The Shadow's Tower

Aranthir I

"There," said the young mercenary, pointing up the mountainside, "that is where they are keeping him."

Aranthir leaned forward on his courser ever so slightly, his keen, elven eyes scanning the forested slopes with practiced thoroughness. The rest of the party paused their horses on the narrow trail and waited. A mile ahead, the top of a crumbling stone keep poked out of the surrounding tree cover.

"With a perch like that," Aranthir said quietly, "they're sure to see us coming." The trail ran along the side of the mountain through a bare patch of rocky ground and then a green meadow before reaching the keep, each location threatening to expose them to watchful eyes.

"Can we go off the trail, through the tree cover?" asked Aranthir's companion, Aigon, a young man of twenty.

"Take a look at these slopes, boy," Lutharis, an older mercenary with a demi-lance in his hand, said as he pointed down the mountainside. Thickly forested valleys plunged to the valley floor far below, choked with ferns and vines. Here and there, deer trails and rivulets wound their way up and along the slopes in a wild tangle that defied efforts to plot a course through them. "You're not getting your horse through that without breaking a leg," the veteran freelancer scratched at his neck in thought and Aigon settled back into his saddle, sufficiently chastened.

"I mislike the sound of a direct approach," complained Yvande, the young mercenary at the head of the party. "Is there another path, perhaps higher in the mountains?"

"Perhaps, but we're not likely to find it before dark," Aranthir replied. "We should ride quickly and skirt the edges of the open areas. If we are spotted, ride hard for the keep and overwhelm them before they can set an ambush."

"Load your weapons now," Lutharis advised the group, drawing out his carbine and powder horn.

"Load on the move," Aranthir said, spurring his horse forward. "We have a rescue to complete and pay to collect. There are worse things than bandits in these mountains so let's not spend any more nights out here than we must."

Twenty riders and two dozen horses moved along the winding trail in near silence, only the sound of hooves on the dirt path and the scrape of ramrods in barrels could be heard in the trees. At the edge of the rock field, they paused a moment and Aranthir studied the keep again, looking for any signs they had been spotted. Nothing moved, and he could not even spy a lookout.

"Nothing at all?" asked Rora, moving her gray palfrey up alongside him. Aranthir shook his head and nudged the horses forward again. "Are we sure this is the right place?" she asked as they slowly made their way through the thick undergrowth just inside the forest's edge.

"The men in town said the bandits had a keep in the mountains, and their trail led to this road. Unless there is another keep on this path, this is it."

"Or the men in town were mistaken. Or lying," Rora said, keeping her musket aloft in one hand. Her other hand held flint and steel, ready to light the match cord at the first sign of battle.

"They were telling the truth as best they knew it," Aranthir replied quietly. The forest was calm, but full of noise. Wherever they moved, the birds ceased to chirp. That pleased Aranthir for it meant they were unused to people. Up ahead, they continued to chirp, signaling that the path was safe.

Their small party moved past the rock field, scaring a fox as it went. For the most part, they moved in silence, weapons ready and eyes alert. Aranthir thought ahead to the old stone keep and how they might storm it. Their information from the townsmen was scarce; besides the location of the keep, they had learned that the bandits numbered anywhere between ten and fifty. Their leader was rumored to be either a disgraced partisan of the late queen, a sorcerer or a voracious ogre. One talkative townswoman had warned them that the bandits defended their stronghold with a cannon, but Aranthir could see no cannon tracks on the trail, nor any easy means of navigating such a cumbersome weapon over the rocky ground.

As they neared the meadow, Aranthir slowed the column with a raised hand. The birds were quieter up ahead, and on the wind, he could hear the faint but unmistakable sounds of spoken words.

"Light your cords and pray to Arvoran," he instructed, drawing a pair of wheellock pistols from his saddle. "They await us."

Two miles from the green meadow, on the highest remaining floor, the bandit known as Atarr sat in an inscribed summoning circle. Candles burned along its edge, filling the drafty room with acrid smoke whose columns were sometimes pierced by the afternoon sun filtering in through cracks in the walls. Atarr's eyes were closed and his palms upturned. Before him was a small bowl of the many rare powders, chief among them the precious indigo spice, worth thrice its weight in gold.

