Morticai's Luck (25 page)

No! Please, please, not after getting this far! Oh, Glawres!

He continued along, but knew he was slowing. Exhaustion was finally claiming him. Hoping he wasn’t leaving an obvious trail of blood, he stopped for a moment and felt the floor behind him. He couldn’t tell for sure—he didn’t think so, but he wasn’t certain he could trust his numbed fingertips. Nothing could be done for it, so he continued on.

Then, he found a crack. He ran his hand up it, looking for a knob or lever, but he didn’t find one. He began to despair, but then he remembered that he hadn’t seen a knob on the door they’d brought him through. They had just pushed it open somehow.

He pulled himself into a sitting position. Dizziness swept over him. As soon as he was able, he slid over the crack. He prayed there were no guards on the other side, and then he pushed.

The door opened easily. His heart racing again, Morticai gathered enough strength to pull himself through it. There was a wall of some sort on the left. He pulled himself to it and slid along it.

He touched another wall. He didn’t remember a wall like that. The door swung shut as he cleared it, causing him to jump.

Probably just as well
, he thought.
No sense in leaving open doors for them to follow me through.

He found yet another wall that abutted the one he had slid along. Realization flooded in—he had found a closet. A damned closet! He wanted to cry. Anger welled up, and with more effort than he knew he had left he pushed himself from the back wall to the door again.

He pushed against it. It wouldn’t open. With a sob, he tried to fit his fingertips into the crack to pull it open. His trembling fingers betrayed him, and he had to fight to relocate the crack. When he did find it, he couldn’t use it. He let himself slide down to the floor. Maybe there was a good space at the bottom of the door.

There wasn’t. Morticai wanted to scream—with fear, exhaustion, and anger. His mind reeled.
It’s not fair! Oh, Glawres, I kept going—why did it have to be a closet! It’s not fair! Is this what you wanted? Is this your will? I did my best. I don’t want to die, don’t want to die. Not in a closet. A damned closet …

And finally, the despair and frustration gave way to exhaustion, and sleep came to claim him.

Chapter Seventeen

Paxton nervously readjusted his mask. The silk half-masks had been developed for Arluthian ceremonies and ordeals, and were not meant to be worn in public. Still, it was the only way they had of protecting their identities while storming Ellenwood’s manor.

The innkeeper stole another glance at the leaders of the operation. Nelerek and another Arluthian stood a dozen feet away, speaking softly with Dyluth’s captain and the man of Faith he had been told was the Inquisitor. Knights of the Faith had blocked off the mouth of this alley while the last-minute arrangements were made.

Paxton’s skin crawled at those arrangements—who had ever heard of Arluthians working with the Faith? Not that the Arluthians were against the Faith, but they weren’t accustomed to working side by side with them, either. The Arluthians, the Faithful, and the Northmarch—what a combination.

The meeting was apparently over. Paxton sighed with relief. He worried that word would spread to Ellenwood’s household that the Faith was in the neighborhood. Nelerek came over to him.

“Ready?”

“I suppose so,” Paxton replied. “Uh, Brother?” he whispered.

Nelerek edged closer. “Something wrong?”

“No. I, uh, I was wondering if you’d sent word to Heather.”

From behind his mask, Nelerek’s pale blue eyes locked solidly with Paxton’s. “Not yet,” he replied. “Not until I know if he’s alive or not.”

“Do you think she’ll complain? I mean, she is an Arluthian after all, and because Dyluth is her Advocate, she has the right.”

Nelerek shrugged. “If she complains, I’ll just say that I couldn’t reach her. It’s what she gets for not working with us the way she should.” Nelerek’s whisper
became a hiss. “You’d think she’d be honored to be the only female Arluthian in Watchaven! Her disrespect for Dyluth is inexcusable—it’s a disgrace!”

Paxton looked down. “Dyluth might disagree with you,” he said.

“Perhaps. We need to get into position.”

Nelerek moved away and, with a shrug, Paxton followed. He knew that Nelerek was under a lot of pressure. Even so, Nelerek’s dangerous mood worried Paxton. If he lost control, there would be trouble aplenty, not just for the Droken, but for everyone concerned.

* * *

Dualas drew his sword. Coryden, who stood just in front of him, did the same. They both watched the Inquisitor, waiting for him to give the signal. The last of the knights were still positioning themselves, but they would be ready shortly.

