by JANRAE FRANK
The dwarf woke late. She sat up on her cot, stretching and yawning deeply. A bright blue drew her eyes to a folding campstool: A change of clothes had been laid out. Her previously muddy boots, leaning against the legs, were not only clean, they had been polished.
"What the–"
Then she spied the tray of Valdren pastries on the little folding table: three frosted angels oozing with sugared cream; two stacks of maple glazed funnel cakes; and a big square of cinnamon apple bread. It looked like heaven to Tagalong after weeks of trail food, especially during the days of forced march.
"Tag," Jeord poked his big nose into the tent. "Are you awake? Is there anything else I can get you?"
"No. This looks mighty fine."
Jeord nodded and withdrew. He sat gingerly down outside the tent, wincing at the first contact between his bottom and the ground. Tagalong grinned and closed the tent flap to dress.
* * * *
When Aejys and Tamlestari came down for breakfast, Hanadi, five Green Ribbons and one of Aejys' Vorgeni drivers were waiting in the parlor. An object lay on the table wrapped in black cloth. From the shape Aejys knew it for a knife.
"What is this about?" Aejys asked.
Hanadi rose from her chair. "There are several items you should see, Aejystrys Rowan. We should start with that one." She indicated the wrapped blade.
Aejys watched as Hanadi opened the cloth cautiously without touching the blade itself even though she wore gloves. Baneblade. Baneblade. The certainty beat in Aejys' chest and head, as unreasoning fear seemed to creep up the patterned scars on her legs and shoulder.
"I do not want that thing in my house." Laurelyanne watched from the doorway, holding an ancient mage staff of walnut heartwood. An intricately carved eagle at the staff's head held between its wings and beak a flawless moonstone orb. "It stinks of death and darkness, daughter."
"One must often endure the stench of the enemy to properly gauge their strength and nature," Hanadi replied stiffly.
Aejys sucked in a deep breath, fighting for control, forcing her legs to carry her near enough to see it, determined that no one would see evidence of her fear. The blade was both beautiful and frightening like the eyes of a scarlet cobra before it strikes. It radiated power, crying out to all in the room to touch it. Even Aejys felt the pull. The hilt was blackened bone glazed with a transparent crimson, etched with runes of darkness that continued along the blood groove of the glittering silver blade.
Laurelyanne moved to the lapsed ha'taren's side, as did Tamlestari. Aejys knew enough of sa'necari magic to read the death rune, but most of the others were unknown. Her stomach tightened and the lines of her face turned grim, her lips, and eyes narrowing.
"Where did you get this?" Aejys asked in a voice gone harsh and rasping.
"From a dead orc captain," Hanadi said evenly. "I have suspicions of this blade. It may be that it was intended to be found by someone of less knowledge than myself, Aejystrys Rowan. I have brought Aspen to test it," she said, motioning for the Vorgeni driver.
Of Kwaklahmyn blood, Aspen wore his black hair in two braids with large bone beads woven in. He hesitated, glancing at Aejys for confirmation, and rose from the table at her nod. The guildsmyn rose with him, fanning in a half circle around him and Hanadi. Aspen looked at the Guildsmyn dismayed, but resolute, determined to serve his liege in whatever way was demanded of him. He cast Aejys another questioning look. She nodded again. He stepped to Hanadi's side. "What do I do?"
"Aspen," Hanadi said, "Your loyalty to your master is unquestioned? You have worked for her many years?"
"Yes. My life I give to her service."
"Then pick up the blade."
His eyes lost their focus as his fingers curled around the hilt and he stiffened as if struck before sagging to his knees with a low animal moan. Aejys started toward him, "Aspen!"
Tamlestari caught Aejys' arm, holding her back. "Wait."
Aspen's eyes closed; lines of strain appeared in his face; his mouth grew taut. The skin around his eyes darkened into pools of purple shadow. A fit of violent shaking seized Aspen as cold sweat beaded on his dark skin and ran in icy rivulets down his face and arms. The shaking gradually diminished.
"Aspen?" Hanadi queried softly, stepping closer to him.
