David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

With an audible pop, the world returned to normal, and Tarlak and Dieredon appeared within view.

“Enough of that nonsense,” Tarlak said, stroking his beard. “There’ll be guards inside, but I think we can handle them without any need for magical or lethal force. The question is, where do we look?”

“We need to find the king’s chambers,” Dieredon said. “Though I fear we will surely come across as assassins now.”

“Oh well,” said Tarlak. “Their own damn fault. We tried diplomacy. Time for the Eschaton way!”

“You mean the stupid, dangerous way?” asked Lathaar.

“Exactly.”

They entered the throne room, all three on the lookout for guards. It was vacant and dimly lit by two torches. Dieredon rushed ahead, moving silent with practiced ease that made Lathaar jealous. When he had looped the room, he returned, shaking his head.

“No guards nearby,” he said. “And no doorways. The king’s chambers must be elsewhere.”

“When in doubt, move higher up,” Tarlak said. “Suits the ego.”

They headed down the hallway to their right, following Dieredon’s intuition more than anything. The approach of torchlight around the corner alerted them to guards. Tarlak put a finger to his lips, then start looping his hands in the air. A white mist surrounded their throats. When the guards cried out, no noise came from their mouths.

Dieredon raced toward them as they drew their swords. He avoided the first two clumsy swings, jammed his hands against one’s elbow, and then twisted the hilt free. He parried the other’s attack using his stolen sword, elbowed the guard in the face, and then spun. His feet and fists lashed out, striking both.

As they collapsed, Dieredon applied quick kicks to the backs of their heads, ensuring they stayed down for a long while.

On the other end of the hallway, Lathaar glanced at his swords and sighed.

“Why am I here again?” he asked.

“To look pretty,” Tarlak said. “Now keep quiet.”

They passed many doors, but Dieredon never paused as he led them along. The square castle seemed to have a logical sense to it. If the extravagant hallway entrance to the castle led to the throne, then on the opposite end, its back to the throne, would be the king’s chambers.

When they took a second left, the hallway ended at an enormous set of double doors. It seemed the elf was correct. The four soldiers standing at attention only confirmed it.

“Back,” Dieredon said, pushing the Eschaton away. Two crossbow bolts pinged against the stone wall where they had been. The soldiers cried out in alarm, and this time no spell silenced them.

“Take them out, quick,” Tarlak insisted, magic sparking from his palms.

Lathaar turned the corner, trusting his armor. Two of the guards rushed toward him, buying time for the other two as they cranked their crossbows. Lathaar drew his swords, the blue-white light of their blades flooding the enclosed space. The soldiers stopped at the sight.

“A paladin?” one asked. “But why?”

“We’re not here to kill anyone,” Lathaar said, hoping they wouldn’t notice the spells Tarlak prepared to unleash. “We must speak to your king.”

The wizard paused, waiting for their reaction.

“No one speaks to the king,” the leader said.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Lathaar insisted. “But too many lives are at stake. Stand down.”

“He delays too long,” Dieredon said to Tarlak. Already he could hear footsteps approaching from behind, as well as movement from a nearby door that he assumed were servants’ quarters.

The guards were clearly troubled. They looked to one another, until their eldest stepped forward.

“We cannot, under pain of death,” he said. “Lord Penwick is our majesty’s trusted advisor, and he assures us our liege is very troubled. No one is to see him.”

A squad of armored men came up the hallway behind them, twenty in number. Dieredon took up his bow and shifted his feet, his eyes glancing between the two groups.

“Many of you will die if you try to imprison us,” Tarlak warned.

“Please, you must understand, we have no choice,” another guard said.

“There is always a choice,” Lathaar said. He sheathed his swords. “Take us to this Lord Penwick, or is there an order not to disturb him, either?”

The guard looked to Dieredon and Tarlak.

“Will you put away your weapons, and come peaceably?” he asked.

Dieredon said nothing, but Tarlak shrugged.

“Eh, why not. At least we get to talk to someone, right?”

The elf slung his bow across his back.

“So be it,” he said. “Lead us on, but do not lay a hand upon my person. I am no prisoner.”

The older guard relaxed, but only slightly. He gestured to the groups, ordering them to part. The Eschaton walked between them, but as they passed through the rows of men, Tarlak paused.

“Oh, one moment,” he said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. “I almost forgot this.”

He flung a handful of dust into the air, and before anyone could react, he shouted a single word.

“SLEEP!”

Every guard fell limp, their eyelids drooping heavily. Lathaar fell as well, fighting the deep magic. Only Dieredon stood unaffected, a bewildered look on his face.

“I thought we were to talk to this Lord Penwick,” he asked as he helped Lathaar back to his feet.

“Yeah, but I’d rather find out what the Abyss is going on with their beloved king,” Tarlak said. “And if he is troubled, or ill, perhaps our paladin friend here can aid him.”

Tarlak tilted his head to one side as Lathaar collapsed back to his knees and snored loudly.

“Once he’s awake, of course,” Tarlak muttered. He snapped his fingers in front of the paladin’s nose, whispering a word of counter-magic. Lathaar startled awake instantly and reached for his swords.

“Relax,” the wizard said. “Get up. We have a king to talk to.”

Without ceremony, they pushed open the double doors and stepped into the spacious chambers. Dressers lined the walls. Thick, green curtains surrounded the bed. When Dieredon pulled them aside, they found clean bed sheets, unused.

“The king does not sleep here,” the elf said, sounding very much confused. “But these are certainly his chambers.”

“They are,” said an elderly man striding into the room. There were two different entrances to the bedchambers, and he came from the one opposite their own. He wore fancy silks embroidered with gold, crimson slippers, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. His beard was long and neatly-trimmed. His green eyes showed no fear of the three intruders.

“And who are you?” Tarlak asked.

“Lord Penwick,” the old man said, not bothering to bow. “I dare say you were on your way to meet me when you put down my guards.”

“They’re just sleeping,” Lathaar said. “We are no murderers. We come with message to the king, one he has so far refused to hear.”

“That is because there is no king to hear it,” Lord Penwick said. “Surely you have guessed that by now.”

“Obviously,” Tarlak lied. “Though the reason seems a little vague to us foreigners. Care to explain?”

“Figures the barons would send foreigners to do their dirty work,” Lord Penwick said as he sat on the bed.

“Barons?” said Tarlak. “We’re refugees from Veldaren, and while we’re not above doing some dirty work, we need to get paid for it. Trust me; we’re here for purely noble reasons.”

“And those would be?” asked the old man.

“Veldaren has been destroyed. An army of winged soldiers flies this way, accompanied by a legion of undead. You need to muster as many solders as you can to protect your people! Those who cannot fight should flee west, where they have a chance to survive.”