“Take me to Druknor now,” the figure said hoarsely. It was a woman’s voice, but deep and menacing.
“Of course, my lady! Of course!” said Annat, with forced cheerfulness. She hissed, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. This woman’s behavior seemed extremely peculiar. “Ah… my lady, it’s my pleasure to accompany you to the duke’s home; please follow me.” He bowed again; this time, he tried sneaking a glimpse under the woman’s hood, but her face was cloaked in shadow.
Annat hummed while he walked, leading the woman toward a huge black edifice in the center of the keep. Druknor’s home looked like a miniature castle, its spires rising up to the sky. The building itself was smaller than a cathedral, and had been constructed without any windows.
Roaming freely about the fortress were Druknor’s prized sled dogs, enormous wolf hybrids, bred to thrive in the harsh conditions of the Frigid Waste. Trained to attack on command, the dogs could kill a grown man in seconds.
A man in a brown uniform walked around, gathering up dog excrement in a wooden bucket. When the bucket was almost overflowing, he walked over to a sealed bin and dumped the collected waste inside. He then turned a crank for several minutes before moving to gather more excrement. The hooded woman paused, pointing a gloved finger at the bin. A lamp jutted from the side of it, lighting the street in both directions. “What is this device?”
“This, my lady, is a marvel of science!” Annat cried gleefully. “It’s an outdoor lamp, powered entirely by dog waste. The duke discovered this science himself. Animal droppings give off a special type of gas, which can be harnessed. Every day, we gather the animal droppings, and then place it into these special bins throughout the fortress. The waste is mixed with an oil that doesn’t freeze, and the bins are insulated from the cold. The smell is somewhat unpleasant, but the waste powers several lamps throughout the compound. They illuminate the paths without using lamp oil, which is much more expensive.”
The woman nodded slowly. She seemed intrigued, but did not ask any additional questions. Instead, she turned and continued toward the little black castle. Annat jogged alongside her, struggling to keep up with her long paces. Once they arrived at the entrance, Annat rushed up the steps to open the door.
“My lady, refreshments are being prepared for you. Do you wish to bathe and freshen your appearance before your audience with the duke?”
“No,” she said coldly. Her voice sounded distant, as though she were speaking through a tube.
“Ah, I beg your pardon, my lady,” Annat laughed nervously. “I meant no offense! You are lovely just the way you are.”
The woman stepped past him, reaching for the door handle, but Annat placed his hand over hers. The woman yanked her hand back as if burned. “Please, my lady, allow me to escort you inside. The duke doesn’t allow unchaperoned visitors inside his home.”
“You dare touch me!” In sudden fury, she shoved him aside.
Annat gasped and stumbled back, shocked by her strength. Shocked—and afraid.
But he had a job to do, so he reached for the door handle again. She began to growl, like an animal. Then she spun around, grabbing him by the throat. Her grip was like steel, and the man’s feet lifted off the ground. She squeezed. Hard.
Annat screamed and clawed at her hands. She released him suddenly, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The color returned to his cheeks.
“Touch me again, you mainlander filth… and I’ll break your neck.” When he turned his face up, he caught a glimpse of her tattooed face.
“No! It can’t be!” he blinked uncomprehendingly and fell backwards, plummeting down the stairs. He rolled like a barrel until he crashed to the bottom, cracking his forehead on the last step.
Blood ran down his forehead into his eye. Annat groaned, touching his injured face, but he did not stand up. Instead, he remained trembling at the foot of the stairs. The woman spat at him and disappeared inside the building, leaving Annat in the mud. He sat in the rain for several minutes before realizing that he had soiled himself.
The woman stepped inside, closing the doors behind her. She raised a glowing finger, touching the lock. “Lresa-fastr,” she whispered, and the lock clicked behind her.
A fire burned on both sides of a large entryway. The entire space felt warm, despite the wind howling outside. Two tattooed guards stood inside the doors, but they made no attempt to stop her.
