chapter Five
Hornstall Keep
The clatter of hooves on stone echoed through the gulch as the minotaur led a horse-drawn wagon overhead. It made the transition from dirt road to cobblestone bridge with a bump, followed by a second bump moments later as wheels met dirt again. Ayla waited a few minutes after the wagon passed before returning to the road, with a wary glance in the direction she’d come - south. Apart from the wagon, she had not encountered another living soul since she lost the dogs in the woods three days ago. She reassured herself that the wagon wasn't looking for her as she jogged across. Not even Deetra knew Ayla’s - or rather, the Goddess’ - plan to venture deeper into the minotaur empire. Nevertheless, she checked behind her every dozen steps.
Ayla left the road again but kept her path parallel to it as she waded through the waist-high grass. With no idea how far she still had to travel to reach Hornstall Keep, she occupied herself by examining her new medallion. She looped her finger through the steel hoop and held it up against the sky, contemplating the symbolism. The oldest slaves at the plantation believed snakes were reborn each time they shed their skin. She wondered what they would think of a winged one with a lizard head eating its tail.
The waning moon rose a few hours after the sunset. It hung high in the clear sky among the glittering stars. Her stomach grumbled, and her legs were tired. The hardtack bread had gotten wet in the brook, which forced her to eat all of it before it spoiled. She’d finished the last piece the evening before and hadn’t had a bite since then.
She found a sparse blackberry bush in a copse of red alders. Ayla picked it bare; the shriveled berries only made her hungrier. Hopefully, whomever she found at Hornstall would have some food. Even if they did, she still had no idea how long it would take to get there. Ayla took a sip from her water skin and laid down under the trees in her new, centuries-old tunic.
The humidity and the discomfort of an unfamiliar place woke her in the last hours of the night. Ayla stretched, sat up, and re-tied her laces in a double knot. The leather of the boots had stayed supple despite the years in storage. She had thought them too big when she first saw them, but they fit as if made for her feet.
Just before morning, Ayla crested a long hill and caught her first glimpse of the twin sixty-foot towers of Hornstall’s outer wall. She climbed to the top of one of the many hills for a better look. The road passed between fenced pastures and over the half-empty moat that encircled the outer walls of the keep. A courtyard separated the outer wall from a shorter inner wall that huddled the homes and buildings in the center of the city.
Ayla stayed low as she crossed the field of tall grasses between the low rolling hills, out of view of the gate. Her tunic clung to her sweaty back. A rooster crowed, warning of the impending sunrise, quickening her step. The farmer would wake soon. A modest ranch home, hidden behind the barn, came into view as she drew closer. A lantern was lit in one of the windows toward the back. The rooster crowed again. Ayla drew close enough to smell the heavy scents of manure and old hay wafting from inside the barn. Another window in the house lit up next to the first. The barn door slid open in one slow and deliberate motion.
Ayla ducked behind an empty rain barrel under the soffit. The ground here was littered with dry chicken droppings. She huddled against the barn wall and hugged her knees. The door slid back into place and she peeked between the curve of the barrel and the wall. A man, clad in a black cloak with a hood hiding his features, skulked around the corner in front of her.
Ayla looked for a place to run, but there was nowhere to go. The moment she moved, he would see her. The door of a nearby home creaked open, startling the cloaked man. He ducked around the barrel, almost colliding with Ayla. The cloaked man jumped back as a halo of torchlight passed over the door of the barn and settled on him.
“Hey, you!”
Ayla stared at the hooded figure a moment, speechless, and he stared back. He had messy black bangs, and scruff on his cheeks. The farmer charged towards them and the cloaked man bolted with something in his hands. Ayla jumped up and followed him.
The farmer yelled, “Guards! Thief!”
The cloaked man didn’t look back. She chased him as he ran past a chicken coop behind the barn. He held tight to whatever he carried in his arms, cloak billowing out behind him. Ayla checked the main gate as she ran. It stood empty and closed, same as before but another circle of lantern light appeared along the battlements. The light flitted to and fro and bounced in rhythm with the steps, but still managed to find her in the stony field. The man picked up speed, increasing the distance between them, leaving her in the spotlight alone. Ayla held the medallion in one hand as she sprinted, heart pumping a furious rhythm. The light ruined her limited night vision beyond a few feet and fear and exhaustion weighed down her burning legs.
