"Back in bed.” the man shouted. “Back in bed this instant!” Arista was wandering the hallway of the manor house in as much an attempt to get to know her surroundings as to evade Bernice who was insisting she take a nap. Initially she thought the yelling was directed at her, and while she put up with Bernice and her pampering, she was certainly not about to allow anyone to address her in such a manner as this brassy fellow seemed to be doing. She was no longer in her native kingdom of Melengar where she was princess of the realm, but she was still a princess and an ambassador and no one had the right to speak to her like that.
With a fury in her countenance, she marched forward and turning a corner, spotted a middle-aged man and a young girl. The girl was dressed only in her nightgown, her face battered and bruised. He held her wrist, attempting to drag her into a bedroom.
“Unhand her!” Arista ordered. “Hilfred! Guards!”
The man and girl both looked at her, bewildered.
Hilfred raced around the corner and in an instant stood with sword drawn between his princess and the source of her anger.
“I said get your filthy hands off her this instant, or I will have them removed at the wrists.”
“But I-” the man began.
From the other direction, two Imperial guards arrived. “Milady?” the guards greeted her.
Hilfred said nothing, but merely pointed his sword at the man’s throat.
“Take this wretch into custody,” Arista ordered. “He’s forcing himself on this girl.”
“No, no please,” the girl protested. “It was my fault I-”
“It is not your fault.” Arista looked at her with pity. “And you needn’t be afraid. I can see to it that he never bothers you, or anyone, again.”
“Oh dear Maribor, protect me,” the man prayed.
“Oh no, you don’t understand,” the girl said. “He wasn’t hurting me. He was trying to help me.”
“How’s that?”
“I had an accident,” she pointed to the bruises on her face. “Deacon Tomas was taking care of me, but I was feeling better today and wanted to get up and walk, but he thought it best if I stay in bed another day. He is really only trying to look out for me. Please don’t hurt him. He’s been so kind.”
“You know this man?” Arista asked the guards.
“He was cleared for entrance by the archbishop as the deacon of this village milady, and he was indeed attending to this girl who is known as Thrace.” Tomas, with eyes wide with fear and Hilfred’s sword steady at his throat, nodded as best he could and attempted a friendly though strained smile.
“Well,” Arista said pursing her lips, “my mistake then.” She looked at the guards. “Go back about your business.”
“Princess.” The guards bowed briskly, turned and walked back the way they had come.
Hilfred slowly sheathed his sword.
She looked back at the two. “My apologies, it’s just that-that-well, never mind.” She turned away embarrassed.
“Oh no, Your Highness.” Thrace said attempting as best she could to curtsy. “Thank you so much for coming to my aid, even if I didn’t actually need it. It is good to know that someone as great as you would bother to help a poor farmer’s daughter.” Thrace looked at her in awe. “I’ve never met a princess before. I’ve never even seen one.”
“I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment then.” Thrace was about to speak again but Arista beat her to it. “What happened to you?” She gestured at her face.
Thrace reached up, running her fingers over her forehead. “Is it that bad?”
“It was the Gilarabrywn, Your Highness,” Tomas explained. “Thrace and her father Theron were the only two to ever survive a Gilarabrywn attack. Now please my dear girl, please get back in bed.”
“But really, I am feeling much better.”
“Let her walk with me a bit, deacon,” Arista said, softening her tone. “If she feels worse I’ll get her back to bed.”
Tomas nodded and bowed.
Arista took Thrace by the arm and led her up the hallway, Hilfred walking a few steps behind. They could not travel far, only thirty yards or so; the manor house was not a real castle. Built from great rough-cut beams-some with the bark still on-she guessed there were only about eight bedrooms. In addition, there was a parlor, an office, and the great hall with a high ceiling and mounted heads of deer and bear. It reminded Arista of a cruder, smaller version of King Roswort’s residence. The floor was made of wide pine planks and the outer walls were thick logs. Nailed along them were iron lanterns holding flickering candles that cast semi-circles of quivering light, for even though it was midafternoon, the interior of the manor was dark as a cave.
“You’re so kind,” the girl told her. “The others treat me-as if I don’t belong here.”
“Well, I’m glad you are here,” Arista replied. “Other than my handmaiden Bernice, I think you are the only other woman here.”
“It is just that everyone else was sent back home and I feel so out of place, like I’m doing something wrong. Deacon Tomas says I’m not. He says I’m hurt and I need time to recover and that he’ll see to it no one bothers me. He’s been very nice. I think he feels as helpless as everyone else around here. Maybe taking care of me is a battle he feels he can win.”
