Around his granite-walled workshop, the last living subjects of his work huddled or hung miserably. Those still aware of their danger tried to keep silent. The remains of earlier work rotted quietly. It was a good place to study undisturbed.
An indistinct form passed the thin membrane window, approaching the door. Voskov quickly curled the scroll and slid it into the saddlebag near his feet. If Mallaloriva knew what he found in the Mist library, she would surely have him destroyed.
When Chenna entered the shop, Voskov relaxed.
“Here, Voskov, have them back,” she said, dropping some of his handiwork onto the table. The bronze javelin head and silver arm bracer rolled across the table, making a musical ring. “They are lovely work. A weapon that fetches itself is a wonder. But the dreams they bring…” She frowned.
Voskov raised a hand in dismissal. “It’s fine, Chenna. I suspected your kind would be more sensitive to what I put into my craft; I just thought this one wouldn’t bother you.” Inconvenient time to grow a conscience, girl.
The look remained on her face. “The mother and child you put into these are no vex. I’ve tasted the blood of more than enough of each. The other thing is what I fear.” She spoke the last as if saying it made a vague thought real.
“What ‘other thing’, Chenna? I made it all myself, the forging, the blood-tempering, the spirit binding. There should be nothing in it to cause you trouble.”
Even with open disbelief on her face, he found Chenna appealing in a feral way.
“You’re not knowing of it? In my pack, I have the sharpest sense of spirit presence. I can’t sense it clearly, but the whole pack feels them in your works. I thought you put those other spirits inside; the hungry ones.”
He stepped around the table to face her. “Make sense, Chenna.”
“Voskov, something else lives inside the dart and bracer. Mind you, it is something minor. Nothing like what hides behind those who rage in your sword.”
His face went cold and he sank back on the table. Against his will, he looked at Madman hanging from a peg by the workshop door. Since the storming of the Mist keep, he avoided even touching the weapon. Lately, it drew more than just vitality. He lacked even dim memories of the battle at the Mist library.
Without Bors to shake him back to his senses, Voskov now fought until no enemies stood. He regretted killing his servant, though the flying scout had proved useful.
Chenna nodded to someone through the workshop’s only window. A moment later, her packmates came through the door to lay down their new weapons and bracers. Each stepped wide of Madman’s peg although none could see the hanging scabbard behind the door as he entered.
When fighting for his life at the sally port of Raven’s Crag, Voskov felt that hidden presence in Madman control his movements and save his life. At the Mist keep, it drove the lunatics in the blade to him rather than waiting for his call. He had only drawn Madman when he thought he spotted one of the Mist Defenders. He would no more face a Defender unaided than he would face that damned Paladin of Auros with simple steel.
Chenna looked at the floor. “We’ll fight for you, but this magicking suits us not. Voskov, if you don’t know what you bind, do it without us.”
The remaining subjects for his work were too weak to cause trouble now. Voskov didn’t need shapeshifters as guards here. It would be best to bring Durinetav and a few other select and unscrupulous Hykori warriors to help with his sorcery.
The pack was too useful to alienate, but he would have to replace them soon or his work would suffer. Smile.
“I value all of you too highly to force you to keep my gifts or do jobs you don’t like.” The four shapeshifters brightened like children reprieved from a scolding. In the month since the capture of Raven’s Crag, the pack had drifted away from the surviving Demon Lords and stayed with Voskov. “Perhaps it’s time to give a token to my queen’s other commanders.”
I wonder if anything could make Visht lose sleep.
Chenna grinned. “They’ll be too busy looking for poisoned needles to find the spirits. One more bad dream will draw no attention with them.”
“All is settled then. Use what weapons please you. But be sure they are sharp. I want to pick up some more items and perhaps a subject or two for more work, then leave this town.”
The place had never been pleasant. Now Raven’s Crag reeked so much of slaughter and decay that most of the growing Hykori army camped on the rocky hillsides. The nature of Voskov’s sorcerous efforts made his workshops the rankest part of the town. Even Voskov was glad to get into fresh air. He carried his gifts through silent, dead streets to Mallaloriva’s grand tent.
