The man was struggling to breathe, panting as if overcome with some emotion. That would be fear, if he retained an ounce of intellect. “My lord, I—”
“Be very careful of your next words, Antioch. Should you utter a single syllable of justification for what you did, your death will be a thousand times more painful.”
“My death? My lord, I don’t—”
“Feigned ignorance will be similarly painful.” Nico’s words were deep and commanding, the voice he used on the battlefield to issue commands . . . or cast spells.
Antioch dropped to his knees, sobbing openly. “Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t know—” Nico’s hand flashed and the manservant screamed.
“I did warn you that pretending ignorance would be punished. There can be no reason, no pretense, as to your knowledge of Sotiris’s intent in persuading you to betray not only myself as your sworn lord, but the four honorable warriors who counted you as a friend, who risked their own lives to save you and your family more than once. What did Sotiris pay you, Antioch? How little was your honor worth?”
“My lord, please—”
“How much?” Nicodemus demanded. Not because he cared about the amount . . . or perhaps he did. Maybe he needed to know the price of betrayal for a man who’d been with Nico since he’d been fourteen years old and establishing his own first household. A man who’d been more than trusted by the four warriors who were Nico’s brothers. Antioch had celebrated victories with them, had shared drink and meals with them. How much was such a friendship worth?
“Land,” Antioch said in a barely heard whisper. “A farm for my family . . . my grans, my parents, a future of freedom for my children.”
“Tell me then, did Sotiris pause, as he ran for his pathetic life, to deliver the price he promised you? Did he provide a grant to the farm where your family can live out their days free of the onerous service demanded by myself and my warriors?”
“My lord, no, you were never—”
“Answer the question!” Nico bellowed.
“No,” Antioch whispered. “I was to receive the land grant after his victory.”
“So you’re not simply a traitor. You’re a fool.”
“Please, my lord, my family—”
“Will receive your death benefit.”
The servant shrieked as heat bloomed low on his tunic and grew, consuming the fabric as if fire were eating its way out of his gut. The tunic turned to ash as he screamed, as he rolled on the floor in agony, being slowly consumed by a fire that didn’t touch a single piece of the paper or parchment in the room, though the man himself was enveloped head to foot.
Nico watched dispassionately, uncaring of the servants who scurried past outside, of their frightened looks or gasps of fear. He felt nothing while the tower grew silent, while even the horrific screams of the traitor failed to pierce his soul. He simply stood and watched until there was nothing left of a man who no longer existed in this world, a man whose family would soon forget he’d ever been a part of their lives. Nico would make sure of it.
He stood motionless staring at the black stain of ash on the floor, until the light faded outside the window, leaving him in total darkness. He should have been celebrating with his brothers tonight, rejoicing that their long campaign against Sotiris was over. He should have been bidding his warriors a fair night with the women bouncing on their knees, and gone to his own tower, to the woman waiting for him there, the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.
But a lone traitor had taken all of that away from him.
There was no joy left in this world for Nico. He wanted to escape, much as Sotiris had already done. But his research wasn’t complete yet. He had to remain long enough to locate Sotiris’s most private records. Five lives depended on it. Six, if he included his own, which would be worthless if he failed to rescue his friends and the woman he loved. The woman he would always love, no matter how long he lived, or how long it took him to find her.
Shoving to his feet, he cast a light spell and glanced around the wrecked library. The answers he sought weren’t in this room. It was time to try another part of the estate, another spelled workroom or library. He spied a tray of fresh food on the floor outside the door. It had probably been left by some unfortunate maid, who’d had the bad luck to be delivering his meal on the cusp of Antioch’s punishment. He was sorry for the woman, but wished he could bring the treacherous manservant back to life and kill him all over again.
Reaching for the tray, he slapped together some bread and meat, and carrying it in one hand, gripped the flagon of ale in another and started down the hall. There was a lady’s tower at the far end of this wing. He’d been told early on, before he began to act sufficiently deranged that the servants had avoided him, that the tower had been used by Sotiris’s mother when she visited with her various ladies in waiting, because the topmost room was warm and bright, no matter the season.
Alternating bites of food with gulps of ale, uncaring that he was leaving as much of both in his wake as down his throat, he reached the twisting stairs at almost the same moment he completed his meal. Setting the now-empty flagon on a stone sill, he brushed off his hands, marshalled his considerable intellect into a mindset that suited his abilities and goal, and started up the stairs.
Halfway to the top, he knew he’d been told wrong. This was no ladies’ sewing solarium. He hadn’t passed a single room or closed door while ascending the winding stairs, and had encountered only the occasional small window which provided the bare minimum of light required to navigate, especially given there were no unlit torches along the walls, or even brackets for such. He thought back to his approach to this estate several weeks before and knew he’d seen not only multiple windows on this tower, but more than one balcony. A concealment spell? he wondered. A veil to make the tower appear to be something it wasn’t?
