The Moroi Hunters Read online

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Corvyne bowed and hurried from the duke’s presence.

  *****

  Although Shayala’s minor injuries soon healed, those of Tylia and Lythan would require no less than a week, even with additional nourishment. Presently, the two strigoi remained dormant. Shayala would use this time while she awaited Lyan to consider the current state of her undertaking and to reevaluate her plans. However, unbidden, her usually disciplined mind strayed to her parents’ flight from the South, a tale she had not related to anyone since King Thyse. With disdain for such nostalgia and melancholy, she wrenched her thoughts to more immediate concerns.

  She deplored the fact she was unable to personally oversee events within the Court, though she was comforted by the involvement of Halura and Lyan. They had been by her side for more than a century, even before gaining true life, and none were more competent or loyal. Absolute victory would rely—as often it did—upon timing. Fortunately, even if ill-timed, a partial, acceptable victory could still be achieved.

  Although the tribes would require further encouragement to support an attack against the Court, events were unfolding as well as could be expected when dealing with feral humans. Still, she could not help but again wonder at the wisdom of making such creatures so integral a part of her stratagem against the treasonists. There was no alternative; she would have the support of the feral humans.

  The door creaked open and in came a blond waif of a strigoi. Shayala could not guess the age at which this one had been granted true life, though it was doubtless before she had reached maturity as a human. Standing a head and a half shorter than Shayala, the petite newcomer gave the scabbarded shortsword on her belt the illusion of a longblade. However, her tangerine eyes, marked by watchfulness and experience, belied her girl-like form.

  The waif stopped in surprise at the broken table and the two dormant female strigoi, who bore horrible wounds. She turned toward Shayala, who sat seiza-style—kneeling with body erect and resting on her legs, which were kept folded beneath her. Confused by what her senses told her of Shayala, the newcomer narrowed her eyes and gripped the handle of her shortsword.

  Shayala stood, hands upon her own weapons. “State your purpose.”

  The waif took only a moment to overcome her bewilderment and answered, “I serve the night.” She withdrew her hand from the hilt of her sword.

  “Where is Lyan?” Shayala asked. She did not recognize the girl-like strigoi.

  The waif showed confusion at the question, and her hand again strayed to her weapon.

  Shayala said in a commanding tone, “Look closely at me.”

  She scrutinized Shayala’s masked face, recalling Lyan’s admonition: “Her Majesty will not appear as herself.” As soon as recognition struck her, the waif fell to her knee, head bowed, stammering, “Forgive-forgive me, Your-Your Majesty. I didn’t recognize…”

  “Where is Lyan?” Shayala reiterated.

  “She-she was detained by circumstances of some import, Your Majesty, but she will arrive in short order. As my mistress was occupied, I could leave the castle unheeded, and so Lyan bade me to beg your sufferance.”

  “What circumstances?” Shayala asked.

  “She didn’t say, Your Majesty. Only if it were any other matter, she would have come immediately.” She glanced upward at Shayala, whose glare spurred the waif to snap her head downward once again.

  “Go and secure sustenance,” Shayala commanded.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” And the girl hastened from the waystation.

  Day 18: Night

  Shayala had abided at the safe house for a day, and the longer she remained the more likely she would be discovered by another patrol. If Lyan did not arrive this night, she would withdraw across the river, leaving instructions for her spy marshal.

  The waif—whose name, Shayala had learned, was Yata—had procured four humans, two of which were spent in healing Tylia and Lythan. Although their conditions had improved, they yet required time and continued to lie quiescent. Presently, Yata maintained a watch of the structure from the forest.

  With her patience stretched nearly to breaking, Shayala paced the interior of the waystation. Finally, at the mid of the night, the door opened and in strode her spy marshal. With a casual glance, Lyan absorbed the scene before falling to her knee. “Your Majesty.”

  “Rise, Lyan,” Shayala said, relief in her voice. “I grew concerned.”

