by Philip Blood
“What happens if we’re attack when I’m sleep’in?” Poison asked, concerned that she would be in a helpless state.
“Then I will wake you, instantly. I promise that I won’t leave your side until you wake,” Elizabeth promised.
“I wouldn’t normally trust anyone this far, but somehow I trust you. Is right here good enough?” Poison asked, lying down on her bedroll.
“Yes, that’s perfect, now relax. I’m going to rub my fingers on your forehead, eventually, you’re going to drift off to sleep. Don’t try to help, just relax, and trust me,” Elizabeth finished quietly.
The sorceress reached into Poison's mind and pushed gently, after a few moments the young rogue went to sleep.
Once she was into a deep slumber Elizabeth flowed completely into the girl’s thoughts and located the areas of speech. Then she spent some time laying in words spoken without the lower class accent. She also blocked off the old accent but created triggers to allow Poison to switch back later once Elizabeth told her the word key that would open the change of accent. As she worked Elizabeth considered the only drawback to this procedure. She’s going to sound a lot like me when she speaks with this accent, but there’s no help for it, I’m putting my memories of speech directly into her memory. Such is the price of quick learning.
Within the Tchulian keep at Headwater Becaris led the other two Knight Protectors down the torch lit hall. From the directions they had coerced from Sergeant Herms they knew they needed to reach the second building; that's where the stairs went down into the dungeon.
Speed was their ally; the less time they spent in the hall the less likely they would be caught, so Becaris set a swift pace with Rasal and Lasar following about twenty paces behind.
As Becaris passed an open doorway a Tchulian soldier stepped out. Becaris ignored him and kept on walking. The soldier turned to look at Becaris, and so did not see the two brothers coming from behind.
Before he could call out Rasal struck him on the head with the pommel of his dagger and Lasar caught him as he fell. They quickly grabbed his feet and arms, so they could take him back into the room. Just as they picked him up three other soldiers stepped out of another door thirty paces away. The soldiers were laughing and joking but stopped when they saw the unconscious form of the soldier being carried by the two brothers, neither of which wore a Tchulian uniform.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” the soldier in the lead asked and the three soldiers started over toward the brothers.
Becaris came walking back down the hall. “He fell down, drunk. I told my men to put him in this room until I could find someone in authority.”
“And, who are you?” the lieutenant who led the three soldiers asked.
“First Lieutenant Becker, just reassigned here, in from a special assignment. We were on our way to change into uniform before reporting to the Captain. Why don’t you take over here, lieutenant, the Captain is waiting for us,” Becaris answered.
“I don’t know any First Lieutenant Becker,” the Lieutenant replied, looking suspiciously at the fine looking light armor Becaris wore.
“I’m new here, and I...” Becaris didn’t finish his line, he had gotten close enough to yank his sword out and engage the lieutenant.
Rasal and Lasar pulled their swords out as well and fell upon the two soldiers.
The Tchulians were caught off guard by the sudden attack.
Lasar’s man went down instantly, run through by the attacking knight. Lasar turned to help his brother, he knew that they had to finish these men immediately before the racket brought more soldiers.
The Tchulian lieutenant was no simpleton, he had suspected something was wrong and leaped back when Becaris pulled his sword.
Becaris lunged forward in a graceful extension, but the Tchulian danced back out of harm while fending off the blade with his gauntlet.
The lieutenant raised his voice and called out. “Help, spies in the keep, help me Tchulians, help!”
The second soldier went down on Rasal’s sword, but when they turned to help Becaris four more soldiers came around the far end of the corridor with weapons drawn. Even more footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs behind those soldiers.
“Another time,” Becaris said to the lieutenant and stepped back out of range. He gave the Tchulian a quick salute with his sword and then spoke to the twins, “Run for the door.”
The three Knight Protectors raced toward the door at the end of the hall, going away from the lieutenant and the pursuing soldiers. The large ironbound door separated the two buildings and could be barred from either side in case enemies forced the defenders to abandon their building.
Upon passing through the three knights quickly turned and slammed the heavy door closed and then dropped the bar across the slots on their side to stop the pursuit. As the bar dropped into place they felt and heard the impact of several bodies on the other side of the door.
“Come quickly, while confusion still hampers them,” Becaris said to the brothers.
They ran down the new hall and burst through the third door on the left. They found themselves in another hall that led to a guardroom above the dungeons. As swiftly as they could they raced for the end with weapons still out and ready for the upcoming battle.
When they were only twenty feet from the guardroom door at the end of the hall a bell in the tower began to ring the call to arms.
The Knight Protectors kicked open the door into the dungeon guardroom and found four guards who were all in the midst of getting to their weapons.
The violent entry sent the door banging into the wall and startled the guards; they froze for a critical moment as they gasped at the apparition of the three warriors rushing in upon them. Then they madly grabbed for their weapons.
They never made it. The Knight Protectors swept through them like a scythe through wheat.
The chairs and card table in the middle of the room went flying as the three knights smashed into the Tchulian guards.
Rasal struck the first guard who flew back from the impact and smashed into the table. Cards flew into the air and seemed to fall in slow motion as they tumbled down all over the room.
