He let out an annoyed grunt, making a note to bring up the issue of her attitude later, then turned back to the entrance to a hidden passage not often used.
“This way will take us right by their target,” she said. “What would be the point in that?”
“Well, if they’re still attacking here, it means they haven’t gotten to him yet.” He pushed on the tapestry that concealed a secret lever, then nudged the passage door open—it was heavy, made of stone to match the other walls. “Plus, I mean to ensure they don’t have him,” he added.
“I thought this was about getting your sister to safety?”
“It is, but you have to wonder,” he pushed past another door and paused, looking back at her. “They’ve never sent a full offensive like this in the past, so why now?”
In the darkness, the glow from his face lit up hers, and he could see the realization hit. “Something about this one’s special.”
“Must be, right? Special enough to be worth dying over.”
He turned, and the two descended the steps into the dungeon.
Donnon waited in his cell of this old building that had clearly once been a church from the days of before. The so-called dungeon had an old, rotted cross hanging on the wall, a remnant of the old ways that none in these parts understood or knew the meaning of. There were rumored to be some who did across the water, in other parts of the world, but Donnon wondered if it was all a lie and if there were even people left alive there.
He’d never seen any proof of it, so why should he believe it? It was dark down here, as they hadn’t wanted to leave fire that he could manipulate. The only light came from short windows at the top of the stone walls, just at earth level. Even if he could get up there, he wouldn’t be able to fit through those windows.
Yet, he had to find a way of reaching Clan Renair.
He cursed himself for stopping to help the woman and the old man in their burning farm house, and cursed himself again for not burning the paladin and the sister to a crisp the moment he saw them.
It wasn’t like he could be expected to know they would have magic, or at least, whatever it was the girl had used on him. He had been fighting the paladin, simply trying to scare him away and get enough room to run, when the sister had stepped forward and the shadows went crazy. If he had to say what it was, he’d say the darkness itself was brought to life, but he knew that wasn’t possible. Or rather, he hoped it wasn’t possible. He hoped that everything in him was wrong, and that his senses had been tricked.
That was it—she must be a mystic, he decided. He had heard of the people from the temple near the Arcadian valley, those who could control people’s minds. Why not make him think that some scary new magic was being used?
Of course, the stories said mystics’ eyes went white, not black as hers had. He shuddered at the thought and confusion.
A sound came from above, and he stood still, listening. Shouting, clanging of swords, and a feeling like energies sweeping over the castle—the feeling of magic.
If he was lucky, a nearby clan had seen the paladin capture him and had chosen now for their rescue. He hoped it wasn’t the Lockmires, who would just as likely chop off his head as save it. No, more likely it was the one who he had left in search of, Estair of Clan Renair. They weren’t far, he surmised. He would be saved and would have found his goal at the same time.
He hoped.
A paladin shouted above and a clanking sound followed. They were likely facing another slaughter, but this wasn’t Donnon’s problem. They had declared war on the clans, after all. So, whose fault was it when they found themselves at the sharp end of a sword? Not Donnon’s; that was for sure.
Still, he felt no craving for blood, and no need to see the servants and others meet their maker. All he wanted was to find Estair and make it back north with her at his side.
“Who is it?” he shouted, rattling the bars to his cell. “I’m of Clan Buchan. Are you friend or foe?”
A figure appeared at the top of the stairs, casting a long shadow his way. If it was foe, Donnon could manipulate the flames and take him down. But what good would that do? He would still be stuck here, in this cell, mostly helpless.
“You there, I need help. I must find the Renairs!”
The figure paused a moment longer, then scurried off. Donnon cursed himself for not trying more, but then a sound came from the opposite side of the room. He spun and prepared, in case he needed to call on fire, but it was just a rat, pausing to stare at him with as much terror as he felt in this moment.
Then it was gone, disappearing through the cracks, while he was stuck there waiting to see what fate had in store for him.
2
Rhona followed closely behind her brother, pulling her dress up over her ankles to avoid tripping as they descended the stairs. This was foolish, she knew, but she had to admit that her curiosity was piqued. On top of that, they had the warlock locked up, so what could go wrong?
The stairs led to the servants’ hallways, many of whom were sticking their heads out in curiosity at the sound of fighting above.
“Return to your rooms,” Alastar commanded, storming past.
Rhona did her best to keep up, but her dress made it hard to move swiftly, and more, the servants weren’t listening to Alastar’s command. Instead, they crowded into the hall with questions about what was happening, hindering their progress.
At the end of the hall, stairways led to the dungeon—a result of transforming this former basement from an old Church ruins into the dungeon.
Rhona turned and shouted, “We’re under attack! Get to your rooms and lock up if you want to live!”
That got their attention, and soon the hallway was empty.
Alastar looked back at her and laughed. “Couldn’t you have done that before we walked through them all?”
“Shut up.”
They descended the stairs as an explosion of flames burst from the far end of the dungeons below, casting a yellow glow their way.
