Shadow’s Lure

by Jon Sprunk

  Oak came hurrying up and gestured for Caim to follow. Caim helped Keegan settle Liana on the floor, spoke a couple words of hope, and went after the man. Oak took him down the stairs into the bowels of the prison. They stopped at a narrow landing thirty feet under the foundation. The steps continued downward, but Oak opened a door set in the corner of the landing to reveal a short tunnel. The moist odor of garbage emerged.

  “Have you explored it?” Caim asked.

  “A bit. There’s a tunnel running below us. I sent Billup and Fralk to take a look.”

  “Good. Get everyone down there. Head downstream, out of the city.”

  Caim went back up and found Keegan. His look of concern had worsened. Liana’s eyes were still closed.

  Caim hunkered down beside them. “We found a way out.”

  “We need to get her home to my father.”

  “We will. You have my word.”

  Caim moved to Liana’s feet in preparation to move her. The rest of the men had vacated the stairwell, taking Caedman with them toward the sewer entrance. Things were looking hopeful, but something bothered Caim. The feeling of dread had not disappeared. He had forgotten about it during the fight, but now, in the interim, it had returned in full force. They weren’t out of danger yet.

  A loud rattle echoed from the corridor. Scenarios played out in Caim’s mind. None of them ended well. One ended less badly than the others, but it was the one he was most hesitant to attempt. It had been a long time, and he wasn’t sure he was up to it. What choice do I have?

  “Go,” he growled at Keegan.

  The boy rose to his knees. “What?”

  Caim jerked his head after the direction the rest of the outlaws had taken. “Get them out of here. I’ll bring your sister.”

  “Are you—?”

  “Get!”

  The youth glanced from him to his sister. A loud crash resounded from the front gate, followed by heavy boot steps. The enemy was inside the prison. With one last look at Caim, Keegan ran after the others.

  Caim stood over Liana. Keegan had arranged her arms across her chest, perhaps unconsciously mimicking the pose of death. But she would survive. Caim would be damned if he didn’t see to that. Of them all, she most deserved to live. Just get on with it. Setting his jaws together in a firm grimace, Caim went to the archway to face the enemy.

  The soldiers came at him en masse, two score and change. A crossbow bolt sizzled past his head. The points of their spears and swords glittered in the torchlight.

  They didn’t stand a chance.

  The shadows arrived in numbers he’d never seen before, raining down from the ceiling in an ebon deluge. Torches fizzled out, but Caim saw what happened all too well. He forced himself to watch as the men fell, in clusters of five and ten, succumbing to the crowd of ravenous blots climbing down their faces, crawling inside their armor to devour warm flesh. Not a single soldier made it to the end of the hall.

  Gnawing on the evil he had wrought, Caim gathered the girl in his arms. A sharp pain erupted in his right arm as he lifted her, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He went over to a sweep of shadows draped beneath the staircase. He wasn’t sure how this was going to work. In the end, it took less effort than he anticipated.

  One moment he stood on a solid floor. Then he took a step, and a tempest of unfamiliar forces lifted him into oblivion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The world righted itself as Sybelle stepped out of the shadow gate and touched down on the cavern floor. She plucked at her sleeves and brushed the front of her gown, seeking out the insidious little deaths, but finding nothing.

  How dare he?

  The indignity burned in her breast. The upstart—scion or no—had sent his shadows against her. In her birth world, none would have dared such an insult. She hadn’t expected it, and that had almost spelled her doom as hundreds of the tiny predators swarmed over her. Their bites stung, nothing serious, but only quick action had saved her from worse. Of course, she had left Erric’s men behind to deal with the threat.

  But the scion …

  Sybelle went to the orichalcum box and breathed in a double pinch of the yellow resin. The jolt of instant energy washed away her exhaustion, but it did nothing to relieve her aggravation. She shook the box, debating another dose, but the powder was all but gone and there was no way to garner more; the plant from which it came only grew in the Shadowlands.

