by B. T. Narro
As Desil made his way toward the top of the staircase, he was surprised at just how much wood, rather than stone, had been used in the construction of the interior. It was jet black, and it stopped him for a moment as he bent to feel it with his fingertips. Could this be ironbark?
But there was so much of the expensive material. It would’ve cost thousands of—why even question it? Of course it was ironbark.
Not all the ironbark was paid for by the current king. Kyrro’s history was rich with men of exorbitant wealth coming to power, all thinking they would be the first king to die of old age in their castle, eventually passing the crown to their son.
Beatrix’s father had lived here without any public drama for twenty-five years, but it was always during times of war in the past when danger somehow found entrance into this keep.
Desil might be part of history, he realized as he walked down these steps with the master key in his pocket and a knife on his belt.
He didn’t want to be part of history.
During his long descent, he passed a few women in simple robes, none showing him more than a glance. The walls nearest to the staircase were adorned with banners that he didn’t recognize, most likely representative of families with some importance to Kyrro. His father had given him many history lessons, explaining that most of the families in those dramatic tales still had members alive today, some even holding onto old grudges. The Takarys, for example, would never be forgotten by the offspring of their enemies, nor would they let themselves be.
Desil’s father had told him much about the Hillers as well, and not all of it was good. Leida’s father had been born into a family of great political power that was also cursed by greed. There was a wall somewhere in Tenred castle with their banner, which Leida would probably be ashamed to see.
Desil had been pulled away with thoughts of old wars and glorious battles. Like every boy, he hadn’t wanted to wait for his own adventure as he listened to the tales of the men and women who’d shaped the land. Surely, as a manipulator of the water and land itself, he would one day have a reason to take a similar risk as the very real heroes did in his mother and father’s tales. One day he would have a reason for glory. Something would send him on a course to defend the good people of Kyrro. But as the years went on, he began to wonder if he was wrong, especially considering that his own hero—his father—had lost a battle that had cost him his life.
Desil couldn’t let it end the same way for himself. He’d been apprehensive about rejoining Basen after what had happened in Kanoan, and the only reason he was in the castle now was to help Beatrix and repay her for her support. However, it was time to start forming his own reason for taking these risks. Otherwise he was no more than a pawn in this war.
The war is wrong—thousands will die. I must stop it.
He knew it to be true, but he didn’t feel it like Basen did. Desil would do what was right, but solely out of responsibility. Basen was prepared to die to see this through. Was Desil? He might have to find out, and he’d better have figured it out before then.
I still need my own reason to do this.
As he came to each new floor, he didn’t get much of a sense of the true size of the castle keep from only the staircase and the walkways. There was too much that he couldn’t see. Closed doors and hooked hallways left a lot to be imagined.
Beatrix had told him that from the bottom of the stairs he should see the only exit of the keep. It was ahead of him now, with no one in sight. He considered succumbing to his fear of doing this alone and trying to leave through the front door. He could keep it unlocked, as it only bolted from the other side. But if that had been what Beatrix wanted, she would’ve mentioned it. There was probably too much risk of someone hearing, or someone seeing as Desil made his way around from one side of the keep to the other.
The hallway she’d told him to take was somewhere to his left, but which one was it? Two led straight, each to a closed door. He shouldn’t be standing here where he could easily be seen. The feeling that someone was watching made him scurry into the nearest hallway, where he stopped until he could recall Beatrix’s instructions.
“Once you’re facing the door to the keep from the bottom of the stairs, go through the nearest hallway. Follow it until you reach a door. There shouldn’t be a guard, but if there is, hide somewhere until he leaves.”
Desil didn’t know where he should hide, so he was glad when he saw no guard in front of the door. It was unlocked, and he saw why after a moment. It only led to another hallway. This one looked no different than the other, except for the doors flanking Desil that probably led into rooms rather than more hallways.
He passed through corridors, turning where Beatrix had told him to turn and unlocking the doors she’d told him to open.
It wasn’t a long walk, but the feeling that someone would catch him made each second feel like a minute. He stopped suddenly and listened for footsteps. He thought he heard a patter, but he couldn’t be sure. Faint voices drifted through the walls to cover the sound.
Soon he arrived at the metal door to the armory where Beatrix said weaponry was stored. It wasn’t frequently used, for there was another armory outside the castle, but it should still have what they needed.
Desil unlocked the door quietly, but it let out a deafening groan as he opened it. He quickly closed it after him and turned the key to lock it behind him, but the sound of its metal latch striking into its place no doubt could be heard from anywhere in the last hallway.
It was too dark for Desil to make out anything. He made light and saw standing shelves. Each long shelf reached from one end of the armory nearly to the other, creating five aisles. They contained many hefty chests, none of which were locked. Desil started looking through those he could reach, but all only contained swords—swords and more swords. Chipped and rusted, they must’ve been discards. Then Desil came across the shields, hundreds of them. Some were still of decent quality. All the iron and steel in this armory was probably worth a small fortune, and yet here they lay for what could’ve been years. Desil couldn’t imagine what it cost to equip the entire army with weapons of better quality than these.
