by A J Callen
“If I could make a suggestion, sir. You could ask Mister Baxley to clean out all the pots while we’re gone. They sometimes use them in the larding shack.”
Byrch cursed under his breath. “Well, that explains my foul occurrences behind the bushes this morning. Almost liquid, they were. Like soup… well, with a few lumps in, you know, but soup nevertheless. Thank you. I’ll take care of that straight away.”
Watching Byrch lumber outside, Simon couldn’t help but imagine riding a fleet mare across the fields, through the hidden forest trails and outward toward the vast plains he had never seen. Though he knew he would likely never make it that far, he would savor his time astride a fine horse and see himself, if only for a day, riding free, carried on the wind of promise toward the unknown frontier of his destiny.
Chapter 10
A Fearful Message
Niclas dined alone on the terrace of Lady Omarosa’s manor overlooking the sea, hoping the cool morning breeze would soothe his troubled mind and clear away his growing stew of conflicting thoughts. He knew it would be foolhardy to say or do anything more.
It was settled then. He could not afford to be rash and raise an alarm of impending catastrophe at the hands of an unseen and unproven enemy. It had been several days now since his astonishing visit to Count Borodin’s manor, and the longer Niclas pondered both the mystery and revelation of Euriel Glanduer, the more his imagination ran wild; he needed to rein in his thoughts to the comforting confines of reason, and to explanations well suited to a report before his stern and somber peers on the King’s Council.
Niclas sipped his wine and unfastened another button on his tunic. His once steadfast, now unmoored beliefs drifted like the shimmering heat on the sand dunes, yearning for the reassuring veil of certainty that he’d known before returning to Kardi after so many years. Yet how could things ever be the same again after what he’d seen?
And how, exactly, could he explain what his own eyes had revealed to him? He rubbed his tired, throbbing temples. Since meeting the remarkable Miss Glanduer, Niclas’s dreams had been plagued by the disturbing impressions of childhood, of feverish sensations and dark premonitions, all conjured up by fleeting images Niclas had never been able to explain. And again, he was failing miserably to decipher any meaning right now.
He cut another piece of his lemon and garlic sea bass. Was Euriel Glanduer truly a descendant of the winged Sirin rulers of myth and legend? That she was something more, much more than any woman he’d ever known was certain, yet… did she really have a claim as the rightful ruler of their kingdom?
And what of the disturbing confession of Baerwald Flax? Or of Euriel’s dire warning of this Anthor Koldrin character—and the Choldath demons? Was he to accept that lore and fairytales all told to scare children were in fact the hidden omens of old, as many believed?
Niclas tapped his fingers on the worn leather binding of Count Borodin’s precious book. Lubos had been, understandably, reluctant to part with it but Euriel had insisted that if Niclas could not stay on longer, then he should be allowed to study certain portions of the text in depth to glean what knowledge he could before returning it to them for safekeeping.
On that, Niclas had also given them his word. None would know of the book’s existence and it would remain protected under lock and key, with the promise to return it before he departed for Avidene.
He had never put his faith in signs and portents, yet after reading the remarkable passages and fragments as instructed, he also could not dispel the unsettling sensation that a part of his life was drawing to a close. It felt as if somehow, since that fateful night long ago at Lord Lionsbury’s, he’d always known this day would come. Despite that, he had never anticipated how swiftly it would arrive to cast a bleak shadow over his life once more.
Uray bowed from the entrance of the terrace. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Lord, but I have an urgent message for you from Bishop Jubert.” He handed Niclas a sealed message and turned to leave.
“Wait. Who delivered this?”
“The rider was unfamiliar to me. He said the Bishop was unable to visit in person and that the message would explain the reason.”
Niclas unfolded the parchment and read. A helpless anger seethed in him and he immediately regretted not accepting Euriel’s kind offer to stay longer at the Count’s secluded manor. He retrieved the Bishop’s first message from his pants pocket and compared the handwriting. The cursive style of the second was identical.
