by T. O. Munro
Another four guards awaited him there and once more he played the avuncular cleric keen to distribute largesse in celebration of his own return. However, as the two men gathered around him, one stopped in shock. A drop of blood had appeared on his hand, and then another. The puzzled man looked up towards the murder hole above him, through which the blood of one of Xander’s earlier victims was dripping.
Xander acted quickly. As the blood spattered guard looked up, Xander drove a knife up through the man’s chin and into his head. His colleague on Xander’s other side, reached immediately for his sword but drew it but an inch or two before the false priest’s other knife was driven through his throat. As two men spluttered into pools of blood on the ground, the remaining two, still some feet away, switched from curious beggars to alert warriors. Swords unsheaved, mouths widening to cry out an alert.
Xander flung out his hands, fingers working faster then ever before as he exclaimed “fulgur percutiamque vos.” A crackle of lightning shot from his outstretched hand, ricocheting back and forth between the two guardsmen as they convulsed in its arcing embrace. As the bodies fell to the floor amid a stench of singed flesh, Xander slid to his kness, drained and panting.
It took him a full minute to recover, a desperate minute of listening for sounds of alarm from elsewhere in the fortress, while blood continued to drip through the murder holes from the chamber above. At last he was strong enough to stand and stagger over to the Western wall where the palm shaped stone awaited him. The portcullis was down, the gate was shut and the dull glow from the stone showed the bloodline lock was active. Of course Thren would have locked it himself on this night of curious homecomings.
Xander hesitated a moment, examining his conscience with curious detachment as he contemplated the ultimate treachery he was about to commit. His conscience he found, was not so much clean as entirely absent. Without further delay he pressed his palm against the stone, saw the change in colour as the ancient magic, which locked and strengthened the portals of Sturmcairn, was discharged.
The wheel to raise the unlocked portcullis spun easily beneath his hands and once it was raised above head height, Xander passed under it to the wooden gate beyond. While the entire double gate could now be opened that was not yet Xander’s intention. Instead, he unbarred and opened the smaller wicket gate set within the northern side of the right hand gate. It was dark outside, but the wind from the pass howled through the opening he had made.
Xander gazed into the night, his eyes struggling to get used to the blackness. But even as he thought to call out to his unseen compatriots, dark shapes detached themselves from the shadow of the curtain wall and slipped towards the opening of this chink in Sturmcairn’s defences.
A familiar voice at the head of the group demanded, “what kept you, my Prince?”
“Hush your mythering, Haselrig,” Xander retorted as his associate slipped by him into the warmth of the body strewn gatehouse. “You have no idea how hard it is to break open the most secure castle in the Petred isle.”
As more figures slipped through, Haselrig eyed the Prince up and down. “Is that what your brother looks like these days? I dare say you’ve been enjoying a few home comforts while we have all been freezing our balls off for the last hour waiting for you to open the gate.”
Xander grimaced, “surely not all of you suffered that penalty, Haselrig, unless the lady elected not to come.”
“Fear not, worm,” a soft voice at his shoulder commanded. “Dema is here to make sure you don’t cock it up….. again.”
Xander turned slowly to face the new arrival, a tall female figure whose chainmail glinted beneath the floor length cloak she wore. Her head was closely hooded and she wore a black gauze mask over her upper face through which she could clearly see out, but through which naught could be seen of her eyes save an oddly unsettling and chilling sparkle. “Remember in the days to come, lady, it was I that took Sturmcairn,” he told her.
“Such a bold worm, to take ownership of a feat that has not yet been accomplished.”
“Without my power to unlock the gates, you would be a frozen icicle on that pass out there.”
“Enough bickering, both of you,” Haselrig interrupted. “Dema at least is right in one thing. The task is not yet done. Much peril lies ahead before we maybe sure we have carried the night.”
As the last of the party hastened through the open gateway Xander coughed at the stench and cried out hoarsely. “Orcs, you mad bitch? you brought orcs into Sturmcairn.”