None of the towns he had taken during his rebellion were as thoroughly destroyed as Raven’s Crag. Walls and buildings remained, but the Hykori army had sucked the life from the town. It was as if the taint of souldrinking infected the entire race.
But this is my monument too. He suppressed the thought.
Outside the walls, the queen’s army hummed with activity. Most newcomers were clans of pure Hykori who originally chose not to stay with their queen. In exile with Mallaloriva, they faced little beyond a chance to offer their lives to keep the souldrinkers alive. In victory, the queen had more willing followers. Wild Hykori and a stream of escaped slaves replaced several times over the losses suffered taking Raven’s Crag and in raids since.
All the Hykori knew the camp’s lone Shushkachevan. Few had friendly faces for any of his race, but none dared cross Voskov. As they neared the queen’s pavilion, a huge affair made of the finest cloth plundered from Raven’s Crag, he waved away Chenna’s pack. The pair of guards at the entrance, from the queen’s original army, had proven themselves in the recent fighting. They looked fierce in their newly cast armor. The leader smiled, looking through the open jaws of his bronze, stylized rock-panther helmet. Both bowed slightly from the waist to the general who had brought the first Hykori victories in generations. “The queen left orders to admit you at any time.”
Voskov held up his bundle for the guard leader to inspect but was waved through. He nodded his thanks. “I’m glad to see your arm moving easily, Durinetav. That was a bad cut you took at the keep.”
The leader stood straighter and held open the entry flap, a broad smile on his face.
It’s so easy to win over cattle.
Bowing as he entered, Voskov said, “Queen Mallaloriva, pardon my intrusion. I have gifts for your commanders and the heroes of your army.” He opened the rug, spilling out the weapons and bracers. “These are the linked weapons I had the shapeshifters testing in town.”
Mallaloriva nodded gracefully from her throne. The thin walls of her pavilion rippled in the early evening breeze. “This is an unexpected gesture, my general. I am certain my consorts will use and appreciate these gifts.” Her glance toward the two Demon Lords left them no choice.
Vishtanatar stayed as still as a bronze statue. The lesser Lord, Morishtevar, darted forward to grab the throwing axe. An instant later, a copper bracer flew from the pile and banged into the weapon’s pommel.
Morishtevar cast off his gold bracer and slipped on the copper one. Without a glance outside, he hurled the axe through the entrance of the pavilion. The Demon Lord stood straight with his hands out before him. A faint whine came from the bracer and the axe flew back through the pavilion and into the Demon Lord’s hands. The ancient souldrinker gave Voskov a grin and a nod. For an instant, the creature had a look of human joy, a glimpse of the man he had once been.
Vishtanatar took one of the javelins, its brass bracer still attached. With a question on her face Mallaloriva looked at the remaining weapons.
“One is for your own use, my queen. The last could be a reward to a favored warrior. You have several who’ve distinguished themselves.”
The queen’s laugh caressed his ears. “My general, you’ve confused me with one of your people’s savage warrior queens. I’ve slaughtered cities, but never held a blade or dart in my life.” Sh
e snapped her golden fan open with a loud crack. “I will see these last two go to deserving young men.”
“Enough of this, my queen.” Vishtanatar’s voice belled out from his full helmet. “We squat outside a rotting town. We’ve taken everything of value and humored your new favorite by digging out every gold, silver and copper piece to be had. Burning a Mist tower or slaughtering peasants in hill farms will not return the Empire.” He turned to Voskov and sneered, “Tell us, mighty general, how do you propose to regain the Empire?” The Demon Lord resumed his statue stance.
Voskov decided to counter Vishtanatar’s rudeness with courtesy. Redirecting another courtier’s bad manners into an insult to their mutual master had been one of his favorite pastimes at court. He bowed to Mallaloriva. “Though he demeans your victories, your drone is correct, my queen. I’ve combed the highlands of everything useful to your cause and done so at small cost to you. Bringer is a mere shadow of himself from raising all the fresh bodies We have a real war chest now. I can hire skilled mercenaries for your cause. My scout has contacted a dozen captains more interested in the purity of your gold than the ends you pursue.” He jerked his chin at Vishtanatar. “While your consorts have gorged themselves on your prisoners, I’ve done all this and crafted a score of useful bits of magic.”
