“Who?” Cassandra asked. Is there really such a secrecy to all of this?
“Yes dear, who brought you to the wizard’s noble cause?”
Noble? Many in the south had joined Castallan freely, but to call him noble was another matter entirely.
Cassandra sensed that the woman expected to hear a name. She stopped and turned to give Cassandra a suspicious glare.
Think of something!
A scream tore through the crowd, supplemented by angry calls then galloping hooves. A cart hauled by two horses was charging around the courtyard, out of all control. The boy at the reins, far younger than Trask, looked too green to be handling such animals. It was heading in Cassandra’s direction.
Everyone began to jump out of the way. Winnie leapt back in fright but Cassandra stayed still, in fear of the woman discovering her weak deception. She saw the path the cart was taking and knew it was her only chance. As it soared past, it cut Cassandra off from Winnie and she relieved herself of most of her bundle of dirtied leathers, tossing them high into the air. She kept hold of a few pieces of darkened green and brown leather, which the hunters of the Dales wore.
The stampeding cart upturned a short way ahead and the explosion of clothes only added to the furore, for some fell on the heads of other nearby beasts of burden, covering their eyes and sending them into a panic. More wagons and animals collided around her, granting a perfect distraction. Cassandra ducked and weaved through the madness, ripping off the cowl and apron, but keeping a hold of them. Dropping them would only make it obvious she was not meant to have been there. With any luck, Winnie might think she had simply fled the danger of the enraged horses.
Cassandra stopped near the forge. The smiths had ceased their rhythmic hammering to stare at the commotion. Guards with red eyes appeared amongst the confusion, wrestling with the beasts to bring them back under control. One horse kicked out, hitting a red-eyed woman square in the chest. She stumbled but was otherwise unharmed.
That’s not possible!
Members of the crowd were calling out to the smiths to help pick up the crates and barrels that had been sent flying, strewing their contents of swords, tent pegs, hard cheese, hard biscuits and dried meats across the eastern courtyard.
The smiths thumped down the broad axes they were working on, moved off, and Cassandra seized the chance. She skirted into the forge, tossing the washerwoman clothes into the furnace, and used the containers of water nearby to wash the worst of the dirt and dust from her face. A small, plump coin purse lay unguarded, likely from a recent transaction. Cassandra swiped it. Coins were better than wild animals in causing distraction. She scuttled out of the back of the forge, so she was between it and the inner wall itself. Her breaths came in huge, laboured gulps as she tried to collect herself.
That was ridiculous. I’m better than that.
She had never come so close to being caught in all her years in the Bastion, though inside the citadel, the passageways made it infinitely easier. She would have to approach this false gate more quietly.
She glanced down at the hunter leather she still possessed. It was not a full set, only the tunic, gloves and bracers, but it would have to suffice. She put the items on and undid the knot of her hair to let it fall around her, then she rose, a little unsteady, and began to creep along to the western gate, staying as close to the wall behind buildings and vendors’ stalls as she could.
As she approached the south gate, the guards and activity made it impossible to continue to cling to the shadow of the wall. To her relief, she saw a group of hunters from the Dales making their way west, loud in conversation. She walked casually to the edge of a stall, pretending to peruse the fruit while she waited for her moment. The vendor claimed to have ripe fruit from Val’tarra, though his pears were browning.
This has to be perfect.
As the hunters passed, she walked purposefully and fell in just behind them. They began laughing at a joke and Cassandra feigned a quiet laughter of her own, tossing her head back like they did.
To everyone else around, it would seem as though she were part of their gang, but she stayed just quiet enough so that they did not turn around. The ruse would not last for long. But it did not need to. The group were ambling at a fair pace towards the western gate; she was in sight of it now. She trailed the hunters for as long as she dared, then, when her gut told her it was time to move, she did not hesitate. Her instincts on these things were normally correct.
