Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm (20 page)

“They have set a torch,” Loren said. “That means they must come here every so often.”

“Just so. We would do well to leave before anyone sees us.”

They pushed the shelf back against the wall, sealing the passageway entrance, then Jordel led Loren in a crouching run to the hallway’s head. Again they pressed their ears to the wood, and heard only silence.

“Beyond, we will find a passageway,” said Jordel. “To the right there will be a barracks, which we should avoid at all costs. To the left there will be a guardroom, empty except at the changing of the watch. Follow me there, quiet as you can.”

He opened the door. Its hinges screamed.
 

They ran down the hallway, closing the door behind them with another terrible squeak. A few yards down, they found Jordel’s door and slipped inside. The room was empty, and they halted on the other side, breathing hard as they listened to silence.

“A stroke of luck,” said Jordel. “It seems your fortune is not entirely ill.”

“If my fortune were good, I would not be in this place at all.”

“Do not be so quick to judge your fate. Look.”

A hearth burned with a low fire in the room’s rear, and beside it lay many chests of drawers. Jordel opened them, and inside they found clothes of grey and dark blue, as well as shirts of chain and helmets. The helmets had slits for the eyes and another for the mouth, but other than that they covered the face. There were also plain swords, and belts to hold them.

“Guard uniforms, no doubt,” said Jordel. “A great stroke of fortune. Come, dress quickly.”

He threw the clothes on over his own, along with a dirty grey cloak, and traded his own short sword for one of the new blades. Loren, too, put the uniform on over her clothes. They stank of sweat and grease and ale, but she had smelled worse. The helmets were another matter. The reek of foul breath had permeated them, and no matter how many she tried, they all contained the stench.
 

“Raise your hood to cover your hair. Any woman among the guards would likely have cut hers short.”

When they had finished, Loren hardly recognized the Mystic — or, looking down, herself. “I feel I could walk straight up to Damaris and greet the merchant without her eyeing me twice.”

“Mayhap you are right, but let us not chance it.” Loren could barely see the Mystic’s smile through his helmet’s thin slit. “Come. Let us see what we may. Whoever commands this stronghold will be in the main hall. We shall go there first.”

They returned to the hallway and saw no one about. Jordel turned right, leading Loren past the door to the cells. Next they passed the barracks he had mentioned — thankfully the door was closed, though Loren could hear voices on the other side. The hallway turned left soon after, and there they rounded the corner.

Loren almost froze. Approaching them from down the hallway were two guards dressed as they were, though their helmets were off and under their arms. They did not speak or laugh, and their eyes immediately fell to Loren and Jordel. She barely managed to hold her composure, but after a moment they passed without comment and Loren exhaled a long breath.

“That went well,” murmured Jordel. “And tells us something valuable. Do you know what it is?”

Loren thought hard. The guards could not have seen their faces, but surely had noticed their eyes. And anyone could recognize a friend, or even a comrade, by eyes alone.

“The guards do not know each other well,” said Loren. “So there are a great many, or else none have been here long.”

“Yet you see the wear on the clothes, and tarnish on the blades. There are enough soldiers for it to be no great surprise to see someone you do not recognize. And there may often be new guards arriving on caravans. But come. Here is the main hall.”

A great threshold loomed ahead, with its wide wooden doors thrown open. Loren tried to match the Mystic’s stride, walking in a sort of half-march while resting her left hand upon the hilt of her sword. They passed through the doorway, and she turned to the right as though idly curious to observe the room beyond.

The great hall was many yards long, with large stone pillars rising into arches that supported the ceiling. White stone was set in the floor, though it had grown dirty and Loren could see rubbish in the corners. High above, near the ceiling, the space was crossed by many thick wooden rafters, the largest yawning across the room, to small windows that brought blue moonslight to battle the torch glow throwing orange along the walls.

