FIERCE: A Heroic Fantasy Adventure (BRUTAL TRILOGY Book 2) Read online

  Inside the stable, he threw the door shut and landed a plank against it, just as sword blades pierced between the gaps.

  He took a moment to catch his breath and looked for any other avenue of escape, retreat, or attack.

  Someone crashed through a door far to the left, followed by two others. An oil lamp had the dim glow of its spark, having never been blown out for the morning’s watch. Niels took it and dashed it against the stables and hay between himself and the attackers. Flames roared to life, eating the straw and dry wood like a ravenous wolf.

  Niels raced to the far end of the stable and kicked open the back, expecting foes to greet him, but there were none yet. He raced the few paces into the servant’s entrance of the castle’s kitchens, feeling that no danger within could be worse that what roared behind him.

  ***

  Vikarskeid stalked through the palace with Hawkwood and his retinue of most trusted and loyal guardsmen. He took great joy in stabbing a few of Gathelaus’s folk who were still barely alive in the hallways and forums within the palace, though he steered clear of anyone who might have been able to put up half a fight.

  “Is my triumph over the usurper complete?” he asked a captain of his guard.

  “Yes, my lord.” The captain bowed low. “The sorcerer Malhavok decimated Gathelaus and his men but was himself slain.”

  Vikarskeid’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets, but the widest grin possible crossed his face. “You swear! Malhavok is dead? What about Gathelaus?”

  “He has been captured by your men upon the mountainside, they bring him in chains here even now.”

  “Amazing, marvelous. I could not ask for more wonderful news. See, Hawkwood, good things do come to those that wait.”

  Hawkwood harrumphed. “I have been laying the groundwork for your success these many weeks and my slaying of core men in the night ensured your victory. Don’t forget your good servants.”

  “I have not, but this is a call for celebration,” said Vikarskeid.

  At the far end of the hall, Niels appeared. He and Hawkwood’ gazes met and then Niels was gone again.

  “There are more wolves in the henhouse,” cautioned Hawkwood.

  Vikarskeid frowned and said dismissively, “Then find and eliminate them. I have a nation to rule.”

  Hawkwood motioned to a trio of his men, “Follow me, that one is dangerous.” They raced down the hall in pursuit of Niels.

  “Hawkwood is the next one we should worry about eliminating,” said Kefir.

  Vikarskeid nodded. “True, but not yet. Not until the rest of these dogs are done with. Until then keep those words to yourself.”

  Kefir remarked sullenly, “Remember, the usurper was a general in King Forlock’s army before he slew him and stole the crown.”

  Vikarskeid glared at him. “Are you writing a book? Shut up.”

  ***

  YonGee whisked down the slide, praying to all the gods in heaven and hell that the two greedy cut-throats wouldn’t follow him into the dark. He guessed that the chute would make them leery enough that he would still have time at the bottom to escape. Cobwebs caught in his face and beard and he strained to pull them free when the chute abruptly dropped him onto the pile of moldy straw at the bottom.

  YonGee stood and stepped away from the landing, straining his ears to hear if the two rogues were coming. He didn’t hear anything, but it wouldn’t do to wait. He scrambled in the gloom for the escape door he knew was close by. His hands brushed against rough stone until he found a corroded sconce. Jerking it to the left and then out, he heard the grinding passage door slide open. He went through and kicked the release, letting the door close behind him. It was loud, but unless someone knew how to open it, it wouldn’t budge with anything that could possibly fit inside the chamber. It would take a battering ram of twenty men to open that door. He was safe, at least for a few moments.

  There would be a few others aware of the castle’s secret passages, but the temptation to loot the obvious plunder and kill the usurper’s loyalists would slow them from exploring these musty passages for some time.

  YonGee found the dusty lamp kept on the shelf beside the door. He blew the dust from the handle, fumbled a moment, turned the wick and then looked for the steel and flint. He struck them to create a spark and light the pitch darkness. Shadows were cast back like an outgoing tide and he waved it about taking in the scene. Gloomy grey walls surrounded him, and dark patches reached far and away in each direction. He walked warily, just in case something might meet him in the darkness—listening if anyone else might come down one of the other escape chutes. Here and there a rat scuttled, but he saw no other signs of life. At one point he heard a commotion muffled by stone far above, but not enough that he could tell what it was.