She slowed ever so slightly, then drifted away, melting into the jostle of people. She kept her head up but made sure to not look at anyone directly. Everyone was busy; everyone had a job to do. If someone glanced at her, they would see her leathers and think she was a huntress and likely had an important task. So long as she did not draw attention, she might just make it.
“Under the staircase of the left curtain wall by the gate,” she repeated in her head. Her heart sank as she saw how many guards swarmed around that area. The bulk of the traffic moving out of the Bastion was trundling through the west gate, or at least attempting to. Careful checks and inventories were being carried out, ensuring each cart had the right cargo. She was quickly closing the gap to her destination but she could do nothing while those guards were there, yet she could not stop to think. To stop would be to draw attention. By the gate, a new cart had fought its way through the knots of people. It was Trask’s.
Cassandra had never been so pleased to catch sight of him. Desperately, she stared at him so intently that she might have been trying to see into his soul. Trask hopped onto the back of his wagon, apparently under instruction to unload his haul for inspection. He had his arms around one barrel when he finally caught her eye. He froze. Cassandra mouthed out urgently to him. “Please,” she said silently. “Help.”
Mercifully, he understood and did not hesitate. He dropped the barrel he had half-lifted and clutched his arm, feigning some discomfort. The guards below him puffed their lips in annoyance and turned to look for help. Cassandra could hardly believe her luck when three of the four guards at the curtain wall ran off in answer.
Just one left.
She pushed her away through the throng of people as gently as she could, making sure her bearing would keep her out of sight. As she neared the guard at the foot of the stairs, she loosened the knot on the bag of coins she had taken from the forge. She casually flung the bag, sending thin bronze coins clinking and rolling. Predictably, those nearby scrambled to collect what they could, causing heads to bash and tempers to flare. The guard charged into the brawl to maintain order. Now was her time.
A false wall under the staircase. A false wall… Where is it?
She could not see anything. No marks, no bricks of a different colour, nothing to indicate that there was some secret gateway there. Mild panic set in. She only had moments. She reached the section of the wall and started to run her hands over it frantically.
“Now calm down the lot of you,” a brusque voice said from behind.
No! Where is it? Where?
Her flailing hand pushed at the stone in front of her, only the stone was not there at all. She stumbled forward several paces, seemingly into the wall itself. Her hand remained outstretched. Underneath the ground looked like oddly laid stones in imitation of the wall. What trickery is this? She didn’t pause long to consider. A few steps further and the way ahead seemed blocked again, when her probing hand found solid stone. She quickly felt around and found another opening on her left. She squeezed along a narrow run in the wall under the stairway and entered pitch-blackness.
The stairs above must have hidden this small gap but they also blocked all light. That was no matter, Cassandra was used to that. Her beating heart began to slow down as the feeling of success sunk in. She had made it.
Feeling her way through the darkness, the passage twisted each and every way, deep into the thickness of the wall. She stopped after each turn, trying to orientate herself and stay on top of which direction she was facing, but it w
as almost impossible in the near darkness. Tiny glimmers of light poked through miniscule but perfectly made holes that ran through the stone.
Who made these passages? Who would build a fortress with so many secret ways in and around it?
Eventually, she hit what seemed to be a dead end. She found a lever and yanked on it. The floor under her disappeared and she plummeted down. It was all she could do not to scream in shock. Her head thudded off the rungs of a ladder as she descended.
Dazed and pained, she groaned getting to her feet. She felt around and found there were four directions she could take. She could not be sure which way they went. She needed to head west to get out of the Bastion. One seemed to run behind her and back under the inner courtyard. Two branched off, presumably following the shape of the jagged wall. Only one stretched off ahead of her.
Well I don’t have many options.
