Blood of the Red

Chapter 36 - Ingold

Chapter 36 – Ingold

Jedax lay like a broken toy. His body sprawled, arms at awkward angles. The eyes, so malicious in life, stared at the ceiling in mild surprise. Ingold felt sick. Killing never agreed with his stomach, or any other part of him.

He wiped his face and knelt by the corpse. His blow had cut halfway through the priest's neck, but surprisingly little blood wet the flagstones. Looking to his sword Ingold could see the blade was clean. He examined the wound, distaste giving way to mistrust. The sword had severed Jedax's throat, sliced the arteries, and chipped the bones of the neck. Gelatinous blood filled the wound, thick as treacle, reluctant to spill.

Ingold frowned, shrugged and started to rummage through Jedax's pockets. Gingerly he lifted the ruined hand. He reached inside the crimson robes, where questing fingertips discovered an inner pocket. Ingold pursed his lips and fished down to the bottom. Skin met cold metal. He got a grip and pulled the object out. As he did so Jedax's arm rose with him.

A cry of shock escaped Ingold and he jumped back. The corpse lurched with him, tied to his arm where the laces of Jedax's sleeve entangled Ingold's armband. The laces snapped under the priest's weight and the body slumped again. Ingold stood, trembling and laughing at his own nervousness. In his hand he held an ornate iron key.

The key fitted easily into the lock. As it turned, a series of deep clunks sounded within the door. Ingold pushed and, slowly, the heavy slab of iron swung open. A dim flickering of candles lit the room beyond. Cautiously Ingold stepped into the Blooding Chamber.

Everything remained as his memory held it, the barrenness of the room, the scorch marks on the stone floor, the plinth that the apprentices mounted one by one. Upon the plinth rested the blackened block of stone, where the cups stood. The imposing door, through which the priest bore the Blood, stood in the far wall. At the centre of the massive portal many runes surrounded a round hole. A hole shaped to take the circle-key.

And by the cup-stone, just as in Ingold's time-locked visions, the Gate-Keeper. He waited calmly, hands hidden in the folds of his robes, watching. Ingold's eyes searched the priest's placid crimson mask.

"I'm going through, Gate-Keeper. You don't have to die here. I'll leave the door open and anyone who wants to follow me may do so."

"Give me the key." The man's voice held no trace of fear.

"You priests don't just look alike – you say the same damn things too." Ingold drew his sword, exasperated.

The Gate-Keeper reached down behind the cup-stone. Unhurriedly he lifted something into view. By the hair.

"Dain!" Ingold shouted.

Dain's mouth moved around the leather strip that gagged him. The Gate-Keeper set him on the cup-stone. A knife appeared in his hand, as if from nowhere. The blade sat against Dain's throat.

"Now," he said. "The key."

"Give me the boy," Ingold said, "And I'll give you the key."

"Give me the key, then go, and the boy will live."

Ingold's brain raced. Where were the Arkasians? The servants of the Blue had taken Dain. Gartus said so. Had the Gate-Keeper killed them all and taken the boy from them? Ingold needed to buy time, time for the priest to drop his guard. Time for something.

"I don't believe you, priest. At the least you'll burn him up in these caves, pouring the Blood down his throat. Give him to me. I don't care about the key." Ingold drew the circle-key from his pocket and held it out.