Sentinals Awaken: Book One of the Sentinals Series

by Helen Garraway

  Although the drain was not wide, Tagerill managed to squeeze his broad shoulders through, following Birlerion and Jerrol who nimbly climbed ahead of him, Fonorion bringing up the rear. The reek of damp stone and the sharp tang of water filled the air as a constant stream of rainwater ran down the walls, draining off the battlements.

  Birlerion helped pull Tagerill out the other end, as Jerrol scouted the outer corridor. He came back grinning. “Serillion and Darllion are above us. It sounds like they made it into the inner courtyard.”

  They shed their cloaks, and the worst of the rain, as Jerrol led the way through the deserted corridors and up to ground level. A trail of wet boot prints marked their passage, though there didn’t seem to be anyone on the lower levels to notice them. The sound of Serillion’s commanding voice berating the palace guards greeted them as they crept through the lower corridors and reached the courtyard undetected.

  Tagerillion chuckled under his breath, and he exchanged glances with a grinning Birlerion, who was unsheathing his bow. “Oh, that brings back memories.”

  Fonorion followed Jerrol as they left for the south tower. Birlerion scanned the courtyard for his best vantage point before disappearing into the shadows.

  “Keep them contained; if they escape the barracks it’ll make more work for the rest of us,” Tagerill called after him.

  The thrum of arrows and the surprised faces of the guards as men began dropping around them had Tagerill laughing as he strode into the courtyard, swinging his sword indiscriminately around him.

  The horrific noise of the remaining Sentinals drawing their broadswords compounded the effect. Birlerion was sure the sound of Tagerill’s laughter didn’t help as the Sentinals methodically took the palace guard apart. Birlerion skewered any man that poked his face out of the barracks, and then Serillion wedged the door shut.

  Chapter 37

  New Vespers

  Jerrol led the way to the King’s apartments in the south wing, flitting down dimly lit corridors which were surprisingly guard-free. The Prince must set great store in his defences, Jerrol thought to himself, his face grim. He arrived at the decorative doors of the King’s apartments, still without seeing any guards. Had they all left their posts? He would not have left the King unguarded.

  Fonorion hissed a warning, and they flattened against the wall as a guard stomped towards them. He stopped in surprise as Fonorion detached himself from the wall and pointed his sword at his throat. “Do you want to die?” His voice was a deep growl.

  The guard raised his hands immediately. Jerrol watched him with suspicion before leaving Fonorion to deal with him. Gently, he eased the carved door open; his fingers traced the shape of the moon carved in the wood. Fonorion reappeared like a ghost behind him. He wondered what Fonorion had done with the guard, but he pushed the thought aside as he entered the room.

  The plush red carpet absorbed all sound as they crept forward. The room was unexpectedly ornate and richly furnished. Thick curtains draped the windows, softening the harsh stone interior; shadowed obstacles became upholstered chairs, hairbrushes and mirrors gleamed on the table. Jerrol gripped his sword; he didn’t remember the King’s apartments being so opulent.

  The King preferred a more austere environment. His wife passed many years ago, and there was no longer that feminine touch to soften his edges. Jerrol eased the connecting door open and peeked into the chamber. A huge bed dominated the room, the posters swathed in yet more material. He peered around the curtains and opened his left hand; in the silvery light he saw two sleeping forms in the bed. Definitely not the King.

  He recognised the dark-haired man and bit back a curse, clenched his fist and began to ease back out of the room. The man jerked and rolled out of bed, rising with his sword in his hand. “Guards,” he yelled, awakening his wife, who started shrieking as she saw two armed men in her bedroom.

  Jerrol winced at her piercing shriek, as did the Crown Prince, who growled at her to shut up, but she ignored him, grabbing the sheets around her. She continued to shriek and wail.

  “Haven, I should have known you couldn’t stay away,” he said, squinting at Jerrol.

  “Where is the King?” Jerrol gave ground as the Prince advanced. Fonorion glanced out the door at the sound of pounding feet and, after a glance at Jerrol, turned to meet the new threat.

  Crown Prince Kharel snorted. “He’s no use to you anymore. His time is over.”

  “Do you really think the Ascendants are going to allow you to rule? Was it worth it? To throw away a sure bet for the chance to take the throne early?”

