Mistress of Death

by Jeya Jenson

  It was truly hell, and it sickened him.

  Feeling his guts tighten at the sight of so many dead, Ardan clenched his jaws and swallowed back the bitter bile rising to his mouth. Part fear, part hatred, part disgust ricochet through his brain, stabbing deep and hard, a mocking entity that would never let him forget that he had once served in Ouroborous’ legion, that as a boy he had sat at Xavier’s knee and watched men and women alike be put to death on the wall. Later, his own parents had been victims of the sorcerer’s wrath and he had barely escaped their fate himself.

  His hand rose to his chest, pressing just over his heart. The mark of the Dragon had once been etched in black ink into his pale flesh. When he’d forsworn the cult and turned away, he’d taken a sharp blade and attempted to obliterate the evil mark. He’d only halfway succeeded, but he was prouder to wear the scars of defiance that he was to wear the mark of servitude. The rank he’d been born into was a high one, second only to Xavier himself. Had he stayed, he would have grown up to command his own branch of the cult, been given territories to rule, to terrorize, as he wished.

  He was well aware that the teachings of the Dragon gave little credence to such human emotions as love, honor and dignity. No, the cult attempted to strip humanity out of its members. To be human was to be weak. To be strong, all mortal foibles must be cast off like chains, bodies and minds must be retrained to inhabit a shell that would be molded into that of an immortal being. Most immortals, whether or not they wished to accept the truth, were of human origins. One needed the other to breed the living child whose body, mind and soul were too soon consumed by the occult and its hellishly demonic dominations.

  Ardan had been born to embrace it, too. He could only thank the gods of light that he’d seen the truth and taken the chance to escape. The confused young boy he’d been was reformed into man of no other name or past.

  Some would say that he had never had the heart or stomach for killing. That was true. The slaughter of innocent lives, the willful destruction of souls sickened him. He did not believe in ruling through fear, that the peasantry was better kept ignorant and frightened of the entities pretending to be gods. No, these gods had feet of clay and he’d long ago sworn to bring the false prophets to their knees. In that belief he did have the stomach and stamina to kill and kill ruthlessly without conscience. He was a warrior who would fight—and die—for his beliefs.

  They had come a long way, these men encamped on the edges of Xavier’s territories. Their journey had been a long one, fraught with much danger. It was difficult to cross the great range that had lain in their way. Hard on foot. Harder on the precious few horses they rode.

  For the Raider people, there was little respite from the nightmare that loomed like an evil omen over their daily lives. Take it or leave it, this was the world he had been born into. For human beings, there was no real court of law, no equality. Only slavery and oppression under an ancient feudal system so old, that the idea of change and progression was almost a forgotten dream. The Raiders themselves existed without laws, other than to obey the savage rules of survival at any cost. Life always meant peril, and the rogue tribes were a continual target for execution by the entities that could not quite control men who were unwilling to worship false gods. A people who lived for the day, the hours uncounted, their sole focus was that of survival—gathering enough food to fill their bellies, building settlements and carving crops in a harsh and unforgiving land. This they did admirably. They were a hearty people; long limbed, agile and strong as oxen. The women toiled hard, if not harder, than the men. They were equally as skilled in hunting and fighting as they were skinning an animal carcass and preparing it for the day’s meal.

  Taking another glance at the guards. They seemed to be unaware of his nearness. He could strike when he wanted.

  Patience, he counseled himself. You are close. Don’t get too eager.

  Chapter Three

  I must not be afraid. The joining ceremony will go well, and I will step into my rightful place and serve thee as I was meant to.

  Thankfully, the gods seemed to grant her restless mind some small mercy. Because she was so acutely attuned to every sound, Dria was well aware when a new noise entered the dungeons. The voices instantly ceased when the main door to the dungeon creaked open, followed by the heavy breathing and steps of hard-soled boots descending into the vaults. She could also discern lighter steps, the softer shuffle of a woman’s long skirts and slippers. Instantly alert, she sat up. Brushing matted hair out of her eyes, she wiped away her tears. Suddenly she wasn’t so weary. Anticipation filled her with fresh strength.

  Is it time? She blinked her eyes several times to clear away the last of the tears that would betray her weakness.

  A bolt was slid back. The heavy barred door to her cell swung open on protesting hinges. At the same time, the flickering light of a small lamp spiked through the darkness and a voice called out, “Are you ready to rise, my lady?”

  Dria focused on the dim light as though it were a beacon. Right now, it was the sole source of light in her world. She caught a glimpse of her guard. Draped in shadows, he was stripped to the waist, wearing only dirty leather trousers and boots. His upper torso was badly scarred, as was his piggish face. He was completely bald save for a tiny strip of hair at the nape of his neck. Etched into his cheek was a black circle with two red dots on the inside edge. Because his face was marked in that way, he was of little worth to the master he served, nothing more than firryn, a drone in the beehive. Castrated, he was unable to reproduce, but that did not stop his eyes from visually exploring her naked body. A lewd smile crossed his lips.

