Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  Those fears were soon put to rest as the enemy’s charge faltered and their forward ranks fell. Elves died too, of course, but their losses were nothing compared to the men assailing them. Wedged together in tight formations between the wagons and barricades of debris, there was nowhere for them to go. And yet, despite their lack of maneuverability, Leo’s soldiers fought with a rabid ferocity that took their foes by surprise.

  And yet, as with seemingly every part of his life, the situation did not remain so simple.

  “Leo!” Nyssa yelped. She leaped forward, opening a man from neck to groin. He fell instantly, but the ax he’d been in the process of hurling continued on its way, missing Leo’s head by inches and striking his arm with its haft.

  Wincing, he caressed the spot where it had bruised him, too stunned to consider how narrowly he’d just avoided death.

  “The fuck?” he growled. “Where did he—?”

  And then he saw it. One after another, men scrambled over the tops of the wagons. Most did not spot him, jumped to the ground, and turned immediately to attack the elven flanks. Two particularly observant men did notice him, however, and charged forward with only the slightest hesitation.

  Nyssa cut them down with even less. She glanced at Leo. And in a split-second, her wordless gaze communicated all that needed to be said.

  “Come on, Karran,” he said.

  It was almost laughably easy. The men were so distracted trying to ambush the elven lines that most didn’t see Leo at all. Those that did were too late to stop him and fell beneath his blade or Karran’s claws. Nyssa had already climbed atop the wagon by the time they reached her. She roamed the length of it, driving men away from its side and cutting down any who dared try to ascend in spite of her warnings.

  Leo almost left her to it. The wagon was large enough to hold all three of them without difficulty, but fighting was a different matter. He remembered only too well the difficulties that had arisen while trying to train in the cramped confines of the Unity’s cabin. But, if he didn’t join her, what was the point? Guarding a single chokepoint would hardly turn the tide of battle, especially given how reluctant the men were to test her defense of the wagon.

  He, on the other hand, would make a far more tempting prize.

  “Make room, Nyssa,” he called. Carefully arranging his sword, he vaulted onto the wagon with some difficulty.

  Nyssa didn’t even glance at him. Sidling toward the rear of the wagon, she made room for both him and Karran who quickly followed after. Together, they stared the men down as hundreds of eyes turned to examine the three of them.

  It was Karran who gave it away. In the chaos of battle, Leo and Nyssa might have been able to pass for just another man and trow. But even the dimmest soldier could hardly fail to recognize an ambrosian, if only from stories. And, if the sudden surge of bloodthirsty soldiers toward the wagon was any reliable indicator, Karran’s reputation and place at Leo’s side was relatively common knowledge.

  “That’s more like it,” he whispered, grinning.

  The onslaught of bodies was simultaneously simpler and more challenging than Leo had anticipated. It was simpler in that the wagon’s location relative to the battle eliminated all previous considerations about ambushes and vulnerabilities. There was only one direction the foe could attack from—and attack they did. Leo cut down a dozen men, avoiding their clumsy parries as they fought to climb aboard the wagon and driving the tip of his blade through exposed eyes or necks. Before he could get comfortable, however, his enemies realized the futility of relying on numbers and fell back upon craftier tactics.

  That was how Leo VanOrden found himself dancing atop the back of a wagon, dodging an assortment of spear thrusts and doing his best to slice through the wooden shafts. The men below had obviously come to the conclusion that there was no point in scaling the wagon’s sides only to be cut down. And so they had maintained their distance, allowing those with spears, pikes, halberds, and other such weapons to come forward.

  Frustrating as the situation was, however, Leo couldn’t really complain. The men had little enough leverage that delivering a fatal blow was nearly impossible. Arrows would have been more worrying, though the modest height of the wagon and the number of men swarming its base had so far kept such weapons unused.

