Rogan looped his rope around the nearest crenellation, tying it off before casting the other end down to Saffron. It was his turn to be patient. Wearing her shield on her back and her spear tucked into her belt, she scaled the wall with steady movements. By the time she rejoined Rogan, he had already stowed his climbing claws in his pack.
“I’ll lead the way – you watch our back,” he said, leaving his saber sheathed and drawing his dagger. Up on the wall there was little light for his uril-chent blade to steal, but over the years its stone grip had come to comfort him. Saffron donned her armaments as well, nodding her readiness.
Rogan had no knowledge of the palace’s floor plan, and it would be a waste of time looking for someone who did. On a whim, he chose to head toward the northern bastion, hoping he would find stairs leading to the lower levels. Suspicious they had not yet seen a sentry, his eyes strained in the dark, searching for the slightest hint of danger.
When he drew within a few steps of the arch that opened to the interior of the parapet, he spotted their first foe. A guard slumped in his chair, lightly snoring. A nearby trap door no doubt provided a path downward, and the corner chamber held nothing else of note. Rogan hesitated, considering if he might simply sneak past the guard. They might have to come back this way, though, and could not risk him waking up and finding their rope. They had too much to lose.
Regretfully, Rogan crept into position behind the man, and with decisive movements used one hand to smother the guard’s mouth while plunging his dagger into his chest. His victim’s arms flailed to the side before his entire body slumped once more into a permanent sleep. Rogan looked up at Saffron, who witnessed his execution, half-expecting to find judgment in her expression. None was present, and she helped him dispose of the body over the western wall.
Kneeling to the floor, he cracked the hatch to peek below. A short shaft led downward, iron rungs protruding from its westward wall. The light of torches glowed beyond, and Rogan nodded at Saffron as he swung the trap door fully open.
He went first, descending the one-and-a-half body lengths to the floor. A long corridor stretched southward, and he could see at least one other hallway breaking off in the direction of the palace center. Sconces on the wall bore torches every half-dozen paces, though only every-other-one was lit, providing shadowy illumination. He had not taken two steps toward the first of these when footfalls echoed on the stone from an adjoining passage.
Rogan motioned for Saffron, who was already all but down the ladder to go back up, while he pressed firmly to the wall, trying to flatten himself. In her haste, Saffron’s shield clanked against one of the metal rungs, though she managed to disappear above the square hole.
The approaching footsteps stopped. “Did you hear something?” a man beyond sight asked.
“No, but if you did it was probably my stomach. I have not eaten since noon-hour.”
“I could make do with some supper myself. We should drop by the kitchens after you return those tomes. I swear, why anyone would want to learn to read in the first place is beyond my reckoning.”
Two men, dressed in long tunics cinched at the waist with silken sashes, turned the corner heading away from Rogan’s position, without so much as a glance in his direction. They turned again down another corridor shortly after, and Rogan could hear the hollow sound of their boots trailing off, as if they were descending stairs. He snuck over to the ladder and motioned for Saffron to come down.
“That was close,” he whispered once she joined him.
“What was close?” she answered.
“A couple of men, but I think they were unarmed. We should follow them.”
“What? Why? I thought we wanted to draw as little attention as possible?” Her objection had merit.
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Rogan winked. “I was just thinking if I had a harem, I would want vaulted ceilings, so it’s unlikely we’ll find her on the top floor.”
Saffron rolled her eyes. “That is your reasoning?”
Rogan shrugged and turned down the corridor, heading the same direction the men had walked. He stole a peek down the hallway the unarmed men had come from, but there was no door for some distance. Sure enough, the second option yielded a brief landing, which led to wide, stone steps. With Saffron close behind, he crept down to the next landing, preparing to pounce should anyone be present on the floor below.
No one was in sight. Rogan knew he should not question good fortune, but it disturbed his senses that resistance was so slight. This palace belonged to the King-priest, after all. Perhaps the enemy had become lazy over time – reliant on the cumulative effects of oppression. Rogan returned to the moment, as choices needed to be made. Double wooden doors stood straight ahead, and hallways broke off north and south, perpendicular to the stairs. Also, off to the left, the stairs continued down another level.
