Scourge of the Betrayer (37 page)

Braylar handed over the scroll. “Late festivities?”

The guard ignored him, unrolled the scroll, scanned it and handed it back. “On your way then.”

We passed through and began the slow ascent around the perimeter of the hill. The road was narrow, and it wound its way up, slowly spiraling. There were three more gates, each identical to the first with their flanking towers, and the scroll got us through them without incident. The muscles in my legs began to burn. I craned my neck and looked up at the walls and towers of the castle above as we walked. Wood hoardings jutted out, and with all the shutters and arrow loops, it was a gallery that could easily rain death down. I couldn’t make out guards, but I’m sure they were up there, looking down on our small group as we sweated our way up the hill. Probably joking about what they would like to drop on our heads.

Mulldoos saw me and nearly read my mind, saying, “The bastard who built this place knew his business. Tough enough to clear the city walls, but anybody assaulting the castle would be in for a heap load of hurt. Arrows, stones, boiling piss. Real bad day, assaulting this place.” He looked at Hewspear, who was struggling to breathe. “You going to make it, old goat?”

Face pale, Hew nodded and kept plodding up the hill. Mulldoos said, “Good, ’cause I ain’t carrying you. A bone pops your lung, you’re just going to have to sit and wheeze to death.” He limped after.

We finally reached the castle’s outer curtain wall. Where most of Alespell was constructed of snowstone that fairly glowed with the slightest hint of sun, the baron’s castle was built of a charcoal gray stone that seemed to absorb light. I wiped my brow, tried to regulate my breathing, and looked over my shoulder at the city laid out far below us. Even the green copper domes seemed far away. All those people milling in the plazas and marketplaces, caught in the flow of commerce, haggling, laughing, dizzy with the oddities and entertainments of the Great Fair, absorbed in wonder and drunk on cheap wine and ale. For one day at least, their troubles and pains forgotten. And all of them oblivious to the halls of power above them. A life could be snuffed out on this hill and they’d never know, probably never care. My breathing didn’t slow down, and not just because of the exertion of the climb.

Braylar grabbed my elbow and gave a squeeze, somewhere between gentle and forceful. “Easy, Arki. Only visiting a dear friend. Nothing more.” For once, his lies didn’t seem all that convincing.

The drawbridge was down over a deep dry moat carved into the rock, and our scroll got us entry through into the gatehouse. The portcullis was up. As we walked underneath, I couldn’t help but notice the numerous murder holes in the ceiling above. A second gate flanked by guards, and we passed onto another section of floor. More murder holes above, but the odd thing was the floor was wood, and it almost felt like we were tramping across another drawbridge.

I looked over at Mulldoos and he was smiling. “Yup. Fiendish bastard built this.” He stomped once on the floorboards. “Trap door. Anybody who somehow made it to the gatehouse probably not making it out real easy. Spikes below, I’m guessing. Big ones.”

He seemed to really appreciate the craftsmanship. I nearly threw up.

At last we passed into the lower courtyard and back into the weak sunlight. As expected, there was noise and activity everywhere. Grooms hurrying to the stables; a man leading an ox out of the granary, his cart laden with heavy sacks; a hammer ringing in a smithy; a courier sprinting from one of the administrative buildings; several pigeons bursting out of the cylindrical dovecote alongside the kitchens, flying off in a tight group. The only person or thing not on the move was a guard assigned to protect the covered well on the other end of the courtyard. I looked up to the right and saw a covered allure and tall sanitary tower connected to the massive circular keep that rose several stories into the sky.

Braylar said, “I expect Lord Brune isn’t counting kernels of corn or iron ingots. Come.”

He led us underneath the allure and towards the keep that dominated the courtyard, rising high above everything else. There were large standards on top, but the air was heavy, moist, and instead of flapping or snapping, they hung limp on their poles. We approached the entrance stairs and more guards examined our scroll, but they didn’t let us pass right away. An older guard missing an ear pulled a gambesoned guard aside, spoke to him quietly, and sent him running into the keep with the scroll.

A few awkward moments of silence passed and then Braylar said, “This keep is quite impressive. The plinth, the height, the machiolations. Yes, most impressive.”

The earless guard looked at Braylar, blinked a few times, and then shrugged.

