Lucien's Khamsin

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “I know,” Khamsin agreed.

  “And she will have her way,” Christina stated.

  “I fear she will.”

  The women were silent for a long while then Khamsin asked quietly if she thought Lucien would win his battle with Stavros.

  Christina waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, he will win! Lucien is the heir apparent to Sibylline’s earthly throne. Of the four princes, he is the most powerful.”

  “Sibylline seems to regret having turned Stavros. I know he is an evil man but surely she had to have known what he was like before she turned him.”

  Plopping down in an overstuffed chair, Christina plucked at the chair arm. “She turned Stavros to anger Lucien.” She looked up. “They are cousins, you know.”

  Khamsin blinked. “No, I didn’t know.”

  Christina nodded. “They’ve despised one another from the cradle. When the prince in China died during the Great War, Sibylline needed another for the Fourth Corner of the Earth. No one could have imagined she’d choose Stavros. It made no sense then and even less sense now.”

  “Except as a way to punish Lucien?”

  A frown formed on Christina’s face. “Perhaps it was punishment or just simply meant to annoy Lucien that she turned Stavros in the first place. Who knows? Either way, it had little effect on him. Stavros becoming a Revenant was a joke to Lucien until the bastard started mistreating his humans and committing atrocities that boggled the mind. That was when Lucien began sending herders to Duaric to steal Stavros’ herds.”

  “Do you think Lucien will kill Stavros?”

  Christina laughed. “He’ll mutilate the bastard! I’ll wager Stavros has no idea you are missing and even if he does, he would have no way of knowing where you are. When Lucien confronts him, he will try to bluff his way out of it, maybe even hinting he’ll return you for a price. That price, of course, would be his worthless life. He might—and I stress the might—reason that Sibylline had a hand in your disappearance but that’s a long shot. The man is not overly smart at his best. As angry and afraid as I can imagine Luc is right now, Sibylline’s involvement won’t even have occurred to him. He’ll be too worried for your safety.”

  “This must be hell for him for it is sheer agony for me,” Khamsin said and tears filled her eyes. “I wish there was something we could do.”

  “All we can do is wait, Khammie, and hope Sibylline will make good on her promise to return us to Modartha.”

  Khamsin’s eyes widened. “Is there a chance she won’t?”

  Christina shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve always thought the woman mad but then I’ve had little contact with her over the centuries. She finds me loathsome.”

  The thought of never seeing Lucien again filled Khamsin with overwhelming grief and she broke down and cried, burying her face in her hands. She barely felt Christina’s comforting arms around her and did not hear the soft murmurs meant to soothe her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Unable to continue lying in his bed, Stavros threw aside the covers and sat up slowly. He was dizzy with lack of sleep and his blood flowed sluggishly through his veins. Walking as though in a daze, he went to the door and opened in only a crack, wincing as his guards came to attention, their pikes slapping against the floor with a reverberation that caused the Revenant prince acute distress.

  “Go,” he said, his words thick for the sun was nearing the ridge of the horizon. “Send men into the forest. There is a threat there.”

  “A threat, Your Grace?” one guard dared question.

  “Send men!” Stavros snarled, holding onto the edge of the door for he felt faint with hardly any energy left. “Korvina’s men. Find them and burn them where they burrow. Do it now!”

  Prince Stavros Constantine’s fury was legendary through Duaric and the region surrounding the decrepit keep. No one dared to question his orders and both guards jumped at his bidding, hurrying away in tandem down the dark corridor.

  Stumbling back to his bed, Stavros barely had the strength to climb atop the thick mattress. He lay there on his belly, his cheek pressed to the rumpled coverlet, his hands beside his head.

  “No guards at my door,” he mumbled as sleep tried to glue shut his eyes. “No safety for the prince.”

  Somewhere there was a Rift in the Veil. Beyond the battlements of Duaric danger was lurking, waiting, crouching. Agitation bubbled in Stavros’ gut. Never a brave man, he felt the disturbance to the marrow of his bones and knew a confrontation with his hated enemy was imminent.

