The Moroi Hunters Page 19

  The captors drew their swords. One wielded twin, wide-bladed shortswords, and two held bastard swords, wielded with either one or two hands. The stamp upon their gorgets identified them as soldiers of Duke Munar.

  The soldiers showed obvious confusion. Her scent and invisibility to vivisense would reveal her to be strigoi, but her appearance and invulnerability to light marked her as human. The one to Shayala’s right, brandishing a bastard sword, shouted, “How dare you?”

  Shayala could have waited for the day to grow older, when more sunlight would flood the structure and immolate its occupants. Although the light reflected from the flagstone floor was of diminished strength, she already heard a slight hissing from burnt flesh. The strigoi growled in response. Shayala did not believe she needed the sun’s aid to defeat these three, though she could not risk the destruction of the captive strigoi, whom she wished to interrogate. She closed the door.

  Shayala’s features became more distinct in the ensuing darkness. Although I’m outnumbered three to one, their uncertainty of what I am will work to my favor.

  Across the room, the shortsword-armed soldier snarled, “Insolent chattel.”

  The soldiers advanced hesitantly, caught between reaching Shayala before she could reopen the door and escaping back to the corner of the room if she did. They paused when the defanged prisoner gave an exclamation and struggled to her knee. In a reverent, awed voice, she uttered, “Your Majesty.”

  The soldiers alternated their gazes from the kneeling captive to the woman standing too calmly at the center of the room.

  The soldier to Shayala’s right said, “You’re mad. The queen is gone, and you kneel before chattel.” Raising his bastard sword, he added, “When she is dead, I shall free you from your madness.” The kneeling strigoi never wavered.

  In a surprised whisper, the other captive strigoi said, “It cannot be. Though human, she is the queen.” Nearly hysterical, she said to the soldiers, “Now, you’ll die.”

  Despite the bluster, Shayala could tell all were unnerved. Confusion showed plainly upon their faces at this woman who smelled as a strigoi and was imperceptible to vivisense. They looked even more intently at her, and slowly their surprise turned to confoundment, then to horror.

  “Impossible,” one soldier whispered, unable to find the fortitude to shout.

  Shayala advanced upon the solitary soldier to the right. He raised his bastard sword with two hands, swinging for her unprotected neck. With her left blade, Shayala deflected the blow. She noted a flicker of surprise at her parry and, moving with a speed beyond that of any human, pivoted behind the unbalanced soldier; with her other blade, she severed his spine at his lower back. He fell forward, howling in pain, and tried to lift himself. Shayala cleaved his sword arm at the shoulder, and he dropped. She kicked his dismembered arm, still holding the blade, across the room and turned quickly, swords raised toward the others.

  Although they still did not fully understand who this woman was, they learned a quick respect of her prowess. One soldier approached Shayala cautiously from across the room, while the other, armed with the two shortswords, stalked around the table to advance from her left. Shayala feinted in the direction of the soldier before her, then turned and leapt upon the table, sliding across its top, boots first and swords extended. She scored a minor hit against the attacker’s thigh. The soldier swung a wild backhand. Shayala crouched behind the table as the blade passed overhead.

  She dropped her blade and effortlessly flipped the table backward, toward the first soldier. He knocked the table to the side, where it struck the wall with a crash and broke into several pieces. Shayala pulled the silver stiletto from her boot and flung it into the belly of the wounded opponent. Without hesitating, she reclaimed her sword and sprang in the wake of the stiletto.

  The single-armed soldier had pushed himself up and slowly made his way around the edge of the room toward his sword. Yet with the loss of blood, a fog of hunger rose to enshroud his mind. Adrift in indecision between battle and feeding, he would stop and turn toward the human captive, her blood tantalizing to his increasingly hunger-consumed thoughts.

  Shayala’s opponent pulled the stiletto from his abdomen, dropping it to the floor. In an attacking routine that was as much terpsichorean as it was martial, Shayala maneuvered the soldier between herself and her final enemy. She struck low, then high, scoring a thrust through his ribs, then struck low once more, scoring a debilitating blow that shattered his knee. In mere seconds, he lay disabled.