  She shoved the box back onto its shelf, unable to get the events at the prison out of her head. She had known it was him at first sight. Like a long-forgotten memory, his essence came back to her and stirred powerful feelings. She hadn’t been prepared for that. For battle, surely, but not for the volatile combination of resentment and doubt that flooded her mind when they came face-to-face. She had seen him only once before, years ago when he was just a boy. That seemed like another lifetime. Perhaps it had been.

  The scion’s presence here, though unexpected, was not apocalyptic. Where was he now? Sybelle leaned over her scrying pool and cast forth her vision into the waters. She had tasted a morsel of his essence in those moments they stood eye-to-eye, not enough to wither him with a curse, but sufficient to find him anywhere in this realm. She stirred the waters, but they remained dark. Then she remembered Soloroth’s words, how he had been unable to track the scion.

  The shadows won’t hunt …

  Sybelle grasped the edge of the pool as a spell of vertigo crashed over her. What was this? She felt … distanced from the Shadow, cut off. The sensation only lasted a moment, not even the interval from the release of one breath and the inhalation of the next, but it left her shaken. Never before had she—

  No. She had felt such a thing before, when she passed through the Barrier to this world. Almost twenty years ago, and now again today. She did not believe in coincidence. She needed an augury. She was consulting her charts of the astral houses when a cymbal chimed in a niche beyond the pool.

  Sybelle dug her fingers into her skirt. It was Erric. She toyed with the idea of putting him off. Hunger gnawed at her innards, and she glanced to the passageway leading to the nave. Better for him if she waited until she had assuaged her appetites. But then the cymbal rang again and made up her mind for her. Fine. If he wished to see her now, then so be it. And if he had a trollop draped across his lap when she found him, she would strike them both with a curse to make the gods of this feeble realm tremble.

  Sybelle opened a portal in the air and stepped through. Another tremor of light-headedness overcame her as she arrived in the unadorned room at the top of the castle. This was a mistake. She should have fed first. Arrogance, her father called it whenever she overtaxed her abilities. Sometimes she still heard his voice in her head, chiding her for this choice or that, but she paid it less mind than a cockroach scurrying underfoot. She was her own mistress now.

  Are you truly?

  Sybelle thrust the voice out of her thoughts as she descended the long stairs. She arrived at the great hall to find the duke alone, slouched in his throne, dressed in full regalia with the gold crown settled upon his brow. Despite his sloppy posture, he cut a regal figure. She would make of him a king in truth, if only he stayed out of her way. Like most men, he was willing to be guided by the nose, or the cock, but he had the irritating trait of intruding in her works when he was least wanted. Still, she was … fond of him. Another word came to mind, but she shoved it away. The Queen of the Night did not know love. Affection, yes. Fondness, surely. But love was as far from her essence as starlight from the day.

  Sybelle kept her features neutral as she approached his throne, unwilling to grant him a smile. A petty gesture, perhaps, but no more than he deserved after summoning her like a common servant. Now, if he apologized with sufficient enthusiasm, she might see her way to suggesting a more interesting way to renew her energy. With these thoughts tumbling in her head, she stopped just short of his reach. Her lover’s mouth was turned down in a sour grimace. His eyes, though open, looked into the dista
nce as if he did not see her, which brought back her fury all over again. She started to address him and then stopped herself, intent that he should acknowledge her presence first. He tested her patience as the heartbeats stretched into a minute, and then another. He spoke just before she opened her mouth to scathe him.

  “The ambassadors from Uthenor and Warmond have left the city.” His voice was thick with lethargy.

  “What of it?”

  The duke looked up, finally meeting her gaze. “First, the mercenaries leave, and now the ambassadors. Who will be the next to abandon me? You?”

  She forced a laugh from her throat. It was a small thing, but it took all of her self-control to make it. “Are you mad? After all I have done in this country, for you, for us, you think I would leave now? Don’t be a bigger fool than needs be. I will not leave you, and neither have the ambassadors.”

  “No? Then why did they depart at night without so much as a by-your-fucking-leave?”

