Seeds of Rebellion
Page 43
“Could this be a trap?” Aram asked.
“We’re being hunted,” Ferrin said. “Our enemies could have anticipated this destination, particularly if the lurker is still aiding them.”
“I haven’t noticed the lurker,” Jason said.
“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been watching,” Ferrin said. “No spy is more stealthy. Then again, it had you in an excellent trap back at the ferry. It might have assumed victory and departed.”
Ever since sunrise, Ferrin had led them across lonely terrain, passing monstrous oklinder bushes and groves of tall, slender trees. They had glimpsed no other people, friend or foe. Ferrin had allowed only a few short breaks to rest and eat some of the greasy clam fritters prepared by Moira. Aram had acted a little sulky all day, but at sundown his attitude had improved with the return of his intimidating size.
“Do we go in?” Jason asked. They had been watching for several minutes.
Ferrin gave a nod. “I have a plan. If this proves to be an ambush, Aram will kill everyone. And their horses.”
“I love strategy,” the big man replied.
“Where does the Blind King sleep?” Ferrin asked.
“At the top of the tower,” Jason said.
Ferrin stared, as if trying to visually penetrate the castle walls. “If this is an ambush, it’s masterful. I haven’t seen a sentry. I haven’t glimpsed a flame or smelled any smoke. I haven’t heard a horse so much as snort.”
“No coughs,” Aram added. “No conversation. No footfalls.”
“Let’s have a look,” Ferrin said. “Stay ready to run.”
The trio slunk forward to a place where the wall had crumbled inward. After listening for a moment, Ferrin gestured for Aram and Jason to wait. Flitting from shadow to shadow, he explored the courtyard, passing out of view. After a few minutes, he returned and waved them in.
Jason and Aram caught up to Ferrin beside a mossy stone block. The displacer was examining a dented helmet. “This belonged to a conscriptor. It hasn’t been here long.”
Rubble from the fallen tower was strewn across the moonlit courtyard. Several wide, shallow depressions cratered the yard. Moving cautiously, Ferrin squatted beside a blackened pit and sniffed. “Orantium,” he murmured. “The explosion was recent.”
Jason felt deflated. This was starting to look really bad for the Blind King. He tried to detach from his emotions, but could not help quietly despairing.
Picking their way through the jumbled stones and timbers left by the toppled tower, Ferrin paused to indicate a dusty arm protruding from the rubble. Farther along, near the gates of the great hall adjoining the only remaining tower, they found a corpse pierced by arrows.
Jason recognized her. “She served the Blind King. She was part of the crazy group making up stories in the throne room.” Despite the rising nausea, he kept his voice steady.
“Imperial troops only leave enemy corpses behind as a mark of disdain,” Ferrin said. “They want the populace to view Fortaim as a monument of shame. I’m afraid the castle is vacant. The troops appear to have moved on.”
“Shouldn’t we check his room?” Jason asked. “He might have left a message.”
“We’ve come this far,” Ferrin said.
The door to the largest, most intact building hung askew on twisted hinges. Inside the great hall, they found the shabby throne overturned and the floor pitted from more orantium detonations. In a corner, Aram spotted a dead hound. Jason noticed dark smears of dried blood on the floor. A broken sword lay near the door granting access to the tower.
Mounting the winding stairs up the tower, they encountered a second cadaver on a landing. “He also served the Blind King,” Jason confirmed, examining the mustached face, struggling to keep his emotions clinical.
At the top of the gloomy stairwell, the door had been forced open. Inside the room, a dark, spindly figure crouched on the windowsill, backlit by the moon.
“Who goes there?” Ferrin challenged, drawing his sword.
“I was here first,” the figure countered, twisting and coiling as if prepared to leap to his doom. “Who are you?”
“Travelers,” Ferrin said. “We seek the Blind King.”
“Poor timing,” the figure replied, voice anguished.
“What happened here?” Aram asked.
“Did a crow peck out your eyes?” the figure cackled. “There was a massacre.”
Jason resisted a vision of Galloran dead alongside the rest of his servants. Stepping around Ferrin, he stared hard at the lanky figure. “Your voice is familiar.”
“Jason?” the figure replied doubtfully, his posture changing. “Is that you?”
“Ned?” Jason gasped. “What are you doing here?”
Ned’s posture relaxed a degree. “I found him,” he said softly. “After all these years, I found him. But I may have lost him again.”
“We’re looking for him too,” Jason said.
Ned’s feet came down from the windowsill. He closed the shutters, then twisted a short length of seaweed, which began to emit a purplish glow.
By the violet light, Jason recognized the strange freckled man who had aided him and Rachel months ago in a seaside village. Then, he had worn a sack with holes cut for his arms and head. Now he wore a soiled shirt and trousers. He remained tall and gangly, with disheveled hair. A long knife hung from his belt, as did several pouches. He still wore a glove on one hand.
The luminescent seaweed also revealed a pale corpse on the floor: a wiry old man with a long ragged beard, lying supine. Jugard, from the sea cave.
Jason closed his eyes for a moment. When would this parade of familiar corpses end? Opening his eyes, Jason considered the body once more. It was unmistakably the wily old man from the sea cave.
“That light might be visible from below,” Ferrin hissed.
Ned muted the seaweed under his shirt, then glided sideways on the balls of his feet, moving in a slight crouch, as if ready to bolt. “All the windows are shuttered,” he replied. “They work, I’ve checked.”
Ferrin, flanked by Aram and Jason, came farther into the room.
“Why is Jugard here?” Jason asked.
“I was sent to fetch him from the sea cave.”
“By the Blind King?”
“Who else would I obey?”
“How’d he die?”
“He was a corpse when I found him in the sea cave,” Ned claimed. “It didn’t seem right to leave him there. He’d been stabbed in the back. A lot.”
