The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6)

by Karen Azinger

  And the dread lord knew it.

  The Mordant gave orders to scour the city, to find the monk or the knight who had slain one of his snargons. For Tokar, the order was more than mere duty, it was personal. He swore by all that was Dark that he'd find his brother's killer.

  He knew Sorkon had been patrolling the southwest quarter of the queen's city, so that's where he started. Clad in a hodge-podge of ill-fitting clothes, he made his way to the market, searching for the lingering scent of magic.

  People jostled against him, hardly noticing him.

  He hated this city, so undisciplined, so unordered. In the Dark Citadel he had standing and privilege, a respected snargon of the Mordant's guard, but here, in this soft southern land, he was nothing more than a runtish, deformed man, someone to be overlooked, stepped upon, and ignored. Tokar stood no taller than most men's belt buckles, yet these southerners overlooked him at their peril, for he served a dread lord. When the Mordant revealed his true power, the southerners would tremble, learning their place in the new order. Tokar smiled a hungry grin, flashing his pointy teeth to scare a southern child. The girl ran screaming, a small satisfaction.

  Breathing deep, he patrolled the market, seeking the scent of magic. The city was full of smells, the unwashed next to the flower-scented nobles, fresh-farmed greens sold near rotting refuse. Tokar caught the scents of baking breads mingling with soured ale, of flowering vines and reeking chamber pots, yet none of the scents, neither the repugnant nor the delightful, could mask the potent smell of magic. Complex and ambrosial, magic was like no other scent, teasing the mind and waking the imagination. The best snargons could tell Light from Dark, potent from weak, active from latent...and Tokar was one of the best.

  For three days he prowled the marketplace, yet he found no whiff of magic. Frustrated, he widened the search, exploring the cobbled streets. Noon-time and supper crowds afforded the best hunting hours. Tokar flowed unnoticed through the throng, breathing deeply...and then he caught it, the unmistakable scent of magic. Just a faint tease, yet it was enough to lead him through the crowd. Like a fisherman reeling in a line, he followed the scent, yet he kept a wary lookout, for he dared not be seen by the magic user. Tokar sought to avenge his brother, not to share his fate.

  The scent grew stronger, leading him to his quarry.

  Powerful magic, he shuddered at the smell. This quarry was dangerous, a fitting prize for his lord the Mordant.

  Tokar dodged in and out of the supper crowd, weaving his way towards the magic. His nostrils flared at the strength of the scent, old and powerful. Close, too close, yet he needed to be sure. The scent led him towards two men. One was stocky and muscular, a short sword belted to his side, and the other was old, a white-haired elder in flowing robes of dark brown. The two men were locked in a hushed conversation, walking too close together for him to discern the magic user.

  Some might assume the older man carried the magic, but Tokar knew better. Magic was a power coveted by all.

  The older man stopped, casting a sharp glance backward.

  Tokar dodged behind a fat woman carrying fresh-baked pies. His heart thundering, he hid in the woman's ample shadow, praying he wasn't seen. When no one came hunting, he dared to emerge from behind the woman. The two men were further away, still walking together, seemingly unaware they were being followed. Tokar dawdled, drifting backwards, giving his quarry more of a leash. Magic users were dangerous and he dared not be caught.

  His quarry seemed to walk aimlessly, but then they came to an apothecary shop, a white unicorn carved over the lintel. Tokar ducked behind a rain barrel, keeping watch. The two men stood for a while, talking in hushed tones, but then they parted. The swordish one kept walking while the old man entered the apothecary, a cheerful bell ringing as he opened the door.

  Tokar waited, crouched behind the barrel, wary of a trap. When neither man reappeared, he stepped from behind the barrel and sauntered past the shop. The scent of magic led to the apothecary... and went no further. Tokar flashed a crooked grin, yet he needed to be sure. Hiding amongst the crowd, he circled around, returning to the rain barrel. Sitting behind the barrel, he kept watch on the shop. People wandered by, some entering the shop, mostly women, but the old man never reappeared. The sun sank to dusk, candles and lanterns adding a warm glow to the cobbled street, yet still he saw no sign of the magic user. Satisfied that he'd run his quarry to ground, Tokar stood, easing a cramp from his leg. "You'll pay for my brother," he hissed the words like a curse. Turning his back on the apothecary, he made his way through the city to the Mordant's manse. He'd found his brother's killer, a powerful magic user, a fitting present for his dread lord.

