The Fighters: Master of Chains

by Jess Lebow

  Purdun took another look at the carved beauty beside him. "I... I..." He felt compelled to touch her in the flesh, to see what was under the carved wood. He struggled with the feeling. It was like an itch that he just had to scratch. Placing both hands on the lid of the coffin, he lifted.

  "No, my lord!" Menrick lunged, trying to stay Purdun's hand. But it was too late.

  The wooden box creaked as it opened, and Lord Purdun looked down on a resting woman. Her long black hair and porcelain skin matched perfectly the carving on the lid of the coffin. Her arms were folded over her chest, and her lips were turned up at the corners, as if she were in the midst of a pleasant dream.

  "She's beautiful," said Purdun. He reached in to touch her hair. Unlike the coffin he'd touched before, her hair was soft and supple—the way he wanted it to feel. Run­ning his hand down her cheek, he felt his heart sink. "She's very cold."

  "She's dead, my lord," replied Menrick.

  Purdun shook his head. He was gripped with a deep desire. "No. She can't be. I don't want her to be." Though he knew it to be false, he felt he'd known this woman his entire life. He started to feel sympathy for her, all alone, deep within the bowels of that musty, awful place. "I want her to wake up. To take her away from here." He leaned down to put his face close to hers.

  Her beauty was entrancing.

  As if granting the young lord's wish, the woman slowly opened her eyes. They were a deep jade green, and they stared up lovingly at Purdun.

  "What devilry is this," shouted Menrick. The wizard tried to push the young lord aside. "We must flee."

  But Purdun stood firm.

  The woman sat up, and Purdun leaned back to give her room. A smile crossed her lips as she gazed at the young lord, and he felt his heart jump within his chest.

  Her eyes seemed to dig right into him, as if she could read his thoughts and know his desires. The feeling was more exciting and terrifying than anything the young man had ever experienced.

  Their eyes remained locked for a moment more, then Purdun had to look away. He didn't want to, but her beauty was too much for him to bear. He felt as if he would wither if he continued to look.

  Menrick shoved Purdun again. The young lord was off balance, and he had to take a step back to gather himself. In that brief instant, the old wizard stepped into the gap and drew a dagger. Lifting it, he shouted the words to a quick spell. Purdun didn't recognize them all, but the last four he did.

  "... the bane of the unliving."

  Menrick's dagger began to glow with a blue-white light. The mage wasted no time in bringing it down on the woman with both hands, impaling its tip in her shoulder.

  "What are you doing!" shouted Purdun. He grabbed the wizard's hands, but Menrick leaned into his dagger, forcing it deeper into the wound.

  The woman reeled from the blow, but no blood poured from the wound. She flailed, her arms swinging wildly. One of them hit Purdun in the gut. The woman's arm had the strength of ten men, and the blow knocked the young lord backward off the dais. He landed on his back and the room grew darker as the torch clattered to the floor next to him.

  With her other arm, the pale woman grabbed Menrick by the neck and lifted him off the ground.

  "Who dares wake Shyressa?" The woman spoke her words with a quiet hiss, as if forming them without the help of air.

  She shook the wizard. The empty blackness surround­ing the woman began to shimmer and move, lighting the room in a dim purple glow. Her smooth, porcelain cheeks withered and turned gray. Her paper-thin skin shriveled, pressing tight against her cheekbones and pulling away from her gums to reveal long, sharp fangs. Her lustrous blue-black hair slipped away, leaving in its place random clumps of graying straw clinging to a cracked, purplish scalp. The flowing gowns that had covered her soft, curved body became tattered and worn, leaving nothing more than a torn, hole-filled rag hanging from her bony frame. Her beauty and youth drifted away, leaving in their place a hard, hideous visage.

  Purdun leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and charged up the dais. The woman held Menrick off the ground with one hand, and with her other she slapped at the oncoming lord. Her sharpened claws caught Purdun on the left side of his face and once again he was sent flying. His sword skidded across the dusty floor, and he landed hard on his back between two stone sarcophagi, the wind knocked from his lungs.

