Valdemar stared sullenly at the dark, jagged peaks around them. "Truly? Then why did Marcellus escape in from my hand? Now it will be said that Deis favors the Champion of Kaerleon. The people's faith in my power will wither. Everything I have worked for will crumble."
He shook his head. "No. I must be the one to recapture Marcellus. I will scourge him; feast on his screams, drink his cries for mercy. His lands will burn, his children fed to the flames as gifts of war. His woman will be my bed slave and will bear new sons that will curse his name. I will give his severed limbs as gifts to the chiefs of Bruallia. What is left of him will be impaled for the world to witness." Valdemar spat the words through clenched teeth. "Only then will I undo the damage he has caused."
Though a dozen other bands scoured the foothills, Valdemar had led his men deeper into the shadows of the mountains. He would not underestimate Marcellus again. The man was formidable, just as dangerous and cunning as the stories related. Marcellus would not fear the Dragonspine. He would try to lose himself in the passes, gambling on the fear and superstition that the mountains inspired. He would press forward, pushing his body to the limit, never resting until he could be sure that the pursuit ended in the knight's death.
Valdemar was sure of that because he would have done the same. And with that knowledge he spurred his men all the harder, fixated on the capture of their quarry. He had to be the one who recaptured Marcellus Admorran. It was necessary. He'd been publicly disgraced, defeated with humiliating ease by an unarmed man.
The ripples were already spreading. Valdemar felt it in the silent stares of men whose eyes previously glazed in worship of his every word. He practically smelled the rot of uneasiness in the air. There was no telling how the story would affect the dispositions of the savage province lords and chieftains of Aracville and Ravynna. How many of them would reconsider their positions of servility, perhaps even challenge him openly? The lords and chiefs of the wilds had never allied under one lord before. It had taken equal measures of bribery and fear to coax them into their positions of united service. The peace of was ever tenuous, ever on the verge of ripping apart like rotted parchment.
And all of it could topple because of the actions of one man.
Valdemar fumed inwardly. He would recapture the Champion of Kaerleon. And when he did, he would make sure Marcellus could never escape again. The punishment would be severe. Severing both feet would guarantee that Marcellus would stay put. But why stop there? Better to cut both legs off at the knees and make Marcellus half the man he was before. A thin smile toyed with the corners of Valdemar's mouth.
The hounds bayed excitedly, jolting him from his thoughts.
Ganbatar turned in that direction. "At last. Perhaps we have found a bit of sport after all." He booted his powerful stallion, pulling ahead of Valdemar. Khidyr followed behind, an armored shadow guarding Valdemar's flank.
They rode around a flinty hillside, where the other men inspected a scene of carnage. Two corpses lay on the battered earth, their stench ripe in Valdemar's nostrils. He ignored it, having long ago become accustomed to the reek of death. Dismounting, he drew closer, followed by Ganbatar and Khidyr. The other men stepped back warily as they approached.
The bluish mud on the dead men's skin and their tattooed faces marked the pair as Gutoths. Both suffered wounds in the midsection, and one had both legs severed. Agitated buzzards flew overhead, crying their outrage at the men who disturbed their meal.
Gile Noman knelt and dabbed his finger in a murky trail of blood. Licking the finger, he squinted at Valdemar with his good eye. "Blood's still fresh. These mopes ain't been dead long. Couple of hours, tops." He jerked his grizzled head where the dogs were frantically sniffing and baying in their deep voices. "Even better, it's Marcellus for certain. Dogs have finally caught his scent."
The larger, shorthaired alaunts were responsible for the racket, while the smaller, floppy-eared lymers sniffed eagerly and pulled on their leashes. Rimler cursed and shouted as he tried to keep them all in check. The shaggy-haired kennel master with a dirt-streaked face full of boils and a bulbous nose was said to be part dog himself. People whispered that he slept with his hounds whenever the drink took him, which was more often than not. Still, he was an expert at tracking and hunting with dogs. One of his assistants nursed a broken arm from the pongina attack, offering little assistance other than cursing the animals in between wincing and clutching the makeshift sling on his arm. The other lad tried his best to aid Rimler in keeping the hounds from dashing ahead. Both of the boys were as tattered as Rimler, their long faces and disheveled hair marking them as his spawn.
