The Mercenary Prince (Legends of Windemere Book 9)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  Samara sheepishly returns to the crowd and sits while using her sleeve to dab at the bleeding bump on her temple. She can feel Mab’s disappointing stare boring into her chest and slips further out of sight. Before the girl can sneak away from the area, several shouts cause her to climb a nearby box for a better view. Delvin is on his feet and standing over the gasping executioner, the warrior’s hands still behind his back. Guards are approaching with spears and swords to drive him away from the dais. Seeing an opening, the quick-witted swordsman ducks under a blade and sprints forward. He lifts his hands enough to slice the ropes, which he snaps as he barrels through the line of guards. Delvin is about to jump onto the dais when Mab kicks him with enough force to send him tumbling into the crowd. Everyone notices that two of the stakes are out of the ground and wonder why the vampire has remained imprisoned when it is obvious she could have escaped at any moment.

  “I appreciate the rescue attempt, Cunningham, but I can take care of myself,” she says while two of the guards fix her bonds. One of the men has trouble pounding the stake back into the earth, so she walks over to stomp it into place. “Guess none of you would believe me if I said he isn’t one of my friends. Though we’re not and the puppy merely has a bloated sense of heroism. I hope you let him go once you get your bloodlust satisfied with my death. Speaking of which, give it your best shot.”

  “Commence the holy execution!” the Ostrich leader shouts, his voice cracking when he tries to get above the applause of the crowd.

  The five priests chant in a high-pitched whine that drives everyone into silence, including Mab, who is beginning to sweat. She recognizes the spell from ancient times and is surprised to find the Duragian Order’s vampire execution method being used on the plains. Many of her kind had fallen to this painful experience before the Dawn Fangs appeared and changed their society’s landscape. To her knowledge, nobody has ever tried to use the holy execution on the new breed of vampire. With a prideful smirk, Mab decides to let the spell go off and see if its effects are worth reporting back to her friends.

  Layers of light appear on her limbs and neck, their appearance already telling the vampire that she is not facing death. A burning sensation makes her well aware that it could take weeks for her to heal the injuries and that is only if someone reattaches her head. The idea of being conscious and alive, but trapped in the remains of her body for centuries causes Mab to growl in disgust. It is a guttural sound that causes everyone to take a step back, including the concentrating priests. Twisting against the chains, she pulls up all of the stakes and yanks two of the holy men off their feet. Several of her joints dislocate and one of her arms snaps as the Dawn Fang slips from the thick chains and thrashes against the spell. She can feel pressure threatening to crush her limbs and pop her head clean off her neck.

  A primal roar echoes in her ears, but Mab is the only one who hears the terrifying noise. The sound galvanizes her into action and she balls up the chains to throw into the air. Leaping off the ground, the vampire acts as if she is about to dive into her own shadow. An elderly priestess casts a barrier on the dais to prevent her from escaping, but stops chanting when Mab lands in a crouch and laughs. The shadowy underside of the chains envelope the Dawn Fang and the magical connections between her and the robed mortals are violently snapped. Everyone is silent as they stare at the priests, whose hands are bleeding from the backlash, and wait to see if the deadly woman reappears.

  Minutes pass before the Ostrich Tribe leader raises his hand for attention. “The Path Lords have decided that execution of the outsider will commence immediately. We will discuss the threat of the vampire and consider leaving the haven now that it has been compromised. That action is not set in stone, so do not break camp. The priests may be able to locate our enemy and send a curse to silence her tongue. Now let us complete our business. Set up the executioner’s block and bring the prisoner to the dais.”

  “Do I get a chance to speak?” Delvin asks as he is dragged to a wooden box. He is pushed to his knees and bent forward while the masked man examines his axe. “So you give a Dawn Fang the opportunity to make a final plea, but not one of your own? At least let me die as what I was born. Undo my shirt and let my brand feel the wind as you do what you think is right.”

  Two of the guards tear his shirt and stand him up to show the crowd the unfinished mark, proving his story to those who believed his origin was a ruse. Whispers rush through the tribespeople, but the few pieces Delvin can hear tell him that they are worried about ghosts and monsters. Only Samara remains quiet, her eyes darting in every direction for a sign of Mab’s return.

