would take an elephant, or perhaps a pair of them, to knock them down. He could honestly say they were the largest doors in Duhlnarim. Hells, they were the largest doors he'd seen in his whole life.
Captain Beetlestone shoved Liam with the butt of his sword. The pointed metal dug into his back and Liam lurched forward through the opening. He had never been inside Zerith Hold before. This had always been the prize the Crimson Awl had coveted. He could hear Ryder's words echo in his head. 'When the time is right, we will storm the gates and kill the oppressive bastards inside.''
Liam had always believed those words. But he could see it was going to be a lot harder than they had imagined.
Just inside the front gate, the stone walls were lined with archer's ports-murder slits, Liam had heard them called. As he was marched by, he could see that even now they were manned. Past the entryway, the front courtyard was built exclusively to repel invaders. An open staging ground filled most of the space between the stone walls, but there were raised platforms, perches for more archers, arranged around the edges. From his vantage point, Liam thought you could likely station thirty, maybe forty men on these platforms. Anyone entering this killing field would be surrounded, faced with arrows from all sides.
Across the open courtyard, Beetlestone shoved Liam from behind again, forcing him to follow the other guardsmen up a shallow flight of stone stairs. At the top was another doorway. This one, though not as grand as the portcullis and monolithic wooden doors they'd just passed through, would likely hold out against any invading force the Awl could muster.
The double doors were manned by four fully armed soldiers. As Liam and his escorts approached, the guards separated, two on each side, and pulled the doors open. The huge iron hinges made a grinding noise, not the complaint of a rarely used mechanism suddenly having to work after a long rest, but simply from shouldering the burden of a heavy weight.
Liam was ushered inside through an opulent entry hall and up another flight of stone stairs, these covered with a fine red rug. It was like nothing he'd ever seen. Paintings of regal-looking men and woman lined the walls. Treasures of all kinds filled nooks and decorated tables. Suits of antiquated armor, relics from past wars and from foreign nations, stood motionless along the wide hallways. The spoils of war were arrayed in every possible location-a strong word of warning to visiting dignitaries.
At the top of a final flight of stairs, Liam's entourage came to one last set of doors. Unlike the others they had encountered, these were small and unguarded. The dark wood was polished to a high shine, and the ornate brass doorknobs shone brightly in the late afternoon sun.
Captain Beetlestone pushed the doors open, and Liam was ushered into a large, well-appointed room. There were tables and chairs situated in little clusters all about, as if the primary use for this room were for small groups of people to carry on intimate conversations. On the opposite side of the room was another, single door. It was closed.
In the corners, each partially hidden by a tall wooden bookshelf, stood four well-disciplined soldiers. They wore white capes, closed at the front. Their shoulders were adorned with golden embroidery, and their helmets had what appeared to be silver-etched runes running along their edges. All of them had their heads bowed. From this distance, Liam couldn't tell what sorts of weapons they carried. Their capes covered everything.
Though they were tucked away behind the furniture, they didn't appear to Liam as if they were trying to stay out of view. On the contrary, they seemed to be stationed in easy sight of the front door and the windows along the far wall. Anyone entering the chamber would see-and be seen by-them.
Unlike the guards who had escorted Liam from his home, these ones were oddly different. They stood stock still, each in his place, not seeming to care about the events unfolding before them. They stared, eyes to the floor, as if they were golems waiting patiently for their orders.
Captain Beetlestone produced a pair of manacles and held them out before Liam. 'Keep your wrists together,' he said, 'and this won't even hurt.'
Liam glanced again at the guardsmen. Deciding it was a good idea to follow the captain's instructions, he lifted his arms, placing his wrists together. 'If I'd known your dungeon was this nice, I would have given myself up long ago.'
Beetlestone smirked. 'And if I'd known you were such a pansy, I would have come to collect you before now.' He finished clasping the irons around Liam's wrists, then he slapped him on the back of the head.
Liam stumbled forward a step. 'That was uncalled for.'
Beetlestone cuffed him again, forcing Liam to one knee. 'So was that,' said the veteran soldier. Then he turned toward the door. 'Come on, boys,' he said, addressing the other guardsmen. 'We'll leave him to Lord Purdun.' The captain led his men out of the room.
'Stupid bastard,' Liam said under his breath. 'Some day it'll be my turn.'
The door closed and latched as they left.
Liam lifted himself back to his feet and took in the furnishings. The walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves were choked with books. Liam was struck with a sense of awe. He could count the number of books he'd read in his lifetime on one hand. Hells, if the baron wanted to lock him in here for the next few years, it would be all right with Liam. He'd be the best-read farmer in all of Erlkazar.
He took a few steps toward the nearest shelf and fingered a leather-bound tome. He hesitated before lifting it out, watching to see if one of the guards was going to stop him.
Not one of the cloaked figures budged.
Liam shrugged. Guess they don't consider me a threat to their reading material, he thought.
The book he picked up was entitled The Life and Times of Grooble Stonepate. Liam opened the cover to find a poorly drawn sketch of a rather goofy-looking dwarf. Liam hadn't had many encounters with dwarves. Though it wasn't uncommon to see them doing business or passing through Duhlnarim, very few of them chose to make it their home. Those who did had a tendency to keep to themselves. But even so, Liam knew enough to tell that whoever drew this picture of Grooble Stonepate was either a very poor artist or had even less knowledge about dwarves than he did.
Closing the cover, he placed it back on the shelf, the chains on his manacles clinking against the wood as he did. He ran his finger along the row of books. Each had a different feel to it, but none of them had titles on their spines. He wondered how people ever found what they were looking for.
'Guess you just match the color of the cover to the mood you're in.'
He picked up another book, this one bound in dyed red hide, and turned it so he could see its title: The Art of Waging War, by General Bartholemew G. Blazencrow.
'A wonderful read.'
Liam started and almost dropped the book.
'If you find the time, I highly recommend it.'
Liam placed the book back on the shelf and turned to face the speaker. The young man was not much older than Liam himself. His bright red hair, combed neatly to one side, made a wavy pattern across the top of his head. It was obviously awash in some sort of scented oil. Liam could smell it from where he stood.
The man wore finely made clothes of what looked like silk and a fencer's belt around his waist. Oddly, though, no sword dangled from his hip. But the man's most distinguishing feature was a series of three long scars across his left cheek. Though they seemed old and long-healed, they stood out, a bright burgundy against his pale, freckled skin.
The scarred man looked Liam up and down, seeming to take his measure. 'So, you're an educated man.'
Liam nodded.
He offered Liam his hand. 'I am Lord Purdun, Baron of Ahlarkham.'
Liam was momentarily stunned. He had seen the baron before-his portrait hung in every major service building in Duhlnarim-but he'd never been this close before. Standing right beside him, Purdun didn't seem so imposing. In the paintings, he was the oppressor, the icon responsible for all of Ahlarkham's problems. He was a menace, a force of evil that must be stopped at all costs. But in person, old 'Firefist,' as he was sometimes called, was just a man.
'I know who you are,' said Liam, refusing to take the baron's hand.
Purdun smiled. 'And I know who you are, Liam of Duhlnarim.'
Liam nodded. 'I suppose you do.' He shook his shackles without lifting them into view. The chain made a satisfying clink.