Deep in a trance, he slowly lifted the bowl and tipped its contents into his mouth. It danced along his tongue and throat like lightning, sending violent tingles throughout his body. Three decades of familiarity with the stuff did little to inure him to its effects. Images danced through his mind, showing worlds that once were and were yet to be. For a brief instance, shorter than a heartbeat, he saw himself on a golden throne, attended to by a corps of slaves who once were kings. They carried him from his vast ivory palace to a wide balcony where he looked out onto a cheering crowd that shouted his name in a thunder great enough to shake the heavens.

As quickly as it came, the vision was gone. In its place was only darkness, and then a voice.

"Do you see what could be?" it asked, slithering into his mind from dark reaches that even the gods avoided. "Do you see what I could make for you?"

"I do, Master. What do you require in return?"

The was a silence that the bandit could only described as amused. Then the voice returned. "Blood," it hissed. "I demand sacrifice in blood. You have paid with the blood of wretched peasants, creatures that wallow in filth. I wish to taste blood of a higher station."

"A lord will be difficult to acquire, Master," Atarr replied nervously, "They are ensconced in their keeps and—"

"Silence, servant. I will not require such a sacrifice yet. You may advance slowly. In time you will slake my thirst with the blood of princes and kings, but this time you will bring me that young merchant in your dungeon. In two days' time, when the sign of the Crown in at its height, you will give me my tribute. Cut him open and offer up his life force to me. But first, he must be made to fear. Bring him to me."

"I will do as you command, Master."

"Enter into the pact," the voice commanded, and Atarr picked up his knife. He held out his hand and cut it open, letting the blood drip into his bowl. He poured a small flask of oil into the bowl and lit a length of straw in one of the candles.

"With this sacrifice of my own lifeblood, I promise to you, Master, that I will fulfill out covenant and provide you with the blood of the one you desire. I swear this to you on this circle of communion."

Then he set the oil alight and watched it burn. For a time he stared into the dancing flames, the light searing his eyes. As the flames died down, the voice spoke again.

"Go then, and bring me my prize." It receded into the dark spaces of Atarr's mind. He rose from the circle and extinguished the candles. Looking outside, he saw only the waving treetops stretching for miles before giving way to the farmers' valleys just before the horizon. One day, he would be lord of those lands, he knew.

Atarr stepped into the hallway where his lieutenant Mace waited. The tall bandit stood two paces from the window, peering out toward the mountainside. His namesake weapon hung from his belt next to a long knife and a powder horn. Hearing the creak of Atarr's door, he turned to face him.

"There's someone on the trail, boss."

"Sorj and his will handle it," Atarr waved dismissively. "Bring me the merchant. I want to introduce him to my patron."

Mace frowned. "You're going to open him up? But what about the ransom?"

"We'll take the money and keep the man. His blood is promised."

"We won't be able to find anyone willing to pay a ransom if we keep killing them. Why can't the patron take more shepherds and woodsmen?"

"He doesn't want shepherds and woodsmen," Atarr snapped, "He wants merchants, lords and princes. I told you to bring me the merchant, so bring me the merchant. Is that a problem?"

Though visibly uncomfortable, Mace kept his complaints to himself and went down the stairs.

With their match cords lit, Aranthir and Lutharis traversed the edge of the meadow on foot. They moved low, darting from tree to tree to stay hidden. The voices were upwind of them, and Aranthir could hear their voices getting louder whenever the breeze carried through the forest. Thirty paces behind them, the mercenary Deite and his second Limonn followed with three more of the group. Yvande and Aigon moved through the trees further down the slopes.

Aranthir carried a matchlock musket in his hands, his longsword in its scabbard and a brace of pistols in his belt. He wore a steel cuirass and leggings of mail. Over his pointed ears and black hair he wore a dented old morion, blackened to defeat rust and avoid revealing glints in the sun. Lutharis was similarly attired, carrying musket, saber and a single pistol. With practiced care, they picked their way through the brush until they were in sight of the forest trail again.

Lutharis signaled to Aranthir and they took up a position behind a fallen log, overlooking the trail. Aranthir cocked his ear to the wind. Even in the stillness, he could hear voices. He nodded to Lutharis, who turned and signaled to the trailing group. Deite and his men hurried forward, finding shooting positions for themselves. Rora and three more men dashed to the opposite side of the trail and took their own marks.

