Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle)

by Siana, Patrick

  Elias along with the rest of the party had been appraised of the escape plan by Ogden. It was he that had insisted on personally seeing that the boat had been stocked with fresh supplies. If anyone could hope to escape the Scarlet Hand, the bull-headed Elias stood the best chance, Danica reasoned. If he broke free he would seek them here.

  After all the Duanas had suffered, much in the service of Galacia, Eithne figured at the least she owed them a few days; this is what the queen told herself, but as she warmed herself before the fire and watched the golden flames consume the pungent pine and poplar, she prayed to that autumn magic that had tantalized her fantasies since childhood, for she too dared to hope that her Marshal against all odds had managed to survive.

  Chapter 29

  Escape

  Agnar alternated between blowing on his wrists and wringing his hands. “By the White Hag’s tit,” he cried, “that’s hot!”

  Elias looked at his own blistered wrists. “Sorry, that is the only way I know.”

  “If we get out of this, you can always retire to the quiet life of a blacksmith.” Agnar received a wan smile from Elias. “So, now what?”

  “The Hand is likely mustering their defenses even as we speak. Their leader was with me when I broke free of my chains. To go down those stairs is suicide, and to wait here is certain death.” Elias looked down the concentric hallway and fell into thought.

  Agnar swallowed. “We have to try something.” He joined the Marshal and looked into the corridor. “Elias?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Oh.” Agnar paced, waiting on the Marshal, dizzied by a growing sense of panic.

  “I could try to make a hole for us to jump through, but I don’t know if I could use my magic to slow our fall enough that we would survive.”

  “If it is my fate to die this day,” Agnar said, “then let it be on my feet.”

  Elias looked Agnar in the eye. “So be it.”

  “I never thought I’d say this, but it will be an honor to die beside you, son of summer. Although I feel our deaths would be better were we armed. It will be difficult to kill very many of these bastards with our bare hands.”

  Elias remembered the scorched but likely serviceable scimitars clutched in the death-grasps of the Handsman in the corridor and smiled. “Come then, Agnar,” he said, “we will strike at our enemy with their own steel.”

  Thus armed they crept down the spiraling stair case, expecting resistance at every step, but none came and they reached the bottom of the tower without incidence.

  “Is it possible your struggle with their leader left him weakened and unable to rouse the alarm?”

  “Perhaps.” The thought had occurred to him, but it felt too convenient. “More likely a trap of some kind awaits us. On the other side of this door is a guard barrack. After that is the western courtyard where we will be easy pickings for archers or wizards on the balconies above. Keep your wits about you and stay close.”

  Elias eased open the granite door, using it as shield, and ducked his head out, expecting a hail of arrows or a blast of fell magic. He encountered neither, only an empty chamber. The silence unnerved him more than discovering a handful of armed men. He stole through the guard room, Agnar close at his heels, scimitar raised in a high guard. With some effort Elias quieted his mind and sought the detached state of awareness of the void, which he had so painstakingly practiced with Ogden. He extended his senses and tried to detect any hidden foes or traps that may be lying in wait.

  Elias approached the second granite door that led to the courtyard. He focused his sight inward and in the black of his mind’s-eye saw several red, pulsating pillars of light that beat like fiery hearts. He drew close to Agnar and whispered into his ear. “At least three, likely five await us. You concentrate on ground level, while I focus on the balcony. We move fast. I don’t want to be cornered.”

  Agnar nodded and offered his new ally a grim smile. Today they would honor their ancestors well.

  Elias burst through the door in a stooped over run, taking long, loping steps from side to side. Arrows sailed over his head and brushed past his bare shoulders. He assessed the situation with quick eyes as he weaved across the courtyard: three soldiers warded the central hub of the courtyard, and two archers stood on either side of the balcony. They wore the garb of the Redshields, but Elias knew at a glance they were Handsmen.

  As planned, Agnar charged into the thick of the foot soldiers, pushing them back with sweeping strokes of his scimitar. Elias, his conscious thoughts buried in the void, leaving instinct and reflex as his prime directives, pointed with sword in hand and summoned gouts of flame to bring down the opposing archers.

