Peacocks strutted here and there amidst fruit trees and a dozen beautiful women lounged about the silken divans as if they were themselves but ivory-skinned decoration for Vikarskeid’s lusts. They were all scantily clad as well as intoxicated with opium and considered far beneath notice while the men conspired at a central table over their great adversary.
Vikarskeid’s four companions were also a fit enough retinue for a would-be king’s conspirators. Kefir, former head of the kingdom’s mints and finances, had been deposed but retained his life minus its former decadence. Sarvan, a distant cousin to Vikarskeid, a former general in the kingdom’s army until he was crippled in the war with the usurper, being left alive was the greatest insult imaginable and he dreamt every day of revenge to the point of cancer eating away at his twisted stumps for legs. Bartleby, a beloved minstrel and bard known through the kingdom, he was of no royal blood but joined the others in his blind hatred of the usurper. The last, red-bearded Hawkwood, was broad-shouldered and imposing in his golden armor; he was a conniving master of blades and captain of mercenary companies renowned throughout the known world, and though he had no love for the usurper, it was only coin that made him a party to this secret cabal.
“How many men is that now?” asked Vikarskeid.
“Thirty-Two,” answered Hawkwood.
Sarvan slammed the table, scowling. “No man survives thirty-two assassination attempts, no one. Perhaps it is time to accept that all the gods and devils in hell love this man and wish that no harm should come to him.”
Hawkwood shook his head. “It isn’t sorcery, maybe some luck has been involved but I tell you, it is simply that he is a blade master himself, perhaps the best I have ever seen. Knives in the dark won’t do to rid you of this tyrant, we must try new tactics, set better traps and such.”
“Poison, I keep telling you poison,” shouted Bartleby.
“We’ve tried,” said Kefir. “The closest we came was when he vomited out the black lotus root in his wine.”
Vikarskeid tore at his hair and wheeled once before shouting at Hawkwood, “I have paid you a king’s ransom to rid me of the usurper. I grow weary of your failure!” He threw a goblet of wine across the room. It shattered on the stones and made two of the harem girls shriek as they were splashed with wet crimson.
Hawkwood folded his arms across his chest, retained his composure and silently returned a cold steely gaze to his irate employer before asking, “Are you done?”
Vikarskeid shut his mouth and looked away. “I don’t understand. He steals the crown, he depletes the treasury and then abandons the throne for nearly a month as he gallivants all over the kingdom, even abandoning the royal guard as he tears Aldreth apart—and still the common people love him.”
“Fret not, my Lord,” said Bartleby. “When we are rid of him they shall forget him and sing your praises instead.”
“Indeed,” sniffed Vikarskeid.
“Thus far,” interrupted Hawkwood, “we have only tried attacking the man. I suggest at this point we must hurt him, steal whatever he cares for, take it away and wear him down to the bone. Then we break him.”
“How? He is a vagrant barbarian, he has no family,” said Kefir.
“Ah, but he has become betrothed to that girl from Avaris,” said Bartleby.
“Oh, yes.” Sarvan rubbed his hands together. “The Duchess of Aldreth. Pretty thing, even if she is a bit mercurial in nature.”
Vikarskeid ran a hand over his goateed chin and looked to Hawkwood. “Do whatever it takes. Pay any price. We bring the pain to the usurper and wear him down as you said, until we can destroy him.”
Hawkwood nodded. “I will begin immediately.” He wheeled and left the room.
They watched him vanish behind the ornate curtains at the end of the chamber. “Soon enough, we may need to be rid of that foreigner as well,” said Kefir. “Rumor says he could be as bad as the usurper.”
“I’ve already thought of that,” said Vikarskeid, “but one problem at a time. First, we must be rid of Gathelaus.”
“My lord,” said Sarvan, “might I suggest we also have our own backup plan?”
“What is it cousin?”
“As you know, I have sought answers to the loss of my legs and the pox that has infected them. I have found a sorcerer who may be able to help us with our barbarian problem.”
“Found?”
Sarvan cleared his throat. “Well, truthfully, he found me while I was drowning in my cups. But he will be a valuable ally. He seems to already know of the usurper and hate him as much as we.”