Their preparations were just in time, for no sooner had they entered the thick undergrowth to either side of the trail than a party of bandits rounded the bend. In the lead were three men on horseback, followed by four more on foot, leading a pack horse. They carried muskets over their shoulders and axes or knives on their belts. Chatting among themselves, they were blissfully unaware of the impending ambush.

Aranthir flashed a series of hand signals to Rora, who relayed them to her shooters. Aranthir let the men slowly draw closer, until at last he swung his musket over the log and pulled on the trigger. The burning match cord swung forward, igniting the black powder in the flash pan and there was a thunderous roar. His vision filled with smoke, burning bits of powder stung his face and hands, and the others joined in the shooting.

Through the smoke, he could hear the sounds of pain and panic, and the dying of a horse. Not waiting to reload, Aranthir drew his longsword and charged through the smoke. Two men lay in the road, one underneath a thrashing horse bleeding from the flank. Another man was bent over, favoring his gut. The rest were in a state of shock, one atop his horse had managed to draw a pistol. Seeing Aranthir, he raised and fired, but his panicked horse bucked as he did and the shot went high.

Lutharis charged through the dissipating smoke to join in, but Rora and her shooters were reloading. The mounted bandit turned his horse around and fled as Aranthir hacked down his dismounted companion. Lutharis speared another with his demi-lance and the final bandit fled as fast as his legs would carry them.

"Bring up the horses!" Lutharis shouted, "Let's get after them!" Deite fired at the fleeing bandits and the man fell dead in the road. Not waiting for the horses, Aranthir and Lutharis took off running after the final bandit. The narrow trail twisted and turned, steadily climbing towards the keep as it went.

Aigon and Aranthir's page, Haute, came thundering down the trail on horseback, leading the other horses with them. Aranthir caught the reins at a run and swung himself up into the saddle.

Rounding a bend, he spied his quarry, but just beyond him was another bend in the trail watched over by a masonry-reinforced sentry post. Two men behind the breastworks leveled their own muskets at him. Aranthir brought his horse to heel as quickly as he could, but Deite and Limonn shot past him as he did. They were caught unawares by the sentries.

The muskets sounded and Deite fell dead. Limonn's horse fell as well, shot in the head. On the slope above them, Aranthir spotted two more bandits scrambling into position to shoot.

"Get back around the bend!" he shouted to Limonn. Lutharis rode up, stopping on the safe side of the bend. He threw a musket to Aranthir, who caught it and fired on the flanking bandits. The ball struck the mountainside behind them, but they dropped behind a low rise and stopping running. Limonn seized the reins of Deite's horse and tried to calm the confused animal.

"Fall back to the meadow with Rora and set up another ambush," Aranthir told Lutharis and Aigon, tossing the empty musket back to them. Casting a look at Deite's fallen form, he drew his pistols and rode forward to Limonn. When one of the men in the sentry post peaked over the lip of the wall, Aranthir fired his pistol at him. There was the audible sound of a ball striking his iron helmet, and the man fell backwards. At last, Limonn steadied the horse enough to swing himself up into the saddle and made for the safety of the bend.

Aranthir discharged his second pistol at the men up the slope and followed the others back towards the meadow at a gallop. He then exchanged the empty pistols in his belt with the loaded ones in his saddle, ready for more enemies.

Casting looks over his shoulder, he could hear the bandits organizing a pursuit and see a rising cloud of dust. He dismounted at the edge of the meadow, where Rora had set up her ambush position. Limonn laid out two pistols on the fallen log and readied his musket.

Aranthir dismounted and handed the horse over to Haute.

"Lutharis, Aigon, come with me. I'll set up a position down the slope. When they arrive, we'll come up and attack them from behind."

The three of them quickly clambered down the slope, hidden from those on the trail. They picked their way back towards the bend through the ferns and roots. It was not long before they heard their foes coming. First was a mounted contingent of five. They charged headlong into the ambush, where three of them were shot dead immediately. The others fell back on their marching comrades and together they picked their way forward along the trail.

Peeking over the edge, Aranthir saw two men making their way through the trees up the slope. Concerned that they would do the same on the downslope side, he signaled to Lutharis to keep a watch on their own flanks.