  “Burn his men,” Stavros mumbled as his tongue grew thicker and his words more unintelligible. “Burn Korvina.”

  The sounds of harnesses jingling, leather creaking and horses neighing in the bailey made Stavros’ eyes open a bit wider. He heard the shriek of the portcullis as it was raised and the pounding of hooves as the thralls raced their mounts over the drawbridge. The stench of burning pitch drifted through the partially open door of his chamber and Stavros drew in the musky smell along with the scent of human fright that washed over the thralls. In his mind’s eye, he could see the thralls hoisting high-flaming brands meant to fire the hidey-holes of the Korvina clan. Though the sounds and smells were reassuring, fear put a squeezing hand on Constantine’s heart and sent bile up his gullet.

  * * * * *

  The nose-horned viper struck, its fangs catching the Constantine thrall in the fleshy part between thumb and index finger. It withdrew and struck again before the human could jump out of the way, this time snagging the screaming man’s wrist. Venom bubbled up from the man’s pierced flesh and he stood there—his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish—until the serpent slithered up through the outcropping and struck again, burying its fangs into the hapless man’s shin. The human took one step back then collapsed to the ground like a deflated balloon.

  To the other thralls searching the mounds of leaves and fallen timbers, their comrade’s piercing scream sounded like a war cry and such it might have been for all around them shapes began to materialize with the setting of the sun, streaming up from the ground in wavering columns of wispy gray smoke that took on the form of men.

  Without so much as a whimper, Constantine’s thralls dropped to the ground on their bellies, burning brands tossed aside to light fires in the dried leaves. Threading their hands behind their necks, legs crossed at the ankles, the thralls made it clear they were surrendering without a fight.

  “We can’t let them live,” Nikos Carrus said loud enough for the thralls to hear.

  Petros took shape beside the Dog Lord and gave him a tight-mouthed look before shouting at a couple of his troopers to put out the spreading flames before someone caught fire.

  Lucien appeared beside Petros, the last thing about him to shift back into mortal form his serpent’s tongue that lashed out at Carrus, sending the Dog Lord staggering back. A low, vibrating hiss came from Lucien and Carrus put even more distance between them.

  “Turn them,” Lucien ordered. “Now!”

  Falling upon the thralls, the Revenants of the Korvina clan sank sharp lateral fangs into the necks of the thralls and the sound of blood being sucked, venom being injected, rang out through the forest.

  “Do we really need more brothers?” Petros inquired in a conversational tone.

  “It was either that or kill them,” Lucien explained. “There will be those at the keep who will fight. Those, we slay. These—” he swept his arm over the dozen or so thralls who lay stretched out on the ground “—gave us their lives in hope for mercy. What would we be if we took that life and gave nothing in exchange?”

  “Just asking,” Petros said with a grin.

  Lucien snorted and went to hunker down beside one of the thralls. He grabbed a handful of the man’s tangled hair and lifted his head to gaze into eyes that were already showing signs of the Revenant venom that had been injected into the man’s neck.

  “How many among the herd at Duaric?” Lucien asked.

  The thrall’s eyes rolled wildly i
n his head. He licked his lips. “Forty, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice a dry husk.

  “And how many Revenant lords?”

  His flesh taking on a pale blue tint, the thrall shuddered as the venom spread to his vital organs. “Only two other than our prince.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Lord Anchises, his Lord of Security, and his brother Lord Stefan,” the thrall answered.

  Lucien let go of the man’s hair but stayed hunkered down beside him, watching the transformation he had seen only once and never wanted to see again. He was aware of Petros standing beside him and wondered if his friend remembered the night Lucien had turned him.

  “How many thralls are left?” Petros queried.

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty. One came down with a fever and was too ill to join us.”

  Petros and Lucien exchanged looks. “Which thrall is sick?”

  “Kolovis,” the thrall replied and his voice was stronger. “Giles Kolovis.”

  “That explains why I haven’t been able to reach him,” Petros said.

  “How ill is Kolovis?” Lucien inquired.

