The Moroi Hunters Page 6

  Both stood, bowed to the queen, and uttered, “Your Majesty.”

  Shayala acknowledged with a nod.

  “They are here to witness your seal on the trade agreement,” continued Corvyne, who shuffled the parchment and brought to the fore a stack bound by an iron ring.

  “The terms of the agreement have been finalized,” Corvyne said, glancing at the parchment. “The duties on various commodities have been negotiated and are listed on the tariff. Import and export quotas have been determined, as have bartering values for each commodity. The exchange rate for currency—”

  “Corvyne, the document.” Shayala extended her hand, and Corvyne provided two copies of the agreement. After applying her insigne beside the marks of several others, she handed the sheets back to the castellan.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Emira Jubyra. “This accord will benefit us all.”

  “Yes, it will,” responded Shayala.

  “With your permission, Your Majesty, we will take our leave to convey this agreement with all due haste,” said Emir Azhum.

  Shayala responded with a nod. Corvyne handed both copies of the agreement to the aid, who escorted the emir and emira from the chamber, but not before all three stood and bowed to the queen.

  Once the visitors had gone, Earlress Ralyr spoke, her tone filled with more condescending disgust than her usual aristocratic disdain for anything not conforming to the traditions of the ancient Northern Courts. “Those Southern strigoi pierce their skin with jewelry in the manner of feral humans. And I hear they allow humans some measure of dignity and autonomy.” Carved into an ivory pendant was her insigne, depicting a bat, wings outstretched, overlying a full moon.

  “It’s said they even grant humans some rights,” Baroness Alorn added, her voice like hurled daggers.

  “Barbarians,” Duke Munar said.

  “Abominations!” Count Volroy exclaimed.

  “Um, yes, well…” Corvyne looked to Queen Shayala, recognizing her impatience to continue with the business before them. “Your Majesty, several other matters of Court await your attention.” At a nod from Shayala, he continued, “Since you have enfolded Nassum within the Court, Count Volroy has consistently failed to remit the appropriate taxes.”

  As he finished, Corvyne looked pointedly at the count, though Volroy was looking at the queen with mixed embarrassment and anger. Impassive, though with the faintest trace of cruelty, Shayala returned his stare.

  “Your Majesty,” Volroy began, veritably spitting the title, “the chattel that work the mines are indolent and weak. They have not had the production to—”

  “Do the chattel govern your domain?” interrupted the queen. “Should they be sitting here in your stead?”

  One noble at the table stifled a snicker, while the others observed the exchange with nervous but intense concentration.

  Volroy could barely control his rage. “I cannot be blamed.”

  Rhetorically, Shayala asked with obvious derision, “Who then? No matter, an easy problem to solve. I have no doubt Countess Sashal would be far more conscientious of her Courtly obligations. The mine now falls within the authority of the countess.”

  “Your Majesty!” Volroy protested too loudly. “I am noble. Certain proprieties must be observed.”

  All present stared, agape, at the count. Earlress Ralyr, who sat beside Volroy, noticeably leaned away. Silence hung palpably, swirling and engulfing those in the room.

  With deathly calm, the queen responded, “Propriety is purchased with taxes, Your Lordship.”

  Humiliated and harboring barely restrained resentment and antipathy, Volroy glared at the queen. Through clenched teeth, said he, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Corvyne paused a moment before continuing. “Your Majesty, we have lost a number of chattel to accidents at the quarry. Rather than repurpose potable chattel, we can transfer replacements from the mines to the quarry, at least until additional laboring chattel can be acquired.”

  With only a short pause to consider, the queen replied, “See to it.”

  Corvyne continued, “The nosferatu population to the west, in the territory of Baron Hyr, seems to be, for unknown reasons, growing.”

  “Your Majesty, may I request some small aid in hunting the feral creatures?” asked the baron. His only adornment or covering—in the style of the anachronistic armament once worn by strigoiic soldiers to protect the heart—was a small, steel shield that rested over the left side of his chest and which was kept in place by three leather straps.

