Heresy

Chapter 2-1

2

‘You trample on the legacy of my father and my people. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take your head, thief!’

The Princess stared down at the figure of the dwarf before her. The point of her sabre was hooked under his beard, the blade held against his throat, and she could see her hand shaking ever so slightly, making the tip of the sword wobble imperceptibly. She felt groggy, as if she had woken from a deep, over-long sleep, but despite how she felt, she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. A second of lapsed concentration, and this intruder could land a killing blow if he so wished… She willed herself into focusing all of her attention on the dwarf.

He was wearing armour reminiscent of the protective gear that her own guards wore, who were rapidly making their way across the piles of gold, silver and gems towards them, but there were distinct differences that puzzled her as she tried to pin down who this dwarf served. Although the long coat of scale mail was almost identical to her guards, the tabard was shaped differently, and it not only had the red rose of Dazscor emblazoned on the cloth, but also the gold stag of Aramore. He held a strange weapon loosely in his hand as well, a shortsword of a type that was not common within the Kingdom of Dazscor but which she vaguely recalled being known as a seax to the dwarves of the Union of Mishtoon to the south. The dwarf was likewise staring up at her, though she noticed that his emerald eyes were stained with tears, which were running down his face into the mass of black beard that clung to his cheeks and jaw.

As the dwarf was thrown into shadow by the guards who were rallying to their Princess and encircling him, he slowly lifted the hand carrying the seax above his head, where it was swiftly plucked from his grasp by a mid-height, strongly built man, whose closely cropped ginger hair and beard reflected the light that flickered from the torches and braziers set around the vault. The man, Captain Almar, tucked the seax into his belt and then pushed the dwarf onto his knees.

‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ he growled.

‘What is your name, dwarf?’ The Princess’ voice was clear, calm and level, testament to the hours of tuition in elocution she had been forced to undertake by her father.

‘Gwilym, my lady.’

Gwilym spoke softly, his voice catching slightly in his throat. He knew that the woman in front of him was high status, so he bowed his head as much as he was able with the sabre restricting the movement of his head and threatening to bite into his neck.

‘Well, Gwilym, tell me, why do you bear the symbol of the treacherous Duchy of Aramore on your tabard alongside that of my house?’

The dwarf’s eyes momentarily flashed up to the Princess’ face, trying to gauge the seriousness of her question. His expression was one of confusion as he hesitatingly began to answer.

‘But, my lady, I wear the symbols of this kingdom… as they have been for nearly the last 200 years.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘I am Princess Theodora of the Royal House of Dazscor, daughter of King Sarper IV, so I rather think that I am qualified to know the symbols and emblems of my family’s lands!’

There was a moment of silence as Gwilym’s head snapped up to intently inspect Theodora, all pretence of deference forgotten. As he had no idea of what Sarper IV had looked like, it was hard to assess how much of a familial resemblance there was between the long-dead king and the woman stood before him. However, now that he studied her clothing and armour, he could see that she didn’t bear the symbol of the Kingdom of Dazscor & Aramore on her clothes, but only the rose of Dazscor. Indeed, the heraldic shield that had been inlaid on the centre of her breastplate bore the symbol of an armoured hand clutching the rose of Dazscor. It was a coat of arms that he had seen before, inlaid into a fine set of golden dinner plates that had been procured through rather dishonest means and had passed through Björn’s operation. The aged and crotchety treasurer, who had toiled away over the accounts in the basement of Björn’s headquarters for longer than anyone could remember, had told Gwilym that the coat of arms was that of the old kings and queens of Dazscor, from before the invasion of the Aramorians, and that it was rare to see it nowadays.

Then, Gwilym’s mind began to turn to why Hrex had wanted to gain access to the vault in the first place: to rescue her master who had apparently been held, suspended in time under the power of the spell. Then he remembered that there had been other bodies in the vault when he had entered, and why could they not have been sent into a magically induced hibernation, just as Hrex’s master had? He had been so fixated on tracking down Hrex to get revenge for Torben that he hadn’t stopped to think about the presence of other people in the vault…

Torben! Gwilym’s mind began to whir as he became aware again of the fact that he could no longer hear Torben’s cries of pain coming from the antechamber. He needed to act quickly, to get him help, but how? His train of thought was broken as Princess Theodora addressed him again.

‘I want to know why you are here, who you serve and why I shouldn’t slit your throat now for being a common, grubby thief?’

For a moment, Gwilym’s mind was completely blank. He had no idea what to say or how to explain to these people, who were either deluded and possibly dangerous or who could well be people who had been imprisoned in the vault for hundreds of years, who might be slow to believe how much time had passed, how many things had changed in the time they had been trapped. Feeling the blade of the sabre press ever so slightly more forcefully into his throat, Gwilym began to speak, letting the words roll from his tongue, hoping that they wouldn’t get him killed.

‘Your Highness, you must forgive me for not recognising you and for my trespass into your hallowed halls. If you will permit me a few moments to explain, I can shed some light on who I am and why I am here before you.’