Dualas scrutinized Coryden’s rigid stance. Although now assigned to the Inquisitor, Dualas had requested he be allowed to stay with Coryden during this raid. Dualas knew that the previous night had been hard on the Northmarch captain. Dualas reached out with his left hand and gently touched the captain’s shoulder. Coryden sighed and relaxed, ever so slightly. Still, he did not turn or speak. His attention remained locked on the Inquisitor. At last, Rylan gave the signal.

They fell in behind Rylan as he ran up to the manor’s front doors. The street echoed with the thunder of hooves as mounted knights charged from the nearby alleys, positioning themselves to cover the exterior of the house. The leveled their crossbows—which were legal only in the hands of the Faith—at the windows.

“Here ye within!” the Inquisitor shouted forcefully. “The Faith demands entrance! Open your doors, or we shall break them down!”

Traffic came to a standstill, and while some of Ellenwood’s neighbors peered at the Knights from nearby courtyards, still others grabbed their curious children and rushed them inside. Ellenwood’s doors remained closed.

Glaedwin did not repeat his order. He stepped aside, and nodded at Richard. The Inquisitor’s huge bodyguard charged the portal.
Crack!
The doors remained shut. Dualas moved forward, and together they charged into the gate.
Crack!
Someone must have barred the doors.

The sound of swordplay rang out from behind the manor. Knights brought up the hand-held ram, and Richard, Dualas, Coryden, and Berret quickly took positions on it. One, then two swings of the ram, and the doors gave way.

Inside, battle had already been joined. Dualas moved in behind Coryden as he viciously pressed an attack against an armored guard. The masked Arluthians, some in armor and some not, had apparently gained entry through some less-fortified gate in the back of the manor.

“The guards are coming from back here!” someone shouted from a hallway.

Dualas moved in on a guard and easily blocked his opponent’s first swing. Soon, a rhythmic pounding echoed through the halls—someone was using the ram at another entrance.

“Yield!” Dualas demanded of his less-skilled opponent.

“Never!”

Dualas wasted no more time on mercy, and with ease misdirected and disengaged his opponent’s sword, thrust his own blade through the guard’s leather gorget, and thus dispatched him. He glanced around the room, searching for another opponent, but the fighting was already finished in the front hallway. The unarmored Arluthians were tying up the weeping, cursing, protesting servants. Coryden headed in the direction from which he’d heard the ram being used. Dualas and a half-score of the Northmarchers fell in behind him.

Coryden is too quiet
, Dualas thought. The Northmarcher captain exhibited none of his usual exuberance for battle. His face remained cold, as if set in stone.

The knights had used the ram upon what had been, apparently, a hidden door. Echoes of clashing swords floated eerily from beyond the broken doorway. Coryden came to an abrupt halt. An Arluthian stood before the door, holding an armload of unlit torches.

“Here,” the Arluthian said. “It’s dark down there.” He held a bundle of the torches over an oil lamp, apparently lit for the purpose. They burst into flame. He handed one to each of them as they passed by.

“Those Arluthian folks are strange,” Berret muttered behind Dualas as they entered the dark hallway.

* * *

The cry echoed quickly through the halls.

“Attack! Attack! We’re under attack!”

Ellenwood looked up sharply as a priest ran into his office.

“Your Eminence!” the man cried, “the Faith has taken the manor!”

“Father of Darkness!” Ellenwood cried, jumping to his feet. Of the four different passages that led to the temple, only the one from his manor was not defended by a gatehouse.

“Guards have already been sent to the western tunnel,” his assistant informed him.

“Go kill the prisoner and then meet me in my private quarters,” Ellenwood ordered.

The priest rushed from the room. Ellenwood found himself thankful that this had happened
after
Luthekar had left to join his forces to the north. The prince’s assistance against this invasion by the Faith would have been invaluable, but af
terward, no matter how the battle went, Luthekar’s displeasure might have fallen upon
him
.

The High Priest slid his desk chair aside and pulled back the carpet. He withdrew a small wooden chest from the small compartment underneath.

The priest dashed back through the door, “He’s gone! Eminence, he’s gone!”

Ellenwood blinked. “Impossible! Have they gained the temple?”

“No, Eminence!”