Two turns of the stairway later, he caught a familiar scent. It was an herb that many magic-users kept on hand, one that he himself used frequently to stabilize potions. Two more twists of the stairs and his skin prickled at the touch of a spell that stretched across the stairs’ passageway, giving the appearance of a stone wall and an end to the stairs’ upward progress. It was well-done, but it had never been designed to fool someone whose power surpassed Sotiris’s own.
Nico walked through the spell’s fabric and stopped to study what he found there. Glyphs filled the twisting walls all around. Defensive wards overwrote what looked like . . . progress notes. It was as if whoever had created the wards had used the walls as a canvas of sorts first. Some of the spells were basic, almost childlike, but as he climbed, they grew more sophisticated and complex. None of them were quite complete, as if the writer had known exactly what he was doing and had left off the final component on purpose. Though whether it was to conceal it from others, or to prevent the spell from going active, he didn’t know. What he did know was that the magic-user who’d done all of this had been both brilliant and powerful.
Sotiris. The name whispered in his thoughts. And though he was reluctant to acknowledge his enemy’s skill, he wasn’t so foolish as to deny either Sotiris’s ability or intellect.
He wanted to rush up the remaining stairs and discover what lay at the top of this carefully camouflaged and protected tower. But he forced himself to go slowly, to consider the writing on the walls, and what it might mean for an unwelcome intruder. As he studied the glyphs, in particular, he was increasingly concerned over what he found. These were symbols more than words, though they did comprise an alphabet of sorts. One that Nico was familiar with, although not so familiar as Kato. These were the words of a long-forgotten tribe of witches who’d been driven out of this part of the world many generations before Nico had been born. In fact, the Dark Witch, who was so infamous that she had no other name, and who happened to be Kato’s mother, was almost certainly a descendant of those same witch
es.
Nico had seen enough of Kato’s spell work to recognize the alphabet. Time and distance had altered the glyphs somewhat, but not so much that there was any question of their origin. A renewed pang of loss stabbed his heart at this reminder of his lost brother. Kato could have deciphered the spells in an instant. But Kato wasn’t standing in this stairwell. It was up to Nico.
Sinking to the hard stone floor, he settled into a meditative position and began deciphering the various glyphs and messages, his mind working at a speed few others could match. It was a speed that would exhaust him soon enough, and he’d have to sleep, and eat again. But that wouldn’t stop him. He’d sit there however long understanding required.
SOMETIME LATER, he opened his eyes to total darkness. Not even the faint light of the rare few windows lit the space around him. A bare thought later, and a sturdy flame—like that of several thick candles—lit the space. A cold food tray sat on the table nearby—either Sotiris’s cook preferred Nico’s company and continued to feed him, in hopes that he’d stay, or some of his own staff had arrived to check on the welfare of their master. Picking up a small pitcher, he took a long draught of wine, then stood and brushed off his clothes. He needed a bath. The thought made him pause. This was the first time since he’d arrived in this place that he’d considered the state of his body. A moment later, he understood why.
However long he’d already spent working on translating the walls of this secretive tower, his unconscious mind knew before he made the connection that what he sought was behind the concealed door at the top of the tower. Not only that, but he knew how to safely access that room, and what to look for.
Wasting no time, he climbed the final few stairs and placed his hands on what appeared to be a solid wall, as covered with writing as all the others. Concentrating more than was probably necessary, but unwilling to risk an error that might shut him out forever, Nico pictured the necessary glyphs in his mind, added a careful measure of his power . . . and nearly fell on his face when the wall in front of him disappeared in a cloud of dust that smelled of magic, herbs, and old paper.
This was what he’d been searching for—Sotiris’s sanctum sanctorum. The place where he’d done his most important work, where he’d crafted his own spells, the one room above all others that he would consider his alone. Hope soared for a brief, brilliant moment, before reality doused its spark. He’d found the room, but now he had to find the spell. It could be anywhere, anything—a magicked scroll with the necessary words. A device that waited only for one final ingredient before bursting forth with whatever sorcerous energy would accomplish its goal. Nico’s task was complicated by the fact that every sorcerer, especially those as powerful as Sotiris, had their own lexicon, their own method of powering their magic for use.
It took too many more days and sleepless nights, but Nico didn’t give up. He’d have remained in that room for years if that’s what it took. As it was, he had no idea how much time had passed when he finally rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, overcome with emotion. He’d done it. He knew what Sotiris had done, and how he’d done it. And knowing that, he wished he’d kept the traitor Antioch alive, so he could make the bastard pay for eternity. His warriors would live a nightmare existence—never dying, aware of the passage of time, of people, and places. But never able to interact with anyone, never able to alert anyone to the horror of their imprisonment. And none of that would have worked without the traitor’s help.
Tears flooded Nico’s eyes and poured down his cheeks to soak his tunic. He made no effort to stop them, too tired and disheartened to try. He would get up soon, work his own version of Sotiris’s spell. He couldn’t follow his brothers. He didn’t know where they’d gone, because Sotiris hadn’t cared. He’d tossed them into the maelstrom with no more concern than the winter winds gave an individual snowflake.
