The Doom of Fallowhearth

by Robbie MacNiven

  “Since just before dawn,” Damhán said. “We still don’t know how he got in.”

  “How many of the guards has he killed?”

  “None that we know of. Yet.”

  “Getting all this way, only to be trapped like this,” Logan shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m impressed or not.”

  “I doubt he thought he would get Carys out without anyone noticing,” Durik said. “I think he always planned on this. He isn’t trapped. He wants to negotiate.”

  “We’ll negotiate with him over my dead body,” Kloin snarled.

  “That sounds quite agreeable,” Logan said, still relishing the captain’s anger.

  “It doesn’t look like you’re going to be able to smoke him out,” Durik said. “And you don’t dare set fire to the chamber. The whole tower would go up, and it would put the entire castle at risk. Besides, that chamber has a window. He’ll just let the smoke out. This stairway is too narrow to maneuver a decent-sized ram for the door, which I assume he’s barricaded. All that leaves is starving them out.”

  “Don’t worry, I brought food,” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door. Logan looked incredulously at Kloin and Damhán.

  “Oh wonderful, he can hear us too.”

  “Clearly,” Damhán said dryly.

  “Have you really tried everything to get him out?” Logan asked her. “And I mean everything? You’ve got quite the arcane talent, don’t you, Lady Damhán? Want to give us a demon­stration of the abilities you’ve been keeping so quiet about?”

  “My abilities are not parlor tricks,” Damhán said icily. “I did not come here to negotiate with northern savages within my lady’s own keep. And besides, my… particular powers are of no use here. The barbarian has some sort of ensorcelled creature for company. A null familiar that drains arcane energies. It is countering my abilities.”

  “It seems that words are the only weapons we have left,” Durik said. Everyone looked at Logan.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We should send the old man in,” Kloin said, his anger giving way to unexpected delight. “You’re the finest rogue in all of Terrinoth, aren’t you? That is what you’re always saying. Talking down a feral northerner who’s barricaded himself at the top of a tower should be one of the easiest jobs you’ll ever do.”

  “What makes you think he’s in the mood to talk?” Logan demanded, refusing to fall into the captain’s trap.

  “He’s been saying he wants to talk since the sun came up.”

  “Ah.”

  “If he’s the one asking to negotiate then we already have the upper hand,” Ulma said.

  “Don’t encourage them,” Logan hissed. “What would I even say? ‘Come out and we’ll let you both live?’ Are we just going to let them go?”

  “Despite what Seneschal Abelard may have thought, we did not take that clan girl to strain relations in the north,” Damhán said. “We are here to find out where Lady Kathryn is, nothing more and nothing less. Whether or not they took her, I cannot believe the clans have no knowledge at all of her whereabouts.”

  “And what if they really don’t?”

  “Then you’ll have to think of something else that he can trade for their freedom.”

  “I don’t speak any Goltacht,” Logan protested desperately as Kloin snatched his shoulder and maneuvered him towards the door. “I won’t understand anything he’s saying!”

  “He speaks our tongue,” the captain reassured him.

  “I can introduce you in Goltacht,” Durik added helpfully.

  “Oh gods,” Logan whimpered. The door loomed before him.

  Durik called out something that Logan found utterly indecipherable. There was no response.

  “Must’ve climbed out through the window, oh well…” Logan exclaimed, half turning and being turned back again by Kloin. Durik said something else. This time the voice answered him.

  “What did he say?” Logan asked nervously. Durik repeated something in Goltacht, then spoke to Logan.

  “He’s asking if I’m the orc. He says Carys has spoken well of me.”

  “See, he wants you,” Logan said. “You could easily get in there and overpower him!”

  “I told you, he speaks the common tongue,” Kloin said. “And he can obviously hear us. Good job.”

  “Send the old man,” the voice beyond the door said. Logan scowled.

  “That’s rich old man to you, barbarian,” he snapped at the door, then looked back at the gathering behind him. “Alright, alright, I’ll do it. But if I negotiate something you don’t like, too bad.”