  The groaning slide of a door opening ahead of him revealed in the dim light the outlined figure of a fighting man, sword in hand.

  YonGee quickly dimmed his own lantern, ready to spring back the way he had come if it was the killers.

  But as the door closed and the man let his own light grow, YonGee saw that it was captain Niels. “Niels? How?”

  Niels was surprised at the voice, but recognized YonGee’s accent. “The goddess knows how. The king ordered me and half the royal guard back to account for ourselves and the likelihood of a coup and—I failed him.”

  “Dark sorcery is at work. You were not the only one taken unawares.”

  “My men are all dead. I fought my way through the court and into the stables and then castle. I was hounded by a dozen men and escaped long enough to remember the passages. I have never explored them, and here I am.”

  YonGee nodded sagely. “I am glad you are with me.”

  “And I you, but I know not what has become of the king or any of our other trusted men.”

  “It seems many were slain in subterfuge. Those that could escape the castle walls are gone, but Vikarskeid must surely be hunting us all down at this very moment.”

  “Where does this passage lead?” asked Niels.

  The old man pointed into the black. “Another league or so, it will have a hidden door in a cave at the foot of the mountain. We will be well out of the city’s sight there. But patrols will likely be scouring the countryside. If we wait until dark, we should be able to find a good place to hide in the forest.”

  “I don’t wish to run and hide. I must find the king and strike back at these snakes!” growled Niels.

  “Let me ask the spirits what is happening outside these walls,” offered YonGee.

  Niels was taken aback. “I didn’t know you communed with the dead.”

  “I have many talents, and speaking with the dead is but one that makes me a master of spies for the kingdom.”

  “Very well. Ask them so that I may know where to go and what to do.”

  YonGee withdrew some materials from his robe and gathered them into a pile on the passageway floor. “I just pray that our king is not among the dead. Remember to be silent.”

  Niels couldn’t tell what the powders and materials YonGee drew from his robe were, they looked almost like finely ground ash—ash and a vial of mercury. The old man mixed them together carefully as he whispered incantations over them. He traced a black line on the stones with a piece of charcoal.

  “You know the same mummery as your occultist Tang Shook?”

  YonGee tsked Niels to be silent but nodded his head.

  Smoke rose from the small pile of powder, curling like a beanstalk. Gradually, as YonGee’s chant grew louder, the smoke billowed into a form resembling the upper body of a man.

  The smoky thing turned and faced them. Only a blue light in its eyes gave off any semblance of life beyond the wafting smoke body.

  “What do you want?” it asked, sounding like a voice echoing at the far end of a cavern.

  “I, YonGee, command you to answer me three direct questions, and then I shall loose you back to your own realm.”

  “Ask,” it replied.

  “Is K
ing Gathelaus alive?”

  “Yes.”

  YonGee and Niels looked at each other with relief.

  Niels asked YonGee, “Ask if he has slain that wizard and where he is and what we are to do to beat back the rebels.”

  “Yes, the sorcerer is dead, and Gathelaus is unconscious upon the mountainside, surrounded by enemies,” replied the smoky being as it faded away into nothingness.

  YonGee glared at Niels. “Young fool! Did I not ask for silence? Now it is all for naught. We know nothing!”

  “I’m sorry. Can you ask it again?”

  YonGee kicked away the pile of debris that had formed the basis for the smoky being and smudged out the protective circle he had made.

  “Answer me. Can’t you just do it again?”

  YonGee shook his head. “We best get into the mountains and hiding. I cannot ask for another whole moon and by now, if the king is unconscious and surrounded by enemies on the mountain, he is likely dead.”