No, he couldn’t follow his warriors, but he could follow Sotiris. And knowing what he now did about Sotiris’s spell and what had powered it, Nico was confident that the four warriors would at least have landed in the same world as the one Sotiris had escaped to. The bastard was too cruel to permit the warriors to suffer with no witness. He’d want to locate them, wherever they’d landed. Not to free them—Sotiris would never be that kind. No, he would locate Nico’s brothers one by one, then collect them like trophies, so he could taunt them in their captivity.
Given the four warriors’ physical proximity and the fact they’d all been taken within minutes of each other, Nico believed they would not only land in the same world, but would do so close enough in time as to make no real difference. He couldn’t offer any assurances, even to himself, that he was correct in his assumptions. But he believed he was right, and the only sorcerer who could have confirmed his suppositions was the same bastard who’d condemned them to their living prisons.
There was no one else in his world whom he could consult for a second opinion. He was the only one with the skill and knowledge to decipher Sotiris’s spell. But even if another sorcerer with the necessary skill had existed, Nico would have been hard-pressed to trust them.
There was only one magic user he would have trusted that much. And she was gone.
His mind conjured up a picture of Antonia. Beautiful Antonia, whose magic contrasted so much with his own that he’d feared at first they could never be close. Where his was a force of raw power, of war and conquest, Antonia’s magic had its roots in the earth itself. She nurtured and healed, where he wounded and destroyed. Her inner sanctum, the place she sought out when she needed to restore the balance of her soul, was warm with the scent of fertile earth and growing things, filled with misty air that somehow soothed even his battle-roughened soul.
She was a power unto herself. Not a sorcerer as such, although her magic was amazingly strong. But she was more than the sum of her magic. She was the most courageous woman he’d ever met, something she’d demonstrated over and over again. Had she been with him now, she’d have risked anything, including her own life, to help him find his warriors. And while she wasn’t powerful enough to conjure the spell necessary to follow them, she’d have surpassed Nico himself when it came to researching and translating Sotiris’s notes.
She’d also have known instinctively what steps Sotiris would have taken to achieve his deadly revenge. Having drawn his attention at a young age, she’d eventually proven to be so apt a student that he’d brought her to his tower to study, and she’d finally ended up collaborating with the bastard.
At least, until she’d met Nicodemus.
Chapter Four
Two months before the battle
NICODEMUS LIFTED his face to the warm sunlight pouring through the open window, before bending his attention once more to the scroll spread open across his desk. He was taking advantage of a rare break in the hostilities with Sotiris to enhance his knowledge of ancient spells that had been forgotten or discarded, but which he might improve for use in the continuing war. He could say honestly that he’d yet to find record of a sorcerer who was his equal, dead or alive. Sotiris believed himself to be Nico’s match at worst, and superior at best. But the continuing conflict between them—with Nico steadily winning and expanding the breadth of territory he claimed as his own—told the truth of their relative strength. But Sotiris was persistent, if nothing else, while Nico would have been happy to walk away. He had no grand ambition to rule the world and was content with what he currently held. But Sotiris was a cruel overlord who refused to change, and who, moreover, had repeatedly rebuffed all attempts at a peaceful resolution between them. And so, they fought endlessly, and would probably continue to do so until one of them was dead.
Nico lifted a flagon of ale, intending to wet his throat, when the soft scuff of a footfall on the stone stairs made him set down his drink and turn, a defensive spell on the tips of his fingers. His servants had standing orders never to climb those stairs, and his four warri
ors would never have stepped so softly.
He was on his feet, eyes focused on the final turn of stair visible through the open door, when the very last person he’d have expected came around the curve and, seeing his martial pose, went perfectly still.
“Lord Nicodemus.”
He’d never heard her voice before, and was surprised to find it as melodious as the morning birdsong outside his bedroom window. He lifted his gaze from the automatic perusal of her feminine form and caught the slight twinkle of amusement in her pale gray eyes.
“Lady Antonia.” He managed to utter her name without embarrassing himself, and wondered what had overtaken him. He did not become flustered in the presence of even the most beautiful women. But this one, who was lovely enough, but not the equal of some, had him as tongue-tied as a raw youth. More importantly, she belonged to Sotiris, which surely made her an enemy. For all that she never appeared on the battlefield, it was well known that she had significant power, and was particularly skilled at both conjuring and casting spells.
Dark lashes fell demurely over those pale eyes as she stepped into the room, and when she looked up again, all traces of humor were gone, hidden behind a mask of polite perfection. “Forgive me for intruding, my lord. I would not have done so, if the situation were not—” She hesitated before choosing her next word. “—critical.”
Intrigued enough that his unusual first reaction to her presence fell away, Nico swept his arm toward the small, sunlit seating area, which was much neater than the rest of the room, solely because he never used it. “Sit, my lady. I have ale, but I can ring for tea, if you’d—”
She laughed, and his heart seemed to pulse harder against his chest for a moment. By all the gods in heaven and hell, how had Sotiris managed to hold on to such a light spirit for so many years? And what was she doing here? Now?
“I am not so delicate that I don’t enjoy a fine ale, my lord.”
The Stone Warriors: Nicodemus Page 4
