Ravenwild: Book 01 - Ravenwild (53 page)

“Ettan, you will stay here and try to get her to wake up.”

As they were about to leave, Ettan crossed the room and removed the remainder of the Burnfast mixture from the pockets of his cloak. “Here,” he said. “You might need this.”

Silently, they eased through the doorway. Right from the start they knew it was a mission most likely destined for failure, but they also knew if they didn’t try, the Prince was lost.

But, one way or another, they were going to have at it.

Halfway through their meal, there was a knock on the front door. The heads of Saviar and Kerlix Murlis snapped quickly in that direction, while the children barely responded. Saviar jumped up, motioning for his wife to sit. He was thinking he might be able to convince the Trolls to at least lead him away from his home and do what they were going to do away from the children. To his surprise, when he opened it there was nobody there. He peered out into the night. He heard a voice that he did not recognize, say quietly, “Go around to the back door and unlock it, but don’t open it. Do it now.”

“Who is it?” he whispered loudly. “Who’s out there?”

When nobody answered, he softly closed the door.

“Should we do it?” he whispered to Kerlix.

She had already started for the back door, glancing over her shoulder with a look that said, “Of
course
we should do it, are you
serious?
” and, “Don’t be daft!” all at once. She did exactly as the voice had said. Nothing happened. Nobody appeared, nor could she see anybody as she stood staring intently out the small window beside the solid back door.

The children were wondering what was going on and drifted back to stand close to their mother. Several minutes went by and Saviar said, “Perhaps we are meant to finish our dinner. Let’s do that.”

Everyone returned to their places at the table and resumed eating. It was a very tense atmosphere to be sure, what with all that was happening, and the mysterious, secret voice and all. Still, Saviar made it a point to savor every word, every look, every gesture, every raised eyebrow, every frown, and every smile. He wanted to have these memories imprinted indelibly into his consciousness so that he could think upon them when the final moment came, and with the passage of every second he became more convinced that it was coming. “What a strange feeling,” he thought, “Knowing you are going to die soon, and knowing at the same time that there is not a thing you can do about it.”

His thoughts were interrupted by the back door squeaking open. All heads turned as one to see a large Gnome, clad in garments as dark as the pitch-black night from which he had come, entering the Murlis household. Then a second one entered, dressed the same. Their cloaks had hoods that covered their faces. Saviar noticed that they each carried the traditional short sword of the Gnome army but, unlike the Gnome regulars, these two wore theirs fixed to their backs. The larger of the two turned to face the Murlis household, took down his hood, and bowed low. “Good evening, Emperor Murlis, My Lady, children.”

“Daddy’s the Emperor now,” said Fabindora, “Now that Emperor Night is gone … ”

Kerlix held up her hand. “Not now, Fabindora.”

“My name is Fith Turgel, Your Majesty,” he said. “This is my brother Ath.”

Ath bowed to all. “We have less than half an hour and we will all be dead. Loquitar Coral will be dispatching his personal guard right about now. Get yourselves and the children dressed quickly for travel. Never mind cloaks, but make sure their britches are dark, as we will need to avoid being seen.”

Kerlix sprang into action, a whirlwind of activity. In no more than a few minutes she and the children were ready to depart. Saviar managed to get himself ready. Ath, meanwhile, slipped out the door and returned with cloaks for all.

“Put these on,” he said. He removed from his knapsack a bag of what looked like gruel. “A mixture made from Burnfast,” he said, pouring a large measure into both the inner and outer pockets of all the cloaks. Then he retrieved coals from the fire and deposited these in the inner pockets. “To keep us warm enough,” was all the explanation he offered.

“Where are we going?” asked Saviar.

“Away from here, Your Excellency,” said Fith. “Now,” he looked at the children. “We must move quickly, and we must move quietly. No talking. Does everybody understand?”

The children all nodded, little Jori with eyes as big as saucers.

Malance Venomisis was sick. And when he was sick, he got very angry. So far this day, three Trolls had been executed merely because of the foul mood brought on by his not feeling well. All of his servants were doing their best to avoid being in his presence, but some of it was unavoidable. He knelt over the huge gold-plated bowl and retched again, so hard that it felt like his belly was going to split wide open. When he had finished, there was a pause, and one of the servants swapped the bowl for another.

“Where is Uncutus Twit?” he screamed. “I called for him at least fifteen minutes ago!” He retched again, harder. The poor servant didn’t know whether to answer him while he was in such distress or to wait until he had finished. Either way, he reasoned, it put his own life in jeopardy. He decided to wait until the Emperor’s current episode of digestive upset had subsided. Then he spoke.

“We have called for him, My Lord. I am sure he will be here shortly.”

There was a temporary lull in the Emperor’s misery, and the servant asked, “Do you feel any better My Lord? Can I help you back into bed? Can I get you anything?”

“Yes,” said Malance. He felt like he was going to pass out. This had been going on for several days now, ever since that Troll had shown up and disappeared into thin air. In his weakened state he could hardly remember the encounter, and surely not his name, but at the moment he was only concerned with staying alive.

