The Emerald Storm (34 page)

“This is all my fault.” Wesley sighed. “My first command and look where it has led.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You did fine.” Hadrian patted him on the shoulder. “But your duty is done now. You completed the task your lord set for you. Everything after this is of your own choosing.”

“Not much of a choice, I’m afraid,” he said, looking around their cell.

“How long before the rise of the harvest moon?” Royce asked.

“About two weeks I would guess,” Hadrian replied.

“It would take us too long to travel back by land. How long would it take us to get there by sea, Wyatt?”

“With the wind at our backs, we’d make the trip in a fraction of the time it took us to come out. Week and a half, two maybe.”

“Then we still have time.”

“Time for what?” Wesley asked. “We’re locked in the dungeon of a madman at the edge of the world. Merely surviving will be a feat.”

“You are far too pessimistic for one so young,” Royce told him.

Wesley let out a small laugh. “All right, Seaman Melborn, how do you propose we sneak down to the harbor, capture a ship loaded with Ghazel warriors, and sail it out of a bay past an armada, when we can’t even get out of this locked cell?”

Royce gave the door a gentle push and it swung open. “I unlocked it while you were ranting,” he said.

Wesley’s face showed his astonishment. “You’re not just a seaman, are you?”

“Wait here,” said Royce, slipping out.

He was gone for several minutes. They heard no sound. When he returned Poe, Derning, Grady, Dilladrum and the Vintu followed and Royce had blood on his dagger and a ring of keys in his hand.

“What about the others?” Wesley asked.

“Don’t worry I won’t forget about them,” Royce said, with a devilish grin. When he left, the others followed. A guard lay dead in a pool of blood and Royce was already at the door of the last cell.

“We don’t need to be released,” Defoe said, from behind the door. “I could open it myself if I wanted to get out.”

“I’m not here to let you out,” Royce said, opening the door.

Defoe backed up and drew his dagger.

“Stay out of this, Defoe,” Royce told him. “So far you’ve just been doing a job. I get that, but stand between me and Thranic and it gets personal.”

“Mister Melborn!” Wesley snapped. “I can’t let you kill Thranic.”

Royce ignored him, and Wesley appealed to Hadrian who shrugged in response. “It’s a policy of mine not to get in his way, especially when the other guy deserves it.”

Wesley turned to Wyatt whose expression showed no compassion. “He burned a shipload of elves, and for all I know was responsible for taking my daughter. Let him die.”

Doctor Levy stepped aside leaving Thranic alone at the back of the cell with only his dagger for protection. By his grip and stance, Hadrian knew the sentinel was not a knife fighter. The sentinel was sweating, his eyes tense as Royce moved inp>“Might I ask why you’re killing Mister Thranic?” Bulard asked suddenly, stepping between them. “Those of you intent on fleeing could make better use of your time than butchering a man in his cell, don’t you think?”

“Won’t take but a second,” Royce assured him.

“Perhaps, perhaps, but I ask you not to. I am not saying he does not deserve death, but who are you to grant it? Thranic will die, and quite likely soon given where we are headed. Regardless, our mission is vital not just to the empire, but to all of mankind, and we will need Thranic if we are to have any hope to complete it.”

“Shut up, you old fool,” the sentinel growled.

This caught Royce’s attention, though he kept his eyes on Thranic. “What mission?”

“To find a very old and very important relic called the Horn of Gylindora that will be needed very soon I’m afraid.”

“The horn?” Hadrian repeated.

“Yes, given our precarious situation I don’t think it wise to give you a history lesson just now, but suffice to say it is in all of our best interest to leave Thranic alive—for now.”

“Sorry,” Royce replied, “but you’ll just have to make do without—”

The door to the cellblock opened, and a pair of soldiers with meal plates stepped in. A quick glance at the dead guard and they ran.

Royce sprinted after them. Defoe quickly closed his cell door again.

“Go, all of you!” Bulard urged.

The party ran out of the cellblock and up the stairs. By the time they reached the top, the hallway was filled with loud voices.

“They got away,” Royce grumbled.

“We gathered that from the shouting,” Hadrian said.

