Shadow’s Lure s-2

by Jon Sprunk

  Angus nodded slowly, and a crooked smile broke open his face. “I like that. My boys and I have come to help.”

  Caim looked to Ramon. “You heard what happened at the castle?”

  “We were holed up with the Allastars when the news reached us. We came as fast as we could.”

  “How many warriors did you bring?”

  “Almost sixty, most of them blooded fighters.”

  “Where’s Grendt? I don’t see him lurking behind you.”

  Ramon spat on the floor and stomped on it. “He ran off as soon as he heard we were coming back here to finish the job.”

  Caim forced his mouth to turn upward in a smile he didn’t feel in his heart. “So what did you come to do? Torch a few granaries?”

  “And the armory, and mayhap a few houses in the old city. Want to join us?”

  Caim glanced to Keegan. The youth was wound tight enough to chew wrought iron. “We’re going to the palace.”

  Angus gave a barking laugh. “That’s as good as cutting your own throat, boy.”

  Caim shrugged. “Still, we’re going. You could join us. We’d be a good-sized band if we joined forces.”

  “Aye. Enough to bloody the duke’s nose good. There’s rumors he sent the bulk of his men south.”

  Caim pressed his lips into a firm line. South could only mean a push into Nimea, and with the border in shambles Josey wouldn’t know until the invaders were deep into the heartland. Then it would be a long, bloody affair to dig them out.

  “That only makes our job easier. Are you with us?”

  “Who leads?” Ramon asked.

  Caim hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Keegan Haganson.”

  Ramon’s mouth twisted as if he had bitten into something sour. “He’s no thane.”

  “My father is dead,” Keegan said. “By right I take his place as loreman of the free clans of Eregoth. And I call upon Caim to lead us until the duke is overthrown or we all lie dead.”

  Ramon started to shake his head. “He’s no war-”

  “Show them, Caim.”

  Caim untied the laces and pulled his tunic aside. On his shoulder glistened knots of fresh blue ink in the ancient trefoil pattern. Angus grunted, but he held his tongue. Ramon took in a deep breath that strained his deerskin jerkin, but finally he nodded.

  “So be it. For my brother and my cousin, and everyone else who’s died at Eviskine’s hands. You have a plan?”

  Caim took out his knife and knelt on the floor. By the firelight he started cutting lines in the hardwood.

  Arion pressed a hand to his hip as he leaned against the corridor wall. The combined stenches of blood and puke and shit clung to the back of his throat. He looked over at Stiv and Brustus, catching their breaths. This wasn’t the reception they’d expected.

  They had reached Liovard after an exhausting ride to find the city in shambles. People fought in the streets, burning, looting, and killing indiscriminately. When Arion and his men forced their way through to the barracks, they found Yanig and Okin barricaded in an arms locker. But the joy of the band’s reunification was short-lived as Arion outlined his plan.

  Passing through alleys littered with corpses and abandoned plunder, they climbed the hill to the castle and found the gates unguarded. The watch towers were unlit by torch or lantern. They moved through the vacant outer bailey and entered the donjon, not sure what to expect. It wasn’t this.

  The keep’s chambers were scenes of carnage. An odd light filtered through the high windows and tinged the bodies stretched out on the floors with a sepia patina. Paintings and sculptures had been defaced, excrement smeared on the walls. The attack came as they entered the series of corridors that led to the great hall. A door opened. Half a dozen foreign mercenaries carrying wine casks, and a rolled-up carpet spilled into the chamber. The melee was swift and furious. While Arion concerned himself with staying alive, Brustus and Davom put on displays of bladesmanship such as he had never seen. Their performance was so inspiring he didn’t notice the stablehand with the pitchfork sneaking up behind him.

  Arion pulled away his fingers. The puncture wasn’t crippling, but it bled like a rainspout. Others had paid a higher price. Okin had taken a butcher’s cleaver to the neck. Yanig slipped on the floor and split open his skull.

