A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 18

Haern didn’t fall very far, or for very long, before he landed on stone. It was sharply curved and perfectly smooth. He grabbed at it, searching for handholds, but there were none to be found. Down into the darkness he slid, unable to slow his descent. Haern tried kicking to one side, hoping to wedge himself in whatever chute he was sliding down, but he only succeeded in turning himself a different direction, and headfirst he flew.

The stone vanished, he was falling, and then he landed upon uneven ground. He heard the rattle of bones, felt pieces of something sharp digging into him. Letting out a groan from the pain, he rolled over and felt at what he’d landed on, for he had no hope of seeing it in the pitch black.

They were the bones of a man or woman, long since deceased. It did little to improve Haern’s opinion of his situation.

“Left to starve,” he muttered. “Gods damn it, is this how it all ends, starving in the darkness?”

“Not quite,” said a voice, and the surprise nearly stopped his heart. He rolled to his knees and turned to face the direction the voice had come from. At first, he thought his mind played tricks on him, but he saw the faintest hint of blue light twinkling in the distance. As he watched, it grew stronger, larger, until he could see clearly the blue flame of a torch, only it burned on nothing, merely floated in the air like a bizarre sun. With its light, he could better see the reaches of his room, though it was less of a room and more of a cave. There appeared no doors or further passages, just a circular dome with a ceiling covered with stalactites, maybe a hundred feet from one side to the other. Covering the floor were bones, and sitting beneath the magical torchlight, his face an ashen gray and his rustic armor covered with dust, was a man with a long scar on his cheek.

“Welcome to my home,” said the man. “It has been a very, very long time since I had company.”

Haern stood, both hands falling to the swords at his belt.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I?”

“Beneath the Stronghold,” said the man. “In a place forgotten by most, though I would guess you knew that. As for who I am, well…”

He rose to his feet, dust billowing off of him. His armor groaned with each movement, and the way he moved, the way his joints cracked, made it seem as if he were a statue come to life. When at his full height, he stood at attention and saluted.

“Boris Marchant, at your service,” he said, his deep voice scratchy and frightening in the enclosed space.

“Well, Boris,” said Haern, trying not to panic, “care to tell me how to get out of here?”

Boris laughed.

“Look at me,” he said. “If there were a way out, do you think I would still be down here?”

It was hardly what Haern wanted to hear, not that he could deny the logic.

“Perhaps you want to be down here,” Haern said, hoping to keep the man talking. Something about him unnerved Haern immensely. He hardly carried the look of a paladin of Karak. In fact, he bore no markings at all of the god. His clothes were ratty and torn, and his armor was of a most peculiar make. He’d not seen banded mail of that style before, nor did he recognize the crudely drawn golden hawk on his chest. Much of it was crumbling along the edges, the metal tinted with green. At his side was an ancient sword, still sheathed.

At Haern’s words, Boris erupted into laughter that went on for far too long.

“Want to be down here?” he asked when finished composing himself. He wiped at his face as if to remove a tear, yet there was not a hint of moisture on his skin. “Oh, no, good sir, I do not want to be down here. I have not wanted to be down here for decades, yet still I am.”

“Decades?” Haern asked. “Then the paladins must bring you food and drink.”

Boris shook his head.

“I do not require food to live, nor drink. Not here, not in this prison the prophet made for me.”

Haern felt all the more certain something was amiss. The man looked to be in his thirties, a far cry from a man who had spent decades in isolation. And what man alive could survive without food and drink? He looked at the pale skin, the body covered with dust.

Unless he wasn’t alive …

“My name is Haern,” he said, deciding to introduce himself. Until he knew what was going on down there in that blue cavern, he’d try to play along. “And forgive me, but I still do not understand. You say you’ve lived here for decades without food and drink … I do not see how that is possible.”

Boris sat back down on the smooth floor, and it was as if he were settling into a throne of bones, judging from how many were piled on either side of him.

“Sit,” Boris said. “There is nowhere to go, and we have all the time in the world.”

Haern did so, but only after ensuring he sat on no bones.