At the other end of the hall sat a large wooden chair upon a dais — almost a throne, though not quite grandiose enough to earn the name. Upon that chair sat a huge brute of a man, bare arms thickly muscled and covered with designs inked into the skin, leaning an elbow on the chair’s arm, chin rested in his palm. Long black hair hung thin and filthy. On his chin, a thick scrub of beard. He wore a dark breastplate over a leather tunic without sleeves. Plates covered his legs, which ended in great steel boots with small spikes worked into the toes. Several guards stood in resting positions about the room, metal from head to toe, with great longswords hanging from their hips. Before the man knelt a page in green —
a man of the family Yerrin?
— whose head was bowed and speaking words she could not hear.

But more than the man on the chair, Loren’s eyes were drawn to the symbol hanging over his head: a great design worked in black metal and gold, affixed to the wall behind him. Black was woven into sharp, twisting shapes wrapping each other in an endless knot, jutting out with sharp points in every direction. Though Loren did not recognize the design, it still seemed somehow familiar.
 

With a start she realized it resembled the one on her dagger, and her hand fell to its hilt.

She could feel Jordel seize up beside her as they passed the door, though she could not be certain why. Mayhap he had recognized the man on the chair, or the symbol meant something to him. Out of sight, Loren whispered, “Who was that? What did you see?”

“Speak later. We should not be seen trading murmurs.”

The hallway stretched for a ways before again turning left, continuing a circuit that would lead them around the stronghold walls and back to where they had started.
 

Jordel peered casually into every open door. They saw another barracks, and once they passed a door just as a guard came through — beyond was another room full of cells, much like the one they had entered. At last, when they had neared the southeast corner of the fortress and the hallway’s end, they spied a room with many tables laid out, and a cooking pot resting on sticks above a fire. A handful of guards sat eating, fortress men in grey and blue alongside Yerrin men in green. Jordel paused and turned to Loren.

“We will go in here for a moment. Do not remove your helmet for any reason, nor speak. If anyone asks, I shall answer. We cannot risk the Yerrin men recognizing you — but they will not know my face, for I have had few dealings with them.”

Loren almost answered, but instead only nodded. Jordel smiled. “Well done. Come.”

He entered the room, bold as daylight, heading to a table near the fire and removing his helmet as he sat. Two stronghold guards sat next to a thick woman with hair so dark it was almost black, and a thin ratty man with one of his front teeth missing. They barely looked up as the Mystic sat.

“Ho,” he said, nodding. Jordel scooped up a half-eaten bowl of stew, abandoned by some other guard, and dug in with his fingers. The ratty man eyed him for a moment, then looked back at his own food.

Loren studied the group, trying to see if she could learn anything from their actions. They seemed almost determined not to notice anyone or anything around them, hardly raising their eyes from the table, nor speaking at all. She looked past them to the Yerrin guards a few tables over. Their eyes roamed more freely, but in them Loren could see distrust and annoyance. They did not want to be here, and most likely saw these guards as beneath them.

The thick woman looked at Loren and raised her chin. “Do you mean to eat, or sit sweating in that helmet all night, girl?”

“A new recruit,” said Jordel. “Said she lost her appetite.”

“New and green, that’s plain to see,” said the ratty man. “And I don’t just mean her eyes.”

“Speaking of green,” Jordel nodded toward the Yerrin guards. “What about these ones, eh? A lordly bearing for certain.”

The thick woman grunted. “Tis what happens when you work for lords and ladies — the high ones on the King’s Seat, anyhow, not like the Lord.”

The Lord.
 

Loren heard in their voices the same reverence — and fear — she had heard from the satyrs. It must be the man sitting on the great chair in the main hall. But who was he?

“You mean that pretty one, eh? I have not heard what she is doing here. What do you know?”

They both stopped eating and looked up at Jordel. “No one has spoke of her purpose, nor will they.”

Jordel looked conspiratorially over his shoulder and leaned forward, fingertips pressed to the table. “Of course — but some whispers always seep through the cracks.”

The thick woman abruptly stood, followed by the ratty man a moment later. Both scowled down at Jordel as though he had given some great offense. “Seems you are as green as your girl,” she said. “Still your whispering tongue, newcomer, or you might find it cut from your mouth.”
 

