“Ah, Prince Aramis. It does my heart good to know you are safe.”
“No thanks to you,” Aramis said. Mel shot him a look of disbelief, but Aramis ignored it. “I’m here for the blood.”
The Prophet nodded. “I figured as much. Adamar has only sent one patrol here to try and claim it, but they did not find it so easy to overcome an old man.” He chuckled. “I may not have my powers anymore, but I can still wield a blade.”
“What news from Oakhaven?” Mel asked.
“Not much,” the Prophet sighed. “The only visitors we get are refugees, and the only stories they have all sound the same. Death and destruction. You are free to anything you need, if we have it. There isn’t much left. How did you survive the templar?”
Aramis felt his anger growing the longer he stared at the Prophet. He hated the man.
“I didn’t. The templar mortally wounded me and I died, but Zevea brought me back.”
“Zevea?” The Prophet’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Perhaps you can tell me the tale?”
“I’d love to, but perhaps another time. We still have a long journey ahead of us, and time is short.”
“Of course,” the Prophet waved his hands. “Please, follow me.”
The Prophet led them through the temple to a room Aramis did not remember seeing previously. Withdrawing a key from the folds of his robe, he unlocked the door and directed them inside. The room was empty except for a small table in the corner of the room. Atop the table was a familiar item Aramis immediately recognized.
Blood. Blood. Blood. The dark voices began whispering the word repeatedly. It got faster, almost frantic. Aramis’s heartbeat quickened in his chest as he got closer to the table. Aramis assumed it was his imagination, probably from his lack of sleep lately. Then his tattoo began to itch. He resisted the urge to scratch it. Mel reached for the wineskin that held the blood.
“No,” Aramis said sharply. Mel and the Prophet exchanged glances.
“I’ll take it.” Aramis grabbed the wineskin from the table and strapped it to his belt. “We should get moving.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“A word, if I may,” the Prophet said.
Aramis shrugged. “Make it quick.”
The Prophet looked to Mel. “I’d like to speak with him alone.”
Mel frowned but nodded and left the room.
“The power is changing you, isn’t it?” the Prophet asked.
“What do you know of power, priest? Your god is dead.” Judging by the pained look on the man’s face, Aramis knew he had struck a nerve. Good, he thought. Let him suffer.
“I know that Mordum uses the Mark to control his servants. For some, the power is too much. It brings madness. I can see the stain in your eyes, Aramis. The power is controlling you. Mel can see it, but I know he hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t want to confront you, but he must if you continue to get worse.”
Aramis clenched his jaw. Deep down he knew the Prophet’s words rang with truth, but something kept him from accepting it. A dark shadowy wall pushed the words from him.
“I may not have the gifts of my goddess anymore, but I can feel the darkness of Mordum radiating from you. You must fight the darkness!”
A torrent of hideous visions assailed Aramis. The dark whispers intensified and he staggered back, shaking his head. The Prophet stepped toward him, concern etched on his face. Suddenly, Aramis unsheathed the rusty dagger Zevea had given him and he plunged it into the Prophet’s chest. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.
Again, the voices whispered. Again!
Aramis jerked the dagger out and stabbed the Prophet again. The man fell to the floor, but Aramis’s hatred was not satisfied. He knelt beside the Prophet and jabbed him with the blade over and over. When he finally stopped, he had no idea how long or how many times he had stabbed him.
His breathing was heavy and the muscles in his arms burned. Wiping the dagger clean on the man’s clothes, he sheathed the blade. He considered hiding the body, but immediately discounted the thought. There was nowhere in the room to hide him, and Mel stood in the hall. They’ll blame it on the soldiers, he told himself.
He looked himself over as best as he could to make sure there was no blood, then he left the room. Mel was leaning against the wall a few feet down the hall.
“Let’s go,” Aramis said.
“Where’s the Prophet?” Mel asked.
“Praying,” Aramis answered. “He said he wished he could go with us, but his duties here will not allow it.”
