered what he’d seen and what he’d been told. The underlings would mutilate some and send them out to spread fear in the world.

  Shouldn’t we be dead or crippled?

  Up the stairs he went, followed by Jarla, Creed and Tonio’s heavy steps.

  He’ll get us all caught.

  The dungeons beneath Castle Almen weren’t deep, but more or less a sublevel of the basement with a lone entrance at the top. In this case, Melegal knew where he was, but there were places in the Castle he’d never explored. A lone door awaited them at the top. He knew it led into one of the main basement corridors. It was perfect. All they needed to do was overpower any guards, and Melegal knew a few secret corridors with hiding spots down there.

  Alright, Rat. They fight. You run.

  Running his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, he felt naked without his hat.

  Forget it. Just run, Rat. Run!

  He mouthed the next words to his followers.

  “Ready?”

  Creed nodded.

  “One.”

  “Two.”

  He grabbed the door handle.

  “Threeeeeeeeeee….”

  The door transformed into a black mirage and enveloped them.

  Suddenly, Melegal was free falling.

  Creed was yelling.

  Jarla was screaming.

  In the next instant, he felt himself land hard on the ground. Spitting the dirt from his mouth, he sat up only to face the heads of many spears lowered in his face.

  I know this place. All too well.

  They were inside Castle Almen’s arena.

  “What kind of bloody magic was tha—ulp!”

  Creed bit his tongue thanks to the barbed spear at his throat.

  “Well, finally, some new opponents come.” It was Master Kierway. “And just when I was beginning to wonder whether or not you would show.”

  Kierway wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by several underlings, warriors one and all, being served by men and women, barely clothed, and shackled at the neck. One was kneeling by his side, holding up a plate of fruit. It was Lorda.

  “Ah,” Kierway rose up, “these will be much better opponents for my Juegen to spar with. The others,” he gestured toward the wall of the arena, “didn’t last so long.”

  At least a dozen human heads on spikes encircled the inner wall.

  So this is what they were saving us for. Games. Underling games.

  Melegal’s head felt heavy, and he couldn’t stop his chin from dipping. His stomach rumbled. All he could think about was Brak here in the arena. His wailing. His moaning.

  How in Bish did I get here?

  It was pretty clear that nothing was going to save him now. Not Brak, not Venir and not himself. All those years he fought to escape the horrors of the Castle, and he still wound up here. He locked his eyes on Lorda. She was still captivating despite the scrapes and bruises on her face, and he’d never seen her voluptuous body in such revealing clothing before.

  “Who’s that?” Creed whispered in his ear.

  An underling jabbed the butt of a spear in the back of the Bloodhound’s head.

  “I hope they let me fight you first,” Creed said, “Black fiend!”

  Whack!

  Creed hit the ground.

  “Secure them all, except the skinny one,” Kierway ordered, copper eyes on Melegal. “We’ll whittle what little is left of him down first.”

  Melegal raised his brows and allowed himself a smile.

  Lorda showed a grim smile back.

  Well, it’s over. Nothing like a little flirting before you’re dead.

  CHAPTER 50

  “Watcha layin’ there fer?” a gruff voice said. “That ain’t what I had in mind when I taught you about adventurin’.”

  Fogle didn’t move. He couldn’t. Instead, he lay in the sun, baking like a biscuit in a roasting oven. Still, he forced his eyes open, trying to blink the hallucination away from his mind, his thoughts.

  “Go away, Mood. I’m done for,” he said with a dry throat.

  “What’s the matter? Did ye lose your little druid friend? And now yer tender heart is broken, so you quit? This is Bish. You quit, you die. Now get up!”

  Fogle didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes, but the scent of Mood’s cigar drifted into his nose.

  This is one powerful hallucination.

  For hours, maybe days, he’d lain there, letting his inner self fight it out. He’d failed. He wanted to go home. Crawl under a rock and bury himself.

  He’d been here before. Back when Venir beat him. Busted his mind and his nose. A broken man, he’d left the Magi Roost. It had taken him years to understand his failures. His fears.

