Throughout their quests, he had observed how sly Trygve could truly prove himself. Had observed how courageous Daegan truly was, and how quickly Cormac could also think. In such a situation as that which he currently found himself in, Indulf wondered whether they might have been able to escape or slip on by, unnoticed.

  Certainly, they were swift-witted and talented people, however he had difficulty imagining that even they could have outwitted their way out of this trap.

  Seeing the number of men who stood before him, twenty he counted in total with a shiver of fear climbing up his spine. Eight of them at a glance he could tell, were human with another four Tigruns, and the rest were the snake-men whom he had overheard hissing around corners every time, he had crossed the halls of the palace of Hraukrheier after night-fall.

  Numbers alone, he knew could win some battles, as was the case here. Mayhaps, if he was a Bardulf, Connor or Meallán he might well have been able to turn things about and lay claim to victory with little paramount difficulty. But he was not the warrior they were.

  The hungry and triumphant murderous gleams in the eyes of all he looked upon, only added to his sense of mortal terror.

  The more he backed away, the more they stepped forward and the more they gloated both in words and in posture.

  But none gloated, moreso than Ivarr Herleifrsson. The second of the Jarl’s sons he was a man whom Bérénice if her face was any hint had naught but disgust towards. Advancing with a wide smile upon his lips, the dusky-haired son of Herleifr was far taller than his brothers and likely the finest warrior of the clan. Muscled and battle-tested in more than fifty raids overseas throughout almost as many kingdoms or duchies in North and South-Agenor, Ivarr had secured for himself an incomparable reputation.

  His reputation was one that Bérénice had she been able to make herself understood by him, informed him, herself familiar with it only due to one of the nuns. The nun of the abbaye Ly?ion had informed her of it just before the attack that had seen the convent burnt to the ground.

  With their backs pressed against the walls of the room, Indulf suddenly wished he had somehow succeeded in retaining any of the arms supplied to him by the Duskenvale. Even a dagger, he thought to himself would be preferable to the unarmed state he currently found himself in, given the situation.

  The trouble was that he had not been allowed access to the slightest arm, as knives he used to cut his food with had been taken from him, after each and every meal by the guards who brought the meal to him. So careful had Herleifr been to deny him, or Colwyn or Wiglaf the slightest means of escape that he had since their arrival, ordered this particular precaution.

  Bérénice spoke swiftly, in her strange Gallian tongue, her voice rising with fear as she moved to stand behind Indulf.

  A part of him annoyed at her for hiding behind him, almost pushing him from the wall itself it was as he moved to the left with her that he hit the back of his knees upon the windowsill. The massive window lay behind him he noticed, with a single glance back twisting his body around, so as to glance downwards.

  What caught his eye first, was not the pretty princess, with her blonde hair, large lovely grey eyes but rather the terrible cliff he had very near tumbled down, in his clumsy inattention.

  Down far below the two of them, he could see that the marble stuck a little just a few feet below the window, and that farther down from it there was a long drop down the side of the cliff upon which the palace was built. Craggy, the rocks were the largest that the youth had ever seen in all his life, the smallest of which appeared as grey, and unwelcoming as the Salmon could prove himself to be on the worst of days. Frightened by the mere sight of the distant promontory, and the crashing jets of the sea that appeared determined to strive to break apart the very land of the island, Indulf struggled to tear his gaze from them.

  “Watch where you tread princess,” He hissed at Bérénice in his own tongue instinctively when she squirmed a little behind him only to come near to fall down the window.

  The princess snapped at him in a quiet voice, as she glared murderously at him for his tone, understanding that if not the language in which he spoke.

  Indulf eyed the small ledge that crept out below the window once more, with some trepidation. Doing so while the enormous brute addressed the princess, in her language now his own accent far less thick than one might have expected from him.

  To the eyes of all those who stood before him, he appeared half-mad, with his continuous glance outside the window, either that or they suspected him of having some brilliant escape method in mind. They did not realize that his actions were those of a desperate man who had little hope of any truly sane escape.

  Out of luck, as he was out of faith in himself, Indulf mused to himself borrowing one of the phrases his father had oft-used to describe men who fell on hard times and gave up on themselves. He could not have known just how nervous his glances were making the guards who surrounded the son of Herleifr.

  They well-knew that for the Jarl’s guest to plunge to his doom could prove itself a fatal mistake also for them. The only ones who had little to fear were those snake-men allied with the Jarl, in place of any growing sense of hopelessness they simply eyed the seamstress’ apprentice with cool eyes. Theirs was a gaze that had peered into the very hearts of thousands of men, had seen countless battles and even more men plunge to their deaths in despair. They had also learnt to weigh the value of each individual action they undertook, with extreme care and cunning. To most of them, the princess was of inestimable value.

