Daughter of Two Worlds: Book Three of the Aun Series

by Lee Bezotte

  Once positioned in front of the darkest span of the east wall, the warrior waited for the guard to be at a good distance before tossing his hook up to the battlement. Giving it a quick tug, he and the two others pressed themselves tightly against the wall and waited for the guard to make his round toward them, and back toward the south wall again. Once the path was clear, he ascended quickly but awkwardly to the top and crouched unseen in the blackness. Oh, to have two hands again, he mused.

  From his position, he could see fires burning and men crowded around them. The warm, orange light danced across them and it was difficult to tell whether they were soldiers, servants, or something else. However, once inside, he would only be a short distance from the doorway leading to Ocmallum’s room.

  Securing a second rope to a merlon, Dulnear descended into the courtyard, keeping to the darkness. From his new vantage point, he could see that most of the men carried weapons. Quickly assessing the mob, he noticed fighters from at least five different parts of Aun, and some he didn’t recognize. They were drinking, telling stories, and some were tossing daggers at something that looked like a straw man secured to a beam. Looking closer, he realized that they were having target practice with the body of Tcharron. His nostrils flared and he suppressed a growl as indignation stirred itself within him.

  The man from the north hunched down and crept along the eastern wall, doing his best to stay to the backs of the men in the courtyard. Reaching the door closest to the staircase leading to Ocmallum’s chamber, he checked the latch and discovered that it was not locked. That was too easy, he thought to himself as he slipped inside.

  It was strangely black inside the hall. Dulnear’s thoughts raced as he wondered why a corner of the castle that was perpetually occupied would be so dark. He felt around for the stairs leading to his prey and found a heavy, polished handrail that curved upward around a spiral staircase. It is here, he thought, and the fine hairs along the back of his neck began to tingle as he ascended upward.

  “I don’t like this,” Son exclaimed. He and Faymia had been standing at the base of the castle wall, impatiently waiting for Dulnear’s return.

  The woman stared up at the battlements, saying nothing. Her jaw was clenched and her hands nervously twitched. Finally speaking up, she said, “I’m going up there. I need to see what’s going on,” and began to climb the rope.

  “I’m going with you,” the boy whispered. Tension gripped him, but not knowing what was happening to his friend was a greater dread than risking a closer look. He followed after her and ascended the wall.

  The two knelt in the shadows at the top of the battlement. Son tried to discern what was happening below while keeping an eye on the nearest guard. Suddenly, he felt Faymia’s hand grip his arm.

  “Savages,” she whispered, and pointed toward the now mangled body of her former slave boss.

  The boy felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched the men toss weapons into Tcharron’s corpse. He prayed that he would not become the next target for them to practice with on this night. “Th-That’s horrid,” he stuttered, and looked away.

  “Over there,” the woman said, and she gestured toward the northeastern-most door in the courtyard.

  Son turned his attention toward the door below. He could see two men walking toward the entrance. They had swords drawn and stepped lightly so as not to be heard as they entered the castle. The boy watched breathlessly as he waited to see what was going to happen. Unexpectedly, the door flew open and the men came tumbling out. Then, the door slammed shut.

  “He doesn’t know his own strength,” Faymia lamented. “We may have to do this the hard way.”

  The boy exhaled through pursed lips. The woman’s words were completely unwelcome. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Look!” the woman urged.

  Son saw that the scuffle, and the unconscious bodies of the two men, had not gone unnoticed and that other mercenaries were now taking an interest in the entrance. The boy’s mind raced, and he had to beat fear down as if it were a rabid hound. “What do we do?” he asked.

  “You’re going to have to go in there after him,” she instructed.

  “Against all of those men?” the boy protested. “Even with the element of surprise, I’d still end up like Tcharron.”

  “I’ll draw their attention,” Faymia explained. “All three of those doors lead to Ocmallum’s chamber. Just get inside one of them and cover Dulnear’s back.”

