Hinterland

  All because of a cursed skull.

  One Brant’s father had carried into the land.

  “I would see this skull destroyed,” he said.

  “Well, that’s the slippery part,” Rogger said. “We left it in a rather precarious situation. It’s down there with those daemon knights that you so kindly rooted out for us.”

  Brant stood up, almost bumping the regent. “We must get it free from there!”

  “We intend to,” Tylar said. “And after your tale, I think it’s even more important that we do so immediately.”

  “Then you’ll destroy it?” Brant asked. There could be no question that it was riddled with black Grace.

  The two men’s eyes glanced to the third, the tall stranger.

  “It seems we still need the skull for a bit of bartering.”

  “What?”

  Tylar headed for the door. “We have no time to explain.”

  “I will go with you!” Brant followed.

  Tylar held out a hand. “No. You are safe here.”

  “Nowhere’s safe this night.”

  Rogger nodded. “The boy’s right there. And somehow he and his rock are tied to this skull’s story. It’s time we completed the tale.”

  Tylar hesitated.

  “Like you said,” Rogger argued. “Bringing them together is either a curse or a boon. If it’s a curse, then better it happen deep under Tashijan than up here. If it’s a boon, then the sooner we join the two the better.” He punctuated it with a shrug. “Besides, he can carry an extra torch. And right now, stone or not, that’s fine with me.”

  The regent’s jaw muscles tightened. “So be it.” He forced the words out.

  Brant was relieved. He would have followed them if necessary.

  Others were not so certain. The back door to the room burst open and two large forms tumbled into the room.

  “No, Master Brant!” Malthumalbaen shouted. “You can’t go alone. We’ll come with you!”

  Tylar shared an irritated glance with his bearded friend.

  “It seems someone’s been listening at our door,” Rogger said.

  “Not listening,” Dralmarfillneer said. “That weren’t so. Our mammers gave us big ears. That’s all.”

  “So I see. Too bad she didn’t gift you with the brains to match.”

  Brant shook his head at the two giants. “Someone needs to watch the cubbies.” He dared not leave them unguarded with Liannora hovering about.

  “One set of eyes is enough,” Mal said. “I’ll go and Dral can stay with them.”

  “Shine my arse. The bloody nippers like you better.”

  “We’ll pound for it, then.”

  The two giants agreed, stepped back, and swung out with their fists, smashing them against the other. Malthumalbaen stumbled back a step. Dral kept his footing and turned triumphantly.

  “Mal will stay.”

  With the matter settled, the regent led them out into the hall—where a crowd had gathered, held back by the gray-cloaked woman’s sword. It seemed Sten had spread the word of the regent’s visitation. Liannora, Ryndia, and Khar stood amid a few of the captain’s guards.

  “Clear the way,” Tylar demanded.

  “Where are you taking a Hand of Oldenbrook?” Sten replied. “I have the right to inquire.”

  Liannora stood at his shoulder. Brant suspected the inquiry and challenge truly arose from her.

  “We have matters to attend below concerning the security of Tashijan. Brant has been in the cellars and his knowledge may be of assistance.”

  Sten glanced between Brant and the regent. “This is the first I’ve heard of such matters.”

  “And the last.” Tylar motioned for the others to head for the stairs.

  Sten stumbled forward, shoved surreptitiously from behind by Liannora. “Wait!” he called. “If a Hand of Oldenbrook is to be taken from our halls, I must accompany him. The security of the retinue was placed in my charge by Lord Jessup himself. I will not shirk it, nor let it be taken from me.”

  Tylar turned, face darkening, a fist forming.

  Rogger stepped forward. “What’s another torch? Never hurt to have another sword, too.”

  “We’ve wasted enough time here,” the tall stranger grumbled. “We’ve learned what we needed. Let us be off.”

  The regent nodded. “You’re right, Krevan. Come if you may, Captain—but you’ll obey every word from here.”

  Sten bowed, and Liannora smiled behind his back.

