“My father is dead,” Keegan said. “By right I take his place as loreman of the free clans of Eregoth. And I call upon Caim to lead us until the duke is overthrown or we all lie dead.”
Ramon started to shake his head. “He’s no war-”
“Show them, Caim.”
Caim untied the laces and pulled his tunic aside. On his shoulder glistened knots of fresh blue ink in the ancient trefoil pattern. Angus grunted, but he held his tongue. Ramon took in a deep breath that strained his deerskin jerkin, but finally he nodded.
“So be it. For my brother and my cousin, and everyone else who’s died at Eviskine’s hands. You have a plan?”
Caim took out his knife and knelt on the floor. By the firelight he started cutting lines in the hardwood.
Arion pressed a hand to his hip as he leaned against the corridor wall. The combined stenches of blood and puke and shit clung to the back of his throat. He looked over at Stiv and Brustus, catching their breaths. This wasn’t the reception they’d expected.
They had reached Liovard after an exhausting ride to find the city in shambles. People fought in the streets, burning, looting, and killing indiscriminately. When Arion and his men forced their way through to the barracks, they found Yanig and Okin barricaded in an arms locker. But the joy of the band’s reunification was short-lived as Arion outlined his plan.
Passing through alleys littered with corpses and abandoned plunder, they climbed the hill to the castle and found the gates unguarded. The watch towers were unlit by torch or lantern. They moved through the vacant outer bailey and entered the donjon, not sure what to expect. It wasn’t this.
The keep’s chambers were scenes of carnage. An odd light filtered through the high windows and tinged the bodies stretched out on the floors with a sepia patina. Paintings and sculptures had been defaced, excrement smeared on the walls. The attack came as they entered the series of corridors that led to the great hall. A door opened. Half a dozen foreign mercenaries carrying wine casks, and a rolled-up carpet spilled into the chamber. The melee was swift and furious. While Arion concerned himself with staying alive, Brustus and Davom put on displays of bladesmanship such as he had never seen. Their performance was so inspiring he didn’t notice the stablehand with the pitchfork sneaking up behind him.
Arion pulled away his fingers. The puncture wasn’t crippling, but it bled like a rainspout. Others had paid a higher price. Okin had taken a butcher’s cleaver to the neck. Yanig slipped on the floor and split open his skull.
They laid out their brothers on the floor. While Stiv mumbled some kind of a prayer, Arion looked down at the men he’d known, for more than ten years in Okin’s case.
Davom rolled over a body with his foot. “I know these guys. Pavel here owes me six nobles.”
Stiv shook his head. His short beard was matted with blood and spittle from a split lower lip. An ugly red gash on his temple dripped down his cheek. “What in the Dark’s name is going on here?”
“They’ve all gone mad.” Brustus wiped the blade of his sword with a discarded cloak. “Toe-curling, shield- biting, bark-at-the-moon crazy.”
“This is Sybelle’s doing,” Arion said. “She bewitched my father. Now she’s done something to the city. When we find her, we’ll find the source of the problem.”
“So what’s the plan?” Stiv asked.
Arion looked down the corridor. “We don’t stop until we reach the throne. Kill anyone who gets in our way.”
Stiv reached inside his mail shirt and pulled out a small gold amulet. Arion was surprised when he saw the sunburst design. He hadn’t known his right-hand man was a follower of the True Faith. Since Sybelle’s coming, there weren’t many believers left in Liovard. At least, not in public.
The sergeant shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”
Brustus grunted. “If we get out of here alive, maybe I’ll let you convert me.”
“If we get out,” Davom said, “I’ll build the biggest temple you’ve ever seen. Maybe even set myself up as the high priest.”
Arion let out the breath he’d been holding. “Form up.”
They moved with purpose. When they reached the doors to the great hall, Stiv lifted a hand. But the sergeant halted in his tracks as the portals swung open before them, revealing a tableau straight out of a nightmare. Arion tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
The light of a single lamp high above the chamber illuminated his father’s throne. Headless bodies slumped on the floor in pools of congealing blood, and shaggy orbs floated in the air around the throne.
“Bugger me,” Stiv swore.
“Easy.” Arion tried to exude a confidence he didn’t necessarily feel, but then he saw the figure slumped in the throne. “Father!”
He started to run forward, but a willowy shape emerged from behind the throne. Her inky gown devoured the light. Seeing her, with her hand upon his father’s arm, Arion halted at the edge of the ring of floating heads.
“What have you done?” he demanded.
Sybelle lifted his father’s arm and dropped it, and Arion’s heart lurched to see the limb flop lifelessly. He couldn’t breathe. He took another step and batted aside a hovering head. Stiv cursed in earnest as the macabre trophy spun away into the darkness.
Arion pointed his sword at the witch’s chest. “I always knew you would be the death of him. From the start I saw you for what you are, witch.”
Her laughter played down his spine. “And I knew you from the first moment, Arion. As a fool too weak to live up to your father’s legacy, and too stupid to leave when you had the chance.”
With a shout, Arion charged, but Sybelle stepped into the gloom before he could reach her. He looked around his father’s throne, sword raised, but the witch had vanished.
“Arion,” Stiv said.
He looked up. Sinuous figures moved in the darkness, weaving closer. Arion adjusted his grip on his sword as his men took up positions. Davom stayed low, knife weaving back and forth, almost taunting the enemy to approach. Brustus struck a classic dueling stance, sword extended perfectly still. Stiv unleashed a string of vile curses as he caught a floating head and hurled it into the shadows. They were good friends, better than he deserved.
Mocking laughter filled the hall as the lamp above began to dim and near-silent footsteps whispered across the floor. Arion lifted his blade within the diminishing circle of light.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Josey closed the door and held onto the handle as lightning flashed in the palace windows. A heartbeat later, thunder crashed amid the steady staccato of driving sleet.
Inside the room, Anastasia was resting after the doctor dosed her with something to help her sleep. Hubert remained at her bedside with the nurse. His devotion no longer surprised Josey. All the way from Opuline Hill, he had refused to leave ’Stasia’s side. Josey smiled, warmed by the thought of Hubert’s gallantry. He couldn’t hide his feelings for Anastasia from her, much as he tried. But it made Josey miss Caim all the more; she could use some comforting herself. Before Anastasia drifted off, Josey told her friend about her delicate state. Anastasia had been ecstatic and promised to help. Josey fought back the sigh that gathered in her chest and turned away from the door.
Four bodyguards in full armor stood at attention in the hallway. The sight of them, with their gleaming halberds held high, caused a lump to form in her throat. She would never be able to look at them the same, these men who had risked their lives for her. She was bound to them now, and they to her, but it wasn’t the comforting thought she might have wished for. She’d sent men into battle and watched them die. That knowledge sickened her. That’s part of what I accepted when I put on the crown. Soldiers die. It’s regrettable, but I’d be a fool to think it would never happen again.
Josey addressed the ranking subaltern. “I want a guard at this door at all times, day and night.”