  Drawing herself to her feet, Dria made no attempt to hide her nudity. Like him, she, too, was marked with the strange tattoo. Hers, however, had been inked over her left breast just above her heart. She was of a higher caste, therefore entitled to conceal the symbol if she wished.

  “Cast your eyes away, madra!” she ordered in her most commanding tone. Her waist-length hair tumbled over her back and shoulders, some of the silky strands falling forward to brush her breasts. The sensation caused her nipples to rise into hard beads. She had nothing to hide, for she certainly did not entertain any thoughts of modesty. She had been taught that her body was a beautiful and perfect vessel. Fair of face, slender and long limbed, she was exquisite in every way.

  A hard slap across the back of his head caused the drone to wince. “You heard my lady,” Mikah said, pushing past his bulk. “You have no right to look upon the Dragon’s chosen faishnaygh.”

  As the giant lumbered away, Mikah muttered under her breath. “Half-wit!” The old woman stepped forward and held out a thin chemise fashioned in a plain style and made of a coarse but sturdy material. Her face was solemn, but the depths of her eyes sparkled with pride and her lips were turned up ever so slightly. “You have easily passed your time of confinement.”

  Dria gratefully accepted the offering. Slipping the chemise over her head, she smoothed out the wrinkles with her hands. Shapeless and large, the slip fell around the tops of her feet, completely covering her from neck to toe. Though hardly the finery she was accustomed to, she understood the significance of the plain dress. Despite her harsh words to the guard, at this point she had no class, no caste within the Dragon’s cult. Only after the ceremony was she able to wear the garments that would instantly identify her place.

  “I am relieved it is over,” she admitted. “This part of the trial that prepares a mind and body for ascension is a trying one. It was so lonely with only myself for company.” She did not mention that many times throughout the long hours she had questioned the meaning of her life, the meaning of the world around her and the calling she would be compelled to forever follow because of her birth-rank. The voices of the others did not aid me.

  The old woman made a quick sign with her free hand, a quick small circle over her chest and then two quick taps.

  “You must not question the tests the Dragon sets for those he calls to
serve.” Mikah put out a sympathetic hand, touching Dria’s arm in a soothing gesture, voice husky, her hand stroking and stroking. “Those who are chosen must endure to prove their purity of mind and strength of body,” she reminded gently. “Not all pass the test as you have, mistress.”

  Nodding, Dria felt an unbidden prick of the skin, followed by a slow sense of unease. Even now, the soul-wrenching cries of the other novitiates seemed to be no more coherent than the growls of wild animals. Those who wavered were not allowed to survive for long. Such weaklings were undesirable, and as such, were only fit to feed the Dragon’s many hungers.

  And those who have tried to mislead me shall also find themselves placed for sacrifice.

  “I know.” Something mysterious was moving over her like a magnetic field guiding her every move. “All through the hours, I knew I could not let myself falter for a moment.”

  During the test that had spanned a fortnight, she had taken no food, only a thin vegetable-based broth. Such harsh treatment was necessary to purge her body of the toxins the physical shell could become dependent on if not trained correctly. This test was a necessary one, proving that she was worthy to join the ranks of the gods themselves. Although she had vacillated through those last hours, she truly felt as if some internal force had guided her to find her hidden reserves of strength. For this she was grateful. She was still mortal, still weak to the ravages of the physical self. How she’d held her control, she could only wonder.

  “You are a strong girl, Dria. You will only bring more glory to the House of Abignale. You will serve as your own mother did with honor and pride.”

  “I hope so.”

  The two women left the cell, walking in silence past the others who would have to seek and find their own salvation. For Dria, the path was clearly marked.

  Chapter Four

  There was silence. Not even the night animals made a sound.

  Ardan hoped that the strange lull would break soon. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit. His anxiety was understandable. Danger of discovery was very real—almost close enough to taste. The wait for action seemed endless. Sometimes it seemed that the mist was playing with his mind, that the Jansi warriors were a figment of a mind stretched too tightly.

  He was tired. He hadn’t slept in weeks, not since he’d set in motion to plan the venture other men called insane. Still more had refused to accompany him on this journey, sure all were going to perish. What he was doing was sure to re-ignite the antagonisms between his adopted people and the Dragon’s legion. Interrupting a sacred ceremony that was meant to give birth to a new priestess would be more than an act of aggression. It would be renewing the cry to go to war.

  Though the night was cool, Ardan’s body was drenched in sweat. Nerves. No matter how many times he began the hunt, he never knew how it was going to conclude. Would he emerge the victor or would he become the conquered?

  Forehead ridging with determination, he drew a breath to steady himself, trying to control the beating of his heart. Sometimes it seemed that the organ hammered so hard that it could be heard from miles away. The rush of blood through his veins almost threatened to deafen him. He’d never quite learned to conquer his nerves before going into battle. He needed that adrenaline rush to give him that extra burst of strength he might not otherwise have. He needed to taste bitter fear in his mouth—maybe a little proof that he was human and liked being that way. It was said a man who knew no fear was a fool. Fear was a tool to be used and respected. A man who knew no fear wanted to die.