“When I say there is no escape, you must believe me,” said Boris. He pointed to the blue light above him. “It lights only when the night is deep and the moon shining. I have used it to count the days as they pass, and those days have passed into years, and years into decades. For over five hundred years I have dwelt underneath the Stronghold, for that is my curse.”

“They will not let you die?” Haern asked.

“Oh, I am already dead, but they will not let me pass on. I am bound here, forever bound until the curse is broken.”

Haern shuddered at the thought of such torture. To be alive yet alone, locked in solitude with no hope of escape as the years rolled on and on, with no promise of relief?

He glanced at the bones around him. Well, not quite alone …

“What did you do to deserve such punishment?” he asked.

“I stole from him,” Boris said. “Jacob Eveningstar, Karak’s special little chosen servant. I never thought he’d find me, that he’d know I took it … but he did, oh, yes, he did, Haern. He found me, and he dragged me here, back when the Stronghold was first built. They flung me into the depths of this cave, sealed me in, but not before he used his magic. The prophet is powerful, so very powerful. ‘You will not die,’ he told me. ‘Not until Karak once more walks the land.’”

Boris gestured about his prison.

“And so I wait.” He grinned. “Tell me, Haern, does Karak walk the land?”

“No,” Haern said, the very thought of it unnerving. “No, he does not.”

“Of course not. I doubt he ever will. And so it goes. I’d ask you what transpires above ground, but after the first two centuries, I learned nothing changes. The names of rulers shift and dance, a few wars move the boundaries of lords like pieces in a game, but nothing ever truly changes.”

“Used to ask … the bones, they throw prisoners down here to starve with you?”

“Only the most disloyal,” Boris said. “Only the ones the paladins feel are truly deserving of such punishment. I am sent the heretics, the doubters, the men who turn from Karak and seek another way. When they are found, they are cast into the pit, where I wait like a monster from stories they tell their children.”

Boris settled in, throwing more of his weight against the wall. It sent up a cloud of dust, and it shimmered a pale blue in the ethereal torchlight.

“What does change,” he said, his voice quieting, “is the reason I find men and women thrown down to join me in this pit. So, tell me, Haern, what crime have you committed against the Stronghold? You hardly look like one of their paladins. Did you steal from them, perhaps, or get caught blaspheming a bit too loudly in a tavern?”

Haern normally would have been amused at how wrong his guess was, but there was no room for humor in that dark void. Returning to a stand, he walked toward the wall opposite Boris, his eyes scanning the ceiling. He knew he’d fallen down from somewhere, a chute or hole, and it had to have remained. Yet despite how well the phantom torch lit the walls and the floor, it seemed powerless to light the ceiling. Was it because of how high it stretched up, Haern wondered, or were tricks in play, games messing with the heads of their prisoners?

“What is it you’re looking for?” Boris asked. “I told you, there’s no way out.”

“I wasn’t thrown in here by the paladins,” Haern said, ignoring him. It seemed best that way. “My … friend and I were breaking into the Stronghold, and we used a secret path to climb to the top. I slipped, fell, and landed in here.”

On the other side, Boris broke out into creaking laughter, his voice as pleasant as rust.

“Breaking into the Stronghold? You must have balls the size of cantaloupes, boy. Did someone fill your head with wild stories of Karak’s treasure stored in its depths? I’ve had my fair share of fools and blasphemers, but I think you might be the first treasure seeker to stumble down the pit without them knowing it.”

Haern grinned despite himself.

“Always happy to be a first,” he said, grabbing a bone and flinging it at the dark of the ceiling. Instead of continuing on, he heard an immediate clack.

Ten feet up, maybe eight, he thought, feeling a glimmer of hope. The shadows were there to hide the size. Perhaps if Boris could boost him, or he could use his cloak and swords to form some sort of grappling hook …

“But treasure is not why I’m here,” Haern said, grabbing a few more bones, small pieces that looked like parts to a finger, and methodically walking in a circle from where he thought he’d landed, throwing them straight up to hear the clack of the bone hitting hard stone above, followed by another as it landed.

“Then why are you here?” Boris asked. He watched Haern work, clearly curious but saying nothing about it.

“I sought an audience with a priest,” Haern said, scooping up more bones. “A man named Luther who was supposedly imprisoned here.”

