Chapter Three

The solders marched in a simple two-line formation -- four in the front, four in the back as they made their way through the crowded square and down a set of stairs, before arriving at the castle courtyard. Before them lay a towering structure, with spires of well worked stone that reached high above the nearby buildings. The walls were ancient but still indomitable, each twice as thick as a man thick and fifty feet tall. Narrow slits of windows circled around the keep, a common defensive maneuver, so that archers could rain down arrows while remaining protected. The main building was overbearing, but seemed to pale before the main tower, which reached skyward at a greedy pace. Above the rest of the stone buildings, it was several hundred feet tall, like a massive tree sprouting from the center of a flat meadow. At the top of the tower used to dwell a powerful wizard, in centuries long past, but now it only served to gather dust and catch the eye of soldiers new to guard duty at the keep. In the front of the great castle was a small cloistered courtyard, lined with detailed rows of neatly kept shrubberies and exotic low growth trees. The centerpiece of the cobbled yard was an elaborately carved fountain with a beautiful woman posing seductively in the middle, an ever spewing steam of water coming from her mouth.

Their Lieutenant stood by the ornate fountain, an elite team of archers behind him. He was wearing a full set of heavy plate, which had been painted a dark blue, the color of his liege. Over it was draped a bright white tabard with a pair of crossed swords on the front, a sign of the city’s militia force. The once vibrant colors had weathered away, and several cuts and tears had peppered the cloth. At his side rested a mighty axe, the handle well worn and sturdy, having felled many an enemy. A stoic temperance hung about him, his stance molded by years of service to the emperor and countless fights. His face was rugged and battle hardened; scarred from his left temple to his chin, leaving a socket where the eye used to be. The hole was covered by an eye patch, the only part of his outfit which seemed new and unused. As the troops approached, the Lieutenant straightened himself to a commanding height.

“Attention!” his voice boomed, and the troops froze to formation, faced forward, and saluted. “Report!” In response the first man in line stepped forward. He was clad in darkened leather, with a hand-and-a-half sword hanging from his side. Whereas the other solders had but wooden shields, he wore an iron shield, a pair of swords painted across it. His face was covered almost entirely by a steel helm, forcing him to peer through a small slit at eye level. “Sir, we have found no trace of the target. The sweeping teams have come back with negative contact and h-”. He was abruptly cut off by the Lieutenant. “So, what you mean to say is… you have failed!?” The sergeant lowered his head, “Yes sir.”

“Do I have to remind you what the cost of failure is?”

He began to perspire inside the helm, beads of sweat rolling down his face, “No sir.”

“I will give you one more chance; we can get him before he leaves the city. The guard has barricaded the gates, and I’ve had town patrols doubled and all the reserve forces have been moved in: so he can’t leave by any above ground means.” He tapped the ground with his foot, looking down, “His only other way out will be through the sewers. You move your squad in from the north entrance. I will take archers and set up outside the exit to the south, at the main tributary – we’ll flank him if he runs. Do you have any questions?”

“No sir.”

“Good. Go, get into position.” The sergeant saluted, about-faced, and moved out with his men toward the sewer entrance, behind the keep. The Lieutenant relaxed momentarily, taking a long cleansing breath. He closed his eye and gave his mind a moment to think, before reaching for a small wooden box that he kept in his pocket. Opening it with a hand, he removed the eye patch, folding it neatly and storing it safely in the box. He rubbed the vacant slot vigorously with a free hand, the patch always made it itch. He turned the gnarled socket towards his men, “Archers! With me!”

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There was a shift in the magical rifts of the world, he felt it. His power was momentarily drained, but why? He crumpled to the ground in a wave of fatigue, his body collapsing to the cold stone floor. With a heave of strength he lifted himself to his knees. What was that? Maybe the rune scribing had taken a greater toll than he had expected. He glanced down at his work, It is quite impressive, after all. It had taken decades to finish-- to find the book, translate the dead language, locate the appropriate tools, and carve the rune. Yet still it lay before him, taking up most of the floor, butting up against the pillars in the grand chamber. How humbling that such a simple diagram can be a harbinger for such unimaginable power. He chuckled to himself, the bellows of laughter filling the poorly lit room. Nothing would stop what was set in motion now, the gears were set in place and the machine had begun to turn.

The magic shifted a second time and again siphoned his precious energy. He collapsed again. It was different this time, stronger than before. Again? But how, how is this possible? His eyes darted from side to side as he laid on the ground, his mind racing, as his expression of levity turned to one of slow understanding and fear. Only one thing could explain a shift this dramatic. He rolled to a side, standing up with a stagger and rocking unsteadily on his feet. His breathing became rapid and a bead of sweat fell off his furrowed brow and dripped onto the gouged stone, following the carved contours. No, he’s made contact. He stumbled back from the rune, up the few stairs before dropping back into the throne. I need time, more time. His rapid breathing settled, as he composed himself. After a few moments brooding in silence, the smile reappeared on his face as he bolted up and raced towards the door, grabbing hold of a sleeve along the way. The body was relatively heavy, but he dragged it to the door with little effort.

Moments later they flung open and the guards outside snapped to attention. Looking to the first, he dropped the depleted carcass in hallway, “Bring me another, I am done with this one.” The soldier’s throat tightened and he managed to reply in the affirmative, ordering his men to bring his lord another slave. The pair of guards returned minutes later, carrying with them a bloodied man in shackles and chained about the neck. They opened to doors, as frightened as their captive. “Leave him,” a voice echoed out from the darkness, and the guards hurriedly left the man in the center of the throne room room. As the doors closed, the chamber grew darker, the man’s eyes straining to adjust. He began to cry through pained pleas of mercy, dropping to his knees. Down the stairs a figure moved to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Quiet now, no need for tears.” The slave looked up, his face hopeful, and met the gaze of the man, who smiled back, before plunging the curved blade his throat.