by Tim Marquitz
Carrance smiled, pushing a recalcitrant curl of her blond hair from her face. “I thought you might. He’s outside.”
She pulled the door wide and gestured to someone out of sight. A moment later, Victor Graves strolled into the throne room and toward the dais, the muted creak of his brigandine vest sounding loud in the quiet of the room. Carrance gave a casual nod to Deborah and slipped outside, closing the door on her way out.
Victor came to stand before the stairs and bowed deep, the tip of his sheath striking the tile floor with a sharp clack. A wide, double-bladed axe sat cradled in a sling upon his back. Deborah stared at the man as he straightened. The whirling gray of his eyes, set deep into sockets of black, met her gaze without fear. His flowing, black beard hung heavy across the mass of his broad chest, and the mane of his hair flowed in thick locks over his shoulders. He grasped his burly hands before him, the calloused knuckles standing out misshapen like the jagged peaks of a young mountain. His bare arms bore the layered darkness of tattooed sigils, the swirls and symbols disappearing beneath the armored sleeves that covered his biceps.
She stood a moment, taking in the whole of the man as though she had never seen him before. He endured her stare in silence, never once pulling his eyes away or fidgeting. His confidence infuriated her. It always had, hence the reason she’d carved her mark upon him.
“Any word of my daughter?” Deborah asked, the question becoming a ritual of disappointment.
“She is the blood of your blood, and is as wise in the subtle use of her powers. I hope to find her soon.”
The empty answer was ritual, too.
“She is but a girl, Victor, a mere child of sixteen years.” Her voice hid none of her displeasure. “Are you not the Lord of the Hunt, famed for your ability to track the most elusive of prey?”
He gave a quick nod. “I am, but Emerald is no witless deer traipsing about in the woods, leaving her spore behind. She knows well enough I’d be sent after her and has covered her tracks well, and I’d expect no less of her given her bloodline. I will scare her out, in time. We must be patient.”
Deborah stood and walked to the edge of the dais, the hem of her white robes trailing out behind her. She held her left hand out and clenched it into a tight fist. “Servitus!” A shimmer of brilliant energy misted willowy between her fingers.
Victor clutched at his midsection and crumpled to his knees with a grunt. The plates of his armor groaned under the invisible pressure. He snarled and gritted his teeth, tendrils of spittle spilling from his mouth and streaking his beard. The sigils at his arms seemed to erupt with white light, searing trails devouring the darkness of the ink. A sickly pallor fell over his face, pained tears breaking free of his eyes, but he did not cry out.
Deborah held her fist closed another moment before spreading her fingers apart with a dismissive flick, her energies dispersing. Victor breathed a heavy sigh and drew himself up, his limbs trembling. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, the tattoos upon his arms dimming to blackness once more.
“Do not presume to tell me what I must be, Graves.” She glared down at him. His furious gaze was locked on the tiles at his feet, though no less fierce for that. “For all your vaunted history, you are but a slave to the Council; to me, Victor, to me. You will do as I command or I will be forced to remind you how easily you can be broken.” She growled at him, “Look at me.” His eyes snapped to hers. “Mind your place, Lord, or what little freedom you retain will be stripped from you as quickly as the flesh was from the bones of your daughter. You remember her don’t you, and why she died?” She paused to draw a breath, letting her words sink in. “Do you understand me, Victor?”
“Yes,” he hissed in response, his face a mask of impotent rage.
Deborah grinned, reveling in the Lord’s discomfort. She had no doubt he was thinking of his child, his family, long ago devoured by the war machine that had raised Deborah to power. She let him stew a short time, knowing he could do nothing but accept his fate before her power. When she broke the tense silence, it was with a gentle voice, free of the rancorous bite of just moments before. The lesson taught, Deborah could afford to be magnanimous. “I have another mission for you.”
He nodded.
“It seems we have a warlock loose among the peasantry. He dared to assail the Red Guard, murdering a captain and most of her squadron. I want his head.” She watched Victor nod once more before continuing, “Carrance can direct you to where he struck, so that you might find his trail, but I want no excuses.”
