The Moroi Hunters

by A R R Ash

“Treason!” shouted one soldier, alternating glances from Voyl to the cleaved form of Syuth.

  Other guards brought their weapons to bear against those who menaced Voyl.

  Voyl took a moment to compose himself before speaking in a tone of command and authority, “If the queen has returned, our loyalty is neither to King Munar nor to Queen Shayala. Our charge is Castle Ky’lor and our duty is to remain neutral in their dispute. Syuth served Munar, and he would have had us serve as an extension of the king’s guard.”

  The opposed factions stared at one another for tense seconds, and Voyl feared he might have instigated a civil war within the guard. Have I overestimated their resentment of Munar’s interference?

  To Voyl’s relief, one soldier who had drawn against him lowered his sword; soon after, the others, one or two at a time, did the same.

  *

  Shayala’s entrance into the audience chamber was met by an outburst of gasps and renewed whispers. Lyan and two score soldiers followed, then came members of the castle guard.

  Although her eyes remained fixed upon the usurper, Shayala absorbed the scene in a single glance. With a display of queenly confidence—her posture straight, head rigidly faced forward, expression blank, with traces of boredom—she strode to stand before Munar’s guards encircling the dais. Her swords remained scabbarded.

  At the large table to Shayala’s back, Earlress Alorn began to rise but was roughly gripped by the shoulders and forced back into her chair. Glancing aside, Alorn saw the uncompromising look of her handmaiden, Yata.

  “You chose the wrong side, Earlress,” the waif whispered harshly.

  Without turning, Shayala ordered in a calm yet hard tone, “Arrest them.”

  Several of Shayala’s soldiers broke away and commenced binding the conspirators—Countess Ralyr, Count Othor, and Earlress Alorn—with argent manacles, sheathed in leather to protect those who carried them. The hiss and greasy smell of charred flesh rose as the restraints burned their skin. Only Duchess Sashal, Baroness Hyluth, and Baron Halyr remained apart and unbound.

  “Oh, this is decidedly entertaining.” King H’hsu’s amused expression was unfeigned.

  King Munar began to speak several times, though each time no words came. Any claim that she was an imposter would be useless when all, including the nobles of the Court and a neighboring king, could see her before them.

  Shayala addressed the guards. “The castle is ours. Lay down your weapons, or be counted among the dead.” The guards tensed and gripped tighter their weapons, though their faces betrayed uncertainty.

  Munar answered for them, “They will lay down their lives for me.”

  “If that is their wish,” Shayala replied.

  Lyan raised a hand, and her remaining force formed a line before the dais. At a gesture from Sashal, ten members of her personal guard, standing inconspicuously along the far wall, joined them.

  To Munar’s guards, Lyan said, “This battle is over. You need not die defending one who is already dead.”

  “This is treason!” Munar shouted. “I am the rightful king! Kill her!”

  None of the guards advanced, though many traded glances with the soldiers arrayed against them. They were half again outnumbered, and the castle guard would not intervene. A glance around the chamber revealed that Sashal had additional troops she could commit, while the other nobles had dispatched most of their soldiers to deal with threats throughout the castle. The tense silence stretched, and Lyan was preparing to order an attack. Hesitantly, one guard, near the center of the dais, scabbarded his blade; slowly, others began to do the same.

  “Castellan, do something!” Munar commanded.

  Corvyne made no move other than to glance at Munar with a look of dismissive scorn.

  “Bring him,” Shayala said.

  Undoubtedly taking pleasure in arresting the usurper herself, Lyan moved toward the dais. Had the guards not moved aside, she appeared prepared to shoulder past them—or to cut them down—though two stepped apart to give her an opening.

  Lyan ascended the stairs of the dais. As she extended a hand to grasp Munar, he reached into a gap between the bones of the throne. From the niche, he withdrew a push dagger and thrust it at the face of the spy marshal. Lyan swung her body aside, gripped Munar’s arm, and used his momentum to throw him to the bottom of the dais, where he crumpled in an undignified heap. The dagger slid across the black shale tiles.

