Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (44 page)

Standing in the shadows of an alley, he watched the guards pacing their stretch of the ramparts in pairs, disappearing and reappearing as they passed behind crenellations. One pair stood leaning against the wall visiting. Their superior would give them the rough side of his tongue if he bothered to make inspections. Four guards stood on the flat top of the gatehouse. One poor fellow had forgotten his gloves, constantly blowing hot air into his cupped hands and rubbing them together. Six more soldiers were holed up in the gatehouse, taking turns stepping out in the cold to inspect anyone coming through the gates.

Not much different from Whitewater’s Forge. A thousand leagues away. He ignored the pang of homesickness and joined Max and the twins further back in the alley.

“So what’s the plan?” Garen asked. “We just going to walk up and ask for Jerrod?”

Max raised an eyebrow.

“A good swordsman knows when to keep his blade sheathed,” Dalan said.

“And his mouth shut,” Darela added.

Garen glared at them.

Darela laughed and slapped him on the back. “You learn quickly. You might make a good swordsman yet.”

“There’s a secret passage underground,” Max said. “Problem is it can only be opened from the inside.”

“What good is a backdoor we can’t open?”

“It was meant for escape, not entrance,” Max said, patience waning.

Garen pushed his frustration down and moderated his voice. “Can you turn us invisible like you did the Sword?”

“I wish it were that easy,” Max replied as a horse-drawn wagon full of hay lumbered past their alley, the mule’s shoes echoing loudly in the night air as they struck the paving stones. “Shrouding us in a spell of illusion is only good till someone bumps you, or you make a sound or do any number of things that alerts a guard to your presence. Once the guard’s alerted the illusion will be broken.”

“So we’ll be extra careful,” Garen said.

“Careful doesn’t hide footprints appearing by themselves in the snow,” Max replied.

Shouts from down the street ended their conversation. Max and Garen walked to the mouth of the alley and peeked around the corner.

“I’m tellin ya, Mo,” a sentry on the gatehouse roof was calling down, “nobody’s driving the wagon.”

Three guards stepped out of the gatehouse.

“Bloody codger is passed out,” the rooftop sentry continued in his booming voice.

One guard took hold of the mule’s halter, stopping the wagon. “Mule just did what he knows,” he commented to the sentry looking down at him.

“Told you, Mo. Smarter beast than his master, I say,” the sentry replied, satisfied with himself.

The guard named Mo nodded to his companions. Drawing their swords, they stabbed the hay several times. Satisfied nothing ill was hidden underneath the straw, the slimmer of the two guard’s flourished his sword, the blade becoming a blur as he spun it, before slamming it into his scabbard. His partner made a snide comment which caused Mo to roar with laughter. The slimmer guard made a rude hand gesture to both of them and stormed back into the gatehouse.

Garen’s skin prickled, his hair standing on end, as he watched Mo lead the mule and wagon deeper into the fortress. At least he hadn’t suggested hiding in the back of a wagon out loud. “So, what do you plan to do?” he asked.

Max watched the soldiers step back into the gatehouse and continued looking at the empty gates.

The long pause made Garen nervous. The smile that crept on the wizard’s face made him sweat.

“Garen, my boy, I have the perfect job for you.”

C
HAPTER
49

The Keep at Mistenthar

Shifting in his saddle, Garen tried to make the itch between his shoulders go away. Plenty of people were out bustling around, attending to chores as the first rays of sunshine kissed the city, but he felt like all eyes were on him, like they knew he did not belong.

“Quit fidgeting,” Max said.

“Easy for you to say,” Garen replied, “you just have to stand there and pretend to be a family servant.”

“Just be yourself. You’re a soldier after...” Max stopped in his tracks.

Garen reigned his horse in. “What is it?”

Max looked intently at the castle gates. “Something’s wrong.”

A small throng of people already waited in line at the gates where several guards inspected everything from saddlebags to carts laden down with supplies. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

“Ha! I’m not the only one jumpy after all,” Garen said.

“I think there may be a stripling at the gates,” Max replied.

A rush of nerves swept through Garen, prickling his skin. Supposedly, striplings could only harm magichae, but he had no desire to test that notion.