  Before Son had a chance to ask any more questions, the woman withdrew an arrow, fired it at the nearest wall guard, and watched him stumble between two merlons, falling to the ground outside. She then unsheathed her sword and ran toward the guard patrolling the southern wall.

  When the boy noticed that the crowd was now moving to check out the melee along the wall, he quickly climbed down into the courtyard and dashed into the nearest door. His heart beat like a hammer and his hands were clammy. Before closing the door behind him, he peeked out to see that Faymia had felled the second guard and was now releasing fire arrows toward the courtyard entrances.

  She’s as crazy as he is, he thought to himself as he closed the door just before one of her arrows scattered flames against it.

  Once inside, Son barred the door and found himself in a dark corridor. Nothing was visible, with the exception of a faint orange light that came down from what appeared to be a staircase in the distance. He could see the silhouette of a man racing up the stairs, and could hear men shouting curses out in the courtyard.

  The boy began to run toward the stairs, then stopped himself. Remembering that there were three entrances, he sprinted through the dark hall and barred the other two doors as well. As he did, he tripped over a man that he assumed had been beaten by Dulnear. He stumbled to his feet, began running again, and tripped over another but caught himself before falling to the floor. I’m glad he’s on my side, he thought, and slowed his pace to keep from tripping on any more.

  Reaching the stairs, he withdrew his sword and took a deep breath. Grabbing the railing, he looked up toward the light, hoping to get a better feel for his surroundings. Suddenly, a wounded man came rolling down the stairs, nearly hitting him and taking him down as well.

  Son mustered his courage and decided to quicken his pace upward. Before he could get very far, there was the sound of a heavy door slamming shut and all went black.

  Dulnear stood in Ocmallum’s den. The air held a scent he did not like and did not recognize. In the dimly lit room there was a large, ornate desk surrounded by expensive furnishings to one side, and a bed covered in fine linens on the other. Across from the door, on the opposite side of the round room, was a chair that more resembled a throne than a common armchair. In it sat the slave king himself, with his back toward a massive glass window. He wore a blood-red gown. His beard and hair appeared more disheveled than earlier, and his eyes looked wide and wild. On either side of him stood guards that Dulnear could not place. Their faces were pale and their eyes were vacant, but their bare arms looked as if they were forged in steel.

  “So, you’re the one causing all the commotion,” Ocmallum said with a strange amusement in his voice.

  The man from the north had a difficult time reading the room. Normally, he would see only three men and have full confidence that he was in no danger. However, this was different. The slaver held a small lantern in his lap, the only light source in the room. Its flame cast eerie shadows over his face. To make things more difficult, the eyes of his bodyguards betrayed nothing. There wasn’t a hint of concern in them. They didn’t move and never blinked. Dulnear felt an unnatural fear creep over him. Pushing through his uneasiness, he answered the man, “I am only here for information.”

  “Oh, I suspect you want more than that,” Ocmallum answered with a smile that dripped with guile.

  The northerner stood frozen by those words. After standing silent for a moment, he asked, “And what is it you believe I seek?”

  “Why, freedom, of course,” the
man answered with a creepy certainty.

  Dulnear suppressed a wry smile as he thought about the old man’s words. “I am a free man,” he said. “More free than any man on this wretched estate.”

  “Are you though?” the slaver pressed. Looking Dulnear up and down, he observed, “You’re a northerner, and you’re here in the south. I’m sure you’re trying to distance yourself from your barbaric northern roots, but somehow, you just can’t. Is any of this ringing true?”

  The man from the north was both stunned and angered by the veracity of Ocmallum’s words. All that he had worked to leave behind over the past few seasons seemed to taunt him from underneath the old man’s voice. His knees felt weak, and he wanted to strike him down but needed the information he was there to collect. “My burden is my own,” he answered as calmly as he could.

  “It’s not that large a thing,” Ocmallum replied. “I could lift it for you, if you’d let me.”