A quiet knock drew her eyes to the door. She sighed and called out, “Come.”
Gracelin Shaw peeked inside, the green of her robes standing out against the burnished wood of the door. Deborah waved her inside, turning back to Victor. “Are we clear?”
The Lord of the Hunt bowed deep, his gaze touching hers for but a flicker of an instant before his eyes were away.
“Be about it immediately, and bring me good news, Victor.” She dismissed him with a flutter of her hand. He left the room subdued, a quiet storm rumbling on the horizon. Deborah smiled as the door behind him closed with a gentle click. She glanced to Gracelin, the smile fading.
Deborah gestured toward the absent Lord. “Despite the compulsions set upon him, I do not trust Graves.” She drew back to the throne and settled into it. “He is as willful as the day his people were conquered. He will never be a true servant to us, in spite of all the blood on his hands.”
Gracelin eased up the stairs of the dais. Her dark hair was pulled back tight and pinned against the back of her head, its pull making her face severe. Her brown eyes wide, she dismissed Deborah’s complaint with a snort. “His heart will never be yours, for certain, but the flesh will remain a slave until it is dust. His homeland of Ventor is conquered and a part of Mynistiria now, just as the Outlands are, and all who have stood in the way of your rule. He is but one man, and the very least of our concerns.”
The White Witch agreed with a sigh.
“Has Emerald been found yet?”
Deborah shook her head. “She hides well.”
“Let us hope she hides as well from Elizabeth and her minions.”
“I can only hope. It would serve us poorly were the heir to the throne to fall into that witch’s hands. The rest of the Council would hear of it quicker than any, no doubt”
Deborah leaned back and settled into her throne. It was an uncomfortable seat. More than just the curve of its arms and the hard wood beneath her, the throne bore a heavy burden, its authority steeped in the blood of its predecessor. It was as if the chair knew Deborah did not belong upon it, ever pressuring her in subtle ways to revoke her claim, to step away. The White Witch ground her buttocks down upon it in defiance. There would come a time when she fed the throne to the fire like she had the witch who’d sat upon it last.
She tore her attention from the chair and raised her eyes to Gracelin’s. “I have no faith Graves will succeed in his mission to find the warlock, so have Shade make ready. If Elizabeth has grown bold enough to send one of her minions at the Red Guard directly, it’s only a matter of time until she does so again. We must be prepared.”
Gracelin nodded. “We will find them, Deborah; the warlock and Emerald both.”
The White Witch forced a smile as she rose to her feet, but left it at that. “Ready a bath for me, please.” She glanced once more at the backs of her hands. “I feel the cruel touch of time weathering me as we speak. I would feel young again, Gracelin, if only for a short while.”
The Green Witch grinned. “Capture this warlock alive rather than kill him, and we can bleed him for all eternity.”
Deborah smiled. “You speak the sweetest words.” She strolled across the dais and took Gracelin’s soft hand in hers. With a quiet laugh, she led her down the stairs and out of the room, toward the bathing chambers. For all the efforts of the throne, its burden would be cast aside within the warm embrace of the crimson pool, the blood of warlocks who would never be, cleans
ing the wear of years from her.
If only for a short while, Deborah could forget her duties. She could forget her spiteful daughter who spurned her future inheritance of the throne, and the enslaved General Graves who would forever think of Deborah as the enemy. The bath would chase all that away, as well as the years they brought with them. If only for a short time, she would be happy.
Five
Though worn down from the excesses of the day, Sebastian found sleep to be evasive. He tossed and turned in the rushes, the unfamiliar sounds of Deliton peppering his consciousness as though bee stings. The ever-present scent of burning flesh hung in his nose. Deep into the night, the wind licking at the thatched roof of the hut, he lay staring at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the knotted lines that ran the length of the wooden beams that held the hut together. His mind in a somber fugue, he listened to the crackle of the pyre, doing his best to not imagine the fuel on which it burned. He heard a number of quick pops, followed by a creaking snap.