Vikarskeid frowned, he had little enough faith in magic solving his problems, but he was desperate now that earthly attempts had failed thirty-two times. Damn! Thirty-two times assassins had failed at slaying the usurper! How could so many have done so poorly? The law of averages said that he should have slipped, been slow, missed a killing stroke and that one, just one of the assassins should have made some kind of lucky strike, but alas, no. The usurper had been untouchable, slaying all who came at him from whichever direction, with any weapon. Damn him!
“My lord?”
“Oh, yes, cousin. Tell me more of this sorcerer.”
“He is a traveler. I know he is adept in the dark arts and he expressed an interest in speaking with you.”
“Me? What if he is but an assassin out to slay me?”
“No, my lord. He is of the order of the Dark Goddess and expressed an interest in revenge upon the usurper for his doings in Aldreth. He sides with us, I assure you. He knew things that only an adept practitioner of the dark arts might. He is indeed an ally.”
Vikarskeid stroked his chin. “Very well, I will treat with him. Send for him to see me. It couldn’t hurt to have both Hawkwood and this sorcerer seeking the usurper’s doom.”
Sarvan nodded. “I will send him a message through the old channels and let you know when we can convene.”
Vikarskeid nodded and waved his conspirators off. Bartleby pushed Sarvan’s wheelchair while Kefir lingered and tugged at one of the catatonic women.
“Just pick her up,” snapped Vikarskeid.
Kefir pulled a slim brunette to her feet and guided her through the curtained door.
Vikarskeid slumped into a divan between two dozing women, took one of their opium pipes to his lips and inhaled deeply. He was enjoying the flavor and rush that came with it when the bright light of day that had pervaded the seraglio from the skylight above suddenly vanished. Twilight soaked every corner of the chamber and Vikarskeid was startled as this was far beyond the darkness any clouds could have upon the noonday sun. He tried to rise from his silken cushion but could not. All strength drained from him and he panicked, thinking he had been poisoned by one of the other conspirators who sought his life, so they could become king themselves. The pipe dropped from his hand and the dark sky above reeled as stars blinked awake and spun about the sky at a blinding speed.
Vikarskeid tried to scream, but no sound would come from his throat, so he stared in mute witness to the horrifying spectacle as a void yawned open. Dim light grew a shade brighter and a dark figure stood before him. Drenched in black fabric swaddled about him like a Bedouin of far off Kathul, the being stepped closer to Vikarskeid who could but stare slack-jawed in terrible fear. Only the figure’s blazing eyes were visible from out of the dark cloak.
“Fear not, brave Count Vikarskeid, I wish you no harm. I am but a friend come to help you.”
“Who are you?” asked Vikarskeid, surprised that his voice had returned.
“I am the man your cousin spoke of.”
“Why did you not approach me first?”
The dark man gave a malevolent chuckle. “I had to be invited.”
“How do you have such great power? To cast out the day? To bring on the night and hold my body in thrall?”
The dark man laughed mischievously. “I can do many things. Some you will realize are extended because of this realm.”
“Realm?” questioned Vikars
keid.
“It matters not. I have heard your pleas, hopes and fears, and I will do what I can to strike down the usurper, but you must do as I command you.”
“I command,” protested Vikarskeid.
“Do you?” laughed the dark man. “Why does a would-be king sleep with worms?”
Vikarskeid glanced at the women beside him, horrified that he now lay amidst writhing worms the size of pythons. He screamed but could not escape their slippery gyrations beside him. Mucus-like slime smeared over his body and one worm passed over his head leaving a slug trail across his face. The bitterness slithered over his teeth and he spit in disgust.
“Hear me, Count, and obey for I have been invited to both your abode and your life and now I cannot be banished. I will not leave until my purpose is fulfilled,” he paused a moment, while Vikarskeid freed himself of the worms, and just as he did they changed back to stupored women. Had they never been worms, was it all an illusion?
“I want what you want, so you will do as I command in this endeavor then go back to being king of your own little world.”