  “Just information,” Dulnear said in a clear, authoritative tone, taking a step forward.

  The slave king’s face fell. “How incredibly boring you are,” he sneered. “I suppose you’re looking for someone. Is that why you dragged poor Tcharron here? Now his body rots in my courtyard and it’s all your fault.”

  The man from the north felt queasy upon hearing about Tcharron. Despair, anger, and anxiety beat on his neck, but he continued to stand. Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, he replied, “I am looking for a young girl.”

  The old man laughed heartily until he began to cough. “Why didn’t you just say so?” he said. “I have many young girls that I would be happy to sell you. I’m sure they would bring you great pleasure.”

  With each passing moment, Ocmallum appeared older, and somehow more decayed and grotesque to Dulnear. The circles around his eyes became darker and his teeth seemed more jagged. The warrior tightened the grip he had on his sword. Raising his voice, he clarified, “A little girl was taken by one of your crews in Laor. A man called Sevuss was in charge. It was an illegal transfer of life-rights and I have come to bring her home.”

  “Hmm, little girl, you say. Well then, I suppose I will have to look at my records,” the slaver claimed as he stood from his chair, holding the lantern out in front of him. He was somehow taller than he seemed before, and moved in a quick, disorienting fashion.

  The man from the north turned his attention toward the desk, expecting to see Ocmallum standing there. Instead, he heard the door slam behind him and the room became black as pitch. Reaching for the latch, he found that the door would not budge. He was trapped.

  A searing pain pierced his left side and another his right arm. The strange odor that filled the room seemed to intensify and he had difficulty thinking clearly. Drawing his sword, he swung it wildly in the air but struck nothing. Then, agony began to radiate from his lower back as a dagger was driven into it. Frantically searching his clouded mind, he tried to make sense of what was happening. Pushing aside the now suffocating fear, it dawned on him. They are blind!

  Dulnear quickly considered his options. If he turned to try to break down the door, he would be dead before he could get it open. His only hope was to take away the silent guards’ advantage. Remembering that there was a desk to his right, he ran toward it, twirling his massive sword with his left hand and smashing down hard with his iron-fisted right, eventually knocking over furniture and scattering papers to the floor. Quickly darting behind the desk, he could hear subtle footsteps moving over the papers.

  One blind guard was moving toward him from his left, and the other from his right. When he could no longer hear footsteps from his right, he swung his weapon in that direction, catching only the tip of his sword on the man’s tunic. At the same time, the sudden whoosh of a blade could be heard beneath his left ear and his shoulder began to bleed.

  Furious and disoriented, the man from the north kicked the desk away from him, then spun with his sword, still striking only the air around him. He would continue to fight Ocmallum’s guards until he could no longer move.

  Until my last breath, Dulnear thought to himself. Then it dawned on him that perhaps the strange odor in the chamber was clouding his mind. He did his best to recall the layout of the room and hoped he was correct about the location of the window. He ran toward it and stumbled into the slaver’s throne. Recovering quickly, he tossed the large chair through the window, bringing massive shards of glass crashing to the ground below.

  The man from the north breathed in the night air and almost instantly, his mind began to clear. The angst that had been covering his thoughts like a heavy blanket lifted and he was able to gauge the movements of the guards with greater perception. Sensing a blade coming down upon him from behind, he blocked with his sword then spun around, landing a steel-fisted punch on the blind man, sending him reeling back.

  The other guard leaped upon Dulnear’s back and begun striking him repeatedly. Stabbing pain shot through his shoulder, causing him to drop his sword. He reached behind and grabbed the man’s tunic. It seemed that the garment was going to tear, but he managed to peel the guard off of him before it did. He tossed him in the direction of his counterpart. Judging by the commotion, he reckoned that the throw landed true. Unfortunately, he unintentionally kicked his sword along the floor and was now groping desperately for it before the two men launched another attack.