  “Advanccccce,” One of the snake-men hissed furiously at Ivarr. “Let him not esssscape, you knave!”

  Scowling back at the cobra Ivarr took several steps forward to do as they had commanded.

  Apprehensive at the sight of him nearing them, Indulf could only glance once more out the window, out of the corner of his eyes, this time he looked at the ledge far more closely. The ledge that he had initially dismissed, with a downwards gaze led to just past the window, in between this one and that near the princess’ bed stood a long jutting ledge.

  It was almost a small circular podium, with a gargoyle crafted from the same gold marble that the rest of the keep was. The beast was large, and bent forward as though screeching defiantly at the sea, with three-finger claws, short hair and well-crafted batwings that jutted out from its back. It also had a long flaring tail that was almost half a meter long behind it.

  Jutting out from the stone palace, this railing was not the only one that stood out. There was a multitude of others that stuck out between most of the other windows on higher and lower floors of the building.

  It was as he examined this gargoyle that a plan- a daft one took root within Indulf’s mind. It was just the sort of scheme that Daegan would have glorified in one of her many songs. Or that Trygve would sneer at, and he imagined Wulfnoth would reminisce over his tankard in a pub.

  This last part, along with his admiration for the old druid was all that he needed to convince him, to follow through with his plan.

  Ignorant of his intentions, and of the true depths of his desperation, Ivarr addressed him now with the easy, oily confidence of a man unaccustomed to being refused. Convinced of his own glory and magnificence, Ivarr was to advance several more steps thither towards the trapped pair.

  “Take hold princess,” Indulf commanded pulling the princess closer to him, with a frown in the direction of those menacing them.

  The princess stared at him in uncertainty, unsure of what it was that he intended to do.

  What he intended to do was made evident only when he had her arms interlocked about his shoulder and below his left-arm in a kind of noose. It was the kind of gesture and hold that he had observed his father use several times when he and his brothers were young. A fisherman by trade, Freygil had been prone in their infancy, to taking them out upon his boat to teach them to fish, and how to swim. At first Eachann and Indulf were scared, and he had laughed, taken them up into his arms and had them wrap their arms about his throat in a similar hold. With older lads with longer arms, he had been prone to having them wrap their arms about his left arm and over the right-hand shoulder.

  In this way, he now carried the princess behind him, in a manner that hardly held up to her most fanciful of dreams.

  His next actions though were the stuff of nightmares for her, as they were for Ivarr who gaped for a long moment when Indulf leapt out the window.

  *****

  The scream of the princess rebounded throughout the room, and the jagged coast behind the palace of the house of Herleifr. It was one that the shocked Ivarr echoed as he leapt forward, his heart pounding at his chest with such force that he nearly toppled over, to the ground in a swoon.

  His throat tearing it seemed to his mind, as he crossed the distance between halfway through the vastness of the large chambers of the princess and where she had once stood. The room was nigh on three times the size of the chambers that had been lent out to prince Colwyn. And they appeared all the vaster than the great fields that the city loomed over outside, at that moment.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  So deep was the terror that gripped the prince that he could not have been blamed for continuing to scream for a moment.

  Crying out the name of Bérénice, he looked furtively down below the window. At the great emptiness that yawned below him.

  Long was the moment that he remained there for. Thereby letting though he did not know it, the opportunity to capture Indulf slip him by, so distracted by his own shock and anguish at the princess’ death. For though she had scorned him, he had loved her, since that first moment he had set eyes upon her.

  There were none in all of Antilia that could compare to her; none with her pedigree for hers was the finest blood in all of North-Agenor. There was none so feminine in their manner, so regal in her bearing and fiercer in her anger.

  What drew him more than aught else was the blood as stated. For hers was the blood of Aemiliemagne that greatest of conquerors in the history of North-Agenor. It was the blood of a thousand victories in war, the noblest of men and the mightiest man in arms.

  His along with that of all thirteen of his Paladins’ blood coursed through the veins of the princess, who was also a descendant of éluan the Golden-King. The finest of kings in the past century, a man so kingly as to make the most purple of Emperors seem as purple as a common farmer in comparison.

  Such was the basis of Ivarr’s love for Bérénice. To him it was noble; his passion could only serve to elevate the family. For though they had immense palaces, large tracts of lands and wealth untold, what he craved was to elevate his family’s dignity and standing in the world.

