Read Online From Darkness Won by Jill Williamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jill Williamson
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lay? What if they missed it and traveled all the way to the Lowerworld?
He concentrated on his body, hoping that might help the duchess somehow. Arman, help me find it.
Achan’s soul found its home in the wheeze of a sharp breath. He opened his eyes to blackness. The musty dirt and cool air were familiar, safe, reassuring.
This is one of the secret entrances to the castle, Duchess Amal said to his mind. There are two ways out. Back the way you came. Or, if you continue on, you will come to a ladder that leads to a door in the ground. You are closer to the castle than to the trapdoor. Shall I inform Sir Caleb which direction you will go so he can come meet you?
Achan heaved in another long, musty breath. I will continue to the trapdoor, my lady. I must … complete my task.
Fare you well, then.
Thank you, my lady.
Achan heaved himself up onto shaky legs, berating himself for such stupidity. The experience had drained his strength. At least he knew where he was headed now. He also knew there was no need to go there. The battle was far away, and Sir Caleb would likely be waiting, armed with a sour expression and hefty lecture.
Achan found his gloves on the floor and tucked them through his belt, checking again to make sure Ôwr was still there. He reached out until he found the dirt wall, then crept forward, keeping his right hand on the wall and his left hand stretched out to the blackness before him. Except for the occasional wooden post, the wall remained smooth dirt.
A needle pricked Achan’s temple. Sir Caleb Agros.
Achan clenched every muscle. He should answer. He’d been foolish to sneak away. Even more foolish to leave his body. Sir Caleb’s pointing that out would not change anything. It would only make Achan feel more inane. Perhaps he deserved such humiliation.
Sir Caleb did not enjoy losing control of a situation. Knowing Achan was safe would relieve his fears for a moment but—
Achan’s hand struck something solid. He ran his fingers along wide, smooth wood. They traced a cobwebbed corner, slid down a few inches and met another horizontal bar that went back the other way. A square.
He patted the wood with both hands. Wooden rungs, thick with cobwebs, ran up the wall. His stomach danced. He had found the ladder.
He climbed slowly, pausing after each grip to raise one hand above his head and feel for the ceiling.
Sir Caleb Agros.
Achan would deal with Sir Caleb once he was outside and standing on solid ground. I am well, Sir Caleb, I’ll speak with you in a moment. He sent the thought without opening his mind to a reply. He’d never done that particular feat, not to his knowledge anyway.
He rather liked it.
After a dozen rungs, his fingers broke through a crusty layer of cobwebs and touched spindly roots. He traced every inch of the ceiling until his fingers hit an obstruction. Iron. A ringlatch of some sort. He pulled it toward him. It barely moved, then suddenly snapped back.
The ceiling shifted, raining dirt and dry bits of grass over his armor. A sliver of white light increased his already-pounding heartbeat. When his eyes had adjusted, he pushed the door open and climbed up another rung.
He peeked out onto grassy ground. Thick vines hung overhead, heavy with plump red grapes. He let the door fall back against the grass. The air was cool in his lungs, but thick with smoke.
Achan wiggled and squeezed to get his armor through the narrow opening, thankful no one was around to witness his u ngraceful movements. As he stood, his helm tangled in the vines overhead. His location was a vineyard, completely outside the stronghold. The outer curtain wall loomed a few yards ahead. He shut the trapdoor and could barely see the rectangular outline in the thick grass.
“This way!” a nasally voice said.
Achan straightened, ready to meet Sir Caleb, Shung, and whatever soldiers they’d brought along. But the voice had come from the opposite direction of the curtain wall.
A prickle scuttled up his
He concentrated on his body, hoping that might help the duchess somehow. Arman, help me find it.
Achan’s soul found its home in the wheeze of a sharp breath. He opened his eyes to blackness. The musty dirt and cool air were familiar, safe, reassuring.
This is one of the secret entrances to the castle, Duchess Amal said to his mind. There are two ways out. Back the way you came. Or, if you continue on, you will come to a ladder that leads to a door in the ground. You are closer to the castle than to the trapdoor. Shall I inform Sir Caleb which direction you will go so he can come meet you?
Achan heaved in another long, musty breath. I will continue to the trapdoor, my lady. I must … complete my task.
Fare you well, then.
Thank you, my lady.
Achan heaved himself up onto shaky legs, berating himself for such stupidity. The experience had drained his strength. At least he knew where he was headed now. He also knew there was no need to go there. The battle was far away, and Sir Caleb would likely be waiting, armed with a sour expression and hefty lecture.
Achan found his gloves on the floor and tucked them through his belt, checking again to make sure Ôwr was still there. He reached out until he found the dirt wall, then crept forward, keeping his right hand on the wall and his left hand stretched out to the blackness before him. Except for the occasional wooden post, the wall remained smooth dirt.
A needle pricked Achan’s temple. Sir Caleb Agros.
Achan clenched every muscle. He should answer. He’d been foolish to sneak away. Even more foolish to leave his body. Sir Caleb’s pointing that out would not change anything. It would only make Achan feel more inane. Perhaps he deserved such humiliation.
Sir Caleb did not enjoy losing control of a situation. Knowing Achan was safe would relieve his fears for a moment but—
Achan’s hand struck something solid. He ran his fingers along wide, smooth wood. They traced a cobwebbed corner, slid down a few inches and met another horizontal bar that went back the other way. A square.
He patted the wood with both hands. Wooden rungs, thick with cobwebs, ran up the wall. His stomach danced. He had found the ladder.
He climbed slowly, pausing after each grip to raise one hand above his head and feel for the ceiling.
Sir Caleb Agros.
Achan would deal with Sir Caleb once he was outside and standing on solid ground. I am well, Sir Caleb, I’ll speak with you in a moment. He sent the thought without opening his mind to a reply. He’d never done that particular feat, not to his knowledge anyway.
He rather liked it.
After a dozen rungs, his fingers broke through a crusty layer of cobwebs and touched spindly roots. He traced every inch of the ceiling until his fingers hit an obstruction. Iron. A ringlatch of some sort. He pulled it toward him. It barely moved, then suddenly snapped back.
The ceiling shifted, raining dirt and dry bits of grass over his armor. A sliver of white light increased his already-pounding heartbeat. When his eyes had adjusted, he pushed the door open and climbed up another rung.
He peeked out onto grassy ground. Thick vines hung overhead, heavy with plump red grapes. He let the door fall back against the grass. The air was cool in his lungs, but thick with smoke.
Achan wiggled and squeezed to get his armor through the narrow opening, thankful no one was around to witness his u ngraceful movements. As he stood, his helm tangled in the vines overhead. His location was a vineyard, completely outside the stronghold. The outer curtain wall loomed a few yards ahead. He shut the trapdoor and could barely see the rectangular outline in the thick grass.
“This way!” a nasally voice said.
Achan straightened, ready to meet Sir Caleb, Shung, and whatever soldiers they’d brought along. But the voice had come from the opposite direction of the curtain wall.
A prickle scuttled up his
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