Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Aerean, the only woman among the strangers turned him a shrewd stare. “And what, exactly, is ‘our move’?”

  Davian had a ready answer. “We rally as many Béarnides as we can and go right for the front door.”

  Baynard finished, “And get pounded by Béarn’s army, the citizens who believe they’re defending the king, the Knights of Erythane, and elves.”

  Elfin heads swiveled toward him at the mention.

  Baynard amended. “The dark elves. Oh, and some Renshai if we seem like a potential threat to any heirs, and I imagine we certainly would under the circumstances.”

  Ra-khir was still grappling with the difficulty most of Béarn’s citizens had discriminating between an elf and their elderly king. Faced with a situation his friends had had the opportunity to consider for weeks, he remained silent.

  Davian frowned, creases scoring his cheeks. “I’d rather die in the confrontation than be dragged out of my home and executed.”

  The third stranger, Friago, chimed in, “No one’s arguing we need to act quickly.” He picked at a scab on his Béarnian-hairy wrist. A few years older than Baynard, he kept a massive ax leaning against the table by his hand. Though notched and dull, it carried no dust or stains. “But if we can delay a few days, we might gather some powerful allies.” He turned his attention to Kevral, brows rising.

  Davian followed Friago’s stare. “Renshai?”

  Friago shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed,” Baynard boomed. “More importantly, why didn’t we think of this before?”

  The oldest Béarnide muttered under his breath, so that only those nearest could hear. “We couldn’t get our only one unglued from the king.”

  Ra-khir disliked the plan. “You want Kevral to travel to the Fields of Wrath? Alone?”

  “Not necessarily alone,” Friago said, clearly missing Ra-khir’s concern. “What’s the problem?”

  “There’re Easterners about, paid to kill anyone who travels.” Ra-khir managed to refrain from adding, Or hadn’t you noticed. Snideness did not become anyone, especially a future knight.

  Friago’s brow furrowed. “They let you go before. You think they’d stop you now?”

  “They’d try,” Kevral inserted. “I can handle them. Especially if my cousin assists.”

  All eyes turned to Rantire, who scowled deeply. “I’m not abandoning my charge.” Her gaze went directly to Matrinka, a distinctly obvious gesture. She condemned Kevral’s separation from the object of her own guardianship, at the shipwreck and now.

  Kevral defended. “I didn’t abandon my charge. You agreed to watch her while I fought the demon.”

  “I fought that demon, too,” Rantire reminded. “And still managed to stay with both our charges.”

  An artery throbbed at the side of Kevral’s jaw. Ra-khir winced as he imagined her drawing her sword and challenging Rantire before anyone could move to stop her. But Kevral had learned more self-control than even the man who loved her realized. “We can discuss the difference between dedication and luck later.”

  Rantire opened her mouth to protest, but Kevral continued over her. “Or my lapse, as the case may be. Right now, I’m asking for your help. You can come or not. I’d appreciate your company, but I can handle the situation alone.”

  Ra-khir read between the words. Kevral would not request assistance unless she believed she required it. She would happily die in combat, but doing so would suit neither their cause nor their relationship. Ra-khir intended to volunteer, but not until Rantire’s role became certain. Two Renshai could sway Renshai better, and Rantire’s experiences might help her find the words to convince. Kevral’s confidence and perfectionism had not made her popular among her own.

  Griff spoke his first words of the meeting. “Rantire, please. I’m in far more danger from never gaining Béarn’s respect than from sitting among competent friends. What good do you do guarding me at the expense of my throne?”

  Darris shook his head hopelessly and shared a wordless moment with Ra-khir. They both knew Rantire would remain loyal to Griff’s person over his word, or even his best interests.

  “That’s it,” Kevral said suddenly, as if putting together a puzzle that had confounded wise men for eternity. “Rantire, you don’t want Griff to become king.”

  “That’s absurd,” Rantire shot back. “I’m just guarding his life. That’s my job.”

  Kevral nodded sagely, ignoring Rantire’s denial. “If Griff becomes king, Darris guards him. Your job is over. You think you need to do more to earn the respect Ravn Colbeysson gave you. No wonder you don’t want him to become king.”

