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Turpin rose from his seat at the campfire. The look on Varin’s face was grim as he stood before Turpin and the other knights in the camp. Turpin exchanged uneasy glances with Karl the Hammer and Sir Rodair in the fading light.
“You’re sure it’s him?” Karl asked the ranger.
“How long have we traveled with the men of Pavik?” Varin cocked an eyebrow. “I know what Lord Tancred and his men look like.”
“Thank you,” Turpin replied. “Have the scouts watch their approach, but don’t interfere unless they show signs of aggression.”
“Of course, my lord.” Varin bowed before disappearing into the dusk outside camp.
“Inform Conrad the Wolf.” Turpin looked at Karl. “Have the boy meet us here.”
Using his maul to help him stand, Karl the Hammer set off to the other end of camp at a brisk pace. Turpin turned his gaze to the fire. Brooding over the frustrations Tancred would undoubtedly cause made the chaplain’s jaw tighten.
“What do you think?” Rodair looked at Turpin quizzically.
“I am uncertain.” Turpin shook his head. “I don’t think Tancred is out to attack us. But he is probably upset that we did not tell him about his daughter being with us back in Narlstad. He must have come back here looking for her.”
“It will make him more upset to learn she went off to the Wyrmwind Peaks with Lord Godfrey,” Rodair noted. “He will probably want to kill someone after that.”
“Probably,” Turpin snorted in agreement.
By the time the Sun had fully set, Turpin caught sight of Tancred approaching between the tents. Conrad arrived at Turpin’s tent with Karl just as Tancred’s and his retainers’ faces became visible in the yellow glow of the fire.
“Where is Phillip d’Artois?” Tancred asked, searching the crusaders’ faces.
“We had to leave him and his men back at Pskov,” Turpin answered. “He was wounded on the way to the Northern Marches. Ambushes have become pretty regular these days.”
“I know you.” Tancred’s expression grew angry as he recognized Turpin. “You’re the chaplain who was with that stupid boy Madeline had gotten herself mixed up with.”
“Be careful how you refer to Lord Godfrey.” Turpin indicated Karl and Rodair. “You are in the presence of his loyal knights.”
“Had gotten herself mixed up with?” Conrad repeated.
“Look,” Tancred took a deep breath, “I know Godfrey ran off with Madeline from Narlstad, but I’ll withhold my chastisement concerning your complicity there for the time being. Nera, the Witch of the North, killed him on his little adventure with my daughter, and now she is holding Madeline hostage at Olso.”
A passing footman stood frozen in his tracks upon overhearing what Tancred had just said. Sir Rodair’s mouth hung open. Karl the Hammer was on the verge of tears. Turpin could hardly believe what he had heard. The boy had been his last link to... Turpin shook his head, dismissing the thought.
“That is quite regrettable.” Turpin was able to conceal all but the slightest quiver in his voice at the news of Godfrey’s death.
“There’s more...” Tancred held up a finger.
“I am sorry for your misfortune,” Turpin cut in. “But you have done as much to hurt this crusade as help it, if not more. These men of Bastogne will not help you any further.”
“What about revenge?” Tancred replied, gesturing out to the woods beyond the camp. “High Warlord Alvir is the husband of Nera. Both of them are at Olso right now.”
“Attacking Olso now would be saving Madeline and fulfilling our crusading vows,” Conrad noted.
“There is a very large silver mine underneath Olso Fortress,” Tancred continued. “Its capture would be a huge blow to the Clans, and Azgald would gain just as much as the Nordsmen would lose. Help me do this. Please.”
Turpin’s eyes remained fixed on the fire. The embers smoldered and crackled. So much had been lost already on this expedition. Was there still a point in continuing?
“We will avenge our lord.” Turpin nodded. “We will not do this for what your duchy would gain, your daughter’s life, or even the crusade. We are going to avenge Godfrey with the deaths of the witch and her husband. And then we are leaving this cursed land.”
***
After Madeline had been shown the sleeping dragon, she was taken to a cell at the top floor of a tower. A pair of Nordsman guards searched her, and took most of what few valuables she had on her. They tore from her finger a ruby ring that once belonged to her mother. They snatched away a necklace her father had given her on her birthday last year. She was sure she would never see these things again.
Losing these possessions pained Madeline, not because she had a particular attachment to jewelry, but because of the memories of the people she associated with the gifts. Though she wanted to scream at these rough men, to resist, and try to hold onto these things, she knew such efforts would be futile.