“He mocks us, my queen,” Vishtanatar growled. “You know we have labored for you too. Through these years of hiding, have we not hunted down and slain every true Macmar ward-layer? Your nobles fought for that stinking rock pile. That stinking Scholar of Carranos destroyed faithful Shishranavar.”
Mallaloriva’s upraised hand ended Vishtanatar’s protest. Her eyes never left Voskov’s own as she inclined her head.
Voskov placed the last pair of javelins and bracers in order before the queen. “Now, to Visht’s question.” The Demon Lord’s eyes narrowed at Voskov using the diminutive of his name.
“I have a plan and staying up here is not part of it. Given time, even the Macmar chieftains can organize enough force to destroy us. Perhaps the Mist sect will poke their noses outside their holding to seek vengeance. It won’t matter. We’re heading for the Delta.”
Vishtanatar gasped in surprise, then shouted, “The man is a fool! The Delta swallowed up whole armies and destroyed others with plague. All for nothing. The Delta was never part of the old Empire and with good reason.”
The queen snapped her fan shut and pointed it at the Demon Lord who fell silent. Her glamour faded. Faintly glowing red eyes bored into Voskov.
Caught her off guard.
“Visht is right, my queen,” Voskov said. “Whole armies of soldiers died or were lost in the Delta swamps. The core of your new army is already dead. The rest can cut and build a causeway for us.”
Massive death and misery lay behind such a task, but that wasn’t important. “When Visht was a real general, the Delta held nothing of value. The Tuskars and Shushkachevans have since established many plantations along the main waterways. The Riverine folk have crossed the sea and colonized heavily through the region. The place has no real master and much of value to you. A clever queen can use the generations of chaos in the Delta to keep them from uniting.”
Voskov glanced around the pavilion and saw real interest. Mallaloriva tapped her fan against her chin. She again looked like the essence of Hykori beauty and her sheer blue gown shimmered in the lamplight.
I have them! This is a war I might win.
“My queen, with enough of the Delta as a secure base, we can hire mercenaries, whole companies mounted on war dragons, and either sweep the hill country or retake the Plains. A real emperor would have a terrible task digging us out of the Delta. Ulneriev the Hairsplitter has no chance at all.”
Mallaloriva stood abruptly. “I accept your basic plan and will study it more in detail. What keeps us here?”
Her words acted as a spell. In an instant, not a single face looked at Voskov with question or disdain. Only Vishtanatar regarded him with anything less than approval.
“It will take no more than three days to get the main army in motion. I would send most of the living Hykori back into the hills. They aren’t worth the bother of feeding on this trek. Two minor sites nearby should yield supplies for the living and more gold for later use. I will attend to these. I could find work for your Demon Lords if you can spare them from their current tasks.”
The queen stepped away from her throne and a servant opened a section of the wall for her to pass through. Vishtanatar hurried a pace behind. From the set of Mallaloriva’s shoulders, the Demon Lord was unlikely to change her mind.
When they left, Voskov surveyed the rest of the Hykori in the pavilion. Each gave a slight bow or a determined nod of support. With the queen’s favor, these didn’t matter. Still, willing servants were less likely to make mistakes.
Outside, the sunset’s orange light made the camp seem less tattered. Movement in the sky caught Voskov’s eye. A dark figure flew in an erratic pattern closing on him. Noise within the camp followed its path.
His scout had come within bowshot when it dodged sharply to its right, narrowly avoiding a sling stone.
Nothing had ever come that close to him before.
The scout landed on his chest, nearly knocking him over. “Duke Voskov, control your men!” It scrambled onto his shoulder, grabbing for a handhold in his recently trimmed hair. “The ragged one over there.” It pointed at a group of runaway slaves. “The one with the red beard.”
