“Sounds good,” Selric said.
“Sounds right,” Mendric said, “but not good.” All three laughed.
“I’ve gone over everything with Reznor. He’ll handle the Academy. Sellore, of course, will handle his House. Mendric, that leaves you with the Inn and The Unicorn’s Run, as well as rotating the guard shifts at the warehouses. But you could just leave The Run to Selric, since he’s always there anyway.” Brandon cast Selric a sly stare then looked back to Mendric. “You should be able to handle whatever servants don’t go with your parents. You can do it. Most things run themselves. This is the longest I’ve ever gone for: I am staying until...well, just until. Remember, keep the help in line and the discipline up. Keep Selric out of the servant girls’ quarters, and keep the tacksmen on top of the horses. Make sure that they get exercised in the yard, at least. I don’t care if there’s snow over your head. Have it swept away. The animals need constant work to stay strong.”
“It’ll be easy,” Mendric agreed.
“Speaking of The Unicorn’s Run,” Brandon said, “I was in there the other day and tried to make conversation with this pretty young, blonde, but insolent, girl. Well, I told her who I was and that she was about to be fired if the tone in her voice didn’t change, and do you know what she told me?” The boys shrugged. “I’m Selric’s, leave me alone.” Selric and Brandon laughed heartily, but Mendric scoffed.
“You’d better straighten her out, Selric,” Mendric said.
“Forget you,” Selric snapped. “I like her the way she is, so leave off.” Mendric reached across the table and tried to slap Selric in the head, but missed.
“Settle down, Mendric,” Brandon said. “If Selric truly likes her, you’ll only cause dissension between you.”
“Well, maybe it would be worth it, if it would keep him out of wedlock.”
“No way,” Selric said. “If that’s what I want, you can’t change it. Give her a chance. You don’t even know her.”
“I know her type, and I have given her a chance. You bring her around and she bugs me and things from my person or room go missing, and I find them in some place I never took them, and there she is with a sly smile on her face.”
“She’s just playing with you,” Selric said. “Relax.”
“I’ll try,” he agreed unhappily. Brandon smacked them both on the back.
“Good!” he bellowed. “Have it all fixed up when I come back or I’ll knock your heads together.” The Stormweathers nodded and smiled.
The men drank into the early hours and just after dawn, in the hearth room, Brandon bid the entire family good-bye, with a special look and long handshake for Grandfather Stormweather. With that, he rode off on his courser, his great destrier acting as spare mount in tow, his weapons and gold-engraved armor clanking and gleaming in the early morning light. The sun was warm and there was hardly a breeze, very much in contrast to the past frigid week and the boys stood in the sun several moments after Brandon had turned out and gate, and out of view.
11
As winter neared, and the nights grew colder, prey for the Fiend steadily decreased as nighttime traffic was curtailed by the snow and the cold. It had gone two nights without finding suitable prey: It had killed several vagrants and two drunken mercenaries, but no females. The Fiend moved now through the noble districts, searching for any desirable females It could find. Its lust had grown to a nearly uncontrollable state, and just before midnight, the Fiend spied a noble carriage wheeling down the street. Its keen vision peered into the dark interior and spotted an attractive young woman.
The Fiend almost let the coach pass, knowing how dangerous killing a noble would be to Its ever fading mission. But when It smelled her as the coach drove by Its place in the shadows, lust overtook the Fiend and It bound after the vehicle as it rounded a corner. It leapt aboard and pulled the coachman’s head back, driving a knife into his chest. The horse trotted a while longer, but without lead soon came to a stop, waiting for a command. The Fiend jumped down and approached the door. Da’reese Vincent, young wife of Lord Stignon Vincent, leaned to the window to urge the driver on, but when she saw the large approaching shadow, she sat back, pressing herself into the corner of the coach.
