Ruins of Camelot (38 page)

Gabriella took Brom's sword.  It was larger than her own, and weighted differently.  She hefted it, spun and swept it experimentally, and determined that she would be able to use it when the time came.  Just as she was about to set off towards the citadel, however, a subtle noise fluttered overhead.  She glanced up and was surprised to see Featherbolt swooping gently out of the dark.  He was carrying something in his talons, and its weight seemed to be nearly too much for him to bear.  He landed awkwardly atop the object as it struck the ground.

"My pack," Gabriella whispered, kneeling before it.  "Featherbolt, you amaze me.  Thank you."

She had nearly forgotten about her pack.  In truth, there was virtually nothing in it any more, save for one or two things.  She opened the knot and reached inside, felt the dense weight of Darrick's wrapped candle, and nodded.

"You are a better friend than you know, Featherbolt," she whispered softly, slinging the pack over her shoulder.  "You do not need to accompany me from here.  Fly, my friend.  Return to your home with the magical folk.  I cannot vouch for your safety any longer."

The falcon cocked his head, turning one bright eye on her.  He hopped forwards nimbly and let out a faint, unlikely twitter.

"Go," Gabriella insisted quietly.  "You have done more already than I could have hoped.  If it is possible, tell your masters what has transpired.  Do not let our tale go untold.  Do you understand?"

Featherbolt shook himself, clicked his beak, and ruffled his feathers.  Whatever he was trying to say, however, it was lost on her.  Hopefully, his magical friends spoke falcon better than she did.  A moment later, the bird clapped his wings and launched into the air.  The buffet of his passage ruffled Gabriella's hair as she watched him loft overhead.  Within a few seconds, he was merely a dark shape against the night sky.

After that, he was gone completely.

Gabriella sighed, and the sigh turned into a shudder.  She had not realised how much she had missed Featherbolt's company until he had returned to her.  In truth, she would have liked for him to stay with her for the remainder, but she could not abuse the falcon's loyalty that way.  It was one thing to risk herself by invading Merodach's lair.  She would not make that choice for anyone or anything else.

She gripped her new sword, drew a deep breath, and dodged into the nearby shadows.  Quietly and carefully, she began to make her way towards the citadel.

She expected to be accosted at nearly every turn, but the camp was eerily quiet and almost totally dark.  She passed the glowing guts of several cook fires, their embers strewn messily and popping with grease, but there were no lanterns or torches.  Voices muttered in some tents, grating snores emanated from others, but she saw no sentries.  Whatever the truth about the viciousness of Merodach's armies in battle, this one, at least, did not seem to be concerned with being attacked in its own camp.

As Gabriella darted along a main pathway, she wondered how many of the tents were occupied by creatures such as Brom—dead but somehow alive, consuming putrescence to maintain their own putrid flesh.  Perhaps most were still human, but not all.  How was such a thing even possible?  What sort of black enchantments was Merodach dabbling in that he could employ such horrors?

Perhaps she would find out.  Or perhaps not.  All that mattered was that she face the monster and that he taste her sword.  She was terrified to do it, now more than ever, but she refused to give in to her terror.  There had been enough of that already.  Perhaps (she hoped) she was like David in the scriptures, who had faced the giant Goliath when all the others had refused.  The difference, she realised with a sense of sinking dismay, was that David had placed his trust in God for victory.  Gabriella had had enough of trusting in God.  For good or ill, victory or defeat, she was taking matters, finally and firmly, into her own hand.

The citadel loomed over the tents, a hulking black tower, its top serrated with crenulations.  Unlike the rest of the camp, lights burnt within the citadel.  The arrow slits glowed and flickered against the inky darkness.  Gabriella stole through the shadows, aiming for the left side of the tower.  There, a large, dark door stood, flanked by two guards.  She skirted this, keeping to the shadows and eventually sidling up against the citadel wall some twenty paces away from the guards.  She dropped to an alert crouch in the weeds, considering her options.

The guards were very tall, wearing rusty but heavy amour and carrying nine-foot battle-axes.  Even from her vantage point, Gabriella whiffed the stench of the men.  They were like Brom, dead yet walking, haunted by the unspeakable.

Could she kill them both?  It seemed a ridiculous fantasy.  Blades neither killed nor slowed down such monsters.  Granted, she had managed to kill Brom with a stake, but that had been a stroke of enormous luck.  She had bypassed his armour by attacking from above, driving the point straight down into his heart.  It was highly unlikely that she would be able to duplicate such an act, especially on two of the hulking creatures at once.  Even if she managed to kill one of the guards and succeed in gaining entry, the second guard would give chase and would likely alert reinforcements.  If that happened, her chances of confronting Merodach alone would be greatly diminished.  It was absolutely essential that she maintain the element of surprise.

She frowned pensively as she watched the guards.  Neither moved in the slightest.  They looked like nothing more than oversized statues sculpted from human flesh and bone.  How could she possibly defeat such huge, beastly things?

