Alighar grunted. “Reaching for her heart, I suspect.”
“I thought as much,” said Lucan.
“You slowed her heartbeat?”
Lucan nodded.
“Good.” Some of Alighar’s fear vanished, his tone growing detached as his mind worked. “What other symptoms? Please be specific.”
“She has grown cold to the touch,” said Lucan, “and sweats copiously.”
“She is unconscious?”
“Since this morning,” said Lucan.
“She went to sleep and did not awake?”
“Correct,” said Lucan.
Alighar grinned. “A married woman, and you have such intimate knowledge of her activities, my lord Lucan. One might think…”
Lucan gestured. The force holding Alighar to the floor increased, and the apothecary cried out in pain.
“Do not,” said Lucan, “try my patience with feeble jokes.”
“Yes, of course,” said Alighar. “Ah…she was in good health before she went to bed?”
“As far as I know.”
Alighar managed a nod. “Then most likely she ingested the poison at dinner. Mixed into a wine, probably. The poison settled into her stomach, and her blood carried it to her extremities while she slept. From there the corruption works its way towards her heart.”
“Then it is not a San-keth poison,” said Lucan.
Alighar scoffed. “Certainly not. The serpent priests’ mastery of poison is unequaled. They can brew a poison to feign the effects of natural death, or to allow the victim to suffer in screaming agony for weeks.”
Lucan's scowl deepened. The San-keth had not poisoned Tymaen, but his father and Lord Robert were determined to pin it on Mitor nonetheless. They didn’t care about her, saw her only as a tool in the game of war…
He rebuked himself. There was no use repeating facts he already knew.
“Then what poison?” said Lucan.
Alighar winced. “I don’t know.”
“The symptoms are precise enough,” said Lucan.
Alighar barked out a pained laugh. “A dozen different poisons could produce those effects. Though all of them would require rare ingredients from the barbarian lands beyond the Great Mountains.”
That would narrow the poisoner to someone who had traveled the barbarian lands. Few ever did – the natives were not welcoming, the dragons living in the peaks ate travelers, and rumor spoke of devils living in the caverns below the mountains.
“An antidote,” said Lucan. “Could you brew one?”
“Not without knowing the exact poison.”
Lucan’s frown deepened. “You said these symptoms would result from specific ingredients. Couldn’t you prepare a general antidote?”
Alighar managed another laugh. “It might work. Or it might do nothing. Or it could kill her in worse agony than the poison.”
Marstan’s memories told him that Alighar spoke the truth.
“There might be another way,” said the apothecary.
“Such as?”
“Bring me a vial of her blood,” said Alighar.
“I know the mischief a skilled necromancer can work with a vial of a victim’s blood,” said Lucan. “Do you think I would really be so foolish as…”
“I have no necromancy to challenge yours,” said Alighar. “But I do know a spell. If I burn a vial of the victim’s blood, I can determine the nature of any poisons within it. And if I know the nature of the poison, I can brew an effective antidote.” He shrugged. “The choice is yours.”
Neither Lucan nor Marstan had ever heard of such a spell. But the principles made sense. Perhaps it would be better to force Alighar to brew a general antidote and hope for the best. But if Alighar’s spell worked, Lucan had a better chance of saving Tymaen.
And he had a better chance of finding the poisoner.
"Very well," said Lucan, and he released the spell.
Alighar got to his feet, rubbing his chest.
"I will return within the hour," said Lucan. "Do not think to run."
"My lord, I would not dream of it," said Alighar. He spread his hands and smiled. "And where would I run? The Justiciars would love to lay their hands upon someone like me."
Lucan nodded and left without another word.
Chapter 4 - The Justice of the Knights
Night had fallen during Lucan's discussion with Alighar.
He strode down the street, his mind racing. If he hastened, he could reach Swordgrim and return in a short time. The guards at the gates would not stop him - no one in Lord Richard's service dared question the Dragon's Shadow. And if Alighar was successful, Lucan could return with an antidote in time to save Tymaen.
Yet he still could not fathom why anyone would poison Tymaen.
His mind tugged at the question.
