by C. J. Aaron
At the moment, Andr was the sole member representing the guard, though Le’Dral would undoubtedly add others with more intimate knowledge of the inner workings of Leremont to the group. To his side, the tributes Cray, Tash and Palon looked out of place. Though they maintained an air of calm, Ryl could feel the uncertainty radiating off their bodies. He focused, forcing a controlled wave of calm over the trio. Their eyes shifted to him in unison. He nodded subtly in reply.
To the side of the gathering, the single rider from Cadsae leaned wearily against his mount. The prospect of the lengthy ride was not a charge that appeared at all welcome. There were few words to be said as the group mounted the assigned horses. Ryl tied Rolan’s pack to the back of the saddle, waiting as the man climbed atop his mount. He hoisted Faya up, seating her in front of her father.
Ryl and Andr were the final pair to mount. The mercenary quickly gathered a small bundle that had leaned inconspicuously against the railing of the paddock.
“For our newest companions.” He smiled as he unrolled the cloth, revealing its lethal contents. The package contained a pair of daggers, two swords and a single quiver that bristled with arrows. Andr tossed the sheathed daggers to Ryl, who caught the sheathed projectiles with ease, shaking his head with mild annoyance.
“It’ll take time to get fully accustomed to these,” he added as he passed a sword and the quiver to Tash. “The weight of them on your belt, the slap of the sheathes against your skin will soon become second nature.”
He beamed with pride as he handed the last sword to Cray.
Ryl grinned as he distributed the daggers to the oft-silent twin. A slight nod of his head was all he achieved for a reply. Andr collected the final weapon, a bow, handing it to Tash.
With all mounted, he spurred his horse onward, leading the group toward the edge of the woods. As they approached the wall of trees, he pivoted in the saddle, calling the youngest of their group forward.
“Faya, can you open the pathway for us?” he inquired.
The youngster beamed with pride as she nodded her head excitedly. He watched her eyes shut, scrunching her face in apparent effort. A moment later, the rustle of leaves signaled her success. The tunnel was straight and long, disappearing into the darkened gloom of the woods.
A breath of air wafted from the opening. The feeling of hope washed over them as the Erlyn took the opportunity to bid her farewell.
Chapter 23
Shimmering patches of multicolored light sparkled in the gloom of the stone hallway. The reflections morphed as the glow reflected off the myriad jewels embroidered onto Lord Kagran’s apparel. Opulent was too mild a word to describe the glut of riches he wore during even the most banal of tasks.
For a moment, his eyes travelled to his chest before lifting his ring-covered fingers. The patches of light moved at his command, though he was at a loss at which precise stone issued which flash of color.
His momentary distraction was short lived. The potency of the stench that choked the air bordered on unbearable. He removed a cloth from his breast pocket, holding it against his nose. He sighed as he breathed in a deep drag of the floral-scented handkerchief.
Experience had taught him a hard-learned lesson. His first venture to his hastily constructed facility ended nearly as soon as it had begun. The overwhelming stench was too much for his stomach to bear. Lord Kagran had gagged, retching the contents of his lunch, splattering his gold-trimmed slacks with bile and undigested food.
His visits to the facility had become a daily ritual. With the death of the king, the loss of the tributes, and word of the destruction of the processing facility at the Martrion ruins, he’d taken no chances with the resources under his control. He had assumed power by strength alone.
Lord Kagran was a calculating, yet cautious man. His movements among the capital were guarded, his schedule a closely kept secret. The nearly silent padding of seven sets of feet that trailed behind him spoke to the persistent guard that traveled in his wake. The Lei Guard had supplemented his usual troop of personal soldiers. Though his men were skilled, they stood no chance against the legendary ferocity and viciousness of the black-cloaked warriors.
With the accumulation of all the remaining elixir under his thumb, he all but assured his rule would be eternal.
Kagran was wise enough to understand the fatal error of existing among the nobility without the safety net of leverage. What better leverage to hold than the Blessing of the King? Men and women would claw each other to shreds with their bare hands, resorting to primal urges for the opportunity to be allowed to partake in the vaunted ceremony.
He would have compliance, or the precious elixir would cease to flow.
More aptly, cease to be distributed.
He grinned to himself as the mirth of the present caught him unprepared.
His supply would never run dry. His life and his power would be eternal.
Lord Kagran hammered his fist against the solid steel door as he reached the end of the tunnel. Only the slight, hollow notes of his pounding made it to his ears as they echoed through the chamber beyond.
He took a step back, tapping his foot as he waited impatiently for a response from within. His vision traveled over the secured doorway. There were no gaps around the seams. The thick metal door and the room beyond was inset a finger width into the stone floor of the hallway. A single thin strip, roughly at eye level, was cut into the panel. The sound of steel grating against itself stung his ears as the port opened slowly, revealing a beady set of eyes from beyond.
“Let me in.” He barked the command. “I have no patience for your delay, mender.”