Braylar tried a different tack. “I’ve heard rumors the last few days that our baron is unwell. Is he on the mend, then?”

Earless shrugged again. “Guessing you’ll be knowing soon enough.”

That put an end to that. I worried Braylar was going to press the point, as that was his typical response when rebuffed, but he held his tongue. We waited there until the young guard returned. He ran down the stairs, handed Braylar the scroll, and told us we were clear to go. When we climbed and passed through the arched doorway into a long corbelled hallway, we were met by Gurdinn and a handful of surcoated guards. He didn’t seem especially pleased to be our escort.

I felt rather than saw Hewspear and Mulldoos stiffen. Braylar said, “Ah, Captain Honeycock! So good to see you again. We really shouldn’t allow so much time to pass between encounters like this. Criminal, really.”

If we’d been anywhere else but his lord’s keep, Gurdinn probably would have spit on the floor. As it was, he said, “The baron’s waiting.” He turned on his heel without waiting for a response.

The guards fell in behind us as we followed Gurdinn down the hall. Bas-reliefs of coats of arms broke up the walls on either side, occasionally interrupted by an unshuttered window or torch sconce. The torches weren’t lit, and even with the shutters thrown open, the squares of light on the floor were weak at best. Bright light wouldn’t have dispelled the foreboding, but it might have helped.

At the end of the hall, there was a set of stairs leading up and another spiraling down. Gurdinn waited next the stairwell going down.

Braylar stopped and looked at the stairs. “I know our friend baron is an independent thinker, but I would’ve expected him to maintain his solar and wardrobe above, in keeping with the fashion. A bit more light and air, such as it is.”

Gurdinn’s eyes narrowed. “And you’d be right. Though he’s no friend to a Black Noose. Let’s go.” He started down the stairs.

Braylar’s pursed his lips and he drummed his fingers along the surface of his buckler, but after a moment, he followed as commanded, and us behind him, with the Brunesmen bringing up the rear. The stairs wound down to the right, and here, with no windows or loopholes to offer even gloomy light, the torches were lit.

We passed several floors, the undercroft, other storage facilities, I’m not sure what else, and the air grew smokier. Our footfalls echoed off the stones, torchlight cast wild shadows as our passing caused the flames to dance ever so slightly, and the hairs on my body prickled, though whether from the drop in temperature or the direction we were heading, I couldn’t say. Going down the stairs seemed hard on Hewspear and Mulldoos, and little better on Braylar’s throat. I imagined climbing back up was going to be far worse. Assuming we did come back up.

My heart was hammering and my bladder full to bursting when we finally stopped at a small landing. The stairs kept going down, but we’d apparently reached our destination. Or at least the level it was on. Gurdinn unlocked a large door and pushed it in. As he led us down a hallway, the first thing I noticed was the overpowering smell of vinegar. There were wooden bowls of it along the floor on both sides. The stinging smell was incredible, enough to make the eyes water and nose burn. As we walked down the hall, passing doors, I couldn’t begin to imagine why anyone would line the floor with bowls of vinegar. But then the reason suddenly became clear.

The vinegar was there to mask other smells. Worse smells. Blood. Urine. Feces. Burnt flesh. Death.

Even with a number of armed and armored guards behind me, and no weapon of my own, panic welled up and I nearly turned and ran. Braylar must have anticipated this, because he’d dropped back next to me, and his hand was on my arm, just above the elbow again, though this time as tight as a shackle. My head snapped in his direction and I probably would’ve shouted something if I’d been looking into any other set of eyes. But his had turned back into mossy stones, cold, hard, unrelenting. Had they been sympathetic or kind, I might have howled or cried out, but his glare stopped everything in my throat. He shook his head slowly and pushed my arm forward, and the rest of me followed, reluctantly.

That’s when I heard the first scream.

Gurdinn stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and unlocked it.

Braylar squeezed tighter, just in case I tried to flee, and I wanted to tell him we needed to fight our way out or we were dead men, even as part of me knew we couldn’t possibly fight free of a keep, a castle, and a city. It was madness. But so was staying there.

Gurdinn stood to the side of the door as another scream came out and said, “In you go.” To his credit, this was his moment to gloat, and he didn’t.