"Now this is bloody queer." Gile waved the men away as he studied the muddled tracks. "Back away, you witless goat buggers! You're muddling all the traces." Crouching down, he pointed to a set of smaller boot prints. "The knight doesn't travel alone. The Gutoths were hunting a woman, from the look of it. Marcellus came to her aid. He killed the men, and he and the woman left together. This way."
Gile continued to follow the tracks, followed by the pack of overanxious hounds and their handlers. Valdemar and his Dragonists led their horses, trailing in the wake of the dogs' barking and throaty howls. The rest of the men formed a haphazard line, scanning the terrain.
They soon came upon a trampled clearing. Large hoof prints were clearly visible despite the gravelly terrain.
"Grunnien." Gile spat to the side. Scrubbing his mouth with a calloused hand, he frowned as his gaze followed the receding tracks. "Those bloody Gutoths had a pair of the stinking beasts. Better suited for the mountain passes than horses, too. Marcellus and his lady friend were lucky. Now they have the advantage."
"Advantage?" Valdemar sneered. "These tracks can't be over a day old. The Dragonspine is nearly impassable, even aided by grunnien. And you forget—his new companion hampers him, fool that he is. Any advantage he may have had is negated."
Valdemar looked at the rest of his men. They gazed back with eyes that shone with anticipation of the hunt. They still believed in him. They were still his. Seeing him resolute and in command eliminated any doubts that may have arisen from Marcellus' escape. And soon they would witness Valdemar's greatest triumph. New tales would supplant those told of his defeat. Soon the tales would spread of the Dragon Lord who hunted and slew the Lion prince.
"Let the dogs have the lead," Valdemar said. "Fly, all of you! Our quarry is not far. Deis has led us to this moment, and his might is with us. By nightfall Marcellus Admorran will be ours."
Rimler and his sons released the hounds, which eagerly took to the fresh trail. The loud baying of the alaunts was deep enough to prickle the shorthairs, their voices echoing from crag to precipice.
Listen to the song of the hunter, Marcellus Admorran, Valdemar thought. Listen to the sound of your freedom dying, one breath at a time.
They followed the dogs, racing the sun as it flared across the hazy sky. The men's vigor quickly returned. Their voices were excited as they followed as quickly as the terrain allowed. The horses slid across the treacherous slopes but managed to keep their feet. Valdemar wanted to press them further but knew the only reward for haste was a broken leg or falling into some hidden chasm. He rode as fast as he dared, his mouth practically frothing for a glimpse of his enemy.
Towards the evening they caught a glimpse of something else. Smoke billowed upward in the distance, thick black smoke that frenzied the hounds and drew the men's eyes as if beckoning them onward.
"A trap." General Ganbatar shielded his eyes, squinting. "No one would be so foolish. He knows we are close and has set a trap for us."
"You do not know Marcellus as I do," Valdemar said. "I have drawn his blood and seen his worth. He would be so foolish if the cause were worthy."
Ganbatar glanced at him askance. "What do you mean?"
Valdemar's gaze never left the trail of smoke. "He is a knight."
Ganbatar snorted. "Is that supposed to mean something? I have killed many knights. They are the same as any other man. Cowa
rds, liars, oath-breakers. Their code of chivalry is not worth the pages they are written on. Only the Dragonists know what honor is. Only the Dragonists wed the blade, serve blindfolded, and embrace death. The Leodians know nothing of this."
"No," Valdemar said softly. "But this one lives his own code, Ganbatar. So like ours, but for the last." He shook his head. "No, Marcellus does not know how to embrace death." He nudged his horse forward. "Come. Let us see what prompted this act of foolhardiness."
The sun had sunk behind the jagged peaks by the time they reached the remains of the funeral pyre. Valdemar and his Dragonists studied the campground as the men looted the tents. The hounds were everywhere, sniffing and howling as they worked to single out the varying scents. They avoided the pile of burnt bodies neatly arranged in the center of the camp. Human bones protruded from the ashes, blackened and still laden with sizzling meat. The scent of burnt bodies was so similar to pork that some of the men stared hungrily at the charred flesh.
Ganbatar stopped in front of the smoldering remains, his dark eyes unreadable behind his leering mask armor. "You were right, Lord Commander. This is nothing more than a funeral. Your Marcellus is an honorable and foolish man."
