by John Donlan
She barged through the door and then fell forward onto her hands and knees in the snow. Her breath was laboured, her stomach twisting and threatening to void its contents all over the forest floor. She sucked air into her body and got to her feet.
The queen managed a few more steps before the terrible, final scream of the dying witch reached her ears. The thing that had claimed her had finished its meal. Perhaps now it would go back to whichever infernal pit it had climbed out of.
Lysena did not intend to wait to find out. She turned and ran.
Two
Darius Crow sat astride his horse and stared along the marshy path after the retreating figure of his father. The old man was not alone. He was accompanied by one of his captains and by half a dozen armed and mounted soldiers. Here, so close to the mountains that marked the border with Tho’reen, one could never be too careful.
“Spread out,” he said to the sergeant he had been left with. “Make sure the men are focused and alert. I can smell something foul in the air.”
The sergeant nodded and barked orders to the two dozen men that were currently under his command. They obeyed quickly, turning their mounts to form a rough perimeter around the edge of the road, keeping close watch on the surrounding marsh.
Darius turned his attention back to the road. Road! The word was wholly inaccurate for the sodden, raised mound on which his horse was standing. It was almost as much of a bog as the lands on either side, saved from sinking into the mire completely only by the constant maintenance Duke Crow insisted upon. Darius did not know why his father ever bothered. The road led to only one place; the High Keep at the border crossing. The road allowed passage for the garrison stationed at the keep, but it would also allow invading soldiers a clear path to the city, should it ever come to that.
Flies buzzed around his head in a dark cloud. He swatted at them casually, unconcerned by their constant presence. The Southmarsh was his home. He was used to the insects, and the damp, and the croaking of toads in the morning and evening. He was even used to the smell, though as a boy he had not believed he would ever grow accustomed to it. Fumes rose from the rotting vegetation of the marsh, drifted in wind currents over Castle Crow and the city of Marsh End. Those who visited – what few there were – complained about that stench constantly, but Darius barely even noticed it any more.
To the right and the left, the road was lined with stark, leafless trees. They were bent and twisted, as though being constantly tormented, and their skeletal branches reached for the sky as if for escape from the horror of their existence. Patches of heather and bramble grew on the relatively few stretches of dry ground, and the foul looking skullshead plants rose from the stagnant waters of marshes themselves. Aside from reeds and the occasional lilly, the skullshead was the only damn thing that wound grow in the stinking morass. Everything else died, drowned by the pools of rancid water and left to rot, to add to the mire.
Castle Crow was situated ten miles back along the road, on the edge of the marsh, and was surrounded by the walled township of Marsh End. There, the land was a little higher, forming – as it did – the start of the meadow lands. Crops could be grown away from the fumes of the bog, and lives could be spent a little more pleasantly. It was not the most coveted of places to live, but it was an important stronghold. It would be one of the main lines of defence in the event of an invasion from the Tho'reen Empire.
Thinking of the empire, Darius frowned and focused again on the road ahead. The delegation was late. Very late. The duke had expected them over two hours earlier. The missive he had received from the king had been very specific. It had arrived almost a month earlier, and along with details of the time of arrival, it had borne carefully worded instructions on how the Tho'reen would expect to be hosted during their short stay at Castle Crow. They would have passed through High Keep hours earlier and should have been here by now, along with the garrison escort from the keep.
Reading that communication would have thrown most people into a blinding rage. The Tho'reen Empire had been enemies of the kingdom for half a century or more, and the atrocities they had committed during the last war had nurtured a hatred that was difficult to stem. Darius loathed the empire for the things they had done as much as anyone, but he could see the wisdom in what the king was trying to accomplish. The cycle of hatred and war would continue until one side or the other decided that enough was enough, that peace was worth attempting. It would not be an easy process, nor a quick one, but nothing worthwhile ever was. If it failed, or if no attempt was made, then war was the only real alternative. It had been a stark prospect for the past fifteen years, and yet, somehow, they had managed to avoid anything larger than a skirmish.
Times were changing though. The empire had grown bolder and tensions were high. The king was in a difficult position. Most wanted, even welcomed, a war. They had forgotten the horrors that such a conflict would inevitably bring. And so a meeting had been arranged. A last attempt to broker some kind of lasting peace. For his part, Darius doubted it would work, but he was willing to hold on to a small slither of hope that it would.
Growing suddenly nervous and restless over the delay, Darius suddenly spurred his horse forward. The sergeant saw him and moved to intercept.
“My lord, your father's orders were to remain here and watch the road...”
“I know what his orders were, but something is badly amiss here. He should have taken more men. You have the command for now, until I return.”
The sergeant was not happy about the order, but he had no option but to obey. He frowned and nodded, then side-stepped his horse to let Darius past.
Darius cut a fine figure as he rode swiftly along the raised mound of the road. Tall, stern of countenance, with long black hair that well suited his family name streaming out behind him. He wore the stiff leather armour of the Southmarsh, the crest of his family emblazoned on his chest; a black crow on a field of muddy green. It was hardly the most inspiring of symbols, but it had stood as the standard of the Crows for generations, a stalwart line against the encroaching threat of the empire.