The eyes squinted slightly at the barb, though Lord Kagran ignored the change. They shifted from side to side before pausing for a casual inspection of his body. Internally, he raged at the blatant disregard for his command. The masters of the Menders’ order had willingly accepted his rule. Though none outwardly opposed him, there was a mounting tension among their elite as his control over the tributes had unsettled the consistency of the ages.
Their relationship was symbiotic to a point. Without them, there would be no more testing, no more tributes, and no more Blessing of the King. The stock of the fabled elixir would hold him and many of the others over for ages, yet he demanded more. Without him, their most profitable practice, their royal importance would cease to exist.
They alone understood the truth of the processes involved with testing, harvesting, and producing the elixir. Only a select few were ever privy to the information, though none was recorded in anything but illegible shorthand.
After a moment’s pause, the portal to the chamber slammed shut. Lord Kagran tamped down his anger as the delay continued. It was several moments before the groan of the massive hinges signaled the opening of the massive door. The reinforced steel plate was enormously heavy, measuring more than his hand’s width thick.
He was content, as there was no force on the planet that could force through this door. The chamber itself was hidden beneath nearly ten meters of solid stone. It was a peculiar sensation, yet he could feel the power emanating from the elixir when he sat atop the throne well above in the Hall of the King. The narrow, well-concealed entrance was accessible through his personal chambers alone. Guarded from outside and within by several teams of the dreaded black guard, it was impervious to assault. They answered to him, and to him alone. At his orders, any attempt to bribe their way into their graces was to be treated as an act of treason.
They would be the adjudicator and the executioner.
The price for the act, a swift, yet gruesome death.
He snarled at the mender as he pushed into the chamber. Even with the scented cloth to his face, the stench inside the room was potent. The air was heavy, thick with the scents of death and decay. He had ordered incense to be burned inside the vault, yet it was overpowered by the strength of the opposing, vicious scents.
The room he entered was spacious. Several rows of shelves stretched out from th
e rear wall. They were fully laden, covered by organized racks of small vials. Workspaces covered with the accumulation of the menders’ implements dominated the closer section of the room. A team of menders, seemingly as aged as the first, worked diligently on the solutions in the glasses before them.
The raw ingredients required for the Blessing.
“To what do we owe the pleasure today, Lord Kagran?” The mender’s voice was even, monotonal, seeming to drone on devoid of emotion. He offered a feeble bow. “There is little of import to report.”
Kagran struggled to maintain his rising anger at the growing impudence of the menders. Most among their elite brethren, those knowledgeable in the dark arts surrounding the production of the Blessing, had refused to interact with him. Though they cast caustic glances in his direction as their eyes separated themselves from their labors for a moment at a time. The mender standing before him now was among the highest ranking in their order. He was the spokesperson and the means by which the king’s orders were disseminated to his subordinates.
“I grow frustrated with the speed of the process, Mender Morlay,” Lord Kagran growled at the wizened mender. The look of passive innocence, a permanent fixture on the mender’s face, remained untarnished by the insult.
Menders, in general, maintained a rigid, stoic, emotionless professionalism. Those of the lower classes were far more susceptible to allowing the occasional glimpse into the true feelings that lay disguised beneath their inquisitive personas.
The higher echelon were virtually unreadable.
It was a trait he detested.
With no bearing on their emotions, he found the ability to assert his will far more difficult. His only leverage at the moment was the will of the Lei Guard.
“The current time schedule is unacceptable. It needs to be adjusted,” he ordered. “Milk every last drop of alexen in their veins, then convert them into the Lei Guard without delay.”
Morlay cocked his head to the side slightly; his eyes squinted though his lips remained locked in a steady line of indifference.
“Increasing the rate of the drain will reduce the overall yield substantially,” Mender Morlay droned. “With all due respect, your understanding of the processes involved with converting the tributes is limited. Rushing the implementation will decrease the rate of successful conversion. It will take centuries to recover from the losses we have sustained. Few if any will likely survive.”
“I care not whether they live or die. They are inconsequential,” Lord Kagran roared, though he quickly regained control of his composure. “Greed, Morlay. The greed of the other houses has no bounds. At the present, there is nowhere suitable within the wall of the palace, within the walls I can secure for their number. The Harvest from my house has paid dividends; their bodies have run their course. Whether they are among the Lei Guard I command, or they’ve been reduced to ash, it is not my concern.”
Kagran crossed the room, gazing longingly at the massive system of shelving that lined the rear of the chamber. Each shelf was full, segmented and labeled with row upon row of vials. The elixir, a product of thousands of lives spread across countless cycles, was limitless. He stared at the untold thousands of vials, each churning with a viscous blackened liquid, with an expression of unguarded lust. He alone controlled the stockpile of the precious liquid. The mender moved hastily across the room, placing his body protectively between Kagran and the unlimited power that rested in vials on the shelving behind him.
“I needn’t remind you that your most recent dose was less than a week ago, Lord Kagran.” The mender was cautious with his words. “You will not be due again until the next moon.”
He glared at the mender for an extended moment, both men seemingly locked in a visual struggle of wills.
