Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2) (4 page)

“They’re running errands. We’re
leaving in the morning. Weather permitting.”

Lady Milena blinked and crossed
her arms. “Tomorrow? The princess wanted to have a banquet for all of you
before you left. I don’t think there’s time to prepare now.”

A banquet? I wonder if Pancras
will delay our departure for a party.
“Tomorrow. That’s the plan,
anyway. I suppose it could change by the time Pancras returns.”

“This seems sudden.” A frown
crept across Lady Milena’s face as she listened to Delilah.

“We have until Spring’s Dawning
to get to Muncifer. We have no mounts, so unless you can magically whisk us
away or are going to give us horses or something, we need to get on the road.
Plus, it’ll be safer the sooner we are out of your hair.” As soon as Delilah
said it, she realized the implications of her insult. She shook her head and
walked toward her bedroom.

“As you wish. I will inform the
princess.” If Lady Milena took offense from Delilah’s words, she gave no
indication of it. “I’ll see what we can do about arranging mounts for you,
though I must caution you not to have high hopes. Almeria’s liveries are tight
fisted.”

Delilah paused, expecting Lady
Milena would follow her. The knight left their chambers instead, pulling the
doors shut in her wake. Delilah peeked into the parlor to ensure she was really
gone. “Well, Deli-girl. Pancras would’ve dealt with that differently, probably,
but he’s not here, right?”

Chapter 3

Now that the day of departure was
upon them and the chilly breeze served as a grim reminder that winter may yet
have a few more statements to make, Pancras wasn’t so sure he wanted to return
to the road. Guards watched over their possessions at the palace gates while
the minotaur, draks, and dwarf said their farewells to the princess.

Princess Valene sat on the throne
formerly occupied by her husband. Resplendent in a shimmering, green gown, she
observed as Pancras led the draks and Edric across the throne room. A tight
braid of her ebony hair fell across her shoulder, dangling between her arm and
her body. Lady Milena stood in a relaxed stance to one side, two steps down
from the top of the throne’s dais. Guards, garbed in the tabards of the new
regime, were posted on either side of the platform and flanked each door
leading into the throne room.

Flexing his withered hand,
Pancras became aware of how loudly his new leather gauntlet creaked in contrast
to the relative silence of the throne room. He disliked gloves and other
apparel that covered his forearms and hands, but he preferred the gauntlet over
having a constant visual reminder that whatever returned him to life exacted a
horrible price on his body, a toll he was not entirely certain was paid.

The princess tilted her head
toward the group approaching her throne. Pancras stopped and bowed before her,
gesturing with his good hand for the draks and Edric to follow suit. “It is
time for us to depart and continue our journey, Your Highness. We are eternally
grateful for your hospitality and grace.” The words felt awkward on the
minotaur’s tongue. Although Sarvesh disliked such platitudes, despite being the
ruler of Drak-Anor, Pancras understood humans tended to appreciate such
niceties.

“So Lady Milena tells me.” The
princess nodded at the knight standing by her side. “Pity we had no time to
prepare a farewell feast for you.”

Pancras’s stomach grumbled at the
mention of food. “My apologies, but I fear if we do not depart immediately,
I’ll lose my nerve and delay our departure until reaching Muncifer on time is
impossible.”

“I understand.” The princess
gestured, and Lady Milena stepped forward to present Pancras with a piece of
rolled-up parchment. “I have arranged a team of horses and wagon for you.
Present this at the livery outside the city gates. If you stick to the roads,
it should speed your journey.”

Pancras bowed again. “You have
our thanks.” He turned, but he stopped and addressed the princess one final
time. “May Anetha grant you the wisdom to enjoy a long, prosperous rule.”

“You will be welcome guests any
time you come to Almeria. May Dolios watch over your journey.”

As Pancras bowed and exited the
throne room, he reflected with dismay that Dolios was not only the god of
travel, but also of luck, both good and bad.

* * *

Kale reached under his hat and
scratched his head as he circled the wagon and team of horses Princess Valene
provided for them. The chestnut-colored horses clomped toward him, stomping and
snorting, their breath plumes of smoke in the cold morning air. Edric grunted
as he climbed onto the bench at the front of the wagon. His stubby legs kicked
as he struggled to maintain balance while reaching down to grab the reins.

