As the helmet disappeared into the pool’s depths, the chime rang again. At a pass of her hand, the waters became as smooth as glass, and another image appeared. Sybelle bowed her head.
“Master.”
“Have your forces crossed yet into Nimea, Sybelle?”
No greeting. No words of affection. His voice was hard enough to shatter an empire, and perhaps rebuild it anew. Though she would have preferred to lie, she dared not.
“No. There have been delays with-”
“More excuses! My agents report the Nimeans are divided against each other and ready to topple at the slightest excuse.”
She flinched at his anger, and at the mention of other agents in the south. She had believed she was his only emissary in this part of the world, and cursed herself for not suspecting otherwise.
“I serve as best I am able with the tools at hand, Master. And now that the cold season has set in-”
“The weakness of these Brightlanders has corrupted you, Sybelle. My own daughter, reduced to a mewling babe spewing pretexts and justifications.”
“No, Master.” She dared to meet his eyes. They were shimmering jewels set deep in his face under ominous brows, reflecting nothing back to her. “Plans are moving according to your dictates.”
“Tell me.”
Sybelle bowed her head once more, the picture of perfect obedience as she told him about the massacre of the clan chiefs, and how under her supervision Erric was moving to pacify the region.
“I mistrust this alliance you have embarked upon, Sybelle. These Brightlanders do not think as we do. They do not understand power. End it.”
Sybelle swallowed as she scrambled for an argument to salvage what she had built here. When she first joined her father in exile from the Shadow, she had shared his vision for the conquest of a new domain. But matters changed when he sent her to Eregoth. First there was the unspeakable business with her sister. Then she’d found Erric, and her ideas about what was possible in this world had altered.
“I believe this can still work to our advantage.”
She trembled as the words left her mouth. Testing her father’s indulgence was a dangerous gambit. He cared for her, she knew, as much as he cared for anything or anyone, but the risk lay in measuring those depths.
“Explain.”
“Though the duke is weak as you say, his people are loyal. Much time would be lost if we deposed him now. I can manage him. He will do whatever I instruct. Soon this land will be under our full control, and thereafter we will expand into Nimea.”
She waited with downcast eyes for his response. She thought of Erric and the life she wished she could have with him. A normal life. And perhaps another child, one not so brooding and distant as her son. A child she could love and teach-
“I see through you, Sybelle. You spend too much time in the pursuit of your appetites.”
“Master, I-”
“Be silent.”
Her hands curled into fists within the wide sleeves of her gown, but she held her tongue. Evil thoughts percolated inside her brain, dreams of a day when she would supplant him.
“Sybelle, Sybelle. My dark angel. Sorceress without peer.”
She tensed. When her father handed out praise, people died.
“Impress me, Sybelle.”
She was careful to hide her smile.
“Impress me with swift victory,” he said. “My other captains are enjoying success on their fronts. I would not wish to see you fall behind.”
“I will make every effort. You will see. I shall prove myself still your most potent weapon.”
“I hope so. For your sake, Daughter.”
She froze in the act of looking up. As the image dimmed within the pool’s water, those last words lingered between them. She experienced a moment of panic, but calmed herself. Not even he could read her thoughts. Still, she would pressure Erric to make more advances, to win more victories she could claim as her own. So far, she had been content to hide behind the throne and pull the strings, but perhaps she had erred too far on the side of prudence.
Sybelle turned away from the pool, and the shadows flocked to her, cooing as they pressed their small bodies against her skin. She walked to the passageway leading to the temple. Her next move would be a bold thrust, enough to pacify her father and bring her one step closer to her ultimate aim. If she could not change what was, she must prepare for what would be.
Her mind awash with plans and stratagems, it occurred to Sybelle that she had failed to mention the scion to her father. An oversight? No, she didn’t want her father involved. She didn’t know on which side he would come down.
The corpse’s ice-blue eyes stared up at the sky. Looking down, Arion wondered if such eyes were common among the barbarians. This was the first dead Northman he’d ever seen. They had seemed so indestructible, until today.
He turned to Stiv. The sergeant still lived, but it was hard to look at him. Horrid coin-sized wounds covered his face, even through his thick beard. When they were through with this fool’s errand, would they envy Yanig, lying in a bed with a yard of stitches in his body?
“How do you feel?”
The sergeant dabbed at his face with the end of his cloak. “Like a damned fool. We should have known to bring crossbows. Shot the bastard from a hundred paces.”
Arion glanced away. For the sake of his honor, he had put the lives of his men at risk. He didn’t know why the man in black hadn’t killed them. Twice they’d been at his mercy, and twice been allowed to live.
Okin sat beside a bonfire, staring into the dwindling flames. He had screamed when the demon bats-the little pieces of darkness-fell upon them a second time. At least Arion thought it had been Okin. Maybe it was me.
Bodies were strewn across the snow, most of them outlaws. Is that what they are? He’d been taught to believe that criminals ran when confronted, rather than stand and fight, but he didn’t know what to think anymore. Not about this, and not about what he’d seen in the south, where his father’s raiding parties sacked defenseless villages. He only knew he didn’t want to be a part of it anymore.
The stomp of heavy boots brought him around as the Northmen returned to the clearing. They numbered just twenty, but each fought like a grizzly bear. Their leader, Garmok, was a vicious hulk of a man who laughed as he killed.
The Beast stood before the trees, looking in the direction the man in black had run off. His Northmen moved around the clearing, stabbing the cold bodies, hacking off limbs and unspooling entrails. Arion looked away. It wasn’t until he heard stifled groans that he understood they were killing the wounded, friend and foe alike.
“Lord Soloroth!” Arion shouted. “We should take prisoners.”
The Beast turned. A rumble echoed from the mouth slit of his helmet. “We pursue the one who escaped.”
“I told you. You can go after them if you like, but my men are injured. We’re returning to Liovard to report to my father.”
The Beast did not move, but something in his stance made Arion want to grab for his sword.
“We give chase. Those who cannot keep up…”
A shriek sounded from the other side of the clearing, followed by a wicked chortle. Arion’s hands trembled, but whether from fear or rage he could not say. Instead of answering, he helped Stiv to his feet, and together they assisted the others.
As Garmok led the barbarians northward, followed by their dread master, Arion waited behind. They’d left their dead without so much as a prayer to see them into the next world. How can you defeat men who don’t even fear the gods?
Arion tried not to think about it as he focused on putting one foot before the other.
