"It’s another forty miles or so before we reach Boreas. I was on my way to my brother’s keep at Norus to spend the evening. We can make it there by nightfall." He looked up as lightning flashed high above them. "I don’t fancy getting wet."
Maybe, he thought, as they mounted their horses, the rain would cool his fevered flesh and hot blood; but one look at the lady who rode beside him dispelled that notion. He knew nothing would ever cool his blood where this woman was concerned.
Chapter 4
* * *
A slight chill had crept down from the tall mountains to the north of them and with the setting of the sun, the air was thick with discomfort for the travelers. Off in the distance, the flares of lightning were beginning to light up the sodden gray sky. A spring storm was coming and bringing with it a deluge of rain, if the clouds were any indication.
Liza turned a worried face to Conar as they left the stream and moved deeper into the forest. "Do you think it will storm?"
"It seems likely. All the more reason for staying the night at Norus." He watched her. "Are you afraid of storms, little one?"
Wetting her dry lips, she turned an embarrassed face to him. "My only weakness, I fear."
They rode for nearly an hour as the sun melted into the lowering sky. The air was ripe with the threat of rain, and wind gusted against the riders in ever increasing blasts of cold. With each boom of thunder, Liza jumped. "I don’t like it."
"It’s only rain, Mam’selle."
Liza wasn’t reassured. She felt the hairs along her neck stirring and that meant something dark and unhealthy was close by. She scanned the thick copse of trees and strained to see past the deepening shadows. Her sixth sense was tingling; her palms itched. She put her hand on the crossbow slung over her pommel. Something wasn’t right.
Conar led their horses through a thick cropping of firs, past a dark blob that became a large boulder. He ducked his head under a low-hanging branch, cautioning Liza to be aware of it. His steed snickered, sidestepped, and pulled on the reins. "What is it, boy?" he asked, patting the horse’s neck. "The little one’s nerves making you edgy?"
As they skirted a massive live oak, coming out into an opening in the trees where the forest thinned, a terrible howl rent the air.
"Were-tiger!" he hissed and reached for Liza’s reins. Digging his heels into Seayearner’s sides, he urged the horse forward. He wasn’t prepared for the swiftness of his companion’s actions as she jerked the crossbow from her saddle horn, reached behind her for the quiver of quarrels on her mare’s rump. With practiced ease, she drew back the lever, nocked the quarrel and brought up the black wood weapon.
A snarl of rage shot through the air, a blur of tan movement, and a shape dropped from the branches overhead. Before Conar could react, Liza fired a crystal from her crossbow and the quarrel sank into the were-tiger’s chest. The predator’s snapping yelp of agony startled the already frightened horses and it was all Conar could do to stay astride his mount. As it was, a heavy thud from Conar’s left side made his stallion rear in panic. The Prince had to fight to get his beast under control and to stay seated on the steed’s broad back. Deadly hooves flashed in the air, striking out with terror until Conar could force the horse back to the ground, drawing tightly on the reins, injuring the stallion’s mouth before he could get the war horse to still.
Seayearner backed away from the corpse, his nostrils wide and flaring, sucking in huge gushes of air as his front hoof struck repeatedly at the ground. His rider manhandled the reins as the stallion tossed his head, shaking the great mane of black hair.
"It’s dead," Liza said calmly.
Conar stared at the beast whose heart had been pierced by the shaft. He could not believe he had come so close to being fodder for the were-tiger’s den. His heart was thundering in his chest as he gaped at the dead animal and he had to force his gaze from the spreading pool of crimson. He slowly raised his eyes and stared at the woman sitting astride her prancing mare. Not only had she reacted with the lightning speed of one of his own Elite, and hit her target dead center—killing it instantly—but she had done so with the light fading from the coming storm and in a brisk wind. Such conditions would have deterred even his best marksman.
"I always hit what I aim at, Milord Conar."
It took him a full minute to adjust to the flippant way she dealt with death: first at the Hound and Stag, and now, here. Who was this woman? What was she? Where had she been trained like that and by whom? From what set of loins had such a warrioress sprung? He looked once more to the dead animal and then back to the woman who was hooking her crossbow on the pommel of her saddle. He heard her words from an hour or so before: "I was trained to protect myself and what is mine."