  And so Leo fought for what felt like an eternity, until his arms ached with exertion and his sweat-logged clothes hung weightily across his shoulders. To either side of him, Nyssa and Karran slowly began to display similar weariness. Their reactions slowed over time. The change was imperceptible at first, but slowly, as the minutes dragged on, it grew obvious enough that even the undertrained men they fought began to take notice. Gradually, their attacks grew more enthusiastic, following one after another with a frantic wildness reserved only for the truly desperate.

  He was facing Karran but not focusing on her when the first spear managed to sneak past her guard. It wasn’t a particularly grisly wound; it hardly made her stumble. But the pain that erupted on Karran’s face as she staggered back, bared her fangs in a mute cry, and dropped into a defensive crouch sparked such a ferocious rage in Leo’s breast that he moved before he had a chance to consider what he was doing.

  He lunged for the guilty spear, grasped it, and yanked it forward in a reckless display that left him practically draped over the edge of the wagon. As he’d hoped, the man who’d wounded Karran was too surprised to relinquish his weapon. He lurched forward, tugging at the butt of his spear in a futile effort to free it from Leo’s white-knuckled grip. He continued to hold it until the point of Leo’s sword emerged from the back of his skull.

  The man’s death hardly satisfied Leo. He climbed to his feet, growling loathsome curses as he did so, then risked a glance at Karran.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer him. Nor did she look at him. Instead, Karran’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. And even during the brief duration in which he observed her, Leo saw her brow furrow into a disbelieving frown.

  Leo straightened, casually batting aside a pike aimed at his gut and following Karran’s gaze. And then he saw it. A second horde of troops had emerged from a distant copse of trees and now streamed toward the battlefield as fast as their legs could carry them. While they were still quite distant, it was easy to see that they numbered in the thousands. And Leo watched in dawning horror as several officers to the rear of the counts’ forces began to gesture urgently—no doubt passing on their commander’s orders.

  “Fuck,” Leo whispered. He lowered his sword slightly. None of the men below attacked. But even if they had, Leo honestly wasn’t sure if he would have bothered deflecting it.

  The battle might as well have been over. The elves had fought hard. And despite their numerical disadvantage, they might have succeeded in dragging the skirmish out into a draw. But they were trapped here, and there was no possible way he could steal enough of their reserves away to guard whatever angle this new foe chose to assault. Fighting two counts at once had been foolhardy; three was an impossibility.

  Buchanan was right. They simply didn’t have the numbers.

  He turned to Nyssa, struggling to speak past the lump in his throat. If they fled now, there might still be time. It would mean abandoning the army—all those who’d trusted him—and Sann, but it might prove possible to reach Ansiri before the counts. He could find Cirilla. There would surely be at least one VanOrden ship left in the harbor. They could sail for Sutherpoint. Petre would be there. And failing that, perhaps Lionel would agree to shelter him until he landed back on his feet.

  It wasn’t much, but it was better than dying in the back of some wagon.

  “Nyssa,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

  She didn’t respond either. And like Karran, Nyssa’s face was lined with confusion. Then, slowly, she lowered her sword and barked a loud, unnerving laugh.

  “I don’t believe it,” she exclaimed, her voice oddly reverent. “That bastard!
That damned madman!”

  “What?” Leo asked.

  Nyssa looked at him as though he was the one who’d gone mad. She laughed again and gestured with her sword.

  “Leo,” she said. “Those aren’t Grey’s men. It’s Baron fucking Lucius.”

  ***

  If it hadn’t been for the thousands of armed men still hell-bent on killing him, Leo might have wept in relief. He held his ground, fighting alongside Nyssa and a limping Karran as Lucius’ forces approached. Cries of alarm rose as his lines collided with the counts’ reserve, pinning the men and cutting off any hope of retreat.

  Leo, for his part, did little to press his advantage. He remained in precisely the same spot as before, knocking aside the jabs sent his way and punctuating his own attacks with demands for surrender. It took longer than he expected for the order to be given, but it was with palpable relief that the men nearest him threw down their weapons, lifted their hands to the sky, and loudly proclaimed their honest intent.

