Fortune Favors the Cruel

by Kel Carpenter

  He didn’t open his mouth to plead or beg or cry as many did when caught, Lazarus noted with a sliver of respect. He’d meet his death either way. It was the ones that stuck to their word that were the hardest to break. This would not happen quietly.

  Lazarus looked to the trees and the sky, recognizing that while it might be night there was another moving toward him from nearby the camp. He stopped in the clearing where Dominicus awaited him.

  He thrust his chin towards the woods, still not recognizing this soul just yet. Dominicus followed his command and started for the tree line just as Lazarus pushed his prey to his knees. The other man went to the ground easily, and when he looked into his eyes, Lazarus could tell that he knew his death was coming. He’d accepted it.

  How refreshing, he thought.

  “You know how this goes,” Lazarus started. “You can either speak and die swiftly, or draw this out and learn how unpleasant I can be. The choice is yours.” The man’s lips pressed together and he lowered his gaze from the tree line, and Lazarus sighed. “So be it.”

  He commanded the wraith away and shifted to call forward a different beast when a thump and a curse stole his attention. Lazarus clamped one hand around the man’s shoulder and half-turned to see Quinn striding forward, followed by Dominicus who was rubbing his jaw.

  “You pack a mean right hook,” his guard grunted.

  “You held a sword to my throat, what did you expect—” Quinn’s voice stopped short when she saw him. Her eyes dropped, and she tilted her head—getting a peek of the man he needed information from. He could sense the shift in her … not of revulsion, but something far more interesting.

  “What are you doing here, Quinn?” he asked her. The woman’s eyes never left the man kneeling at his feet as she slowly walked forward. A certain dark gleam entering her gaze.

  “Quinn…” Dominicus started, more hesitant than he was only moments before.

  It happened fast then. In the corner of his eye, Lazarus saw a flash of metal and shifted to escape it, knowing that he wouldn’t. He’d been too distracted by her.

  Then she did the unthinkable.

  Her hand twisted and darkness shot forward. Lazarus froze, taking a step away to see the inky tendrils coiled around the man’s arm. The dagger he held falling uselessly to the ground as those tendrils tightened, and a sharp crack filled the clearing as the bones of his wrist snapped.

  Quinn tsked softly as she kept moving at a slow, meandering pace. “You go into the night to kill a man, not knowing what awaited you.”

  Lazarus stepped back, unable to look away just as much as he was too enthralled to stop it. He had no idea what Quinn planned to do. She was far too unpredictable, but something about that gleam in her eye told him that a piece of her was shifting—falling into place.

  Her lavender hair reflected silver again in the moonlight as she came to stand beside him. Quinn squatted down, leaning forward so that her face was only inches from the mercenary’s and Lazarus got the impression that, despite the pain that flushed his cheeks and the way he was biting his lip, he might very well be just a tiny bit hypnotized by her as well.

  “Lazarus, I don’t know if you should let her—” Dominicus broke off when Lazarus lifted his hand to silence him. He had this burning need to see what exactly she would do.

  This torturous desire that was so perverted and wrong in every sense and yet he couldn’t find it in him to care.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, “what is it that you fear?” There was a haunting edge to her voice. As if something else were riding her, but Lazarus knew that wasn’t the case. He’d seen her in this place only once before. It was what drew him to her then, at the market.

  “I-I…” the man on his knees started. “I…” He was trying to hold those words in. Those secrets. Quinn smiled like she knew it, and a pale hand caressed the man’s dirty cheek.

  “It’s alright,” she whispered softly. “I’ll find out all the same.”

  Her fingers twisted a fraction and the tangible tendrils of fear snaked up his arm. The mercenary froze, whether in horror or shock, Lazarus wasn’t sure, but it took great effort for him to look away from Quinn and stare at the tendrils slowly slithering over his shoulder.

  “What dark magic is this?” the would-be assassin whispered. The peals of a soft laugh, tinkling like windchimes filtered through the air. It should have frozen Lazarus’ blood instead of heating it. The tendrils crept over the man’s collar and up his neck. A real terror began to root itself.

