Ch 1: Revenge

  Lord Darrik’s Fortress

  Year 540 Mur-ro

  The walls of the Keep were a miserably cold and lonely place to be, especially at night when every shadow and dark corner warned of hidden dangers.

  Drizzly rain was falling up and down the walkway, swirling and twisting in the wind until it seemed to be coming from every direction at once.

  Gaf hated sentry duty, he hated it with every fibre of his sinewy old body. He had been in Lord Darrik’s employ for ten years, and before that, an infantryman for the king.

  His many battle wounds had long since healed to leave ragged scars, little badges of honour, each one with its own story to tell. And tell them Gaf did, frequently.

  Tales that would grow in magnitude and splendour depending, that is, on how much ale had been consumed and, of course, on who was listening at the time of telling.

  He would finally retire in six months’ time, and the master had graciously said he could have the little cottage down by the river rent free, in thanks for his years of good service.

  Gaf nodded. The master was a fair man, but harsh too when needed, such as the time he’d caught him asleep on duty. At the time, he hadn’t been with Darrik long, barely a year.

  Recalling it, sweat moistened his brow. ‘Kicked me all the ways down the length o’ the parapet an’ down them steps to the dungeon, an’ personally locked me in the cells. Bastard!’ he mumbled, quickly followed by a sheepish look over his shoulder in panic at his own words.

  Satisfied he was truly alone, a long slow breath escaped his lips. ‘There really weren’t a need for it. A simple warnin’ would have been enough. An’ on top o’ that, accusin’ me o’ bein’ drunk too! Drunk? Not me. Okay, so I had a few nips, but only to ward off the cold,’ he mumbled, then reddened as the truth screamed a bitter protest somewhere in the back of his mind.

  A week in the cells peeling potatoes for the cook was the punishment, but once served, no more had been said about it. Darrik didn’t brood on a one-off mistake as long as the necessary lesson had been learned. ‘No, when all were said an’ done, his temper aside, the Master’s a good man to soldier for.’ Gaf nodded again in recognition. ‘Though he’s been dark o’ late for the loss o’ his new young wife. A pretty one were that lass. One o’ the prettiest I ever seen. The menfolk was always talkin’ about her. Such a tragedy though, the way she went. Some say she slipped. Then again, some say she jumped. As fer me, I don’t know what to make o’ it all. Grimbal the blacksmith said he heard she were pushed. Shame really. ‘Anyways, such a loss, an’ so young an’ all. Much too young for the master, I would’ve thought. She weren’t more ‘an twenty. So how much older is he? Let me work it out. Let’s see. He’s somewheres atween fifty and sixty. So how much’s ‘at?’

  Gaf tried counting using his soaked fingers. ‘Ah, damnation!’ He shook his head in frustration. He wasn’t much good with numbers that went higher than twenty. ‘It’s too much anyways! I knows ‘at much,’ he said a bit too loudly.

  It was time to walk the wall again. Every fifteen minutes, up and down he would go. Up and down, back and forward. Sometimes, he was in a world of his own, going through the motions of the walk, seeing precious little. There really was no shelter from the rain tonight, but he couldn’t get much wetter than he already was. So, with a little grunt, Gaf pushed himself upright and away from the tower wall against which he had been leaning for support. ‘Oh, me achin’ bones!’ he grumbled, hefting up his shield and spear. ‘If I didn’t know no better, I’d swear these damn things is gettin’ heavier.’

  The gusts were stronger the farther away he went from the tower’s protection, causing him to squint against the stinging droplets when he did dare to cast his eyes upward.

  ‘Bout ‘nother hundred paces to the next tower, I wager. Then a quick rest an’ back again,’ he muttered, shaking his head forlornly. ‘An’ I’m soon to go to home, to me bed, though that’ll be cold tonight an’ all. An’ I’ll need to warm it first. Fair soaked to the skin I am, to the very skin an’ bones of me. A man would be fortunate not to die of the terrible shivers on a night like this,’ he complained.