Alastar held a hand up for her to keep back, then crept forward and ducked down to look around. With a nod, he stepped forward and was gone from sight. Whatever awaited them couldn’t be as bad as the terror of sitting here in this dark stairwell, heart thumping in anticipation.
She took the last couple of steps as one, nearly tripping over her dress, only to find Alastar crouching, sword held at the ready. Dungeon cells surrounded them, several with warlocks inside. A guard stood at the ready, club in hand. He wore boiled leather over his tunic, and was certainly no paladin. Another blast came their way, but it was from one of the stairwells that led down—the fight had yet to meet them.
The scream that followed sent a horrible chill up Rhona’s spine, and she found she was hugging herself.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
Alastar clutched the sword, adjusting his grip and glancing at the cell that held the warlock he had captured. The warlock clutched the bars, eyes wide with excitement.
“Is all this for you?” he shouted.
The warlock gave him a wicked smile and said, “I damn well hope so.”
“What do you know of the Sword of Light?”
“Enough to know it won’t matter if we’re all dead.”
Alastar didn’t like that answer, apparently, because he stomped over to the cell and kicked at the bars. “You pull on your flames, and I’ll have your head.”
He motioned to the guard. “Key, now. I’m taking him out the back way. They must not get their hands on this one.”
The guard stared, dumbstruck.
“If they break in here, and by the sounds of it, they will at any minute,” Alastar pointed out, “all that stands between them and this man is you. But if I take him to the paladin’s quarters, we can pray to the Saint for our protection, and there won’t be a chance of them leaving here with him.”
“And me, sir?” the guard asked.
“Hide behind bars, pretend you’re a prisoner. They won’t touch you.”<
br />
The guard contemplated this, then nodded and began fumbling with the keys to get the cell open.
Another blast sounded from the passage above, and Rhona shouted, “Hurry!”
Finally, she elbowed the guy aside, took the keys, and fitted them in the lock. They turned with a click, and the door opened, leaving her face to face with the dark warlock. A dull glow from Alastar’s sword, left over from the High Paladin’s blessing, was the only light. It cast an eerie glow on the warlock’s face.
She gulped, anticipating flames to burst forth from his hands at any moment, but it never happened.
Instead, he shouted, “Down here!”
“You maggot,” Alastar said, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him from the cell.
A burst of light filled the dungeon and a clatter sounded. They all turned to see a torch roll across the ground, still lit.
“Oh… shite,” the warlock said, and then he tried to run, but Alastar’s grip was too strong. “Get behind cover!”
A moment’s hesitation nearly cost them their lives, but then Rhona ran, pulling at her brother, snapping him out of it. With the guard, they all ducked into the cell as a woman in thick robes, her face covered, appeared at the base of the stairs with arms raised. Flames erupted from the torch, like a thousand fiery serpents leaping for their prey. A great sizzle sounded as they hit the walls, which Rhona and the rest were hiding behind, and then the lady was in the dungeon.
“Come out, maggot,” she said with a raspy, humored voice. “It’s time to join the winning team.”
Rhona glanced over at the warlock at that, and wasn’t surprised to see confusion on his face. He didn’t know this lady, and that was a sign of something, though she didn’t know what, yet.
Then she noticed the glow of Alastar’s sword, falling across the dungeon floor as the flames died out.
“There you are,” the lady said, and a moment later she was standing before them, on the other side of the bars. Her teeth were pointed, and she wore white paint that seemed to make her face glow, and her eyes had a fiery spark to them.
She raised her hands, palms out, and the smile grew.
A thud behind her drew her attention long enough for Rhona to break free from her brother and push out on the bars, crashing them into the lady, and knocking her to the floor. The first out, she saw a man dressed in similar garb to the woman lying on the floor with arrows sticking out of him. A glow filled the stairs, then a shadow as another, similarly clad man appeared. He scrambled and shot back a flame of fire from the metal torch he held in one hand. He swung a sword with his other, but it hit on the stairwell wall and something appeared through his back—his opponent’s sword, Rhona now saw.
The white-painted lady pushed herself up, turning on Rhona, but by then the attacker had pulled his sword from the dying sorcerer and turned on the witch. Rhona thought she recognized him as one of the paladins from upstairs, but his armor was covered in soot, and so was his face and matted hair.
He stepped forward, sword raised, and fell to one knee. His eyes rolled back in exhaustion, and the witch stepped forward, laughing.
Her laughter was cut off, however, as two more stairways filled with the clatter of armor, and a moment later, three more paladins rushed into the room.
“Come on!” Alastar said, and he pulled her and the warlock with him, making a break for the stairwell they had come down. With a grunt of uncertainty, the guard followed.
“The war is over!” the witch shouted, pulling flames to circle around her, separating her from the others.
“We’ve won!” another voice said, and suddenly a man with long, blond hair appeared at her side, his eyes flashing white as he turned to look at Rhona. Then the other paladins charged.
There wasn’t time to wait and watch. Rhona led the way, running up the stairs with the others close behind. Men shouted their war cries as fires raged below. Rhona and the others were now running back through the servants’ quarters, Alastar pulling at the warlock.