  Lyan stood and raised an appraising eyebrow at the queen’s appearance and attiring as a feral human but did not comment. As Lyan had approached the safe house, Yata greeted her and informed the spy marshal of the queen’s unusual appearance, though the foreknowledge still did not prepare Lyan for the reality. “Did Yata not inform you of my delay?”

  “She did. Nonetheless…” Shayala did not complete the thought.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. Much has occurred and continues to unfold. Captain Halura has been captured and has, apparently, revealed you yet live.”

  “That’s not possible.” Shayala was incredulous. Still, despite the denial, Shayala knew Lyan was not given to frivolity. Unlike humans, strigoi could not experience the fluttering sensation of dread in their vestigial stomachs, yet Shayala nevertheless felt a sudden pang of anxiety.

  “So I thought. A thrall’s obedience has always been an inviolable truth.”

  “Have you seen Halura?” Shayala asked.

  “She’s under continuous guard and I’ve been unable to reach her. And, I admit, I do not have proof the information came from Halura. The evidence is circumstantial. Nevertheless, you have been missing for nearly a dennight, and Munar has given no hint of anything amiss nor made any mention of you. Yet shortly after Halura’s capture, the usurper, in a fit, began to claim that ‘someone has been impersonating the late queen and must be found at all costs.’ At least, as the duke made no mention of your human appearance, he must be unaware of your disguise.”

  “That’s hardly conclusive,” Shayala countered, clinging to the lack of direct, irrefutable evidence. Had Munar been able to break the bonds of a thrall’s servitude, he would collapse a pillar of strigoiic society and shift the balance of power to his favor. “Most likely, we have been betrayed. Perhaps the duke has informants among the feral humans. Or the timing of the duke’s proclamation in relation to Halura’s capture could be merely coincidental.”

  “I do not believe we have been betrayed, Your Majesty. Other than Halura, the Magificer, and I—and several others, whom I have confirmed have not been uncovered—none know of your escape. My agents have found no hint of duplicity.

  “Further, were Munar to act in response to events or information from among the feral humans, I’m certain I would have uncovered the existence of such informants. I ask you, Your Majesty, do any of the humans know your true identity?”

  Shayala shook her head. “I have encountered suspicion among them but nothing leading me to believe they know.”

  “As for a coincidence,” Lyan finished, “I find that even less likely than my original conclusion. As implausible as it may be, Munar has seemingly discovered a means around that particular prohibition.”

  Shayala was quiet, contemplative. If true, this knowledge held repercussions for both reclaiming her throne as well as her long-term goals. Despite the low regard in which I hold Munar, I must be diligent to avoid underestimating him as so many have underestimated me. Lyan stood silently, patiently. The only sounds were distant animal noises from the surrounding forest.

  When Shayala refocused upon Lyan, the spy marshal said, “Be assured, Your Majesty, I will continue to search for the answer. Still, in some small measure, the duke’s actions have aided our cause. In his capture of Halura, the duke had the village Hathaer demolished and its population, to the one, executed. He does not deny this. He holds it as an example of the consequences of defying him.” As Lyan spoke, Shayala moved to repast upon one of the two remaining humans chained to the far wall.

  Lyan continued, “What
Munar does not understand is, in his severe response, he could not more clearly announce his insecurity and the weakness of his position. Such an overreaction has engendered significant fear and ill will against the duke.

  “Also, Your Majesty, be aware that, with the loss of Hathaer, a significant cache of weapons was lost, as well as the smith and smithy. Although our stockpile and means of production have been diminished, our efforts have by no means been crippled.” Before Shayala could comment, Lyan added, “But I am already seeing to alternatives.”

  Shayala nodded in full confidence. “We cannot afford to delay. The attack must occur during the enthronement, as King H’shu will be in attendance. Never will a better opportunity present itself.”

  “We will be ready, Your Majesty. Upon a different topic, the Countess and the Magificer have received your instructions and have begun to carry them out.”

  Shayala nodded again, secure in the knowledge that it was so. Struck by a sudden thought, she asked, “What was the period between Halura’s capture and the duke’s statement?”

  Lyan considered. “Less than two days.”