“I thought you couldn’t sense striplings.”

“I can’t,” Max said. “Call it a gut feeling. Something’s wrong at those gates. I should’ve considered it sooner. This would be a key place to have a few.”

“So we’ll find another plan,” Garen said, happy to scrap Max’s latest insanity.

“Boots,” Max blurted, looking at Garen’s worn boots.

“What about ‘em?” Garen replied, looking down, expecting to find a hole he was unaware of.

In a louder voice Max exclaimed, “Master, you simply must have a new pair of boots. Told you several times I have in the past month and now here you are at a new post with such worn boots.”

Garen thought Max had lost his mind, till he noticed the two castle guards walking past, golden light reflecting off their polished breastplates.

Max lowered his voice. “Sorry, my boy, you’re on your own. Stick to the plan.” Turning his horse, he darted away before Garen could object.

Garen fumed, trying to figure out how he was supposed to pull off Max’s plan without the crazy wizard. Noticing his rank and his mood, the throng of people at the gate parted and let him go ahead of them. A guard held up a hand, halting him just under the portcullis.

“State your business,” the man droned in a monotone voice, clearly tired of his duties.

Garen handed the man a letter. “Transfer from Dalarhan.”

Was his voice authoritative enough? Surely this man could see right through him. Stupid wizard, getting him into this mess.

The letter was the first part of Max’s harebrained scheme. According to the letter he was a captain reassigned from Dalarhan, complete with Aleister Cain’s signature thanks to a writ of funds he found in Falon’s pack. If the magic thing ever stopped working for Max he could make a living as a forger.

The guard perused the letter with disinterest until his eyes fell on the signature. “Welcome to Mistenthar,” he said with far more enthusiasm than he had previously. “Honored to have yeh, sir.”

A small man stepped up next to the guard and pulled the letter from his hand. Mousy, with well-trimmed brown hair, Garen might have dismissed him if the much larger guard hadn’t flinched. Despite his stature, he possessed a hardened, almost feral look to him.

“Your companion rushed away rather quickly,” the newcomer said, not bothering to look at Garen as he inspected the fake orders.

Garen looked down at the man with his best impersonation of his father. “A good servant hurries when sent on errands.”

“Errands couldn’t wait till he had his master settled in?”

“I can manage for myself. What I don’t have time for is acquiring a new pair of boots.”

The man gave Garen’s boot a disdainful glance then went back to inspecting the letter. “Yes, yours have seen many travels. Walk all the way here before taking the saddle?”

“I hate breaking in new boots. To a fault, perhaps.”

The man looked at him over the edge of the parchment, those feral eyes inspecting him as intently as they had the letter. “Indeed.”

A long pause ensued, the mousy man seeming to wait for Garen to somehow give himself away. The guard looked between them nervously.

“Your orders look to be proper,” the man finally said, folding the letter and handing it back to Garen. “Stable your horse and find the Master of Arms. Your manservant can settle your things when he returns.”

With his best impersonation of Stren, Garen gave the man a curt nod and pulled the parchment from the man’s hands. Riding on he felt the man’s eyes on him till he turned into the stables. Max had been right. That man was a stripling. Garen would bet his sword on it.

“Take your horse, sir?” a young stable boy asked as Garen dismounted.

“Yes,” Garen replied. “Where can I find the Master at Arms?”

“The armory is next to the great hall, sir.”

Garen strode through the narrow servant’s hallway leading from the stables. The layout of any fortress was not difficult to learn. Great halls, kitchens, and armories tended to be in logical places, but a private library could be anywhere.

Through the night, Max had educated him on the layout of the fortress. His instructions had been so good Garen almost felt like he had been in the fortress before. The west wing was devoted to the wizard’s keep so he stuck to the servants hallways, bypassing the great hall and kitchens. He startled a servant when he stepped into the main hallway of the west wing. When asked where the wizard’s library was located, the fellow pointed to a wood door further down the hallway.