The Tchulian guards tried to snatch up weapons, but they fell to the onslaught of the Knight Protectors. The guard's bodies landed amongst the fallen cards.
The knights did not have time to pause; the sound of boots coming down the hall propelled them into action. They grabbed three torches off the wall mounts and picked up a few of the dead soldiers’ swords. Becaris spotted the cell key ring and snatched it off a peg on the wall next to the door while Rasal flung open the door that led into the dungeon.
They quickly stepped onto the landing above the stairs and closed the door to the room of dead men behind them. There was no bar to lock the door from this side, so they wedged the Tchulians’ swords under the door to slow pursuit.
With the door secured they hurried down the stairs and began a swift check of each cell, looking for G’Taklar. They could hear sounds of pounding from the wedged door as the pursuers in the room above tried to force their way into the dungeon. As the knights checked the last two cells they heard the guard room door start to grind open as it gave in to the massive onslaught of weight from the other side.
Seeing that G’Taklar was not among the prisoners the knights retreated down the halls that led to the caverns of the souldead.
In the cave in the desert, Sergeant Herms was sweating furiously. He managed to roll and wiggle his rotund body across the dusty ground to a large rough rock. For the next three hours, he rubbed the rope that bound his hands on the stone hoping to wear through the tough fibers.
Exhausted from the effort he took several rest periods, he’d think about revenge until he had enough energy to resume work on the rope.
“I’ll roast the maggots over a slow fire and piss on their blistered bodies for bast’in,” the fat sergeant muttered to himself. He wanted to get free in time to catch the knights while they were
still in the keep. He’d been thinking about it and from their description of G'Taklar he now strongly suspected that the new recruit in his training compound was the man for whom they were searching. It all made sense now, he had heard of the patrols searching the desert and town for an escaped prisoner. Most of the Tchulian soldiers were not taking the search too seriously, they were sure their escaped prisoner had died in the souldead infested caverns.
Sergeant Herms figured that he had their escaped prisoner right under his thumb, the similarity of the new recruit's name, the timing, and his foreign accent brought it all together.
The sergeant knew that if he could just get loose he could stop the spies and deliver the escaped prisoner. He figured that he was bound to get rewarded, perhaps even transferred out of this hell hole and into one of the elite Merc platoons, the ones that got the high paid postings.
By his estimate the Lindankar knights would just be entering the keep; he figured they would have wanted it to be completely dark before attempting to infiltrate the fortress.
He went back to sawing the rope against the rock, visions of torture fueling his rage. Finally, the frayed rope gave and his hands were free. The tired sergeant laughed madly as he pulled off the last of the ropes from around his feet.
Getting to his feet, he staggered toward the town lights a few leagues distant.
Poison woke the next morning with the wisps of an interesting dream fading from her consciousness. She had been in a huge palace where people all deferred to her like she was royalty. She had been wearing a sweeping gown of lace, silk, and velvet, which was strange since she had never worn a dress within her adult memories.
“Good morning, Poison. How did you sleep?” Elizabeth asked, from where she lay curled up sideways on her blanket.
Poison got the feeling that she had been watching her for some time.
“I slept quite well, thank you. My it is a beautiful morning... ” she trailed off as a puzzled and then a scared expression appeared on her face. Then the memory of the night’s proceedings returned and with excitement she exclaimed, “Glory! It worked; I spoke like a ‘ighborn lady, but ‘ow come it only lasted a moment?”
“Control your emotions; speak calmly, thoughtfully, and slowly. Go ahead and try it,” Elizabeth encouraged.
Poison took in a deep breath to calm herself and then spoke slower, trying out her new ability. “How are you today?” Her voice came out in the cultured accent of the nobility. Pleased at her success she tried another sentence without waiting for a response to her question, “Last night I dreamt of a palace and I was dressed in a beautiful gown.” Her voice continued in the softened accent of the upper class.
Elizabeth smiled her encouragement without speaking.
Thrilled with the sound of her voice Poison tried another sentence. “Do you have anything I could drink this morning? My throat is dry.”
“Well that seems to have worked,” Elizabeth said with pleasure. The sorceress noted that Poison did sound a lot like her, something that Poison did not notice because voices always sound different to the person speaking. Poison's voice was slightly lower, but her pronunciation and cadence were identical to Elizabeth. The sorceress didn’t bring it to Poison’s attention.
Hetark returned from the nearby hilltop where he had been scouting the terrain from that vantage point.
Poison watched him as he crouched down on the balls of his feet to roll up a blanket with his back to the women. “Good morning, Hetark, did you have a pleasant rest last night?” she asked with her new accent.
“Yes, milady. I think we may reach Myrnvale late this afternoon. I could see a haze of smoke ahead, probably from the citizen’s morning meal cooking,” he answered, thinking Elizabeth had spoken.
“Yes, you are correct. I’ve camped here before and barring any unforeseen delays we should reach the city before dark,” Poison responded, and winked at Elizabeth.
“You’ve traveled here before?” Hetark said in a puzzled voice and turned to look at Elizabeth for her response.
“Yes, I have been through here often,” Poison answered with a twinkle in her eyes.