  “If Munar truly can subvert our agents, you must maintain regular communication with them,” Shayala said. “It will increase the possibility of discovery, but the risk of their disclosing vital information is greater. We cannot allow their capture.”

  Lyan nodded in understanding; she knew of one certain means to ensure they were not taken alive.

  Shayala continued, “Establish a supply line through the southern hinterlands and begin delivery of the arms and blood. The humans have yet to endorse an incursion against the Court. They will agree, but they require further violence to persuade them. Dispatch a contingent of soldiers to me.” Shayala paused, knowing that her next command would be considered traitorous by most strigoi, though she had crossed that line when she provided ruža vlajnan blood to the feral humans. “Arrange for a captive strigoi, a criminal, to be sent to me.”

  Lyan gave only the slightest flicker of surprise before saying, “I will see to it, Your Majesty.” Shayala knew Lyan could guess what the queen intended; no more heinous an act could be conceived than delivering strigoi to be slaughtered by humans. Under other circumstances, it would be unthinkable, but Shayala had traveled too far down this path to walk another.

  Shayala asked, “Have you parchment and ink?”

  Lyan nodded, exited the structure, and returned with a satchel containing the items. Shayala set to drawing a map, indicating the location of her commandeered lair and the encampment of the Moroi Hunters. As she handed the completed cartograph to Lyan, she said, “My refuge lies beneath a stone outcropping atop a hill.”

  Nodding, Lyan accepted the parchment, rolled it, and placed it within the satchel.

  Although no interruption had marred their meeting, Shayala felt the persistent call of urgency, as if enemies could arrive at any moment. And she felt the need to return to further events among the feral humans and allow Lyan to resume her responsibilities. “I must return.” With an inclination of her head to the yet-prone strigoi, she added, “See to them, soldiers of Halura.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. A supply of materiel awaits you outside.”

  The comment brought a thought to Shayala. “Locate a pair of khopeshes as well as a pair of kopides and send them with the others.” Lyan gave a curt nod.

  As the two grasped shoulders, Lyan said, “The usurper will soon fall.”

  Shayala quit the station, took up the sack of weapons and blood, gave a curt nod to Yata—who fell to her knee—and ran westward.

  *****

  Duke Munar sat upon the Skeletal Throne in the audience chamber of Castle Ky’lor. Other than the removal of Queen Shayala’s insigne, the appearance of the chamber was indistinguishable from its time under Shayala’s tenure. To commemorate his impending reign, Munar commissioned artisans to weave a new tapestry to be added to the history depicted by the hangings lining the walls. However, Munar was too preoccupied by the revelation Shayala somehow lived to enjoy his new seat, both literal and figurative, let alone concentrate upon the civil matter before him.

  Castellan Corvyne explained the circumstances surrounding a conflict between two chattel of different owners: “The human belonging to Alora and the one belonging to Wylrn fought over the remains of rotted fruit which they found. Wylrn’s human struck Alora’s in the head with a stone, killing him. Wylrn’s human also suffered significant injury. Each seeks recompense for the damage to their chattel.”

  The castellan and the two petitioners looked to the duke, whose vacant gaze was directed toward some arbitrary point at the end of the nave.

  Once it became clear that Munar’s thoughts and attention were elsewhere, Corvyne prompted, “Your Grace?”

  Awareness returned and the duke shifted his gaze toward the three. With open impatience, asked he, “Corvyne, is there anything unusual about this matter?”

  “No, Your Grace,” the castellan replied.

  “Then I depute its resolution to you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Corvyne acknowledged. Turning toward the petitioners, the castellan asked, “Do either of you contest these facts?”

  “No, Your Honor,” both Alora and Wylrn responded.

  “Then all requests for compensation are rejected,” Corvyne ruled. “The law is clear: this was a quarrel between chattel; no strigoi was harmed.”

  “But, Your Honor, my loss of property,” Alora dared say.

  “The loss of property was the result of the actions of other chattel, actions which were neither instigated nor sanctioned by its owner,” Corvyne replied. “The humans behaved as humans will.”

