The Moroi Hunters Read online

  “Whether he had been delirious from the effects of the poison or beguiled by that bitch, King Thyse erred in bequeathing the throne to Shayala, and I will not leave the future of the Court in the hands of a bloody castellan,” Volroy spat with as much disdain as he could pack into the word.

  “The duke has expressed trust in Corvyne,” Sashal said. “A well-deserved trust, in my estimation.”

  “I will discuss the matter with the duke.” Volroy looked pointedly at Corvyne. “Until then, make no move.”

  Corvyne nodded disarmingly. “As you wish, Your Lordship.” He unconsciously tugged on the platinum medallion suspended from his neck; the piece depicted the device of his office, a vertical scepter before a crossed quill and sword.

  “We are adjourned,” Volroy declared.

  Day 1: Light

  The cloudless sky shimmered a brilliant blue, as if the world sat within a turquoise shell. The market at the southern base of Castle Ky’lor’s motte teemed with scores of patrons and dozens of vendors. A naked girl, who could have claimed thirteen years to thirty, shuffled mutely through the crowd; her bare and calloused feet stirred the loose dirt and suffered cuts from the unpaved ground. Her sunburnt body was mapped by scars, scratches, and punctures—both scabbed and fresh. Although she walked with her head down, her nervous eyes surreptitiously scanned the crowd and darted to anyone who approached too closely. With the same furtive caution, she observed her surroundings.

  In the early morning light, the marketplace resembled any other. But upon further inspection, the sounds and smells were all wrong for a human market. No animals sounded their calls. Vendors sold no food or drink. Buyers and sellers barely spoke to one another, even to haggle, and all conversation was subdued. However, the reek of fresh shit and stale sweat and piss was strong and prevalent.

  This was a bazaar that catered to the monsters; the only humans present either were for sale or represented their owners as vendors or patrons during the daylight hours. No human foodstuffs would be sold here, as access to such fare was strictly controlled, though a number of troughs filled with dreggy water were available from which the humans could drink.

  A well-maintained palisade surrounded the marketplace. Booths lined the enclosure, and stalls and pens haphazardly filled the interior of the plaza, leaving only narrow walkways between the vendors. Rising above the stalls were worn wooden signs depicting images of the vendors’ wares for the illiterate humans.

  The human market-goers were thin and naked, or nearly so; they scarcely looked at one another with sunken, empty eyes. Branded behind their left shoulders were single runes of various designs, indicating ownership and allowing for the tracking of the chattel. Uncounted generations of swift, merciless subjugation had bred hopelessness and helplessness into this captive humanity. If ever a vestige of hope or independence emerged, it was crushed to prevent the virus from spreading.

  The sound of a couple rutting in the dirt in the small space between two stalls brought her attention more fully into the present. Briefly, her mind flitted to the strictly and mortally enforced prohibition against such coupling, though the event was put out of her mind as she deftly avoided the splash from a man urinating by a tent pole. She hurried past the rank smell of a woman defecating behind a booth and passed, with nary a glance, a man lying with a bloody hole in his belly.

  Although she carried no purse, she paused at one stall and half-heartedly fondled a wooden trinket carved into the likeness of a dragon. She ignored a wooden corral in which a score of naked and muddy males and females—bound, huddled, and docile—lay in their own filth. Although her course was circuitous, she inevitably approached the solitary gate at the far end of the market.

  A wary, male guard eyed her approach but said nothing until she stood before him. Bearing a wooden cudgel, the guard was better nourished than the other market-goers. He was outfitted in worn but serviceable leggings and a shabby, grimy tunic.

  “No.” He cast a lecherous look upon the girl. By her limbs and digits, which showed no signs of improperly healed breaks, and by her hair and skin, which were caked with fewer layers of grime than those of other market-goers, he guessed her to be young and a recent capture from the hinterlands.

  “No, what?”

