Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (22 page)

“You’d better hope not,” said Kendril. “Because you’re coming with me.”

Chapter 14

Sir Mulcher shook his head. “I can’t do it,” he said quietly.

“A hundred men is all I need. A company. Surely you can give me that.”

The officer plucked at the end of his large mustache, eying Kendril carefully. “You’ve talked to General Whitmore about this?”

The Ghostwalker hesitated. “No. I didn’t want to distract his attention with something that could turn out to be a false lead.”

Sir Mulcher sighed, and leaned back in his foldout chair. His command tent was behind him, and the banner of his regiment drooped on its pole, lacking any wind to bring it to life. The soldiers of his regiment were camped all around, with fires already springing to life across the wooded glade they were in. From the road a few hundred yards to the right the cathedral tower of Balneth and the pinnacle of Castle Dunhill were just visible in the fading sunlight.

Whitmore had encamped his army a few miles from the city, stopping for the evening to consider his next move. Bathsby had made no move towards them, nor did Kendril expect him to. With Balneth locked up tight and reinforcements likely on the way, Bathsby no doubt intended to merely wait Whitmore out. There would probably be some emissaries riding into the camp early the next morning, demanding Whitmore’s surrender and arrest, but not much more.

“I can’t spare even a company, Kendril.” The nobleman leaned forward. “What you say is intriguing, but it’s all hearsay. I can’t risk the lives of my men on such sketchy information.”

“If the passage exists, we’ll find it,” said Kendril confidently. “It should be somewhere on the eastern base of the cliff, leading up into the catacombs. If it isn’t there, we haven’t lost anything. We’ll just return to camp before morning.”

Sir Mulcher folded his hands on the portable table before him. “I need my men well rested. Who knows what will happen in the morning?”

“Fifty men,” said Kendril desperately. “Give me fifty men and I can end this war right now.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done for us,” said Sir Mulcher carefully, his dark eyes watching the Ghostwalker, “but you’re not an officer, Mr. Kendril. I won’t give you command over any of my men.”

Kendril cursed, stepping back from the table. “I can’t believe you’d throw this chance away,” he said. “Don’t you think that—”

“I said I wouldn’t give
you
command over any of my men,” interrupted Sir Mulcher, “and I won’t. That is why
I
intend to come with you tonight, with a hundred of my men. Is that good enough for you?”

Kendril took a breath, his anger evaporating. “Certainly.”

“I’ll inform General Whitmore of our intentions,” Mulcher said, smoothing out one of the maps on the table. “Assuming he gives his consent to this insane plan, we can depart in an hour.”

Kendril gave a grim smile. “Thank you, Colonel. You won’t regret this.”

The nobleman bent over the map. “Let’s hope not.”

“Look, Kendril,” said Maklavir in a rather nervous tone, “I think it would be rather better for all of us if I stayed here in the camp. I’m not much of a fighter, you know.”

Kendril shoved a loaded pistol into his belt. “Trust me, Maklavir, I know. But you’re still coming.”

Maklavir’s face fell. “But
why
, in Eru’s name? I’ve told you everything Palora told me.”

Kendril gave Simon a final rub on the nose. “You’re still the closest thing to a guide we have. If this passage exists, you’re going to help us find it.” He turned, buckling on his swords.

The diplomat spread his hands, his face aghast. “Tuldor’s beard, are you
trying
to get me killed?”

Joseph gave his rapier a few practice swings, then sheathed it and glanced over at Maklavir. “Just duck off to one side when the shooting starts. You’ll be fine.”

“As long as you’re not wearing anything noticeable. Like a purple cape, for instance,” commented Kara with a smile.

“Yes, yes,” said Maklavir drolly, “very amusing. How funny will it be when I’m dead?” He crossed his arms, his face sour. “You’re all a bloody bunch of lunatics.”

Sir Mulcher walked up to them, wearing a large buff coat with a pistol tucked into his belt. He looked over at Kendril. “The light’s beginning to fade. Are you ready?”

Kendril nodded. “All of us are.”

Mulcher stared over at Kara in surprise. “You’re taking a
woman
along?”

She glanced up, her face curdling.