  Seeming to float, Shyressa stood up inside her coffin, keeping her one-handed hold on Menrick's throat. Her claws dug in deeply and blood ran down his neck, staining the collar of his white robes. The old wizard's eyes were closed, and he struggled against her grip, scratching at her hand with his fingers. His lips moved feverishly, as if he were trying to coax the air into his lungs by talking to it.

  Shyressa reached up and pulled Menrick's dagger from her shoulder. It left a deep wound, but had apparently hit nothing vital. Tossing it to the ground, she glared up at the wizard in her grip.

  "You will pay for that." She shook him again.

  Menrick looked like a child's toy, his legs flopping as if they had no bones while he dangled from the withered woman's grasp. He struggled, letting out a coughing, gurgling sound. Then his body seemed to relax, and he opened his eyes. His hands lit up with yellow-white fire, and five glowing orbs of energy, each a different color, appeared circling his head. With a nod, the wizard sent the orbiting projectiles flying down on Shyressa.

  The crypt lit up from the impact, the mix of colors sending hideously deformed shadows out to all corners of the room. The decrepit woman let out a hissing scream as the spells splashed over her skin.

  Turning as best as he could, Menrick looked down on Purdun, who was still struggling to regain his breath.

  "Run ... my lord," Menrick spat out in a strangled voice. His eyes seemed to bulge in his head.

  Shyressa shook her head, obviously hurt and angered by the wizard's attack. Her withered skin smoked where it had been struck and tattered bits of it fell from her face, revealing the stark white bone beneath. She let out an angry hiss and drew Menrick to her open mouth.

  "No," coughed out Purdun.

  Biting down on Menrick's neck with her massive fangs, Shyressa shook her face back and forth, tearing away the fresh flesh like a wild animal devouring its prey. The old wizard's body went stiff as he let out an anguished wail. Blood flooded down Shyressa's cheeks, spattering her hunched shoulders and the ragged remains of her dress.

  Menrick shook for a moment longer, his body twitch­ing in agony. Then his head slumped to one side, and he stopped struggling.

  Menrick was gone.

  Purdun felt his whole body tingle then go numb. Only by sheer force of will did he manage to pick himself up off the ground and grasp hold of the torch. Leaving his sword where it lay, the young lord turned away from the still-smoldering Shyressa and the body of his dead manservant and bolted for the stairs.

  Lord Purdun ran with all of his might, skipping steps on the way up. The musty air burned his lungs as he drove his legs on, trying desperately to escape the damned tomb.

  Finally, with a last burst of speed, Purdun forced himself out of the stairway, down the hall, and out the door into the sunlight. As soon as his foot touched the ground outside, the archway slammed closed. The smooth, polished stone that had been destroyed by the demon returned, leaving in its place a perfect replacement.

  With only a single glance back, the young lord con­tinued to run. Menrick, his mentor and confidant, was dead. Purdun had enough of that tomb for a lifetime. He wanted to put the whole episode as far behind him as humanly possible.

  * * * *

  Deep inside the crypt, Shyressa pulled her teeth from the weeping neck of the wizard. Stepping down off the dais, she lowered his limp body to the ground beside one of the stone sarcophagi. Then she picked up the discarded blade lying on the floor. Examining the hilt, she read the inscription on it.

  "Well, well," said Shyressa. "Lord Purdun." A smile crossed her weathered, now magically burned lips. "I think we shall meet again
one day." Turning to survey the room, she lifted her hands into the air. "Rise, my children."

  A loud grinding sound filled the chamber as the stone lids on all the sarcophagi began to slide away.

  Chapter 1

  1363 Dr

  Ryder ran his hand over Samira's soft black hair. He felt her arms tighten around his middle.

  "Don't go," she said.

  He returned her squeeze. "I must."

  Samira looked up at him, her beautiful blue eyes filling with tears. "Then promise me you'll return. Promise me that you're not going to get yourself killed doing something foolish."

  Ryder smiled. She loved him. She loved him dearly, but knowing that only strengthened his resolve.

