The Balborite Curse (Book 4) (12 page)

The ground in Sut-Burr was blanketed in snow. A sticky, thick powder had fallen the night before, followed by a sleeting rain that made the surface as slick as grease. The hills were gleaming white and the trees glittered with icicles.

An ornate slaver
’s coach crawled slowly along the road, its wheels slithering back and forth. The rain had turned the road into a quagmire of mud and ice. It was dark when the coach finally reached the outer walls of Druknor’s fortress.

In the gathering twilight, the air grew colder. There was a dead stillness in the air here. No birds or animals could be heard. Only the sound of the wind accompanied the party as they approached the keep. There were no trees for leagues, either—they had been cleared long ago, leaving only a vast plain of snow and ice, so there was no cover for anyone on foot, and no obvious place to hide. The lay of the land was such that the only way to approach the fortress was via a single, twisted road.

Four men accompanied the coach on foot, one man following behind each tire. Heavy fur parkas kept the men warm, despite the freezing temperatures. Their clothing was caked with blood and filth, evidence of an animal hunt along the way. The carcass of a half-eaten seal was tied to the back of the coach with ropes. Every few hours, the men sliced a chunk of frozen meat to chew as they walked.

The coach rarely stopped, even during the night, and they had been traveling for several days. The exhausted men plodded on, knowing they would not rest until they reached the safety of their master’s keep. The men all knew that their passenger had no need of additional security.

Scattered moonlight reflected off the walls of the fortress, built entirely of white stone. From a distance, the keep looked almost invisible, its walls melting into the snowy landscape. There was only a white gleam; the snow surrounded the fortress like layers of cotton upon the plain.

At first glance, there didn’t appear to be any guards on duty. But the doors creaked open, and the coach moved forward into the ivory fortress.

Despite the cold, people milled around outside, engaged in various activities. Inside the doors, three men were butchering a large animal. The men paused for a moment to watch the coach come through the doors, but they quickly resumed their work. Even in terrible weather, the workers were accustomed to watching people come and go, and it was best not appear too curious.

The gates shut behind the coach, and the four men in dirty parkas melted away silently, going directly to their quarters. Their charge had arrived safely, and their task was over.

The coach was dirty, covered with mud from the roads, and the horses were spent. Attendants materialized immediately, jumping forward to clean and prepare the coach for its next use.

A footman, smartly dressed and enormously fat, waddled up to the door with an umbrella. He placed a stool by the coach door and opened it with flourish, extending his hand to the woman inside. “Greetings, my lady!” said the footman. “I am Annat, Duke Theoric’s personal assistant. Welcome to our glorious keep!” Annat bowed so deeply that his beard touched the ground.

A hooded figure stepped out of the coach and into the moonlight, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand. Annat retracted his hand awkwardly, but continued to smile. Druknor has yet
another
lady caller this week, he thought.

Druknor was charming and wealthy, so despite his advancing age, he never had any difficulty attracting women.

“Take me to Druknor now,” the figure said hoarsely. It was a woman’s voice, but deep and menacing.

“Of course, my lady! Of course!” said Annat, with forced cheerfulness. She hissed, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. This woman’s behavior seemed extremely peculiar. “Ah… my lady, it’s my pleasure to accompany you to the duke’s home; please follow me.” He bowed again; this time, he tried sneaking a glimpse under the woman’s hood, but her face was cloaked in shadow.

Annat hummed while he walked, leading the woman toward a huge black edifice in the center of the keep. Druknor’s home looked like a miniature castle, its spires rising up to the sky. The building itself was smaller than a cathedral, and had been constructed without any windows.

Roaming freely about the fortress were Druknor’s prized sled dogs, enormous wolf hybrids, bred to thrive in the harsh conditions of the Frigid Waste. Trained to attack on command, the dogs could kill a grown man in seconds.

A man in a brown uniform walked around, gathering up dog excrement in a wooden bucket. When the bucket was almost overflowing, he walked over to a sealed bin and dumped the collected waste inside. He then turned a crank for several minutes before moving to gather more excrement. The hooded woman paused, pointing a gloved finger at the bin. A lamp jutted from the side of it, lighting the street in both directions. “What is this device?”

“This, my lady, is a
marvel
of
science
!
” Annat cried gleefully. “It’s an outdoor lamp, powered entirely by dog waste. The duke discovered this science himself. Animal droppings give off a special type of gas, which can be harnessed. Every day, we gather the animal droppings, and then place it into these special bins throughout the fortress. The waste is mixed with an oil that doesn’t freeze, and the bins are insulated from the cold. The smell is somewhat unpleasant, but the waste powers several lamps throughout the compound. They illuminate the paths without using lamp oil, which is much more expensive.”

The woman nodded slowly. She seemed intrigued, but did not ask any additional questions. Instead, she turned and continued toward the little black castle. Annat jogged alongside her, struggling to keep up with her long paces. Once they arrived at the entrance, Annat rushed up the steps to open the door.

“My lady, refreshments are being prepared for you. Do you wish to bathe and freshen your appearance before your audience with the duke?”

“No,” she said coldly. Her voice sounded distant, as though she were speaking through a tube.

“Ah, I beg your pardon, my lady,” Annat laughed nervously. “I meant no offense! You are lovely just the way you are.”

The woman stepped past him, reaching for the door handle, but Annat placed his hand over hers. The woman yanked her hand back as if burned. “Please, my lady, allow me to escort you inside. The duke doesn’t allow unchaperoned visitors inside his home.”

“You
dare
touch me!
” In sudden fury, she shoved him aside.

Annat gasped and stumbled back, shocked by her strength. Shocked—and afraid.

