The wheel-brake squealed, and the coach lurched to an abrupt stop. Ian slid forward and banged his knees against the opposite bench. His sword clattered to the floor.
“Driver!” he called out. “What is the meaning of this?!”
He reached out and felt around in the dark for his sword.
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but a carriage is coming down your drive hard.”
Ian bent lower in his seat, his fingers brushing against the hilt. Who would be leaving his estate at this hour?
He dragged the sword out from under the bench just as the other carriage careened past. Poking his head out the open window, Ian watched as it disappeared down the road behind him. Dark curtains obscured the interior, but he recognized the stylized engravings adorning the luxury coach and his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
Dammit! The coach had belonged to Lord Oliver Orrington!
Chapter 25
Just before sunset, Captain Wolfe Straegar dismounted in the courtyard of his small estate and handed the reins to his lone stable boy. He stood for a moment and watched as his big stallion dutifully followed the young boy into the modest stable before turning and heading toward his old, two-story keep.
Behind the building and up the hill in the distance, he spied the silhouetted outline of the Belyne Military Academy. It was one of the largest building complexes in all Belyne, in all Yordic. The royal castle far to the north was much grander in scale and architecture and Lord Ragget’s infamous central tower was quite a bit taller, but the Academy would always seem like home to him.
Despite the events of last summer.
The memory of it still made him scowl. He had attended the Academy for nearly twenty years, entering the day after that damn Gyunwarian knight, Sir Lumist Tunney, had crippled his father during a tournament battle. Though he was only eight at the time, rage fueled his motivation to learn. During his first year of studies, his father hung himself from the rafters of their family barn. Straegar’s rage grew. He devoted himself to the perfection of his physical being. For the next fifteen years, he trained in the martial arts of war, learned the importance of discipline, loyalty, and trust, and gained the respect of many important and influential men. He advanced rapidly. By the time he turned twenty-four, he found himself second-in-command, a Vice Lord of the Academy. For the next four years, he toiled diligently under the wizened Lord Master Gurney Belroy, and then last summer, without warning, Lord Master Belroy died in his sleep.
Being second-in-command, Straegar had immediately assumed control. A week after Belroy’s funeral, an official proclamation was made. Sir Vincent Donner, a recently promoted Gyunwarian lieutenant, was named Lord Master. Donner had won the support of Lord Ian Weatherall and a few of his friends on the Academy Board. Furious by the decision, Straegar appealed the order. King Henrik sided with Weatherall and the Board’s majority decision.
Straegar resigned his post the following day. The Chief Inquisitor visited him hours later and convinced him to take a commission as Captain in the newly formed royal wardens. Ranked above all the other city patrols and city mages, the royal wardens were an elite force designed to guard and protect the king and the noble lords and ladies residing in Belyne. They also oversaw the functions of the courts and the prisons and on occasion worked as investigators for the Chief Inquisitor when charges were leveled against a person of power.
That quickly became Straegar’s favorite part of the job.
A familiar gurgling noise caught his attention as he neared his front door. “Damn it!” he swore softly. He detoured over to the circular, three-tiered water fountain dominating the center of his grassy courtyard. The fountain’s drain was clogged again!
He reached the edge of the wide basin and tried to determine the reason for its current malfunction. A frog leapt into the water beside him and the splash made him jump. “Damn it!” he muttered again, angry at himself for being startled.
Straegar ripped off his gloves and threw them on the ground at his feet. Just this morning he had asked his servant to fix the drain. Obviously, the foul, little man was as inept as he was annoying, and he’d have to do it himself! He pushed his uniform sleeves up to his bulging biceps and dunked his hands into the stagnant water. Gods above the water stank! Searching blindly for the drain, his fingers brushed against something solid. He yanked his hands out of the water and stood there staring at the fountain, feeling just a bit foolish. Gods-damn it, what was down there? Was his servant throwing trash into the fountain again? If he was, he’d bash that little bastard’s head in!