He felt his stallion quivering beneath him and put a hand on the horse’s sleek neck, patting him, but his eyes were still on Liza.
She knew he was watching her, trying to make sense of her, but she was scanning the coming storm. Her unease had lessened somewhat, but her sixth sense still sent out a warning. "The rain will be on us soon, Milord. Should we not move on?"
Conar uttered a low whistle of admiration, shaking his head at her cavalier attitude.
"Life is important to me, Milord," she said in her soft voice. "Your life, more so than my own. I hold you precious, Milord Conar. All else is as chaff in the wind." She tapped her reins against her mare’s flanks and shot ahead of him, leaving him to stare after her.
"By all that’s holy," he whispered. One more incredulous look at the were-tiger and he shrugged. He was beginning to think he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
* * *
They left the forest and stream far behind and were on a flat, desert-like terrain that spiraled around and between high sand dunes that seemed to loom out of the gathering darkness. A few sparse cactuses rose up like sentinels to mark their passing, the spiny arms raised in mock salute. One huge dune appeared out of the darkness and it was toward this mound that Conar rode.
"How do you read this barren place?" Liza questioned. Even with the occasional flare of lightning and what little sky glow came with it, there was little she could see that would mark a trail. To her estimation, it was hard to tell one lump of dirt from another.
"Instinct, maybe," he answered. "That and the fact that there are some signs to look for: driftwood, a strangely shaped cactus. This was once a great sea. The sands blow and change the dunes, but the cactus remain the same."
"But how can you see in this darkness?" The man must have instincts like a jungle beastie.
"I can’t." He laughed.
"Then how?"
"I know where I’m going. Trust me."
As they wound their way around the dune, Liza was taken aback by the sudden twinkling of lights in the distance. A huge, squat structure sat in the very middle of this vast stretch of sand and the twinkling lights were from torches on the battlements.
"Norus Keep," he told her.
The hair along Liza’s neck stirred and she felt an unease that was even more intense than she had felt before the were-tiger’s attack. She was totally unaware that she spoke. "It is one of the Pathways."
Her tone drew his immediate attention. He saw her flinch as lightning snapped overhead, illuminating her frightened face. "What’s wrong?"
She was staring intently at the keep. "It is of the Old Ones."
A tiny trickle of his own fear ran down Conar’s spine and he stared at her, squinting to see her through the darkness. "This keep has been in my mother’s family since the Outlaw’s time. My brother Galen is Regent here. We’ve never been on the best of terms, but out of courtesy, and fear, he’ll lodge us for the night."
This place was something from her worst nightmare. The aura surrounding the tall crenelated walls was a deep scarlet red; evil beyond understanding. Her flesh crawled as she looked at it and a strange, unaccustomed metallic taste filled her mouth. She instinctively realized that no one outside those who knew its terrible secrets firsthand ha
d ever experienced the doom she was feeling. In her mind, she could hear the agonized screams of the tortured and dying; see the blood splattering the dungeon walls; see the bodies rotting in mass graves within the outer bailey.
"Together, you and I," she told him, "we can keep the Portal locked." She stared at him. "You understand? You have felt it before. You have felt the Darkness here. That is why you rarely visit."
"I rarely visit because I can’t stomach Galen!" he snapped, but in his heart he knew she had chanced upon his real reasons for avoiding Norus Keep. There was still great evil beyond the thick walls.
"It doesn’t matter the excuse you give, Milord. It is best you stay as far from this unholy place as you can get."
His heart skipped a beat. Those had always been his sentiments. Each time he visited Norus, he experienced an unease he felt acutely this night. He knew the keep was partially responsible for the unease that always accompanied him to this Zone. He had never wanted to know why; had never allowed himself to do so. It was enough he knew the legend of the place and that made him nervous as hell each time he was forced to come here.