He shot upright in the bed at the last, the sound having come from behind the hut, from the opposite direction of the burning wood pile. He cleared his mind as he had been taught, his focus on his senses. The wind still rattled Jonas’s home, but between the creaks of the shifting walls he caught the gentle crunch of a footfall, followed a moment later by another, and then yet another.
He eased from the bed and set his bare feet upon the cool wood floor, grateful its planks had been hewn from the trunk of a great tree, unlike the rest of the hut, its natural thickness muffling any sound he might have made. He claimed his sword from beside the cot, leaving it inside its sheath, and crept to the other side of the tiny hut, his ears pricked.
He leaned over to rouse his father only to meet his open eyes. Darius raised a finger to his lips and nodded as he climbed from his bed in silence. Once he was up, he stood rigid a moment, clearly listening. Another footfall sounded and his father tapped his nose and pointed a finger toward the door.
Sebastian sniffed the air and let it drift into his lungs. While it still smelled of burning death, the acrid smoke of it had grown stronger. The crackle of the flames sounded closer than when he had gone to bed. A sharp pop sounded just outside, and Sebastian spied a flicker of light that chased the shadows from the cracks in the walls.
Darius reached beneath his cot and drew out his crossbow, a bolt already nocked in its cradle. He pointed it at the wall where the last of the sounds had emanated from and raised his other hand, fingers extended. He counted down with crisp efficiency, dropping his hand to the crossbow stock right before the count of five. He hit the trigger.
At its metallic twang, Sebastian yanked the door open and dove out low. He heard the bolt strike the wall, then something meatier beyond. A gurgled grunt followed the sound of its impact. Wide-eyed, standing just to the side of the door, was a Red Guard soldier, a burning torch in his hand, a small mace in the other. There was no confidence in his stance.
Sebastian lashed out with his covered sword, the sheath crashing into the soldier’s hand that held the torch. The Red Guard’s knuckles shattered with the crack of dried twigs, the torch casting off angry stars as it was whipped to the side and flung away. The soldier stumbled, his face pale. Sebastian gave him no opportunity to recover. He drove the point of his sheath into the man’s throat, his chin slapping against the metal housing as he fell back, dropping in a heap several yards back.
Sebastian heard the muted voice of his father's crossbow once again and darted around the side of the hut. A Red Guard soldier met him halfway, the orange-red trail of a torch streaking toward him. He grasped his sheath and used both hands to parry the blow, turning his face so the resultant spray of ash and sparks didn’t blind him. The instant he felt the connection, the side of his head awash in swirling heat, he tore his sword loose of its scabbard and rammed the open end of the sheath into the stomach of the torch-wielder. The man grunted and doubled over, pulling the sheath from his hand. Before the soldier could straighten, Sebastian thrust the point of his mercurial blade into the man’s ear.
The Red Guard twitched as the sword pierced his skull and slid serpentine into his brain. The veins at his temple flared up, squirming with fury. His eyes bubbled and burst like over-ripe fruit, spewing the last of the man’s life onto the sand. Sebastian kicked the soldier away and moved on, rounding the corner to the back of the tiny home.
A soldier staggered toward him, clutching high at his chest. Dark fluid gushed from between his fingers, the last few inches of a crossbow bolt protruding from his armpit. The back of another Red Guard could be seen beyond, as he fled. The brightness of his armor was a beacon that betrayed his path even in the shadowed depths of the narrow alleys. One more soldier lay motionless on the ground, one of Darius’ bolts sunk into the center of his face, its rounded end a poor substitute for the nose it had usurped.
Sebastian grabbed the wounded soldier as he stumbled by, but let him loose the moment he saw his eyes. They were filled with a deeper blackness than the blood that poured from his wound. Death had already claimed the man’s mind, his body too stubborn to realize. Sebastian moved to chase after the one who’d gotten away, but his father’s voice called out to him.