"These folk must have been slain when he found their camp," Valdemar said. "He gave them their proper rites before moving on. That would have slowed him down." He scanned the terrain, where twisted shadows danced along with the movement of the wind. His heart quickened, pounding against his chest. "He is not far. He will be pressing hard, but it will not matter. He cannot hide his scent, and grunnien are not built for speed." His knuckles cracked when he clenched his fists tightly. "It is only a matter of time. We ride."
He gestured to his men. "We ride! Light the torches and remount, for the Dragon hunts the Lion tonight." The men whooped as they leaped onto their horses, spurred on by the spirit of the chase.
The torches were just lit when the hounds went ominously quiet. The accompanying silence was almost loud in the sudden absence of the hounds' endless barking and baying. Only the creak of armor and saddles and the stamping of hooves were audible. The dogs huddled together, tails and heads drooping as they whined fearfully.
Ganbatar and Khidyr closed in on Valdemar, hands on their sword handles. "I knew it," Ganbatar said. "A trap."
The world span around Valdemar; dizzying blurs of black-violet sky and deadened silhouettes. "There's nothing here," he said. "Marcellus would be a fool to–"
The shriek that rang in the frosty air was nothing human. The piercing cry sank deep into Valdemar's spine, leaving him shuddering from the sensation. A rush of wind carried the stench of rotting leather as something sailed over their heads, a winged shadow hissed as its pale eyes glimmered from a darkened, misshapen head. The great wings beat the air, holding the creature aloft as it swept its terrible gaze over the men, gibbering with a sound like broken glass sliding against slick metal.
The dogs erupted in a fit of terrified yelping, fleeing as though their fur was on fire. They tore down the hillside in the general direction of Bruallia, ignoring Rimler's frantic pleas. The horses reacted much the same, rearing and whinnying tremulously. Men were flung to the ground, ignoring the pain as they scurried on hands and knees, cowering at the sight of the hovering apparition. Valdemar and the Dragonists were able to keep their better-trained mounts under control, but just barely. The ragged wings of the creature buffeted the men, smothered them with the creature's raw animal stench. Razor fangs flashed in its mouth as it squealed and shrieked, distorting any clear view of its misshapen face.
"Hold your ground!" Valdemar's tongue felt thick, his words slurred. A Dhamphir. Why here? Why now?
His command did not have the desired effect. The sound of his voice seemed to free the men of their paralysis, but they did not draw weapons to fight beside their lord. As one, the entire band fled, throwing frantic looks over their shoulders as they followed the trail left by the dogs and horses. Their terrified yells dwindled in the distance as fear fed their muscles, taking them swiftly away from the shadowy visage that breathed death and madness with every shuddering exhalation. In no time at all only the Dragonists remained with Valdemar, and even they appeared frozen, the swords in their hands unmoving as they stood rooted, fixed cold by the glimmering stare of the Dhamphir.
Then there was Gile Noman.
The grizzled mercenary's manner was casual as he guided his surprisingly placid horse beside Valdemar. "You'll be wanting to avoid eye contact with the Dhamphir, m'lord. That darkfear of theirs is a nasty thing. Oozes from their skin, it's said. Nearly paralyzing when they lock gazes with you. Does a job of triggering those terrors we tuck away deep inside." He eyed Ganbatar and Khidyr, who stood still as statues, their eyes wide, and sweat trickling down their faces. "Bloody nice trick, actually."
"I know what the Dhamphir are." Valdemar ruthlessly crushed the dread that sought to erupt from his chest. He tried to ignore the hovering creature, fixing Gile with his most furious stare. "But the fact that you know as well tells me that you have been hiding something from me, Gile Noman. You are no mere mercenary." Valdemar's hand gripped his sword hilt. "Who are you?"
Gile eyed Valdemar's gilded scabbard with a derisive sneer. "You won't want to do nothing rash, m'lord. After all, the High Lady won't be too pleased if you harm one of her trusted vassals."
Valdemar's eyes narrowed. "You serve the High Lady? I don't believe it."
"You will believe it." The voice from the shadows hissed as though a den of snakes housed in its throat. "Your Mistress has many servants, both high and low. You should know this by now, son of Basilis."
