When she’d decided the floor was clear she stepped closer to the bed, tensing every muscle to make as little noise with her feet as possible. Then she froze once more at the sight of another person in the room. On the other side of bed, slightly obscured by one of the four posts, sat a woman in a chair.
Ravenmane’s throat became dry at the thought of being caught. But her overactive nerves subsided a little when she realized the woman was also asleep. She peered closer and caught a hint of red curly hair in the dim light. The woman looked to be about her age, young and rather beautiful even in the low light. Her simple dress betrayed any allusion that she was a noble. So who allowed a commoner to keep watch at the king’s bedside? Ravenmane pondered the question, then realized it was of little importance. Her options now were either to kill the woman and Alfryd, or to abort the plan altogether.
Realizing that the latter option was unacceptable to Memnon, she continued on her current course. She would kill the woman once Alfryd was dead since he would not put up any fight. If the red-haired woman awoke, Ravenmane could easily slit her throat before any scream could be heard. There was no guarantee that Ravenmane could keep the entire affair silent despite her skill, but she had little choice in the matter now.
Creeping around to the other side of the bed where the woman sat, Ravenmane sidled up to Alfryd’s side and looked down at the crippled monarch. He was pale and releasing shallow breaths every few seconds. The resolute face of the great king was hardly visible now in this humbled state. Part of her felt guilty for inflicting such a grievous wound on a sovereign ruler. The thought of finishing him off like a wounded dog caused her to rethink this ill deed.
But then she thought of her mother. The memory of the four Aldronian men who robbed and then killed her was still vivid. They wore the emblem of Royal Guards, sworn to protect the weak and uphold the law, and yet they acted like common thugs. How many more mothers or fathers have died because of Aldron’s corrupt military or Dermont’s mismanagement? He might be a popular king in this city, but that didn’t mean he was a good king.
Ravenmane sighed and pictured her mother again, but not those last fleeting moments where she lay dead in the grass after the soldiers had left her. She thought instead of her beautiful face and hazel eyes which always exhibited warmth and love.
The image of her was so clear in Ravenmane’s mind that she was suddenly drawn to a portrait hung near Alfryd’s bed. She found herself staring at a painting of a woman who looked oddly similar to her mother. For a moment, Ravenmane thought the daydream was causing her to project the image of her mother’s face on this painted woman. But as she scrutinized the portrait longer, she realized that wasn’t the case.
Leaving the king’s bedside, she walked up to the painting and in the light of the fire saw her mother’s distinct face staring back at her.
Dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and hazel eyes.
The painted woman’s expression mirrored her mother’s tender look. “Mother?” she whispered, feeling her voice crack.
On the painted woman’s lap sat a child—a young girl with raven black hair and eyes very similar to her mother’s. Ravenmane had owned a portrait of her younger self, but she reasoned that this girl was a convincing facsimile.
Her mind raced as she considered the dilemma before her.
How did King Alfryd come across this painting? And why, of all places, is it in his own bedroom?
A mixture of emotions raked through her mind as she considered every possibility. Perhaps the king had his mother killed by those accursed soldiers and this painting was some kind of trophy. Or maybe he knew nothing about her mother and simply bought this painting from someone else. She couldn’t know the reason, and it drove her mad. In the end, the frustration of not knowing fueled anger within her, and she gripped the dagger tighter.
She walked toward the king again, minding her steps to keep from rousing the woman sitting beside him. Alfryd was still sleeping soundly, oblivious that his life would end in mere seconds. She raised the dagger above her head to prepare a quick strike to his heart, but stopped when the latch on the door began to squeak open.
Before the lock was undone, she quickly rushed behind the door, allowing it to conceal her as it opened. A guard walked inside slowly and walked toward the bed. Ravenmane cursed inwardly, knowing her opportunity had been lost. The guard was quietly checking the king and the woman. His back was turned to Ravenmane, but it wouldn’t be long before he saw her. She tiptoed carefully toward the open door, peering outside to see if any more guards were waiting.
