The knowledge that her life was forfeit if Kelryn should discover the girl’s identity was further incentive to their rescue attempt. This awareness caused Danyal to toss and turn miserably through each interminable night, terrified that Mirabeth’s disguise would be penetrated by the shrewd villain. He could only hope that she had been able to use her hair or some other means to disguise the real shape of her ear.
On the second night of their pursuit, Emilo suffered from another attack, a seizure like the one that had claimed him on the night of their rescue on the road. Dan and Foryth tried to keep the kender comfortable as he thrashed on the ground and finally went rigid. Again he had awakened with little memory of their surroundings, though during the course of this last day, Emilo’s awareness had slowly returned.
Finally their cautious approach brought them into sight of their goal.
The manor house rose like a small peak from the crest of what was, in fact, a full-sized mountain. A single tower of stone thrust high above the walls, and several peaked roofs were visible over the ramparts. Still, most of the structure was lost behind the steep barriers that enclosed the major portion of the mountaintop, giving the place the look of a small but formidable castle.
Danyal and his two companions looked up at the place from a neighboring ridge, and they immediately started to look for the best way to approach the place.
Only as they were discarding options and proposing others did the lad realize that a week earlier he would have been filled with despair at the prospect of approaching—not to mention entering!—such a fortress. Yet now the challenge simply reinforced his sense of grim determination, fanning the embers of hate that now burned steadily just below the surface of his awareness.
“That bridge looks like the only way to get up to the place,” Danyal said, pointing to an arched span that crossed a steep-sided gully separating Loreloch’s summit from a neighboring elevation.
The manor itself was a surrounded by smooth walls, though many small, rude cottages were clustered on the outside of the compound. Some of these were perched at the very edge of the precipitous slope, while others lined the narrow lane that led from the bridge to the front gates, currently shut, of the imposing edifice.
“Once we’re across, we’ll have to find some way other than the front gate to get inside there,” Emilo noted.
“Maybe they left the scullery door open,” Foryth suggested. When Danyal looked skeptical, he added an explanation. “It happened in the monastery all the time, even though the place was supposed to be locked up tight. A cook who’s throwing out a full pot of scraps and garbage doesn’t like to fuss with a lot of locks and latches.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Danyal admitted. “It’ll be dark in an hour. Why don’t we rest here awhile, then move in after sunset?”
The others agreed, and they waited for the seemingly interminable interval as the sun vanished over the horizon and the sky slowly faded toward black. Danyal’s suggestion of rest, he realized, was wishful thinking; instead, he studied the mountaintop stronghold, looking for some weakness in what had clearly been designed to act as a small fortress. There were many windows, but they were all high in the stone walls. The only hopeful sign was that there seemed to be no guard posted at the bridge.
By the time full night had descended, Dan hadn’t found anything else even remotely hopeful, but neither did he want to delay any longer. The trio started out by descending to the road, then held to the uphill edge of the narrow track, close beside a shallow ditch that just might offer them shelter if they needed to suddenly dive for cover. Still, they all knew their best chance lay in remaining undiscovered, so they concentrated on moving with stealth as well as speed.
It took a surprisingly long time to reach the bridge, and when they did, Danyal saw that the edifice of Loreloch was even larger than it had appeared from across the valley. At least there was still no guard posted at the terminus of the span, nor had anyone bothered to plant any torches or lanterns outside the cluster of hovels and small, enclosed pens that huddled around the stone-walled manor.
Crouching beside one of the low walls flanking the bridge, the three companions moved cautiously onto the narrow, low-walled crossing. Danyal had never been so high above the ground as he was at the middle of the bridge, and he had to suppress a wave of dizziness when he looked over the rampart into the ravine below.
But then they were across, with the first of the rude shacks just a dash away and the bulk of the manor rising beyond. Most of the smaller buildings were dark and silent, though candles flickered in a few windows. Lights flared from many high windows on the manor wall, and sounds of shouting or raucous laughter occasionally wafted through the still air.
“It’s almost midnight,” Foryth said, after a look at the stars. “I wonder if things will quiet down in a little while.”
Danyal didn’t want to wait, but he had to admit that the place sounded terribly active right now. This was a stark contrast to his village, which had invariably settled into slumber within an hour of two after sunset. Still, he was about to suggest that they move closer when Emilo spoke in quiet agreement with the historian.
“Let’s give it another hour or so. I’d suggest you two go around to the right. Maybe you can find that scullery door. I’ll take the other side and see if there’s something I can do along the lines of creating a diversion.”
The intruders crept around the few ramshackle outbuildings near the end of the bridge, finding a small ledge below the line of sight from village and manor. Knowing they could wait here without fear of accidental discovery, they settled about making themselves comfortable while they stayed silent and low. Time ticked by interminably, but when they finally lifted their heads to regard the edifice, they saw that many of the torches had gone out. Listening carefully, they heard no further sounds of revelry.
“I’ll wait for a while before I make a racket,” Emilo said. “No sense in stirring things up too soon. But if it sounds like there’s trouble, I’ll try to lure them away from you.”
“How?” Danyal asked, but his only reply was a noncommittal shrug from the kender.