“We’re being hunted,” Ferrin said. “Our enemies could have anticipated this destination, particularly if the lurker is still aiding them.”
“I haven’t noticed the lurker,” Jason said.
“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been watching,” Ferrin said. “No spy is more stealthy. Then again, it had you in an excellent trap back at the ferry. It might have assumed victory and departed.”
Ever since sunrise, Ferrin had led them across lonely terrain, passing monstrous oklinder bushes and groves of tall, slender trees. They had glimpsed no other people, friend or foe. Ferrin had allowed only a few short breaks to rest and eat some of the greasy clam fritters prepared by Moira. Aram had acted a little sulky all day, but at sundown his attitude had improved with the return of his intimidating size.
“Do we go in?” Jason asked. They had been watching for several minutes.
Ferrin gave a nod. “I have a plan. If this proves to be an ambush, Aram will kill everyone. And their horses.”
“I love strategy,” the big man replied.
“Where does the Blind King sleep?” Ferrin asked.
“At the top of the tower,” Jason said.
Ferrin stared, as if trying to visually penetrate the castle walls. “If this is an ambush, it’s masterful. I haven’t seen a sentry. I haven’t glimpsed a flame or smelled any smoke. I haven’t heard a horse so much as snort.”
“No coughs,” Aram added. “No conversation. No footfalls.”
“Let’s have a look,” Ferrin said. “Stay ready to run.”
The trio slunk forward to a place where the wall had crumbled inward. After listening for a moment, Ferrin gestured for Aram and Jason to wait. Flitting from shadow to shadow, he explored the courtyard, passing out of view. After a few minutes, he returned and waved them in.
Jason and Aram caught up to Ferrin beside a mossy stone block. The displacer was examining a dented helmet. “This belonged to a conscriptor. It hasn’t been here long.”
Rubble from the fallen tower was strewn across the moonlit courtyard. Several wide, shallow depressions cratered the yard. Moving cautiously, Ferrin squatted beside a blackened pit and sniffed. “Orantium,” he murmured. “The explosion was recent.”
Jason felt deflated. This was starting to look really bad for the Blind King. He tried to detach from his emotions, but could not help quietly despairing.
Picking their way through the jumbled stones and timbers left by the toppled tower, Ferrin paused to indicate a dusty arm protruding from the rubble. Farther along, near the gates of the great hall adjoining the only remaining tower, they found a corpse pierced by arrows.
Jason recognized her. “She served the Blind King. She was part of the crazy group making up stories in the throne room.” Despite the rising nausea, he kept his voice steady.
“Imperial troops only leave enemy corpses behind as a mark of disdain,” Ferrin said. “They want the populace to view Fortaim as a monument of shame. I’m afraid the castle is vacant. The troops appear to have moved on.”
“Shouldn’t we check his room?” Jason asked. “He might have left a message.”
“We’ve come this far,” Ferrin said.
The door to the largest, most intact building hung askew on twisted hinges. Inside the great hall, they found the shabby throne overturned and the floor pitted from more orantium detonations. In a corner, Aram spotted a dead hound. Jason noticed dark smears of dried blood on the floor. A broken sword lay near the door granting access to the tower.
Mounting the winding stairs up the tower, they encountered a second cadaver on a landing. “He also served the Blind King,” Jason confirmed, examining the mustached face, struggling to keep his emotions clinical.
At the top of the gloomy stairwell, the door had been forced open. Inside the room, a dark, spindly figure crouched on the windowsill, backlit by the moon.
“Who goes there?” Ferrin challenged, drawing his sword.
“I was here first,” the figure countered, twisting and coiling as if prepared to leap to his doom. “Who are you?”
“Travelers,” Ferrin said. “We seek the Blind King.”
“Poor timing,” the figure replied, voice anguished.
“What happened here?” Aram asked.
“Did a crow peck out your eyes?” the figure cackled. “There was a massacre.”
Jason resisted a vision of Galloran dead alongside the rest of his servants. Stepping around Ferrin, he stared hard at the lanky figure. “Your voice is familiar.”
“Jason?” the figure replied doubtfully, his posture changing. “Is that you?”
“Ned?” Jason gasped. “What are you doing here?”
Ned’s posture relaxed a degree. “I found him,” he said softly. “After all these years, I found him. But I may have lost him again.”
“We’re looking for him too,” Jason said.
Ned’s feet came down from the windowsill. He closed the shutters, then twisted a short length of seaweed, which began to emit a purplish glow.
By the violet light, Jason recognized the strange freckled man who had aided him and Rachel months ago in a seaside village. Then, he had worn a sack with holes cut for his arms and head. Now he wore a soiled shirt and trousers. He remained tall and gangly, with disheveled hair. A long knife hung from his belt, as did several pouches. He still wore a glove on one hand.
The luminescent seaweed also revealed a pale corpse on the floor: a wiry old man with a long ragged beard, lying supine. Jugard, from the sea cave.
Jason closed his eyes for a moment. When would this parade of familiar corpses end? Opening his eyes, Jason considered the body once more. It was unmistakably the wily old man from the sea cave.
“That light might be visible from below,” Ferrin hissed.
Ned muted the seaweed under his shirt, then glided sideways on the balls of his feet, moving in a slight crouch, as if ready to bolt. “All the windows are shuttered,” he replied. “They work, I’ve checked.”
Ferrin, flanked by Aram and Jason, came farther into the room.
“Why is Jugard here?” Jason asked.
“I was sent to fetch him from the sea cave.”
“By the Blind King?”
“Who else would I obey?”
“How’d he die?”
“He was a corpse when I found him in the sea cave,” Ned claimed. “It didn’t seem right to leave him there. He’d been stabbed in the back. A lot.”