In response his eyes snapped open eliciting a murmur of horror even from the seasoned guildsmyn: His eyes, the whites gone, were the glowing bloody violet of the sa'necari. He slammed Hanadi aside, sending her hard into the wall as he sprang forward to his feet. He caught the nearest guildsmon beneath the breastbone with the blade. The man screamed, collapsing as Aspen jerked the blade free, snarling wordlessly, froth foaming at his mouth. With a wild cry Aspen threw himself at Aejys, striking with the baneblade.
Several things happened at once. Tamlestari yanked Aejys backwards out of the way. The lapsed paladin struck a chair and tumbled to the floor. Laurelyanne's staff blocked Aspen's rush, the moonstone flaring white-hot. Aspen recoiled, shrieking in pain and rage. Hanadi rolled to the side as Aspen retreated in her direction. She came to her feet like a cat, daggers out. Aspen turned on her. A guildsmyn stepped in at his back, deftly throwing the transformed driver on his face. Hanadi stepped on his hand, forcing the cursed blade from his grasp as two of her myn piled into him. Protected by her gloves, Hanadi returned the blade to the cloth.
"Sooo," Hanadi hissed. "It is as I suspected: a seeking blade. Who ever found this blade was to become your assassin. Golethyn, take him to the temple. His soul needs cleansing."
They bound him with spellcords, dragging Aspen still struggling, alternately moaning, and snarling, through the door. As Golethyn passed, Hanadi made a discrete sign, which brought an almost imperceptible nod from the Guildsmyn. Aspen would not reach the temple alive. Hanadi was taking no chances.
One of her myn knelt beside their fallen comrade, and then looked to Hanadi, "Faz is dead."
"Take care of him," Hanadi ordered coldly.
"I told you it was of death and darkness," Laurelyanne said. "It was forged for your death, daughter. Now get it out of my house!"
Hanadi bowed deferentially, shoving the wrapped blade through her belt.
"A seeking blade," Aejys gasped. She made no move to rise, feeling deeply chilled. I have again come within a hair's breadth of dying in the only way I truly fear. Is there some curse upon all the Sharani leaders who burned Waejontor? I was happy in my tavern.
Tamlestari gave her a hand up. A Green Ribbon righted the fallen chair. Aejys sat down on it. "It takes years to forge one of these. Five were sent into Shaurone in the early days of the War. One for each of the Mar'ajans. Two found their marks." Aejys shuddered, passing a hand over her eyes. "I saw the Lionhawk's ma'aram die that way..."
"Margren hates you, intensely hates you," Tamlestari said. She looked grim and troubled, her hand squeezing the heavily shielded leather pouch that held the arrowheads.
Aejys glanced at Tamlestari from the corner of her eyes, pulled her tobacco pouch from her pocket, and loaded her pipe. "I can barely believe that Margren would be so deep into the darkness ... or have that kind of power."
"Were not the Waejontori and the Sharani close kin in the misted past?" Hanadi asked archly with a slight sardonic smile.
"Yes."
"Hmph," Hanadi snorted. "There you have it." The assassin chieftain bowed to all and departed.
* * * *
A mouse scurried across the corridor almost at Rose's feet and she yelped, crowding back against tall Corcyr as he and Rhium walked her from Isranon's quarters that morning. Corcyr chuckled, clearly amused by how a person who did not flinch at the thought of finding fangs in her neck could be startled by a mouse or other innocuous creatures. The reaction was uncommon, but not rare. After all, most nibari were forced to endure their first bleedings around the age of twelve and it was done without the anesthetizing mind-magic so that they would know exactly how much pain there could be and appreciate the master's consideration in blocking most if not
all of it once they had learned to submit properly. Rose was young, healthy, and deliciously tempting to all of Dane's people. However, her blood belonged to Isranon. Unlike the sa'necari, these vampires were honorable myn.
Each morning they came for her and returned her to their nibari chambers where she would be safe from the sa'necari. Torches in black iron wall sconces lit the corridor, throwing a flickering light when air shifted from tiny unseen cracks no wider than a blade through the halls. Few areas of this dark womb within the bluffs of Dragonshead received even the slightest sliver of natural light and morning looked no different from night. Corcyr and smaller Rhium. They turned a corner and found their way blocked by four sa'necari, all masked.
"Back away," Corcyr ordered roughly.