“Luther?” asked Boris, and the recognition was enough to bring Haern’s attention back his way. The gray-skinned man worked his jaw as if chewing something in his mouth, and the slopping noise he made was stomach-turning.

“You know him?” Haern asked.

“I do,” Boris said. “He’s the first of Karak’s order to come down to speak with me in over a century. An intelligent man, perhaps too intelligent for his own good. It’s going to cost him his life.”

Well, thought Haern, at least there was a silver lining to his fun little drop. Perhaps he could learn a bit more about Luther and what he was hoping to accomplish in Veldaren. Tossing a few more bones into the air, all three hitting stone, he returned once more to the light of Boris’s ethereal torch.

“What did he want from you?” Haern asked.

“I knew the prophet,” Boris said. “Not well, but I was there when he was alive. Before he changed his name and became the thing with many faces he is now. Luther wanted to know what he was like, what he wanted, what he’d be willing to sacrifice…” Boris laughed. “And so I told him. A man who would imprison me for centuries, all for stealing a stupid book? He’d sacrifice everything, do anything, to achieve what he wanted. And no matter how loyal you think those pieces of shit upstairs are, Velixar makes them look like fair-weather faithful.”

Haern saw Boris had begun to breathe heavily, and both his hands were trembling.

“Is something the matter?” Haern asked, taking a step backward. With another round of creaks and groans, Boris rose to his feet. His sword remained sheathed at his side, but Haern did not wait to draw his own blades and settle into a comfortable combat stance.

“I’m sorry, Haern,” said Boris. “I’ve waited as long as I can.”

“The bones,” Haern said. “All the victims. You’re their executioner, aren’t you? Why, if you hate Karak so much?”

“There’s no way for you to understand,” said Boris, and he sounded sad. “You see, Velixar was a cruel one, and he was clever. Very clever. He knew what it’d be like to be down here alone, to crave company. I’d give so much for you to remain with me, Haern. I’d love to hear you speak of the outer world, of nations, your family, your friends. I yearn for stories like a drowning man craves land, but it never matters. Velixar did not just leave me imprisoned here. He filled me with a need.”

Boris took a step closer.

“A need to feed,” he said. “To taste blood upon my tongue. To tear flesh apart with my bare hands. I’ve fought it, Haern, but you are one of many, and I have long learned how useless it is to try.”

Another step.

“The paladins send me company,” he said. “Send me men and women who hate Karak as much as I do, who could ease my burden even if only for a few days, yet all I can do … what I must do … is kill any hope I have of escaping my solitude.”

“Stay back,” Haern warned, “unless you wish to test your claim at being unable to find death.”

Boris smiled so wide, it stretched ear to rotten ear.

“I will feed,” he said, and he licked his lips, his tongue like a dry sponge, and it left no moisture upon his cracked skin. “Many have tried, Haern. They always die, and as I feed, I cry their names so they may be remembered among the bones.”

His mouth dropped open, thin lips pulling back to reveal chipped teeth stained by the blood of the dead. From his throat came a screech, animalistic in its sound and intelligence, and Haern felt his skin crawl. Weapons ready, he braced himself as Boris charged, sword still sheathed. Against a normal foe, Haern would have thought it an easy victory, but the bones all around him provided ample warning. The man raced toward him like a bull eager to ram its target, the popping of his bones and clanking of his feet on the stone only heightening the horror of his mindless shriek.

Just before reaching him, Boris spread his arms as if to embrace him in a hug, and Haern leaped to one side, twisting his body in the air so he could lash out with his left hand. The sword sliced along the side of Boris’s neck, severing what should have been his jugular vein. But when Haern landed and he looked, he saw no blood, just a dry tear in the side of gray flesh. Boris turned, and the only visible life in him was the amused twinkle in his eyes.

“I don’t bleed,” Boris screamed, flinging himself at Haern again. Haern jumped back, slashing Boris’s throat and face. More cuts, doing nothing.

“I don’t sleep.”

