by Jack Conner
Several times women came to Giorn, strutting, pouting, posing provocatively, but he refused their overtures. Duke Yfrin turned them down, as well, but there was a lusty vigor in his eyes when they came to him and it was only with reluctance that he sent them away. Giorn saw many beggars and thieves, too, and he made sure to keep a close eye on his purse, not that there was much left in it.
At last they passed through the great courtyard before the castle. Here the refugees had come first and had settled in more thoroughly than the latecomers, having dug latrine ditches and organized food preparation. Giorn grimaced at an old woman skinning a dog, possibly a beloved pet—or someone else’s. He passed a makeshift tent just as a young girl, no older than thirteen or fourteen, left it, buttoning her blouse as she went. Her cheeks were flushed and she had clearly just been engaged in private acts. Giorn felt a swell of rage build in him at whoever had dared to take advantage of her, and he glared into the shadows of the tent only to see a broken man, crippled, his arm shriveled and held awkwardly to his chest, the flesh of his face seemingly melted away. He had been burned terribly by some fire—by the looks of it, a recent one, surely caused by Vrulug’s soldiers. Giorn moved on.
He was relieved when they came finally to the high gate in the wall that surrounded the castle. The soldiers there were talking with each other and did not give Giorn or Duke Yfrin much notice—not until Giorn rode forward, shouting, “Good sirs! May I have your attention!”
He spoke with his old voice of command, and it had the desired effect. The guards swiveled their heads.
“You have it, friend, but be quick.”
“I’d like a private word, if I may,” Giorn said, “with your captain.”
“There’s nothing we can do for your lot,” the man said tiredly. “We have told you many times, we’re doing all we can.”
“I’m not a refugee—not precisely.” Actually, that is precisely what he was. “Now, may I have a word? It will only take a moment.”
Grudgingly, the soldier who had spoken, evidently the captain, climbed down and ordered the gates opened. He approached Giorn, and Giorn climbed down from his horse, aware that archers watched him carefully.
“Now, what is this all about?” the captain said.
Giorn motioned for Duke Yfrin to ride forward. At the sudden movement, the archers tensed. Even the captain went a bit rigid, and his hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword.
“Uncle,” Giorn said gently. “Show him.”
As usual, Yfrin wore his cowl low over his face, but now, with a bit more drama than Giorn thought strictly necessary, he whipped it back, revealing his identity. Slowly, the captain’s eyes widened.
“My lord!” Instantly, he sank to his knee.
His soldiers muttered along the wall. They likely couldn’t see Yfrin’s face well enough to recognize it from their positions.
“Is it you?” the captain asked, staring up at the man on the horse.
Yfrin inclined his head—looking very regal, Giorn thought. “It is I, Captain Halstern. I’ve come home.”
It all happened very swiftly after that. Soon Giorn and Yfrin were within the wall of the castle, the gates closed behind them, and the soldiers were laughing and surrounding them, shouting a hundred questions at the duke. He grinned broadly and clapped them on the back or shook their wrists. He seemed to know each and every one by name, and to be known and liked by all. Once again, Giorn was impressed. His own father had been far too aloof to act in such a manner. Feeling optimistic, Giorn followed the happy crowd as it swept up the stairs and into the high hall of the keep. No one asked who he was and he didn’t bother to tell them. They’d find out soon enough. Let Yfrin have his moment.
The soldiers showed them to the throne room, where the new lord of Wenris sat in conference with several stout older men—his generals, Giorn saw by their uniforms. The lord looked up, apparently irritated by the interruption, but irritation gave way to surprise, then curiosity. Finally the old duke was ushered before him, and the current lord’s jaw fell open.
Yfrin smiled. “Son, it has been too long.”
The younger man, whose name, Giorn recalled, was Serit, laughed and leapt to his feet. In an instant he was throwing his arms about his father, and the reunions began. Giorn was very pleased by it all. Finally here it was, something glad. Even in these grim times, moments of lightness and hope existed.
