“I…I…” said Mythkhar.
“Seven, Warlord,” said Vhorshak, gazing at the wineskins in surprise.
“What is this, Mythkhar?” said Mayascora, the disdain in her expression increasing.
“Is it not obvious, High Priestess?” said Agravhask. “Kyralves are rarely drunk in public, but when suffering from a hangover, their eyes become bloodshot and their noses run.” Mythkhar’s hand jerked to his face. “Mythkhar stole the wine while conducting the audit and concealed it in his cabin. To celebrate his ill-gotten gains, he drank himself into a stupor last night.”
“Vhorshak stole it!” shouted Mythkhar. “He stole it, and…and…”
“Vhorshak slept in the common hold,” said Agravhask. “There are always men sleeping there. How did he get seven large skins of wine past those soldiers? He would have been stopped and questioned. But an Ordinariate of the Temple would not have been stopped.”
“Why didn’t you just pour it overboard, fool?” snapped Mayascora. “You should…”
The High Priestess fell silent, realizing what she had just said.
“Ordinariate Mythkhar, you have stolen from the army’s supplies and accused another of your crime,” said Agravhask. “For this serious offense, I sentence you to death.”
“No!” shouted Mythkhar. He looked at Mayascora, his eyes wide and pleading. “You can’t let him do this! You promised! You…”
Agravhask stepped towards Mythkhar.
The Ordinariate’s eyes snapped towards the Warlord, and his hand came up, blue fire dancing around his fingers as he began a spell of dark magic.
Agravhask moved so fast Morigna could barely follow it. He surged forward and snapped Mythkhar’s neck with a single powerful twist, and did it with enough force that Mythkhar’s eyes were looking over his own shoulder. The kyralf stumbled and collapsed to the deck, his body jerking as it died.
No one said anything for a moment. Every eye was on Agravhask – the priestesses, the Chosen Guards, the sailors, the soldiers, all of them.
“Take the criminal’s body,” said Agravhask. “Slash his wrists and tow him behind the ship. The sharks will consume him. Should there be any further theft of supplies from our stores, they will be thrown overboard to the sharks.”
“He…he was an Ordinariate of the Temple,” said Mayascora. “You couldn’t just kill him.”
“As you said, High Priestess,” said Agravhask. His calm had never once wavered. “He stole from the supplies of the army, and by extension, the goddesses themselves. A serious matter that required a severe punishment. Would you have preferred that he suffer a slower death? Crucifixion, or disembowelment? Perhaps an object lesson should have been made.”
“A simple execution will suffice,” said Mayascora through gritted teeth.
“Indeed,” said Agravhask as the halflings dragged Mythkhar’s body to the stern. “It is regrettable, though. Mythkhar was a loyal servant of the Temple. I wonder what could have induced such a man to steal wine like a common thief. It seems we shall never know.”
Mayascora’s bloodless face had gone even paler.
Agravhask knew. He had known all along. The Warlord knew perfectly well that Mayascora had arranged this little drama to embarrass him, that she had ordered Mythkhar to steal the skins of wine. The High Priestess had intended to damage Agravhask’s authority…but the Warlord had perfectly reversed the trap. One of the Temple’s servants had been exposed as a thief. And though Agravhask would say nothing, it was obvious that he knew Mayascora had been behind it all. Mayascora was a sorceress of tremendous power and skill, and Agravhask had still been three steps ahead of her the entire time.
“You may return to your duties with my trust, Vhorshak,” said Agravhask. Vhorshak bowed deep and hurried back into the depths of the ship. “Have you any other cases for me to consider, High Priestess? I shall be pleased to judge them as I did this one.”
“None,” said Mayascora in a cold voice. “I thank you for your wisdom, Warlord.”
Wisdom.
Morigna felt another chill.
She remembered another story that Caius and Gavin had discussed, the account of the judgment of Solomon from the scriptures. Morigna had scoffed at the idea of one man possessing such profound wisdom and penetrating insight. No one truly had such wisdom.
But Agravhask did, wisdom as cold and keen as a frozen blade.
King Solomon had been a man of peace, but Agravhask was a man of war…and he was bringing fire and sword to Andomhaim.
Morigna had to find a way to stop him.
She had no idea how.
