Witch Bane (5 page)

“
I presume you’ve acted upon this
already?”

“
Of course.” She feigned offense,
setting her hand upon her breast. “The moment I learned I sent a
dozen of my finest squadrons out, but I suspect we’ll not find this
warlock waiting for their arrival.”

Deborah nodded. “Was this the work of
Elizabeth?”

“
I can think of no one else.” Carrance
drew closer, climbing onto the first of the stairs. “She’s had
enough time to grow a few abominations of her own and teach them a
trick or two. They can hardly be a threat so soon, but if word
spreads of her success it might embolden the populace to surrender
more of their tainted boys to her, in hopes they’ll grow to be
their savior.” Carrance laughed. “It is a fragile hope that rests
upon the hands of the clock set against them. My Red Guard will
beat these dreams from their heads.”

Deborah dropped heavily onto the throne,
fingers entwined in her lap. Staring once more at the spots, she
sighed. “Though time is in our favor for the nonce, it is but a
fleeting advantage. For all her vaunted morality, Elizabeth will
cross the same lines as we to retain her youth, her vitality, even
if only in secret. We cannot count on her fading away as we would a
human enemy. She will be a thorn in our side for many years to
come, Carrance, unless we prune the stem.” She leaned back and
pulled her gaze from her hands, meeting her fellow witch’s. “Drown
the outer villages under a rain of your Red Guard. Raze Mynistiria
to the ground, if you must, but find that warlock and make an
example of him; a very public example that cannot be missed. Be
sure you’re there to do it yourself.” She waved the Red Witch away,
who turned on her heels to comply. As the woman neared the door,
Deborah called out, “Ask Gracelin to come, and send Victor to me. I
would have a word with him, as well.”

Carrance smiled, pushing a recalcitrant curl
of her blond hair from her face. “I thought you might. He’s
outside.”

She pulled the door wide and gestured to
someone out of sight. A moment later, Victor Graves strolled into
the throne room and toward the dais, the muted creak of his
brigandine vest sounding loud in the quiet of the room. Carrance
gave a casual nod to Deborah and slipped outside, closing the door
on her way out.

Victor came to stand before the stairs
and bowed deep, the tip of his sheath striking the tile floor with
a sharp
clack
. A wide,
double-bladed axe sat cradled in a sling upon his back. Deborah
stared at the man as he straightened. The whirling gray of his
eyes, set deep into sockets of black, met her gaze without fear.
His flowing, black beard hung heavy across the mass of his broad
chest, and the mane of his hair flowed in thick locks over his
shoulders. He grasped his burly hands before him, the calloused
knuckles standing out misshapen like the jagged peaks of a young
mountain. His bare arms bore the layered darkness of tattooed
sigils, the swirls and symbols disappearing beneath the armored
sleeves that covered his biceps.

She stood a moment, taking in the whole of
the man as though she had never seen him before. He endured her
stare in silence, never once pulling his eyes away or fidgeting.
His confidence infuriated her. It always had, hence the reason
she’d carved her mark upon him.

“
Any word of my daughter?” Deborah
asked, the question becoming a ritual of disappointment.

“
She is the blood of your blood, and
is as wise in the subtle use of her powers. I hope to find her
soon.”

The empty answer was ritual, too.

“
She is but a girl, Victor, a mere
child of sixteen years.” Her voice hid none of her displeasure.
“Are you not the Lord of the Hunt, famed for your ability to track
the most elusive of prey?”

He gave a quick nod. “I am, but Emerald is
no witless deer traipsing about in the woods, leaving her spore
behind. She knows well enough I’d be sent after her and has covered
her tracks well, and I’d expect no less of her given her bloodline.
I will scare her out, in time. We must be patient.”

Deborah stood and walked to the edge
of the dais, the hem of her white robes trailing out behind her.
She held her left hand out and clenched it into a tight fist.
“
Servitus
!” A shimmer of
brilliant energy misted willowy between her fingers.

Victor clutched at his midsection and
crumpled to his knees with a grunt. The plates of his armor groaned
under the invisible pressure. He snarled and gritted his teeth,
tendrils of spittle spilling from his mouth and streaking his
beard. The sigils at his arms seemed to erupt with white light,
searing trails devouring the darkness of the ink. A sickly pallor
fell over his face, pained tears breaking free of his eyes, but he
did not cry out.