They faced a four-way intersection of identical narrow stone corridors. Wall-mounted flames burned from iron cradles staggered at long intervals, leaving large sections of shifting shadows.

Royce glanced back toward the cellblock and cursed under his breath. “That’s what I get for hesitating.”

“Any idea which way now?” Wyatt asked.

“This way,” Royce said.

He led the way, trotting rapidly then stopped, abruptly motioning all of them into a doorway. Moments later a troop of guards rushed by. Wesley started forward and Royce hauled him back. Two more guards passed.

“
Now
, we go,” he told them, “but stay
behind
me.”

Royce continued along the multitude of corridors and turns, pausing from time to time. They climbed two more sets of stairs and dodged another group of soldiers. Hadrian saw the wonderment reflected in the party’s faces at Royce’s skill. It was as if he could see through walls, or knew the location of every guard. For Hadrian it was nothing new, but even he was impressed at their progress given that Royce was towing a parade.

A door unexpectedly opened and several Tenkins literally bumped into Dilladrum and one of the Vintu. Terrified, Dilladrum fled down a corridor, the Vintu following. The stunned Tenkins were not warriors and were as scared as Dilladrum, and retreated inside. Royce shouted for Dilladrum to stop, but it was no use.

“Damn it!” Royce cursed chasing after them. The rest of the crew raced to keep up as they ran blindly through corridor after corridor. After rounding a corner Hadrian nearly ran into Royce, whose way was blocked by Tenkin warriors. The dead bodies of Dilladrum and the Vintu lay on the floor, blood pooling across the stone. Behind them, a small army cut off their retreat.

“Who are you to defy Erandabon?”
chanted the crowd of Tenkin warriors.

“Get back!” Hadrian ordered, pushing Wesley and the others into a niche that afforded at least a small amount of defense. He pulled a torch from the wall and together with Royce formed a forward defense.

The Tenkin soldiers charged, screaming as they attacked.

Royce appeared to dodge the advance but the foremost warrior fell dead. Hadrian drove the flame of his torch into the seconnkin’s face. Using his feet, Royce flipped the dead man’s sword to Hadrian who caught it in time to decapitate the next challenger.

Two Tenkins charged Royce, who simply was not where they expected him to be when they arrived. His movements were a blur, and two more collapsed. Hadrian advanced as Royce kicked the dead men’s weapons behind to where Wyatt, Derning, and Wesley picked them up. Hadrian stood at the center now.

Three attacked. Three fell dead.

The rest retreated, bewildered, and Hadrian picked up a second blade.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The warlord walked toward them applauding and grinning. “Galenti, et ez you. So good to ’ave you back!”

Amilia sulked in the kitchen, head in her hands, elbows resting on the bakers table. This was where it all started, when Mod
ina’s former secretary brought her to the kitchen for a lesson in table manners. Remembering the terror of those early days, it was staggering to realize those were better times.

Now a witch hid in Modina’s room, filling the empress’s head with nonsense. She was a foreigner and the princess of an enemy kingdom, who spent more time with Modina than Amilia. She could be manipulating the empress in any number of ways. She tried to reason with Modina, but no matter what Amilia said, the girl remained adamant about helping the witch find Degan Gaunt.

Amilia preferred the old days, when Modina left everything to her. Sitting there, she wondered what she should do. She wanted to go to Saldur and report the woman, but knew that would hurt Modina. The empress might never recover from a betrayal, especially from Amilia, who she trusted implicitly. The loss would surely crush her fragile spirit. No other alternatives were any better, and Amilia saw disaster at the end of every path. She felt as if she were on a runaway carriage racing toward a cliff, with no way to reach the reins.

“How about I make you some soup?” Ibis Thinly asked her. The big man stood in his stained apron stirring a large, steaming pot into which he threw bits of celery.

“I’m too miserable to eat,” she replied.

“It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”

“You have no idea. She’s become a handful and then some. I’m actually afraid to leave her alone. Every time I walk out of her room, I’m frightened something new and terrible will happen.”

It was late and they were the only two in the scullery. Long shadows traced up the far wall cast by the flames of the cook’s hearth. The kitchen was warm and pleasant except for a foul smell coming from the bubbling broth Ibis cooked on the stove.

“Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that. Come on, can’t I interest you in some soup? I make a pretty mean vegetable barley, if I do say so myself.”

“You know I love your food. It’s just that my stomach is in knots. I noticed a gray hair in the mirror the other day.”

“Oh please, you’re still just a girl,” Ibis laughed, catching himself. “I guess I shouldn’t speak to you that way, you being noble and all. I should be saying, ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ or in this case, ‘no, no, Your Ladyship! If you will allow me to be so bold as to speak plainly in your presence. I beg to differ, for I think you are purty as a pot!’ That would be a more proper response.”

Amilia smiled. “You know, I never have understood that saying of yours.”

Ibis drew himself up in feigned offense. “I’m a cook. I like pots.” He chuckled. “Have some soup. Something warm in your belly will help untie some of those knots, eh?”

She glanced at the pot he was stirring and grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, no, not this. Good Maribor, no! I’ll make you something good.”

Amilia looked relieved. “What is that you’re making? It smells like rotten eggs.”

“Soup, but it’s barely fit for animals, made with all the worstparts of old leftovers. I try to dress it up as best I can. I throw some celery and spices in, just to ease my conscience.”

“Who’s it for?”

“I have no idea. The smell comes from this horrid yellow powder. About all I know is I have to use it and in a little while, a couple of guards will come by and take it. To be honest…I’m afraid to ask where it goes.” He paused. “Amilia, what’s wrong.”

Amilia stared at the big pot her mouth partially open. Noise on the stairs caught her attention. Two men entered the kitchen. She knew them by sight. They were guards normally assigned to the east wing’s fourth floor hall—the administration corridor, where she and Saldur worked. They recognized her as well and took a moment to bow. Amilia graciously inclined her head in response. Their looks revealed they found this courtesy odd, but appreciated. Then they turned to Ibis.

“All done?”

“Just a sec, just a sec,” he muttered. “You’re early.”

“We’ve been on duty since dawn,” one of the guards complained. “This is the last job of the night. Honestly, I don’t know why you put such effort into it, Thinly.”

“It’s what I do, and I want it done right.”

“Trust me, no one is going to complain. Nobody cares.”

“
I
care,” Ibis remarked, his voice sharp enough to end the subject.

The guard shrugged his shoulders and waited.

“Who’s the soup for?” Amilia asked.

The guard hesitated. “Not really supposed to talk about that, milady.”

The other guard gave him a rough nudge. “She’s the bloody Secretary to the Empress.”

The first one blushed. “Forgive me, milady. It’s just that Regent Saldur can be a little scary sometimes.”

Amilia agreed in her head but externally remained aloof.

His friend slapped himself in the forehead rolling his eyes. “Blimey, James you’re a fool. Forgive him, milady.”

“What?” James looked puzzled. “What’d I say?”

The guard shook his head sadly. “You just insulted the regent and admitted you don’t respect Her Ladyship all in one breath.”

James’ face drained of color.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Higgles, milady.” He swallowed hard and bowed again.

“Why don’t
you
answer my question then?”

“We takes the soup to the north tower. You know, the one ’tween the well and the stables.”

“How many prisoners are there?”

The two guards looked at each other. “None that we know of, milady.”

“So, who is the soup for?”

He shrugged. “We just leaves it with the Seret Knight.”

“Soup’s done,” Ibis declared.

“Is that all, milady?” Higgles asked.

She nodded and the two disappeared out the door to the courtyard, each holding one of the pot’s handles.

“Now, let me make
you
something.” Ibis said wiping his big hands on his apron.

“Huh?” Amilia asked still thinking about the two guards. “No thanks, Ibis,” she said, getting up. “There’s something I need to do, I think.”

The lack of a cloak became painfully uncomfortable when she was halfway across the inner ward. The weather had jumped from a friendly autumn of brightly colored leaves, clear blue skies, and crisp nights to the gray, icy cold of pre-winter. A half moon glimmered through hazy clouds as she stepped through the vegetable garden, now no more than a graveyard of brown dirt. She approached the chicken coop carefully trying to avoid disturbing the hens. There was nothing wrong with being out, no rules against wandering the ward at night, but at that moment she felt sinister.