  As a group, they headed toward the stairs. Brant studied the cloaked stranger’s back. Krevan. He now understood why an ash-faced member of the Black Flaggers had guarded their door.

  Here was Krevan the Merciless, the leader of that black guild.

  Brant also remembered the regent’s bearded friend mentioning some matter of bartering with the skull. With the Black Flaggers here, it could only mean some treachery or dark design.

  Though he could not fathom what that might be, Brant knew one thing with steel certainty. No matter what the others planned, Brant would destroy the skull. Since the morning the flaming rogue had stumbled into his life, all had come to ruin.

  This night, it would end.

  12

  A FIRE IN THE CELLAR

  TYLAR HEARD THE SHOUTING FROM DOWN THE HALL. HE HAD left the others at the landing. Ahead lay the fieldroom, where Warden Fields had set up a war council and gathered all the heads of Tashijan. The door stood ajar. Knights crowded the hall. Pages paced, ready to relay messages and commands to the various posts.

  Kathryn’s voice reached him. “You’re all being stone-headed! The skull must be fetched out of the cellars!”

  Tylar hurried forward. While he had questioned the boy Brant, he had sent Kathryn ahead to meet with Argent, to lay the foundation for their request. She was supposed to have softened him by the time Tylar arrived.

  Plainly that was not the case.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this skull when it was first brought here?” Argent boomed. “Such a darkly Graced item threatens all of us!”

  Tylar reached the door and stopped at the threshold. Two knights drifted out of alcoves to either side, ready to hold him off, but when they spotted his bared face, they recognized him and hesitated.

  Inside, Kathryn stepped to the scarred table that stretched the length of the room. It was across this same board that countless strategies had been construed and treaties signed, sometimes in blood. Around the room rose the ancient Stacks, massive scaffolding and shelves, buttressed by ladders, where maps of all the Nine Lands were stored, going back millennia, some said even before the Sundering. A more current chart of Tashijan had been tacked to the broad table with daggers. Additional rolled sheaves littered the top, all but forgotten during the heated exchange.

  Kathryn continued. “We didn’t understand the full power of the skull until Master Rothkild examined it and discovered the cursed Grace locked within its bones.” She leaned on the table, palms down. “Either way, now is not the time to cast blame. Best we retrieve the skull before the force below becomes entrenched or discovers such a powerful talisman within their grasp.”

  Argent scowled at her. “Who would lead such a sortie?”

  Tylar stepped across the threshold. “I would.”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “I will take a small force below, armed with sword and flame. We’ll assault Master Rothkild’s study and be out in half a bell.”

  Argent straightened, his one eye narrowing.

  Beyond him, the fieldroom overlooked the tourney fields at the foot of Stormwatch, but for now the great windows were shuttered tight against the blizzard, except for one narrow pane. Movement beyond revealed a knight under a heavy cloak, posted on the small balcony to maintain a watch on the whirling storm that trapped them here.

  To either side, the innermost circle of Tashijan lined the table: knights of the highest station, including Swordmaster Yuril, heads of house and livery, like Keeper Ryngold, and severa
l members of the Council of Masters, the last bolstered by the wide girth of Hesharian.

  Argent finally spoke. “We thank you for your offer, regent, but surely one of your stature should best be kept with our other guests high in the tower, where you can be protected. Such a raid, if permitted, would best be carried out by knights of the Order.”

  “As I recall, I was invited here to be so included in said Order, to be granted cloak and sword. Or was the offer merely feigned?”

  The warden’s lips thinned to sharp, unforgiving lines.

  “Also,” Tylar continued, “we know the skull, tainted by seersong, can twist Grace to its will. I’ve already proven my resistance to its corruption, so who better to lead?”

  Kathryn cast Tylar a withering look. She had not wanted to further split their towers with petty bickering. And here they were, already baring teeth like dogs. While Tylar recognized the wisdom in her cause, Argent seemed to draw the bile from him like no other. And from the flint in the other’s eye, there was little hope of a peaceful settlement here.

