Soldiers carrying torches soon came into view, patrolling the perimeter of the building.
Most of the garrison had evidently been diverted to the outer walls in anticipation of a night raid, leaving security in the inner bailey comparatively thin. Still, armed sentries stood firm near the main keep.
Concealing himself behind the loading dock where freight wagons lined the way, Varkas studied their patrol routes before slipping toward the donjon looming at the fortress’s heart.
Just then, a contingent of men with torches spilled from the keep.
Varkas stayed melted in the shadows, his gaze fixed on them. Heavily armored knights, broad-shouldered and hulking in the typical Northern mold, were crossing the yard toward the gate.
Among them, a massive figure with a mane of grizzled blond hair caught his eye. Even from a distance, the man was instantly recognizable: Bjorn Blodar Heimdal.
‘…Has he noticed something?’
Varkas watched the retreating back for a beat, then turned toward the rear of the keep. He had to reach Gareth before the guard tightened.
Sticking to the deepest shadows, he slipped along the walls.
It did not take long to spot a small postern door at the back of the stone building adjoining the main keep.
He gripped the iron ring and pulled gently. It was barred from within, but the fittings did not look particularly sturdy.
Muffling the latch with his cloak, he gave the handle a violent wrench. With a splintering crack, the iron fitting tore free of the weathered timber. It made a brief sound, but luckily no shouts followed.
He eased the door open and slipped inside.
The musty odor of grain and the sour grease of cured meat caught his throat; the room was clearly a larder. After taking in the crates of hard bread, hanging hams, and rounds of cheese, Varkas moved quickly through to a dim corridor.
Footsteps and voices approached.
Varkas melted behind a stone pillar. A hulking man in heavy plate and a slight, middle-aged companion were descending the stairs together.
Their voices carried clearly in the stillness.
“How long are we expected to nurse that insolent pup? If the Imperial Court won't pay the ransom, take his head and be done with it. Avenge the Grand Duke’s blood!”
“I know your frustration, but the Crown Prince cannot be harmed just yet. Alive, he remains our greatest leverage.”
The older man spoke with measured authority.
“It is not merely the Imperial Court that wants him back unharmed. Behind the boy stand the traditionalists led by Marquis Oristein. The Imperial Loyalists who still revere Emperor Dorian will clamor for his safety as well. If we drag this out until public sentiment turns, the Emperor will be forced to sue for terms.”
“And the Empress will sit idly by, will she? That witch won’t let such a chance slip through her fingers.”
“The more brazenly that woman overreaches, the fiercer the backlash from the nobility will be. Their disgust for the Empress runs deeper than you think. In truth, the Northern Noble Alliance treats the brat with any decency at all only out of hatred for House Taren.”
Having quieted the knight’s temper with calm reason, the older man patted the giant’s armored shoulder.
“The negotiations are far from dead. However foul the taste in your mouth, humor the boy’s tantrums a while longer.”
Leaving no room for further complaint, he turned across the hall and departed.
The massive warrior glared after him, spat on the flagstones, and turned back toward the stairs with heavy, menacing strides.
Varkas shadowed him at once.
Taking the steps two at a time, the Northerner reached the third floor and passed through a doorway at the corridor’s end.
Keeping just far enough behind not to be seen, Varkas reached the doorway to find an open wall-walk lit by torchlight, leading straight to a watchtower.
Noting the layout, Varkas moved quietly through the arched opening and down the stone walkway.
He was just about to start up the tower stairs when a sharp gasp caught his ear. Instinct took over.
Seizing the guard who had turned mid-stair, Varkas slammed the man's head into the masonry, triggered his bracer blade, and drove the steel deep into the side of the man’s throat again and again.
The soldier gagged on the blood rising in his trachea and went limp in seconds.
Just as Varkas moved to drag the body into the dark, a hoarse shout came from the flight above.
“I-Intruder! An intruder—!”
A spearmen came clattering down the steps.
Varkas drew his longsword and swept it upward in an arc. The steel flashed through the dark, cutting through the soldier’s shoulder and out his ribs.
Cut nearly in two, the man tumbled down the staircase in a spray of blood. The guards who came rushing around the bend froze at the sight.
Varkas gave them no time to recover.