  17

  The Mordant

  The Mordant reverted to his true colors, choosing dark leathers and a cowled cloak of deepest black. Unlocking his jewel box, he chose his magic with great care. Fondling rings and armbands glittering with gems, his hand passed over focuses endowed with soul magic and deceit. Instead, he sought his battle magics, focuses empowered to attack and defend. Of all the focuses he'd collected over his many lifetimes, battle magic was the most rare and therefore the most coveted. His most powerful weapon, the crimson crystal of pain, he fitted to the prongs atop his iron staff. The staff was designed to evoke the primal fear of ancient wizards, a showy conceit, yet it seemed appropriate for the occasion. Tonight, bedecked in glorious Darkness, he'd confront an ancient foe...and there'd be nothing subtle about it.

  "Tell me again what you saw."

  The snargon knelt before him. "An old man, dressed in robes of brown and leaning on a quarterstaff. He walked with a swordish man, but it was the old one who smelled of magic. They parted in front of an apothecary shop. The old man went in and never came out."

  "And what of his magic."

  "Powerful...and very old."

  The Mordant grinned, another focus for his trove of power. "Good. You've done well, now come."

  The snargon followed like a well trained hound. Clad in power, the Mordant strode from his solar to find a hand-picked cadre of assassins and duegars waiting for him. Wearing dark clothing and bristling with weapons, they bowed low before him.

  "Arm your darts with sleep not death. I want this foe taken alive."

  He led them to the back of the manse, through the kitchen and out into the back alleyway. Saddled horses waited for them held by grooms. The Mordant mounted a dark stallion. Setting the butt of his staff in a lance cup, he gestured to begin. Krugar, a ninth rank assassin, led the small host through the back alleyways at a swift trot.

  Night darkened the sky, thick clouds shuttering a crescent moon, yet there was light in the queen's city. Candles, torches and lanterns held the velvety darkness at bay. The light annoyed the Mordant, as if the queen's city had the audacity to snub the darkness...but where there was light, there were also shadows, and shadows he knew very well.

  His men exploited the shadows, weaving a path through the back alleys.

  The queen's city slept, still hours from dawn. As expected, the alleyways proved empty. The Mordant caught faint whiffs of fresh-baked bread and stoked iron from a nearby forge, but most of the alleyways stank of piss, sour ale, and rotting refuse. The queen thought her city better than others, but tossed piss pots reeked the same no matter the ruler.

  A stray cat bolted in front of his horse.

  His stallion shied. Yanking hard on the bit, the Mordant kept his horse in check.

  Unchallenged, they threaded their way through the honeycombed streets, moving at a steady trot.

  A duegar slipped from a side alley, whistling a warning.

  Pulling his stallion to a halt, the Mordant dismounted, tossing his reins to a guard. "How close?"

  "The apothecary is two streets over." The duegar grinned, showing teeth filed to points. "You can't miss it, my lord. The shop boasts a white unicorn head carved into the lintel."

  "A white unicorn," the Mordant sneered at the conceit, "as if fairy tales will save them." He grippe
d the Staff of Pain, eager for the confrontation. "And the enemy?"

  "All three are inside. The old one is the one you want. Posing as a master apothecary, he has pale white hair and a long beard and goes by the name of Master Numar. He's the only one who reeks of magic."

  "And the other two?"

  "Younger men, posing as apprentices. They look like they could wield a sword...or a cudgel."

  "Nothing my assassins cannot deal with."

  "True, my lord."

  "Aside from the older monk, have you smelt magic on any of the others?"

  "No, lord...though we've not dared to send a snargon into the shop, lest we warn them of our presence."

  "Anything else?"

  Krugar answered. "I sent an assassin in last night to scout. Two apprentices sleep in a small room behind the shop. The master, the one with the magic, sleeps in a back bedroom."

  "The assassin went undetected?"

  "Yes, lord."

