The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Two

After what seemed like hours of traipsing through the King's private corridors, Larst stopped counting and stilled the group in front of a lowly looking door. He pressed his ear against it.

From across the way, Turnip mouthed something Larst couldn't make out, but he knew the meaning of it all the same. He shook his head. If there was anyone on the other side, they were doing a good job of keeping quiet. He didn't know what was more worrying, the thought that the guards had deserted the palace, or that they were laying in wait for them. There was nothing for it. They were just as dead hanging around out there as inside. He grabbed the latch and drew it back.

Behind him, Turnip's stomach growled. "Sorry, Sir."

Larst made a cutting gesture across his throat, both at the talk and the title. Turning his attention back to the door, he nudged it open a little further with the toe of his boot.

Slipping in dagger first, he moved forward in the darkness, the blade raised with one hand, and the other outstretched, feeling his way. His fingers brushed against something hard and cold. He sprang away, bouncing off the wall behind him. The dagger fell from his fingers and clattered to the floor, inches from his foot. Larst let out what air remained in his lungs in one long breath. He wiped the sweat off his palms and onto his britches and bent to pick up the dagger, thanking the gods the others hadn't seen all that.

Moving along the wall, he reached the other side of the room and found a latch. That at least was familiar. He worked it across and flung open the shutters, letting the moonlight flood in. It hung like a giant orb over the battlements, barely touching the top of the high stone walls on its progress back down to the horizon. No need to light a candle then. Larst glanced around the room. Empty. What a relief, he thought, banging open the rest of the shutters.

That task complete, he opened the door and waved the others in.

"Where are we?" asked Hawth as the door shut behind them.

"Council chamber," said Larst.

"Why?"

"Short cut," he said, regretting not for the first time, bringing the ever inquisitive Hawth.

"How do you know about all these short cuts?" asked Hawth.

He was really regretting the decision now.

He did not want to go over the origins of the information, it had been troubling him enough as it was without the likes of Hawth analysing it. So far the directions he'd been handed hadn't led them astray. They'd made it all the way to the council chamber without even encountering a guard. Either someone really wanted them to succeed, or they were drawing them deep into a trap.

Larst ignored the question, feeling Hawth's gaze following him as he inspected the room.

"What now?" said Hawth at last, sounding more than a little exasperated.

Larst glanced over his shoulder at the three of them all staring at him. Hawth's foot was practically tapping with frustration. He sighed.

"There should be a door somewhere. Help me find it. It should take us right to the King's private chambers. Check everywhere. It could be behind a tapestry, or a false panel. You too, Straw."

Straw was staring at the display of shields, their surfaces pockmarked with wounds. "What do you think about them?" he asked, while the others were busy running their fingertips over every likely surface.

"What do we think about what?" asked Larst, examining the fireplace for a hidden latch or handle.

"The weapons." Straw reached up and lifted pulled the twin swords from behind its shield.

"Stop messing around."

"Come on. It's better than the daggers we came in here with."

"Seriously? Can you even use a sword?"

Straw tested the weight of weapon before giving it a trial swing. "How hard can it be?"

Larst watched him play around for a few moments. That man looked like he was having way to much fun. Larst gave up. "Hand it over." It was heavier than he expected. He thumbed the edge of the blade. "They're as dull as a shepherd."

"Yeah, but look how fierce we look with them," said Straw, posing. Hawth giggled. "Don't you think I look terrifying?"

Hawth nodded. "Very."

"See?" said Straw. Drawing his arm back he jumped at Turnip, pushing him against the wall and letting the tip of the blade sink down and touch the boy's throat.

"I think that was sarcasm, Straw," said Larst. "Now leave the poor lad alone."

"I'm scary," said Straw, not taking his eyes off Turnip.Turnip blinked furiously. He wasn't about to argue. Straw looked like he contained enough rage to boil a kettle from twelve feet away.

Larst brought down a couple of invisible enemies with his sword. "Sure you are," he said distractedly as a third man fell.

Straw wasn't giving up. "Say it."

Turnip swallowed hard, staring at the blade right in front of his nose. He'd always liked his nose. His girl liked it too. She always said it was his best feature, that it made him look refined. Almost like a gentleman, she said. Usually just before she did something very unladylike. She certainly wouldn't like him without one.

"You're very scary, Straw," he said at last.

Straw inched the blade closer. Turnip closed his eyes. He didn't want to go like this, not in the war room, or whatever it was, of a daft old King. He wanted to die in bed, at home, with Heather cleaning his long white beard free of all the venison stew she'd just fed him. And with his nose still intact. He steeled himself from the blow, pushing back against the wall as if he could sink into it.

Behind him, deep in the wall, something moved. Clunk.