by J. C. Staudt
Norne was offended. “What would you know of devotion? You joined the priesthood for the sake of learning the king’s ritual spells. Your words belittle the efforts of upstanding members of the holy orders such as Sister Wolla and myself.”
“I wouldn’t malign devotion in its own right,” said Maaltred. “Only the obsessions it often breeds.”
“And how do you reckon Sister Wolla and I are doing in that regard?”
“Let’s not make this personal.”
“It already is, Brother Maaltred. First you renounce your allegiance to the crown and leave me to clean up the mess. Then you come charging back in with promises of a remedy, only to lead me on a dead-end chase. Your conscience is as fickle as a boggart’s appetite.”
“Perhaps I’m fickle, yes. Or maybe I’m just as confused as you are about whose side I ought to be on.”
“I know which side I’m on, Brother Maaltred. I know what I promised to do. You’re the one who’s confused.”
“You said you understood why I left.”
“I’m not saying any differently now. I know you miss your family. So go home to them. I’ll take care of this on my own. I don’t need you.”
Norne’s words stung, but Maaltred saw through them. “I’m not leaving. I’ve allowed my yearnings to supplant my duty to the crown. No more. I’ll see this through to the end. The commitments I’ve made are more important than the whims of my heart.” Even as he spoke, he could not believe what he was saying. True, he feared for the Ulther girls, but he cared far more for Juna and Liselle. Yet an honorable discharge from the king’s service would avail him better than a lifetime of looking over his shoulder in fear, wondering whether his days were numbered.
“That’s wonderful,” said Norne, irritated. “Simply wonderful.”
“You truly don’t want me here anymore, do you?”
“Have I ever given you the impression I did? You’re a pack mule, Maaltred. Your only purpose was to bear the sphere for Sullimas and me. Now you won’t even do that.”
“Give it back, then. If that’s the only thing you need me for, then let me do it to the best of my ability. I’ll carry the burden so you can concentrate on finding the girls.”
Norne appraised him with a look. “Fine. Here.”
Maaltred took the sphere from him. There was a shock when he touched it, followed by a feeling of unease. He tucked it into his pack nonetheless, giving over to its wicked charms. He’d created the thing, yet he understood too little of the wild-song held within it.
“That’s better,” said Norne. “You’re getting it now.”
“However I can make amends for the strain I’ve caused you.”
“It’s a good start, but you’ve a ways to go. This whole orphan colony excursion has been a waste of time. We’re not getting anywhere looking for the Ulther girls. We should be looking for the Servants of the Dusk instead.”
“I agree,” said Maaltred. “With luck, they’ll lead us to the children.”
“There’s no luck that will serve us better than the grace of the goddess. I mentioned showing you the Grand Temple of Yannui. We’ll go there and spend the evening in meditation. You needn’t come along if you don’t want to, Sister Wolla.”
“I’ll come,” she said. “They’ll look down their noses at me, no doubt, but I’ll come.”
Chapter 22
From their vantage point upon Caster’s Hill, Darion pointed out the postern gate along Castle Deepsail’s southern curtain wall. Alynor could see the iron-barred entryway standing half a dozen fathoms above ground level, where the rocky natural escarpment ended and the piled stone battlements of the castle began. She could scarce believe they were going to try sneaking in—and without the aid of magic, no less. “Having Triolyn around for this would’ve been helpful,” she mused.
“Having Triolyn around is always helpful,” said Darion.
“If not for morale, then for his jolly disposition,” said Kestrel.
“I’ve a mind to dis-position you from this hilltop, singer. Mayhap you’ll finally make use of that thick skull of yours when you reach the bottom.”
“Pray this thick skull is in good working order tonight, else I’ll have trouble unlocking that postern gate for you.”
Darion grunted a laugh. “As you say. Are we clear on our strategy, then?”
“As clear as we’re going to get at this hour.”
“Best we were moving, then. It’s nearly dark.”
