“King Rhainor’s heir died with him and his queen--still cradled in his mother’s womb!”
Numbly, Rhiannon watched as the man she’d always believed to be her uncle dug his spurs into his horse’s side and led his men charging toward the mouth of the cavern. The horses’ hooves, clattering against the stones in the enclosed space, pounded out a rhythm of sound that was nearly deafening. She covered her ears with her hands, staring after them long after they had vanished from sight.
Finally, she lowered her arms, blinked, looked around the cavern. She was alone. As shock gave way to pain, a sob tore its way through her chest and throat, erupting loud in the silence. She covered her mouth with her hands, trying to think what she should do.
She was a bastard.
Nothing that she had ever believed to be true about herself was.
Should she return and try to save those she could from slaughter? Or was it already too late? Would sacrificing herself actually help anyone at all?
A true royal would know their place--but she wasn’t, was she?
And yet, would there really be any escape for her? Her uncle had taken all of the horses. She could walk, run and hide, but how far would she get, on foot, without food or water?
She was so afraid! It was so tempting to at least try to escape that she felt ill.
Her chances of actually succeeding were slim, though, and she knew it. If she was going to die anyway, wouldn’t it be better to die with some honor? Some dignity?
But then, how much honor and dignity could a bastard actually lay claim to?
A strange uneasiness began to creep over her as she stood indecisively in the cavern, a coldness. The hair on the nape of her neck began to prickle. Slowly, she turned, searching the dim cavern around her for the threat she knew was there.
She saw nothing at first but a thin layer of mist that seemed to hover perhaps four feet from the floor of the cavern. The mist began to assume form, shape, definition, became a pair of disembodied eyes--his eyes. The warlock had found her!
Chapter Three
Daigon watched as his mort du armée swarmed the castle walls and engaged the defenders at the top, wreaking further havoc among his already demoralized enemy. With his vision, he penetrated the castle walls and looked upon the mounted knights who had stormed the keep and saw that they, too, were progressing well in breaking down the castle’s defense.
Risking good men he could ill afford to loose had been no part of his plan.
Satisfaction filled him that his strategy appeared to be working so well. With stealth, cunning, and magic, he and his army had taken every fortification south of Castle Aradan, the jewel of Aradan’s crown. It was time to finish it.
A sense of elation filled him at that realization. He had spent much of his life dreaming of this moment, striving toward the time when he could avenge the deaths of his parents and take back what had been stolen from them and from him.
It would not be the victory he had dreamed of when he was a young boy, yearning for the comfort, security, and love of parents he had never known. The man who had murdered his parents as they lay sleeping peacefully in their bed had fled beyond his reach--for even the powers he had attained would not allow him to reach beyond the grave.
Briefly, the old anger surged forward again, but he tamped it. Hatred was good if it fired the soul but useless if it so befouled one’s heart that one could find no pleasure in life. Time had helped to mellow that youthful rage and allow reason, not anger, to rule him.
It would be enough to take back what had been taken, to usurp those who had profited from the death of his parents, even if they had not been directly responsible.
He frowned as that thought conjured an image of the girl, wondering what demon of mischief had prompted his demand to have her. Somewhere in his mind he must have realized that Nordain would have propagated his seed, and yet he had not counted on her presence. He had not considered the complications that could arise with the discovery of a female heir.
He would have felt no compunction about banishing a male of Nordain’s line, or killing him if he saw it was necessary to maintain peace. What was he to do with the girl?
He should have simply told Gerard to take her--he supposed he still could if Gerard had not managed to escape. But there was always the possibility that Gerard had fled, leaving her behind as he had demanded--or was dead. If either possibility was the case, he would have to decide what to do with her.
He felt confident that he had adequately convinced the people of Aradan that he was not someone they could flout with impunity, but even so he had no desire to rule his people solely through fear--and the girl could create complications in that respect. As unlikely as it seemed, given her sire, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that the people looked upon her with fondness--in which case they could become difficult if they felt she was being ill treated.
Shelving the problem for the moment, he returned his attention to the assault and decided it was time to summon his men for the coup de grace. They still waited beyond the range of the archers as instructed, chafing at their inaction he saw with some amusement when he had used a simple spell to allow his spirit to cross the field and appear before them. Assuring them that there was still plenty of bloodletting to assuage their appetite, he gave his captain, Martunae, the order to advance his troops and returned to his body.
Lifting his staff, he began to murmur the incantation that would open the castle to him. Inside the keep, the stout oak that had been used to brace the gate groaned. After a few moments, the wood began to heave, as if it were a live thing dragging in lungfuls of air. Abruptly it shattered into flying splinters that peppered the men struggling nearest it, killing a half a dozen and wounding twice that many.
Moments later, the drawbridge fell outward, landing with a deafening concussion on the bracing on the outer edge of the moat and the gates began to swing inward.
Thrusting his staff into its holder, Daigon drew his sword. Victory sang in his blood as he spurred his horse toward the drawbridge. Without sparing a glance behind him to see how close his men were, or even if they had obeyed his command, he kicked his horse into motion and charged across the drawbridge.