“I misjudged the deacon,” Arista told her, “and you. Are all farmers’ daughters in Dahlgren so wise?”
“Wise?” Thrace looked embarrassed.
Arista smiled at her. “Where is your family?”
“My father is in the village. They won’t let him in to see me, but the deacon is working on that. I don’t think it matters as we will be leaving Dahlgren as soon as I can travel, which is another reason I want to get my strength back. I want to get away from here. I want us to find a new place and start fresh. I’ll find a man, get married, have a son and call him Hickory.”
“Quite the plan, but how are you feeling-really?”
“I still have headaches and to be honest I’m getting a little dizzy right now.”
“Maybe we should head back to your bedroom then,” Arista said and they turned around.
“But, I am feeling so much better than I was. That’s another reason why I got up. I haven’t been able to thank Esra. I thought he might be in the halls here somewhere.”
“Esra?” Arista asked. “Is he the village doctor?”
“Oh no, Dahlgren’s never had a doctor. Esra is-well, he’s a very smart man. If it hadn’t been for him both me, and my father, would be dead by now. He was the one who made the medicine that saved me.”
“He sounds like a great person.”
“Oh he is. I try to pay him back by helping him eat. He’s very proud you understand and he would never ask, so I offer and I can see he appreciates it.”
“Is he too poor to afford food?”
“Oh no, he just doesn’t have any hands.”
“Tur is a myth,” Esrahaddon was saying to the dwarf as Royce and Hadrian arrived at the falls.
“Says you,” Magnus replied.
The wizard and the dwarf sat on the rocky escarpment facing each other, arguing over the roar. The sun, having dropped behind the trees, left the two in shadow, but the crystalline spires atop Avempartha caught the last rays of dying red light.
Esrahaddon sighed, “I’ll never understand what it is about religion that causes otherwise sensible people to believe in fairy tales. Even in the world of religion, Tur is a parable, not a reality. You’re dealing with myths based on legends based on superstitions and taking it literally. That is very undwarf-like. Are you certain you don’t have some human blood in your ancestry?”
“That’s just insulting,” Magnus glared at the wizard. “You deny it, but the proof is right before you. If you had dwarven eyes you could see the truth in that blade.” Magnus gestured at Royce.
“What’s this all about?” Hadrian asked. “Hello Magnus, murder anyone lately?”
The dwarf scowled.
“This dwarf insists that Royce’s dagger was made by Kile,” Esrahaddon explained.
“I didn’t say that,” the dwarf snapped. “I said it was a Tur Blade. It could have been made by anyone from Tur.”
“What’s Tur?” Hadrian asked.
“A misguided cult of lunatics that worship a fictitious god. They named him Kile of all things. You’d think they could have at least come up with a better name.”
“I’ve never heard of Kile,” Hadrian said. “Now I’m not a religious scholar, but if I remember what a little monk once told me, the dwarven god is Drome, the elvish god is Ferrol, and the human god is Maribor. Their sister, the goddess of flora and fauna, is… Muriel, right? And her son Uberlin is the god of darkness. So, how does this Kile fit in?”
“He’s their father,” Esrahaddon explained.
“Oh right, I forgot about him, but his name isn’t Kile its… Erebus, or something isn’t it? And he’s dead, so how-”
Esrahaddon chuckled, “It doesn’t make any sense. Religion never does. Anyway, have you heard the tale of how Erebus raped his daughter Muriel?”
“More or less.”
“How his sons banded together and killed him for it?”
Hadrian nodded.
“Well, the Cult of Tur, or Kile as it is also known, insists that a god is immortal and cannot die. This strange group of people appeared during the imperial reign of Estermon II and began circulating this story that Erebus had been drunk, or whatever equivalent there is to a god, when he raped his daughter, and was ashamed. Erebus, the story goes, allowed his children-the gods-to believe they had killed him. Then Erebus came to Muriel and begged her forgiveness. She told her father that she would only forgive him if he were to do penance for his crime. The penance she set for him was to do good deeds throughout Elan, but to do them as a commoner, not as a god or even a king. For each act of sacrifice and kindness that she approved of, she would grant him a feather from her marvelous robe, and when her robe was gone then she would forgive him and welcome him home.