Hetark’s gaze snapped over to her and then back to Elizabeth, who only smiled at him in answer.
“I beg your pardon, I had thought I was speaking with Lady Ardellen,” the slightly embarrassed knight said.
“It’s quite all right. What do you think of my new accent?” Poison asked.
“Very becoming,” he answered, but he was bothered by the fact that she sounded so much like Elizabeth. He found it disconcerting, like a wild purclaw with the melody of a songflutter.
Poison mistook his puzzled response for sarcasm. “Well, I’ve noticed you don’t think there’s anything wrong with switching to a gutter accent when you feel the need,” she retorted.
He was angered by her attack. “Perhaps I think that people shouldn’t try to climb above their station in life.”
“That was uncalled for, Hetark, and unworthy of you,” Elizabeth interjected.
“You’re right,” he said, recognizing his rude response for what it was; he straightened his back and apologized to Poison. “Poison, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor to improve yourself. I despise people who think themselves perfect and lord it over people of a lower station in life. Such people are like a pool of water if you look through you’ll see the rotting mud underneath. I have just been guilty of a similar thing and it shames me.”
“It’s all right, I don’t think you’re quite as bad as rotting mud, maybe just normal mud,” Poison said in a joking manner, making light of the serious apology Hetark had offered to show him he was forgiven.
But Hetark was actually waiting for Elizabeth’s forgiveness, he watched her to see how she felt.
Elizabeth spoke, “Hetark, your apology was given like a true knight; however, I think you owe the lady a little more. Perhaps you should take Poison for a nice meal in Myrnvale to demonstrate your sincerity.”
“As you wish, milady. Would you care to join me for an evening meal tomorrow, Poison?” he asked the black-clad warrior.
Suddenly Poison was terrified. It was one thing to talk about correct manners, but another to do it under the eyes of upper-class people in a real restaurant. “It’s not necess...” she started to answer.
Elizabeth interrupted her with a whisper, “Go on, I have a dress you can wear; besides, there is that matter you agreed to handle.”
Poison remembered her promise, as Elizabeth knew she would.
“Yes, I’ll go to dinner with you, Hetark,” Poison replied.
Hetark nodded to her acceptance, he figured anything was worth regaining Elizabeth’s approval.
And Elizabeth was pleased, she wanted Poison and Hetark to like each other and this might lead to the beginning of friendship. If Poison made the right choices the three of them were going to be together for many years while she gathered the forces necessary to displace the necromancer who sat on her son’s throne. Elizabeth had grown to appreciate the untapped intellect that Poison possessed. Her original plans for the lethal woman were nearing completion, but now she had further plans for Poison in the upcoming conflict. She just hoped that when the time came for Poison to make a stand she chose the right path.
Elizabeth considered the future; once Hetark and Poison had their dinner in Myrnvale, Poison could deliver the message given to her by Elizabeth. Matters were about to get very interesting.
The necromancer RIveK was brushing her long red hair. She parted it in the middle and let it hang down on either side of her face. The straight hanging hair covered up the grotesque piece of missing skull on the left side of her head.
A servant knocked gently at RIveK’s temporary chambers in SKartaQ’s Shadow Fortress.
RIveK gestured casually at the door and it swung open at the command of her necromantic power.
“You may speak,” RIveK said, not bothering to look at the lowly servant.
The young girl was terrified; she had
only been taken from her family two weeks before, so she wasn’t used to seeing the dark powers of magic. Her eyes watched the door fearfully thinking it possessed by some dark spirit.
“M-M-M-Master SCorcH inv-v-v-vites you to m-m-m-meet him in the t-t-third t-t-tower ch-ch-ch-chamber, M-M-Mistress,” the petite blond servant stammered with her eyes downcast. She held the front of her smock with both hands and was wringing the material nervously.
“You may inform Master Mouthless that I will be with him in a few moments, feel free to paraphrase my response,” RIveK responded.
“P-P-Pairafiz?” the confused and timid servant girl asked.
“Paraphrase, just don’t call him Master Mouthless, I don’t wish to antagonize him just yet,” RIveK explained.
The young girl didn’t understand, but one thing she knew for sure, she wanted away from the possessed door and the red headed necromancer. “Y-Yes M-M-M-Mistress, I will t-t-tell him.”
“Then you may go,” RIveK said, and forgot the girl instantly; she had more important things to think about. She gestured again and the door slammed shut.
The servant girl picked up her skirts and fled.
Three-fourths of a bell later RIveK swept into the third level of the ice tower, her long green gown of translucent silk billowed out behind her giving glimpses of her taut body wherever the material pressed against her skin. SKartaQ and SCorcH both pretended not to notice, which informed the shrewd-eyed RIveK that her ploy was working, she had gained the advantage before she even spoke.
SKartaQ sat at the head of the black onyx table and SCorcH paced around the curved wall like a caged animal. He stopped when RIveK entered and looked up at her with a narrow disapproving glare above his burnt and ruined lower face.
He would be frowning at me, but he doesn’t have the lips, RIveK thought with amusement.
“Nice of you to show up,” SCorcH greeted her sarcastically.
“Were you waiting long? I’m so sorry,” she replied, and they both knew she didn’t mean it.
