He felt nothing suspicious three foot distant, so tentatively laid his fingertips against a hard, cloak-covered arm. The heat of him seeped into Yhalen immediately, Bloodraven still warm despite the cold air. Bloodraven always seemed warm, as if his ogre blood ran hotter than that of a mere human.
Perhaps it did, his people living in northern mountains with their predominately frigid temperatures.
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Other than the warmth, he felt nothing like he’d sensed before. No insidious snarl of puppeteer’s strings leading back to the witch across the room. The warmth was nice though, working its way up his hand to the flesh of his arm, chilled by damp tunic sleeve. He withdrew his hand back to the cold spot on the floor, and Bloodraven reached out, catching a fistful of the back of Yhalen’s tunic, cloak and bedroll, and dragged him the few feet that separated them. No different than Alasdair’s men, who huddled together for the sake of warmth and comfort.
Bloodraven didn’t touch him otherwise, save to slouch a little further down the wall. Yhalen waited there, close to the halfling’s side, for the eyes of the company to turn his way. Waited for looks malicious and cruel, clearly saying that they knew what use Bloodraven had made of him. But no knowing glance turned their way, men more interested in their own comfort. Not even the lady, who seemed to have drifted asleep, curled in her own fur-lined bedroll. He sighed then and let his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for the first time in what seemed a very long day.
Sleep came surprisingly easy, considering whose solid bulk he made a pillow of. He awoke in the crook of Bloodraven’s arm, his cheek against Bloodraven’s warm shoulder. The first calls of morning birds had disturbed his slumber, but the majority of the others slept through the dawn. Only the one sentry that sat awake inside the door, and the other stationed outside, saw the sun rise along with Yhalen. It had always been his habit to rise with the sun at home. It was the way of the hunter, which he’d earned the place of. He’d gotten lazy of late, with no morning game to stalk, rising when it was demanded of him and no sooner.
He abandoned Bloodraven’s side and went outside to relieve his bladder, and then to walk the perimeter of the long abandoned homestead. He found the places where fence posts had once stood, and saw the rocky bones of what once might have been a stable or a granary. By the time he wandered back, his pant legs were wet with dew and his water-sealed leather boots threatening to let moisture past their seams. The rest of him was dry, the rain having let up at some point during the night. Fog clung close to the earth, though, a heady reminder of what the Goddess might see fit to dump upon them should her mood worsen.
The mountains loomed ahead of them for four days, the land swelling with foothills, flattening out to form deep, long vales before rising again. Each progressive set of hills becoming steeper and more jagged, a sure testament of the violence that had created this range in the days that the Goddess herself was young. On the fifth day, there was no downward slope leading to a low valley on the far side of the hills they crested, simply a shelf of forested earth that began a gradual rise towards the thicker forests, clinging to the crags and inclines of the lowest ruffles of the mountains’ outflung skirts.
There was no road, and Alasdair stopped the party many a time, riding for high ground and consulting his maps.
“It’s further northward, that which we seek,” Bloodraven said softly, upon one of those stops.
“Were—”
Yhalen hesitated to continue, wishing the query had not slipped up to the tip of his tongue before he’d reminded himself that Bloodraven was to be avoided. But as he’d uttered the first syllable of the question and gained Bloodraven’s attention, there seemed little point in refusing to continue, when he actually wanted an answer.
“Were you one of those reckless young warriors you spoke of? Have you been to these lands—what did you call it—
Fah’nak Gol
?”
Bloodraven’s mouth twitched in something that might have been a smile and he lowered his head somewhat, letting his hair slide down to conceal it.
“No. Not I. My recklessness took other paths. But I know from those that made the attempt...well, those that returned at any rate, that
Fah’nak Gol
lies further northward.”