“The Kile legend says that ages ago a stranger came to a poor village called Tur. No one knows where it was, of course, and over the centuries its location has changed in response to various claims, but the most common legend places it in Delgos because it was being regularly attacked by the Dacca and, of course, because of the similarity in names to the port city of Tur Del Fur. The story goes that this stranger called himself Kile, and entering into Tur and seeing the terrible plight of the desperate villagers, taught them the art of weapon making to help in their defense. The weapons he taught them to make were reputed to be the greatest in the world, capable of cleaving through solid iron as if it were soft wood. Their shields and armor were light and yet stronger than stone. After he taught them the craft, they used it to defend their homes. After driving off the Dacca, legend says there was a thunderclap on a cloudless day and from the heavens, a single white feather fell into Kile’s hands. He wept at the gift and bid them all farewell, never to be seen again. At least not by the residents of Tur. Throughout the various reigns of different emperors there always seemed to be at least one or two stories of Kile appearing here and there doing good deeds and obtaining his feather. The legend of the village of Tur stood out beyond all others because the poor village of Tur was now famous for its great weaponry.”
“I’ll have to agree with the wizard then. I’ve never heard of a town making anything that fits that description,” Hadrian said.
“There’s more. Supposedly, the village was inundated with requests for arms. The Turists didn’t feel it was right to make weapons for just anyone, so they only made a few, and only for those who had a just and good need. Powerful kings, however, decided to take the god given craft secrets for themselves and prepared to battle for control of the village. On the day of the battle, however, the armies marched in to discover the village of Tur-all its inhabitants and buildings-were gone. Not a trace was left of their existence except for a single white feather that came from no known bird.”
“Any dwarf in Elan would give his beard for the secrets of Tur, or even the chance to study a Tur blade.”
“And you think Alverstone is a Tur blade?” Hadrian asked.
“What did you call it?” Magnus asked his beady eyes abruptly focusing on the fighter.
“Alverstone, that’s what Royce calls his dagger,” Hadrian explained.
“Don’t encourage him,” Royce said, his eyes fixed on the tower.
“Where did he get this, Alverstone?” the dwarf asked, lowering his voice.
“It was a gift from a friend,” Hadrian said, “right?”
“Who? And where did the friend get it from?” the dwarf persisted.
“You are aware I can hear you?” Royce told them, then seeing something, he pointed toward Avempartha. “There, look.”
They all scrambled up to peer at the outline of the fading tower. The sun was down now and night was upon them. Like great mirrors, the river and the tower captured the starlight and the luminous moon. The mist from the falls appeared as an eerie white fog skirting the base. Near the top of the spires, a dark shape spread its wings and flew down along the course of the river. It wheeled and circled back over the falls, catching air currents and rising higher until, with a flap of its massive wings, the beast headed out over the trees above the forest, flying toward Dahlgren.
“That’s its lair?” Hadrian asked incredulously. “It lives in the tower?”
“Convenient isn’t it,” Royce remarked, “that the beast resides at the same place as the one weapon that can kill it.”
“Convenient for whom?”
“I guess that remains to be seen,” Esrahaddon said.
Royce turned to the dwarf. “Alright my little mason, shall we head to the tunnel? It’s in the river, isn’t it? Somewhere underwater?”
Magnus looked at him surprised.
“I am only guessing, but from the look on your face I must be right. It’s the only place I haven’t looked. Now in return for your life, you will show us exactly where.”
Arista stood with the Pickerings on the south stockade wall watching the sunset over the gate. The wall provided the best view of both the courtyard and the hillside beyond, while keeping them above the turmoil. Below, knights busied themselves dressing in armor; archers strung their bows, horses decorated in caparisons shifted uneasily, and priests prayed to Novron for wisdom. The contest was about to commence. Beyond the wall the village of Dahlgren remained silent. Not a candle was visible. Nothing moved.
Another scuffle broke out near the gate where the list of combatants hung on the hitching post. Arista could see several men pushing and swinging, rising dust.
“Who is it this time?” Mauvin asked. The elder Pickering leaned back against the log wall. He was in a simple loose tunic and a pair of soft shoes today. This was the Mauvin she most remembered, the carefree boy who challenged her to stick duels back when she stood a foot taller and could overpower him, in the days when she had a mother and father and her greatest challenge was making Lenare jealous.
“I can’t tell,” Fanen replied, peering down, “I think one is Sir Erlic.”
“Why are they fighting?” Arista asked.
“Everyone wants a higher place on the list,” Mauvin replied.
“That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t matter who goes first.”
“It does if the person in front of you kills the beastie before you get a chance.”