  His was a profound sense of grief therefore, at the thought that the princess had perished in the fall from the window. It was for this reason that, his wail pitiful and ridiculous though it appeared to his servants and men-at-arms was utterly sincere in nature.

  “Away! Away! We must be away from this place,” Ivarr screamed at them, full of anguish for his potential loss. Tearing his head from outside the window to glower at the men behind him, “We must search the lesser floors beneath us!”

  “If you ssssshan’t see them, they have by this time perished my princccce,” Hissed one of the snakes with a shrug of his shoulders.

  His indifference was echoed by the other warriors present therewith, the prince.

  Red-faced he swore terribly at them, with such vigour it might well have shocked the princess for she was like all the rest of the folk of her clan; disdainful of others cursing. The very sound of curses could precipitate a sense of disdain and anguish in her, so that she would fly into a terrible rage.

  “I gave you an order, you fools!” Ivarr shrieked at all of them, ere he added with more than a little menace, “Hurry lest ye would prefer that I throw you lot after them!”

  This had the desired result, of encouraging them to take flight out of the room with more than a few of them, pushing one another out of the way in their rush to escape from his presence. Only the snake-men, the Colubar failed to be frightened by him hissing at him they slithered out of the chambers with little interest in his plight.

  Muttering amongst themselves, they were to emerge into the hallway with the view that this was little more than an errand of little importance, for the prince.

  Shaking his head, at them and their ignorance Ivarr hurried thither from the chambers, as he continued to curse in his native language. Furious with all his servants, he was to give chase down the stairs, in pursuit of those men headed down to the fourth floor of the palace.

  *****

  Ivarr could not have guessed, at least not at once just how Indulf had escaped him. If he had, he might have remained in the room of the princess to wait for the youth to whom his ‘intended’ clung to pull them back up, and into the room.

  Having clung to the ledge to one side of the window, then moved when this proved incredibly difficult, to grip the ledge upon which the gargoyle rested upon. All while trying to avoid looking down, and keep the terrified princess from panicking herself, was an accomplishment that Indulf would never understand how he accomplished.

  It was mad, it was daft and it was only as he moved back to the ledge below the window, and pulled himself and Bérénice to safety that the fullness of that madness struck him.

  With a cry the princess once inside, was to cling to him trembling as much as he did. It was not she alone who shook at that moment. Just as shaken, just as stunned by how close he had come to death, Indulf did not weep as she did but did indeed sit there for an untold length of time. A Daegan might have slapped him for what he had done, but Bérénice was too grateful to him for having saved her life, and far, far too stunned by his stupidity still, to do so.

  There was for this reason no violence between them, no quarrels that took place. In place of hard words and harsher actions, the two of them clung to one another, as a man might cling to driftwood in the middle of the ocean. It was not simply that they were filled with fear; of what they had momentarily experienced but that they needed companionship until they could take back, the courage they had flung to the wind, but a few minutes prior.

  “We are safe, we have survived!” Indulf murmured continuously for several minutes, barely able to believe his own words.

  Bérénice for her own part, continued to weep helplessly.

  *****

  After they had wept for as long as time might allow, and Indulf recalled the danger that threatened them far more than the craggy rocks below the palace, regained his feet abruptly. Taking the startled princess by the hand, he pulled her to her own feet and after him, dashing from her chambers they were to reach the stairs in but a few heartbeats.

  An immeasurably long period of time to them, one in which the princess tried to utter some sort of complaint for which, Indulf by the time they reached the first steps stopped to shush her.

  His fingers on his lips, he was to tell her, “Tush, you fool!”

  The exact words may have failed to be understood by her, but the message was certainly understood.

  Her hands on her hips, she scowled at him and began to hiss something at him, in what was a fair imitation of the snake-men that had disappeared both down the hall and the stairs some time ago.

  She was interrupted mid-speech by a voice that moved from the shadows of the stairs that led upwards, to the sixth floor.

  Panicking, Indulf almost raced back to the princess’ chambers or down the hall to his death at the hands of the snake-men circulating the hallway in that direction. Or he imagined he might have otherwise done, had it not been for the sudden appearance of Wiglaf.

  Once he had listened for a few minutes to the hysterical princess, Wiglaf turned next to the Caled with a stern yet incredulous gleam in his eyes, “You risked the life of the princess Bérénice? You fool!”

  “There was no time, I had no other choice Wiglaf,” Indulf protested weakly, “I was faced with more than a dozen swords.”