“This must be a jest,” Saffron said, interrupting his thoughts.
“What’s that?” he questioned, trying to keep his eyes on both hallways at once.
“I was here in my dreams last night. I was standing on these very stairs.”
Rogan turned to look at her, trying to ascertain whether she was serious. Though her eyes were cast in his direction, she was clearly struggling to access her memory. “Well, what did you do in your dream? I suppose it’s as good a way as any to navigate these halls.”
Saffron’s focus turned to Rogan in earnest, and she nodded. “Down. We should go down another flight.” She stepped past him and took the lead, continuing confidently down the next set of stairs. They bottomed out on the floor below, but Saffron closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, strode down the southern corridor with new assurance.
The torches on the ground floor were spaced further apart in their sconces, the dimness amplified by Rogan’s dagger. They were moving quickly, hardly sneaking anymore, and he followed her around a pair of corners before coming to a stop. An open door lay ahead, and the sound of many voices escaped through it; laughter, discussion, and boasting intermingled.
“Must be the mess hall,” he whispered. “We should find a way around.”
Saffron shook her head, and he saw her shoulders relax with a deep exhalation. She continued down the hallway with a purposeful stride, parading right past the open doors, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Rogan stayed put and watched, waiting to see if anyone came to investigate her passage.
His rapid heartbeat kept him company for what seemed an eternity, but no guards issued forth. Saffron stood at the far end of the hall, gesturing with her spear for him to join her. He put his fist to his forehead, but could not think of anyone to pray to for such a situation. Rogan sheathed his dagger, lest the change in light catch someone’s attention as he passed. Then, with even strides, he walked in front of the door and down the corridor until he caught up with his companion. He dared not turn around, relying on Saffron’s reaction to inform him they were still unnoticed.
“That was not smart, Saffron,” he finally whispered as they turned the next corner.
“This is the only way I know. If we deviate, my dream won’t do us any good.”
“Is your dream doing us any good? How could we tell?”
“Shh,” she silenced him. “This is it.” They stood before a short passage shooting off from the main hall. At the end of it loomed a closed, iron door.
Rogan’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure?”
Saffron walked up to the door and pulled its handle, but it did not budge. “Ugh,” she grunted, a little too loudly. “It’s locked.”
“Let me see what I can do.” Rogan brushed her out of his way and got on his knees to examine the keyhole. “Cross your fingers it’s not barred from the other side,” he said as he slung the pack from his back and fished through it for a scrap of folded leather. He withdrew his delicate, ivory picks and went to work on the door.
“I was not sure you knew how to use them.” Saffron extended her shield-arm downward, resting it while she waited.
/>
“You learn all kinds of things when you are stuck in prison,” he retorted, squinting as he felt for just the right positioning and pressure. A satisfying click told him his job was done. “And there we go.” He put away his tools and stood, trying the handle again. The door swung open, and inside was pitch black.
“This does not have the looks of a harem to me,” Rogan observed as he entered the dark room beyond. “Grab a torch, would you?”
Saffron grasped her spear with her shield-hand and picked a torch off the wall from the hallway. She joined Rogan in the small room, but it seemed as if they had come to a dead end. It appeared merely a storage room of some sort. Shelves sat on opposite ends of the rectangular space, and sealed barrels crowded the floor.
“Why would my dream lead me here?” Saffron wondered aloud as she held the torch closer to the shelves, examining their contents.
“I do not know. Perhaps it was just a dream?” Rogan tapped his foot impatiently, and was surprised when it returned a hollow sound. The entire first floor of the palace had been stone, but this was something different. “Down here,” he said, taking the torch from Saffron and dropping to one knee. A wooden trap door was hidden in the floor, much like the one leading down from the bastion.