  The impasse was broken by a most unexpected ally.

  A figure stepped out of the shadow of Hesharian’s moon. “I believe the regent speaks wisely, and his design should be considered.” It was the elderly visitor from Ghazal.

  Argent swung toward him.

  But the aged figure seemed unfazed, his eyes perhaps too clouded to note the fire in the warden’s. Tylar guessed the fortitude arose more from a steely disinterest in the warden.

  Ignoring even a pinch on his sleeve by Master Hesharian, he continued, “Such a talisman, removed from below, may serve to protect us. Dark Grace is woven tightly around us—from the storm without and the daemons below. If we masters could find a way to tap in to the seersong, perhaps we could forge a weapon against the forces that gather. To turn their Grace against them.”

  A calculating glint of understanding reflected in Argent’s eye. “Get them to dance to our song.”

  Hesharian chimed in, now that he risked nothing by taking a position. “Wise all around. It is good fortune that I had summoned Master Orquell to attend here.”

  The ancient mage seemed little moved. He kept his focus on the warden. “And with such a ward against black Grace in our hands, who knows what other black acts might be reversed?”

  Argent met the other’s gaze. Tylar knew the Ghazalian master had been summoned in an attempt to break the dark spell that had frozen Argent’s swordsworn brother to stone. Here the master offered one more argument for securing the skull, one with a more personal stake for the warden.

  Tylar knew the matter was settled before the warden turned back to him.

  “You believe you can get below and back again with the skull?” Argent asked.

  “If we are delayed no longer.”

  Argent’s eye narrowed. “I’ll send you with enough knights to guard the door below, to keep a fire blazing. You’ll have a single bell. Longer than that, we’ll know you’re corrupted. The way will be sealed.”

  It was as much of a concession as Tylar could hope for from the warden. He stared at Argent in his one eye and nodded.

  Kathryn turned from the table. Tylar was the only one to note her relieved sigh. She followed him back to the door and out.

  Behind them, Argent barked orders, staging his end of the assault.

  They would have only a moment of privacy.

  Kathryn stopped him halfway toward the stair. “Be careful. I don’t trust that new master.”

  He nodded. “We’ll have to worry about that after I retrieve the skull.”

  In a lower voice, she asked, “What of the boy? Was he able to cast any light upon the skull’s origin?”

  “More than you could imagine.” He didn’t have time to go into his story at length, and he feared speaking of the boy’s black stone, gifted to him by the very god whose skull lay below. “He’s coming with us.”

  Thinking upon it, he was glad he had not been more stubborn about permitting him to come. Best to bring the skull and stone together well out of sight of that strange master.

  Kathryn looked on inquiringly, but trusted him enough not to press. He squeezed her arm. “I must go.”

  For a moment, their eyes met. A flicker of something conflicted flashed across her features. But before he could pin it down, it vanished, replaced with worry and the weight of their situation.

  “Come back,” she said.

  He let go of her arm. “I will.”

  He set off, hoping it was a promise he could keep.

  Brant shifted back as the heavy iron bar was lifted from the gate. It was the last of three. The wyrmwood gate itself was constructed of massive planks, woven like cloth under an alchemy of Grace and banded in more iron. Rogger had explained its history, how it was placed at the threshold to the Masterlevels shortly after the founding of Tashijan.

  “Some said to keep any wild Grace from escaping the master’s subterranean dungeons…others because the knights had not truly trusted those first masters, men who dabbled with the Grace of gods. The knights were ready to bottle them up if necessary. And maybe they weren’t half wrong. Look where we are now.”

  But all had gone silent by the time the last bar was shoved free.

  Everyone held their breath.

  Giant braziers flanked both sides, roaring with fire. Torches as thick around as Dralmarfillneer’s thigh encircled the walls and continued down the tall halls, all the way to the great doors that led from Stormwatch into the outer bailey.