“Uray, I will give you a signed message and I want it delivered by rider at once, right into the hands of Sir Razmig, and only Sir Razmig, at the Governor’s manor. I will expect a coach with a trusted armed guard of his choosing within the hour.”
Uray bowed. “As you wish, Lord. None are swifter than your loyal servant on horseback.”
Niclas read the note again. Bishop Jubert’s first message had proved the truth of its veiled words, and his second was clear in its stark clarity that forbade all doubt:
You must hasten at once to Count Borodin’s manor and meet me there. The Divine Adoratrice fears for her life and the lives of her kindred. Call upon only those you can trust and pray you can protect her better than I.
Niclas burned both the messages as Sir Razmig had first instructed. If there were those on Kardi who would seek to harm an innocent woman, they would have to step over his fallen sword or die, tasting the final bloody cut of its steel.
* * *
Sir Razmig and another guard rode at the head of their party, followed by Niclas in his coach and two more riders at the rear. They had completed the journey in several hours as the golden light of the island sky paled under the deepening shadows of the descending night.
Upon their arrival at the open front gates, Niclas spotted Bishop Jubert’s coach, emblazoned with the Holy Seer’s insignia of the winged heart and sword, parked in the front yard. The horses stood fretful, all tethered to a post near Count Borodin’s great stone manor.
Niclas stepped down and surveyed their immediate surroundings.
As before, the torches were illuminated on the path leading to the front door and the windows were softly aglow with candlelight, their ghostlike luminescence seeming to beckon their arrival. All appeared well, yet… Where was the Bishop’s driver who should have been attending to his horses?
Niclas unfastened the clasp of his scabbard. “Tether the horses away from the front yard and hide my coach behind the thicket at the side of the manor. Have a man keep watch. He is only to come to the house if sees the approach of another party. Or, call out if in danger.”
Sir Razmig bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He looked toward the manor. “Yet, is such precaution truly needed? All is calm and the Bishop’s coach has arrived safely.”
“Where is the driver?”
“Even he must eat and relieve himself. The Bishop and the others are most certainly waiting for us inside.”
Niclas nodded, glad the unnecessary tension had been dispelled at his expense. “All worry is for naught, it seems. So, let us rest and hope Count Borodin has sufficient wine to slake our thirst after such a long ride. We return to Sucaria at first light, none the worse for wear, I trust.”
“Very good, your Lordship. I will order Larce to guard the door.” Sir Razmig and three of his guards closely followed Niclas down the torchlit path.
Following the same instructions in the second message as the first, Niclas rapped the hawk-shaped brass knocker six times and waited, expecting Missus Rasolka to open the door at any moment.
A minute or longer passed and still no one appeared. Niclas pressed his ear close, straining to hear voices or the sound of movement inside as before, but heard none. He knocked again, harder, six times. The force of his last blow pushed the unlocked door backward on its hinges. It bashed against the stone wall.
Niclas withdrew his sword and signaled to Sir Razmig and his men.
Stepping into the front hallway, Niclas called out. “Count Borodin, it is Lord Delcarden and Sir Ra
zmig. Where are you, friend?” He listened for a reply but the only sound came from the flickering flames of the wall torches lighting the way to the Great Hall at the far end. The magnificent arched doorway of ornately carved wood and gilded glass remained closed as before, the red drapes inside denying any kind of view within.
Niclas knocked on the first door facing the hall.
“Lubos? Missus Rasolka? Is anyone here?”
Sir Razmig knocked on the door at the opposite side. Both were locked and no answer greeted them.
“Bishop Jubert! It’s Niclas! Where are you?”
His final call was greeted by hushed stillness and the sickly-sweet aroma of strange, exotic flowers wafting up from the cellar.
Niclas lowered his voice. “Station a guard at the front door and the other here. You will follow me downstairs to the Count’s chamber.”