  “Near to dying I think, Your Grace,” the man answered and sat up, the blue tint gone from his flesh. “Shall I send him on his way, my Prince?”

  Petros bent over and took the man’s chin in his hand, and studied his face carefully. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Farris Papoulis,” was the reply.

  “Giles Kolovis is of the Korvina clan,” Petros said. “Would you dispatch a thrall belonging to Prince Lucien, Farris Papoulis?”

  The man shook his head. “I would not, milord!” he denied.

  “Do you swear fealty to Prince Lucien Korvina and his coven?”

  “With my last breath, Lord Petros,” Papoulis vowed.

  “Then take two of your men and find Kolovis. Guard him well for he is an ally of merit,” Petros ordered.

  Papoulis turned to Lucien for permission to rise. He looked healthier than he had a few moments earlier for the venom had done its work in the man’s body.

  “Tell me of the woman,” Lucien demanded. “Where is the woman brought to Constantine by the Korvina healer?”

  Puzzlement puckered Papoulis’ face and he shook his head. “I know of no such woman, my Prince.”

  “He was most likely an outside thrall,” Petros said.

  “Aye, that is true, milord. I was,” Papoulis agreed.

  Lucien looked about them for those thralls that had been turned were standing about in various stages of transformation into Revenant. “Who among you worked inside the keep?”

  Two men stepped forward. “We were Prince Stavros’ guards!” one of the men admitted.

  “Was the woman with him?”

  “There was one with him before he retired but we removed her before the moon rose.”

  Lucien felt a shiver of ice go down his spine. “Removed her?” he repeated.

  “She was dead, my Prince,” the ex-guard explained. “We…”

  The howl that came roaring from Lucien Korvina’s throat shocked even Petros. Every man there stood transfixed as the Revenant prince suddenly became a towering, raging dragon with fiery breath and thrashing tail adorned with vicious barbs. Sizzling froth fell from the sharp jagged teeth in the dragon’s snarling mouth. Its snake-like eyes glowed scarlet red and smoke spurted from scaly nostrils. Before any of them could react, the dragon twisted around and thundered into the night, the ground shrieking beneath the scrap of its savage claws.

  “Well, that’s not good,” Petros barked, shape shifting into a huge black bear. He scrambled after Lucien, speeding along on all fours, his fangs glistening in the moonlight.

  Having turned the thralls sent to kill them, the Revenant lords of the Korvina clan waited until no living human remained and all had sworn allegiance to Prince Lucien before turning into animals, themselves, to race toward Duaric, leaving the new Revenants behind to make their way there as best they could.

  Trees and shrubs between the place where Lucien’s men had taken cover and the ruins of Duaric burst into flame as the dragon passed. With each bellow of primordial rage, its scorching breath lashed out to set the vegetation on fire. The ground shook beneath its enormous weight and all wildlife scattered to the four winds, trembling in terror as the giant serpent suddenly took to the air, its huge leathery wingspan reaching fifty feet across from the longest razor-sharp wingclaw on the left wing to longest wingclaw attached to the scalloped membranes on the right. The downward sweep of those powerful wings beat heavily against the air, thrusting the body upwards and over the tops of the tallest trees. It banked close to the mountain ridge then began a swooping descent that was accompanied by a horrendous shriek. Its claws were arched, extended to their full length as it dove toward the battlements of Duaric Keep.

  The thralls guarding Duaric looked up in horror as the giant winged creature shot toward them. Slapping their hands over their ears as the piercing shriek came, their eardrums burst, and blood trickled down their cheeks. They tried to scurry out of the way, striving to reach cover, but not a one of the ten or so humans escaped the blast of furnace breath that washed over them and turned them to crisply fried meat where they stood. The stench of sulfur filled the air to vie with the noxious scent of charred flesh.

  A portion of the parapet crumbled beneath the weight of the dragon as it landed upon the wall walk. Mortar joints cracked and a serpentine line of destruction spread from mortar line to mortar line. Chunks of mortar and stone slid down the age-pitted walls to splash into the weed-clogged moat. Blocks tumbled from decaying crenulations, falling to earth to raise clouds of dust into the air.

