Master of Chains

by Jess Lebow

  “True, true,” said Montauk. “But things have been quiet in Erlkazar for some time. Despite the growing threat, Purdun feels he can deal with the situation without outside help. His reputation as a hero and as a Crusader makes him stubborn and proud. The people know this, and they grow tired of the baron’s attempts to regain his former glory.”

  The king placed his goblet on the arm of his throne and scratched his chin. A servant immediately jumped up onto the dais, grabbed the wine, and disappeared. The king sat silently on his throne for several moments, then looked up at the painting in the dome above. He pointed to it.

  “The Black Days of Eleint were a direct result of the barons failing to please the whims of the people.” He shook his head. “Morkann failed to see how deeply the dissent of the people ran, and it nearly cost him his life.” He slammed the hilt of his dagger down on the arm of his throne. “That was how Erlkazar came to be a country independent from Tethyr.”

  Montauk nodded his agreement. “This is why I bring this problem to you now, my lord, before it is too late.”

  The king looked down on Montauk from his dais. “Tell me more.”

  “Nightly the town of Duhlnarim comes under attack by the undead. The people have organized a rebellious group called the Crimson Awl. They work to install a real leader in Zerith Hold, one who will protect them and keep their families and farms safe from the vampires.”

  The king stood up from his throne, gripping his dagger tightly in one hand. “And I suppose you are that man.”

  Montauk bowed. “At your service, my lord.”

  “And what would you have me do with Baron Purdun?”

  Montauk took another step forward. The king put his hand up. “That will be quite far enough.”

  Montauk nodded. “My sincere pardon, my lord.” He took a step back. “I would suggest you do to Lord Purdun what King Morkann did when faced with the same situation.”

  “Place him in irons?” The king scoffed. “You forget, Master Montauk, Baron Purdun is married to my sister. He is part of my own family.”

  “Yes, my lord, but the history books are full of stories about monarchs losing power because of the machinations of a greedy relative.”

  “Are you suggesting that Lord Purdun is after my throne?”

  Montauk shook his head. “No, my lord. Only that to overlook the obvious simply because of family ties is a mistake made frequently by the dispossessed and the dead.”

  King Korox sat down on his throne, a look of deep contemplation on his face. He snapped his fingers. In an instant, a servant was at his side, placing a full goblet of wine in his empty hand.

  “I will give this matter my utmost consideration, Master Montauk,” said the king. “I thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  Montauk bowed again. “Of course, my lord. I do what I can to serve my country and my king.”

  The king waved his hand, and with that, Montauk turned and exited the double doors, the concerned look on his face replaced with a wide smile.

  Ryder sat in a ceilingless room—illuminated by starlight—high in the spiraling tower of Fairhaven. He let one leg dangle over the edge of a huge tub of hot water—an extravagance to say the least. The Broken Spear had boiled the water over the fire and carried it in buckets all the way up the stairs to this chamber. Giselle had ordered the water be drawn and had given Ryder the privilege of the first bath.

  The tub itself was huge—easily as big as the public baths in Duhlnarim. When he was younger and had thought he could make a life somewhere off the farm, Ryder had taken a job in the nobles’ quarter, cleaning up after the rich people. Scrubbing out the bath basins had been the last straw. The wealthy people of Duhlnarim were far filthier than even the pigs on the farm. He had decided, then and there, knee-deep in a dirty public bath, that he would far rather slop the filth of the animals than the filth of Duhlnarim’s upper class.

  His experience made him appreciate just how much work had gone into preparing the bath before him. Somehow, the absurdity of his location and the extra effort required to produce such a lavish thing made it feel that much better. He lowered himself fully into the water, closed his eyes, and took in a deep lungful of warm, humid air.

  As the warm water relaxed his muscles, he let his thoughts drift back to Samira. She had always loved baths. She would certainly enjoy this one. When he got back, the first thing he was going to do was take a long bath with her.