  “What difference does this make?” asks the blonde Grouse Tribe leader, his mouth full of grapes. A seed slides down his throat, so he hacks and coughs until it launches onto the cheek of another Path Lord. “He may not be a ghost or a vampire, but his return is too much of a coincidence. Does anyone else wonder why he returned during a time of tragedy? Perhaps he sent the Dawn Fangs as a way to get revenge on the people who abandoned him. What kind of man are you in the wooded lands, Mr. Cunningham? What sins have you committed and why do you think we should listen to your talk of war? For all we know, you wish to gain nothing more than fame and wealth from our demise. My people live the closest to the border and we know many warriors of Serab use others to increase their own reputation.

  Gasps in the audience bring the Path Lords’ full attention to the young warrior who is stripping down to his underwear. They see no scars or marks of war on his body, but there is something about his form that tells them he is an experienced soldier. Delvin kneels and holds his hands out with their palms to the sky, hoping he remembers the position of a tribesman asking for forgiveness. Keeping his face to the ground, he steadies his breathing and does his best to make his voice carry without shouting.

  “I was the Mercenary Prince until I met my new friends and became an adventurer,” Delvin states in as soft a tone as possible. An uproar causes him to remain silent, but he rolls away from the approaching executioner and assumes his original position. “That was the life I led before I came here and it is the one I will return to. When I was found in Serab, the woman who raised me was a warrior and trained me in the ways of combat. So I have known many battlefields and committed the sins you would expect from such a man. I’ve killed, beaten, tricked, threatened, and bribed my opponents in order to be the victor. Yet I would never call myself a terrible man because I always gave my enemies a chance to surrender.”

  “We understand that you see yourself as a good person and maybe even a hero,” the stone-faced Ostrich Tribe leader says while walking down the stairs of the tower. The crowd parts to let him reach the prisoner and kneel before the dais. “We could never follow a man like you because of what you have fought for. As a mercenary, you acted for money and reputation. As an adventurer, you strive for fame and excitement. None of those goals are important when the lives of others are on the line. How do we know that you will not abandon us on the battlefield at a point where such things appear unattainable?”

  Delvin stands and helps the other man to his feet, the fire in the warrior’s eyes tells the Path Lord that he may have misspoke. “I admit that I returned to the Yagervan Plains to face my past and make myself stronger. When I caught wind of the turmoil, I could have returned to Serab and never given this place a second thought. Instead, my friends and I pressed on to face the Osprey Tribe. That cost my fr . . . battle brothers their lives, but I remained and came to speak with you. This journey is no longer about my past or even about me. It is about making sure all of you have a future, including my parents who are still alive. So don’t insult me by suggesting I will abandon you because that will never happen. Too much is at stake to be so selfish and immature.”

  “Then who are you loyal to?” asks the tribesman, although Delvin swears the man’s mouth does not move. “Why would you fight for strangers?”

  “Because that is what I believe a good man should do,” the champion swears whil
e going back to his knees and lowering his head. He makes no attempt to escape the executioner who moves the wooden block to catch the champion’s head. “My loyalty is to my friends and I know this battle may mean letting them down. Yet I am also loyal to the people who brought me into this world and the culture that molded my first eight years of life. There isn’t a simple answer to your question because, as a champion, I also feel loyalty to the gods and all of Windemere. All of these things have forged the man you see before you and he is a steadfast ally. Once I choose my allies and a cause, I remain there until I’m either cast aside or our goal is achieved. So if I lead you into battle and we are losing, I will be the last one to retreat because I stand by my choices and convictions.”

  Delvin expects something to happen as the executioner’s axe is raised, silent prayers to Ehre running through his brain. As the weapon swings down, he assumes he said something wrong and the god has found him disloyal. So the warrior is surprised when the edge of the blade touches his neck and a burst of pain briefly runs along his spine. Screams from the crowd cause him to turn back, which helps him realize that his head is still attached. The masked man is standing dumbstruck with the smoldering remains of the axe’s handle in his hands. Rising to his feet, Delvin searches for the weapon’s remains and pauses when all of the tribespeople bow at his feet. Glancing down, the warrior sees white light in a feather pattern on the Osprey brand and the bird is slowly flapping its wings.

