by Doug Niles
Selinda led him along the back of the house, ignoring the shouts that grew more insistent—and nearer. They came upon a horizontal trapdoor, leading into a compartment underneath the rear of the house. There was a rusty iron bolt atop the door, which the young woman kicked open then reached down to pull up the hatch.
“This is a wine cellar,” the princess said. “There is a way out of here. You can escape through a tunnel, a long passage, that leads down to the bank of the stream. Hurry!”
He paused, his natural wariness balking at the sight of the shadowy flight of steps. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“I told you—I used to play here as a child. It was my favorite part of the whole estate. Now, go!”
Jaymes looked at her, frowning. After only a moment’s further hesitation he plunged into the dark space beneath the trapdoor, slipping down the steep wooden set of stairs and coming to rest on his rump on a dusty floor. The momentary flash of light around him vanished as she dropped the door of the hatch back into place.
He listened, expecting to hear the sound of approaching knights. Instead, he heard a metallic clunk and knew that the princess had fastened the outside lock on the door.
“Don’t be such an old maid,” Selinda said, shaking her head in the face of Captain Powell’s anger—anger, she knew very well, fueled by his genuine concern for her.
The knights had brought her hastily back to the camp, swords drawn, eyes wide as they explored the shadows to all sides. Despite her protests that she had not seen anything untoward, they acted as if they had snatched her from a menace in hot pursuit. They jostled her along so roughly that she arrived in the safety of the camp huffing for breath, her hair and garments in disarray.
Fortunately, in their eagerness to get her away from the ruins none of them had examined the rear of the house. She had been able to slip away from the trapdoor before she met her “rescuers,” so none of them spotted a hatch, its rusty iron bolt in place. The Assassin, as she had known he would, had refrained from making any noise that would have attracted their attention.
“This is the Sword of Lorimar!” the Captain of the Rose spluttered, gesturing to the tall blade that now lay on the table in his command tent. “That means that the Assassin is nearby somewhere! By Joli, if you had met him near that old ruin, you could have suffered the same fate as Lorimar’s daughter!”
“I appreciate your diligence, Captain. Your men made haste to find me and bring me to safety. Surely the crisis is past.”
“That is not the point—nor is the danger past,” fumed Powell. “From now on, you will stay safely behind in the camp where we can keep an eye on you. As to that wretched murderer, I can only suspect he’s miles away by now. A cur like that would certainly flee at the approach of a company of knights.”
“What about those you suspect of being his companions—the dwarf and gnomes? Surely he would not abandon them?”
The captain of knights shook his head. “That was my failing, Princess. When I found the sword, my thoughts were all of you and your immediate peril. I led the men to seek you and bring you back. I left only a skelton few on guard here. By the time we returned, those rascals had slipped away into the dusk. I can’t spare the men to chase after them in the dark, not when the real villain is out there somewhere.”
“He is the real villain, that warrior?” Selinda inquired. “Has the evidence been presented to a lord or a knightly council?”
“The evidence is plain, my lady!” Powell declared in exasperation, pointing to the sword. “That is the mark of Lorimar on the hilt. Giantsmiter is a unique weapon—the flaming blade of the gods, it has been called. When that fire is blazing, it can cut through stone, metal, anything. Witness how it felled the knights in Caergoth who went to arrest him!”
She frowned, thinking of that episode and its consequences. “Still, the circumstances of Lorimar’s death, and of his daughter’s, all the circumstances are somewhat murky, are they not? Is it known why this particular warrior wanted to slay them?”
The captain looked serious, and very tired. He appeared ready to brush away her question but apparently decided upon frankness. “I myself knew of Sir Jaymes Markham, when Lorimar was still alive. He was a maverick Knight of the Rose, but for many years presumed to be loyal. For some reason he wormed his way into Lorimar’s confidence and into a position of responsibility in the lord’s House Guards. He is the only one to survive that dark evening—his badge and breastplate were found at the scene. He stole the sword, Giantsmiter. If he is innocent, why did he do that? Why wouldn’t he come forth to bear witness against the true killer?”
Selinda frowned again, shrugging her shapely shoulders. “Perhaps you are right, or perhaps he had his reasons. There were others who desired Lorimar’s death, were there not?”
Captain Powell winced. “There are stories, my lady, circulating all through the knighthood, of course. Lorimar was a wealthy man, and he was hated by some in the knighthood for writing the Compact of the Free and coercing the signatures of many powerful lords.”
“I remember even my father complaining about it,” the princess noted.
“Rathskell of Solanthus hated Lorimar. He wanted to court Lorimar’s daughter, but Lankford refused the match. He humiliated Thelgaard, too, when that lord tried to claim Garnet with some concocted fiction—Lorimar made him look like a fool.”
“I always had the impression Lorimar was greatly admired,” Selinda said.
“True, my lady, greatly admired by some. He had allies among the Crowns and Swords. He was a fair-minded man, and the rank and file held him in the highest esteem. The people looked to him, even more than to your father—if you will forgive me saying so—as the hope of their future. There was even that nonsense about the prophecy—every two-bit charlatan preacher spread that around.”