Up ahead, the trees crowded the road as it bent to the south, obscuring his view. He turned the corner at a gallop, suddenly intent on finding his father before something terrible happened. He had learned to trust his instincts over the years, and they rarely led him astray. They were telling him now that danger was close by, and he was not going to ignore the warning of his heart.
He was surprised to see his father up ahead, just a few dozen yards away. Darius heeled his horse forward and drew up alongside the duke.
Gadmar Crow glanced sideways at his son and frowned. “I told you to wait with the men,” he said.
The Duke of Southmarsh was a well-built, imposing man, despite his advancing age. He had ruled the Southmarsh for more than thirty years, and had even served in the last war against the Tho’reen. His hair had once been as dark as Darius’, but now it was more grey than black, especially around the temples. His face was etched with lines and wrinkles, but it was still a strong countenance. He was fit and healthy, and the Gods willing, Darius expected him to continue to rule for another twenty years.
“I was worried about you, father,” Darius returned, refusing to meet his father's displeased stare. “I told you that you should have had more soldiers accompany you, anything could...”
Gadmar held his hand up, instantly cutting off Darius' explanation. “Enough. We shall see what is what soon enough. See? The scout returns, hopefully with word of this damned delegation.”
The scout was indeed returning. Darius could see spray shooting up from the hooves of the rider's mount as he dashed headlong along the road. The speed gave sustenance to Darius' fears. If all was well and as it should be, the man would not be moving so fast. He was pushing his horse to an almost dangerous level. That could mean only one thing.
Darius rested his hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his waist, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. He would not put it past
the Tho'reen to prepare an ambush.
The scout dashed almost heedlessly forward, and for a brief few seconds, Darius believed the man was not going to stop. At the last moment, he reined in his horse and pulled up in a spray of marshy droplets.
“My lord,” the man said, panting and out of breath. His face was as white as a fever victim, and his eyes were bulging enough that they looked ready to burst from his sockets. Darius noticed his hands trembling, too, and the constant, terrified glances he shot over his shoulder.
“What is it, man?” Gadmar demanded. “Did you find the delegation? What was the hold up?”
Either the duke had not noticed the state of abject terror the man was in, or he had misread it as something else. Darius noted it though, and it caused his own worries to rise significantly. Whatever the scout had seen had unnerved him almost to the brink of shock.
He tightened his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I found them, my lord,” the man said. “Or rather, I found what remains of them.”
Gadmar leaned forward in his saddle, his forehead creased into small canyons and crevices as he frowned. “Remains? Naedorn's blood man, what did you see?”
“Dead. All of them, my lord. No, not just dead... butchered, cut up, hacked to pieces. Gods preserve us, I have never seen such slaughter!” He was shaking his head, as though the act would banish the images he had witnessed from his mind.
Darius turned to his father in concern. “We need to see for ourselves father. If this is true, you know what it could mean...”
Gadmar did not need to answer that. Darius could see that he understood just from the subtle changes his father's face underwent. He knew all right. Only too well.
The duke turned to his captain. “Go back to the rest of the men. Have them make ready for the possibility of an attack. If someone murdered the delegation, they may still be nearby. We'll root out the bastards and have them pay.”
Captain Stairn was a loyal, taciturn man who had been in surface to the duke for many years. If he felt any apprehension at leaving his lord's side, he did not show it. He saluted stiffly, turned his horse, and galloped back along the road to where the rest of the men were waiting.
“You, show us what you found.”
The scout looked as though he would rather do anything else but that. He could not disobey an order from the duke, however. His face turned an even sicklier shade of white as he beckoned for the small group to follow.
Darius studied his father's face as they rode after the scout. It was etched with grim, dark lines of worry. And with good reason. When word reached the Tho'reen empress of what had happened, they would inch one step closer to all out war. Perhaps even leap over the precipice. At the very least, the peace process would be in tatters. The empress was not known to be a forgiving or understanding woman. No woman who ever rose to the throne of Tho’reen had ever been considered as such.
Gadmar knew all of this, and he also knew that he would be blamed. His forces might not have committed the act, but it had been done in his lands, under his rule. There would be nobody else onto which responsibility could be placed.
All of that would be running through the duke's mind, Darius realised. He was looking ahead now, into a very grim future.
They did not have far to travel. A mile further along the road, the scout came to a halt and pointed into the marsh. Darius looked where he indicated and saw clear signs that a large group had passed through the line of trees here. And they had not done so in an organised manner. The thin stalks of grass that grew alongside the road had been trampled, and he could see small spatters of blood. The delegation had been fleeing into the marsh, not entering it willingly.
His disturbing thoughts deepened as the group dismounted and tied their horses up against the branches of nearby trees. The scout led them again, down from the road into the reeking waters. Darius' boot sank into the mire past his heel and the mud below sucked at his foot, forcing him to jerk it free with each step he took. The flies were thicker here, far thicker, and he soon came to realise the reason why.