For a moment, the Princess’ eyes glowered down at Gwilym, scanning his face for any hint of treachery, and satisfied that he did not present an immediate threat to her person, she lowered her sabre to allow him to speak more freely. In reaction to Theodora’s movement, however, Captain Almar moved closer, looming over the diminutive figure before him, reminding Gwilym through his presence that he was still being keenly watched.

Gwilym stretched his back and rolled his neck, trying to ease out the aches and stiffness there that had begun to take hold, cleared his throat and began to speak.

‘Now, Your Highness will have to bear with me on some things, as there is a lot that I will say that might be hard for you to believe at first… This land has been ruled by the Royal House of Aramore as the Joint Kingdom of Dazscor & Aramore since 375, when this city of Karpella was captured by the forces of the Duke of Aramore. The current year is 553, and I am afraid to tell you that your father was killed attempting to escape the city, and it was thought that you perished in the fighting and that your body was never discovered. That is why I bear both the symbol of your house and that of your enemy.

‘As to why I am here, I warrant that you will at least be familiar with the name Hrex?’

The guards surrounding Gwilym murmured to one another as Hrex’s name was mentioned, and Princess Theodora nodded in recognition before motioning Gwilym to continue.

‘Well, I and my three companions were coerced by Hrex into finding the means to access this vault and to come down here with her so that she could release the one that she calls her master from the enchantment that was placed on the vault to protect it. She did not mention the presence of anyone else down here, and let me stress that my companions and I did not come down here of our own volition. She cast a terrible curse on one of my friends, who is still lying out in the antechamber, bleeding out his last. That vile hag used his life’s blood to gain entrance into this place.

‘You may not believe what I have told you, but please accept me now as a humble petitioner who wants nothing more than to save his friend. I beg you to let me go to see if I can aid him, or find a way to bring him back from the brink! In exchange, I offer you my services as a guide to what the world above has now become.’

Finishing his appeal, Gwilym bowed his head once more, his eyes fixed on the tip of the Princess’ fine leather boots, trying to make himself look as contrite as possible. He could feel more tears running down his face, and they flowed down the ridge of his bulbous nose and dripped onto the gold coins that littered the ground beneath. Trying to control his emotions, he held his breath and waited; whether for the sword blow or salvation, he did not know.

Out in the antechamber, Antauros was struggling to keep calm. Since the dispelling of the enchantment, the space has become oppressively dark as the arcane light that the spell had thrown out had been banished as well, leaving the only light source as the flickering torches that were scattered about the vault proper. He was struggling to see what he was doing as he rooted around in his pack for anything that he might have that could aid Torben, but he was beginning to run out of ideas and out of hope.

Torben lay on the altar, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling from which Hrex had magically suspended him a few moments before. The smooth white marble all around him was slick with blood that pooled around the young man who was now so pale the hue of his skin had almost become indistinguishable from the stone he lay on. A huge wad of bandages had been strapped to his belly, trying to stem the deadly flow emanating from the wound. He was still breathing, though his breath was now slow and shallow.

As he straightened up, Antauros placed one of his massive hands onto the bandages, applying pressure, and stroked Torben’s head with the other, doing his best to calm him. Both of his hands, as well as the fur of his arms, was matted with gore, and he left small smudges of blood on the young man’s head as he soothed him. The minotaur scanned the railings and the gate that separated the antechamber from the vault beyond for any sign of Gwilym’s return. Since the dwarf had run off in pursuit of Hrex, Antauros had heard nothing except for a distant curse, which added to the bleak outlook.

He turned back to look down at Torben, whose eyes were growing dimmer and dimmer, and sighed deeply. He had lost count of the number of times he’s watched comrades die, but this felt much worse than anything he had ever experienced. It felt as if he was watching his own son slip away before him. He bowed his head and closed his eyes as he felt the salt-sting of tears gathering there.

‘I’m sorry that it came to this, Torben. I’m sorry that we weren’t able to do something, anything… Where is the justice in this that you should suffer so much in such a short time, whilst the people who built this accursed place lived and prospered long!’

He opened his eyes and wiped them, smearing Torben’s blood across his muzzle. As his vision cleared, the young man came back sharply into focus, and Antauros could see light flickering on his face and being reflected off his pale skin as it grew brighter and brighter. His head snapped around to the vault’s gate, and he saw a group of figures bearing torches and lanterns making their way over the golden floor of treasure towards him. Leading them was a smaller figure, Gwilym.

At first, Antauros’ heart leaped when he saw the dwarf, but his feeling of elation was quickly dampened when he realised that Gwilym was walking with his hands on his head, and that all of the people following him were well armed and armoured and that there were several spear points hovering inches from Gwilym’s back, encouraging him forward. Slowly, his right hand began to drift down to the head of his war-hammer, where it hung in its belt loop, the other still maintaining pressure on Torben’s wound.