Tears streamed from Vikarskeid’s eyes and he cried out, “I will obey. Command me as you will but release me of this illusory bondage.”
The dark man laughed. “You will gather the supplies I show you and find a suitable vessel for my promptings. Do what I ask of you and we will be rid of the usurper.”
“Anything,” wailed Vikarskeid.
A vision of arcane ingredients and magical tools s appeared before Vikarskeid’s eyes.
“Mark and remember,” commanded the dark man. “Call on me when you have accomplished this task.”
“What is your name?”
“Malhavok.”
He vanished, and the sunlight slapped Vikarskeid in the face.
Vikarskeid blinked and leapt up from the divan. He glanced about the room, hurried to the table, and took a new goblet of wine in hand. It was still chilled. A day had not passed but mere moments. There was no slime upon his body at all. He rubbed his eyes and looked about the chamber once again. “Malhavok,” he whispered to himself. He rushed to the corner of the chamber to a small library he kept more for prestige and impressing guests than actual reading. He thumbed through two volumes until he found what he sought. A religious text proclaiming the names of both gods and demons.
Malhavok, black prince of dreams, castigator of courage and nobility, scavenger of honor, bearer of lies. And the title of the herald incarnate of the dreaded Black Goddess, Boha-Annu.
Vikarskeid snapped the book shut. “It was just a nightmare. A terrible nightmare.”
A voice in his head echoed, Was it?’
“Better the devil I know,” he said to himself. “I cannot ally myself with demons who taunt my dreams. It was nothing. It was nothing,” he repeated, to ward himself from the vicious truth. He took another draught of the heady wine.
I’ll be back when you sleep, came the inner voice again.
Vikarskeid’s eyes bulged from their sockets and he fell to his knees. He rang a bell for his servants. A thin long-limbed boy with olive skin stood at attention at the curtain. “My lord?”
“Did you not hear me screaming but a few moments ago?”
“No, my lord and I have been behind the curtain this entire time since before your guests arrived.”
Vikarskeid ran his hands over his face and swept the cold sweat from his brow. “I believe you and I know now what I must have you do.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Gather all the items from the list I shall write for you from the apothecary and heathen district of shamans. Hurry boy!” He shouted as he flung gold coins at the boy’s feet and scrawled a list upon a sheet of parchment.
The boy looked fearful but scurried to collect the coins into his hands then took the parchment and left.
Vikarskeid wanted to go and settle upon a divan but thought better of it and stalked to the kitchens, surprising his cooks and scullery maids with his unexpected presence. “Give me, the blackest coffee, you have ever brewed.”
“My lord?” she asked in surprise. “Are you well?”
“Of course not,” he snapped. “But I can’t go to bed, not yet. Get me everything that may stave off sleep for as long as possible.” The cook and scullery maid hesitated. “Now!” he shouted. They raced away to gather his brew.
He looked over his shoulder, uneasy, and slumped down in the cook’s chair. “I cannot fall asleep again until this business is done.”
Dark Dreams
In the days to come, Nicene had many dreams of her upcoming wedding day. Always she and Gathelaus stood upon a white dais as the priests of both the Northern heathens and her own holy men of the god Dyzan blessed their nuptials.
Musicians strummed their lyres as tinkling cymbals and sounding brass gave vibrant sound to the feast. The kings’ folk were laughing and enjoying themselves. Everywhere food and song and cheery talk washed over the throng. Wine flowed freely and ale as well, for the Northmen under Gathelaus’s banner were ever more inclined for that heady brew than the grape of the south.
Jugglers lit their marks aflame and tossed them up casually under the watchful eye of the king’s bodyguard. They were cautious as ever despite the riotous celebration of the king’s marriage.
The bride and groom kissed and toasted to the well-wishers when fire suddenly engulfed everything, the cause? A man in black floating a foot off the ground, smoke erupting from his hands as table cloths and curtains burst into flames.
Nicene stared in paralyzing fear as he approached. He pointed a finger and her husband, Gathelaus, the king, was stricken, fell to his knees and vanished. Her feet were glued to the ground and she couldn’t move to help him nor even cry for help as the revelers continued on as if nothing was happening, like they couldn’t see the carnival burning down around them.
