Fires of the Dead by Jed Herne

Author:Jed Herne [Herne, Jed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Undergrove Press
Published: 2019-09-19T16:00:00+00:00

10: MAROGAN

The Randalls’ Castle was a dark, hulking mass, perched atop a craggy hilltop and waiting to strike. Marogan wasn’t easily impressed, but as they emerged into the clearing at the hill’s base, she nodded. The Randalls knew their stuff.

To assault the fortress, you’d need to run up a hundred feet of slippery hillside, and that was before even reaching the massive walls. Marogan smiled. Defending this would be fun.

They climbed the hill. As they approached the walls, Marogan frowned. Up close, soot stained the stone, and half the walls had crumbled. Cracks split the mortar. Vines twisted through the gaps. A massive slab of broken wood and iron lay before the entrance. Marogan kicked the wood. It was ashen, and as her boot hit it the wood disintegrated.

Maybe this wasn’t as defensible as she’d thought.

They entered the courtyard. Fallen stones littered the ground, vines snaked up walls, and rusted armour lay slumped on uneven cobblestones.

“How did this happen?” asked Breeze.

Marogan shrugged. “No one knows. Not really. I mean, I’ve heard stories, but if Fleetfoot does any more pant-wetting his trousers will turn yellow.”

Fleetfoot bit his lip, but the rest of his face stayed impassive. Hmph. The kid’s skin was thickening. Marogan had to improve her insults.

If she had been the curious type, she’d want the truth about the Castle, too. The Randalls had been one of the realm’s strongest families. Four years ago, this Castle was impenetrable, so why had it become a ruin?

Marogan shrugged. She didn’t care as long as she could find the Skull and kill Clubhead’s gang.

“Breeze, survey the walls,” she said. “Find weak spots. Fleetfoot, help me block the entrance.”

While Breeze scampered up to the battlements, Marogan and Fleetfoot stacked broken stones into the empty gate. Wasn’t much defence, but it was better than letting Clubhead’s crew run into the courtyard.

Breeze scrambled down. “The walls look weak, and they’ll be easy to climb. But there’s no gaps big enough to crawl through unless you’re a rat.”

“Clubhead is a rat,” said Marogan. “Luckily, he’s a fat one. Fleetfoot, let’s find this Skull. Breeze, back on the walls and let us know when Clubhead’s ten minutes away.”

Marogan pulled a candle from her pack, lit it, then dropped her blood into the flame to Bond herself to the fire.

She gave it to Breeze. “Snuff it when they’re close.”

Marogan strode towards the inner walls. The Castle’s bulk was behind them, sheltered in the keep. She clambered over rubble. As she marched into the dark corridor, she wondered if the kid had the guts to follow. Marogan could already predict his pathetic excuses.

Fleetfoot scrambled over the ruins. He slid down the broken stones and stumbled through the keep’s gaping doorway. Hmm. No excuses so far. Wouldn’t be long before that changed.

They walked through narrow corridors, with their only light coming from Marogan’s flaming hand. Water dripped from the ceiling. A drop splattered onto her head. Stupid water.

They reached an intersection.

Marogan glanced at the boy. “Which way to the Hearth?”

Fleetfoot pointed. At least the kid was good for something.

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