Mel stared at him for a long moment. Aramis returned his gaze. “Come,” Aramis bade and began walking. Mel fell into step beside him.
“Now that we have the blood, we must find the ashes,” Aramis said. “The bones are still safe.”
“How do you know?” Mel asked. “Didn’t Vashah hide them with magic?”
“Yes,” Aramis replied. “Vashah hid them, but I can feel their power. I know exactly where they are.”
They left the temple and walked along the streets. Aramis knew time was something he severely lacked, but he wanted to make sure his people were being cared for. They spent the next hour talking with the refugees and helping the priests bandage wounds. Aramis listened to their terrible stories and would have wept with them, but no tears would come. Many of the people stared at him as if he were some sort of wild animal. He kept forgetting that his eyes had grown dark. After they saw his goodwill, their stares became less fearful.
“It’s time,” Aramis announced after they had finished putting together a few tents for a family of farmers. “It is time to go to Oakhaven. I want to do more for them, but I can’t do that until I have reclaimed my father’s throne.”
“I fear we will not have enough men if it comes to war,” Mel said later as they rode toward the capital. They saw less refugees the closer they got. Aramis had seen the road once before when it was bustling with traders coming in and going from Oakhaven. Now, it was desolate. Aramis wondered if anything would ever be the same.
Not if I die, he thought. He looked at Mel from the corner of his eye. The man had been his friend for years and had willingly given his life to protect him. Aramis considered his actions at the temple. He’d killed the Prophet, someone that Mel was close to. He searched his feelings, but he didn’t find guilt. He did feel bad for Mel, knowing that at some point, he would learn of the man’s death. It would be rough on him, but Aramis knew Mel was strong enough to get over the loss.
Something fell into his lap. Aramis looked down and saw that it was the pendant Hannah had given him. The chain had broken. Grabbing the chain before it fell, he wrapped the pieces around his belt. The beautiful woman’s image came to his mind and he wondered where she was and if she were safe. He wondered, too, how her father had fared in drumming up support from the nobles for his cause.
“My Lord,” Mel’s voice shattered his thoughts. He looked to where Mel was pointing. A large contingent of soldiers was coming their way.
“Looks like we’ve lost the element of surprise,” Aramis said as he summoned his armor and blade. The air hissed as Mel summoned his own. As the soldiers closed the distance, Aramis noticed they were all wearing the mark of Mordum as their insignia.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said to Mel. “Dismiss your armor and your blade.” After a moment of hesitation, Mel did as Aramis instructed. “Now hand me your reins.”
Aramis pointed the tip of his blade at Mel. He slowed their horses to a stop as the soldiers hailed him.
“What’s this?” one of them said as he pulled off his helm. He was clearly the leader, likely a captain. Aramis didn’t recognize him. He had the typical short haircut of a soldier, but his face had distinct features that implied his noble birth. Aramis guessed he was the son of one of the nobles.
“I’m taking him to the king,” Aramis answered. “Been searching for this dog for weeks, but I’ve finally caught him.”
“Goo
d work. I’ll have some of the men escort him to the castle.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The captain leaned forward. “And why’s that?”
“The king sent me specifically to track him down. If I wasn’t the one to bring him back, I’d probably get the noose.”
The captain eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your name? And who do you report to?”
Aramis had no idea how the priesthood of Mordum was structured, but from everything else he had seen, it was similar to the other orders. He decided to bluff.
“That’s not your place to ask, captain.” Aramis dismissed his armor and displayed the Mark for him to see. The man’s eyes immediately filled with fear.
“My apologies,” the captain said quickly. “I didn’t know you were one of them.”
“Them?” Aramis asked.
The captain stammered. “Them, uh, one of the king’s protectors.”
Good to know, Aramis thought. “No harm done,” he said.
The captain put his helm back on and bowed in his saddle. “We’re looking for people who are trying to leave with the king’s property. Have you seen anyone on the road?”