  Quinn clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should have asked more questions before coming after me and my friends, and now you’ll pay the price.” The coils of fear twined together as they skated over the delicate flesh between his neck and ear.

  The mercenary’s chest rose and fell with great exertion as he tried and failed to calm himself as the darkened strands slowly crept into his ear and continued to burrow.

  “No,” he said as his shoulder twitched. “Please don’t—” His chest spasmed as his eyes began to roll back in his head before screwing shut. “No, no,” he moaned.

  “Shhhh,” Quinn whispered, her fingers curling around his chin. “You didn’t want to talk to me before. It’s too late now.” And it was, judging by the blood that dripped and then ran from his nostrils. He let out something between a groan and a scream, the noise born of unspeakable pain. Quinn only blinked, not phased in the slightest.

  “Ahhh,” she murmured. “You’ve been a very bad boy, Gadmor. So bad.”

  His lips parted and the mewling sound that came out only made her laugh more.

  “Sto—” He couldn’t even finish the word before the thrashing started. Quinn’s nails pierced the flesh of his chin, forcing his head to remain still.

  “Would you like to tell them?” she asked. “Or shall I?” The only response he could give was a broken gagging sound as blood began to leak from his ears.

  “They’ll—kill—th-them,” he choked out as his body convulsed.

  Quinn rolled her eyes and released her grip. His entire frame veered away and fell back into a twitching pile of limbs. “I know,” she murmured, the first hints of clarity entering her voice. “But you made your bed when you chose to come into these woods. Now, it’s your wife and son that will have to live with the consequences of your failure.” Her voice had gone from playful and deceptively soft, to hard and clear as the Servalis stone in his satchel.

  Quinn rose to her feet and extended a hand. The tendrils of fear crawled back out the other ear and slithered over the husk of a man that lay prone and moaning in her wake. They drifted into the air, settling on her skin before slinking under. Only then did anyone speak.

  “We won’t be able to interrogate him now,” Dominicus started. His tone was frustrated, but the careful glances in her direction meant he did not want to push her when she was like this, no matter the consequences.

  “You won’t need to,” she replied. “He feared for his wife and son. Gadmor was a dead man that couldn’t provide, so he traded all he had to give. His life.” Her hands fell to her sides and she clenched them into fists. “He and the other seven didn’t come into these woods to kill you—though they would have, given the chance. They came to distract you, so that the real threat had time to find us before we reached Tritol.” Quinn paused. “And before you ask, no, they weren’t given knowledge of who sent them. Whoever it was at least had the forethought to not leave a trail.”

  Lazarus let out a curse, but all Quinn did was turn on her heel and start for the camp. “We need to leave. Now. So we stand a chance of crossing the rest of Ilvas before they find us,” she said over her shoulder.

  Dominicus slit the suffering man’s throat and turned to Lazarus. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, but that wasn’t normal. We need to talk about this when we get to Tritol. I don’t know if bringing her to N—”

  “We’ll talk, but for now, she’s right. We need to go,” Lazarus said before he followed af
ter her into the darkness—where they both belonged.

  As the Sun Rises

  “A creature who does not need a weapon is one.”

  — Lazarus Fierté, dark Maji, heir to Norcasta, soul eater

  Bastian carried its master as Lazarus leaned forward over the horse’s neck, urging the beast to go ever faster. Hours they had ridden through the night. Even for an experienced rider it was a difficult pace to set. He could hear the heaving of the others, and though they struggled to keep stride, none spoke a word of complaint. They, too, could feel the rising urgency as if the dark realm’s shadow wolves were upon them, ready to tear their bodies limb from limb and feast upon their flesh.

  The land shifted as they rode, changing from narrow passages through forests to open plains as they exited the woods. The tree line still stretched alongside them as the roads widened, obviously built in a way that was meant for carts and coaches rather than lone riders. As everyone spread out, in Lazarus’ peripheral he noted that Quinn was riding just as hard as the others, her skills on a horse having grown significantly since their first encounter. So much so that Lorraine was now to the side, riding along with Dominicus.