To Madeline’s surprise, the guards’ initial discovery of the ring, necklace, a bracelet, and a purse full of coins, distracted them from making a more thorough search. She held her breath as the guards ripped away these last two items and walked out of the cell bickering over how to divide the spoils. As they slammed and locked the cell door behind them, Madeline breathed a sigh of relief.
Once the door was locked, and she was sure there would be no intrusion, she removed her hairpin from the back of her head. It was bejeweled, and the guards would have confiscated it on those grounds alone had they noticed it during their search. However, her hair was an unkempt mess from her fall into the river, capture, and forced march—which helped conceal this last piece of jewelry.
Removing the hairpin revealed that the portion which was normally visible while worn was actually the hilt of an ornate dagger. She twisted the dagger’s blade, unscrewing it from the hilt. On the reverse end of the blade was a small lock pick.
Madeline’s father had given her this multifaceted tool for just this sort of moment—when she might need to escape imprisonment and fight her way out. Knowing how few friends her father had outside Pavik made her retrospectively wonder why she had not been taken hostage sooner. Not that she regretted any missed opportunities along those lines.
Madeline began working the lock pick against her restraints with practiced ease. Her father had repeatedly lectured her that brave knights might not always be able to save her from misfortune. She would never again complain about her father’s paranoia in making her practice removing chains and fetters from her wrists since she was a little girl.
With a heavy clang, the copper manacles fell from her wrists. Already Madeline could feel the magic beginning to surge through her veins again. With a snap of her fingers, a small flame flickered briefly above her hand. Madeline was satisfied that she could call up much more than that in an instant if she wanted to.
She could barge out of her cell right now, incinerating the door then everyone and everything that got in her way. She frowned at this thought. She remembered passing many guards and armed servants as she was brought up to the tower. Such an escape attempt would undoubtedly be short-lived. The conflagration would attract Nera’s attention, and Madeline knew the witch far outclassed her abilities.
What of stealth? Simply by holding her breath and concentrating, Madeline could deaden all the sounds around her while turning invisible as she picked the lock to the cell door. She would still need to deal with the guards at the cell door, but from there she could possibly sneak out of the tower. The only drawback to this plan was that she could only remain invisible for as long as she could hold her breath. She had to escape not just the tower, but navigate the keep and climb over the inner and outer walls, or somehow get through the gates while remaining undetected as well. Though Madeline might make it farther this way, she also saw her recapture as inevitable in this instance. What she needed was a distraction.
Looking out the window to her cell, Madeline had a good view of the fortress walls and surrounding countryside. Her father would be coming with an army soon, she was sure of that much. That would be the opportunity she would wait for.
Madeline screwed the blade of her dagger back onto its hilt. Instead of replacing it on the back of her head, this time she hid the dagger up her sleeve. She would not risk losing this valued possession, and doubted the guards would search her again.
Picking up the manacles, she could feel the magic beginning to drain from her again. She grimaced, but let them hang loosely from her wrists. With a silent prayer, she hoped her distraction would come before the sacrifice.
***
Spathi flew nonstop from the Watch Tower of Uvalin to Olso Fortress. Though this was by far the fastest way Godfrey could imagine covering such a great distance, passing through the high mountain air like this left him stiff with cold. Still, he was grateful for Luka’s gift.
By the time they reached Olso, the fortress was only illuminated by pale moonlight. Godfrey preferred it that way. He doubted any sentries would expect an intruder coming from above, and cover of darkness helped all the more. Surprise was on his side.
In the distance, Godfrey made out the torches of what looked like several thousand men approaching Olso. He doubted the warriors in the fortress saw the approaching army yet, but they would soon. He could spend little time speculating whether the army was friend or foe. There was no way of telling from this distance in the dark, and his other priorities would be only more pressing if these were enemies.
Godfrey had Spathi circle over the fortress a couple of times as he tried to determine the best point to infiltrate. The rectangular keep had one large tower on each corner. A pair of sentries stood watch from the roof of each. Yet only one tower had light emanating from the window at the highest interior level.
“You think something important is happening in that one?” he asked Spathi, pointing out the tower in question.
Swooping in towards the roof of the tower Godfrey pointed out, Spathi crushed one of the unsuspecting guards with his talons as he landed. The Nordsman sentry died with a sickening crunch of bones. The second sentry cried out, but Godfrey ran him through with his blade. The disturbance did not go unnoticed, and Godfrey soon heard shouting from the other towers.
“Keep them busy,” he told the griffin as he dismounted.