  It looked as though the sorcerer might insist that he ought, to have fallen upon those blades rather than to do as he had done. It was a view that went well with that of the princess, though neither was to give any further pronouncements to this effect. For it was at that moment that a hissing noise was heard from down the hallway, and also from farther down the steps.

  Worried beyond reason, by this sound Indulf turned at the same time that the princess did to the sorcerer, for aid.

  Muttering to himself, as he stroked his great white beard, “Well now, I do suppose that now is mayhaps, not the best time for this discussion.”

  “Nay, I should think not,” Indulf countered desperate for answers to their current crisis. “What should we do?”

  The answer Wiglaf gave to that particular question was one that was to inspire some confusion and some mortal terror on the part of the youths, who were to ever afterwards question his judgement.

  The sorcerer you see, did not act as you or I might have expected with incredible feats of magic, or by counselling that they hide until the guards pass. Oh nay, what he was to do was far more impulsive than the worst of Indulf’s actions (discounting his attack against the knightwraiths upon the Mound of Griogair).

  Leaping forward with all the speed that his legs could carry him with, the sorcerer was to bound down the stairs with little heed paid to his surroundings or to the guards who might observe his passing. His only thought it seemed, was to place as much distance, between the fifth floor from whence he had come, along with his companions and himself.

  Gone with the wind, as he was, past guards, past the stairs, past reason itself, all of which were swiftly left behind, he was given chase by the son of Freygil and daughter of Clovis. Both of the two, clung to each other’s hand and raced after him as best they could, with it not long ere Indulf overtook Wiglaf.

  This in spite of how the princess cried a little, pleaded and shouted at him to slow his pace, panicked though she was, she came near to falling over the skirts of her dress and was very near plucked off her feet after him.

  The madness of fear though was upon him, and it kept him at least silent just as it kept him from thinking of aught else but escaping the imprisoning castle.

  *****

  The gates of the castle loomed before him, great and terrible in their glory. Countless were the years that these doors had borne witness to, and even more countless was the number of men and women they had seen pass them by or through them.

  And yet, never had any of those souls or years passed them by, as Indulf and the beautiful Bérénice tore through their small opening. Not in the age of King Caíndelbán who had presided over the fall of the city and palace to the hordes led by Mundi I Crownbreaker, and certainly not in the centuries since then.

  Standing not by those gates, but by the palace wall’s gates Colwyn only barely took notice of them, as they flew past him, in the midst of bribing the guards when they tore through the courtyard.

  Their lungs burning only about the time they reached the walls, wherefore it was only then that they began to slow their pace a little. To come to the realization of the depths of their previous folly, a folly that continued to possess the sorcerer who called out for Colwyn to hurry.

  “Fly! Fly we must from this accursed place, Colwyn! Hurry whither from this city!” Wiglaf shrieked as he appeared out of the stables, having run there rather than the entrance in his fear of the snake-men and Arnish guards pouring out from within the palace.

  How did he succeed in moving so swiftly? Indulf was given to asking himself, unable to comprehend how such an old man who could complain about moving from one tree to the next in the bridge-filled village of the Wilder-Elves yet move as lightning as he was doing so now.

  Sweeping towards them faster than the guards could react, with their gates open by this time, the sorcerer with two others which he had grabbed by the reins of to either side of him. Wiglaf was to bark out some order in their direction in Gallian.

  While his companions understood the order, his order not one that Indulf understood though the spirit was grasped at once.

  Leaping upon the saddle with far more speed, than he had ever previously believed himself capable of Indulf was to tug upon the reins with all his might with one hand. With his other he pulled the princess up behind him, for which he was rewarded with a grateful if exhausted and dazzling smile from her.

  “Fare thee well, men of Hraukrheier! And ye snake-men, we depart now in heartier spirits than we were in upon our arrival!” Colwyn shouted to all those behind them, pushing his horse only a little, moving between a trod and gallop.

  “Hurry Colwyn,” Wiglaf cried out over his shoulder.

  But the prince was not in a mood for reason, full of triumph and indifference towards his warnings. In his mind he had won over the enemy already, and laughed in the face of those who sought to give chase after them. “Know O Colubar and servants of Herleifr that thy Dark Laird shall soon have good reason to fear us, and the providence we shall bring down upon him! And know that providence is as inevitable as surely as I am prince Colwyn, laird of Gwyneira!”

  There were no further words for them as he broke into a proper gallop after his friends leaving naught but frustration and fury in his wake, alongside the dust his mount left behind it.

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