by J. C. Staudt
“I devised a sob story wherein I was a brewer delivering ale for the soldiers. My cart had lost a wheel on the road, causing my horse to fall lame and postpone my delivery. The soldier suggested I try the front gate. Poor me, I’d already tried that and been refused admittance, given the lateness of the hour. I said there were two full kegs on the stairs behind me, and if he’d help me bring them inside I’d see he received the first pour. He obliged.”
“You didn’t have any kegs on the stairs behind you.”
“Correct. He had a thirst though. When he opened the gate, I stabbed him and his friend and took their keys. Poor fellow, that first one. He was so surprised he couldn’t even scream. Although come to think of it, I might’ve punctured a lung.”
“You’ve certainly punctured any element of surprise we might’ve had on these two.”
Kestrel gave the guards a sweeping bow. “You’re very welcome, gents.”
“What’s your aim?” asked one of the guards. “What are you after?”
“Tarber King and everyone loyal to him.”
“So if we unlock the gate,” said the other man, “you won’t hurt us.”
“They can’t pick the lock,” the first man reminded him. “You’re a bleeding clot, you are. We need only wait. If the alarm’s been raised, others will be along shortly to get us out of this.”
Kestrel produced his key ring and gave it a jangle. “Sorry to disappoint you fellows, but you haven’t so much time as all that. Open up, and you can be on your way. If I have to do it myself, I can assure you my brawny friend will be obliged to shove things in places they were never meant to be shoved.”
The soldiers exchanged looks.
The keybearer produced his ring and fumbled to find the right key.
“There we are,” Kestrel goaded. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind—”
A shout from up the stairs cut him off. He lunged forward to grab the key ring from the soldier. They wrestled through the bars as the scuffing of boots rang down the stairwell. The other soldier grabbed a spear leaning against the wall and made to run Kestrel through. The singer let go with one hand at the last moment to sidestep the thrust.
The rush of oncoming soldiers startled Draithon to his senses, and he hacked off the spearpoint with a sharp downward swing. The spearman pulled back and thrust again, but this time it was a splintered wooden end which caught Kestrel in the gut and sent him reeling. Darion was ready with a reply. He thrust his blade past the bars and through the spearman’s throat.
The keybearer stumbled backward and fell over when Kestrel let go. He looked on in horror as his cohort gurgled blood, until Darion withdrew his blade to let the man topple to an awkward rest against the vestibule wall. Scrambling backward, the keybearer found his feet and vanished behind the nearest corner.
“Now’s the time to pick that lock, singer. What are you waiting for?”
“I—I don’t think I can.”
“Never be sure until you give it a bloody go, will you?”
Kestrel produced his tools and knelt before the gate while Draithon joined his parents at the bottom of the stairs. Weapons in hand, the three Ulthers stood to defend themselves against their oncoming foe.
“That’s the last time I trust a blasted Dathiri to possess any sense at all,” Darion grumbled.
When the soldiers rounded the bend, their number included not only the two men Darion had surprised on the tower stairs, but Field Commander Palavar as well. The contingent was a dozen strong—men who’d stayed to man the battlements when the alarm went up, Draithon had no doubt. They formed a barrier halfway up the steps with spears and crossbows readied.
Darion shook his head and sighed when he saw Palavar with sword in hand. “And here, I thought you’d learned your lesson.”
Palavar sneered. “You’re the one needs teaching. Over half my garrison is dead. Did you expect I’d let you walk out of here alive?”
Draithon heard the creaking of iron hinges behind him.
“We may not walk out,” said Kestrel, “but we’ll certainly try our luck further in.”
“Stop them,” Palavar screamed.
Darion yanked his wife and son through the gate as soldiers loosed their crossbows. Kestrel slammed the gate under a hail of bolts and followed them around the corner to put themselves out of range. There they found the keybearer, who backed to the wall and raised his hands in surrender.
“I’ll take those now,” Darion said, motioning.