“Let him go.”
Sebastian turned to rail against his father’s hypocrisy but saw him holding up the limp arm of the first soldier to fall, shot dead from inside the hut. Through his excitement, he noticed what caught his father’s attention, and why he’d called the chase off: the bright red armor hung loose upon the man’s arm despite the inner clasps cinched tight. Sebastian spun about and went back to the men he’d killed, kneeling beside the first to examine him. The dead man’s armor fit too snugly, gaps running down the sides where the leather didn’t meet, the same at his sleeves. There was dried blood caked about the neck and a few places where the reddened leather had been rubbed free of its dye, as though it had been hastily cleaned.
The other corpse was similar to the one Darius had slain, the straps tightened to the extreme but there was far too much space between the flesh and leather to provide meaningful protection. Sebastian grasped ahold of the corpse’s hand and felt soft, supple skin at the palm and fingertips. He tossed the lifeless limb away and stood with a huff, returning to his father’s side. He examined the bodies there, in turn.
“What do you see?” his father asked.
“An illusion, it would seem.” He glanced about, peering into the night’s darkness but seeing nothing. The only sound was the constant stirring of the pyre, which echoed in the pre-dawn silence. Gingerly, so as not to hurt his naked foot, he kicked at a mace that lay in the sand. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “These men are not Red Guard.”
His father nodded and drew closer, his gaze dancing about the shadows: seeking. “What else?”
“I doubt they’re even warriors. If they had truly intended to burn us out, why leave the door unbarred? Why use no oil or not light the hut from a distance?” He nudged the mace once more. “And since when does the Red Guard wield maces?”
“They don’t,” his father answered plainly.
A stone of realization settled in Sebastian’s stomach. He looked back to the tiny hut they’d been offered so graciously, its location nearest the edge of the village, and then off to the pyre. No one stood about it, the biers burning lonely in the fire’s midst. He turned back and met his father’s cold gaze.
“It would seem we are no longer welcome here.” Sebastian’s shoulders drooped. He had been looking forward to at least a few hours of sleep before his father roused him and dragged him from the warm comfort of his borrowed bed. Darius looked no more pleased than he imagined he did.
“Stay alert. I’ll retrieve our gear.”
His father slipped inside the hut as Sebastian kept watch. The night remained quiet with the stillness of complicity. While the battle lasted no more than a few moments, no one had stirred from their beds or even peeked from their huts to see what had transpired. Though little noise was made be
yond the quick cries of dying men, most covered by the fire’s voice, the release of a crossbow was as distinct a sound as could be made. It left no room for misinterpretation as to its use. It was a weapon made for combat alone.
So soon after the Red Guard had laid the village low, the people of Deliton should be at their most wary, but Sebastian saw no sign of concern; no sign of anything, for that matter. There could be no doubt the villagers had been involved, or willfully ignorant, not to have noticed. The furthest of the neighboring huts was no more than twenty feet away.
He shook his head in disgust as his father returned, passing him his boots. He slipped them on quickly, shouldered his meager pack, and went to retrieve his sheath. He put his sword away and set it back at his hip, motioning to his father that he was ready. Darius headed off without looking back, forcing Sebastian to hurry to keep up. As they made their way from the village, he felt a spike of fury fill his stomach with churning warmth.
Though they hadn’t asked for his help, Sebastian had rid them of the Red Guard that had enslaved them, had slain their sons and fathers, likely raped their wives and daughters, yet they had betrayed him, in turn, as though he was no better than the witches’ pets. Their cowardice sickened him.
He glanced at his father as he walked ahead, his gait hurried and tight-legged, his back stiff with his anger. There was a lesson here, and Sebastian couldn’t help but see it. He muttered a curse as they strode through the gloom, understanding now more than ever why his father had made the wilderness their home, hiding them deep within the barren wastes.
Regardless of Sebastian’s deeds, he would forever be deemed an abomination.
Six