  “No.”

  Baron Hyr sat back, looking abashed.

  “Your Majesty,” Countess Sashal began, “in return for aid in reducing the nosferatu population, I’m sure the baron would graciously donate chattel to replenish those lost at the quarry.” Although Sashal often changed her many pieces of jewelry, the lustrous sheens and multi-faceted gems of her current assortment still seemed to draw in all the light from the room before releasing it in a dazzling display.

  Without waiting for either endorsement or argument from the baron, Shayala said, “Corvyne, see to it.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty, Countess,” Hyr said in his best imitation of an appreciative tone.

  “Next on the agenda, Your Majesty,” Corvyne resumed. “We—”

  The door opposite the queen burst open with a crash of splintering wood. In came two male and two female strigoi soldiers. Their gorgets bore no emblem, and they were each armed with two argent swords, long and short. One male had thick amethyst hair, and the other sported a shaved scalp save for two dark green crests upon either side of center; one female wore her azure hair in a braid, and the second kept her sapphire-colored hair short.

  The nobles shouted in feigned fear and shock. They leapt from their seats and pressed against the sides of the room. Shayala, however, remained seated and observed the scene in silence. Her guards took two steps forward to stand immediately beside the queen.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Duke Munar demanded in plausible outrage.

  The intruding soldiers began stalking around the table, one male and female to a side. They were grim-faced and focused, seeming to ignore most of the room’s occupants. While urging her to withdraw, Shayala’s guards engaged the male attackers.

  Noticing that the sapphire-topped soldier seemed intent upon him, Baron Hyr attempted to leap away, over the table. But his recognition of the danger came too late. With a thrust to his side, she dropped him to the table’s surface. Like a guillotine, her blade fell, slicing through his unprotected neck and sending his head rolling; from the strength of the blow, the point of the sword bit into the table with a woody clack.

  The soldier with sky-colored plaits ignored the other nobles, until reaching Count Volroy. His shock was genuine when she impaled him. She retracted the blade and decapitated him with a single, powerful stroke.

  The guard to Shayala’s right dispatched the green-crested soldier and was immediately beset by the blue-braided attacker who had slain Volroy. The aisle opposite was blocked by the continuing fight between Shayala’s second guard and the amethyst-locked strigoi. Hyr’s slayer leapt atop the table.

  “Your Majesty, you must get to safety,” implored her guards.

  The shouts of combatants and the ring of metal from the hallway behind the queen could be heard within the chamber. Shayala stood calmly.

  To Shayala’s left, a guard engaged Amethyst. As Sapphire-locks passed, stalking atop the table, the guard slashed her knee, bringing her crashing down. Amethyst used the momentary distraction to thrust a blade into the guard’s face.

  Without a parting look, Shayala exited through the door she had entered. Captain Halura, with six guards, awaited her in the hallway, slick with strigoiic blood. Several soldiers with unmarked gorgets lay dead and headless nearby. Halura’s guards immediately assumed formation around the queen as the captain led the group away.

  The procession passed other decapitated strigo
i—apparent assassins and insurgents, members of the queen’s guard and others loyal to Shayala, as well as castle staff and other innocents. On two occasions, the party was accosted by hostile soldiers, whom Halura and the guards quickly dispatched. By the time they reached the queen’s chamber, four more of the queen’s guards had joined the entourage. Three sentries stood waiting without the chamber, dead guards and assassins lying about.

  Halura entered the room with the queen as the other guards took up position beyond the door. Shayala removed her jewelry, including the gold-and-amethyst necklace, and handed them to the captain, who placed them all within a pouch at her belt. Next, Shayala retrieved Haluth’s necklace from the drawer and donned it. Halura raised her eyebrows at the instant transformation, though said nothing.