Deborah held her fist closed another moment
before spreading her fingers apart with a dismissive flick, her
energies dispersing. Victor breathed a heavy sigh and drew himself
up, his limbs trembling. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his
hand, the tattoos upon his arms dimming to blackness once more.

“
Do not presume to tell me what I must
be, Graves.” She glared down at him. His furious gaze was locked on
the tiles at his feet, though no less fierce for that. “For all
your vaunted history, you are but a slave to the Council; to
me
, Victor, to me. You will do as I
command or I will be forced to remind you how easily you can be
broken.” She growled at him, “Look at me.” His eyes snapped to
hers. “Mind your place, Lord, or what little freedom you retain
will be stripped from you as quickly as the flesh was from the
bones of your daughter. You remember her don’t you, and why she
died?” She paused to draw a breath, letting her words sink in. “Do
you understand me, Victor?”

“
Yes
,” he
hissed in response, his face a mask of impotent rage.

Deborah grinned, reveling in the Lord’s
discomfort. She had no doubt he was thinking of his child, his
family, long ago devoured by the war machine that had raised
Deborah to power. She let him stew a short time, knowing he could
do nothing but accept his fate before her power. When she broke the
tense silence, it was with a gentle voice, free of the rancorous
bite of just moments before. The lesson taught, Deborah could
afford to be magnanimous. “I have another mission for you.”

He nodded.

“
It seems we have a warlock loose
among the peasantry. He dared to assail the Red Guard, murdering a
captain and most of her squadron. I want his head.” She watched
Victor nod once more before continuing, “Carrance can direct you to
where he struck, so that you might find his trail, but I want no
excuses.”

A quiet knock drew her eyes to the door. She
sighed and called out, “Come.”

Gracelin Shaw peeked inside, the green of
her robes standing out against the burnished wood of the door.
Deborah waved her inside, turning back to Victor. “Are we
clear?”

The Lord of the Hunt bowed deep, his gaze
touching hers for but a flicker of an instant before his eyes were
away.

“
Be about it immediately, and bring me
good news, Victor.” She dismissed him with a flutter of her hand.
He left the room subdued, a quiet storm rumbling on the horizon.
Deborah smiled as the door behind him closed with a gentle click.
She glanced to Gracelin, the smile fading.

Deborah gestured toward the absent Lord.
“Despite the compulsions set upon him, I do not trust Graves.” She
drew back to the throne and settled into it. “He is as willful as
the day his people were conquered. He will never be a true servant
to us, in spite of all the blood on his hands.”

Gracelin eased up the stairs of the dais.
Her dark hair was pulled back tight and pinned against the back of
her head, its pull making her face severe. Her brown eyes wide, she
dismissed Deborah’s complaint with a snort. “His heart will never
be yours, for certain, but the flesh will remain a slave until it
is dust. His homeland of Ventor is conquered and a part of
Mynistiria now, just as the Outlands are, and all who have stood in
the way of your rule. He is but one man, and the very least of our
concerns.”

The White Witch agreed with a sigh.

“
Has Emerald been found
yet?”

Deborah shook her head. “She hides
well.”

“
Let us hope she hides as well from
Elizabeth and her minions.”

“
I can
only
hope. It would serve us poorly were the
heir to the throne to fall into that witch’s hands. The rest of the
Council would hear of it quicker than any, no doubt”

Deborah leaned back and settled into her
throne. It was an uncomfortable seat. More than just the curve of
its arms and the hard wood beneath her, the throne bore a heavy
burden, its authority steeped in the blood of its predecessor. It
was as if the chair knew Deborah did not belong upon it, ever
pressuring her in subtle ways to revoke her claim, to step away.
The White Witch ground her buttocks down upon it in defiance. There
would come a time when she fed the throne to the fire like she had
the witch who’d sat upon it last.

She tore her attention from the chair and
raised her eyes to Gracelin’s. “I have no faith Graves will succeed
in his mission to find the warlock, so have Shade make ready. If
Elizabeth has grown bold enough to send one of her minions at the
Red Guard directly, it’s only a matter of time until she does so
again. We must be prepared.”

