“I don’t like this,” Son exclaimed. He and Faymia had been standing at the base of the castle wall, impatiently waiting for Dulnear’s return.
The woman stared up at the battlements, saying nothing. Her jaw was clenched and her hands nervously twitched. Finally speaking up, she said, “I’m going up there. I need to see what’s going on,” and began to climb the rope.
“I’m going with you,” the boy whispered. Tension gripped him, but not knowing what was happening to his friend was a greater dread than risking a closer look. He followed after her and ascended the wall.
The two knelt in the shadows at the top of the battlement. Son tried to discern what was happening below while keeping an eye on the nearest guard. Suddenly, he felt Faymia’s hand grip his arm.
“Savages,” she whispered, and pointed toward the now mangled body of her former slave boss.
The boy felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched the men toss weapons into Tcharron’s corpse. He prayed that he would not become the next target for them to practice with on this night. “Th-That’s horrid,” he stuttered, and looked away.
“Over there,” the woman said, and she gestured toward the northeastern-most door in the courtyard.
Son turned his attention toward the door below. He could see two men walking toward the entrance. They had swords drawn and stepped lightly so as not to be heard as they entered the castle. The boy watched breathlessly as he waited to see what was going to happen. Unexpectedly, the door flew open and the men came tumbling out. Then, the door slammed shut.
“He doesn’t know his own strength,” Faymia lamented. “We may have to do this the hard way.”
The boy exhaled through pursed lips. The woman’s words were completely unwelcome. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Look!” the woman urged.
Son saw that the scuffle, and the unconscious bodies of the two men, had not gone unnoticed and that other mercenaries were now taking an interest in the entrance. The boy’s mind raced, and he had to beat fear down as if it were a rabid hound. “What do we do?” he asked.
“You’re going to have to go in there after him,” she instructed.
“Against all of those men?” the boy protested. “Even with the element of surprise, I’d still end up like Tcharron.”
“I’ll draw their attention,” Faymia explained. “All three of those doors lead to Ocmallum’s chamber. Just get inside one of them and cover Dulnear’s back.”
Before Son had a chance to ask any more questions, the woman withdrew an arrow, fired it at the nearest wall guard, and watched him stumble between two merlons, falling to the ground outside. She then unsheathed her sword and ran toward the guard patrolling the southern wall.
When the boy noticed that the crowd was now moving to check out the melee along the wall, he quickly climbed down into the courtyard and dashed into the nearest door. His heart beat like a hammer and his hands were clammy. Before closing the door behind him, he peeked out to see that Faymia had felled the second guard and was now releasing fire arrows toward the courtyard entrances.
She’s as crazy as he is, he thought to himself as he closed the door just before one of her arrows scattered flames against it.
Once inside, Son barred the door and found himself in a dark corridor. Nothing was visible, with the exception of a faint orange light that came down from what appeared to be a staircase in the distance. He could see the silhouette of a man racing up the stairs, and could hear men shouting curses out in the courtyard.
The boy began to run toward the stairs, then stopped himself. Remembering that there were three entrances, he sprinted through the dark hall and barred the other two doors as well. As he did, he tripped over a man that he assumed had been beaten by Dulnear. He stumbled to his feet, began running again, and tripped over another but caught himself before falling to the floor. I’m glad he’s on my side, he thought, and slowed his pace to keep from tripping on any more.
Reaching the stairs, he withdrew his sword and took a deep breath. Grabbing the railing, he looked up toward the light, hoping to get a better feel for his surroundings. Suddenly, a wounded man came rolling down the stairs, nearly hitting him and taking him down as well.
Son mustered his courage and decided to quicken his pace upward. Before he could get very far, there was the sound of a heavy door slamming shut and all went black.
Dulnear stood in Ocmallum’s den. The air held a scent he did not like and did not recognize. In the dimly lit room there was a large, ornate desk surrounded by expensive furnishings to one side, and a bed covered in fine linens on the other. Across from the door, on the opposite side of the round room, was a chair that more resembled a throne than a common armchair. In it sat the slave king himself, with his back toward a massive glass window. He wore a blood-red gown. His beard and hair appeared more disheveled than earlier, and his eyes looked wide and wild. On either side of him stood guards that Dulnear could not place. Their faces were pale and their eyes were vacant, but their bare arms looked as if they were forged in steel.
“So, you’re the one causing all the commotion,” Ocmallum said with a strange amusement in his voice.
The man from the north had a difficult time reading the room. Normally, he would see only three men and have full confidence that he was in no danger. However, this was different. The slaver held a small lantern in his lap, the only light source in the room. Its flame cast eerie shadows over his face. To make things more difficult, the eyes