Haern found himself running out of room, the gray man faster than he had any right to be. There was no hesitation to his moves, nor the slightest fear of harm coming to himself. Nearly trapped against the wall, he waited for another lunge from Boris, then dropped to a roll, slicing out in hopes of taking out the tendons in Boris’s legs. Instead of leaving him hampered, though, Haern’s swords caught on the thick banded plates protecting him, unable to penetrate further.

In mid-roll, Haern could only try to kick out fast enough to avoid Boris as he dropped atop him.

“I don’t breathe.”

Haern felt Boris’s hand catch his ankle, putting an end to his roll. He slammed onto his stomach, one of his swords slipping from his grip as his face struck the stone floor. Meanwhile, Boris tugged and tugged, his mouth open, his tongue hanging down like a dead gray worm as he pulled Haern’s leg closer.

“All I know to do,” he said, “is eat.”

With nothing else to do, nothing else to try, Haern took his sword, twisting to a sitting position, and plunged it straight into that gaping maw. It punched through the back of his throat and out the other side, lodging in tight. Haern released it when it was sunk all the way in, leaving Boris snapping his teeth down on the metal of the hilt. As the ancient man hacked and coughed, his head shaking violently as he tried to expel the blade, Haern repeatedly kicked the hand holding him. Fingers snapped one by one, and the moment he was loose, he rolled away before Boris could attempt to grab again.

Now free, he reached for his other sword and stalked back toward Boris.

“I’m sorry, Boris,” he said. “But I have a priest to find.”

He slammed the blade with all his strength against the man’s throat until it hit bone. The power of it knocked him to his back, and Haern struck again and again, as if he were a lumberjack trying to fell a tree. At last he heard a crack, and at that, he reached down, pinned Boris with his knees, and then twisted the head until there was a second, far louder crack.

“Gods damn it,” Haern said as he stood, holding Boris’s head in his hands. “Let go of my sword already.”

Sheathing one blade, he pulled the other from the head’s mouth, the blade sliding out through the hole it’d punched in the back of the head. Inspecting the weapon in the blue light, he saw no gore, no blood or goop or anything. Just dust. Shaking his head, he rolled the head toward the other side of the room, where it came to a thumping halt.

“Enjoy your rest,” he said, eyes scanning the darkness above him. “But it’s time for me to get out of here.”

Boris had said no one ever escaped, but with him there to attack and kill presumably unarmed and perhaps even bound men and women, he doubted anyone had been given sufficient time to try. Scooping up another handful of bones, he returned toward the middle and began tossing. On the fifth try, he heard a different sound, one that gave him pause.

Metal?

He threw a few more, some ringing of metal, yet a few falling silently back down.

A grate, he realized. He didn’t remember one upon falling down into the chamber. Perhaps it had been already open, or loose enough he hadn’t noticed during his fall? For all he knew, it shut by magic. What did matter, though, was that he had found his exit. Clearing a spot beneath so he could easily relocate it if need be, he stood there, arms crossed, mind racing. He needed some way to reach it, preferably a rope. It was only a few feet above his head, and he didn’t need much to try to grab ahold and test its resilience.

Glancing over at Boris’s body, he had a thought, one so absurd he laughed aloud.

“Surely you won’t mind,” he said as he knelt down beside the headless body. He lifted the man’s left arm, analyzing it. The fingers had curled in upon death, and testing them, he found them rigid. Flipping it over, he found the buckles to the banded armor and quickly removed them. The shirt beneath had long ago faded into nothing, and Boris’s skin beneath was sickeningly pale and cold to the touch. Tugging on the arm, he found the joints even stiffer than they should have been so recently after death.

No blood, he told himself. The body was far from normal, so just maybe …

He removed the chest piece as well as the shoulder pads, wanting a clear view of the dead man’s shoulder. With that done, he began hacking into it with a sword. Each cut made a sickening cracking noise, and after several swings, he grabbed the arm and began to wrench it violently side to side until at last he heard a pop. A few more swings and he cut the thing loose, not surprised to find that the connection between the arm and shoulder was much stronger than a normal corpse.

“I’m counting on you,” Haern said, carrying the arm back to the grate. “Just … hold together, all right?”