  The last soldier thought to take Shayala unawares from behind. She spun, her right sword leading to knock away his blade. Her left sword followed, stabbing deeply into his side.

  The two chained strigoi laughed and hurled taunts at the overmatched soldier.

  His next swing was made clumsy by his injury; Shayala leapt backward, then lunged toward him. Her left blade was poised to block his return swing, and her right blade pierced his eye. He howled and dropped his weapon.

  She quickly retracted her sword and lunged toward the one-armed soldier, who had nearly reached his arm and blade. Shayala slashed his face, sending him to the ground.

  Quickly sheathing her blades, Shayala partially opened the door and threw each soldier into the sunlight. Before the light took them, she saw true fear in their eyes and could guess their final thoughts: No human could match the strength and speed of the strigoi, but none of true life could have survived the light as she had. What was she? They screamed only briefly before their bodies disintegrated.

  Shayala searched the remains left among the ashes and, from a belt pouch, recovered a set of keys. The minor injuries she sustained during the engagement were easily ignored. Reentering, she closed the door, retrieved her stiletto, and cleaned it and her sword blades with the rags worn by the human.

  She tried each of the keys until she found one that unlocked the shackles of the captive strigoi. Once freed, both remained kneeling, not looking directly at their disguised queen. For her part, the human female sat passively, as if the slaughter of three monsters by a strange woman was a daily occurrence.

  To the strigoi, Shayala said, “State your purpose.”

  Both responded, “I serve the night.”

  So overcome with emotion was she that the fangless strigoi said, “I know not how, Your Majesty, but you have returned in this form. Reports claimed you were destroyed.”

  Shayala chose to overlook the strigoi’s breech of etiquette in speaking before having been given leave. “Reports I encouraged.” With an inflection of the queenly arrogance she had so mastered, Shayala added, “I am not only returned, I am ascendant. Even the light cannot harm me.” Properly cultivated, my reputation can be a deadlier weapon than any blade or army. With only a slight pause, she asked, “What are you called?”

  “I am Tylia; this is Lythan. We serve under Captain Halura and were to meet her here, though she is a day overdue.”

  “Tell me what has transpired since my reported destruction.”

  “Upon the road, we encountered agents of the duke,” Tylia began. “We slew several but were captured and brought here, tortured and interrogated,” quickly adding, “but we revealed nothing.” She ran her tongue through the empty sockets where here fangs had been.

  Lythan spoke. “Duke Munar has dispatched soldiers and spies throughout the Court, searching for Captain Halura as well as for Lyan.”

  Recognizing they had no more useful information, Shayala stood and turned her attention to her own thoughts; the strigoi made no sound or movement. Although my sojourn among the feral humans has not yet stretched a week, I feel as if I have been away interminably. Finally, to expedite the healing of her wounds, Shayala took a small draught from the human female, who was too overcome by fright at Shayala’s display to even struggle. To the strigoi, Shayala said, “Feed and begin to heal.”

  As Shayala lay dormant on the stone floor, recuperating and awaiting Lyan, the freed prisoners glutted upon the human until only a drained husk was l
eft.

  *****

  The guard opened the door, and Duke Munar and Yah’l stepped into Halura’s cell. She remained fettered to the wall; her eyes, though crazed, flickered with recognition at the two. With a feral growl, she attempted to launch herself toward them, but was abruptly halted by the silver restraints, which had left her neck, wrists, and ankles a charred wreck and filled the cell with the stench of burnt flesh. The attempt caused the shackles to burn even deeper, eliciting a pained howl, violent jerking, and more burning. Two guards already stood within.

  “She appears quite gone,” Munar observed.

  “It has not yet been two days,” Yah’l explained, “though her condition is exacerbated by the pain of the silver.”

  “Normally, her suffering would be reward enough, but we have another purpose.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Observe.” Yah’l motioned, and a guard brought in a dazed and naked human male.