The next few hours passed as if in a dream, and before he knew it Giorn was the honored guest in at a sumptuous feast celebrating Dalic Yfrin’s homecoming. It seemed superfluous to him to have a guest of honor, when clearly Uncle Dalic was the main attraction, but he tolerated it just the same. He gave several toasts, telling of Dalic’s bravery in his escape, and in return Dalic toasted him, telling more lies of Giorn’s own boldness. In truth, of course, they had both run away quite handily and with a complete absence of bloodshed, but that did not make for a good tale.
At one point Serit, a bit unsteady from drink, stood, lifted his bejeweled goblet in his father’s general direction and said, “Father, I’m so glad to have you back. When I first saw you, I thought for sure that you were a ghost.” This drew a few chuckles. “Happily, I was mistaken. I want you to know that we never believed Lord Raugst’s lies and that all here are loyal to you and Lord Wesrain, and we pledge to do anything in our power to help you set things right.”
“Here here!” said the gathered noblemen.
Continuing, Serit said, “I have ruled as well as I’ve been able in your absence, but now, with your return, I gladly hand the dukedom back to its rightful wielder. May you live to rule a hundred years!”
The others echoed the toast, raising their own goblets. Even Giorn joined in. “A hundred years!”
“I thank you, my son, and it’s a most gracious offer,” Duke Yfrin said. “Yet I’m an old man and not fit to lead Wenris in wartime. I have never led a battle in my life, and I’m too old to start now. No, Serit, I think it’s time a younger man sat the throne. Besides, too many will have believed the lies. They will think I slew Lord Wesrain.”
“That’s not so, Father! Not in Wenris. We’ve never lost faith in you.” Serit smiled. “In fact, many think it is our guest of honor that did the deed.”
There were some uncomfortable chuckles at that, and Giorn smiled politely, indicating, he hoped, the falsehood of the jest. He tried to ignore the sweat that broke out on his forehead.
Dalic shook his head. “No. I’m too old. I will retire to our country estate and live out my days there, watching your children hunt rabbits in my garden.” He smiled kindly at Giorn and added, “As I have in the past.” Returning his attention to Serit, he said, “I must refuse your offer. May you rule a hundred years!”
There was more cheering, but Giorn did not join in. What’s the old man doing? The possibility that Dalic would decline to take his old seat of power had never occurred to him. Giorn needed someone he knew and could trust on the throne of Wenris. Surely he knows that. The fool!
When he was able, at a lull between toastings, Giorn went to where Dalic was sitting, drinking his wine and smiling, if somewhat sadly.
“I know you must be wroth with me,” he started.
Giorn was, but he did not say so. Instead, he waited.
“It’s just, being here, after all we’ve gone through, I feel my age more than ever.” Yfrin took a sip and grimaced. “I’m an old man, Giorn, and I fear this war has only made me age faster.” He touched his head absently. “When we were being bathed and cleaned, I caught sight of myself. All white, my hair. All white. I would swear there was a touch of the old yellow in it before all this started, but now . . .” He shook his head ruefully. “Let Serit have it! He’s a good man—I should know, I raised him—he’ll do you proud.” He leaned in closer. “And he will do you proud. He’ll help you win your throne back, have no fear. He’s loyal to the Wesrains, just as I taught him to be. The bow-and-dagger, remember.”
Still, Giorn was uneasy as the feast e
nded and he was shown to his chambers in the guest quarters of the royal wing. Uncle Dalic was a few doors down, in Serit’s old chambers, while Serit occupied Dalic’s old rooms at the end of the hall. Giorn slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Nightmares haunted him. He wasn’t sure if it were the wine, the war, or something else, but something just seemed wrong.
She came to him in the dead of night, it must have been three in the morning. He had finally been beginning to doze, if restlessly, and didn’t hear her approach. Then he felt a feminine form recline on the bed with him, and he smiled and wrapped her slender body in his arms.
