Chapter 9: Assault

The dark tabernacle was empty: The black flames had been extinguished and the dark robed knights were sent back to their haunts—back to their lives—till the Master required their unnatural talents once more. It was said that some were not even aware of their abilities, or the service they rendered to the order.

Once they passed beyond the shadow of the citadel a mist descended on their minds, shrouding what they had witnessed…and been a part of. They lived, worked and labored under the notion that occasional lapses of memory were perfectly normal and nothing to concern family and friends.

The Master's Guard did not share that convenient malady.

"Woo whoo—Anybody home?" François Villefore smiled, waving a taunting hand over the prisoner's face. "Nope." He laughed.

"Must you to that?" Gaspar sighed, grimly studying the prisoner's blood slick manacles and raw wrists. He would not willingly meet that vacant gaze—dark eyes, bereft of light and understanding. The mere thought chilled him to the bone. What made Villefore so bold? He wondered. Insanitywas the only answer that came readily to mind.

"It can't hear me. Why should you care?" the other guard sneered.

"It" Gaspar's thoughts echoed… yes, thinking of this –thing as a creature … a lump of flesh … even a corps made it less frightening than having to admit this was –he was—or at least he had been, a thinking, reasoning, feeling, individual. "Do we have souls?" Gaspar wondered aloud.

"I've heard the word." Villefore snorted, "I'll warrant you've got no better understanding of the concept than I do."

"Perhaps." Gaspar frowned, wondering if such things even mattered. He took the cloth hood from the bucket in which it had been soaking and wrung out the oily liquid before pulling it once more over the prisoner's head.

Villefore clasped the thick leather collar around prisoner's neck, tightened it, and sealed the hood in place with a turn of the key.

OOO

"As I told you, getting in is easy." Val explained, "This way was Richelieu's secret. Only his creatures have knowledge to navigate it safely. We will have surprise on our side." Valerian skillfully polled the dark ship once more through the underground river. "It is trying to leave again that will kill us. The guard will have discovered the maiden is missing. The punishment of those deemed responsible will burn fresh in the guards memory… they will not lapse in their duty."

Jacques turned his words over in her mind as she watched the swirling waters. 'Richelieu's secret'… 'His creatures' Where had she heard of such things? She frowned and then remembered while journeying with the King to Berry their young guide, Andie, had spoken to her of such things. What was the term she had used? "Are you… blade-bound?" Jacqueline asked finally putting the pieces together.

The man at the tiller straightened – clearly surprised. "Something more: I am i Cousin /i The Master made us to train and command the blade-bound. How do you know of such things? There are none of our brethren among the king's guard."

"None but me," Siroc whispered.

"What?" D'Artagnan and Jacques asked together.

"I was bound, not Richelieu but to Mazarin, the first of a new generation." Siroc admitted, wondering if he would ever be able to look his friends in the eye again. Perhaps it would be best if he sacrificed his life in this rescue. Maybe then, he could expunge his soul of shame.

Jacques brows knit together as she struggled to understand. For the present she would have to lay aside Siroc's confirmation that Mazarin was—had been—his Master, and the leader of the dark order. It was simply too much for her to process at the moment. That left what little she knew about the nature of the blade bound. "How can you be like them, Siroc? The Andie told me extreme conditioning and discipline made the blade-bound unquestioningly loyal: You question everything. It's all you ever do!"

The inventor took a deep breath "I was not meant to be an Elite Guard, like the lieutenant here and the others. I was the Master's i Shavivo… /i his pet. He brought problems to me, I gave him solutions. He made me what I am. My earliest memories begin up there." The ex-slave nodded to the landing and winding stairs that led into the bowels of the citadel. The inventor turned to the lieutenant. "You meant a lot to me you know." He admitted to his former trainer. "You taught me to stay grounded. I know it was no insult when you called me Sirra. That is why I took the name Siroc. It was the only name I ever knew, the only one I wasn't ashamed of," he whispered, unable to meet his friend's gaze, fearful of the horror and mistrust he would find there.

O

The foursome moved through the twisted catacombs concealed within the walls of the keep. Each had a sword in one hand and an unlit torch in the other. Both Valerian and Siroc had uncommon dark vision and could lead the other two through the maze of passages to the upper levels. All too quickly, they would be forced to leave the secret ways behind and that was where the real danger lay.