  Alora looked as if she would protest further, though thought better of it. With a nod, Corvyne dismissed both. The two turned, dejected, and began toward the bronze doors that marked the exit. At the head of a queue behind Coryvne, an anxious strigoi clutched a roll of parchment and stood straighter, expecting to be called.

  “This audience is concluded,” Munar declared, preempting Corvyne before the castellan could call the next supplicant. Among the petitioners, vexed murmurings spread and turned to fearful whispers under the implacable advance of the castle guard, who stepped forward to clear the chamber.

  Munar alighted from the dais, his royal blue cape trailing behind him. The duke’s personal guard, led by Captain Syuth, moved to accompany him, followed by Corvyne. Munar walked as quickly as dignity would allow, toward the council chamber. At one point, Munar whispered to Syuth, just to the duke’s right. Signaling two other guards, the captain broke away and down a side passage. Six guards remained to protect their charge.

  Although the appointed council was not to be held for several hours, the duke turned to face Corvyne. “Have the nobles arrived?”

  Corvyne nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Then fetch them,” Munar commanded. “The Conclave will begin now.”

  Despite his surprise, Corvyne answered smartly, “Yes, Your Grace,” and moved to obey.

  Duke Munar settled himself into the seat at the head of the recently cracked mahogany table. Three guards stood behind him, and three remained in the hallway beyond the door.

  Although too long for the duke’s liking, the nobles eventually began to arrive: Baroness Alorn, Countess Sashal, Earl Othor, Baronetess Hyuth, Earlress Ralyr, Baronet Halyr, and Castellan Corvyne. Each gave a respectful bow and uttered, “Your Grace,” before sitting. For his part, Duke Munar neither spoke nor gestured to any of the arrivals; he only poured critically over their every expression, searching for any sign of betrayal. None of the assembled spoke or met the duke’s accusatory glare.

  Despite his fixated inspection of each attendee, Munar could not discern any telltale sign. He decided to begin by forcing them further off balance. “There is a traitor among you.”

  The remark was met by an immediate barrage of denials, accusations, and expressions of incredulity. Although strigoi did possess a distinct scent, they did not give off phero
mones, or the chamber would have filled with the aroma of fear.

  “Quiet!” Munar roared, and all fell silent. “I will determine the truth.” He looked to Alorn. “Baroness, I understand you undertake clandestine trips to the domain of Earl Othor.”

  Alorn’s eyes flew wide. She glanced aslant at the earl and stuttered, “Yo-Your Grace, I-I…” She looked directly at Othor.

  The earl returned a guilty look before addressing Munar, “Your Grace, they are but trysts, nothing more.” Inscribed on his ring was his insigne, depicting a black panther, forepaws resting atop a full moon, tail holding an upright dagger.

  Alorn visibly relaxed once the duke’s attention was no longer upon her.

  Without acknowledging the response, Munar turned toward Sashal. “Countess, why have you shifted all the chattel to the quarry?”

  Far more composed with her response, Sashal explained, “For the sake of efficiency, Your Grace. Because the mines are absent sunlight, I can have the prisoner strigoi work continuously. And by moving the humans from the mine to the quarry, I can increase productivity during the day, while the prisoners work the quarry in the night.”

  Again, without commenting upon the response, Munar looked to Ralyr. “Earlress, your agents routinely meet with those of Court H’shu.”

  To her credit, Ralyr quickly overcame her initial consternation. With an innocent smile, she answered, “Your Grace, it seems I am caught. I’ve established dealings with various merchants of Court H’shu for the mutual benefit of tax-free trade. I’d be more than happy to reimburse the Court for lost revenue.”

  Wordlessly, Munar turned his attention to Baronetess Hyuth and Baronet Halyr, sitting at either end of the far side of the table. They shifted uneasily in their seats, looking as if they wanted to bolt from the chamber. Munar did not believe these petty nobles could know anything of, let alone be party to, the reemergence of Shayala. Still, he wanted them to know that he would always be watching.