The Abbot glanced at him, his eyes widening, “Who are you?” Thomas and Sir Brevis did the same. No one had taken note of the stranger’s arrival.
He wore a black doublet of fine cloth, something too soft to be velvet. It was matched by satin trousers and supple leather boots. The stranger’s ears were adorned with silver earrings and he wore a silver chain around his neck to match. Everything about him spoke of understated wealth.
“Someone who would prefer to see you find your destination with a minimum of delays,” answered the stranger.
Brevis snapped his fingers and several paladins moved to encircle the new arrival. “I think you had better explain yourself—quickly.”
The newcomer glanced at Thomas from beneath black brows, his eyes as dark as his hair, “Thomas, surely you were expecting me, weren’t you? Didn’t you warn them?”
Thomas stared at him without recognition, but he remembered the dream, “Were you sent to…?”
The stranger smiled, showing teeth that seemed abnormally sharp, “… to guide you. Yes, that would be me.”
“His dream,” said Whitmire, grabbing Sir Brevis by the upper arm.
The paladin chuffed, “Even so, we should be certain we can trust him first.” Placing one hand over his heart he let his eyes relax, unfocusing as he let his power surge forth.
The stranger’s face took on a look of concern, “I don’t think that would be wise…”
But it was too late. The senior paladin had opened his heart, an old technique that those of his order used to detect evil in others. Brevis’ body stiffened, and then his eyes rolled back into his head. Seconds later he fell backward, his body beginning to twitch and thrash even as Whitmire caught his shoulders and eased him to the ground.
The Abbot looked up at the newcomer, worry and anger making the lines on his face much deeper, “You fiend. What are you?”
The paladins around him had drawn their blades, but the stranger took no notice of them. “I tried to warn him. You may call me Anthony, but I’m sure you’ll understand that isn’t my true name. I am here to guide you.”
Thomas broke in, “You know where the Chalice is?”
Anthony nodded, but before he could speak Father Whitmire warned, “Thomas, we can’t listen to this creature. Only a thing of immense evil could incapacitate Sir Brevis in such a way.” The Abbot had the silver sunburst that represented his faith in hand as he faced the stranger, “You are not welcome here, whatever you may be.”
Anthony laughed, “Foolish priest, would you turn away your goddess’ most long-suffering ally?”
“You know where the Chalice is?” repeated Thomas.
“The Chalice is no longer of any consequence,” said the stranger. Father Whitmire started to interrupt but Anthony held up a finger, and a shadow fell over the priest. The Abbot’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. “Try to speak over me again, mortal, and I may forget my promise to leave you unharmed.”
The black garbed nobleman looked back at Thomas, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, your search for the Chalice. You have more important things to worry about young man. What you seek now is not the Chalice, but your Lady, Delwyn herself.
“That Chalice has been used, its sacred purpose invoked, drawing the Morningflower into this world. Your enemies have her now, and they intend to use her. We must make haste before everything is undone.”
“Impossible!” said Islana, outraged.
But Thomas already knew it was true. It matched perfectly with his dream. “How—no, what do they plan to do with her?”
Anthony stared back at him, “Those responsible seek power through anarchy, but their foolishness will only unleash a primordial darkness from its prison. To do so they must use a key, a key they have already stolen, but it is useless without the power to activate it, the power of your goddess.”
Thomas’ eyes went wide. The stranger could only mean one key, and the primordial darkness must then refer to… He stopped his thoughts there, No, that can’t be possible. His mouth went on without him, “The Key of Anteri…”
Anthony glared at him, and Thomas’ voice vanished. “Do not name me here!” he commanded. “The orcs you found here are deserters. Following their trail will only delay you. Your enemy used them to gain the stronghold of Baron Galway last week. They are using his keep for their ritual. Your goddess is there.”
“Thomas, you can’t trust him,” declared Islana, her eyes worried as she saw him considering the newcomer’s words. Sir Brevis groaned as if to underscore her point. The senior paladin was beginning to regain consciousness.
