Gauntlet of Iniquity (The Azuleah Trilogy Book 2)

by Daniel Adorno

  “It’s settled then,” Brandewulf replied, a smirk spreading on his face. He got up and grabbed something from the bureau near the bed. Walking up to Ravenmane, he revealed a small vial of clear liquid. “Pour this vial in Alfryd’s wine tonight after you’ve dealt with Brinley. It should be more than enough to stop the king’s heart before he finishes the meal.”

  She took the vial and stowed it in a hidden pocket within her apron where her dagger remained concealed. “And what if I can’t poison his drink? Brinley isn’t always in the kitchen when they prepare the food.”

  “Well, then get him down there. We need to make this seamless. No mistakes or both our necks will be on the line. And we wouldn’t want your master to be upset about another failure, now would we?” Brandewulf said menacingly.

  She scowled at him. The previous mission she had undertaken was entirely successful on her part. Stendahl was killed, and she had escaped. The only mistakes made were on the part of the dragons. They hadn’t destroyed the army in Ithileo or the city of Aldron. She couldn’t be blamed for that. But for whatever reason, she had become the scapegoat.

  “I’ll get the job done, Brandewulf. Just make sure he drinks the blasted wine,” she said.

  Ravenmane rose from the chair and said nothing more, leaving the room abruptly.

  She returned to the kitchen, carrying out her menial tasks while playing out their plan in her mind over and over.

  Three hours. That was how much time she had to make sure the poison was in Alfryd’s wine without Brinley’s knowledge.

  *

  Half an hour before dinner was to be served, Aldis was giving instructions to the footmen and servants in the scullery. Ravenmane could barely hear the man over her thumping heart. Brinley hadn’t shown up downstairs in the time she’d spoken with Brandewulf. Usually he’d be down here an hour or so before the meal was to be served upstairs. After Aldis finished his instructions to the servants on what dishes to serve first and a host of other duties related to the meal, everyone dispersed to their stations to get ready for the banquet.

  She walked over to Liesl, who was pouring a beef broth into bowls set in a line on a counter.

  “Liesl, have you seen Brinley today?” she asked.

  Liesl shook her head, but didn’t look up from her task. “No, I haven’t seen him. Why do you need him? Oh, wait,” she said, now turning to her with a ridiculous grin. “He’s your boyfriend, ain’t he? I’ve seen the way you’ve been talking to him. You’re keen on him.”

  Ravenmane fought every desire to scowl at her. Instead she controlled herself and shrugged bashfully. “No, I just wondered where he might be, is all,” she said. It probably suited her purposes to keep any rumors going of her and Brinley’s blooming relationship. After all, most people might become suspicious of a cook who went out of her way to befriend a cupbearer given the nature of the latter’s job.

  “You’re not fooling anyone. You like him. I know a lovestruck look when I see it, and you’ve got it, dearie,” Liesl said, throwing in one of those annoying giggles. “You might try asking Ned. Sometimes he smokes the pipe with Brinley on their breaks.”

  Ravenmane nodded and left without any further inquiries. Ned was one of the junior footmen at Gilead Palace, and she had seen him conversing with Brinley in the past. He was the footman who had offered to help her carry soup to Brandewulf’s quarters earlier. He was a nice lad, if a little bit of a country bumpkin.

  She found him polishing silverware in the scullery.

  “Ned, there you are,” she said with a hint of exasperation. “Have you seen Brinley around?”

  Ned looked at her and pursed his lips. “Not since lunch time, but I bet he’s probably upstairs with some of the staff, helping to set the tables. Brinley always helps them on big events in the great hall,” he said.

  “Thank you, Ned,” she said with a smile. A question lingered on the man’s face, but Ravenmane left before he could voice it. She didn’t have time to prattle on with servants.

  She climbed the stairs leading to the first floor of the palace, then entered one of the hallways. It was a brief walk to the great hall which she’d only seen once, but she worked hard to memorize every winding path of Gilead Palace and increase her options for escape.