The dark hall outside was empty, so she crept toward it. She kept her eyes on the guard, who was now pulling the covers over the king’s chest.
In the hallway, she quietly turned the corner then stopped abruptly. A large man stood in her path, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. She drew herself up, swinging the dagger up at him, but he was quicker. A fist cracked the side of her jaw and she fell hard on the stone floor. Her vision became blurred from the impact, but she stood up to face the man nonetheless. A nearby torch illuminated the man’s features.
It was Brandewulf.
“Guards, the assassin is here!” he yelled. Then he smiled at her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’ve done well, Ravenmane.”
Before she could understand what was happening, Brandewulf swiftly kicked her in the gut and she doubled over. The last sounds she heard were footsteps pounding the stone floor before a hard object struck her in the head. Shadows swirled at the sides of her vision until she saw nothing.
*
Cold water splashed on Ravenmane’s face and body, rousing her awake from the cold stone floor she laid on. Her body broke into shivers as she tried to focus on the men standing over her. The dimly-lit room she sat in smelled of mold and urine. She coughed uncontrollably and realized columns of steel bars stood between her and the men watching her intently.
One of the men she recognized—Brandewulf, the man who had betrayed her and beat her senseless. Her jaw and head ached tremendously from the blows he’d inflicted. It took every ounce of strength in her body to stay lucid as she studied the men watching her. There were four of them, including the treacherous Duke of Allesmeade. One of the group had long blond hair and wore a purple tunic with a dark velvet cape. The expensive clothing stood out among the rest, and she concluded that this must be Prince Silas. The man next to him had a scowl on his face, and he held a rusted bucket in his hands. He’d been the oaf who woke her and caused her to shiver uncontrollably from the cold air within this dank dungeon.
“Who are you?” Silas asked menacingly.
Ravenmane ran a hand over her wet face and glowered at the men, content to stay silent.
“I knew she’d be uncooperative, Your Majesty,” Brandewulf apologized. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought my cook could be responsible for this business with your father. I am truly sorry, my lord—”
Silas gestured amiably at him. “You couldn’t have known, Brandewulf. But now I wish to know who she is and why she planned to murder my father.”
“You may not get anything out of her, sire,” the man with the bucket said. “She looks ready to die before talking.”
“We’ll see about that, Blaise,” Silas replied, glowering at Ravenmane.
She allowed a bemused smile to form on her lips. In truth, Blaise was right. Death was altogether more preferable than giving the Aldronians any information that might give them an advantage against the Draknoir.
She’d never be in this position if it hadn’t been for Brandewulf. His betrayal had been a complete surprise given what she’d known about the man and his dealings. Everything Durgan had told her seemed to put him firmly in the camp of Nasgothar supporters. She wondered if Silas had offered him something more lucrative, though she doubted anything but the throne could satiate Brandewulf’s lust for power.
“Tell me your name, woman,” Silas said sternly. “Or maybe you’d like a few rounds on the rack in
the next room. You’d be surprised how much prisoners talk after they’ve been stretched for a few hours.”
The intimidation didn’t work on her. She trained for pain under Memnon and was ready to endure it if necessary. Of course, everyone had a breaking point when it comes to torture, but the Draknoir embraced pain like humans eat food to survive. Eventually she’d break and spill Memnon’s secrets, but not before a long, drawn-out session. And by the time they extracted any useful information from her, it would be too late. The Draknoir will have attacked the city and razed it, she thought happily. Her master’s secrets would be kept safe.
As she thought about those secrets, she realized that some of them included her own. The portrait of her mother immediately came to mind. If anyone knew why that picture was there it would likely be Memnon. She had seen the Draknoir sorcerer conjure images of the past before, and his powers would likely allow him to see how Alfryd procured the painting. But any hope of finding the answers to that question quickly died as she looked around her and considered her prospects in this dungeon. The crime of attempted murder on a sovereign ruler would undoubtedly be death by hanging. Unless she found a way out of here before the sentence was carried out, she’d never see Memnon again.