  She swallowed her anger and sat on the arm of his throne. “They have been recalled to other fronts.” He started to ask, but she cut him off before he could get it out. “Do not inquire into these matters. Be assured that you still enjoy the benefits of our Master’s aegis, and that our plans will go forward without delay. In fact, I want you to—”

  He slammed his fist down on the other arm. “No, Sybelle. No more orders. This is my realm, and you will do as I say.”

  Sybelle ran her fingers through his hair. “Is that so?”

  He croaked in outrage as she yanked his head back. He started to reach for her, but she placed her mouth over his. She poured all her rage into the kiss, white-cold like the northern winds, bitter as the sun that hovered over this dreadful world. His body stiffened beneath her. Sybelle pulled back and looked into his eyes, which darted back and forth over her face. He was in terrible agony as her sorcery crawled through his veins. She felt herself becoming excited at the thought.

  “You do not command here,” she said. “You are a tool. A pampered one, but in the end just a tool. You can either do as I say and enjoy a long and pleasurable reign.” She traced a finger along his unshaven chin and watched him tremble. “Or I can find someone else to take your place.”

  Sybelle leaned closer, enjoying the play of terror and agony in his eyes. He was so weak, she could kill him with nothing more than a gesture. Sometimes she found it endearing, but today it made her want to grind him under her thumb.

  Steel slithered over leather as a sword was drawn. The tendons in the duke’s neck stood out like taut cables. Sybelle’s smile widened as the blood drained from his face.

  “Come in, Arion,” she said. “We were just speaking of you.”

  The voice of the duke’s son called from the hall entrance.

  “Release him, Sybelle. Now.”

  The chamber echoed with the sound of her amusement.

  Arion scowled as he barreled through the keep’s narrow corridors on his way to the great hall. His father needed to hear the truth from someone, and he was angry enough not to care about the consequences.

  He had just left the infirmary, where half of his bodyguards were laid up after an extended march through the western hills behind the witch’s hell-spawn son and his pack of wolf-men. Davom and Brustus would mend, but Okin might never be the same again. The doctors called it a brain fever brought on by battlefield vapors, but he knew better. Okin had seen things no man should have to see on this side of the grave. They all had. It was a wonder none of them had deserted on the trek back to Liovard. The gods knew he wouldn’t have blamed them.

  Sybelle.

  This was all her doing. She used men like pieces on a game board. Expendable. But this time he was going to have it out with his father once and for all. The Duke of Liovard would have to choose between his son and his concubine.

  Arion paused at the south entrance to the great hall. Voices carried across the stone chamber. His father and Sybelle were arguing. Arion smiled as he inched forward. Perhaps his task would be easier than he anticipated. He might even convince his father to send the witch away. Then something happened. The argument turned quiet.

  Arion leaned through the entranceway. His father sat in the ancestral throne of their clan with the witch on his arm. They kissed, and then his father jerked as if he had been struck. Arion’s breath hissed between his teeth. Sorcery, it had to be, for his father did not move.

  Drawing his sword, Arion hurried across the flagstones. His gaze focused on the witch. In his mind he saw himself plunging his steel into her breast. She looked up, and her eyes glowed, full of malice.

  “Come in, Arion,” she said. “We were just speaking of you.”

  Her greeting set his hands to trembling. His tongue felt like it had swelled to thrice its normal size. “Release him, Sybelle. Now.”

  Her laughter sliced into him like a flensing knife. The clatter of moving metal echoed through the chamber. Arion shifted his grip on his sword as the Beast stepped out from the shadow of a deep alcove. His black plate armor glistened like the scales of a serpent. The challenge was evident in the giant’s arrogant stance, the way his massive hands opened and closed within their black steel gauntlets. He made no move toward the mace-and-chain hanging from his belt, but Arion wasn’t willing to give him the chance to unfurl its deadly links. He ran at the witch’s spawn, swinging his sword with both hands. The blow struck Soloroth square on the crest of his helmet. The Beast staggered back a step, and for one brief moment Arion had hope that he had dealt a lethal blow, but his optimism was short-lived as Soloroth remained standing. Arion wound up for another swing, but the Beast moved with astonishing speed. The sword fell from Arion’s numb fingers. He gasped as steel fingers closed around his neck. With the pressure of a vise, they contracted to close off his air and lifted him off the ground. Arion gripped Soloroth’s wrist as his head began to ache, but the Beast could have been a statue holding him aloft in its adamant grasp. A gasp hissed from the throne.