They fled Caster’s Hill, leaving behind the engraved stone obelisk crowning the cobbled circle where visitors and residents alike enjoyed sweeping views from the city’s highest point. The monument stood as a testament to Orothwain’s proud history, from the dawning of the ages to the birth of magic and the establishment of the kingdom.
With Axli and her sons holed up in a room at the Morning Dew Alehouse, Kestrel and the three Ulthers would constitute the full strength of their company. Alynor couldn’t fathom how four individuals were going to succeed against hundreds of Dathiri soldiers, but perhaps Darion knew something she didn’t. She put an arm around Draithon as they descended the hillside and started toward the castle through the thick of the city.
Daylight’s last golden ribbon was fading from the skyline by the time they came to the Blooming Square, the grassy green parcel banded in tall trees and wildflowers which separated Castle Deepsail from its surrounding buildings. Anyone wishing to perform a frontal assault upon the gatehouse would need to cross a hundred fathoms of open ground to get there.
Alynor and the others weren’t aiming for the gatehouse, though. They were headed for the copse of trees at the castle’s flank. Rowhouses shielded their advance until the final stretch, where the dark of night took over. When they crossed the treeline, they found their footsteps punctuated by crackling leaves and their clothing snagged on the dense underbrush.
Darion halted them. “They’ll hear us before we ever get close.”
“How else can we reach the postern gate without being seen?” asked Kestrel.
“There’s another way, though you won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“You’ll have to circle round the other side. Climb the Sorcerous Stair and join the castle wall where it meets the escarpment. It’s a slim pathway, hard to see until you’re on it, but it’s there. The guards won’t detect you so long as no one leans over the battlements to look down.”
Kestrel gulped. “What if I don’t make it?”
Darion put a hand on his shoulder. “You will.”
“That’s even worse. What if I do?”
“Proceed as planned. You have your tools, your swords, and a bit of hard leather on your chest. We’ll be here watching for you. Should you have need of us, we’ll be at your side in a blink.”
“It’s a long way round. Plenty of chances to get caught.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Alynor asked. “The Kestrel I know would relish a brave deed like this one.”
“Have you ever noticed it’s harder to be brave when you’re thinking about more than yourself?”
“Lund and Lupin,” she said.
“I don’t want to leave them behind.”
Darion slapped him. “No one’s leaving anyone behind. You least of all. You’re going to unlock that gate. Then we make for Tarber King’s throne room to capture the sphere.”
“How do you know the sphere will be in the throne room?”
“I don’t. But if it’s elsewhere, taking the field commander hostage should bring it round shortly.”
The singer looked unconvinced, but he nodded anyway. “As you say.”
“Wait much longer and it’s like to be dawn before you arrive.”
Kestrel backtracked through the trees and vanished down the street of rowhouses.
When he was gone, Darion motioned for Alynor and Draithon to follow him. They made their slow advance through the copse, a painstaking exercise wherein each step held the potential for disaster. The sky darkened to a
starlit blue, and the night drew onward.
Torches went up beside the tower doorways.
The guard changed.
An hour later, Kestrel appeared, edging his way along the high narrow ledge beneath the west tower with his back pressed to the stacked-stone wall. The soldiers far above him stood with crossbows shouldered or paced the battlements without the slightest notion of his presence. Where the tower pulled away from the curtain wall, he came to a narrow staircase of hewn stone running up the inside like a crooked stitch on a pair of leggings. As the Ulther family arrived at the inward treeline and took up covert positions in the shadows, Alynor noted how both the stair and the postern gate were positioned so as to go undetected except from the proper angle.
Kestrel churned up the steps and disappeared beneath the covered archway without catching any attention from above. Alynor inhaled with relief and realized she hadn’t been breathing. Kestrel’s trials were not over, she knew. Guards would be waiting beyond the gate. He’d need to open the lock without being heard and disable them without being seen.