As legend told, the keep had been built over an underground passage into the very bowels of hell. The Brotherhood of the Domination, a sinister sect of warrior-priests dedicated to the eradication of free thought and the enslavement of humanity, had used this particular place to hold sacrifices and plan the dominance of the human race. It had been here that the Brotherhood was formed; here that the first victim fell beneath the hands of the Domination’s priests; here that the evil of mankind had been born. The dungeon walls still bore rust-colored markings of ancient dried blood, and it was said the walls of the dungeon hid many a victim’s tortured body.
Lightning zapped across the firmament with a ragged blast of molten fire. The spear of light came to ground only a few feet from where Conar and Liza sat their mounts. The air sang with the acrid smell of brimstone. The wind howled like the demons of the pit, shrieking through the night sky like the laughter of a madman. Both horses reared at the sound and the riders had a hard time bringing their slashing hooves back to the ground. With a drenching suddenness, the rain came with a pummeling fury as the thunder boomed, shaking the earth, setting it to trembling.
"Milord!" Liza cried.
"Ride, my lady! Ride for the keep!"
He smacked his hand on the gray mare’s rump and sent the horse forward, his stallion close on her hooves. Rain came down in pelting shards of icy torment and the night blackened as dark as the depths of hell. He squinted to see the keep’s moat in the deluge, calling out to Liza to watch for the cobblestones surrounding it.
As her horse sped toward the twinkling lights, Liza’s mind ceased to function on an immediate level. Her primal instincts took over. Here was the stuff of her worse nightmares. Her body shivered with childhood terrors blending together with the fears of what was to come. A litany of age-old spells used to ward off evil tumbled from her trembling lips. Her small hand went up to caress a black rune stone around her neck. The stone pulsed beneath her questing fingers, letting her know that it, too, felt—and understood—the dangers here.
A challenging cry came from the keep’s high walls. The dark outlines of archers queued along the walls—ready to do battle with their unknown visitors—were silhouetted against the flashing thrust of the storm.
Lifting his eyes to the walls, he cupped his mouth, calling out. "It is Conar. Open!"
On the battlements, stunned silence stilled the men. Conar was Prince Regent, heir to the throne. Overlord to all those in the keep. To deny him entrance would have been treason, a hanging offense, but their own Prince Galen had given strict orders that no one be admitted to the keep this night. The men looked to their Master-at-Arms, who stood with his arms folded across his massive, naked chest.
A deep scowl marked the man’s already scarred countenance, and he frowned into the driving rain. Now was not the time for the young Prince to come calling on his brother. Letting out a wayward sigh of pure frustration, the burly Master-at-Arms cursed. If he let the Prince Regent into the keep, Prince Galen would have him flogged. That was a foregone conclusion. If he did not let the Prince Regent in, he would be hanged. That, too, was a foregone conclusion. He had to decide between a few hours of intense pain or an eternity of it, for he knew gods-be-damned well where he would be spending his afterlife.
When the drawbridge did not immediately lower and the portcullis raise, Conar cursed soundly. A full minute had passed while he sat his horse in the pouring rain waiting for his entrance.
"Maybe they did not hear you, Milord," Liza offered, shivering in the wet clothes plastered to her body.
"They heard!" He stood up in his stirrups and cupped his mouth once more. "I have no intention of remaining here in this rain!" he yelled at the battlements. "Either open these gods-be-damned doors or spend the rest of your miserable lives in the Labyrinth!"
The Master-at-Arms raised his eyes to the flashing heavens. He put his big hands on his hips and turned to his second in command. "Lower the drawbridge, Jon. We dare not deny him entrance to his own keep. Prince Galen will have to alter his plans this night."
"He won’t like it," the man muttered.
"I don’t like it either!" the Master-at-Arms growled, "but what choices do we have?" He looked out over the battlement at the prancing horses in front of the drawbridge and groaned. Not one rider, but two. He could expect another ten lashes for the extra visitor. "Lower the gods-be-damned drawbridge! Now!" he thundered and spun on his heel to go below to greet this most unwelcome caller.
"He ain’t got his guard with him," one of the archers hinted to the Master-at-Arms.
"You harm Conar McGregor and you’ll feel the entire wrath of Serenia on your ass!" the Master-at-Arms warned.