  They laid out their brothers on the floor. While Stiv mumbled some kind of a prayer, Arion looked down at the men he’d known, for more than ten years in Okin’s case.

  Davom rolled over a body with his foot. “I know these guys. Pavel here owes me six nobles.”

  Stiv shook his head. His short beard was matted with blood and spittle from a split lower lip. An ugly red gash on his temple dripped down his cheek. “What in the Dark’s name is going on here?”

  “They’ve all gone mad.” Brustus wiped the blade of his sword with a discarded cloak. “Toe-curling, shield-biting, bark-at-the-moon crazy.”

  “This is Sybelle’s doing,” Arion said. “She bewitched my father. Now she’s done something to the city. When we find her, we’ll find the source of the problem.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Stiv asked.

  Arion looked down the corridor. “We don’t stop until we reach the throne. Kill anyone who gets in our way.”

  Stiv reached inside his mail shirt and pulled out a small gold amulet. Arion was surprised when he saw the sunburst design. He hadn’t known his right-hand man was a follower of the True Faith. Since Sybelle’s coming, there weren’t many believers left in Liovard. At least, not in public.

  The sergeant shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”

  Brustus grunted. “If we get out of here alive, maybe I’ll let you convert me.”

  “If we get out,” Davom said, “I’ll build the biggest temple you’ve ever seen. Maybe even set myself up as the high priest.”

  Arion let out the breath he’d been holding. “Form up.”

  They moved with purpose. When they reached the doors to the great hall, Stiv lifted a hand. But the sergeant halted in his tracks as the portals swung open before them, revealing a tableau straight out of a nightmare. Arion tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

  The light of a single lamp high above the chamber illuminated his father’s throne. Headless bodies slumped on the floor in pools of congealing blood, and shaggy orbs floated in the air around the throne.

  “Bugger me,” Stiv swore.

  “Easy.” Arion tried to exude a confidence he didn’t necessarily feel, but then he saw the figure slumped in the throne. “Father!”

  He started to run forward, but a willowy shape emerged from behind the throne. Her inky gown devoured the light. Seeing her, with her hand upon his father’s arm, Arion halted at the edge of the ring of floating heads.

  “What have you done?” he demanded.

  Sybelle lifted his father’s arm and dropped it, and Arion’s heart lurched to see the limb flop lifelessly. He couldn’t breathe. He took another step and batted aside a hovering head. Stiv cursed in earnest as the macabre trophy spun away into the darkness.

  Arion pointed his sword at the witch’s chest. “I always knew you would be the death of him. From the start I saw you for what you are, witch.”

  Her laughter played down his spine. “And I knew you from the first moment, Arion. As a fool too weak to live up to your father’s legacy, and too stupid to leave when you had the chance.”

  With a shout, Arion charged, but Sybelle stepped into the gloom before he could reach her. He looked around his father’s throne, sword raised, but the witch had vanished.

  “Arion,” Stiv said.

  He looked up. Sinuous figures moved in the darkness, weaving closer. Arion adjusted his grip on his sword as his men took up positions. Davom stayed low, knife weaving back and forth, almost taunting the enemy to approach. Brustus struck a classic dueling stance, sword extended perfectly still. Stiv unleashed a string of vile curses as he caught a floating head and hurled it into the shadows. They were good friends, better than he deserved.

  M
ocking laughter filled the hall as the lamp above began to dim and near-silent footsteps whispered across the floor. Arion lifted his blade within the diminishing circle of light.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Josey closed the door and held onto the handle as lightning flashed in the palace windows. A heartbeat later, thunder crashed amid the steady staccato of driving sleet.

  Inside the room, Anastasia was resting after the doctor dosed her with something to help her sleep. Hubert remained at her bedside with the nurse. His devotion no longer surprised Josey. All the way from Opuline Hill, he had refused to leave ’Stasia’s side. Josey smiled, warmed by the thought of Hubert’s gallantry. He couldn’t hide his feelings for Anastasia from her, much as he tried. But it made Josey miss Caim all the more; she could use some comforting herself. Before Anastasia drifted off, Josey told her friend about her delicate state. Anastasia had been ecstatic and promised to help. Josey fought back the sigh that gathered in her chest and turned away from the door.

