The Emerald Storm

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Wesley’s face showed his astonishment. “You’re not just a seaman, are you?”

  “Wait here,” said Royce, slipping out.

  He was gone for several minutes. They heard no sound. When he returned Poe, Derning, Grady, Dilladrum and the Vintu followed and Royce had blood on his dagger and a ring of keys in his hand.

  “What about the others?” Wesley asked.

  “Don’t worry I won’t forget about them,” Royce said, with a devilish grin. When he left, the others followed. A guard lay dead in a pool of blood and Royce was already at the door of the last cell.

  “We don’t need to be released,” Defoe said, from behind the door. “I could open it myself if I wanted to get out.”

  “I’m not here to let you out,” Royce said, opening the door.

  Defoe backed up and drew his dagger.

  “Stay out of this, Defoe,” Royce told him. “So far you’ve just been doing a job. I get that, but stand between me and Thranic and it gets personal.”

  “Mister Melborn!” Wesley snapped. “I can’t let you kill Thranic.”

  Royce ignored him, and Wesley appealed to Hadrian who shrugged in response. “It’s a policy of mine not to get in his way, especially when the other guy deserves it.”

  Wesley turned to Wyatt whose expression showed no compassion. “He burned a shipload of elves, and for all I know was responsible for taking my daughter. Let him die.”

  Doctor Levy stepped aside leaving Thranic alone at the back of the cell with only his dagger for protection. By his grip and stance, Hadrian knew the sentinel was not a knife fighter. The sentinel was sweating, his eyes tense as Royce moved inp>“Might I ask why you’re killing Mister Thranic?” Bulard asked suddenly, stepping between them. “Those of you intent on fleeing could make better use of your time than butchering a man in his cell, don’t you think?”

  “Won’t take but a second,” Royce assured him.

  “Perhaps, perhaps, but I ask you not to. I am not saying he does not deserve death, but who are you to grant it? Thranic will die, and quite likely soon given where we are headed. Regardless, our mission is vital not just to the empire, but to all of mankind, and we will need Thranic if we are to have any hope to complete it.”

  “Shut up, you old fool,” the sentinel growled.

  This caught Royce’s attention, though he kept his eyes on Thranic. “What mission?”

  “To find a very old and very important relic called the Horn of Gylindora that will be needed very soon I’m afraid.”

  “The horn?” Hadrian repeated.

  “Yes, given our precarious situation I don’t think it wise to give you a history lesson just now, but suffice to say it is in all of our best interest to leave Thranic alive—for now.”

  “Sorry,” Royce replied, “but you’ll just have to make do without—”

  The door to the cellblock opened, and a pair of soldiers with meal plates stepped in. A quick glance at the dead guard and they ran.

  Royce sprinted after them. Defoe quickly closed his cell door again.

  “Go, all of you!” Bulard urged.

  The party ran out of the cellblock and up the stairs. By the time they reached the top, the hallway was filled with loud voices.

  “They got away,” Royce grumbled.

  “We gathered that from the shouting,” Hadrian said.

  They faced a four-way intersection of identical narrow stone corridors. Wall-mounted flames burned from iron cradles staggered at long intervals, leaving large sections of shifting shadows.

  Royce glanced back toward the cellblock and cursed under his breath. “That’s what I get for hesitating.”

  “Any idea which way now?” Wyatt asked.

  “This way,” Royce said.

  He led the way, trotting rapidly then stopped, abruptly motioning all of them into a doorway. Moments later a troop of guards rushed by. Wesley started forward and Royce hauled him back. Two more guards passed.

  “Now, we go,” he told them, “but stay behind me.”

  Royce continued along the multitude of corridors and turns, pausing from time to time. They climbed two more sets of stairs and dodged another group of soldiers. Hadrian saw the wonderment reflected in the party’s faces at Royce’s skill. It was as if he could see through walls, or knew the location of every guard. For Hadrian it was nothing new, but even he was impressed at their progress given that Royce was towing a parade.