Her scream was mute as the grave and she watched as the shade of her beloved passed silently away before her eyes.
In a bed of silk and ermine furs, Nicene awoke screaming. Gathelaus held her close. “What is it?” he asked.
“The nightmare, a terrible nightmare,” she gasped. “I had the same one again.” Her lips quivered. “I have had the same dream, seven nights in a row. That is not chance, that is a warning.”
He turned up the oil lamp, illuminating the royal bed chamber. The light blue silks almost seemed white in the soft glow. “You’re safe,” he assured her. “I am here.”
“But you’re not,” she protested. “So many knives in the dark hunger for your blood. I have seen them. They can’t miss forever.”
“Loyalists for the dead tyrant. They are like yapping dogs, face them and they dare not come, turn your back on them and they nip your heels. They are the same the world over.”
“I fear it is worse than that. Dyzan is telling me our fate. I don’t want to lose you.”
He shook his head and gave her a warm smile. “With every one of them I slay, they will lose power and face. Their ire will die out. Spies even tell me that folk are coming around to the usurper.” He gave a soft laugh and held her close.
Her eyes shut tight against the fear and she whimpered. “I saw a dark man coming for you. There was blood dripping from his hands and his eyes were as fire. I was frightened. I’m still frightened.”
“It’s not real. It was just a dream,” he said.
“It felt real. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Gathelaus smiled at her. “Then we are in agreement.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“I don’t want anything to happen to me either.”
She frowned. “Don’t tease me. I’m scared.”
“It doesn’t do for a queen to be frightened.”
“I can’t help it.”
He sprawled on the bed beside her. “What can I do to set your mind at ease?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“I have faced wizards and monsters many times, curses and hexes all aimed at taking m
y head. I’ll live this way the rest of my life I expect. But being king does grant one its own complications.”
“No one lives forever.”
“And who would really want to? I aim to live this life to the fullest then move on to the next and see what adventure lies ahead there, just not too soon.” He drew her closer and kissed her ruby lips. He then drank deep from a wine skin beside the bed, and Nicene’s frown grew deeper.
“You mock my concern.”
“I do not, woman. I’m trying to ease your burden A burden brought on by a flicker of a night fantasy and nothing more.”
“I’d feel better if you didn’t hold court tomorrow.”
He scowled. “I must. I am judging the dispute between the Oleberg clan to the north and their feud with the Frost clan. It needs to be resolved, and they will respect none other than the king to finalize it.”
“And I am your queen telling you a dark omen comes. I can feel it in my bones.”
“I’d rather you felt my bones,” he laughed.
“I won’t lose…” she trailed off.
He opened his mouth to speak a cruel word regarding her former husband, but he held back. It didn’t matter, she knew his mind and tongue and the unspoken thought cut her as sharply as any dagger. Nicene threw the blankets from her heels and touched the floor, racing away, the soft pad of her feet on the cold marble echoing into the darkness.
***
His anger kept him in bed a long moment until he rose and followed after her.
Guardsmen on night patrol asked after their king. “Your majesty is all well within your chambers?”
“Women,” he grunted.
The solemn guardsman nodded, then pointed to the left in the direction of the queen’s departure.
Nicene had taken a lamp from a sconce hanging in the hall and fled down a long dusky wing of the castle. A dim orange light betrayed her passage. Gathelaus followed after her in the dark, the great strides of his bare feet on the marble almost silent as he sped along in pursuit.
He found her in the private chapel he had constructed for her. It was black with shadow now save for three pillars of moonlight. He watched her move toward the altar where the statues of two gods and goddesses sat side by side. She knelt at the first step and cried aloud to the statue of her patron god, Dyzan. “Please, hear me Master of the heavens. Protect my husband from the harm that evil men wish upon him. Grant him wisdom and courage but also discretion and reluctance to set himself into the jaws of danger. Please…”
FIERCE: A Heroic Fantasy Adventure (BRUTAL TRILOGY Book 2) Page 2
