A Dagger of the Mind (The Imperial Metals)

by Daniel Antoniazzi

  The Baron had now completely removed his beard. He started pulling at the skin on his cheeks and nose, which Landos realized were some sort of prosthetic make-up.

  “I met him,” the man who, until recently, had claimed to be the Baron said. “About a year ago. He had finally returned to the Kingdom of Rone. He said he wanted to die here. I buried him, not five miles from the Castle Hartstone. Such a sad, sad man.”

  The man removed the last of the makeup around his nose. Then, he reached behind his ears and unclasped his wig. He leaned forward quickly, took the wig off, and stood back up again.

  “I know you!” Landos said, staggering back.

  “I know you, too, Landos.”

  “It can’t be! It’s impossible!” Landos tripped over the rug, but still he scuttled away from the advancing man.

  “Nothing is impossible, my foolish Magistrate.”

  “It can’t be you! You’re dead!”

  “Do I look dead to you?”

  “I had you killed! They told me you were slain!”

  “I know you tried. But it wasn’t me.”

  The man leaned over, his breath in Landos’ face. The specter of a long lost friend shouting at him. Landos froze, eyes wide in terror. It was impossible, but it was also undeniable. He knew the man who stood before him...

  “Jareld…”

  Book 5

  Wars Designed

  Chapter 39: Escape From Goldmere

  Two Years Ago…

  Jareld was sick of the darkness. He had been a prisoner at Goldmere for four years with no companionship or light. He had become convinced, almost a year ago, that he would never breath free air again.

  But then hope came to him. It came in the form of a spoon.

  Usually, the guards gave him a cheap, tin spoon to eat with. But one day, probably through laziness, they had given him a good spoon. A real silver spoon. Clearly, whoever had been in charge of preparing the dinners had confused the silverware of the guards with the silverware of the prisoners.

  Armed with a spoon and as much time as he needed, he started to dig. He had seen the layout of the dungeons when he had first entered, years ago, and he knew that each cell was actually at an endpoint. If he dug from the back of his cell, he would clear the Tower in relatively little time.

  Day by day, he dug. It was grueling work, but he had literally nothing else to do. When he felt he was making good progress, he would dig late into the night and just keep digging. It didn’t matter if he slept late. The only thing he had to be sure not to miss was his dinner. He couldn’t dig if he didn’t have the energy for it.

  This continued for eight months, until finally he had angled his way up to the surface. He very, very carefully opened the ground above him, and for the first time in years, he saw the stars. He desperately wanted to climb out just then, to yell at the top of his lungs and then flee into the night, but he knew he shouldn’t. He knew he had to be more careful than that.

  So he waited. He sat in his tunnel for another four months, observing the situation around him. He watched the guard movements, and waited for an opportunity to run. But he knew he was in no shape to try and outrun these guards. He would have to be more subtle than that.

  Finally, opportunity came. Three horses came up with three new guards. An older man came out to meet them, the Warden, Jareld guessed. He welcomed the new guards to the Tower at Goldmere. They left their horses at a postern by the road.

  Then, one of the guards already stationed at the Tower came out, took a horse, and rode off. About twenty minutes later, another did the same thing. Jareld knew this was going to be his best chance. He had to get that third guard.

  Jareld took a chance and peeked his head all the way out of the tunnel, so he could see in all directions. Fortunately, it was dark, and nobody would see him. The third and final guard was going to his horse.

  “Hey!” Jareld yelled out in a hoarse whisper, then immediately ducked his head back down.

  The guard turned, sure he had heard something. But there was nothing there except the Tower, and surely it had not just called out to him.

  “Hey!” Jareld did the same trick again. This time, the guard started moving towards the sound. Jareld held his breath as the guard got closer and closer.

  “Who’s there?” the guard demanded, standing now just over the opening to the tunnel. Jareld made a silent prayer to himself, then leapt into action.