The soldier handed them over. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”
“That will depend on how helpful you are. Where is Tarber King’s cell?”
“That way, I think.”
“Does Palavar have the keys to get in here?” Alynor asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Darion. “Usually it’s only the jailer and the castellan who hold keys to the dungeon.”
“The jailer and the castellan are both locked up with Tarber and the members of his household,” said the keybearer.
“Take us there.”
Draithon could hear Palavar’s men shaking the entrance gate as the keybearer led them deeper into the dungeon. The main chamber was square in shape, with cages hanging from the arched ceilings and torture devices set up along the edges. A pair of wooden doors stood in three of the room’s four walls.
“There are three cellblocks,” explained the guard. “A pair of doors for each.” He gestured toward each of the three walls in turn. “A hallway loops through each cellblock and comes back round. Go in either door and you’ll come back out the other. Make sense?”
“Aye,” said Darion. “Which block is Tarber King’s?”
“That one.” The soldier pointed toward the righthand block, which Draithon determined was along the dungeon’s north-facing side.
Kestrel unlocked the first door on the right and pushed it open. They piled into the cellblock and shut the door, muffling the sounds of Palavar’s men rushing through the dungeon. The air stank of sweat and excrement, but Darion was more concerned with the Dathiri. “It won’t take them long to find us. We should secure both doors. The question is, how?”
“Couldn’t we jam the locks?”
“With what?”
Kestrel took out his set of lockpicking tools and selected two thin metal bars.
“This might work,” Darion said, handing one to Draithon. “Quickly now, son. Get to the other door and do your worst. We haven’t much time.”
Draithon took off down the hallway, turning left past half a dozen cells before turning left again toward the other door. Prisoners called out to him as he passed; some reached through the bars to grab at him with bony fingers, but the wide hallway gave him space to evade them. He angled the small metal pick into the lock and hammered it home with the pommel of his sword. He could hear Palavar and his men searching the main chamber.
When he retreated round the bend, the others were about to enter one of the cells. Draithon avoided the prisoners’ grasping hands once more to join them.
“Is it secure?” Darion asked.
“They won’t get in unless they break it down.”
“Good. Stay close, and keep an eye on our friend.”
Draithon held the keybearer at swordpoint and followed the others into a putrid cell where a man in tarnished robes of regal blue hung from chains on the wall. His pale face and red hair were grimy and unkempt, but Draithon noted the remnants of a well-trimmed mustache and a pointed beard. When the prisoner looked up, his bright blue eyes sparkled in the torchlight.
“Tarber King.”
“Darion Ulther. The hour of your arrival is late. Are you come to release me from my torment?” Tarber’s voice was light; his words danced like the lyrics to a song, though there was no tune to carry them.
“Indeed I am.”
Tarber raised his chin in submission. “Be done with it, then.”
“I’m not here to kill you, you old fool. I’m here to get you out.” Darion helped him down while Kestre
l unlocked his manacles.
Draithon was surprised to hear his father speak to the king that way. Perhaps they were better friends than he knew. Or perhaps after Halbrid’s rejection, Darion didn’t care to pay respect to kings anymore.
“Hope is lost to us,” Tarber said, rubbing his wrists. “The mages are dead. All of them. I tried, Darion. I could do nothing.”
“That was no fault of yours.”
“It was mine, and mine alone. I should’ve died with them.”
“No one should be dead. Not them. Not you.”
“I am no fit king if I cannot protect my realm.”
“Surely you know why you couldn’t protect it.”
“The mage-song has forsaken this world. My city is fallen; my kingdom held in thrall to Dathrond. The age of magic is at an end.”
“Your despair blinds you. The mage-song is alive and present. Its only enemy is this.” Darion flourished his cloak, unveiling the ironglass sphere.
Tarber King gasped. “Detestable thing. I can feel its loathing.”
“Then you must also feel its purpose.”
The king gave a slow nod, his gaze affixed. “How did you come to possess it?”