With the chest tucked under his arm and his dagger drawn, Ellenwood rushed to the temple on the heels of the priest. The platform was empty. The chains lay in a pile beneath the table. Guards retreated through the temple, taking the shortest route from the eastern gatehouse.

“Someone must have helped him escape,” Ellenwood said, barely containing his rage. “Thanks to that, we now have the Faith on our doorstep. Come with me, we’ve no time to waste.”

* * *

Dualas had edged to the busiest part of the fray in the cramped hallway. The hardest fighting appeared to be centered at the bottom of a steep staircase. Armored Arluthians and several knights were trying to break through the wall of guards that held the tunnel. These guards seemed better trained than the ones they had first fought—even the knights were having difficulty prevailing against them. Unable to break through the opposition, Coryden’s group had been stopped on the stairs.

“Move aside!” came a muffled cry from behind them. “Let us through.”

Dualas looked over his shoulder. The Inquisitor and Brother Kinsey were inching their way down the crowded stairs. The two men of Faith stopped just above Dualas, who flattened himself against the wall so they could move past, but they remained on the step above him.

“Do you have enough room?” Rylan asked Geradon.

Geradon narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the situation ahead of them.

“I believe so. It does not look as though we shall gain much ground, otherwise.”

Dualas was puzzled. What could they do from here?

Then, Geradon began to mutter. At first, Dualas thought he was still speaking to Rylan, but the knight could make no sense of the words. Geradon brought his hands together, as in prayer, and then, with a graceful sweep of his hands, gestured to the base of the stairs.

Dualas’ eyes automatically followed the gesture, and then widened. There came a brilliant flash, and the protective padding beneath the defenders’ mail burst into flames. With a cry of alarm, the Arluthians and knights in the forefront leapt backwards. The men behind them backed up several steps to give them the room, and the protection, that they needed.

Then, for a time, it became impossible to speak and be heard over the screaming as the Droken tried unsuccessfully to rid themselves of their mail and burning padding. Coryden turned and looked over his shoulder at Geradon. The hard smile that split Coryden’s face sent chills up Dualas’ spine.

They all had to drop to one knee to stay beneath the smoke as it billowed past them to exit at the top of the stairs. Dualas prayed that, though they were the servants of Droka, the enemy would die quickly. As unconsciousness claimed the dying men, the knights moved forward to end their misery. Once again, the group moved forward.

The tunnel was long and held several turns. At each turn, those in the lead prepared themselves to meet ambushers, but they encountered none. Coryden pressed forward so relentlessly that Dualas had to trot to stay up with him. At the tunnel’s end they found a large wooden door. It was locked, so Coryden shouted for someone to bring the ram. Before the ram could be brought up, one of the masked Arluthians moved up to the door and brought out a silk folder of lock picks. Within seconds, he had the door open.

Everyone, save the Inquisitor and Brother Kinsey, seemed surprised by the office they found on the other side of the door. “They usually have quarters attached to the temple,” Rylan explained as the group pressed on.

“They’re already gone,” Geradon said, his disappointment apparent.

Indeed, it soon became obvious that any surviving Droken had fled. Coryden ran through the office, through another small room, and into the temple. The others followed, close on his heels.

A universal gasp escaped the group at the sight of the temple, with its large idol to Droka and bloodied platform. No one had ever before discovered a Droken temple in Watchaven. Dualas guessed that, like himself, none of the knights present had seen one—until now. He moved closer to Coryden and started to speak.

At last, Coryden’s harsh expression broke, as horror fought with rage, twisting his face. He reached down, held up the bloodied chains, and began to curse, bitterly, between involuntary sobs of grief.

* * *

Ellenwood and his assistant trotted down the eastern tunnel. They passed quickly through the deserted eastern gatehouse to the door beyond it. When they had closed the door behind them, the High Priest paused—he rarely used the sewer entrance. They stood on a ledge above the confluence of three different subterranean channels.

Holding his nose as a child would, his assistant said, “Do you know where you are going, your Eminence?”

Ellenwood looked at him disdainfully. The assistant dropped his hand.

“Of course,” Ellenwood replied, and took the sewer’s northwest passage.

They continued on, and the assistant asked no more questions. They had traveled no more than a quarter mile when they saw the first intersection, ahead of them.