  He scurried out of the hole, just behind the guard, who had fortunately turned around at that moment. It was one of those little breaks of luck, because if the guard had been facing the right way, then a year’s worth of work would have been lost and Jareld would have died in prison.

  But the guard was facing the wrong way, so Jareld was able to trip him backwards so that he fell into the tunnel, headfirst and upside-down.

  Jareld then jumped back into the tunnel on top of the guard, pushing him down the canal. The guard was knocked out by the impact of hitting his head on the stone floor of the cell when they landed.

  Jareld moved quickly, taking the guard’s uniform and sword, then his favorite silver spoon, then climbing back up through the tunnel. On his way up, he used the spoon to collapse the dirt in behind him. Finally, he reached the surface, patched up the hole in the ground with his new boots, and made for the horse.

  Each step toward the horse seemed like an eternity, and he was waiting for someone to sound the alarm. But his plan had worked more brilliantly than he could have hoped. The guards didn’t suspect a thing.

  And so it was that one poor guard resided in Jareld’s cell. That guard stewed in prison for a year, his beard growing long, his face dirty. He was so changed that when the Warden came down to kill Jareld, he didn’t realize it was one of his old guards. By that time, Jareld was long gone...

  ---

  Although Jareld had been locked away for years, he had not been idle. A thinker is never doing nothing. He had thought about getting revenge on Landos. He had thought about challenging Landos to a duel, which would naturally happen on the parapet, in stormy weather. Emily would be there. Maybe tied to the tower so that Jareld could save her.

  But that wasn’t the revenge he wanted. He needed to destroy Landos. To undo him. To expose his lies to the Kingdom, remove him from the capital, and denounce his bastard son. Jareld wasn’t sure anymore if it was right to rule because of your heritage, but if you were, you damn well better be the son of the King, not the King’s conniving friend and an unfaithful Queen.

  And Jareld was a historian. He was going to set things right. He was going to show the world that Landos was a liar.

  But now that he was free, sneaking through the countryside, it occurred to him that this wasn’t an easy task. The most frightening part was not being sure who he could trust. He thought he could trust Landos and Sarah, but they’re the ones who locked him up. He wanted to trust Countess Vye, but she had been such close friends with Landos for so long. Would she help Jareld tear down her friend?

  Of course, the person he wanted to see most, the person he wanted to trust the most, was Emily. But he knew that was a more complicated mystery to unravel. Would she still love him? Had she thought about him as much as he had thought about her? As the years passed in the prison, Jareld had become convinced that Emily would remarry. Someone so wonderful wouldn’t wait so long for someone like him.

  So he put her out of his mind. He decided he could only trust two people. Everyone else would have to think he was dead. Even the ones he loved.

  Jareld arrived at the docks of Hartstone, looking for one of the people he could trust. By the strangest turn of luck, a ship had just docked, and the passengers were disembarking. The first man off the ship was the Baron Dubon von Wrims. The Baron looked bewildered and confused, and Jareld saw an opportunity.

  “Baron von Wrims, welcome to Hartstone,” he said.

  “My apologies,” the Baron said, “I did not know I was to be expected.”

  “I’m not sure you wer
e,” Jareld said. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “How do you know who I am?” the Baron asked.

  “Your colors, sir,” Jareld explained. “And I’ve seen a portrait. A Fenrow, I believe.”

  “Zis is correct,” the Baron said, mildly impressed. “You were sent by zee Countess to meet me?”

  “No,” Jareld admitted, “I have other business. Why have you come to Hartstone?”

  The Baron gave some vague response, explaining that he had returned to see some of the sights of Rone from his childhood. He found Jareld was extremely knowledgable about many of the places to which he was referring, and offered to hire Jareld for the week as a tour guide.

  But the Baron had no intentions of spending a week in Rone. He merely wanted to be back on Rone soil before he died. He had bought a terrible poison from a merchant of questionable morals in Khiransi. He and Jareld traveled to a rather upscale inn, where the keeper had a separate manor house. The Baron rented out the manor house while he paid for Jareld to have a private room in the inn itself.