  "Good." The Mordant grinned. "Let's see what type of magic the old man wields." He gestured to the others. "Come." The Mordant strode through the empty streets toward the shop, his black cloak swirling behind, his iron staff in his hand. He relished the coming confrontation, a chance to cower his enemy with magic. It had been a long time since he'd unleashed his power against a monk.

  A white unicorn was brazenly carved over the apothecary doorway, as if the mythical creature could somehow hold Darkness at bay. An assassin stepped from the shadows, his voice held to a whisper. "Let me do this for you, lord."

  "No, the monk is mine. I want to see his face when we take him, when he realizes he's met his doom."

  Bowing, the assassin removed a blowpipe from the pouch at his belt. "Guards are posted at the back in case they try to flee. The front door has a flimsy lock, but a bell is rigged to ring once it opens."

  "Deal with the lock, then you and Krugar slip inside. Be prepared to take the two younger men." The Mordant flashed a predator's smile. "Leave the monk to me."

  "And the bell?"

  "It matters not." The Mordant cast a warning look their way. "Remember, deal sleep not death. I want them taken alive."

  The two dark-clad assassins prepared their blowpipes and then led the way. Tokar, the snargon of the duegars who'd tracked the magic user to his lair, stayed close by the Mordant's side. The first assassin picked the lock, carefully easing the door open. A cheerful bell rang a gentle greeting. Silent as cats, the assassins slipped inside. Threading their way to the back of the shop, they crouched near the rear doorway, lethal shadows lurking for prey.

  The Mordant glided inside. His face hidden in the depths of his cowled robe, he stood still as Darkness, poised to confront his oldest foe. He held the Staff of Pain in his right hand, a potent magic waiting to be wielded. The snargon crouched low by his side. Like a faithful dog, the duegar's nostrils flared wide, sniffing for magic. The Mordant's gaze roved across the apothecary, everything clean and orderly. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, spreading a medicinal aroma of bayberry and thyme through the shop. Glass jars filled one wall, a long table ran down the middle, the marble top polished to a shine.

  Lantern light flared to life in the back room. Footsteps walked towards them. "Who's there?"

  A sandy-haired young man appeared in the far doorway. He took two steps and then the snick of a blown dart took him in the throat. Issuing a strangled gurgle, he fell forward. One assassin caught the lantern, carefully setting it aside, while the other caught the young man. Dragging him away from the doorway, the assassin stuffed a gag in his mouth and bound his hands.

  Lantern light illumed the shop, casting a buttery glow across countless jars and bottles.

  A voice from the back said, "Simon, who's there?"

  The Mordant chose to answer. "I seek Master Numar on a matter of life and death."

  "Just a moment."

  The Mordant grinned, amazed by the naivety of his foe. Those who dealt in the truth were always too trusting. While he waited, the Mordant summoned the monk imprisoned within the depths of his mind. *Come and witness how I deal with one of your precious masters.* He felt the monk quaking in terror, sauce to his pleasure.

  A second light flared in the back followed by more footsteps. An older man appeared in the doorway. Clad in a soft brown robe, his face bore the wrinkles of age, his pale white hair cascading below his shoulders, his beard long and tangled, but his blue eyes flashed sharp and keen. "Who asks for me?"

  In the depths of the Mordant's mind, the captured monk screamed an impotent warning.

  The snargon hissed at the scent of magic.

  The Mordant summoned the Darkness within. He felt his presence grow, as if mortal bonds could not contain his power. His cowl slipped back. A thousand years of evil spilled from his gaze. The crystal in the Staff of Pain awakened, glowing a malevolent red. "Do you not know me?"

  The monk flinched backwards. "You!"

  "I've come to claim my due."

  The monk reached for the pocket of his robe. "Gideon, run!"

  The snargon hissed in warning.

  The Mordant pointed his staff at the monk. Loosing a bolt of pain, he imagined a dragon's talon slicing into the monk's stomach, rending flesh, ripping bone, inflicting a terrible agony... and then he willed it to be so.

  The monk crumpled to the floor, his face contorted in agony. He gripped his stomach as if seeking to contain his entrails.

  A man bearing a cudgel appeared in the doorway. "Master!" Rage twisting his face, he leaped to the attack, but the assassins dealt with him. Darts struck the young man in the face and throat, toppling him backwards.