Dema shrugged. “The leaders of the three tribes demanded that honour, and to be honest, three orc chieftains are worth a lot more in this venture than a nine-fingered renegade prince.”
Xander surveyed the little band. There were two dozen men in all. It seemed far too few to take a fortress. There were in fact many more waiting beyond the bend in the pass. However, only these twenty four had the skills to creep unnoticed beneath the length of the curtain wall and so be close enough to take advantage of the gate being opened. They were ruffians all. Thieves and killers sent into exile and now returning to put their dubious skills to use in a momentous revenge on the kingdom that forsook them. And then there were the three orc chieftains, gazing in stupefaction at the unprecedented experience of being inside fortress Sturmcairn.
“Who is with me,” Xander demanded. Immediately five of the roughest looking blackguards stepped forward followed a heartbeat later by Haselrig. The false Prince nodded in approval, “We’ll take the eastern passage through the wall.”
As Xander turned to lead his party away, Dema called, “Aren’t you forgetting something, worm?”
“What?” in feigned ignorance.
“The password. You did get the night’s password didn’t you?”
Xander grinned. “Oh yes. I caught the good Captain Kimbolt off guard, after he’d had some tumble with a serving wench. Bewitched him into friendship and asked him for the password just like that?”
“I don’t care what half cocked spell you stammered your way through, worm. I want to know the password.”
“Only I need to know it,” Xander replied.
“But what if you should, by some mischance die before your part is completed?”
Xander pursed his lips as he considered the suggestion. “In that case, I guess I wouldn’t give a shit whether the rest of youse knew the password or not.” The sparkle behind Dema’s mask intensified and her body trembled from foot to cowled head with supressed anger. Xander grinned at her discomfort. “You get yourself in position and wait for my signal Lady, and maybe fill the waiting with a prayer for my success.”
“Aye,” Dema muttered at the Prince’s departing back. “Mayhap a prayer to the God of fools.”
***
In his dream, Captain Thackery was in the arms of a beautiful woman in an idyllic Inn he knew well. It was on the shores of the greater Nevers River, a league or so downstream of Morwencairn and he had spent many happy times there in his youth. The dream was perfect, but for the fact that the woman kept calling out to him, “Thackery, Captain Thackery.” And then the woman turned into Prince Thren and Thackery awoke abruptly in his narrow cot to the sounds of the Castellan calling outside his room.
Bleary eyed, he stepped out into the captains’ mess where Thren’s attention had been drawn to a plate of fine meats left unattended on the table. “Sire, forgive me. I had thought to take some rest between watches.”
Thren shook his head free of the culinary distraction. “I had hoped to find Kimbolt on duty, Thackery but you will do. I think it is time to question our prisoner.”
Thackery hid a yawn behind the back of his hand. “Aye, sire. Is it morning already?”
“No, but I am minded not to wait. I have sent a fast rider with a despatch to Morwencairn, but there is too much in this affair that smells for me to wait either for morning or for my father’s instructions.“
“Aye aye sire.” Thackery grabbed his sword belt and followed the impatient Prince into th
e cold night air.
***
Just below the battlements level, a passageway ran the length of the curtain wall. In times of attack, it would be filled with soldiers firing from arrow slits shielded all around by solid masonry. For now though, it provided a covered route for the intruders all the way round to the foot of Sturmcairntor. While pairs of guards patrolled the battlements above, the hollow corridor beneath was entirely empty. At the Eastern end, the passage turned to the North and ran upwards, with many steps, to climb the distance to that junction of outer bailey and inner courtyard where the beacon tower had its footings.
A pair of guards stood by the opening at the base of the tower sharing some ribald joke for there was a burst of laughter as Xander approached. The guise of the portly Bishop of Sturmcairn worked its deceit once more. They returned his greeting of Kopetcha, and mirrored his bow of greeting with low bows of their own from which neither rose. The first caught Xander’s knife in his throat, the second was hacked down from behind by a burly outlander’s broadsword. They pulled the bodies into the well of the tower and then, Xander in the lead, began the long ascent.
