The Sword and the Sorcerer (8 page)

“Why do we stop here, General?”

“I have a debt to pay.”

“But King Lonbosha awaits us in Malodon.”

“He can wait.”

Determination was like steel in his eyes.

Ishmael, whose lust for sensual pleasures was a standing joke among the men, now addressed Talon. “I think it’s a good idea. I’m hungry.”

Talon smiled. “For what, Ishmael—food or women?”

The mercenaries laughed.

“Both, my lord.”

“We have only enough silver for one or the other.” He kicked the flanks of his steed and began to trot along the road leading through the open gate into the city, his men close behind him.

“Make your choice, men,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Each of us is allowed but one lust tonight!”

The closer they rode to the city the more grisly signs of Cromwell’s tyranny they saw.

Off the road to their left was a partially burned down thatch cottage with a wooden sign on a stake in the scorched earth, reading
DEATH TO ANYONE WHO MALIGNS CROMWELL
’
S NAME
!

A little later an emaciated boy of ten years or so, dressed in rags, ran out of the bushes and tried to keep pace with Talon’s slowly moving horse. “Please, sire! Food or a coin for food—please!”

Grim, Talon tossed the boy several silver coins and pressed on. His men had never seen him in such a solemn and dangerous frame of mind.

As they wound round a bend in the road they heard a strange, creaking noise. Seconds later they saw the macabre source of the creaking. A peasant and what looked like his son dangled from a rope tied to a tree, their necks broken, their faces frozen forever in contortions of pain. At the foot of the tree were the hideously mutilated carcasses of what must be the wife and daughter of the man swinging from the tree.

Afraid that if he lingered before this repulsive sight he might show more emotion than he wished to in front of his men, Talon galloped forward, slowing down when he heard his men thundering after him.

“I heard this is the way things go in Elysium these days,” Ishmael dourly remarked when he caught up with him.

Darius, riding on the other side of him, asked, “Did you ever see Elysium in its prime, Talon?”

“Yes,” Talon gloomily replied.

“Was it a happy place?”

“Oh yes!”

In remembering happier times, for a fleeting moment the fierce warrior looked like a little boy.

Moving furtively out of the sunlight into the thick shadows of a waterfront street was another grim young man—not as large and handsome as Talon, perhaps, but every bit as fearless and thirsty for Cromwell’s blood.

Though he tried to hide his identity in the voluminous folds of his cloak and cowl, he had no way of knowing that his identity was already known to the six soldiers who stealthily trailed him, no more than a dozen or so stone abodes away. Although the sun gleamed like a shield of gold in the sky, the light bouncing off of it washed one side of the street and left the side where the soldiers stalked their young quarry full of inky shadows.

The dark-featured young man rounded a corner away from the harbor and stepped into a smelly alley, between a grain depot and a closed blacksmith’s shop. A tall, slender and even darker man, also in heavy robes, detached himself from the shadows and detained him.

“All is set, Mikah,” he whispered, gazing into the feverish brown eyes of the young man, which were so much like his father’s, Phelan.

“Excellent, Machelli! Excellent!” Mikah glowed with excitement. At last the opportunity to cut down his father’s killer had arrived!

Machelli rested a hand on one of Mikah’s shoulders. “By this time tomorrow you will be sitting on the throne of Eh-Dan—its legitimate heir.”

Mikah could feel strength and cunning beaming from Machelli. He was so grateful to have him on his side and not Cromwell’s. “The people of Eh-Dan owe you everything.”

Machelli shrugged his shoulders and tried to make light of his role in the overthrow. “Justice is its own reward, Mikah.”

Now the intense young man affectionately grabbed one of Machelli’s sturdy arms. “You’re a good man, Count Machelli.”

The count looked toward the brightly lit mouth of the alley. “But it is dangerous for us to tarry. You and I can have no further contact until after the deposing of the king.”

Mikah released his arm and nodded. “So be it. I will see you then, dear friend, when Eh-Dan is free!”