“Niara . . .” He kissed her, finding her lips soft and warm.
“Giorn.”
“Niara . . .” He frowned. It wasn’t Niara’s voice.
His eyes fluttered open and he stared, blinking, up at the woman that lay over him. He had only the moonlight shining through the window to see by, and that was blocked by the heavy drapes. Only a trace of ghost-light filtered in, providing just enough illumination to see that this wasn’t Niara. She smelled of flowers and incense.
She did not draw away from him as most women would have after a stranger kissed them. “Giorn,” she said again. She had a soft, young, pleasing voice.
“Who—?”
For an instant he thought of Saria—she’d come to him much like this—but no, this was another, he was certain of it. He shoved her away, climbed to his feet, having forgotten his bad leg in his alarm, then reached for his cane.
She slipped from the bed, graceful as a shadow. He raised his cane menacingly, balancing himself awkwardly on his good leg.
“Explain yourself!”
The dark, oval shape that was her face parted slightly, and he saw the flash of teeth. For a moment, that trace of fear rose in him again, and his cane nearly came down on her head, but then, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized that she was smiling—and most sweetly.
“I’m Histra,” she said. “A friend, fear not.” She swept a delicate arm about the room. “This is the chambers of a concubine of an ancient duke, did you know that?”
“No.” He didn’t lower his cane.
She laughed lightly. “Well, it is. By rights it should be my chambers, not yours.”
He frowned. “You’re Serit’s mistress?” He was aware that the duke was married; his wife had been at the feast.
“You’re rather blunt, I think.”
Reluctantly, he lowered his cane. “What do you here? Did you mistake my quarters for Serit’s? Or are you planning on making the switch from duke’s woman to baron’s?”
“Not just blunt, but rude.”
He massaged his forehead with the hand not gripping the cane. “It’s late, I’m tired, a bit worse for drink, and a strange woman has entered my chambers without announcing her reasons, and this after I have endured many attempts on my life throughout recent months.”
She softened. She stole forward and gripped his forearm, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m sorry, Lord Wesrain. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Then what, precisely, did you mean to do?”
She nodded her head to a black space in the wall, a narrow gap that had to be the way she’d entered by.
“Come with me,” she said. “I came through the tunnel the old duke built to visit his concubine.”
Giorn raised his eyebrows.
Histra smiled again, this time softly. “The duke knew his wife would kill him if she found out about the concubine, so he kept it from her. They slept in adjoining rooms, he and his wife, but she would know if he left through the front door, so he had this passage built.”
“Did it work?”
“Oh, she caught him in the end. She first slew his mistress, then she dressed up in the girl’s clothes, waited in her bed, and when her husband came to her in the night, thinking it was his lover, she let him have his way with her and afterward, with him still inside her, she slit his throat and drank his blood.”
He shivered. “Hell of a thing.”
“It was. And that’s how the guards found them later, with her straddling him, drinking his blood, his death-hardened member still inside her. The most interesting thing about the tale is that afterward, since they had no issue, the guards didn’t dare apprehend her or even report the crime. Chaos would have broken out. There would have been civil war. So she continued ruling the dukedom till her death twenty years later. After her husband’s death, they say, she acquired a taste for human blood, and—”
“Enough. Why should I come with you? Did Serit summon you to bring me to him? If this passage goes to his chambers, then, by all means, let us go, if it will get you to stop talking and allow me to get some rest.”
“Thank you.” She gestured toward the doorway.
“Oh no,” he said. “After you.”
She slipped like a slim pale ghost into the darkness.
Giorn took the moment to shove his hunting knife into the waistband of his nightpants. Whatever trap this was, he would meet it armed.
He found the passageway dark and cold. He could smell the girl’s scent even more acutely in the tight space. Flowers, incense, and . . . something else. Something coppery.
Chapter 19
“Here,” the girl said, pausing to trigger a panel, which opened for her.
