“What do you lot bloody want?” The harsh shout had come from the top of the gate. “You wanted to speak with me, so speak.”
Alaric had halted his stride mere yards before the castle’s drawbridge, which lay lowered before him. They had been waiting for almost a quarter of an hour. Alongside him stood Grayson and Nightwell, accompanied by his Shadow Guard. Ezran and Thorne both carried shields and had positioned themselves just before him. With the shields, they were ready to provide cover for him should it be needed. Rikka had joined them and was standing next to Kiera off to Alaric’s right. Twenty-five yards back were thirty of Grayson’s men, still formed up into a marching column.
The day’s sunlight was fading, and fast, bathing the scene in an increasingly dim twilight. The temperature was also dropping. Winter was clearly just around the corner.
“That is Masterson, the man I told you of,” Nightwell whispered, his voice a deliberate murmur designed not to carry beyond their immediate vicinity. “He is quite a disagreeable man, my lord. I never much liked him and told your mother as much when she engaged his services.”
In the failing light, Alaric strained his eyes, barely discerning the features of the man. Leaning casually with his elbows against the battlement above, he wore a red tunic and had a prominent bushy mustache, which he was idly playing with. From his elevated position, Masterson was surveying the scene, as if feigning disinterest and boredom. Beside him was another figure, equally intent on observing the gathering just before the drawbridge. The second man pointed at Grayson’s men and then said something to Masterson, who replied curtly. Alaric could not hear what was said between them.
Immediately below the top of the walls to either side of the gate, the ominous presence of several arrow slits carved into the stone of the gatehouse caught Alaric’s attention. Peering into the darkness that filled each opening, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that unseen archers lay in wait, their bows drawn and aimed at him and the others. This added a real sense of danger, but Alaric felt compelled to take the risk. If he could get a resolution without resorting to bloodshed, all the better, especially if his mother was released unharmed.
“Well?” Masterson demanded, his tone coarse and hard. His manner reminded Alaric very much of a bully. “What do you lot want? You’re already boring me to death. Speak, so I can go back to my dinner and eat in peace.”
“Open the gate,” Alaric commanded. He was not accustomed to being spoken to this way, but that wasn’t what irritated him. It was what had happened—and was happening still—to Dekar. Masterson was a direct symbol of that decay. The rot needed rooting out, and Alaric aimed to do just that. It would begin here.
“No,” came the brusque reply from above. Masterson, with a glance at his companion, lowered his voice for a private remark, yet his words still managed to carry, and that told Alaric the tone and level was intentional. “They must be foolish to think we would open the gates for them.”
“I could hit him from here with my bow,” Jasper stated quietly with an edge of readiness. In one hand, he grasped his strung bow, in the other three arrows. “Just for the insolence, I can take him down. Give the word, my lord, and it shall be my pleasure. It is an easy shot for me.”
“I know it.” Alaric surveyed the land to either side of the road that led up to the drawbridge and gate, noting the encroaching wilderness with a sense of dismay. The forest, once a cherished family reserve behind the castle, was now steadily advancing around it. When he’d left, there had been extensive manicured gardens alongside the road, along with a handful of farms that provided fresh produce to Dragon Bone’s Rest.
Nature was asserting her dominion, weaving the wild back into what had once been neat and ordered. The outskirts of the town, merely a quarter-mile behind them and down the hill, seemed almost a distant memory amidst nature’s steady encroachment, with the nearest homes and barns outside the walls lying abandoned in ruin.
Turning back to the castle, his gaze lifted to the once majestic edifice that had sheltered generations of his family. The castle, now a dark silhouette against the dimming sky, bore the weight of neglect on its shoulders. The outer wall’s stones, etched with the passage of time, seemed to whisper past tales of glory and despair in the same breath. The turrets, which had once pierced the sky with their might, now appeared jagged and weary, their wooden roofs rotting away and the proud pennants missing. Even some of the stone facing had come loose and dropped away, along with chunks of mortar.
The heavy and reinforced wooden gates stood open, the left side hanging askew on its hinges, creaking mournfully with every gust of wind. However, the portcullis was closed. The drawbridge over the moat was down, one of its heavy chains broken, long ago having snapped. The other was badly rusted and appeared to not have been used in some time. A thick and frayed rope had been fitted in the missing chain’s place. The entrance—once bustling with the comings and goings of noble guests, bannermen, and civilians from the town—was now overtaken by creeping ivy and weeds.
