Reaching the palace was an easy task after Colton and Tyran had scaled the wall. The guards, as numerous as they were, had little wariness and most stood in groups at the street corners, nearly oblivious to whoever passed in the shadows behind them. As they entered the sector of the wealthy they parted ways, marking a place to return to at daybreak. On his own, Colton’s thoughts began to wonder and he strayed from subtler paths to the main road. It was there that a notice, tacked to a post beside the road, caught his attention. Upon it was a warrant and price for the capture or death of an outlaw, depicted below in an ink sketch. The face drawn was Colton’s.
“Some comfort,” he muttered to himself.
Colton tore the paper down and folded it, tucking it in his pocket. He cast a glance up and down the street and, finding it to be deserted, turned his gaze to the palace towering ahead. Now it was no more than a looming shadow, but as he drew nearer and eventually stood at the foot of its great walls it became suddenly strong and threatening in its darkness and solidity. Colton pushed away the illusions his imagination brought swiftly to his mind and chose a window, a couple stories above ground, as his entrance point.
Still, as he scaled the cold wall to the next balcony, his mind was in tumult. He had been trained to become a warrior, it was true, but how could he kill a man, even as wicked as Alastor was, in cold blood? Perhaps it would be nobler to challenge him to a duel. Alastor had been rumored to be the greatest warrior Vellatha had ever seen, imbued with power by Odamir and the other spirits, but Colton gave little thought to the tale. He reached the balcony and swung over silently, choosing a place to continue his ascent where the shadows would render him invisible to the guards. On he climbed, and in a short while he had reached the window, with neither glass nor any kind of shutters to barricade him outside.
He slipped effortlessly through the window and touched the ground lightly, drawing his sword from its sheath in silence. Ahead was a guard, pacing the bare corridor without the warmth of a single torch. A wind, its touch carrying a sharp chill, swept through the passageway as Colton crept behind the guard and struck him to the ground. He knelt beside the man and unfastened the gray cape from his shoulders. It felt cruel to leave him there unconscious in the cold, without even his cloak, but it was Colton’s only chance at passing for a guard.
He rose swiftly and strode down the hall without looking back, following the corridors as they branched off one another and twisted deeper into the palace. It was not such a maze as those beneath the palace—and still Colton shuddered when he remembered that place—but it took every sense to stay aware of where he was.
He continually found himself forced to take staircases lower, till he was nearly certain he was on ground level. He had some doubt that he would find the king’s chambers there, but he hated to retrace his steps over the two floors above and continued his search in mild frustration. For all he knew, the king might be dead already by Tyran’s hand, and meanwhile he was wandering around the palace pushing his luck as far as it could go.
Several guards passed by him, and he melted away out of sight, not caring for an interaction with soldiers or anyone else. So he continued on, till the fine decorations and gold and crimson curtains disappeared, and he entered a wing of the palace much barer and emptier than those through which he had previously searched. Here the stones were older and the architecture less refined; perhaps it was the servants’ wing, but not a sound echoed in its passages and none other than Colton moved there.
Colton followed the passageway, narrower now, till it stopped short, a heavy wooden door standing still and cold at its end. Curiosity made Colton forget his present mission, and he drew the door open with mild surprise that it was not locked. Ahead was nothing more than a simple stone staircase leading further into the ground, but that in itself was enticing enough. Colton followed the steps to a small square room, constructed entirely of rough, evenly-shaped stones.
What caught his attention before anything else were the engravings upon them, forming pictures all along the floor and walls up to the ceiling. There were depictions of kings and warriors, of swords and bows, of the sun and stars, sketched into the stone by an expert hand. Across the room was another door, this one of stone. In its center was engraved the image of a mighty war hammer striking a globe, lightning flashing around it.
It was as Colton studied this hammer that footsteps sounded on the staircase, swiftly growing louder. He whirled from his position. Across the room stood a man clad neatly in black from head to toe, his cape hanging to his ankles, his hand upon the hilt of his sword. His features were surprisingly young, and yet he bore a seriousness and wisdom in his air that kept Colton from looking down on him. The man was very tall, and his face and build were slim, though it was not as if he were lacking in any strength. His gaze as he stared at Colton was unreadable, and for a long moment there was only silence.
“What are you doing here?” the man finally asked.
“I lost my way,” Colton said, and immediately regretted answering with the first excuse that came to his mind.
“Allow me to escort you out,” the man said evenly.
Colton looked at him warily. “No thanks.”
With incredible speed the man drew his sword from its sheath, and a split second later its point was at Colton’s throat.
“Really,” he said. “Let me escort you out.”
Colton reached for his sword, but the man caught his wrist and twisted his arm till pain shot through his shoulder. Grimacing, Colton yanked a knife from his belt with his free hand and slashed back at him. The man released him to block the blow, sending the knife clanging to the stone as Colton drew his sword. They faced each other, the man’s expression never changing. After a brief second’s pause the man was at him again, slamming him against the wall. Colton ducked the next blow and drew a second knife to slice the man’s arm. Again they paused, and as each recovered their breath the door behind Colton’s attacker opened. Seven more men entered the room, each dressed as the first man.
“You mess with one of us, you answer to all of us,” one spoke, his gaze going from the stranger to Colton.
Colton’s eyes turned back to the man before him. Blood was trickling down his arm.
“It’s nothing personal,” he said.
“We’ll see about that.”
Colton was the first to move against them, but where he had scarcely escaped unscathed against one he would fare much poorer against eight. It was not as though he ever lost his cool, or even made a mistake, but simply that whoever these men were, and whatever training they had been given, they far exceeded him.
His first sword strokes did a little damage, but then he was forced into the corner and beneath their swift blows his sword fell from his grasp. Fearing death if he remained in such a position, he ducked a sword as it was swung over his head and whirled around to knock two of them to the ground. Behind him one of them slipped his arm around his neck, and another was quick to wrench the knife from his grip. Colton twisted free and kicked the man to the floor. This they did not take so well, and a punch to the jaw sent him against the wall. He followed the sword point instantly at his throat to the man carrying it, his eyes harsh.
“Now. Who are you?” he said.
Colton held his gaze for only a moment before he leapt to the side and seized the hilt of the sword. For an instant they struggled there, as Colton tried to twist the sword from the man’s grasp, but the man pulled away from him and the hilt struck Colton in the head. Colton fell to the ground, blackness threatening to send him unconscious, vaguely aware of the taste of blood in his mouth.
Above him the men sheathed their swords, and then two dragged him to his feet. The world spun and Colton’s head was pounding, but his vision cleared enough to recognize the man who now faced him, the same as his first attacker. He held a paper in his hands, and Colton realized it was the warrant for his capture—or death. It must have slipped from his coat sometime during the fight.
“Not many men carry their own warrant in their pocket,” the man said.
“It was more of a souvenir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I told you. I got lost.”
“Last time you were at the palace you escaped with another man. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If you don’t answer to us you’re going to have to answer to the king. So I’ll ask you once more: what are you doing here, and where’s your friend?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
He turned to a man beside him. “Have the king awakened.”
The man nodded and disappeared up the flight of stairs. The man before Colton motioned to those that still held him.
“Take him with us,” he said, leading the way from the room.
Fantastic job as always!
>>but how could he kill a man, even as wicked as Alastor was, in cold blood?
You bring up a good moral quandry... but you don't quandry it. Why not? Why shouldn't he just slit his throat and walk away whistling?
You bring up 'maybe it would be nobler'... but is being 'noble' one of his goals in life? Does he care about 'nobility'?