Stealthily the youth led Foryth around the edge of the steep mountaintop. They heard sounds of loud snoring coming from one of the huts and made as wide a detour as possible around the place. It took them fifteen minutes to move beyond sight of the bridge, and Danyal felt terribly exposed, conscious of the vast gulf of space to his right and the looming bulk of the apparently impregnable manor rising to the left.
“Smells like we’re getting close to the kitchen,” Foryth noted. Danyal, too, had detected the odor of rotting garbage, though he hadn’t made the same connection.
Sure enough, they saw the shadowy outline of a small doorway in the base of the manor’s wall. Below the aperture was a steep section of the mountainside, where clearly the cooks simply threw out whatever leftover food and other waste made its way to the great house’s kitchen. A noise of scurrying and chattering startled the intruders, and it didn’t help them to relax when they realized that the sounds came from dozens of rats, who scraped and scrabbled over the rancid pile of refuse.
Danyal was starting to look around for some sign of a guard when Foryth walked boldly up to the door and reached for the latch. His heart pounding, Dan tensed, expecting an alarm or challenge.
Instead, the door opened with a soft creak, revealing a large room that was dimly lit by the glow of fading embers. Scuttling forward, the lad joined the historian in stepping hesitantly into the stronghold of Kelryn Darewind.
The kitchen smelled of soot and grease. In the dim light, they saw large counters, a great stack of pots, and a brick fireplace that held the still-glowing coals.
“Where would she be?” Foryth wondered. “It’s a big house, after all.”
“Kelryn told us he had a dungeon, remember? I think we should look on the lowest level we can find.”
“Makes sense,” the historian agreed. “Should we split up?”
<
br /> Danyal shook his head firmly, and not just because he didn’t want to be left alone in the place. “There’s twice as much chance of us getting discovered if we’re in two different places,” he pointed out. Foryth nodded in apparent agreement.
The kitchen door was a massive barrier of iron-strapped oak, but the hinges were well oiled, and the door opened with barely a whisper of sound. They stepped onto a woolen carpet that lined a wide hallway, with several doors visible in the dark-paneled walls to either side. A pair of candles, each set in a wall sconce, provided wan illumination through the wide, high-ceilinged corridor.
To the left, the hallway expanded, then turned a corner. Dan caught a glimpse of long tapestries hanging down from the top of the lofty walls, and he remembered Kelryn mentioning works of art that he had commissioned to display the glories of Fistandantilus. The brightest lights he had seen came from that direction, so Danyal decided, logically enough, to go the other way. He reasoned that the dungeon would be remote from the main gathering halls and dwelling rooms of the manor.
He passed several doors that were smaller than the kitchen door, fitted with brass hinges that had been polished to golden brightness. Continuing his process of deduction, he concluded that these, too, would be unlikely to lead to the dingy underground chambers he was imagining. After a dozen steps, the corridor curled around a curving stone wall; here he found a sturdy iron-strapped door.
“This is the base of the tower,” Foryth whispered, gesturing to the rounded wall. “The door probably leads to a stairway that goes up.”
“How do you know that?” wondered Dan, incredulous.
“I merely marked the location when we were outside,” the historian said modestly.
“Such a mass of stone has to have a foundation on the ground. And this is it.”
Realizing that the historian was probably right, Danyal continued on, finding flagstones under his feet now instead of the carpet. Shortly he found still another door, this one also banded with iron, and when he put his face to the frame, he caught the scent of mold and dampness.
His heart quickening, he turned to tell Foryth of his observation, but he saw no sign of the historian! Near panic, Dan padded back along their tracks.
The door that was in the base of the manor tower was open a crack, though the lad knew it had been closed when they first passed it. He could only assume that Foryth Teel had entered here and was perhaps even now climbing toward the upper reaches of the stone spire.
For the first time tonight, Dan felt a twinge of despair. He didn’t dare waste time going after his wandering companion, nor could he risk calling out to him. With a soft groan, he hurried back to the door he had suspected led to a downward stairway. There was a heavy iron latch securing the door against being opened from the other side, and this served to confirm the lad’s suspicions.
As carefully as possible, he lifted the hasp, then pulled on the door. In the dim light, he saw a stairway descending into utter shadows. Anxiously he looked around, seeing several unlit candles in sconces similar to the mounts holding the burning tapers. He took one and touched it to the wick of a burning candle. Thus armed, he went back to the door.
Just before he started down the damp, stone stairs, he heard a clatter from outside the walls. Men shouted, and Dan deduced that Emilo had begun his diversion. Hoping it was effective, he turned his attentions to the darkness before and below him.
The air was chill with a penetrating miasma that seemed to seep right into his bones. Tiptoeing carefully, clutching the knife in one hand and the candle in the other, he crept down a long flight of stairs.
At the bottom, a dingy corridor forked to the right and left, and he felt a return of his momentary panic as he wondered which way to go. Finally he guessed at random, starting along one branch, holding the candle up as he passed several small cells. The metal doors of these enclosures stood open, and with a quick pass of the candle, Danyal saw that each was unoccupied.