“But they can’t. Only the heir can kill the beast.”
“You really think that?” Mauvin asked, turning around, grasping the sharpened points of the logs and peering down the outside of the wall. “No one else does.”
“Who’s first on the list?”
“Well, Tobis Rentinual was.”
“Which one is he?” she asked.
“He’s the one we told you about with the big mysterious wagon.”
“There,” Fanen pointed down in the courtyard, “the foppish looking one leaning against the smokehouse. He has a shrill voice and a superior attitude that makes you want to throttle him.”
Mauvin nodded. “That’s him. I peeked under his tarp, there’s this huge contraption made of wood, ropes, and pulleys. He managed to find the list first and sign his name. No one had a problem with it when they thought the contest was a tournament. Everyone was just itching to have a go at him, but now, well, the thought of Tobis as emperor has become a communal fear.”
“What do you mean was?”
“He got bumped,” Fanen said.
“Bumped?”
“Luis Guy’s idea,” Mauvin explained. “The sentinel decreed that those farther down on the list could move up via combat. Those unsatisfied with their place could challenge anyone for their position to a fight. Once issued, the challenged party could trade positions on the list or enter into combat with the challenger. Sir Enden of Chadwick challenged Tobis who gave up his position. Who could blame him? Only Sir Gravin had the courage to challenge Enden, but several others drew swords against one another for lesser spots. Most expected the duels would be by points, but Guy declared battles over only when the opponent yielded so they have gone on for hours. Many have been injured. Sir Gravin yielded only after Enden pierced his shoulder. He’s announced he’s withdrawing and will be leaving tomorrow, and he’s not the only one. Several have already left wrapped in bandages.”
Arista looked at Fanen. “You aren’t challenging?”
Mauvin chuckled. “It was kinda funny. The moment Guy made the announcement, everyone looked at us.”
“But you didn’t challenge?”
Fanen scowled and glared at Mauvin. “He won’t let me. And my name is near the bottom.”
“Hadrian Blackwater told us not to sign up,” Mauvin explained.
“So?” Fanen stared at his brother.
“So, the one man here who could take that top spot without breaking a sweat doesn’t even have his name on the list. Either he knows something we don’t, or he thinks he does. That’s worth waiting out the first night at least. Besides, you heard Arista, it doesn’t matter who goes first.”
“You know who else isn’t on the list?” Fanen asked. “Lord Rufus.”
“Yeah, I saw that. Thought he’d be the one to challenge Enden-it would have been worth the trip just to see that duel. He’s not even out in the yard with the rest.”
“He’s been with the archbishop a lot.”
From their elevated position, Arista scanned the courtyard below. The light was gone from the yard, the walls and trees casting the interior in shade. Men went around lighting torches and mounting them. There were hundreds assembled within the grounds and more outside all gathered into small groups. They talked, some shouted. She could hear laughter and even a bit of singing-she could not tell the song, but by its rhythm she guessed it was a bawdy tavern tune. There was a lot of toasting going on. Dark figures in the failing light, broad, powerful men slamming cups together with enough force to spill foam. Above it all, on a wooden platform raised in the center of the yard, stood Sentinel Luis Guy. He was high enough to catch the last rays of the sun and the last breaths of the evening wind. The light made his red cassock look like fire and the wind blowing his cape lent him an ominous quality.
She looked back at the brothers. Mauvin had his mouth open, struggling to clear something from a back tooth with his forefinger. Fanen had his head up looking at the sky. She was glad they were with her. It was a little bit of home in the wilderness and she imagined the smell of apples.
Arista and Alric had spent summer months at Drondil Fields to escape the heat of the city. She remembered how they used to climb the trees in the orchard outside the country castle and have apple fights in early autumn. The rotten apples would burst on the branches and spray pulp, soaking them until they all smelled like cider. Each tree a sovereign castle, they would make alliances. Mauvin always teamed with Alric shouting “My king! My king!” Lenare paired with Fanen wanting to protect her younger brother from the ‘brutes’ as she called them. Arista always remained on her own fighting both groups. Even when Lenare stopped climbing trees, it became the boys against the girl. She did not mind. She did not notice. She did not even think about it until now.
There was so much in her head. So much she needed to sort out. It had been hard to think bouncing around in the coach with Bernice staring at her. She desperately wanted to talk to someone, if only to hear her own words aloud. The idea that Sauly was a conspirator was growing in her mind despite her reluctance to accept it. If Sauly could betray her father, who could be trusted? Could Esrahaddon? Had he used her to escape? Was he responsible for her father’s death? Now it seemed the old wizard was nearby, somewhere just outside the walls perhaps, spending the night in one of the village houses. She did not know what to do, or who to trust.