A latch locked it in place from the top, but it was no matter to swing it aside. Rogan and Saffron shared a glance before he hoisted the hatch open. Unlike before, there was no ladder to be seen, only a sheer drop into complete darkness. Rogan dropped the torch, and it landed with a thud on another stone floor, two body lengths below.
He ducked his head beneath the surface of the floor, but the torch did not illuminate much from the ground. He did not imagine Dhania was being kept here, but something was, locked out of the way for a reason. Rogan’s curiosity won out over his initial trepidation. “Shut that door,” he nodded to Saffron, and then lowered himself as far as he could for a drop into the dark.
The landing stung his feet, but he was otherwise unhurt. He picked up the torch and quickly surveyed the room. A cellar of some sort, it definitely was not used to store wine. All manner of strange implements populated the room, metal and wood, worth investigating. He found a wooden step ladder against the nearby wall, and positioned it underneath the trap door. “Lower yourself on this,” he called up to Saffron. “There does not appear to be anyone else down here.”
“Take my shield.” She passed along both it and her spear before slipping gracefully down the ladder. “What is this place?” She squinted in the frail light to make out the contents of the cellar.
“I cannot say.” Rogan set her battle regalia on the floor and offered his hand to assist her down the ladder. She took it, and together they walked around to get a better look. Strange-looking tables and upright frames, outfitted with chains and manacles, created most of the clutter. Racks lined one of the walls, on which unusual blades, hooks, and clamps hung.
Buckets of dark liquid rested on the floor beside some of the tables, and on closer inspection, Rogan could discern stains on the furniture, which could have only come from… blood. Saffron realized the implications at almost the same moment.
“This is a torture chamber,” she said, solemnly.
“Well hidden, too. I wonder how many prisoners have disappeared here?”
As Rogan drew closer to the far end of the room, the light from his torch began to dim. He checked to see if it was burning low, but that didn’t seem the case. “What is this?” he wondered aloud as he came within view of the wall.
Standing against it were humanoid figures, motionless. They were identical, black, metallic. Saffron walked right up behind him and peered over his shoulder to get a good view in the low light.
“Are they suits of armor?” she asked.
Rogan reached out and touched one – it was cold, colder than the normal chill of metal in a dark place. “They do not appear to be hollow,” he remarked, leaning in closer. There was a slit for the eyes, but when he reached inside, it only receded to his second knuckle. He tried to move the body with his free hand, but it was too heavy and did not budge. “Definitely solid,” he followed up. “And uril-chent, judging by the torchlight.”
“Uril-what?”
“It is the ore we mined at Blackthorn Prison. My dagger is made of it.”
“Ah, your dimming dagger. So, what do you think they are if not armor?” Saffron asked the question he was already thinking.
“I wish I knew. This alloy is valuable, though. I do not imagine the King-priest would waste it on mere statues.”
“Well, there is little we can do now.” Saffron sighed. “Dhania is clearly not down here. Shouldn’t we get moving? Who knows how long before the guard you have slain is discovered?”
Rogan turned from the motionless, uril-chent figures and stared at the woman before him, remembering why he was here. Even in near darkness, he could see her beauty. “You are right, of course. Let us be on our way.”
After a single step Rogan froze, senses on alert. “Wait, I heard something.” They both stood motionless, ears straining; their single torch, dimmed by the proximity of the uril-chent, cast only a weak glow. “There it is again!” Rogan whispered.
It was barely audible, but had the faintest echo, like the flick of a fingernail against a bare blade. Rogan crept in the direction of the sound, listening for it again. It took another dozen, rapid heartbeats, but he finally heard it a third time, and realized the source. “The bucket.”
Rogan lifted his torch, which brightened slightly as they gained distance from the statues at the far end of the room. Suddenly Saffron gasped and nearly jumped out of her skin, causing him to flinch as she grabbed him.
The ceiling was overlaid with a metal grid, from which spikes protruded downward. Impaled upon them was a man’s body, further suspended by chains around his wrists and ankles.