  “I guess I understand loyalty now,” Delvin whispers while the energy disappears back into his aura. “Ehre the Loyalty God has blessed me for my actions. So do I have to leave or are you willing to fight alongside me?”

  “Give us a plan and we will follow it,” the bald Path Lord swears, tears of hope flowing from his eyes. The other leaders make their way out of the tower, the Grouse Tribe member taking up the rear. “If a god speaks for you then we know you are here to help. What power do you wield?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure. Mab was supposed to help me figure that out,” the champion admits, causing the tribesman to look at his feet in shame. Placing a strong hand on the man’s shoulder, Delvin smiles with warmth and friendliness. “Don’t worry. I have the feeling she’ll come back and we’ll be nice to her. Now I’m going to get some fresh clothes and we’ll discuss some basic strategies. All of you know the terrain better than me, so I need your knowledge to make a plan. In a few days, the tribes go to war and retake their lands.”

  *****

  Far to the north, the Osprey Tribe rests after making preparations to march and finish their conquest of the Yagervan Plains. The weaker of the magically enslaved humans sleep on the open ground while their superiors enjoy the comfort of the tents. Fires flicker and cast shadows across the encampment, the patrolling guards lazily completing their rounds. All of them know that their masters will handle any real dangers and they are nothing more than decoys for anyone wanting to attack the camp. Yet they are helpless to do anything more than follow orders due to the mass charm ability of Elrin and the seductive stare of Teka. The married Dawn Fangs have taken great pleasure in manipulating the mortals and have been chastised several times by Yeldar for pitting the warriors against each other. Every time, a valuable soldier has been lost and the more short-sighted vampires have found themselves locked in the tower with only a single beast to keep them fed for a day.

  “Bring them up, Riak,” Yeldar requests while he examines his tribe from the top of the tower. The four-armed vampire nods his head and goes downstairs to release the others from their room. “Foolish children are causing trouble so close to our campaign’s end. Some days I wonder if I should have left them behind. It’s amazing how being a Dawn Fang has made me feel superior even to those made alongside me. Such a thought makes me believe that some of us are destined to be leaders while others are born to be minions. As a mortal, I always thought we chose our role and could be anything. Now I’m not so sure. Does the truth ever reveal itself, Dark Mistress?”

  Yeldar catches Mab’s incoming hand with his tongue, the razor edge shredding her flesh as it tightens around her wrist. She dives into a shadow and nearly pulls the younger Dawn Fang into the abyss, but a pair of wights appear to grab his arms. The undead creatures spew noxious gas onto the roof, but none of it flows into the void where Mab lurks. Yeldar’s tongue is released and retracts into his mouth as his companions hurry up the stairs. Their leader points at the shadows and signals for them to stand back to back, but he is not sure it will be enough to stop their more powerful enemy.

  “Call them, Elrin,” Yeldar says as he creates enough wights to fill a quarter of the roof. Two of them are immediately slashed to pieces, but their attacker remains hidden. “Keep doing that, Dark Mistress. I made these with contact acid that can hurt one of our kind. Your hands will be in agony long before you get to me.”

  “Such a childish boast,” Mab hisses, appearing behind her prey. Her claws are within an inch of the man’s back when a screech from Teka knocks her against the railing. “Keep playing games, brats. I’ll win this fight eventually. You don’t have any more pawns to hide.”

  “She thinks we’re alone,” Riak laughs while he charges. Two of his blades swing high, but Mab catches the other two that are heading for her waist. “You’re strong, but I think old age is getting to your brain. We never ran out of raiding parties. Most of them were called back once we learned about you. Those we fed to you were expendable and kept you off our back until we amassed a real army.”

