“Attack him, you fools!” cried the officer, gesturing to the half dozen men standing before the portcullis. They started forward cautiously, as Jaymes attacked Reynaud.
The captain turned and sprinted for the door of the keep as the other knights closed in-then backed away as Jaymes wheeled to face them, swinging the flaming sword in their direction. Unimpeded, the swordsman stalked up to heavy doors of the keep, doors Reynaud had just slammed shut.
A tremendous blow from the sword of Lorimar smote the barrier in two. Stepping through their smoldering wreckage, he found himself in the entryway of the vaulted great hall.
“You may not come here!”
These words were spoken by a cleric, a surprisingly youthful-looking man in a gold robe who stepped from a side room and held up one hand, gesturing for the warrior to stop. The cleric was handsome-but his expression was curled into a sneer of hatred.
“Get out of my way, priest,” declared Jaymes. “The scales of Shinare will not protect you from this accounting!”
“Perhaps not,” said the priest, the sneer curving into a cruel smile, “but my strength comes from a secret source. Stop where you are!”
The patriarch shouted words of command. Magic coursed through the hall, but Jaymes kept walking. The ring pulsed on his finger, grew warm as it absorbed the cleric’s spell.
“Slay him, my prince!” cried the priest. He brought one fist down into the palm of his hand, his eyes flashing. Jaymes heard a noise and looked up, saw the ghostly image of a hammer swirling in the air above his head. That conjured weapon smashed downward then vanished as soon as it touched its intended target. Again, the ring pulsed with warmth.
“Impossible!” croaked the priest, staring in disbelief.
Jaymes took another step closer to the wide-eyed priest. “Maybe your god has taken a vacation,” he said calmly.
“You dare to blaspheme-you’ll pay for that heresy!”
The priest retreated into the side room. Jaymes followed, saw the man push on a panel of the wall, opening a dark passage. He ducked inside, and the secret door swished shut behind him.
Jaymes sprinted after him, splintering the wooden door with a single blow, revealing a small landing and steps leading steeply downward into darkness. His sword burned, illuminating the way. He followed quickly, descending a spiraling stair for a long way down. At the bottom he raced through a dark tunnel, hearing footsteps scuffing rapidly along in front of him.
The swordsman’s fiery blade revealed a narrow passage with brick walls and frequent overhead arches of stone. These arches separated the segments of the tunnel into individual vaults. Several side passages beckoned, but Jaymes continued straight ahead, still following the footsteps.
Coming to a partially opened door, he saw it was fitted for a lock bar on both sides. Pushing through, Jaymes charged into a place where, very suddenly, he found himself groping through utter darkness. He wondered if Giantsmiter had faltered, but when he raised it up he felt the warmth of the flames against his face.
This was magical darkness, he realized, and his ring was apparently useless to dispel this effect.
A heavy blow from the sharpened corner of a solid object smashed the back of his head.
The darkness swallowed him completely.
“Where did the bastard go?” demanded Captain Powell.
Captains Marckus and Dayr, together with a young knight named Sir Rene, rushed into the courtyard. They had all heard the urgent shouts claiming that the Assassin was on the premises.
Marckus had returned to the officers’ barracks after brooding on his lord’s behavior and on many other things, during the long retreat. He had been pondering his next course of action with Dayr, who was bitter about his own duke’s failings, when the commotion in the courtyard had drawn their attention and brought them out.
“What has happened?” demanded the grizzled veteran.
“Reynaud claimed the Assassin came through here,” Powell replied. “It looks like he shattered the door and entered the keep.”
“We’ve got to find him-but don’t kill him!” Marckus declared urgently.
Powell flashed him a look of surprise-even understanding-then nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
The four knights raced into the keep to find terrified servants milling about.
“Where did he go?” asked Marckus.
“Captain Reynaud ran upstairs to find the duke,” reported a doorman, pointing to a side room. “The Assassin ran in there.”
“Why?” asked Powell, confused.
“He was chasing the priest back to the temple!” stammered a young maid.
“There’s no temple inside the castle walls!” declared Marckus
“Patriarch Issel uses that way-it connects to Shinare’s temple outside the walls! There’s a door in there that looks like a part of the wall, but you can see it now. The Assassin smashed it open.”
The four knights raced over to the dark passage, hesitating at the top of the dark stairs. “Captains!” said Dayr. “We need to split up. Sir Rene and I will go after him in this tunnel, but the two of you should get up to the living quarters to see to the duke.”
Marckus was ready to argue, but he could see the wisdom of the Crown Knight’s words. “All right-get after him, and we’ll get upstairs.” He turned to Powell, saw the Palanthian was already moving toward the large staircase leading up from the great hall.
“Good luck!” called Marckus as Dayr and Rene ducked into the secret passage. He turned and ran after Powell.
Privately he wondered: Was he going to protect Duke Crawford?
Or to demand an explanation?
Coryn drifted along the corridor of Caergoth Castle, unseen and silent. She had taken the form of a cloud of gas, the potion tingling magically in her senses, allowing her to fly, slip under doors, and evade detection. She glided swiftly as she sought her destination: the inner sanctuary of the duke himself.
She was going to have a talk with Crawford of Caergoth.
The wizard would have transported herself directly, but she did not know the precise location of his apartment, never having visited there, and that fact made any attempted teleporting very dangerous. Instead, she had appeared in the public hall of the castle, materializing to startle several servants who were sweeping the floor. They had fled, and Coryn had proceeded to float up several flights of stairs, passing galleries and parlors in her search.
Now, in this wide hallway, she probed underneath a few doors, finding mostly unused guest rooms until she noticed the chamber at the end of the hall, where a Knight of the Rose stood guard. Guessing that his presence marked her destination, she drifted past the knight, unseen, and flowed beneath the door.
Duke Crawford was alone in his bedchambers, pacing back and forth. He was wearing a dressing down of silvery silk. Coryn dispelled the magic to appear in front of the man, her white robe bright, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, down her back.
“Hello, my lord duke,” she said coldly.
“Get out of here!” Crawford squawked, paling.
“No. I came here for some answers,” she replied, advancing into the luxuriously appointed chamber, which boasted multiple wardrobes, several dressing tables, and a set of tall glass doors leading onto a balcony. A massive four-poster bed with a gauzy canopy tied up above a quilted surface was at the far end.
“How dare you?” demanded the duke. “I am lord here-and I command you to leave at once!”
Coryn had been prepared to be calm and reasonable, but she felt her temper rise. Stepping towards him, she fixed her dark eyes upon his face.
“Does being lord mean that you can commit murder at will?” she snapped.
“You mean-the duchess?” he cried. “Don’t be ridiculous! That was the Assassin!”
“It may have been an assassin,” she said with a shrug, “but I don’t believe it was Jaymes Markham.”
The duke edged away from her, interposing the great bed between himself and the white wizard.