To her surprise, the singer leaned out from the archway to signal them forward less than a minute later. That’s curious, she thought, following Darion into the open. They skirted the escarpment and crept up the rise, fallen leaves crackling beneath their feet. It wasn’t long before a cry went up from the battlements. They’ve seen us.
Darion cursed and quickened his pace.
Crossbow bolts clattered off the stones as they raced up the narrow stair and ducked through the archway where Kestrel was waiting. A bolt bounced off the gate and whipped him across the head.
“Ow,” he said, rubbing the bruise.
A soldier on the battlements offered them an obscene gesture and began reloading his crossbow. They took cover in the guard vestibule, where two Dathiri soldiers slumped in their seats with crimson stains marring their black-and-white tabards.
“That was quick,” Darion said. “You’re a better lockpick than you let on.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Kestrel blushed. “No time to dwell on it now, anyway.”
“Right. They know we’re here. Weapons ready.”
Darion led the way through the inner ward, passing the woodpile and the granary before reaching the keep’s front entrance. The guards on the curtain wall were shouting to alert the soldiers in the yard. Kestrel moved to intercept them, but Darion held him back.
“Not that way. They’ll make a pincushion of you in the yard. We’ve got to get inside.”
A set of wooden switchback stairs took them to a covered hoarding overlooking the ward. Three soldiers manned the walkway, spread from one end to the other. Darion stabbed the first and wrenched him round to catch a crossbow bolt from the second. Kestrel snatched the first soldier’s crossbow from his grip while Darion charged the second and cut him down before he could reload.
When the third soldier raised his crossbow at the far end of the walkway, Kestrel stepped forward to send a bolt through his neck. The soldier pulled the trigger as he reeled backward in a spray of blood. His bolt struck the wooden beam inches above Darion’s head.
Darion turned and gave Kestrel a relieved smirk.
His relief was short-lived, however. A flurry of bolts arrived from the yard below, driving the four companions to the floor amid splintering wood and clattering steel. Alynor hauled Draithon to his feet and barreled down the covered walkway after Darion, scooping up a discarded crossbow along the way.
Darion yanked the door handle at the far end, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Allow me,” said Kestrel. He produced an iron key ring and tried each key while the others crouched down, covering their heads. Another volley of bolts pelted the hoarding. One struck Kestrel in the left buttock. He cried out and fell against the door, dropping the keys.
“Get down,” Darion shouted, shoving him out of the way.
He found the right key, kicked open the door, and dragged Kestrel inside while a third volley of bolts rained down around them. Several Dathiri soldiers armed with swords and shields were piling up the switchback stair as Alynor locked the door behind her.
Darion covered Kestrel’s mouth and yanked the bolt from his backside. He screamed. When Darion hauled him to his feet, the singer was pale and clammy. “Can you walk?”
Kestrel gave him a sallow grin. “I’ve never been wounded in the hindquarters before. I’ll give it a try and let you know.”
“Here, I’ll help.” Draithon lifted Kestrel’s arm over his shoulder to support him.
The soldiers crashed into the door from outside, startling Alynor. “Keep moving.”
They followed the narrow second-floor hallway to its end, where it opened onto a lofted gallery overlooking the great hall. Vaulted ceilings shone an angry red in the flickering fires of a massive hearth. Darion stopped them so he could peer down into the room without being seen. He pointed at Alynor’s crossbow and wagged a finger. When she held it out for him, he refused. “You’re a better shot than I am. We’re in luck. There’s a Dathiri Warpriest down there, and he’s holding the sphere. You’ll only get one shot before he begins his spells. Aim true.”
Alynor switched places with him and took a peek. A man in priestly robes stood by the hearth while another man in Dathiri raiment sat a bejeweled wooden throne beneath a wall of decorative shields. Long bench tables filled the hall, stained with the meals of a hundred years.
The two men were speaking. Alynor couldn’t hear them, but she could see the sphere in the priest’s hand. It was identical to the one the priests had brought to the hamlet, only it was made of red ironglass instead of green.