  Inside the great hall, she saw long wooden tables set up in columns of three running the span of the large room. From a cursory count, she surmised there were at least thirty tables, including the head table, which was placed on a raised dais at the end of the hall. Glancing around the room, she caught sight of Brinley, who was unfolding a linen tablecloth and helping one of the maids spread it over one of the last bare tables. She walked briskly over to him, taking stock of the many decorations placed inside the hall to mark the occasion. Banners exhibiting the crests of all the Four Houses of Aldron were hung throughout the room, and ice sculptures of the leading families of each house stood in every corner. She saw Brandewulf’s sculpture and smiled, realizing that the sculptor had made his nose larger than normal. The duke’s vanity would likely be incensed at that oversight.

  “Hello, Brinley,” Ravenmane said with a smile.

  The cupbearer turned to face her, and a smile broke out on his ruddy face. “Hello, Rae! What are you doing up here? There’s lots of work to do yet; the banquet is underway soon, and Aldis will be hopping mad if he knew you were taking a break now,” he said.

  “I’m finished with all my duties for the moment, but I was hoping you would join me for a cup of tea downstairs?” she offered.

  “Right now? We’re a bit behind schedule,” he said, frowning.

  “The maids can take care of it. Besides, you need to pour the king’s wine, don’t you? We could do that over tea,” she said.

  “Well, I suppose, but—”

  Ravenmane stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his forearm gently. “You have such an important role, Brinley. Your time is being wasted up here. Plus, I’d really like to get some time alone…to talk, if you catch my meaning,” she said in a sultry voice.

  Brinley swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, I think I’d like to talk,” he replied.

  Ravenmane clasped his hand, and the two darted off to the hallway leading back down the kitchen. They received a few unsavory looks from the maids who rushed through dressing the table. But the matter didn’t bother Brinley now that Ravenmane had him under her spell.

  Once they were in the kitchen, she let go of his hand and allowed him to fetch the king’s wine from the cellar where it was kept. She told him to meet her in one of the storage rooms tucked away from prying eyes. He smiled at the suggestion and rushed off to the cellar.

  While he was away, Ravenmane made her way into the storage room and mulled over her options. Her initial instinct was to knock Brinley unconscious and lock him in the room. Then she could easily put the poison in the cup and send it up with one of the footmen to the king. But that would be too suspicious, especially if Brinley hadn’t been the one to send the wine along. She sighed, dreading that she might actually have to seduce the man. A pang of distaste hit her at the thought of kissing the cupbearer. He was handsome enough, but she despised acting the part of a giddy maid ready to kiss whoever happened along. Like Liesl or Gwendolyn.

  Brinley opened the door to the room and stepped in, holding a large cask and two goblets. “I don’t think anyone saw me come this way. Everyone’s busy with all the preparations—especially Aldis,” he said, smiling.

  Ravenmane forced a smile and gestured toward the goblets. “You brought two?”

  “Yes, I thought we could have a taste of the finest wine in the royal collection together,” he said. He handed her a goblet and poured some of the wine in it. Then he did the same for himself.

  “Shouldn’t you taste mine first to make sure it’s safe?” Ravenmane said, jokingly.

  Brinley frowned, not following for a moment. Then he glanced at the cask and smiled as understanding dawned on him. “Yes, of course!” he replied, setting his glass on a tab
le nearby and grabbing hers. He sipped the wine then smacked his lips a few times. He waited briefly to see if anything would happen, but nothing did.

  “I believe it’s safe, my lady,” he said with a wide grin.

  Ravenmane nodded, then sipped the wine herself as Brinley took some from his own cup. Afterward he set the king’s goblet down and looked at her with a sheepish smile on his face.

  Playing the part now, she tossed her cup aside and lunged at him. She embraced him and allowed her lips to lock onto his own. Brinley was understandably taken aback by her forward advances, but he did not resist her. His back was to the wooden table where he had placed the king’s goblet. Ravenmane pulled out the poison in her apron while still holding Brinley in a tight embrace.

  He pulled away from their kiss and laughed nervously. “Maybe we’re moving a bit too fast, Rae,” he said.

  “Nonsense, Brinley,” she replied, planting another kiss on his lips. Inside, she loathed the whole affair. She’d never kissed a man in her life, and she had never intended to. Brinley wasn’t the sharpest man alive, but he wasn’t a ruffian either. Still, if she had to choose a man to kiss, he was far down the list of potential candidates.