  A door unexpectedly opened and several Tenkins literally bumped into Dilladrum and one of the Vintu. Terrified, Dilladrum fled down a corridor, the Vintu following. The stunned Tenkins were not warriors and were as scared as Dilladrum, and retreated inside. Royce shouted for Dilladrum to stop, but it was no use.

  “Damn it!” Royce cursed chasing after them. The rest of the crew raced to keep up as they ran blindly through corridor after corridor. After rounding a corner Hadrian nearly ran into Royce, whose way was blocked by Tenkin warriors. The dead bodies of Dilladrum and the Vintu lay on the floor, blood pooling across the stone. Behind them, a small army cut off their retreat.

  “Who are you to defy Erandabon?” chanted the crowd of Tenkin warriors.

  “Get back!” Hadrian ordered, pushing Wesley and the others into a niche that afforded at least a small amount of defense. He pulled a torch from the wall and together with Royce formed a forward defense.

  The Tenkin soldiers charged, screaming as they attacked.

  Royce appeared to dodge the advance but the foremost warrior fell dead. Hadrian drove the flame of his torch into the seconnkin’s face. Using his feet, Royce flipped the dead man’s sword to Hadrian who caught it in time to decapitate the next challenger.

  Two Tenkins charged Royce, who simply was not where they expected him to be when they arrived. His movements were a blur, and two more collapsed. Hadrian advanced as Royce kicked the dead men’s weapons behind to where Wyatt, Derning, and Wesley picked them up. Hadrian stood at the center now.

  Three attacked. Three fell dead.

  The rest retreated, bewildered, and Hadrian picked up a second blade.

  Clap! Clap! Clap!

  The warlord walked toward them applauding and grinning. “Galenti, et ez you. So good to ’ave you back!”

  Chapter 18

  The Pot of Soup

  Amilia sulked in the kitchen, head in her hands, elbows resting on the bakers table. This was where it all started, when Modina’s former secretary brought her to the kitchen for a lesson in table manners. Remembering the terror of those early days, it was staggering to realize those were better times.

  Now a witch hid in Modina’s room, filling the empress’s head with nonsense. She was a foreigner and the princess of an enemy kingdom, who spent more time with Modina than Amilia. She could be manipulating the empress in any number of ways. She tried to reason with Modina, but no matter what Amilia said, the girl remained adamant about helping the witch find Degan Gaunt.

  Amilia preferred the old days, when Modina left everything to her. Sitting there, she wondered what she should do. She wanted to go to Saldur and report the woman, but knew that would hurt Modina. The empress might never recover from a betrayal, especially from Amilia, who she trusted implicitly. The loss would surely crush her fragile spirit. No other alternatives were any better, and Amilia saw disaster at the end of every path. She felt as if she were on a runaway carriage racing toward a cliff, with no way to reach the reins.

  “How about I make you some soup?” Ibis Thinly asked her. The big man stood in his stained apron stirring a large, steaming pot into which he threw bits of celery.

  “I’m too miserable to eat,” she replied.

  “It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”

  “You have no idea. She’s become a handful and then some. I’m actually afraid to leave her alone. Every time I walk out of her room, I’m frightened something new and terrible will happen.”

  It was late and they were the only two in the scullery. Long shadows traced up the far wall cast
by the flames of the cook’s hearth. The kitchen was warm and pleasant except for a foul smell coming from the bubbling broth Ibis cooked on the stove.

  “Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that. Come on, can’t I interest you in some soup? I make a pretty mean vegetable barley, if I do say so myself.”

  “You know I love your food. It’s just that my stomach is in knots. I noticed a gray hair in the mirror the other day.”

  “Oh please, you’re still just a girl,” Ibis laughed, catching himself. “I guess I shouldn’t speak to you that way, you being noble and all. I should be saying, ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ or in this case, ‘no, no, Your Ladyship! If you will allow me to be so bold as to speak plainly in your presence. I beg to differ, for I think you are purty as a pot!’ That would be a more proper response.”

  Amilia smiled. “You know, I never have understood that saying of yours.”

