Dragonvein Book Four (13 page)

“What? Nothing to say?” Desmond goaded. “Too bad, since they would have been your final words.”

Martok knew better than to underestimate his hated opponent. Desmond had been under Sylas’ tutelage for many years now. And though still no match for himself in sheer power, he was nonetheless crafty and ruthless. The other mage he recognized as Hurlor Vanz – the eldest son and heir to his family’s lands. Though not known to be particularly strong in magic, he was clever in business and trade. And right now, his aspect was awash with fear.

“Yes, I do have something to say before you die,” he replied. As a sneer formed on Desmond's face, Martok turned to his companion. “Hurlor. You know me. And you know very well how this is going to end. Leave now and I will spare you and your family. Remain, and I will slaughter each and every one of them while you watch. The choice is yours.”

Hurlor’s eyes darted from Martok to Desmond.

“If you leave, I swear I’ll flay you alive,” Desmond shouted.

“Do you really think he can defeat me?” Martok asked quietly.

This simple question – or rather, knowing the answer – was enough to push an already wavering Hurlor right over the edge. With a rapid wave of his hand he caused the earth beneath his own feet to erupt, raising him bodily six feet off the ground. Caught unaware, Desmond extended his arm to attack his former accomplice, but Hurlor unleashed a blinding flash of white light into his face. Martok was actually rather impressed by the tactic. By the time Desmond understood what had happened, Hurlor was already fifty yards away and running as fast as he could from the fray.

Tearing his angry gaze away from the fleeing Hurlor, Desmond turned back to see Martok smiling at him.

“You are alone now,” Martok said, his tone low and dangerous. “And unlike poor Hurlor, I will not be allowing
you
to leave.”

              For a moment there was nothing but rage on Desmond's face. Then a sinister grin slowly crept up from the corners of his mouth. His eyes shifted slyly over to the right. “You think I am defeated?”

It took a second or two for Martok to realize his intentions. When he did, a surge of fear struck like a thunderclap. “No!” he shouted.

Even as he called out, a bolt of lightning had already flashed from Desmond’s hand in the direction of the guard tower. He tried to counter the spell and divert its energy, but was not fast enough. The sound of a familiar voice crying out in agony tore at his ears.

He set off as fast as he could toward the tower, letting loose a stream of flames at Desmond as he went. The attack was easily deflected harmlessly into the ground. But it was enough to prevent more assaults on his father and weaken his foes wards somewhat. When he had placed his body directly in Desmond’s line of sight, he let loose a beam of white energy - a far more powerful spell meant to incapacitate his enemy. But Desmond was already making a rapid retreat – clearly unwilling to fight Martok alone – and the spell found naught but air. Reluctant to abandon his father, Martok had to fight the consuming urge to hunt down his enemy, and was forced to allow him to escape.

With the threat gone, Martok concentrated on reaching his father. A scorched area on the stone of the guard tower showed clearly where Desmond’s spell had struck, and near to this he could see legs poking out from the corner of the building. Perhaps the bolt had missed its target, Martok hoped desperately. Clinging to this thought, he raced closer.

              Not until he rounded the corner did he realize that only a part of Desmond’s spell had been obstructed. Much of it had spread wider to inflict serious damage.

Sliding to his knees, he scrambled to his father’s side. He was dressed in his morning robe and night clothes – though these had been ripped and burned beyond repair. The flesh on his face was charred and bubbled with blisters, and his right arm lay twisted in a grotesquely unnatural position.  

“Please be alive,” Martok uttered, his voice trembling.

With both hands placed on his father’s chest, he sent healing waves of magic deep into the mangled body. It was all for nothing. After only a few seconds of this he realized that his efforts were futile. His father was dead, and nothing he could do was going to bring him back. For a short time, he remained absolutely still while absorbing this cold reality.

Then the dam burst. With head thrown back like a howling beast, a series of pent-up primal screams filled with the combined emotions of fury, sorrow, and vengeance burst free. On and on they poured out of him in a seemingly endless stream.

Finally, all was released. He gazed down at his father’s broken form once again, and in that moment an odd calm came over him. His face became devoid of expression and his heart slowed to a steady beat. Something had changed inside him. Something that he neither understood, nor even cared to. It was as if he had erected an unbreakable wall to keep his rage at bay. But it would be unleashed. Oh, yes. But not until it was time.

He picked up his father’s body, refusing to use magic to lighten the burden. As he staggered through the gateway with his load he could still see the smirk on Desmond’s face. But it was not Desmond who was really to blame for this. And though he would assuredly make him pay for the murder of his father, there was another who would suffer even more horrendously.

              Sylas Dragonvein.

If they were bold enough to move against his father, they would be moving against Kytain as well. That much was certain. There was a mutual aggression pact between the Prustoni and Dragonvein families. An attack on one house was an attack on both.

Sylas had not been here to fight his brother, so that meant he must have chosen to join in with the assault on Kytain instead. Less than a minute ago this knowledge would have sent Martok into a frenzy. Now, it only caused the storm brewing within him to grow even stronger. There was nothing he could do for Kytain. If his mentor had survived, he would know soon enough. And if not…

He handed his father’s body over to the servants, all of whom first needed several minutes to control their sobs. Ralmar was well-loved. But Martok was head of the family now. And once his father was buried, he would set about ushering House Bronstar to their annihilation. None would survive. He would erase them from memory and kill anyone who ever dared speak of them.

* * * * *

His father’s funeral followed quickly. It was a brief service filled with the tearful cries of the manor's many servants and staff. Martok, however, did not shed a single tear. He would hold a fitting memorial once his work was done. For now, he must set aside his grief lest it paralyze him. Rage was far more useful. And
that
he possessed in great abundance – though outwardly he allowed no sign of it to show.