“Dara, ‘Princess of the Plains’?” the young woman remembered. “That one day she would be the queen of a restored kingdom? I knew her very well. She laughed about that prophecy.”
“Perhaps, but the prophecy was widespread—that she would wed some mysterious Lord of No Sign. Who can blame the people for dreaming of the old days of empire? There’s not a veteran knight who hasn’t. But I think Lankford bore no illusions that it would happen during his, or even his daughter’s, lifetimes.”
“Why do you think he was killed?” Selinda probed uneasily.
“The long and short of it is he was a threat to others. Both the dukes of the Crown and the Sword had vowed to block his more liberal-minded ideas. I know for a fact that Caergoth was outraged when Lorimar also sought the hand of his daughter in marriage and was flatly denied.”
“What, Crawford wanted to marry Dara? How do you know this?”
“Your father himself told me. He doesn’t trust either of those lords. That was one reason he had such high hopes for the recent council.”
She turned around, apparently confused and distraught. “Yes, the goblins! They’ll wreck everything! They are a worse threat than this Assassin.”
“Ah, my lady, don’t worry. Goblins are a threat we knights can handle. Indeed, our orders live for such a challenge. Between Thelgaard, Solanthus, and Caergoth, those wretches will be wiped out—or so badly smashed that it will be a generation before they dare to show their faces on the plains again!”
“Indeed. Well, at least there is some comfort there,” Selinda said, regaining her composure. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will retire to my tent. All of this excitement has me utterly exhausted.
It was much later, when most of the camp was asleep, that Selinda rose from her cot, wrapped herself in a warm shawl, and slipped out of her tent. She had taken note of where the guards were posted and had no difficulty slipping past them, unseen as she started back toward the abandoned house.
And the Assassin.
Jaymes had nothing with which to make a light, so he blundered around the surprisingly large room in the darkness, groping with his hands, seeking any indication of the tunnel
Selinda had told him about. The wine cellar was lined with massive kegs, most of which unfortunately sounded empty when he tapped them lightly with his knuckles. After several circuits of the room, he was convinced the place was surrounded by solid walls, the only entrance being the trapdoor through which he had entered.
Jaymes examined the stone wall behind the massive wine kegs but was unable to find a weakness, any crack or flaw in the solid masonry that might indicate a secret door. The princess had lied to him—there was no tunnel out of here, no secret passage connecting the wine cellar to the stream.
He had already tried the trapdoor and found, as he suspected, that it had been firmly latched from the outside. It rattled slightly but was solidly constructed and showed no signs of rot or decay. With the awkward angle forced by the narrow stairway and the fact that he was pushing almost straight up, he couldn’t budge the barrier. Perhaps a series of smashing blows might have eventually forced the door up, but the inevitable noise would bring a platoon of knights down on him long before he could shatter the latch.
He was slumped on the floor in disgust, leaning against the cold stone wall, when he heard the catch on the trapdoor released. Moving quickly and silently, he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Selinda stepped inside. He was ready to spring upward, to charge through the door and make his escape, but again something made him hesitate. He waited as she started down the steps, watched as she stopped to close the heavy door behind her.
Only when she had joined him on the cellar floor did she touch spark to the wick of a small lantern, finally casting some light around the dusty, moldy room.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll help you get away from here now.”
“If there was ever a tunnel out of here, it’s been covered over since the time you knew it as a girl,” he warned.
She merely smiled and went to one of the massive wine kegs, the last one along the far wall of the room. Reaching down, she twisted the spigot, and pulled. Jaymes felt chagrin as the front of the cask swiveled away, revealing a small dark passage.
“Follow me,” she invited.
“You should stay here,” he urged.
“No,” she demurred. “I’ll take the light. Besides, you might need help at the other end. Come this way.”
She started into the narrow passage, and he had little choice but to follow. He had to stoop to pass under the low ceiling, but the well-made tunnel was surprisingly dry. They padded along in silence for several minutes, and Jaymes found himself pondering many things about this puzzling woman before him. When they stopped for a short rest, he asked her a question.
“You were a friend of Dara Lorimar’s?” he said. “Why are you trying to help the man who is accused of killing her?”
“Because,” she said, after a few seconds thought. “Someday I hope to find out the truth.”
Selinda wouldn’t say any more, instead leading him along at a rapid pace. Finally they came to the end of the tunnel, where an old wooden ladder led up a shaft toward a sturdy trapdoor.
“That’s covered with a layer of dirt on the outside,” she said. “You’ll have to pound a bit, but it should open up and let you out.”
He ascended the ladder and did as she suggested, thumping with his fist until he felt the trapdoor loosen and shift. Placing his shoulder against the barrier, he heaved upward, heard the tearing of grass as the thing gave way. With a final heave, he pushed himself upward, rolling onto soft turf.
He wasn’t at the stream bank. Instead, he was in the apple grove, surrounded by a dozen knights who had no doubt been alerted by the thumping under where they stood. They surrounded him in a circle, weapons drawn, as Selinda came up behind him.
