A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [156]
“You’ll get your audience,” the guard assured him. He turned toward the roof where Drake hid. “He’ll get his audience,” he yelled. Then he looked up at Jason. “You may not like what happens afterward, but you’ll come before the emperor. Can I get your name?”
“Lord Jason of Caberton.”
The guard huffed. “Should have known. Word has gotten out about you. I thought you were captured after fleeing Harthenham?”
“So did my captors,” Jason said mysteriously.
“You’re just a lad,” the man realized, coming up the steps, hands raised. “Well, it was a bold run. I hope you can handle facing the end of it.”
“Me too,” Jason said honestly.
“I’ll have to relieve you of your weapons,” the guard said.
“How do I know I’ll get to see the emperor?” Jason asked.
“At this hour all of Felrook heard that gong,” the guard said. “They all know the rules.”
Jason handed over his sword.
Perhaps an hour later, with the sun poised to rise, Jason and the gong guard boarded a ferry. It could have held a hundred men, but they were the only passengers. They crossed the lake to a quay projecting from a small landing area at the base of the central island. The fortress loomed above them, seeming to stretch upward forever. A switchback path had been carved into the face of the precipice. As Jason marched up the path behind the gong guard, several other guards fell into step behind them.
Jason imagined at least some of the guards might have bragged if they had apprehended Drake. He hoped their silence meant the seedman had managed to slip away.
As he climbed the path, the Word burned in Jason’s mind. What if one of the syllables was wrong? Did pronunciation matter? He wished he could practice saying the Word aloud, but supposedly, once he uttered it, the Word would vanish from his memory. He would have to wait.
After the long ascent they passed through the two tremendous gates of the thick outer wall, walking under several massive raised portcullises, only to discover an inner wall nearly as high as the first. Nothing in the fortress was beautiful—everything existed to repulse and intimidate attackers. Riddled with loopholes and trapdoors, the battlements projected over the walls, making them virtually impossible to scale. Heavily armed guards patrolled everywhere, some accompanied by manglers. Catapults and trebuchets stood ready to help repel invaders. The main building was a blocky structure, warded by a series of parapets that receded from the courtyard in a progression of crenellated terraces.
Across the courtyard and into the stronghold they strode, down bare, solid hallways and up broad stairways, until they stood outside a massive pair of black iron doors, each embossed with a grinning skull.
A tall man, dressed like a conscriptor, instructed Jason’s other escorts to depart. After they moved away, the conscriptor thoroughly searched Jason, finding no new weapons since the others had already all been confiscated. Then he pulled twice on a chain dangling from a hole in the wall. The doors swung open. “Lord Jason of Caberton,” the tall conscriptor proclaimed.
Clenching his jaw, the Key Word repeating in his mind, Jason entered the vast audience hall. Huge pillars supported the roof, their bases carved like human feet, their tops shaped like hands splayed against the ceiling. Torches blazed in sconces on the walls. Flames leaped up from kettle-shaped braziers standing about the room on cabriole legs. A long black carpet led to an obsidian dais, where a man clad in a sable cloak sat upon a dark throne bristling with spikes. Off to the sides courtiers milled about, all eyes on Jason.
Starting at the base of the dais, on either side of the black carpet, ran long tables draped in black silk. At the tables sat many men and a few women. Most had empty eye sockets and only one ear. Many were missing limbs. Those who could see regarded Jason solemnly.
The tall conscriptor ushered Jason to a position ten yards from the dais, between the black tables, then backed away. The man on the throne had white hair and hard