  Bitter cursing and victorious shouting intermingled as Leo’s subordinate officers took charge and began the arduous task of collecting the relinquished weapons and shepherding their former owners to the spot where the other prisoners knelt or sat. More than once, indignant members of the defeated army fought back with shoves or fists and were promptly cut down by scowling, blood-flecked elves. The sight was hardly shocking but so unprompted that Leo’s neck and forearms broke out in gooseflesh. And so, collecting Nyssa and Karran with a curt gesture, he set out to find his savior.

  They’d gone barely ten steps when Karran hissed through her teeth and staggered as her wounded leg gave out. He turned, alarmed, but the ambrosian was already slicing through the thin fabric of the gossamer modesty trousers she wore beneath her armored skirt. To Leo’s relief, the wound was long but shallow. The blood was nearly invisible against Karran’s skin but judging by the size of the stain on her clothing, there was quite a bit of it. Nevertheless, her expression was one of annoyance rather than pain.

  “Can you walk?” he asked. “Be honest, Karran.”

  She grimaced and gave her leg an experimental shake. Then, her grimace hardening into a scowl, Karran shook her head.

  “Find a surgeon to look at the wound,” he instructed Nyssa. “Once he’s seen to Karran, come find me.”

  “Leo!” Nyssa yelped, her eyes wide. “Wait! You need guards!”

  He chuckled and walked backward for a few steps. Donning a wide grin, he indicated the countless elves in every direction.

  “I have plenty,” he pointed out.

  It might not have been the safest decision he’d ever made, but walking alone and unguarded amongst the soldiers of his army was a refreshing experience. Everywhere he looked, Leo found weary smiles and reverent bows aimed his way. Even the defeated—those who had not experienced his sword and wrath firsthand, at least—looked at him with something resembling awe. It was thanks to the latter respect as much as the former that Leo soon found himself discovered by Buchanan and Buchold.

  The pair had been speaking privately before his arrival but both quickly trotted over upon noticing him. And, as if determined to personally bridge the divide, both man and elf wore identical grins.

  “Your Excellency,” Buchanan said, offering a nodding half-bow. “Think I owe you an apology, sir. Looks like you were right. But why the hell didn’t you mention the baron was on his way?”

  “Because I didn’t know,” Leo confessed. He grinned broadly as the shock of this revelation played out on Buchanan’s face. “It’s not too late to take that apology back.”

  “Seven fucking hells,” Buchanan muttered, shaking his head in grim wonder. “You’ve got the gods’ own luck, sir.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Leo cautioned. He met Buchold’s eye for a moment then glanced about. “Any of the counts survive long enough to surrender?”

  “Unclear,” Buchold said. “We’ve got veterans from the Watch looking for them in case they’re hiding among the prisoners.”

  “Good. Let me know if they find anyone. What about Lucius? Any idea where I can find him?”

  “Don’t bother,” called a familiar voice far to Leo’s right. “He’ll find you.”

  Even before he turned, Leo could picture the smirk on the baron’s face from his tone. He wasn’t disappointed either. Lucius’ brow and hair were streaked with grime and sweat, but aside from those insignificant details, the elf’s profile was exactly as Leo had envisioned.

  “Lucius,” Leo said, offering the baron his hand. No sooner had Lucius taken it than Leo thought better of it, however, and dragged the elf into a rough embrace. Laughing, he pulled back a second later. “Son of a bitch! My heart just about gave out when you pulled that maneuver of yours. I thought we were dead for sure!”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucius said, sounding anything but. “Perhaps I should deliver your surprise gift later? If your heart is in such terrible shape, I’d hate to leave that wife of yours a widow.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Leo shot back. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Leo had no idea where Lucius’ soldiers had found the chains—they certainly hadn’t carried them all the way from the coast—but their origin didn’t matter in the slightest. The only thing that mattered was the men bound within them.

  Count Moor and Count Parrott knelt alongside each other, staring daggers at the elves guarding them and noisily twisting their shackles as if testing them for weaknesses. Judging by the irritated scowling of their captors, they had been at it for quite some time, so perhaps they continued out of spite alone. In any case, the elves’ hostility seemed aimed at the pair alone. The noiseless third of their number, Count Quinn, had been allowed to remain standing.

