Lorik The Defender (The Lorik Trilogy) (20 page)

Lorik sat silently, listening for any sign of the mutated soldiers, but the castle was silent. Hours seemed to pass, but the only real gage of time was the amount of lamp oil they were using. They kept only two lamps burning, one on each end of the tunnel, just in case they had to fight something. Eventually, even Lorik fell asleep. When he woke up a few hours later, he felt like something was different. At first he just thought it was the cold, which seemed to have seeped into his bones in the freezing tunnel. He could hear the teeth chattering of the wounded men. They had blankets stashed in the tunnel, but Lorik knew they would need a real source of heat soon, or the men would grow sick and weak.

Lorik tried to decide what was different. He could hear the snoring of some of the volunteers echoing down the stone tunnel, but there was no other sound. He checked his injuries; his chest was still sore, and his ankle still swollen, but he could breathe a little easier. He tried to take a deep breath and ended up coughing up thick mucus. He spit the foul substance into the corner, and then he realized what was different. The heavy feeling of dread was gone. He’d felt a sense of darkness approaching as the witch’s army marched north through Ortis, now it was gone. He had spent the last several hours on the steps leading down into the tunnel, so he stood and did his best to stretch. The pit was close enough that Lorik felt the pull of the steep drop, the way it felt to stand on the edge of a high cliff, as if some invisible force was pulling him down. He stepped up to the doorway and after listening again for several moments, pushed open the door. It was dark in the storage room and in the dungeon beyond, but the ghostly mist from the Wilderlands was once again swirling in the darkness. Lorik closed the tunnel door behind him and eased his way out of the storage room.

Keeping one hand on the wall, he hobbled as quietly as he could down the long corridor of dungeon cells, following the flow of the mist. Once more he felt the temptation to open the secret door on the far side of the dungeon corridor, but he ignored it. The mist swirled up the spiral staircase and Lorik followed, trying to remain as quiet as possible. The mist led him up to the second floor of the castle, bypassing the series of rooms that had been the sight of the savage battle Lorik and his men had waged against the witch’s mutated army. Lorik was careful to be quiet, even suppressing the urge to cough on several occasions.

Finally he reached the stairs that led up to the watchtower and Lorik quickened his pace. Hope had begun to bloom in his heart. He thought that perhaps the mutated soldiers had given up on finding him and his band of volunteers. He guessed that they would eventually press on northward, leaving the razed capital of Ortis behind. He hurried out into the cold night and looked down from the high watchtower. The sky had cleared and the stars were bright. The moon shone down its silvery light across the abandoned city and over the rolling hills.

Lorik could see that the snow from the day before had melted and the massive army was gone. There were hundreds of dead soldiers, piled up like garbage around the castle, their dark forms perfectly still in the starlight. But what was even more surprising were the flickering lights in some of the structures around the city. Many of the homes and shops had been completely wrecked, but others were mostly intact. Lorik stood on the high watchtower and observed the lights. He was convinced that what he saw was firelight. It didn’t make sense to Lorik, there had not been anyone left in the city. He had stood watch on that same tower two nights before and there had been no lights.

His only guess was that some of the witch’s army had taken up residence in the city, but that didn’t make sense either. The mutated soldiers had no regard for their own safety and no logic to their actions. They were driven to kill whoever they saw, but taking refuge for the night seemed out of place. Not to mention that the lights were spread around the city, only a handful of lights were visible and none near the others. It didn’t make sense that if a group of the soldiers were staying in the city, why wouldn’t they stay close together rather than spreading out. It was strange. Lorik wondered if perhaps what he was seeing was some kind of stragglers that followed the witch’s army, looting the destroyed cities and scavenging from the carnage of the mutated killers.

Lorik turned around to go back into the castle and was surprised to see the mist was swirling in a new direction now. He followed the mist down to the main floor where it led out of the castle. He opened the door and gazed out into the night. The mist swirled toward the broken down gate and away though the city. Lorik’s ankle was beginning to throb again and before he left the castle he checked his weapons. If he got into trouble, he wouldn’t be able to run, so he had to make sure he could fight if worst came to worst.