  "I promise you, Samira, I will return to you." Though it pained him to do so, he pushed her gently away. "I will be back before nightfall." Then, grabbing his belt and sheath from the table, Ryder kissed his wife goodbye and stepped out the door into the afternoon sunshine.

  "Close the bar behind me, and don't let anyone in until I get back," he said over his shoulder.

  He could hear the extra-heavy crossbeam slide into place behind him as he crossed the dirt road. On the other side, Liam was leaning against a heavy tree, his arms folded on his chest.

  Ryder clasped him on the arm as he approached. "You ready, little brother?"

  Liam slapped the hilt of the sword dangling from his belt. "Ready."

  Ryder nodded, satisfied. "Then let's go meet the others."

  * * * *

  Liam knelt in the bushes alongside the well-traveled dirt road running west from Zerith Hold, Lord Purdun's fortress in Duhlnarim, through Furrowsrich village and out of Ahlarkham. Six other men knelt beside him, including his brother. They were waiting for a carriage that was reportedly leaving the Hold with a diplomatic letter bound for High Watcher Laxaella Bronshield, the still-mourning baroness of Tanistan. Liam and the others intended to make sure that letter never reached its destination.

  Liam, Ryder, and the rest of the Crimson Awl had made significant headway in the past few months against Lord Purdun's elite guard. The last thing they needed was for Lady Bronshield to add her might to that of Purdun's. The Awl would worry about one barony at a time, starting right here at home. But to do that, they had to make sure the neighboring lords didn't broaden the scope of the fight too soon. That was why they were all here, to stop Purdun's request for aid from getting through to Tanistan.

  In the near distance, Liam heard the telltale sound of horse hooves and rough wooden wheels rolling over the packed earth.

  His brother must have heard it too. "This is it," said Ryder. "You all know your jobs. There should only be two guards. If we're swift about this, nobody needs to get hurt."

  Liam looked over the other men. Locals, all of them. They nodded at Ryder's instructions. All of them, that is, except Kharl.

  The young man, the son of a local merchant, had never been on one of the raids before. He hadn't heard a word Ryder said. His eyes were focused on the road and his right hand gripped the hilt of his long sword so tightly his knuckles were turning white. A line of sweat had started to form along the edge of his golden blond hair, and he looked a little pale. Liam could have sworn he was shaking.

  Ryder must have noticed it too. "Don't worry," he said, smiling at Kharl. "You won't even have to use your sword."

  Kharl nodded hesitantly. "But what if they give us trouble?"

  Ryder shrugged. "Then I suppose you'll get the oppor­tunity to use your sword after all."

  Kharl shook his head. "No. I mean, what if they don't give us the letter? What do we do then?"

  Jarl, a great big bear of a man with a tattoo of a mermaid on each forearm, spoke up. "We take it from them, lad."

  The other men nodded their agreement.

  "But..." Kharl stuttered. "But... do we... ?"

  Ryder put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Kharl, I won't ask you to kill anyone in cold blood, if that's what you're asking."

  Kharl nodded, his shoulders relaxing a bit.

  "But if things do get out of hand, you may have to defend yourself." Ryder suddenly got serious. "If that happens, if you find yourself in the position where it's your life or his—" Ryder looked up at each of the other men, his eyes lingering on Liam a moment longer than the rest, then back at Kharl— "Then I expect you to kill that man dead. I won't be losing anyone on this raid. Is that understood?"

  Kharl nodded, and the other men grunted their assent.

  "Good." Ryder chuckled, and the moment of seriousness passed. "You know, Kharl, you can do me a favor."

  "Really? What?"

  "Your mother makes the best beef stew in all of Erlka­zar. When you get back, see if you can't get her to make a pot and invite Samira and me over for dinner."

  The worry on Kharl's face faded. "All right, Ryder. I'll do that."

  Liam shook his head. His brother had always had a way with people. "Hey, Kharl."

  The blond man leaned back to look at Liam. "Yeah?"

  "I want some of that stew too."

  Kharl threw his arms out wide. "You're all invited."

