Legends from The Warlock's Chair - Book One - Ravengaard

Chapter Sixteen - The Slough-Beast

BREDOCK HOLT AWOKE. HE WAS LYING ON A BED; much more comfortable than the cot he awoke on yesterday. He sat up too quickly; pain lanced through his shoulder, causing him to groan softly. He looked down, remembering the crossbow bolt that had struck him. Bandages swathed his chest and shoulder. He lifted his arm, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of pain that surged through him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and in the light from the solitary window, studied his surroundings, the room was sparsely furnished. Besides the bed, the only furniture was a desk and chair. On a small table beneath the window, sat a jug of water and a bowl for washing in. A clean shirt and jacket lay neatly folded beside them. He attempted to stand, swaying slightly, gained his balance and walked to the table. Judging by the light filtering through the window it was late evening. He had slept the whole day away. Pouring water into the bowl, Holt splashed some on his face and neck. Drying himself with a towel he felt a little better. He donned the shirt and jacket with difficulty and looked around. His weapons and bag were hanging on a hook by the door. He took them down and strapped them on.

His mind went back to his escape from Vultaur Syth's castle. He remembered Tiber Grist being cut down by Syth's men and the sight of Dagan Thayn standing there with the bodies of the Gnomes. Slaughtered as they came back through the portal. 

Why had he been spared? 

But he could not afford to dwell on the puzzle of why he was still alive. Obtaining the Amulet of Hidden Ways was taking far too long. He must procure it tonight and returned to Whytewytch before it was too late. 

Holt opened the door as quietly as possible. The corridor beyond was silent and empty. Even the lamps had not been lit. He stood and listened but no sound other than his own laboured breathing came to him. Where was everyone else? His mind went back to the time he had arrived in the valley. Most of the brigands of Zigmal had been in the tavern that night. Was that where they were now? Drowning their sorrows? Holt certainly hoped so, it would make his mission easier. And in his condition, he was going to need all the help he could get. 

Making his way to the cell where he had first awoken, he retrieved the sticks of explosive hidden there. He tucked the pipes in his belt and pulled the jacket down to conceal them. 

Holt moved through the lower floors of the fortress searching for any signs of life. The only sound came from the faint scuffing of his boots as he roamed the darkened halls, all else seemed wrapped in total silence. Holt came to the stairway and started up. Shabur Varg's chamber was on the uppermost floor, as he climbed the last of the daylight faded away. In the almost absolute darkness, he groped his way around the walls until finally he reached the top floor. 

A single torch glowed dimly in its bracket outside the door of Varg's chamber. Of the two Stone Trolls that had guarded the door the last time he had visited, there was no sign. Holt stood outside the door and listened. From inside came the deep resonate snoring of the Gnome Warlord. He pushed the door open and peered inside. The snores grew louder.

Now they would surely wake the dead, he thought.

The moon slid from behind a cloud, flooding the room with silvery light. Holt crept in, the door clicked shut behind him, sounding loud in the silence. He listened for a moment, but there was no change in Varg's snoring. Keeping to the shadowed parts of the room, he made his way over to Varg's bedside. The stomach-churning smell from earlier still lingered, obviously, the Warlord was not a staunch believer in bathing. Shabur Varg's lay on his back, his vast naked bulk thankfully covered by a stained cotton sheet. His mouth hung open and thin slivers of drool ran from its corners, dripping down over his chins to pool on his hairless pink chest.