  Shrieking one last painful cry to the night sky, the dragon shifted once more and the imposing figure of Lucien Korvina stood with legs planted wide, his face a terrible blending of rage and grief. His hair blew wildly about his head and the red glow of his eyes was like a beacon to light his way down the stairs from the wall walk.

  Anchises Banos held his ground as the Revenant prince came striding toward him from the bottom of the stairs. In his hands, he held a huge broadsword—gripping the weapon so tightly his arms were trembling. His forehead creased as Korvina came closer and he could read violent death in the prince’s narrowed eyes. Banos knew he would not survive the night whether he struck out at the prince or threw away his weapon.

  “Take me to Constantine,” Lucien ordered, his teeth clenched.

  Outside a tremendous racket began and Banos knew the Korvina clan was making quick work of what guards were left at Duaric. His own brother was somewhere in that melee and he knew he would never see Stefan again. Not that it mattered for the two had never been close. With a wavering sigh, Banos lowered his weapon then dropped it to the stone floor. He went to one knee, his head lowered.

  “I cannot, my Prince,” Anchises Banos said quietly. “Do what you must.”

  Knowing Petros would react no differently were the tables turned, Lucien walked past the kneeling man, never giving the moment a second thought as he lashed out with one powerful fist and decapitated Stavros’ Lord of Security. Banos’ head rolled down the corridor, its eyes half-closed and lips parted. Without breaking stride, Lucien looked back, hissed and the Revenant lord’s body burst into flame.

  There was nothing between Lucien and the stairs leading up to the chambers above. Somewhere in the maze of stinking, mildewed rooms he knew he would find Stavros. He could feel the other man’s hatred, the intent sizzling in his black heart, but he could also feel Constantine’s fear.

  Pity was not in Lucien Korvina that night. Rage unlike anything he had ever known boiled in him like acid—it dripped from his pores, squeezed at his vital organs and festered in his blood. It ruled him and with every step he took, every riser he climbed, the fury grew until his entire body pulsated with it. By the time he reached the landing, the only emotion filling Lucien was all-encompassing wrath.

  Stavros, in the form of a snarling tiger, bolted from his chambers and launch
ed himself at Lucien. His sharp claws swiped at his enemy but instead of striking flesh, swiped only air. He landed with a heavy thud against the far wall, shaking his furred head to clear away the pain. Before he could turn to face Lucien, he found himself caught tight in the thick coils of a boa constrictor—its pointed head arched back, tremendous jaws opening to engulf the tiger’s head.

  Once more Stavros shape shifted and fell from the tightening hold of the huge snake to skitter away in the form of a small green beetle that darted into a crack in the decaying wall.

  The boa snapped in upon itself until it was a furry spider that scampered into the same hole and began stalking the beetle on eight long legs that clicked over the stone.

  There wasn’t much room in between the lathe and plaster of the walls and Stavros’ beetle could barely maneuver as it burrowed deeper. Scurrying along as quickly as it could, it could sense the spider coming closer. A large section of space showed a lighted hole at the base, near the floor and the beetle crawled through the hole, materializing on the other side as a skittering rodent, claws clicking on the stone floor as it shot under a piece of furniture.

  Lucien pressed his segmented body out of the hole and into what he recognized as a bedchamber. Under a settee, he saw a mouse, nose twitching and he could sense Stavros’ fear. Within the space of a single breath, the spider morphed into a grinning cat, mouth open to show sharp fangs as it propelled itself toward the settee.

  Squealing, the mouse raced away and along the baseboard until it darted out the crack between an opened door and the wall. Once in the hall, the mouse elongated to the form of a wolf and stood poised—hackles raised—to pounce on the cat when it stuck its head through the crack in the door.

  But it wasn’t a cat that reached out with thickly taloned paws to swipe the door open. The creature that came slowly out of the bedchamber was unlike anything Stavros Constantine had ever seen and the wolf piddled on the floor and turned to run away.