The Moroi Hunters Page 3

  “Yes, Your Honor,” all responded.

  “The message is: ‘Circumstances have necessitated expedition of our plan. The strike will no longer occur upon the road but during the upcoming Noble Conclave. Your personal participation shall not be required, though your soldiers must be placed under the temporary command of Captain Syuth of Duke Munar’s personal guard. They can gain access to the castle as your assorted courtiers, retainers, and sycophants. Respond with your concurrence.’”

  Concludingly, Corvyne added, “You will treat their responses in the same manner as my message to them.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Now go.”

  *****

  While Corvyne instructed his messengers, Munar returned to the dining hall to finish his meal. After ordering a guard to fetch him a messenger, he again savored the taste of the specially selected specimens. To fully appreciate their flavoring, they were to be sampled in a particular order. By now, the humans had ceased their weeping and lay compliant.

  The messenger was not long in coming and waited silently by the door while Munar continued his repast. Once the duke finished, the messenger hastened to Munar’s side. With words identical to those used by Castellan Corvyne, Munar ordered the messenger to relay a meeting request to Princess H’shu. He and the foreign princess had a long-established protocol for such clandestine rendezvous.

  As the messenger withdrew to carry out his instructions, Munar felt contentment of mind and palate—a rare emotion in the intrigue-plagued Court.

  *****

  Castle Ky’lor, constructed nearly entirely of wrought, mortared gray granite, sat upon an expansive motte, around which a spiraling path led to a barbican. Beyond this small fortification was a dry, twenty-foot moat replete with outward-facing wooden stakes. From the far bank of the moat rose a fifty-foot curtain wall with a single gatehouse, from which a drawbridge could be lowered. When the drawbridge was down, a steel portcullis, plated in silver, barred passage. Beyond the outer curtain wall and the wide outer bailey was a second wall, enclosing the inner bailey and the massive three-hundred-foot keep. One round tower stood at each cardinal direction of the keep. The towers and keep, all entirely without fenestration, stood apart but connected through soaring, enclosed bridges at three different levels.

  Under the clouded sky, the outer bailey was pressed with unclad bodies, human and strigoi, around a low stage. Hanging by their arms from a wooden framework were the guard and the youngish girl from the market. Nearby was the market’s rock-wielding human, whose gaunt face and body were unwashed and smeared with grime. Additionally suspended above the stage were a second woman and a female strigoi whose restraints were silver.

  Upon the stage also stood four strigoi. One strigoi controlled a second with a pole-mounted collar, fitted with inward-pointing argent spikes. The third strigoi was shackled about his wrists and ankles. The last was Queen Shayala.

  The crowd fell silent when Shayala, gesturing toward the human male and female, began to speak. “These chattel are guilty of a desire to escape and of rutting without permission.”

  Howling and screaming shamelessly, tears smudging their dirt-smeared cheeks, the two humans frantically tugged against their bindings. Without another word, Shayala approached the girl and disemboweled her with a single fingernail, allowing her to flop and scream as her intestines protruded, oozing from her abdomen.

  The guard emptied his bowels upon the stage. “T’aint so!” he protested. “I was no’ wantin’ to escape. ’Twas just a bit o’ fun I was havin’.” His voice trailed off into his sobs.

  Shayala had intended to eviscerate the guard as well. However, upon hearing his pathetic denials, a visceral disgust of the creature arose within her, and she decided upon another punishment. Avoiding the ordure and ignoring its stink—she thought, humans are such vile creatures, fragile and repugnant—she grasped the guard’s arm, placed her other hand upon his shoulder, and pulled. The bone snapped, then skin tore and tendons ripped as arm and shoulder separated. Pain pushed the guard beyond reason when she did the same to his other arm, causing him to fall to the stage and into his own excrement. The detached appendages remained dangling from the restraints above. The abrupt silence was jarring when unconsciousness claimed him and his screams stopped.

  The strigoi of the crowd showed no reaction to the executions, though the humans, like the victims of a bully who had turned his attention to another, cheered and applauded, happy not to have notice focused upon them.

