by Mark Eller
“It doesn’t work that way,” the thing sighed. “I wear this. I can’t take anything directly from it.”
Nodding with sudden understanding, Robar smiled. His dead wife had been a minor mage. He knew a mage could seldom use their tools directly on themselves. The restriction would be worse for a being with no training. So yes, perhaps he could make use of this spawn if he were careful. After all, it suffered from far more restraints in this matter than did he.
“And how,” he demanded, feeling a need to know the deeper story, “did this mage fall into the pool.”
“I helped him fall,” the thing admitted. “A dead soul, a woman, taught me how to set a trap. I waited two weeks before the mage fell into a magma pool. When little more than melting bones remained, I reached in and grabbed the hook. The magma destroyed the last shreds of my hand, and the hook merged with my flesh, so you see, we both have our murders.” Its tentative smile was half-eager, half-fear. “The strength? Do you want it?”
Robar wanted to laugh with delight at the possibilities. The image of Belthethsia’s pale blue face wavered before his inner eye. She was more than beauty. She was allure, whim, and glory. Even an idle glance from her half-lidded, smoky eyes made him feel more the man than he had ever felt before. A week lying between Belthethsia’s thighs was worth everything, his wealth, his wife, and even his children if such a price were asked of him. Surely she was worth taking a chance on this pathetic thing’s fable.
“Give it to me then,” Robar ordered, “but I swear to you if this is a trick, I’ll rip your heart out.”
“No trick! No trick. I’ll give you great strength. All I ask is that you give me what I need to leave here. I want—”
Slashing his hand through the air, Robar cut the spawn off with a curt gesture. Before speaking, he cast a glance toward the table where the thieves and fence had been sitting, but Mathew and the others were gone. Nobody else was in the tavern.
“I’ve the courage for anything. Do it. Do it now.”
The spawn nodded, and then its hook flared brighter than Robar had seen it before. A sickly green light oozed from its razor tip, pulsating, pulling. Nearing him, it almost touched the clothes over his chest, almost sank into his flesh.
With a yell, Robar shook himself from its spell and grabbed the being’s wrist again. The thin wrist trembled in his grip, bent almost to the point of breaking. Robar’s hand tingled.
“Wait, Hell spawn. You know what I’m called, but I know almost nothing about you. What name do you go by?”
The thing looked confused for a moment. It licked its thin lips, blinked, and then appeared faintly surprised. “A name? I remember a name. When I was a human child, a crying man, my father, laid me on a slab of stone. Sometimes, when Belthethsia played by peeling away my skin, I remembered hearing my father whisper ‘sorry Jolson’ before plunging a knife into my heart. Belthethsia used to laugh when I cried out to him. She said he gained great power by killing me.”
Robar snorted disbelief. “Hell’s bargains are never what they seem. I’m not fool enough to believe the strength you give me will last forever. A week is all I need. A week so I can beat Heriod and have Belthethsia.” Releasing his grip on the wrist, he squared his shoulders and thrust his chest toward the foul hook. “Give me strength, Jolson, and remember I’ve your name. Play me false and you’ll regret it.”
Jolson jerkily nodded and moved the hook toward Robar. Its glowing nimbus touched Robar’s clothes, merged with them, and then the green metal sank into his chest. Robar gasped, shook, and used all his courage to remain still when sensations both glorious and foul, both delightful and evil, ripped through him. The hook was heat and chill and the pain of fire. It sucked and radiated, filling and draining until he thought he might collapse. During it all, Jolson’s gaze rested on him, at first fearful, then firming with resolve before he drew the hook out of Robar’s chest. Moments later, the hook’s light dimmed, faded, until it was once again a solid appendage on the end of Jolson’s arm.
Bracing one hand on the bar’s rail, Robar drew in a steadying breath and frowned because nothing had changed. If the spawn’s promises proved false Robar would, by the Seven Gods and Two, make him regret this game. “I don’t feel any stronger, spawn. I’ll rip your head off and send your soul back to Hell if you’ve played false with me.”
He looked at the spawn when he spoke, hearing his own words, his voice, his delivery, and the words didn’t sound right. They were not forceful enough. In some way, they even seemed hesitant.