The portcullis ratcheted open and Ayla checked over her shoulder. The farmer was breaking off his chase. He stopped, and put his hands on his knees, panting. Ayla’s foot caught a stone and she went down face first into the dusty field with a cry. Hooves clopped on the drawbridge then thundered into the grass behind her. The cloaked man in front of her stopped. He turned and tossed a small cask to the ground then lifted his arm. With a twitch of his wrist, the cuff of his black shirt flew apart and the arms of a short bow sprung open. He notched an arrow and fired over her head.
Ayla rolled onto her back as the gate guard bellowed and stumbled. His spear clattered to the ground as he grabbed at a short arrow protruding from his throat. The cloaked man fired again. The second arrow pierced the guard's hand and pinned it to his neck. The minotaur dropped to his knees in the spotlight of the guard above. Another alert call sounded from the battlements.
“Guard down! Guard down!”
The man in the hood clicked a release and pulled the bowstring, forcing the bow arms flat against the top and bottom of his forearm with a click. He reached down and offered the other hand to Ayla. She took it and he yanked her to her feet. He held her hand as he broke into a run again, half dragging her. They approached the edge of the moat. More lanterns appeared above and shone down on them.
“You there! Stop!”
The man slid down the muddy embankment. Ayla fell and rolled down to the putrid water. He grabbed her by the back of the tunic and hauled her to her feet. An arrow hissed over her head and stuck in the mud, another one zinging into the ground at the man’s feet.
They waded down into the water. It was thick and stunk like a latrine at high sun. He pulled her along, into the chest deep filth. A circular, barred storm drain jutted out from the wall, half under the moat. She could no longer touch the bottom, and doggie paddled towards it. The man reached it first and lifted the grate. He pushed her head under the stinking water and Ayla found the opening. She ducked in and came up retching on the other side, then sat up, waist-deep in the drain. She spat and gagged. The smell of waste, mold and rot suffocated her.
An arrow struck the man in the top of his shoulder from above. He screamed and the drain grate fell from his grip with a clang that echoed back into the long, dark sewer. Ayla wiped her eyes and looked back through the entrance. The man’s hood had come down revealing a shock of mussed black hair.
He tried to lift the grate with his good arm, but could not manage it so Ayla threw her shoulder against it. Another arrow scratched his head and blood immediately began to trickle down his temple. Ayla blindly reached out with her feet in the water, and found purchase against the wall, giving her leverage. Together, they got the grate open and he ducked inside, letting it clang shut.
Something splashed into the water outside. Ayla looked. A minotaur waded his way across the moat. The cloaked man got to his knees and crawled up onto a narrow walk that lined each side of the knee-deep drainage ditch. Half a dozen rats skittered down the path, retreating back into the darkness. Ayla climbed out after him in the dark. The minotaur reached the entrance and lifted the grate. He inspected the narrow tunnel, his size barring entry. The
black-haired man turned and the bow snapped open again. The minotaur’s eyes went wide, and he jumped back away from the grate. It closed with a deafening clang that made Ayla’s ears ring.
It was a bluff, Ayla realized. The man’s other arm could not pull the draw on his modified bow.
The guard beat a hasty retreat through the muck, yelling to his fellow guardsmen. “They’re in the sewers! Gate section six!”
Ayla crawled up behind him in the three-foot tunnel until her shoulder rubbed against the damp wall in the dark. She whispered ahead to him.
“Thank you.”
“Should have left you,” he said, and stopped to rest, out of breath. He swallowed.
“What’s your name?”
The man crawled on without answering. He coughed and had to rest every few steps. A rat squeaked and skittered over Ayla’s hands. She shivered and jerked her hand away from it.
“Who are you?”
The man stopped and banged on the wall twice in the pitch blackness. He waited, then banged one more time. The sound of grinding stone filled the passageway and a crack of light appeared in the wall like a crescent moon, illuminating the low arched ceiling and cobblestone walls.
“Alex, I’m a Freeman.”