When he reached a door that was closed, he lifted the candle toward the grate at the top of the barrier and tried to peer within.
“Who’s there?” demanded a stern feminine, familiar voice, and Dan’s heart did handstands in his chest.
“Mirabeth! It’s me, Danyal!” he whispered, drawing a gasp of surprise and hope from within.
“Can you get me out of here?” she asked, rushing to the door, coming into the light of his flickering candle. He was relieved to see that she appeared unharmed. One of her ears retained its wax pointed tip, and she had combed one of her twin topknots down to cover the other, undisguised ear.
In another moment Danyal had pried open the catch, which was a very crude lock. Mirabeth gave him a big hug, and he wrapped his arms around her as best as he could while still retaining the grip on his knife and candle.
“Come on!” he urged. “We’ve got to get you out of here!”
“And just where do you think you’ll go?” barked a sneering voice out of the darkness—a voice that Danyal clearly recognized.
It belonged to Kelryn Darewind.
Chapter 33
The Eyes of the Skull
Second Palast, Reapember
374 AC
Flayzeranyx stared at the skull, sensing the desire there. For long years, he had felt the glare of those dead eyes, heard the hushed voice whispering into his mind, insinuating ideas, suggestions, wishes. He knew that the skull tried to use him, that it wanted to employ the dragon to slake its hideous hunger.
But the red dragon’s belly rumbled with a hunger of his own.
The eyes in the fleshless skull gaped, unblinking, as they had stared for so many decades. They looked upon the fiery inferno that was the lair of Flayzeranyx, and they watched, and they waited.
For a long time, there was only the smoke, the bubbling of lava and the hissing of steam. Clouds of soot billowed, churning in angry clouds, and tongues of flame licked into the air. Nothing seemed alive here, until finally crimson scales coiled in the darkness and leathery wings expanded to fan the air, sending gusts of wind swirling through the cavern.
Bursts of yellow fire exploded upward, as if exulting in their master’s arousal when the mighty serpent raised his head and neck far above the smooth, hardened lava of his perch.
The dragon studied the skull and sensed the need. He saw a pale green image and detected the sparks of crimson fire that burned there. The hunger, the lust, in the skull was an almost palpable force.
“And where is the talisman?” asked the wyrm in a silken voice. He probed, staring with his great yellow eyes, penetrating the depths within the skull.
Abruptly the serpent saw the image change, and he sensed the truth as he beheld the human lair in the mountains. “Your heart of blood and stone is there!”
The skull remained as ever, but did Flayze now detect a mocking leer in the eternally grinning teeth?
“I know the place,” he whispered. “The mountaintop stronghold … I have seen it, tolerated it, for these many years.”
The skull was silent, still. But the shadowy stare of those dead eyes seemed to penetrate the dragon’s very being.
Instinctively Flayze hated that place, hated the powerful allure that drew the attentions of his artifact. The skull wanted the stone with a desperate, powerful longing. The red dragon, on the other hand, had many treasures. He could afford to scorn the chance to add another bauble to his collection.
Wings spreading, the dragon turned toward the world, ready to fly.
Behind him, the skull watched, silent and motionless as ever, its white teeth locked in an eternal grimace.
Chapter 34
The Master of Loreloch
Second Majetog, Reapember
374 AC
“I was wondering how long it would take you to come for her. I’m impressed, of course, that you seem to have dispatched Zack so handily, but I was a trifle disappointed when you hadn’t broken into Loreloch by last night. I thought you were taking an awfully cavalier approach to thi
s pretty kendermaid’s rescue.”
For a moment, confronted by that familiar, dangerous voice, Danyal froze. He pictured Kelryn Darewind lurking in the darkness, like a cat who had found two mice out of their hole. The candle in Danyal’s hand flared weakly, and he saw Mirabeth’s eyes, so hopeful an instant before, cloud with a mixture of fear and despair.
Dan, too, felt a growing measure of hopelessness. At the same time, he wondered how the man had known to wait here for him. Remembering the noise that had crashed outside the manor walls, the lad wondered if the bandit lord had been alerted by Emilo’s premature diversion. In any event, he was here in the darkness, watching and laughing at them.
But then Dan’s instincts took over; he tugged Mirabeth out of the cell and started down the musty corridor, away from the direction of that soft, menacing voice.
“Halt!”
Kelryn barked the word, and just like that Danyal’s feet ceased to move. He tried to urge Mirabeth along but found that she, too, might as well have been glued to the floor. The two of them squirmed and strained but couldn’t pull their boots free. This was magic, Danyal realized with sinking spirits, knowing that some sort of spell had acted to cloak them in this cast of immobility.
“You had no chance of really making a successful rescue, you know—no chance at all,” declared the bandit lord, sauntering from the darkened recesses of the dungeon. Suddenly the two young people could see him, but not because of the candle that still flared brightly in Danyal’s trembling hand.
No, the lad realized. Rather, it seemed that there was some kind of eerie light emanating from Kelryn Darewind himself. The man was outlined in a pale green glow, an illumination not unlike the natural phosphorescence Danyal had observed on some of the lichens that grew in shady places near Waterton.
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