  As the kissing continued, Ravenmane snaked her arm out and felt for the goblet behind Brinley. She uncorked the stopper with her thumb and began to pour the poison into the cup. But the awkward position of her arm caused her to spill some of the contents onto the floor. She cursed inwardly, hoping what she poured in the goblet would be substantial.

  After she waited a few seconds for the poison to dissipate in the wine, she suddenly released her hold on Brinley. She deftly hid the vial in her apron as she put on a shocked expression.

  Brinley’s eyes widened at her abrupt reaction. “What’s the matter? Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “The banquet! You’re going to be late, Brinley. That won’t do at all; the king needs his wine with the rest of the guests. Go on before you get in trouble,” she scolded.

  “Oh dear, you’re right!” he replied, whirling around, searching for the goblet. Ravenmane pointed it out to him and he quickly picked it up. He poured some more wine from the cask into it and prepared to take another sip, but she stopped him.

  “Brinley, you’ve already tasted it; it’s fine! Now get going before you lose your position!”

  Brinley nodded several times, then turned to give her a final kiss. She stopped him by clutching his chin and turning his face toward the door.

  “Go!” she said angrily.

  “Right, right!” he said, walking to the door and finally leaving.

  Ravenmane sighed heavily, then smiled in spite of herself.

  CHAPTER 13

  ULRIC SKYHAND

  Nestled in a poorly lit lane blocks away from Gilead Palace was a small tavern known as the Mortar and Pestle. The tavern had long been a popular destination for Aldronian residents and travelers, famous for its honey beer and roasted boar. The outer facade of the tavern looked dingy and weathered, a simple wooden building with little adornment except a rickety sign hanging from chains above the eaves. The sign displayed the faded picture of its namesake, a mortar and pestle painted in drab colors. Inside the tavern, the crowd was wild and cheery, but even more so at supper time when peasants and merchants flocked to the bar.

  Lucius felt very much out of place in the setting, but nothing about his dress or demeanor made him stand out among the throng of patrons. He had left the palace to explore the city and clear his mind after the momentous events of the day. Grief over the loss of Helmer and his homeland gnawed at him. He had never lost anyone so close in his life. Both of his parents had died before he’d known them, and their loss seemed distant to him. Helmer, on the other hand, was the only father Lucius knew. Now he, Peniel, and every elf in Evingrad were gone.

  Siegfried had taken the news hard, retreating into their room and staring out the window in silence. Incapable of sitting in the same room with the weight of the tragedy on his mind, Lucius decided to practice his sword skills. He was assigned to a Drachengarde commander named Wesley, who sparred with him for several hours. The intense training took his mind off his grief, the looming war, and the Requiem Sword. But once Wesley concluded the session for the day, the emotional burden returned in force. Lucius needed time to process everything, and time away in the city aided that.

  Ever since the battle in the Grey Swamps, he’d pushed everything aside to focus on the mission at hand, but if it continued his mind might burst. Prayer to Yewa had provided little comfort, and despite his continuing study of the scrolls Alistair gave him, he found few concrete answers to guide him. Curiously, he found a passage about Sêrhalon where the Ultimum chronicled Yesu’s eventual victory over the demon lord. The passage in question was at the end of the book, and it revealed much about how the everlasting king would return to deal the final blow to the Wretched One. Lucius reveled in the details of Sêrhalon’s defeat after what that monster had inflicted upon him.

  A sudden shiver overtook him at the thought of seeing the demon lord’s cold silver eyes again.

  A raucous round of cheering erupted a few tables away from where he sat. A dozen round tables filled with revelers cramped the dining area of the tavern. Other patrons were gathered around the bar, and this was where Lucius witnessed a large group of men raising their tankards for a toast. Most of the men were farmers, but he saw one or two men dressed in surcoats with coats of arms denoting their knightly status. A few shuffled to the right, and their parting allowed Lucius to see the individual whom they were all toasting.

  It was a dwarf.