At the top, Xander had to pause for breath, by the tower door drained of energy by both the physical and magical exertions of the evening. He could see the impatience in Haselrig’s face and the ill concealed contempt of the hardy outlanders. Stung into action, he hammered on the barred door and called out “Kopetcha.” There was a delay, a murmmuring of voices on the other side, surprised to be visited midwatch until Xander thought he might have to call again. But then the bar was slid back and the door opened a fraction. “Who goes there?”
“It is I Udecht, with a blessing for you all, though you may need to open the door a little more. I am not so slim a man that I can squeeze through a crack like that.”
The crack widened and Udecht gave it a hearty shove to accelerate its progress as he stepped onto the platform and buried his knife hilt deep in the guard who had opened the door. The man slipped to the ground with a startled moan. His three compatriots reached for their swords but too late as the outlanders burst past Xander to cut them down.
As the last one grunted his way into the afterlife, Xander turned to Haselrig. “That was seamless.”
“Aye, that part is done. Now give Dema the signal. I’ll not rest easy ‘til the Master himself is come at the fruition of his plan.”
Xander scowled. “It is not all his plan, and friend Haselrig, do you not find you rest easier away from our Master than in his company.”
“I have found my Prince, that fulfilling his instructions wherever, whatever and whenever has been our only route to easy rest these past seventeen years. Now make the signal to the lady.”
Xander strode over to a brazier filled with burning torches and pulled one free. Then, holding Haselrig’s gaze he waved the torch casually over the oil filled channel which led, like a fuse, into the heart of the huge dormant bonfire that was the beacon tower’s defining feature. He was rewarded with a look of sheer panic on the ex-antiquary’s features. “You fool,” Haselrig expostulated. “Be careful with that flame. Our mission is stop the beacon being lit, not to set it off ourselves. Flout not our Master’s wishes.”
“Oh Haselrig, a day is beckoning when I will come into my inheritance and then I will fear no-one, neither living nor dead.”
“This is no time for riddles my Prince, make the signal!” Haselrig spat.
With a sigh, Xander strode to the Western edge of the tower, where all of Sturmcairn could be dimly perceived hundreds of feet below. He raised the torch up high and swung it left then right twice. “Do you see them?” Haselrig demanded. “Are they on the move?”
***
Udecht, the real Udecht, lay in miserable paralysis facing the wall on the makeshift bed that had been intended for his returning brother. He heard the voices talking behind him, was cheered beyond normal measure to hear his nephew’s strident tone.
“Can he not hear us?” The Castellan was demanding. “Is he dead?”
“No sire, I see his chest rise and fall, it is but a slumber,” the guard captain, Thackery it must be, replied.
“A deeper slumber than I have ever enjoyed,” Thren growled. “Go in there, give yon fellow a shake, Captain. But careful mind, who knows what tricks he might have brought from beyond the barrier.”
There was a creak of the metal gate to the sacristy and then Udecht felt strong hands on his shoulders. It was just, a gentle shake at first, but then he was pulled over on his back and vigorously rocked back and forth by the moustachied Captain. “Wake, man, what ails you?” Thackery was saying. “Your eyes are open yet still you speak not. What kind of dream are you in?”
The violence of the Captain’s manhandling was loosening the magical ties that bound the Bishop. He felt his tongue stir in his mouth as voluntary muscles returned to his control.
“Xander… Xander,” he hastened to say, though the name came out as muffled as if his cheeks were filled with cotton wool.
“Aye, your Highness,” Thackery acknowledged. “Prince Xander is your name, but what of it and what ails you so? To be sure you flop around like a landed fish.”
Gross motor function came back first, his arms flailing uselessly at Thackery’s sides while his fingers felt as fat and immobile as a bunch of bananas.
“Xander.. he bewitched me.” Udecht managed to utter the vital message. “I am Udecht. Xander roams the fortress with my face, bent on treachery.”
