Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 21

"Here they come," Ely said, just before he tipped a glass of sherry into his gullet. "The suckling pigs."

"Where is he?" Symon inquired. He peered out the window of the bartizan, eying the first carriages of the caravan. Guards lined the bridge stretching over the brackish water of the moat. The forward barbican had fallen into ruins many years before, its moss-covered stones a testament to the mighty blocks which once composed its heights. Likewise, the drawbridge had disappeared, replaced by the recent addition of sturdy planks to accommodate the carriages and horses of the day's Conclave gathering. Neither banded by iron nor secured to chains and windlass, the makeshift bridge could not be withdrawn, leaving only the wide doors of the gatehouse – with possessed no portcullis – as the only barrier to the threats outside.

Ely smirked. The defenses must be driving Symon mad.

"He's in the carriage house, inspecting the chests and such," Gerry answered. "Said he might have forgotten something."

"Good," Symon uttered. "Let him search til the end of the Conclave. Will be better for him."

"For us," Ely added, pouring himself another glass. "We haven't time for your antics."

"No, we haven't. With a castle as poor as this, we haven't the luxury of anything, especially security. Damn it, Dawkin! What on earth was he thinking, choosing this place?"

Ely shared a look with Gerry. Never did he imagine the two of them would ever have to take on the anger of their bigger brother to protect their smartest one. Having done it once already in Terran, when Symon first awoke from being drugged, resulted in a monumental effort Ely did not ever want to attempt again.

"I believe," Gerry started, albeit squeaking like a mouse, "there is working more toward our advantage than against it."

"You mean the valley? The gap we all had to pass through? Pfft," Symon scoffed. "The surrounding rangelands aren't so high as to stop the most determined. I venture there are dozens of paths crossing these ridges for shepherds and their flocks."

"True," Ely admitted, emptying his glass. "Yet that can be said of any mountain hideaway or highland fortress." Ely strolled up to Symon, calm as a babe approaching a wet nurse. "Brother, whatever your feelings toward Dawkin, his efforts in our absence unveiled the treachery of the Lost Souls. His truth session told all about their plot. With their plans to blow up Highmoorr Castle, we had no choice other than to find an appropriate alternative."

"Appropriate?" Symon jabbed his finger through the window. "We have no barbican! We have no drawbridge!"

"We also have no dungeon. No vault. No underground tunnels or lairs to speak of. So we run no risk of the Lost Souls having stocked their explosives in alternative locations, as Dawkin learned during his . . . questioning of them." Ely shuddered at the idea of his brother torturing prisoners. In truth, for all his nights drinking and carousing, not once had Ely lost so much sense so as to consider tormenting another. The entirety of the concept – the screams, the sweating, the blood – upended his stomach.

"Are you well?" Gerry asked of Ely, noting his suddenly pale façade.

"Quite so," Ely insisted. "Just need more drink, 'tis all."

"Explosives can be hidden," Symon persisted. "Holes dug and covered. This fortress is of earth and timber. It wouldn't be hard."

"True," Ely relented. "This castle, like any other, could burst. Combust. Yet you forget Dawkin consulted the mage before issuing an edict about his decision. That old chap Wystan conferred with our brother, advising such incendiary devices would, um, how did he say?"