Kendril gave Mulcher a knowing look. “She can handle herself just fine, Colonel, believe me. Now let’s stop wasting time and get going.”

The nobleman gave Kara one last doubtful look. “Right then. Let’s find this bloody passage.”

“The nobles are arriving.” Sir Reginald stepped back from the palace window.

Bathsby straightened the lace at his collar, took one last glance in the mirror, then strode to the window himself. He glanced out across the castle lawn. Several coaches were already arriving through the main gate, and the first nobles were beginning to enter the palace chapel. The sun was setting in the west, and had already dipped below the level of the castle wall. He smiled.

“Everything is still on track?”

Reginald gave a quick nod. “For now. We have told the noble families that the wedding must take place here in the castle for reasons of security.”

Bathsby stiffened his neck, and pulled at the lace again. “But of course. Whitmore’s assassins are still on the loose.” The smile faded from his face. “Get down to the chapel. I’ll be there shortly.”

The nobleman gave a quick bow, hiding his smile, then walked out of the room.

“Blast!” cursed Maklavir as he stumbled over a loose rock. He wavered for a moment and reached out a hand to steady himself against the cliff wall. “I can’t see where I’m going here, Kendril.”

The Ghostwalker ignored him, scrambling over a large boulder as he searched the cliffside to their left. Behind them was a long line of soldiers, with Colonel Mulcher himself at their head. To their right the low plains stretched to the east, with the first of the Dagger Hills just visible in the fading light. The cliff to their left stretched up hundreds of feet to the wall of Castle Dunhill.

Maklavir cursed again as his cloak caught on some brambles. He tenderly pulled it loose, careful not to tear it.

Kendril looked back over his shoulder. “Keep it down, will you?”

The diplomat pushed his cape out of the way of some nearby vines. “The castle’s three hundred feet up, Kendril. They’re not going to hear us.”

“They won’t if I cut your tongue out,” growled Kendril. “Now keep it down.”

“Yes,
sir
,” Maklavir said sarcastically. He tripped over another stone and stumbled a few feet forward. “Kendril?”

“What?” the Ghostwalker replied irritably. He began crawling up the surface of a large boulder.

“What about over there?” The diplomat pointed to a thick group of bushes against the cliff face.

Kendril slid back down the rock, looking at Maklavir questioningly. “You see something?”

“Well, no,” he confessed, “but I think Palora mentioned something about bushes covering the entrance.”

“Bushes?” Kendril stepped closer to the diplomat. “You never said anything about bushes.”

“Yes, well I had forgotten,” said Maklavir, moving closer to the tangle of vegetation. “Besides, I might be wrong.”

Kendril muttered something under his breath, then moved towards the cliff face himself, pushing aside some of the tangled shrubs.

Joseph and Kara came over the large boulder behind them, followed quickly by Mulcher and two of his men.

“Found something?” the nobleman asked curiously.

“We’ll know in a minute,” said Kendril as he grabbed one side of the bushes. He pulled on it, swatting branches out of the way as he tugged at the leaves. “Maklavir, grab the other side.”

The diplomat hesitated, then reached cautiously for the wiggling plants in front of him.

Joseph sighed, stepped forward, and grabbed the bristly branches.

Together they yanked the bushes aside. When they were done they stepped back, examining their work.

There was a hole, about four feet in height, carved into the cliffside and disappearing into darkness.

“By Tuldor’s beard,” Sir Mulcher whispered.

Kendril ran his hand down along the rough stone of the entrance, grinning as he did.

“Let’s see where it goes,” he said.

Lord Bathsby stepped up to the third floor of the palace, his left arm folded behind his back. He nodded to the guards, who saluted stiffly. Crossing over to Serentha’s room, he opened the doors and entered quickly.

The princess sat on the bed, a blank expression on her face. Bronwyn stood by the window, her lips curled down in displeasure.

“Is she ready?” Bathsby asked curtly as he looked down at the unresponsive girl.

Bronwyn turned from the window, the amber amulet at her neck glowing softly. “She’s resisting my control more and more, my lord. I won’t be able to keep this up for long.”

“Just get her through the wedding ceremony,” snapped Bathsby as he turned back for the door. “After that you won’t need to control her anymore.”