Sounding like the dying moans of some giant entity, the wooden drawbridge slowly began to lower over the moat. The portcullis shrieked upwards, its toothy grin yawning into the lantern-lit interior of the outer bailey. Something snapped and jumped in the green waters of the surrounding moat and then hit hard as it returned to the sinister depths of the brackish waters.
"Alligators," Conar murmured.
Each time he traveled over the drawbridge and took a whiff of the waters surrounding this keep, Conar always wondered how anything could survive in the moat.
Waiting behind the portcullis, the Master-at-Arms stood nervously, shifting from one foot to another. He was not a coward, nor was he a man accustomed to fear of any kind; but he was as nervous as a green youth this rainy night, had been since the sun began to lower. As his Overlord’s horse clip-clopped over the rotting wood, the burly man hoped against hope that horse and rider did not fall through the decomposing planks of the ill-kept drawbridge. That would be the last of the Prince Regent, but it would also be the last of this particular Master-at-Arms!
"This place is worse than ever," Conar said under his breath.
Norus Keep had few visitors and even fewer repairs. It was Prince Galen’s wish that the outside of the keep be kept as disreputable as possible to discourage the occasional traveler. He valued his privacy. Those who did not heed the keep’s crumbling condition, and nevertheless asked for lodging on such a night as this, were usually given entrance, and little else. Supper would not be provided; a room, out of the question; and servants would not go out of their way to do the visitors’ bidding.
Norus Keep had gained a reputation as being a most inhospitable place and few travelers stopped at its gates. But on this night, of all nights, the Prince had given explicit instructions that he was not to be disturbed by anyone.
Conar’s stallion pranced over the drawbridge, his hooves causing the rotting planks to groan in agony. Liza’s mare stepped over the wood with care, her hooves making little sound on the apparatus.
"You kept me waiting long enough!" Conar snapped as the Master-at-Arms hurried forward to greet him.
The Master-at-Arms went to one knee in the running waters of the out
er bailey as he made fealty to his Prince. His eyes were lowered, his right fist clasped tightly over his heart. "Your Grace! We were not expecting you. If you would have sent word, we could have been awaiting your arrival."
"I wasn’t aware I had to clear my itinerary with you. If my visit is not to your liking, I would remind you that this is more my keep than it is my brother’s. If I have inconvenienced him, that’s too gods-be-damned bad!"
Still not daring to look up, the Master-at-Arms ground his teeth. He had to steel himself not to bring up his hand and wipe at the trickle of rain running off his nose. "I certainly meant no disrespect, Your Grace! It is just that you usually travel with outriders, with your Elite. We were only protecting Prince Galen." As soon as he said it, the man knew he had blundered and he dug his nails into his fist.
"From me?" Conar inquired. "And pray tell why you should feel the need to protect Galen from me? That certainly makes me wonder just what he’s done now to merit protection."
Without thinking, without realizing he was doing so, knowing only that he had badly insulted the Prince Regent with his unwisely chosen words, the man lifted his face. It wasn’t Conar’s eyes he met, though, but Liza’s, and a groan came from his mouth as it dropped open.
Conar pursed his lips and glared at the man’s averted face. Miffed that he was now being ignored as the beefy man stared up at his companion, Conar cleared his throat and smiled a wicked grimace of spite as the man’s attention shifted slowly back to him.
"Well?" Conar snarled. "I asked you a question. Or has the lady’s beauty so ensnared you that you forgot to whom you were speaking?"
"Your pardon, Your Grace," the man stammered as he swallowed. "Please forgive me. I meant you no…"
Conar held up a black-gloved hand. "I know. I know. You meant no disrespect. Obviously, though, you intend for me to catch my death of cold as I am forced to sit in this freezing rain."
It was as though the Master-at-Arms had suddenly become aware of the pouring rain. His gaze went to Liza once more and he saw her jump as a streak of lightning flared overhead. Another groan came from his white lips and he was about to leap to his feet, but he remembered, just in time, that his Prince still had not given him leave to do so. He turned his strained and apologetic face to his Overlord.
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