“Yes—when Eh-Dan is free!”

With those last words, Machelli slipped out of the alley before Mikah could see the dark smirk on his face.

A few moments later Mikah was also in the street, moving in the opposite direction from Machelli. After fifteen minutes of running and walking through Elysium’s maze of tiny streets and dark alleys—ducking around corners at the first sound of one of Cromwell’s patrols—he stopped before a rough-hewn stone abode. Before knocking on the huge wooden door, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him. Then he gave the secret code—two loud knocks and three soft ones.

Seconds later a portal in the door slid open, revealing two suspicious green eyes. The portal closed and the door swung inwards. Mikah slipped inside.

The rebels’ headquarters was actually one vast candle-lit room, with a large wooden table and chairs at its center, around which stood four hooded leaders of the uprising. Mikah threw his hood back and greeted each of the rebels with a warm smile. He was still a trifle delirious with the good news Machelli had given him.

Now the others dropped their hoods. One of the faces that came into view belonged to his lovely sister, Alana. She had the kind of dark beauty and luminosity that illuminated any room she entered, and a vixen pout to her full lips that made men wet theirs upon first seeing them. Through a strange alchemy her countenance reflected virginal innocence side by side with gypsy passions. Mikah was sure Alana still possessed her maidenhead but the sensuous smoldering in her eyes and the liquid swing of her saucy buttocks when she walked bespoke an impatience to lose it.

“You’re late,” she softly chided her beloved brother. “We were worried.” Her dark irises lit up like crystal as she proudly pointed to an open map on the table. “Come here, my brother, and look!”

Mikah walked to the table and with one exultant glance realized what it was.

“Uds blood! A map of the castle’s secret passages! How did you get it?”

The faces of the others in the room beamed the same excitement.

Ninshu stepped forward, whose face was as craggy as his posture was straight as an arrow’s. “A whore loyal to our cause pilfered it from Lord Essex himself!”

Mikah was so overjoyed that he went around the room and embraced each one. “What luck!”

Warmak, the only one of the group whose enthusiasm contained some speck of doubt, spoke up. “The lords and barons of Eh-Dan have arrived at the castle for tomorrow’s royal feast. But there’s something strange about the affair. The kings of the neighboring empires have also been invited to the feast. Perhaps Machelli can tell us why.”

Mikah shook his head. “No. Any further communication with him is too dangerous at this date. Our people are ready. We will proceed as planned. This may be our final chance to overthrow the murderous Cromwell.”

Suddenly there was a ramming crash at the door and it buckled inwards, spilling Cromwell and a half dozen Klaws into the room. Instinctively the rebels flashed their swords and stood posed for battle, though stunned into speechlessness by the surprise attack.

“Cromwell!” Mikah snarled, his sword raised chest high.

The rebels now protectively encircled Mikah and his sister.

“What have we here,” Cromwell baited, “a nest of serpents?”

Out of the folds of her robe Alana pulled a dagger, brandishing it at the tyrant king. “Let’s kill him now while we have him!”

Her fury made Cromwell smile. “Is that you, Alana? My, what a lovely thing you’ve become! What ripe fruits for me have you underneath your skirt and blouse?”

“Swine!” she screamed and lunged for him, but Mikah and Warmak restrained her, knowing she’d be dead before she got close enough to do him any harm. Now Mikah pulled her to one side and whispered in her ear, “You must warn the others! We’ll cut a path for you!”

“I won’t leave you!” she whispered back.

“You
must.”

Annoyed by the sister’s and brother’s sotto murmurings Cromwell motioned for his men to flank the rebels on all sides.

“Come, come, children—no secrets from the king. It won’t do you or your rebels any good. At this moment my Klaws are dragging your dogs from their holes and putting them to the sword. Your rebellion is over.”