They left the common room without another word or glance behind them. Loren moved to leave, but Jordel placed a hand on her arm.

“Stay for a moment while I eat. We must not seem nervous.”
 

Loren forced herself to sit still, though every part of her wanted to flee the stronghold, and vanish into the mountains as Albern advised. But after a moment, another man came to sit, broad as Jordel, and mayhap taller. Long, sandy hair hung freely to his shoulders, and an easy smile rested at the corner of his mouth.

“Mind those two not. They have just enough experience to make others feel less so.”

“I know the sort,” said Jordel. “But have no fear; it takes more than two ratty guards to put the fright in me.”

“Good to hear,” said the newcomer. “Courage matters more than petty politics in the face of a fight.”

“Is one coming?” Jordel raised his eyebrows. “That would be more entertaining than another day lost to walking the wall.”
 

“You and I like different kinds of excitement, it seems,” said the man, studying Jordel. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “But mayhap we shall both have our wish. These greencloaks bring cargo for the Lord, weapons or some such. I have heard he wants them badly, but you would never know it — the Yerrin woman’s been waiting for his audience since her arrival. The wait’s nearly over. I brought the message to her room myself.”

Damaris was here to bring magestones. She must have retrieved more, for Loren had destroyed most of her stores before fleeing Cabrus. But Yerrin’s reach was long, and doubtless they had many more of the precious gems stored about the nine lands.

Loren did not want to think what this stronghold, peopled by mysterious men and ruled by an unknown Lord, would need with many wagons filled with stones. It seemed the Mystic was right: the battle in Wellmont had been the first step in a much greater plot.

These soldiers must be from Dorsea. With their army invading from the south, they were amassing a secret strength in the Greatrocks to attack Selvan from the west.

They had to do something, though she had not the faintest idea what. They
could
warn the king, but Loren could hardly imagine that road, even if she were not riding with an outcast Mystic and a wizard ravaged by the blackest of cravings.

If Jordel guessed at Loren’s thoughts, he gave no sign. He merely nodded and dug the last of his stew from the bowl with his fingers. He licked them clean, then stood and adjusted his belt. “Tis nice to know there is at least one friendly face behind these walls. Well met, friend, and may we sup again another time.”

Loren quickly stood and mumbled something under her helmet, but their friend never noticed, holding his eyes on the Mystic. “Well met indeed. Try not to drown in this rain.”

Jordel gave a light laugh and left. Loren hurried behind him.

twenty-four

JORDEL LED LOREN FROM THE mess hall and around the stronghold’s corridors back the way they had come. At first she thought he must be bringing them out, but he passed the exit on his way to the guardroom. Thankfully it was still empty. He closed the door, then locked the bolt.
 

“Did I guess right from his words?” Loren asked. “Did Damaris come all this way to bring her magestones?”

“That would be my theory, aye, and it explains why she should reach the stronghold on such a roundabout path. Riding straight for Northwood, she would surely have caught the attention of the King’s law.”

“We must … warn the king, I suppose.” Loren’s mind turned to how they could possibly cross a
 
kingdom with the Mystics and constables both at their heels.

“Hmm? No, we can send no word of this yet,” he said, as if distracted. “Not until we have tended to more pressing matters.”

“What could be more urgent? These are Dorsean men, intent on invading Selvan.”

“I wish that were so, but these are no men of Dorsea, nor any of the nine lands, I fear. They are something far darker. More terrible. I thought I might find them within this stronghold, though I held to a faint hope that it would not be so.”

“Who are they, then?”
 

Jordel slowly paced the room. From within his helmet, keen blue eyes pierced her.
 

“You remember in Wellmont when I spent a day speaking with Xain? I told him much that I have told few others, and more mayhap than I should have. I am not eager to repeat my mistake, yet feel I must trust you with at least some of the ugly truth.”
 

“I have proved myself worthy of such trust.”

“So you have.” Still the Mystic hesitated before nodding. “Then know this: the men in this stronghold are Shades, a name that for centuries was but a frightened whisper in the dark. Yet some among the Mystics remember them, and I recognized the symbol they have hung above the throne.”