Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (36 page)

He felt a sudden pain in his chest. He pulled his tunic aside and felt a burning sensation where the amulet, gifted to him by Djangra Roe, was touching his exposed skin. His mind cleared. “I know you,” he said to the girl, noticing for the first time the eye tattooed on her forehead. Somehow the blood on the floor had smeared her body, as if she’d been rolling in it. He realised then that more than blood had spilled from the broken jug. There were three heads lying on the floor, pained expressions etched on their faces. He looked at the blank eyes and open mouth of Horace the tracker and shivered. “Witch!” he cried while pointing accusingly at the naked girl. She just smiled, her cheeks painted red with blood.

Suddenly she leapt at him with a sharp piece of pottery. She slashed a line across his cheek with the broken shard, drawing blood. He hit her hard with the back of his hand, pushing her away and knocking her to the floor.

“Come, lord. Take me now,” she said while laughing. She lay on her back in the spilled blood, with her arms stretched out either side of her.

He still wanted her… even more so. “Curse you and your spells,” he snarled, fighting hard to resist the temptation to join her on the floor and take her while sliding in the blood of his warriors. Desire and disgust warred inside him.

The smile suddenly dropped from her face. “You desecrated my temple. I will haunt you forever,” she said. Her face turned into a hideous bestial mask as she launched up from the floor and flew at him.

He closed his eyes and flung his hands up before him, bracing for an impact. None came. When he opened his eyes the bright orange flames of the campfire flickered before him. “Mage!” he bellowed as he tore the amulet from around his neck and flung it in the fire. “Mage! Find me that witch!”

Tomas: Temple of Eor, wild lands of Alka-Roha

T
omas watched from behind the thin veil of a gauze curtain as the dream-witch caressed Aliss’ snow-white hair. He could see his wife swaying as if she were caught between the dream and waking worlds. Both women were dressed in similar pale-cream silk shifts. The words of the priestess drifted towards him as a musky aroma of incense made him light-headed.

“See how your eyes change with your emotions,” the priestess purred, as she stared into Aliss’ stormy, grey eyes. “Truly they are windows to your soul.”

Tomas had barely had time to think about his actions. Horace’s face, twisted in agony, flashed into his mind. He had killed the tracker, but Normand’s men had killed Joshan. Grief flooded his senses again when he pictured the old priest. In truth his mind had felt clouded ever since, as if he was seeing everything from behind a silk curtain. Elandrial had told him she had been waiting on him. Did he believe her? Did he not have the tip of his sword at her throat at the time? Perhaps she would have said anything to save her life. More importantly though, she had said she could lift the curse afflicting Aliss. If it were possible that she could remove the taint of dark magic... well then he cared not what yarns she would spin.

“I know what you need,” the dream-witch leaned in closer to Aliss until her lips brushed her cheek. Aliss appeared unresponsive. Tomas’s mind suddenly became alert when he saw a thin-bladed dagger in Elandrial’s hand. He took a step forward but stopped when the priestess dragged the blade across her own palm and flung the knife onto the floor. “This will sustain you for now,” she said and brought her hand up to Aliss’ lips.

Tomas watched in horrified fascination as his woman greedily drank the dream-witch’s blood from the open wound. Elandrial threw her head back. Tomas could see her eyes smouldering in ecstasy. The eerily realistic tattoo on her forehead remained unblinking, as if it remained ever watchful. She then turned her emerald gaze on him. Their eyes locked.

“We three complete a circle. A witch and a king joined with me.” Her lips parted in a smile.

“I’m no king,” Tomas answered.

“I could make you a king,” Elandrial smiled before taking a silver goblet from a nearby table. A drop of wine rolled down her chin when she took the cup away, reminding Tomas of Aliss’ blood-covered lips. “When we return to the mountains I will make you a king, and Aliss a queen.”

“I have no desire to be a king, only for you to lift the curse the old witch put on Aliss, and to find and kill the mage Djangra Roe.”

“Both of these things I have promised you, and I shall live up to those promises. But first you will lead my army and together we will take back what was stolen from me.”