  “Of course it was. You don’t know what it’s like to wait when you know you could do a better job.”

  “But the Ascendants want everything for themselves. What makes you think they need you?” Jerrol circled the Prince.

  “They couldn’t get to my father without me, not even Isseran could get past you,” the Prince snarled, lunging at Jerrol.

  Jerrol parried his thrust easily. “And once the King is out of the way, what next? I heard Isseran wanted to play Regent.”

  Kharel swore and struck wildly. Jerrol flicked his sword up and twisted, disarming the Prince. The Prince cowered away from him as he approached and Jerrol flinched as Princess Selvia jumped on him from the bed. She screeched as she pummeled him, trying to gouge his eyes out. He stumbled back, tumbling to the floor under her unexpected weight. The Prince dashed for the door, leaving his wife struggling with Jerrol.

  “Guards,” he screamed, rushing out the door into the corridor. He stopped and slowly backed up with his hands held high, Fonorion’s sword at his throat. “You’ll regret this, I am the Crown Prince of Vespiri,” he began, his voice belligerent.

  Fonorion twisted his sword, and the Prince shut up. “Kneel.” Fonorion flicked a glance at Jerrol still struggling on the floor with the Princess. The Prince took one look at Fonorion’s face and knelt. “Arms behind your back.” Fonorion circled him. He grabbed the Prince’s wrists and, dropping his sword, tied him up with a thin cord he unravelled from his waist. He tied the Prince’s hands to his feet just for thoroughness and stood watching Jerrol.

  “Having fun?” he asked as he hauled the Princess off Jerrol.

  Jerrol scowled, rubbing his sore face. He had long scratches down his cheek, slowly oozing blood. “Who would have known the Princess has more oomph than her husband,” Jerrol said in disgust. Fonorion tied her hands to the bedpost. She let her breath go as Fonorion glared her into silence. The threat of gagging was enough to make her obey.

  They left the chamber. After a swift, low-voiced conversation, Fonorion reluctantly agreed to guard the Prince and he tied the doors shut while Jerrol hurried back towards the north tower where he knew the Prince originally had his rooms. A brilliant flash lit the corridors, and Jerrol peered over the bannister into the empty courtyard. A loud crash of thunder vibrated through the palace and grumbled off into the distance.

  At the sound of voices, he stilled, blending into the shadows of the long gallery which led to the north tower. Servants’ voices? The voices faded as they moved away from him. He padded down corridors and up stairs, working his way through the warren of passages and rooms, relentless in his search.

  He surprised a guard at the base of the north tower and struck immediately, crowding the man against the wall. The man sidestepped and whipped around. His wrist flicked, and Jerrol grunted as pain bloomed in his thigh. He staggered, and the man pressed his advantage, forcing him back down the corridor. An arrow buzzed past Jerrol’s ear and struck the guard in the throat, and the guard faltered; his sword slipped from his fingers as he collapsed to the ground, gurgling.

  Birlerion appeared beside him. His face was grave as he saw the dagger protruding high on Jerrol’s left thigh. Glancing around, he eased Jerrol against the wall; bracing him, he pulled the blade out, staunching the wound with a folded piece of cloth he tugged out of his pocket. Jerrol trembled with the effort of remaining standing, waves of hot burning pain flash
ing through him.

  “You should not be alone, Captain,” Birlerion murmured, pressing down hard against the wound.

  “We need to find the King.” Jerrol closed his eyes against the deep ache in his leg and the concern in Birlerion’s eyes.

  “We will,” Birlerion said, undoing his belt and cinching it tightly around the wound. “Ready?” He helped Jerrol stand, keeping a bracing arm around his back.

  “The King must be in the north tower, in the Prince’s old rooms on the third floor.”

  Birlerion supported him down the corridor. Peering up the stairwell, he wrapped Jerrol’s arm around his shoulder and with one arm around his waist he began climbing, tightening his grip as Jerrol stumbled and in the end carrying him up the last few flights.

  He propped Jerrol against the wall and checked the corridor. “Can you stand?” he asked, and then he let go of him and disappeared down the hallway. Jerrol heard a clash of swords and the Sentinal was back, wrapping his arm around Jerrol’s waist. “The tower is down the end; it’s clear now.” He assisted Jerrol down the passageway. They were halfway down when a door opened, and Chancellor Isseran peered out.

