Chapter 11

 

“Potz!” Alexia blinked back her sudden fear. A stone wall as solid as any other stood before her, blocking the way—the only way at the moment—to the secret passages snaking through Luxley Castle. Behind her and her friends, shouts and the stomp of boots grew louder. The guards would be upon them in moments.

Groaning, Damien drew a knife from his boot and wheeled to face them.

Ronar glanced at her, his blue eyes searching hers, wise and knowing. “Walls do not appear out of nowhere.” He laid palms on the stone and pushed with all his might, growling.

She nodded. But what to do? She’d never encountered so solid an obstacle. So large an obstacle.

“This way!” one of the guards shouted. “I hear something.”

Footsteps thundered.

Damien snapped his gaze to Ronar. “At least turn and fight!”

Closing her eyes, Alexia attempted to still her heartbeat. She could never see the spirit realm when she was anxious. The friar’s gentle words filled her mind. Faith not fear. Calm not calamity. She released a breath and sought the Spirit.

In her mind, she saw the wall begin to move as if it were alive. Like a river of mud, it oozed and bubbled before her. Eyes still closed, she drew a blade from inside her tunic and held it against the sludge.

“Any moment now, my love.” Ronar’s anxious words resounded from beside her.

“Are you both mad?” Damien barked.

The head of a large viper shot from the mud, fangs bared.

Alexia leapt back with a shriek and opened her eyes, breath heaving.

Ronar grabbed her arm. “What is it?”

“Naught to concern us.” She smiled. Then holding her knife to the wall, she drew a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and uttered the words. “No weapon formed against us shall prosper. ’Tis the heritage of the servants of the Lord! Begone!”

The tip of the blade she pressed to the wall fell forward, along with her arm as they both swept through air.

Ronar’s shocked expression transformed into a wide grin.

“Shall we?” Alexia started forward

“Come, Damien. Make haste!” Ronar slugged the knight on the arm, who remained rigid, his blade pointed toward the oncoming guards.

“Huh?” Damien whirled, knife in hand, and gaped down the hallway, his face pinched in disbelief ere he followed on their heels.

Down the passage, up another spiral of stairs, Alexia shoved aside a wooden cabinet and knelt, feeling along the stone wall. There. She pressed the latch and drew out a rope from behind it. One tug and the stone moved aside. Ronar shoved it further, and the three of them squeezed into the tunnel.

Grabbing the cabinet’s legs, Ronar pulled it back in place, then yanked on the rope to secure the stone.

Just as they heard the march of boots speed past.

Darkness surrounded them. Naught could be heard save the distant drip of water and their harried breathing. A musty smell of age and decay filled Alexia’s nose as Ronar struck flint to steel and lit one of many torches laid near the entrance.

“I dare not ask what became of that wall,” Damien muttered.

“God’s truth, you wouldn’t believe it,” Alexia said. “Let us be about our haunting, shall we?”

Rising, she led the way through the narrow passageway, turned left, and then rounded a corner that descended to the right and then veered left again. She knew these passages as well as she knew Emerald Forest. Cristiana and she had discovered them after their mother died, and together, they had spent hours exploring the castle and spying on the servants. They’d never told anyone, which she was thankful for now, or Sir Walter would surely have had them guarded.

Torch light glistened over moist stone, and a chill invaded Alexia’s tunic, piercing her skin and seeping into her bones. Whether from the damp air or what had just occurred, she didn’t know.

The wall had disappeared! Though she should not be surprised, still her mind reeled at the miracle. She knew not from whence the dark powers in this castle hailed, but they were growing stronger and more powerful every day. Which meant she and Ronar must grow stronger in their faith, must learn more of the Sacred Words of Scripture in order to do battle. For the friar had told her that they did not battle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, powers and rulers of darkness—entities that could not be defeated by sword or arrow, but only by the Word of God and the name of Jesus.

Ronar and Damien were silent behind her as the tunnel narrowed and they dropped to their knees to crawl the final distance to Sir Walter’s study.

If Anabelle had done her part, which she always did, then Sir Walter should be quite befuddled by now.

Alexia halted before the hole which led into the vile steward’s room. Rummaging through her pack, she found the jar, opened the cork, and smeared the white paste all over her face, neck, and the exposed skin of her arms, then handed it to Ronar and Damien, who did the same.

After tying a white cloth over her hair, she suppressed a chuckle at how ridiculous the mighty knights looked, and crawled from the tunnel to an area beneath a sideboard. There, peering from behind the cloth that covered the table, she spotted Sir Walter at his desk, his vacant eyes staring into space. Good.

“Put out the torch and allow the smoke to enter his chamber,” she whispered as Ronar and Damien crawled in behind her.

Ronar gripped her arm. “Be careful.”

“When am I not?”

He sighed. “Always.”

♥♥♥

Sir Walter, quill pen in hand, stared at the parchments spread over his desk. Why would they not cease floating back and forth like wheat before the wind? Blinking, he drew a deep breath and attempted to focus yet again. His stomach rebelled, and a foul smell emerged from his mouth. Tossing down his pen, he slammed his fists on the desk, yet even that action caused him pain.