“Follow the green carpet, my lady,” one of them said, “it shall take you directly to Druknor’s waiting room.” These men recognized her, and they bowed deeply in respect. The woman nodded, acknowledging them briefly. These men did not answer to Druknor—they had been sent here in advance of her arrival. Like her, these men were Balborites, and they served the temple.
Initially, Druknor had resisted their presence, but there was little he could do. The priests of Balbor exercised their authority, and Druknor was forced to obey.
She stepped forward, following the green carpet down a twisting hallway. The runner ended inside a small antechamber, luxuriously decorated with paintings and tapestries, but no chairs.
Anyone waiting for an audience with Druknor was forced to stand. But she wasn’t a normal visitor, and Druknor couldn’t force her to wait. She moved to the right side of the room and pulled aside one of the tapestries, revealing a wooden door. The bolt was a simple thing; she muttered a swift spell and the lock clicked.
The door swung open, and she stepped into a private chamber. This room was lavish compared to the rest of the keep. The floor was carpeted with expensive rugs. The floor tiles were polished granite, edged with gold. Ornate drapes lined the walls, embroidered with vivid hunting scenes. In each scene, Druknor was portrayed as a hunter, bringing down ever-larger prey. In the final image, Druknor was slaying a dragon, his boot heel resting proudly on the dragon’s head.
“You’re a fool for keeping that tapestry up, Druknor. With the dragon riders back in power, such an image would be considered treasonous.”
“The riders do not frighten me,” said a male voice from the shadows. Druknor sat quietly in the semi-darkness, surveying the room from an ornate chair.
She heard the growl of Druknor’s personal attack dogs, two enormous silverback males. These two were his favorites, and they were always at Druknor’s side. Their fiery eyes shone in the darkness. The dogs stood up and growled menacingly.
“Call them off, Druknor, unless you want to add two more rugs to your collection.”
Druknor whistled and the dogs quieted down, scuttling to the foot of his chair.
“Welcome, my dear. I’m pleased to see you made it.” Druknor was stout and thickly set, his arms coated in muscle. In his late fifties, he still looked youthful, his oiled black hair showing only a hint of gray at the temples. He had never been a handsome man, but that didn’t stop the constant flow of women to his bed, from servants to nobles, all trying to curry the favor of a man who was powerful and rich. “How was your trip?”
“Tedious,” she said, in a voice without emotion.
“Yes, well… I suggested you travel by water. Why not take a ship through the Straights of Tirat? It’s more pleasant than traveling through orc territory, especially on foot.”
“No one in their right mind would risk sailing past the elvish lands, even at night. I’ll take my chances with the orcs.”
He shrugged. “Have it your way. In any case, you’re here now. This is my chamberlain, Lessim. He will take your belongings.”
A bent old man stepped forward and held out his hands. A thin tuft of white hair circled his head. His face and neck were so covered in liver spots that his skin looked diseased.
The woman handed him her rucksack with a warning: “Take it—but if you value your life, do not touch anything inside.” Lessim frowned and took the bag, carrying it into the adjoining room before returning to stand behind Druknor’s chair.
“Were you delayed?” asked Druknor lightly. He plucked a grape from a dish on a nearby ta
ble. “I expected you several days ago.”
“I was delayed by a heavy blizzard, but I managed. It caused a lot of nuisance and I lost valuable time. Your travel advice was faulty.”
“I gave you my best coach and finest guardsmen,” said Druknor. “Those men have accompanied hundreds of caravans through the Waste.”
“It was a mistake to travel through the Frigid Waste, Druknor. The snow fell without cease, and it slowed my passage. In fact, I very much feel that you were purposely trying to sabotage my journey.”
Druknor spread his arms apologetically. “Tut, tut, my dear! Be reasonable! How could I have known about the snowstorm? Only the gods can predict the weather, and I am just a man!”
“Had I traveled alone, I would have arrived faster. Everwood Forest is safe enough. You can be sure I won't make the same mistake again.”