There was no swivel at the elbow, no movement whatsoever. Wielding it as he would a club, he held it by the far end of the arm, a bizarre extension with curled fingers reaching up into the black void unlit by the blue torchlight. Praying for a miracle, he swung the club, ramming the fingers into the grate. He heard a scraping sound coupled with a crack he could only assume was one of the bones in the fingers breaking. Trying not to get his hopes up, he closed his eyes and pulled.

The fingers held, and the grate swung down with ease. The torchlight just barely shone upon it, and Haern could tell it was thoroughly rusted over.

“No escape?” muttered Haern. “I think you’re about to help me prove you wrong, Boris.”

Using the arm as a rope, he pulled himself up off the ground, not bothering to test the weight. The last thing he wanted to do was add any extra strain, even if for a moment. Up the arm he went, and when he reached the grate, he stretched to his limits, fingers searching for a hold. When he found one, a jut of stone the grate’s hinge was connected to, he wanted to cry. Now with something firm to hold onto, he pulled himself up and into the tunnel. The sides were cramped, the rock uneven, so when he pushed against one side with his feet, he was able to successfully wedge himself into the entrance.

Before he could ascend higher, he heard a rattling, a rolling, and then the most sickening popping sound.

“Haern …”

Just his imagination, he told himself. Haern reached down, grabbing Boris’s arm and wrenching it free. He might need it again on his climb, he decided. Still, he didn’t like the way it flopped over his back, suddenly not so rigid.

“Haern, don’t leave me.”

Not his imagination, then. He heard the scattering of bones, the groaning of leather straps and the rattle of armor.

“Don’t leave me down here!”

The arm vibrated across his back. Haern pulled it off him, and then it suddenly tugged hard down toward the chamber. He just barely released it in time before it could pull him back inside. The arm hit the ground, then rolled out of sight. Another sickening pop followed.

“Just climb,” Haern whispered, pushing away all thoughts of Boris reassembling himself, condemned to remain inside the blue-fire chamber, fed the scraps of Karak’s unfaithful. “Nothing else, just climb.”

Keeping his legs braced, his back pressed against the stone, he pushed himself upward with his arms, nice and slow. Once high enough, he took a step, one foot above the other. It was tedious work and put tremendous strain on his legs and back, but it was something he knew he could endure for hours if need be. He just had to be careful. One slip, one slacking of the pressure, and he’d be tumbling back down the tunnel.

He doubted Boris would be so polite and talkative the second time around.

“Haern …”

Boris’s voice followed him, a ragged, fading whisper. It took many steps, and at least ten minutes by his guess, but eventually, he was high enough in the darkness to be free of the man’s haunting cry. He prayed he never heard the cursed man’s voice ever again.

Inch by tedious inch he climbed. Occasionally, he found handholds in the stone, and he used them to rest his back. He tried not to think about how long he was down there, nor his escape. All he thought of was his father telling him “sorry” before sending him tumbling down into the pit. Whenever Haern felt his legs starting to wobble, or his back locking up from the strain, he thought of that “sorry” and used it to push on higher. The tunnel gradually shifted, the slight variations required to prevent someone from plummeting straight down to their death. Sometimes, they were just soft enough that he could sit for a moment and catch his breath before continuing. Sometimes, they forced him to twist and shift the way he climbed, lest he slide right back down.

At one point, he felt his foot slip into the air, and at first, he thought he’d missed, but then he realized it was a secondary tunnel connected to the first. It was somewhat perpendicular to the one he climbed, and he grabbed ahold of its sides with his fingers and pulled himself into it. Letting out a gasp, he lay on his back and willed his muscles to relax.

“Almost there,” he told himself, though he had no idea if it were true or not. “Almost there.”

The question now was where to go: up, or follow the other chute? In the end, he decided to continue his climb. His gut said the other direction led to wherever the dark paladins tended to dump their victims. The higher tunnel with the ladder? That one he had a feeling they knew nothing about. Well, no one but Luther, if the priest, or his father, were to be trusted.

As much as he hated the thought of doing so, he returned to a crouch, then extended so that he was leaning against the far side. Spinning about so his back was against it, he stepped one step to the left, a firm foot pushing against stone, and began his climb. More time. More inches by painful inches. When the pain in his back didn’t seem able to get any worse, he felt it strike something sharp. Despite the pain, despite the darkness, a laugh escaped his lips that took almost a minute to cease.