A secret passage within a secret passage. Giorn’s mind spun as he stared into the blackness. Histra took a lantern that hung on the wall, lit it and stepped into the narrow tunnel. On the first step, Giorn nearly fell.
Cursing, he righted himself and squinted about. It was a small, tight stairwell, spiraling down into darkness. The stairs proved steep and small, and he would have to make his way carefully with his bad leg. Glaring at Histra’s back—she could have warned him—he followed her down, several times nearly slipping on slime mold.
“What’s this? I thought we were going to Serit’s quarters.”
“Oh, no. That wouldn’t do. He has several servants that sleep in the antechambers. They would overhear our discussion.”
“And what are we to discuss?”
“You shall see, my lord.” With one hand holding the hem of her dress, the other the lantern, she led on through the darkness. The small orange-red blob of light shifted and swayed, making the shadows leap like drunken things.
“Why is this stairway here?” he asked. “You said the old duke built the passage we just left to visit his concubine. So why the stairs?”
“Oh, he built the passage, all right. As for the stairs—well, after his wife slew them—and, I should add, ate them afterwards—well, remember, I told you that she developed a taste for human blood?”
Carefully, Giorn took another step down. He slipped on a patch of slime and had to grab a rough stone along the wall for support. With a ragged breath, he said, “Yes. And?”
“Think about who she was. She’d killed two people, totally given in to her darker passions, then, consumed with her hate for those that had wronged her, she ate them. At the same time, she was ruler of a prosperous duchy. A dark-willed duchess, yes.”
She seemed to like this tale a little too much. “Please just get to the point.”
“Oh, I am, my lord. For, you see, it wasn’t long until Gilgaroth reached out to her.”
“Gilgaroth?”
“The Breaker felt her darkness, her hate, her bloodlust, her power, and He reached out to her. Touched her in dreams. Spoke to her, whispered promises in the night. And she heeded Him.”
“What are you saying?” Gooseflesh rose on his skin.
“She turned to the worship of the Wolf.”
“Impossible!” He needed both hands now, one on his cane and one to brace himself on the sometimes rough, sometimes slick walls. Otherwise he would have reached for his hunting knife.
“Oh, no, not impossible. She turned to Him. She journeyed down into the deepest catacombs below this castle, where the servants were too superstitious to venture, and built an altar to Him.”
Giorn shivered.
“A Black Altar, here . . . ?”
“There she brought prisoners to be sacrificed to Him. Just as now, there were no public executions in Fiarth, and so the sentences were carried out in private. She took over the duty herself. There were many rumors about her in those days, and her actions caused many scandals, but no one could prove anything, and all were too afraid to try. So it continued. For a score of years it went on like that, until at last she went to her dark master for good and all, and her nephew assumed the throne of the dukedom.”
“Amazing. And this . . . this altar . . . is it still here? Surely it was destroyed. If you know the tale, then that must mean . . .”
“Oh, it was found, years later. But not destroyed. All feared that her spirit was still near, still haunting the lower portions of the catacombs, and that it still served the Dark One. Castle servants even to this day refuse to sleep on the ground level. Those that did in older times reported that their breath was stolen in the night, and they woke up weary and gray. Some didn’t live long. This went on for a long while until the duke at the time ordered that the servants’ rooms be moved to the second floor. Since then, there have been no problems. Apparently the duchess, if it really is her spirit feeding off the living, cannot venture far from the Altar.” She let that sink in. “But that’s why this tunnel is here. She commissioned it to be built so that she could visit the Black Altar in secret. I don’t know what happened to the masons—nothing good, I would imagine.”
She stopped at a blank, black wall. She pressed a certain stone, then shoved at the wall, which swung away, and stepped out into a broader corridor.
“Here we are,” she said, smiling. “The catacombs.”
He did not smile back.
She led on. Giorn was more than beginning to think he should never have come. He had thought he was just going a few rooms down, to the duke’s chambers. Surely nothing overly bad could happen there, in the royal wing. But here, in the catacombs . . .