The bailey around the castle was wet and grimy from the melted snow. Lorik moved cautiously toward the broken down gates, careful not to put too much weight on his injured ankle or make too much noise. The bodies of the dead were everywhere. He climbed over trampled corpses of the soldiers he’d killed. He found one of the spears his volunteers had used to save him when he’d fallen near the castle steps. It was broken in half, and he picked up the shaft end, leaving the metal blade sunk into the corpse of the mutated soldier it had slain. The wooden rod was the perfect length for a cane and Lorik used it to keep his weight off of his injured ankle.

It took a long while to climb over the mound of bodies outside the castle gates. Lorik and Stone had been very effective with their pikes and the other witch’s soldiers had not given the bodies of their fallen any regard. Lorik finally got past the heaping mounds of dead and was surprised to see the streets littered with more bodies. He knew they weren’t the work of his volunteers; their weapons had not been effective so far from the castle walls. Lorik considered for a moment that perhaps the mutated soldiers had moved their dead away from the walls, leaving the grossly disfigured corpses in the streets, but that didn’t really make sense either. He was certain he’d never seen the witch’s fighters do anything but push the heaped up piles of bodies out of their way.

It was too dark to tell for certain, but it looked almost as if the witch’s army had turned against itself. He moved like a shadow through the streets of the city, toward the nearest of the lights he’d seen from the watchtower. He saw the light from down the street. It seemed strangely out of place and inviting at the same time. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the warm glow that emanated from the windows.

He moved slowly, cautiously toward the structure. It was a home. Lorik peered into one of the windows and was shocked to see one of the mutated fighters curled by the fireplace with a thick blanket pulled around its shoulders. It was sleeping and looked less distraught than when he’d fought the mindless creatures. He moved away from the window and was trying to understand what he was seeing, when he heard the sound of a blade singing through the air. Instinctively he dropped to the ground.

Above his head, right where he’d been leaning against the wall of another home that was mostly destroyed, a dark blade chopped into the thick beam of wood. Lorik rolled to his feet, hopping a little to get his balance on his good foot and drawing his swords in one quick, smooth motion.

“Arrrgghhh!” cried the mutated fighter who stepped out of the shadows.

Once again Lorik was so surprised to hear the creature bellowing a battle cry, that he almost didn’t react quick enough. The fighter let go of his sword that was still wedged into the wood and swung a club like fist at Lorik, who swayed back, then had to hop again to keep his balance.

The angry fighter surged forward and Lorik thrust his sword out, driving it up and into the brute’s rib cage. The fighter screamed and then fell to its knees. Lorik swung his other sword and slashed the abnormally thick throat to ribbons.

The fighter died with a gurgling whimper and Lorik had to heave to pull his first sword free of the mutated soldier’s chest. Then he turned and looked back inside the house. The soldier who had been asleep on the floor of the small home was gone. Lorik went inside, moving cautiously again, alert for any signs of danger. What he found shocked him more than he could imagine. The soldier he’d seen through the window, was now huddled in a dark corner, hands over its face, fat tears rolling down its cheeks and dropping onto its knees.

Lorik stepped into the center of the room, the heat from the fire felt luxurious to him after the cold confines of the castle’s secret tunnel and the cold exposure of the winter night. He started to raise his sword and dispatch the soldier hiding in the shadows, but something was wrong. The mutated fighter didn’t act like a soldier, but more like a frightened child.

“Who are you?” Lorik asked, not really expecting an answer.

The fighter looked up, surprise etched on its face.

“My name,” the wretched looking creature said in a strange, mangled voice, “was Rylee.”

“Was?” Lorik said.

“Before the monsters took us away.”

Lorik lowered his sword.

“What monsters?” he asked.

“Flying horses, with scorpion tails and human heads,” the witch’s minion replied. “They attacked our village, then I woke up here, freezing, hungry, surrounded by horrible people who had been changed like me.”

“You’re a woman?”

“A mother,” Rylee said. “I had three little ones and a husband, but they aren’t here. I don’t even know where here is.”

“This is Ort City,” Lorik explained. “Or what’s left of it. In the Kingdom of Ortis.”

The mutated mother began to cry again. Lorik looked at her and after a moment he could make out her feminine features. Her shoulders were broad and covered in thick muscle, but she had breasts too, only they hadn’t been enlarged. They were just two small lumps on her broad chest, and one was much higher than the other. She had on the same ragged clothing the other mutated fighters had possessed, but she pulled the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl.

“What happened when you woke up?” Lorik asked.