  Impressed with both Lyan’s anticipation of the attack and the facile, almost effortless, manner in which she subdued Munar, King H’shu looked curiously upon the spy marshal. Lyan did not return the glance.

  Although the coloration of his cheeks could not betray Munar’s humiliation, his drooping mouth and downcast eyes certainly did. He glanced upward at the many faces scrutinizing him, mockingly, pityingly, scornfully. Rage and centuries of cultivation as a noble of the Court banished all shame from his aspect, replacing it with burning, consummate hate.

  As Lyan descended the dais, Corvyne obtained a set of manacles from a castle guard and, grinning, moved to bind Munar, who offered only token resistance. Corvyne stepped back, catching the surprised, watchful gaze of Magificer Haluth, who stood near Duchess Sashal. Castellan and Magificer shared an acknowledging, respectful nod.

  Munar stood. “Corvyne, what is this?”

  “You and the other nobles are too unchanging, too ingrained in the ways of the past,” Corvyne responded calmly. “More concerned with your own station than the interests of the Court. You would see the Court fall to ruin, if it meant you clung to power. But I will not follow down this path to our own destruction. Queen Shayala offers fresh perspective and strong leadership.”

  With all the contempt he could muster, Munar spat, “Betrayer.”

  “You speak of betrayal?” Shayala asked, her tone carrying both scorn and incredulity.

  “King Thyse’s judgment was clouded by the poison,” Munar returned. “He knew not what he said.”

  Shayala allowed herself the indulgence of a single laugh, and it was the first time most in attendance had heard such a sound from her. “Surely you don’t believe this rebellion was conceived by you, Your Majesty.”

  Munar looked from Shayala to Corvyne. Could he have been so manipulated: his choices, his decisions, his arguments? His indignant defiance crumbled to stunned disbelief, and he glared at Shayala in mute, impotent rage.

  Shayala basked in his hatred before turning to address the complicit nobility, “Do not think I am unaware of your involvement.”

  Unable to meet Shayala’s gaze, Earlress Alorn alternated her focus between Corvyne and Duchess Sashal, who remained unbound and seemingly unconcerned. What excuse could she offer? Alorn’s terrified desperation drove her to say, “Your Majesty, Munar forced…”

  The Earlress’s words became a whimper when Shayala drew a blade and cut her from cheek to jaw.

  “Wonderful!” King H’shu still sat upon the smaller throne.

  All eyes, including those of Shayala and Lyan, turned toward him.

  “This is an entertainment I have not known for some time. Only King Thyse’s chosen successor could accomplish such a machination.” H’shu paused as if expecting Shayala to comment or, leastwise, acknowledge his praise. When she said nothing, he continued, “Alive or otherwise, I did not believe you were responsible for the crude attack upon my train and, now, I know with certitude you were not.”

  The briefest flicker of surprise—at not being aware of the attack, rather than at the attack itself—passed across Shayala’s normally imperturbable expression. “I was not,” she assured him. Shayala glanced at Munar, revealing her assumption.

  Trying, and failing, to speak as if he held a position of strength, Munar said, “In exchange for my life, I can provide information.”

  Shayala scoffed. “Your life? Your death is not in question; only the manner and the duration of your suffering have yet to be determined.”

  Despite the inculcated highborn imperative to comport one
self with dignity, Munar nearly fell to his knees to beg for mercy, to claim prerogative of station. Yet he had provided her with no such privilege. And given Shayala’s vengeful disposition, he knew he would find no reprieve. Nevertheless, desperate to find some leverage, he was not above attempting terminal negotiations.

  Munar said, “You implied I had been manipulated. I was a pawn but not of the one you believe. Another has been maneuvering since before your reign.” He wasn’t sure which galled him more: that he was bested by a dry-fangs—little better than chattel—or that he would meet his end while his incompetent coconspirator survived, anonymous and unpunished. At least, with the latter, he could hope to attain some retribution.

  Shayala’s eyes shifted to the left to glance askance at King H’shu.

  “I require assurances,” Munar said.

  Her eyes returned to Munar. “I assure you, you will find the same end as Halura.”