“Army?” Tomas’s eyebrows rose.

“When we return to Eorotia the people of the mountain will rise up and join with my warriors who have travelled from the far south.”

“The hooded tribesmen?”

“Disciples of Eor.”

“I know nothing about leading armies. I’m a blacksmith and onetime common soldier, nothing more.”

“There is one who comes who will help us all fulfil our destinies.” Elandrial’s eyes widened as her words tumbled out with fervour. “He who has transcended the boundaries that could not be crossed. He who has the power of life and death in his hand. He who has the power to wake a god from slumber. They call him the Shadow Mage.”

He turned away then, from her to Aliss. His woman lay on the silk-covered bed with her back to him. He put his hand on her shoulder, only for her to move away. “Aliss,” he whispered into her ear, so close to her that he could feel the heat rising from her body.

“Prepare yourselves. We will ride the moment he arrives.” She swept out of the chamber then, leaving Tomas alone with Aliss.

“You should have told me.” She turned to face him.

“I know. I couldn’t.” Tomas’s eyes slid away from her and dropped to the floor.

“An innocent life was taken that I could live.” Tears fell from her eyes. “I would never have agreed.”

“I know,” his words cracked even as he tried to speak them. “The decision was mine. I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You have set us both on a dark path, Tomas. I’m not sure if we can step aside.”

“She.” He indicated Elandrial with a nod of his head at the door the dream-witch had just left through. “She can help us.”

“How many lives have we taken since you carried me from the flames? How many more must we take? I never wanted any of this. It would have been better if you’d left me to burn.”

“No! Don’t speak such words. Never!” He grabbed her shoulders then, looking into the swirling grey clouds of her eyes, and pulled her into his chest. “Joshan took me in when my father died. The man who had raised me from a child and taught me his trade had left me alone. I have no memory of my mother. In truth, the one who I always felt more akin to was Brother Joshan. If anyone could lay claim to that role it was him.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Aliss asked.

“Don’t you see? I have no idea who I am. Joshan was like a father to me. Now he’s dead too. All my life I’ve been passed from one post to another. It doesn’t matter who I am, or who I was.”

“I know who you are,” Aliss answered, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

“You are, and forever will be, my husband. My loyal, fierce man.”

“That’s all I ever want to be,” he answered.

“How did we end up here?”

Tomas could see tears pooling in her eyes. He had no answer for her.

***

Elandrial took in the fat man seated before her and the huge Nortman standing behind him with a long stare, before blinking long, dark lashes. She regarded the big warrior with curiosity. “That one has no emotion,” she said, looking into his eyes.

“You’ll not find his dreams a welcoming place for you,” the fat nobleman said, a smile parting his thick lips.

“No, I think not,” she agreed. Although the appearance of the man before her had changed utterly from the last time she saw him, she could sense the power behind the façade. This was the Shadow Mage, so called because of both his ability to steal and discard the identities of other men, and more importantly, because of his mythic status. His name was whispered in fear by those who had heard the tales of him. Very few believed he even existed. “This is not the most pleasing form I’ve seen you take,” she said.

“It will suffice for now.” He shrugged. “You have acquired some new playmates since last we met.”

“They will be of use to us when the time comes.”

“Do not play games, Elandrial. Not now, when we are so close. Is he strong?”

Memories of glimpses caught of a toned, hard body made her smile. “Strong enough.”

“Perhaps I should take a new form. The one I currently have has… limitations.”

“No!” Elandrial gasped. “That one is not for you. You will have a powerful host soon enough.”

“And the witch. Is she powerful?” he asked.

“She has raw talent, but it is growing. I can feel it dripping from her, wild and unharnessed.” The priestess’s lips curled into a smile.

The fat man frowned, reading her smile. “Make whatever witch’s magic you like, Elandrial, but be wary of that one. It is no easy thing to escape the realm of the dead. And what do you think he will do when he discovers that you are leeching her power, that she will be ultimately left an empty husk?”

“Let me worry about a blacksmith and a village girl. I have told him he will lead my army. Every man wants to believe he has greatness in him.”