  With another uttered word, Shayala opened a portal behind a second tapestry in her chamber and entered the tunnel, accompanied by Halura. Both ran steadily, never hesitating at any branching passage.

  Finally stopping at one fork, the queen looked to her captain. “Thank you, Halura.”

  With obvious emotion, Halura responded, “My pleasure and my duty are to serve, Your Majesty.”

  “I expect you to survive this day,” Shayala said affectionately, yet in the commanding tone of a queen, while placing a hand upon the captain’s shoulder.

  With that, Shayala took the left fork, and Halura the right. After some distance down a descending passage, Shayala reached a seeming dead end. With a word, she opened a hidden portal leading from the base of the motte, and the deposed queen ran into the daylight.

  *****

  After leaving the queen, Halura ran on, reaching a steel-barred door with a heavy iron latch. Halura lifted the bar and entered the room. The walls within were of mortared granite, and the interior of the door was silver-plated; no furnishings were present. She noted the single occupant of the cell: a dusky female strigoi trammeled to the wall with argent chains. Halura recognized her as the human who had undergone inspection by Queen Shayala. Although malnourished, the shackled strigoi had not yet degenerated to the ferality of a nosferatu.

  “You were ordered by your creator to obey me as if I was your master.” Halura’s words were not a question but a statement.

  The recently risen strigoi nodded as if compelled. “Yes.” The reply was as much growl as speech. Her hair had been colored a deep purple, and her corneas and irises has been tattooed with black ink. A strigoi’s natural power to heal would normally eliminate any tattoo; however, this one’s healing was severely curtailed by her lack of nourishment.

  “You will not speak unless ordered to do so,” Halura commanded.

  The other only nodded.

  Halura reached into her pouch and threw a key to the prisoner. “Free yourself.”

  The chains fell upon the stone floor with a clank. The strigoi’s wrists and ankles were red and blistered. The captain then pitched Shayala’s bracelets, anklets, and necklace to the creature and ordered her to don them. Halura guided the strigoi out of the room and through the labyrinth of undifferentiated corridors, all coated in a patina of dust. At the end of the passage, they waited.

  Time passed indeterminately, and Halura grew concerned they would miss the window. If the timing was not perfect, the queen’s life would be in jeopardy, and decades of planning would be undone in an instant. Finally, from far down the corridor, she heard the sound of running feet. Shortly thereafter, three of the queen’s guard came into view around a corner and stopped before their captain.

  “Time?” Halura asked.

  “Dusk is upon us,” answered one guard.

  “How far?” Halura asked.

  “Not far, any moment,” replied a second.

  Moments later, more running footsteps could be heard, and a group of fifteen soldiers, male and female, came into view. Behind them, walking at a casual pace, were Castellan Corvyne and Duke Munar.

  The corridor was wide enough for three to walk abreast, though only two could fight comfortably side-by-side. Two of the queen’s guard took position, using glaives to keep the attackers at a distance.

  Although the front ranks of the attackers went down, the press pushed the guards back. One managed to get inside the reach of the glaive and slashed a guard across the belly. She fell back with a surprised, pained grunt, and the third guard took her place to fill the gap. The defenders were pushed back until Halura and the dusky, jewelried strigoi were pressed to the back wall.

  Halura shouted, “Your Majesty, you must leave this place! Please, I beg you!” With a whispered word, Halura opened a portal, and the defenders allowed themselves to be pushed back to its threshold, beyond which the shadow of the outer curtain wall enhanced the darkness of the setting sun, creating the appearance of a deeper gloom.

  The dark-skinned strigoi appeared confused. With a whispered command, the captain ordered, “Run!” while pushing her across the threshold.

  The queen’s double rushed into the last vestiges of dusk. However, as soon as she cleared the shadow, upon the side opposite from which Shayala herself had fled, she fell screaming as her skin caught fire and sloughed from her bones, reeking of an overcooked cut of meat. Within a hand-count of seconds, only charred bones and ash remained.

