The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (27 page)

“Sometimes we must walk our own path, no matter how dark it may seem. Nothing you can say or do will change that, Carym,” the knight said as he stood by him. “We can only pray to Zuhr that he will find his own way, safely.”

Carym nodded somberly. He knew the knight was right. Deep inside he knew this had been brewing, he knew his friend was becoming dangerously unpredictable. Perhaps they would meet again.

“Carym, is there nothing more you can tell me about this?” Carym eyed the bard, grateful for the distraction.

“Aye. The Hunter of the Shadowfyr is Hessan, the Headless Rider.”

The bard said nothing for a moment. “Him, I have heard of. ‘Tis said he was beheaded for his dark crimes. But he was so dark and so evil he refused to die and now he roams the land seeking a new head.

“No fooling around on your part, eh Carym? When you’re being hunted, only the best will do!” It was clear that the bard was making an effort to lighten the mood. “It’s my business to weave tales, and to know when one is being weaved before my eyes. As for the Headless Rider, him I have seen with my own eyes, so I have!”

Carym wasn’t sure he believed it himself. But he
was
certain that he was being hunted, and whatever it was was a dark hunter indeed. “How is that?”

“That is a long tale best left for another time. No,” he said quickly, “I’m not dodging you. It
is
a long tale best left for another time. In any case I can tell you this,” Bart went on. “The Headless Rider once served as a Zuharim Paladin. He was cast out in disgrace, so he was, and soon thereafter allied himself with the Dark Paladin when that one threw his lot in with Umber. I do not doubt that Hessan is a willing servant of Umber now. Ready to take his revenge on those who take up with Zuhr. Hessan seeks revenge on any who serve Zuhr. It was Zuhr to whom Hessan’s master, the Dark Paladin, had turned for forgiveness in the final moments of life. It was the Dark Paladin’s rejection of Umber that caused his is Dark Legion to be defeated and captured, its survivors executed. Hessan was among those beheaded for his crimes, so he was.”

“So Hessan has allied himself with the Black Baron?” asked the knight.

“Not likely. The oroks and the hurkin who patrol the lands of the Baron were doing so to hunt the Baron’s minions, they were. That ghoul was one of the Black Baron’s minions, and it seems the oroks were part of Hessan’s own troops. ’Tis not the sign of a friendly alliance.”

“So you believe that Hessan’s presence is unwanted by the Black Baron. Why would the Black Baron not willingly aid Hessan?”

“Tyrannus ever served only one master...himself. No, I’ll wager Hessan had to muscle his way into this bloody land and he occupied the keep with the unholy power of Umber at his call, so he did. Unhappy, the Baron may be, stupid he is not. For himself the Baron operates; always.”

“So does the Black Baron think we are going to
help
him?” asked Carym, incredulous.

“Yes,” said Gennevera. “The dead are independent, manipulative, and proud to a fault. It fits that the Black Baron, learning all he needed to learn about us from Hessan, would want to use us to his advantage. After that, he will probably try to kill us.”

“So what do we do?”

“What we must,” answered Gennevera. “We must go to the castle. We must find a way to pit the forces of the Baron against Hessan, and break Hessan’s hold over him, freeing him to fight Hessan for us.”

“What if that happens and the Baron
is
set free? What will happen to the Baron?” asked Carym, not liking the idea of freedom for the undead scoundrel.

“He could pass on to the other side lifting his curse from the land with his departure. Or...”

“Or?” prompted Carym.

“Or he may be free to terrorize the lands beyond his own,” she whispered.

Carym shook his head as the buzzing suddenly flared to life around the camp, vicious looking oroks materializing all around them, shouting and rattling weapons at them. This time, the oroks did not flee.

“It seems that our friends desire us to move on,” said Ederick over the noise. Carym nodded and the group quickly picked up their packs,
no rest for the weary.
The oroks edged their way closer than ever, nearly prodding them with spears, urging them out of the wood and onto the road. Once there, the group of oroks in the wood vanished. Then very slowly, a fog lowered onto the road behind them, the direction in which Zach had fled. As the fog settled it swirled and twisted and then was gone.

