***
Aldred’s fears had ebbed as the sands slid through the hourglass. It is said of a condemned man that there comes a point when he realises his demise is inevitable and with that epiphany comes a sense of tranquillity. Aldred had turned his remaining hours towards reflecting on his life.
The gloom was near total and he strained to observe the sand as it slid towards his time of doom. The chamber was so silent that he found himself whistling an old melody: The High King’s Cry. He would die with pride like a true Thetorian, without tears and without fear. He would look Quigor unwaveringly in the eye and curse the necromancer with his last breath.
Aldred was completely unprepared for the scream. It struck him like a punch in the face, blaring in the confines of the dank chamber. He was faintly aware that he too had begun to yell, as if his own noise may dull the searing discomfort in his head.
With a crash bottles around the room exploded, showering their grisly contents onto the wooden tables and shelves. Viscera spattered as green and purple liquor rained around him and his yell was replaced by gagging as the stench of putrid tissue assailed his nostrils.
Aldred fell forward off the chair and scrabbled for a table edge to grasp as he heaved and coughed in the acidic clouds. With a tingle of excitement he realised he was free: the bonds had dissolved into tiny clouds of smoke.
An abrupt flash of heat seared against his face as a pool of fizzing liquid ignited. Within seconds the blaze was spreading across the wooden shelves. Oily smoke rolled forth like an avalanche.
Aldred ripped the arm from his jacket, ran to the sink and soaked the material. He wrapped the damp cloth around his mouth and squinted through the smoke to locate the exit.
He crawled along the floor, the smoke filling the chamber above him. Smaller fires had caught and now spread to a dissected goblin corpse. It combusted with ease and was soon a blazing funeral pyre.
Aldred reached the small corridor that lead to the concealed exit. He could see nothing as he scrambled along the cold stone until he felt the end of the passage. His fingers probed for the hidden catch that must spring the door. His head was swimming and the world around him seemed strangely distant and unreal. He was so very, very tired and weak. It would be easy to curl up and sleep.
Aldred, wake up.
The voice was angelic and pure. It sang out like a finger circling the rim of a crystal goblet.
Aldred, let me guide your hands.
With supreme effort he rose and pushed his hands against the unrelenting stone. Damn Quigor! Aldred was a Thetorian and they did not die meekly. They did not go into the night drooling in their dotage. They kicked and screamed and fought to the last breath, proud and foolish to the end.
That’s my son; now push your hand to the left.
He felt the click.
The door slid open and cold air washed over his face like the waters of baptism. He stumbled forward gasping, dragging the air into his aching lungs.
For five minutes he could do little other than cough yet they were the best five minutes of his life. He savoured every breath as if it were his last. Through the blotchiness of his vision he caught sight of his mother’s statue. Just for an instant he fancied he saw a white luminescence around its head.
“Mortis be praised,” he said. His voice echoed in the gloomy crypt. “How in the Pale did I get out of that one?”
A fit of giggles overcame him and then a few tears before he stood and wiped the soot from his face.
“Now, master Quigor, let us hear your declarations of innocence as I shove a sword through your black heart.”
He took the stairs two at a time. Vengeance powered his limbs as he ascended to the main castle.
Aldred emerged onto the ground floor close to the barracks. He paused by a grand archway that was flanked by two suits of vintage Artorian armour. Aldred pulled loose the shield and sword.
It wasn’t until he reached a set of stairs that lead to the first floor and his father’s hall that the red mist began to dissipate. He paused halfway up the stairs.
Certainly I must face Quigor; after all the mage has vowed my death, he thought. The Azaguntan is evil—a necromancer—and all will surely see that, though most of the proof is now ash. But what of my father? Quigor said my father knew of his dark secrets. Surely that was all lies? And even if there were some truth to it, and I accept dark magic is terrible, my father would never condone my murder.
Wracked by indecision he was almost knocked over by five guards running up the stairs.
“Lord Aldred, thank Mortis you are here. There is battle afoot in the great hall. My lord, it’s your father, and Lord Jerstis.”
“Damn it, man, why do you stand jabbering to me? Let us go to their aid,” Aldred said, gesturing with his sword.
He tore up the stairs and into the corridor leading to the great hall. A dozen castle guards were smashing a statue against the huge doors as a makeshift battering ram. A captain, one of the few older soldiers that Aldred still knew, saw him and turned to explain.
“We could hear screams and sounds of fighting, my lord. Not twenty minutes ago some visitors came: knights from Eeria and other folk. The baron and Lord Jerstis received them and then the screaming started. The doors are blocked by something, so we’re trying to smash it down.”
Aldred nodded then asked, “And Quigor?”
“Well I expect he’s in with your father, as always. Why?”
“I can guarantee any mischief will be down to him, Captain, and whatever friends he’s chosen to bring for his malign purpose.”
The captain looked stunned at the venom in Aldred’s voice. “Pardon me asking, m’lord, but are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.”
Aldred’s reply was lost in a splinter of wood as the statue annihilated a section of door. The soldiers’ cheers were immediately stifled as three corpses tumbled though the rent, their flesh hanging in bloody strips.
“Pull them out of the way so we can get through. Hurry, we must get to the baron,” the captain said.
Most of the guards began tugging the corpses through the hole as two others began widening the gap with their swords. Within seconds the jagged wood edges were dripping in blood.
One by one they pulled the bodies through until towards ten were extracted and enough room was made for the guards to get through. Aldred felt a hand pulling his leg and he glanced down.
One of the mutilated men was still alive, albeit barely. Huge wounds decorated his chest and his chainmail was tattered. Aldred recognised him as Holbek Gartson, one of the longest serving guards at the castle. He was near death.
Aldred knelt by the dying soldier and rested his bloodied head on his lap.
“Holbek? It’s me, Aldred Enfarson. Don’t move—we’ll get some help.”
Little bubbles came from Holbek’s lips and a faint mumble. Aldred realised the guard was trying to tell him something. He leant closer.
“Too… late… m’lord. All dead.”
Tears stung Aldred’s eyes: his father must be dead.
“Holbek, tell me. Tell me what happened. Who did this?”
Holbek coughed and dark blood ran from his mouth. With supreme effort he replied, “Demon. Quigor. Murdered… baron. Black… magic. Blue…. crystal. Hunor. Hunor… came when a boy… Barrowlands.”
The guard’s head slumped back onto Aldred’s lap as a look of peace came over his face. Aldred gently moved Holbek’s head then stood. He took a deep breath in anticipation of the scene he was to face and ducked through the gap and into the hall.