  “Please …” a rasping voice spoke.

  Sybelle turned. “Yes, Erric?”

  Arion prayed as the pain in his chest ballooned to block out the world. Typhon and all the gods that watch over Eregoth, damn the witch and her cursed son to endless night. Let them never see the sun again. Destroy them….

  “Spare him!”

  Darkness descended over Arion’s sight. Consciousness was slipping from his grasp. He clung to it for just one more instant, knowing he would never awake from this slumber. He felt himself falling. His feet struck the floor, but they had no strength to hold him, and he collapsed at the giant’s feet. Air—sweet, rich, and intoxicating—rushed into his lungs. He gulped it down like wine. His sight cleared enough to show him that the witch still gripped his father by the hair.

  “Remember, Erric,” she said in a sickeningly playful tone. “You rule by my indulgence.”

  With a smile, she released his father and walked away. She stopped beside Soloroth, both of them gazing down at him. Arion wanted to shout at her, to scream his defiance, but the only sound that came from his lips was the shrill whistle of his breath.

  Sybelle nudged him with a toe. “Send this one back to the south to begin the next stage of the invasion. He will be forged into something worthwhile in the heat of conquest.” She shrugged. “Or he’ll cease to be an annoyance.”

  Arion closed his eyes as the witch and her son strode away, her mocking laughter ringing in his ears along with the thundering pulse of his heartbeat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Josey yawned as she got out of bed. She hadn’t slept well. All night long the problems facing the realm kept her awake, from the riots in the streets to her problems managing the court, not to mention the continual threat of assassination hanging over her head. It didn’t help that Hirsch and Hubert had gone out again last night to renew their search for the assassin.

  Amelia came in with an elaborate gown from the wardrobe, and Josey began the laborious process of getting dressed. With al
l that was going on, she had to make an appearance in court this morning even if it killed her. Josey exhaled as the corset tightened around her ribs.

  “Not so tight, please, Amelia. I’m feeling a little ill disposed this morning.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady. Shall I call for a physician?”

  Josey glanced over her shoulder and faked a smile. “I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s just Josey. And, no. I’ll be fine.”

  The maid gave another tug on the laces. “Yes, my lady.”

  Josey sighed, but not too deeply, and sat down for her other maid, Margaret, to select her footwear. She declined the knee-high boots with four-inch heels and went with a pair of laced padded shoes. A selection of jewelry—earrings, necklace, golden tiara—and a bit of tasteful makeup completed the outfit.

  “Tell them I’m ready,” she said.

  As Amelia went to the door, Josey looked at herself in a large mirror. The blush on her cheeks was a little heavy, but she had to admit she looked like an empress, even though she didn’t feel it. Is this how all rulers feel? Are we all a bunch of trumped-up phonies prancing on a stage? The thought made her feel a little better.

  When the door opened and her bodyguards—up to six now, every minute of the day and night—stood aside, Josey walked out into the hallway. The trek from her apartment to the audience was silent save for the clomp of heavy boots on the marble tiles. Josey kept her hands clasped together over her stomach, which fluttered like a bag full of bluetail flies. Decisions needed to be made to restore order to Othir—that was her first priority. She hoped she could find the answers her people needed. Otherwise she would have the shortest reign in Nimean history.

  Two of her bodyguards halted outside the Great Hall, and two inside the doorway. The last pair escorted her across the broad chamber. The hall was almost vacant except for a sparse handful of ministers already in their seats. Lord Parmian stood at his appointed place and gave her a commiserating smile as she entered, but the lord chancellor’s desk was unoccupied. Where is Hubert? And where’s the rest of the Thurim?