It was one of the rungs pounded into the stone that formed the ladder.

Once he had a firm grip and his weight was fully supported by the ladder, Haern hung there, once again debating. He could leave, he knew. The exit was just opposite him. He could crawl through the dark until reaching Delysia, and together they could flee the Stronghold, leaving as if they’d never been. But above him was where Luther should be, and where his father had gone. Leaving now, giving in … he couldn’t do it. He had to know. So, up the rungs he went, and after the tedious process earlier, the ladder felt like a gift from the heavens.

Multiple times he felt the soft blowing of cool air upon his neck, alerting him to side passages, but he never took them. Luther was supposed to be at the top, so to the top he would climb. As he did, he listened to the noises that came to him through the stone. They were distorted, of course, but he still found himself occasionally surprised by the proximity or clarity he heard. Much of it was soft discussion, deep voices talking about things he could only guess at. Once he swore he heard a man in prayer, and on another floor, two men arguing. Whenever he heard such sounds, he slowed his ascent, always fearful that somehow they might also hear him scurrying up the walls like a rat.

At last, he reached the end of the rungs. He reached out behind him, but the wall was solid. Steadying himself, he paused a moment, felt the softest flow of air from his left. Taking his foot off the rung, he tested, and sure enough, he found a tall tunnel. Slowly, he shifted his weight off the rungs and into the short tunnel, at the very end of which he saw the tiniest slivers of light, like cracks in a wooden door. To his eyes, though, they were blinding, and he blinked and kept his gaze to the side until he might recover.

It turned out his comparison wasn’t far off. It did seem to be a wooden door before him, slender and rectangular. He could only guess as to what it appeared to be from the other side, as well as how he might open it. Slowly, he ran his hands along it until he found a single bit of metal for him to grab. Gently, he pushed inward, then pulled toward him, and he found the door had far more give into the room than out.

Putting his ear to the side, he listened for signs of life, heard none. Double-checking his swords at his waist, he pulled his hood low over his face and took in a deep breath. This was it. Time to discover just where he was. He pushed against the metal knob, heard a crack, and then the rectangular slab of wood swung out. The light inside was blinding, even though it was only two separate lanterns on each side of the room with tall slender candles burning within them. Squinting against it, he dipped his head so his hood would block much of the light, and with what vision he had, he checked his surroundings.

Haern found himself inside what appeared to be a library, with four free-standing shelves of books before him. Turning about out of curiosity, he looked to see what it was he’d emerged from. Shutting the entrance, he saw that it was an enormous wooden carving that had been mounted upon the wall. Etched into the wood with amazing detail was a lion devouring a stag, with the carver having used heat to blacken wherever there was supposed to have been blood. Testing a corner, he found that pulling against it made the wall itself open up to grant him entrance back into the darkness.

Should be easy enough to remember, Haern thought to himself as he reshut the door. If he were to somehow get lost, all he needed to do was find a library and the giant wood lion carving within it. Getting to it without being killed or spotted, however, he had a feeling would be the real trick. Hurrying past the rows of bookshelves, all of which were blessedly empty of any odd midnight readers, he reached the door and put an ear to it. Again, he heard nothing. Opening it, he found himself facing a large set of stairs curling around the outer walls of the Stronghold. To his right, they descended, curving out of sight, and so he hurried left, moving ever higher. A red carpet ran along the center of the stairs, its edges laced with gold-colored thread. The stone shaping the walls and stairs was a deep gray, with spiderwebs of black racing all across the surface. Candles hung above him, high enough he felt glad he wasn’t the poor soul who had to change them somehow when they burned low. A glance out one of the thin windows showed him just how high up he was, and he fought down a shiver. He’d never been inside a building as tall as the Stronghold. Not even the highest towers of the king’s castle in Veldaren could compare. Haern had never considered himself afraid of heights, but peering out that window made him think all men could be made afraid of them if the ground were far enough away.