The moat, which had stood as a formidable barrier, was now choked with lilies, reeds, and other detritus, reflecting the failing light in its stagnant waters. Eyeing the moat, Alaric thought one might simply be able to wade across, but there was no telling how muddy the bottom was. Neglect was quite apparent in everything before him.
As daylight retreated with every passing heartbeat, casting long shadows across the derelict courtyard beyond the portcullis, Alaric could see the remnants of one of his mother’s many gardens, once meticulously groomed, now overgrown. The sight saddened him, for his mother always loved her gardens. Around it, wildflowers and grass peeked through cracked paving stones, and vines clambered over statues and the inner walls. It seemed nothing was being maintained by the castle servants and had not been for some time.
The scene was a reminder of impermanence, a tangible sign of his family’s rise and apparent fall. It was clear to him that Dekar herself, years before his father’s death, had fallen into hard times.
Over the years, he had received a few letters from his mother and father. Why had they not said anything about the declining state of Dekar? He found it maddening. Yet, in the encroaching gloom, Alaric felt a stir of something indefinable—a connection to the land about him and its history, a powerful resolve to reclaim and restore what had been lost.
The castle wall ran for more than a quarter of a mile in either direction. Running his eyes over the walls, he counted only six men manning the defensive platform. Those six did not take into account Masterson or the man standing by his side.
“Well?” Masterson demanded. “You are really beginning to bore me already.”
“Open the gate and call for the Lady Elara,” Grayson shouted. “Her son has returned from the Crusade.”
The two men above stiffened and then turned to one another and began speaking urgently in hushed tones. After several moments, Masterson made a chopping motion with his hand and turned back to regard them, even leaning forward for a better view of Alaric.
“I don’t care who you claim to be,” Masterson called back down, sounding surly and coarse. He pointed a finger down at them. “She’s not seeing no one, not today, not tomorrow, not anytime soon. Go away and leave us in peace.”
“Given time, we could build scaling ladders and storm the walls,” Grayson suggested, his tone low as he spoke to Alaric. “I doubt there are very many holding the castle. They certainly don’t look like fighters.”
Alaric’s gaze briefly swept behind them, where the small contingent of Grayson’s men waited. Back before the town and out of view, the rest of the company was building a fortified camp. There was no way they could be ready for a ladder assault by dawn or even, in his estimation, by tomorrow evening, for they would have to manufacture ladders tall enough to overcome the walls. Turning his attention back to the castle, Alaric noticed the area behind the portcullis remained eerily devoid of any presence or activity. The courtyard should have servants and craftsmen in view. The entire time they had been standing here waiting, he’d seen no one pass.
“You dare deny the rightful ruler of these lands?” Grayson demanded.
“The Lady Elara told me personally her son died in the holy land. So your man down there is an imposter.”
“This is the real Alaric and Earl of Dekar,” Nightwell called back up, his voice raspy. “There is no denying that. I knew him as a boy.”
The two men atop the gate turned to one another and spoke between themselves again. Once more, Alaric could not hear what was being said.
“The game is up,” Nightwell said. “He has brought his soldiers home. Defy him at your own risk.”
Masterson and the other man looked down at them before speaking again. This time, they were more animated. Masterson gestured off to the north, away from the town, pointing emphatically. Alaric wondered what was passing between them.
“Open the gate, surrender my mother,” Alaric called, “and I will allow you and your men to walk away—to go free.” Just the thought of doing that turned Alaric’s stomach. Still, if he could end this standoff without putting his mother or any of his men at risk, then it would be worth it.
“And you expect us to take your word on that?” the other man said, doubt heavily lacing his tone. “I think not.”
“Shut up, you,” Masterson hissed loud enough for Alaric to hear. “I will handle this.”
“I give you my word as Lord of Dekar,” Alaric replied. “Open the gate and you will go free.”
There was silence at that.
“You would be wise to listen, Masterson,” Nightwell called.
“Old fool,” Masterson sneered. “I heed my own bloody counsel and don’t need your advice.”
“If they had a larger force, we’d surely see more of them on the walls,” Alaric said to Grayson, careful to keep his voice low enough that those above would not be able to overhear.