  He walked and he whined, stomped and cursed under his breath, steam rising as he spoke into the darkness, tiny wisps rising and dissipating. ‘No, I sure ain’t gonna miss tramping these walls on cold wet nights like tonight,’ he muttered, stepping along in long-practiced cadence, without missing a beat.

  Gaf didn’t notice the first sign of danger, a light scraping noise followed by a heavy meaty thump against the outside of the Keep wall. To his credit, he did hear the second meaty thump, stopping him dead in his tracks. Years of military training rushed to the fore as he snapped into action, shield raised and spear lowered in one fluid movement.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he shouted rather weakly. ‘Who’s that in the night?’

  No one answered. The wind and rain gusted past his ears, momentarily impeding his hearing, as the gathering drips ran down his chapped pink cheeks to fall with a regular beat from his chin.

  ‘I said, who goes there?’ he commanded again, but louder this time and with more conviction. Show yourself now, friend, or face the consequence. Last chance!’

  Gaf’s heart was pounding so loudly that it could no doubt be heard in the very bowels of the fortress.

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  Again, his query went unanswered.

  Gaf glared at the crenelling, his mind painting a picture of enemy troops clambering up the height on long spindly ladders. He paused, thinking through his next move.

  I could shout an alarm to the watch sergeant below and the whole garrison would be on the walls in seconds. But what if it’s yer bloomin’ imagination, ya old toad? He thought.

  Gaf edged slowly towards the outside wall on the balls of his feet, trying to see over the rim, but to no avail. ‘Damn yer short arse!’ he growled.

  Well, it was just no use; he still couldn’t see anything beyond the wall’s thick rim.

  Inching forward, he finally reached the edge and with shield up and spear held aloft, he quickly looked over the side. Half expecting to see a ladder full of enemy soldiers, he gritted his teeth and put on his most fearsome snarl. But there was nothing. Rainwater coursed freely down the outside of the wall into the blackness of the night, way beyond his ability to see.

  ‘Nothin’, you bliserin’ idiot!’ he chided himself. ‘There’s nothin’ there.’ Just then, Gaf noticed a movement to his left out of the corner of his eye, a strange dark mass that seemed to be attached to the very stone of the wall. The mass moved, a head peering up.

  Gaf didn’t get a chance to scream as a fist cracked his jaw, dropping him to the wet stone floor. He would get to dream for a few hours. The shadow slunk over the wall and dragged the guard’s unconscious frame into a dark corner, where it tied him up.

  ‘Sleep well, friend,’ the shadow whispered, then smiled, patting the old soldier’s head. Brinn Thronso had been born with extraordinary abilities. He could scale any building, possessed incredible eyesight even at night, and had been blessed with unnatural strength and agility.

  The army found good use for those fine attributes, and Brinn had become a member of the most feared and respected group of soldiers in Jarro. The Pathfinders were legendary, and he was their best. They had changed his name. Now, he was simply known as Panther.

  Whether it was assassinations, spying, or simply killing enemy soldiers, the Pathfinders were the elite. Blending into their surroundings, they could strike stealthily to carry out any designated assignment, extracting themselves with little trace. They were sword masters, experts in hand-to-hand combat, and fiercely loyal to the king and to each other.

  But tonight, Panther was not acting on orders.

  Tonight, it was personal.

  Brinn crept noiselessly along the upper wall of the Keep and down the winding stairs toward the guards’ sleeping area. Finding the room vacant, he opened the door and carefully peered out. The corridor was empty and dark with no sign of life.

  Turning right, he headed for the stairs to the lower level and just as he was about to descend, two heavily armed soldiers came tramping up towards him. In a flash, he scampered up towards the ceiling, wedging himself in the darkened corner at the joining of two walls.

  Seeing nothing, the guards passed by oblivious to his presence; as they disappeared from view, he dropped down and descended the stairs towards Darrik’s private chambers.

  Oil lamps lit the way, one every ten paces or so. Keeping his back to the wall, Brinn eased his way along, quenching the lamps as he went.