His prediction proved right. It was another two days of picking their way through mountain trails before they found the first marker stone. Ages old and covered with runic etchings, it sat at the side of a well-used game trail they were following. They found another further on, and another, until it seemed a path had been laid out to follow many years past, though the ground showed no sign that human feet had utilized them in decades. Still, the presence of markers was a welcoming of sorts, a fact that contradicted this place’s ominous reputation.
They came upon the vale just before dusk. Not a shallow valley, but a long, narrow one that was a green and fertile strip between rocky crags and thick forested slopes. It was broader than it seemed from the trail above, and they followed the winding path of a small mountain-fed stream down, the 129
horses picking up their pace as they scented green grasses.
Bloodraven scanned it carefully, eyes narrowed and wary, searching the shadows of the tree line, accessing the height of the opposite craggy rise. Finally, he nodded and murmured, almost to himself, “Protected. Winter winds would have little foothold here, sheltered as it is.”
“Look.” The lady Duvera pointed towards the shadows made by the rocky side of the vale. In the purplish, evening light, lines that were not made by nature became clear.
The walls and turrets of a citadel artful in its design loomed ahead. Constructed of a stone that varied from slate gray to the glistening white of granite, and shot through with spidery lines of rose quartz that made parts of the wall appear as if they were stained with blood, and all of it melting.
Bleeding into the very rock of the mountainside itself.
After many days on the road, they had reached the domain of Lord Estalan Elvardo and only time would tell if the end of this journey would meet with welcome or bitter disappointment.
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There was no dissimulation in their approach to the seat of
Fah’nak Gol
. Sir Alasdair squared his shoulders and set his broad jaw, then led his party directly up a much overgrown path towards the foot of the keep. It was a steep trail up to its outer walls, and one that looked not to have been traveled for many years. There was indeed a question as to whether anyone still lived here at all, for the amount of activity they saw on the walls. Which was none.
No movement. No sound of alarm. Nothing. And upon closer inspection, the stones that made up the walls of the keep were stained with algae and overgrown in places with lichen and moss, making it seem very much as if it had sprung out of the rock itself instead of being planted there by the hand of man.
There was a cold, lonely feel about the place, which seemed to infect the men of their guard. Many a wary look was cast up the towering walls, and many a hand clutched the hilts of weapons. Yhalen felt it himself. Desolation, and a sense of decay that repelled the casual visitor. If he’d not been under the duress of Alasdair’s guard he’d have happily turned and left this vale for more welcome places.
A crow squawked from the crumbling ledge of a window far up the wall and took flight, the flapping of its wings a ghostly whisper in the quiet that surrounded this place. A man cried out, startled by the bird’s call. His men began whispering among themselves, full of frightened speculation.
Alasdair scowled and held up a hand to quiet them.
“It's not real,” the lady said softly, her sharp eyes flickering along the ancient stonework. “This unease we feel, is manufactured.”
Alasdair’s scowl deepened. Being told such a thing in no wise eased a nervous mind. Yhalen frowned, stretching his own senses, searching for whatever telltale tendril of magic the lady had sensed.
And found nothing tangible. Nothing so obvious as what he’d sensed from Duvera upon her attempts at bewitching Bloodraven and himself. Only that deep-seated sense of unease that seemed to spring from the very earth itself, so vast and all encompassing that he couldn’t find its roots. He wondered if she sensed anything at all, or merely made assumption.
Two gray stone beasts flanked the entrance when they finally reached it. A great arched portcullis, its iron grate raised, granted entrance into the shadowed tunnel beyond it. A menacing, horned, snarling beast, the like of which Yhalen had never seen, nor wished ever to see in the flesh, glared down from raised pedestals on either side of the archway. He saw Bloodraven glance up, the halfling’s lips twitching a little, baring just the hint of teeth. He liked this place no more than his human guards did, Yhalen thought. Pride alone kept him from showing it.