Gracelin nodded. “We will find them,
Deborah; the warlock and Emerald both.”

The White Witch forced a smile as she rose
to her feet, but left it at that. “Ready a bath for me, please.”
She glanced once more at the backs of her hands. “I feel the cruel
touch of time weathering me as we speak. I would feel young again,
Gracelin, if only for a short while.”

The Green Witch grinned. “Capture this
warlock alive rather than kill him, and we can bleed him for all
eternity.”

Deborah smiled. “You speak the sweetest
words.” She strolled across the dais and took Gracelin’s soft hand
in hers. With a quiet laugh, she led her down the stairs and out of
the room, toward the bathing chambers. For all the efforts of the
throne, its burden would be cast aside within the warm embrace of
the crimson pool, the blood of warlocks who would never be,
cleansing the wear of years from her.

If only for a short while, Deborah could
forget her duties. She could forget her spiteful daughter who
spurned her future inheritance of the throne, and the enslaved
General Graves who would forever think of Deborah as the enemy. The
bath would chase all that away, as well as the years they brought
with them. If only for a short time, she would be happy.

Five

Though worn down from the excesses of the
day, Sebastian found sleep to be evasive. He tossed and turned in
the rushes, the unfamiliar sounds of Deliton peppering his
consciousness as though bee stings. The ever-present scent of
burning flesh hung in his nose. Deep into the night, the wind
licking at the thatched roof of the hut, he lay staring at the
ceiling, his eyes tracing the knotted lines that ran the length of
the wooden beams that held the hut together. His mind in a somber
fugue, he listened to the crackle of the pyre, doing his best to
not imagine the fuel on which it burned. He heard a number of quick
pops, followed by a creaking snap.

He shot upright in the bed at the last, the
sound having come from behind the hut, from the opposite direction
of the burning wood pile. He cleared his mind as he had been
taught, his focus on his senses. The wind still rattled Jonas’s
home, but between the creaks of the shifting walls he caught the
gentle crunch of a footfall, followed a moment later by another,
and then yet another.

He eased from the bed and set his bare feet
upon the cool wood floor, grateful its planks had been hewn from
the trunk of a great tree, unlike the rest of the hut, its natural
thickness muffling any sound he might have made. He claimed his
sword from beside the cot, leaving it inside its sheath, and crept
to the other side of the tiny hut, his ears pricked.

He leaned over to rouse his father only to
meet his open eyes. Darius raised a finger to his lips and nodded
as he climbed from his bed in silence. Once he was up, he stood
rigid a moment, clearly listening. Another footfall sounded and his
father tapped his nose and pointed a finger toward the door.

Sebastian sniffed the air and let it drift
into his lungs. While it still smelled of burning death, the acrid
smoke of it had grown stronger. The crackle of the flames sounded
closer than when he had gone to bed. A sharp pop sounded just
outside, and Sebastian spied a flicker of light that chased the
shadows from the cracks in the walls.

Darius reached beneath his cot and drew out
his crossbow, a bolt already nocked in its cradle. He pointed it at
the wall where the last of the sounds had emanated from and raised
his other hand, fingers extended. He counted down with crisp
efficiency, dropping his hand to the crossbow stock right before
the count of five. He hit the trigger.

At its metallic
twang
, Sebastian yanked the door open and dove
out low. He heard the bolt strike the wall, then something meatier
beyond. A gurgled grunt followed the sound of its impact.
Wide-eyed, standing just to the side of the door, was a Red Guard
soldier, a burning torch in his hand, a small mace in the other.
There was no confidence in his stance.

Sebastian lashed out with his covered
sword, the sheath crashing into the soldier’s hand that held the
torch. The Red Guard’s knuckles shattered with the
crack
of dried twigs, the torch
casting off angry stars as it was whipped to the side and flung
away. The soldier stumbled, his face pale. Sebastian gave him no
opportunity to recover. He drove the point of his sheath into the
man’s throat, his chin slapping against the metal housing as he
fell back, dropping in a heap several yards back.