  Halura released a gut-wrenching scream. “Your Majesty!”

  The battle became surreal, as both attackers and defenders paused to register what had just occurred. Some lowered their weapons in shock, while others stood frozen. Each side stared into the disbelievingly stunned faces of its opponents, expressions mere reflections of one another. Even after the fighting had ceased, the last echoes of battle cries and ringing metal reverberated within the stone corridor for several more seconds. Munar and Corvyne craned their necks to peer beyond the throng, though they could not achieve an unobstructed view.

  With a gut-wrenching cry, one of the queen’s guard broke the waking dream and slashed the face of an attacker. Fighting blindly in her maddened state, she struck against another and another with no thought to tactics or technique. An enemy gashed her in the side and felled her with a blow to the side of the head.

  A distraught and grief-stricken Halura took the place of the fallen guard and, with the last remaining guard, fought a retreating action beyond the passage. Once free of the stony confines, they ran into the night, never glancing at the incinerated remains.

  *****

  Four of the attackers took up the chase of Halura and the second guard. The hallway was again quiet save for the groans and curses of the injured. Before returning with the castellan to the keep proper, the duke ordered his remaining soldiers to finish the queen’s guard and to retrieve the remnants of the queen.

  “Magnificent, Corvyne. Absolutely magnificent,” Munar said with unabashed delight. “My only complaint is the queen escaped the council chamber. Yet in the end, it mattered not.”

  Munar smiled as he walked. He looked at Corvyne. “Haluth’s information was invaluable, my dear castellan.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. He also informed me where the queen kept her personal stable of chattel, if you would care for me to show you.”

  That brought another smile to the duke. “Another time. Another time, soon. But first, I have a matter to which to attend. I trust that you can see to the purge, castellan.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Without valediction, Duke Munar withdrew.

  Day 9: Night

  Duke Munar left the castle in a windowless coach pulled by four draft horses and driven by a strigoiic coachman, with an escort of thirty soldiers, heading eastward. The waxing gibbous moon in a cloudless sky seemed a portentous end to the queen and prelude to his reign. By midnight, the equipage reached a waystation halfway to the western boundary of Court H’shu. Before approaching the structure, Captain Syuth instructed half the soldiers to thoroughly scout the vicinity, while the other half surrounded the coach and the duke within.

  Once the captain was satisfied no enemies lay in wait, he and ten soldiers entered the
waystation. The windowless stone structure showed little difference from others of its kind, though this safe house was absent any furnishings, and a single side room lay through a wooden door. Of the three humans chained to eyebolts in the floor by the far wall, two were emaciated but alive, eagerly devouring the bread and water brought them; the third had recently expired, as it had only begun to exude the rancid smell of decay. The waymaster, one of several officials charged with the maintenance and provisioning of safe houses and waystations throughout the Court, was removing the dead human from its chains. If he had been a matter of hours later, the body would have risen as a strigoi, shattered its chains, and gorged upon the other humans.

  “What is this?” demanded the startled waymaster as several soldiers kept him pinned near the wall and others inspected the side room. “There is no need for such an entrance.”

  “Be gone,” Syuth ordered.

  “The waystations are sanctuary for all, and I must dispose—” began the waymaster.

  “Be gone,” Syuth repeated. “Or do not.” He took a menacing step toward the waymaster.

  The guards parted, and the waymaster hastily took his exit. His surprise only increased when he saw the soldiers arrayed outside. He moved quickly away from the heavier concentration of guards.

  Munar, standing beside the coach, gestured, and a soldier leapt after the fleeing waymaster. With a wide swing, the guard sent the strigoi’s head flying while the body fell forward.

  Captain Syuth emerged, noticing but ignoring the slain waymaster. “Clear, Your Grace.”

  As the duke proceeded into the waystation, his royal blue cape waving in cadence with his strides, Syuth deployed twenty guards in a semicircle, centered upon the entrance, and followed the duke with the remaining ten guards.