Voskov walked where the scout pointed. Clan Hykori quickly backed away, leaving a trio of runaways in an isolated clump. The men wore field worker’s rags. Their hair and features were mostly Hykori. Each bore traces of Macmar blood, the most common mix for slaves throughout the land. One was nearly as gaunt as Bringer. The orange-bearded man still held a simple strap-sling. The third’s eyes were an icy blue, as pale as a blind man’s.
The three shifted nervously. Around them, Hykori stood ready to cut them down at the general’s command. No one had more contempt for slaves than free Hykori.
One of the runaways made a serf’s bow toward Voskov. Softly, the bearded man said, “Oh, bugger me,” but stood his ground. Redbeard pulled the skinny serf back to his feet.
“You nearly hit my scout. He’s quite upset.” Voskov watched their reactions. Redbeard held his ground uncomfortably; the other two cued on him. All had chafe marks around their necks and wrists.
“As I said, he is upset. Losing him would be inconvenient, but that was an impressive shot.”
Hope bloomed in Redbeard’s eyes. Voskov ignored the scout’s low hiss. “Turn around.”
Redbeard did as ordered. The other two followed suit.
He pushed Redbeard’s hair from the back of his neck. Underneath the rough Macmar slave cut was the brand of a condemned slave. The serpent-shaped mark identified slaves who had attacked their past masters and could not be sold to an unwary new master. Voskov lifted the man’s ragged shirt and saw layers of new scars over old ones. The other two had fewer scars and no brand.
“Turn around.” They did so.
“Your master?” Voskov asked.
Redbeard grinned. The gaunt one drew a finger across his throat.
“And the rest of his household?”
The three men continued grinning.
The pale-eyed slave pulled out a trophy, a coppery scalp with ribbons in the hair. It was still attached to the skin of the victim’s face. Voskov recognized the smooth and deft knife work required for the trophy to be nearly intact.
The grin did not reach the slave’s weird eyes as he said, “A vicious tease, she was.”
“Yes. Well, from now on the three of you will assist me in making sorcery. Return to town with me and I’ll get you cleaned up and in proper gear.” Voskov looked each man in the eyes in turn.
“Redbeard, Bone, and Ice, from this day I bind you to me, but not as slaves. You will never question an order or hesitate when I command. And for this you will be very well paid.”
The
three fell to the ground in serf bows. They’ll do better for this work than Chenna’s pack, evil bastards. So long as I am powerful, they have status and they’ll die before they lose that again.
Voskov turned on his heel and headed back to Raven’s Crag. He patted his scout’s foot. “Now you won’t have to worry about that sling. We’ll both know exactly where it is. What news do you bring?”
Returning to his workshop, Voskov was surprised to find the pack inside. Chenna held up a torch by the main subject, a thin, shaking young man suspended in a wooden harness. The last three living subjects huddled in the far corner.
She frowned. “Little time is left to this one.” She dug a sharp fingernail into the man’s side but drew no reaction.
“Of course, Chenna. Only spells have kept him awake these last four days. Your efforts could only work the first three.” He nodded toward the new recruits. “These men will take over this kind of work. I appreciate your help up until now and will sleep better knowing your full attention is on keeping me safe.”
Chenna stood her ground, looking hurt. The rest of the pack drifted toward the workshop door.
Voskov smiled. “Honestly, I wasted your talents in here.”
She gave a sharp nod and left in silence. As she stalked away, Voskov wondered if she would warm his bedroll later.
After the pack left, he turned to his new assistants. As Ice reached for the Book on his table, Voskov shouted, “Get away from that!” The man jumped back as if burned. “Bring me that silver chain with the clear glass bead.”
Ice did as ordered.
“Now, all of you remove the harness from that subject and hold him against the wall.” Voskov picked up his book of magic while his men did as he bid. The face tooled into the leather smiled in anticipation. As it had since the taking of Raven’s Crag, the Book opened without a taste of his blood. Even when he had been at his height of power, the Book had demanded its price. The change bothered him but didn’t stop him. It opened to a page titled the Sleeping Man.
The men had to hold the subject up. The wretch had been kept awake for over a week by torture, drugs and sorcery. By now, his mind was gone. His thin chest wheezed out a weak cough.
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