***
Chapter 7: Heralds
Aeliana Carhaine threw back her head and cried out her pleasure, and a moment later, Merovech Valdraxis followed suit, the cords in his neck standing out, his teeth locked together in a snarl. He sagged against her, breathing hard, sweat dripping off his head to spatter against her face.
“Get off,” said Aeliana, swatting at his arm. “I can’t breathe, damn you.”
Merovech smirked at her. Golden fire burned in his mad eyes, a side effect of his transformation into a Dragonmaeloch, and this close to his face, it was almost like looking into an otherworldly furnace.
“Make me,” hissed Merovech. He reached up and seized her wrists, holding her arms pinned over her head. “Maybe I like you like this. The daughter of the great Tarrabus Carhaine, naked and helpless under me, and I can do whatever I want to her…”
“Helpless?” growled Aeliana. She locked her legs around his waist and twisted, flipping Merovech onto his back. Her weight came down on his hips as her palms slapped against his stomach, and the breath burst from his lungs in a surprised wheeze. “So sure of that, my lord?”
Merovech smirked at her, looking as satisfied as a pig wallowing mud, and a wave of dislike went through Aeliana. Yet mixed with the dislike was another wave of lust, raw and hot as molten metal poured into her veins. He looked very good, his chest and arms heavy with muscle, and she liked the feel of him, like the crushing strength in his arms as he held her against him.
But there was more to it than that. They were both Heralds of Ruin, both bearers of dark soulblades with Marks of the Herald upon their forearms. Merovech and Aeliana carried the Warden’s dark power within them…and for them, the attraction of that dark power manifested as uncontrollable lust for each other.
She didn’t like Merovech. She respected him, admittedly…beneath his boorish manners and appalling arrogance he had was a cunning military mind. But his brutish arrogance was no mask. It was his real self, and he had no appreciation of the Warden’s great vision, no true understanding of their purpose. All he wanted to do was to fight, to destroy, to eat and drink, and…
Well. And to have her. The lust Merovech inspired in Aeliana would have been an intolerable weakness if she did not have the same effect on him. It was taking hold again. Already she felt Merovech stirring beneath her, her eyes lingering on the lines of his muscles. Just as well they could both draw on their Marks of the Herald for increased stamina. They had put that power to the test again and again.
“You are as insatiable as a thirsty dog,” said Aeliana with a mocking laugh.
“Am I?” said Merovech with a sneer. It turned into a smirk again. “You’re not climbing off me, are you?”
She wasn’t, come to think of it. Perhaps they would have time for…
A knock came at the bedchamber door.
Aeliana spat a curse and looked over her shoulder. Merovech had claimed the finest bedroom in Castra Melidern as his own. The bed was comfortable, which was just as well given how much time they spent in it, and the wooden furniture was polished to a mirror gleam. A wardrobe held the fine gowns that it amused Merovech to have her wear.
“What?” shouted Merovech.
“It is Volker, my lord,” came a man’s voice. “The Lady Aeliana bade me to fetch her at this hour.”
“That annoying fellow of yours,” muttered Merovech. “I’m going t
o cut off his head one of these days.”
“Don’t,” said Aeliana. “I like him. More importantly, he’s useful.” She climbed off Merovech and got to her feet, ignoring his irritated sigh. “Come in, Volker. And send in the Duke’s squires as well.”
The door opened, and Volker stepped into the room. He was middle-aged, a little stout with graying hair and a gray beard. Volker had been one of Count Rhellgar’s men-at-arms when Aeliana had first met him. Impressed with his quick wit, she had made him the seneschal of the small household she had built around herself, and he had served her well.
Volker paused for just a fraction of a second when he saw that she and Merovech were naked, but he made a deep bow at once. “My lady. You commanded me to join you an hour before the council.”
“Yes, of course,” said Aeliana. Merovech’s squires came in, all of them trying hard not to look at Aeliana. Her nakedness in front of Merovech’s servants did not trouble her as once it would have. As one of the Heralds of Ruin, she was above them. The followers of the Dragon Cult wanted to become dragon gods, and in a way, Aeliana had become a demigoddess. And the gaze of lesser mortals meant nothing to a demigoddess, no more than the gazes of rats and mice meant anything to a lioness. “I wish to be prepared at once. Have the women ready my bath.”