“I gave you the best route. The roads through Everwood Forest pass dangerously close to Miklagard. Must I remind you what the High Council does to Balborite assassins once they’re captured? The Frigid Waste is the best route, and it was better that you travel accompanied. My men would have defended you against any attackers.”
“Of all people, you should know that I have no need of protection, especially by common slaves.”
“Common slaves? Those four men are my best trackers!” His lips curled into a vicious smirk. “Plus, that’s a terribly ironic statement, coming from you… were you not once a slave yourself?”
She clenched her fist, seething at the insult. “Are you mocking me, Druknor?” She flipped back her cowl to reveal her face. The chamberlain’s face paled, and he staggered forward.
“My lord! Her face! Look at her face!” he shouted. “Call the guards!” The effort sent the elderly man into a fit of coughing. The woman did not move.
“Remove this wrinkled old fool from my sight, or I’ll crush his skull,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
Druknor dismissed the chamberlain with a nod. “Lessim, leave us, and seal the doors behind you.”
“B-but my lord! She’s—she’s one of… them!” he whispered the last word.
“Stop your jabbering and do as I tell you. I’ll speak with my guest in private.”
The old man scurried out of the room, looking twice over his shoulder as he left. As soon as the doors clicked shut, Skera-Kina shrugged off her heavy cloak. It fell in a black pool around her feet.
She wore a sleeveless leather tunic, leaving much of her muscled skin exposed. Even in the semi-darkness, Druknor could see the elaborate markings that covered her entire body. Skera-Kina was a Blood Master, the highest ranking spellcaster on Balbor. The only one above her was the High Priest. She was the best assassin on the continent; no one else could match her skill or ruthlessness.
Even so, Druknor had his pride, and he resisted Skera-Kina’s authority—they were not on Balbor, after all.
“Do not bark orders at me. You shall respect me in my own house.”
She ignored the warning and went on. “When did you become a duke, Druknor? Are you so bold to confer such a title upon yourself? Or did King Rali really grant you such an honor?”
She was baiting him, trying to make him lose his temper. Druknor sniffed vaguely. “I do not fancy myself a nobleman, and titles matter little to me. My faithful workers have named me thus, and therefore I do not correct them. It is a harmless bit of humor. It doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“Your servants have proclaimed you nobleman!” She laughed. “Your conceit is astounding!”
"I don’t appreciate your mockery or your attitude. Unless you have something important to say, I think this conversation is over.”
“I have not dismissed you yet!” she flared. “I am your superior, and you will sit until I have said my piece.”
He frowned and said sharply, “Peacetime has not tamed you, Skera-Kina—you’re still as bitter and unpleasant as ever.”
“Peacetime?” she snorted. “What peace?”
“The last five years have been quiet. You must admit that.”
“War may have faded from the day-to-day—but these years have been a short reprieve, nothing more. The Dark War is coming. It is inevitable. The temple priests are certain of it.”
“Do you truly believe what you say, or are you just repeating the mumblings of the priests?”
Skera-Kina’s eyes narrowed. “I believe the priests. I have seen the omens myself in smoke and water. Even as we speak, the mainlanders prepare for war against us. It is as the priests have foretold. A war is coming the like of which has never been seen before. We must attack the mainlanders first, while they least expect it.”
“Listen to yourself! Of course war is coming! War is always coming! The Dark War has been coming for centuries, if you believe the priests’ predictions. Can’t you see the priests are using you? It never ends! It’s maddening!”
“You disappoint me greatly, Druknor. Once, you killed men for speaking blasphemy, and now you speak it yourself.”
Druknor shook his head. “No, not blasphemy; it is not a sacrilege to question those who govern our lives. The priests will never stop their fear-mongering. A first strike is the best way to start a war, so in that respect, the priests are guaranteeing their own prophesies.”
“Your words are unforgivable. What happened to you, Druknor? Out of all the acolytes, you were once the most promising. The priests sent you to the mainland to learn—to live among nonbelievers and act as our eyes and ears on the continent. But look at you now—you’ve grown fat and greedy in your frozen keep, hoarding coin like some pathetic fishmonger at market.”