  Ibis drew himself up in feigned offense. “I’m a cook. I like pots.” He chuckled. “Have some soup. Something warm in your belly will help untie some of those knots, eh?”

  She glanced at the pot he was stirring and grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, no, not this. Good Maribor, no! I’ll make you something good.”

  Amilia looked relieved. “What is that you’re making? It smells like rotten eggs.”

  “Soup, but it’s barely fit for animals, made with all the worstparts of old leftovers. I try to dress it up as best I can. I throw some celery and spices in, just to ease my conscience.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “I have no idea. The smell comes from this horrid yellow powder. About all I know is I have to use it and in a little while, a couple of guards will come by and take it. To be honest…I’m afraid to ask where it goes.” He paused. “Amilia, what’s wrong.”

  Amilia stared at the big pot her mouth partially open. Noise on the stairs caught her attention. Two men entered the kitchen. She knew them by sight. They were guards normally assigned to the east wing’s fourth floor hall—the administration corridor, where she and Saldur worked. They recognized her as well and took a moment to bow. Amilia graciously inclined her head in response. Their looks revealed they found this courtesy odd, but appreciated. Then they turned to Ibis.

  “All done?”

  “Just a sec, just a sec,” he muttered. “You’re early.”

  “We’ve been on duty since dawn,” one of the guards complained. “This is the last job of the night. Honestly, I don’t know why you put such effort into it, Thinly.”

  “It’s what I do, and I want it done right.”

  “Trust me, no one is going to complain. Nobody cares.”

  “I care,” Ibis remarked, his voice sharp enough to end the subject.

  The guard shrugged his shoulders and waited.

  “Who’s the soup for?” Amilia asked.

  The guard hesitated. “Not really supposed to talk about that, milady.”

  The other guard gave him a rough nudge. “She’s the bloody Secretary to the Empress.”

  The first one blushed. “Forgive me, milady. It’s just that Regent Saldur can be a little scary sometimes.”

  Amilia agreed in her head but externally remained aloof.

  His friend slapped himself in the forehead rolling his eyes. “Blimey, James you’re a fool. Forgive him, milady.”

  “What?” James looked puzzled. “What’d I say?”

  The guard shook his head sadly. “You just insulted the regent and admitted you don’t respect Her Ladyship all in one breath.”

  James’ face drained of color.

  “What’s your name?” she asked him.

  “Higgles, milady.” He swallowed hard and bowed again.

  “Why don’t you answer my question then?”

  “We takes the soup to the north tower. You know, the one ’tween the well and the stables.”

  “How many prisoners are there?”

  The two guards looked at each other. “None that we know of, milady.”

  “So, who is the soup for?”

  He shrugged. “We just leaves it with the Seret Knight.”

  “Soup’s done,” Ibis declared.

  “Is that all, milady?” Higgles asked.

  She nodded and the two disappeared out the door to the courtyard, each holding one of the pot’s handles.

  “Now, let me make you something.” Ibis said wiping his big hands on his apron.

  “Huh?” Amilia asked still thinking about the two guards. “No thanks, Ibis,” she said, getting up. “There’s something I need to do, I think.”

  ***

  The lack of a cloak became painfully uncomfortable when she was halfway across the inner ward. The weather had jumped from a friendly autumn of brightly colored leaves, clear blue skies, and crisp nights to the gray, icy cold of pre-winter. A half moon glimmered through hazy clouds as she stepped through the vegetable garden, now no more than a graveyard of brown dirt. She approached the chicken coop carefully trying to avoid disturbing the hens. There was nothing wrong with being out, no rules against wandering the ward at night, but at that moment she felt sinister.

  She ducked into the woodshed just as James and Higgles passed by on their return journey. After several minutes, Amilia crept forward, slipped around the well and entered the northeast tower—the prison tower as she now dubbe it.

  Just as described, a Seret Knight stood at attention dressed in black armor with the red symbol of a broken crown on his chest. Decorated with a red feather plume, the helm he wore covered his face. He appeared not to notice her, which was odd, as all guards bowed to Amilia now. The seret said nothing as she stepped around him toward the stairs. She was shocked when he made no move to stop her.