Alasdair hesitated only momentarily at the open portcullis, staring up warily at the heavy grate. It reminded Yhalen of the open mouth of a beast, waiting to consume them. With a motion of his hand, Alasdair urged his party forward. The horses’ hooves clattered on the paving stones beyond the portcullis, echoing within the confines of the squat tunnel. Darkness descended upon them, as if the light from outside had found some obstacle in following them within. Yhalen shivered, winding his fingers in the rough mane of his mount and wishing very much he had a weapon of his own.
They came at the end of the darkened tunnel to a stone courtyard that was only marginally illuminated by two guttering torches, set at either side of a set of stout wooden doors, high at the top of a wide stair. The horses pricked their ears, nostrils flaring wide as they sensed the smell of fresh water and the still stronger scent of stables.
“Welcome.”
A young woman stepped forth from the shadows.
A good number of weapons were half drawn before they realized that it was simply a slender girl, and no armed warriors or fanged beasts accompanied her. She smiled benignly, long golden hair caught in a loose tail at the back of her neck, her shapely form clad in a low-necked, simply cut dress of blue velvet. She was quite beautiful. Quite distractingly
fertile
, with her soft breasts swelling over the neckline of her bodice, and the way the material of her gown clung to rounded hips. Yhalen found himself blinking at her, as much as the other men of the party.
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She lifted her hand, indicating the shadowed row of half doors along either side of courtyard.
“There are stables for your horses. Fresh hay and water, too. Please make use of them, if you wish.”
She stood waiting for their decision in the matter, seemingly uninterested in what they might decide one way or another. Finally Alasdair signaled for the party to dismount and set men to leading the horses towards stone wells filled with water trickling from the mouths of stone gargoyles. They found oil lamps and lit them, providing more light to work by. The young woman watched all of this, until Alasdair strode up to her and announced their business.
“We’ve come to see Lord Elvardo upon King’s business.”
The girl smiled, inclining her head. “Follow me.”
Four men were left to watch over and care for the horses, while the rest trailed after the blonde girl, through the stout doors and into the castle proper.
There were torches along the walls of the inside hall, but not enough to chase all the shadows away.
It was an eerie, high-ceilinged way, which opened to a large lobby dominated by the curving foot of a massive stairway. Paths led off around the base of it, revealing dark portals leading to darker places.
The stairway itself was constructed of blackest marble, its railings of polished black ironwood, supported by a twisting, convoluted tangle of wrought iron fashioned to look like thorny vines. It wound upwards, branching off at a balconied second level.
Standing at the base of this daunting staircase were two more young women and a young man. The young women were dressed similarly to the first they’d met. One had hair of blackest raven, the other, flame-kissed locks. They were no less voluptuous than the first and with no word or deed, seemed welcoming and wanton in that way that most appealed to a man who had not had the touch of a woman in many a long night. The young man was of average height and slender, dressed in a simple black tunic and pants. His shoulder-length hair was a burnished bronze, face as sensuously appealing as those of the young women.
They all inclined their heads, smiling in welcome, the young women bowing just enough to show ripe cleavage to its best advantage.
“Welcome, travelers,” the redhead purred. “Please allow us to provide you with refreshment after your journey.”
“It’s no easy pilgrimage to this valley and you’re no doubt weary of body and spirit,” added the dark-haired girl.
“We’ve come on business with your lord,” Alasdair said impatiently, with a decided lack of tact.
Lady Duvera slithered up next to him, smiling her own serpent’s smile at the dark castle’s servants.
“Please forgive our abrupt arrival. Were it possible to send word, we would have.”
The young man inclined his head. “Lord Elvardo was aware of your approach, lady, but unfortunately he’s indisposed at this time and cannot greet you as you deserve. He asks that you take advantage of his hospitality in the meanwhile. When he’s able, he’ll receive you, of that you have his word.”
“This is King’s business—” Alasdair started to say, glowering in frustration, but the lady Duvera stopped him with a hand on his arm and very likely a press of nails through the skin of his wrist. The knight started in some surprise, mouth open, but silent.