Seeing his intent, Captain Martunae dug his heels into his horse’s sides, urging for more speed, struggling to close the distance between them before Daigon could enter the keep alone. The hooves of his horse struck the heavy planking at the end of the drawbridge just as Daigon disappeared through the yawning mouth of Castle Aradan’s gates. Behind him, his men spurred their horses and clattered onto the bridge, as well.
He saw when he reached the keep that his alarm had not been unwarranted. Daigon, his lips curled into a grim smile, had already dismounted. Even as Captain Martunae watched, two soldiers, screaming a challenge, fell upon him.
“To arms!” he bellowed. “To your king!”
Dust kicked up by the hooves of their horses swirled around them as Daigon’s men brought their stampeding horses to a skidding halt. Swinging their swords to the right and left, they cut a path through the heaving mass of battling men until they had surrounded their king. Dismounting, they slapped their horse’s rumps to send them charging into the melee and began to systematically hack at the already beleaguered castle defense.
The sun had reached its zenith before the men defending Aradan began to show signs of yielding. As much as Daigon admired the ferocity with which they had defended the castle and their king, Daigon’s patience had reached an end. He was hot from his armor, his exertions, and the growing heat of the day; tired; and covered with gore, both his own and the blood of those he’d slain.
Abruptly, he summoned the dark forces, repelling a wide circle around himself that sent men flying in every direction. “ENOUGH!” he roared in a voice that reverberated off of every wall as if the gods had spoken.
It had the desired effect. Everyone in the keep froze, his army of dead included. “Yield now, and you will be given quarter! Put me t
o the trouble of taking this keep apart stone by stone and there will be no quarter given!”
The defenders threw down their swords.
Daigon’s eyes narrowed as he studied them, one by one, but he saw the fight had gone out of them. Ordering Captain Martunae to round them up and collect their weapons, he waited until the captain and his men had that well in hand and banished his mort du armée. Everyone, including his own men, seemed almost to sag with relief when the gruesome warriors vanished.
When all who could still stand had been contained in one corner of the keep, he approached them. “I am Daigon, son of King Rhainor and Queen Saraphine. And I am hereditary ruler of all of Aradan. Give me your allegiance and I will give you both your lives and your livelihood.”
The men looked at each other, no doubt wondering what the alternative was.
Captain Bryon nerved himself to speak. “King Rhainor was the rightful king, but it has always been said that his heir died with him.”
Daigon studied him for several moments. “And you have only my word for it that I am who I claim to be?”
Captain Bryon shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”
Daigon smiled thinly. “For now, that will have to be enough.”
Captain Bryon’s lips tightened, but he nodded. Ignoring his injuries, he knelt with some difficulty. “I give you my fealty, Daigon, son of King Rhainor, who has won these lands by right of might.”
A grim smile curled Daigon’s lips, but he found that he didn’t particularly care that they still had reservations that he was the son of Rhainor. Right of might was enough. He nodded. Taking their cue from their captain, the others knelt and swore fealty to their new king, as well.
When Daigon had accepted his due, he summoned his captains, addressing Captain Martunae first. “As men of honor, we will accept the fealty of these men--for now. If you see any sign of treachery, however, the traitor is to be dealt with swiftly.”
Captain Martunae nodded.
He turned to Captain Bryon. “You will divide your men who are the least injured into two parties, one to take care of the dead, the other to help the injured. Summon your healer to attend them.” Daigon produced a pouch. “He is to clean the wounds thoroughly--with clean water. Then sprinkle this into the wounds and seal them with a firebrand--no exceptions. If he fails to do exactly as I’ve instructed and even one man becomes ill with infection, I will have his head on a pike--be sure that he knows this.”
Captain Bryon nodded sharply and appeared to relax fractionally as he took the pouch. Daigon produced another and held it out to Captain Martunae, who took it without a word, as if he was familiar with what was expected of him.
“When you have relayed my orders, Captain Bryon, you will find me in the throne room.”
* * * *
Contrary to what he’d expected, Captain Bryon found when he reported that the warlock, Daigon was not seated upon the throne of Aradan, but standing at one long window, staring out, no doubt, at the lands that he had so recently won. Since the man did not immediately acknowledge his presence, he looked around the room uneasily and finally knelt anyway. Instead of bowing his head, however, he took the time to study his new overlord.
He had the bearing of a king. Tired as he no doubt was, there was no slump of weariness to his broad shoulders, and the man was tall, taller than most men. He had been young when King Rhainor ruled Aradan, and he could not entirely trust his memories of such an early age, but it seemed to him that the warlock bore a striking resemblance to the old king--which might mean nothing at all. He could as easily be the whelp of some commoner. King Rhainor had not had the reputation of sprinkling bastards about the countryside, but that didn’t mean he had had none.
“As it happens, he didn’t,” Daigon said, turning to look at Captain Bryon finally.
Bryon felt his jaw sag and his heart flutter uncomfortably. “Sire?”
“No bastards. My father had no bastards,” Daigon responded patiently.
Captain Bryon blinked rapidly several times. “You read minds?”