I tried convincing myself that if violence was coming, Braylar would have felt it. But the screaming said violence was already there, and he admitted that Bloodsounder sometimes deceived.

I’d never had such difficulty walking though a door before. Braylar’s steadying hand, half-guiding, half-supporting, was all that got me through the portal. Gurdinn pulled the door shut behind us. It was a small room. The baron was sitting in the chair closest to the door, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back as if he were watching snow fall or listening to a gurgling brook instead of witnessing a man being tortured. He had a long black coat on, festooned with brass buttons down the front and on the cuffs.

There were two other people in the room. A man in a long tunic who was obviously the interrogator, a birthmark the color of eggplant covering half his face that caused Mulldoos to lean close to Hew and whisper, “Plague me—even likes his henchmen purple.” And another figure, naked, strapped down to a heavy table that was stained with every bodily fluid imaginable. It took me a moment to realize this was the priest guard—his face was contorted and unrecognizable. There was a strap with a sharp-looking hook inserted in each corner of his mouth, blood trickling down and pooling on the table. There was also a strapped hook in each nostril, pulling his nose up. Thick leather straps crossed his forehead, neck, and limbs, and he was completely immobile. The interrogator slowly turned a handle on the side of the table and the priest guard screamed again, eyes wide, tongue sticking out, spittle spraying, as Brune took a sip from his goblet.

Then the baron looked over at us and smiled. There was nothing cruel about it—just a warm, welcoming smile. It was horrible. “Ahh, very good of you to join me. Thank you so much for coming on short notice. I must say, Captain Killcoin, you and your companion looked in much better health the other night. And who’s this you’ve brought with you?”

Braylar gestured at Mulldoos with one hand and rasped, “This is one of my trusted lieutenants, Mulldoos.” He gestured at me with the other. I expected a lie, but he told the truth. Mostly. “And this is my chronicler, Arkamondos. I admit, as a humble servant of the empire, I wouldn’t retain one myself, but our emperor insisted. And Arkamondos didn’t want to miss an opportunity for an audience with the baron, so here we are. Your powers of recovery are amazing, my lord.”

Brune chuckled. “Gurdinn advised against inviting you here, of course, but our exchanges are so very lively, it seemed a shame not to have another one.” He sat up in his chair and indicated the tortured man with a small tilt of his head. “I believe you’re already acquainted with Henlester’s guard here, so no need for introductions. I would say ‘traitor’s guard,’ but we haven’t determined that definitively, have we, Untovik?”

The interrogator laid his hand on the handle again and leaned in close over the prisoner, who choked on his spit as he said, or tried to say “no” repeatedly without tearing his face further.

Brune raised a finger. “Ahh, my apologies. My chief interrogator, Untovik. Untovik, these are the men responsible for Henlester’s guard joining us.” If Untovik listened or cared, he gave no sign. The baron turned to Braylar. “It’s a pity you weren’t able to deliver the underpriest, though. I do fear the guard here won’t be especially… enlightening. Though that won’t stop us from trying. No, we work with what we have, don’t we, Untovik.”

The interrogator replied by turning the handle a little more. Though they hadn’t ripped his flesh deeply yet, the hooks did their work, nose and lips stretching and tearing just a little more, red rivulets running onto the table. The prisoner gurgled another wet and distorted scream.

“Yes,” the baron said, “Too bad about losing the underpriest.”

Stomach flipping, I quickly looked away from the tortured guard as Braylar replied, “You’re correct, Baron Brune. We went through a great many pains to obtain him, and our losses were not light, I assure you. I was equally as disappointed he didn’t live to see Alespell again.”

I wondered if he’d lay the blame at Gurdinn’s feet, but if he was tempted to, he resisted.

The baron lifted the goblet to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Do any of you fancy mead? We have some beekeepers in this barony who might be the most talented in the kingdom. I’m biased, of course.”

He might not have expected anyone to take him up on his offer, but Hewspear replied, “Thank you, my lord. I’d like to sample some—I’ve heard it’s quite good.”

The baron handed Hewspear a goblet and filled it from a pitcher on a small table alongside him. “Anyone else?”

Mulldoos shook his head. “Too sweet for my tongue.” As he watched the interrogator move around the table, his hand had drifted down to the pommel on his falchion, like a fierce hound with its hackles up.