“My wife killed its bearer, a Warpriest of Dathrond we encountered in your high hall.”
“To think, I never saw this coming. Another of Olyvard’s schemes. Boundless are his wiles. How does a man triumph over such insidious evil?”
“He presses on when others would give in.”
“I’ve been pressing on for forty years, since the day my father left his throne to a young man without the faintest notion of how to occupy it. I’m tired, Darion.”
“You’re not the only one. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we? Become old men together. Who would’ve thought, given what we’ve faced? Now isn’t the time to succumb. So long as the mage-song yet lives, we’ve a chance.”
“A chance grown fainter by the second,” said Kestrel, “unless we can fight our way out of here.”
Tarber blinked, breaking his gaze from the sphere. “Fight?”
“Palavar is outside with at least a dozen of his garrison. They’re already throwing themselves at the doors. They’ll break in before long.”
“We must free the members of my household. Come.”
They processed down the hallway, opening cells and pulling out prisoners according to Tarber’s commands. His servants and loved ones were locked in amongst thieves and murderers; he therefore demanded Kestrel’s full attention, lest the wrong person be set free. All the while, Palavar and his men were hacking at the heavy wooden doors at either end of the cellblock.
By the time Kestrel was done, he’d unshackled the king’s kitchen staff, his gardeners, his tailor, his castellan, his chamberlain and manservants, his late queen’s handmaidens, and the jailer who had until recently overseen the dungeon they were standing in.
“You remember Master Tolthus, don’t you, Darion?” the king asked.
Darion shook the castellan’s hand. “Of course I do. Good to see you again, Tolthus, though the circumstances could stand to be improved.”
“I dare say they could. Have you a plan to get us out of this?”
“We’ve run out of plan,” said Darion.
“We never planned to get this far,” Kestrel added.
“How did you get this far, I wonder?” asked the king.
Darion hesitated. “My son devised a way to disable the sphere for a time.”
“This boy is your son?”
“My only son.”
The way Father said it made Draithon feel like he’d been whipped.
“How are you called, boy?”
“Draithon, your majesty.”
The king smiled. “Draithon, son of Darion. Well done, my old friend.”
“He is our firstborn. Mine and my wife’s—Alynor, whom I believe you’ve met.”
“Yes, of course. Good morrow to you, Lady Mirrowell. Your father has been of aid to me in recent days over a matter rather sticky in nature.”
“Really,” Alynor said coldly. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve scarce spoken to him since your decrees left me homeless and without ally.”
Tarber was stooped and frail with the rigors of his captivity, yet he seemed to wither all the more under Mother’s words. “I’ve been misguided in my allegiance to Dathrond, my lady. Our present plight is testament to that, I fear. Should we live to see this city returned to Orothi control, I vow I shall restore to the Ulther family everything I took in Olyvard’s name. Your titles. Your lands. Your keep.”
“And my wealth?” asked Darion. “You appropriated my collection of relics when you reclaimed Keep Ulther. Relics of great power I acquired through a lifetime of death-defying exertion.”
“You wish it that I should return to you items I purchased by rights, whose fees fed the coffers of the very castle to which I’ve promised to restore you?”
“Master Appleby tells me you bought them at a significant discount. I don’t presume you’d like to know what they’re truly worth, lest you choke on your next breath.”
Tarber smiled in amusement. “The older we get, the bolder we become about speaking our minds, isn’t it true?”
“There are times and places for courtesy. This is neither.”
“Let’s not waste it, then. We’ll discuss the terms for your restoration when this is over. Now, have the boy do whatever he did to that sphere again so we can teach those Dathiri scum a lesson.”
“I can’t do it again,” Draithon said. “Father burned my journal. All the sigils are gone.”
“Is this true, Darion?”
Father gulped. “They were sigils of the wild-song. His mother and I didn’t want him toying with them.”
“Don’t bring me into this, Darion. It was your decision to burn that book. You may have cost us our lives.”