  In the Hands of Fate

  Gathelaus was not dead, though for a brief moment, he wondered if he had awoken in the mouth of one of the daimon gods in the blackest of the nine hells. The wet darkness surrounded him like a cruel lover, and the constant drumming of water dripping somewhere in the gloom the only sound besides his heartbeat. Struggling to raise his sore limbs took supreme effort and he was grateful to find it wasn’t because of broken bones, but because of heavy iron shackles with wide linked chains meant to hold an elephant rather than simply a man.

  Take a blessing where you can find it, he told himself.

  Feeling along the wall, he found that his ankles were shackled together by the same heavy chains. His head ached and along his stubbled beard he found bumps, bruises, and gashes that had closed with dry clots of blood. Dried gore matted the hair at the back of his head too, though he could not fully reach to feel the wound there. The stubbled growth on his chin told him it had been at least a few days. Perhaps, whomever had placed him here thought him dead? No, or he would not still be shackled. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could see that he was in a small dank cell.

  Rising was painful, but he stood and felt for the door. It was thick solid wood, bound with iron. He was in no shape to attempt to batter it down. Surprisingly, as he pushed on it, the door swung open. Shuffling into the chamber beyond, he saw rats run and hide as he limped across the cold stone floor. Stairs welcomed him ahead and he went to them like a man dying of thirst trudges toward a mirage. Step by step he ascended until he realized his location—the dungeons of his own palace. Having never spent any time in this dungeon he had not recognized any of it. At the top of the steps, oil lamps granted flickering light and a table of men-at-arms sat playing cards and rolling dice. He did not recognize them, but they knew him.

  “Well your majesty, good to see you up and about.”

  “Yes, it is,” sneered another with a face like a weasel.

  “Let us help you to your throne.” The three of them stood and surrounded him, ushering him on into the hallway.

  “Who are you?” Gathelaus rasped.

  “Oh, we are the palace guard, your majesty.”

  “Your humble servants.”

  “Why am I in chains?”

  “Chains? I see no chains. Just the deserved rings and finery of a great usurper king.”

  “Yes,” echoed the weaselly one. “Rings of the great king.”

  “Bracelets and jewels befitting the usurper,” murmured another.

  “Where are Niels and YonGee?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they are here somewhere hanging about.”

  “Yeah, hanging,” cackled the human weasel.

  They prodded him along to the grand hall ever closer to the throne room. He was weak and they half carried him, pulling him along, holding him by the armpits as his feet dragged from the weight of the chains and his own beaten limbs.

  They stopped before the throne room and an usher nodded and knocked on the door to announce them. A gong sounded, and they were let in.

  There on the throne sat Vikarskeid, beside him were Kefir and Sarvan. Not far away, sitting on a silken divan, was Bartleby the mad minstrel, and Hawkwood skulking in the corner.

  “Well, if it isn’t the usurper,” said Vikarskeid. “They told me you simply refused to die.”

  Gathelaus spit.

  Vikarskeid’s mouth twisted into a disgusted grin.. “I should thank you.”

  Gathelaus glowered at him.

  “Your machinations rid me of my uncle so that I could become king without waiting for him to die. He was only ten years older than me and I certainly didn’t want to wait forever. And then, I love this, you killed the dark sorcerer Malhavok that I sent to kill you, saving me oh so very much gold coin. He was very expensive. So, thank you for that.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Vikarskeid snorted, then a cruel smile curled upon his face. “You first. Hawkwood, go and show him what we have in store for him. Then throw him back in the dungeon.”

  Hawkwood bowed then signaled the men that held Gathelaus and led them out of the throne room. Marble floors that Gathelaus had trod in the fine leather boots of a warrior and the velvet slippers of a king were now cold on his bare and bloody feet.

  They dragged him outside into the blinding sun of the courtyard. Men hammered and sawed. A tall platform was being constructed. A gallows was being built. An executioner tested the floor, it suddenly dropped out as sandbags whisked up in the air.

  Hawkwood smirked. “Looks like the dancing floor works just fine.”

  “That for me?”

  “Yes, one of the conditions for your execution was that your blood not be spilt,” said Hawkwood.

  Gathelaus grunted.