  He imagined her with him in the giant tub. He though back on baths he had taken with her before. The memories were so vivid he could almost feel her skin on his.

  A hand caressed his shoulder and ran up the side of his neck. The sensation sent a warm tingle down his spine. It had been so long since he’d been with a woman, even his fantasies felt real.

  The hand massaged the sore muscles on the back of his neck, and Ryder let out a sigh.

  “If only,” he said.

  “Are you enjoying this?”

  Ryder’s eyes shot open. He spun around in the water.

  On the floor beside the huge basin sat Giselle. She was wearing only a woven shirt, loose at the neck, that stopped just at the top of her naked thighs.

  “Uh …” Ryder said, trying not to linger on the smooth arch of her hip, “hi.”

  Giselle smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Hi.” She stood up.

  Ryder looked up. She was stunning. With his eyes he traced up her long, soft legs—from her bare feet crossed on the stone edge of the basin, all the way to the edge of her shirt. Above that, the loose neck of the garment was open to the middle of her chest, exposing the subtle curve of her breasts.

  Her hair was tied into a knot behind her head, and as she reached up to untie it, the bottom of her shirt lifted up even higher. “Do you mind if I get in?” She let her long black hair fall down over her shoulders.

  Ryder felt the same warm tingle run up his spine and spread out across his arms and chest. “Uh … uh …”

  Giselle laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.” She lifted her shirt up over her head and let it fall to the floor. She dipped her foot into the warm bath, making little circles in the water with her big toe. Then she crouched at the edge of the gigantic basin and lowered herself in.

  Fully submerged to her neck, Giselle splashed the warm water, circling around Ryder as she did. She kept her eyes locked on him the whole time.

  “You showed courage out there,” she said, slowly moving her arms back and forth under the water.

  Ryder could feel her movements. The waves pressed up against his chest and moved the tiny hairs on his legs. It was as if her hands extended through the water, reaching out to caress his skin.

  He looked away from her eyes. “I would say the same about you.”

  Giselle moved back into his field of view. “I’m glad you were with us.” She moved closer, putting her hand on his arm.

  Ryder looked down at where she was touching him. “You are?”

  “Uh-huh.” Giselle slid her fingers down his arm and took his hand. “Come here,” she said, pulling him toward her and placing his hand on her hip.

  Ryder felt the urge to pull away, but Giselle stepped in closer, pressing her chest to his. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he could feel his heart quicken.

  She ran her hands along his back, pushing him against the edge of the tub. Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his. They were soft and warm, and they felt so good. He stood there, letting her kiss him, not knowing exactly what he should do.

  She must have sensed his hesitancy because she pulled away.

  She looked disappointed. “What is it?”

  “It’s just …” He looked into her eyes. In the flickering candlelight the dark brown appeared almost black. They were so deep. “I could get lost in those eyes.”

  Ryder reached around her hip and wrapped her up in his arms, pulling her back to him and plunging into a deep kiss. Giselle pressed herself against him, seeming to almost melt in the warm water into
his skin.

  She placed her head on his shoulder. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking,” replied Ryder looking once again into her eyes, “that I am a weak, weak man.”

  Then, grabbing her with one arm, he lifted the two of them out of the tub and gently pushed Giselle down on top of the warm stone. Starting at her lips, he kissed her skin, following down the arch of her neck.

  Giselle closed her eyes and leaned her head back, moaning softly.

  “A weak, weak man,” repeated Ryder, as he continued across her belly.

  CHAPTER 18

  Liam looked down at himself. There were leaves and splinters of wood sticking out of his armor at odd angles. He shook himself and scanned the ground for his sword. It was nowhere to be found.

  The elf vampire stepped up beside Liam, dropping Knoblauch on the ground. The veteran groaned and shifted, but he was obviously in worse shape than Liam.

  “I think I’ll start with you,” she said to Liam. “I prefer fresher, younger blood.”

  Dropping to her knees, the vampire straddled his chest and leaned down close to his neck. Under different circumstances, a woman pressing herself against his chest might have been nice. As it was, he struggled to get free.