She walked down the well-paved passage, which offered plenty of space to manoeuvre. After a time, she grew more confident in her pace. There was nothing but smooth stone all around. She kept a cautious hand outstretched to feel for openings or the end of the route. At first, she seemed to descend further into the earth and worried she might only be delving deeper under the fortress. Thankfully, she began to climb back up. When she reached the tunnel’s end, she felt around, feeling out for the familiar numerals, stone tabs or levers she was used to from the tower. She found the lever some yards back and, when she pulled on it, two great sections of the roof caved in, bringing in earth, leaves, roots and other debris, as well as rays from a sinking sun. Her eyes burned from the sudden influx of light and she curled up to shield herself.
Emerging from her own cocoon, Cassandra stepped outside. The trapdoors must have been on a timing mechanism for they closed behind her. She exhaled with relief. For several long moments, she simply stared out at the world. The whole world beyond the walls of the Bastion lay before her now. She was out. She was free. She was no longer confined by those great walls and battlements. Despite her years of dreaming for this moment, she realised she was horribly exposed and was without food or shelter. Somehow, she needed to find Trask.
Now what do I do?
Spinning around, she discovered she was far away from the Bastion. The fortress looked small enough to scoop up in her hand. The rolling plains swept towards the high outer walls like waves and she had traversed so far from her prison that the edge of a small wood was not far behind her. Tiny, flickering torches were beginning to be lit along the arrow-headed platforms as the sun continued to fall. She needed to find Trask fast and prayed he was somewhere she could reach. It seemed foolish to try and seek out those who would surely pack her back to the wizard if they discovered who she was, but she had no choice. The main road leading west from the Bastion was visible from the line of the baggage train, a trail of wagons, horses and marching men stretching off for miles.
Moving lightly on her feet, she sped along to the outer edge of the wood and closed the gap to the road. She noticed that small groups were emerging and entering the treeline. As she moved from trunk to trunk, Cassandra considered that she might join the column along with them.
Some were foraging for food amongst the wild forest while others were attending to calls of more natural matters. One pair, a huntress and a red-eyed man, had abandoned their baskets to get more intimate among the ferns and shrubs. Cassandra inched forward, cringing at the woman’s giggling, and silently lifted one of their wicker baskets.
She made her way towards the baggage train, head held high as if nothing were amiss. She hadn’t noticed her hunger until she glimpsed the basket’s contents. Yellow, smooth, capped mushrooms with gill-like ridges blossomed like flowers with pale stems. Dotted around were warm red and orange alderberries, even some silver ones could be seen. She picked out and ate a silver alderberry. Her hunger seemed to subside as she swallowed the sweet fruit. She felt a small kick to the back of her head and felt energised.
One last push to Trask.
Her ploy paid off when she approached the road. No one questioned her with her basket of goods, and the darkness hid her face and lack of a full uniform. She passed dozens of wagons before she found him.
“Trask,” she hissed under her breath, sidling up beside him.
He nearly dropped his reins. “Cass?” he said, shocked. “How—”
“Hide me!” she urged.
Trask peered around anxiously then began to slow his steed. He jumped down, took the basket from her, led her round to the back and lifted the tarred, waterproof canvas.
“Get in, quickly,” he insisted lowly. “I’ve never seen them so agitated. We’ve to travel through the night, for all the good it will do. It will take days to reach the Boreacs.”
“Will the horses even manage for that long?” Cassandra asked, clambering into the back of the wagon.
“Probably not,” Trask said. “But those red-eyed folks will likely take over. More strength and twice the stamina of a horse.”
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she reassured him, though she cursed herself for doing so. If he did get cold feet then she might miss her chance.
“I made a promise I’d get you out one day, and I’m going to keep it,” he told her firmly. “Besides, I—”
“Quickly boy!” A deep and cracked voice rang. “Get moving.”
“Yes, sir!” Trask snapped back. “Right away, sir.”
Cassandra heard footsteps leading off and breathed easier. Trask finished strapping the cover over the wagon.
“I sometimes wish they would just keep their normal eyes. Those red eyes are unnatural,” he said with a little shiver. “Still, whatever Castallan does to them, it makes them bloody tough.”
“They shouldn’t fight for that monster,” Cassandra said.