  By this time, the girl had stopped screaming and hung still. Shayala gestured toward the remaining human upon the stage. “This male prevented their escape. For a reward, he may choose a week’s ration of additional food or any human present now with whom to rut.” She turned toward the rock-wielder. “Choose.”

  The male ran his gaze over the crowd and picked out a young, knobby blonde, whose unwashed hair was ragged and tangled. Without a word, he leapt from the stage, moved purposefully through the crowd toward his chosen female, grabbed her, and forced her against the wall. The female at first resisted, but, looking beyond her assailant, she caught sight of the queen. Although Shayala no longer paid them any heed, if the queen had decreed this was to be his reward, the woman would not risk inviting Shayala’s notice and ceased struggling. Most strigoi of the crowd took no interest in the rutting of chattel, though many of the nearby humans turned to enjoy the scene.

  Shayala spoke, and the strigoiic onlookers offered their full attention. “Kurl has committed the offense of bestowing true life upon a chattel.” She gestured toward the third hanging form, whose lavender eyes were wide with terror. “And without the proper allowance. For this, the chattel must be destroyed and Kurl punished.”

  Kurl’s prominent eyes were unfocused. He had known his action was a crime and was aware of the prescribed punishment, yet he never imagined he would find himself in this predicament.

  Shayala crouched and retrieved a treen dagger laying on the stage. Extending it to the restrained strigoi, she commanded, “Do it.”

  The queen’s steely, unforgiving voice jerked Kurl’s thoughts back to the nonce. With an unsteady hand, he took the hilt. Although the thought of plunging the dagger into the queen’s breast did flit through his mind, a glance into her eyes, before quickly lowering his gaze, brought unreasoning fear that she fathomed his thoughts. Kurl knew he would never succeed in such an attack and would sooner plunge the dagger into his own heart than face her wrath.

  Still held by the pole-mounted collar and shadowed by the guard, Kurl walked to the form that hung by argent chains. Her waxy wrists smoked and bubbled from the silver, and the smell of burnt flesh wafted across the stage. Her eyes pled with him.

  He looked into those eyes and, with only the slightest hesitation, plunged the dagger into her chest. Kurl stepped back and stared at the dagger protruding from her heart. His slack arm dropped to his side as if broken under the weight of the cruelty he was forced to perform—and would still be required to perform. His punishment required he destroy the strigoi he had created, for a stake to the heart did not kill ruža vlajna but only incapacitated them; if the stake were removed, they would recover.

  Unable to complete his task, hopelessness washed across his face. He turned to Shayala.

  Wordlessly, purposefully, Shayala approached the now-still form and placed a hand upon either side of its head. With a few powerful twists, she rent the head from the body. Cheers erupted from the now-boisterous strigoi. The humans dared not applaud the execution. Despite his pain and rage, Kurl found a sense of thankfulness toward the queen for sparing him the cruelest task and completing that which he could not.

  Shayala dropped the head, the face frozen in an expression of wide-eyed fear. It struck the wood with a dull thud and rolled across the stage until its nose pressed against the wooden planking. To Kurl, Shayala said, “Your punishment shall commence at dawn. Over the next month, each morning you shall be burned by the sun, only to be healed and burned at th
e following dawn.” With an indifferent wave of her hand, she dismissed the prisoner.

  Shayala glanced at the last strigoi, shackled about wrists and ankles, upon the stage. In a commanding voice that held all of the revulsion she felt, Shayala said, “Finally, Navin has violated one of our oldest prohibitions, that against fornicating with chattel.”

  Boos and hisses emanated from the strigoi of the crowd, while the humans slunk and cowered, fearful of attracting their enmity.

  Every strigoi knows the danger, Shayala thought. As strigoi did not reproduce sexually and did not concern themselves with the unfounded, hidebound sexual mores governing humans, they cast no moral judgment upon any sort or variety of sexual activity, with one exception: bestiality. Copulation between a strigoi and a human was a capital offense. He brought this upon himself.