Mauvin found what he was looking for and flicked it from his finger over the wall.
She opened her mouth to speak, hesitating on the proper words to say. The whole trip there she planned to discuss the issues raised at Ervanon with the Pickerings; well, Mauvin at least. She closed her mouth and bit her lip, once more thinking back to the long ago orchard and the smell of apples.
“There you are, Your Highness,” Bernice said, rushing to her with a shawl for her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be out so late; it’s not proper.”
“Honestly Bernice, you should have had children when you had the chance. This preoccupation with pampering me has got to stop.”
The older woman only smiled warmly. “I’m just looking after you, dear. You need looking after. This foul place is full of rough men. There is little but thin walls and the grace of the archbishop separating them from your virtue. A lady such as yourself is a strong temptation, and given the untamed surroundings of this wilderness it could easily drive many a good man to acts of rashness.” She glanced suspiciously at the brothers who looked back sheepishly. “And there are more than a few here who I couldn’t even describe as good men. In a great castle with a proper retinue men can be kept at bay by holding them in awe of royalty, but here my lady, in this barbaric, feral landscape, they will surely lose their heads.”
“Oh, Bernice, please.”
“Here we go,” Fanen said excitedly.
As the last of the sun’s light faded, the gates opened and Sir Enden and his retinue of two squires and three pages rode out, torches flaming. They trotted to the open plain where the knight prepared to do battle.
A shout rose from the crowd just then and Arista looked up to see a dark shadow sweep across the moonlit sky. It drifted in like a hawk, a silhouette of wings and tail. The crowd murmured and gasped as it circled the castle briefly, moving hesitantly before having its attention caught by torches waved by Sir Enden’s entourage on the hillside.
It folded its wings and dove, falling out of the sky like an arrow aimed at the knight of Chadwick. Torches moved frantically and Arista thought she saw Sir Enden level his lance and charge forward. There were screams, cries of anguish and terror, as one by one the torches in the field went out.
“Next!” shouted Luis Guy.
The dwarf led them up the river path to where the moon revealed a large rock protruding out toward the water. To Hadrian it looked vaguely like the dull tip of a broad spear. Magnus thumped the dirt with his boot then pointed toward the river. “We go in here. Swim straight down about twenty feet-there’s an opening in the bank. The tunnel runs right under us, curves down and then runs under the river to the tower.”
“You can tell all that with your foot?” Royce asked.
Hadrian looked at Esrahaddon. “How are you at swimming?”
“I can’t say I’ve had the opportunity since…,” he said lifting his arms. “But I can hold my breath a good long time. Drag me if necessary.”
“Let me go first,” Royce announced, his eyes on Magnus. He threw his coil of rope on the ground, and tied one end around his waist. “Feed this out to me, but hang on to it. I don’t know how swift the current is.”
“There is no current here,” Magnus told them. “There’s an underwater shelf that juts out creating an eddy. It’s like a little pond down there.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. Once I am down I’ll give three tugs indicating that it’s safe to follow. Tie off the end and follow the line down. If, on the other hand, I jump in and the rope runs out like you just caught a marlin, haul me back so I can personally kill him.”
The dwarf sighed.
Royce slipped off his cloak and with Hadrian holding the rope he descended into the river as if he was rappelling off the side of a wall. He dropped and vanished under the dark water. Hadrian felt the rope slip out gradually from between his fingers. At his side, Magnus showed no signs of concern. The dwarf stood with his head cocked back looking up at the sky. “What do you suppose it’s doing tonight?” he asked.
“Eating knights would be my guess,” Hadrian replied. “Let’s just hope they keep the thing busy.”
Deeper and deeper, the rope trolled out then it stopped. Hadrian watched where the line entered the water; it made a little white trail as it cut the current.
Tug. Tug. Tug.
“That’s it. He’s in,” Hadrian announced, “you next, little man.”
Magnus glared at him. “I’m a dwarf.”
“Get in the river.”
Magnus walked to the edge. Holding his nose and pointing his toes, he jumped and disappeared with a plop.
“That leaves you and me,” Hadrian said, tying the end of the rope to a birch tree that leaned a bit out toward the river. “You go first-I’ll follow-see how well you do. If need be, I’ll pull you through.”