“I don’t,” said Thomas firmly, “but we need him. Our Lady told me he could guide us to her.” At last he understood her message. He knew the stranger now, knew why he wanted to help them, and why he could never be trusted. Directing his gaze to Anthony, he made his decision, “Take me to her.”
The shadow that had been over the Abbot had passed, and even though he had been unable to speak thus far, his ears had been working just fine. He understood the situation at least as well as Thomas, probably better. “Take us to her.” Bending over he offered his hand to Brevis, helping his old friend regain his feet.
“That isn’t necessary,” responded Anthony. “I can take Thomas to her. The rest of you will only get in the way.”
Thomas wanted to accept that. He didn’t want to endanger his friends, most especially Islana, but his dream still echoed in his mind, “…follow where he leads, but do not trust him.” Looking around, he caught Islana’s eyes staring intently at him. There was strength there, and also a plea, she did not want to be left behind.
Leaving her—leaving them behind, would be foolish. His friends weren’t children to be protected. His desire to shelter them was selfish and ultimately would only show a lack of respect. It might also make him a martyr. The mission had to come first, Sarah had to come first. Lifting his chin he addressed Anthony, “No. Where I go, they go. Delwyn did not invest her power in just one person, it is present here in all of us. We will undertake this together.”
The stranger sighed, “If you ride to Galway’s keep in force, the enemy will meet you with force, and he has much more of it at hand. There are at least fifty orc warriors guarding that place, as well as more ‘unwholesome’ allies.”
Father Whitmire spoke up, “How were you planning to get in if Thomas went alone?”
“There is a small stream that runs around the castle. It keeps the moat filled and also provides fresh water to the inhabitants. At two points the castle wall is open to allow a portion of that stream to enter and exit the castle proper. Those places are guarded by heavy iron grates, but one, on the downstream side, near the postern gate, has rusted badly. There is a gap there that a man could pass through, provided the watchers on the wall don’t spot him.”
The Abbot glanced at Sir Brevis, hoping for his insight.
The paladin nodded, “I am against cooperating with this foul creature, but if you insist, four could pass almost as easily as one or two. The best way to draw the eyes of the defenders would be a serious threat. We can take our men down the road and approach openly. If they sally forth, we will face them. If they do not, we will seek entry. Whether we can gain access or not, the effort will draw their attention to the front gate, greatly improving your chances of entering unseen.”
“Four?” asked the black garbed nobleman.
Sir Brevis nodded, “Thomas, Islana, Grom, and the ranger—five if you include yourself, hellspawn.”
Anthony’s eyes flashed in anger at the paladin’s added insult, “I should rip that tongue of yours out to mend your tone, slave. If I do not go, Thomas will never reach her.”
“Slave?” growled Brevis. “I serve for the glory of Delwyn. My conscience is clear.”
The stranger stared back at the paladin, but after a moment his expression broke and he began to laugh, “Listen to the lapdog bark!”
Enraged, Sir Brevis started forward, hand already pulling his sword from its s
heath, but Father Whitmire grabbed his shoulder. “Peace, Brevis! We cannot afford to fight him at this time!” ordered the Abbot.
Anthony smiled, “Swing that sword at me, paladin, and your goddess is lost. I might even leave you alive to despair at your failure, and to watch the world crumble into darkness with her absence.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Thomas suddenly.
Anthony turned to him, ignoring the threat of the paladin, “You should know that already, little priest. I am bound by the covenant between myself and my cousin. Releasing the Beast would never be to my advantage. A better question, though, is why are you doing this? You are more tightly bound than any mortal or immortal that ever walked this earth. Do you never despair of your suffering? If there were anyone who might find peace in failure this day, it would be you.”
“Don’t listen to him, Thomas.” It was Islana, standing close behind him now. “He’s a liar. He’s just trying to create doubt.”