“Great ghosts of Balazar,” Rogan squeezed out, still only a whisper. Blood dripped slowly into the buckets below, indicating he was nearly dry.
Saffron finally released Rogan and drew her hands back. “Who do you think he was?”
“Some poor soul…” even as he spoke the words, his memory conjured a reminder of Cyril telling them his spy had failed to report. He wondered if this could be him, but shook off the speculation. Nothing could be done about it now, and he felt the urge to clear out of this room as fast as possible. “We should find your sister.”
Saffron nodded and went first, climbing the short steps and surprising Rogan by leaping the rest of the way without assistance. She caught the lip of the opening and pulled her lithe body up with minimal effort. He handed her spear and shield over, one at a time, followed by the torch, and waited for her to move aside before jumping and hoisting himself up as well.
Swinging and latching the trap door shut, they tried to leave the storage room just as they found it. Once again careful not to make unnecessary noise, they snuck back to the main hallway and replaced the torch. Rogan took the lead once more, since Saffron’s dream had led them astray.
He did not want to risk crossing the mess hall again, so they continued down the hall eastward, determined by his best guess. Another short corridor broke off to the north, but instead of a door at the end, a spiral staircase awaited. Following the main hall a little further led to the mumbled sounds of conversation ahead. Rogan gestured for Saffron to hold, and peeked around the next corner.
Twenty-or-so armed guards milled about a large chamber, waiting before a huge set of double doors, which he assumed led to the main gate. So that’s where they all are, he thought. Could they be setting an ambush? If the man in the underground chamber was Cyril’s infiltrator, had they learned something from him?
Rogan inched back to Saffron and quietly informed her, “We are taking the stairs.”
The whole structure creaked and groaned as they ascended, and Rogan silently cursed every step. No sooner had he reached the next floor than a woman appeared, carrying a pile of folded clothes, headed for the stairway herself.
They both froze upon spotting one another. The middle-aged woman, apparently unsure what to make of him at first, looked down at the climbing Saffron and immediately determining something was amiss.
She opened her mouth to call out, and Rogan knew he had to act quickly. He pounced forward just as she began to scream, knocking the clothes she carried to the floor and cupping his hand over her mouth. Only a fraction of a second’s terror escaped her lips before being muzzled.
Two blinks later Saffron was beside him, singing softly in her native song. The tune seemed to soothe the woman, who relaxed in Rogan’s arms. He quickly looked to see if they had drawn the attention of any armed fellows; none entered view.
“We are not here to harm you, my lady,” he said in a firm, calm tone. “I am going to remove my hand now, so you can speak. Please do not cry out. We only want to know where the girls are kept – the pleasure slaves. Can you tell us?”
Rogan slowly removed his hand, while Saffron kept singing. He was starting to relax too, and felt oddly at ease, given the situation.
“They are another floor up,” she stated, her voice trembling slightly.
“Please, take us there?” Rogan asked.
She looked directly into his eyes and he recognized the worry in hers. She nodded, however, and he released her. The woman walked tentatively to the staircase, looking back at her captors every few steps. Saffron kept humming until Rogan was on the stairs behind their guide.
Up they went to the third floor, and despite his assurance, Rogan finally drew his saber and dagger, keeping a few steps behind the laundry woman. She led him down a pair of twisting hallways to an open antechamber, where she shrieked and lunged forward, seeking the protection of a pair of guards.
Dressed in chainmail and holding glaives, they stood before a pair of wide, ornate doors with brass handles. They leveled their weapons upon spotting Rogan, maintaining positions in front of the door. The woman cowered on the floor between them, curled into a tight, protective posture.
Rogan was still assessing the tactical situation, realizing the considerable reach advantage of his opponents, when Saffron joined him in the antechamber. Her arrival threw the guards, who apparently did not know what to think about seeing a woman armed for battle. She took advantage and charged straight for the one on the right, easily deflecting his thrust with her shield and closing enough to render his glaive useless.
Shiver the Moon Page 25