Someone had deliberately targeted her using a rare and exotic poison. But Lucan could not think of any suspects. For that matter, he did not know anyone living who had traveled to the other side of the Great Mountains and returned.
He laughed suddenly.
Lucan himself was the most logical suspect. Tymaen had broken their betrothal, giving him the motive. Lucan had never traveled to the barbarian lands, but Marstan had. His father had destroyed Marstan's workshop and burned his books and supplies, but Lucan could have easily hidden some rare poisons before the flames claimed them.
It was just as well his father had decided to blame Tymaen's death on Mitor Cravenlock. Otherwise Lucan might have faced the executioner's sword himself.
He turned the corner to a wider street, and three crossbow quarrels slammed into his stomach.
Lucan doubled over, the breath exploding from his lungs in an agonized gasp. The quarrels rolled over the cobblestones, and he saw that they had blunted tips. Nevertheless, they had struck with the force of hammer blows. After a long moment, he managed to suck down a lungful of air, and forced himself to stand upright.
He found himself facing four armed men. Three wore the chain mail and blue tabards of Justiciar foot sergeants, their crossbows leveled at him, the weapons loaded with razor-tipped bolts. The fourth man wore the plate mail and blue surcoat of a Justiciar Knight, a massive mace in his right hand. An ornate masked helm, the helm of a Justiciar Knight-Inquisitor, hid his features. Given his father's hostility to the Justiciars, Lucan was not surprised an elite hunter of dark magic had come to kill him.
But how had the Justiciars known where to find him?
"So the traitor told it true," said the Knight-Inquisitor, his voice booming from the helm. "The fraternal bond is such a noble thing.
Lucan coughed and lifted a hand.
"Do not attempt to work a spell," said the Knight-Inquisitor. "Try to summon magical power, and my men will loose their bolts."
"So why didn't you simply kill me with the first shots?" said Lucan, voice hoarse.
"We are not murderers," said the Knight-Inquisitor. "Your sentence is justly earned, Lucan Mandragon. You shall hear your crimes before you die."
Lucan sneered. "Yes, the crime of being the son of an enemy of your Grand Master."
"Your crime," said the Knight-Inquisitor, "is practicing dark magic."
Lucan lifted his chin. "What proof do you have?"
His mind raced. He knew any number of spells that could disable the crossbowmen or shield himself from steel weapons. It would take only a few heartbeats to summon the power and direct it with his will.
But it took much less time to squeeze the trigger of a crossbow.
"You were a student of Marstan," said the Knight-Inquisitor, "an enemy of our order, a known necromancer with the death warrant on his head for decades. You were his apprentice."
"I killed Marstan," said Lucan, "with my own hands."
All that power, all that knowledge, and Marstan had failed to defend himself from something as simple as a broken chair leg.
"Nevertheless," said the Knight-Inquisitor. "You are a wielder of dark magic, and a threat to the peace and saf
ety of the realm."
"Ridiculous," said Lucan. "You're merely killing me to spite my father."
"Your father," said the Knight-Inquisitor, "is also an enemy of our order. We shall deal with him in due time. For now, Lucan Mandragon, you shall die for the crimes of necromancy and dark magic."
The crossbowmen shifted as they took aim. Lucan took a deep breath, preparing to unleash a spell. They would shoot him, but by the gods, he would take a few of them with him...
Then a whoop rang in Lucan's ears, and a dark shape sprang from a nearby rooftop. A cloaked figure landed behind the Justiciar sergeants, a blade flashed in the darkness, and one of the crossbowmen fell dead.
And for a moment, the attention of the surviving three men turned away from Lucan.
He thrust his hand and snarled an incantation. A faint nimbus of blue light flashed around him, a ward to turn aside weapons of steel. The crossbowmen shouted and squeezed their triggers. The quarrels slammed into Lucan, the impact knocking him against the wall, but their razor-edged heads shattered against his shell of blue light.
The cloaked figure attacked, and Lucan glimpsed chain mail and a travel-stained leather jerkin, a sword blurring in the cloaked man's fist. The sergeants threw aside their crossbows and drew swords, while the Knight-Inquisitor charged Lucan, mace raised. His ward had deflected the crossbow bolts, but he didn’t know if it had enough power left to stop the massive mace.