“Yes,” Aramis lied. “A small group, about ten of them, were headed west toward Talvaard.”
“Thank you,” the captain said. He barked orders to his men and they rode off.
Once they were no longer visible, Aramis gave the reins back to Mel. “It seems my brother has Mordum knights as protectors.”
“Why would a servant of Mordum need protection?” Mel said rhetorically.
“I think we’ll find out soon enough.”
They used the prisoner ruse twice more as they neared Oakhaven, but each time it was harder to pull off. Although the soldiers they encountered seemed fearful—reverent even—when he displayed the mark, they became more insistent about taking his “prisoner” themselves.
“The servants of Mordum, while they all seek to fulfill his purposes, have their own agendas. They will lie, cheat and kill anyone, including fellow servants, to gain Mordum’s favor,” Mel said after they left the most recent group of guards behind.
“Seems like chaos to me,” Aramis remarked.
“When everyone is following the same delusion, with different intentions, chaos is sure to abound.”
Aramis pondered Mel’s words in silence as they continued south toward Oakhaven. It was nearing sunset and they still had several miles to cover, so Aramis decided they should stop soon and setup camp.
“If I may make a request,” Mel said. “I’d like to stay at an inn.”
“Do you think that’s wise? We’re close enough to be recognized by anyone working for Mordum.”
“We could disguise ourselves,” Mel suggested. “We’re dirty and it’s obvious to anyone that we’ve been on the road a while. Besides, I haven’t gone this long without a bath in years.”
Aramis shook his head, but he was smiling. “Ever the aristocrat,” he chided jokingly. “Fine, but we need to keep out of sight as much as possible. If we get caught, everything we’ve worked for was in vain.”
Mel’s face went serious. “I won’t allow us to be caught now, not after everything you’ve faced to get here.”
They stopped for the night at a small village half a day’s ride from Oakhaven. The sun had passed beyond the horizon and a breeze picked up. Aramis could smell rain coming. Dark clouds blotted out the moon and stars, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. Only a few lanterns had been lit and the wind made them sputter; their faint light flickering and causing the shadows to dance erratically.
Aramis eyed the dark shapes suspiciously. He felt like he was losing his mind lately. Seeing things in the shadows, hearing voices that weren’t there … but the grim visions were the worst. In the back of his mind, his thoughts always went to Hannah. Was the vision he saw real, or was it some evil joke sent from Mordum? He had promised himself that he would marry her. If she were dead … he pushed the dismal thoughts away.
They found an inn down one of the side streets. No lanterns were lit, but the sound of music and boisterous conversation drew them in. The place was fairly full considering the current crisis that enveloped the kingdom. A fire burned in the hearth, tinging the air with the sharp smoky incense of too-green wood. Another smell, roasting pig, made Aramis’s mouth water. Both scents were more pleasing than the others that wafted through the air: mercenary sweat and spilled food and drink that had been left for who knew how long.
“Ugh,” Mel muttered beneath his breath. “It’s too hot for a fire, especially with all these people. The heat is unbearable.”
Aramis noticed that almost everyone looked like a mercenary. No wonder the place is packed, he thought. They have no reason to be fleeing. There was a small table in the corner available, so they sat there and waited for the barmaid. It took longer than Mel liked, and he huffed his indignance a few times, as though anyone other than Aramis could hear him. Finally, a young girl with sinuous sun-lightened hair that spilled down past her breasts came to serve them. She was wearing a flowing brown skirt that reached her knees and a cloudy white, almost transparent blouse that left little to the imagination. She leaned onto the table and made no attempt to hide the clear view of her cleavage through the V of her blouse.
“Drinks?” she asked with a grin.