  Why did the Baron bother to hire Jareld? Perhaps even he wasn’t sure. It was an extremely lonely thing to come home to die. Perhaps he just needed one witness. One person to know his name when he died. He had been gone so long, and so many of the people he knew had died during the war. If he hadn’t happened upon Jareld, his return and death might have gone unnoticed.

  Instead, with Jareld’s help, his return and death would become part of a greater legend. Jareld checked on the Baron the following morning to find him dead. He had composed a long and depressing letter explaining his loss and his intentions, and requesting to be buried anywhere in Rone soil. He explained that he did not want a ceremony. He just wanted to be done.

  He left no instructions for the two chests of gold under his bed.

  Jareld was not one to become enamored of material gains. But he had a mission, and he couldn’t deny that, tragic though it was, the Baron’s return was a boon to him. He was saddened, but he thought he now had a fighting chance.

  Jareld took it upon himself to bury the Baron the next evening. But until it was done, it hadn’t even occurred to him that nobody else knew the Baron was dead. It would take a while to formulate his plan in full, but he knew he could take advantage of that.

  He told the keeper that the Baron wasn’t feeling well, but he wanted to remain in the inn for a short while. Jareld gave a small advance to the keeper, which was gladly accepted. The instructions that the Baron wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstance were also gladly accepted.

  Jareld went into town. There was an acting troupe in the center that evening, performing a bit of comedy. Jareld found them to be witty and entertaining, and gladly cheered and provided the company with a healthy tip. As a result, they asked him to join them for drinks at a nearby tavern.

  Jareld found that his free-flowing coins led to free-flowing ale, which led to free-flowing friendliness. He found himself in a long conversation with the two leads of the show, the two innamorati.

  “I find it amazing, what you do,” Jareld said. “To be another person.”

  “Not as difficult as you might imagine,” the man explained, “You just have to be willing to lie.”

  “Never been good at lying,” Jareld said. “Which has gotten me into a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh, you gotta learn to lie,” the actor continued. “Makes life so much more fun. Also, girls are much easier to get with lies than truth.”

  “Hey,” the young actress protested.

  “Oh, come now, Gabrielle,” the actor retorted, “Would you have slept with me if you knew what you know now?”

  “Absolutely not!” Gabrielle said, but she was laughing.

  “See,” the actor concluded. “Hey, never got your name, by the way.”

  Jareld realized he had done all this socializing without ever giving his name. The actor’s lesson, and the free-flowing ale, gave him an idea.

  “I’m the Baron Dubon von Wrims,” Jareld said.

  “Well, Baron,” Gabrielle said, leaning into him, “What brings you to Hartstone?”

  “I’m actually...looking for acting lessons. I want to learn how to do what you do. Not saying I’ll be good at it, but I could get better than I am now, and I have money to spare.”

  “Well, when you put it that way...” the leading man smiled.

  For the next two weeks, the acting troupe helped Jareld learn what he could about acting. Jareld wouldn’t have really fooled anyone so easily, but he found he was becoming more and more willing to lie and cheat to get what he wanted.

  As he got to know more members of the troupe, Jareld learned other skills, like make-up, prosthetics, and wigs. One of the older actors also helped him with his northern accent. Most people could do a basic imitation of a northern accent, as southerners were prone to making fun of them. But under expert guidance, Jareld refined his use of certain words and phrases.

  Eventually, the troupe had to travel to Trentford, and Jareld felt he had to move on himself. He thanked the troupe for their help and was on his way.

  ---

  So now Jareld had the funding and the skills. But he needed an approach. He needed to find one of the people he trusted: Corthos. He donned a fake beard and wig. He added prosthetics to his cheeks and chin. He took a smaller chest and filled it with a small amount of gold. Then, he took the Baron’s ship, a fast schooner, and sailed it out into the Deliem Bay. There, he opened his treasure chest, full of shiny gold, and started counting the coins. He made sure to wipe down some of the coins, so that they would glint in the sunlight.