Garen was pleased to find the library empty. Most people were still breaking fast at this hour. He slipped past row after row of bookshelves and found the door Max had described. Shelves from floor to ceiling lined the walls of the small study. Garen maneuvered around the desk that claimed the center of the room and found the section of bookshelf Max had described. Removing several books, he inspected the wall for a small square stone. His heart jumped when he pushed it and something clicked. The section of shelf on his right moved slightly. He pushed on the section and it opened, revealing a dark passageway just wide enough for him to walk down without rubbing his shoulders.

He took a lamp off the table and proceeded down the secret passage. Before long he reached another stone wall with a large handle in it. He gave the handle a heave but the rusty latch refused to budge. Setting the lamp down, he pulled with both hands, a strained grunt escaping his lungs.

“Typical,” he growled.

Then he looked at the oil lamp and a grin spread across his face. He poured oil from the lamp onto the rusty latch and with a third heave it gave way. Pulling the door open, he found Max, Dalan, and Darela waiting for him.

“Excellent!” Max said with a smile.

Garen noticed Darela handing Dalan three silver coins with a sour look on his face. Those two would bet on when their mother would die.

“You were right,” Garen said as he followed Max back to the small study. “There was a stripling at the gates. Didn’t think he was going to let me in. The guards were afraid of him.”

“Sorry I had to bail on you, my boy,” Max replied over his shoulder. “I should have considered it beforehand.”

“Hey, what’s a little oversight when you’re planning to sneak into a fortress, rescue someone from the dungeons and steal some magic thing,” Garen commented sardonically.

Dalan cuffed him on the back of the head and Max chuckled as they emerged from the secret passageway. Opening the study door, Max paused and scanned the library for any people.

“I suspect when we find Jerrod he will lead us to the amulet,” Max said.

“Why do you make everything sound easier than it really is?” Garen groaned.

They exited the library and headed down the hallway. Garen wished he could find some amount of solace in the hallway being empty, but he felt like his head was on the block and the axeman’s blade was rising above him.

“You four! Stop where you are!” a booming voice rang down the hall behind them.

Instinct replaced thought and three shurikens flew from three different hands as they turned to face the newcomer. The man dropped to the ground clutching at his throat.

“Nice throw,” Garen said to Dalan.

The Seran Tu’ slammed him into the nearby alcove an instant before a fireball seared the air where he had stood.

“Thanks,” Garen mumbled.

Dalan smiled. “Perhaps we will manage to keep you alive long enough to spot danger for yourself.”

Garen’s retort was lost when another fireball hit the corner of the alcove, showering them with stone debris and embers. Another fireball hit the wall across the hallway, in front of the alcove where Max and Darela had taken cover.

Garen peeked around the corner, spying the warlock as he formed another ball of bluish fire in his hand.

“This is not what I signed up for!” Garen yelled as the fireball exploded just above his head.

“Feel free to leave,” Max shot back. He jerked his head in the direction of the warlock. “The way out is that way.”

Garen glared at Max. “Of course it is!”

Another fireball blasted a hole in the corner of the alcove inches from Garen’s head. He threw up his arm shielding his face as chunks of stone pelted him. “Is it me or is the plan not working out?”

Max gave him an annoyed look then stepped out from cover. The warlock released a volley of fireballs. Max raised his hands and closed his eyes.

Garen thought Max had lost his mind, standing there without any defenses, but the fireballs dissipated mere feet from the wizard.

Max opened his eyes, a smirk appearing on his face. “Can’t have fire without air,” he said to the warlock.

The warlock’s face contorted from shock to rage and he drew both hands together, forming a larger ball of bluish flame. “Extinguish this,” he said.

Max made a stabbing motion and the warlock’s throat erupted in bright, red blood. The ball of flame dissipated as the warlock slumped to the ground, a shard of solidified Air, opaque and blurry, protruding from his throat.

“Let’s find Jerrod,” Max said, heading down the hallway, “before the whole fortress comes crashing down on us.”

Garen fell in behind him. “How long do we have?”

“Considering the commotion we’ve already made, five minutes, maybe a few more. Servants are probably reporting to the master at arms now.”

“So where are the dungeons? How are we supposed to find him and get back out that quickly?”