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

by Karen Azinger

  Tokar cowered low. "The monk writhed in pain, smitten by your dread magic, but then I smelled the way his own magic flared, hot and potent. The monk's fist shot out and he hurled a fireball. A fireball, a terrible burning orb the height of a man. The heat was hellish." The snargon shuddered. "I thought I was dead, but you, great lord, you summoned a shield of magic." Tokar sketched the sign of Darkness, his voice fervent with awe. "The fireball struck, throwing you backwards, but your shield held, refusing the flames. Repulsed, the fireball rebounded, flying backwards it scorched everything in its path. The monk, the assassins, everything consumed by flames. Scorched to char, the monk died by his own magic." The snargon prostrated himself before the Mordant. "Your magic is superior. You wield the magic of the gods." He kissed the Mordant's boots. "You saved me, dread lord."

  "No, I did not." The Mordant loosed his anger, unleashing the Staff of Pain.

  Tokar gasped, assaulted by a searing agony. Writhing on the floor, he gazed up at the Mordant, his voice a harsh croak. "Why?"

  The Mordant intensified the pain, pouring his anger into the small man. Screaming, the snargon's heels thrashed the floor, his back nearly bent double. Froth appeared at his mouth. He clawed at his own throat, his eyes bulging wide and wild. The snargon convulsed...and then lay dead, his open eyes becoming vacant.

  "You saw too much." The Mordant placed the fireball focus deep in his pocket next to the malachite coin. Turning, he glided from the ruined shop. Three assassins and two duegars came running like hounds called to the whistle.

  Clavis was the first to reach him. The young assassin bowed low. "My lord, how can I serve?"

  "Have the guards bring the horses. I want a snargon to search the shop for magic, then remove the duegar's corpse. Leave no evidence save the dead bodies of our enemies."

  Clavis hovered at the shop's entrance, his nostrils flared wide at the burnt stench. "Flames roared through the shop...we feared none survived." The assassin's voice held a thousand questions.

  "The monk angered me, so I burnt him with a fireball."

  The assassin's eyes flew wide, awe tinged with a healthy fear.

  "Leave the charred bodies as a lesson to my enemies."

  Clavis bowed low. "Yes, dread lord."

  The horses arrived and the Mordant swung up into the saddle. Putting spurs to his mount, he galloped through the sleeping city. In his mind, he weighed his encounter with the monks, a stalemate of sorts. His age-old enemy had evaded capture and inquisition, yet the monk paid for his escape with his very life, charred to a blackened crisp by his own magic. And the fireball focus that should have been the Mordant's...appeared to be ruined. Yet with a single lie, the Mordant gained the upper hand, usurping the fear of the fireball by claiming it was his own. He'd gained the fear but not the power. A snarl rose in his throat. In truth, he wanted both. Rumors of his fell powers would spread like wildfire through his own men, bolstering their loyalty...but he'd gained no information, and he'd lost a valuable focus. A fireball! He hadn't seen such power wielded in centuries. More proof the monks dared to meddle, entering the Great Dark Dance. Perhaps the blue-robed monks were not as impotent as he thought. Anger surged through him, he'd make the monks pay for this. His legions would ransack their precious monastery, putting every blue-robed monk to the sword. He'd work his will on Lanverness and then he'd ride to their mountain sanctuary, claiming their magic. If the monks dared to let a fireball focus wander below the mountains, what did they keep hidden in their secret vaults? Tantalized by the possibilities, the Mordant laughed, anticipating the power that would soon be his. All of Erdhe would cower before him...and he would rule for forevermore.

  In The North

  19

  The Knight Marshal

  No fodder for his sword, the knight marshal slowed to a halt. Death surrounded him. Corpses sprawled in the bloody snow, their sightless eyes gazing at him with reproach. Severed heads, sundered limbs, the slaughtered corpses sprawled along the trail, blood and entrails releasing a terrible stench. It smelled like death, it smelled like victory.

  The marshal used a cloak from the dead to clean his sword. Dark as midnight, the black steel glittered cold and keen in the waning light. Dragons coiled on the hilt, runes carved between the runnels, the two-handed great sword thrummed in his hands, hungry for more. A sword of power, a sword of legend, he raised the great blade to the heavens, flush with victory. "I am a god!" His shout echoed against the mountains, a challenge hurled to all of Erdhe. "I am the God of War!"