Moving a little to his right, he dunked his hands back into the dank water. The thing down there couldn’t be a fallen branch, the nearest tree stood too far away . . .
His right hand brushed against the something solid again and this time he didn’t jerk back. He worked his fingers around the unknown object until he was able to grasp it. He tugged. The object seemed wedged. He pulled again, harder. Still, no success. Finally, with a mighty heave, he jerked the object free and it shot up and away from the drain.
Despite his years of training, Straegar screamed as a bloated white body flopped across the fountain’s edge. Dead eyes stared up at him. Straegar danced away, wiping his hands across the front of his shirt and down the sides of his trousers.
Gods-damn it! He had not been expecting that!
The naked body tipped and spilled out of the fountain face first, collapsing into a jumbled pile of limbs. Straegar stared at the body for a moment and then kicked it over onto its back.
Hans Mesbone.
The pale, swollen body showed signs of a recent battle. Shallow gashes crisscrossed his arms and hands, but it was the gaping hole through his center which had obviously been the killing blow.
“I gave him tha’ one,” a voice sneered directly behind him.
Wolfe Straegar whirled around, drawing his weapon as he spun. Metal clanged against metal, sword against sword.
“I coulda given ye a matchin’ wound if I’da wanted t’,” the lanky man opposite him drawled. The stranger disengaged his sword with a graceful flourish and stepped back.
“Natham Lipscombe?” Straegar growled. The man was fast. Quiet and fast. Straegar wondered where he had hidden. His eyes raked the courtyard. The gangly man appeared to be alone.
Lipscombe’s head bobbed up and down. Straegar moved slightly to his right, trying to get the dying sun out of his eyes while at the same time trying to get a better look at the tall, stork-like man he knew only by reputation. Lipscombe snickered and pivoted to his right as well, turning his face into the fading light. “Tha’ better?”
A fat white scar wormed its way down Lipscombe’s ruddy face, from above his hairline, across his left eye, to his sparsely hairy chin. His left eyeball twitched irrepressibly in its socket, moving forward then jumping back as if tethered to the side of his face. Lipscombe scratched at what remained of his left ear, the top half was completely missing, and broke into a nasally, wheezing chuckle. “So . . . ‘m I who I say I ‘m?”
Straegar lowered his sword. “You are.” He gestured toward Mesbone’s body. “Why’d you put him in my fountain?”
“Better ‘n yer front steps, ain’t it?” Lipscombe spun his sword easily in his hand and dropped it back into its scabbard. Stooping, his knees and elbows bending in all different directions, he grabbed Mesbone’s body and flung it across his narrow shoulders. Straegar wondered how the wiry man managed the weight. “‘sides, I didn’t have much time t’ hide him.”
“And the remainder of the Bloody Fists? Are they loyal to you?”
The right side of Lipscombe’s face smiled eerily. “Th’ one’s left ‘live, sure are. Th’ dead ones, well, it don’t matter none who they were loyal t’, if ye catch m’ meanin’,” he snickered. “Now tell me quick, ‘fore I dump him. Where ye wan’ him planted?”
This time, it was Straegar’s turn to smile. He had the perfect plot in mind.
Chapter 26
G
arett Navarro sat in the shadows of the sparse parlor and waited. The fidgety butler had issued him into the room hours ago and left without uttering a word. Garett had detected the other man’s palpable fear, the trembling hands, the moisture above his upper lip, and the quickness of his withdrawal. It had given him a fleeting thrill to frighten the man with his mere presence.
The sun had set while he waited. He had watched the line dividing light and shadow inch across the carpeted floor and creep up the far wall, past the impressive painting of a dark, godlike figure rising above a multitude of prostrate figures, until the room had filled with first a rosy glow and then a purplish haze. Now, with the moon up, the area of the room nearest the open window was bathed in a pale luminescence. Long ivory drapes billowed inward with each wind gust and floated back down again with a grace Garett found entrancing. Like watching a pair of elegant dancing ghosts. Somewhere nearby, perhaps in the adjacent room, he heard the steady ticking of a Bel’yowlyian clock. Waiting did not irritate him. He was a patient man.