What was amiss with him these days? What illness had overtaken him? He’d always been virile and strong. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes. Whate’er the apothecary was giving him, ’twas of no effect. He would run to the man’s chamber and curse him for a fool. If he but had the strength. Instead, fear of his own mortality clamped onto him like a vice.

“Devil’s blood!” He cursed out loud. He was far too young, had far too many plans to be thinking thus. ’Twas merely a mild case of ague, and soon he’d be back to his lusty, devious self!

A scuffing sound, like wood on stone, reached his ears. The candle on his desk fluttered, though his shutters were closed. Smoke filled the room. He coughed and shook his head.

Hearing things again. Seeing things again. Sitting up, he reached for a flask of wine and attempted to pour it into a cup, but his hand shook, and it spilled, dripping from his desk onto the floor…plop…plop…plop…like fresh drops of blood.

He pushed his chair back in horror and looked up to see three beings moving to and fro before his desk. The room spun and cloudiness cloaked his vision. Their faces were as pale as death, and their bodies oscillated as if they were made of water. A memory taunted him. Had he not seen these three before in his bed chamber?

“Who are you?” He shriveled further into his chair, heart thundering, longing to run, but unable to find the strength.

One of the beings floated toward him and placed a parchment on his desk. “Sign this, and seal it with your ring.” The voice was familiar yet muffled as if it echoed down a long corridor.

Sir Walter dropped his gaze to the paper, but the words chased each other around like children at play.

The tip of a knife appeared in his vision, pointing to a space on the bottom. “Here.” The being dipped his pen in the inkwell and handed it to him.

“What is it? What does it say?”

A thousand horses’ hooves pounded across his brain, and he reached up with both hands to squeeze his head. “Cease this madness, I beseech you!”

“’Twill cease when you sign this missive.”

Pain spiked through his head, down his neck, and spread across his back. His breath came hard and raspy, and it took all his strength to remain upright.

He took the quill, the feather trembling in his vision, for he’d do anything to stop this pain, even cater to spirits. “Alas, I beg you, what does it say?”

“’Tis the parchment which will clear your conscience and grant you a chance for redemption,” the spirit before him said, though when he glanced at it, the apparition appeared to be naught but an undulating cloud.

“Redemption! Beshrew me. What need have I of that?” He dropped the pen.

“You will have great need of it when you face hellfire,” one of the spirits in the distance remarked.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” He’d posted a guard at his door. Hadn’t he? Breath coming hard, Sir Walter struggled to rise. Finally teetering on his feet, he stumbled backward and struck the wall. Hard.

“In truth, we are secret messengers from the otherworld.”

“Secret messengers, forsooth!” His belly ached, and he forced down vomit rising to his throat. “You are not here. ’Tis but a nightmare.”

“I’ll show you how real we are!” One of the spirits started forward—the largest one—but the one in front raised a hand to stop him.

“I assure you, you vile miscreant. We are quite able to slit your throat in your sleep.”

Sir Walter clutched his neck, doing his best to focus on the spirits, attempting to make out their features, but they remained twisted and malformed.

“Ergo, you will sign this parchment, or you’ll meet the devil himself.”

Huffing, Sir Walter’s thoughts drifted to Drago. “I have already met him. Now, leave me be! I beseech you. Leave me be!”

Yet the spirits remained.

Clutching a vase from the table beside him, he hurled it at the first apparition. It ducked and the vase crashed to the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.

The sound of the bishop’s voice rang from outside the door.

Sir Walter’s legs gave out, and he slid against the wall to the floor. Just what he needed. A visit from his excellent nimbycock.

More scuffling sounded, and the door swung open, slamming against the stone wall behind it.

The sound rang pain through Sir Walter’s head.

“What mischief is afoot in here?” ’Twas the bishop’s annoying voice. Nightmare, indeed.

Nay, no nightmare, for the real bishop circled Sir Walter’s desk in a swirl of black robes and stared at him as if he would rather step on him like a bug than speak with him.

“Get up, you dizzard! Why are you sitting on the floor, curled in the corner like a whimpering tosspot?”

Pressing his hands against the wall, Sir Walter pushed himself up, held his stomach against his rising nausea, and approached his desk. One glance over the chamber revealed the spirits had gone.

“Nay. I...I...”

“Oh, do shut it, you buffoon. I hear you have good news.”

Dropping into his chair, Sir Walter swallowed and studied the parchments across his desk. The one from the spirits was gone. “They have found Lady Cristiana,” he moaned.

“Indeed!” The wavering form of the bishop slapped his hands together. “When will they arrive?”

Sir Walter coughed. “They do not have her in hand as of yet. But they have her surrounded.”

“Surrounded! God’s blood! Can you do naught right?”

“’Tis only a matter of time, Your Grace.” Sir Walter muttered, though his words sounded jumbled to his ears.

“Very well. I shall expect to see the shrew back here at Luxley within a sennight.” The bishop’s distorted face, far too large and grotesque, appeared in Sir Walter’s vision.

“Beware your drink, sir. If you can’t control yourself and find the Spear, I’ll seek out someone who can and give Luxley to them!”

Spinning around, the bishop stormed out, and Sir Walter dropped his head onto his desk and drifted into a tormented oblivion.