Lifting a stool with his good hand, Jolson held it out. His gaze was weary, but his eyes exuded confidence. “Hold this to your chest and squeeze it tight.”
The idea seemed ridiculous. Robar knew exactly how strong the stool was. After all, he had built the tavern’s stools out of the only load of ironwood he had ever received.
“Do it,” Jolson ordered.
Robar hesitated, but the spawn’s insistence gave him no choice. He took the stool, held it to his chest, and squeezed. The stool shattered.
“Gods,” he gasped, astounded by the feat. “I did it. I broke the thing. I must be the strongest man alive.” He looked at Jolson and grinned, feeling vibrant and alive despite the slight quiver in his knees. “Heriod doesn’t stand a chance.”
He laughed, but the thought of the other man sent a shudder through him. Heriod really was a heartless monster. Why had he not noticed this before? “I–I think I’m ready to fill my part of the bargain.”
“You already have,” Jolson said, appearing more confident than before. He stood almost fully erect. His arms hung freely at his sides, and for the first time during their conversation his gaze held steady. Worst yet, his voice sounded firm. “The dead soul who taught me how to set the trap was once your wife. She told me you would be here, and she told me what you had to trade.”
Nodding once, Jolson turned and moved with a confident, though clumsy, walk toward the tavern’s closed door. It opened before he reached it. Carrid stepped inside, a dissatisfied smile on his face. He was huge, larger than Robar remembered ever seeing him. Something about his bearing, the confident way he held himself, the dangerous glint in his eye, made Robar wonder how he had ever felt contempt for the man.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Carrid said to Jolson. The sound of his deep voice made Robar tense with sudden nervousness. His mouth went dry, and he took an involuntary step back.
“Out,” Jolson replied. “I am going to see the sun.” He pushed past Carrid, paused briefly when he stepped into the outside air, and then he was gone.
Carrid looked momentarily bemused. With a slight shrug, he frowned and turned his attention on Robar. “Never expected him to leave. Athos’s demons will have to hunt him down, and they’ll blame me for their trouble.” His eyes took in the shattered stool, and his frown grew deeper. “The missus wasn’t happy with my taking the money. She says I pay you too much for shoddy work.”
A chill ran through Robar. His nervousness increased, and his hands began to shake. He tried to meet Carrid’s eyes and found he could not. “I–I–I’m sorry.” His damp hands shook, and sweat dripped off his forehead. “I could lower my prices and–and maybe I could not charge you for these last tables. I–I—”
When Carrid‘s frown faded into an expression of bemused confusion, part of Robar’s nervousness dissipated. There was something about Carrid’s frown he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortable thing to see. Frightening. Reaching for his courage, Robar found none.
Carrid peered thoughtfully toward the closed tavern door. “What did the spawn do to you?”
His expression cleared with understanding. A thin smile formed on his lips. A calculating light entered his eyes. Turning his attention back to Robar, he pointed a finger, and his eyes narrowed. “Well then, maybe we do need to talk a bit about the price. The way I see it the last work you did for me was inferior. It didn’t last, and I won’t pay for shoddy work. In fact, you owe me a complete new se
t of tables and chairs for free. Now, if you were to give me your word...”
Chapter 10—Queen’s Challenge
Elise stamped her foot, shifted her shield, and backed away from the attack. Her left arm ached horribly from holding her shield, and her right wrist fought a losing battle against the weight of her sword’s point. Panting, she struggled to bring the point up, but exhaustion left her barely enough energy to breathe. Her only consolation was her opponent was not in much better shape.
“Milady,” a small voice said to the side.
Tired or not, Pol Swordbreaker did not let up. Face grim, Pol stepped in and struck. Elise barely blocked his overhand attack. The attack was swiftly followed by a second. His weapon swept at her side, flickered towards her face, an instant before Pol came after her in a low line. Elise shifted her weight, partially blocked the blow, and chuckled when Pol’s sword became tangled in the voluminous folds of her clothing. There were, it seemed, some advantages in having to dress like a queen. Still chuckling, she lowered her shield, drew back her arm, and thrust her point straight toward the man’s chest, already tasting victory.