  “Feora!” Elias cried. The word echoed in his head, bouncing wildly around the void, the syllables red and reckless. Steam sputtered from his hands, but not a single tongue of flame. The energy of his failed spell broke over him, a furious storm wave in a seething ocean. Elias had channeled too much magic through his failing body and exhausted his mental and physical resources. A headache so acute that he thought he ruptured an artery stole his vision momentarily and left him stunned. The archers’, who had led him, arrows flew wide.

  Agnar abruptly turned on the trio of soldiers chasing him and cut one of them down and then changed direction, ignoring the burning in his lungs and legs as malnourished muscles screamed in protest. He heard a strange popping sound and risked a side glance and saw Elias reeling on his feet. He cursed to himself and changed direction, the remaining foot soldiers closing on him. “Duana!” he screamed.

  Elias resisted his body’s insistence that he sleep, for the shred of awareness that remained to him knew that he was about to die. With energy born of desperation, hate, and the refusal to succumb to Sarad and his minions, he forced himself back into the void. The headache and weakness that overcame him became distant as his consciousness separated from his body. He knew he could not draw on his magic, so he sunk himself further into the void, opening his senses and focusing entirely on the present moment. Time shrank away from him, for his consciousness retained but the most tenuous of connections to his body.

  Two arrows spiraled lazily toward him and he coiled his wrist to deflect them but gauged that they would fly wide, so he lunged and batted aside an arrow on a course to impale Agnar. He grabbed the northman by an arm and swung him about and away from a flurry of sword attacks and then spun his scimitar in a rising arc, cutting through the mail under one of the soldiers’ armpit. Agnar, ever fleet of mind and arm, went along with the unorthodox tactic and continued the spin, dropped to a knee, and slid his blade into a chink in the armor at the groin of the remaining soldier.

  Elias knew better than to reach out to his magic again, but fully consumed by the void his distant pain offered no distraction, and to his heightened senses time thickened. He flicked out his sword to deflect more arrows, noticing with disinterest that the arrows targeted Agnar and not him.

  Agnar shook Elias, trying to bring the glassy eyed Marshal back to his senses. He had seen that far-away and dark eyed look before in the witch-women and seers of Ittamar. He could ill afford the marshal to enter a trance in the middle of their half-brained escape attempt. He pulled Elias along, bending to scoop a long-sword from the stiffening fingers of one of the felled soldiers.

  Elias responded to Agnar’s cue and the two raced out of the courtyard, black-feathered arrows scattering about them as they fled.

  Next they passed into a long, wide hall that approached the wing that housed the Whiteshields. Elias skidded to an awkward stop, stumbling on numb feet. He glanced about the granite lined hall searching the tapestries hanging amidst the pedestals and plaques housing artifacts of the guard’s history.

  “Elias,” Agnar whispered, “this is hardly the time to take a rest!”

  Elias continued to scan the walls. “There it is.” He led Agnar to a cleverly concealed door, nearly flush with the wall. “A servant’s door. Almost impossible to notice unless you know where it is.
” He opened the door and ushered Agnar inside.

  The narrow passage barely afforded room for the two men to walk abreast and ran parallel to the guard’s hall. After some fifty feet the passage split off: one way continued along the same direction and a second, perpendicular path led down a narrow stair.

  Halfway down the staircase the smells of roasting meat and baking bread assailed their nostrils, reminding each of the long days since they had last eaten. As they approached the entrance to the kitchens, Elias paused, not knowing what to expect on the other side of the archway. Stealth was certainly not an option, so he readjusted his grip on the scimitar and strode into the kitchen, trying to affect a look of nonchalance.

  A silence fell over the bustling chamber at once as a baker’s boy took note of them and squealed. On impulse Elias took the loaf of steaming bread from the boy and with sure, slow steps approached the larder. He quickly found a sack with a few apples and filled it with whatever victuals were handy—a wheel of cheese, a couple sausage, and a wineskin. He tore off a hunk of the bread and offered it to Agnar, who choked it down, scimitar in hand.