“Everyone was terrified. There was so much killing. Everyone fought each other. I was close to this place, so I hid inside until the others had fled the city.”

“You’re smart, but there are still others like you in the city,” Lorik said. “And a few of us are left behind as well. What happened to the army that marched north?”

“I don’t know anything about an army,” Rylee said. “I just want to go home.”

“Where is home?”

“A small village near Lorrington, in Olsa.”

“You’ve got a long way to go,” Lorik said. “Let me tell you what happened while you were asleep.”

Lorik spent the next half hour explaining what he knew. He moved closer to the fire and warmed himself, even though he felt guilty for doing it. His comrades were freezing in the secret tunnel beneath the castle, and he wanted to hurry back to them and tell them what had happened, but he wasn’t sure himself. Somehow, it seemed at least some of the witch’s army had been freed from the sorceress’ enchantment.

Lorik wondered if perhaps the wizard Zollin had been successful in destroying the witch, but he had no way of knowing.

“I’m going to leave you now,” Lorik said. “Good luck getting home.”

“What was the noise I heard outside?” Rylee asked.

Lorik hesitated. What if the soldier he had killed had been like Rylee? Or what if it had been her companion.

“Is anyone helping you here?” Lorik asked.

“No, why?” the mutated woman said, her voice deep and hard to understand.

“I was attacked outside this home,” he explained. “I killed the soldier who attacked me.”

He saw the fear on Rylee’s face, but there was no sign of grief or regret.

“You should be careful,” Lorik told her. “There are still dangerous
people
,” he said the word slowly, not sure what to really call the mutated soldiers now that they were free from the witch’s control, “around here. If you see... normal humans, let them know you aren’t a threat as quickly as possible. You were dangerous under the witch’s control, and others might still consider you a threat.”

“Thank you,” Rylee said. “I will be careful.”

Lorik nodded and then left the small home. The cold air outside the little cottage was cold, but it served to energize Lorik. He found his walking stick and hurried back toward the castle, never noticing that the silvery mist was pulsing out of the city and pointing him north.

Queen Issalyn was cold, wet, and sore. Josston had forced them to ride through the night. They were either lost or trying to evade trackers. First he went one way, then doubled back and took a new direction. Josston led them in opposite directions over and over again. They climbed one steep hill, only to cross back over and then climb it again. They eventually settled in a bog that was surrounded by massive trees covered in creeping vines. One of Josston’s men was sent away with the horses and Queen Issalyn was chained to a great, gnarly root, along with the younger prisoner that Josston had recently returned with.

They whispered in the darkness. Night had fallen and the temperature was bitterly cold in the damp bog. The ground was so wet it soaked through their clothing and the mud clung to them. Queen Issalyn had never been so dirty, not even as a little girl. She was terrified and exhausted, yet she forced herself to find out as much as she could about what had happened to the girl she was chained to.

“What’s your name?” Issalyn asked.

“Amvyr,” the girl said through chattering teeth.

“I’m Issalyn.”

“Why did they take us?” the girl asked, her fear evident in her voice. “What are they going to do with us?”

“I don’t know,” Issalyn said. “Where did they take you from?”

“From the palace,” Amvyr said, as if it should have been obvious.

“You mean Forxam?”

The girl nodded. “I am King Ricard’s daughter.”

Issalyn was rocked back by the realization of what had happened. She had been fooled by Josston, she’d known that. But she hadn’t realized that he was so daring as to kidnap the princess. She could only guess that most of the king’s army was away from the city, probably away from Forxam altogether. Josston knew about the witch and her army, which made it at least likely that King Ricard did too. Perhaps he was marching south to help Lorik. Just the thought of Lorik made tears sting Issalyn’s eyes. She couldn’t help but believe if she hadn’t been so flattered by Josston’s flirtations that perhaps she would have seen him for what he really was.

“How did they get you out of the castle?” Issalyn asked. “Weren’t there guards?”

“Father has marched south with his army,” Amvyr said. “A wizard came to the palace, riding a green dragon and warning my father of an army marching north through Ortis. He convinced my father to take most of his troops south. There were only a few men left to guard the city.”