  Four bodyguards in full armor stood at attention in the hallway. The sight of them, with their gleaming halberds held high, caused a lump to form in her throat. She would never be able to look at them the same, these men who had risked their lives for her. She was bound to them now, and they to her, but it wasn’t the comforting thought she might have wished for. She’d sent men into battle and watched them die. That knowledge sickened her. That’s part of what I accepted when I put on the crown. Soldiers die. It’s regrettable, but I’d be a fool to think it would never happen again.

  Josey addressed the ranking subaltern. “I want a guard at this door at all times, day and night.”

  The officer saluted with a sharp snap of gauntlet to helm. “Yes, Majesty.”

  He directed one of his subordinates to remain and then followed her down the hall with the others. They met Captain Drathan as he rounded a corner.

  “Majesty,” he said. “I was coming to report.”

  The captain looked beyond exhausted, deep into a realm of fatigue that showed in the lines in his face and the dark circles around his eyes. Yet he held himself upright. While she suspected he had not taken the time to bathe since their return to the palace, his armor had been cleaned and his face washed to give a semblance of suitable presentation.

  “How are my men?” she asked.

  “Eleven are in the hospital ward, Majesty, including Sergeant Merts. There are some bad cuts and a couple broken bones, but the physicians believe everyone will pull through.”

  “And Master Hirsch?”

  Captain Drathan’s frown pulled the corners of his eyes downward. “He lives, but I’m told it will be a miracle if he survives until morning.”

  Josey’s hands trembled. They were losing this fight for the soul of her city, and now her most potent weapon hovered on death’s doorstep.

  “I want funerals for the fallen, Captain,” she said. “With full honors. What arrangements have you made for the defense of the palace?”

  “I have increased the sentries on the walls and inside the palace proper. Your personal bodyguards”-he looked past her and frowned at the subaltern-“should have been doubled.”

  “I will do as I wish with my guards, Captain.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply-”

  Josey held up a hand. “My apologies. I’m tired and short of temper. Please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Majesty. I meant to say that the situation has grown decidedly more precarious. I can vouch for the mettle of every man in your guard, but I fear we are too few to protect you. If the assassin strikes again-”

  “If the assassin strikes,” she said, keeping her fear from rising to her voice, “we shall deal with it in due time.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” But by his expression he was not convinced. “I also came to inform you that Duke Mormaer has arrived with a request for an audience.”

  “At this time of night?” It had to be almost midnight.

  “He seems… intent.”

  A sudden burst of thunder rattled the window frames. Josey sighed and put a hand to her temple.

  “Are you feeling all right, Majesty? Shall I fetch a-”

  “I’m fine. Lead on.”

  Josey was exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. It felt like huge fists were grinding against the sides of her head. She tried to shut it out, but the rumble of the soldiers’ boots on the marble floor only made the pain worse. Gritting her teeth, she descended the broad staircase to the ground floor.

  Despite the hour, Lord Parmian and Major Volek waited in the throne room. Both men bowed as she climbed the dais and settled on the throne. The main doors of the chamber were open, and through them she could make out Mormaer’s broad frame in the foyer. She nodded for Ozmond to issue the summons.

  Duke Mormaer’s footsteps rang out on the hard flagstones. His usually impeccable ensemble appeared slightly rumpled, as if he, too, had not slept in some time. His eyes, though, were fierce as ever as he strode up to the foot of the platform. His bow was stiff and perfunctory.

  “What could not wait until morning, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “Empress Josephine, the messengers you dispatched to Parvia and Wistros never reached the garrisons. They were murdered.”

  Josey stood up. “How did you discover this?”

  “I sent couriers of my own. My men came across the bodies of two imperial envoys on the road. Their assailants didn’t bother to hide the evidence.”