  Elias exited the larder and felt the eyes of the entire kitchens focus on him. The baker’s boy approached him and with trembling hands offered him another couple of brown loaves of bread. “‘Tis barley bread, for us ’n won’t be missed.”

  Elias took the bread from the ruddy, straw-haired boy and nodded his thanks. He stepped briskly past the boy, afraid that the Hand had already guessed his ruse and were fast on their trail, but he realized they would not get far without sustenance.

  On the other side of the kitchens an exit led to an outdoor well, and perhaps their freedom, if they were fast and fortunate. Nevertheless, as they passed through the open archway, Elias paused and turned. Some two dozen bakers, scullery maids, and cooks watched him, each holding their breath, eyes wide. Elias, again driven by impulse, addressed the crowd. “Take heart,” he said. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, or seen, but the queen lives and will reclaim the throne from her enemies.”

  “That was foolish,” Agnar said as Elias poked his head out the doorway that led outside.

  Elias crouched and scanned the night for signs of sentries or pursuit. “What’s that? Going through the kitchens, taking food, or my speech?”

  “Yes,” said Agnar.

  “It was the quickest path to the outside, one that our captors may not be familiar with, and we won’t get far without food.”

  “And the speech?” Agnar whispered.

  “My father taught me that to occupy a conquered land you must win the hearts of the people, or else subdue them. Fear is our enemy’s greatest weapon. They are but shadow and gossamer.” Elias dashed off toward a line of elms in a half-crouch, effectively ending the conversation.

  Agnar grunted and followed suit. Of all the things his new ally had proved to be, it seemed he was a philosopher as well.

  Elias led them through the line of elms and into the eastern outer gardens where they surprised a couple of courtly lovers romancing in the moonlight. The pale faced youth sprang to his feet and drew a bejeweled rapier. His hand shook, but to his credit he held the blade before him in a fair facsimile of the royal guard style and pushed his lady love behind him.

  “Put up your toy sword, boy,” Elias half whispered, half growled, “lest you be an enemy of the queen.”

  The young aristocrat blanched further. “The queen is dead.”

  “Lies!” Elias spat. “The queen has escaped and is very much alive. Do not believe the council or the lackey they’ve put on the throne as regent.”

  The youth sheathed his weapon and his eyes grew wide. “The Marshal,” he said, “can it be you?”

  Elias drew close to him. “There is no time, son. You never saw me.”

  As Elias drew away, the youth placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned close. “Oberon has taken the throne and blamed the queen’s death on an Ittamar raid. Not all are happy to see House Oberon in control. There are too many unanswered questions. The Prelate held services for the queen today. Oberon’s already ordered the army raised. It looks like we’re to be at war again.”

  Elias squeezed his arm in response and then vanished back into the gardens with Agnar close on his heels.

  They reached the edge of the gardens without further incidence. Elias crouched behind a red fern and peered out across the wide green lawn that lay before them. “We have a long open space to cross here,” Elias said, “but the stables are this way and we need horses.”

  “The stables will be guarded, no?”

  “Yes.” Elias rubbed his bare arms and shivered. “Typically two of the lesser guard, a technicality, really since the grounds are closed—but there is an alarm bell. I don’t know if Mirengi has heightened security. They may very well guess our intentions and send men to the stables.”

  “Mirengi?” asked Agnar, a chill moving through him even though the autumn air of Galacia felt quite temperate to him. His mind spun as he searched for the Galacian word for their high holy man. “Your…high priest is the one behind all this?”

  “Yes, and he’s the one that framed you and your men. But this is a conversation for another time. Are you ready?”

  “Does it matter?” Agnar snorted.

  Elias offered Agnar a wry grin. “Quick and quiet, then.”

  Elias set off at light jog. Agnar kept pace with ease, for he was used to running in the thin air of the North. The northerner could run all day in the thick air of the southlands.