  “Hold still,” hissed the vampire into his ear, “and this will only hurt a little.”

  Liam could hear a pop as the vampire opened her jaw. His hands probed the ground, searching franticly for the hilt of his sword. As the warm, damp air from the elf’s breath hit his neck, Liam’s fingers closed around something. It wasn’t his blade, but he’d use anything he could get.

  Lifting his makeshift weapon in the air, Liam jammed it down as if stabbing himself in the stomach. Whatever he had grabbed impaled the vampire in the back, and she let out an otherworldly howl.

  The creature spun away and off of Liam, flailing around on the ground as if she were a stuck pig.

  Liam struggled to his feet, ready to beat the undead elf to a second death with his fists if necessary. But as he got up he saw what it was he had stabbed the vampire with—a shattered tree branch. Its tip plunged deep into the creature’s back, right between the shoulder blades. Liam realized his luck and, as the creature squirmed, he jumped on her, slamming his boot into the makeshift wooden spike and pushing it through the elf’s chest.

  The vampire hissed one last time then slumped to the ground motionless.

  Liam took a deep breath. His hands were shaking, and his brain was buzzing with adrenaline.

  “I told you,” he shouted at the finally dead vampire, “nobody bites me.”

  Knoblauch groaned and pushed himself up onto an elbow. Having partially regained his composure, Liam went to the veteran’s side.

  “You showed her,” said the older soldier.

  “That was a nasty spill you took,” said Liam, grabbing Knoblauch’s arm and helping him to his feet.

  The veteran drew air in through his teeth, obviously in pain. “Not the most graceful way to get off a horse.”

  The bushes rustled, and Liam stepped in front of Knoblauch, putting himself between the veteran and whatever it was that was coming after them.

  “If you two lovers are done,” said Captain Beetlestone stepping into view, his armor and face smeared with splotches of blood, “then I suggest you help us cut the heads off of those we felled, so we can get out of here before those that got away come back with friends.”

  Liam never thought he would be so glad to see the inside of Zerith Hold. He wearily tromped down the long stone hall that wound through the keep from the stable to the barracks on the other side. His body ached from the fighting, and the thought of his own room and a private bed was delicious.

  Traversing the entire length of Zerith Hold, he finally crossed the threshold into the barracks. Voices wafted down the hall, and as Liam got closer, he could hear the conversation from around the corner.

  “No, I’m telling you, he was great,” said the first voice.

  “Come on,” argued another. “Everyone knows the Awl aren’t anything more than a bunch of angry thugs. He’s never even had any training.”

  “Hey, I don’t know, but I saw him out on the parade grounds,” said a third. “He looked pretty good to me.” The man laughed. “I’ll tell you what. I’m glad he’s on our side now.”

  “So’s Knoblauch,” said the first voice. “Liam saved his life.”

  Liam came around the corner to see a group of four elite guardsmen leaning on their doorframes, talking. He hadn’t seen many of them without their helmets on, but he did recognize a man with a goatee—the only one beside himself who still wore his armor.

  “There he is,” said the man, “the hero of the day.”

  Liam looked at the other three men then back to the speaker. “You’re in my unit.”

  The man with the goatee nodded. “I sure am.” He put his hand out. “The name’s Claudius.” He glanced at the other three men. “These men are in Captain Phinneous’s unit, so they’re completely unimportant.”

  The three guardsmen grumbled, one chuckling at the jibe.

  He shook the man’s hand. “Liam.” And nodded to the others.

  Claudius’s face broke out into a huge grin. “Well, well, Liam. More than three months in the unit and finally you’re one of us.” He stood up from the wall and grabbed Liam by the shoulder. “Come on, friend. There is beer to be drunk and songs about your bravery to be sung.” He turned Liam around and ushered him back down the hall.

  Liam partially resisted. “But I still have my armor on.”

  “Me too, lad. Me too.” Claudius slapped him on the back. “Believe me, it’s safer that way.”