Despite himself, Valdemar shuddered. He slowly turned toward the shadow that haunted him. Deep in the thicket, a gaunt silhouette that might have been a man was barely distinguishable from its surroundings. Twin orbs glimmered dully from its face, pale eyes that pierced Valdemar with the intensity of their gaze.
"You are to return to Bruallia," the voice continued. "Your attention is needed at home. This hunt of yours is a wasted effort. My servant is here to assure that you go no further."
Above them, the Dhamphir squealed as though in response. The wings continued to batter the air, smothering them with the creature's stench and ripples of shivery fear.
Valdemar shook his head to clear it of the haze, his rage overcoming his dread. "I am mere hours away from capturing the man. He will not escape me. You must allow me this chance, or it will vanish forever!"
"No matter." The shadowy figure's answer ruthlessly crushed Valdemar's hopes without a hint of regret. "You think only of your petty feelings, like a child wailing over a broken toy. You were raised to be a conqueror, not some churlish lordling that places his interests over that of his duty. The High Lady has given this order. Your part is to obey without question. You do not wish to negate the bargain that assures you of the larger victory."
Valdemar's teeth gnashed together. "And what is to become of Marcellus Admorran? Is he to get away with his crimes unpunished?"
"The Champion of Kaerleon is the concern of Gile Noman now. He will see to it that the High Lady's orders are carried out."
Valdemar glared at Gile, who smirked back in return. For a moment, Valdemar seriously considered stabbing Gile to see if he could keep the insolent smile on his face with a blade rammed in his belly. But Valdemar dared not. The High Lady had stressed the consequences of disobedience, and her retribution was something that even Valdemar did not wish to arouse.
Valdemar gestured toward Gile. "The task of hunting Marcellus is given to this lowly criminal." The thought was nearly blasphemous. Returning home empty-handed would be the most difficult task Valdemar had ever faced. Having his prize handed to a treacherous ruffian like Gile was nearly worse.
"It is the High Lady's will." The shadow's voice hissed irritably. "Gile Noman has his assignment. Be satisfied with what you have."
Valdemar whirled, facing the indistinct figure. "And what do I have, other than humiliation and failure?"
>
The pale eyes narrowed dangerously. "You have your war. Be content with that. Return, and wait for your commands. Remember what it means to obey without question."
Valdemar met the unblinking stare for a long moment, fists clenching and unclenching. The phantom's dull eyes glimmered as it stared back impassively. Valdemar finally dropped his gaze, exhaling a shuddering breath. "As the High Lady orders, so I obey." Despite every fiber in his being screaming to do otherwise, he dipped his head in acquiescence.
"Guess this is where you and me part, m'lord." Gile's lopsided grin was wry. "Can't say it's been a pleasure. But I'll be sure to give Marcellus your regards when I put a dagger in his gullet."
Valdemar said nothing, refusing to allow Gile to bait him. His muscles clenched as he watched Gile lead his horse forward, following the trail left behind by Marcellus' grunnien until the looming shadows of the mountains swallowed him. As if on signal, the Dhamphir uttered a piercing shriek and shot upward, the ragged wings carrying it away with the swiftness of a rushing wind. Only its piercing cry remained, resounding off the stony crags as it swept across the passes.
The voice of the figure in the thicket rustled like a snake through dry leaves. "Remember who you are, son of Basilis. Obey, conquer, and triumph." The skeletal silhouette faded into the gloom, leaving only quivering shadows to mark its passing.
Armor creaked behind Valdemar as Ganbatar and Khidyr regained their senses. Ganbatar immediately turned to Valdemar.
"Lord Commander, are you hurt? What happened? I heard voices–"
Valdemar pulled away roughly. "I am unharmed. No thanks to either of you."
The two Dragonists dropped to their knees, their heads bowed. As one, they unsheathed their blades and offered them to Valdemar. "We have failed you," Ganbatar said, his eyes downcast. "Our lives are forfeit."
"Keep your blades and your lives," Valdemar said. "I still have use of them. What you faced was beyond human. Avoid the creature's eyes, and be prepared to embrace death should there be a next time." He glowered in the direction Gile had disappeared, battling an almost animal urge to follow. Instead, he roughly jerked the reins, turning his stallion the opposite direction. "For now, we return to Bruallia. I have business there that requires my attention."
The Eye of Everfell Page 17