The stairs curled up into the next floor, the grand wooden door to it closed. Haern heard muffled prayers from within despite the lack of any light shining through the cracks. Deciding to check higher first, he continued on, resolving to return only if he could not find Luther in any of the floors above. A few more steps up, and he knew that his search was over. Lying before an open door, throat opened and armor bloody, was a young man. Haern stepped over him, peering into the final room at the uppermost reaches of the Stronghold. Inside he saw a small bed with violet sheets, a slender, half-empty bookshelf, a glassed window facing the east, and a desk. Slumped over the desk was an older man in black robes.

Haern stepped into the room and drew his swords, even though he knew what he would find. There was too much blood on the chair, too much blood on the floor. Coming up to the man, he pulled on his shoulder, and his body slumped back, head lolling.

“Damn it,” Haern whispered.

His father had beaten him to the top, learned or taken whatever he needed, and then fled. He was too late.

“What did you want from us?” Haern asked the body. The man looked like any other, skin starting to wrinkle, hair all gray. There was dried blood on his left hand, and a fatal wound to the back. Haern had a feeling the wound to the hand had been first, a way to prevent the priest from casting any potential spells. Had Thren interrogated him afterward? A cursory glance showed no additional stab wounds, no obvious broken bones. Whatever information Luther gave, it must have come easily.

His eyes fell on the book that lay open before him. It was stained with blood, but the lone paragraph on its pages was still legible. Based on the pen and inkwell on the desk, Haern assumed the writing to be Luther’s. The script was tight, carefully controlled, and reading it did little to illuminate matters.

Tonight he comes, I know it. I would pray, but what god would answer? I condemn a city to save a nation. Perhaps Karak would be proud after all.

No answers, just as Delysia had promised. Only death and betrayal. His only hope now was to find Thren, assuming the man even stuck around to be questioned. He felt a momentary rush of panic, thinking of Delysia lying dead by the exit to the building, and he pushed it down. For her to die while he was crawling up from the pit, to die while waiting for him to return from a place she’d begged him not to go …

“Luther?”

He turned around to see a boy no older than twelve carrying a lit candle in one hand, five more unlit in the other. The boy stood just before the body of the dead guard, his jaw hanging open. Haern swore, leaping toward the door in hopes of stopping him before he could escape and sound the guard. But the boy had no desire to run. The candles dropped from his hands, and before Haern could reach him, he’d already drawn a slender dirk from his belt and begun shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Intruder! Intruder! Intr-”

Haern batted aside the meager weapon, and momentum unchanged, he slammed into the boy with a sword leading the way. The boy’s cry halted as he doubled over, a sword buried to the hilt in his gut. Haern stared right into his eyes, horrified by the sight. There was no doubt, no sorrow, no confusion … just rage.

No different than I was at his age, thought Haern, and he felt a chill as if a ghost had crossed over his grave.

Cries from below quickly echoed the boy’s warning, and Haern swore again. He had to get out of there now, before they could overwhelm him. He flew down the stairs, trying to push the memory of the boy’s dying face out of his mind. At the floor beneath, he found the door open and a man standing before it. He was stout and not very tall, but he held an enormous sword in one hand, its blade wreathed with black flame. Contrasted against the plain white bedrobe he wore, the sight would have been comical if not for how the paladin nearly skewered Haern as he ran down the steps.

“Who sent you?” the man asked, pulling back for another thrust as Haern dodged the first.

“Luther did,” said Haern, hoping to confuse him. Based on the glare he received, Haern decided he’d hit a nerve, and the burning blade slashed down with all the man’s might. There wasn’t much room in the stairway, but Haern was more than agile enough to slide to the side, the fire and steel cutting the air before him. The sword smacked into the stone steps, immediately charring the red carpet and cracking the step in two. Haern gave him no chance to recover, his right arm swinging out so his sword opened the man’s throat. A follow-up kick sent the body tumbling, the sword clattering along with him. Haern winced at the cacophony it created. If there was anyone in the Stronghold who hadn’t realized he was inside, they knew now.

No time, no time, no time.

Haern ran, wanting nothing more than to see those beautiful oak shelves full of books. Instead, he found two more men armed with swords rushing up the stairs, the blades of both paladins wreathed with flame.

