The Leviathan was ready to sail. Only one thing remained…
A man named Felandar stood guard at the gates to the outer wall of Castle Shadoath. Thick fog had gathered for the night, and even the brightest torches did not let him see a dozen feet.
It didn’t matter. The island was dead on nights like these. Even the golaths went into hiding. The strengi- saats were supposed to confine themselves to the jungles, but when a fog came thick, the monsters often prowled the edge of camp. Indeed, on such nights, a score of golaths might well be dragged from their beds, kicking and screaming.
So in the dead of night Felandar relaxed, a pair of torches at his back to keep the monsters at bay.
He almost didn’t see the woman. He had glanced to his left, along the castle wall, and caught a movement from the corner of his eye.
Suddenly she came striding toward him as if she’d coalesced from the mist, a beautiful woman with silky black hair, eyes like dark pools, a stunning figure, and a gait that made her seem to flow rather than walk.
Instinctively he smiled, eager to make her acquaintance. She smiled apologetically, and with blinding speed struck him under the chin.
At first, he thought that she had slapped him, until he realized that cold metal had lodged in his throat.
She twisted the blade, and he heard gristle crackling along his vertebrae.
As Felandar gasped for breath, he grabbed the wrist of her knife hand, trying to stop her.
Myrrima twisted the blade again, and Felandar was no more.
Amid a cloud of thickening fog, Myrrima stalked onto the grounds of Castle Shadoath. Smoker came pacing behind, the coals in his pipe burning brightly.
The locals would not be able to see through her fog, yet Myrrima’s eyes pierced it easily enough. She was surprised at what she saw. It was well past midnight, and the grounds were dead. No guards patrolled. A single strengisaat crouched atop the west tower, seemingly lost in the fog.
Apparently, Shadoath felt that her monsters were guard enough. Certainly Myrrima would not have felt safe walking along those walls at night all alone.
There were three main buildings in the compound. Ahead, Myrrima knew from her previous visit, was the palace itself. She doubted that the dungeons would be there. To the left there appeared to be barracks for the palace retainers, though Myrrima could not be certain. To the right was another building, monolithic and low to the ground, lacking windows. It would be dank inside, and dark. Several guards huddled outside the front door, beside a small fire.
She raced to the guards and found as she neared that two of them were dead asleep. The others were playing dice.
These were Bright Ones that Myrrima was attacking, men whose skills and strength were the stuff of legend.
But they’d never done battle with a Runelord that had four endowments of metabolism. She had the advantage of superhuman speed.
She nailed the first one before he was even aware of her, her blade plunging into the back of his neck.
The other guard grunted and tried rising to his feet. He grabbed for his blade. His speed surprised her, and she recognized that he had endowments to match her own. A bright blade sprung from the scabbard at his back. It glowed like living fire and struck fear in the pit of Myrrima’s stomach.
Nice sword, she thought.
He took a wicked swing, and Myrrima dodged beneath it, felt the blade swish perilously close to her scalp.
Her dagger drove into his groin.
He leapt back, blood gushing from his leg, and tried to shout for help, but Myrrima lunged and plunged her blade up under his ribs, into his heart.
I really like your armor, too, she thought. But it didn’t do you much good, did it?
One sleeping guard startled awake as the dying man fell on him. Myrrima ended his life without a cry.
The last guard died in his sleep, blissfully unaware of the attack.
Myrrima sheathed the glowing sword, hiding its light. She tried the heavy door, found it locked. She stooped over the dead guards, searching for a key. Smoker came up and found it, turned the outside lock.
Myrrima went in, carefully, watching for more guards. But inside she found none.
Myrrima felt a thrill of surprise. She had expected more resistance. But then, they were on a small island in the middle of nowhere, and with an army outside. The dungeon was as secure as it needed to be.
She hurried down the hall, into the dark. The dungeon smelled of carrion and human filth. The coals in Smoker’s pipe suddenly blazed, giving Myrrima the only light that she needed. Myrrima still had endowments of sight, and her eyes were as keen as a cat’s.
She passed two cells, found that they were empty, but discovered an old man in the third. She studied him for a long moment before she realized that he was not old at all; he was a young man, mummified and rotting.
She almost dared not look into any other cell until she reached Fallion’s. What she found there horrified her.
Fallion hung from the wall, blood running from his wrists, unconscious, possibly dead.
They unlocked the door to his cell, and Myrrima lifted Fallion in order to take the weight off of his swollen wrists. As Smoker fumbled with the keys, Myrrima studied the boy to see if he was still breathing.
He was alive, barely. He smelled of stale urine, feces, blood, and sour sweat. His cheek, resting on her shoulder, burned with fever.
Smoker got the manacles unlocked, and Myrrima was about to carry Fallion outside when he moaned.
“Can’t go,” he said. “Not yet. Must free Jaz. In the palace.”
Myrrima had expected to find Jaz in a cell.
“He’s in the palace?” Myrrima asked.
Fallion nodded. “Shadoath took him.”
Myrrima trembled. She wasn’t strong enough to face Shadoath. But if Jaz was inside the palace, she’d have to go for him.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll get him. I want you and Smoker to leave. We have rangits tied up outside the gates. You’ll need to get as far away as you can, as fast as you can.”
Fallion opened his eyes, peered at her through dark slits. His lips were swollen and crusted with blood. “What about the others?”
“What others?” Myrrima asked. Fallion nodded down the hallway.
He wanted her to free the other prisoners.
To what end? she wondered. The night was dark; they’d have to sneak past an army. Once they managed that, the woods were full of strengi-saats. What would she be giving these people?
Hope, she realized. A slim chance. But it was better than none.
Smoker rushed out and began checking cells. Myrrima heard the rattle of keys, the snick of locks, the sound of people groaning and weeping in relief.
Myrrima lay Fallion down; he sprawled on the floor, too weak even to crawl.
Her heart was racing. Shadoath was a powerful Runelord, with endowments of hearing and sight and smell. It would be almost impossible to enter her home in the middle of the night without being detected.
And she would most certainly be awake. Her endowments of brawn and stamina would make it so that she needed no sleep.
Dare I risk this, Myrrima wondered, even for Jaz? He was not the heir apparent, and as far as children went, he didn’t show the maturity, insight, or even the strength of Fallion. In short, she expected little from him in this life. And if she had to choose to sacrifice one of the boys, she’d certainly have chosen to sacrifice Jaz.
But she couldn’t just leave him.
Myrrima still had endowments of her own. She’d taken endowments of hearing and sight years ago, and she had those. And she had four endowments of metabolism, and still had the brawn of two strong men.
Compared to a commoner, she was a ferocious warrior.
But Shadoath would be far more powerful.
Gathering her resolve, she wiped her blade, went out into the night, and headed for the palace.
She found the main gate barred from the inside.
