From Darkness Won - Jill Williamson [22]
Sir Caleb Agros.
Achan would deal with Sir Caleb once he was outside and standing on solid ground. I am well, Sir Caleb, I’ll speak with you in a moment. He sent the thought without opening his mind to a reply. He’d never done that particular feat, not to his knowledge anyway.
He rather liked it.
After a dozen rungs, his fingers broke through a crusty layer of cobwebs and touched spindly roots. He traced every inch of the ceiling until his fingers hit an obstruction. Iron. A ringlatch of some sort. He pulled it toward him. It barely moved, then suddenly snapped back.
The ceiling shifted, raining dirt and dry bits of grass over his armor. A sliver of white light increased his already-pounding heartbeat. When his eyes had adjusted, he pushed the door open and climbed up another rung.
He peeked out onto grassy ground. Thick vines hung overhead, heavy with plump red grapes. He let the door fall back against the grass. The air was cool in his lungs, but thick with smoke.
Achan wiggled and squeezed to get his armor through the narrow opening, thankful no one was around to witness his ungraceful movements. As he stood, his helm tangled in the vines overhead. His location was a vineyard, completely outside the stronghold. The outer curtain wall loomed a few yards ahead. He shut the trapdoor and could barely see the rectangular outline in the thick grass.
“This way!” a nasally voice said.
Achan straightened, ready to meet Sir Caleb, Shung, and whatever soldiers they’d brought along. But the voice had come from the opposite direction of the curtain wall.
A prickle scuttled up his spine. He crouched, hand on Ôwr’s hilt, and listened to the crunch of leaves, the rustling of vines, every sound muffled through his steel helm.
A man screamed. “She bit me!”
“Stop her! She’s getting away!”
Footsteps rained over the ground. Achan peered under the vines. A woman ran his way. He could see her from the waist down only, her red skirt a flutter of fabric as she ran. Mere feet from his location, she tripped and fell, skidding over the leafy grass and into the stand of a trellis. Her blonde curls tangled over her face.
Achan ran to her and grabbed her arms, but she screamed and crawled away. “Leave me alone!”
He recognized her immediately. It was Duchess Amal’s second eldest. “Lady Gypsum. It’s Achan. Prince Gidon, I mean.” It was still difficult for him to claim that name. He smiled and held out his hand. “May I offer my assistance?”
She grabbed his hand. “Your Highness…” She panted and he pulled her up. “There are bad men…” She glanced back the way she’d come. “They are coming. They took me, and I…”
Achan bent down and spotted two sets of legs, one closer than the other.
“My lady,” he whispered. “Your dress will give you away should these cretins think to crouch as I have. There is a trapdoor here.” He scanned the ground. “Somewhere.”
“Yes, under the marker.” She stepped to the next row and reached up to the trellis where a piece of faded, frayed cloth was tied. She crouched underneath it and ran her hands over the grass. Her finger hooked around something, and she pulled. The next row away, the trapdoor popped open.
“I see her! Who’s got her?”
“Hurry, my lady.” Achan grabbed her hands and lowered her into the hole. Her dress billowed on the grass like a tent. “Have your feet found the ladder?”
“Yes. You may let go now.”
He released her hands and started to tuck her skirt down the hole, but her quick descent dragged her dress with her. “How will you see, my lady?”
She smiled and Achan saw Duchess Amal’s beauty in her young face. “This is my home, Your Highness. I know my way.”
“Arman be with you then.”
She frowned. “You are not coming?”
“You there?” A man’s deep voice yelled. “Have you seen a little lady?”
Achan kicked the trapdoor closed. A burly man dressed in black armor stood on his row at least ten yards away. Achan ducked under the trellis on his right, and under the next few trellises, hoping to lure the man away from the trapdoor.
“Soldiers!” a voice yelled