"Give us the nibari and leave," the leader of the sa'necari responded.
Corcyr drew his sword. "No."
Rhium gave a sharp cry and Rose screamed, turning to see a sword point emerge from the vampire's chest level with his heart. Another group had come upon them from behind. Rhium's body, truly dead now, crumpled to the floor.
"Damn you!" Corcyr slammed into the sa'necari, his blade counting for three in the first minutes of fight. He had to break free before they could bring their spells into play and tear the soul from his undead body.
"I carry a sa'necari child!" Rose screamed as hands seized her and she was thrown over a sa'necari's shoulder. Another one shoved a gag into her mouth.
"A soon to be dead child," murmured a familiar voice.
Rose continued to scream, but no sound could get past the wadded cloth stuffed and tied in her mouth. More sa'necari poured into the corridor. Corcyr saw the spells coming for him and slashed through their webs with his rune-blade, but another caught him and he went down. His soul gave a whistling sound of utter despair as they tore it out of him.
* * * *
Isranon answered the knock on his door, wondering what Dane's people wanted now. A small sa'necari stood there, one of Bodramet's sycophants, named Yoris.
"Your little Rose." Yoris grinned, his watery blue eyes glittering, and his thin lips twitching into a snicker that emerged from his nostrils as well as his mouth. "Your Rose has been taken. Go to the Great Hall immediately or she dies." Then Yoris scampered off.
Isranon snatched up his blades, buckling them on as he ran. He passed no one in the corridors. They must all be in the great hall. At the entrance he found his way blocked by sa'necari, guardsmyn and nibari several ranks deep. They were seated everywhere, on the steps leading down, on the couches and chairs – many, many more had been brought in than were normally present – and on the steps of the dais where Margren sat watching from her throne beside the empty one which Mephistis normally occupied. Laughter and conversation filled it. The only silence came from those who were already feeding from a nibari. Wine flowed freely through a thousand glasses. A cold tight knot formed in Isranon's stomach. Margren had declared a Sowayn orgy. This night Isranon would be eighteen and he had no doubt that he would leave this world on the same night as his birth.
Margren spotted him and gestured with her wine glass. "The entertainment has arrived."
A path opened down the center and a small corridor of sa'necari moved to allow Isranon to reach it. Bodramet, Troyes, and four others waited on the far side of him with Rose. Bodramet had her by the hair, keeping her on her knees. He yanked the gag from her mouth.
"Isranon, no! Go back," Rose sobbed. Her arms and breasts, exposed by her torn gown, showed savage bite marks, and bruises. They had already been feeding on her.
"Cross the gauntlet and I will let you have her back," Bodramet promised.
Isranon snapped his shields tightly around his mind and body. The others would have to get past them with their spells, but he did not lie to himself about how long they would hold, which would not be long. If he were lucky they would hold long enough for him to strike and interrupt the assaults. He sucked in a deep breath and started down the steps. Margren's laughter drifted over the room as a moment of silence gripped the others. Then, as his foot touched the bottom, voices rose again, making bets on how far he would get before they killed him.
Isranon's expression went flat as he drew his blades and sought the stillness in the core of his being. This was not the silences, such as his father had taught him, but the predator's way he had learned from Nevin, his lycan mentor. This was the moritausa, to walk with death, in its certainty. He felt certain that Dane would keep his promise to tell Nevin he had died well. His gaze never wavered from Bodramet's, yet he had opened his vision to the farthest corners of his eyes in an all-inclusive manner, and his awareness would catch the smallest movement around him. Nevin had taught him this, as well as how to fish, hunt, and use his blades, which appalled his father, the pacifist. He tried to be every bit the mon Nevin would expect him to be. He will be proud of me and make a song of my death.
He left the sword at his shoulder. This was a battle of presence even more than power. Drawing the sword would be perceived as a sign of fear, whereas his belt knives, in their approximation to what the sa'necari carried themselves, would not be. Isranon moved instinctually with straight-backed, loose-limbed arrogance carrying the blades in his hands, but not poised to strike. Should he move too quickly toward Rose, that would be interpreted as weakness and they would swarm him. Should he stumble and not regain his feet fast enough or should he hesitate, the result would be the same.