Aramis didn’t reply. He stared at her, his dark eyes catching her watery blue ones and holding them. Faint lines edged away from her eyes, though from exhaustion or worry, he didn’t know. Her eyelashes were thick with kohl, the lids covered with a deep shade of purple. It reminded him of the nobles at court, who covered themselves with ridiculous shades of color, always trying to outdo one another. Finally, he looked away, and the woman blinked and shook her head as if to rouse herself from a dream. Her ample breasts swayed with the motion.
“I’ll take a drink, and some food,” Mel said. “We’ll also need a room for the night,” he added.
The woman looked at Mel as if just noticing him for the first time. “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?” she said. Mel blushed, and she continued flirting with him. “Anything else you’d like? Anything you see that you might want?”
Mel looked away and caught Aramis’s gaze. Aramis remained impassive to the exchange.
“You’re both handsome,” she said. “Your friend doesn’t smile much, hm?” She made a soft huffing sound, angling her breath up with her lower lip, causing her collection of curls that hung over her forehead to flutter and resettle. She sauntered away and came back with a tray, her ample hips swinging. She placed two mugs of beer on the table and looked at Mel.
“Need company for the night?” she asked.
“I’d love some company,” Mel replied, winking at her with one eye. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much money.”
The woman frowned with puckered lips. “Pity. I bet we could start a fire hotter than the one in this room.” She flounced away to another table, flirting with the patrons there as well.
Aramis was scanning the room, looking for anyone that might appear to be a soldier of Oakvalor. The last thing they needed was to be recognized by someone. As he finished looking over the room for the second time, he noticed one man who stood out from the crowd. He definitely wasn’t a mercenary, though he was too well dressed to be a refugee. He kept fidgeting, making Aramis think he was nervous. He decided it would be a good idea to keep an eye on him.
The barmaid returned with two plates of food and refilled their drinks. Aramis knew if he drank too much more, he’d begin to lose his focus. He continued to glance at the man occasionally.
“I think he’s waiting for someone,” Aramis said.
“What?” Mel replied through a mouthful of food.
“The man at the table there,” he nodded with his head. “I think he’s waiting for someone. We may want to watch him for a bit. There’s something … odd about him.”
Mel finished his food and leaned close to Aramis. “Should I go talk w
ith him? See if I can get anything out of him?”
Aramis studied the man closely. His clothes were from the Oakhaven court. At least, the current style that was in fashion before he’d left. He didn’t have the bearing of a noble. A servant, perhaps?
The door to the inn opened and a man dressed in riding clothes entered. He swept the crowd with his gaze and then headed toward the fidgeting man. He sat down and the two began speaking. They were too far away for Aramis to hear their conversation.
“I’ll be back,” Mel said. He made his way toward the two men, but stopped within earshot and pretended to flirt with the barmaid. After a few minutes, Mel came back.
“I don’t know who they are, but they know Lord Bavol,” Mel said quietly. That perked Aramis’s intrigue.
“Could you hear what they were talking about?” he asked.
“Somewhat. The lady certainly has a way with words. Anyway, the better dressed man is a servant to Bavol, I believe. From what I could make out, the rider delivered a letter to the king of Talvaard.”
“Garrick?” Aramis asked. “I didn’t realize he’d been coronated yet.” He shook his head. “We’re behind on current events. That could bode ill for our journey.”
“Perhaps. The other man, the messenger, he said he had a return letter for Lord Bavol. He didn’t say what it contained. He’s concerned, though. Apparently, he was supposed to meet Bavol somewhere, but it didn’t appear he was there, or had ever arrived.”
Aramis felt his heart drop into his stomach. The vision …
“Gods,” Aramis sighed. “He was our key to the nobles. Without him, we don’t know who is on our side.” He rubbed his face.
“Maybe,” Mel said, then paused. “Maybe we could speak to them. Figure out where they were supposed to meet. That might provide some clues as to where Bavol might be if he ran into trouble.”
“They could be spies,” Aramis said.
“That’s true, though I don’t believe so. They both seemed genuinely concerned for him.”
The Restored King (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 4) Page 10