  "War, war, war..." his words echoed back at him, an eerie refrain.

  Sheathing his great sword, he reclaimed his stallion. His warhorse pawed the blood spattered snow, seeking tender shoots of grass among the dead. Taking up the reins, he checked the girth. With the vigor of a much younger man, the marshal vaulted into the saddle, keen for the next battle.

  “Osbourne!” The cry came from the hills.

  The marshal whirled, seeking the voice. And then he spied a new foe. A lone knight, mounted on a horse, waiting at the crest of the trail.

  “Fight me!” The marshal roared his challenge.

  “Remember your honor!”

  *Kill!* The Dark Sword whispered its siren's song.

  The marshal spurred his horse to a gallop, ironshod hooves churning up the bloody snow.

  “Remember the maroon!”

  Unsheathing the dark sword, the marshal stood in the stirrups. Feeling invincible, he roared his challenge, "Fight me!" Holding the Dark Sword aloft, he raced towards this new foe, keen for combat.

  The knight stood his ground, his hands empty of weapons, his maroon cloak fluttering in the wind. "Remember the Octagon!"

  The marshal felt the Dark Sword thrum in his hands, hungry for heart’s blood, hungry for death.

  “Remember King Ursus!”

  King Ursus, the name shuddered through him, waking memories, his friend and his king, buried in a stone cairn overlooking Raven Pass. Grief pierced him. The marshal slowed his charging stallion, checking his mount to a trot.

  *Kill!* The Dark Sword keened in his mind.

  The mounted knight sat unmoving at the trail's crest, hurling words like spears. “Remember King Ursus, remember the maroon, remember Castlegard!”

  Names slammed against the marshal, laden with memories. He yanked on the reins, slowing his warhorse to a walk. The stallion fought the bit, but obeyed. Battered by memories, the marshal lowered his sword.

  *Kill!* In his mind, the Dark Sword screamed its hunger, yearning for another kill, but the marshal fought to ignore it. He stared up at the knight…and remembered his friend's name. “Lothar.”

  “Yes,” Lothar nodded, “and you are the knight marshal of the maroon, my friend and my commander.”

  The marshal slowed his stallion to a halt. He stared at his friend, horrified by what might have been. “I nearly killed you.”

  “It would not have been easy.” Lothar gestured and twenty archers stepped from behind trees, their longbows bent, their arrows aimed at the marshal’s heart.

  A snarl came from the marshal’s throat. He whipped the Dark Sword upward, poised to kill…but something made him hold his ground. Breathing hard, he forced the sword down.

  “It's the sword.” Lothar held his stare. “Sheath it. I can feel its bloodlust from here.”

  The marshal came back to himself. He looked at the Dark Sword and then he looked down at his silver surcoat spattered with blood, the octagon sigil nearly obscured by the gore. And then he remembered the battle. Corpses littered the trail. Not just slain, they were slaughtered, chopped to pieces. Butchered, dismembered, as if a monster had come among them, rending limb from limb. A horrible stench rose from the severed entrails. Sickened by the slaughter, the marshal rammed the Dark Sword into the harness riding across his back. The dragon-coiled hilt reared over his right shoulder like a promise and a threat.

  Lothar grunted, “Good.” He made a gesture and the archers disappeared back into the forest. "Come. You need
food and rest and time to remember yourself before you seek another patrol.”

  "I know who I am."

  "Do you?" Lothar gave him an appraising look. "You're the knight marshal of the Octagon, yet you slew all those who surrendered."

  Kneelers, the word twisted in his mind like a curse, unleashing a terrible fury. "Kneelers deserve to die."

  "That's Darkness talking." Lothar speared him with his stare. "Don't let the sword claim you."

  *Kill him!* The Dark Sword whispered at the back of his mind.

  The marshal grimaced, resisting the sword.

  "You can fight it!"

  The marshal locked stares with his friend. "I am fighting it! Else you'd be dead."

