“I’m still not convinced he hears your prayers,” he interrupted.”
She wheeled and gave a scorching glare. “You would mock my prayer on your behalf?”
“Wife, I heed your concern more than a prayer to a stone god.”
“You know it is but an image of focus, I don’t think the stone is a god like the fools down in Tolburn.”
“I’m telling you, I am sorry.”
She sniffed and wiped away her tears. “Your apologies don’t have a way of sounding like you’re sorry.”
He stifled a chuckle. “Your concern is mine. Come back to bed.”
“I must pray for clear dreams and safety of those I love. I would not lose another.”
He grimaced at that, knowing the scorn of his earlier near comment. “Let us retire.”
“Leave me,” she said. “Let me pray without interruption and I will join you when I am done.”
“Very well.” He turned and stalked back to the royal bedchambers. He dreaded his guard seeing him return without her, so he paused midway down the hall, awaiting her presence.
Minutes passed, and he grew weary of her prayers and so he stalked back, silent as shadow, to see why she still tarried.
Nicene was sprawled on the marble steps as if in a swoon. He rushed to her side fearing the worst and took her in his arms like a child. She suddenly convulsed and screamed.
“Who?” he cried looking about the darkened chamber. A hand instinctively went to his dagger, but there was no material foe present.
She shook her head. “I am well in the body but not the mind. He attacked me in the land of sleep, in the wake of night and dreams. I know he was not truly here but merely thought.”
Gathelaus scowled, the pressure in his chest growing at the hopelessness of the situation. “Do you need help from the priests? The doctor?”
“You are the only one who can help me. Do not hold court in the morning. He will strike then, I know it. I beg of you.”
Where he had been kind and gentle a moment before, he now pulled free of her arms and stood defiant. “I am a fierce king. I’ll not cower in my own palace on behalf of your dreams.” He stormed away. Careless now of what the guards might think at his lone return.
He left her in the throne room to weep alone. But she was not alone. The dark man of shadow was there.
***
Hawkwood, the mercenary commander, inspected his men. It was only a couple hours until daylight, but he wanted to be doubly sure everything was ready. Too many times already the usurper had slipped through his orchestrated traps. It was unbelievable that he had slain the five blade masters sent the week before, they even had a warlock with them that granted a cloud of hate-filled mist blinding all but themselves. Even robbed of sight, Gathelaus had slain them, with his own throne no less. If he wasn’t being paid to kill the man, Hawkwood might be impressed into serving such a resourceful warrior king. But gold is gold, as long as it comes into your own hands from somewhere you take the job and do as you are commanded.
“The archers are ready, sir,” said one of sergeants. “The ladders and grappling hooks are all in position.”
“Good,” said Hawkwood, with a nod. He quaffed a large tankard of ale then asked, “And all the men without metal, are they in position up in the hills?”
“Yes sir, just as the sorcerer instructed. No armor, no swords, no daggers.”
Hawkwood grunted in the affirmative before taking another huge draught of his ale.
The sergeant was nervous at his commander’s propensity for so much liquor, especially on the eve of this momentous assault, but he didn’t dare mention his concerns. Instead, he asked, “If I might ask sir, isn’t that awful risky? If this sorcerer is wrong, our men will be cut to pieces up there. They only have leather jerkins and wooden spears and cudgels, perhaps they ought to keep a contingency of real weapons nearby?”
Hawkwood shook his head and wiped foam from his red-gold beard. “The sorcerer was very insistent that if the men wanted to survive they better not have any metal. I’m going to be with Vikarskeid and I’ll be fully armored, you too, but those men up there better listen to that dark mage if they know what’s good for them.”
“Yes, sir.”
A trio of assassins clad in dark blue, almost black, wrappings approached. “Captain Hawkwood,” the foremost greeted him.
He raised his tankard of ale to them. “Have you taken care of all the men on the list?”
The assassins shifted uncomfortably. “Most of them, but a few have slipped through our fingers. We could not find Rogers. Our sources say he is not in Hellainik and has not been seen for a week. None knows where he has gone. Thorne was sent away to Danelaw on the king’s business and the others are either in the palace or in the bordello. We will try and get them with the others in the morning.”
“Try? I’d prefer you just do it tonight, you have no excuses for anyone outside the palace walls. If you have any sand left between the three of you, you’ll take care of it immediately,” Hawkwood said pointedly before frowning at his empty tankard.
The assassins grimaced behind their masks. “We will.”
“Good, do it.” Hawkwood turned to go. Then he stopped and asked, “Who is it that’s left outside the palace?”
“The usurper’s right-hand man, Niels.”
***
Niels laid on an enormous red velvet bed between two of Madame LaJolla’s best girls. The double doors to the balcony were open and cool night air clashed with the heat of the moment, causing the handful of lit candles to dance in rhythmic time just like the bodies below. He couldn’t remember the name of either of the girls but that didn’t matter now. He was spent and almost ready to fall asleep.
“Pass me some wine,” he said, sitting up in bed. “Where did you fetch it?”
The redhead smiled and awkwardly leaned over the blonde to fetch the skin. “Anything for my brave captain.” She licked her lips. “It’s a very strong brew from the Night Wings pub down on Ragnarson avenue.”