“Now, now,” said Tarber King. “Let’s not be so quick to place blame. What sort of spell do you require, eh—Draithon, is it?”
Draithon wasn’t used to all the eyes on him. Given the choice, he would’ve refused to battle the will of the sphere ever again. Yet everyone was staring at him, awaiting his answer. More than that, his father doubted him. He could see the disbelief in Darion’s eyes. That made him want to succeed more than anything. “It was a binding spell. I used the sphere’s own power to bend my will against it.”
“Ah.” Tarber took off his robe. Stitched into the lining were thousands of tiny sigils. “It took ten seamstresses three months to make this. These are all sigils of the mage-song, here. But if you look closely, you’ll see their counterparts stitched in between.”
He was right. There were sigils Draithon knew—sigils of the wild-song—sewn into the king’s robes. They were all wrong, though. Not arranged like the ones in his journal. They were all jumbled up between sigils of the mage-song. And they were small; very small. “I can’t do it. These aren’t in the right order. They’re too tiny to read in this light besides.”
“That’s it, then,” said Darion, drawing his sword. “We fight our way out with steel alone. We’ve a hostage, at least.” He grabbed the keybearer and pushed him into the hallway.
“Darion,” Alynor scolded. “Don’t you take another step. Come back here.” She inverted the king’s robe and laid it out on the floor while Darion returned with the keybearer.
“Now give him the sphere. And hold up the torch so he can see.”
Darion sheathed his sword and produced the sphere from his pack, handing it to Draithon. “This is folly, Alynor. Palavar’s men are coming in. Don’t you hear them?”
Alynor ignored him, her eyes set on Draithon. “Can you try, darling? Can you give it a go?”
Draithon looked at the sphere, then back and forth between his parents and the king.
Tarber gave him a steady look. “What say you, Draithon, son of Darion? For all our sakes, and for the fate of the realms. Will you do this?”
Chapter 24
Yannui’s Grand Templ
e was, to Maaltred Furiel, no less debauched or overwhelming than all the other churches in Forandran. Gilded leaf emblems twisted round shapely columns; clear-water creeks babbled through meandering indoor-outdoor gardens; shade trees hunched over sun-drenched courtyards. Maaltred and Vicar Norne had visited the temple to pray for guidance each night since discovering Cronion’s orphanage. Their search for the Servants of the Dusk had taken them through dozens of the city’s taverns, temples, hostels, brothels, and almshouses, yet they were nowhere nearer their quarry than when they’d begun.
“It’s time I was on my way back to Maergath,” Norne said one evening as they were returning to the Temple of Phyraxis after several hours at prayer. “I’m behind as it is. I must report the results of this expedition to Olyvard King and announce Sullimas’s death. I expect you’ll want to be off home.”
“I would very much like that,” Maaltred admitted, “but I meant what I said. I’m not leaving. I won’t let you bear the brunt of the king’s wrath alone. We’re both responsible for letting those girls out of our sight. We haven’t the resources to find them in a city this size. We ought both accept our punishment.”
“I imagine our fate will depend largely on the king’s mood. His mood will depend on how Dathrond is faring in its conquests. Best hope we return to good news on that score.”
“We’ve taken Vale and Deepsail both, haven’t we? Our fleet reached Ralthia days ago, and I’m certain the Corsair King and his rabble mounted little resistance. Once we return the sphere, the king will be free to send it to the next kingdom he wishes to conquer.”
“You hold high hopes for our survival, Brother Maaltred.”
“Not really. I’m just choosing to be optimistic. We sent the Warcaster a message; he won’t sit by and do nothing, if what you say about him is true.”
“Pray I know Darion as well as I think I do. Should he show his face at the gates of Maergath, it would greatly improve our chances of weathering the king’s castigation. We’ll sleep here tonight and be off in the morning.”
“Presuming you can bring yourself to bid farewell to your lady love.”
“Sister Wolla is nothing of the sort. She knows my terms. Always has.”