Druknor’s jaw clenched in anger. “I tire of your verbal abuse, woman. Watch your tongue. A Blood Master you may be, but you are not my equal. Think long and hard before you threaten me.”
Skera-Kina laughed. “That’s true—I am not your equal. In every respect, I am your superior! Understand that, Druknor!”
He frowned. “You don’t intimidate me. Despite your magical skills, you would find me a difficult target, I assure you.” He patted a gold amulet on his chest. Even from afar, Skera-Kina recognized it was a protective amulet. “My wealth has afforded me many things, including magical protection.”
“If you really believe that little charm will stop me, then you are a bigger fool than I thought.” She cocked her head to one side and smiled. “Your impudence is astonishing. I’m profoundly tempted to kill you now and deal with the consequences later.”
“Ha! You're bluffing. You wouldn’t dare touch me.” Druknor forced a laugh, but his fear betrayed him, and his voice cracked.
“Are you absolutely certain of that? Perhaps the priests have grown tired of your scheming and have sent me here to kill you... once and for all.” Skera-Kina stepped forward, and the hounds snapped to attention, snarling at her with open jaws. This time, Druknor did not order the dogs to stand down.
“I’m too valuable to the priests. Plus, you don’t have the authority to kill me.”
“Don’t get smug. Or have you forgotten that are no priests in this room?” she said, her voice low and menacing. “I would happily gut you as easily as I would gut a pig. That amulet might protect you from magical attacks, but it’s useless against a knife across your neck.”
Druknor’s heart pounded. Although she needed explicit permission from the priests to kill him, she was right—the priests were thousands of leagues away. He chose his next words carefully. “It is not your business to criticize me or question my fealty to the temple. Why must I defend myself against false rumors?”
Patience, Druknor, patience, he thought to himself, willing his heartbeat to slow down.
His mind raced. He had to think—buy himself some time. Decades ago, he left Balbor willingly, volunteering to live among the mainlanders and act as a spy for the priests. Being young and willful, he jumped at the opportunity to impress the priests.
Born without magical powers, Druknor was considered expendable, and the priests offered him no help or support o
nce he reached the mainland. All his training had been religious, and he knew nothing of how to survive or function on the mainland. Forced to fend for himself or starve, Druknor quickly lost his religious fervor.
With few options available to him, Druknor accepted a job as a slaver, and rose up through the ranks quickly. In his fifth year, he became the slave master in Sut-Burr, answering directly to the constable.
The following year, Druknor murdered his boss in a staged street brawl. Druknor feigned innocence, and the emperor believed him, granting Druknor leadership of the fortress. He had held it zealously ever since.
Druknor secretly remained a Balborite spy, and the priests were delighted with his new position of power.
However, he constantly wove a web of lies and half-truths, intentionally misdirecting the priests, while at the same time strengthening his position on the continent. He made doubly sure that no one could contradict his reports, and killed any new spies that the priests sent to the mainland. He was careful to make his murders look like an accident.
Druknor swore to himself that he would never return to his old life—or to his cursed homeland. Let the priests believe that he was still under their control, and let the priests fight their endless holy war!
I have my own kingdom now, and I won’t surrender it to anyone!
Of course, he couldn’t say any of this out loud, or Skera-Kina would kill him on the spot.
Skera-Kina was a constant reminder of his past, a tangled web of lies that he could never completely escape. But as long as the priests wanted him alive, she would think twice about killing him.
Her cold eyes never left his face. “The priests consider you a useful spy, but I know that you are a fraud. I advised the priests to replace you. I can’t fathom why they haven’t killed you already.”
Druknor returned her glare. “Perhaps the priests are smarter than you. The priests know my value. I have done my job well over the years. Besides, do you honestly believe the priests would trust a nonbeliever to deliver their intelligence?”
The Balborite Curse (Book 4) Page 9