Issalyn was both relieved and terrified. She had no hope that Lorik could find her and rescue her, he was too far away and completely unaware of the danger she was in. On the other hand, if King Ricard’s daughter had been taken, there was a good chance his soldiers would find them and free them, only most of those soldiers had marched south with the king, who was completely unaware that his daughter had been taken. It was frustrating, but Issalyn could see how things had fallen into place to make Josston’s daring crime possible. She had to find a way to free them. If they could just get away from Josston and his men, they might be able to find their way back to Forxam.

“If we get out of here, could you find your way back home?” Issalyn asked.

“You mean escape?” Amvyr asked.

“Yes, if we escaped could you get us to Forxam?”

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous?” she asked.

“Yes, but there is no escaping danger now. We are in danger every minute we are in their control,” Issalyn nodded her head toward the men with Josston, who were huddled around a small fire. “Could you get us home?”

Amvyr shook her head. “I don’t know where we are. And they’ve changed directions so many times.”

Issalyn felt a stab of anger, but choked it down. The girl was young and obviously terrified. It wouldn’t do Issalyn any good to get angry. Still, she felt like she had no good options. If she stayed with Josston and his men, she was in danger. If she escaped, she could wander through the thick forests and steep ravines until she starved or met some worse fate. She needed a way to get to safety; otherwise, she was as good as dead already. A queen without a king wasn’t much use to anyone, not even for ransom, not that anyone was still in Ortis who had the resources to pay a ransom.

“How old are you?” Issalyn asked Amvyr.

“Fifteen,” she said through her chattering teeth.

“Well don’t worry, Amvyr. We’ll find a way out of this mess together.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Issalyn, Queen of Ortis.”

“Did they kidnap you too?”

“In a way,” Issalyn said. “I was coming to seek your father’s aid against the witch’s army. Josston tricked me into believing that he served your father and would take me to him.”

“He never worked for father,” Amvyr said sternly.

“I know that now,” Issalyn said, trying to be patient with the young girl. “Will someone come for us?”

“I don’t know,” Amvyr said.

“Your mother was in Forxam wasn’t she? What about your father’s ministers? Isn’t someone there in charge of security?”

“Yes, my mother is there. But I don’t know who would come. My father didn’t include me in those kinds of things.”

“I understand,” Issalyn said. “Still, we can hope that someone is looking for you. We need to make sure we’re ready when they arrive. You never know what we might be able to do to help.”

Amvyr nodded, but she looked so terrified that Issalyn doubted that the young girl would be much help if an opportunity to escape presented itself. Still, Issalyn vowed not to leave the girl behind. They would escape together, or die trying.

The night passed slowly. Issalyn was exhausted, but there was no way to get comfortable in the freezing mud while chained to tree roots that snaked out through the mud under her. She dozed off and on, praying for rescue. In her brief dreams she saw Lorik. He was always confused, looking for her but not understanding that she had been kidnapped. She woke up more than once calling his name.

The men on watch glared at her in the darkness, but she ignored them. The next morning they set off on foot. It was a grueling day, bitterly cold, and with no real trail. They moved between trees and up steep hills, fighting their way through thick undergrowth. Their clothes were torn and ripped on thorns. Rocks seemed to find their way into their shoes and fatigue clung to them like the mud, weighing them down and making the trek difficult. The men behind them shoved them along whenever they failed to keep pace. More than once Issalyn fell, and by midafternoon her hands and knees were bruised and bleeding. Amvyr fared no better, and although she hadn’t enjoyed being held on a horse by the stinking guard, she wished after her long day of walking that her captors hadn’t gotten rid of their horses.

As the sun began to set, Josston rushed back and had his men hold both girls down. Filthy, stinking hands covered their mouths and held their arms back behind their backs until their shoulders felt as if they would pop out of place. Then they heard horses. Josston had led them into a ravine. A small, stream flowed slowly through the dense growth of weeds and thorns. The girls were held down on the ground, near the stream while the riders rode by on the high ground.

The horses slowed and Issalyn heard voices, but she couldn’t make out what was being said. Her heart was pounding and she struggled until the pain in her arms and shoulders became overwhelming. Then, to her great disappointment, she heard the riders spur their mounts away. The familiar drumming of hooves faded into the distance. Josston soon had them up and moving again, but only a short distance. Then, he made camp in a clearing. He used rope instead of chains and tied the women’s hands behind their back and tied their ankles together too. They built a big fire and then, to Issalyn surprise, Josston and his men left.