Some of Desil’s father’s rants about the kings and their wealth were beginning to make sense. Wade had often let anger consume him while drunk, spewing out what Desil had thought to be conjecture about how the kings cared more about taking each other’s land than about the people they were supposed to oversee.
The current king of Kyrro was said to use coin wisely to create work for his people. But most of the citizens didn’t get to see all this excess, which made it clear that a higher percentage of Fernan’s coin went into the war. It was no doubt the same for the king of Tenred. Basen probably knows how much Fernan has really spent on preparing his army, and how much of that money has come from taxes.
Desil put it out of his mind as he continued his search. There was some armor down here as well, mismatched gauntlets and pauldrons, and boiled leather tunics sloppily thrown into barrels along the walls. Bows with snapped strings or no string at all lay in a pile in one corner below the slit window. Cold air sent a chill to Desil’s neck as he opened a smaller chest near the bows.
It wasn’t what he was looking for, but this chest could’ve been more valuable than any other. Or its contents could’ve been worthless. Desil didn’t know enough about potions to tell. There must’ve been fifty vials, strung together in pairs. He took one pair and held it in front of his glowing cluster of bastial energy that he used for light. One liquid was the consistency of water but gray like the castle walls. The other was thick, a brownish-yellow color like barley.
He put two sets of the potions in his pockets and continued his search. Beatrix seemed certain he could find a long rope in here, but he was beginning to wonder if she’d ever set foot in this armory. It was a large place, made more difficult to navigate by all the shelves and the darkness.
He eventually came to the final wall he had yet to search. He nearly
laughed when he saw the rope right away, hanging on a post. If he’d walked through this aisle first, he could’ve saved himself some trouble.
He lifted it off the post and was almost taken down by its weight. He struggled to get it over his shoulder. Bastial hell, it would be a difficult climb back up all those steps. It wasn’t as if he could hide the rope, either. He remembered Kirnich’s advice, though. Most of the people here were not part of Allephon’s plot to eliminate his sister. So long as Desil didn’t run into the wrong person, all would be fine.
He started to make his way out but heard the creak of the armory door. He dared not move as he listened. The door shut and locked. Desil waited.
Slow footsteps indicated someone looking for something in here. Desil could scarcely make out light on the other end of the armory. It seemed to be more yellow than white. Lamplight. Whoever was here was not a bastial mage. They started down the farthest aisle from Desil.
Desil couldn’t move as a realization came over him that he was the target of this person’s search. He forced his feet to work, creeping around the armory, keeping the shelves in between him and his pursuer in hopes he might make it to the door. But there was no way out without the door betraying his escape. How well could he run with the rope? His legs would give out before he could sprint all the way up the stairs.
“I know you’re in here, Desil,” called a familiar voice. “You don’t have to die. Come out and cooperate.”
Micklin’s words went straight through Desil’s bones, paralyzing him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Micklin must’ve seen Desil walking down the staircase. Or worse, someone else did. There could be another attacker waiting outside the armory in case Desil somehow made it past Micklin. But they hadn’t alerted the castle guard, so Kirnich was right. If Desil could somehow reach others, they could protect him.
“Tell me what you’re doing here,” Micklin ordered.
Desil didn’t make a sound.
“Speak,” Micklin demanded. “You don’t want me angry.”
Desil figured his location at the other end of the armory made him far enough away to ask at least one question. “What do you get out of killing Fernan’s daughter?”
“Don’t try convincing me you came here only for answers. Tell me what you’re doing in this storage.”
Desil didn’t speak so as to listen for movement. The silence drew on, Desil’s breathing all he could hear.
“You’re not coming out of here alive unless you cooperate.” Micklin sounded pleased, as if he might be smiling as he spoke.
Desil considered making a racket. If others came to investigate, Micklin couldn’t kill him in front of witnesses. But it would probably provoke the pyforial mage into attacking. There was no doubt in Desil’s mind that Micklin could kill him before anyone arrived.
Desil put his ear against the cold floor. A weak tap…tap indicated footsteps, but there was no way for Desil to tell their direction. He needed Micklin to keep talking.
“I will cooperate if you answer my question,” Desil said. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why do you think?” He sounded closer, but which aisle was he in?
“Because Allephon told you to do it, and you are afraid to disobey him.” Desil figured this would provoke Micklin more than the truth.
“Afraid?” He gave a dry laugh. “I fear nothing.”
“Is that why you attempted to kill Beatrix while she slept?” Desil asked sarcastically. “Out of courage?”
Micklin didn’t reply.
“You always take her by surprise, and yet you still fail. You sent your swords at her when we were leaving Kanoan, but Kirnich saw and jumped in the way. You tried to set a trap for her at my mother’s tavern, but I noticed you in time. These are strange ways of showing you’re not afraid to face her.”