“But they should fight for dragons?” Trask asked tersely.
She halted herself in retorting. Their dispute on this matter was never resolved. Trask blamed the dragons for the south’s misfortune after the last war, as so many in the Southern Dales did. They blamed Brevia too for doing little to alleviate their suffering, if Trask and those she had overheard were anything to go by. That woman, Winnie, certainly thought Castallan was the better option.
Cassandra did not know enough about life beyond the Bastion to decide for herself. Trask might work for the wizard but the matter was simple for her. Castallan consorted with demons and anyone who did so could not be worth allying with.
Under the heavy cloth, Cassandra’s senses were dulled significantly. The clop of the horse’s hooves were muffled but she felt the full effect of the jarring bumps as the wagon rolled on. She ferreted around very carefully in the crate where Trask had placed her sword. She extracted it and managed to tie it back round her waist. Though the ride hurt immensely, Cassandra couldn’t help but smile the purest smile she ever had.
I am free!
Chapter 11
VISIONS AND FEATHERS
DARNUIR’S VISION WAS blurred. He thought he saw the outline of a man with hair swept back in an arc before him. The man was speaking, though his words were muffled. Darnuir had the vague sense of being amused at how the speaker occasionally tripped up over his words.
His vision did not clear at all but his hearing began to sharpen and he made out some of the man’s words,
“… with that, and enough time, I will find the answer for you, for us!” he said, a little nervously.
“You are sure?” Darnuir asked him in a considered tone. “I seek answers,” he reminded the man, “not more questions.”
“I am, though it will take a deal of secrecy…” The rest of his speech became jarred again. Darnuir’s vision swirled and he felt like he was being sucked upwards and away from his own body.
He awoke with a terrible start, heart pounding and head dotted with beads of sweat. In his sleep, he must have taken hold of his new sword, for the Dragon’s Blade was halfway out of its sheath, the ruby eyes glowing intensely. Dawn broke almost
as soon as he woke and strands of cool light ushered in the new day. He had slept on the hard floor of the lodge, which had largely survived the flames, and was amongst the first to rise. He felt exhausted; his head ached and there was a nasty, bitter taste in his mouth. Breakfast had never seemed so delightful.
He trudged slowly across the ruined square to the tavern, his muscles unwilling to move with any haste. Ash and soot from the infernos gently trickled down in place of snowflakes. Where the ground had once been pure white and muddy earth, there was now a sea of human blood and darker demon gore, mixing together in a foul concoction underfoot. Blood, thinned with melted snow, squelched loudly with each step.
Everyone stopped what they were doing when he entered the beaten tavern. Hunter and huntress alike peered at him, some apprehensively, some in awe and some in fear. The broken doors lay up against the bar and a large pile of glass had been swept to one side. He remembered how he had fought at the end and it made him uneasy. He remembered his actions as if from afar. He had looked on from the back of his own mind as his body performed feats he never knew it could. Something, or someone, had taken control of him, and he suspected the sword was to blame. Perhaps Brackendon might be able to explain it. His fate was uncertain. Eve’s was not.
She was gone.
Darnuir had not quite processed it. The image of her slumped up against the wall around the tree and Balack’s face when he saw her was burnt into his mind. I must not think on it. I must not think on it. His mind did not obey but remained fixated on it as his body absentmindedly collected his ration of porridge and found a quiet spot on the floor to sit. There was no useable furniture left.
He spooned the food into his mouth mechanically. It was watery and wanted for milk. We must have run out. A pinch of salt or crushed alderberries wouldn’t have gone amiss either, though he would have favoured the berries. It was not just the taste but the colour. Alder bushes grew their fruit whichever way they fancied. Berries of all kind ripened on them; small, perfect spheres in red, green, blue, orange, even silver, each one a touch sweeter or tangier than the others. Yes, he would have liked to have seen some colour, though perhaps not more red. Sadly, there were none to hand. We must have run out of everything.
The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King Page 16