Daigon smiled thinly, but he laid no claim that he could--nor admitted that he could not, and Captain Bryon was left with the uncomfortable feeling that he could. Either that or he was extraordinarily perceptive.
“Where is the princess, Rhiannon?”
Captain Bryon felt a brief surge of satisfaction. So the warlock did not know and see all? “Beyond your reach I should think,” he responded.
Daigon stared at the man, feeling an uncomfortable, and unaccountable twinge of dread. “She is dead?” he demanded sharply.
Captain Bryon realized at once that he had no desire to rouse Daigon to fury. “Nay--at least, not to my knowledge. I expect she escaped with her uncle through the tunnels beneath the castle.”
Daigon’s eyes narrowed. Wryly, he admitted it was contrary of him to be so displeased with the news when he had not been looking forward to dealing with the problem. He decided, however, that his displeasure stemmed from the fact that he had only just taken the keep and already his commands had been ignored. Concentrating, he separated his spirit and searched for her using the link that she had so generously given him with the arrow she placed through his palm. He found her in a cavern that opened to the sea.
“She is in the caverns below. Send someone to fetch her to my private chambers.”
Captain Bryon saluted, but looked uneasy. “Your private chambers?”
“The king’s apartments,” Daigon clarified, although he knew very well that the captain’s hesitancy had had nothing to do with confusion over which chamber to take her to.
When Captain Bryon still looked uncomfortable, Daigon lifted his brows. “There is some part of the order that confuses you?”
Captain Bryon stared at him unhappily for several moments and finally shook his head. “No, Sire. I will see to it.”
Daigon studied the man’s stiff shoulders as he strode quickly from the room. When Captain Bryon had disappeared, he turned and looked toward the rear of the room. “You can come out now.”
He waited. Minutes passed. Finally, an elderly man got to his feet shakily.
Daigon looked the man over appraisingly. “Who are you?”
Nervously, the man darted from behind the benches where he’d been hiding and dropped to his knees on the floor in the aisle. “The King’s steward--Sire.”
Daigon cocked his head curiously. “And what name are you known by, steward?”
Startled, the old man darted a quick glance at him before ducking his head once more. “Meekin, Sire,” he said shakily.
“Good!” Daigon said decisively. “You are just the man I need to see, Meekin. As you have no doubt noticed, I am soiled from my--travels.”
The man glanced at the blood spatters that coated Daigon’s clothing, his cloak and his boots and swallowed a little sickly. “You’ve need of a bath, Sire?”
Daigon smiled. “A man of perception. Yes. I will give you the task of rounding up the servants and coaxing them out of hiding--my men will need to be fed and the castle and keep will need to be set to rights. Send someone to fetch my personal effects and have a bath prepared so that I can wash the muck off.”
* * * *
When Rhiannon first began to swim upwards toward consciousness, the sound that greeted her confused her. The rhythmic clatter grew louder, however, and she finally realized that it was not someone throwing pebbles, but rather the scrape of feet against stone. Still far too groggy to feel any alarm, she merely groaned and sat up.
Her head was pounding and she lifted a hand to examine it, pausing in shock when she saw her wrists were manacled together by a chain. After several stunned moments, she completed the action she’d begun, discovering a goose egg of interesting proportions on her head but no blood. Had she fallen, she wondered, still more than a little confused? Had her uncle trampled her with his horse in his haste to flee?
Abruptly, she remembered the eyes and shivered. Too late, that memory connected in her mind with the
manacles that had appeared upon her wrists and the sounds of men approaching. Even as she struggled to her feet, soldiers appeared in the mouth of the tunnel. She stared at them, recognizing Captain Bryon almost at once. There was something about his demeanor, however, that prevented the flood of relief she should have felt.
“Princess Rhiannon! Are you injured?”
She must look like hell if that was his first thought, Rhiannon thought wryly. She shook her head, but a wave of dizziness followed. “I--uh--I must have fallen.”
“Can you walk?”
This time, she didn’t dare move her head. “Yes.”
His face hardened. “King Daigon has sent us to fetch you to his chambers.”
“King!” Rhiannon said, so outraged by that that it was several moments before she assimilated the remainder of his speech. “His chambers?” she asked a little faintly. “You’re certain he didn’t say throne room? Receiving chambers?”
He reddened. “The king’s chambers.”
“Well! I won’t go!” she snapped. “How dare he command my presence in private chambers!”
Captain Bryon looked dismayed. “My king has ordered it. I dare not disobey, princess.”
Rhiannon studied him belligerently for several moments, but she knew she was no match for Captain Bryon and the three soldiers who had accompanied him. Moreover, she had no desire to get the men killed, or worse, by demanding that they disobey a direct order. Her lips tightened. “Fine!”
Gathering her skirts, she stalked past them toward the tunnel. After a few moments, one of the men passed her carrying a torch high and led the way. Her anger sustained her until she reached the dungeons once more. Her rigid spine and angry march had only made her head hurt worse, however, and pain and fear had gained the upper hand long before she climbed the stairs from the dungeon. It took an effort to rekindle her righteous wrath, but the sight of the guards stationed outside the king’s chambers helped a good deal.
The Warlock Page 3