  Up she went, periodically passing cells. None of the doors were locked, and she pushed some open and stepped inside. Each room was small. Old, rotted straw lay scattered across the ground. Tiny windows allowed only a fraction of moonlight to enter. There were heavy chains mounted to the walls and the floor. Some had a stool or bucket, but most were bare of any furniture. Amilia felt uncomfortable while in the rooms. It was not just the cold, it was the thought that she might end up in just such a place.

  James and Higgles were correct; the tower was empty.

  She returned down the steps to the seret. “Excuse me, but what are you guarding? There is no one here.”

  He did not respond.

  “Where did the soup go?”

  Again, the seret stood mute. Unable to see his eyes through the helm, and thinking perhaps he was asleep while standing up, she took a step closer. The seret moved and, as fast as a snake, his hand grabbed hold of his sword and drew it partway from its scabbard, allowing the metal to hiss, a sound that echoed ominously in the stone tower.

  Amilia fled.

  ***

  “Are you going to tell her?” Nimbus asked.

  The two were in Amilia’s office finishing the last of the invitation lists for the scribes to begin working on. Parchments were everywhere. On the wall hung a layout of the Great Hall, perforated with countless pinholes from the shifting of guest positions.

  “No, I will not add to that witch’s arsenal of insanity with tales of mysterious disappearing pots of soup! I’ve worked for months to put Modina back together. I won’t allow her to be broken again.”

  “But what if—”

  “Drop it Nimbus.” Amilia shuffled through her scrolls. “I should never have told you. I went. I looked. I saw nothing. I can’t believe I even did that much. Maribor help me. The witch even had me out in the dark chasing her phantoms. What are you grinning at?”

  “Nothing,” Nimbus said. “I just have this impression of you slinking around the courtyard.”

  “Oh, stop it!”

  “Stop what?” Saldur asked as he entered unannounced.

  The regent swept into her office and looked at each of them with a disarming smile.

  “Nothing, Your Grace, Nimbus was merely having a little joke.”

 
“Nimbus? Nimbus?” Saldur repeated eyeing the man trying to recall something.

  “He’s my assistant, and Modina’s tutor, a refugee from Vernes,” Amilia explained.

  Saldur looked annoyed. “I’m not an idiot, Amilia, I know who Nimbus is. I was thinking about the name. The word is from the old imperial tongue. Nimbus, unless I am mistaken, it means mist or cloud, isn’t that right?” He looked at Nimbus for acknowledgement, but he merely shrugged apologetically. “Well, anyway,” Saldur addressed Amilia. “I wanted to know how things were proceeding for the wedding. It is only a few months away.”

  “I was just sending these invitations to the scribes. I have them ordered by distance so those living the farthest away should have couriers leaving as early as next week.”

  “Excellent, and the dress?”

  “I finally got the design decided. We’re just waiting for material to be delivered from Colnora.”

  “And how is Modina coming along?”

  “Fine, fine,” she lied, smiling as best she could.

  “She took the news of her wedded bliss well then?”

  “Modina receives all news pretty much the same way.”

  Saldur nodded at her pleasantly. “Yes, true…true.” He appeared so grandfathrly, so kind and gentle. It would be so easy to trust him if she had not seen first-hand the volcano that lurked beneath that warm surface. He brought her back to reality when he asked, “What were you doing in the northeast tower last night, my dear?”

  She bit her tongue just in time to stop herself from replying with total honesty. “I bumped into some guards delivering soup there in the middle of the night which I thought odd, because…”

  “Because what?” Saldur pressed.

  “Because there’s no one in the tower. Well, besides a seret who appears to be standing guard over nothing. Do you know what that’s all about?” she asked pleased with how she managed to reinforce her innocence by casually turning the tables on the old man. She even considered batting her eyes, but did not want to push it. Memories of Saldur ordering the guard to “take her out of my sight” still rang in her head. She did not know what that order really meant, but she remembered the regret in the guard’s eyes as he approached her.