“I’m going to ask you one more time: what is your name?” Silas growled.
Ravenmane sat up and looked at him coldly. Giving him her name would be foolish. Better to forestall this entire process than give in to her enemies too quickly.
“Let me speak with her, my lord,” Brandewulf said abruptly. “She’s worked in my kitchens and spoken with my staff. Perhaps I can find ways to be…persuasive. Besides, you look exhausted. You should rest; the Four Houses need you to lead our initiative against the Draknoir until your father is well again.”
Silas sighed, but he did not argue the point. “I am tired, Brandewulf. Try to coax something out of her before morning. If she doesn’t give us answers before then I want her executed immediately. I will not have a rogue element in my kingdom. Blaise, will you relay the news of the assassin’s capture to the other nobles and the constable? We need to show solidarity and send a message of strength in the midst of my father’s condition.”
“Right away, my lord,” Blaise said. He turned and walked out the door on the far end of the dungeon.
Silas looked over at Brandewulf uncertainly. “Lord Brandewulf, are you sure you can get answers out of her?” he asked.
Brandewulf shrugged. “As I said, I can be quite persuasive, your Majesty. And even if I can’t get her to talk, we can always hang her to keep morale among the people high.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Silas replied, not entirely convinced. He glanced over at Ravenmane. It was a stare full of hatred and revulsion. She wasn’t intimidated easily, but the prince wasn’t one of the usual weak nobles who’d never set foot in a battlefield. Silas Dermont’s reputation was infamous among the Draknoir. He and his Drachengarde had killed hundreds of her allies. In those eyes she could see he desired to do the same to her. She kept his gaze for a moment until he turned and walked out the door without looking back.
“You’ve certainly ruffled his feathers,” Brandewulf said, chuckling.
Ravenmane scowled at him. She stood from the ground and stepped up to the bars. “If these bars weren’t between us, you’d be dead by now,” she said evenly.
“Come now, Ravenmane. That isn’t very lady-like—threatening a nobleman? You forget that Memnon entrusted me to help you in this endeavor,” he replied.
“Yes, and you’ve shown where your true allegiance lies. When the Draknoir get ahold of you—”
“Save it. I haven’t betrayed them; you’ve just missed the greater picture here. I needed a way into the good graces of Silas and the rest of the nobles. Simply showing support at the council meetings wasn’t going to do that. But discovering the would-be assassin of his father? Now that is something anyone would feel indebted to,” he said, smiling.
“So you set me up?” Ravenmane asked, clenching her teeth.
“In a word, yes, but don’t worry. The king will be dead soon enough without forcing your hand. I emptied some more poison in one of the medicines his physicians prescribed when they were hauling you to the dungeon. The whole plan has come together without a hitch, don’t you think?”
She felt heart pound wildly, and her shoulders shook from the seething anger that gripped her. If only she had her dagger. One quick thrust through the bars and she could pierce the man’s heart.
“You really must desire for me to kill you, Wolf,” she growled.
Brandewulf’s smile faded slightly. “Don’t call me that. I am the Duke of Allesmeade, and my title demands respect. For you see, soon I will be the king of Aldron. I’ve already taken care of Alfryd. Next will be Silas and the Requiem Sword,” he said.
“The Requiem Sword?” Ravenmane said, taken aback. The name was vaguely familiar to her. She’d heard Memnon speaking about it to Genghis when she casually walked into one of their meetings. Something about an elvish prophecy. She couldn’t remember, but now it seemed quite significant if Brandewulf wanted it.
“Yes, the sword of Cervantes. A relic of immense power and royal prestige. Once I’ve secured it in my possession, dealing with the grief-stricken Silas will be simple. The people will clamor for the return of the Golden Millennium and welcome a ruler who wields the blade of Yesu. And when that time comes, the alliance between Aldron, Nasgothar, and Ghadarya will be unstoppable,” Brandewulf said. He smiled, then turned toward the door.