Opening the door, the Fiend jumped in and Da’reese tore off her jewels. “Here, take them,” she said, terrified. She did not know why she feared for her life: she could not recall hearing of any noble woman being attacked in many years. But afraid she was, as the shape neared, paying no obvious heed to her jeweled offering. She hurled the riches at It, and then tried to flee out the opposite door. Da’reese was so overcome with terror, that when she tried to scream, no sound came from her throat. It seized the woman by the waist and hurled her back into the corner. The carriage rocked violently as It leapt onto her, viciously soothing Its lust. Da’reese struggled and wiggled, but was trapped by her heavy gown and the Fiend’s iron grip.
Da’reese’s assailant continued for fifteen Andrelian minutes, the cold air in the coach was alive with the steam from Its hot breath as if the carriage were filled with fog. Despite the chill, her limbs soon began to grow warm, then numb altogether. The force of the Fiend, and the pain, kept Da’reese breathless and she could only manage little whimpers of pain before she finally lost consciousness.
It was after three bells when the watch discovered the murder; Sergeant Hansel Selig was in charge. As the patrol rounded the corner they saw the carriage, the horse snorting steam in the cold air. Sgt. Selig broke into a run. As he approached he noted the driver leaning back, blood down the front of his jacket. Hansel directed one of his men to check the driver, and the rest to scour the area for a suspect, unsure just how long ago the crime had taken place. Hansel, himself, went to the carriage door. “Hello?” he called, but peering in the window he saw only darkness. Hansel put his foot on the step as he pulled on the handle, and the door opened itself slowly. Sgt. Selig heard a gush of liquid and saw a small wave of blood flow out the open carriage and over his boot.
Horrified and trembling, he opened the door fully and light filtered in, illuminating the gruesome scene: Da’reese Vincent, was still propped in the corner, dress over her head, bloody and mutilated. Hansel Selig stumbled backwards, barely able to hold the vomit from erupting from his throat. He fumbled for his whistle, dropping it twice before he placed it between his dry, trembling lips. He blew repeatedly and fell to his knees, staining his pants in the young lady’s fluids.
It was dawn before the black robed priests led the horse and carriage away to the temple of Aug, God of the Dead. The Watch dispersed the crowd that they had not been able to keep away during the affair, which was to them, unbelievable excitement. But even with the carriage gone, the people refused to leave, mumbling of the Gronga and about their inept police force. Constable Ishka Sandwerks, replacement for Alistair Duncan, warden of that district, pronounced to his aide, who stood nearby taking notes, “Yep, sure looks like assassination.” The word “assassination” rushed through the crowd. “Well, let’s wrap it up and get back to the barracks.” The watchmen gathered their clues and did as ordered. None had been allowed to look into the carriage, and Sgt. Selig had been led away as soon as Constable Sandwerks arrived. Sandwerks had himself gone into the coach for several minutes, allowing no one else near under threat of imprisonment, claiming that he needed to examine the carriage personally.
A heavily wrapped figure lurked in a nearby alley, mumbling incoherently and drinking from a bottle he kept concealed in his cloak. He looked around nervously and fidgeted often, shifting his weight from leg to leg. Watchman Dan Bexton, one of the original lawmen on the scene, went to the figure. “All right, move along,” he called loudly, under the eye of Constable Sandwerks, but as he approached, he spoke softly, noting the apparent agitation in the man. “Are you all right, sir?” The figure nodded quickly. “It’s like you said, sir, a real mess.” Dan had looked into the carriage before the arrival of the constable, but denied it to him, feigning ignorance. The secre
t figure seemed to stagger at the news, then turned and walked slowly away, mumbling about the need to stop something. Dan tried to steady him, but had to turn and hurry back to his post before suspected.
That morning the courtyard was not so sunny, nor warm, and the farewells were held in the foyer. “Well, we’d better be off now,” Andric said. “We don’t want to be caught in the first big winter storm while still at sea. We’ve waited too long already. Now we’ve gone over everything...”
“A hundred times,” Mendric said.
“Yes, and now it’s all yours.”
“Yes sir, Selric and I will be fine.”
“I still think you should convince Alhad to let you use a few of his winged horses and fly down there in a day,” Selric said with a grin.