Suddenly, it occurred to him.

“I’m being poisoned,” he thought. “That’s it. It has to be that.”

The servant helped his Emperor to the side of his bed, not an easy feat as he was as limp as a dishrag, not to mention his size, easing him into it and fluffing his pillows.

“What is your name?” he asked the servant. The Troll had been one of his personal servants for years now, and the question came as a bit of a surprise, but he managed to reply, “H … Holt, My Lord. Handroth Holt.

The room spun crazily out of control, and the Emperor’s eyes rolled back, twitching from left to right. His mouth opened for a brief moment, and his breathing seemed to stop.

“Demons
!
Sorcery
!” he suddenly cried out. “That’s it. They have decided the only way they can defeat me is by using demons and sorcery. But
I
will defeat
them.
Watch. Ha Ha Ha. It will take more than their trickery to do me in.” He was talking to no one in particular, ranting and raving like a madman. “It must be that witch,” he mumbled, “whose place we have never been able to find, somewhere over by the Vargus Foothills. We will find her.
I
will find her, if I have to go there myself. Demons and sorcery! No, you spawn of the loins of the Overlord of the Underworld. You will not defeat me. Never.
Never!”

He laughed maniacally for a long time, thrashing all about, then collapsed facedown with a grunt. He started to twitch violently, and it began to look like he was having trouble breathing as well. It appeared that he might be choking or something, and now Handroth Holt did not know what to do. He thought perhaps his Emperor was dying right in front of him. He climbed onto the bed and rolled him on his side to get his face off of the mattress and at least let him get some air. This is how Uncutus Twit found him upon entering the Emperor’s bedchamber.

“What do you think you are doing
?” he shouted.

“I, I am sorry … Sir … ” Holt stammered. He realized how this must look, in the very bed of the Emperor, who remained oblivious to his surroundings. But then, his intentions had been completely honorable. “It looked to me like he was choking, so I thought I should turn him … ” he began to explain.

“Get off of that bed this instant!” he cried. “What gives you the right? Guards! Guards!”

Two burly guards rushed in.

“To the dungeons with him. Now. On the charge of trying to assassinate the Emperor, the attempt of which I witnessed with my own eyes. I will be down to interrogate him myself later. Stay with him, both of you, until I arrive. On the charge of high treason, we cannot allow for any chance of escape.”

“Yes, Sir,” one answered, and they led the benumbed Holt away, who uttered not a word of protest. Better to stay alive for the moment.

Alone in the bedchamber with the Emperor, whose eyes were now closed to slits, a sly smile formed on the lips of Uncutus Twit. It faded away as quickly as it had formed, his facial expression turning into one of grave concern. “My Lord,” he said gently, “I came as quickly as I could. There was a very serious situation in the armory that needed my attention. Are you all right? My Lord? … My Lord … ” The tone of his voice became one of fear, then outright panic. It was acting, of course, but the delivery was stirring, if the sincerity was feigned.

He prodded Malance gently, then a bit harder. “My Lord. Can you hear me? Oh my goodness, what has happened to the Emperor? Guards! Guards!

Summon the doctor. Quickly, you louts.”

Another guard rushed in. This one stood at full attention with his eyes straight ahead. “Sir,” he said. “There is no doctor. There has not been a doctor since the one … well … you know … ”

He was loath to say “escaped” because such a statement might cause him to lose his sword arm, or worse, for no one ever admitted that anyone had escaped from the fortress in Ghasten.

“Of course, you jackass. Who do we have in the way of a healer?”

“I’m not sure, Sir. I will go right now to check if you wish.”

“Yes. Do that. And be back here with a healer in fifteen minutes, or else.”

“Yes, Sir.” The guard took off running, his weaponry rattling loudly as he scrambled away.

“My Lord,” said Uncutus. “I have sent for help. Hang on. Help is coming. My Lord, can you hear me?”

When the emperor did not respond, Uncutus slinked from the room like the slippery eel that he was and crossed the hall to a doorway that had been left open a crack. He quietly opened it the rest of the way, slowly closing it behind him. It was almost completely dark inside, the only light provided by a solitary burning candle. Another Troll, Furnier Gangra, waited in the shadows of the far corner. At first, hidden as Furnier was in the dimness of his hiding place, Uncutus didn’t see him. He muttered, “Why that rotten, lying … ”

Furnier slid out of hiding towards him. “Oh,” said Uncutus. You
are
here.”

“I am. Whom were you calling rotten and lying?”

“Oh, not
you
Furnier, certainly not you. Did you bring it?”

“Of course I brought it. Why else would I be risking my life to be here? Are you sure that now is the time?”

“I am. He was hallucinating badly only this minute. I could hear him babbling like a loon from out in the hallway as I approached his room. I got rid of all of the guards. So far the tonic has been working. Everyone of importance has seen him as sick as the dog that he is. When the final act is done, no one will suspect a thing. They will think the sickness that has been plaguing him was finally, well, fatal.