  When she spoke, he noticed that malnutrition had not yet bloodied her gums or rotted her teeth. The guard scoffed. “Ye may no’ pass.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  She took a step, then another, toward the guard, close enough to brush his growing erection with her belly. As with the two whom she observed earlier, she knew this act could result in her end, but she planned to be long gone before her violation was discovered.

  “Ye canno’ pass,” he repeated. “The pleasure ain’t t’be worth the pain.”

  Nevertheless, with only a brief hesitation, he took her by the arms and turned her away from him. After shoving her onto her hands and knees, he pulled down his leggings and pushed into her. The guard gave a throaty grunt as he thrust, oblivious to the danger approaching from behind. With barefoot steps, another male neared the guard and struck him in the head with a rock, laying him low. With a triumphant whoop, he similarly struck the girl.

  *****

  Queen Shayala sat engrossed, composing a missive in her study, a large room adjoining her private chamber in the upper levels of the keep. Several hundred books—some of which were purportedly penned by humans and even dwarves, elves, and gnomes—lined stone shelves built as extensions from the walls themselves. The enormous stone and wood desk at which she sat occupied the center of the room. Several deep red tapers, scented to resemble the coppery smell of blood, burned in stone depressions inlaid into the desk’s wooden surface.

  Shayala replaced her quill, touched a small, crystal sphere, and muttered, “Courier.” After using a small wooden fan to expedite the drying of the ink, she folded the parchment and affixed it with wax, into which she impressed her insigne, depicting four disembodied fangs—two upper, two lower—superimposed upon a rising full moon.

  Shortly thereafter came a rapping at the door of her chamber. Leaving her study and entering the main room, Shayala called, “Come.”

  A female strigoi guard opened the door, allowing a timid male—whose jittery goldenrod eyes looked everywhere and at everything except the queen—to enter. He wore around his thin neck a medallion of brass, engraved with a small, rolled scroll that signified him as an official courier of the Court.

  Afraid to enter, he stood in the doorway. “Yes, Your-Your Majesty? You summoned?”

  “My messengers are dispatched, Lathyr. Have this delivered to Count Volroy.” She handed him the missive.

  “Yes, of course, Your Majesty. Anything else?”

  “Just see to it.”

  “Yes, Your Maj—”

  Shayala closed the door.

  *****

  As the distance between Lathyr and the queen increased, the courier’s anxiety subsided. He did not consider himself an overly nervous individual, though, for some reason, the queen always intimidated him in a way no other did. Lathyr padded through a corridor lit by braziers set within small alcoves. Preoccupied as he was, he did not notice a pair of liquid blue eyes peering at him from around a corner.

  When Castellan Corvyne stepped out before him, Lathyr scurried aside, stuttering, “Ah, ap-apologies, Your Honor.”

  “Ah, Lathyr, just the one I was hoping to find,” Corvyne said with good-natured surprise, though he had been informed when the queen sent for a courier. As castellan, his purview included responsibility for the domestic staff of the castle as well as couriers and heralds.

  “Oh, me, Your Honor? May I ask why?”

  “I have an urgent errand for you.”

  “My-my apologies again, Your Honor, but I am on an urgent task for the queen.” With as much pride as if he had been entrusted to care for the royal heir, Lathyr held the letter for Corvyne to see. “The queen’s messengers are unavailable, so she entrusted its deli
very to me.”

  “To whom do you deliver it?” Corvyne asked.

  “Count Volroy.”

  “I will see the count receives it.”

  “I, ah, I cannot, Your Honor. I am truly sorry.”

  “That is unfortunate, Lathyr, because you are the only one I would trust with this errand.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Although I have another matter to which I must attend, this is an errand of the utmost import and secrecy, so naturally I thought of you.”

  “I’m, uh, flattered, Your Honor, but—”

  “Lathyr, you answer to me.” Corvyne knew the injection of authority in addition to flattery would prove more persuasive. “If you wish, let us go discuss the lines of authority with Her Majesty.”

