The Sword and the Sorcerer (14 page)

Talon and Rodrigo pushed their way back through the running rebels, determined to somehow stem the tide of rats rushing toward them.

“Go on!” Talon pushed the young leader in the direction of his disappearing men. He tapped the cask of oil under his arm. “I’ll slow the bastards down!” He began to create a pool of oil across the floor of the sweating tunnel.

“I’ll stay too!” Rodrigo insisted. Then he heard the final screams of Kabal and Cornelius and his blood turned cold. He decided to take the young giant’s advice and ran to join his men.

Talon was about to set the oil aflame when a huge drop of underground moisture from above him fell into the flaming torch, snuffing it out.

“Rotten bastard luck!” Talon howled, tossing the dead torch through the sudden blackness to the rats, who were still swirling atop the remains of the boy and the old man, the reddish glow from Cornelius’ torch illuminating the grisly scene. Talon had only one hope: to race to Cornelius’ torch, snatch it and get back to the pool of oil before the rats turned on him. And since the torch was no more than twenty feet from the rats he knew he needed luck as much as he needed speed and courage.

He sprinted to the torch, whisked it off the ground and started back just as the feasting rodents finished devouring the last morsel. They now attacked him. Talon used the torch like a swinging sword to repel the first wave of rats, kicking, scorching and stomping to death the dozen rats who got through. The delay gave him time to fling the torch into the pool of oil and run after it, just as the oil exploded into a wall of raging fire, effectively sealing off the rats from the rest of the tunnel and the rebels somewhere on the other side of the fiery impasse.

But by having accomplished this Talon also trapped himself between the fire and the rats now biting at his heels and running up his legs. He had no recourse but to leap through the conflagration, landing and rolling on the ground with several rats still clinging to his cloak and tunic. He rolled frantically on the slimy floor to snuff out the flames that had caught on his clothes while he beat off and used his feet and steeled hand to crush the rats who had survived the fire with him. From the other side of the flames he could hear the rats crawling all over each other in a squeaking frenzy of rage for having lost another meal.

Only slightly seared and bruised, Talon rose, kicked aside the dead rats and tried to see through the roaring sheets of flames to where he knew the skeletons of Kabal and Cornelius now lay.

“Goodbye, brave rebels,” Talon said aloud. “Sleep knowing my sword will avenge your death—just as it will avenge my father’s death, and my mother’s, brother’s and baby sister’s!”

Talon turned on his heels and ran to catch up with the young rebels, his ears still ringing with the wild squeaks of rats gone berserk.

But as he tore through one tunnel and then down another, he realized he must have taken a wrong turn, for there was no sign of them anywhere.

FOURTEEN

fter several tunneling hours underground, when Talon pushed open the sewer door the sudden burst of silvery moonlight hurt his eyes. But after they got accustomed to the luminosity he slid out of the tunnel and crawled on his stomach the short distance to the stream running into the castle’s moat.

Before merging into the water, he lifted his head just high enough to peer across the moat to the huge iron door leading to the castle dungeons. Everything was thus far exactly as Rodrigo had described it. What he left out, perhaps because he himself did not know—and, by the way, where were Rodrigo and his men?—what he had not mentioned was what looked like a seven-foot, five-hundred-pound sentry outside the dungeon entrance. The moonlight sharply defined every bulging muscle of his enormous naked arms and massive naked legs. Cromwell’s insignia on the giant’s black metal breastplate and yellow plumed helmet signified that he was one of the king’s Royal Guards. The spear he held at his side was puny compared to his formidable stature. It would take more cunning than ordinary human strength to chop down that huge tree of a man.

Talon slipped into the icy stream—its coldness soothing his blistered skin—and flowed with the stream into the moat, where he swam underwater to the castle side.

When his head bobbed out of the water he gripped the grassy edge of the moat and pondered how to scale and conquer that mountain of muscle guarding the dungeon entrance. The giant stood about fifty yards from where Talon still tread water. It was open terrain on either side of him. There was no way of climbing the embankment unseen and surprising the guard. In the brightness of the night he’d be perceived the moment he emerged from the water.

A soft furry creature, a skunk or a possum, shot across Talon’s vision, distracting him from his plight for a second. Talon smiled. Thank you, little creature, Talon thought. The animal gave him an idea. What did possums do when they wished to trick an enemy? Play dead.

Talon pushed away from the embankment. When he reached the middle of the fifty-foot-wide moat, he closed his eyes, turned on his back and let the current from the stream flowing into the moat carry him toward the giant. Talon figured it should take no more than a minute before the formidable sentry noticed what Talon hoped he’d assume to be a dead body.

Eyes tightly closed, the first thing Talon heard was a loud grunt. Then the sound of mammoth legs wading into the muddy shallows of the moat. Talon struggled to keep his diaphragm perfectly still. Now he felt some sharp metal object hook into his cloak—probably the guard’s sword or spear—followed by the sensation of being pulled toward shore. Then the sentry’s hands grabbed his booted feet and pulled and dragged him up the embankment to the flat ground. He was still holding Talon by the feet when Talon suddenly jackknifed forward and flung his waterlogged cloak over the giant’s head and face, kicking himself free of the guard’s hands.

“Damn! What’s this!” the sentry shouted under Talon’s cloak, squirming to untangle himself from its soggy, voluminous folds. “Ahhhh!” he shrieked when Talon’s foot crashed into his testes, followed by a merciless volley of smashing fists to his hooded head. The giant doubled over in agony, vomiting all over himself. Talon seized the man’s helplessness to wrest his spear off the ground and plunged it clear through the sentry’s muscled back. He fell and hit the ground like a building collapsing.

Later, when Talon would reflect upon the moves he made to penetrate the dungeons after slaying the monstrous guard, they reminded him of a series of quick jumps on a chessboard.