Alynor’s heart was in her throat as she brought her crossbow to bear and sighted past the closed wooden balustrade. The angle was an odd one, and the Warpriest’s facing gave her no clear shot. She settled her sights halfway down his back so the tip of her bolt rested just beneath the shoulder blade.
It was strange, holding a person in her sights. She’d aimed at bales of hay and mats of coiled straw and small game animals. Yet even after Darion’s continued warnings that she might one day be forced to harm another, she was not ready for it.
A loud crash came from down the hallway. Wood splintered, and the outer door flew open. The soldiers flooded the narrow passage and broke into a charge. The priest in Alynor’s sights turned to look.
This was her chance. If she didn’t pull the trigger now, the Warpriest would summon the wild-song, and it would be the end of them. She thought of her son, slain in cold blood by priests not unlike this one. Her anger flared.
She squeezed the trigger.
Kept the crossbow leveled as Kestrel and Draithon drew their swords and stumbled after Darion to meet the Dathiri soldiers down the hallway. Not even when they met in a clash of steel did Alynor look away from her target.
The Warpriest sighed.
The red ironglass sphere slipped through his fingers and struck the flagstones like a hammer blow. Where any other glass would’ve shattered, the sphere didn’t. It rolled to the hearth and stopped against the threshold.
The Warpriest’s legs buckled, and he withered to the floor.
The Dathiri commander dove off the throne and took shelter behind one of the long bench tables. Darion and the others were holding the soldiers back, bottlenecking them in the narrow upper hallway.
Alynor tossed the crossbow aside and drew her sword. She rounded the balustrade and descended the grand flared staircase. The Warpriest lay on his side with her bolt sunk to the fletching in his ribs, gasping for breath as he reached for the sphere. Alynor started across the room, but the field commander saw her without her crossbow and stood to intercept her.
“Come no further,” he said, drawing his longsword.
Alynor halted. “Get out of my way.”
“Afraid I can’t do that, madam. Not while you’re armed.”
By his loose stance and the flab around his waist, Alynor could tell this man was out of practice. Darion had trained h
er to expect fights like these. Assume most men you face in combat will possess the strength advantage, he’d told her. They’re like to underestimate you and come on fiercely at the first, so learn to outlast them. Their exertion will tire them; so long as you’re patient you’ll soon find an opening.
The Warpriest dragged himself to within reach of the sphere. He took hold of it and pulled it to his breast. These practitioners of the wild-song could heal themselves, Alynor knew. Best she deal with him before he got the chance.
“I warn you,” she told the commander. “If you won’t move, I’ll have to move you myself.”
The commander gave a haughty laugh. “I might enjoy that.”
I am most certain you won’t. She lunged and thrust her blade.
The commander knocked it away and came hard on the riposte. He’s overconfident, she observed, parrying first a downward swing, then a sideways cut. It’s making him careless. She knew the value of Darion’s advice, but she hadn’t the time to tire out this particular foe. She would have to resort to her own tactics.
She sidestepped his next swing, then hopped from floor to bench as he reversed his stroke. Another hop took her to the table an instant before his blade knocked the bench over; his next downward cut notched the hardwood inches from her feet. Before he could lift the sword, Alynor flicked her heel and caught the blade flat against the tabletop. When he looked up, he found the tip of her sword poised in front of his nose.
“Do kindly put that down,” she ordered.
He gulped and backed away, leaving the sword to wobble by the hilt.
Alynor heard applause from the gallery and looked up to see her three companions standing at the balustrade. Their clothing and faces were spattered with blood, yet they cast her proud smiles. “Well fought,” said Kestrel. “Well fought.”
“Get down here,” she snapped. “This fight is far from done.”
With her attention diverted, the field commander made a dash for one of the side doors. She leapt off the table and followed him while the others hurried down the flared staircase, Kestrel limping along the handrail. When the commander tried to pull the door open, Alynor shoved him hard against it.