  “As civilized as the realm has become, they still fear your ghost lingering within the palace. No blood, equals no ghost.”

  “If you say so.”

  Hawkwood shrugged. “I don’t, but orders are orders.”

  Gathelaus frowned. He saw a few folk he recognized, servants and such, but none of them men he believed had been loyal to him, and there was no sign of any of his most trusted men. “Did you already kill the others?”

  “Who? Your men? Most of the brigands that you called your company are dead, I’m sure. Most were murdered in the days leading up to the coup. YonGee has vanished, but that old fool can’t save you.”

  Gathelaus wanted to ask about Niels, Thorne, and Rogers but decided he wouldn’t reveal those cards if they remained unknown.

  Sarvan came wheeling up on his chair. “Hawkwood. The king wishes to speak to you.”

  Hawkwood rolled his eyes and sighed, “Watch him,” he ordered his henchmen before disappearing.

  Once he was gone, Sarvan commanded the henchmen. “All right, let’s go, hurry.”

  The henchmen loaded Gathelaus into a waiting wagon, someone cracked a whip, and horses bolted out of the palace gates. Gathelaus lay on his side, unable to pick himself up. What was this? A rescue? The wagon bounced along the city cobbles, rattling him to the teeth. They hit the far road of packed earth and continued their blinding pace.

  He guessed they were on the water road leading to the river, but why? Then just as suddenly as they had raced away they came to an abrupt stop. Hands grasped Gathelaus none too gently and yanked him from the wagon. Another wagon rolled up from behind. Sarvan sat perched atop this second one beside Bartleby, who held the reins.

  “Why the deception?” asked Gathelaus.

  “Why not? The charade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because Vikarskeid just wants to kill you quick with a public execution. He just couldn’t make up his mind about how.”

  “He wanted boiling oil and a strangler,” said Bartleby, with a little too much glee. “There was even talk of letting ants devour your head while you were buried in the ground.”

  “But I didn’t want that for you,” said Sarvan. “Too quick, too easy, too good for you.”

  “Thanks,” muttered G
athelaus.

  “You ruined my life. You took my legs—my very manhood—and I suffer every day from the cruel gift of you letting me live. You should have killed me.”

  Gathelaus narrowed his gaze at the crippled veteran.

  “You’re going to regret letting me live for the rest of your days,” snarled the cripple.

  “You don’t say.”

  “Oh, ho, ho,” chortled Sarvan. “I aim to see that you live a very long and tortured existence. You will know true pain and misery.”

  Gathelaus didn’t ask how, though he guessed Sarvan had a plan already.

  “And here it comes now.” Sarvan laughed and pointed at the river.

  Bartleby leapt to his feet, dancing a jig while he clapped his hands together in ecstatic wonder, giddy sounds escaped his mouth as he bounced up and down on the wagon bench.

  Gathelaus looked to see what they referred too and watched as a long ship with banks of oars plowed up the river toward them. It soon made the docks and men jumped out and shook hands with Sarvan’s folk. Mead, bread and salt were shared, and then the captain came and took a long look at Gathelaus.

  Sarvan and the captain of the long ship argued about price for some time, finally each seemed pleased, though Sarvan had the final word. “Captain Rogliano. You will never call to port here again so long as he lives. Do we understand each other? He is never to set foot on land again.”

  The ship’s captain, Rogliano, was a man of middling years with grey hair on the top of his head and a red-gold beard. He had a sharp face and the dark eyes of a weasel, but his bearing and grit was more akin to that of a wounded tiger. He harrumphed at Sarvan’s insane demands.

  “Your word!” insisted Sarvan.

  “You have my word. He will never leave my ship alive and I will not call to your lands again until he is dead and the sea has claimed his corpse. Does this satisfy you?”

  “Excellent, but I also don’t want you just throwing him overboard when you are out to sea. I want him to suffer as no man has ever suffered before, and I tell you I want it to be for years, years mind you!” cried Sarvan, tossing the gold coins Rogliano had just paid him for Gathelaus back onto the deck of his ship. “I don’t care about the money. I just want him to suffer.”