  To the strigoi, existence as a nosferatu, unreasoning and visceral, was worse than death. Munar said, “I can give you the one behind the assassination of His Majesty, King Thyse.”

  That statement dropped a pall of silence, like the quiet after an avalanche, over the entire chamber.

  His fear and desperation make him careless, Shayala thought. If he speaks truthfully, the fact he has this knowledge, but has not divulged it previously, proves he is complicit, either before the crime or in uncovering the truth and using it to blackmail the culprit. “Who?”

  The unmistakable pulse of eager curiosity throbbed through the still air of the chamber.

  “I demand,” Munar said, struggling to inject some manner of poise into his voice. “I request a death befitting the dignity of my rank.”

  Shayala nodded. If he lied, he would receive no mercy. And even if he did not, she could always change her mind.

  Munar hesitated. Once uttered, the words could not be recalled, and all leverage would be lost. Still, what alternative did he have? “The one responsible for the assassination of King Thyse is in this very chamber.” He paused, and all present hung upon his next words. “Princess H’shu.”

  The resulting tumult nearly matched that which erupted at the revelation of Shayala’s return. Amidst the shouting was the sharp crack of wood against stone as chairs were overturned in a haste to stand, either to obtain a better vantage or to put distance between possible violence. All eyes focused first upon the princess, then on either Queen Shayala or King H’shu to glimpse their reactions.

  Even King H’shu’s surprise found an outlet in the subtle curving of his mouth into a half-smile, neither grin nor frown, mingling respect, surprise, and concern. Captain Goy’ul adjusted the grip upon his scabbarded sword and shifted his stance protectively near Princess H’shu.

  The princess stood. “You cannot believe the word of a traitor,” she protested in a voice of rising indignation. “What reason would I have to see King Thyse dead?” She thrust a pointing finger toward Munar. “He is twice an attempted usurper! And I have come into the knowledge”—she looked at her father—“he is responsible for the attack upon our train. That is why I confronted him earlier.”

  “The attack was at your behest, you royal cunt!” Munar shouted, abandoning any decorous restraint.

  “More lies of a desperate coward,” Princess H’shu replied, regaining her dignified composure.

  Shayala’s inner smile came unexpectedly, for this outcome was better than she had ever hoped. Whether Munar spoke truthfully or not, he gave pretext for her next action, allowing for a semblance of legality and legitimacy, however tenuous. Before King H’shu could respond, Shayala seized upon the shifting events. “An accusation of a high crime against the throne must be given due consideration. Until the truth of the matter can be determined, Princess H’shu is to be taken into custody.”

  A number of events occurred at once.

  Nearly floored in surprise, Princess H’shu shouted, “What?”

  Members of the castle guard moved toward the princess.

  King H’shu’s honor guard moved to intercept the castle guard.

  King H’shu, who had yet remained seated, leapt to his feet. “Your Majesty, this is unacceptable…”

  The castle guard turned to confront the king’s guard.

  Captain Goy’ul drew his scimitar.

  “…will be considered an act of war,” H’shu finished.

  Lyan glanced at the standoff between the castle guard and H’shu’s soldiers; the latter was well out-numbered and could easily be overrun. With blades in hand, she strode toward the dauntless Captain Goy’ul and said in a steady voice, “Stand aside.”

  “Unlike those of this Court, we of Court H’shu are not cowards,” Goy’ul returned, shifting into a battle stance.

  Lyan struck like a springing snake, lunging toward the captain. Goy’ul was not caught unaware; he parried her initial blows with sword and buckler before instantly transitioning to offense. He feinted toward Lyan’s left and swung his buckler, the edge encircled with a sharpened ring of silver, toward her face.

  Lyan ducked the shield and slashed Goy’ul’s midsection, though the captain blocked the ensuing cut of her second blade with his.

  Oblivious to all around them, the two warriors moved in a virtuosic performance, alternating between a glissando of rapid parry and counter-attack to a staccato of lunging feint and simple riposte. The impasse continued, with neither scoring more than a glancing strike.

  Fascinated by the spectacle, the onlookers forgot the procession of events and revelations that had led to this confrontation. They knew only the whistling air, cut by sword or shield, followed by the clang of sword upon sword, or the thud of sword upon buckler.

