Love And War (22 page)

“Careful, young lord,” said Mukhari Ras, appearing ghostlike from a deep alcove. “The
essence still is very delicate, and I have need of it soon.”

Sturm flinched and stood away from the table. The fluid in the tubes was thick and dark,
very like the color of -

“Blood,” said the alchemist. “Merely the unwholesome remnants of my last experiment,” said
the alchemist. He drew nearer even as the boy shrank from him.

“Human blood?” asked Sturm in a small voice.

“Of course,” said Mukhari. “No other kind is of any use to me.”

Sturm slowly pointed to the red, sweet-smelling candle. “What is this made of? It smells
good.”

“I am pleased you noticed. It is a very SPECIAL candle. You see, I cannot smell it at
all.” Sturm couldn't believe that. The spicy aroma was almost overwhelming in the close
room. “Only very special people can smell it. The young and pure.”

A cold hand came to rest on the back of Sturm's neck. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means, my boy, that I needed to know what sort of boy you are, to know if you were suitable for my purposes.“ Sturm backed a step. ”What
purposes?“ ”At the command of my Dark Goddess, I seek the true restorative medicine, the elixir of life. My research uncovered the formula, but to make
it work, I need noble blood. Your blood.”

“Mine!” cried Sturm. “Why mine?” “You passed the test. The candle led you here.” Sturm
bumped into a table. He cast about wildly for a way out. Mukhari did not seem to notice. He looked far away, musing about his experiments.

“Artavash brought me children from Kernaf, but they were imperfect, unworthy. The elixir
made from their blood was only partially effective.” He held out an arm and pulled back
the loose sleeve to his shoulder. “See? I have the arms of a man of thirty, while the rest
of me rots at sixty-six.”

Fear and disgust rose sourly in Sturm's throat. “So that's why the town is empty - you
murdered the children!”

“Don't be silly, boy. Most families fled, true, but they'll come back once I'm
rejuvenated. They will come back and fall to their knees to worship the Goddess of
Darkness who grants eternal life!”

“Life purchased at the cost of others! Paladine will not allow this!”

“And who is Paladine's representative? You?” Mukhari grinned evilly at the boy. “No
matter. In two days the dark moon will rise, and the celestial conditions for the making
of the elixir will be propitious.”

“You will not suceed - Sergeant Soren - ” Sturm began shrilly.

The alchemist clucked his tongue. “He cannot help you. Even now he lies trussed up in my
dungeon. As for you, my young lord, if you give me the slightest difficulty, I shall order
harm done to your mother and her maid.”

“You will not!”

“Nonsense, boy. You're not in Solamnia. I am master here.”

Sturm closed his hand around a smooth, cold object - a flask. He hurled the flask at
Mukhari and turned to run. The aged alchemist dodged awkwardly. Mukhari, reached for a
braided bell cord. Hidden chimes rang. A concealed door sprang open, and Artavash came in.
Sturm rushed blindly into her grasp.

“Take charge of him, my dear,” Mukhari said. “Only don't bruise him. I wouldn't want him
less than perfect for processing tomorrow.”

“As you command, master,” said Artavash. She laid a firm hand on his neck and guided Sturm
from the room.

* On the stairs Sturm said, “So - so this was your plan all along?”

“Why do you think my master had me scouring the seas?” she said. “Other ships have come
and gone, seeking pure blood for Lord Mukhari's work. Noble offspring are hard to find;
they're usually well guarded. It was the greatest stroke of luck that I intercepted your
ship.”

Sturm didn't feel at all lucky. He submitted without a struggle as Artavash took him to
her chambers. All the while, even when she bound him to a heavy chair with silken sashes,
he was thinking, thinking. He batted the feeling of helpless terror that gnawed at his
mind. Soren a captive, his mother and Carin hostages, . . . and himself. To be bled dry,
his life drained to further the evil work of the Queen of Darkness . . .

He thought of his father, standing on the battlements of Castle Brightblade with only a
few loyal retainers while a mob of madmen howled around them. Lord Brightblade would meet
the foe face to face, head to head, to conquer or perish. It was the knightly way. It was
the Brightblade way.

The tremors in Sturm's limbs faded. In their place a heat grew in his chest. He was angry.
His father had trusted him to take care of his mother, and he had failed! And who would
bear the Brightblade name back to their ancestral home if not him?

“Be still, boy,” Artavash said. She tipped a clay cup to her lips and drank.