They pushed through a clump of bedraggled skullshead and came at last to the sight of the slaughter.
The scout had not had the words to describe what had truly happened. Such a display of wanton butchery Darius had never imagined seeing. Heads had been hacked from bodies, limbs torn from torsos, guts pulled from stomachs and tossed around the site like a grim offering. Blood swirled through the waters and gore covered everything. There were more than twenty bodies, and none of them had been spared the brutal mutilation. Most of the faces had been caved in with something heavy and blunt, skulls cracked like eggshells to spill brain matter out into the marsh. He could see the crest of the Southmarsh on the armour some of the corpses wore; they were the escort from the High Keep garrison.
Darius dry-heaved, almost vomited, then managed to keep it down. The scout, who had already seen the massacre, was no longer able to keep down his previous meal. He turned away and retched loudly as he emptied his stomach.
“What manner of demon-spawned monster would do this?” Darius asked, repulsed and disgusted by what he was seeing. He could not imagine any man who might indulge in such atrocities, though he knew that such people existed. “Bandits? Outlaws?”
Gadmar grimaced and leaned in a little closer to study the bodies. He shook his head. “No, not bandits. Look there.”
Darius looked. He could see a severed hand sticking up from the bog. It was coated in congealing blood and two of the fingers had been hacked off. But on a third, he could see the sparkle of a jewelled ring.
“And there.” A necklace of gold and silver was still draped over the gruesome stump of a neck.
“Outlaws would not have left behind those riches,” Gadmar said as he straightened. “This was not the work of a raider band. Even raiders would not be this cruel. This was something else.”
Darius covered his nose and turned away. He pushed back through the skullshead and clambered up onto the road where he hunched over and took several deep breaths. He had seen enough. Gadmar appeared a moment later, flanked by two of his soldiers.
He appeared at first glance to be unmoved by the atrocity in the marsh, but Darius knew that was not so. He could see the flare of his father's nostrils, the gleam in his eye, the twitch of his gloved fingers. He was as disturbed as the rest of them were. Darius could not imagine any man seeing what they just had and not be moved by it.
“What do we do now, father? This is even worse than we could have imagined. When the Tho'reen get wind of this – and they will, we know that – they will not take it well. This was plain butchery, of the most foul kind.”
The delegation would not have been commoners of the empire. He knew enough of Tho'reen custom to understand that the ambassadors sent by the empress would have been pulled from the noble houses. Lesser houses, perhaps, but important people nonetheless. It was even possible that one or more of the bodies back there were distant relatives of the empress. The noble houses were all connected by blood, and had been for centuries, ever since the founding of the Tho'reen empire. They would believe this savagery had been committed by the Kingdom of Losarn, and nothing would convince them otherwise.
“There is nothing we can do other than to send word to the king,” Gadmar said slowly. “And prepare for war.”
Three
Steam swirled up from the hot baths and filled the air of the large, spacious chamber, mixing with the perfumed aroma of spices that had been tipped into the water. Candles arranged around the edges of the pool offered flickering, dull light, and scented flower petals drifted lazily across the surface of the bath water.
Jagir Shuvani Maraat slid her naked, bronzed body into the water and sighed in contentment as the heat settled over her stomach and breasts, infusing her with pleasured satisfaction. She breathed the steam into her lungs and let out a long, slow breath as she stretched out her arms over the sandstone walls of the bath. She closed her eyes, determined to spen
d a moment of relaxation before having to deal with the spy who stood on the stone walkway on the far side of the bath, staring at anything other than the noble woman’s exposed body.
When she felt sufficiently at ease and relaxed, the Jagir opened her eyes once more and looked towards the robed spy with some amusement. He was trembling like a leaf in the wind, and he was sweating in the heavy linens he wore. She had bade him strip before entering, if he had so desired, and the expression on his face as he respectfully declined the invitation had almost brought tears of mirth to her eyes. She had dis-robed while he waited, and walked shamelessly into the baths as wallowed in fearful embarrassment.
Shuvani was a desirable woman, and she knew the effect she had on both men and women alike. Long, thick locks of sumptuous raven-coloured hair adorned her head and flowed over her shoulders like black wine. Her eyes were the finest blue, the colour of the most exquisite of sapphires, and when outlined in dark rouge, there was not a man alive who did not find them enchanting. Her body was like a sculpture, refined and curving in the most pleasing of ways. Her stomach was flat, her breasts full and firm. Her body was bronzed and dusky from the heat of the desert sun. But it was her face that was most pleasing to those who saw her. A sensual, exquisite oval, it seemed to have been carved by the Gods themselves into an aspect that was as close to perfection as a mortal could ever get. Her lips were a delicate bow, alluring, filled with sexual promise. They glistened as though coated with silk.
She used her feminine gifts to her advantage. She held herself with confidence, grace and allure. When she wished it, men were turned into clumsy oafs, bereft of words and falling all over themselves to please her. At other times, she could make an individual feel as though they were at the very centre of the world and the most important person alive. Her body and her charisma had allowed her to rise in status within the empire, to gain prestige and respect, and to attain the power she so craved.