  The other men fell into step behind Liam and Claudius, and they marched together to a pair of plain wooden doors at the end of the hall.

  Two of Phinneous’s men stepped in front of Liam and pushed the doors open. Before them was a large room, filled with wooden tables, flagons of ale, and a whole mess of drunken guardsmen.

  Still carrying his helm under one arm, Liam stepped through the door, and a cry went up.

  “Three cheers for Liam.”

  The room exploded in noise.

  “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  The next moment, Liam was surrounded by other soldiers slapping him on the shoulders and back (and even a time or two on the rear). Someone grabbed his helm, but before he could reach for it someone else replaced it with a large stone flagon.

  Claudius appeared at his side. “Drink up,” he said, lifting a flagon himself. “All of this is for you.”

  “For me?” Someone pushed the bottom of Liam’s flagon toward him. Faced with the choice of drinking the golden liquid or letting it slop wastefully to the floor, Liam chose to take a huge quaff.

  It was both sweet and bitter at the same time. Liam recognized it immediately. “Honey mead,” he said, taking a breath followed by another drink. He looked at Claudius, a big smile on his face. “My favorite.”

  Claudius lifted his flagon, clinking it against Liam’s. “I knew I liked you, lad.” He took a drink. “Yes sir, I knew I liked you.”

  The mead flowed all night. Songs were sung and stories were told. Soldiers climbed on the tables and did little dances. As the night drew on, the crowd of drunken soldiers got rowdier and rowdier, and from time to time, chunks of bread and even an empty flagon or two flew through the air.

  All the while, the accounting of the fight with the undead and of Liam’s bravery grew larger. Pretty soon there was an army of vampires, each standing as tall as the highest tower of Zerith Hold. And Liam cut them down two at a time.

  Liam’s head spun. He wobbled unsteadily, a smile plastered to his face. This wasn’t such a bad thing. These men liked him. They threw parties in his honor.

  He raised the flagon to his lips again. He smiled even wider.

  They had an endless supply of honey mead. What more could a man ask for?

  He spotted Knoblauch in the corner seated against the wa
ll, a sling over his arm. Liam wandered over and sat down next to him.

  “How you feeling?” he said as he plopped down.

  Knoblauch laughed. “Not as good as you, I’m afraid.”

  Liam lifted his flagon. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Knoblauch lifted his empty hand and nodded his head.

  “What? Don’t you like honey mead?” asked Liam.

  The veteran shook his head. “I like it plenty,” he said. “It’s the torment I endure the morning after that I don’t like so much.”

  “Ah,” said Liam, pointing his finger at Knoblauch, “but no one said you had to have too much.” He brought his thumb and forefinger almost together, leaving only a pebble’s space between them. “Only a little.” Liam squinted for emphasis.

  “Thank you Liam. I’ve already had my fill,” said the veteran.

  “Already?”

  Knoblauch shrugged. “I’m an old man now, Liam. That stuff hits me a little harder than it used to.” He leaned forward and grabbed hold of an empty flagon on the table, turning it over and letting the last few drops of mead drip out. “When I was a young man like you, I could drink all day and all night and never feel the wrath of the mead.” He righted the flagon and put it back down on the table. “But then I got old, and the stuff caught up with me.” He shook his head then laughed. “It’s just not worth the pain anymore.”

  Liam sighed. “Suit yourself.” He took another swig.

  Knoblauch pointed across the room. “Look who came to your party.”

  Liam followed the veteran’s finger. Beside the door, looking on with a rather disapproving frown, stood Captain Phinneous.

  “Bah,” said Liam, “what does he want?”

  Knoblauch leaned back against the wall. “I don’t know. That one’s a real manure bag—always steaming and never pleasant to be around.”

  Liam nearly blew mead out of his nose. “You should—” He coughed, spitting a little errant mead onto the table— “You should warn me when you’re going to do that.”

  “That wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?” Knoblauch placed his hands behind his head.