The minute the ceremony ended, he prepared to leave. Kytain was either dead or had managed to hold fast. Either way, Martok had a single goal. The total destruction of House Bronstar. The face of his uncle burned its way into his brain as he exited the manor and mounted a waiting steed. The servants were lined up outside the gatehouse, heads bowed in respect.

“Kill them all, My Lord,” said an old woman named Gretchen.

She was head of the cleaning staff and Martok had known her for his entire life. He halted his mount to regard the woman’s cold stare and vicious expression. She had loved Ralmar as if he had been her own son.

“I will, Gretchen. I swear it.”

She nodded approvingly, a single tear sliding down her weathered face. “Good. And when you return, I will have something to give to you.”

After reaching down to touch her lightly on the shoulder, he spurred his horse to a quick trot. Emotion threatened to overtake him as he left his home behind. It was now truly his. He was head of the Dragonvein family. And when his uncle was dead, he would also be the last.

During the long journey to the Prustoni estate, Martok caught sight of a small group of elves watching him from the far distance. He wondered if Shelraya was among them. Typically, a human would feel themselves in great peril if elves were to take any kind of interest in their comings and goings. But Martok knew better than to subscribe to unfounded fear. In a small way, he even felt somewhat at ease knowing they were near. Though why he should feel this way, he couldn’t say.

He ran across a few stray travelers – merchants mostly – but when asked, none carried any news that was of much help. One claimed to have heard that there had been
'a bit of trouble'
at the Prustoni Estate, but aside from that, word of anything dire had not yet reached so far afield. Either that, or it had been well contained.

By the time he finally came to the road leading directly to the main gates of the mansion, his senses were on high alert. If his uncle had indeed managed to defeat Kytain, he would know he was coming. Desmond would definitely have warned him by now. In that case, Sylas would want the fight between them to be out in open space where Martok could not use the terrain to his advantage. And should he have more than just Desmond to stand with him, it would be easier for them to surround him as well.

Even from more than twenty miles away, he could clearly see the four towers of the estate climbing up into a cloudless sky. Their golden rooftops reflected the sun in such a way that, when beyond the walls, the land was bathed in a warm glow that gave the grass and trees a surreal, almost dreamlike quality.

Martok halted his mount as he caught sight of a lone figure of a man standing in the center of the roadway ahead. Even from a distance he could tell that it was neither his uncle, nor Desmond. Judging from the simple attire and daggers hanging from his hips, he was not a mage from another house either.

With arms spread wide, the man advanced. Martok at once began casting his wards; he was not about to underestimate an unknown opponent. When they were less than twenty yards apart, the man stopped. He was slight in build, though from the way he carried himself, definitely not frail. His head was shaved clean and his deeply set eyes were unblinking.

“Martok Dragonvein,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question.

“I am Martok,” he affirmed. “Who are you?”

“My name is Stelin of the Urazi. If you will permit it, I would speak with you.”

Martok stiffened and his hands instantly glowed blue, ready to strike.

“Be at ease,” Stelin said, maintaining his open-armed posture. “I give you my word that I mean you no harm. And if I did, I am not such a fool as to attack you in the open.”

“Then what do you want?” Martok demanded, not relaxing his readiness in the slightest. He knew that the Urazi were feared for a very good reason. In more volatile times, mage houses often used them against their rivals to great and terrible effect.

“I wish to inform you that Kytain Prustoni is dead,” he answered flatly. “Your uncle, Sylas Dragonvein, is now in control of his lands and property. Also, you should know that he and young Desmond Bronstar await you less than two miles from here.”

Martok regarded him with caution. “And why would you tell me this?”

“To demonstrate that the Urazi bears you no ill-will. I was the one who ended Kytain Prustoni’s life, and I suspect that you will eventually discover of our involvement in his death. I would not have your vengeance misplaced. It would be unfortunate for all concerned.”

A fierce desire rose up in Martok. For a moment he longed to burn this man to cinders where he stood. It was only Kytain's training that calmed the desire and made him channel his fury into a steely resolve. “And why was the Urazi involved in this?” he asked.

“We were given a contract, and we fulfilled it. There was no personal malice toward Prustoni. My hope is that you can see your way to understanding this.”

Martok knew the man was speaking the truth. The Urazi never took sides. And they never acted out of anger or hate. They were a tool, nothing more. “You still haven’t explained why you warned me about Desmond and my uncle,” he said after a brief consideration. “Are they not your employers?”

Stelin smiled. “I care deeply for my order. An enemy such as yourself could go hard on us. In any event, they are not set to ambush you on the road, so I have betrayed nothing. I wished only to display the honesty of my intent.”

Martok lapsed into another, rather longer period of thought. Stelin would know full well the risk he faced in conveying this message. Right at this moment, his life was in Martok's hands. He knew what Kytain would say. He would tell him that gaining such a useful and deadly resource far outweighed any desire for vengeance. “Go in peace, Stelin of the Urazi,” he finally said. “Know that I hold you blameless.”

Stelin lowered his arms to his side and bowed low. “Thank you, Lord Dragonvein.” He was wearing an almost imperceptible smile. “Personally, I hope you kill them both. To betray one’s family has never sat well with me. But those are
my
thoughts…not the Urazi’s.”

Martok nodded curtly and then spurred his steed on. The stories of the Urazi were so fantastic that many were hard to believe. They had been around for longer than anyone could say, and were feared even more so than the mages. Yet it seemed they were satisfied with their place in the world, never once in their history displaying any desire whatsoever to attain power. There was a lesson there somewhere, he decided. But it was one that would need to be learned at another time.