  “I told you, our only priority is Lady Kathryn,” Damhán said. “Surrender nothing without hard evidence of her whereabouts.”

  Logan turned back to the door, sniffed, and looked down at himself disparagingly. He was an absolute mess, his cloak torn to strips, his tunic and breeches caked with dirt. There were still autumn leaves stuck in his belt. He didn’t dare pause to consider the beating his body had taken in the past day, or think about how physically tired he was. He felt like he could drop down dead at any moment. He’d forgotten how utterly miserable these so-called adventures were. Misadventures was definitely the more accurate term.

  “Never again,” he said under his breath. That was his new promise to himself, and the only one he intended on keeping.

  He knocked on the door.

  Something scraped across stone, and the door rattled. The latch clattered before easing open, just a few inches. Logan held his breath.

  Something moved low down, at ankle height. He found himself looking into small, black, beady eyes. He yelped and took a sharp step back.

  “What is that?” he exclaimed in horror.

  “It is Pico,” said a gruff, thickly accented voice from beyond the door. “Do not move. He will make sure you are safe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Logan asked incredulously, staring down at the little creature as it sniffed past the door. It was red-furred, about the size of a cat, with curious, worryingly intelligent eyes.

  “That’s his familiar,” Damhán said darkly. Logan noted she had taken a few more steps back. “It will sniff out any enchantments you are carrying.”

  “I’m no threat, honestly,” Logan said to the animal, holding his hands up slowly and carefully. It didn’t respond, but darted back out of sight. Logan waited.

  There was another scraping sound, and the door creaked open a little further.

  “Come inside,” said the voice. “Slowly.”

  Logan exchanged a last look with Durik and Ulma. They both shrugged. Rolling his eyes, the rogue went side-on, held his breath, and slipped in through the door.

  It slammed shut behind him.

  • • •

  Logan stood frozen inside Kathryn’s bedchamber, convinced that the slightest movement would see him dead. To his left was the girl, Carys, standing warily on the far side of the bed that had been shifted to block much of the doorway. On the bed itself was the little red-furred beast, its whiskers twitching as it rose up on its hind legs and stared at Logan. Both of them he only noticed with a glance – his attention was taken up by the monster who stood poised over him, a sword in his left fist held ready to run Logan through the gut, his right planted firmly on the door behind him.

  He was human, but that came as little relief – he was even bigger than Durik, his arms corded with slabs of muscle, his body twice as broad as Logan’s and at least a head taller. An etched metal ring, crafted like a serpent devouring its own tail, was fitted around the bicep of his right arm. He was clad in rustic plaids and wool, a cloak lined with thick brown ruck-bear fur heaped over his shoulders, tied with the dead beast’s paws over his chest. His face was bearded and hard-chiseled, stony, with dark northern eyes like Carys, but unlike hers his hair was pale blond, tied into a single heavy
braid. His forehead was marked with a blue tattoo, a stylized eagle, some clan marking that Logan didn’t recognize. His breath was on Logan’s face, heavy, hot and stinking like a wild beast.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Logan said.

  The beast remained still and tense, his silver blade – looking like a shortsword in his massive paw – poised a few inches from Logan’s unprotected stomach. To the rogue’s shock and horror, the man smiled.

  “So, they really did just send an old man,” he rumbled.

  Logan decided to save his favorite retort for some other time. The man withdrew and sheathed his blade before grasping the side of the bed. The heavy, four-poster construct looked as though it would have taken six men to shift, but the man flexed and, with barely a grunt, hauled it back over so that its northern pine frame was fully blocking the door once more.

  Logan was trapped. He suddenly felt very much like a hostage.

  “What is your name?” the man asked, moving from the bed to the hearth. Logan realized that there was a small fire kindling there.

  “Lashley. Logan Lashley.”

  The man looked at him with surprise. “Logan Lashley of Sixspan Hall? Hero of Sudanya?”

  Logan stared at him aghast, before managing to say, “You’ve… heard of me?”