But he had a job to do, so he reached for the door handle again. She began to growl, like an animal. Then she spun around, grabbing him by the throat. Her grip was like steel, and the man’s feet lifted off the ground. She squeezed. Hard.

Annat screamed and clawed at her hands. She released him suddenly, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The color returned to his cheeks.

“Touch me again, you mainlander filth… and I’ll break your neck.” When he turned his face up, he caught a glimpse of her tattooed face.

“No! It can’t be!” he blinked uncomprehendingly and fell backwards, plummeting down the stairs. He rolled like a barrel until he crashed to the bottom, cracking his forehead on the last step.

Blood ran down his forehead into his eye. Annat groaned, touching his injured face, but he did not stand up. Instead, he remained trembling at the foot of the stairs. The woman spat at him and disappeared inside the building, leaving Annat in the mud. He sat in the rain for several minutes before realizing that he had soiled himself.

The woman stepped inside, closing the doors behind her. She raised a glowing finger, touching the lock.
“Lresa-fastr,”
she whispered, and the lock clicked behind her.

A fire burned on both sides of a large entryway. The entire space felt warm, despite the wind howling outside. Two tattooed guards stood inside the doors, but they made no attempt to stop her.

“Follow the green carpet, my lady,” one of them said, “it shall take you directly to Druknor’s waiting room.” These men recognized her, and they bowed deeply in respect. The woman nodded, acknowledging them briefly. These men did not answer to Druknor—they had been sent here in advance of her arrival. Like her, these men were Balborites, and they served the temple.

Initially, Druknor had resisted their presence, but there was little he could do. The priests of Balbor exercised their authority, and Druknor was forced to obey.

She stepped forward, following the green carpet down a twisting hallway. The runner ended inside a small antechamber, luxuriously decorated with paintings and tapestries, but no chairs.

Anyone waiting for an audience with Druknor was forced to stand. But she wasn’t a normal visitor, and Druknor couldn’t force her to wait. She moved to the right side of the room and pulled aside one of the tapestries, revealing a wooden door. The bolt was a simple thing; she muttered a swift spell and the lock clicked.

The door swung open, and she stepped into a private chamber. This room was lavish compared to the rest of the keep. The floor was carpeted with expensive rugs. The floor tiles were polished granite, edged with gold. Ornate drapes lined the walls, embroidered with vivid hunting scenes. In each scene, Druknor was portrayed as a hunter, bringing down ever-larger prey. In the final image, Druknor was slaying a dragon, his boot heel resting proudly on the dragon’s head.

“You’re a fool for keeping that tapestry up, Druknor. With the dragon riders back in power, such an image would be considered treasonous.”

“The riders do not frighten me,” said a male voice from the shadows. Druknor sat quietly in the semi-darkness, surveying the room from an ornate chair.

She heard the growl of Druknor’s personal attack dogs, two enormous silverback males. These two were his favorites, and they were always at Druknor’s side. Their fiery eyes shone in the darkness. The dogs stood up and growled menacingly.

“Call them off, Druknor, unless you want to add two more rugs to your collection.”

Druknor whistled and the dogs quieted down, scuttling to the foot of his chair.

“Welcome, my dear. I’m pleased to see you made it.” Druknor was stout and thickly set, his arms coated in muscle. In his late fifties, he still looked youthful, his oiled black hair showing only a hint of gray at the temples. He had never been a handsome man, but that didn’t stop the constant flow of women to his bed, from servants to nobles, all trying to curry the favor of a man who was powerful and rich. “How was your trip?”

“Tedious,” she said, in a voice without emotion.

“Yes, well… I suggested you travel by water. Why not take a ship through the Straights of Tirat? It’s more pleasant than traveling through orc territory, especially on foot.”

“No one in their right mind would risk sailing past the elvish lands, even at night. I’ll take my chances with the orcs.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way. In any case, you’re here now. This is my chamberlain, Lessim. He will take your belongings.”

A bent old man stepped forward and held out his hands. A thin tuft of white hair circled his head. His face and neck were so covered in liver spots that his skin looked diseased.

The woman handed him her rucksack with a warning: “Take it—but if you value your life, do not touch anything inside.” Lessim frowned and took the bag, carrying it into the adjoining room before returning to stand behind Druknor’s chair.

“Were you delayed?” asked Druknor lightly. He plucked a grape from a dish on a nearby table. “I expected you several days ago.”

“I was delayed by a heavy blizzard, but I managed. It caused a lot of nuisance and I lost valuable time. Your travel advice was faulty.”

“I gave you my best coach and finest guardsmen,” said Druknor. “Those men have accompanied hundreds of caravans through the Waste.”

“It was a mistake to travel through the Frigid Waste, Druknor. The snow fell without cease, and it slowed my passage. In fact, I very much feel that you were purposely trying to sabotage my journey.”

Druknor spread his arms apologetically. “Tut, tut, my dear! Be reasonable! How could I have known about the snowstorm? Only the gods can predict the weather, and I am just a man!”

“Had I traveled alone, I would have arrived faster. Everwood Forest is safe enough. You can be sure I won't make the same mistake again.”

“I gave you the best route. The roads through Everwood Forest pass dangerously close to Miklagard. Must I remind you what the High Council does to Balborite assassins once they’re captured? The Frigid Waste is the best route, and it was better that you travel accompanied. My men would have defended you against any attackers.”

“Of all people, you should know that I have no need of protection, especially by common slaves.”

“Common slaves? Those four men are my best trackers!” His lips curled into a vicious smirk. “Plus, that’s a terribly ironic statement, coming from you… were you not once a slave yourself?”

She clenched her fist, seething at the insult. “Are you
mocking
me, Druknor?
” She flipped back her cowl to reveal her face. The chamberlain’s face paled, and he staggered forward.