“Sorry, can’t stay long,” Haern said as he lunged with both weapons. He knew they would successfully block the attacks, and when they did he felt a tingle in his hands, as if the sting of the flames had traveled through the steel of his swords, through the hilt, and into his flesh. It kept them back, though, just enough that he had room to leap headfirst into the library. He rolled along the carpet, then skidded to a stop so he could turn and fight. He had room now, and every intention to use it.

“You will suffer for this insult!” one of the paladins cried, and Haern grinned at him. Suffer? No, not today. He attacked the man just as he tried to rush through the doorway, sabers a blur. The paladin tried to block, and there was no moving that dark blade, no forcing its position like he might against a normal opponent. But Haern had speed, and due to the surprise nature of the combat, neither paladin had their armor to rely upon. When the paladin tried to counter as a way of buying himself some space, Haern blocked it with ease, then stabbed him through the belly. As he doubled over, the other paladin shoved the body forward, using it to keep Haern from attacking while he was limited by the doorway.

“Karak guide my hand,” said the paladin as he grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands. The dark fire around its steel grew stronger, and the very sight of it made Haern’s head ache. He moved to attack, but the fire flared, and without knowing what it meant, Haern fell back. So badly did he want to flee to the wood carving, but if any caught sight of where he was going, there was too much of a chance they could decipher where he might exit. Better they thought he vanished like a ghost than into a cramped tunnel in their very walls.

“Karak be my strength.”

The paladin swung, and it was as if he wielded an inferno with his hands. Haern retreated until his back was to a bookshelf, bumped it, scattered books to the floor.

“Karak be my victory!”

A massive downward chop, but Haern was already moving. The sword hit the stone, the books erupted in flame, and then came the smoke. Haern slid to one side, then pushed off into the air. Twirling, all cloaks and swords, the paladin could only guess where to position his blade in defense. He guessed wrong.

The man’s body crumpled to the ground as Haern landed. He was given no chance to celebrate nor retreat, for more men were running into the library, all wielding swords or axes. Knowing his time had long since run out, Haern did not engage them, instead racing toward the fire and knocking more books into it. As the smoke billowed, Haern grabbed one that was already aflame, the violet fire consuming it eerie to witness and powerful in its heat, and then hurled the book into another shelf. It caught as if doused with lantern oil.

Deeper toward the back of the library he ran, dodging desperate swings as the men rushed into it. They were trying to be methodical, sealing off the exit and lining the far wall so that there’d be no aisle he could hide in, but that only gave him more time. He knocked over another shelf, then assaulted a paladin that had been chasing him. Their weapons clashed, and though all feeling was gone from his hands, Haern still managed to slice out his heel, then finish him with a stab to the neck in passing. From the other side, he heard men shouting, asking where he was, and debating what to do about the flames that were leaping from bookshelf to bookshelf as if containing a life of their own.

Keep on arguing, thought Haern as he raced for the enormous wood carving and his escape.

Just before he reached, it a burning blade swung into his vision. On instinct, Haern dropped to his knees, the sword searing the air above him. The heat was incredible, terrifyingly so. Whirling about to face his opponent, he found an older man with gray hair, his black armor decorated with the silver skull of a lion. His strength was incredible as he pulled the enormous sword back around for a second swing, faster than most men could wield a dagger. Haern knew blocking was impossible, and trying to time the swing right, he dove underneath, hoping to come out of his roll beside the man and stab him in the neck while he was vulnerable.

Except as he dove into the roll, the sword dipped, swung with only one hand. Coming up for the stab, Haern found a mailed fist already waiting. It struck him square in the face, blood blasting from his nose.

“Karak!” cried the man, and suddenly, that fist felt like the hammer of a god. The blow rocked through his body, straining his bones, filling his throat with a scream that sounded far too horrific to be his own. Legs suddenly resisting him, he dropped to one side, limbs curiously asleep. Trying not to panic, he glared up at the older paladin, who knelt down before him.

“You’re either a brilliant man or a fool,” said the paladin as arms grabbed Haern from all sides. “In our dungeon, we’ll see which of the two you truly are.”

Something hard hit him from behind, and then the darkness took him.