Best not to find out.
Lucan gestured, and psychokinetic power hammered into the Knight-Inquisitor and flung him across the street. The cloaked figure wheeled and spun in battle with the Justiciar sergeants, their swords clanging. The Knight-Inquisitor got to his feet with an angry growl, mace coming up for another attack.
But Lucan had already begun his next spell.
Gray mist swirled at his feet, and a misshapen, translucent beast appeared in the street, pulled from the spirit world by the force of Lucan’s magic. The creature looked like a ghastly hybrid of panther and squid, a mane of barbed tentacles encircling its head. The beast loosed a growling snarl and sprang into the fray. It drove one of the sergeants to the ground, its barbed tentacles wrapping around the man’s head, its jaws plunging into his throat.
The sergeant managed a single scream.
The Knight-Inquisitor charged at Lucan, mace blurring. Lucan ducked under the blow and dodged to the side, working another spell. Light flashed from his fingers, so bright for an instant the gloomy street was as bright as noon sunlight. The Knight-Inquisitor staggered, shaking his head as he tried to clear his dazzled eyes.
An instant later the spirit-beast leaped upon him, tentacles wrapping around his head. The Knight-Inquisitor screamed as the beast ripped his helm away. Lucan caught a brief glimpse of the Justiciar’s terrified face, and then the beast’s jaws clamped shut in a red blur.
The Knight-Inquisitor’s armored corpse fell to the street.
Lucan turned as the cloaked man cut down the final sergeant.
For a moment they stared at each other.
The spirit beast crossed to Lucan’s side, awaiting his command.
“I thank you,” said Lucan, “for your assistance. Whoever you are.”
“Yes. Well,” said the cloaked man, “I suggest we get away from here at once. No man with any sense wants to be found standing over four dead Justiciars.”
He had an excellent point.
Lucan nodded and dismissed the beast back to the spirit world. “This way.”
The man wiped his sword clean on the Knight-Inquisitor’s blue cloak, rammed it into his scabbard, and hurried after Lucan. He led the cloaked man through the narrow streets of Sword Town until they came to a deserted courtyard behind a warehouse.
“It should be safe to talk here,” said Lucan. “Now. Who are you, and why did you help me?”
“You,” said the man, drawing back his hood, “may call me Montigard.” He was only a few years older than Lucan, with a tangled mop of curly black hair and a beard that had been trimmed to a neat spike. He had the rough armor and clothes of a wandering mercenary, or perhaps a landless minor knight. “As to why I helped you…perhaps I simply do not like the Justiciars.”
“Unlikely,” said Lucan.
Montigard snorted. “Yes, because the Justiciars are so very lovable.”
“They are not,” said Lucan, “which makes it all the more unlikely a landless knight will go out of his way to challenge them.”
Montigard shrugged. “True. Suffice it to say I stopped in Sword Town in hope of finding a warm bed and a warmer lass with whom to share it. I saw the Justiciars in a hurry and grew curious. Knight-Inquisitors only hunt three kinds of men – the wealthy, the powerful, and renegade wizards.”
“Ah,” said Lucan. “And you wanted someone powerful and wealthy to owe you a favor.”
Montigard grinned. “Alas that I am so transparent.”
Lucan thought it through. He needed to get to the castle, take a sample of Tymaen’s blood, and get back to Alighar as soon as possible. The Justiciars might have set additional traps. Or Toraine might decide to amuse himself by sending assassins after Lucan yet again.
Or whoever had poisoned Tymaen might take steps to ensure Lucan never found the antidote.
Which meant Lucan could use a reliable ally.
“Fortune has smiled on you, then,” said Lucan, “because you have saved the life of Lucan Mandragon.”
Montigard was silent for a moment.
“Well,” he said at last. “Wealthy, powerful, and skilled in magic.”
“I will reward you for saving my life,” said Lucan, “and if you can keep me alive through tomorrow, I will reward you further.”
“Dangerous business, then?” said Montigard.
“Quite,” said Lucan. No need to tell Montigard any more.