“You know how to drive one of
these?” Pancras regarded Edric as he offered Delilah a hand to help her into
the wagon. Kali boosted Delilah up, even as the sorceress tried to brush away
the other drak’s helping hands. She grabbed onto one of the wooden rails that
arced over the bed of the wagon. A canvas cover was rolled up and secured to
one side of the bed, intended for use as protection during foul weather. Kale
hoped they’d seen the last of rain or snow for a while, but the puffy,
rain-laden clouds drifting overhead threatened to dash those hopes.

“Sure. My sister used to have
one, though hers was drawn by a mule instead of two horses. She ditched it when
the wheel broke, but she kept the mule. I might be rusty, but I think it’ll
come back to me.”

Pancras offered a hand to help
Kali into the wagon. Kale gave her a boost and then passed their belongings up
to be stowed away. He had doubts about Edric’s ability, given that the dwarf’s
feet dangled in the air above the floorboard, but he kept his misgivings to
himself.

“Up here, Longshanks.” Edric
patted the bench next to him as he eyed Pancras. “I’m going to need your long
arms and legs until we can modify this thing to fit me better.”

After Pancras helped Kale up and into
the back of the wagon, he took his place up front next to Edric. The wagon
lurched forward as Edric cracked his whip. Unprepared for such a jolt, Kale
fell backward and grasped at the rails for support. Kali grabbed his arm and
helped him as he righted himself.

She glanced toward the front of
the wagon. “I still think we should detour to my village and see about getting
some proper mounts for the rest of us.”

Pancras looked over his shoulder
at her and nodded. “Agreed. We’ll move faster on separate mounts, and we’re
traveling light enough that this wagon is overkill. What’s our route, Kali?”

Kali clambered past the drak
twins and stood at the front of the wagon. Her head barely came to Pancras’s
shoulder as she stuck her snout in between the dwarf and the minotaur. “Turn
south where the road splits. There should be a marked trail branching off from
that after a ways that leads back toward Almeria. It cuts through some farms
outside the south side of the city. We’ll have to stay on the trail overnight,
but we should reach Honeywater by tomorrow night.”

“Honeywater? That’s the name of
your village?” Delilah snorted. “Home of the Firescale draks?”

Kali glared at the laughing
sorceress. “There’s a lake and lots of beehives.” She turned to watch the road
and lowered her voice. “At least there were before the humans started enslaving
us. The lake is still there, but few tend the hives these days.”

Kale elbowed his sister in the
ribs. She clicked her teeth. “What?”

“Lay off, huh?”

Delilah leaned toward her brother,
her voice a hissing whisper. “It’s a stupid name!”

“No stupider than ‘Twilight
Dungeon.’ Who lives in a dungeon? You live in a place like that, and you’re
asking for people to start trouble!” Kale had years to think about it.
Drak-Anor was a much more respectable name. It even meant “Home of the Draks.”
He liked to think he and Delilah contributed to Sarvesh’s suggestion of that
name.

Delilah huffed and crossed her
arms over her chest, scowling at Kale. “Yeah, well, you’re not wrong about
that, but you’re still wrong!” She huffed again, pulling her grimoire from her
pack.

Smiling, Kale slapped her knee
and then shifted in his seat to gaze at Almeria. As the wagon bounced along the
road, Kali’s voice droned on, regaling Edric and Pancras with stories about
Honeywater.

* * *

Gisella adjusted her grip on her
spear as she pushed her prisoner forward. Like most Watchfolk, she possessed a
sword, an heirloom from her father, but she preferred to keep her quarry at
length. He stumbled, but he remained upright, defiant. With the butt of her
spear, she whacked him on the back of his knees, causing him to fall prone. In
the Court of Wizardry, defiance was not tolerated from any prisoners when
facing the archmage. Gisella sighed.
Archmage. What a pompous git.
The
court’s guards stood at attention, hands resting on their swords, ready to leap
into action if the prisoner showed any signs of aggression.

The Archmage, Vilkan Icebreaker,
The Manless, was a hulking man of great girth and vicious temperament. He
tugged at his beard as he stood, and then he swept the wrinkled folds of his
gold-trimmed blue robe to the side with a wide motion of his arms. The high wizards
of the court looked on as he descended the steps, their masked faces concealing
their contempt. Only the body language of those clothed in colored robes belied
their silent approval. Their attitude was a matter of great debate among the
lesser peoples of the court. Many said their disapproval was for The Manless
himself, though Gisella believed they were disdainful of all who were not high
wizards, but especially of The Manless since he ascended to the position of
archmage and was not himself a high wizard.