“Give it here.” Niels took a mouthful and blinked awake with its intense potency.
“It could fuel a lamp,” said the redhead with a giggle.
Niels coughed and took another swig. “You’re not kidding,” he squeaked.
“What about me?” asked the blonde, with a false pout.
“Drink it with me,” he said, with a mischievous grin before clasping her to his bosom and pouring the wine over her body. She screamed with verdant joy at the chill touch of the cold wine and warm man.
All three of them laughed and teased about on the bed. Heady red wine splashed over them and soaked the sheets. The blonde froze, goosebumps stood erect from the curves of her naked flesh where a moment before sweat had entwined with crimson liquor. The redhead had more nerve, however, and released a piercing shriek.
Dumbfounded at the girl’s sudden wail, Niels caught sight of a black clad assassin in the mirror behind him. The killer, no more than a pace away, raised a scimitar.
Arching the empty wine skin back, Niels launched it, causing the assassin to dodge the harmless missile just long enough for Niels to evade the killing stroke.
“Get out!” Niels shouted to the girls, who fled through the beaded curtains. His clothing and sheathed sword were on the opposite side of the room and far beyond reach.
“Caught you at a bad time?” taunted the killer.
“I was done,” said Niels offhandedly, forming a plan of attack. This wasn’t the first time he had been caught with his pants down—or missing for that matter.
The killer lunged in and Niels struck back with the only thing at hand. A large feather pillow. The scimitar easily sheared through the silken pillow sending the goose feathers flying all directions, which was part of Niels plan. Once the scimitar had cut most of the way through, Niels tugged the pillowcase and caught hold of the hilt and yanked. He couldn’t steal the scimitar from the killer’s grasp, but he could knock the weapon away and throw the man off balan
ce. He pushed the killer onto the wine-soaked bed.
The assassin roared.
Niels winked at him and tossed a candle on the bed.
The killer’s eyes went wide with fright before the flames engulfed him. Smoke choked the room. Wisps of fire caught the flying feathers and the room burst with expanding heat. The assassin fled to the balcony from which he had entered and screamed as he fell to the cobbles below.
Niels chased him out onto the balcony and looked down on the broken, burning corpse. Two more men in black stared up at his nakedness. They looked to each other and stormed into the bordello with their blades drawn.
Niels rapidly donned his pants and boots and drew his own sword as the fire behind him ate away at the faux fine furnishings in the room. The black smoke was intolerable, the heat suffocating. Deciding to move the place of confrontation, he clambered over the side of the railing, hung low and dropped down to the cobbles, landing beside the smoldering dead man.
He had but to wait only a moment as the harlots and their customers came streaming out, followed by the two assassins. One held a long scimitar, the other had a long, straight blade with teeth along the back—a sword-breaker!
The killers said nothing but attacked in unison. They were good, but Niels was better. A dozen years as one of the Sellsword company had given him ample time to perfect his fighting skill. He had learned from the best.
Shifting his footwork to best divide and conquer the two men, he drew a gash across the left arm of the first and pushed the second to retreat before they knew what happened. But the men regrouped rather than take him on singly. They were professionals. They lanced forth with their blades, making Niels take the defensive. His initial overconfidence waned when the sword-breaker trapped his blade, snapping it under the quick pressure of the big man’s twist. He retreated a few paces and slipped on the spilt blood from the burnt and broken assassin. The two killers charged in, sweeping their blades before them.
“We take this one and then the palace,” growled one of the killers. The other guffawed in agreement.
A large clay crock suddenly smashed against the back of the head of the sword-breaker and he careened into the other. Jumping at the distraction, Niels slashed across the throat of the other with his broken blade and then stabbed the stunned man repeatedly before he could recover. That was too close. He dropped his broken blade and grabbed the scimitar from the dead man.
Madame LaJolla stood nearby with a half dozen of her girls. “I couldn’t let anything happen to my best customer. But who is going to take care of my place? Its going up in smoke,” she said with dripping venom. “I don’t suppose you know who started that do you?”
Niels shook his head. “No, I don’t but I better go alert the king that assassins are attacking the palace itself this night.” He raced off into the darkness, toward the palace.
“What about my place?!” cried Madame LaJolla.
The bordello crashed in on itself in fiery ruin, but the full ruin this night had just begun.
Death Stalks In
Vikarskeid had hardly slept for the last week. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wasn’t sure if he was hearing voices or the actual whispers of the sorcerer Malhavok. But as terrorized as he felt, he was also elated at the coming confrontation—the crown would be his soon enough. The sorcerer had revealed himself to his compatriots and made plans for a multi-pronged attack. Malhavok insisted that he could get Gathelaus away from the palace and thereby take care of him, leaving Hawkwood and the others to seize the palace and eliminate the king’s staunchest supporters. The plans were laid, just a couple more hours and they would strike at the crack of dawn just as Malhavok had directed them.
The thought had occurred to Vikarskeid several times that, though the sorcerer said he wished revenge upon Gathelaus on behalf of the dark goddess, he was also as big a mercenary as anyone with his own demands of payment. Malhavok demanded that, once the deed was done, they pay him a small fortune and also have a temple, dedicated to Boha-Annu, built within the city. And he wanted it built immediately. It was a curious request, but Vikarskeid readily agreed to it.