  “I’ll be damned,” Leo chuckled quietly as he approached. “Not a scratch on them.”

  “You’re surprised?” Lucius asked. “Moor wasn’t even wearing a sword.”

  “Figures. No sign of Grey?”

  Lucius shook his head. “I tried asking them about that,” he said. “They wouldn’t say a word. Maybe you’ll have better luck?”

  “I doubt it,” Leo said, shrugging. “But there’s no harm in trying.”

  He stepped forward, picking his way through multiple layers of sentries and passing soldiers. So numerous were they that he was nearly on top of the counts before the first spotted him. Quinn blanched, his eyes widening then narrowing as he scrambled out of Leo’s way.

  “Your Excellencies,” Leo deadpanned. Removing his helm, he offered an extravagant bow that would have been far more befitting a gala than a corpse-laden battlefield. “Such a pleasure to see you all again.”

  “Save your godsdamned pleasantries, VanOrden,” Moor spat. Though the man’s glares had been plenty spiteful before, he somehow managed to inject even more contempt in the one he turned on Leo. “We’ve nothing to say to an ignoble upstart like you.”

  “Wonderful,” Leo replied. “Because I don’t give a shit what you have to say. I’m looking for Grey.”

  “Well, he’s not here, you trow-fucker! Are you blind as well as—?”

  Moor fell abruptly silent as Leo drew his sword. He didn’t bother pointing it at the man. Instead, he rested the blade against his shoulder and stooped slightly to look the man in the eye.

  “Not one more word, Your Excellency,” Leo whispered. “Open your mouth again and I promise you will die here and now.”

  Moor bared his teeth and stared at Leo through eyes so narrowed they were practically slits. He did not, however, open his mouth.

  “Well?” Leo asked, straightening. He glanced between the remaining pair. “Anything to add, Parrott? What about you, Count Quinn? Do either of you have any notion where I might find Count Grey? I promise that cooperation can only improve your standing.”

  The two men exchanged glances. For a moment, there seemed to be some manner of unspoken communication taking place. Each man cocked bro
ws and canted his head as if sharing wordless details. Then, at long last, Quinn scoffed and turned from his comrade’s face to Leo’s.

  “Couldn’t say, Your Excellency,” the count said. “I discussed joining forces with these two a few days back. I haven’t seen Grey in weeks. And from what they tell me, neither have they. The original plan was to lure you into attacking then use Grey and Bordeau to ambush your army from either direction. But given… everything that has happened, I expect he used us as bait. He left the north before us. No doubt he circled back to gather more troops and plans to sweep down like a conquering hero now that we’ve depleted your slave army’s numbers a bit.”

  There was something about the man’s words that pricked Leo’s mind as he examined them. At first, it was nearly impossible to tell what it was that bothered him. Quinn’s words made sense. And even if he was wrong about Grey’s motivations or the particulars of his plan, Leo couldn’t detect an ounce of deception in the man’s tone. If anything, Quinn sounded indignant at being used in such a manner. If only they had—

  Leo turned on his heel and practically dashed away before any of the captive counts could possibly spot his dawning horror. He glanced about wildly, hunting for Lucius’ face and praying all the while that he was wrong.

  “Lucius!” he bellowed. “Where are—”

  “What?” Lucius asked, manifesting at his side. “What’s wrong?”

  Leo grasped his shoulder tightly, squeezing until his joints ached.

  “You and Summers went north to raid supply lines,” he hissed. “Correct?”

  “That’s right,” Lucius said. The elf cocked his head, brow furrowed with alarm. “But by the time we arrived, there was hardly anything left. The counts had already swept through the area. They barely had anyone left to work the fields, much less manage supply lines, so I stationed a few hundred troops on major roads and crossroads to make sure. Then we sailed here. I figured there was no point in conquering abandoned holdings if you lost the war itself for lack of soldiers.”