The wizard nodded and for the first time since Hadrian knew him, he looked unsure of himself. Esrahaddon took three deep breaths rapidly blowing each out; on the fourth inhale, he held it and jumped feet first. Hadrian leapt in right after.
The water was cold, not icy or breathtaking, but colder than expected. The immediate shock caught Hadrian off guard for an instant. He kicked out with his feet, pointed his head down, and began to swim along the rope. Magnus was right about the current. The water was still as a pond. He opened his eyes. Above him, there was a faint blue-gray shimmer but it died at the surface, below it was black. Panic gripped Hadrian when he realized he could not see Esrahaddon. Almost in response, a faint light appeared directly below him. The wizard’s robe gave off a blue-green glow as he swam, pedaling his feet and stroking with his arms. Despite the lack of hands, he made good headway.
The light from the robe revealed the riverbank and the rope running down. It disappeared inside a dark hole. He watched the wizard slip through and with his lungs starting to burn, followed him. Once inside he kicked upwards and, almost together their heads emerged from a quiet pool in a small cave.
Royce had the other end of the rope tied to a rock. There was a lantern burning beside him. The single flame easily illuminated the room. The chamber was a natural cave with a tunnel leading out. Magnus stood off to the side, either studying the cavern walls or just keeping his distance from Royce.
When Esrahaddon surfaced, Royce hauled him out. “You might have had an easier time swimming if you’d taken off-” Royce stopped as he saw the wizard’s robe. It was dry.
Hadrian climbed out of the pool feeling the river water drizzle down his body. He could hear the drops echoing in the cave like a rainstorm, but Esrahaddon was exactly as he had been before entering the river. With the exception of his hair and beard, he was not even damp.
Hadrian and Royce exchanged a glance, but said nothing.
Royce picked up his lantern. “Coming, short-stuff?”
The dwarf grumbled and, taking hold of his beard with both hands, twisted a bit of water out. “You realize, my friend, dwarves are an older and far more accomplished-”
“Less chatter, more walking,” Royce interrupted, pointing at the tunnel. “You lead. And you’re not my friend.”
Traveling forward they entered into a new world. The walls were smooth and seamless, as if cut by the flow of water. The glossy surface magnified the light from Royce’s lantern, making the curved interior surprisingly bright.
“So where are we?” Hadrian asked.
“Under the bank, not far below where we were standing before entering the water,” Magnus told him. “The tunnel here corkscrews down.”
“Incredible,” Hadrian said, his eyes looking about him in amazement at the sparkling walls. “It’s as though we’re on the inside of a diamond.”
Just as the dwarf predicted, the tunnel curved around and around, sloping down. Just as Hadrian lost all sense of direction, it stopped spinning and ran straight. It was not long before they could hear and feel the thunder of the falls. It vibrated through the stone. Here the ceiling and walls seeped water. A thousand years of neglect allowed stalactites of crystal to form on the ceiling and jagged mounds of mineral deposits on the floor.
“This is a bit disturbing,” Hadrian remarked noticing a buildup of water on the floor that was getting deeper as they moved forward.
“Bah!” Magnus muttered, but failed to add anything more.
They slogged through the water dodging stone spikes. Examining the walls, Hadrian noticed designs carved into them. Etchings of geometric shapes and patterns lined the corridor. Some of the more delicate lines were faded, missing, perhaps lost to the erosion of a billion water droplets. No words were visible and there were no recognizable symbols. The etching appeared to be nothing more than decorative. Above, almost lost in the growing stone, were brackets for what might have once been banner poles, and on the side walls he spotted mountings for lamps. Hadrian tried to imagine how the tunnel looked before the time of Novron, when multi-colored banners and rows of bright lamps might have illuminated the causeway. It was not long before the tunnel pitched upwards again and they could all see a faint light.
The tunnel ended at a stairway going up. The steps curved and were wide enough for them to take two strides before climbing the next step. When they reached the top, the star-filled sky was above them once more and before long, they stood above ground on the outcropping of rock that made up the base of the citadel. A strong wind met them. The gale was damp, filled with a wet mist. They stood at the end of a short stone bridge spanning a narrow crevasse, beyond which stood the spires of the monolithic tower. It loomed above them so high it was impossible to see the top.
More stairs awaited them on the far side and they moved at a slow but even pace, staying single file, even though the stairs were wide enough for two, or even three, to walk abreast. They climbed five sets of steps, zigzagging in a half-circle around the outside of the tower. As they started their sixth flight, Royce waited until they had moved to the lee of the citadel then called a halt for them to catch their breath. Below, the roar of the falls boomed, but from their perch, protected from the wind, the night seemed still. There were no sounds, no crickets or owls, just the deep voice of the river and the howl of the wind.