“My lady,” said Volker. He clapped his hands, and three noblewomen entered, the wives of some of Merovech’s knights and counts. They all hated Aeliana, of course, but they were too afraid of her to give anything less than excellent service. An alcove in the wall held a large copper tub, and the noblewomen filled it. They could all use magic, so two of the women cast several Lance spells of elemental water to fill it with ice, and then the third woman used more Lance spells of elemental flame to melt it. A few moments later, it was the proper temperature, and Aeliana settled into the steaming water with a pleased sigh. One of the noblewomen began washing Aeliana’s long blond hair, her face a grim mask, her eyes frightened.
“Tell me, Volker,” said Aeliana. “What news from the war?”
“The Mhorites have been raiding across the River Cintarra,” said Volker. “But they have focused their efforts on the northern boundary of the lands the Duke has claimed. The armies of the kings of Rhaluusk and Khaluusk are marching through the borderlands.”
“It seems our Kothluuskan friends have been busy,” said Aeliana. Another of the noblewoman put soap into the water.
“Aye,” said Volker. “I know only a little of your realm’s history, my lady…”
Aeliana laughed, sending a little water splashing over the edge of the tub. “Indeed? You are a quick study. I have seen you speak to the commoners and the priests both when we ride near Castra Melidern.” She glanced at where Merovech stood, drinking wine as his squires dressed him. He had made no effort to learn much about Andomhaim, save for what he needed to make war.
“I strive to be a diligent servant,” said Volker. “But from what I understand, much of the Mhorites’ confidence was broken at Dun Licinia when Mournacht fell in battle.” A flicker of old rage went through Aeliana. Ridmark Arban had killed Mournacht, and Ridmark had killed Aeliana’s father, denying Tarrabus his rightful place as High King of Andomhaim. “The arrival of a strong leader in Duke Merovech has given the Mhorites the confidence to make war upon Andomhaim once more.”
“Good,” said Aeliana. She leaned back, letting the noblewoman dip her hair into the water to wash out the soap.
“But the Mhorites have focused on the north,” said Volker. She saw him shoot a cautious glance at Merovech, but the Duke was busy drinking wine. “The High King’s army has been massing near Rhudlan. I think it will take the Duke’s presence to inspire the Mhorites to attack the town. Though the dvargir mercenaries have been launching raids.”
“Those damned mercenaries,” said Aeliana. She sat up, water sloshing around her legs, and held out her arms. Two of the noblewomen began to scrub her back and arms. “Useless leeches, the lot of them.”
“You do not approve of the dvargir mercenaries, my lady?” said Volker, again shooting a quick glance at Merovech. The Duke’s mercurial nature meant that his servants and vassals treaded cautiously around him. Sometimes Merovech completely ignored criticism, sometimes he exploded into a violent rage, and sometimes he simply killed people who annoyed him without a change of expression.
But Aeliana had no such fears.
“No,” said Aeliana. “The dvargir help the dvargir and no one else. My father hired the mercenaries of Great House Tzanar to help him during the siege of Tarlion. As you might expect, they took his gold…and then abandoned the field at the critical moment.”
Volker gazed at the ceiling. “Lo, thou trustest in the staff of this broken reed, on Egypt; whereon if a man lean, it will go into his hand, and pierce it: so is Pharaoh king of Egypt to all that trust in him.”
Aeliana blinked at him in surprise.
Volker offered an apologetic smile. “A quotation from the book of the prophet Isaiah, my lady. It seemed appropriate.”
“Yes, that’s right, you were a priest,” said Aeliana. The deaths of the innocent had caused Volker to lose his faith in God and had led him down the path that led to the Dragon Cult. “But you’re right. A broken reed. A good way to describe Rzarn Malvaxon and his mercenaries.”
“The Rzarn ought to beware,” said Volker. “The man who tries to betray a Dragonmaeloch will regret it swiftly.”
“A wise man, your seneschal,” said Merovech.
Aeliana, Volker, and the three noblewomen paused and looked across the bedchamber at Merovech. For his part, the Duke ignored them, finished his cup of wine, and held it out for one of the squires to refill. That was the damnable thing about Merovech, Aeliana thought. He was so unpredictable. Had he been listening to the entire conversation?