The look on Anthony’s face was one of compassion as he answered her, “Love is the greatest source of tragedy in this world, far greater than me. You may find yourself cursing your goddess when you discover the price of her grace, lady paladin.”
Chapter 18
Breaking and Entering
Sir Brevis rode at the head of the paladins, followed closely by the temple warriors. Father Whitmire and the other priests had donned armor, but they stayed at the rear of the formation. The castle of Baron Galway loomed before them, only fifty yards distant now.
The drawbridge was down and the gate had been smashed beyond any hope of usefulness. What remained of the portcullis had been wrenched and twisted from its customary place, it lay partly in the moat now, leaning against the drawbridge.
There were no watchmen visible on the walls.
“It appears our informant wasn’t lying about the fall of the castle,” observed the senior paladin as the Abbott rode forward to confer with him.
Whitmire nodded, “At least we don’t have to worry about figuring out a way to get in. If the gate was operable they might have simply kept it closed and ignored us.”
“I would still make sure they couldn’t ignore us, but you are correct,” answered the paladin. “We have a different problem now.”
The Abbott waited for him to continue.
“If what that demon said is true, there could be as many as fifty orcs within. If they are manning the inside of the walls, we could enter only to find ourselves trapped and under fire from every side. If they’re in the gatehouse we might find ourselves unable to escape back out the way we came in.”
“If they’re in the gatehouse, wouldn’t they use the murder-holes to attack us as we first come in?” asked the priest.
Brevis shook his head, “Far better to let us get inside. They could finish us all without risk of any escaping to carry word back to the city. That’s a large part of the purpose of the portcullis they destroyed, to prevent attackers that get inside from getting back out. At least that’s gone. There’s a possibility that even if we are ambushed, some of us might survive to ride back out.”
“Our Lady is at risk,” said the Abbot, “we cannot afford to fail. We won’t get a second chance. We have to succeed, or die trying.”
Glancing at the sun, Brevis nodded, “It’s noon. They should be ready.” Lifting his arm he motioned for them to advance.
The paladins’ horses began to walk forward, while their riders raised their hands to their breastplates, placing them over the symbol of Delwyn as they prayed. The sunlight flared, and their armor began to shine as the goddess gave them her blessing.
Behind them the priests were praying as well, casting warding spells and protections over the warriors and blessing their weapons.
The horses were at a fast trot as they crossed the bridge and passed under the shadow cast by the gatehouse. Everything remained quiet as they entered the courtyard, but as soon as the last horse had passed they heard a harsh voice bark a command.
Orcs stood up from their places along the walkways that topped the walls, broad grins on their faces as they lifted crossbows to their shoulders. The door to the inner keep was directly across from where they had entered, and it flew open to reveal a man in black robes while simultaneously a loud crack sounded behind them, and part of the gatehouse collapsed, blocking their exit with rubble.
They had expected the ambush, however. Standing in his stirrups Brevis yelled, “Left and right! Take the stairs, clear the wall!” Then he kicked his horse forward, charging toward the black robed man on the other side of the yard.
The paladins and temple warriors split into two groups, heading for the stairs inside the walls while Father Whitmire released the spell he had been holding at the ready. One final word left his lips as the orcs fired their crossbows, and a furious wind sprang up, whipping the air and sending the enemy quarrels veering off course.
Sir Brevis had almost closed with his quarry when the robed man opened his lips and uttered a word. The sound of it carried an unspeakable filth, and even the sunlight in the courtyard seemed to falter for a second. Most of the temple troops were too far away to hear it, but several of the closest fell instantly. Two of them were dead, and the third fell to the ground, paralyzed.
Brevis’ faith protected him to a degree; the world went dark and silent as the unholy magic found his ears, but his horse was not so lucky. The loyal mount died under him, pitching him forward to tumble onto the rough ground. The paladin landed hard but managed to roll, preventing the worst of the damage from the fall. Scrambling to his feet, he realized he had lost his sword, but the worst of it was that he was blind.