“Play your games, Elandrial, just remember, you promised me the duke, he must be taken alive.”

“Once you have crushed his spirit you will become the Dragon Lord and together we will bask in the greatness of Eor.”

The fat man smiled then, a hungry sneer creeping across his face. “I will help you raise your god and pray you have eternal happiness together. But I have debts to repay, and will use the power and influence of a duke to bring vengeance to mine own enemies and his line.”

“We’re all after something.” She glanced into the hooded eyes of the Nortman, sensing no life there at all, and shivered.

Jarl Crawulf: Wind Isle

“L
eave us,” Crawulf instructed, as his warriors dripped rain water onto the stone floor of the great hall. The long benches were full of half-eaten meals and unfinished tankards of ale and mead. “You too,” he said to the giant warrior Rothgar, his words brooking no argument. When the hall was empty he turned to the small figure huddled by the fire. Her hair hung in wet strands as she shivered beneath a heavy woollen cloak. She looked tiny, frail and vulnerable. She looked up at him then with her brown eyes, her pitiful expression making him bite back the angry words he was of a mind to unleash.

“I’m sorry.” Words spilled out in a whisper, before she looked away and into the fire.

“You’re sorry? Men are still out there, scouring the island looking for you. Not the best of nights for an aimless ride into the countryside,” he answered. A muscle in his cheek twitched.

“I had a dream…” she answered by way of explanation.

“So have your girl fetch you some warm milk. You do not ride out into a storm, such as the one raging beyond these walls, alone,” Crawulf snarled.

“I had a dream,” she continued, her words barely audible, “only a seer would know the meaning of. I needed to speak with Maolach.”

“By the gods’ crusty beards, girl, I will never understand you. Are all women just so…?”

“My lord?” She raised her eyes again.

“Unfathomable.” He shook his head and sat on a wooden stool opposite her. Her eyes followed him.

“When I was a little girl, my father told me a story. A story that scared me then and still scares me today. It was about his grandfather who had been emperor many years before. His name was Hahmed-Tor. Many call him Hahmed the Great. He was a warrior emperor and expanded the empire greatly during his reign. He had a trusted advisor… his most trusted, a mage called Harren Suilomon. Some even said that Suilomon was the real reason behind my grandfather’s power. Many times, often on the eve of battle, his enemies would mysteriously fall ill or die. Sometimes their hearts would turn and they would bend the knee to the emperor when it seemed most unlikely they would ever submit. It was said that he used dark magic to influence those he could and kill those he could not.

“Unfortunately for Suilomon, my grandfather was a jealous man and not very trusting. When no heir was born to the emperor and his wives, or his concubines—each pregnancy ending with the death of the unborn—a rumour began that the mage had laid a curse on him, that his line would end after his death.

“My grandfather sentenced him to death and ordered the entire city to witness the execution. A huge pyre was built on the steps of the great temple in Alcraz, and there Suilomon was burned. Even as his flesh melted from his bones he shouted out curses, swearing vengeance on Hahmed-Tor and all his line.” Rosinnio paused then and looked into Crawulf’s eyes.

“The existence of your father and subsequently you is proof of the mage’s guilt, is it not? I mean, at least one of the women bore your grandfather a child after the death of the mage.”

“Yes, it’s true. He went on to sire many children afterwards. Perhaps this does prove Suilomon’s guilt and that he had designs on the throne for himself.”

“A fine fireside tale for a night such as this,” Crawulf said, “but it does not explain why you forced me to send out half my men in the middle of the night to search for you.”

“I am daughter to the Emperor of Sunsai. It is my duty to obey my emperor and father in all that he bids me do. If my father wishes to form an alliance with a far-off kingdom and I am to be the glue to bind that agreement then I will honour that duty. But my father did not send me to you in order to form a union between you and he. He sent me here because he could think of no where farther away for me to go.” Rosinnio paused to wait for Crawulf’s reaction. When none came a realisation dawned on her. “You knew!” she gasped.

“Aye… well, when the emperor of the most powerful empire this side of the setting sun asks you a favour, and that boon is to take his daughter in wedlock, it is always well to accept such a proposal.”