Lord of the Rose (16 page)

The warrior had seconds, at the most, before more tentacles engulfed him. He hurled the ceramic lamp at the bricks just above the carrion crawler’s head. The clay jar broke and the wick flamed the oil. The warrior threw up his hands, shielding himself from the explosive blast of heat as the burning liquid spilled over the front of the monster’s segmented body.

The creature thrashed convulsively, bending and twisting, slashing its tentacles wildly. Hissing and clacking, it churned in the mucky liquid. With the last of his strength the human pushed himself away, his numbed foot a soggy leaden weight. The flames were quickly dying—smothered by the muck.

He collapsed onto the monster’s hard-shelled, twisting body. Spotting a gap between the segments, right above the carrion crawler’s mouth, he reached and drove his long dagger home with a powerful stab. In its dying frenzy the monster whipped its tentacles across the warrior, striking his hand. Bringing his left hand around, he seized the hilt of his knife and wrenched it back and forth, driving it deeper into the monster’s small brain. With a final hiss and a shudder, the carrion crawler died.

The paralysis spread quickly through the human’s body. He used the last of his strength to push himself off the disgusting corpse, tumbling to the sewer floor, onto his back. Moments later he was utterly helpless, though his face was above the ooze.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, but he was fully conscious the whole time—and utterly incapable of moving a muscle. At last he heard someone or something approaching. The water rippled softly, lapping against his cheeks. Though he exerted every shred of his will, he could not turn his head to look around. Instead, he heard the sloshing sounds come closer and closer.

“What you sleep for?” He heard the voice, and allowed himself a small wave of relieve. A second later a strong hand
grabbed his shoulder, pulled him out of the water, and dropped him unceremoniously onto some bricks. He couldn’t see anything but vague shadows in the darkness of the sewer, but he caught a whiff of something that smelled even worse than the rank sewer.

The voice clucked again, critically. “Strange place to take nap. Get eaten, prob’ly—or I not Highbulp of all Caergoth.”

T
he man wore the robes of a duke yet prostrated himself on the floor, face pressed to the paving stones, like the most miserable servant. He bowed before one even greater than himself, one who was his master, his overseer, his lord … his very god.

“O Prince of Lies,” intoned the man. “Weaken mine enemies, who are thine own enemies as well. Make my words your daggers, my desires your will. May the minds of thine enemies be clouded by their own greed, that greed you foster and foment with such mastery.”

The Prince of Lies was Hiddukel, the god of greed and corruption. In this luxuriously appointed chamber he was represented by a merchant’s scale placed on a table, the table draped with a red silk cloth. The scale was broken, one half of the balance lying on the silken covering, the other suspended in the air—mysteriously suspended, for with the broken cross-piece no counterweight was apparent on the other side of the device. The scale seemed nearly to quiver, as if eager, poised, and waiting for some weight of great value to rest upon its gleaming surface.

Now the Nightmaster stepped forward. The high priest was robed from his head to his feet in crimson, rippling cloth. His
face was concealed, his hands folded into the front of his flowing garment. Stopping before the praying man, the Nightmaster looked down and asked the ritual questions.

“Are you truly a devoted servant of our most illustrious prince?” the crimson-robed priest demanded.

“I swear it upon my blood and the blood of all my kin,” replied the lord, lifting his face from the floor.

“Have your efforts earned profit on our lord’s behalf?”

“I have gained treasure, much treasure, for the prince’s altar. This year I have turned two new souls toward his corrupt perfection.” The lord was on his knees now, his posture otherwise rigid.

“How do you prove this to the Prince of Lies—for he knows the falsehood of all words, the deceit of all mortal intentions.”

“I offer my own blood as proof, as sustenance for my lord.” The man did not flinch. He reached up with both hands, tore away his tunic, and bared his pale, nearly hairless chest.

The Nightmaster prayed, head bowed, soft murmurs emerging from the mask of red silk. Finally he spoke aloud. “Your prayer has been heard and accepted.”

One hand emerged from the red silk robe, carrying a short-bladed dagger, a knife with a blade so thin it resembled an icepick. With a sudden, precise stab the priest plunged that blade into the man’s chest, through the flabby flesh and directly into his heart.

The stricken worshiper gasped from the pain, his face growing first slack, then taut. His hands never wavered from their grasp on his garment, pulling the material back, exposing his flesh. The Nightmaster pulled the blade out and reached out his other hand with a golden cup against the wound in the man’s chest.

Blood—crimson, life-giving blood from the heart—poured out of the duke, spurting and swirling into the cup. Its torrent caused the man to sway, though still he bared his skin to the instruments of his religion. In five seconds the vessel was full, and the Nightmaster, who had tucked his dagger back within his
robe, touched the wound and murmured an invocation, a humble plea to the healing power of his dark lord.