“I agree, my lord.” Grayson gave a nod. “I think it quite evident they’ve taken your mother captive and are holding her against her will. I can’t imagine the Lady Elara refusing to see anyone, especially her son, let alone claiming you had died.”
“I concur,” Nightwell added, his tone grave.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Do you know how many men he might have in there?” Alaric asked the mayor.
“Masterson commands a force of no more than thirty men. They are trained but, from what I have seen, are mostly ruffians, thugs, rogues, and scoundrels.”
“Why did you not try to help the Lady Elara?” Grayson asked.
“We’ve been talking about it, my lord… but those few men we have are all that protect us, the town, that is… My militia are not regular soldiers,” Nightwell added. “They are the old and young—poorly trained at that. By the time we realized what was really happening here at the castle, they had locked themselves in, and well…”
Alaric nodded his understanding. There was the real chance that if they attacked the castle, the militia would be slaughtered by Masterson’s men or, if successful, badly mauled to the point where there would be few left to defend the town.
“But to what purpose are they holding her?” Alaric pondered, struggling to understand the strategic advantage here. “This does not make sense to me. Should the other nobles within the kingdom catch wind of this, they would undoubtedly unite to make an example out of such defiance, for if it can happen to my mother, it can happen to them. That is something that cannot be tolerated.”
“Normally, I would agree with such sentiment, my lord.” Grayson shook his head sadly. “However, I’m not entirely sure about that, especially if one of the dukes is involved.”
Alaric’s thoughts immediately went to Laval. Grayson’s words laid bare the precariousness of their situation, highlighting the politics that might be at play within the kingdom itself. Once more, Alaric was reminded that he did not know the rules of the game being played. Worse, he had to learn fast, before it was too late.
“You will let me in.” Alaric had grown tired of being toyed with.
“Or what?”
“Resist me on this and we do it the hard way. None of you will walk out of the castle alive. On that, you also have my solemn word.”
“Her son died. She ain’t seeing no one,” Masterson called down. “Go away and stop wasting my time.”
“You are holding my mother against her will,” Alaric declared. “We know that, and you know that. Stop playing games.”
“And if I am?” The man barked a harsh laugh. “What are you going to do about it? You’re out there, and I am in here, fool, with more than a hundred guardsmen standing between you and her.”
“He lies,” Nightwell breathed. “As I told you, he came with no more than thirty men.”
“This is your last chance. Release my mother and you will live, Masterson,” Alaric said. “You have my word as lord of these lands.”
“From up here, you are master of very little. Now, go fuck off, you noble prick.”
Alaric sucked in a heated breath, his anger firing. He was about to reply when Masterson spoke again.
“Come in here and I will see the old bag dead before you can free her.”
“He is bold,” Rikka whispered with a hint of acerbity, her voice barely carrying. “Bold and scared.”
Alaric’s gaze shifted toward her. Still dressed in the rugged garb of a sailor, she seemed out of place amongst them. He made a mental note to find her attire more befitting her status. He found himself once more wondering why she had come with them. Why had she even gotten off the boat? Why had she spent her nights with him? He had so many questions. She was a mystery, one he was keen to solve.
During their passage from the town to the castle, Nightwell’s curious glances toward Rikka had not gone unnoticed. Though the man held his tongue, it was clear he was curious as to who she was and why she had been allowed to tag along.
“Is there anything you can do about that portcullis?” Kiera inquired of Rikka.
Rikka’s dark eyes moved from the heavy iron bars to the stone archway above, her expression contemplative. “I might be able to do something, but I am thinking not without causing considerable damage to the castle.”
Alaric’s gaze oscillated between the gate and Rikka, pondering the implications of her words. “Were you to use your powers, how extensive would the damage be?”
Nightwell, overhearing the conversation, voiced his confusion. “Powers, my lord?”
“She is a lumina,” Kiera explained plainly.
The revelation caused the color to drain from the mayor’s aged face. He instinctively stepped back from Rikka, his mouth falling open in apparent horror. “Surely you jest with this old man.”
“Do not worry, Mayor,” Rikka said, her tone reassuring as she gestured toward Alaric. “I am only dangerous to his enemies and those who wish me harm.”
Nightwell’s gaze went from Rikka to Kiera. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her face. It was as if, for the first time, he really noticed the tattoos and scars. He gave a slight gasp. “And you are her Luminary?”