  Navin whimpered and mewled like a human, only adding to the bloodlust of the crowd. “Please, Your Majesty. No, please, I beg you.”

  Shayala beckoned toward an attendant at the base of the stairs leading atop the stage. In response, the attendant mounted the several steps and, with a wicked grin, handed a silver-bladed sickle to the queen. Navin shook all the more violently, causing his restraints to further melt his skin and intensify the smell of burnt flesh. He howled. But that howl was nothing more than a purr compared to his frenzied screech as Shayala held him upright by his tousled, maroon hair and cut him open from throat to pelvis. She dropped him, still writhing in pain, face-first upon the stage. “The dawn’s light will complete his punishment.”

  When Shayala turned toward the last human hanging above the stage, the woman fainted from fright. Desiring to end the exhibition, she unceremoniously cut the human’s throat with the sickle. Before descending the stairs, Shayala scanned the raucously cheering crowd. She experienced neither joy nor disquiet from the executions. They were necessary. The humans must be reminded of their place, and the strigoi must never forget the seriousness of granting true life at such a precarious time or the existential danger posed by rutting with a human.

  Shayala alighted from the stage and strode toward the gate in the inner curtain wall. The crowd parted as if a sweeping wind had blown her path clear. Navin’s alternating screams and moans followed.

  *****

  Castellan Corvyne and Duke Munar stood on a balcony of the southern tower, viewing the spectacle in the outer bailey. From their vantage, they could clearly hear the cheers of the crowd and the screams of the condemned, though they were spared the stench of the humans’ discharges.

  Corvyne observed Queen Shayala, seemingly unprotected upon the stage, absent any guards or defense. He said as much to Munar, adding, “As her power grows, she becomes complacent.”

  The comment sparked a contempt born of exasperation within Duke Munar. “Really, have you no sense beyond the extent of your nose? The castle guard patrols the battlements, and do you think her guards are not concealed within that mob, ready to strike against any threat in an instant? No attacker would get close. And even if an archer managed to loose a missile before he was brought down, it would not end her.”

  “It was an arrow that brought down King Thyse, if you recall.” Corvyne further intimated, “An arrow that would fell any strigoi, any one of us.”

  Munar’s eyes narrowed to slits; he growled, “If you are such a fool, you’ll soon find yourself upon that stage. Or I would be better served to kill you myself than ally with one of your stupidity.” Although Corvyne had left it unsaid, the suggestion of an arrow that was coated with the blood of a dhampyr was plain.

  The assassin of the previous, much-loved king had yet to be apprehended, and this absence of justice was still denounced by strigoi at all levels. Even in the matter of political assassination, certain etiquette had to be observed. Although King Thyse was no more, his memory still commanded the loyalty and respect of many within the Court. Any intimation of a conspiracy in his death would undoubtedly result in a civil war, which would likely grow to engulf the entire North. Although Munar was certainly willing to use such a method, he would have to ensure that, even if the attempt were successful, he avoided the merest suggestion of involvement. In any case, he did not believe such a drastic course was necessary, as this parvenue queen did not rise to the eminence or cunning of King Thyse, and a less risky approach would suffice.

  Corvyne ignored the insult but bristled at the threat. Duke Munar stared at his fellow conspirator, daring him to voice his indignation. When no response came, Munar continued, “With the annexation of Courts Lynar and Nassum, her influence and popularity grows. Nevertheless, under her rule we approach a crisis of food, and we shall not follow into extinction those who could feed upon only dwarves or elves or other bygone chattel. Her lack of leadership in this matter undermines the security and standing of the Court. If the extent of this crisis were widely known, it would encourage threats from without and within.”