  His newest vassal had certainly changed. When he had first met her, Lazarus had thought Claudius already mad for possibly thinking that such a small, inexperienced Maji could be what either made or broke his empire. But now, he saw something different in her. A darkness had risen to the surface, one that she fully embraced.

  Across the plains, the sun slowly began to rise, bleeding out the new day across the skies as the night receded. The land spread far and wide, and beyond it the ocean lashed against far off cliffs. The air was thick with the scent of salt and sea.

  Had they taken their time as travelers normally would, it might have taken them another full day to reach even this far. They were getting closer. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “There! I see it!” Draeven called out. Lazarus turned his head and noted that he was correct. The capital of Ilvas rose, a single shining city along the flat lands bordering the edge of the ocean and the wide mouth of a river.

  Tritol was the gem of Ilvas with capped golden rooftops and wide pillared buildings, all surrounded by a sandstone wall meant to protect the city from land marauders. Lazarus nudged Bastian in the side with the heel of his boot, kicking the horse’s speed up a notch.

  “When we get to the city, I want you to take the others and find lodging. I will want to meet with Imogen myself,” he said.

  Draeven jerked his head to the side. “I will accompany you,” he replied.

  “No.” Lazarus turned his gaze forward once more. “Quinn will accompany me.”

  “But—”

  “What’s that?” Dominicus’ voice rose above the clomping of their horses’ hooves in the dirt. Both Draeven and Lazarus scanned the horizon for whatever he had seen.

  Up ahead, riding towards them at a more sedate pace was a small battalion of white and blue clothed Ilvasian soldiers. Lazarus sat up and Bastian slowed beneath him.

  Draeven shot his master a look. “They must have received your message,” he said. There was no hiding the small hint of relief in the man’s voice.

  Lazarus stared ahead, watching the approaching soldiers. “Yes,” he said. “Thorne came through.”

  “Did you doubt my King?” Vaughn asked as he approached the two of them. Lazarus’ horse came to a stop and with it, the others followed.

  Beyond the advancing troupe, the flags of Ilvas fluttered in the early morning wind. A horse neighed. Several of Lazarus’ group panted with the force they had exerted to get this far, though not Quinn, he noted, keeping his eyes on the horizon, watching the men in uniform. Something felt off. Had he and the others truly outrun the enemy?

  Quinn’s horse pushed between him and Vaughn as she came upon his right side. He turned his gaze and examined her. Her eyes, however, remained trained forward, her back straight. Is it just her? Lazarus wondered. Something was putting him off…

  The Ilvas guard was approaching, likely to offer them the assistance he had requested of Imogen.

  “Something isn’t right.” Quinn’s voice was like silk in his ears—silk stained red.

  “What—” Before Draeven could finish asking her what she meant, an arrow was released and flew right between him and Quinn. It slid perfectly between the spaces of their bodies—a warning of their impending altercation.

  Quinn growled low under her breath, taking up the reins of her horse. The creature neighed and stomped its hooves beneath her, obviously still uncomfortable with its rider, but Quinn’s body slid along the horse’s back as though she were one with the animal. She remained unphased by its reaction to her, ever in control. A control she hadn’t possessed not long ago.

  “Go!” Quinn shouted. “If we all group together we’re one giant target!”

  All at once, as though everyone had just realized the truth behind the loosed arrow, they did as she said. Lazarus urged Bastian to follow after her as she kicked the sides of her horse and sent the creature rearing back and then forward.

  “Lazarus!” Draeven called after him.

  Lazarus turned his head, replying to the man’s unspoken question. “Span out,” he called back. “This is the only way to Tritol and turning back isn’t an option.” Lazarus’ eyes met Dominicus’ and the weapons master nodded. He would protect Lorraine with his life. They could not lose a good potions expert and healer.

