Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

Braylar grabbed my elbow and gave a squeeze, somewhere between gentle and forceful. “Easy, Arki. Only visiting a dear friend. Nothing more.” For once, his lies didn’t seem all that convincing.

The drawbridge was down over a deep dry moat carved into the rock, and our scroll got us entry through into the gatehouse. The portcullis was up. As we walked underneath, I couldn’t help but notice the numerous murder holes in the ceiling above. A second gate flanked by guards, and we passed onto another section of floor. More murder holes above, but the odd thing was the floor was wood, and it almost felt like we were tramping across another drawbridge.

I looked over at Mulldoos and he was smiling. “Yup. Fiendish bastard built this.” He stomped once on the floorboards. “Trap door. Anybody who somehow made it to the gatehouse probably not making it out real easy. Spikes below, I’m guessing. Big ones.”

He seemed to really appreciate the craftsmanship. I nearly threw up.

At last we passed into the lower courtyard and back into the weak sunlight. As expected, there was noise and activity everywhere. Grooms hurrying to the stables; a man leading an ox out of the granary, his cart laden with heavy sacks; a hammer ringing in a smithy; a courier sprinting from one of the administrative buildings; several pigeons bursting out of the cylindrical dovecote alongside the kitchens, flying off in a tight group. The only person or thing not on the move was a guard assigned to protect the covered well on the other end of the courtyard. I looked up to the right and saw a covered allure and tall sanitary tower connected to the massive circular keep that rose several stories into the sky.

Braylar said, “I expect Lord Brune isn’t counting kernels of corn or iron ingots. Come.”

He led us underneath the allure and towards the keep that dominated the courtyard, rising high above everything else. There were large standards on top, but the air was heavy, moist, and instead of flapping or snapping, they hung limp on their poles. We approached the entrance stairs and more guards examined our scroll, but they didn’t let us pass right away. An older guard missing an ear pulled a gambesoned guard aside, spoke to him quietly, and sent him running into the keep with the scroll.

A few awkward moments of silence passed and then Braylar said, “This keep is quite impressive. The plinth, the height, the machiolations. Yes, most impressive.”

The earless guard looked at Braylar, blinked a few times, and then shrugged.

Braylar tried a different tack. “I’ve heard rumors the last few days that our baron is unwell. Is he on the mend, then?”

Earless shrugged again. “Guessing you’ll be knowing soon enough.”

That put an end to that. I worried Braylar was going to press the point, as that was his typical response when rebuffed, but he held his tongue. We waited there until the young guard returned. He ran down the stairs, handed Braylar the scroll, and told us we were clear to go. When we climbed and passed through the arched doorway into a long corbelled hallway, we were met by Gurdinn and a handful of surcoated guards. He didn’t seem especially pleased to be our escort.

I felt rather than saw Hewspear and Mulldoos stiffen. Braylar said, “Ah, Captain Honeycock! So good to see you again. We really shouldn’t allow so much time to pass between encounters like this. Criminal, really.”

If we’d been anywhere else but his lord’s keep, Gurdinn probably would have spit on the floor. As it was, he said, “The baron’s waiting.” He turned on his heel without waiting for a response.

The guards fell in behind us as we followed Gurdinn down the hall. Bas-reliefs of coats of arms broke up the walls on either side, occasionally interrupted by an unshuttered window or torch sconce. The torches weren’t lit, and even with the shutters thrown open, the squares of light on the floor were weak at best. Bright light wouldn’t have dispelled the foreboding, but it might have helped.

At the end of the hall, there was a set of stairs leading up and another spiraling down. Gurdinn waited next the stairwell going down.

Braylar stopped and looked at the stairs. “I know our friend baron is an independent thinker, but I would’ve expected him to maintain his solar and wardrobe above, in keeping with the fashion. A bit more light and air, such as it is.”

Gurdinn’s eyes narrowed. “And you’d be right. Though he’s no friend to a Black Noose. Let’s go.” He started down the stairs.

Braylar’s pursed his lips and he drummed his fingers along the surface of his buckler, but after a moment, he followed as commanded, and us behind him, with the Brunesmen bringing up the rear. The stairs wound down to the right, and here, with no windows or loopholes to offer even gloomy light, the torches were lit.

We passed several floors, the undercroft, other storage facilities, I’m not sure what else, and the air grew smokier. Our footfalls echoed off the stones, torchlight cast wild shadows as our passing caused the flames to dance ever so slightly, and the hairs on my body prickled, though whether from the drop in temperature or the direction we were heading, I couldn’t say. Going down the stairs seemed hard on Hewspear and Mulldoos, and little better on Braylar’s throat. I imagined climbing back up was going to be far worse. Assuming we did come back up.

My heart was hammering and my bladder full to bursting when we finally stopped at a small landing. The stairs kept going down, but we’d apparently reached our destination. Or at least the level it was on. Gurdinn unlocked a large door and pushed it in. As he led us down a hallway, the first thing I noticed was the overpowering smell of vinegar. There were wooden bowls of it along the floor on both sides. The stinging smell was incredible, enough to make the eyes water and nose burn. As we walked down the hall, passing doors, I couldn’t begin to imagine why anyone would line the floor with bowls of vinegar. But then the reason suddenly became clear.

The vinegar was there to mask other smells. Worse smells. Blood. Urine. Feces. Burnt flesh. Death.

Even with a number of armed and armored guards behind me, and no weapon of my own, panic welled up and I nearly turned and ran. Braylar must have anticipated this, because he’d dropped back next to me, and his hand was on my arm, just above the elbow again, though this time as tight as a shackle. My head snapped in his direction and I probably would’ve shouted something if I’d been looking into any other set of eyes. But his had turned back into mossy stones, cold, hard, unrelenting. Had they been sympathetic or kind, I might have howled or cried out, but his glare stopped everything in my throat. He shook his head slowly and pushed my arm forward, and the rest of me followed, reluctantly.

That’s when I heard the first scream.

Gurdinn stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and unlocked it.

Braylar squeezed tighter, just in case I tried to flee, and I wanted to tell him we needed to fight our way out or we were dead men, even as part of me knew we couldn’t possibly fight free of a keep, a castle, and a city. It was madness. But so was staying there.

Gurdinn stood to the side of the door as another scream came out and said, “In you go.” To his credit, this was his moment to gloat, and he didn’t.

I tried convincing myself that if violence was coming, Braylar would have felt it. But the screaming said violence was already there, and he admitted that Bloodsounder sometimes deceived.

I’d never had such difficulty walking though a door before. Braylar’s steadying hand, half-guiding, half-supporting, was all that got me through the portal. Gurdinn pulled the door shut behind us. It was a small room. The baron was sitting in the chair closest to the door, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back as if he were watching snow fall or listening to a gurgling brook instead of witnessing a man being tortured. He had a long black coat on, festooned with brass buttons down the front and on the cuffs.