  The sound of the guards scrambling to their feet was followed by the clanging of steel. The northern warrior was bleeding freely from his wounds and knew he would not be able to withstand many more. Without his sword, he had little hope.

  Unexpectedly, the sound of something striking the ceiling above could be heard, and the room was illuminated by fire. Dulnear could see his sword and he took hold of it. Now that he could see his enemies, he advanced against them.

  As one guard leaped at him from his left, he ducked and plunged his sword into the rib cage of the one on his right. The first guard continued his attack, chopping downward toward the back of the northerner’s neck. Dulnear spun around quickly and blocked the attack with his metal hand, then kicked the man backward with a powerful boot to the chest.

  To the warrior’s surprise, the second guard advanced as if there were not blood pouring from his side. The man from the north stepped back, stunned that the man showed no sign of slowing his attack. As the guard slashed inward toward his head, he dodged and brought his sword down upon his shoulder, cleaving off his right arm.

  Then the first guard ran back. He swiped toward Dulnear’s side, but the warrior trapped the guard’s sword with his own. Once disarmed, the blind man growled like an animal and began clawing savagely.

  Disgusted and ready to end the battle, the man from the north shoved the guard back with his right fist, then swung his sword around, taking off the man’s head. His body fell to its knees, then onto the floor. As it did, Dulnear noticed that the other guard was still crawling along the floor.

  The blind, one-armed man felt around on the floor until he came to his own dismembered arm and began to peel the blade out of his own dead hand.

  “You must be kidding me!” the man from the north exclaimed. He sheathed his sword, kicked the guard’s weapon away and grabbed the man by the leg. As animal barks and hisses poured from the blind man’s mouth, Dulnear held him high and flung him out of the large, open window with revulsion.

  Taking a deep breath of the night air, he heard a woman’s voice yell from below, “You almost hit me with that guy!”

  He looked down from the window and saw that Faymia was waiting at the foot of the castle. “Sorry about that!” he yelled back. “And thank you for the light!” he added, pointing toward the fiery arrows lodged in the ceiling.

  “You’re welcome, my darling,” she said. “Now grab Son and get down here. That mob isn’t going to stay trapped in the courtyard much longer!”

  “Son? Where is he?” he asked.

  “He came in after you.”

  Dulnear’s neck tensed as he thought about h
is friend’s safety. He ran toward the door and pounded at it with his metal fist. Realizing that it was taking too long, he ran back toward the desk, pointed it toward the door, and pushed it with all of his might.

  The door broke partially off of its hinges, giving the man enough space to get his sword through and remove the bar that was securing it shut from the outside. Breaking through to the vestibule, he could see Son standing over the slave king with a sword to his neck.

  “A secret path on the north side of the road,” the boy exclaimed. “Just east of Redbramble!”

  The man on the floor quivered and pleaded for his life. Dulnear fought back the urge to run him through and send him flying out the window to join his bodyguard. “Down the stairs and through the front gate,” he instructed his young friend with a forced calmness.

  Son nodded and quickly headed down the stairs. As the man from the north followed, he grabbed the lantern that Ocmallum took with him when he locked the warrior in his chamber. As he stepped over the slaver, he could hear the man gasp in panic. Turning to address him, he snarled, “You are a pathetic man. Pray that you never see me again, or I’ll burn more than the ceiling of your bedchamber.”

  Dulnear wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw an odd smile creep over the old man’s face. He then spun around and darted down the staircase to catch up with Son.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Son could hear the clamor of the mob out in the courtyard. It was dark, but he remembered that the castle was longer than it was wide. If he moved away from the courtyard doors, he should find a way out and reach the portcullis quickly.

  All of a sudden, there was a sound of shattering wood and the voices of the men outside became louder. They had broken through the door at the opposite end of the hall and were pouring inside. The boy had just begun to dart away from the commotion when a large, metallic hand tapped him on the shoulder.