Page 44 of Vow of the Undead
Eventually, the tunnel broke off into several other hallways, but if I followed the sound of footsteps, I wouldn’t get lost.
I committed each turn to memory. Right, right, right again. The floor sloped downward, inviting me lower and lower under the ground. I paused at a fork in the hall and listened carefully. Closing my eyes, I noted the clop of his feetcoming from a slight left. My eyes popped open and I ducked to the left pathway.
The maze grew narrower and darker as I came to the top of a staircase.
Steps vanished down into more inky black where the path descended to the depths of Mara’s Keep. If there was anywhere to hide weapons or the history the kings of the past didn’t want us to know, it was down there.
When the echo of his footsteps faded completely, I had to force myself further into the darkness. I placed a hand on the wall to steady myself. The steps were thin and dropped rapidly, the walls narrow like a tomb encasing me.
In the sagas, only people who died dishonorably were buried in tombs. Those who lost their lives in battle, with a weapon still in their hand, were placed on a pyre and burned so their spirit was released where it could ascend to meet the Valkyries halfway to their descent. This gave them priority for Valhalla.
I recounted bits of history as I dropped deeper and deeper into the bowels of Mara’s Keep to keep my mind from spiraling.
Suddenly I could hear the clash of metal on metal ringing up from below, and excitement prickled through me.
When the narrow stairs flattened out and the walls expanded wider, I smashed myself against one side of the stone.
The steps opened into a full armory with an open floor in the center. Racks of swords and axes lined the walls, their shine glinting faintly in the candlelight. Dozens of candles were propped on the shelves set between each rack. Scratches marred the edge of the axes, but most of the swords were smooth, pristine, maybe never used at all.
King Drakkar wielded a sword with a charcoal black hilt topped with a shimmering bronze pommel. A shape I wasn’t close enough to identify was carved into the pommel.
When the guard lunged for King Drakkar, I held my breath. The tip of the guard’s sword nearly slashed the king’s arm, but he swung his arm away with blinding speed. He slammed the base of the blade against the same spot on his opponent’s sword, and the hilts crossed.
King Drakkar shoved him back. The guard stumbled but quickly recovered, ducking to pierce the king low on his torso.
In the dry air, my breath came in shallow gulps as I pressed into the wall and kept to the shadow of the stairs.
The king easily side-stepped each angle of the guard’s blade but it did not discourage his opponent. The guard was relentless, swinging, and then clashing. When their blades met, he used his weight to shove against King Drakkar, though it did not have the same effect it had when King Drakkar did it to him.
Each time the guard thrust, swung, or slashed, the king bested him.
I bit my lip, watching sweat gather across King Drakkar’s forehead. Though this sparring was mere practice, he did not hold back. Slamming the blades together, he continued pushing the guard back, back, back toward the opposite wall.
King Drakkar was closer to a true warrior than any man I’d ever seen. I slid my eyes shut for a moment, committing the sight of him with the sword in his hand to memory. A slight ache burned low in my belly. The hours I’d spent dreaming of the men described in the sagas put me in trouble now.
Now I didn’t have to imagine them.
Their dueling quickened with their breaths. They clashed again and again and again, and every time the guard came close to slicing the blade into the king’s skin, I ceased breathing.
When the sparring suddenly stopped, the king marched toward the stairs. I flattened to the wall, my heart nearly slamming against the stone through my spine.
What would he do to me if he knew I’d followed him? What would he do to the guard who led me here? King Drakkar was discreet in his escape to the armory. As diligent as I was in following his every step, I wouldn’t have found the armory if it wasn’t for the guard.
“I’m starving.” Came the king’s voice. The guard grunted in response. “We’ll resume this tomorrow before dawn.”
The sparring had ended and the result yielded no blood. If only the guard’s skills were sharper, this would have been worth it. Now, I was deep in a maze of tunnels beneath the castle with the king heading my direction.
I slipped up two steps as quietly as possible, but when King Drakkar’s footsteps grew quieter, I paused and stuck my neck out just enough to see him swipe a linen cloth over the glinting blade.
His hands shook from muscle strain and lack of food. If he was careless, he might nick his finger.
But he didn’t.
His gaze snapped up, and I swallowed a gasp. His eyes sliced to the guard who stepped in front of him and headed for the steps. To my relief, the guard had stopped walking to face his king.
“Be sure this week’s vessel is ready for me,” King Drakkar said. His icy eyes flashed red and my pulse skipped. When he spoke again, the tips of his teeth caught the glow of the candles. They stretched long, jutting out of his mouth as if they’d grown several inches in the blink of an eye. The ends were pointed, unlike his row of perfect teeth behind it. “I need fresh food.”
I squinted, brows furrowed to narrow in on what I was seeing. Fangs were only for wolves, serpents, wild boars, and the undead. This couldn’t be real.