Entering the maze of dungeon corridors from the outside, he was no sooner inside when he heard the rattle of armor on a Black Klaw making the rounds and coming towards him. Talon instantly blended with the shadows of a niche in the wall and marked that the sentry was about his same height and build. As the Klaw lazily walked by him, his life was cut short by Talon’s rocklike arm shooting about his neck and choking him to death.

Minutes later, after disposing of the body in a boiling vat of tar, now dressed in the mail shirt, cloak and helmet of the Black Klaw, Talon continued looking for the dungeon that housed Mikah.

Once again the clink of heavy metal warned Talon of the approach of another sentry. He darted inside a dark but open storeroom and saw, his heart leaping, the sinuous vision of Alana being led by one more Black Klaw. The direction they were moving would take them right past him. She was still in the tattered cloak she wore in the tavern. Talon knew that under it her breasts were still bare. In spite of these grim circumstances a rush of lust went through him at the prospect of one day seeing again and perhaps nuzzling those breasts.

“Where are you taking me?” she dolefully asked, as they marched by Talon.

“Upstairs, sweetmeat,” the sentry replied, chuckling coarsely. “The king, I hear, is thinking of making you his bride!”

Alana gasped and cried, “No!” She stopped walking but the Klaw roughly grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her along.

“That’s one way of quelling the revolt, isn’t it? Marry the leader’s sister!” He broke into riotous laughter.

They were now out of Talon’s sight but she must have stopped again for he heard the guard urge, “Come on, my queen-to-be. The slave girls have to wash and perfume that pretty body of yours for the king.”

Talon remained a few more minutes in the storeroom breathing heavily, raging. His first impulse when he heard of Cromwell’s plans for Alana was to run his sword through the sentry and abscond with her into the night. But that would have left Mikah to certain death. For the time being he had to subordinate his personal feelings for Alana to the cause and free her brother first. As for Cromwell making Alana his wife—that would happen when pigs would fly!

Talon shot out of the storeroom and resumed searching for his childhood friend. He was either in one of the cell blocks or on the rack in the torture chamber.

Talon soon found himself facing a large iron door with an open portal. He peered through and saw a long gray cell block. Sitting at a small table next to the door were three sentries engrossed in a game of dice. Mugs and a big flask of wine were on the table and, judging from their flushed faces and their laughter, they looked as if they had imbibed plenty of it. Talon tilted his helmet low on his forehead to partially conceal his features and knocked on the door, his free hand gripping the hilt of the Klaw’s sword.

“Shit!” one of the guards exclaimed, vexed by the interruption.

Talon watched the same guard reluctantly rise and glance indifferently through the portal, more of his attention still on the game than the visitor. Clearly he was just another Black Klaw to the guard.

“What is it?”

“I’ve another prisoner for you.”

“Well, hurry up, man. We’ve got a hot game going.”

The moment he threw the bolt back Talon hurled his full weight against the door, sending it flying inward to smash the guard’s face, and throwing him against the others. The suddenness and forcefulness of the action sprawled all three of the men on the floor. Before they had the chance to regain their senses, Talon used the heavy hilt of his sword like a club on each man’s head, knocking all of them unconscious. He wrested the large ring of keys from the belt of the guard who had unbolted the door, moved into the corridor running between the cells and hurriedly glanced through the portal of each one in search of Mikah.

“Wait!” A familiar voice cried out from one of the cells. “Friend! Warrior! It’s me—Rodrigo!”

Talon looked over his shoulder and saw the lean, ecstatic face of the young rebel leader pressed up against a portal. He smiled, moving to the cell. “What the devil are you doing in there?” Behind Rodrigo he saw the rest of the rebels from Skull Cave. They were forced to huddle together because of the smallness of the cell but they were as glad as Rodrigo was to see him.

“We were caught as we exited the sewers,” Rodrigo breathlessly explained, anxious for Talon to find the right key to the cell. “They intend to crucify us during tonight’s feast.”

“I should let them,” Talon teased. “It would teach you a lesson for being so clumsy—and for losing me in the sewers.”

Talon found the right key, turned the lock and the big clangorous door sprung open. The rebels burst from the cell like water from a breaking dam. The men milled about in the corridor stretching and rubbing their cramped arms and legs. Talon looked down the long row of cells in which the prisoners, now that the rebels were free, clamored for release too.

“Which of the cells holds Mikah?” he asked Rodrigo.

“None, friend. He was taken to the torture chamber. Poor Mikah, after Verdugo gets done with him—he’s the Royal Torturer—Mikah may not be alive.”

Talon flinched. Pray that were not true! He handed Rodrigo the keys. “Here. Free the others.”

Suddenly overcome with weariness from the ordeals he had lived through during the last twenty-four hours, Talon slumped back against the open cell door and watched the squad leader run from cell to cell opening doors. And as he watched the pathetic wretches stagger and limp out of the cells, many of them diseased and emaciated from neglect and lack of food, one part of Talon’s mind plotted his next course of action.

In spite of their rundown condition, now that the war and political prisoners were free they experienced a renewal of energy and hope. They flocked around Talon, their benefactor, and inundated him with gratitude and praise. Some of the older and more wasted men even dropped to their knees in front of him and wept. Such an outpouring of affection was too much for Talon to take comfortably.

“Up, for God’s sake! You’re not animals to grovel! Up, I say!”

Rodrigo was amused by Talon’s embarrassment.

Obeying the handsome young warrior who had rescued them, the half-dozen men who had prostrated themselves at his feet now rose. Then a stoop-shouldered, sixtyish old man with flowing white hair and a long beard shouldered his way through the press to Talon. The respect with which the others parted for him revealed that he was either an advisor or spokesman for the prisoners. “We thank you, sir,” he said, in a soft, cultured voice.