“How much damage?” Alaric asked again, pressing for an answer, while shooting Nightwell a slight scowl.
“Were I to employ the spell I am of a mind to, the gate might come down, perhaps even some of the adjoining wall,” Rikka said plainly. “I have only ever used it once. The results were… quite impressive. I am not sure you would want that.”
“Which could ultimately see the way still blocked,” Grayson said. “Our people would have to climb the rubble to get into the castle. That would take time, perhaps long enough for Masterson to hurt the Lady Elara.”
“That is not an option, then,” Alaric declared, slightly disappointed. The prospect of damaging the castle, his seat of power, was unthinkable to him. Any harm inflicted upon the structure would necessitate repairs, demanding resources and wealth that were perhaps better allocated elsewhere, like rebuilding his lands and holdings.
“This castle is ancient. It speaks of the Ordinate,” Rikka observed, her voice laced with a reverence that hinted at her connection to things unseen. She closed her eyes and held her hand out toward the gate, as if consulting with unseen forces or tapping into a hidden well of knowledge. When her eyes fluttered open, she added almost breathlessly, “The walls might be warded. I—I am not sure, but I think the binding likely to be old.”
Grayson, puzzled, sought clarification. “What do you mean warded, a binding, and old?”
Ezran intervened, “She means magically protected.”
“Yes, and there’s no telling what those defenses might actually do in response to my intrusion,” Rikka confirmed, her acknowledgment sending a shiver down Alaric’s spine, a sensation almost detached from the encroaching chill of the coming night. “There are magics that have long since been lost. I—I think that is what we are dealing with here.”
Grayson sought to gauge the certainty of their predicament. “How sure are you about that?”
Nightwell, still grappling with the revelation of Rikka’s true nature, expressed his astonishment. “She is a lumina? I thought they were no more.”
“I am a lumina,” Rikka responded to the mayor, her affirmation serene yet firm. She turned her attention to Grayson. “Though I don’t fully recognize what I am sensing, I’m also sure. It may be dangerous for me to even try to crack open that gate using my spells.”
Alaric, digesting the implications, concluded, “Definitely not an option then.”
The realization that the castle might be protected by ancient magics added a layer of complexity to the already daunting task of reclaiming what was his own. It was something he’d never even suspected possible. Had his father and grandfather known about the warding? Alaric had his doubts about that.
“I could still shoot him dead,” Jasper murmured with a dangerous edge, barely concealing his eagerness for action.
“And I could end him as well,” Rikka added, her voice calm yet carrying a chilling undertone. “But if we did, you’d lose the opportunity to interrogate him and find out if he is working for someone or simply operating on his own.”
“Good point.” Alaric’s gaze shifted between Jasper and Rikka, the rising tide of anger within him almost a physical thing.
From above, Masterson’s taunting voice broke the tense silence that had grown between them. “See,” he called down with a smug assurance, “I am in here, and you are out there with no easy way to get in. Go away and stop wasting my time. Now, I am done talking. Come back tomorrow if you wish to bore me some more.”
Masterson said something inaudible to the man beside him and gestured down at Alaric almost dismissively. The other replied, then Masterson stepped out of view.
“I thought I saw movement in one of the arrow slits. We should move back out of missile range,” Jasper suggested, his eyes upon the stone walls. Thorne and Ezran raised their shields to protect Alaric.
Acknowledging the wisdom in Jasper’s advice, Alaric gave a curt nod. Together, they retreated, moving back, stopping just before Grayson’s contingent. From this new vantage point and position of relative safety, Alaric cast one more glance at the castle that was his birthright, a new surge of frustration rising. The fortress was more than just stone and mortar; it was a legacy that had been usurped, a home that felt increasingly distant no matter how close he got.
“What are you thinking, my lord?” Grayson inquired.
“That we’re going in there and freeing my mother,” Alaric responded with determined resolve. He inhaled deeply, the cool evening air infused with the rich scent of soil and vegetation. This breath was more than a mere intake of air; it was a silent pledge, a tacit commitment to revitalize the very essence of his familial stronghold. Yet before he could breathe new life into these ancient stones, he faced the immediate challenge of penetrating the castle’s defenses and rescuing his mother.
“How?” Grayson’s question pierced the thickening shadows of the evening.