  “I do want him to become king,” Rantire argued; but, despite the challenge inherent in such a serious accusation, she made no move toward Kevral. Apparently, the suggestion bothered even her. Ra-khir doubted Rantire deliberately intended to sabotage Griff’s ascension, but Kevral’s theory made sense, at least on a subconscious level.

  “Then go with Kevral,” Griff returned softly, but with a solidarity bordering on command, “and it might happen.”

  Rantire studied Griff for several moments in a silence that no one broke. “You really believe I should go?”

  “Yes,” Griff replied without hesitation.

  Rantire froze, betrayed by her usual loyalty. Twice she had faced down a god for him, and the idea of simply leaving surely rankled. No one interfered as she crouched in quiet contemplation far longer, Ra-khir guessed, than she probably realized. “All right,” she finally said. “I’ll go.” She glanced at Griff fretfully, as if she feared armies would sweep into the safe house the instant she no longer graced his side.

  Now Ra-khir felt free to volunteer. “I’ll go with them. Just to help with the Easterners.”

  “No,” Darris replied softly.

  Brows arched, Ra-khir turned his regard to the bard.

  “We need you to gain us other powerful allies.”

  “Me? Who do I know?” Ra-khir considered, the answer coming swiftly. “You mean the Knights of Erythane?”

  “Of course.”

  Ra-khir frowned, shaking his head sadly. “I’m just an apprentice. My word has no sway.”

  Darris stared pointedly, clearly not wishing to sing an argument that he believed should be obvious.

  “Even being the son of the captain doesn’t give me any particular . . .”

  Darris shook his head briskly, though a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips told Ra-khir his words contained a glimmer of Darris’ idea.

  Finally, the proper thought slid within the boundaries of understanding. Ra-khir’s eyes widened with incredulity. “You want me to convince my father to do it?”

  Darris’ lips spread into a broad grin. “Exactly.”

  “But my father is in prison.”

  “Exactly.”

  Ra-khir suspected Darris’ intentions should seem stunningly obvious, but he still could not interpret the details. Baltraine had left Kedrin his command, even while he’d incarcerated him for life. “You want me to visit my father and convince him to issue orders against the current regime?” His face pinched into a skeptical grimace. “Don’t you realize who relays my father’s orders? They’d kill him.” He resisted adding the natural trailing thought. If they haven’t already. The superstitious fear that speaking the words might make them happen kept him silent.

  By now, others had pieced together what Ra-khir’s honor made difficult to comprehend. Davian said, “Ra-khir, I think he means we break your father out of prison.”

  Darris nodded vigorously. “If by ‘we’ you meant Ra-khir and me, that’s just what I mean.”

  Ra-khir sat perfectly still, the suggestion an affront to his own honor as well as his father’s. “We can’t do that.”

  “It won’t be easy.” Darris clearly misunderstood.

  Ra-khir ran his hands along the tabletop, grainy dirt rolling beneath his fingertips, disrupting its smoothness. “That’s not what I meant. Breaking someone out of priso
n is a crime.”

  Every eye at the table jerked suddenly to Ra-khir. Davian couldn’t help but snicker. “Of course it’s a crime,” Baynard said, “but a necessary one. We need the Knights of Erythane to restore the proper king.”

  Ra-khir shrugged, unswayed by the argument for two reasons. Need never justified sin, and not having the Knights’ support would only make Griff’s coronation harder, not impossible.

  Darris rose, knowing Ra-khir well enough to find the proper justification where the others had failed. Crossing the room, he plucked a battered lute from the corner behind Matrinka, reclaimed his chair, and placed the instrument into playing position. The humans at the table settled more comfortably, resigned to the bard’s curse. The elves watched him curiously, unaccustomed to the oddity.

  A short introduction flowed from the strings, the tones surprisingly pure for an instrument of such low quality. Then the bard launched into a familiar song that chronicled the history of King Sterrane’s return from the viewpoint of a knight. Ra-khir had heard the song before, but never from the lips of the bard. Darris’ voice, and the complexity of harmony, added a beauty that made word and mood transfixing.