“My Queen,” the small voice tried again.
Damn. Apparently she had tasted too soon. Dropping his shield to his waist, Pol knocked her rapier aside, and the pointed top of the shield swept up toward her belly in a move too quick for her to avoid. She tried to twist away, but the shield’s sharpened peak pressed against her belly, stopping before it laid open her skin.
“I declare this match a draw,” Pol grinned.
“A draw?” Elise panted. “How so? You just gutted me.”
“And you very handily sliced open the veins under my shield arm,” Pol replied, lowering the shield.
Elise shook her head. “I did no such thing.” Pol raised his arm, showing her where a line of the chimney black she had rubbed on her wooden practice sword resided. “Or at least I don’t remember doing it.”
Pol placed his sword on the wall braces where it belonged when not in use, turned back, and brushed her cheek with gentle fingers. “That’s because you have the instincts of a warrior. You knew you were going to die so you decided to take me out, too.” Smiling ruefully, he handed her a towel he had earlier tucked into his belt. “You did a good job, My Queen. I’ve not faced many opponents your equal.”
As always, his smile, and the sound of his approval, sent a warm rush through her. Though they had known each other for only two weeks, Pol had quickly become an important part of her life. He was her friend during trying times, her confidant, and he sometimes hinted he would not mind becoming more. He was, in effect, everything she had always wished High Priest Calto Morlon could be, but that was a hope she had given up long ago. Though attentive and efficient, Lord Morlon was far too impressed with himself to be anybody’s true friend.
“Damn it, Elise!” the voice, no longer small, demanded.
With a shake of her head, Elise drew herself away from her reverie. Wiping sweat off her face, she turned to look at her irritable and last remaining maid. Wenda, a pale, dark-haired woman of thirty years stood with awkward self-consciousness in the castle’s abandoned, historical armory. Hung on the pale, polished wood wall above her head was Wynderfyte, the war hammer carried by Olnac, King Vere’s grandfather, when he first won kingship of Yernden. To Wenda’s left was the common soldier’s sword used by Vere’s father when he killed Olnac after Olnac refused to abdicate the throne until he was dead. Though she stood surrounded by the bloody history of Yernden’s successions, Wenda remained oblivious, and for this Elise loved her. Wenda was a simple soul. Loyal and hardworking, it sometimes seemed like she went out of her way to ignore the ugliness surrounding them, though even she could not ignore everything.
“Yes, Wenda?”
Wenda’s expression showed more than her usual impatience with Elise’s eccentricities. Her normally smooth face was twisted into lines of near panic. “The king searches for you, Majesty.”
“Oh damn indeed,” Elise muttered, abruptly thrusting her sword and shield into Pol’s hands. “He’ll try to exile me if he discovers I still practice at weapons.”
“Only because you’re twice the warrior he was even before he became so fat,” Pol’s smile grew. “Or so rumor says.”
“Why do you risk yourself?” Wenda demanded.
“Because my father would disown me if I quit training,” Elise explained. “What does my husband want of me now?” She swept her hair back with a quick motion of her hand and tied it up with a length of ribbon she ripped free from her dress. While grabbing her wig from a peg on the wall, the exhaustion she had felt moments before disappeared in a wave of irritation.
“He knows of the child,” Wenda whispered, but her hands quickly fastened the wig to Elise’s head. “I heard Helace say she hasn’t smelled your courses for more than three months. Oh, Milady, what will we do?”
“The whore is an unnatural woman,” Elise cursed. “There’s no help for it. We’ve no choice but to brazen it out. After all, Vere never ordered me not to produce an heir, and the gods know I couldn’t have got this way without his help.”
“You know he’ll claim it isn’t his. The entire world knows he seldom calls you to his bed. He’ll use this in another attempt at divorcing you.” Wenda jabbed one last pin into place. “There! That will hold it.”