“Lady Artavash?” said Sturm, his voice cracked with emotion.

“What do you want?” “Would you help me?” She yawned and kicked off her sandals. “Don't be
silly boy.“ ”All you need do is untie me. Then I'll get Soren, and together we'll take my mother and Mistress Carin - “ ”You're not going anywhere. Mukhari
Ras has decreed your fate.” Artavash sat on her high couch and leaned back against the wall. She laid the
naked blade of a shortsword across her lap.

“How can you serve a man like him? H-he is a monster who kills children!” said Sturm.

“Children die every day,” she said flatly. And with that, young Sturm saw Artavash for
what she was: a heartless mercenary. Her only loyalty was to her paymaster.

She drained another cupful of wine, the last of many that evening. “Now, go to sleep.”
Artavash slumped over a pile of pillows. Her hand went slack, and the clay cup rolled out
of it.

Sturm waited until her breathing was soft and regular before he tried to shift the chair.
The stout seat bumped loudly on the bare stone floor. Sturm froze. Artavash snorted and
buried her face deeper in the satin cushions.

He gazed longingly at the sword Artavash had drawn, now lying point out on the couch. If
he could only reach it! He strained against the sashes, but the silken knots only
tightened further. Sturm relaxed and shook the damp ends of his long hair from his face.

The lamp above Artavash's couch guttered and went out. In the dense darkness, Sturm could
feel his pulse throbbing in his hands and feet. He wiggled his fingers under the binding.
His hands were crossed over his lap, so his left hand was over his right pocket, and
vice-versa. There was a lump in his left pocket he recognized as Captain Graff's wind
cord. He counted the knots. Two hands, plus one; eleven fresh gusts of magic were locked
in that dirty strip of rawhide.

But it WAS magic. As a knight, he was forbidden by the Measure to make use of it. Still
... to fight the Dark Queen. . . .

The day dawned bright and hot. Sturm awakened from a tense, shallow sleep with the sun in
his eyes. His body ached from being tied all night. Artavash did not stir until a pounding
on the door compelled her to rise.

“What in thunder?” she grumbled, her voice husky and dry. “Where is my son?” demanded Lady
Ilys through the door. “Here, Mother! I'm in here!” he shouted. Artavash winced. She
yanked a bell pull by her couch.

By the time she staggered to the door and opened it, eight soldiers were waiting for her
outside. Two more stood by with Soren, whose hands were chained together.

Artavash slit Sturm's sashes with the shortsword, and the young Brightblade threw his arms
around his mother.

“They're going to kill me!” Sturm cried.

“This can't be true!” Lady Ilys gasped, turning to Artavash, who merely shrugged.

“My lady, your son spoke truly. These people mean to kill young Sturm,” said Soren.

Lady Ilys pushed her son behind her skirt. Mistress Carin moved in on Sturm's other side.
Lady Ilys declared, “No one shall move from this spot until some explanation is given for the barbarous manner in which we are being treated!”

Artavash rubbed her temples a few times and said, “The explanation is this. My master,
Mukhari Ras, has need of your son's life. If you interfer in the slightest way, you, your
maid, and your man will be speedily killed.”

“Impudent pirate! Do you think my son is a lamb, to be butchered for that walking
scarecrow's evil purposes?”

“It matters little what you say, Lady. Mukhari Ras commands it, and it will be done.” She
gestured to the Kernaffi soldiers. They pulled Lady Ilys and Carin apart. Artavash reached
for Sturm.

Chained or not, Soren could not stand idly by as Artavash laid hands on his charges. He
gathered the bond links in his hands and lashed out at the nearest man. The guard folded
under the blow and bowled over his comrades. Soren lumbered forward. Artavash released
Sturm and turned to meet the sergeant.

“No, Soren! Stop!” cried Sturm. Artavash nimbly dodged the guardsman's rush. She brought
the flat of her blade in hard on Soren's head. The sergeant buckled and fell face down on
the cool marble floor. Carin screamed.

Artavash waved the sword point under Carin's nose. “Don't shout so! My head is splitting!”

“Too much wine,” said Lady Ilys coldly.

“Enough! By the gods, your tongue is sharper than a dozen swords,” Artavash said. “I have
no more time to dally with you. The guards will lock you in your rooms.” She gave the
orders in Kernaffi. Two men picked up Soren, and the rest formed in close order around the
two women.