Exploding with the rage of knowing someone had betrayed him, Mikah released a piercing war cry and the rebels began fighting their way out of the trap. In seconds the room became a whirlwind of swirling and thrusting and clashing swords, puffing and groaning men. But the rebels were outnumbered and outmatched and Cromwell’s men quickly overcame the insurgents. Ninshu crashed against the table and then to the floor, a wound in his arm. Warmak fell, minus an arm, and gushed blood until he died. Walton, the general who had taught Mikah everything he knew about the strategies of war, also toppled, three welling gashes over his heart.

Only Mikah was spared. And just before Cromwell knocked the sword out of his hand with one powerful blow of his scimitar, Mikah succeeded in running his sword clean through one of the hulking Klaws.

Cromwell’s eyes searched the pile of bodies and shattered furniture for Alana. But she was gone. In the heat of battle she had somehow managed to escape.

“After the girl!” he yelled over his shoulder to the guards outside. Then he fixed his attention on Mikah, who stood crouched in front of him like a sleek and dangerous animal preparing to spring. For several seconds the two enemies glared at each other, panting and sweating from the fray. Mikah was acutely aware that all it took was one word from Cromwell and the Klaws would run him through ten different ways. Still he defiantly thrust his square jaw at the king. Better to die in defiance than cowardice.

Cromwell teased the gleaming point of his scimitar inches away from Mikah’s ropy abdomen. “Have at me, Mikah,” he goaded. “Come to me, sweet boy!”

Mikah could hold himself in check no more. He threw a wild fish at Cromwell’s face but the agile king sidestepped the throw and plowed one of his own huge fists into the rebel’s stomach.

Mikah doubled over and fell limply to the floor. Cromwell seized the opportunity to kick him in the ribs and guffawed triumphantly. “This is a game for men, not boys. Now tell me the name of the real leader behind the insurrection—or I’ll have your nails plucked out and then your tongue!”

Cromwell kicked him once more. Just before Mikah blacked out from the pain he wondered why Cromwell thought there was someone else masterminding the revolt.

EIGHT

xcept for splashes of moonlight here and there, the night’s mantle covered most of the narrow alleys and snaky streets through which Alana ran, breathless, the long cape covering her blouse and skirt flowing with the wind. The rattle of breastplates and swords told her two or more of Cromwell’s guards were closing in on her. Although her long, tapered legs were strong, she had been running over the hilly streets for a long time and they were sorely throbbing.

In Alana’s hand she still clutched the bloodied dagger she had planted in the guard’s shoulder who had attempted to block her escape from the headquarters. And she would use it again and again, even on herself, rather than be taken prisoner. So long as Mikah lived to become rightful king of Eh-Dan, she would gladly die for the cause!

Alana bolted around the corner of an unlit tavern into a long, wide, dark alley. She tried to ignore the smell of dumped garbage and urine as she ran. A high wall loomed in front of her and she realized she was facing a dead end. She panicked, paused for a moment to get her bearings. She decided the only recourse open to her was to go back the way she came. Her heart thumping, her legs really aching now, she ran toward the light at the end of the alley.

Suddenly the silhouette of a Klaw materialized in that threshold of light. He began to walk in her direction. As he got close she noticed a blood-caked swatch of tunic tied around one of his shoulders. Her heart pounded like thunder. It was the guard she had stuck.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, as the guard stalked her, his sword rattling in its sheath at his side.

“Oh yes, bitch!” he retorted, still breathing hard from the chase.

As he inched toward her she kept backing up, pointing the dagger at his chest.

The guard obscenely placed one hand over his bulging crotch. “And now I’m going to stick you with my dagger—before I slit your throat!”

The moment her back was up against the wall she lunged at him. But he ducked, grabbed her by the wrist and kept twisting it until she dropped the dagger, clattering when it hit the cobblestones. He used his burly arms to glue her curvaceous body to his and thrusting his hardness into her crotch. She vainly tried to shake herself free and to bite him but his arms were like chains binding her to him. His mouth reeked of garlic and his pungent sweat was vomitous.