  “Quinn!” Lazarus’ horse lurched as he converged on her. “Follow—”

  “We have to break through them,” she interrupted, her eyes focused. “It’s the only way.” Already the tendrils of fear began to seep from her skin, forming around her like snakes coiled to strike, ready and willing to protect their master. Like the basilisk.

  Another arrow released and Lazarus and Quinn both swerved to avoid the oncoming bolt. Quinn growled low in her throat, the sound violent and angry. And just as the new day was lit aflame by the rising sun, it was blinked out of existence. One moment the skies were pinkening into the morning blue, and the next a vast ocean of black sky spread, descending over them, blocking out all light except what was left to visualize the enemies at their front.

  As the sun rose, the darkness fell once more, conjuring a premonition of the imminent oblivion approaching their enemies.

  Blood in the Dirt

  “And once the flames of ascension consume you, you will be reborn anew.”

  — Quinn Darkova, vassal of House Fierté, fear twister, Master of Neiss

  Quinn called to the fear inside, letting it out to slip over her flesh. It tingled along her nerve endings. She was almost sure of it now—after her conversation with Draeven and the things she’d done after that. Her control over the fear was near perfect. In fact, the tendrils no longer felt separated from her at all—as though they were a different entity entirely.

  The tendrils that ran along her arms and stretched out across the sky—blackening it, rousing the fear in her enemies—was now like another limb to her. The horse between her thighs trembled, its own emotions fueling her power as she surged forward.

  Arrows fell upon them in rapid succession, forcing her to swerve or pick up the speed again and again. Lazarus raced alongside her, the scent of salt and desperation was like kindling to her flame. She shuddered in delight at the dread that stemmed from up ahead, rising in waves, crashing down over her senses—as it completely and utterly rode her.

  Adrenaline in its purest form flooded her system, and in that moment, Quinn never felt so alive. So very powerful. She and Lazarus ate up the distance between them and their enemies, and in a clash of metal and booming thunder, they struck. The skies, now blacker than night, made it difficult for them to see, even though they carried torches. That orange flame only did so much when Quinn swung clean through the arm holding it. The flame hit the ground, sparking fire as the rider let out a scream in anguish. Quinn was already coming upon her next victim as she slashed and blocked the oncoming
attacks. Lost in the haze of battle and blood lust, Quinn found that part of herself she was always missing.

  And she embraced it.

  “Quinn!” The roar from Lazarus shook her, and she turned her cheek to stare at him just as an arrow grazed the side of her face. A single line of blood slipped down over her chin. The sting of the tip told her she’d been cut, but not killed. Not as she would have been, had he said nothing. She needed to be more careful.

  As soon as it occurred to her, two riders rounded on her, meeting her head on. They split, attempting to run down either side of her—boxing her in the middle. She curled her hand around her sword, readying her resolve, unable to stop it from happening, but when they passed her, it wasn’t her they attacked.

  It was the horse.

  Wicked blades sliced down its sides, sending the creature fumbling forward. It jerked so violently Quinn didn’t have a chance of holding on as it threw her. Air kissed her skin as she flew from its back and in the moment before she landed, she saw the world in slow motion as the fighting raged.

  Lazarus fought with such savageness that she had a feeling—were he alone—he would be the only one to make it out alive. As it was, Draeven and Vaughn had joined the fray and were both facing off against multiple men in blue and white. They were far more skilled than their attackers, but because of the enemy’s sheer numbers, they were going to be in real trouble soon. Especially Dominicus who was contending with seven riders on his own, but had Lorraine huddled into him and holding on for dear life—though her expression was not one of terror.

  She saw all this in the blink of an eye before her body hit the ground at a bone-rattling intensity. She rolled, trying to lessen the momentum, but the stabbing pain below her abdomen was stifling. The spot that had plagued her for the last week or so, ever since they left Cisea, was burning. Quinn grit her teeth against the pain and spat the dirt from her mouth. Ignoring the spittle tinged with blood, Quinn rose back to her feet.