  Lathyr’s distressed expression was a silent denial of that suggestion. In a more sympathetic tone, Corvyne continued, “I give you my word as castellan, I will see to it Count Volroy receives that letter if you complete this task for me.” Before Lathyr could object, Corvyne lightly gripped his arm. “Come.”

  In a casually hurried gait, Corvyne escorted the courier to his offices. To avoid the scurrying administrators, they entered through a private entrance into Corvyne’s personal workplace, which in all aspects other than its greater size appeared no different from any of the other offices. From a locked, plain iron chest, Corvyne retrieved a scroll and a parchment. The scroll was sealed with red wax and bore the insigne of a pupilless eye within a circle. In a conspiratorial whisper, Corvyne said, “A covert agent is undertaking clandestine negotiations on behalf of Her Majesty, and this information from a confidential source must reach her agent.”

  “Secret-secret negotiations? With whom?”

  Corvyne cast an incredulous look upon the courier. “Even I do not know, but the fate of the Court could depend upon the agent receiving this message.” Corvyne again brandished the scroll and displayed the other document. “Here are the instructions where to deliver the message in the south of the Court.”

  Lathyr was silent, his brow bunching in the effort of his deliberations. “I-I have your word?”

  “Upon my station.”

  Lathyr nodded, satisfied, and the two exchanged missives. “Your Honor.” The courier departed immediately upon his mission.

  *****

  Exiting his office, Corvyne locked the door behind him as Lathyr disappeared around a far corner. He forthwith sought Duke Munar. Without the dining hall that adjoined the duke’s private chamber in the eastern tower, Corvyne encountered two members of Munar’s personal guard, who stood their post without expression. At Corvyne’s request, one guard knocked, and the sound echoed down the empty hallway. Upon receiving acknowledgment from Munar, the guard announced the castellan, who entered with conspiratorial enthusiasm. The thick, plain, oaken door closed behind him.

  Munar’s long, jet black ponytail hung over a shoulder; his hazel eyes, set deep in a severe, light-complexioned face, glanced at the approaching castellan. The duke’s form was robust, and his air was one of imperious confidence. He wore, as a personal affectation, a royal blue cape with gold trim that fastened around his neck with a golden chain. The smell of musk as hung heavy as a mist.

  Beneath crystal chandeliers, which transformed the soft, yellow light of candles into a glittering brilliance, three humans lay strapped to a table. With heads hanging over the edge to expose their necks, they dry-sobbed, their red eyes long devoid of tears.

  Munar raised a hand to silence Corvyne before he spoke. With a snap of his fingers, the duke summoned a servant, who brought a crisp, pristine white cloth with which Munar wiped his mouth. Munar tossed the napkin back to the servant, who scurried away through a door at the far end of the hall.

  “Your Grace,” Corvyne began in a solicitous whisper, “Her Majesty entrusted that buffoon Lathyr with the delivery of this missive to Count Volroy. Though I convinced him I would ensure its delivery.” At the duke’s annoyed expression, Corvyne explained, “His urgency to see it delivered leads me to believe that its contents are of the keenest interest.”

  “And why did she entrust its delivery to him, rather than one of her messengers?” Munar asked in a tone laden with suspicion.

  “Lathyr remarked they are presently dispatched upon other matters,” Corvyne responded. As Munar considered, Corvyne added casually, “Though it is sealed.”

  “Your simplicity astounds me, castellan,” Munar declared. “There are ways to learn its contents. Come.”

  Leaving his meal unfinished, Munar and Corvyne withdrew to the duke’s private chamber, followed stoically by the two guards.

  The spacious chamber was sumptuously furnished with intricately carved furniture, decorated in bone, ivory, and precious metals. The walls were adorned with the taxidermied heads of various races—dwarves, elves, gnomes, humans, and even strigoi. Three platinum candelabras lit the room in an ebbed glow that would appear as a half-light to humans but was more than sufficient for the sensitive vision of strigoi.

