“Of course, My Lord.”
Martok placed a hand fondly on Vernon's shoulder and saw him wince at the touch. He immediately sent healing magic into the old man’s limbs. “There. That’s better now.”
“Thank you, My Lord. The brutes have had me cleaning the hearth in the kitchen, and I’m afraid this old body isn’t as strong as it once was.”
“Who ordered this?” Martok demanded.
“One of those cursed guards,” Vernon told him, not attempting to hide his anger. “Sylas Drago…Bronstar...he brought them here to keep the house staff in line. Brutes and thugs they are. No better than animals, My Lord. If my poor master were alive he would have…”
Tears choked off his remaining words.
Martok held him in a consoling embrace and waited until the old man had regained his composure sufficiently before saying: “It's all right, Vernon. I will set things to rights. You can be sure of that. How many of these guards did he bring?”
“Fifty,” he replied, then glanced over at the macabre scene by the gatehouse. “Though it seems there are now only forty-eight.”
“Have some of the other staff fetch them all here,” Martok said. “Send them the message that the master of the house commands their presence.”
An impish smiled formed on the old man's lips. “At once, My Lord.”
“And one more thing before you go, Vernon. Are there any of Kytain’s kin still here?” Though he asked, he feared he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid not, My Lord. My dear master’s wards vanished the moment he died. Sylas then killed every mage who dwelt in the house.”
Martok nodded grimly. “I see. Very well. First have the guards come. Then we will attend to House Bronstar.”
It took more than an hour before all of the guards were gathered in the garden. The estate was indeed enormous, and to enforce their presence over the workers they needed to spread themselves far and wide. As unseemly as it was, Sylas' logic was clear. The staff, virtually all of whom would have hated him, numbered in the hundreds, and he was just as vulnerable to poison or a dagger through the heart as any other man. Almost any of the servants could have easily slipped in unnoticed and caught him either distracted or asleep. None of them were soldiers however, and the guards, though relatively few in number, were vicious enough to instill the proper fear Sylas would have required to ensure his own safety.
Having already used a spell to hide all trace of the carnage outside the gatehouse, Martok told the early arrivals that Sylas would be along once everyone was gathered. This did not go down at all well. Those waiting shifted around impatiently, whispering to one another while eyeing him with deep suspicion. Several dozens of the estate staff had also gathered near the main door and at the house windows and were watching events unfold with keen interest. Most of them would recognize Martok, and from the expectant looks on their faces they already had a good notion of what was about to take place.
“I know you are expecting to see Sylas,” Martok announced once the assembly had fully gathered. “But I have to confess that I was being less than truthful with you. He will not be coming.”
“So who the hell are you?” demanded a particularly angry looking guard. “What’s this all about?”
“A valid question,” Martok replied, beaming a friendly smile. “And you shall have your answer.” He gave them all a low sweeping bow. “I am Martok Dragonvein. And I am now the master of this house. Your employer is dead. That being the case, you have a choice to make.”
A short, stout man with a scarlet chevron stitched to his sleeve stepped forward. His hand was resting on the hilt of his blade as he regarded Martok with hostile eyes. “I am Captain Pel Charo, and I serve the House Bronstar. As do all of these men. Kytain Prustoni is dead. And as far as I have been told, Sylas Dragonvein has taken possession of his lands and wealth. So unless he tells me otherwise, you can just go f –”
These were his last words.
With thumb and forefinger held up for all to clearly see, Martok simply touched them lightly together. As the captain's speech came to an abrupt end, his eyes bulged grotesquely. An instant later his head literally exploded, spewing blood and small pieces of brain matter in all directions. Apart from the guards at the gate, this was the first time Martok had ever used magic on anyone other than a fellow mage. The complete lack of any defensive wards or spells made it seem far too easy. In a way, it was almost disappointing.
As a demonstration of his power, it was devastatingly effective. Every single one of the remaining guards began backing away in fear, many of them with hands raised in front of their faces as though they imagined this might serve to protect them in some way. But Martok was not about to let any escape. With a casual flick of his wrist, a wall of flames sprang up from the ground, blocking their path and forcing them together into a huddle. Some drew their swords, though none dared to attack.
“As I was saying,” he continued, his smile never dimming. “You have a choice. You can die running. Or you can die standing still.”
With another flick, he allowed the wall to encircle the terrified guards completely. Slowly but surely, the flames then began to close in. Cries for mercy and prayers to the ancestors mingled with the ever increasing roar of the fire. As the circle continued to shrink and the heat became unbearable, some of the men began risking all by bursting through. It was to no avail. Their bodies were quickly set afire as they ran for their lives. Flapping wildly with their hands at the flames eating away at them made no difference whatsoever. Soon, the garden was littered with their bodies, every single one of them reduced to a barely recognizable smoldering heap. Meanwhile, those who had become paralyzed by fear and remained inside the circle could only wait, petrified, until the wall finally closed in completely and reduced them to ashes as well.