  20

  Nimeria

  Sunlight pooled on the crisp white page of vellum, illuminating it with a golden glow. Despite the light pouring through the alcove window, Nim lit eight lanterns and set them in a circle around the desk. For this, her apprentice piece, she'd suffer no shadows to hinder her view. A prudent practicality, the lanterns were also part of the ritual, for they served to keep Darkness from sullying her work while paying homage to the eight pointed star. "Seek Knowledge, Protect Knowledge, Share Knowledge," she whispered the words of the Kiralynn Order.

  Taking a seat at the desk, Nim contemplated the infinite possibilities of the blank page. She loved the unbridled optimism of art melded with words, striving to create something of lasting beauty imbued with intricate meaning. Since her very first day in the monastery, she'd been enthralled by the illuminated texts shimmering jewel-bright upon the walls, knowledge writ upon every corridor and hallway. And now it was her turn to contribute to the monastery's works.

  The other acolytes sought easy passages to transcribe, but not Nim. She'd searched the old tomes, seeking ancient patterns of intricate knotwork, seeking the pathway to Illumination. She shivered at her own audacity, imagining her masterwork, knowing every detail must be perfect for the ancient magic to take hold.

  It began with a blank page of vellum, so smooth, so superior to ordinary parchment, an unblemished canvas awaiting enlightenment. "May the Lords of Light guide my hands." Taking a deep breath, she used a sharp-pointed stick and a straight-edged rod to line and block the page with the faintest indentations, just deep enough to be seen but not deep enough to last. Having blocked the page, she began tracing the complex designs for the great ornamental capital letter and the illuminated armored knights riding forth from a dauntless castle. She planned to add gold embellishment in a cascade of complex knotwork beneath the illuminated letter. The knotwork would frame a gauntleted fist holding a sapphire-blue sword aloft. Blue steel, the fabled swords of the Octagon knights, the very stuff of heroic legends, a fitting topic for her first master work.

  It took the better part of a fortnight to transfer the intricate details to the virgin vellum, but finally her bold design took form, appearing as faint indentations woven across the page. Keen to bring her design to life, she was finally ready for ink.

  Relighting the eight lanterns, she trimmed her best quill to the appropriate shape for the calligraphy's width. Nim opened a bottle of the finest black ink. Pricking her finger, she squeezed a single drop of blood into the bottle, an offering to the gods, a binding to the ink. Only a pinprick, yet she bound her finger with cloth and held it till the bleeding stopped lest she stain the page. While she waited, Nim cast her mind across the chosen text.

  The text, like the design, was of her choosing. Nim could have chosen anything from the acolyte scrollaries, from the famed lyrics of Xel the Harper, to the poetry of Keetai, to the philosophies of Aranald, but she'd heard the whispered rumors and seen for herself how the frost owls flew thick as starlings, bearing messages to the mountain mews. It did not take a sworn master to know that dire times had befallen Erdhe. In such times, it occurred to Nim that the heroes and swords of ancient times were sorely needed once more. Drawn to the Sword Codex, she chose a passage on the forging of the first blue steel blade.

  In her mind's eye, she saw the passage, not as it was writ in the Codex, but as it would be scribed upon her vellum. She visualized every word, every letter. When she was certain the text was fixed in her mind, Nim took a calming breath and dipped her quill in the gall iron ink.

  Setting the nib to the vellum, she began. Script flowed out of her, elegant calligraphy scribed across the virgin page. Once started, she could not stop, breaking only to carefully add more ink to her quill. Each letter was a miniature masterpiece, scribed to exacting standards, yet the letters also held an elegant, seemingly effortless fluidity. The smooth motion of her hand was imbibed by the ink, the words forever captured on vellum. Consumed by the details, by the burning passion of creativity, Nim worked without stopping till she reached the last period.

  She blinked as if coming out of a trance.

  Lifting the quill from the vellum, she carefully set it aside lest an errant drop mar her work. Stepping back, Nim stared at the whole and saw that it was good.

  A good start, her heartbeat quickened, thrilled by the challenge.