“Now is our chance,” she whispered furiously to Amvyr. “We’ve got to get these ropes off and escape.”

“It’s impossible,” the young girl cried.

“No it isn’t, don’t give up.”

“It hurts my wrists.”

“The ropes will stretch, don’t quit,” Issalyn urged her.

Night fell and Issalyn continued to try and break free of her bonds. She felt every moment pass, as if time had somehow taken on weight and was pressing down on her. She worked feverishly to get free, but the ropes were too tight. Then, an hour after sunset, they heard horses again.

“Listen!” Issalyn said. “Riders. They are looking for us.”

“Or it’s the men who kidnapped us returning with their horses,” Amvyr said, sounding almost hopeful.

“Don’t you want to escape and go home?” Issalyn said angrily. “Don’t you know what’s in store for us if we don’t?”

Amvyr burst into tears and Issalyn wanted to scream. She had wanted a daughter since she was Amvyr’s age, but she had never imagined her own child being so weak and whiny.

“Help!” Issalyn shouted. “Over here!”

“Shut up!” Amvyr said angrily. “You’ll get us into trouble.”

“We’re already in trouble,” Issalyn said. “Help!”

Soldiers rode into the clearing. In the wavering light of the fire Issalyn saw the dark green uniform of the Basklan forces. Her heart swelled with hope.

“It’s the princess,” one of the soldiers said.

“Where are your captors?” another demanded.

“They abandoned us here before nightfall,” Issalyn said.

One of the soldiers slid off his horse and hurried over to Princess Amvyr’s side, drawing his dagger to cut her free, but before he could an arrow suddenly slammed into his chest. The soldier dropped like a stone and was dead before he hit the ground.

“It’s a trap!” shouted the leader of the group, but arrows were already flying.

In only a moment six of the soldiers fell from their horses, the others tried desperately to find cover. Issalyn and Amvyr cried out, but their shouts of terror were drowned out by the soldiers who couldn’t see into the dark trees. There was nothing but their horses to hide behind and the blazing fire ruined their night vision while making them perfect targets for Josston and his men.

One by one the soldiers were struck down. The arrows were slower in coming after the initial volley. It was obvious that the kidnappers were taking their time, aiming carefully to make each shot count. The horses pranced around, frightened by the shouting and the smell of blood. More than once Issalyn thought she would be trampled by the skittish animals.

“We must retreat!” shouted a young soldier.

“We can’t leave the princess!” yelled an older man.

Unfortunately, whenever one of the soldiers tried to rescue Amvyr, he was shot down. Several soldiers lay on the ground with arrows protruding at odd angles from their bodies, some were screaming in pain, others lay eerily still. Queen Issalyn tried harder than ever to escape her bonds, but it was no use.

The soldiers had numbered an even dozen, but in the end, only three managed to ride away into the dark night and one of them was gravely wounded. Josston came back into the clearing with his men. He checked on his prisoners.

“It seems you both survived,” he said with a smirk. “How fortunate for you.”

“Eventually you’ll be caught and killed,” Issalyn said.

“We’ll see,” Josston said.

“Kill the survivors,” he ordered one of his men. “The rest of you ride them down. I don’t want anyone returning to Forxam. Not when we are so close to our goal.”

Josston’s men gathered the horses of the fallen soldiers and rode after them. Josston sat down by the fire and began to eat dried rations from his pack. Issalyn’s stomach growled with hunger, but she didn’t say anything. Amvyr was weeping uncontrollably and Issalyn tried to quietly comfort her. But the truth was she also felt a deep sense of dread. Josston was no mere outlaw, he had tricked Issalyn into coming with him willingly. He had successfully kidnapped a princess from the royal castle in Forxam, and now he had set the perfect trap for the soldiers who had been sent to rescue the princess. It would be days before anyone knew the fate of the soldiers, and unless more than one group was sent out to search for Amvyr, it would be weeks before anyone found them again.

Issalyn and Amvyr were close to the large fire and warm for the first time since they’d been taken prisoner. It was the only comfort she had. The ropes burned against her raw skin, her stomach growled with hunger, her throat was parched with thirst. But above all, her heart ached. She wanted to see Lorik just one more time, she thought. To feel the sense of security she had experienced with him. Then the night closed in and she fell asleep as a wave of despair crashed over her, snuffing out any hope that she would survive.