Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

  “It may have been an assassin,” she said with a shrug, “but I don’t believe it was Jaymes Markham.”

  The duke edged away from her, interposing the great bed between himself and the white wizard.

  “What reason could you possibly have for killing her?” she demanded, taking another step closer, pointing an accusing finger.

  “You’d never understand!” Crawford snapped. He glanced up at the large curtain over the bed, but the wizard was not distracted.

  “Is this where you killed her?” she asked, indicating the huge mattress. “In the very bed she shared with you?” Trembling with rage, Coryn felt a flicker of magic spark at her finger, a lethal lightning bolt that she felt tempted to release. Angrily she shook the deadly impulse away—she wouldn’t strike him down, not like that, but she wouldn’t let him go, either.

  He stared at her, fidgeting on the other side of the bed, as the wizard took another step nearer, stopping on her side of the large, four-posted mattress. She leaned forward, trembling with fury.

  Her mind conjured the perfect spell to capture and immobilize the man. With her left hand she found a bit of spider web in one pocket. She pulled it out, chanting the simple incantation:

  “Aracnis—”

  She was momentarily taken aback as Crawford lunged toward a bell-rope and pulled. She tried to continue casting her web spell, but the gauzy net above the bed fell down, covering her head. Immediately the sound of her voice ceased, swallowed by magic.

  The wizard recognized a spell of silence, and—though she didn’t know how the duke had cast it—understood her own spell was wasted. She was even more startled when the duke dived across the bed, seized her by her wrist, and pulled her down onto the soft mattress.

  She wrestled, but he was startlingly strong. Intense fury took over. A dangerous spell came into her mind, one that would burn him badly but leave him alive, but when she tried to bark the single necessary word of command, still she could make no sound.

  Now, for the first time, she felt afraid. The filmy gauze shrouded them in silence—no doubt the same silence that had muffled any sounds of Lady Martha’s murder. Coryn struggled, kicking and flailing. She clawed at the duke’s face as he pushed her down. His fingers closed around her throat, choking her, strangling her. Her lungs strained desperately for air.

  Coryn felt the world go dark.

  Finally the duke released his grip. She coughed and gasped, but her violent gagging was eerily soundless under the magical silence.

  Shaking her head, drawing ragged breaths, Coryn didn’t have the strength to resist anymore as he lashed her wrists together with a braided cord. He tore a pillowcase and roughly gagged her, tying it around her so tightly it cut her cheeks and forced her jaws open.

  Only then did Crawford rise and once more pull the bell-rope. The silence dispelled, and he chuckled, almost a giggle.

  “Yes, she died right here!” the duke cried triumphantly. “You were right—it was me. Now I will kill you too!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE GAME ROOM

  Jaymes recovered consciousness. He could see again—the magical darkness had been dispelled, and he realized several torches crackled and flared in wall sconces. He was in an underground room, apparently some kind of shrine. His skull felt as though it was about to implode, and there was sticky wet blood on the back of his head.

  The next thing he saw was Giantsmiter, across the room from him, upright with the tip of the great sword resting on the floor. The blade reflected the bright torchlight, and at first that was all the swordsman noticed. Only gradually did he realize a priest was here, standing with both of his hands on the hilt of the blade. Unlike the cleric Jaymes had chased down here, however, this priest was dressed in a tight-fitting cloak of red, which included a mask of the same color that concealed his identity.

  The warrior’s head throbbed. Trying to focus through slitted eyes, he looked around the oval-shaped chamber, which, remembering his long run down the dark tunnel, he judged to be located under the Temple of Shinare. Besides the door he had come through, several other doors led into dark passages. He saw a set of golden merchant scales in an alcove at one end. The chain supporting one balance was broken, and that half of the scale lay on the stone floor. The other half, apparently counterbalanced by nothing, swayed in the air.

  “I see that my blow did not kill you—more’s the pity,” the priest remarked. A studded mace, gleaming with inlaid gemstones, swung from his belt. No doubt this was the weapon that had knocked Jaymes out and left his head ringing like the inside of a gong.