  The Mordant kept his will focused on the monk. Deepening the torture, he tightened the dragon's talons, twisting and pulling, imagining intestines ripping like white worms. "Where is your blade bearer? Where is your vaunted champion?"

  Pale-faced with pain, his brow beaded with sweat, the monk grimaced, refusing to speak.

  "In every lifetime, you send a champion against me, but always he fails. Where is he this time? What guise does he wear? Who wields the crystal dagger?"

  The monk convulsed across the floor, but he did not answer.

  The Mordant redoubled the agony. "For a thousand years I've waited for this lifetime, for all the pieces to fall into place. This hour is mine. Feel my power, feel my wrath!"

  The monk screamed.

  "I shall make a gorelabe of your flesh. The dregs of your soul shall serve me and your magic shall be mine!"

  "Never!" The monk spat the word. Thrashing across the floor, he grimaced against the agony. "You...shall...not...win!" Yanking his right hand from his pocket, the monk punched his fist toward the Mordant. A fireball appeared.

  A fireball!

  Growing in size, the fireball hurtled towards the Mordant, a sizzling ball of death.

  The Mordant had but one heartbeat to react. Reaching for the focus binding his right forearm, he yelled a command. "Nullo!"

  The fireball struck. Heat raged against his face, fierce as a forge. The fireball punched the Mordant backwards, like being struck by a Taal's fist. His head hammered the wall, hitting hard. Pain bludgeoned him. Not possible! The Mordant struggled to remain conscious, but Darkness claimed him, the smell of burnt flesh sizzling the air.

  18

  The Mordant

  The pained dulled and the Mordant awoke. An ugly-faced duegar crouched beside him, peering into his face, his breath foul. "My lord, you live!"

  Anger spiked through the Mordant. "Of course I live!" He found himself crumpled against the wall. His head ached but otherwise he seemed unharmed. The Mordant took stock of his surroundings. Stink of burnt flesh and charred wood, and then he remembered. A fireball! Tightening his fist on the Staff of Pain, the Mordant climbed to his feet. Leaning on the staff, he surveyed the damage. Not a smudge on his dark robes...but the shop was another matter. Timbers were blackened and burned, jars melted to glass puddles. The apothecary shop was burnt to a husk, a testimony to the fireball's fie
rce heat. Small flames still sputtered amongst the dried herbs. Charred walls reflected a glowing warmth. The fireball had scorched the shop to a blackened ruin. A fireball! His defensive spell had worked, shielding himself and the snargon crouched by his side, forcing the fireball back on its maker. Its maker.

  The Mordant crossed the charred expanse, the crisped floorboards crunching beneath his boots. The hot stench of burnt flesh answered his question. Five charred corpses lay crumpled on the floor. Their skin blackened and burnt, they oozed a foul pink fluid, proof the monk had died by his own magic.

  The Mordant snapped his fingers, summoning the snargon. "Find the focus." He pointed to the monk's charred corpse. "I want the fireball."

  Tokar knelt, sniffing the corpse, like a pig rooting for truffles. Three times he sniffed the corpse from foot to head. His voice reluctant, he cowered to the floor. "Nothing, lord."

  Anger erupted in the Mordant. "It must be there! Pry open his fist."

  The monk's right hand was seared to a charred knob. The snargon pried at the blackened fingers. Two broke, leaking more foul fluid, but he got the hand open, revealing a small metal disc.

  The Mordant yearned to snatch it up but he had the good sense to wait. Caution was advisable when it came to new-found magic. "Sniff it."

  Tokar held the disc to his nose, his nostrils flaring wide. The small man cringed. "Nothing, lord. The magic is dead...or fled."

  The Mordant extended his hand. The snargon yielded the focus, cautiously placing it in his lord's hand and then retreating to crouch near the monk's corpse, as if he preferred the dead to the living. The Mordant studied the focus. A small brass disc inset with a quartz crystal, faint rune marks scribed around the edge. At its heart, the crystal was shattered, blackened as if the fireball had consumed its magic, burnt from within. The Mordant refused to be foiled. Magic was the ultimate prize...and he wanted the fireball. Locking his fist around the small disc, he willed the magic to waken, but the focus remained dormant. Anger sizzled through him. His gaze snapped to the snargon. "Tell me what you saw."