Thrusting his dripping blade through the nearest man's breastplate, he kicked the corpse back into the cluster.
Two guards with spears went sprawling down the stone steps under the weight of their falling comrade. But there was no breathing room; shouting guards were already scrambling up from below.
‘A quiet escape is out of the question.’
Clicking his tongue, Varkas took the stairs at a run, heading upward.
A contingent had evidently been stationed at the tower’s summit; several hulking men armed with broad-bladed axes were thundering down the spiraling steps.
He deflected a heavy blow with his flat, stepped inside the guard’s reach, and slit the man's throat in a single fluid stroke. Twisting away from the falling weight, he drove his pommel hard into the face of the next man in line.
With a sickening crunch of bone, dark blood burst from beneath the man’s visor.
The man dropped his axe, clutched at his face with both hands, and shrieked.
Varkas ended the scream with a downward thrust.
Yet more enemies crowded the spiral ahead. He ran his blade through the next man lunging at him and shoved the speared body upward, using it as a shield.
The dying man thrashed and screamed, causing the guards above to recoil in horror.
In that moment of hesitation, while they shrank from hacking into their own man, Varkas tore his blade free and cut down two more in rapid succession.
Three bodies fell, but the stairwell remained choked. Spearmen were already shouting from the landing below.
Varkas gripped the slick hilt with both hands. It would not just be the castle watch now; the line troops would join the fray soon enough. He could not fight through an entire garrison single-handed.
Should he cut his way out now?
As he hesitated, the distant bray of war horns tore through the night.
He glanced through an arrow slit. The diversion was underway on schedule; torches were surging in waves toward the main gates below.
Varkas reset his footing and raised his sword. The bulk of the garrison would be drawn to the outer perimeter to meet the Imperial Army. This was his only opening.
He threw himself into the men charging down the stairs, blade swinging with ruthless precision.
“You dare bring me this swill?!”
Gareth seized the silver goblet and hurled it against the stone wall. With a hollow clatter, dark wine splattered and ran down the masonry like blood.
The Northerner sitting near the door glared at him with bloodshot, sullen eyes.
Gareth thrust his chin out, refusing to let the man see the tremor in his hands.
“Bring proper wine at once!”
“Your Imperial Highness,” the man rumbled, snorting through his nose. “You appear to misunderstand your situation. You are a captive.”
The giant, towering nearly seven kvets tall, leaned in close until his hot breath washed over Gareth’s face.
“You are no honored guest here. Push us, and we will feed you our own filth instead of wine.”
“How dare you… A filthy provincial dog speaking to the Crown Prince of the Empire…!”
Gareth’s face flushed scarlet with humiliation.
The Northerner crossed his massive arms and sneered down at him without disguise.
“Even if your grandfather himself crawled through that door, a hostage is still a hostage. Your life belongs to us.”
His calloused hand clamped down on Gareth’s shoulder like an iron vise.
“So if you’d like to keep all your limbs intact, shut your mouth.”
Gareth ground his teeth together so hard his jaw ached.
He wanted nothing more than to tear out the traitor’s throat, but against a brute of that size, bare hands were useless. His fists clenched until his knuckles turned bloodless and white.
The jailer gave him one last sneer, turned slowly, and sank his bulk into a velvet armchair beside the door. He clearly had no intention of leaving the room all night.
Ever since Gareth’s previous escape attempts, the Northerners had kept someone watching him every second of the day.
Gareth lashed out with his boot, kicking the small table away. Stoneware plates and silver utensils clattered violently across the floor.
Accustomed to such displays, the guard merely went back to oiling his broadsword without so much as a blink. Having ground broken glass into the rug with his heels until his legs grew weak, Gareth finally sagged against the stone sill.
Looking out into the dark, he saw the torches of the Imperial Army laid out beyond the fortress walls. A knot of rage and cold dread tightened in his gut.
If their intent had been to negotiate his release, parley heralds would have ridden out the moment they arrived. But the deployment he had watched take shape that afternoon was purely offensive.
In the end, Varkas had betrayed him.
Gareth ground his teeth.
He should have known. Perhaps he had known from the very moment that bastard wed Talia—no, even before then.
From the day a man dead to the rest of the world began to stir only when that girl was near…
END