At a cross in the passages, they darted left, making their way toward the High Paladin and the armory, where the paladins were likely to have formed a defense.
They had barely exited into the great hall when a great blast of ice tore through the room, pelting them and tearing at their skin.
Alastar was fast, kicking over a table and pulling his sister down beside him. He prayed for protection from the Saint, but nothing happened.
The guard and warlock were huddled down next to them, and Alastar glanced over, confused, before returning to his prayer.
Rhona voiced his confusion. “Why are they attacking when they could hit you, too?” she asked the warlock.
He glared, but started when a piece of ice punctured the thick table. With a gulp, he said, “No clansman I’ve ever known could do that.”
Alastar’s eyes opened, and he turned to the warlock, grabbing him by the robes and pulling him close. “You’re telling me they aren’t with you?”
The warlock shook his head. “Someone wants you to think they are, but—”
With a vibration, the table exploded, and they fell back. Rhona thought for a moment that she was on fire as she felt her skin burning, but a quick check showed that wasn’t the case. Three men stepped forward. They wore thick, black and purple robes, and their heads were shaven. The one in the center waved his hand and a circle of spiraling shards of ice appeared before him.
“Give her to us,” he said.
Rhona glanced around at her brother and the other two men, confused. Her?
She was the only female in the room, but surely, they had to be referring to someone else. Maybe the fact that the warlock was wearing a kilt might have confused them, she thought.
“You’re not welcome here,” Alastar said, sword held in one hand, the other over his heart as he prepared for a prayer.
“This is no longer your home,” the man said, and then thrust out so that the ice shards flew at Alastar.
Rhona was relieved to see the pointed arrows of ice evaporate as they hit the wall of light. The strange man smiled and let his hands fall to his side as the one to his right wrapped his hands around what appeared to be an imaginary ball. Flames emerged from nothing, forming a ball of fire. His eyes took on a malicious excitement, and he thrust his hands forward, shooting the fireball at Rhona.
She stared in dumbstruck horror as it came, and then felt a jolt as someone plowed into her, shoving her out of the way. When she realized what was happening, she saw the warlock standing just where she had been seconds before, hands up, pushing back against the force of the flames with all his might. Both men were pushing harder and harder, so that the ball of flame rolled in place, growing hotter with each second.
A laugh filled the room as the third man stepped forward. “Paladins and clansmen working together? Not for long, I think.”
He held out a hand, and his eyes went blue. Air cracked around his fingertips just before streaks of lightning seared the walls and floor as it shot across the room. It was like the power was almost beyond the man’s ability to control, but he was corralling it, working to convince it to do his bidding. Then, it was upon the warlock and Alastar, flinging them both across the room as sparks flew. The scent of burnt flesh filled the room.
A bang followed as the fireball finished its trajectory, exploding into the wall beyond them and setting a tapestry afire.
Rhona tried to push herself up, barely aware of the guard fleeing. Damn coward.
If she stood by and watched or fled, they would die. Something had happened out at the farmhouse, and as she watched the man with the power of ice step forward, she considered going to that place deep within herself again. Pulling on those powers.
She couldn’t. Not in front of Alastar, who was even now pushing himself to his feet. His hair was frazzled, his armor singed and no longer pure with its white and gold.
This time, instead of shards of ice, the man reached out his hands and the floor frosted over. Within momen
ts, ice had engulfed Alastar’s feet and was creeping upward.
He stared in horror, unable to move except to look to his sister and say, “Go, go, as fast as you can. RUN!”
Her intent was to run, but not away from him. She made a move to reach him and found her feet slip on the icy floor so that she landed with a thud on her back, her breath forced from her lungs.
She lay there, wheezing, as her brother tried to focus on praying for a blessing. He couldn’t, though—with each word, he’d open his terror-filled eyes and look down to see more of his body covered in ice.
The man who had shot lightning at them was laughing as he stepped forward to stand beside the warlock, preparing his next move. Somewhere in the distance, Rhona could still hear fighting in the rest of the castle, and she wondered who was winning.
Would all paladins, the entire Order of Saint Rodrick, be under attack at this very moment in their various strongholds?
A shout came and more men and women entered the room in the heat of battle. Paladins fighting sorcerers, all in their dance of magic, swordplay, and prayer. And none of it was going to help Alastar or this warlock who had thrown himself into harm’s way for Rhona.
She was their only hope.
With a gasp of air, she closed her eyes and let herself go, let the darkness within take over.
A crack sounded, and she was standing, though she didn’t know how. The attacking trio turned to her, their smiles slowly fading. She heard one yell to grab her, to retreat with her, and that nothing else mattered.
But she wasn’t about to let that happen.
Everything became clouded over, dark. Then, she felt it, the shadows in the room all converged on her and everyone had stopped fighting to stare in amazement and terror as the shadows engulfed her like a thick cloak, propelling her into the air.
Without warning or thought behind the action, the shadows attacked the trio of sorcerers, and she was one with them.
Alastar couldn’t pull his eyes away from the horrible sight.
Welcome To The Age of Magic Page 47