With a screech, Spathi launched himself at the sentries on one of the other towers. Seeing a trapdoor on the roof, Godfrey flung it open before sliding down the ladder into the tower. He hit the floor hard. The room was small, with a wall and heavy wooden door dividing the area from the rest of the level. The furniture was sparse, and only a couple of torches provided light to the interior.
Another pair of startled Nordsmen stared at Godfrey as he sprang at one of them. A quick thrust from Uriel ended the first guard. Godfrey swung at the second guard, but the Nordsman already had his sword out. Their blades clashed as metal scraped against metal. The Nordsman swung at him. Taking a step back, Godfrey dodged the attack. Lunging forward, the Nordsman struck again. Blocking with his shield, Godfrey found himself backed into a corner.
Most Nordsmen Godfrey had fought were raging brutes like the orcs who fought beside them. This one was older, grizzled. He still fought with the ferocity of his kin, but the impetuosity in the typical Nordsman fighting style Godfrey could normally take advantage of was replaced by the kind of skill that only came with experience.
The impassive expression with which the Nordsman observed Uriel’s glowing blade unsettled Godfrey all the more. He could see a certain degree of fear written across most of his opponents when confronted by Uriel, but not this Nordsman. This Nordsman was made of sterner stuff.
Godfrey struck out, but the Nordsman parried, and offered an immediate riposte. Godfrey blocked again with his shield. Feinting, he was sure his next attack would hit. The Nordsman surprised him with a perfectly timed block with his own shield.
This Nordsman was watching the position of Godfrey’s feet, hands, how he shifted his weight before each movement. It was just as Fallard had trained Godfrey to do as a squire. Godfrey rarely needed to watch his foes’ movements so closely, given the predispositions of most of his enemies in the Nordslands, but he found this Nordsman to be every bit as skilled as another trained knight.
With an overhead strike, Godfrey surged forward. As the Nordsman lifted his shield to block, he was forced to yield ground. Breaking free from the corner, Godfrey struck again as he attempted to get around the man’s defenses. Stepping away, now the Nordsman had his back pressed against the door to the next room.
A deafening crash startled both Godfrey and the Nordsman. After a second and third crash, Godfrey recognized it was stone-throwers hurling their payloads against the battlements. The Nordsman clearly knew the sound too. Olso was under siege.
With a roar, the door behind the Nordsman exploded in a shower of splinters and flame. The force of the blast threw him forward. Unprepared for this inexplicable event, Godfrey fell on his back with the enemy on top of him. The Nordsman was limp, with dozens of door fragments piercing his back. Godfrey pushed the corpse off him and rose to his feet. To his surprise, Madeline stood in the open doorway before him. She returned an equally shocked look at him.
“You’re alive?” she asked, helping him to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you...I think.” He brushed himself off after sheathing Uriel.
The two exchanged a long kiss. For Godfrey it was still too brief, but they were not out of danger yet. Once they were out of Olso, then they could celebrate.
“This way,” Madeline said, and tugged Godfrey to a set of stairs leading down.
“No.” Godfrey resisted Madeline’s pull, indicating the ladder. “We need to go up. I have some help there.”
“The dragon is down in the mines.” Madeline pointed to the stairs. “With your magic sword, we could kill Vozzab while he still sleeps.”
“The castle defenders should be getting ready to repel an assault at the walls soon.” Godfrey considered the bombardment taking place outside. “This may be our best chance.”
Drawing Uriel, he led the way down the spiral stairs in the center of the room. Madeline and he had not made it far when they heard another set of footsteps coming up the stairs. Godfrey signaled for her to halt, but it was too late. Nera stood in front of Godfrey with her jeweled staff pointing in front of his face.
“You again,” Nera snarled, taking another step up the stairs. “It’s time for the ritual, Madeline. But I’ll make sure your knight dies here first this time.”
Madeline launched a burst of flame from her hand over Godfrey’s shoulder. The witch caught the fire with the end of her staff, but Godfrey saw a narrow opportunity. With a quick slash of his sword, he cleaved Nera’s staff in two. The sudden discharge of radiant magical force threw him on his back, while the witch tumbled down the stairs. Standing, she screamed as she shot bolts of arcane energy from her fingertips.
“Not that way.” Godfrey ran up the stairs, narrowly avoiding the eerie glowing projectiles. “Gods above, hurry!”
Madeline was already running a few steps ahead of Godfrey. A beam of the strange magical substance singed his cloak as Nera’s attacks wildly bounced off the walls. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Madeline bounded for the ladder. Godfrey stopped in front of the room’s only table for a moment. It was heavy, and solidly built. Sheathing his sword one last time, he had an idea.