“Fetch Captain Powell,” she said. “I have brought him the Assassin.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE PRISONER
We should execute the fiend immediately!” declared Sir Powell, the roar of his voice thundering through the camp. He glared at Selinda, eyes bulging, veins throbbing in his forehead. He was as worked up as she had ever seen him. “Burning him at the stake would be only fitting justice for the crimes he committed against Lord Lorimar and his family. You’ve seen it yourself—the proof of his guilt is right there, in that purloined fabled sword!”
“I will thank you to watch your tone,” Selinda replied coldly. “You will not win this argument by shouting me into submission!” The two of them stood alone in the dark night, away from the men of the company. Wind rustled through the apple trees, and a bright campfire crackled nearby.
The captain, his mustache quivering with indignation, stepped closer to the princess. With a visible effort he lowered his voice. “We have him in chains, now, thanks to you, Princess, but he has already killed one man in Caergoth, trying to escape. Then, too, he carried with him the sword of Lord Lorimar—the weapon that vanished at the time of that noble lord’s assassination! I told you that he had renounced the knighthood—took off the breastplate of the Rose and cast it aside! What more proof of his guilt do you need? These are crimes that cry out for justice—and that justice can only be served by putting him to death!”
“You make a damning case, Captain,” she replied. “I am merely suggesting—no, insisting—that the decision to execute be deferred until the prisoner can be taken to Palanthas so that my father can make that choice with the aid of a proper court of law!”
“The man is wily, desperate—a killer! The road to Palanthas is long and trying, as you well know. We are not set up for such a task, keeping a desperate prisoner. What if he escapes, does more harm? Will you accept the responsibility if he gets free and kills again?”
“What about the Oath and the Measure?” she retorted. “What kind of justice do the Solamnic Knights stand for? Killing a man merely because it’s inconvenient to arrange a trial?”
“Pardon me for saying this, but need I remind you, my lady, Lord Lorimar was a great friend of your family? Is it not unseemly for you to make such a vigorous defense on his assassin’s behalf?”
“You do not need to remind me of anything, sir!” Selinda hissed, her face flushing. “Dara Lorimar was a playmate of mine since childhood. Do not dare to presume that I wish her killer to have any special favors!”
“Then why take chances?” Powell pressed, shaking his head in confusion. “We can hang him right here! Or lop off his head. Even burn him at the stake—your lady’s preference, of course.”
“My preference, sir, is that he be bound, and delivered to Palanthas. There in the great city of Solamnia, justice may be served under the watchful eyes of the lords and the gods,” the princess stated. She turned and walked a few steps away, trying to bring her raging emotions under control.
“But the risks—”
“Truth is worth risk!” she shot back. “There are still mysteries here, mysteries about this man and about the murders! Why did Coryn the White aid him, as I’ve told you, if he is an enemy of Solamnia? You yourself have admitted there were others who had cause to hate, to fear Lord Lorimar. What if one of them ordered the killing? Even if Jaymes Markham performed the deed, it might have been at the bidding of another! Who would be happier than that man to see the assassin executed, his secrets destroyed with him. No, Captain, we need to discover the whole truth!”
She circled around the silent, fuming Powell in the firelit clearing. In truth, Selinda wasn’t certain why she thought an immediate execution was such a bad idea. When she thought of Dara Lorimar, bleeding to death beside her father’s savagely battered corpse, her hands clenched and bitter tears came to her eyes.
It was true that this man, Jaymes Markham, had borne the dead man’s sword away from his ruined mansion.
She looked at Sir Powell, who, though he glared at her, had apparently exhausted his arsenal of opposition. Indeed, the veteran officer looked old, weary, dejected. Selinda felt sorry for him.
He straightened to full attention as she resumed the argument, his demeanor frosty but obviously, now, resigned.
“Don’t you wonder why the Lorimars were killed?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes, I often think about it,” Powell admitted. “But what makes you think this villain is capable of telling the truth?”
“At least in Palanthas he can be questioned by all the experts in my father’s realm! Clerics and mages can query him, and maybe their unique skills will ferret out the truth!”
“That may be so, but the danger! The chance of escape, or rescue. Remember, he has three accomplices still at large, need I remind you? There are too many risks involved—”
“Oh, come on, Uncle Siggy,” she said, employing the pet name she had lavished on him when, as a little girl, she had bounced on Sir Sigmund Powell’s knee. “Do you think a dwarf and two gnomes are a threat to a hundred worthy knights?”
She sighed, put her hands on his arms, felt the strength there and the loyalty for which she loved him. “I know you only have my best interests at heart, and I don’t mean to cause you any more grief.” She raised her hands to his shoulders, squeezing. “Really!”
His posture remained rigid, but she saw the gradual softening in his eyes. Slowly, he relaxed, finally raising one of his hands to cover her own. “The man is a villain! A treacherous assassin, and who knows what else he has done as an outlaw?” he said. “If he should bring any harm to you—”
“He won’t,” Selinda said firmly. She smiled slyly. “Just think, if we had returned to Palanthas by sea, as you had planned, we never would have found him. You should be congratulating me for bringing us this way, allowing you to capture the most celebrated fugitive in all Solamnia! The least you can do is obey my wishes in this one simple matter.”
“Ah, my lady. As ever, I obey you. But this matter is far from simple. I remind you again: What if he should escape?”