What was left behind from the fog was an army of ghostly warriors. Thousands. Skeletons, mostly, flesh hanging from bones and armor dangling in pieces, sightless eyes staring vacantly.

“Whoa!” whispered Bart. “What are
they
doing here?” The warriors did nothing, simply stood there blocking the road in that direction.

“I’d say that they want us to go the other way,” said Ederick, wryly.

“Aye,” agreed Carym. “What then?” With no answer forthcoming Carym signaled for the group to move out in the opposite direction. As they left, the skeletal warriors vanished into the fog only to return each time the group stopped for a rest or to scout ahead.

Finally the group passed out of the wilderness, the significance emphasized by an arch of broken stones heralding an open plain. The moon was high in the sky now and bright, its light reflecting brightly in the snowy landscape. It truly seemed as though the companions had left the Isle of Ckaymru and entered an alien land. The companions could see the road winding its way toward a lonely hill on the flat terrain topped by an imposing sight; the castle of Baron Tyrannus. The Black Keep.

The castle stood bathed the silvery light of the moon, its many towers jutting up from the battlements like fingers reaching for the sky. The fearsome sight gave the companions pause, but they were immediately prodded into action by the presence of the skeletal army.

The dark castle grew larger as the group made their way closer and closer. The fog began to lift and the silver light of the moon revealed much of why the legends had said this had been such an evil place. Large spikes had been placed at regular intervals along the roadway. At the base of each gigantic spike was the body of an unfortunate soul who had been impaled there. The bodies appeared to be of various races and were in various states of decay. Indeed, some appeared to have been there for many, many years while the smell of others revealed their more recent torture.

Gennevera began to weep softly at the horrible sight. Growing up in Grymm’s convent, Gennevera had failed to learn the power that emotion can give or take away. Some of the victims had clearly been children, some impaled alongside adults, others alone. She wept for the children, for their lost innocence; for her own lost childhood. Carym wanted to go to her, but he could not. Each of the group had a responsibility and she was prepared to do her part with the cudgel she’d fashioned from the dead Wasp Dragon’s needle-like foreleg.

The five made their way to the castle gate with great trepidation and anxiety. Each knew that they were expected, but none knew what to expect. The corpses that littered the sides of the road gave each companion some gruesome ideas about the coming night. Some of the unfortunate victims of the baron had spears in their guts, while others had been impaled between their legs, doomed to a slow death as their own weight forced the spike upwards and into their trunk, finally exiting near or in the head. It was clear that Baron Tyrannus was a bloodthirsty and malevolent force beyond anything Carym had ever encountered. The silent pleas of the dead teased Carym, invading his mind, calling out to him for help. He shook his head, angrily trying to force the voices from his mind.

The road wound its way up the side of the large hill, switching directions as the way became steeper, until they reached a portcullis.

The castle was an intimidating sight. The castle walls were fortified with battlements, and there were a number of towers interspersed along each side. Wicked cauldrons hung suspended from long arms along the towering walls, arrow slots were placed at regular intervals to rain murder down on a besieging enemy. And every stone or brick was black.

The road leading to the castle climbed a gradual slope ending at the gate to the outer wall of the castle compound. This wall was also disturbing to the group, with aged corpses dangling from every parapet. It was as though a war had been fought here and every dead soldier had been hung from the battlements, a warning attesting to the power of the lord of this keep. Yet, by the armor and dress of the soldiers, Carym suspected they were from a dark era long forgotten in Cklathish history.

It was then that the black iron portcullis began to rise. The rising gate groaned as though screaming in pain from decades or longer of rust and disuse.

“Stand ready!” said Ederick as he held his sword before him. “Zuhr only knows what happens next.”