For the first two yards, the sa'necari hung back like hungry wolves waiting for a traveler's fire to go out before descending upon him. Then one of them hit him between the shoulder blades and it began. Isranon pivoted, and with an economy of motion, kicked that one in the face, sending him solidly into those pressing forward. He walked on. Three more hit him, coming in a small rush from the sides. Isranon ignored those, continuing his walk. Another sank fangs into his shoulder, trying for his neck. Isranon slashed that one across the face, blinding him. The youth crossed two more yards. His shoulder throbbed. Getting loose from that one had torn him open and blood began to spread through his blue tunic.
The hungry noises from the room cresendoed into a roar. More pressed forward and Isranon noticed that the blades were coming out. The sa'necari held them low, half hidden in their sleeves and around the folds of their robes. The rules said they could not use runed blades, hellblades that always killed, but that did not mean that one of them would not do so. His flesh crawled, wondering which direction it would come from. He controlled his fear, forced it away from him, because they would taste it and, the taste of his fear could provoke them – even though it was fear for Rose and not himself.
The assaults grew more frequent, more savage and he would respond with attacks, short and vicious on those around him. Just enough strikes to make his point. Not turn it into a prolonged fight, for then they would simply kill him. They beat him, knocked him down. He dragged himself up and walked on. Then the first blade slid under his ribs with a twist. Isranon stifled a gasp, spinning to drive his blade into his attacker's throat even as that sa'necari lifted his own blade to stick him again. The assailant went down, gurgling and clutching at his throat. Blood would not heal that one since he no longer had throat to swallow with. The others fell back from him. Each step had become an agony with the wound in his side. Yet he walked on.
Bodramet's eyes flamed with lust watching Isranon, he ran his tongue over his fangs, and his member tented his pants. He shook Rose by his grip on her hair to emphasize his control of her and she clutched at his wrists, twisting. "Watch him die. He's lycan-reared. To look away is to dishonor him."
Tears gleamed on her face, but Rose did not look away.
Isranon nodded, stalking deeper into the crowd, reaching the midway point. By then his presence vied with Bodramet's for control of the room's.
Margren came down from her chair and pushed through to the outer edge just ahead of Isranon's advance. "Thief of his affections," she muttered low.
Two pulled Isranon down, s
inking fangs into his arm and leg. Isranon grimaced, swallowing back a pain noise as he put a blade through their hearts, striking down through the back on of one and arching the other knife up under the breastbone of the second. Then he rose and went on, limping now.
Margren drew her blades as Isranon neared her. A putrid green coated the silvery metal. "'When sa'necari kill sa'necari, they do it well."
She allowed him to pass her, then stepped forward as two large males grabbed him. She used these them to cover her intentions. A gap showed between them and she could see Isranon's exposed back. "You'll not steal Mephistis' affection any longer."
She shoved both lengths of steel into his back with a vicious twist.
Isranon's eyes widened in shock at the impact of the blades, staggering forward, struggling now for each step. The venom that Margren had coated her blades with burned like acid in his body. A sa'necari deepened in the rites might have shrugged it off. Isranon's will alone kept him moving. Sensing weakness, the sa'necari closed tighter around him. Another blade found him and Isranon responded by killing the one nearest him. He knew then that he would never reach Rose. His awareness began to gray along the edges. He could no longer take in all of them. At least he would not rise, sa'necari always made certain of that when they killed one of their own.
Margren retreated into the crowd, fading slowly from the gathering until she reached the farthest edge to watch a moment before withdrawing completely.
Isranon reached the foot of the stairs and stood looking up at Bodramet. He swayed on his feet, fighting to stay upright. Four rushed him from the back and sides. He struck the step hard, cracking his knees against the edge. A blade entered his ribs and fangs his neck. Isranon fell face down, twisted, and put a blade into the eye of the one sucking blood from his neck. The sa'necari released him and Isranon dragged himself forward step by step.
Bodramet's expression turned incredulous and he moved back a short distance, gesturing for those around him to stop the youth. They allowed Isranon to reach the top and then fastened on him. Isranon's blades slipped from his fingers. Bodramet kicked them down the steps. The youth struggled briefly, making small, suffering animal noises and then lay still.