  Brant wiped his brow on his sleeve. The very air steamed from the many flames. But he did not complain.

  “Ready your torches,” Tylar said.

  They each carried an oiled brand. Rogger also had a lantern hanging at his hip, flame flickered low. The giant had a cask of the oil under one arm, ready to be cracked opened, spilled, and set to flame.

  One by one, they lit their torches from the brazier.

  Tylar nodded to two knights at the chained mechanism for the gate. The pair began hauling on the wheels, drawing up the barrier. Another knight ran forward and cast a lantern through the widening opening, splashing oil and fire down the mouth of the steps. They dared not risk an ambush outside the gate.

  Brant hunkered down and searched the lower stairs. The way appeared empty, free of any black ghawls.

  “We stay together,” Tylar said. “No more than an arm’s length apart. Understood?”

  Nods all around.

  The regent led the way, with Rogger a step behind him, and Sten flanking his other side. Brant went next. He had two guards: the dour-faced Dralmarfillneer and the woman in black ash, the Flagger whose name Brant learned was Calla. Or was it Carra? His heart had been pounding too hard to truly note it.

  Behind them trailed Krevan. The large man stood nearly as tall as the giant, though not as bulky. Despite his misgivings about the man’s trade, Brant was still happy to have him at his back.

  They headed down the stairs, skirting the fading flames from the broken lantern. As they continued, wending round and round, Brant risked a glance behind him. The fires above were only a distant glow.

  Brant had never considered himself a coward, but only one certainty kept him descending into the deepening darkness. He clutched the stone at his throat. It lay as cold as granite against his heated skin. No matter the risk, he would find the end of this path that started with this stone.

  “Where are these daemons already?” Rogger grumbled.

  Sten glanced to the smaller man with a frown. Brant shared the captain’s distaste. It was like whistling among gravestones. There was no telling what such sentiment might conjure.

  They spiraled farther down in silence. Brant peered past Tylar, who still led them by two steps. The blackness seemed to stir away from his flames. It was as if the darkness had turned to oil and feared to be ignited.

  But nothing worse arose.

  “Here is the level of Gerrod’s study,” Tylar said, stopping at the next landing.

&nb
sp; They all closed ranks a bit tighter.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Brant sniffed. But he stood too near the bearded man. He smelled unwashed and ripe. Then a skittering sound reached his ears. It rose from below. He remembered the rustle when he had been with the wyld tracker and Dart. This was something different.

  “Back!” Tylar ordered, low and urgent. “Against the walls.”

  His warning came not a moment too soon. Brant flattened against the stone as darkness flowed out from below, swallowing the gray stairs.

  “Rats,” Rogger said with disgust.

  A horde burst up to them, jammed together, climbing over one another. They whisked through the group like so many stones in a flash flood. One rat leaped, landed on the lip of Brant’s boot, and bounced to the next step and away. As suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone again, streaming up the stairs.

  Brant shivered all over. Not so much at the number of rats as their silence. Not a single squeak. Only the scrape of tiny, frantic claws on rock. Brant knew the sound would haunt his nights—that is, if he lived to have more nights.

  “Those rats can’t seem to find a safe place to roost this night,” Rogger said, glancing meaningfully at Tylar.

  “We’ll heed their instinct this time,” the regent answered. “Especially as there’s no reason to traipse deeper.”

  “Thank the silent aether for that,” the man answered.

  Tylar lifted his torch toward the passage that led off the landing. “This way. Keep alert. By now they must know we’re down here.”

  Brant followed, but he stared down the spiraling stairs one more time. Was that the message from the rats? That something stirred once again in the bowels beneath Tashijan?

  He hurried after the others.

  Dral hunched next to him, all but filling the passageway. Calla—or Carra—was forced back with her leader.

  “How much longer?” Dral whispered, sounding like boulders rubbing together. “Those rats reminded me that I didn’t get to finish my dinny. Did you see how plump some of them buggers was? I like them roasted with their own giblets. Mal says—”