  “All of Terrinoth and beyond has heard the stories of the charming rogue Logan,” the man said, sitting on his haunches by the fire. It was like being complimented by a huge wolf. Logan didn’t know what to say.

  Carys came from around the bed to sit beside her fellow northerner, the red animal scurrying up to perch on her shoulder. It didn’t seem to have blinked since Logan had first set eyes on it. He stayed standing awkwardly by the door.

  “My name is Ronan. Among my people I am Ronan of the Wilds. It is an honor to know you, Logan Lashley.” He placed one huge hand over his chest, fingers splayed in greeting. Logan returned the gesture without thinking.

  “So,” Ronan went on. “You have been sent to talk me out of here.”

  It wasn’t a question. Logan shrugged.

  “I think they just wondered if you would like a light snack, so they threw me in here for you.”

  Ronan rumbled with laughter and gestured to the stand next to the fire. It was laid out with bread and cold meat.

  “I am already well stocked, thanks to your castle pantry,” he said. “That’s how I got in.”

  “The servants’ quarters?”

  “Yes. An empty ale cask. I was able to convince one of the servants not to alert the guards.”

  “Matron Mildred?” Logan guessed.

  “I think that was her name,” Ronan said, reaching up for a shank of ham from the table. “A fine woman. Come, why don’t you sit with us? Take some food as well, you look hungry.”

  Being invited to luncheon with a clan giant wasn’t exactly what Logan had expected when he’d been forced into the room, but he was in no position to refuse. Besides, he needed to buy time while he ordered his thoughts – Ronan might have looked much as he’d imagined him, but he certainly wasn’t acting in the way he had expected. He sat down on the rug across the fireplace from Ronan and Carys, unable to stifle a groan as he eased his joints. Ronan leant forward and passed him a hunk of bread he’d torn off the fresh loaf on the stand. Carys said something to him in what Logan assumed was Goltacht.

  “The lady wishes to know where you have been,” Ronan said to him. “You appear as though you just completed a long journey.”

  “Less long than fraught,” Logan admitted, trying to decide whether to actually eat any of the food. He wondered if the barbarian had any way of poisoning that bread. Damn those northerners and their clan hospitality.

  “She said you have been searching for Baroness Adelynn’s daughter, yes?”

  “We have,” Logan said, wondering how much he should be admitting to the clansman. “Some suspect your kinfolk have taken her.”

  “So I am told,” Ronan said gravely. “I have heard nothing of her among the clans.”

  “You know that for certain? Which clan do you belong to?”

  “None,” Ronan said. “And all. I act as a Fìrinn Bruidhinn between the clans and between the baronies.”

  “A Fìrinn what?”

  “There is no direct translation. It is a word like broker or negotiator. Truth-speaker is the closest meaning. I am one who helps to keep the peace between the clans and Forthyn.”

  “And as part of that job you break into barony castles in ale casks?”

  “Be thankful I did. Carys Morr is the daughter of the chieftain of the Redferns. He took her capture and the killing of her bondsmen to be an act of war. There were five dozen sword-kin ready to descend on this town and put it to the torch last night.”

  Logan took a second to digest the news, trying to appear unconcerned at the prospect of a warband of savage killers descending on the town. Slowly, he took a bite of the bread and ham. Be confident, he told himself. If this brute wanted you dead, you’d already be in bits scattered across the room.

  “Five dozen sword-kin?” he repeated levelly. “And they sent just you?”

  Ronan smiled. “Many men often achieve few things. Few men often achieve many. I swore on the spirits of my fathers that I would bring Maelec Morr’s daughter back. A blood promise. It will be so, whether anyone else in this castle wishes it or not.”

  “You seem very confident for one man locked in a bedchamber at the top of a tower.” Ronan laughed. “Perhaps, but I am Ronan of the Wilds.”

  “You sound like me in my younger days, Ronan,” Logan said, taking a bite of his bread. “Look just like me, too.”