“Those are only for official messenger business,” Andric said, smiling himself. “Besides, the king doesn’t have enough of those steeds to get your mother’s traveling trunks to Gelton.”
“Oh, my babies,” Violet said, ignoring her husband, her beautiful face stained with tears. She took Selric and Mendrick’s faces and kissed them several times each. Selric wrapped his arms about her waist and hugged her long, smelling her hair and feeling her soft hands rubbing his back while she whispered in his ear: “I love you. You had better take of yourself, my darling. If anything were to happen to you, I would truly die of grief. Do not do anything dangerous while we are away!”
Selric fought back tears as his father went over the last minute details with Mendric: when they would send word, when they planed on returning and when new recruits were due at the Academy. The men shook hands farewell. Violet kissed Selric on the lips and patted his cheek softly before going to Mendric and hugging him.
“Do not forget to leave gifts for the brownie. You know how he loves cream. I don’t want him angry and mischievous when I return,” Violet reminded the boys, speaking of the house sprite Violet was convinced lived in the home, helping with chores. She had claimed to see it and speak with it on occasion. No one else was so certain, though a few of the staff and Selric had sworn they had seen something small and man-like once or twice, but never got a good look at it let alone held a conversation.
“Good-bye, Selric,” his father said, shaking his hand firmly. “Help your brother and mind what he tells you. He is in charge. And don’t get married while we’re gone; I don’t care who it is. The princess herself could propose to you, but forget it. We’d like to be here, regardless of how we feel about your decision, understand? Good-bye.” He clasped the back of Selric’s neck briefly then took Violet out to the carriage.
Helmric came out from the hearth room, Bennings, his manservant following close behind carrying the box of Helmric’s most important papers, two fancy scrolls resting atop the box. Grandfather stuffed his cane under his arm as he pushed the boy’s faces down so that he could kiss their foreheads.
“Now, Mendric,” he said, “do what you feel is right. You’re a good lad and will make a fine lord Stormweather. But here is where you start your responsibilities. Do well.” He smacked Mendric’s face lightly with his trembling hand and gave him the first rolled parchment. “Some last minute things I’d like done while I’m gone.” He winked.
“Now you, Selric.” He handed him the second scroll as well and whispered in his ear, “This is that sum you said was required for your venture.” Selric had often talked with his grandfather about how, if given an account, he could set up a trade route he had devised that would make the Stormweather’s both richer and more famous. “Now, you do good with this money and earn that Stormweather name. Make me proud. Make your father proud.” He slapped Selric’s face as well, and turned about to leave. “Well, come on, you old codger,” he said to Bennings, who was even more old and bent than Helmric. “Don’t make me miss the ship.”
“Yes m’ord,” Bennings said and nodded farewell to the boys with a slight but friendly and tired smile. Selric and Mendric followed them out and stood upon the broad top step. Four heavily armored knights, the Stormweather bodyguards hand picked and trained personally by Sir Brandon, would accompany the adults south; two rode before the carriage and two behind. Their black full plate armor gleamed in the dawn as the sun finally peeked over the stable. A host of men-at-arms would also go to the southern estate as escort, and they waved farewell, laughing and joking with their compatriots in the barracks across the yard who were required to stay in the snowy north for the winter.
Just as the carriage pulled out, Helmric stuck his head out the window. “Selric,” he called, “that’s a good girl. You’d better be nice to her.” He ducked back inside and the procession, complete with a wagon-load of servants, some two-thirds of the staff, trailing behind, pulled out and away; the supplies had been loaded onto the ship in the previous days. On his grandfather’s words, Selric gave Mendric an arrogant look which silently stated, “How do you like that?” and Mendric turned his face away.
The gates opened and the brothers danced on the step like clucking hens, slapping their thighs and clapping their hands in jubilation at their freedom. Then Selric stopped and thought about the words his grandfather had said, as he would do many times in the future. He would always remember the advice, as well as Helmric’s face peering thoughtfully out of the coach. As the last wagon left the courtyard, Mendric turned to go back into the manor but was grabbed by his brother who stood pointing toward the gate where a staggering cloaked figure rushed forward, but could not get in before the gate was closed. Both boys watched curiously. The figure dropped a bottle as he grabbed the bars with both hands, shaking them. A guard advanced to push him back when the man spoke.