  Munar took a seat at a small teakwood table, the top of which was inlaid with an ivory depiction of a sea creature. Corvyne remained standing to the duke’s left. Seizing the missive, Munar held it to the candlelight, examining whether any lettering could be discerned. When that proved futile, he moved the wax nearer the flame. Once the wax softened slightly, he carefully worked the tip of a dagger underneath and lifted the wax.

  Munar spread the missive upon the desk, and he and Corvyne perused its contents. The queen’s elegant script read:

  Count Volroy:

  I have become aware of disturbing rumors of insurrection among the titled nobility, though I know I need never question your loyalty. However, the time approaches when the true fidelity of all must be revealed and a reckoning made. Most painful to me, I have an abiding suspicion that Countess Sashal, for all her professed faithfulness and comfort, works against me. You must uncover the truth of the matter.

  Yet, there is one other task I must ask of you. I have received confidence that a second conspiracy is afoot between Baron Hyr and King H’shu. In the name of your queen, unmask whether others of my Court participate in this foreign connivance.

  To allay suspicion against you, I must appear opposed to you at the Noble Conclave. Though all will be set right once this business is behind us. I continue to depend upon your aid and counsel.

  ~ Queen Shayala

  As if he could strike against Volroy’s duplicity, Munar stabbed the point of the dagger into the tabletop with a thwack. Corvyne reflexively leaned away from the incensed duke.

  With effort, Munar regained control of his anger. “Volroy approached me and requested I permit him to devise the ambuscade against the queen. The reason for his objection to your involvement is now clear: he wishes to ensure its failure. And this letter comes suspiciously before the gathering of the cabal. If the count serves the queen, then she may already be aware of our intention and our identities.” He slumped, hunchbacked, into his chair. “We are lorn.”

  “Your-Your Grace,” Corvyne began. “If the queen knew, our headless bodies would already lie discarded on the field. She cannot act upon the word of only the count.”

  “Perhaps,” Munar conceded, though he remained unconvinced. Then, with sudden conviction, he declared, “We must act soon. We cannot wait to lure her from the castle. It must occur at the Noble Conclave.”

  “Your Grace, that is but a week hence!”

  “Nevertheless, it must be. She will not expect us to act so quickly.”

  “And what of the information regarding Baron Hyr and King H’shu?” Corvyne asked.

  “I care nothing for the baron, but we cannot afford additional complications,” Munar returned. “In the garboil of the ensuing fray, we shall rid ourselves of all three—the queen, the count, and the baron. You are responsible for Her Majesty’s schedule, and none have more knowledge of the castle. You will assume responsibility for this endeavor.”

  “The council chamber has only two exit
s, and none but the queen may bring guards within, though her custom is to bring only a token escort,” Corvyne supplied. “But what of the castle guard?”

  “I will handle the castle guard, but we must be prepared if they interfere. Have the other nobles move their soldiers into place under the guise of their entourage. Captain Syuth will lead the combined force. The queen’s guard is formidable but, without the aid of the seneschal, cannot stand against our united force.”

  “It is possible,” Corvyne said, hope finding its way into his voice. “But the risks are great.”

  “So are the rewards. All must be put in place by then, for too many pieces are in motion to reset the board. We cannot afford further delay.”

  Munar again allowed the candle’s flame to soften the wax, and he gently reaffixed the blot to the parchment with the flat of the dagger. He returned the letter to Corvyne with a stern eye. “Do ensure that the count receives his message.”

  Day 2: Night

  Within the antechamber of his offices, a cluttered suite of administrative activity, Castellan Corvyne stood before four strigoiic thralls. Such thralls made ideal messengers, for a newly risen strigoi was physically incapable of disobeying its creator. Within the organizational structure of the Court, such messengers were distinct from couriers, who were not similarly enthralled. Presently, Corvyne instructed the four on the communication they would convey to his fellow conspirators: Countess Sashal, Earlress Ralyr, Earl Othor, and Baroness Alorn.

  “You will deliver your message to only the designated individual. Whether through action, omission, or spoken or written word, you shall neither reveal the content of your message, nor shall you allow the content of your message to be revealed, other than to the designated individual. Understood?”