Flipping the table over, he shoved it down the stairwell. Nera cursed, but Godfrey did not stay to see what happened exactly. It was a desperate move, and he did not want to catch a magic bolt in the face if it did not work.
Ascending the ladder, he found Spathi had returned to the top of the tower. Godfrey shut the trapdoor behind him. Madeline looked between the griffin and him, astonishment overtaking her.
“This is just like in your vision,” she gasped.
“There’s no time.” Godfrey mounted the griffin. “Let’s go.”
She took Godfrey’s hand, and sat on Spathi just behind him. Spathi leapt from the tower, soaring through the night sky just as Nera threw open the trapdoor. Spathi went into a quick dive to gain speed, and just missed colliding with the parapet as he flew over the fortress’ inner wall. Nera blindly hurled a fireball after the griffin, but Spathi was too quick and the lighting too poor. Godfrey could not help but laugh as he realized they really had escaped.
***
Alvir walked over Warden Tarik’s broken form as he surveyed the room before him. Dozens of large, wooden splinters perforated the Warden’s back. Alvir sighed. There was a loss not easily replaced.
Alvir took a moment to wipe the blood from the ax in his hand with a rag. It was the same ax he had murdered his brother with, months previous. He’d struck down several Azgaldians and crusaders with it in the last hour on Olso’s walls. It would taste more blood before the Sun rose.
In front of Alvir, Nera sat on the floor with the pieces of her broken staff in hand. She looked at him with tears streaming down her face. She shook her head helplessly.
“The Duke of Pavik brought some crusaders with him,” Alvir said, frowning.
“I know.” Nera did not look at him. “That boy, Godfrey de Bastogne, took our sacrificial victim away.”
“We’ve suffered a few setbacks tonight.” Alvir indicated the scene around them. “Right now the siege goes poorly, but we can repel the assault on the walls with some effort.”
“The staff held a vast reserve of my powers.” Nera threw the pieces against the wall. “It will be difficult to replace.”
“Are you spent?” He concentrated on her expression.
“I can’t cast any more spells until I’ve rested.” Nera shrugged.
Alvir’s grip on his ax tightened.
“You did everything you could,” he reassured his wife. “But there is one last service you can perform for me tonight.”
“You need me to complete the ritual.” Terror struck Nera’s voice as she grew pale. “If the slightest thing goes wrong...”
“We are both of Clan Black Dragon,” Alvir cut her off. “You have the blood of a dragon-slayer in you. Your blood will have to do.”
Nera attempted to rise to her feet, but he shoved her to the ground. Having cast so many spells in her efforts to stop Godfrey from rescuing Madeline, she was utterly exhausted. She could hardly move at all.
“Vozzab,” Alvir invoked the dragon’s name. “Son of Yoan, hear my prayer. Accept this sacrifice, and lend me your strength.”
With a stroke of Alvir’s ax, Nera’s blood splattered on the floors and walls as she screamed. Alvir waited a moment as the last of his wife’s vitality drained from her. A moment passed with no discernible change. Doubt began to creep into his mind. He had not brought her down to the altar they had set up in the dragon’s cavern as should have been done, but she was of appropriate lineage, and the prayer was simple and direct. With the enemy at the walls, there simply was not time to do everything properly.
“For what it’s worth,” he sighed, staring down at the dead witch, “I am sorry it had to be this way.”
Something rumbled deep under the earth. The tower around Alvir shook with a roar that was felt more than heard. He rushed to the window as he heard the ground in the courtyard begin to crumble. A chasm opened in the courtyard leading down into the mines below. As the dawn broke, the dragon’s black silhouette filled the sky.
Vozzab spread his wings as the battle below came to a standstill. Looking down on the embattled men and orcs on the fortress walls, the dragon roared again. To Alvir’s horror, Vozzab swooped down, devouring all within his reach with his snapping jaws and raking claws. The dragon did not make any distinction among his victims.
Alvir had gone too far. His wife had been right about the ritual. He had no control.
Hearing movement behind him, he turned to see Urzg ascending the stairs. The orc’s expression was unreadable as he surveyed the scene of carnage. Urzg looked past Alvir out the window to behold the further destruction the dragon was causing. The orc grimaced, recognizing Alvir’s blunder.
“Never fear,” Alvir reassured him. “This war isn’t over yet. Come, we’re leaving.”