“Wait,” Ravenmane said. “We’re on the same side, Brandewulf. Let me out of here!”
He stood with his back to her, but she pictured the arrogant smirk on his face.
“No, I don’t think you understand, Ravenmane. You are no longer needed. Memnon will learn of your failure to kill the king the first time, and he will undoubtedly punish you. I’m just taking a step out of the equation to make things easier. I’ll put in a good word for you though,” he said, then took a step toward the door.
“I’ll rat you out if you walk out that door! So help me,” she threatened.
“Please, go ahead. I’m sure Silas will believe the word of a woman sentenced to be hanged for assassinating the king.”
He opened the heavy iron door of the dungeon and walked out, slamming it behind him.
Ravenmane banged her fists against the metal bars until her hands could no longer take the abuse. Then she fell to her knees, spent from the effort. Her body throbbed from the wounds Brandewulf had inflicted on her—physically and emotionally. Tears welled up in her eyes and, for the first time since her mother died, she sobbed.
CHAPTER 18
RESTLESS DRAGON
The sun hung low in the western sky above the ruins of Arkadeus, spilling streaks of light on the courtyard where dozens of Draknoir warriors were drilling combat maneuvers over and over again.
From the highest tower of the fortress, Memnon watched as his generals barked orders at their warriors endlessly. They would retire soon to dine in the main keep next to the courtyard.
His eyes moved to the west wing of the fortress where a large structure—a holding pen—stood. The pen’s roof was no longer intact, and the gaping hole allowed him an easy view of its interior. Inside, three dragons were roosting and conversing in their guttural speech. He made out a few words, but the most significant was his own name and the word “failed”.
He snarled in anger, knowing well the context of the conversation without understanding the entirety of the language.
Five days ago, he had attempted to cast a binding spell on one of the dragons below. Gerudos, the largest dragon of the five tribes, had volunteered to sacrifice his body to revive his master, Kraegyn. The spell required a near identical host body for Kraegyn to inhabit, and Gerudos suited that purpose well. But the binding spell was a complex incantation, requiring utmost focus and tapping into black magic that Memnon was only vaguely familiar with. He was a skilled sorcerer almost to the leve
l of his predecessor, Scipio. As a necromancer, he could easily revive dead Draknoir soldiers and command them to continue fighting. His allegiance to Nergoth, the god of death, also increased his magical prowess. But binding a soul imprisoned in the Abode of Shadows, especially one so powerful as Kraegyn, required skill at a level that Memnon had yet to reach. And so he failed.
He knew he was close to harnessing that power. Each day he practiced his incantations and made blood sacrifices to Nergoth. His body was practically mutilated from the scars of the cuts he made to draw blood. It was an honor to give so much to Nergoth and receive his favor.
And yet none of it was satisfactory to the dragons.
They were in awe of Scipio and the magic he wielded long ago. The fact that Memnon had failed to release their master from the Abode had made him a failure in their eyes.
He cursed in shak’teph, his native language.
Who were they to question his abilities? Or his resolve? If it hadn’t been for him, the dragons would still be sitting on their laurels in Ghadarya. He had single-handedly brought them out of their caves and convinced them to rekindle the old alliance. If only they could see how strong he would be.
He paced the length of his barren tower room, thinking on how and when to attempt the binding spell again. The small room held no furniture except an uncomfortable bed and a table where he had laid a map of Azuleah. In the corner, an altar to Nergoth stood with a dark effigy of the demon over the brazier where he burned his blood sacrifices. He watched the smoke from his latest sacrifice rise in wisps in the darkening room.
The key to increasing his power lay in a single object, and he resented that he did not yet possess it. Months ago, he had tried in vain to acquire the artifact by enlisting the aid of a goblin named Urbengal. The goblin shaman was tasked with retrieving the Gauntlet of Iniquity from an orc stronghold in Neroterra the previous winter.
Gauntlet of Iniquity (The Azuleah Trilogy Book 2) Page 17