“I do not advise it, my lord.” Sir Razmig withdrew his sword, rivulets of sweat trickling down his forehead. “They would have answered us by now. We should return to the Governor’s manor and report the Bishop’s disappearance forthwith.”
“No. Whatever the reason for their silence, we will find it here. If they have fled with only moments to spare, we will find a sign even if we have to break down every door.”
“And… if we find they are still here?”
A blind, unreasoning dread descended upon Niclas. It would not—nay, could not— come to that.
“Lord? Are you not well?”
Niclas steeled himself and drew a breath, though the air was thick with the sickly-sweet fragrance. “If tragedy has befallen them, I shall wait while you ride as fast as the wind back to the Governor and summon all nobles under my authority and command.”
“Yes, Lord Delcarden.” He bowed. “At once.”
Niclas took a holder with a lit candle and peered down the cellar stairs, the air clammy against his face. He descended to the first stone step, the dankness, sinking and sickening his heart the moment he thought of what he might discover below.
“Count Borodin!” Niclas balanced his stance on the cellar’s rough-hewn limestone surface. He slowly swept the candle in a circle to reacquaint himself and survey his bearings. As before, several flaming torches cast their quivering light upon the walls of the cavernous, subterranean vault. He approached the door to the Count’s chamber and paused, turning toward the far rock wall. He did not remember seeing that. In his haste to meet the Count, he had not noticed or, perhaps, the torches had not been lit on his first visit.
Sir Razmig stepped to his side. “What is it, my lord?”
Niclas pointed to the far wall of rock opposite the Count’s chamber door. “That small tunnel is unfamiliar.”
“Then best we do not enter without the others.”
Niclas considered Sir Razmig’s reasoned advice. He banged the pommel of his sword against the heavy oak door. “Lubos! Are you there?” There was no reply and after shaking the handle it was certain that the door was locked and bolted from the inside. Niclas looked back to the small, unfamiliar tunnel, his fingers still wound tight around the hilt of his sword. “We will go that way.”
Sir Razmig hesitated, his eyes darting side to side. “My men have orders to fetch us if we do not return shortly. We must hurry.”
“A few minutes more. Take one of the torches from the wall and lead the way through the tunnel. They may be deep in hiding.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Niclas followed Sir Razmig through the bouldered opening for perhaps a hundred feet. After every few dozen steps, the rocky path became increasingly damp and slippery beneath their boots.
Niclas followed several paces behind, the sickly-sweet perfume now overpowering his senses, making it difficult to breathe what little air remained in the tunnel. They edged their way around a small rocky bend, coughing and wiping the sweat from their eyes until they stepped into an open space and paused to catch their breath.
“Lubos! Where are you?” Niclas’s voice echoed deep into the dark cavern. He sheathed his sword and held his hand out to Sir Razmig. “Give me your torch.” Lying on the rocky earth before them were several large shipping crates, a few still open. He counted six, each stamped with The Baron’s Assembly of Varza insignia. It was a diamond sun showering rays over a merchant ship laden with cargo and slaves.
Niclas covered his mouth and shone his torchlight over the first open crate. Large spidery insects were crawling over dead birds; hawks, falcons, eagles, and other raptors, all lying scattered or heaped on blood-soaked earth, each with an arrow wound and freshly killed. The swarming things hissed at Niclas and he drew back. Moments later, they scuttled under the earth as though cowering from the fire and the unfamiliar light.
“What is it, my lord?” Sir Razmig stepped cautiously to his side.
“Dead birds and… huge, vicious spiders, though like none I have ever seen before. Keep your distance.”
Several loud thumps sounded overhead as though heavy weights had dropped down onto the manor floor from a height. Scuffling and scraping noises followed while both men listened intently.
“My lord, I fear we must leave at once.”
“Quiet.” Niclas glimpsed something leaning against the opposite wall. He stepped toward it and held the torch out for a better view.