  “What kind of temple is this?” Jaymes asked, feeling as though he were talking through a mouthful of cotton. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he leaned his back against a damp stone wall. His hand went to his scalp, rubbing a bloody bump.

  “This is the temple to my true god, the Immortal One who will soon become the master of all Solamnia.”

  Although the words came from behind the red mask, Jaymes was fairly certain it was the voice of the Patriarch, but this priest was not wearing the garb of Shinare. Instead, the swordsman was reminded of Hiddekel, the god of thieves and brigands.

  “Hiding out in the dungeon under your regular church?” he asked.

  “I serve Shinare during the day, but my true lord is the Prince of Lies,” said the cleric. “I am the Nightmaster! Let Shinare collect her tolls and her tithes—I measure my wealth in the souls of men!”

  “Do you serve the duke as well?”

  “Let the mirror in his game room lead him!” declared the priest, with a harsh, dry laugh. “He knows that we serve the same master. He has recruited others to our cause, as well. He knows I am the Truth to him!”

  The priest started to pick up the great sword then rested it on the floor again, cocking his head, listening.

  “Hmm, visitors,” he said calmly. “No doubt the arrival of a killer such as yourself caused some consternation in the castle.”

  Jaymes could hear the sounds, too—footsteps of running men, mingled with clinking armor, creaking straps. Some of the knights in the keep had finally chased him into the darkness. The sounds came closer, but the priest made no move to shut the door.

  Moments later, two knights charged into the secret shrine, as the cleric held up a commanding hand.

  “Halt!” he cried, and both running men froze, as though their feet were stuck to the stone floor. Magic tingled in the air.

  Jaymes recognized the two—one was Sir Dayr, formerly a captain in the service of the Duke of Thelgaard, and the other was Sir Rene, who had commanded the defense of Mason’s Ford. They glared at the masked cleric and struggled but could not budge.

  The warrior’s head throbbed, and he leaned back against the wall, trying to marshal some strength.

  “By Joli—who in the Abyss are you?” demanded Dayr, waving his sword at the masked priest.

  “He wants to be called the Nightmaster,” Jaymes said wearily.

  “I am the Nightmaster!” the cleric insisted.

  “It seems the duke and one or two of his cronies are secretly working on behalf of the Prince of Lies,” the warrior explained. His vision had cleared. He flexed his fingers, feeling strength slowly return.

  “What do you mean—hey, that’s the Assassin!” gasped Dayr, finally noticing the bleeding swordsman.

  “Correct!” crowed the priest. “Now he will meet his due justice on the weapon he has used to such ill effect!”

  With visible effort the Nightmaster lifted the heavy blade, taking a step toward Jaymes. He twisted his hands on the hilt, but the familiar fire did not burst forth from Giantsmiter. Shaking his head, the priest muttered in disgust. “The steel will slip into your belly cold as well as hot,” he growled, advancing another step.

  Jaymes struggled to reach under his cape. The two small crossbows he had picked up on the battlefield had been jabbing him in the belly. His right hand closed around the handle of one and, grimacing, he pulled it out. T
he trigger was cocked, the steel tip aimed at the front of the red silk robe.

  The Nightmaster lunged, driving the sword downward, but the bolt from the crossbow flew much faster through the air to punch through his robe, through his skin. With a strangled gasp the man slumped to his knees, spilling the big sword at Jaymes’s feet with a resounding clang. The priest clutched frantically at the wound, but his fingers couldn’t get a grip on the tail of the deadly metal dart, and he uttered a long sigh as he toppled sideways to the floor.

  With the Nightmaster’s death, the spell binding the two knights was broken, and they both stumbled forward, toward the sword that lay just beyond Jaymes’s boots.

  By now the second crossbow was in the warrior’s hand, leveled at Captain Dayr. “No! Stop right there,” the warrior said.

  Eyes narrowed, the Knight of the Crown halted, watching warily as Jaymes pushed himself to his feet. The warrior almost blacked out from the surge of pain he felt, but he growled, reached down, and picked up the sword. He slid the weapon into his empty scabbard, keeping the crossbow leveled at the knights.