  It wasn’t long before he was captured by pirates. Jareld remembered his lessons on the subject of being a pirate, and quickly offered a healthy ransom if his captors could deliver him to Corthos. They sailed for two days until they came to a small island.

  Corthos had been busy since Jareld had last seen him. Having earned the starting capital to become a legitimate pirate, he had pillaged and plundered with great success. He now commanded a small fleet of pirating ships, including the one who had captured Jareld. He still went out on his flagship, the Leaking Tub II, from time to time, but he spent a lot more of his time on the island, drinking and entertaining the sort of women who were attracted to the sort of guy who controlled his own island.

  Jareld was brought to Corthos’ small hut. His captors knocked respectfully, for once they had failed to knock, to the great embarrassment of Corthos, the pirates, and two of the sort of women who were attracted to the sort of guy who controlled his own island.

  Corthos appeared at the door. He still wore an eyepatch over his perfectly healthy eye, just for the style points. He was, to the great relief of all present, wearing clothes at the moment. There were no impressed women in the cabin.

  “What is is, maties?” Corthos asked to the crowd at his door.

  “We picked up this nobleman,” his underling said. “Says he can triple our earnings if we brought him to you.”

  “Aye?” Corthos said, examining Jareld. Jareld was proud that Corthos couldn’t recognize him through the makeup.

  “I zink zat you will find my offer most lucrative,” Jareld said, practicing his northern accent. “But I must speak to you alone.”

  “It be a trap,” one of the pirates said.

  “Nay,” Corthos said. “Methinks this man is not dangerous at all. Bring him inside and leave him with me.”

  “But, Admiral…”

  “Neveryemind,” Corthos said. “D’ya think I cannot handle meself?”

  So Jareld was brought into the bungalow and tied to a chair. Corthos shut the door.

  “What is yer offer, matey?”

  “Corthos, it’s me.”

  “Yer accent. What became of it?”

  “Corthos, it’s me. It’s Jareld!”

  Corthos was stunned into silence. For the first time since Jareld knew him, he lifted his eyepatch so he could look at Jareld with both eyes. He quickly untied Jareld. They hugged.
Jareld removed his beard and some of the simple prosthetics.

  He outlined his plan. His design to bring about Landos’ downfall. His means by which to restore the Kingdom to what he perceived as Justice. And though it was a long-winded plan with a long incubation period, Corthos was all too happy to help. Jareld had saved them all in the Caves of Drentar, and even though Corthos had no loyalty to the Kingdom, he would sail over the edge of the world if Jareld needed it of him.

  They went to work. They refined the plan. They gathered supplies. They figured out the timing. Jareld maintained the disguise at all times unless he was alone with Corthos. One night, while going over some maps, Jareld turned to Corthos.

  “Whatever happened to Flopson?” he asked.

  “I dunnot rightly know,” Corthos admitted. “He helped me in getting the sword and burying it, but I ha’ not seen him since.”

  “Shame,” Jareld said. “We could have used his help.”

  “Nay,” Corthos said, “Ya would nawt want him on this job. After tha sword were buried, his mind slipped away from ‘im.”

  “It was Flopson. How could you tell?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Can you bring me to the Saintskeep?”

  Corthos consulted maps, and sailed them six days south, into the warmer climate. There, they came upon another small and non-descript island. Jareld would have found it amazing that this was the same island Selene and Helios would sink, almost exactly one year later.

  They found the spot and dug up the weapon. Jareld drew it out of its sheath. The Sword of Kings. The Saintskeep. Five years ago, it had been the impetus. The thing that sent him away from home. The reason Thor died. The reason Michael was able to defeat Devesant. The reason Jareld, alone in the Kingdom, discovered the infidelity of the Queen.

  He wanted to think that now it was just a sword. But it wasn’t. Even as he drew it, he could feel its majesty. There was something there, and perhaps its full potential had not even been reported.