“Thank you, my lord,” said Volker with a deep bow.
“You perform an invaluable service, Volker,” said Merovech. “You listen to Lady Aeliana’s incessant yammering about Andomhaim’s history so I don’t have to.” Aeliana’s lips thinned in anger. Volker kept his face a perfect mask of calm subservience. Aeliana considering telling Merovech that listening to more of Andomhaim’s history might have led to swifter victory over the enemy, but that would provoke a violent quarrel, and she didn’t want to fight in front of her inferiors.
Or Merovech would point out that if Aeliana had killed Ridmark Arban before the Great Eye, if she hadn’t lost the Key of Tarmyntir, they would have won already. Rage flashed through her at the thought. She already wanted to kill Ridmark for her father’s death, to repay him for the suffering she had endured at the hands of the Red Family. When she faced Ridmark again, she would kill him and also avenge her defeats at his hand.
“I’m so pleased my seneschal meets with my lord’s approval,” said Aeliana.
“You should be,” said Merovech. He tossed aside his empty wine cup. It clattered against the stone floor, and one of the squires scurried after it. “Better bring my armor. We wouldn’t want the leeches of the dvargir to think us weak, would we?”
###
A short time later, Aeliana and Volker followed Merovech into the great hall of Castra Melidern.
The great hall was a lofty space, the pillars and the walls adorned with old shields from ancient battles, tattered banners of vanquished foes hanging from the vaulted ceiling. A long table ran the length of the room, and Merovech’s chief counts and knights had already gathered. They stood as the Duke strode to the head of the table. Merovech wore his crimson armor, the dark soulblade Stormruin on his belt.
Aeliana glided after him. She wore a sweeping gown of crimson silk with black slashes upon the drooping sleeves and the long skirt, a leather belt around her waist. Ruinheart hung on its scabbard upon her left hip, and jewels looted from the lands of Cintarra glinted upon her throat and ears and fingers. The gown dipped much lower in front than she might have preferred, and a delicate pendant of gold and diamonds rested between her breasts. Aeliana suppose
d she was dressed up as a powerful man’s beautiful consort, which ought to have irritated her, but it didn’t. Partly because it was all Merovech’s vassals were so obviously frightened of him, and she did enjoy being the consort of such a man.
Most of it was because the Frankish lords and knights all hated her but were too frightened to act on it. Aeliana remembered a song she had heard some fool bard sing about how the worth of love was beyond all gold and resisted the urge to laugh.
Power, and the fear it inspired, was better by far.
Merovech seated himself at the head of the long table, and Aeliana sat to his right. Volker waited a respectful distance behind her chair, as a good servant ought. The lords and knights sat as well, and Aeliana looked over them. The captains of the ogre, goblin, and gnoll mercenaries who had come through the Theophract’s gate sat at the end of the table. The damned gnolls smelled foul and would eat anything, even their own dead, but they were good fighters, which was more important by far.
Count Alan Rhellgar sat nearby, and his eyes flicked over Aeliana’s chest, just quickly enough to avoid causing offense. He was a handsome man, charming and erudite, though he regrettably had the long beard preferred by the Frankish nobles. Aeliana always thought that long beards on men looked as if they had glued the ratty pelt of a rodent to their chins. Count Odo scowled, looking as if someone had just poked him with a pin, while Sir Gereon was bull-chested and belligerent. Aeliana knew all her lover’s vassals and knights by now, knew their relationships, knew who were allies and who hated each other.
She did not care for the newcomer to the table.
Malvaxon was the Rzarn of Great House Tzanar of Khaldurmar, the subterranean city of the dvargir, a nobleman equivalent to a Duke of the Empire or a Dux of Andomhaim. Like most dvargir, he had shaved his head, though he affected a close-cropped beard around his mouth, its gray color matching the tone of his skin. His eyes were solid black, and the Rzarn wore armor of flat black metal, though adorned with inlays of red gold. An amulet of office hung around his neck, a sinister-looking thing of red gold and rubies marked with the twisting glyphs of the dvargir shadowscribes. He met Aeliana’s gaze, and a faint smile went over his face. Malvaxon knew that Aeliana hated him. He just did not care.
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