Unlike his talent . . .
A bell chimed far below in another section of the mansion, a faint jingle, pleasant and melodious. Was another visitor being announced? Or perhaps it was a very late dinner bell? He hadn’t eaten since dawn, but the faint rumblings deep inside did not concern him. He would satisfy his hunger once his business here was concluded.
Soft footsteps, outside in the hall by the marble stairs, caught his attention. Garett closed his dark eyes and listened. They were light, too light to be his host. But who? He heard the hesitation in the pace . . . a curious, young woman perhaps? He smiled inwardly. Perhaps it was the maid he had passed earlier in the foyer, the one who smelled like raspberries with just a hint of cream. He had caught her eye, he knew, by the way she had blushed a deep shade of crimson from her cheeks down to the tops of her beautiful breasts. She had sensed his power too, but unlike the butler, she had been drawn to his strength like . . . Garett almost smiled at the terribly old but quite appropriate cliché . . . like a moth to a flame.
The footsteps stopped outside the door. He heard her short, quick breaths and imagined vividly, her bountiful bosom rising and falling, straining against the new uniform she had yet to break in.
You want to come inside, don’t you? You want to see if it is true. You want to taste my power. The familiar warmth flowed into Garett’s callused fingertips. Come inside and you will find the truth you seek.
Another series of footsteps sounded on the opposite stairs. These were heavy and plodding and shook the painting on the wall. The butler.
Go away!
He wished he could gather the power of his will and send it out like a flaming bolt to stop the butler’s approach, but his magic didn’t work like that.
Not yet, at least.
Beyond the door, the maid’s presence cooled, her hot passion chilled by the fear of discovery. Her delicate footsteps retreated quickly from the door. Perhaps when his business was concluded here he would seek her out instead.
The ponderous butler approached the door, hesitated and continued down the hall reeking of fear.
You know what I am. You know what I can do.
Horrifically beautiful images of burnt flesh curling, splitting and falling off a body filled his mind, musical screams of agonizing pain and torture, and a woman aflame running down the street like a living torch. He lingered over his delicious collections of memories, examining each in exquisite detail.
Slowly, he raised his right hand, palm up, and curled his fingers into a rounded claw. The liquid-like warmth flowing to his callused fingertips grew hotter as he redoubled his concentration.
Yes, Garett cooed as if to a lover, come out and play.
A sharp, yellowy-orange light flared at the ends of each finger and united into a single flame which danced inches above his palm. The skin on his hand darkened but did not burn or blister. He watched, enthralled, as the fire grew to some twelve inches in height. Relishing the familiar warmth on his face, he allowed the flame to dance wildly, unhindered, uninhibited, for a full five minutes.
Bend to my will, he thought gently, lovingly.
The fire continued to dance, but the form gradually changed. Within moments, a shapely feminine figure constructed of the streaming orange flames twirled above his palm. Two tiny blue orbs of fire, a pair of bright eyes, appeared and focused on his.
“Good evening, Delila,” Garett whispered.
She smiled; at least that was how he interpreted her expression.
Am I feeding again? Her husky, seductive voice echoed inside his mind.
“No, my love,” he continued in a hushed tone. “I simply wanted to gaze upon you once more.”
She twirled faster, leaping, flickering, and occasionally moving quicker than his eye could follow. Do you want me? Tell me the truth, Garett.
“Oh yes, my love.” He resisted the urge to reach out with his other hand and caress her fiery curves. “You are so beautiful.”
Her dance became more hypnotic, more erotic.
Release me, Garett, and I will please you like no other. Her hips gyrated explicitly. Give into me; give into me, give . . . into . . . me.