  He sat on a bar stool too high for his stubby legs. The dwarf took a swig of his tankard, then slammed it on the counter, inciting another round of cheers. Besides Siegfried, Lucius hadn’t seen any non-humans inhabiting Aldron. It was quite peculiar for a dwarf to live here. The dwarves hated traveling too far from their own borders unless they were on a military campaign.

  Lucius pondered the matter further as a barmaid walked up to his table and placed a tankard of mead in front of him.

  “Will that be all, sir?” she asked.

  He looked up at her, surprised to find that she was quite pretty. Even in the dimly lit tavern her long flowing hair and pixie-like nose gave her face a pleasing warmth and friendliness.

  “No, thank you. Although do you happen to know why those people are celebrating with that dwarf?” he asked.

  She smiled at him. “You must be new around here. That’s Ulric Skyhand. He’s famous around here. He was the dwarf who felled the dragon that attacked us,” she said.

  Ulric Skyhand!

  The dwarf’s name struck a chord in his memory. Balfour had mentioned that a dwarf by that name lived here and had also slayed a dragon. He hadn’t really thought about a dwarf fighting a dragon before. Taking a pull of his mead, he considered the scenario. Dwarves stood no taller than three feet, though some were shorter. Lucius had never seen a dragon up close except for the images of Kraegyn in his nightmares. They easily towered over a man by at least twenty feet. How in the world did Ulric manage to kill a dragon single-handedly?

  He mulled it over a moment, then realized the barmaid was still standing next to him.

  The pretty girl had a waiting expression on her face, and he realized he’d forgotten to pay for the drink. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, grabbing his coin purse from his belt.

  “Quite all right, sir. No harm done,” she said politely.

  He handed her two copper centens and then quickly put a silver deca in her hand as well. “Will you serve another round of drinks to Mr. Skyhand and his friends? If he asks who paid for them, point over to my table please,” he instructed.

  The woman placed the coins in her apron and nodded, walking off toward the bar. Lucius sipped his drink and waited. After Ulric and his coterie were served another round, he watched as the dwarf turned curiously toward Lucius’ table. The dwarf downed his tankard, then hopped off the bar stool and approach
ed Lucius’ table.

  As he drew near, Lucius studied the stocky dwarf. Ulric had a large hooked nose with solemn features and a face that appeared chiseled from stone. A large bald spot covered the top of his head, and wisps of brown hair were combed over it in a poor attempt to mask the area. His beard reached the middle of his chest, and colorful bands held elaborate braids in place. Lucius noticed he wore the signature blue tunic of a ship captain, with long black boots rising to his knees.

  Ulric’s steely gaze bore into Lucius once he stopped at the table.

  “Ulric Skyhand is the name, lad,” he said, extending a hand toward him.

  Lucius clasped it and shook it firmly, trying to match the dwarf’s iron grip. “Lucius…Lucius of Evingrad,” he stammered. It was likely a foolish idea to use his surname anywhere outside of the palace walls. But stating where he hailed from was equally unwise. Most people didn’t know any elves from Evingrad, and none at all knew of a man coming from there.

  “Evingrad, you say?” Ulric said, frowning. “That’s the land of the elves. They allow men to dwell there now?”

  “Not really. I was a special case,” Lucius said ruefully.

  Ulric took a seat on the opposite side of the table. “I know about special cases, lad. Among my own kin I’m considered a bit of an oddity,” he said, looking down at the table.

  “Oh? Why is that?” Lucius prompted.

  “Well, for one I haven’t stepped foot in Djoulmir for decades. Not since the last wyrm of the north was killed. I’ve spent most of my days on the open sea. An unlikely occupation for the sons of Ulfr. But I love the salt spray and crashing waves on the prow of my ship, lad. There’s a serenity and beauty to the ocean unknown in the dark mines of the dwarves,” he said, smirking thoughtfully.

  “So you’re a captain? What brought you away from the frigid north to the coastlands?”

  “The wyrms, boy. The wyrms,” Ulric said emphatically. “Before the dragons were running amok, Raven’s Peak was overrun with wyrms from Northerwyld. They’re savage beasts, mindless and dangerous. I loved hunting them down. They called me ‘the Wyrm’s Bane’ in my youth. My father and I killed hundreds of them until…he was felled by one of the monsters.”