  Now, those fears returned with a vengeance. The Outlands. The sweltering heat, the chronic battle to survive, and the threat of the unknown had rattled his brilliant mind.

  I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.

  “Just leave me alone,” he said, rolling over.

  “Get up, Wizard!” the gruff voice prodded. “Get up, else I’ll kill you myself.”

  He curled up, covering his face.

  “Go ahead,” Fogle said. “If my hallucination doesn’t kill me, I’m sure something else will. Perhaps a giant will step on me, or some bugs will eat my flesh,” he cackled, “or a dragon will roast me like a log.” He cackled again. “Or the underlings will cut my throat. So many ways to go. Getting killed by my imagination seems more soothing than the rest. So Mood, my long gone friend, I’m prepared for the worst.”

  A silence fell. Even the hot winds slowed. The scent of Mood’s cigar drifted to his nose again. Fogle sighed. “That’s much better.” He curled up and pulled his robes tighter. “Sorry, Cass. I failed you.”

  A minute passed, maybe two.

  “GET UP, I TELL YA!”

  Fogle’s eyes popped open. In the next moment, water was pouring over his head. Down it came, second after second, soaking his hair, his robes.

  “GET UP!”

  Spluttering a mouthful from his lips, he forced himself to an upright position. Water was still being poured over his head by the figure of a large stout man. When the water finally stopped, he wiped his eyes.

  Two emerald eyes under bushy red brows were staring right at him.

  “Mood? Are you real?”

  “As real as a mole on an ogre’s fanny.” Mood puffed on a cigar stuck between his two meaty fingers. “Are you finished belly aching now?”

  Fogle stretched out his arms and hugged him.

  “But how? You were, well, in such bad shape.” He patted the rocky muscles in Mood’s thick shoulders.

  “True, but I was still breathing. And I’m King of the Dwarves. Soon as I fell, the lady dwarves came running. They patched me up leagues away, where Eethum caught up with me.”

  That’s when Fogle noticed Eethum, the big black dwarf, arms crossed over his long blood red beard, standing l
ike a mighty oak. He wasn’t alone either. More Black Beards, each just under five feet tall, but stout as keg barrels, sat on the back of dwarven horses.

  Fogle couldn’t hold his tongue from catching Mood and Eethum up on everything that had gone on.

  “A dragon, ye say? Woot! It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of those,” Mood said, taking a knee, wincing.

  “Mood, you aren’t fully well, are you?”

  The ancient dwarf shot him a look. “Ye need to mind what you say, Wizard.” He grabbed Fogle by the forearm and squeezed. “I’m well enough to snap you in two.”

  Biting his lip, Fogle tried to pull away. “No need to be so cranky. I was just concerned.”

  Mood squeezed harder. “You were what?”

  The fingers on his hand went numb. “Nothing! Nothing!”

  Mood released him and blew a puff of smoke in his face.

  “Mind yer manners.” Mood reached into a pouch on his trousers and tossed him something in a cloth.

  Fogle unfolded it and found the remnants of Inky.

  “Thanks,” he said, fanning the smoke. “How’d you find me?”

  Mood rolled his thick neck towards Eethum, who said, “We’re Blood Rangers. Once we got yer scent, we could track you anywhere, but we did lose you for a bit.” He glanced at Mood.

  “I hate to admit. You disappeared into thin air.”

  Fogle knew what he was talking about. It was the spell Boon had cast that got them out of the jam when they fled a wave of underlings.

  “Still, why can’t you follow Chongo?”

  “He doesn’t have a scent.”

  Fogle raised an eyebrow. “I guess not.”

  Mood handed him his water skin. “Yer gonna need this. We’ve a ways to go.” He grunted as he swung his leg up on his horse. “Get on.”

  Mood looked like a giant atop his dwarven Clydesdale, large axes strapped across his back.

  “Where are we going? What about Cass?”

  “We’re going after that giant,” Mood said, “Find him, most likely we’ll find her. Now get on. Time’s a wasting, and I suggest you find ye some good spells.”

  “Why’s that?” Fogle said, getting on.

  “’Member them giants that socked it to me?”

  “Yes,” Fogle said, looking over his shoulder as the horse lurched forward.