“This is ridiculous,” Royce shouted over the roar. “Where’s the damn door. I don’t like being so exposed.”
“It’s just up ahead, not too much farther,” Esrahaddon replied.
“How long do we have?” Hadrian asked, looking at the wizard who shrugged in reply.
The wizard shrugged.
“Does it return here directly after killing, or does it enjoy the night?” Royce inquired. “I should think having been locked up in this tower for nine hundred years, it would want to spend some time flying about.”
“It isn’t a person, or an animal. It’s a conjuration, a mystic embodiment of power. It mimics life and understands threats to its existence certainly, but I doubt it has any concept of pleasure or freedom. Like I said it’s not alive.”
“Then why does it eat?” Royce asked.
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why is it killing a person or two a night?”
“I’ve wondered that myself. It should attempt to fulfill its last instructions and that was clearly to kill the Emperor. It is possible that not finding its target, and not able to travel far from this tower-conjurations are often limited to a specific distance from their creator or point of origin-it might be trying to lure him here. It could have deduced that the Emperor would not tolerate the slaughter of his people and would come to aid the village.”
“Regardless, we’d better be quick,” Hadrian concluded and led them all in standing up.
The wind resumed as they circled around. It whistled in their ears and buffeted their steps. The damp clothes chilled them despite the hard work of the march. Above, the spires still rose far into the night sky and they all felt a grim sense of drudgery when they reached yet another short bridge, which ended abruptly at a solid wall.
Hadrian watched Royce sigh in disappointment as he looked at the dead end.
“I thought you said there was a door.” Royce addressed the wizard.
“There was, and is.”
Hadrian did not see a door. There was what appeared to be a faint outline of a door’s frame etched in the wall in front of them, but it was solid stone.
Royce grimaced. “Another invisible stone portal?”
“Don’t waste your time,” Magnus told him. “You’ll never open it. Trust me, I’m a dwarf. I spent hours trying to get in and nothing. That stone is enchanted and impenetrable. Crossing the river to get here was nothing compared to opening that door.”
Royce turned to the dwarf with a puzzled look in his eyes. “You’ve been here? You tried to enter the tower. Why?”
“I told you I was on a job for Lord Rufus.”
“You said you made him a sword.”
“I did, but he didn’t want just any sword. He wanted a replica of a sword, an elvish sword. He gave me a bunch of old drawings, which I used to make it. They were pretty good, with dimensions and material listed, but it’s not like being able to examine the real thing.” The dwarf’s stare lingered on Royce suggestively. “I was told others of the same type could be found inside this tower. I came out here and spent all day climbing around, but never found a way in. No doors or windows, just things like this.”
“This sword you made,” Esrahaddon said. “Did it have writing on the blade?”
“Yep,” Magnus replied. “They were real insistent that the inscription on the replica was exactly like that in the books.”
“That’s it,” Esrahaddon muttered. “The church isn’t here because of me, and they aren’t here to find the heir; they’re here to make an heir.”
“Make an heir? I don’t get it.” Hadrian said. “I thought you said they wanted the heir dead.”
“They do, but they are going to make a puppet. This Rufus has been picked to replace the true heir. There is a legend that only the bloodline of Novron can kill a Gilarabrywn. They will use this creature’s death as undisputed proof that their boy is the true heir. Not only will it provide them legitimate means to dictate laws to the kings, but it will also hinder my efforts to reinstate the real heir to power. Who will believe an old outlawed wizard when their boy slew a Gilarabrywn? They will let a few bumpkins try to fight only to die, in order to prove the invincibility of the beast. Then this Rufus will step up and with his sword etched with the name, he’ll slay it and become emperor. With Rufus as their figurehead, the church will return to power and reform the Empire. Excellent move, I must say. I’ll admit I hadn’t expected it.”
“A few moderate kings might have something to say about that,” Hadrian replied.
“And they know that as much as you do. They have a plan to deal with it, I’m sure.”
“So do we still need to get inside?” Hadrian asked.
“Oh yes,” the wizard told them, “Now more than ever.” He chuckled. “Just imagine if before their boy Rufus slays this beast another contestant slays it first.”
The dwarf snorted. “Bah! I told you, you aren’t getting through that door. It’s solid stone.”