In her mind, the memory of Darrick spoke:
You're small, Bree, so you're quick
…  She blinked, remembering.  It had been the day of the battle practical.  He had been giving her advice on how to defeat Goethe. 
He'll squash you if he gets a chance, but you can make sure that chance never comes if you're wary.

… If you're wary.

An idea occurred to her.  It was, on the surface of it, so preposterous, so utterly unthinkable, that she very nearly rejected it instantly.  The reason she did not, however, was because it also seemed teasingly plausible.  If indeed she was very quick and
very
wary.  She remained crouched in the weeds, her back to the cold stone of the citadel, and glanced aside at the guards.

They did not budge.  It was as if they were hibernating on their feet, simply waiting for something to approach, whereupon they would animate and respond accordingly.

Stealthily, quietly, Gabriella pushed herself upright, keeping her back against the wall but being careful not to let her armour scrape against the stone.  Keeping flat against the wall and holding her sword carefully before her at the ready, she began to edge towards the door.

The guards stood a pace forwards of the door, battle-axes leant against their shoulder plates.  They did not even seem to be breathing.  Gabriella could see their faces in profile.  They were huge, jowly, their beards forming brambles on their chests.  Their eyes shined dully in the night, unblinking.  She crept on, trying not to breathe, lifting her feet carefully so as not to disturb any of the loose stones that ranged around the tower.  Amazingly, she began to near the door, sidling behind the guards, pressing back into the shadows of the citadel.

She moved into the range of their stench.  If she could smell them, she realised, then there was a good chance that they could smell her as well, no matter how quick and quiet she was.  She held her breath as she inched around the edge of the door.  The nearest guard was barely an arm’s length away.  His broad back loomed over her in the darkness.

Collecting her sword into her right fist, she reached back and pressed her left hand to the iron handle of the door.  It was latched of course.  She felt for it and found the thumb bolt.  Gently, she began to exert pressure on it.  It resisted.  And then, with a soft click, it depressed.  The door budged slightly open behind her.

"What was that?"

Gabriella froze, her eyes wide, petrified.  One of the guards had spoken, his voice a low, grating growl.  The other one stirred slightly.

"I smell something," he muttered, and sniffed the night air harshly, like a dog.  "Blood.  Sweat."  He paused, then added, "Fear."

Both guards were silent for a long, awful moment.  Finally, the first guard spoke again.

"Perhaps it is a wounded beast.  Check the wood."

The second guard nodded.  With a jerk and a rattle of armour, he stepped away from the door, hefting his axe.  He paced slowly towards a range of trees that ran along the nearest edge of the tower.

Slowly, still holding her breath, Gabriella pushed herself back against the wooden door, silently begging the hinges not to creak.  The door began to press open behind her.  Warm air wafted out through the crack, lifting the hair from her brow.  The guard sniffed again, growing agitated.  He began to look around.

Gabriella pushed harder against the door, knowing her time was nearly up.  Finally, swiftly, she slipped through the crack into the warmth and light of the citadel's main entry and caught the door as it began to swing back.  Gently but quickly, she eased it shut, leaving it unlatched.

With a deep shudder, she exhaled and closed her eyes.  She could scarcely believe that her plan had succeeded, and yet she was inside the citadel, standing in the torch-lit corridor of its main entry.  A curving staircase dominated the end of the corridor, ascending into darkness, waiting for her.  She leant back against the wall next to the door, weak with relief.

The door rammed open in front of her, very nearly striking her.  Cold air coursed into the chamber, buffeting the flames in their wall sconces.  Gabriella's eyes flew open as the shadow of the door fell over her.  Fortunately, she had leant against the wall nearest the door's hinges.  Had she been on the other side, she would have been spotted immediately.

She saw the guard's fingers clutch the edge of the door, holding it open.  There was a shuffle of feet as he edged inside.

Gabriella gripped her sword and bit her lips, watching, waiting for the guard to enter fully and close the door, revealing her behind it.  She would have to take her chances fighting him if that happened.  Quickly, she calculated where the best place to strike would be and determined she would have to take the guard's head off.  The beastly man might survive even that drastic a blow, but he would at least be debilitated and possibly blinded.  She swallowed and tensed her muscles in preparation.

The guard did not fully enter, however.  He stood on the other side of the open door, breathing de
ep, grating breath
s, tasting the air.  Finally, with a soft grunt, his fingers released the edge of the door.  Gabriella heard him step back outside, and the door swung shut with a rattling clunk.

She swayed on her feet, her sword still clutched before her, staring at the heavy wood of the door.  With an effort, she forced herself to relax.  The sooner she got herself away from the door and into the upper reaches of the citadel proper, the better.

Trembling faintly, nearly sick with adrenaline, Gabriella crept down the corridor, heading for the dark staircase.