  Nim forced herself to wait a full day for the text to dry and then she traded black ink for vivid color. Having ground and carefully blended the pigments herself, she'd assembled a stunning pallet from the monastic stores. Vermillion red destined for the castle's rippling banners and the knights' sigils, turmeric yellow for the sun-blazoned castle walls, azurite blue for the sword, smalt for the shadows, and a brilliant malachite green to offset the gold of the knotwork. Using the finest brushes, she painstakingly applied the jeweled colors, bringing the illumination to blazing life.

  To bind her work and exult the illumination, Nim planned to add silver and gold. This was the trickiest part, for any mistakes could not be undone, but Nim was determined to exult her work, to make it worthy of the gods. She started with silver leaf beaten thinner than the finest parchment. Nim held her breath lest she tear it. Bent over the desk, she carefully worked the silver detail onto the gauntleted fist and the upraised sword. A rich shimmer of silvery light appeared along the blade. Her breath caught, pleased with the effect, as if the sword were fresh forged.

  And then she added the gold. Carefully cutting the gold leaf, she applied swirling curls with stag's glue to the fretted knotwork, weaving golden light among the painted twists and turns, creating a shimmering pathway for the eye to follow. The knotwork pattern she'd chosen was old, very old, something she'd found in a musty tome, a legacy from another age, yet she'd felt compelled to use it. For days she sat hunched over her work, delicately applying the glimmering gold leaf.

  And then it was done.

  Her hands shook.

  She was half afraid to look.

  Stepping back, Nim studied her work with an artisan's eye. She could find no fault, no smudges, no ink blotches, no malformed letters, no errant strays of color. Satisfied with the detail, she examined the whole.

  Gold and silver leaf shimmered in the lantern light, bringing a dazzling metallic sheen to the piece. Vibrant colors leaped from the page, ensnaring the eye of the beholder and drawing the reader to inspect the stunning details. The raised sword shimmered as if awaiting the hands of a hero. The castle battlements glowed in stalwart sunshine beneath the ornamented capital. The intricacies of the gold-leafed knotwork teased the eye with a convoluted mystery, all forming the perfect framework for the exquisite text, art and meaning indelibly entwined.

  Master Adelbart peered over her shoulder.

  Nim startled, ambushed by her master's sudden appearance.

  For the longest time her master said nothing.

  Waiting on his judgment, Nim bit her lower lip, her heartbeat racing to a gallop.

  "You chose a text with a True Name?"

  "Yes."

  "And you found a True Description?"

  "I believe so, master." She held her breath, waiting for a rebuke.

  "Why this text?"

  The words came unbidden to her lips. "Because staunch swords are needed in
dire times."

  Master Adelbart said nothing.

  Unnerved by his silence, she dared a glance at his wrinkled face. Realizing his solemn stare remained fixed upon her work, she snapped her own gaze back to the illuminated vellum, praying he found it worthy.

  Finally he spoke. "Nimeria Harpsinger, an untried acolyte with years to live before you reach the age of requirement, yet in this, your apprenticeship piece, you have created a masterwork worthy of the inner monastery."

  His praise rang like a bell in her heart.

  "As is our custom, a finished illumination is first read aloud by the artisan who brought the text to life." His words turned solemn. "Has this text passed your lips?"

  "No, master."

  He gave her a piercing look. "You think you are ready for this? You think you are capable?"

  Sweat erupted beneath her robes. Under his stern gaze, Nim was no longer so certain, but she yearned to be a true illuminator in every sense of the art. "Let me try."

  His gaze gave nothing away. "Despite your tender years, you have the eye and hand of a master illuminator. We shall see if you also have the voice. Bring your piece to the heart of the scriptorium so that your first reading may be heard by all."

  Both awed and frightened by the honor, she bowed towards him. "Yes, master."

  Master Adelbart withdrew from her tiny alcove, disappearing as silently as he'd arrived.

  Nim washed her hands in the basin, scrubbing till she banished every ink stain from her fingers. Drying her hands three times to be sure she would not stain the vellum, she took a deep breath and then carefully lifted her finished work from the desktop. Nim tried not to think about what awaited her in the scriptorium, a trial by fire in front of her fellow acolytes, yet she dared not complain, for she'd brought this challenge upon herself. Holding the vellum as if it were the most fragile pane of glass, she slowly wound her way through the warren of desks and alcoves now empty of acolytes.