  “Why tell her the plan, idiot?” Teka asks as she hits their enemy with another condensed burst of sound. The other woman’s ears bleed, but it is not enough to stop her from using two of Riak’s blades to block the others. “The Dark Mistress really is a tough old witch. No wonder all the little ones are scared of her.”

  Hearing movement in the floors below, Yeldar merges all of the wights into a single entity that groans from multiple mouths. “There was one thing I noticed about the stories. A possible weak point in her armor of reputation and shadows. The great Mab always went after solitary targets or groups that were pathetically weak. Unlike our maker, she isn’t a warrior who could take out an army by herself. She’s an assassin and thief. Not a real threat if you know how to handle someone like that. Let’s uncover the Dark Mistress’s limit, my friends.”

  Mab flips Riak off the tower, taking two deep cuts that run from her lower back to the tips of her shoulders. The laughing Dawn Fang hits the ground with a puff of dust, his body avoiding injury by merging with the earth. Before the Dark Mistress can attack one of the other Path Lords, a small force of vampires march onto the roof. Each one bares his or her fangs with a few of them revealing the hint of a breath weapon that they will be happy to unleash once Yeldar gives the order. By the time the sound of footsteps are silenced, nearly thirty Dawn Fangs stand across from Mab and even more are waiting with Riak on the ground.

  “All of these Dawn Fangs started as experienced warriors and we trained them for the Great March,” Yeldar explains while approaching the cornered woman. He leaps away from her swipe and tries to get his tongue around her neck, but she expertly avoids the lashing weapon. “I’m willing to give you a chance to join us, but we both know it would be a waste of breath. How many of us can you kill before you lose your head?”

  Mab growls and lunges at Yeldar, but skids to a stop when Elrin charges at what he thinks is her blind spot. The metallic vampire is sent tumbling off the tower and he smashes several of his allies with a booming thud. Various projectiles fly at the Dark Mistress who gracefully evades the attacks while trying to get to their leader. With a high-pitched whine, one of the enemies on the ground launches an orb of light that erases all of the shadows and cuts off Mab’s escape routes. Cursing under her breath, she spins around to behead a charging enemy and tear his heart out. With a flick of the wrist, she shreds the beating organ and throws the remains at the advancing wight. The slivers melt against the creature’s acidic flesh, the undead construct driving
the woman back into the corner. Mab rolls through the legs of the lumbering monster and hops up to decapitate two more vampires, their bodies slamming into the wight. Before the corpses are fully dissolved, the more experienced Dawn Fang kicks one of them to give Yeldar’s creation enough of a push to knock it off the roof. The wight lands and splatters over several vampires, their dying screams music to her ears.

  Mab turns to face the rest of her enemies when a sharp pain strikes her in the back and a sword-like tongue pushes through her chest. She grabs the intrusive weapon before it can wrap around her neck, but it has already enveloped her heart. Realizing that she is on the verge of losing, Mab wrestles Yeldar’s tongue while searching for a shadow she can use to escape. She sees that the inner edge of the rooftop is cloaked in darkness, so she uses all of her strength to dive and roll into the safety of the abyss. As she escapes, the retreating vampire feels a painful yank on her body and her heart is torn from her back. It is too late for her to grab the beating organ as she tumbles into the safety of the shadows.

  “She may be alive, but the Dark Mistress won’t be much of a threat now,” Yeldar says while examining the beautiful, crimson heart at his feet. Aromatic blood seeps from the veins and arteries, making him drool in hunger until he crushes it under his heel. “Now all we need to do is take her head and we’ll have nothing to fear from the old ones. Prepare everyone to move out before morning. The Children of Clyde are well on their way to ruling Windemere like we were always meant to do.”

  A cheer of agreement erupts from the gathered vampires, but they are drowned out by a maddening laugh. Every living creature in the encampment feels their heart stop when they hear the blood-chilling noise. The mortals try their best to go back to bed even though a primal terror has infected their minds, calmed only by Elrin’s mass charm being pushed to its limit. Avoiding their slaves, the Dawn Fangs slink back to their rooms and cover their faces to hide the blood pouring from their noses. For everyone in the Osprey encampment, it is a restless night that leaves them thankful for the dawn.