The tunnel was cut from the bare rock, and sloped gently upwards.

Sir Mulcher gave some orders, and lanterns were lit. The light reflected off the pocked and pitted walls, shining up the passage until it faded into the darkness beyond.

The corridor was small, and they were forced to stoop, going in a single file. Even the softest whisper ricocheted up the tunnel, and the scuffle and thudding of booted feet soon grew deafening.

Kendril led the way, a pistol in one hand and a lantern in the other. Sir Mulcher came behind him, his face calm and unwavering.

The dark was pierced only by the bouncing lights of the lanterns, and the tunnel soon grew stuffy from the large number of men crowded into it. Kendril found himself wiping sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, his eyes always on the darkness ahead of him.

And still the corridor continued upwards.

The wedding guests were mostly seated in the chapel as the altar boys began lighting the candles along the front and sides of the sanctuary. The low whispers from the guests in the pews echoed off the arched stone ceiling high above. All available seating was quickly used up, and many of the lesser nobles were forced to stand in the back, looking over the heads of those seated in front of them towards the altar.

The chapel itself had wooden pews on both sides of the central aisle leading towards the front, and two simple wooden doors at the rear of the building that opened out unto the castle lawn. Stain-glass windows lined the walls on either side, depicting various stories and parables found in the Blessed Scriptures. An altar boy came down the central aisle, swinging an incense censer back and forth as he walked.

Sir Reginald watched it all from where he stood by the doors. He glanced over his shoulders out the door of the chapel. The palace was just visible across the green lawn to the right.

He only hoped nothing went awry. He had doubled the guard at the castle gate, as well as the men guarding the city walls. Whitmore would have to be a fool to attempt an assault, especially at night, but Reginald was taking no chances.

Not that it mattered, he thought to himself. Within a half hour this would all be over.

And Lord Bathsby would be King of Llewyllan.

“What’s this?” came Sir Mulcher’s low voice as he stumbled out next to Kendril.

The walls of the tunnel behind them seemed to suddenly disappear, and the darkness yawned in around them from every side.

“I don’t know,” said Kendril. He shoved his pistol in his belt and reached for the lantern. “Let’s find out.”

He threw open the shutters all the way. Light flooded out in all directions.

They were standing in a large underground room carved from the rock of the hillside, which stretched away to their right into a wide passageway. Openings were cut into the side of the walls on both sides, each one a foot or two high and six feet long.

Kendril stepped into the middle of the room, making way for those coming behind them. He stepped up to one of the openings in the wall and lifted the lantern up for a closer look.

There was a flash of dull white from inside. A skeletal face materialized, its eyeless sockets staring out at them.

“Talin’s ashes!” exclaimed Maklavir from behind him. “It’s a skeleton.”

A smile broke out on Kendril’s face. “The catacombs.” He yanked the pistol from his belt once more. “We’re on the right track.”

Maklavir gaped as he stared down the walls on either side. “There must be dozens of bodies here,” he said in astonishment. “All the kings and queens of Llewyllian history. It’s absolutely incredible.”

“Save the tour for later,” Kendril said over his shoulder. “All of this does us no good if we can’t get into the castle.”

“Let’s hope we can,” said Sir Mulcher, brandishing his rapier. “Come on.”

The chapel fell silent as the oaken doors swung open.

Four soldiers dressed in the white uniform of the Royal Guard entered and positioned themselves on either side of the entryway with their arms held at attention.

Lord Bathsby entered a moment later, wearing his dress uniform of white silk emblazoned with the bejeweled peacock of Llewyllan. A rapier hung at his side, the hilt glittering with silver. Sir Reginald fell into step behind him.

Without looking at the crowd of spectators, Bathsby strode purposefully down the aisle of the church, stood next to the altar and swished his blue cape back.

Sir Reginald came up beside him, one hand resting on the rapier at his side.

The priest shuffled to the center before the altar and raised his hands in the air. “Let us pray,” he said.

Kendril turned a corner of the catacombs, Sir Mulcher right beside him. The lantern bobbed as they climbed up the sloping floor. Kendril didn’t even glance at the burial slots to either side of him. His were eyes on the passage ahead of them.