“Do we have rope with us?” Alaric asked, having already formulated a plan.
“We do,” Grayson confirmed, “in the train, and I’m sure there is more to be found in town if needed.”
“Sufficient for it to be knotted and lowered down the wall?” Alaric asked. “To be used for the men to climb up and into the castle?”
“I believe so,” Grayson said with a nod. “Though that would mean our needing someone inside to do the lowering.”
“Grayson is correct, there is also rope in the town, my lord,” Nightwell confirmed. “We will provide all you require.”
“Good.” Alaric turned back to Grayson. “Let us move some of the men up, create a decoy camp about a hundred yards from here, and make a show of it. Light several fires, pitch the tents, and post a watch. We’ll keep those inside the castle distracted and their attention fixed on the camp.”
“To what purpose? Even aged as they are, those walls don’t seem climbable.” Grayson gestured back at the castle. “The stone facing is too smooth, the blocks too large for handholds.”
“There’s another way in, one that’s known only to me,” Alaric confessed.
“A bolt hole?” Grayson quickly deduced.
With a nod, Alaric confirmed Grayson’s guess. His eyes then shifted upward, observing the clouds. As the sun had started to set, it had begun clouding over. The possibility of rain lingered in his mind, adding another layer of complexity to their plans.
“The moon won’t be full tonight, and what light there is will be obscured by clouds. Just before dawn, when the darkness is most dense, I’ll take my Shadow Guard and we’ll infiltrate the castle. Our aim will be to reach the back wall, opposite from here, and lower ropes. Select twenty men, no armor—swords and daggers only. Make sure they can swim in case the moat is deeper than it appears. Once inside, their objective will be to reach the gatehouse, open the portcullis and let the rest of the company into the castle. Meanwhile, the Shadow Guard and I will rescue my mother.”
“I think you should take more men with you, my lord,” Grayson suggested and glanced at Nightwell. “Especially if there are thirty of them in there. You might be overwhelmed by numbers if you are prematurely discovered.”
“I can’t risk bringing anyone else,” Alaric firmly stated. “After we take the castle back, the location of the bolt hole must remain a closely guarded secret.”
“And your Shadow Guard are bound by oath; we will not speak of it, to anyone,” Ezran added, reinforcing the point with a loyalty that left no room for doubt.
“No, we won’t,” Thorne chimed in, his voice echoing the solemn commitment and pact the Shadow Guard had made with Alaric.
Grayson, though visibly uneasy with the plan, acknowledged the inevitable by shifting the stance of his feet and glancing down at the ground before looking back up. “I don’t like it, but you are the earl now, and no longer my ward. The decision is yours to make.”
“I am going with you too,” Rikka announced, catching Alaric off guard. “You may need my services before this is done. Besides, where you go, I go. That is now the way of things.”
Kiera looked over sharply at Rikka.
Recovering, Alaric shook his head. “No, Lady Lumina, you are not going. It is too risky and dangerous.”
“She is going,” Kiera interjected with an unwavering firmness that took Alaric thoroughly by surprise as she turned her intense gaze upon him. Never before had Kiera openly contradicted him, especially not in matters of strategy, let alone personal risk. “She goes if that is her wish.”
Before Alaric could formulate a response, Rikka asserted herself with finality, “I am not some helpless girl. You should know that by now. My place is at your side, and that is where I will remain, as has been foretold. I am going, and that is the end of it. You will not try to stop me, Lord Alaric. You may dictate orders to your people, but you do not command me, not in the slightest. I answer to a higher power.”
Alaric still felt like saying no. However, faced with the determined stances of both Rikka and Kiera, he found himself somewhat outmaneuvered. Kiera’s look was particularly intense as she stared back at him. It was clear her mind was set. Though he could refuse them, to do so would be a mistake, something he would pay for later. More importantly, Rikka was correct; she was far from helpless. In fact, she was quite dangerous. With a resigned nod and still feeling uneasy, he conceded to their will.
Grayson grinned and barked out a laugh. He turned his gaze back toward the keep, a spark seeming to light up his eyes.
“What?” Alaric asked.
“Masterson made a terrible mistake,” Grayson remarked.
“He did,” Alaric agreed, determination growing. “All of them in there made a mistake, and we are going to show them the error of their ways.”