  “You won’t get away this time, you know—this whole city knows you’re here,” the captain warned him.

  “I’m not trying to get away,” Jaymes replied. He limped to the door, keeping the crossbow trained on the two knights. Backing out of the shrine, he slammed the door shut and dropped the bar into place.

  They pounded and shouted as he limped into the darkness, but Jaymes knew it would take them a long time to break the door down.

  Coryn could hear again. The only noise, at first, was her own strained breathing through flaring nostrils—the tight cloth gag not only had prevented her from speaking, it made it almost impossible to breathe through her mouth.

  “Come with me,” ordered the nobleman, jerking the wizard to her feet by her bound wrists. She tugged angrily against him and he abruptly punched her on the cheek, knocking her off the bed and onto the floor. Her head spun, and she tasted fresh blood as he lifted her by her bonds again. This time she stumblingly maintained her balance, leaning weakly against one bedpost.

  Dragging her behind him, the duke started across the room. “Guard!” he called, as he approached the door.

  “Yes, my lord duke?”

  “Go to the kitchen—tell them I want my tea delivered to the game room! Have Captain Reynaud bring it.”

  “Right away, lord.”

  The young sentry clomped away. As soon as the sounds faded, the duke opened the door, and pulled Coryn out into the hall. There were no other people in sight, as he prodded her along the corridor in a different direction. She felt the tip of a knife press against the small of her back.

  “This is the same blade that cut the Duchess Martha’s throat,” the duke calmly. “It was not very hard to kill her, you know, and it won’t be very hard to kill you.”

  Coryn said nothing. The duke took the lead, pulling on the rope. She lurched along, the knots cutting into her wrists. She tried to bite through the gag without success. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t move her hands—couldn’t wield her magic. He was in front of her now, and she could see the knife, an ornately jeweled dagger, in his hand. Her anger mingled with a growing sense of helplessness.

  Crawford stopped and opened a door, pushing her into a large, wood-paneled room. There was a table in the middle draped with green cloth, and as she stumbled against the table she saw that it was covered with hundreds of miniature soldiers, painted and poised in martial action. A battle was in progress, though she had inadvertently knocked down a good number of the tiny soldiers.

  Duke Crawford didn’t seem to care. Instead, with another sudden shove, he sent her sprawling against the wall. Her head banged on the stones. As she slumped to the floor he pulled open a side door, revealing an alcove. There was nobody else in there, but she was vaguely surprised to hear him speaking.

  “My lord? My lord!” said Crawford. “I have the White Witch—she is bound and gagged, but alive—at least, for the moment!”

  Jaymes raced down the corridor, holding his sword in both hands. He had retraced his steps out of the hidden tunnel and the secret temple, emerging back through the shattered panel into the great hall of Caergoth keep. There he scattered a dozen servants and started onto the stairs leading up to the duke’s quarters.

  Now he heard someone coming and ducked into a side door, watching as a young knight hurried past. When that man headed down a nearby stairway, the warrior ran in the direction the knight had come from. He climbed another flight of stairs, darted around a corner, and halted suddenly in front of a pair of veteran, stern-faced knights.

  Jaymes froze, his sword ready, though not yet aflame. The two knight captains glared at him coldly. Eyes narrowing, the warrior recognized one of the officers, then the other.

  “Captain Powell,” he said tersely. “I sincerely hoped never to see you again.”

  “I am sure of that,” said the Knight of the Rose, “after you killed a good, loyal knight, escaping from me.”

  “And Captain Marckus.” Jaymes nodded coolly to the other knight. “I am glad to see you survived the battle at the bridge.”

  “Yourself, as well,” the grizzled officer admitted grudgingly. At Powell’s puzzled look, he explained. “This man held the rearguard together all the way to the bridge. Then he and a dwarf, with some help from the White Witch, destroyed the bridge before the enemy could cross the span and ravage our retreat.

  “I just left two of your comrades—Captain Dayr and Sir Rene—down in the temple of Hiddukel, only a few minutes ago. I hasten to add that I left them alive,” Jaymes said.

  “What temple of Hiddukel?” demanded Marckus. “Here? In Caergoth?”