  ‘Much better. Nice and dark, just the way I like it,’ he whispered. Coming to a bend, he pulled out a small mirror and carefully adjusted it so that he could see around the corner. ‘Good, there’s the door to the master bedchamber, and not a guard in sight.’

  Slipping the mirror back into his pocket, he quietly crept down to the door. Placing his right ear against it, he listened. The sound of snuffling snores carried through the heavy wood.

  Trying the handle and finding it locked, he retrieved a lock pick from his belt, and probed the workings.

  This is where the skill comes in, he thought. It only took a few seconds as the door lock wasn’t a particularly good one. A two-year-old could have opened this with a swaddling pin. Not really much of a challenge at all, he thought, slightly disappointed, slipping easily inside.

  On the bed lay a fat balding man in his mid-fifties, snorting and snoring in a deep sleep. By the dresser lay an empty wine jug. Brinn saw the man’s face clearly in the flickering half-light of the dying fire. It was Lord Darrik, Defender of the North, cousin to the king.

  Brinn’s blood rose, staring at the pig responsible for taking his woman.

  My beautiful Sherii, he remembered. A large lump formed in his throat, he forced it down deep inside, turning his heart to black marble, cold and hard.

  Clamping his hand over Darrik’s mouth, the Defender of the North immediately awoke and tried to fight off his attacker, but Brinn had inhuman strength. Outmatched and powerless to resist, Darrik quickly surrendered.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ asked Brinn, forcing Darrik’s head down into the coarse blankets.

  Even with Brinn’s hand clasping his chin, Darrik shook his head vigorously.

  ‘I am going to remove my hand. If you call out, you die! Is that clear?’

  Darrik nodded his understanding.

  Brinn removed his vice-like grip but kept his hand close to Darrik’s mouth.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want of me? If it’s money... I’m not a rich man, but you can have whatever I’ve got,’ whined Darrik. ‘Just tell me what you want and it’s yours.’

  ‘I don’t want your filthy money, you scum-sucking toad!’

  Darrik blinked in shock at Brinn’s venomous tone.

  ‘The king would pay a mighty ransom for my safe return. I-I am his cousin. He would not forsake me. After all, we are family.’

  ‘If you mention the king again, I will tear out your tongue with my bare hands! Do you hear me?’ Brinn hissed.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ whined Darrik. ‘What then is it that you want of me?’

  Brinn remained silent for a long moment, staring blankly at the dying embers in the fireplace. ‘What I want, you cannot give.’

  ‘Why then are you here?’

  ‘I’m a lonely traveler of the night, come in search of answers. Give them to me and I will be gone.’

  ‘Answers to what? Tell me. I will happily help you, my friend.’ Darrik was feeling a little more relaxed and sat up in the bed.

  ‘To life and death, I have recently lost a loved one.’

  ‘Ah, then we are kindred brothers. For I have also had a loss, you see. My wife, she also passed recently.’

  ‘Really? Please tell me more. It may help me in my grief.’

  ‘It’s a tragedy. She… Well, she jumped from that very window there.’ Darrik pointed to the long slit window in the wall.

  ‘A sad loss. How many years were you together?’

  ‘Oh, not long. It was our wedding night,’ Darrik said, laughing nervously.

  ‘How truly terrible. Were you in the room when she jumped, friend?’

  ‘Why, yes, I was, but not conscious, you understand. It had been a very vigorous night.’ Darrik winked.

  ‘Of course. It was your wedding night after all. She must have been very... enthusiastic?’

  ‘No, not really. But some wenches need a firm hand. You know the type. You would do likewise I think, eh friend?’ He laughed again, mainly in fear this time.

  In a movement that was nothing more than a blur, Brinn drove a knife into Darrik’s mouth right up to the hilt, pinning his head to the ornate wooden headboard.

  Darrik died with a look of shock and fear frozen on his face.

  Brinn looked into the dying man’s eyes, watching as the last sparks of life slipped away. ‘No, I would not,’ he whispered at last.

  Pausing, he looked at the window for a long moment, and then left.

  If you are enjoying Wyvern the completed Dark Lair Trilogy is available now on Amazon.