The members of the group spread out, ready to fight. Suddenly from behind them, angry voices shouted commands at the group in a strange language. The companions shifted their formation and stood back-to-back, swords ready, to find several figures aiming bows at them. The creaking of arrows straining against taught bowstrings was all around them, even from the battlements. A melodic voice broke the silence.

“Untaken! Naut auten zahn morain,” came the command. The companions looked at each other hoping someone understood the speaker.

“Lay down your arms, trespassers! If you do not comply your lives will be forfeit!” this time the commands were shouted in the Common Cklath language, which all of the group understood.

“They don’t seem so dead to me!” said Bart. “Let’s fight them!”

As if in response to the bard’s bravado, the sound of more bow strings being drawn could be heard behind them revealing how badly outnumbered the group was. Ederick was torn. Ordinarily a knight of his station would fight until he was dead or until the enemy was dead. Considering that those he now faced were clearly living beings, there may be a reasonable, living, person in command of castle.

“You will not be warned again! You are trespassing on the lands of Hessan, the Lord Rider of Cheshire Hollow, Lieutenant of Shalthazar the Great, Holy Prophet-General of Ilian Nah. Stand down or die!” shouted the leader who clearly believed that the group should understand Cklathish.

Ederick lowered his sword tip to the ground. “My friends, we must yield. It is clear that these are mortals we face and as such there is hope that we may bargain for our freedom. The nature of my mission demands we take every avenue to press on.”

Carym believed the decision to yield was wise enough; he let out a sigh and lowered his weapons, struggling inwardly. Anger began to win and Carym raised his fighting stick, the call of the black stone in his coat pocket was growing, buzzing, angry. At times drowning out all other sounds. And now it was all he could do to keep his mind clear and focus his anger. Before his stick moved an inch, a barrage of expertly aimed arrows struck the shaft of his fighting stick, bouncing off the incredibly hard wood. This brought Carym’s mind back to the harsh logic and the wisdom of surrender. Gennevera laid her hand on Carym’s arm and his mind righted itself. He regained his inner calm and felt purposeful. He lowered his weapon as the enemy closed ranks.

As Carym and his friends were stripped of their weapons and bound, he wished his longtime friend a silent farewell and hoped he would evade pursuit. He gave Gennevera a meaningful glance, words of love were silently shared, an unspoken promise of freedom to come.

Their captors lowered their hoods. Oroks all of them but one; their leader was a human. Again the companions were struck by the relatively disciplined nature of these particular oroks. And by their seeming intelligence. Most oroks of the Northern Realms were stupid, cowardly, and undisciplined, hunting in gangs with mob-style tactics of brute force, sheer numbers, and intimidation. These oroks were nothing of the sort. They seemed to stand taller, their eyes were shrewdly intelligent, and they wore their uniforms and armor in a neat and orderly fashion. Even their speech was coherent.

The group was ushered roughly through the portcullis and into the castle. The inside of this compound was surprisingly well-lit. There were large glowing orbs atop tall poles placed at regular intervals in the compound, not unlike those in Dalcasia, Carym silently noted.

Gennevera tried to get Carym’s attention a number of times while they were ushered into the compound but each time she was silenced with a jab from the butt of a spear. Inside the compound Carym saw that the castle had been converted into a military garrison. Dozens of troops stood in formation in eloquently designed uniforms and strange armor with pointy leather hats. The troops appeared to be human but Carym had never seen humans quite like these. He had seen the stocky, black skinned Volans with their silky brown hair and brown eyes; he had seen the pale Vaardic men of Isfjell with their blond hair and blue eyes; and every variety of Men in the Southern Realms from Arnathia, to Eastern Kings, to Ash Plains barbarians. These were the tallest men that he had ever seen, most standing seven feet tall. Their skin seemed olive colored in the well-lit courtyard and their hair was raven black. Many of them had long mustaches or thick curly beards and carried curved scimitars and small shields. And there were more than a few women, even Keneerie, among those in the ranks.