  Darris sang of his own famous ancestor, Mar Lon, whose name had become synonymous with peace. He sang of an escaped slave, Garn, a friend to the rightful king, who had sneaked into the castle to assassinate the usurper. Ra-khir’s heart pounded as those two good men fought, one to kill and one to protect a king who had obtained his throne through murder. He could hear the ring of steel, feel the ache of the blows through Mar Lon’s muscles, and read determination in the actions of both. Each man fought with honor and for right, though their causes pitted them on opposite sides. But as the battle progressed, Mar Lon’s certainty wavered. The now long-dead bard had wrestled with a decision not unlike Ra-khir’s own. Law and propriety condemned him to defend the current king, but right placed him firmly in Sterrane’s camp. Though he won the battle against Garn, he lost the one against his conscience.

  Ra-khir knew the rest of the story from his books, yet Darris’ timbre and pitch added the emotion written facts had never evoked. Mar Lon had freed Garn from the dungeon sentence to which his own actions had committed the one-time slave. He had promised assistance and delivered it in the form of the Knights of Erythane. These men of honor had pledged themselves first to the proper ascension of Béarn and only second to Béarn itself.

  Darris’ singing stopped, but the music continued in a slowly unwinding spiral that held the mood long past the words. Ra-khir conceded his friend’s point. His situation seemed much more clear-cut than that of the Knights of the past. They had betrayed one heir for another, turning against the king they had faithfully served to band with the one who should have ruled in his place. Yet Ra-khir had never questioned the need to dethrone the false king. His problem lay with freeing his father.

  Ra-khir waited until Darris finished before speaking. The others, humans and elves, remained in an expectant hush, convinced, waiting for Ra-khir’s reaction. “I have no problem opposing the dark elves nor with helping band the Knights to assist. It’s the breakout.”

  Darris slumped over his instrument, beaten. “So you won’t help?”

  Ra-khir wrestled need against right. “I’ll help. I don’t believe a false accusation by a deceitful prime minister and a verdict handed down by a spurious king constitute law. Therefore, violating the terms of sentencing is not really a crime.” He considered his own words, hoping he had not simply rationalized the actions he wanted to take.

  The room seemed to sigh collectively. Baynard and Aerean smiled.

  “But,” Ra-khir continued, and the grins wilted. Several people winced at the words that might follow. “I don’t think my father will be so easily convinced. Remember, he refused to defend himself at the trial because it might damage the citizens’ faith in their government. He may not come with us.”

  “You’ll just have to convince him.” Darris stated the obvious, making the impossible sound simple.

  “I don’t know if I can.” Ra-khir’s doubts became a desperate roar of uncertainty. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Baynard offered no sympathy, summarizing what everyone surely felt. “Ra-khir, you’ll just have to find the words.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Catacombs

  A warrior who dies fighting with his principles intact dies in glory.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Ra-khir blamed anxiety for the relentless feeling of unseen eyes watching him from the darkness. His discomfort began as they approached Béarn Castle and remained as Darris uncovered the secret entrance. Ra-khir had scanned the darkness a hundred times, seeing and hearing nothing to corroborate his fear. Even as they descended into the depths of the castle’s dungeon catacombs, the sensation remained.

  Damp air washed Ra-khir’s skin into goose bumps, and the reek of moss and fungus became lodged in his nostrils. He followed Darris through impenetrable blackness, the tiny thump and occasional sheeting scrape of the bard’s boots against stone guiding him long after his vision failed. Every few moments, Darris touched him to ascertain that they had not gotten separated.

  Soon, the spirals, gradual twists, and sudden turns became too engrossing, and the sensation of another watching disappeared. Only the bard and his or her heir learned the difficult maze that warded Béarn’s dungeon from escapes and that, Darris assured Ra-khir, took years of concentrated study. If not for the god-determined damnation that ceaselessly fueled bard curiosity, even Darris could never have memorized the details.