  The sound of horses and wheels grew louder as it came around the bend, transforming into a well-appointed carriage pulled by a pair of majestic-looking horses draped in the livery of Lord Purdun. The coach wasn't in any hurry. The doors were painted with the famil­iar shield-and-double-crossed-sword crest that turned Liam's stomach every time he saw it. It was the official seal of Lord Purdun, the owner and master of the land on which all of Liam's family and friends lived and had to pay taxes for.

  Just as Ryder had said, there were only two guards and the driver. Whoever rode inside was concealed by velvet drapes covering the windows. Liam imagined the occupant was some corpulent, bloated diplomat with a double chin and greasy fingers. Who better to deliver a letter of alliance from the bastard Lord Purdun to one of the other regional barons?

  The carriage drew near, and Ryder rose onto the balls of his feet, still hidden from the road by the tall brush. He held his hands to his face and whispered to Liam, "Before you can truly move forward, you have to be will­ing to live with the consequences."

  Then Ryder smiled and looked at the other men. "It's time to give it to old Firefist." He dropped into a deep crouch, then sprang out of the bush. "Now!" he shouted, pulling his long sword from its sheath as he came down in front of the carriage.

  Liam didn't hesitate. He was the second of the eight men to reach the road and draw his weapon, taking his position beside his brother.

  As Liam had expected, the horses were startled by the sudden appearance of armed men on the road. They bucked, and the driver had to struggle to keep control of them.

  "Halt!" shouted Ryder, holding his palm out to the coach.

  The other men leaped out of their hiding spots—two more up front, the final four behind, boxing in the coach on the packed dirt road.

  The guards on top of the carriage had to hold on to the seat to avoid being tossed from their perch. But as the horses came to a stop, they stood up and drew their weapons.

  "Don't be foolish," shouted Ryder. "We're eight. You're only two. Just drop your weapons and give us the letter you carry, and there will be no need for you to be harmed."

  Liam wished he were as eloquent as his older brother. No wasted effort, no beating around the bush, just the facts, plain and simple.

  The guards stood motionless, still gripping their swords. They looked far more relaxed than Liam thought they should. Hells, they looked more relaxed than he felt.

  "I said 'drop your weapons!' " shouted Ryder. He stepped to the side of the carriage, the afternoon sun glinting on his polished blade.

  The guards looked at each other, then tossed their weapons to the ground.

  "The letter is inside," said one of the guards, lifting his hands into the air. "The countess carries it. Please don't harm her. We're responsible for her safety."

  Ryder glanced back at Liam, a smirk on his face. The
n he nodded. Without a word, Liam followed his brother to the side of the carriage.

  Ryder knocked on the wooden door with the hilt of his sword. The heavy pounding scratched the paint, marring the jade green and royal blue of Lord Purdun's crest.

  The door remained closed.

  Liam spared a glance back at Kharl. The young man was shifting his weight from side to side, but he kept his gaze squarely on the two guards, his sword drawn, just as he'd been instructed to do. Tonight, in the pub, the young man would be telling stories of his own bravery, and the nervousness he felt now would be nothing but a distant memory.

  Ryder knocked on the door again. "We seek only the letter you carry," he said. "Surrender it, and you will not be harmed."

  Still the door remained shut.

  Ryder's simple smile faded and was replaced with a look of serious contemplation. It was a dangerous look. Liam had seen it many times—whenever his older brother didn't get his way. Liam had feared that look since they were both little boys. It meant Ryder had reached his limit. It meant he no longer intended to play nice.

  "Countess, this will be your last warning," said Ryder. "You have until the count of three to come out and give us that letter, or we will come in."

  Liam gripped his sword. This was not the way they had hoped it would go.

  "One..."

  Time seemed to slow down. Liam could hear his heart pound in his chest. They had known this was a possibil­ity, but nobody wanted this to get rough.

  "Two..."

  The door burst open and slapped against the wall of the carriage. Right behind it poured out a half-dozen of Lord Purdun's guards. Six more jumped out the door on the opposite side.

  Ryder's sword came up and parried the first guard's blow as he backpedaled away from the carriage. "It's a trap!"

  The other men jumped into action.