When it was all over, Martok surveyed his handiwork. He had never killed helpless people before and was not exactly sure how to feel about it. But the loud cheers coming from the house told him that, at least in the eyes of the people here, he had done the right thing. Seconds later, they poured from the front door and raced over to him, some stopping briefly to glare hatefully at the smoking remains of their former tormentors. Martok looked for Vernon amongst them as he received countless offerings of appreciation and blessings. Eventually, the old man made his way through, a look of blissful calm on his face.
“You have avenged my master and laid low those who desecrated his home. I think he can now rest.”
“Where is his body?” Martok asked.
“In the west garden. At least Sylas allowed us to bury him there with the rest of his family. When you are ready, I will take you to him.”
“Thank you, Vernon. But that must wait. I will not be staying.”
The old man furled his brow. “You cannot leave, My Lord. Please. The entire estate is in disarray. We need you here.”
“And I will return,” Martok assured him. “But this matter isn’t over yet. Not until every last Bronstar is dead.”
Understanding dawned. “Yes. Of course. That must be done. And I shall be coming with you to bear witness.”
Martok could see by the determination written on his face that there would be no debate. Vernon would be there to see the fall of the house that had murdered his master come what may. And that was the end of it.
“Then you should make ready to depart,” he said.
Vernon bowed and hurried back to the house as fast as his aged legs could carry him. Martok stared after him as he went. It would be quite some time before the old servant returned, more than enough for him to visit Kytain’s grave if he felt the need. But at present he did not have a mind to. For some reason it simply seemed wrong for him to pass over the threshold while any member of the Bronstar family still remained alive.
With Kytain and all of his immediate kin dead, it would be left to him to sort out the estate and holdings. Kytain had many cousins scattered throughout the various houses, and all would want to lay cla
im to his wealth. The thought of such carrion feeders lurking about the halls of this magnificent estate was truly bothersome.
Kytain had been secretive regarding his heir. With no children, he'd made little secret of the fact that he'd have liked to leave Martok his wealth. But both of them knew this would cause outrage among the great houses and almost certainly result in much fighting. Martok did not desire the inheritance anyway. The wealth of his own family was more than enough thanks to Kytain’s alliance – and in no small part to the lessons Martok had received from him.
Without him having asked for it, a member of the house staff brought out food and drink while he waited. He took this and sat under a nearby pavilion. No one questioned why he had not entered the manor. They seemed content merely that he was there. Like his true father, Kytain had treated those in his employ with respect and dignity. And for this he was well-loved.
“Never abuse those people responsible for your safety,” he'd instructed Martok. They had just witnessed a guest beating their personal attendant for having dropped a cup of wine while visiting another mage. “They may not possess magic, but they certainly know when you sleep and eat. They know when you are at your most vulnerable. So, in truth, they protect you every bit as much as your wards. Never forget that.”
His father was less pragmatic. His kindness came from the heart rather than any need for personal protection. Still, the end results of loyalty were the same.
It was late into the afternoon by the time Vernon returned and they were finally underway on their four-day journey to the Bronstar’s home. As the sun waned on that first evening, Martok began to consider what tactics he should employ when they arrived. Whatever wards that Sylas and Desmond had established at the house would have vanished instantly upon their deaths: a clear warning to the family of what was to come. Evelyn and the others would know well enough that only one person could be responsible for their killing. The entire family's wards were sure to be reinforced and solidly in place for his anticipated arrival.
The fact that wards disappeared upon the death of their creators was something that had always perplexed Martok. He had ideas running around in his head that could possibly make them last forever – or at least until they were deliberately destroyed - and hoped to find time to explore these theories further once his mission of vengeance was over. Such a contribution to magic craft would preserve his name through the ages. He would have achieved true immortality.
“Leaving something behind that endures is the only kind of immortality that really exists,” his father would say whenever the subject of death arose. “It's what you do with the time you have that matters. Forget about everlasting life. If you seek it, you will forget to see the world around you. Think of the wonders you would miss.”
Vernon remained silent for the majority of the journey. It wasn’t until they reached the borders of the Bronstar lands that he said more than a few words. And when he did, it was merely to echo Martok's own thoughts.
“My Lord. How will you gain access? At least a dozen mages dwell within their house. They are sure to have strengthened their defenses.”
Martok had been dwelling on this problem and had yet to come up with a solution. But he would not turn back. The storm still raged inside him and his will remained as iron. Kytain would have told him to be patient and wait for the proper moment to strike. Martok had learned much from the man, but in this instance he was still his father’s son - direct and filled with passion. Though his father used his passion in kind and often gentle ways, it was passion, nevertheless.
The Bronstar manor was not surrounded by solidly built high walls as were the older mage homes; a style adopted during a time when wars were fought less with magic and more with sinew and steel. Instead, they had erected a tall wrought iron fence, tipped with gold and silver spikes. The intricacy of its design was certainly eye-catching and denoted, as was intended, the family's considerable wealth and influence. Just behind the fence, a thick hedge had been cultivated, effectively obscuring the first two floors of the four story manor from view.