  “Restrain her,” Yah’l instructed, and the two guards held immobile the wild captain. They pressed her by the shoulders against the stone wall, and one guard held steady her head with a hand against her forehead.

  Yah’l pulled the human by his scraggly brown hair to stand before Halura.

  “Captain Halura, where is Lyan?” Yah’l asked.

  Her only response was another savage growl and more futile struggling.

  The spy marshal drew a dagger from his belt and lightly pricked the human’s finger, allowing but two drops of blood to fall into the waiting, hungry mouth of Halura.

  Although she continued to growl and struggle, her countenance changed, ever so slightly, to reveal a flicker of hopefulness.

  “Now, Captain,” Yah’l began, “you will be given all the blood you desire if you answer our questions. Again, where is Lyan?”

  In a voice that sounded nearly bestial, she answered, “I…I don’t…know.”

  “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” Yah’l countered. He held the human tantalizingly near Halura; the smell of his blood so close was maddening to the starving strigoi.

  Her thoughts were jumbled, gossamer, ephemeral, floating erratically through the fog of her mind. She searched for the answer to his question like a sightless human grasping at leaves in the wind. Although she knew the answer lay in that haze, every time she thought she had found it, it was swept away upon a current of forgetfulness. Still, unlike the chains binding her physically, the psychic restraints that joined her to the word of the queen, the one who had gifted her with true life, began to seem fragile, brittle, weak.

  Munar was fascinated by the apparent internal struggle playing out on the prisoner’s visage.

  As if she had stumbled upon the answer in her confusion, Halura exclaimed throatily, “She roams!”

  Munar and Yah’l smiled the vicious smile of a predator that had entrapped its prey.

  “You see, Your Grace,” Yah’l said. “It required countless subjects and numerous months to determine the proper combination of hunger and nourishment to allow a thrall to overcome the compelled obedience to its creator, yet allow it to retain enough awareness to understand and respond to questioning.”

  “Yah’l, you have achieved what none other could. What no one thought possible,” Munar complimented, genuinely pleased.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Yah’l accepted in his emotionless tone. “The answer to the next question will require marginally more lucidity on her part.” The spy marshal put the human before Halura and allowed one more drop of blood to find her expectant maw.

  “Captain, what is Lyan’s plan?” Yah’l asked.

  Although her mind’s fog was yet thick, it seemed to swirl and eddy less swiftly, allowing her to more easily find the answers hidden within. Her psychic bonds struggled to restrain her, to prevent her from groping in the haze. But the hunger made her strong, fought against those limiting impulses. The concealed answers meant more blood, and the hunger would not be denied.

  What is Lyan’s plan? She heard the words again in her mind. As if the sound had no specific source but emanated from the fog itself, it echoed in her skull. She followed its reverberations, hoping that they would lead her to the answer. Again, the response seemed to solidify spontaneously from the wisps enveloping her.

  She blurted, “She furthers her return.”

  The duke stepped backward as if he had been struck. His mind raced with possible interpretations of the statement. “Who? Whose return?” Munar said in a near shout.

  Although disturbed, Yah’l appeared thoughtful.

  Munar rushed forward and grabbed a tangle of hair, forcing Halura to look up into his eyes. “Whose return?” he shouted more urgently. “The queen? Shayala?”

  Yah’l stepped forward and placed a steadying hand upon the duke’s shoulder. One did not normally touch such a noble unbidden, though this was no common circumstance. “Your Grace.” Munar’s look was nearly as crazed as that of the captain herself.

  The duke shifted his livid gaze upon the spy marshal, who removed his hand. He collected himself and stepped back from the prisoner.

  In his dispassionate mien, Yah’l brought forth the human, allowed the smell of his blood to penetrate and permeate Halura’s awareness. “The queen’s return?”

  “Yes,” came the guttural response through clenched teeth.

  “Impossible!” Munar declared. “It cannot be. She is lying.”

  Yah’l said. “In her state, she is incapable of deception.”

