Five days passed before the stench of blood and excrement in the slavers' cellar was replaced by the cold dampness of Verdejante's bowels. Kaelan kept his word, and under a shroud of darkness where even candle light seemed to die, the redhead chieftain guided Alistair and Lucius through the deepest galleries of the underground – stone veins forgotten by all except those who remembered the tales told by their ancient builders.
The tunnel, vaulted in ancient masonry and covered in a thick crust of saltpetre, sloped gently upwards. The three men's leather boots made hardly a sound on the waterlogged, packed dirt, until Kaelan suddenly stopped and raised his hand. Before them rose a heavy cast-iron grate, held by rust-covered hinges and partially hidden by crumbling masonry. On the other side of the grate, the air smelled not of sewage or rotting fish, but of dry oak, old wine, and smoked bacon.
– The lower levels of the citadel – Kaelan murmured, his voice little more than a breath against the stone. – Viscount Lorenzo's supply cellars are right there, and his guards, who drink his wine and ale, haven't a clue that an entrance lies so close to them.
Lucius, his eyes sharp in the gloom, etched every turn, every fork, and every step of that subterranean labyrinth into his mental map, leaving no margin for error, well aware that the difference between a successful infiltration and the gallows hinged on the accuracy of his memory.
With the route mapped and confirmed, they returned to the surface. Before dawn, a lad from the ghetto, armed with a few copper coins and the ability to blend into the mud of the alleys, was sent beyond the walls of Verdejante with a simple message written on a piece of filthy paper: The back door is open.
Two nights later, beneath a persistent drizzle that wrapped the city in a grey mist, Hector Duvall and Orlan crossed the threshold of the inn under soaked travelling cloaks. As the captain of the pack was about to step out of the alley, he froze in his tracks and raised his eyes to the swaying wooden sign, lit by a tallow lantern. Carved into the oak wood with intentionally elegant flourishes, Hector's filthy, bearded face lit up as he read the name of that new den of sin and flat ale: The Velvet Kennel.
Hector let out a booming, cavernous laugh that drowned out the sound of the rain on the roof tiles, landing a violent thud on Orlan's back that nearly made the strategist stumble into the mud.
– By Solarius' shrivelled guts! – Hector rumbled, wiping away the rainwater trickling down his beard. – 'The Velvet Kennel'! Alistair, you son of a bitch, was it you who thought of this? It's the best joke you've ever come up with!
Alistair, who was waiting for them in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and a mug of mead in hand, merely let out a dry, sour laugh.
– The name draws in the gentleman and the soldiers looking for something to warm them up this winter – replied Alistair, stepping aside to let the two men pass as the out-of-tune music of a lute and the girls' laughter echoed on the ground floor. – And it keeps the Viscount's guards thinking this place is run by whores and drunks, instead of an army about to rip out their entrails. Get inside before the rain drenches what little sense you have left...
Alistair led Hector and Orlan to the back of The Velvet Kennel, into a small, dimly lit room that smelled of burnt candle wax and sour wine, where all the core members of the Brigade were already gathered. On an oak table stained by years of grease and pipe burns, Hector unrolled the torn map of the citadel.
– The plan isn't a simple brutal charge – Hector growled, a crooked grin tearing through his thick beard. – We're going to split the Brigade into two iron jaws, a pincer attack to snap that miserable lord's neck before he even realizes he's choking. On one side, the Subterranean Shadow; on the other, the Diplomatic Front.
Alistair raised an eyebrow, bringing his mug of flat ale to his lips.
– 'Diplomatic Front'? – mockingly asked the swordsman. – Since when does the Mad Dog Brigade do diplomacy that isn't written with five spans of steel?
– Since the vanity and heresy of the nobles give us free entry through the front door – interjected Orlan, his voice calm and cutting like the winter wind.
Hector gave a short laugh and nodded, pointing his thumb at the main gates of the fortress on the map.
– The Diplomatic Front will march openly down the royal road and knock on the iron gates of the citadel, not in our ragged tunics, but dressed in silk, velvet, and cloaks as white as snow. One of us will go disguised as a High Priest of the Cult of the Eternal Sun, freshly arrived from the capital of Aureliana with an escort of honour guards – the captain leaned over the table, his eyes flashing with predatory cunning. – The pretext is unbeatable: in light of the rumours of the 'Solterran threat' haunting the borders, the holy man comes on a sacred mission to purify the people's souls and bless the Viscount's garrison. The castellan and his captains might be greedy, but they're cowards and superstitious sods; no nobleman will dare shut the doors in the face of a preacher of Solarius sent from Aureliana without risking being branded a heretic. The laws of hospitality will leave them no choice but to throw open the halls and host a feast in honour of the faith. And while the main garrison is stuffing their guts with roast meat, getting pissed on wine, and listening to tedious prayers and psalms in the Viscount's hall... the Subterranean Shadow strikes.
Hector ran his eyes across the oak table, fixing his gaze on Roderick and pointing a thick, dirty finger at him.