Kefir whispered in Vikarskeid’s ear, “He wants too much. We cannot afford to pay what he asks and build a temple to a forgotten goddess.”
“He doesn’t need to know that,” snapped Vikarskeid under his breath. “We’ll deal with that in due time.”
Kefir persisted. “He said he wants construction begun today, as soon as the revolution is finished. It makes me suspect that though he may be a learned man of magicks, he has no idea how kingdoms are actually run. These things take time.”
“You don’t need to lecture me on ruling,” said Vikarskeid. “And I said we will deal with it.”
“You’re afraid of the dark man. He is powerful—but just a man.”
Vikarskeid glared at his chief counselor. “I don’t know that. We deal with one snake at a time. So, keep your trap shut. Dawn approaches. Ready your men for blood!”
***
Niels raced down the serpentine avenues of Hellainik toward the palace. False dawn hung in the gloomy purple skies. He cursed that in his maddened haste, he had left his horse behind. But at this point he guessed it would be just as swift to continue running as return for the beast, and there was not a moment to lose. If assassins had come for him in the bordello, more would surely be coming for the king. He had seen coups before—he had taken part in several.
Rounding a blind corner, he knocked over a city guardsman holding a spear like a staff. “Hey! Vic,” declared the man. “You want to alert the usurper what’s going on before we even start? Wait, you’re not Vic…”
Niels slashed the man before he could cry out to his conspirator allies.
Another man walked around the other corner, adjusting his belt as if he had just watered the lilies. “What did you say?”
Realizing this was Vic, another traitor, Niels pierced his heart and lay the two men beside each other in the dark alleyway. He took a spear and hurried on.
The turrets and banners of the palace peaked just over the top of the blue tiled roofs in front of him. He rounded the bend and there, aligned in the narrow street, were row upon row of men dressed for battle. Most were dressed as regular troops of Vjorn pre-invasion, they wore mail, if not plate armor, on their shoulders or breastplates of steel, they carried axes and swords, several had long hunting spears, and still others carried bows and quivers with more than two-score of arrows apiece. They were ready for a slaughter. None had the royal blue cloak about their shoulders. They were prepared to not be confused with the king’s loyal guard.
Then Niels saw something that made his blood boil. Supposedly loyal king men, that he personally knew, stood beside the rear door of the palace. Traitors! Death loomed and he acted fast as inspiration struck.
“Ambush! The usurper is coming from behind us!” he cried.
Men wheeled in a panic, glancing in all directions, though the voice was lost to them in the dark passageways.
Niels cast the spear with all his might, striking what looked like a captain atop his horse.
The man fell dead as the spear pierced him through, and the horse reeled as the reins jerked backward. The horse careened into a squad of men nearby, and panic bloomed like fire and oil.
A score of men who saw where the missile had come from, charged toward Niels. He shouted, hoping to alert the palace guards, but he could not be sure who might have heard the ruckus or not. He only prayed that someone had as he fled back down the alley with a bloodthirsty host in pursuit.
***
The first rays of sunlight crept in through the windows like a thief, and like a thief, it stole sleep from Gathelaus. He was used to Nicene drawing the curtains in the morning. She was an early riser and he, since becoming king, was sometimes a late one. But this was unusual, something woke him—a warning of danger looming close by. He looked about and determined that Nicene had never come to bed. That must be the uneasiness he felt. He got up and
splashed cool water in his face then, still in his robe, stalked out of the bed chambers. Guards stood at attention.
“Has the queen been here?”
“No, lord. Not since last night. She has remained in the temple of Dyzan. She was attended by one of the priests.”
“What priest?”
“I know not his name, but he was speaking with the queen and she did not ask us to intrude.”
“Damn woman,” he cursed to himself. He stalked down the hallway until reaching the inner sanctum of their private chapel. Nicene was still there, cradled at the foot of her god. While he could appreciate devotion, and even understood a healthy respect for the gods, he did not feel it was in him to kneel at the foot of a statue in similitude of such a powerful being.
Who was he kidding? He didn’t think he would even kneel to one in person. He still wondered if he had met Dyzan once or if that had been a mere avatar, high priest of the mysterious pacifist god. Did it matter? No.
“Nicene. Nicene, how can you sleep on these cold marble steps?”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry for what I said. Forgive me and let’s go to breakfast.”
She still didn’t answer.
He grew angry, there was no way she had not heard him. Was she too proud for his apology?
“Nicene! I’ll not be mocked and ignored in my own castle! Answer me!”
Silence.
“Devils take you woman, if you’ll not answer me!”
He strode forward and grabbed her by the shoulder. She was cold, and dark blood pooled at the foot of Dyzan.
Horror, fury and pain welled in his face. A mask of serene emptiness swathed hers as if she were yet asleep, but the gouge out of her heart was monstrous evil. Unmistakable. Unchangeable. Unforgivable.
FIERCE: A Heroic Fantasy Adventure (BRUTAL TRILOGY Book 2) Page 3