  In his rage, the duke grabbed the human by the hair and flung him against the far wall. The sound of cracking bone echoed in the cell, and the broken body dropped limply, leaving a smear of blood from its fractured skull trickling down the stone. At the sight and smell of the spilt blood, Halura fell into a frenzy and renewed her struggles, heedless of the damage caused by the silver.

  “It seems we will get no more from her,” Yah’l said.

  With a disgusted utterance and a flick of his hand, the duke dismissed the further relevance of the prisoner. “Leave her.” Munar, Yah’l, and the three guards quit the cell, leaving Halura to her wild, futile exertions and feral screams.

  Once without the cell, the duke pivoted angrily upon Yah’l. “How could you not know this?”

  “Your Grace, it seems we have underestimated Shayala,” Yah’l replied with unflappable calm. Most others would have wilted under the duke’s threatening gaze.

  With clear, purposeful enunciation, Munar said to the spy marshal, “This information cannot get out.”

  Without a word or any acknowledgement of the duke’s comment, Yah’l pulled a wooden stake from a belt loop and, with a reverse thrust to his right, penetrated the heart of the nearest guard, propelling him backward into the wall. Before the guard had slumped to the floor, Yah’l flung two throwing daggers from his baldric into the abdomens of the second and third guards. He drew a scimitar and thrust at the fourth, who only just managed to bring his shortsword in line to parry the blow.

  Yah’l pirouetted to his right and cut the guard from shoulder to pelvis, dropping him to his knees. One more swipe sent the head toppling.

  The wounded guards pulled the daggers from their bellies and drew shortswords. Yah’l crouched to retrieve the headless guard’s sword and advanced upon the two. The spy marshal fought both guards simultaneously, engaging each with a single blade.

  Yah’l allowed the guard on his right to get near enough to essay a quick thrust. Rather than parry, he stepped backward, and the unbalanced opponent stumbled, leaving his flank open and obstructing the second guard. Yah’l managed three cuts into the torso of the off-balance guard before the guard pivoted to swing at the spy marshal. Yah’l blocked the blow with his left sword, thrust forward into the guard’s chest with his right, then kicked forward with his heel to send the guard tumbling.

  Yah’l seized the advantage against the last standing guard. The spy marshal parried a desperate overhand cut, then thrust his right blade into the guard’s face, crumpling him. With murderous effici
ency, Yah’l finished them all, including the one whose heart he had pierced with the wooden stake. He turned to face Munar, who continued to lean casually against the wall.

  “That took nearly a minute,” Munar observed, with a wry smile. “Perhaps you are out of practice.”

  Yah’l’s entire body tensed at the comment, though he quickly relaxed and replied in an even tone, “Perhaps.”

  “None but Captain Syuth and we two can know what was revealed here,” Munar said.

  “Of course, Your Grace. Despite our, thus far, fruitless efforts to locate Lyan, we know she abides somewhere within the Court. I find it inconceivable that a secret such as the queen’s continued existence could have been kept from us if she, too, remained within its borders.”

  In a slow, threatening tone, Munar said, “Find her. Whatever is necessary.” He paused. “And send someone to clean this up.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Day 17: Night

  Castellan Corvyne stood before an incensed Duke Munar within the latter’s study. Although Munar, sitting in his sumptuous chair, would not confide the reason for his ire, Corvyne thought that in no wise did it bode favorably.

  “We must expedite my enthronement,” Munar growled.

  Corvyne had not expected such a proclamation and paused a moment before replying, “Your Grace, we have already given King H’shu the date. He will not take kindly to any change.”

  Munar narrowed his eyes at the castellan but could not dispute that claim, nor, despite his anger, could he risk showing any weakness to H’hsu at this time. “Summon all of the nobles for a Conclave,” Munar ordered, “to commence upon the morrow, after the conclusion of my audience.”

  “Your Grace, what may I give as the reason for this untimely council?”

  “That their duke and future king commands them is all they need know!” Munar returned in barely contained rage.