“I aim to level the field among the houses,” he continued, though his eyes still roved the stock of elixir with a hunger that threatened to overpower him. “Milk every last drop from the supply we have on hand. Discard or abandon whatever waste fails to take to converting to the Lei Guard. For a time, processing in Damaris will cease.”
The mender opened his mouth to speak. Lord Kagran cut him off with a look of daggers and a raised hand.
“There will come a time, and soon, when your experiments will be returned to you. The preparations must be made; the supply must be protected.” Lord Kagran spun slowly, regarding the confined chamber with a look of confidence. “Security must be ensured. At the present moment, the Harvest represents more of a liability than they’re worth.”
He finished his rotation as his words ended. His determined gaze landed squarely on the mender. He felt the authority that exuded from his very core. It pulsed from his body in waves. It was a look that would have withered most who were unfortunate enough to stand in its path. The seasoned mender didn’t flinch, meeting the glare without a blink.
A rhythmic pattern of knocks sounded on the heavy steel door that separated the hidden chamber from the hallway. The prescribed pattern identified the caller, though his blood boiled at the interruption.
“Come,” he called. The agitation in his voice was sincere. No barrier of metal or stone would have disguised the emotion.
The mender shuffled to the doorway, slowly opening the massive panel. Lord Kagran snarled as the form of his youngest child crossed the threshold of the chamber. His nose wrinkled in disgust, yet his constitution was strong. For all of his faults, Kagran found appreciation in that.
Throughout his centuries, Lord Kagran had sired his share of children, most with different mothers. His harem had grown substantially, though over the last several decades his desire for carnal pleasures had declined as his greed had assumed full control over his actions.
Tev stood before him, the last in a lineage of children that he cared not to number. The youth had just surpassed his eighteenth cycle. It was the age when, like his siblings, he had accepted the Blessing. He inspected the youth as he entered; he was a peculiar child, reared from an unintended womb.
His mother had never known the comforts of his noble house. Her foray into the world of nobility had lasted less than a cycle. Her sentiments and flawed sensibilities had made her a liability he was welcome to be rid of.
Soon after his birth, he had rid himself of the hassle.
Tev’s rearing and education were handled mainly by others. For a moment, he scrutinized his memory, struggling to recollect moments of camaraderie or mirth shared between father and son. His recollection faded quickly as the annoyance of the interruption swelled anew.
“Apologies for the interruption, my lord,” Tev blurted out before Lord Kagran could berate the messenger. His son offered a bow as he addressed his elder. His king.
Clever, he thought. There had never been a question about his son’s intelligence, though he lacked the ruthless instinct of many of his elder siblings.
“I would not have come if the message was not urgent,” he continued, unabashed by the withering look from his father. There was a definite excitement to his voice, though the expression failed to register across his face. “Word arrived from the menders who identified the tribute. The ripples of discontent from the recent changes have them worried.” Tev chose his words carefully as he spoke. “The child is now en route to Leremont.”
Now, this was unexpected, fortuitous news.
“How long until the tribute arrives?” Kagran inquired; though lessened, the edge to his voice remained.
“A matter of days,” Tev replied.
After all the cycles, time was something Lord Kagran had grown accustomed to having. At the present, he found himself curiously anxious, as the days were running thin.
“Morlay, you have your orders,” he barked. “Clear the facilities by the time the next tribute arrives.”
Without waiting for a reply, he stormed from the room. Tev followed in his wake, a step in front of the black-cloaked guard who trailed him like a murderous shadow. Kagran turned his head, calling to his son as he moved steadily down the dar
kened hall.
“The time has come for you to be initiated into the true ranks of this house,” he offered over his shoulder. “The sponsorship of a tribute will be yours. In time, so too will the Blessing of the King.”
Chapter 24
It was late morning of the following day when Ryl and his companions first laid eyes on the sprawling settlement of Cadsae. Crude habitations had spread north on either side of the road, invading upon the fields of crops that had once resided there. It was inside the fields to the left that Ryl had sheltered with Cavlin the fateful night of the master’s demise.
His thoughts darkened, as they tended to do when they breached that subject. The influence of the demons that had infected The Stocks, commanding the early portion of his life, was not easily broken. Nearly every building, every feature of the fertile landscape bore a trace of their influence. Lingering memories and trauma were spread throughout.
He shook off the unsettling thoughts, slowing his horse to a stop as the settlement came fully into view. The activity of the once sleepy village, tucked into the corner of the palisades, was frantic in comparison to the sleepy norm he’d grown accustomed to. He expected that it was a change he’d never truly be used to. Citizens and guards moved about without hesitation, moving to complete whatever design they intended.
Atop the walls, soldiers patrolled in regimented order. Though a few watched over the square and village below, the attentions of the majority were focused on the terrain outside the wall. A breeze blew in from the sea to the south, welcoming them back to the coastal settlement. The heavy scent of brine was flavored with a potent, stale odor of ash. Though the fires had long since been extinguished, tendrils of lingering scent remained.