“Mendric, Mendric!” he called, motioning him to come near. But just then, several palace guards, not simply city watchmen, rushed forward and grabbed the sad figure. He struggled with them and his hood fell back. It was Alistair Duncan, disheveled and unkempt, barely recognizable as a man and more like some pitiable abomination. “Mendric. It’s me, Alistair. I must talk to you. Help me!” Mendric ran down the stairs.
An armored knight, one of the King’s personal guards whose word was law, rode forward and struck Duncan with his rod of office. “Mendric!” Duncan called. “The Fiend. The Fiend!” The knight struck him down repeatedly, blood erupting from the former constable’s head. Mendric broke into a run; Selric could not hold his charging brother back as he rushed to the aid of his old friend.
The guardsmen dragged the unconscious Alistair Duncan into a nearby wagon and carted him quickly away. The knight rode to the gate, his face concealed by a full visor, waiting, and Selric knew what for: he waited for Mendric, in his anger, to slander the King so that he could drag the nobleman off to the dungeon as well. The Stormweather guards were also aware of this and three of them ran to their leader and, with Selric’s aid, they were able to carry the bullish Mendric back into the manor, as the knight waited arrogantly in the street. This only further enraged Mendric who swore foul oaths of every kind upon the knight, but he refrained from saying ill of the King, which would have meant his immediate, even if very brief, imprisonment. The resulting slander on the Stormweather name would have been the most severe and lasting punishment for the offense.
During the next several days, Mendric and Selric both tried unsuccessfully to gain admittance to the dungeon to speak with Duncan. They called on favors owed them by other nobles and officials, as well as having Cinder, even Amber, try their lofty admirers for help. However, no one who was willing to help could, and those powerful enough to assist, were too afraid of the King.
“If only we had tried to ask Grandfather or Father before they set sail,” Mendric said. “Or if Brandon were here...”
“We had no idea that the king’s officials would be so idiotic about the whole thing. Besides, we didn’t want to delay their journey,” Selric said.
The Stormweather boys soon found strange men lurking across the street from the gate. When approached, these individuals would produce a royally-stamped edict decreeing th
at the bearer was on royal duty and any hindrance of that duty would result in immediate imprisonment or death of the offenders. So, Selric and Mendric ignored the men, and left them to stand their silent, mysterious vigils.
“What do you think he meant by “The Fiend” Selric?” asked Mendric as he sat in his father’s chair, rubbing his head with one hand, a mug of ale in his other.
“It seems that the story he told before may be true, or at least he believes so,” said Selric, sitting in his mother’s chair, a goblet of wine his beverage. He could still smell her hair and perfume in the furniture upholstery. Mendric opened his mouth in disbelief, but Selric cut him short. “I’m serious. I was the skeptic before, but come on: they whisk him off to a waiting wagon in broad daylight as he’s about to tell us some mysterious message. It’s more than a little strange.”
“Yes, a great deal strange. Well, what about what they said at the prison?”
“What? About him being a traitor and caught trying to pass on secret information to us, his co-conspirators? No way in the Hells. You saw Duncan. He could not be mistaken for a real spy. He’s loony from something.”
“Yes,” Mendric said, “but they claim that Duncan is only acting mad to throw off suspicion.”
“No,” said Selric. “They would have arrested us with or without proof, at least for questioning or a mind probe, and the crown is covering the whole thing up. That’s the key!” Both sat pondering, staring at the flickering flames in the hearth. The room was dark, lit only by the roaring fire, the manor quiet with those few remaining staff in bed for the night.
“I don’t know what to do,” Mendric finally said. “I can’t leave my old friend in that horrid place.”
“It’s the Fiend,” Will said slowly, seriously, startling them both. Neither one had noticed that he had snuck in and was lying sideways in Grandfather’s chair.
By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) Page 32