Elise patted her hair and then nodded. “Seldom is the operative word, but the one time was enough after Lord Morlon granted me the goddess’s blessing. I’ve already been to two temples to have its parentage verified. This child belongs to the king. I’ve a dozen of Anothosia’s priests and three of Omitan’s who say so. A king’s divorce without proof of infidelity or his wife’s consent is against the laws of the gods and the land. My husband will not be allowed to divorce me. He will not gain my consent no matter how desperate he is to marry his mistress. My father paid a dowry for me to become queen. I refuse to allow it to be money ill spent.”
“Go!” Pol snapped. “The king waits.”
“She stinks of common labor!” Wenda wailed.
“I’ll grab a quart of rose water along the way,” Elise said. “I’ll not give Vere reason to accuse me of ignoring my duties.”
* * * *
Rubbing at the not yet swelling results of her husband’s unexpected passion, Elise fumed at the sight of his mistress seated on Elise’s throne while King Vere gave audience to his head scholar, Issac Van Wess.
“They make a handsome couple, do they not?” Belsac, the king’s chief advisor, said quietly. He stirred beside her, drifted inches closer. Elise wanted to scurry away from something indefinably foul about the man. Well set-up and not yet in his middle years, he was dark and tall and had a set of gray eyes speaking of such depths she was sometimes afraid she would fall into their pits and never pull herself out. She wondered if Vere had fallen into those eyes. It was only after Belsac and Helace’s arrival that the king’s body ballooned so greatly he could no longer sit a horse. Could those eyes have captured her husband’s mind?
No, she admitted. Vere’s downfall owed less to Belsac’s eyes than they did to what resided between Helace’s thighs. Elise had spent most of her life surrounded by stunning women. All of them paled when compared to the king’s mistress. Helace was perfect skin surrounding an exquisite frame. Dancing red hair held court over a child’s face glowing with inner strength and fire. Helace’s soft voice invited trust from women and lust from men. She was, in effect, every man’s wet dream. Only a succubus could shine brighter.
“They are disgusting,” Elise said, edging unobtrusively away from the man so she could rebuild a safe distance.
“Because she is beautiful and he so fat?” Belsac’s smile grew warmer. “That is part of their appeal. Being next to him makes her appear like delicate china, too precious to use except on special occasions.” He chuckled. “I expect one of those occasions will be the day when you lose your head and she becomes queen.”
“The church and our lords will never st
and for it,” Elise said calmly, refusing to be drawn into his games. “Murdering me would flaunt the will of the gods and centuries of law.”
“Yes.” Belsac ran his fingers across his chin. “Well, I’ll soon deal with the gods, and even now Van Wess is leaving on a journey which will take care of any problem we have with the lords.”
“You will deal with the gods?” Elise chuckled. She gave him a doubtful grin. “Don’t you think your attitude is a bit arrogant or perhaps overconfident?”
Belsac studied her for several moments. “No.” He gestured toward the throne with an imperious wave of his hand. “Come, we must attend your husband so he can order you to abort the child.”
“I’ve had four stillbirths.” Elise responded. “I’ll not have another.” She looked to her maid. “Wenda, wait here so you don‘t risk the king’s ire.” Gathering her courage together, she wished Yernden’s politics could be handled with a sharp knife. Matters would be so much simpler if she were allowed to slit a few select throats. Not many, just two or three dozen. A small part of her felt sorry Ludwig’s one-time manservant had joined Ludwig in exile from Grace. Ludwig was a fool, but Harlo was quite efficient and rogue enough to have cut those throats for her if the price was right.
“Follow,” she ordered Belsac, knowing the advisor would resent the command. She mentally threw on her regal mien and strode to Yernden’s twin thrones, almost giggling inside at the thought of how much Belsac would resent having to follow to her rear.
Every trace of her good humor disappeared when she reached the thrones. Lounging in a seat not meant for her, Helace ran her perfect fingers over Vere’s corpulent arm. Her pointed nails glistened natural silver, and her lips formed a delicate curve while she pointedly studied Elise.
“Yessss,” Helace said slowly. “I can smell it much better now. You stink of sweat and scent, but beneath I smell woman get.” The tip of her tongue darted briefly from between parted lips. “Have you been untrue to your vows, My Queen?”