  The rhythmic deadlock was broken when Goy’ul stabbed into Lyan’s right thigh, driving her backward, though the spy marshal’s recovery was immediate. She dodged the ensuing swipe of his shield and parried a thrust to her left thigh, stopping the captain from pressing his advantage. Both warriors were well acquainted with pain and not hampered by their wounds. They fought with continuous intensity, the deadly beauty of their performance seeming as if it could continue forever.

  A voice broke the suspenseful silence of the chamber: “Enough!” King H’shu’s arresting tone brought them to a standstill. “Captain, stand down.” Although he was curious about the contest between these warriors, the outcome was still far from certain, and he had seen enough—for now.

  Seemingly as struck by the king’s words as from a physical blow, Goy’ul’s face scrunched in confusion, and his body jerked as he attempted to interrupt his lunge. He stumbled to the side, bringing his sword and buckler into a defensive posture, though Lyan did not pursue.

  “Disarm,” the spy marshal said.

  When Goy’ul appeared reluctant to comply, she raised her blades and took a step close enough that a lunge would bring her within striking range. His dark green eyes, burning with the promise of everlasting hatred, never turned from her gaze as he set his sword and shield upon the floor. A member of the castle guard moved to retrieve them.

  All eyes adverted to King H’shu as he descended from the dais. In an appreciative tone, he addressed Goy’ul, “Your bravery and devotion to Her Highness is noted, Captain. However, even were you to achieve this victory, how would you overcome the combined forces of the castle? I’m sure time will prove the innocence of our dear princess.” As he spoke, King H’shu’s fingers flicked subtly; the movement would seem completely casual were anyone to notice, but it conveyed meaning and assurance to the princess: Yazhin will arrange for your release or rescue.

  Lyan signaled for a guard. A nearby soldier approached and hesitantly, even embarrassingly, moved to fasten a pair manacles upon Princess H’shu.

  In imperious defiance, the princess shouted, “How dare you? I am princess of Court H’shu, daughter of the king.” She looked to King H’shu. “Father?”

  Rather than answer her, he addressed Shayala. His voice carried an unmistakable threat, despite the evenness of
this tone. “I trust your investigation will be expeditious in reaching the proper conclusion.”

  Shayala met his gaze. “You may be certain of that, Your Majesty.” Whatever the outcome of the investigation, she knew H’shu was now a determined, implacable enemy.

  Shayala looked pointedly to Lyan, who ran a splayed-fingered hand through her midnight blue hair. Moments later, the command had been relayed to unseen guards waiting without the chamber. The slam of the doors in near unison echoed with ominous finality throughout the chamber, and the seams of the portals were blocked with strips of silver.

  While his expression remained unmoved and his bearing untroubled, King H’shu surveyed the shut and sealed doorways before casting his gaze around the wider chamber. His penetrating silver eyes noted the reactions of others. Only those soldiers and guards of Shayala or of Duchess Sashal appeared not to react to the unusual action. Even the castle guard, though trying to suppress surprise, were not fully successful.

  King H’shu’s voice did not betray concern when he asked Shayala, “And what is this? I do not believe your prisoners are in any position to escape.”

  “No, they are not,” Shayala confirmed.

  Still composed but with an edge to his voice, he said, “Come now, let us not sully this momentous occasion with such baseness.”

  “Your Majesty,” Shayala asked in feigned innocence, “whatever do you mean?”

  “Very well, I shall be direct. You will not kill me. You cannot kill me.”

  “I have no intention of killing you, Your Majesty,” Shayala affirmed. “Lyan, arrest His Majesty on the charge of conspiracy to overthrow the Court. I suspect Munar will offer evidence of His Majesty’s involvement.”

  “You well know I had no hand…” Although absent any trace of fear, King H’shu’s tone reflected clear annoyance and rising anger. He ceased speaking as Lyan and a dozen guards moved to encircle him. In an almost saddened tone, he continued, “Perhaps I have esteemed you too highly. I will allow you to think on your mistake.”