  As they neared the stables Elias spotted the expected two sentries dressed in the garb of the Redshields. Elias slowed to a casual walk. “It may be a trap. We gain the inside as soon as possible. The corridor will nullify greater numbers. We fight back to back. The Horses we need are in the seventh and the ninth stalls.”

  The guards began to shift nervously as they neared. One of them called out in a quavering voice, “Ho! Who goes there?”

  “Marshal Duana, and in the absence of Captain Blackwell, your commanding officer,” Elias said in a low tone, but one that carried well in the still night. As he spoke his eyes did not rest on the guards but scanned the elms to either side of the stable and the roof for any sign of ambush. He kept his muscles loose and ready for action.

  “Marshal?” the guard stammered. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes,” Elias said and walked past the two men without pause and into the relative safety of the stable.

  The second guard said. “Sir, we were told you were dead, along with the queen, Blackwell, Lady Bryn…the whole lot of you!”

  “They bury the queen tomorrow!” said the first guard.

  “Oberon’s taken the throne as regent. The palace is swarming with his men and Knights Justicar.” The first guard eyed Agnar. “They said the Ittamar did it.”

  Elias turned on his heels and grabbed the guard by his surcoat. “Do not believe your eyes, whatever you may see! The queen lives. I saw her escape myself. Fell magic is at work here. Oberon, Mirengi, Ogressa they are the masterminds behind this.”

  Elias heard a noise behind him. In a fluid motion he shoved the guard back and spun around, his sword raised in a high guard. Agnar reacted first and held the perpetrator by the collar, a young ruddy-faced boy with straw colored hair, with a sword at his throat.

  Elias drew up short and an involuntary smile came to his lips. “Seven? Seven Winters, you little sneak!”

  Agnar let up his hold on the boy. “You know this child?”

  Elias laughed, his mood lifted by the sight of the precocious stable hand. “Agnar, meet Seven Winters. A better friend there is none.”

  “Elias,” Seven said, once free of Agnar’s grasp, “I didn’t believe a word of it. I knew you were alive. I just knew it. I have been waiting for you these four days.”

  Elias took Seven by the shoulders and squeezed. “Thank-you, my friend,” he said earnestly, “your faith means much to me, but there is no time. We must be off. Our enemies cannot be far behind. Y
ou must hide.”

  “But I have something for you. Follow me.”

  Seven dashed down the corridor without a further word. Elias looked toward the entrance, expecting the signs of pursuit at any moment. Elias hesitated, not wishing to press his luck any further than he already had in his haphazard escape, but an ineffable urge tugged at him to follow Seven. To Agnar he said, “Can you prepare the horses?” and to the guards, “Watch the entrance.” Without waiting for a response he trotted after Seven, aware that every passing second brought them a step closer to recapture, or to death.

  †

  Talinus focused his preternatural vision on the stable. “There are two guards,” the imp said, “who we can assume are loyal to the Marshal since they haven’t raised the alarm. The Northerner, Agnar Vundi, is in the corral with Duana and a man-child.”

  “The Northerner?” asked one of the hand. “With Duana?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said, you imbecile!” Talinus said, through clenched teeth. The imp forced himself to take a calming breath, despite the fact that he didn’t actually need to breathe. “This is an unforeseen complication, but one that we must deal with, and delicately. We need Vundi alive, but he must not escape. Subdue him quickly, but don’t mortally wound him, lest we face my master’s wrath.”

  Talinus returned his attention to the stables. “Look, now, Duana has left the others and gone with the manling. They are separated. Now is our chance. Strike, now. Go!”

  †

  Seven led Elias into a small common room where the stable hands took their meals and approached an alcove set in a corner. He pulled a small folding knife from his pocket and pried open a false floorboard. From the hidden covey Seven retrieved a long bundle that appeared to be a faded green horse-blanket, rolled and tied with a leather cord. Seven held the bundle in both arms and offered it up to Elias reverentially, as if passing over a holy relic.