“No,” he said without much conviction. His eyelids drooped. Her movements became wilder, exaggerated. She bent and twisted in ways no mortal contortionist could ever manage. “No,” he mumbled again.
Set me free. Set me free. Set me . . .
Another set of footsteps sounded in the hall. Garett blinked at the intrusion and swept aside the magical binds she had attempted to create to ensnare his thoughts. He should be angry with her, but it was her nature to seduce.
To seduce and to destroy.
Realizing she had failed in her efforts to control him, Delila stopped dancing and stood with her hands on her hips, tapping her flaming foot. Outside the room, the footsteps drew closer, quick and agile. This had to be his host. Garett straightened in his chair and made sure to keep Delila visible in his outstretched palm. She crouched, tiger-like, her blue-flame eyes darting between him and the door.
Shall I feed on him?
“No.”
Just a little taste . . . a tiny nibble . . .
“No, be quiet.”
She fell silent, pouting.
The handle turned, and the door swung open forcefully, almost ripped from its hinges. Lord Devin Ragget swept into the room, his long, black cloak swirling in his wake, looking as if it were having trouble keeping up. The dark lamps hanging on sconces around the room flared to life dissipating the velvety shadows. Garett’s eyes narrowed as the intense brightness momentarily blinded him. By the time his eyes had adjusted, Lord Ragget had stepped briskly across the room, tossed his cloak over the back of the other armchair and had settled into an impressive throne behind an equally impressive oak desk. He removed a long, gold key from an inside vest pocket and placed it on the desk next to a loaded antique, single-shot crossbow.
“Mister Navarro!” Lord Ragget called out in a cold, impersonal voice.
Garett stood. Delila remained crouched in his outstretched palm. She tensed and the hunger within her swelled.
Ohhhh . . . he is a handsome fellow with fine skin . . . let me taste him . . .
“Be still,” Garett muttered under his breath.
Lord Ragget motioned to a place in front of his desk with a sharp snap of his wrist. “Mister Navarro, come. My time is precious to me.”
Garett hesitated, not out of fear, but to show Lord Ragget he maintained a measure of power too. Casually, he stepped forward, a confident smile on his face. He stopped on the black, furry rug stretched out in front of the desk. He wondered briefly what animal had contributed to the rug’s creation. A black bear would have been too small.
“You did as you said you could,” Lord Ragget began, looking up at him for the first time since he’d entered the room. Garett started to bow, accepting the forthcoming praise. “However, we have a problem. No, let me rephrase that. You have a problem.”
Garett struggled to hold his smile, even as he straightened. “Whatever do you mean?”
Lord Ragget tented his long, tapered fingers and leaned forward. His rich, violet-colored eyes pierced Garett’s, pinning him where he stood. “You were supposed to destroy the ship before-”
“I did!” Garett snapped, a little too hotly. “I . . .”
Lord Ragget held up a firm hand and Garett swallowed the rest of his words.
“You were supposed to destroy the ship BEFORE Captain Caleachey disembarked.”
“He is only one man!” Garett seethed. With Delila in his palm, it was difficult for him to control both her and his emotions. “I destroyed the warehouse and the ship, and you think to disparage my work with this trifle complaint?”
“To you it may seem trifle,” Lord Ragget said, “but I assure you, it is not.” His lip twitched. “Your error has forced me to alter my plans.”
A caustic response leapt to mind, but Garett said nothing. His unreleased anger quickly grew though, and his rage threatened to overwhelm his self-control. Delila responded by twirling furiously and hissing.
Lord Ragget glanced at the fire elemental. “Is her hunger sated?”
“No,” Garett said between clenched teeth. “Say the word and we will burn another building or hunt down this Captain Caleachey . . .” Or perhaps I’ll let Delila dance across your face! Garett took a quick breath and tried to steady himself. “There is nothing we cannot do.”
Set me free, Delila spoke in his mind. Let me have a little taste of his flesh. I will burn those pretty eyes. Or the desk. Oh yes! Let me have his delicious desk too!
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