  Ardan knew his fear, just as he knew he wanted to live to see his children’s children born, become a wrinkled old man who would sit around the hearth fire and tell stories of the Dragon’s defeat.

  Most of all, he wanted to hold a woman he loved in his arms. Draw her body close to his and caress her soft skin with his hands, taste the sweetness of her lips as her body welcomed his, her silk channel moist and ready to receive his pulsing shaft. How he would touch her, drive her wild until her nails bit into the flesh of his back and moans of pleasure escaped her throat. He wanted to thrust hard inside her again and again, drive his hips into hers as her breasts pressed against his chest. Release, when it came, would be glorious.

  The far away whinny of a horse broke into his carnal fantasy. His breath a shallow whistle in his throat, Ardan licked dry lips. It was dangerous to let his mind keep wandering. Thinking about sex was not the way for a warrior to prepare.

  Gathering his wits about him, he blinked, screwing his eyes shut to clear his blurred vision. Opening them, he tensed, ready to spring into action.

  Nothing was happening. The guards he was watching simply moved on with their patrol, walking away unscathed, their low conversation indiscernible as they disappeared into the distance.

  He released the tense breath he had been holding, so long it seemed that his lungs were going to burst. The thing worse than the actual action, was waiting for the action to happen. He didn’t want to move too fast. He was one man and he didn’t know exactly how many Jansi would be patrolling this desolate area. It was better to be safe than sorry, to take things slow. It was a scout’s job to collect the information that would get his men safely through the barriers. Being stupid and hurrying would not accomplish anything. He wasn’t the kind of man to linger over speculations that served no immediate purpose. He was a realist, and knew that failure was a more certain outcome of this invasion than success. Of the many times the Raiders had clashed with the legions armies, his people had been slaughtered.

  There was more silence, which was just as well for Ardan for it was then that he heard the all but imperceptible sound of a fractionally dislodged piece of rock. It was a sound that most probably saved his life.

  He whirled around, hand reaching for the blade strapped to his thigh. He had been right about one thing. It was not going to be easy to get through the sorcerer’s defenses. Not one, but two more men were frozen in a crouch so very like his own not ten feet away. He’d been so focused on the two in front of him that he’d not detected the men sneaking up behind him!

  Stupid! he castigated himself. They had been waiting for him, he realized, or someone like him. He wondered if the guards had been keeping tabs and him and his men since they’d entered Xavier’s territories. Had he made a foolish mistake in choosing a time of ceremony and celebration to attack? He’d believed it would be enough of a distraction. Was he leading his men not to a victory but a slaughter? Letting an intruder get this far inside the wall was certainly a source of irritation. An irritation they looked like they were prepared to eliminate.

  The realization of what had happened was instantaneous and Ardan wasted no time with self-recriminations. There would be a time for that, but that time was certainly not when two hulking Jansi were taking very little trouble to conceal their murderous intentions. Both men were well armed.

  The light of the twin moons might as well have been full daylight. Even though, he did not need any light whatsoever to see the brand etched into the left cheek of both men; a black circle with two large red dots on the inside. These men were of the lower caste in the legion. Their sole function was to fight and die in the service of the sorcerer. They gave not a tinker’s damn about their own lives—even less about his. They believed they would find their reward in the embrace of their Dragon God. They were too brainwashed by their society to know any different and too dimwitted to challenge the teachings of childhood. He doubted either could read or write. And if they were secretly bright enough...well, Xavier’s wall showed exactly what he did to heretics. The dungeons were full of yet more due to be crucified. Perhaps they found this life better than no life.

  To show that he was not afraid, he slowly uncurled from his crouch. He held his head high, his long limbed, statuesque body defiantly erect.

  Never one to hesitate, Ardan attacked first. A man outnumbered can’t afford to give in to fear. He had to get the upper hand and even the odds. Two on one was unfair, especially when the two
can call more backup.

  The first man instinctively drew back, lifting his own blade high in self-defense. Prudently, Ardan did not complete the follow-through on his first victim. Instead, he turned almost mid-step and hurled his dagger toward the second man. His aim was true, the blade well crafted and balanced. The sharp point slid through the soft tissue of the man’s exposed throat like a hawk through the air. So swift and unexpected was the attack that the man didn’t even have time to lift his hands to his neck before he pitched forward, dead. He died with only a sick gurgle escaping his slack lips.

  One down.

  Giving the second man no time to react or recover, Ardan reached over his left shoulder and unsheathed his sword. With a harsh cry, he wheeled around and swung the heavy weapon with all his might. This time his prey was faster, ducking to avoid the blade whistling above his bald head.

  Carried forward by the momentum of his attack, Ardan felt his foot twist under him as his boot hit a protruding stone. The second man instantly saw his chance. Dagger drawn, his arm shot out. Ardan felt the blade burning along his upper arm and realized that he’d been cut. With a curse, he shot a quick look at his arm. The wound was about eight inches long. Although bleeding heavily, it was little more than a superficial cut. It would close up and heal without much attention. Meanwhile he hoped that it would not incapacitate him too badly.