The Crimson Party

Chapter 17

The worst thing was his paranoia. Thomas was slightly more accustomed to his situation now and the tension had eased, as had his extreme focus. With that lack of focus came questions. As he climbed the stairs and walked, looking for the armoury with his companions, he wondered at the lack of guards. Surely some should have rushed to their location as soon as they heard Grendel? Despite the (now dimmed) noise of the battle outside, surely there should have been more than that pair guarding the stair? Or were all the guards on the walls? Oor behind that unbreakable steel door, ensuring no prisoners would escape from there? Oor guarding the thing behind the corpsewood door?

"Your mind wanders," Egil suddenly remarked from beside him.

"There are too few men," Thomas replied; his voice was completely devoid of anxiety.

"Prisons often have less men guarding than living in them."

"Not so few, not so few at all. Let alone in the Blackhouse."

"Oh? I had no inkling noble bastards were trained in guarding prisons?"

"Neither are Paladins." Thomas' voice was calm, even as his jaw tensed.

Egil remained silent for a moment. "Either the guard is occupied or their warden corrupt. Spending coin on luxuries instead of men."

"Both," Thomas decided.

They found the door to the armoury then. It was ahead of them by about twenty paces.

"No one there." Egil said. Thomas began to frown, but then smoothed his face. How did Egil know?

He forgot his confusion entirely when they went through the door.

There were too many..., too many for the amount of guards manning their posts, too many by far. Thomas smiled. In the large, rectangular room (so large that he could not see till the end of it in the dim light), there were racks upon racks holding a treasure trove of steel. Those closest to the door were empty, but beyond them there were swords and leather-bound clubs, spiked maces and long spears, longbows, and crossbows next to piles and piles of bolts. The black house was armed to withstand a siege, not only a prison riot. There was even a half empty rack, which held those few, rare corpsewood clubs, made from the precious wood the turnkeys would sometimes wield.

The best part, however, was the shields. Some were made of reinforced wood or gleaming steel, there was also a variety of shapes from large round ones to tall heater shields. Heavy, but perfect protection from the crossbows. There was armour as well. Only a few sets of plate, but plenty of leather and chainmail in large piles. And everything was perfectly maintained.

Egil gave an appreciative hum and dropped his spear to the ground even as he made for the maces. Grendel went for the plate armour, and after a moment, Egil followed.

Thomas went deeper, towards the assortment of ranged weaponry. He picked a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. And then his eyes strayed toward the corpsewood clubs. Corpsewood had the slightest golden gleam and was smooth and polished without any sort of treatment. Combined with its weight, it could be mistaken for a golden sort of marble. Yet when it touched blood, the wood would become paler and paler until it went from the colour of sand to a bleached bone, and it would gain corrugations and lines. The same lines one would find in unfinished wood but deeper. The corrugations gave corpse wood weapons a firmer grip, and the white had an unnerving sheen to it, ideal for intimidating enemies. Still, when unblooded, lovely golden corpsewood could be used for jewellery and decoration. He never liked it.

The one time he'd been allowed to touch it as a child, he'd cried. He still didn't know why. But that was in the past, wasn't it? Thomas reached for one of the clubs; they were all perfectly white.

"Thomas," Egil interrupted. "Guards coming".

Thomas pulled his hand back and looked in their direction. Grendel was now wearing a shirt of mail, and a breastplate over that. She also wielded a large round shield and a spiked warhammer. Egil still wore the clothing of a guard, which gave Thomas an idea.

"Grendel, please move to the end of the room, away from the door, and behind any of the stacks of leather. Egil, wear a helmet that covers your face, quickly." Thomas began to hear the rustling of armour and clinking of weapons, still a bit away. "We are prison guards, not prisoners; we came here at the order of Rickstraw. He bid us wear plate and bring more bolts to the men on the wall. Then guard the Warden's tower." Thomas prayed that both of his companions could understand his orders and actually do them, even as he himself went to wear a helmet with a closed face.