“Then I am your man,” said Montigard. He grinned. “I’ll need you alive to pay me.”
“See to it that I remain so,” said Lucan. He headed for the street. “Incidentally, how long were those Justiciars following me?” He had been careful to leave Swordgrim unnoticed, but the Knight-Inquisitor had found him anyway.
“They weren’t following you,” said Montigard. “I saw them and followed them."
“They weren’t following me?” said Lucan, puzzled.
Then how the devil had they known where to find him? That ambush had been plotted perfectly. If they hadn’t followed him, that meant someone had told them where to find Lucan.
But who?
A dark suspicion formed in Lucan’s mind. He had told no one of his destination, yet someone had realized that Lucan would go to Alighar’s shop for information about the poison.
Perhaps his theories had been wrong. Perhaps the poisoning hadn’t been about Tymaen or the politics of the Grim Marches.
Perhaps she had been poisoned to lure Lucan into a trap.
Suddenly he remembered what the Knight-Inquisitor had said about the traitor, about the “fraternal bond”, and his suspicions hardened into certainty.
Toraine Mandragon.
His brother had tried to kill him several times. Indirectly, of course, through spies and assassins. Their father would never approve of a Mandragon spilling another Mandragon’s blood.
But he had never stopped Toraine.
It was exactly the sort of thing Toraine would have done. Poison Tymaen, set a trap for Lucan, and then strike. Toraine Mandragon was not the kind of man to let a crisis go to waste.
And if there was no crisis available, he was capable of manufacturing his own.
Such as poisoning Tymaen.
“Damnation,” whispered Lucan, his hands curling into fists.
“My lord?” said Montigard.
“Come along,” said Lucan. “I need to talk with my brother.”
Chapter 5 - The Black Dragon
Toraine rarely spent his nights at Swordgrim.
Instead, he preferred to stay at the Gilded Dragon, Sword Town’s brothel.
Like
most of the realm's towns, Sword Town had a licensed brothel, lest the unmarried men become unruly. The brothel never seemed to have a shortage of women willing to work within its walls. They came from the villages of the Grim Marches, fleeing their parents or husbands or a bad harvest, no doubt hoping to find a better life within the town’s walls.
Many of them ended up at the Gilded Dragon. Lucan wondered if they regretted it.
Especially those who caught Toraine’s eye.
“The brothel?” said Montigard. “Your service is already more enjoyable than I had anticipated.”
“I might have to kill someone,” said Lucan.
Montigard grunted. "Less enjoyable."
The Gilded Rose occupied a large four-story mansion. It had once housed one of Sword Town’s more prosperous merchants. Later the man made the mistake of spying for Lord Malden Roland, and the much bigger mistake of getting caught. After Toraine killed the merchant, Lord Richard gifted the house to one of the merchant’s rivals, who opened the brothel.
If a man crossed Richard Mandragon, he might find himself face to face with the wrath of Toraine the Black Dragon. Few ever survived that.
But Lucan would.
He stalked to the Gilded Dragon’s door, a red lantern swinging over the frame, and pounded. After a moment a hulking bouncer opened the door, a club in his meaty right fist.
“Aye?” said the bouncer. “Do you have the coin?”
“Is Toraine Mandragon here?” said Lucan.
The bouncer snorted. “You don’t have the coin. Be off, or you’ll have a nasty headache.”
The bouncer raised his club, Montigard started to draw his sword, and Lucan lifted his hand.
A shimmering ball of blue light appeared over his palm, and the bouncer recoiled.
“I am Lucan Mandragon,” said Lucan. “Is Toraine here?”
The bouncer licked his lips. “Aye, my lord. I’ll send someone for him…”
“No, you will not,” said Lucan. “Where is he?”
“The fourth floor,” said the bouncer. “The corner room.”
“Get out of my way,” said Lucan. The bouncer all but tripped over his feet moving to the side, and Lucan strode past him without another glance, Montigard following. The Gilded Dragon’s parlor was lush with expensive furniture. Half-clothed women took one look at Lucan and scrambled to get out of his way, while Montigard gave them his widest smile.
The Dragon's Shadow Page 3