  Josey struggled to breathe. Without those garrison troops, she could not save Othir. Sinking back onto her throne, she gazed up at the ceiling. The tiny eyes of saints and Church hierarchs looked down at her from the paintings above. For the first time she noticed that none of them, not even the Prophet of the Light, was portrayed with a smile.

  “Duke Mormaer,” Ozmond said. “How far from the city did your men find the bodies?”

  “About two days’ ride.”

  Josey drew in a deep breath and was mindful of the tautness of her belly beneath her gown. Two days. How long before we would have begun to suspect? The city may have fallen before we sent new messages. Which, of course, was her enemies’ plan.

  “Was the assassin responsible?” she asked.

  “I do not believe so,” Mormaer said. “My men reported the envoys both died of wounds to the stomach and chest, possibly the work of daggers.”

  “Close-up work.” Ozmond turned to the throne. “Majesty, those who killed the messengers were able to get within arm’s reach of them without drawing suspicion.”

  Mormaer cleared his throat. “Empress Josephine, twenty of my best men await outside this chamber. If you will permit, I would add them to your guard for the time being. I personally vow as to their loyalty, each of them having served me for many years.”

  Josey rose to her feet. “Duke Mormaer, I am honored, but a fortnight ago you might have gladly stood by and watched as I was toppled from this throne. What, may I ask, has brought on this change of heart?”

  Mormaer nodded. “It’s true that we have different views on how this nation should be ruled, but I will not suffer the throne to be bullied. Not by anyone. Now if you will accept-”

  A terrifying howl sliced through the air of the chamber. Josey fell back against the throne. Captain Drathan and his men drew their weapons as everyone gazed up at the ceiling. Ominous darkness cloaked the balcony overlooking the hall. Josey’s breath froze in her lungs. Gods protect us. It’s here.

  Mormaer placed a foot on the bottom step of the dais. Shouting for his men, he looked to Josey. “Majesty, you must be away now. My men and I will hold this chamber.”

  “But-”

  “Majesty!” Captain Drathan shouted. “He’s right. It isn’t safe here.”

  With a frown at Mormaer, Josey hurried down the steps. Major Volek strode up behind them as Ozmond, the captain, and a pair of guardsmen surrounded her.

  “With your permission, Majesty,” the major said. “I would accompany you
to safety.”

  “Of course,” she replied as they hurried her away.

  Her last view of the throne room was of Duke Mormaer drawing a huge sword from an ornate scabbard while his soldiers fanned out with weapons readied. Josey’s silk shoes made a soft patter on the floor as she jogged to keep up with her escorts. Their flight reminded her of the night she had been whisked through these corridors by Ral and Markus during their insane bid for the throne. That feeling was reinforced as they turned a corner and passed through the wide chamber that had once been a trophy room. Even though the room had been converted into a sewing nook with cushioned chairs and placid arrays, she breathed easier when they were well past it.

  Captain Drathan took a lamp from the sewing room and led them into the east wing of the palace. Scaffolds and tarps covered the walls, and crates were stacked in the available niches-all part of Hubert’s pet project to turn this wing into new apartments for the palace’s many servants. As they came to another intersection, Ozmond and Captain Drathan turned down opposite corridors.

  “This way,” the captain said. “There is a postern leading to the north bailey.”

  Ozmond gestured down the other hallway. “We should get the empress back upstairs to the imperial suite. There are stairs this way.”

  Captain Drathan shook his head. “Upstairs is no good. For all we know, the upper levels are in the hands of the assassins.”

  “There is only one assassin,” Ozmond said, “and he is occupied in the throne room with Duke Mormaer. The empress would be safer-”

  “Gentlemen.” Josey cut them both off. “I’m right here.” When they quieted, she said, “Ozmond, I appreciate your concerns, but this is the captain’s area of expertise. Captain Drathan, if you would-”

  “Pardon,” Major Volek said. “But if I may interrupt.”

  Josey looked past the tall officer. The corridor they had just come down was pitch black and silent. Gooseflesh prickled her forearms. “Yes, Major?”