struggling and half blind, Blayne was trundled along like a squirming child, through another doorway and into a larger room.
It might have been the hall of a moderately prosperous inn: a large stone fireplace on the far wall held a huge pile of glowing coals, while several long tables, each flanked by a pair of arches, took up most of the space. The ceiling was lost in shadows, though he saw beams and arches connecting to a central pillar. To his left was a long bar. There was no other exit or entrance visible.
More interesting than the room itself were the occupants. There were a dozen men in there, all regarding him suspiciously. To a man they wore the handlebar mustaches of the Solamnic Knights, yet the men were not dressed in armor, nor did they display the heraldry of their order on their tunics. Instead, they looked more like thieves, wearing dark cloaks and old, well-worn boots. A few had hoods pulled over their heads, while several wore ratty gloves with fingers missing. Not one was smiling; on more than a few faces, he noted stares of suspicion or outright hostility.
The two men holding his arms were the largest fellows in the room, and they also glowered down at him. Apparently they didn’t like what they saw, for their iron fingers dug more deeply into the flesh of his arms as Blayne was roughly propelled toward a table in the center of the room.
A single man sat there, slightly older than the rest to judge by the creases around his eyes, the traces of gray in his mustache and his long hair. He stared at Blayne while deliberately pulling a long dagger from his belt. Never taking his eyes off the visitor, he started to trim his fingernails with what was obviously a very sharp blade.
Blayne ceased to struggle against the tight grip of the two men. Among the several warnings Archer Billings had given him was an indication that these men were perfectly willing to use violence against their enemies. With that in mind, the young lord didn’t trust himself to speak, but he tried to remember the legacy of his birth as he held his head high and levelly met the gaze of the man.
“Who are you?” the fellow with the knife demanded after what seemed like a very long silence during which he kept trimming his fingernails.
“I am Sir Blayne Kerrigan of Vingaard Keep,” he replied proudly.
“Ah, I have heard of you,” the man replied with a snort that could have indicated derision or amusement.
“Perhaps I could say the same thing, if I knew who it was I addressed,” Blayne retorted sharply. “Why do your men hold me so rudely? And who are you?”
The man did laugh then, loudly. “Perhaps my men hold you because you entered like a thief-silently, stealthily. Perhaps we should cut your throat, Sir Blayne, like we would any other thief?”
“But I am not a thief!”
“Why do you come here, then?”
“A man from the city guard sent me. I am looking to make contact with a group of brave people opposed to the tyrannical emperor, and he said I would find them here. They are-”
“Don’t tell me what ‘they’ are!” the man snapped back. “Who is this man who sent you to our door?”
Blayne drew a breath. “He told me that I could identify him to… the men I met, but only if I was satisfied that I had come to the right place and found them.”
“And, Sir Blayne, are you so satisfied that you can speak now, or do I need to exercise some further persuasion?”
The man continued to wield his knife, whittling away at his fingernails with as much ease as skill. The light from the oil lamp caught on the steely blade, reflecting brightly in Blayne’s eyes. He took a chance.
“The man was Archer Billings of the city guard. I was sent to him by a mutual friend who is not of the city. I came here because the emperor slew my father, treacherously, and then destroyed the towers of Vingaard with his bombard. He must be stopped!”
“Now there, lad,” said the man, clearly enjoying himself. “You surely have heard that it’s a crime to express such sentiments? Most especially it is a crime here in Palanthas, the very heart of the emperor’s realm? You could be subject to, oh, I don’t know, imprisonment or loss of property. Exile, maybe. Hanging! Why, the emperor might even scowl at you!”
The last line provoked coarse laughter from the rest of the men. Blayne could hear the mockery in the fellow’s words but sensed that it was not he who was being mocked, but rather the emperor himself.
Blayne felt his courage reborn. If he had somehow come to the wrong place, he would not be cowed into disclaiming his father, his quest. But he was certain that they were the right men and the room was the place that he sought.
“I care nothing for the emperor’s laws!” he declared passionately. “They are an abomination of the Oath and the Measure. He fears his own people, even as he claims to have their interests in his heart. He is a despot and must be brought down.”
“Well, my young lord,” said the man, “it may be that you have come to the right place and are speaking to the right fellow.” He stood up; somehow the long-bladed dagger vanished into the folds of his cloak as he held out a strong hand. Blayne took that hand and shook it, impressed by the firmness of the dry grip.
“I am Sir Ballard,” he said. “And your archer friend-I know of him as well-spoke the truth. We are the Legion of Steel in Palanthas. And the emperor is no friend of ours.”
Magic wrapped the gray wizard Hoarst and Sirene in a whirlwind sensation, transporting them together from the camp in the Vingaard Mountains to his stronghold across the plains in the Dargaard Range. They arrived in the huge laboratory, the vast chamber that had once been the great hall of the castle.
Many of the wizard’s other women, more than a dozen of them, had been living there in his absence, and he was pleased to note the fires were lit and the rooms had been kept warm and clean. The women gathered quickly when he shouted out his arrival, delighted to see their master.
“Bring me a cask of the dry white wine from Nordmaar,” he snapped to a pair of strong blondes who hailed from that country. “Lara, you start a fire under my largest caldron. I want it blazing hot. Use the hard coal. Dani, Kammra, Tenille, go to the cabinets and bring me ten jars of down feathers, a dozen silk fans, and a cask of whale oil.”
He stopped to consider: he had water in plenty but needed a few other ingredients that he would have to select himself. “The rest of you, prepare us some food. And see that Sirene gets a hot bath. I want all of you to gather in the lab at sunset tonight!”
“Yes, lord! As you command!” they chorused and scurried off to do his bidding, with two of the youngest girls taking charge of the albino. When all were busy, Hoarst left the hall and entered the connecting corridor leading to his chambers. But he did not climb the stairs.
Instead, he went to the plain door near the kitchen and touched it, sensing the power of his wizard lock. He was pleased but not surprised to note the door had not been disturbed in his absence.
With a murmured word, he released the locking spell and opened the door. A thin, steep stairway led down into the shadows, and he had to turn sideways to descend the narrow steps. A single word ignited a light spell on his belt buckle, illuminating his way as he plunged deep into the passages under his ancient keep.
At the bottom of the steps, a narrow corridor led to the right and left. He turned left-for the other direction was an illusion, and though it appeared to be a long, straight passageway, in actuality it led to a cleverly concealed trap over a large pool of acid. Anyone who went more than ten steps in that direction would fall through the floor and into the pool. They would not come out again.
Hoarst continued down the narrow passage, each footstep kicking up little swirls of dust that danced in the light of his spell. He passed a number of side passages to the right and left and took the third corridor on his right. That led him to another intersection of passages, and again he made the correct turn.
There was only one way to walk through those dark corridors, he knew: each false move led to a death certain, violent, and inescapable. One trap would crush an intruder with a slab of rock weighing many tons. Another opened into a chute that plummeted into a hundred-foot-deep pit; the bottom of the pit was layered with spears planted, sharp tips up, in the ground. A third, one of the most ingenious, would pour oil over any trespasser and then, a few seconds later, release a cascade of bits of phosphorus that would ignite a searing, completely lethal blaze.
After a hundred and fourteen steps, Hoarst turned to the left into a corridor that looked just as ordinary as any of the rest. He came to a mundane-looking door, confirmed with a gentle touch that his locking spell was still intact there, and with a single word released the door, pushing it open to enter the most secret, most cherished of