  After what seemed to Ra-khir like hours, opacity softened to gloom. Stone walls fuzzy with growth became visible as dark, irregular shadows. Then, suddenly, Darris jerked backward, reaching for Ra-khir in silent warning. His hand found Ra-khir’s chest, restraining.

  Ra-khir peered over the bard’s shoulder to a semicircle of torchlight. Apparently cautious because of its presence, rather than any direct threat, Darris inched forward again.

  The passageway opened into a dank, murky room filled with cells. Scattered torches illuminated ghastly shadows, mostly long lines running from floor to ceiling. Many brackets held only charcoal stubs. Shapes shifted, animallike, in the darkness. Occasionally, the rattle of a pan against stone or a clink that might represent a sentry’s armor broke the stillness. The air reeked with the stench of human excrement, disease, and unwashed flesh. Ra-khir gagged, turning away. If he vomited, he would need to do so quietly and mindful of his companion.

  Ra-khir managed to hold down his meal, clutching his sword as Darris edged toward the light. Nothing changed in the sounds coming from the dungeons to suggest discovery. Carefully, in silence, Ra-khir followed.

  Darris dared a whisper, cupping his hands to direct the sound into his companion’s ear. “You saw him. Which way?”

  Ra-khir racked his memory, trying to rethink direction. He had visited his father only once, coming through the main entrance and escorted by a guard. He had not traveled through the famous catacombs that had foiled escape from Béarn’s dungeons since long before Mar Lon directed Garn. He chose a direction from intuition alone, gesturing for Darris to follow.

  Again, the sensation of hidden eyes watching assailed Ra-khir, and he cursed the nervousness that made normal caution impossible. He guessed the entrance lay nearly in a corner of the dungeon, directly left. His father occupied a cell toward the far end of the first row. Any guards would cluster toward the main entrance to keep prisoners from escaping back into the palace. Therefore, it only made sense to circle right.

  Ra-khir led Darris down the farthest corridor. To his right, cold radiated from the dungeon wall, deep beneath the ground. Cells lined the left, the first several empty. The next held a single occupant or a lumpy pile of blankets on the floor. Sound echoed in eerie disorder, the acoustics indecipherable. Tiny scrapes of movement reverberated, and rare coughs or sneezes shattered the stillness like explosions. Breathing originated from so many places it became a consta
nt, easily mistaken for the puff of wind meandering through corridors.

  Reaching a corner, Ra-khir turned, now pacing a course parallel to their entrance. The arbitrary lighting wore on his vision, as his eyes adjusted and readjusted to the constant changes. Rows of bars blurred into one. A prisoner sat up abruptly as they approached, startling Ra-khir into a hasty crouch. His boot squeaked against a worn spot on the floor, and he damned the noise. Other prisoners shifted to examine them in the dim light.

  Ra-khir cringed, their passage now marked by the attention of curious prisoners. Though none spoke, he worried about the change in routine that the guards would eventually notice. He turned to Darris, silently requesting suggestions that the bard did not offer. They could sneak out and start again, probably with no better results. Time was a luxury they could ill afford. So far, the guards had not responded simply to differences in movement. The prisoners would not likely give them away intentionally; they held no love for Béarn’s guards.

  Sweat beaded Ra-khir’s forehead as he crept forward. One more corner. Excitement plied him as he approached the corridor he believed held his father’s cell. A day of rest had brought him only vague concepts with which to sway his father. Desperately, he hoped the proper words would come when he looked upon Kedrin again. He stepped into a ring of torchlight.

  Darris’ hand seized Ra-khir’s cloak suddenly, hauling him backward. Startled, Ra-khir lost his balance, crashing to one knee on the stone floor. Pain shot up his leg, and he bit his lip to stifle a cry.

  A gruff voice from ahead called. “Hey, you there!”

  Ra-khir froze, blood like ice in his veins. Darris whirled and ran, feet thumping on the hard floor.

  Shouts erupted from every corner of the dungeon, from guards and other prisoners. Footfalls slammed the stone, their echoes bewildering. Ra-khir drew his sword, torchlight flashing from the steel, only to face a dilemma he had not recognized until that moment. I can’t fight Béarnian guards! He jabbed the blade back into its sheath.