  He froze in shock at the sight of two armed men, and then he slammed his door shut as Jerrol raised a wavering sword.

  Jerrol lurched for the door. Forcing it open, he fell into the room. Birlerion stepped over him and reached for Isseran as he spun his cloak around him. The cloth whipped out of Birlerion’s hand as he disappeared, leaving the Sentinal hissing in pain.

  Jerrol grimaced as he heaved himself to his knees. “We’ll deal with him after; the King is more important.” Birlerion helped him up and dragged him down the corridor.

  “Where did he go?” Jerrol asked.

  “Not far. We need to get to the King before he does. It seems these Ascendants have discovered more of their ancestors’ skills.” Birlerion stopped speaking as he heard a knock at a door around the corner, followed by the door opening and closing, and the soft snick of a lock turning. Checking the corridor, he assisted Jerrol into the room to the left of the chamber and dropped him in a chair. Searching the room, he returned with a thicker towel and a thin scarf. He undid his belt and pressed the thick pad against Jerrol’s leg and tied it in place. Jerrol groaned, stuffing his hand in his mouth, his face pale.

  Birlerion knelt beside him. “I don’t know your King; you make sure it’s him, and I’ll defend the door.”

  With Birlerion’s assistance, Jerrol leant his ear against the door and listened. He didn’t recognise either of the voices. They were quite clear as they made no effort to lower their voices.

  “He’s getting more difficult every day, how much longer we got to keep this up?” a voice was whining.

  “Stop moaning, your job is easy; he sleeps most of the night,” replied a colder voice.

  “You sure you’re giving him the right dosage? All he does is spout nonsense,” the whiny man continued.

  “It’s what they said to give him; the next batch will be arriving next week. We’re almost out, and you know we don’t have enough to increase the dosage.” The man broke off with a gasp.

  “Prepare the King. I need to move him.” Isseran’s harsh voice interrupted them.

  Jerrol jerked the door open, and Birlerion followed, crowding the men in the antechamber. “Stop him,” Jerrol shouted, pointing at the squat man backing away, swirling his cloak around him. Birlerion launched himself across the room; he slammed Isseran against the door, and it burst open beneath their weight. They tumbled through the door, a mass of arms and legs. Birlerion was struggling to prevent the Chancellor from escaping; he hissed as Isseran’s fist caught his face.

  The air shimmered, and Isseran lurched across the room towards the King, his black cloak swirling around him. “Curse you, Haven, you never learn, do you?” His bony fingers curled like claws around the King’s arm. A knife flashed in his other hand.

  “Learn what?”

  “That your presence is not required. The King’s reign is over. Long live the Ascendants.” Isseran swung towards the King, and Birlerion flung out his arm, pointing at the Ascendant.

  “No,” he shouted, and Isseran flinched back. Birlerion stared at his hand, bemused as a faint blue light flickered out.

  Jerrol scrambled over the King and launched himself at Isseran, who stumbled back under his weight, releasing his hold on the King. They grappled, rolling around on the floor. Jerrol gritted his teeth and hung on, both hands gripped around Isseran’s wrist until Birlerion hauled Isseran off him. Birlerion slugged the Chancellor, and he folded to the floor.

  “Are you alright, Captain?” Birlerion crouched beside him. Helping him sit up, he tightened the binding around his leg. Jerrol groaned, sweat beading his brow. “Hold this a moment.” Birlerion placed Jerrol’s hand over the pad and checked the room.

  Birlerion threw a withering glance at the cowering servants retreating out the door, tied Isseran’s arms behind him and after a quick search covered his head with a pillowcase.

  “What are you doing?”

  “If he can’t see he can’t disappear,” Birlerion said as he tied the material in place.

  Tagerill loomed in the doorway, his silver eyes gleaming in the dull light. The servants dangled in each hand like game hung out to rest. Jerrol’s eyes narrowed as Birlerion helped him stand. “What have you given the King?” he demanded, flipping Isseran’s knife in his hand.

  “N-nothing,” the man gasped, his eyes bulging with fear.

  Birlerion loomed behind Jerrol’s shoulder, and the man gulped. Jerrol glanced at his Sentinal’s face and shivered; he started speaking fast. “Your life means nothing to me. Prince Kharel chose the wrong side, and so have you. I can kill you quickly or slowly, your choice.” He waved his hand at Birlerion, who took a step forward.