  Corvyne knew Munar would listen to no counterargument; although removing Queen Shayala would not correct the problem, she made a convenient scapegoat. Were the nobility to admit to the populace that food was scarce, panic would undermine support of the titled class. As long as the nobility never admitted a problem, they could claim the common concerns were unfounded. Compounding this reluctance, no noble would dare appear weak or destitute to his peers, so each continued to behave as always—as if unaffected by any scarcity. Which for the moment was true, for the nobility would be the last affected by any shortage and would feel no need to conserve if food was readily available to them. And by the time the nobles were affected by the shortage, the problem would be beyond remedy.

  Rather than further agitate Munar, Corvyne said only, as if revealing a profound truth, “The masses will protest her overthrow.”

  Munar clucked his tongue in dismissal. “The details of our justification do no matter. The rabble will accept any reason we give them because it is in their nature and their interest to do so.”

  Pleased to have the duke’s ire redirected, Corvyne chose simply to offer agreement. “A circumstance that will soon be corrected.”

  Day 2: Light

  A pounding at the door brought Duke Munar from his thoughts. Events were in motion, and, within a sennight, he would be king—or he would be dead. Irritably, he waved off the two servants cleaning the chamber. Both withdrew, and he raised his head to glance at Captain Syuth, who stood respectfully mute near the door. The captain was a wiry strigoi whose nondescript appearance—medium height and complexion, with beige eyes and matching short hair—was deceptively disarming. His steel gorget, protecting the neck, bore the stamp of the duke’s insigne: an owl perched atop a full moon, red blood dripping from where its talons pierced the sphere. A cutlass and an assortment of daggers hung from his baldric.

  Syuth opened the door. Without stood a powerfully built strigoi with a shaved head and pupilless brown eyes. His countenance registered neither fear nor reverence at the ducal personage. As one of few outside Munar’s guard permitted to remain armed in the presence of the duke, he bore two backswords scabbarded upon his belt; strapped to the back of his baldric was a long-handled sickle. His gorget was emblemed with the insigne of a two-towered castle within a square.

  “Your Grace, Seneschal Lyuth,” Syuth announced.

  “Moon’s embrace, Seneschal,” Munar greeted.

  “And to you, Your Grace,” Lyuth returned.

  Munar motioned for him to enter. “Do come in.”

  Syuth stood aside to allow Lyuth to pass, closing the door behind the seneschal.

  “A refreshment, Seneschal?” The duke gestured to a naked human female beside a bureau, sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms hugging her legs.

  “No, thank you, Your Grace.”

  Munar shrugged and moved to take a draught from the neck of the woman, now broken of any resistance. Once finished, he dropped her to the floor and, moving back to his desk, offered a seat to Lyuth.

  Munar spoke. “What I share with you today
is of the utmost secrecy and import. Were any word to escape, the perpetrators would be alerted to our knowledge, and the opportunity to apprehend them when they strike would be lost.”

  Lyuth leaned forward intently.

  “We have learned there are those within the queen’s own court who would see her gone.”

  Lyuth bolted upright, eyes wide. “Your Grace, I should have been informed, that I may take precautions.”

  “This is a matter of internal politics. Your charge is the protection of the castle, is it not?” Munar asked.

  “As Your Grace is aware.”

  “And you must remain neutral in matters politic.” It was not a question.

  “Again, Your Grace.”

  “The castle itself is not threatened.”

  “But there is precedent when…”

  “I trust in your discretion in the days to come,” said the duke in a clipped, authoritative voice. “If your soldiers interfere, I cannot promise they will not be mistaken for conspirators.”

  “Your Grace, I must…”

  “Seneschal, you will not involve yourself. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Without waiting to be dismissed, Lyuth took his leave.

  Day 3: Night

  Duke Munar and Castellan Corvyne sat within the anteroom of Queen Shayala’s audience chamber at the base of the keep. The undecorated room, little more than a short hallway, was fitted with double bronze doors upon either end, and arrow slits were set into the walls, through which guards in concealed passages and rooms could fire upon intruders. Simple wooden chairs lined either side, and currently both sets of doors stood open. Two halberd-wielding guards—whose impassive faces seemed to notice nothing said or done while, at the same time, noticing everything—stood at either entrance.