Though nowhere near as sprawling as Kytain’s estate, there were few houses and grounds as elaborately designed and expensively decorated. On the occasions Martok had previously visited he had considered it far too ostentatious. Admittedly Kytain’s home was filled with treasures, but it was treasure accumulated over time throughout the generations. There was a powerful sense of history and dignity about the place. By contrast, the Bronstar family had only become a wealthy house two-hundred years ago, so most of their possessions – including the manor itself – were recently acquired.
They had approached from the south, through forestland to avoid being seen. But now they were forced onto the main road, and like everything else that bore the mark of Bronstar, this was built to project wealth. Paved with the rarest of stones imported from the dwarf mines of Gol’ Shupa, each small section reflected light in a unique way. Though the stones themselves were basically red, blue, or yellow, the rays shining from them would change color constantly in a dazzling display as an approaching party of visitors passed over them.
When the guard house came into view, its gates were hanging invitingly open. Martok could sense the wards had been laid just on the other side of these. He halted his horse about fifty yards away and dismounted.
“Ride up and tell them I am here,” he instructed Vernon.
Vernon spurred his horse to a quick trot. A lone guard, dressed identically to those Sylas had installed at Kytain's manor, stepped out to meet him. After a brief conversation, the old servant started back while the guard hurried on to the main entrance of the house.
“Smug bastard,” Vernon hissed. “I hope you take a few of those guards as well when you send the Bronstar’s to oblivion.”
Martok smiled up at the old man. “I will try. But for now you should move away to a safe distance. I can’t be worried about you when I'm facing whatever comes next.”
After bowing his head, Vernon rode off approximately two hundred yards before stopping and dismounting.
While waiting, Martok could feel the essence of the dragons reaching out to him from across the great expanse, fueling the inferno inside. The mental barrier he had erected to contain all his fury was beginning to crumble. Then, he saw Evelyn Bronstar emerge from the house and start toward him. She was alone. He almost laughed out loud at her arrogance. She thought to coax him into attacking her. To lure him on through the wards. Bitch.
He strode up to the guard house. Evelyn had positioned herself just on the safe side of the protecting wards, a self-assured smile on her face. She knew she was safe. There was nothing Martok could do to her unless he could break the combined wards of what he guessed to be more than twenty mages. Though none would be remotely a match for his power individually, together they formed a barrier more than capable of keeping him out. Should he pass through it, his own magic would immediately be stripped away.
Evelyn was the first to speak. “I see you have done me a great service, Martok Dragonvein. I had intended to do away with Sylas anyway, being that he'd outlived his use. Though I will admit I'm surprised you were able to overcome him. You must truly be as strong as the rumors suggest.”
“Why don’t you come over here and find out?” Martok invited.
Evelyn laughed loudly, for a moment forgoing her typically proper and demure manners. “No. I think not. But do feel free to come inside.”
Martok regarded her closely for a second or two. “You know, I never really noticed before, but you and Desmond do look remarkably alike. Or should I say, did look remarkably alike? I burned his body to a pathetic little pile of ashes. And he screamed... he screamed just like a little girl right up until the very end. I thought you might like to know that.”
Evelyn did not rise to the bait. She merely waved a careless hand. “I have other grandchildren. Desmond was not nearly the most talented. Or the brightest.”
Her callous reaction struck Martok quite forcibly. Ru
thless was an understatement when speaking about this fiend of a woman. “Do not look to your other grandchildren,” he told her. “They will all be dead soon enough.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? And how do you intend to accomplish this? Will you wait outside my door in the hope that we will become fools enough to file out and do battle with you? I think not.”
“I don’t need to wait. You are already fools. And your schemes are coming to an end…today.”
The rage and strength of the dragons, which had been steadily increasing throughout their short conversation, had now become completely at one with his own. He allowed it to saturate him to the very core of his spirit. Blood coursed as fire through his veins. This was power…true power. Even greater than when he had faced Sylas. In an instant, he knew exactly what he needed to do.
“If you have servants you wish to live, send them out now,” he continued. “Otherwise, they will perish with you.”
“You are every bit a Dragonvein,” she mocked. “Stupid, reckless, and ignorant. I have sent word to the other great houses, and they will be arriving soon. So you go right ahead and waste what little time you have left trying to break our wards.” She sniffed contemptuously. “Or you could run home and wait for death there. It matters not. The Dragonvein line ends with your final breath. And I will be there when it happens. I will delight in watching the light dim from those precious blue eyes of yours until, finally, the world is rid of your wretched family forever.”
“Let the others come,” Martok told her. “The Bronstar family will be nothing but a bad memory by the time they arrive. So I suggest you go back inside. I would tell you to say farewell to those you love, but I doubt your withered old heart is capable of such a feeling.”
Evelyn’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “Beast! You know nothing of what it takes to endure. Or of how to attain the power and influence necessary to ascend to greatness. Neither did that idiot Kytain. He squandered his power on sentiment and compassion, as did his lapdog Ralmar. Soon my family will rule all of Lumnia, and it will come about because I was strong enough to seize the opportunity. When my time is done, they will speak my name with reverence and awe for all eternity. Yours, on the other hand, will mean nothing and be totally forgotten in the mere blink of an eye.”
Dragonvein Book Four Page 13