The wizard considered the archway once more. “Open it, Royce.”
Royce looked skeptical. “Open what? That’s a wall. There’s no latch, no lock, not even a seam. Anyone have a gem we can try?”
“This isn’t a gemlock,” The wizard explained.
“I agree and I would know,” Magnus told them.
“Try opening it anyway,” the wizard insisted staring at Royce. “That’s why I brought you here, remember?”
Royce looked at the wall before him and scowled. “How?”
“Use your instincts. You opened the door to my prison and it had no latch either.”
“I was lucky.”
“You might be lucky again. Try.”
Royce shrugged. He stepped forward and placed his hands lightly on the stone letting his fingertips drift across the surface searching by feel for what his eyes might not be able to see.
“This is a waste of time,” Magnus said. “This is clearly a very powerful lock and without the key there is no way to open it. I know these things. I’ve made these things. They are designed to prevent thieves like him from entering.”
“Ah,” Esrahaddon said to the dwarf, “but you underestimate Royce. He is no ordinary lock-picker. I sensed it the moment I first saw him. I know he can open it.” The wizard turned to Royce who was quickly showing signs of exasperation. “Stop trying to open it and just open it. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”
“Do what?” he asked, irritated. “If I knew how, don’t you think I would have opened it by now?”
“That’s just it, don’t think. Stop being a thief. Just open the door.”
Royce glared at the wizard. “Fine,” he said as he pushed his palm against the stone wall and pulled it back with a look of shock on his face.
Esrahaddon’s expression was one of sheer delight. “I knew it,” the wizard said.
“Knew what? What happened?” Hadrian asked.
“I just pushed,” Royce laughed at the absurdity.
“And?”
“What do you mean and?” Royce asked pointing at the solid wall.
“And what happened? Why are you smiling?” Hadrian studied the wall for something he missed, a tiny crack, a little latch, a key hole, but he saw nothing. It was the same as it had always been.
“It opened,” Royce said.
Hadrian and the dwarf looked at Royce puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
Royce looked back over his shoulder as if that would make everything clear. “Are you both blind? The door is standing wide open. You can see there’s a corridor that-”
“They can’t see it,” the wizard interrupted.
Royce looked from the wizard to Hadrian. “You can’t see that the door is standing open now? You can’t see this huge, three-story double door?”
Hadrian shook his head. “It looks just like it always has.”
Magnus nodded his agreement.
“They can’t see it because they can’t enter,” the wizard explained. Hadrian watched Royce look up, following the wizard’s glance and his eyes widened.
“What?” Hadrian asked.
“Elven magic. Designed to prevent enemies from passing through these walls. All they see, and all they will encounter is solid stone. The portal is closed to them.”
“You can see it?” Royce asked Esrahaddon.
“Oh yes, quite plainly.”
“So why is it we can see it and they can’t?”
“I already told you, it is magic to stop enemies from entering. As it happens, I was invited into this tower nine hundred years ago. It was abandoned immediately after my visit; so I am guessing there was no one to revoke that permission.” He looked back at what Hadrian still saw as solid stone. “I don’t think I could have opened it though, even if I had hands. That’s why I needed you.”
“Me?” Royce said, then a sudden shocking realization filled his expression and he glared at the wizard before him. “So you knew?”
“I wouldn’t be much of a wizard if I didn’t, now would I?”
Royce looked self-consciously at his own feet then slowly turned to look cautiously at Hadrian who only smiled. “You knew too?”
Hadrian frowned “Did you really think I could work with you all these years and not figure it out? It is a little obvious, you know.”
“You never said anything.”
“I figured you didn’t want to talk about it. You guard your past jealously, pal, and you have many doors on which I don’t knock. Honestly, there were times I wondered if you knew.”
“Knew what? What’s going on?” Magnus demanded.
“None of your business,” Hadrian told the dwarf, “but it does leave us with a parting of the ways, doesn’t it. We can’t come in, and I can tell you I am not fond of sitting here on the doorstep waiting for the flying lizard to come home.”
“You should go back,” Esrahaddon told them. “Royce and I can go on from here alone.”
“How long will this take?” Hadrian asked.
“Several hours, a day perhaps,” the wizard explained.
“I had hoped to be gone before it returned,” Royce said.
“Not possible, besides this shouldn’t be a problem for you of all people, I am certain you have stolen from occupied homes before.”
“Not ones where the owner can swallow me in a single bite.”
“So we’ll have to be extra quiet now, won’t we?”