“Lord Delcarden,” Sir Razmig insisted in a hushed voice. “We must go now. It is not safe for any of us.”
Niclas jerked back, almost dropping the torch, the tremors coursing through his body and making him gasp for breath. No, in the name of all that was holy—what damnation was this?
Missus Rasolka was slumped back against the wall, her shoulders elevated to the level of her ears, hands clutched before her face, palms inward, the fingers spread and crooked like claws. Her ashen face, craned upward, was distorted by an expression of unutterable terror. Her thin and twisted mouth was half open, her dark, vacant eyes like polished obsidian.
Niclas stumbled back, his shocked gaze falling away from the stark terror in her eyes to something else that chilled his bones right through to the marrow.
There, in the shadows of her hellish face, one of the spider-like creatures was prying open her jaw from the inside, creaking it wider and wider so it could finally emerge.
The approach of many rapid footsteps echoed from behind. “Call to your men, Sir Razmig. Have them take up their stations here until we find Count Borodin. I will return with a contingent of the Governor’s guard.”
Niclas backed away and as he turned from the grizzly sight to see a familiar face, something rounded and hard—like the pommel of a sword—hammered down on the back of his skull. Then, all fell darker than night upon his brow.
Chapter 11
Are You Worthy?
Niclas’s eyes flickered open. He lay on his back staring up at the candle-lit chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling in the Great Hall of Count Borodin’s manor.
Sir Razmig pointed the tip of his sword down at Niclas’s neck. “For the lady’s safety and yours, my lord, you will rise slowly and stand against the wall. Any chivalry on your part will be met with a fate worse than death for the woman, I can assure you, and yours will be equally unpleasant, I wager.”
“Have you been dreamin’ about our pretty little bird too?” Another man loomed over Niclas. It was Larce, the stalwart soldier assigned to guard the front manor door. He smiled through his greasy beard, revealing a cracked line of black and yellow teeth. He pointed his sword tip down at Niclas’s groin.
“Those noble jewels won’t be much of a prize in her eye after I finish with you.”
Niclas breathed deeply, trying to steady the painful spinning in his head. He struggled to focus on the blurry faces of the two men looming over him. His sword was gone, also the dagger in his boot. Niclas had neither the cunning nor the strength to confront two or more armed men with only his bare hands.
Though he ached all over from the blow to his head, by far the greatest pain came from the knowledge that he been
so easily deceived by a man he trusted, and to what end, he could only suspect. “Are you mad? The King’s Council will hang all of you for striking a noble. Explain yourself and I may yet spare your worthless necks.”
Sir Razmig removed his sword tip from Niclas’s throat. “The days of the King’s Council are numbered, as are all who do not rejoice in the coming of the one true king. That is why you are still alive. You may yet prove yourself worthy as we have and help prepare the way for his rightful ascension to the throne.”
Niclas dragged himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his painfully throbbing head, his face hot from a sudden and withering rush of heat. Who would have paid them to conspire against the Council? Niclas rubbed the back of his throbbing head. “Give me the name of your noble master responsible for this treason and your heads will be spared. You will be exiled immediately, your limbs intact, never to return to our kingdom under immediate punishment of death. That is my only and final bargain for treachery. I give you my sworn word as a member of the Triumvirate.”
Sir Razmig lowered his sword as though pausing to consider the offer. “You are a fair and forgiving man, Lord Delcarden, and none may fault you for that. Under the circumstances, we should each have gratefully accepted your offer had we not already chosen an infinitely richer one.”
Niclas glanced at the two men standing on either side of the arched doorway, arms crossed over their chests, swords at the ready. “From whom?” The gilded glass doors were open and the red drapes tied with sashes as though heralding an important arrival. “Are you mercenaries for the Barons of Varza now?”
Larce spat on the floor. “All the plundered riches in their treasury will serve the new king but his Majesty needs more… much more than just gold.”