When Desil heard nothing, he put his ear against the floor again. There wasn’t a sound. Desil wouldn’t move or speak until he heard something.
“Beatrix and Kirnich are my only challenging kills so far.” Micklin appeared to have returned to the only exit, blocking any chance of escape. “Caution is important.”
“You want them dead for what reason?”
“I don’t want them dead, but they must die.”
“Why?”
There was a long pause. “What are you trying to accomplish right now?” Micklin asked.
“I just want to know the truth before I might be killed.”
“You don’t need to die for them.”
“Why them and not me? They are no threat to you or Allephon.”
“Beatrix is a threat to Allephon, and Kirnich will protect her. If you are intent on protecting her like he does, then you will die with both of them.”
He doesn’t care who dies so long as he claims Beatrix’s life.
“You speak about killing as if you enjoy it.”
“It’s not the act I enjoy but the hunt. Tell me where she is now, and you will stay alive. So long as you don’t interfere and don’t lie.”
“Is she a threat because her brother thinks she’s helping the headmaster stop this war?”
“No.”
“I will tell you where she is once you tell me the truth.”
The sound of boots beating against the floor sent Desil darting around the standing shelf nearest to him. It would be the only thing between him and a charging Micklin. But just as suddenly as he’d begun running, the mage stopped halfway across the armory, possibly in the very middle. He laughed with amusement.
Desil remained where it was nearly full black, as he knew Micklin would have trouble killing him without bringing the lamp, which would give away his location. Let him laugh. Let him underestimate me.
“Allephon has given me permission to kill anyone I please, anywhere at any time, so long as it’s not someone Allephon needs alive.”
Desil swallowed. “And what does Fernan say about this?”
“He won’t be a problem.”
Bastial hell. Was the king already dead or would he be soon?
“So Allephon plans to murder his father,” Desil concluded. “And he wants his siblings dead to keep them from retaliating.”
“It’s more complicated than that, but now you should at least see that you’re not just going against me. You could have the entire army of Kyrro to worry about. There is no future for you unless you cooperate.”
Desil hated to admit it, but Micklin may be right. There was one last hope, though, and that was to get to the king if he was still alive. Desil needed to get out of this room.
“Beatrix is far from here,” he lied. “She’s with the headmaster.”
“Then what are you doing here?” It didn’t sound as if Micklin believed him. “Get the truth out in a hurry, or you won’t have another chance to cooperate. The mage you met at your mother’s tavern should be here soon, and he’s even less likely to show mercy than I am.” Micklin paused.
“Don’t you understand what this means?” Micklin’s voice grated. “You have no way out. We will find and kill you without giving you a chance to save yourself. Tell me where Beatrix really is. I know she must be close.”
It was time for the last strategy Desil could think of. He breathed in, found some courage, and threatened the powerful man. “I don’t want to kill you, Micklin, but you’re not giving me much choice.”
Micklin laughed, though there was no amusement this time. “You’re just like your father, Desil. You don’t have the power to kill anyone except the unsuspecting innocent.”
Desil held back his rage. “That sounds more like you than my father. Have you ever faced an opponent without surprising them? Coward.”
“You—if you come out here and face me in the light!”
Desil had what he needed by then, Micklin’s exact location. He rushed out with a shield in front of his chest, his aggression audible in the animalistic sounds arising from his throat. Micklin was little more than a shadow, a lamp in front of the door near his feet. A
shape like a sword flew at Desil and struck his shield. The force of it nearly halted him, but he soon regained his momentum.
A gust of what had to be pyforial energy came at him. It felt like inflated wind as it swept through his legs. He stumbled yet found his balance.
Before he could regain his speed to ram Micklin, the mage made a claw. Pyforial energy grabbed Desil’s shield and tried to rip it away. It felt as if the shield had come to life as it thrashed side to side in Desil’s hands, eventually throwing itself and Desil into the wall, but he held on.
Micklin swiped his hand madly through the air. The chests to Desil’s side started rattling as if raring to join the fight, the shield still a wild beast. One chest turned over, pouring old armor pieces across Desil’s feet. A couple lifted to float in front of him. They shot forward and pelted his arm as he protected his head.
The shield broke free of his grasp and tried to pin him against the wall, the feeling like a metal glove beating against his hip. The pyforial mage clearly had lost track of his sword, but more of the chests were opening, contents spilling out.
Desil pushed the shield aside enough for him to slip by as something slammed into the wall where his head had been. He charged toward Micklin, the pyforial mage putting up his palms for protection. Desil dove, instead, for the oil lamp. Something grabbed him by both legs, softer yet more powerful than hands, and tried to drag him away from the lamp. Desil got his hands around the scalding glass, pulled the lamp beneath his mouth and blew. All went dark.
He squirmed out of the grasping energy and crawled over against the nearest wall. He forced his breathing to calm as he listened. He heard pyforial energy slithering around in search of him. Micklin must be able to feel if it touched him.