Politics of court did not concern
Gisella, however. As one of the court’s slayers, she was tasked with glorious
purpose: to track down and bring to justice those branded renegades by the
court, such as the man she brought before them today. Alik Ironstaff was a
mewling worm in the best of times, in her opinion. Nevertheless, seeing him
receive his due and likely being the one to carry out his punishment brought no
pleasure.

Alik prostrated himself before
Archmage Vilkan. “Great merciful one, I beg you. This”—he cast a glance over
his shoulder at Gisella—“this golden harpy has accused me unjustly. I’ve done
nothing wrong.”

“Nothing? Ha!” The archmage
grabbed Alik by his throat and lifted the man to his feet. “Who do you think
sent her after you? The slayers do nothing without my leave. Especially the
Golden Slayer.”

Gisella observed in stony
silence.
Oh, what you do not know, Manless.

“I am—innocent—” Alik’s protest
turned into a choking cough as the archmage tightened his grip.

He threw the squirming man to the
floor. “Innocent? Not one among us is innocent. And you”—he thrust his pudgy
finger into Alik’s face—“you left my sister with a child. A child who killed
her from within!”

Alik splayed his hands on the
floor, spreading his arms as far as his shackles would allow. “It is no crime
to love!”

Gisella’s eyes flicked toward the
archmage and then down at Alik. She was not aware of Alik’s exact crime until
this moment, though it made little difference to her. She was bound to obey the
court’s edicts, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter.

For now.

Archmage Vilkan eyed Gisella and
drew his finger across his throat. He spun, the hem of his robe sweeping over
Alik’s prone form. Frowning, Gisella stepped forward. She lunged and thrust her
spear into Alik’s back, twisting it as she pushed forward, stopping only when
she felt the tip of her spear hit the stone floor. Alik cried out and squirmed,
but she held fast, planting her boot on his backside for support. She yanked,
and, with a spray of blood, pulled the broad tip out. He twitched for a moment
on the floor. Then he lay still.

Taking his seat, the archmage
regarded his dour-faced comrades and then nodded at Gisella. “Reliable as
always. Have you anything to add to the proceedings?”

Always the same.
“Nothing, Archmage. If there is nothing else, I have other business to which I
must attend.”

Archmage Vilkan’s face twisted
into a scowl. “Yes, of course. There is nothing further today, then. I may have
something for you tomorrow.” He gestured for the guards to dispose of Alik.

Gisella wasted no time exiting
the court. When she was beyond the chamber doors, she removed her helmet and
tucked it under her arm. She rested her spear in the crook of the same arm as
she loosened her hair, allowing her golden tresses freedom to fall around her
shoulders. A fellow slayer, Grímar Blackthorne eyed her, fingering the moon
pendant around his neck.

“Always a pleasure to see the
Golden Slayer release her treasured locks.”

Grímar, Gisella, and Archmage
Vilkan were all Watchfolk: hardy people from the frozen lands beyond the Iron
Gate Mountains to the south of Muncifer, which comprised the Four Watches.
Gisella considered Grímar a friend and comrade, however, unlike Archmage
Vilkan.

“Vilkan was in a poor state of
mind today. Your doing?” She took up her spear and continued her walk. Grímar
fell in step beside her. They crossed the courtyard toward a small,
half-timbered building. Smoke drifted up from its dual chimneys. The Blood Oak
stretched its bare arms across the courtyard, winter having stolen its leaves.
Soon, it would be alive with new foliage, shading the courtyard with its
building-spanning canopy.

“I had nothing to do with it.”

She bumped into him as they
walked. “I find that hard to believe.”

They turned into the compound’s
tavern. After ordering tankards of mead from the barman, they found an
unoccupied long table. Grímar smacked his lips after a long draft and seated
himself. “There are dark rumors flying. Have you heard?”

There were always rumors. They
were always dark. They always portended doom and destruction. Folk in Muncifer
seemed to have little to gossip about except the Court of Wizardry and their
superstitions.

“I try to pay them little mind.
What is it this time? An army of giants about to descend from the mountains to
pillage Muncifer? A dragon, perhaps? Like the one spotted up north near, where
was it? Ironslag?”

“Ironkrag.” Grímar laughed. “No,
though I have heard the one about the giants. Unrest in the cemeteries up
north. Mad Magda says a shadow reaches from the mountains to Vlorey, the shadow
of the Lich Queen’s withered old hand.”