In the heart of the citadel was their friend… between themselves and their objective was countless highly trained guards, many of whom did not possess the ability to discern the difference between duty and life. For them to fail in one was to forfeit both. Until quite recently, Valerian had been no different and he regretted the necessity of crossing blades with his own kind.

Tar sputtered as torches blazed wildly, illumining pinched battle after pinched battle. The 'invaders' tore into the forces of the enemy. It was not pretty – real battle rarely was. Both sides used the capricious twists and turns of the halls to dodge musket shot and lay in ambush. Steel rang out as both forces converged… blood red tunic erupted in flames as its wearer lunged too close. The cries of wounded and dying were not alien in this world of uncaring stone. More than once, a group of guardsmen would stumble, surprised, into the midst of the fray, unaware that the battle din was, at all, out of the ordinary.

From time to time, Valerian would call out commands to his former comrades. Some heeded him, turned their coat and joined the opposition. Others chose to lay down their weapons, and knelt, arms across their chest in submission. They would not fight; neither would they aid the enemy. The musketeer let them be—Mazarin's more fanatical forces did not. Their steadfast loyalty often earned them naught but a coupe-de-grace. In the world Mazarin created, the only solution to a crisis of conscience was a slit throat.

Resistance diminished the closer they got to their objective. No guard would violate that sanctum without the Master's leave. The raiding party numbered almost two-dozen by the time they reached their objective. Everyone was bruised, bleeding and breathing hard. The group ground to a halt, finding a brief respite in the eye of the storm.

Jacqueline and D'Artagnan were panting as hard as the rest. They relished the opportunity to lean against the cold stone and catch their breath. To them, this appeared nothing more than an alcove; a moderately defendable spot before a grotesquely carved set of doors.

"We… we can not enter." The lieutenant told the musketeers when they faced that ominous black portal.

"I would not ask it." Siroc assured them. "We need you to guard our backs." He respected Valerian and those of the guard who chose to fight and die at his side in opposition to Mazarin's commands. The ex-slave knew what it cost them to follow this far. The guard had been conditioned to fear this place and that compulsion was not easy to resist. Siroc should know. The thought of facing the demons of this place still filled him with dread and he had tasted freedom far longer than they had.

"This is the place then?" D'Artagnan asked, oblivious to the fear in the guardsmen's eyes. He was more than prepared to open the large door by its wrought iron pull.

Siroc nodded; all color drained from his face.

Jacques took the other door pull and together she and D'Artagnan unsealed the arched portal—twice the height of a man.

O

The grinding hinges of the great door were the last sound Gaspar expected to hear. It never boded well. True enough the Master had instructed them to look after the prisoner, but if something called him back prematurely from the capital—someone would pay.

"W-What?" he barely had time to stammer before the armed combatants charged in.

Villefore was less surprised. He turned slowly and regarded the new comers as would a spider in his web. With a stolen word of power the sconces lining the wall flared to life; the unnatural flame coiled and hissed—purple, violet and green. It gave little heat and stank of sulfur. "Welcome home Shavivo." The Master's disciple sneered, arms outstretched in mock greeting.

Siroc stiffened it seemed his legs were cast in lead and his heart hammered against his breastbone as if it were a bird seeking escape from an especially confining cage. "I am free!" his mind screamed, but terror undermined resistance and stole his voice away.

"Nothing to say? We've got someone simply dying to have you here." Villefore taunted… With a flick of his gauntleted hand the candles ringing the dark alter also flared to life—Illuminating Ramón's inert form.

"You beast! What have you done to him?" Jacques raged and charged toward the haughty man, sword raised.

"You've brought company—how nice." The corrupt guard smirked and sent a wave of crushing power at the she-musketeer. The heavy weight descended on her and it was all Jacques could do to raise her cheek from the flagstone stone.

"Try me," D'Artagnan growled every muscle as tight as a coiled spring. Then at the last moment the legend's son checked his charge and hurled his Florentine dagger at the evil man's chest instead. The blade took the man by surprise; he barely deflected it with his wrist. It still scored on his shoulder.

"Not nice." Villefore hissed and swatted D'Artagnan into the wall as easily as one would a fly.