– You'll be the High Priest – decreed Hector, with the simplicity of a man ordering another mug of ale. – You've got that posh, refined way of talking like the nobles, the dainty manners of someone who's never mucked out a stable, and a voice as clear as a silver bell. If there's any man at this table who can convince the entire citadel he speaks in Solarius' name, it's you.
– Me? – Roderick turned so pale you could tell he wanted to crawl into a deep, dark hole and not come out until Hector's plan was finished and he didn't have to go through with his wild ideas. He adjusted the collar of his doublet with visibly trembling hands, his eyes wide with sheer terror. – Hector, this is sacrilegious madness! I barely remember the midday prayers, and the only scriptures I ever read were the ones my mother forced me to memorise under threat of going without dinner! Pretend to be a blessed cleric in front of the Viscount's garrison? If there's even a single real monk in that room, we'll be skinned alive before the roast even hits the table!
Beside him, Rian leaned into the gigantic Tito's ear, whispering a quick translation in his Isolarian dialect about the role assigned to Roderick and the terror consuming him. Upon grasping the farce, the giant let out a snort through his nose that, a second later, erupted into a cavernous, uncontrollable laugh. Tito doubled over his belly, slapping his muscular thigh violently as his loud laughter echoed through the room, making the candle flames flicker and further infuriating the pale Roderick.
– Let Tito piss himself laughing and save your panic for when they ask you to bless the wine – growled Hector, turning his attention to the other side of the table, where Alistair waited in silence, strangely calm considering everything being said before him. – Roderick's farce is only meant to keep the garrison occupied in the Great Hall. The real work belongs to the Subterranean Shadow.
The captain pointed to Alistair, Lucius, Silvio, Gabriel, and Kaelan, who had pledged himself to the Brigade.
– You'll be the claw that rips open the entrails – Hector continued, his tone dropping to an icy gravity. – Your mission is surgical and leaves no room for error. Kaelan will guide you through the tunnels to the lower levels of the citadel. You'll enter without making a single sound, taking out the guards on the internal patrols one by one, slitting throats before anyone can blow an alarm horn or ring a bell. Locate the Viscount's treasury to pick the iron locks, and then load every coin of gold and silver into the wagons Orlan will have strategically positioned at the hidden outlet of the old sewer.
Alistair stared at the flickering flame of the tallow candle, his eyes reflecting its golden gleam as if he were already counting the coins from Lorenzo's chests. He leaned back in his cheap oak chair, crossing his legs and letting out a sigh of anticipated satisfaction.
– I can't wait to be a rich man – Alistair murmured, a crooked grin tearing through his stubble. – With our share of the Viscount's treasure, I'm buying a farm miles away from these flies, with my own vineyard, roast meat on the table every night... and, of course, my own pigs.
Beside him, Lucius, his fingers still stained with oak gall ink and his brow furrowed over the papers, did not share the mercenary's optimism.
– First we need to have the gold in our hands to be rich – the lad reminded him, his voice dry as saltpetre. – Until then, we have nothing more than mud on our boots and the promise of a rope around our necks if a guard hears us breathe in the bowels of the citadel.
Alistair let out a disdainful laugh, shaking his head at the young man's pragmatism.
– Look at us, lad – mocked the swordsman. – We've got Kaelan opening the way for us in the dark, Hector's strength, Orlan's brains, and a hundred hungry blades out there. With a lot like this, nothing can possibly go wrong.
Lucius widened his eyes, seized by true religious horror. For someone who had grown up in misery and seen luck change in the blink of an eye, Alistair's arrogance was a direct invitation to misfortune – the kind of vanity that attracts the gaze of the gods and the ill luck of men. Before the swordsman could add another boast to the poisoned air of the room, Lucius raised his hand and delivered a sharp, cracking flick right in the middle of Alistair's forehead.
– Shut up, Alistair! – the lad growled in an indignant whisper. – Do you want to bring bad luck down on us all before we even set foot inside?
Alistair blinked, caught off guard by the lad's audacity. He rubbed the red spot on his skin and, with the quick readiness of someone used to tavern brawls, returned the gesture, landing a quick flick on Lucius's forehead.
– Watch it, lad – warned Alistair, with a dangerous yet amused glint in his eyes. – You wouldn't want this to become a tradition, or your next lesson as a squire will be learned with fists.
A heavy hand like an oak log suddenly descended from above. Hector's flick to Alistair's forehead was no mere warning sting, but a violent crack that sent Alistair's head snapping backwards with a jolt.
– Never tempt fate before the blade is washed, you rogue – rumbled the captain of the pack, his voice like stones tumbling down a cliff. – The gods have sharp ears for mercenaries' arrogance, and love to watch them bleed in the mud when they reckon they're untouchable.
The leader of the Brigade then turned to Lucius, ruffling his head with his enormous hand until his hair was completely messed up, in a gesture of rough affection.
– You've got good sense in that head, lad – praised Hector, a cavernous laugh trembling in his chest. – Keep educating your 'master' well. From what I see, his sword is sharper than the sense the gods gave him.