The dismounted force of bandits numbered nearly twenty and when they reached the spot where their fellows had been shot down, they were wise to the ambush. They attempted to provoke Rora's men into firing all their shots at once, shooting at her cover from around the bend in the trail. Once her weapons were emptied, Aranthir knew the bandits would charge in with their swords, hoping to put the mercenary troupe to flight with a single stroke.

Instead, Rora held her fire, rotating between shooters to keep the enemy back while also having a large enough massed volley to break up a charge attempt. The two men making their way through the trees upslope were both spotted and driven into cover by Limonn's shooters.

Now satisfied that he was not going to be flanked himself, Aranthir pulled Lutharis and Aigon to him. They each readied a pair of pistols and their swords. Together, they pulled themselves up the slope and into view to fire into the mass of enemies. As soon as their pistols were empty, they charged in with their swords and a ferocious war cry.

Surprised and wounded, the bandits turned tail immediately. Aranthir cut one down with his sword, the runes in its fuller glowing white, but more than half of them escaped down the trail. He and his companions fired what dropped muskets they could find at the fleeing foes. As the last of them vanished around the trail bend, Yvande stepped up next to Aranthir.

"Now what?" the young man asked.

"They'll be ready for us at the keep. We can't fight our way in the front now," Aranthir replied. He looked down the slope. "We'll have to search for another path through the forest or lure them out into another ambush."

The air in the ruined keep's dungeon was stale and wet. The only light in the room came from a small slit in the far wall, filtering in from the outside, and from the torch in the hall, dimly visible underneath the door. The cobblestone floor was slick with moisture, in places dark-loving weeds had fought their way through it. Old cracks in the walls afforded entrance to the rats, one of which presently gnawed at a discarded bone in the corner.

Chained to the crumbling wall was a young man named Praden, his once fine clothing soiled with dirt and sweat. His feet were bare, and the embroidered leather boots he once wore were now on the feet of a corpse on the mountain trail. His dark blonde hair was clodded with dirt and grime and a bruise on his brow was nearly healed. He sat against the wall with his arms above his head, shackled to an iron bar.

For all the indignities he suffered, his companion in the cell was in a sorrier state. He and the unfortunate Koaver were the last survivors of their trade mission to the high mountain meadows. The older man had been shot by an arbalist during the destruction of their caravan and his wound was carelessly dressed. For these past several nights and days he had languished in the cell, moaning in pain. Through the rent in his tunic, Praden could see that the wound had turned gangrenous. His old friend did not have long to live.

Presently, there was noise in the hall. The torchlight filtering under the door was obscured by a pair of legs and an old iron key turned in the lock. The door swung open and Praden cringed at the familiar sight of his jailor.

The bandit Jonden was broad-shoulder, fat and hairy. His ample belly spilled over a wide leather belt notched for each prisoner that died under his care, as he liked to brag. His lumpy face hid evil, beady eyes under a craggy brow, and those small black eyes promised wickedness with its mere gaze. Behind him was the visage of Mace, another unwelcome sight. Jonden stomped down the dusty stone steps to Praden's resting spot.

"Up you go, little brat. The chief wants to see you now." He laughed with his whole body, spraying spittle everywhere as he did. The iron manacles groaned as they were unlocked and pried apart, and Praden cried out as he was roughly hauled to his feet. "Get going," Jonden urged, demonstrating his impatience with a kick.

Praden staggered and nearly fell. Doubled over in pain and despair, he made his way to the door with great effort, where Mace seized him by the arm and pulled him into the hall. Spurred on by his captors' cruelty, he somehow made his way up the stairs to ground level. He blinked his eyes to adjust to the light in the hall. Dimly lit as it was, the contrast between it and the dark dungeon pained him.

At one end of the chamber sat the dreaded warlock Atarr on a makeshift throne. It was once an oaken chair, now aged and partially rotted. The bandits had thrown a richly colored cloth over it to instill some grandeur in it, but Praden had seen finer furniture in the merchants' modest guildhall. Jonden kicked him once again, knocking him to the ground.

"Kneel, you git. Kneel before the master of your fate," the jailor commanded. Atarr leaned back on his throne and smirked. Praden obeyed as best he could.