“Sturm! Sturm!” his mother called. He made a step toward her, but was collared by a
grim-faced Artavash. “The time for indulgences is past,” she said. “If you resist, the two women will die.“ ”Mother!“ he cried desperately. ”Come.” Artavash seized
Sturm by the wrist and dragged him away. Radiz joined them in the main hall. He was splendid in his fine armor and plume, but his face was expressionless. He and Artavash exchanged a
look Sturm could not fathom. Then the Kernaffi gave him a handkerchief.

“Dry your eyes,” he said with a strange note of compassion.

Radiz and Artavash stood on either side of him as Sturm faced the steps leading up to the
palace roof. Radiz, Sturm noted, kept one hand on his sword hilt all the way to the roof. Four bearded Kernaffi priests stood to one side, offering up prayers and incense to the Dark Queen. Radiz stopped and bowed to them, but Sturm
thought he detected a look of disgust on the man's face when he rose. Artavash shaded her
aching eyes from the brilliant sun.

Ten paces away, Mukhari Ras worked to prepare the special table for his great experiment.
His gaunt, bent figure scuttled from one side to another, reminding Sturm of the vultures
that haunted the southeast tower of Castle Brightblade. The alchemist's wide black robe
added to this impression.

The air was still. The sun burned fiercely over them. Sturm shivered in spite of the heat.
PLEASE, PALADINE, PLEASE SAVE ME!

“Bring him over. Come, come along,” said Mukhari, waving his youthful hands. Sturm rubbed
his cold, sweating palms on his pants. He looked to Radiz for some sign of sympathy. The
commander of the SEA RAVEN stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Halfway to Mukhari, Sturm stumbled. He heard the snick of a sword being freed from its
scabbard. A strong hand grabbed the back of his vest.

“Pick up your feet, boy,” said Artavash.

Mukhari was waiting, hands folded deep into his voluminous sleeves. Up close, the table
was basically just a copper funnel flat enough to lie on. The legs were heavy columns of
marble.

“Put him on the table,” instructed Mukhari. The priests chanted louder and began to beat a
brass gong.

Shouts and clangs of metal rose from the open stairwell. Radiz drew his weapon out of
reflex. Artavash shoved Sturm to Radiz and got her own sword ready. A death- scream cut
the air, and a few heartbeats later, Soren bounded up the steps, a bloody sword in his
chained hand.

“Sturm Brightblade! I am here!” he roared. “Stop that man!” quavered Mukhari. Artavash
moved out to meet Soren. His stolen blade thrust in; she parried and beat his sword out of line. Soren was severely hampered by his
bonds. Only with his extraordinary strength could he even carry on such a fight. He cut
hard at Artavash, one, two, three - right-left-right. She dodged, fox-quick, and struck
home in the guardsman's chest. Soren staggered back. Artavash circled, circled; feinting
an overhand cut, she changed direction in the wink of an eye and thrust through Soren's
weakened guard. The point of her blade grew out his back. Eye to eye, she said, “You should have stayed on your oar.” Artavash recovered, and Soren collapsed. Sturm broke free from Radiz and ran to his
fallen friend. “Soren! Soren!” His eyes were open. He said, “My lord . . . sound the charge.“ ”Leave him, boy. He's dead.” Radiz was standing over Soren. Nearby, Artavash casually wiped the blood from her blade.

Sturm was numb. With leaden feet, he walked between Radiz and Artavash to the alchemist's
killing table. His hope was gone. Four steps to go. Below the neck of the table's funnel
was a large iron pot. Three steps. Mukhari was pale and sweating in the heat. Two steps.

He had nothing left, nothing at all but Graff's wind cord. Magic . . . forbidden . . . The
last step . . .

Artavash swept Sturm off his feet and laid him on the table. The metal was warm from the
sun. “Lie still,” she warned. “Remember your mother.”

She backed away. Mukhari Ras loomed above him. With both hands, Mukhari clasped a long,
wickedly curved dagger. Sturm's heart missed a beat. His jaw tightened, and he said the
briefest prayer of his life:

“Paladine, help me.”

The dagger wavered in the frail alchemist's grasp. Artavash opened Sturm's vest and shirt.
Mukhari Ras smiled down at him. “Here, then, is your destiny,” he whispered. “I give you
to my Queen!” He closed his eyes and raised the dagger high to strike.

Down came the blade. Sturm held out the wind cord taut between his fists. The keen edge of
the dagger scraped the briefest instant against the rawhide. Mukhari felt it and opened
his eyes. “What - ?” was all he could say before the cord parted.