  Ronan laughed again, the sound coming free and easy. He seemed completely relaxed. Carys seemed calm too – she was feeding slivers of ham to the red-furred animal, though she rarely took her dark, serious eyes off Logan.

  “You know even if she is returned, an act such as this will strain the friendship between Upper Forthyn and my people,” Ronan said, his expression becoming more serious. “Times are difficult enough already without the added burden of conflict.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” Logan said, finishing the bread. “The local seneschal seems to want a war with the clans.”

  “I have as few dealings with Abelard as possible,” Ronan said, his tone making his feelings towards the seneschal clear enough. “This is not his first act of aggression towards the clans, but it is his boldest yet.”

  “Well you may not have to deal with him any longer,” Logan said. “He was lost last night, in the Blind Muir.”

  “That’s where you have been?” Ronan guessed, looking Logan up and down again. “You think the baroness’s daughter has gone there?”

  “We don’t know,” Logan admitted. “There have been a number of complicating factors.”

  “Such as?”

  “The forest is infested with dark creatures, and the undead.”

  Ronan’s familiar, still perched on Carys’s shoulder, let out a little shriek, and Ronan spat into the fire.

  “Necromancy infects the north,” he said grimly. “Everywhere, it brings more death and suffering.”

  “That certainly seems to be the case,” Logan said, deciding it would be unwise to mention Dezra and how her undead revenants had saved them.

  “You think a corpse-raiser has taken the daughter?” Ronan asked.

  “We thought so at first,” Logan said. “But now we are less sure. Her disappearance makes little sense. She vanished one night from this very room.”

  “It does sound like dark magic,” Ronan said, proffering a water skin to Logan, who shook his head. “Can your sorceress not track her?”

  “Sorceress?” Logan asked carefully, thinking about Dezra.

  “The one in this castle. Pico can sense her. She tried to enchant us into leaving this room, but Pico stopped
her.”

  The little, furry red creature squeaked.

  “Pico is a familiar?” Logan asked, looking at it warily. “It can nullify magic, yes?”

  “Pico can do many things,” Ronan said proudly.

  “Well, the only person in this castle with any arcane powers is Lady Damhán, but I do not know the extent of them. She is one of Baroness Adelynn’s advisers, come north with us to oversee the search.”

  “She is powerful,” Ronan said, nodding thoughtfully. “Pico hasn’t felt such power since the witch in the crooked tower.”

  “A witch?” Logan asked absently, his thoughts still on Damhán. Just what powers was she hiding from them? Since leaving Highmont his intuition had told him Baroness Adelynn’s advisor wasn’t all that she seemed, and she had told him that her powers weren’t parlor tricks. He’d found no way of questioning her though, and he was sure she’d see straight through anything remotely obvious.

  “Further north,” Ronan said. “The tower lies between here and Thelgrim, a little over two days’ hard ride. It is an old Dunwarr watchtower, abandoned long ago. A foul witch resides there now. The clans give it a wide berth when they travel to the south or west. I tried to slay her myself not long ago, but she is too strong. I could not even approach the tower through the damned spirits her fell voice summoned, even with Pico.”

  “Abelard said nothing of a witch,” Logan said. That only made the seneschal seem more incompetent or, worse, suspicious. He cursed inwardly – they really were in deep on this one now, and getting ever deeper. “How long has she occupied the tower?”

  Ronan shook his head.

  “I do not know. There have been stories for years, but in times like these it is difficult to separate the truth from the bard’s tales.”

  “And the wisest believe in a little of both,” Logan said. His thoughts were racing – neither Abelard nor Damhán had said anything about a witch in the north. Nor, for that matter, had Dezra. Even occupied with her purge of the forests to the south of Fallowhearth, wouldn’t she have known of the potential presence of another sorceress to the north of the town? Did this new figure have some sort of hold over the seneschal, perhaps even the baroness’s advisor too? And if so, what could a witch want with Lady Kathryn? There was no obvious connection, but Logan also found it difficult to imagine the witch’s unexplained presence and Kathryn’s disappearance were completely unrelated.