  “J-just trealt, the Prince wanted the King to tell him the Mysteries.”

  “The Mysteries?”

  “The King’s secrets. His connection with the Lady and the Land, he wanted the truth. Prince Kharel wanted to know what it was so that they could use it.”

  “And did he tell you?” Birlerion pounced and twisted his fist into the man’s chest. Tagerill raised the man higher.

  The man swallowed, his face pale. “D-don’t kill me, please. I’m just a messenger.”

  “You’re more than that, I think.” Birlerion tightened his grip. “Did he tell you?” he repeated, making his words a threat.

  The man shuddered in his grip. “No, no, he speaks nothing but nonsense.”

  Birlerion eased his grip as feet pounded up the stairs. The man stirred, thinking he was about to be saved, but he blanched as another tall silver-eyed man appeared instead.

  “All secure,” Serillion reported, his eyes widening at the scene before him.

  Tagerill grimaced. “We’ll lock them up until the King is ready to speak to them,” he said, thrusting them out of the room and out of his brother’s reach. “Serillion, guard the corridor. I’ll come back for that one.”

  Tagerill dragged the terrified men away.

  Jerrol turned back to the King. There was a strong aroma of incense hanging heavy in the air, but it wasn’t strong enough to cover the lately familiar scent of trealt. Jerrol cast a quick look around the room. A large bed dominated it. Apart from the bed, there was a table against the wall supporting what looked like a whole apothecary kit. Stacked underneath the table: a bedpan, water jug and bowl.

  Reaching up, he turned down the flame of the incense and let some much-needed air in as he eased open the casement. A gust of rain-drenched air blew in and, taking a deep breath, he turned his attention to the King.

  As Jerrol limped to the side of the bed, the mackerel-striped Arifel popped into the room. Chittering softly at Jerrol, he flew towards the bed, perched on the frame, and observed the King.

  The King was a big man, big in body and big in character. A man of high intelligence and a cutting wit which kept his court alert. All were absent here. This
man was grey and shrunken, ravaged by drugs and enforced illness. Jerrol was appalled at how much the King had been affected. How had he managed to become so isolated, so vulnerable?

  Jerrol knew he was partly to blame. He had allowed Prince Kharel and Nikols to bundle him out of the King’s sphere, leaving the King exposed and unprotected, as had most of his other supporters. No more, Jerrol swore to himself; he would find a way to reverse this or die trying.

  The sound of clashing swords from the hallway made Jerrol stiffen. Birlerion left to help Serillion. The King’s glazed eyes were open and watching him. Ari chittered, and the King’s eyes moved to the end of his bed, a frown creasing his forehead.

  “Sire.” Jerrol took a deep breath, and stepped over Isseran’s body; he hovered over the King. The King convulsed as he saw the figure hanging over him. “Sire, it’s alright,” Jerrol said, catching his hand and looking the King firmly in the eyes. “It’s Jerrol Haven. Please, sire, I mean you no harm.”

  “Jer, Jer, Jer,” the King stuttered, his voice thick.

  “That’s right,” soothed Jerrol, “it’s me, your King’s Ranger, Jerrol.”

  “Jer,” the King repeated more clearly.

  “Yes, sire. They’ve been giving you trealt, sire. It’s what makes you feel so ill. The only remedy I know of that is to hand is alcohol. It counteracts some symptoms, distracts the brain, but only for a short time, and it will make you violently ill after.” Jerrol spoke slowly and clearly, watching the King’s face.

  “D-dink,” the King said.

  Jerrol looked up as Birlerion hovered in the doorway. “Bring a glass of brandy in for me, would you?”

  Birlerion returned, sloshing the brandy into the glass. He passed it to Jerrol, who was sitting hunched over on the bed. The King observed the tall Sentinal with a slight frown on his face.

  Birlerion propped the King up with pillows, mouth pinching at how frail the man felt. He took the heavy crystal glass from Jerrol and wrapped the King’s fingers around it. He helped guide the shaking hand to his mouth. “The palace is secure. Serillion guards the corridor, Fonorion guards the Prince, there were no other Ascendants apart from Isseran,” Birlerion reported, his voice soft.