The bleeding stopped. The man, still swaying, did not topple. Instead, his expression changed, his grimace fading to a look of exhaustion. His face was pale, chalky white, though it brightened into a beatific smile of pure pleasure. Gently, the man closed his shirt, adjusting the flap of the collar, straightening the creases tucked within his belt.

His eyes opened, and he watched the priest turn toward the broken scale. The Nightmaster set the cup of blood on the solid half of the scale, and under its weight the scale began to shift until the disk of metal lowered to rest upon the red silk. In a flash of smoke it was gone, and in its place were several gleaming coins.

For the first time the worshiper’s expression betrayed a hint of doubt. The Nightmaster took the coins in his hand, counting out three for the kneeling man, keeping the same number for himself. Each was a large disk, pure platinum, engraved with great skill to display the image of a merchant’s scale on one side, and the mingled image of a Crown, a Rose, and a Sword on the other.

“Only three?” the man asked, taking his coins and studying them. He admired the beauty of each but was dismayed by the paltry total. He touched his breast, knuckles whitening as he pressed against the flesh that had, moments ago, been pierced by the steely tool of his lord’s will.

The Nightmaster snorted. “Be grateful for that,” he admonished sternly. “Do you expect him to be pleased that you, who have such great power and influence, a position of command among a mighty order, should have turned but two souls toward his worship in the course of a long year?”

“I must move with care—all depends upon deceit! Even my wife does not know what—”

“Silence!” hissed the priest. The cowl of his hood flared like a cobra’s, and he leaned into the lord, his breath sour with the scent of raw onion. “Take the profits of your trade with our dark
prince or turn your back on him—and know that he will shun you in return!”

“No!” gasped the worshiper, bending double, pressing his face to the floor. “I beg the forgiveness of my prince and of his chosen agent, the Nightmaster. Please—I spoke foolishly, in haste!”

“You are wise. Stubborn, but wise,” said the priest. He stepped to the scale, pulled the silk up from the table to wrap his holy icon. “Comport yourself!” he snapped. “They come for you!”

With a murmured word the Nightmaster vanished, taking his robe, the silken bundle, and the sacred scale with him. The man pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his garments. He turned to the sound of a rap on the door. “Come in!” he barked, his tone again commanding.

His aide opened the door and bowed. “My lord duke,” he said. “They are ready to begin the conference.”

Lady Selinda of Palanthas was already restless and even a little disgusted. The Duke of Caergoth had been busy for the last day, leaving her in the capable but utterly uninteresting care of Sir Marckus and the duchess. The former was a stiff and formal bore, and the latter had apparently exhausted her store of entertaining gossip at the welcoming banquet. Of course, the tour of the goblin dungeon had been diverting, but other than that she was forced to conclude that Caergoth was nearly as dull as Palanthas itself.

Then there was the matter of the other two dukes. Jarrod of Thelgaard and Rathskell of Solanthus had finally arrived in the city after dark, each entering with his entourage through a different gate, going to quarters in a different palace. They would not show themselves to each other, to their host, or to the visiting princess, until protocol had been choreographed down to the precise moment of their simultaneous entry into the conference chamber.

That moment, at last, was here. Selinda sat in a cushioned chair upon a low dais installed along one wall of Castle Caergoth’s great hall. Three hundred knights—exactly equal numbers (of course!) representing the orders of Crown, Sword, and Rose—stood at attention along the walls, and dozens of lesser nobles and ladies, dressed in finery, sat on the floor of the chamber. Trumpeters blared fanfare, and Selinda rose to her feet as doors in all three walls were opened by stewards just at the moment when the braying horns reached their crescendo.

One duke passed through each door. Each had his wife on his arm, each was trailed by exactly five retainers. That number had only been established, Selinda was informed by Lady Martha, after negotiations lasting most of the night. Proceeding with elaborate dignity, the three great lords advanced to their seats, which were equal in grandeur to Selinda’s except they were all on a slightly lower section of dais, all four chairs forming the sides of a square.

Selinda found herself intrigued, in spite of herself, by the appearance of the two tardy lords. Duke Jarrod of Thelgaard was a huge man with a shaggy black mane of hair and a full, flowing beard of the same hue. His beard was divided into two braids, parting to reveal the emblem of the Crown upon his silver breastplate. Despite his girth, there was dignity and purpose in his long strides, and the way he carried himself proved he still boasted greater than average strength. His reputation held him to be a ferocious battle leader, contemptuous of his own safety in pursuit of a foe, and from the look of barely contained fury lurking in his dark countenance the princess had no difficulty believing this. His emblem was a stark banner, a pennant of sheer black displaying the Crown sigil in purest white.

She remembered Martha’s words and wondered if the Duke of Thelgaard had been imbibing. In truth, she could see no sign of any inebriation. His wife was with him, leaning on his arm, an old crone of a woman. Her posture was stooped, as she shuffled along with his support. He was patient, walking slowly, and he
showed surprising tenderness as he escorted her to a chair near his own.