Father Whitmire started to run forward, hoping to aid his friend, but a sound from behind alerted him to further trouble. Turning, he saw the source of the gatehouse’s collapse. Stepping out from behind the rubble was a monstrous demon standing at least ten feet tall. Its skin was hard, almost shell-like, and one arm ended in a wicked looking claw.
Brevis would have to survive without him.
Drawing himself up, Whitmire lifted the golden emblem of his goddess, “You chose the wrong foe today, demon.”
***
Thomas marched slowly through the dense forest. They were in a single file line; Delia led, and Islana followed her. Thomas was third in line and the stranger was behind him with Grom bringing up the rear.
They had been moving for over an hour, and to minimize noise there was no conversation. Consequently, Thomas had nothing to do but think—and watch Islana make her way through the brush ahead of him.
It wasn’t a particularly idyllic view. The difficulties of moving through the heavy forest undergrowth spoiled Islana’s usual athletic grace, and the armor did nothing for her figure, plus it stank. That was something the poets always ignored. In truth, of the four of them only Delia had a less than unpleasant odor, owing to the fact that she wore only hunting leathers. The armor worn by Islana, Thomas, and Grom, smelled of sweat and rust.
Thomas didn’t include Anthony in his review of odors, since the man had no discernable scent whatsoever and was almost certainly not human anyway.
Thomas blocked the smells out and focused on other issues. Sarah was chief among them. He knew she was in trouble, and despite Islana’s accusation he knew that Anthony had not lied. Indeed, the man was probably incapable of lying, if the teachings of the church were true. Anteriolus, Prince of Hell and one of the principle evils, god of tyranny and suffering, thought Thomas silently. A creature of order and control, but also bound by cruel honesty. Of all the evils, only he is known to keep his word.
He could almost feel the devil’s eyes on his back as he thought the creature’s name. A soft laugh confirmed his suspicion, Anteriolus could sense the use of his name, even when it was only within the confines of Thomas’ thoughts.
The devil prince had also been the one to aid Delwyn in imprisoning Gravon the Beast. Theologians had argued about that point for ages, but it was generally agreed that he had do
ne it because the Beast was a creature of chaos and entropy. Gravon had also been stronger than any of the other gods. Only by combining their efforts had they managed to trap him.
Sarah had said that he would guide him, and now that he knew who the stranger was, he understood why, but she had also warned him not to trust him. His mind kept returning to the Prince of Hell’s words, “You are more tightly bound than any mortal or immortal that ever walked this earth. Do you never despair of your suffering? If there were anyone who might find peace in failure this day, it would be you.”
What had he meant by that? Was he referring to the mark on Thomas’ chest? Or perhaps it was the oath he had sworn to Sarah as a child? Was he doomed to become a martyr?
He found his eyes focused on Islana’s back once more. What would it be like to be married? He wasn’t sure if it was possible. If he was destined for some terrible fate, it wouldn’t be fair to any woman who tied her happiness to his.
Islana stopped, and Thomas realized that Delia was holding up one hand. The ranger worked her way back to them and began whispering, “The edge of the stream is just ahead, and I could see the grate about twenty yards to our right. We have to be careful. The woods have been allowed to grow far too close to the wall, but we’ll still have to step out into clear view for a short distance before we reach our goal.”
They waited. There were two orcs in view along the top of the wall, and while they didn’t look particularly vigilant, there was no way they could miss five people crossing from the edge of the forest to the wall.
Half an hour passed, and then they heard a commotion. Someone was yelling orders and the sound of arms clashing sounded clearly from the other side of the wall. Both of the orc watchers turned around.
“Now!” hissed Delia, and they broke cover and ran to the shadow at the base of the wall.
Once there, they were relatively safe. Even if the sentries turned their attention back, they were far less likely to spot them directly below in the darkened area where the stream emerged from the castle grate.