“What’s he saying?” Thren demanded impatiently from the door, hearing all of the urgency but only some of the words in Udecht’s voice.
“He says, sire…” Thackery hesitated at repeating the incredible message. “He says he is your uncle sire, your other uncle the Bishop Udecht. He says that Prince Xander has disguised himself as the Bishop and is loosed in the castle with ill intent.”
“Kopetcha,” Udecht gasped as at last feeling returned to his numbed fingers. He gripped Thackery’s arm, beseeching his acceptance of the events. “Kopetcha. See I know the password. It is I Udecht, and we are all in peril.”
Thackery glanced across at Thren. The beginnings of belief in Udecht’s tale only opened the flood gates to a host of consequences too dire for easy contemplation. The Castellan too had made the connections. “Come Thackery, we must alert the guard.”
“What of your uncle sire, this uncle, whichever of them he is?”
“Take me with you,” Udecht implored, at last able to raise himself into a sitting position.
“No, leave him here. He is either a cunningly treacherous outlander or an unwise bishop. Either way he is better locked up than at loose on an ill starred night as this.”
“Thren, no!” Udecht cried, stumbling uncertainly after the Captain as Thackery crossed the sacristy and pulled the gate shut behind him. “Don’t leave me here.”
“If you are Udecht,” Thren told him coldly. “Then pray your folly has not ruined this fortress and it is still I that comes to release you.” With that he was gone, bidding the two guards at the sacristy entrance join him and Thackery as they hastened from the temple.
In a dark corner of the temple, a figure rose roused from a holy reverie by the commotion. Kimbolt’s mind felt foggy still. He had heard the Castellan’s voice, speaking sternly of Udecht, of Kimbolt’s good friend Udecht. With a nagging sense of unease Kimbolt began a slow walk towards the doorway, trying to work out if he should be following or chasing Prince Thren.
***
“See, there,” Haselrig cried. “Another one fallen.”
To the observers in the beacon tower, Dema’s silent assault on the battlement patrols was a spectacle of brutal efficiency. A combination of swift moving warriors and sharp eyed crossbowmen meant that the pairs of guards were being taken down too rapidly to pass the alert to the next group. To the East of the gatehouse one group of ten outlanders had already despatched nearly twice their number and were racing along the rising curtain wall to the foot of Sturmcairntor itself.
To the west of the guesthouse, in the occasional flicker of torch light, the watchers could glimpse Dema herself leading the three lumbering orcs and all but two of the remaining outlander humans as they swept through the small tower at the south western corner and began their own ascent of the inclined wall towards the inner bailey.
“She is magnificent,” Haselrig gave voice to his admiration as, despite the more plentiful guards, Dema had cleared her section fractionally ahead of the corresponding party on the opposite side of the wall. “There, ‘tis done. Make the signal to the main force.”
“Pah, Haselrig.” Xander spat. “You make the signal, since you admire the lady’s expertise so much. Mayhap if you ask nicely she might find you a place in her heart, as a garden ornament perhaps.”
“Where are you going, my Prince?” Haselrig demanded in panic. “Our orders are to hold this place.”
“My work here is done,” Xander pronounced, pulling open the tower door. “And I have business with my nephew. I saw he carried my brother’s old sword which, by rights, belongs to me.”
“No, leave Thren to the lady.”
“Thren is mine,” Xander said, as he disappeared down the stairway.
“By all that’s unholy,” Haselrig cried making to follow him and then remembering himself. He hastily grabbed a torch and standing high on the battlements swung it in a big circle, once widdershins, once sunwise and then widdershins again. The signal complete, he did not wait to peer into the gloom for the vanguard of the mainforce emerging from the distant outcrop of rock on the pass. Sturmcairn was denuded of its eyes. No alarm would sound as the host of orcs and returning exiles marched on a gate that even now was opening fully to admit them. Everything was going according to plan, apart that was, from the impulsive Prince and his sudden quest for personal revenge and an ancestral bauble. Haselrig shot through the tower door, pulling it closed behind him.
***
