Thren turned and dashed up the remaining few steps. They emerged on the first floor of the Stronghold, a room clearly built with defense in mind. A stone barricade was erected just before the large double doors, forcing anyone entering to veer left or right. On either side were perches so men could attack from high ground, and around the corners was another spiked barricade with crossbows permanently bolted to it. A pile of bolts lay on either side, waiting for use. Beside the doors, Haern caught sight of two more young men who lay slumped beside it.
“Come on,” Thren whispered. Beside them was another doorway leading to the stairs, and they rushed up them. Haern caught a glimpse of the second floor before they continued up the winding stairs, this a room of wealth and luxury, red carpets and gold trim everywhere. As they passed, Haern swore he heard men carrying on a conversation. He paused only momentarily to ensure they were not alarmed, and ahead of him, Thren beckoned Haern to hurry.
The third floor was a barracks for the youngest members of the Stronghold. Occupying nearly all of the twelve beds in the single open room were boys, some old as twelve, most younger than ten. They all slept; at least, it seemed like they did. Taking a deep breath, Haern hoped his stay in the prison hadn’t cost him the coordination to move through such a room without noise.
Wordlessly, Thren pointed out their objective: an ornate painting of the Stronghold, the canvas kept in an enormous silver frame secured to the wall.
Stay silent, Thren mouthed, and Haern glanced to the children. If they woke, if they made a noise, then most likely, the children would die. Thren would let none witness their escape. No matter their future allegiance, no matter the dogma of hatred being drilled into them, the idea still made Haern sick to his stomach.
I will, he mouthed back. Now lead.
The beds were to either side of the room, and through the center, Thren walked, crouched over and quiet as a hunting animal in the forest. If he made any noise, it was easily drowned out by the breathing and snoring of the children. After meditating for a moment to force his body to calm down after the battle in the dungeon, Haern followed. The floor was sturdy wood, and unlike other rooms, it had no carpet, an annoyance not lost on Haern. Still, it seemed resistant to his steps, and so long as he moved slowly, there appeared no danger of a creak. The bigger worry was the children. If just one woke needing to relieve himself or shift into a more comfortable position …
It seemed the two worried over the wrong thing. Thren had just reached the painting, and Haern the center of the room, when shouts came from downstairs. They were muffled, distant, but the alarms wouldn’t take long to travel up the stairs. Knowing the time for caution was over, Haern quickened his steps, crossing the room at a blistering pace as his father tugged on a corner of the painting, then slid it to the side. The movement made the tiniest of creaks, but the creaks were nothing compared to the growing shouts of alarm.
Move! Thren mouthed before diving into the slender gap revealed behind the painting.
The children were stirring in their beds. No time left, Haern sprinted the last few steps and then leaped feetfirst into the gap. As he slid, he turned, grabbed the corner of the painting, and yanked it shut.
Total darkness bathed him, and letting out a relieved sigh, Haern began to scoot down what appeared to be a slender stone chute. He’d passed by several openings on his climb up, and he figured he was in one of them.
“The tunnel ends abruptly,” Thren said from further down, his voice startling in the quiet. “Make haste, but don’t be careless.”
“Noted,” Haern muttered as from the other side of the painting he heard a ruckus growing.
The chute wasn’t long, and at its end, Haern found his father waiting for him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I am,” Haern said. “But I’m going first.”
Instead of arguing, Thren merely laughed and shifted aside so Haern had room. Reaching out to his right, he felt one of the rungs, grabbed it tight. It felt so similar to when his father had first sent him tumbling down, but if Thren desired to kill him, there were certainly far better ways than breaking into the Stronghold to do it.
Swinging onto the ladder, he began climbing down, rung after rung, as he listened to the Stronghold continue its search for the escaping intruders on the other side of the stones.
“We had little to go on regarding your fate,” Thren said as they descended. “I felt they would not kill you if you were captured, nor let you die easily. I’m glad my assumptions were not wrong.”
“What of my little fall you sent me on?” Haern asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“Clearly, you survived,” Thren said. “Spare me your tantrum.”
That was it, then? His betrayal was nothing to concern him, his frustrations mere tantrums of a child? Haern rolled his eyes in the darkness. Why had he ever believed it might be otherwise?
When his foot felt no more rungs beneath, Haern took in a deep breath and then leaped blindly to the other side. Sure enough, he rolled into the tunnel he’d come from, and on his stomach, he crawled into the narrowing space. Ignoring the scrapes to his elbows and the cuts to his outfit as he rushed along, he did his best to dismiss the contradiction of his father betraying him on their way in, yet risking his life coming back to rescue him from the dungeon. He reached the end, found the hidden door above him. With only a moment to brace himself, he pushed it open and pulled himself out.
As Thren crawled out behind him, Haern quickly spun to survey his surroundings. In all directions from the Stronghold, he saw men in armor carrying torches, searching in parties of two.
“To the wheat fields,” Thren said in a hushed voice as he kicked the door shut to the secret entrance, not bothering to hide it. They sprinted, and when they were halfway there, Haern saw the stalks split and Delysia slip out, urging him onward with a hand. Seeing her there, unharmed, flooded him with relief. The relief did not last long, for his instincts cried out warning, and from the corner of his right eye, he saw a single paladin bedecked in the dark armor of his order riding toward them on a black steed.
No torch, thought Haern, diving out of the way. Sneaky bastard.
The dark paladin’s sword cleaved where he’d been, the fire around the blade darker than the night itself. Instead of trying to gain distance, Haern flung himself into the fight, knowing he had to strike immediately before the paladin could ride away. His swords cut into the side of the mount, but not enough to score a fatal hit. The man rode on, his sword blocking an attempted thrust from Thren on the other side. The dark paladin looped around, and he cried out warnings to the rest.
“Here!” he shouted, lifting his enormous two-handed sword into the air. “Over here, my brethren!”
“Shit,” muttered Thren.
The dark paladin rode toward them, blade still raised, but before coming into range, he suddenly pulled back on the reins.
“You’ll suffer for such insolence,” said the paladin, and he held his sword in one hand, the other balling into a fist. Violet flame leaked through his fingers, and then the man thrust it outward. Haern crossed his swords and ducked his head, unable to dodge in time. Fire roared, bursting forth in a tremendous cone from the paladin’s palm. Turning his face, Haern shifted in a desperate hope to absorb the brunt of it against his side, but before it could burn him, he saw movement, a flash of light.
Delysia stood between him and the dark paladin, hands clasped, red hair fluttering in a silent breeze that swirled about her from all directions. The fire could not touch her, could not even withstand being in her presence. As the dark paladin recoiled with surprise, she reached out with a glowing hand.