  “Right under the Temple of Shinare. It seems the Patriarch was working nights, serving the Prince of Lies. I didn’t leave him alive, however,” the warrior explained, still holding his sword warily. “When you go down there and remove the Nightmaster’s mask from his body, I think you’ll see a distinct resemblance to Patriarch Issel. He’s the one who persuaded the duke to kill his wife.”

  “How dare you utter such an accusation!” declared Sir Marckus. “You’re a brave enough fighter—I’ll give you that—but I won’t have you slandering a Lord of the Rose!” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward.

  “Lord?” spat Jaymes, contemptuously. “I’m only slandering killers and cowards!” He glared at Powell. “That knight I killed? He had been sent to slit my throat, to make sure I never made it to Palanthas alive.”

  “Do you believe this villain?” Marckus angrily asked his comrade, though his eyes never left the swordsman.

  “Perhaps I do. It’s possible,” Powell acknowledged in a low voice.

  “Listen! It makes more sense than me sneaking in here to kill the duchess, while leaving the duke alone,” Jaymes said. “Of course, you’ll believe only what you want to believe …”

  Captain Powell held up a hand. “No, I have been rethinking many of my beliefs. So has the Princess Selinda. We happen to think you may be telling the truth.” He glanced at his fellow officer. “Marckus, you were the first one on the scene after the duchess was slain, were you not?”

  “Aye,” declared the grizzled veteran. His eyes, cold and hard, never left Jaymes’s face.

  “Did you see any burned fabric—any evidence of a fire around the wound? Was the cut caused by a huge sword such as the one wielded by this man?”

  “No, I’d have to say the wound was caused by a knife, not a sword. There was no sign of fire. Nor were there any witnesses, though the duke claimed the Assassin fled along the top of the wall. I did think it strange that none of the guards spotted the culprit.”

  “Let’s go have a talk with the duke,” Jaymes suggested. “See what he has to say about all this.”

  “I won’t let you near him—not while you’re carrying that blade!” Marckus declared hotly.

  The swordsman thought for a moment, his eyes shifting from one cap
tain to the other. After a long pause, he sheathed the weapon then unhooked the scabbard from his belt.

  “I expect this back,” he said, before handing it to the surprised officers.

  “I’ll make no promises,” Marckus said, as Powell took Giantsmiter. “But if you are telling the truth …”

  “Wait,” said Powell. Almost apologetically, he leaned forward, patted the swordsman’s waist, felt the outlines of the two crossbows. “I remember you carried a little surprise under there. We better take those, too.”

  The two captains, carrying their own swords, flanked the disarmed Jaymes as they hurried down the hall to an ornate door. The portal was ajar, so Powell knocked, then stuck his head into the room.

  “He’s not here!” he said.

  “I think,” Marckus said, very slowly, “I might know where we can find him.”

  Dram Feldspar hopped down from the supply wagon as it rolled through the gate of Castle Caergoth. He had secured transport from the frightened teamster by standing in the road and threatening to chop the wagon’s wheels off with his axe if the man refused.

  Sulfie and Salty Pete were beside him, and now they jumped to the ground and rushed after him through the doors that lay in pieces just inside the hall of the keep. From the charred, broken planking, the dwarf suspected Jaymes had preceded them.

  “Up here,” the dwarf shouted, indicating a vast staircase rising to upper floors. “I think our boy’s gonna need some help.”

  Axe in hand, he started up the stairs, the gnomes panting after. He reached the first landing, looked to the right and left into a pair of ornately decorated corridors. Each had crystal chandeliers, gilt-lined columns, plush red carpeting. Taking a guess, he jogged to the left down a long hallway lined with doors.

  “You—hey you, dwarf!” cried a woman, coming into view down a side hallway. “Tarry a moment.”

  He turned in surprise. “Do I know you?” he asked the person, obviously a noblewoman, who was advancing toward him, considering he was an intruder wielding an axe (not to mention accompanied by two out-of-breath gnomes, who looked slightly mad). Her long hair was golden, her face proud, sublimely beautiful.