Secrets of the Stonechaser (The Law of Eight Book 1) (6 page)

He approached the naked man and yanked back his hair. The robed figure began to saw through the man’s scalp. Blood ran down the victim’s face, obscuring his features. The captive screamed, long and primal.

Nerris started forward, but Rade grabbed him. “There’s nothing we can do, Nerris, There has to be fifty of them down there.”

“The men—”

“They would be long gone before you came back with any kind of force,” Rade said. “Hard to pin down, these cultists.”

In the glade, the cultist had finished his gory work and held up his victim’s bloody scalp for all to see. The chanting resumed, and this time mist formed as if called from the air itself. Nerris sucked in his breath. It was the same black mist he had seen in the tent on that last morning he spent with Qabala.

The cult leader held out his hand at the man, and Nerris felt something, almost like a pull. Then it rushed out, and in the distance, the victim’s chest blew apart, spraying blood and flesh all over the surrounding cultists. The lifeless man fell into a pool of blood, and the cultists around them cheered. Nerris felt ill, but he quickly stymied that reaction and replaced it with fury.

He drew his blade. “That tears it.”

Before he could move or Rade could stop him again, the wind picked up in a violent rush. The torches in the glade flickered, and some of them went out. The rush of new voices filled the night air, rapid whispers which sounded like a combination of man and animal. Many shadows darted back and forth across the glade, and the cultists panicked. Chants turned to shouts of fear, and men stumbled over each other in their haste to flee.

Nerris strained his eyes but couldn’t see anything but shadows and fleeing cultists. The whispering became more coherent, as what sounded like music and laughter mixed in with the wind. The shadows grew more numerous until they covered the entire glade.

And just like that, the glade stood empty. The wind died down with the same quickness it had come. Only Nerris and Rade were left standing at their hiding place, looking down on a glade where blood had stained the ground moments before. Where the sacrifice had fallen, flowers now bloomed.

“What in Clystam’s name happened?” Nerris said after a long silence.

“What needed to.” Rade’s voice had lost its usual joviality, his words coming out solemn. “Come, Nerris. Those cultists will trouble this place no more.”

Nerris followed Rade back down the hill and toward the camp. It was much in the same state in which he left it; not one man in the ten thousand he commanded seemed to have heard anything which had transpired beyond the hill.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Rade said to Nerris’s silence. He saw Nerris all the way to his tent. “Get some sleep, Commander. I won’t see you until Gelnicka. Don’t worry, me and my men will give you plenty of time to reach the battleground.” He disappeared with a cocky smirk and a wave.

Despite what he said, Nerris did dwell on it. He undressed and settled back into his bedroll, his mind recoiling in horror every time he saw that man’s chest explode in his mind’s eye. But he was also overcome with feelings of peace and serenity when he thought of whatever had driven off those mad cultists. He dwelled on that instead, and drifted off with a smile on his face. This time, he rested well.

Chapter Six

FALARES LED THE way through the North Gate, his plaited hair swaying as he slowed his destrier to a trot. Qabala followed, dressed in gleaming plate and a visored helm, surrounded by a dozen of her best sabres. Her wagon trailed behind, with all her possessions contained within: weapons, armor, treasure, and Meeka.

Throughout the city of Palehorse, fires raged and women screamed as the men of the Horde took their pleasure. As they rode deeper, they came upon one such incident. A homely maid, her skirt hiked up around her waist, was being taken like a dog by one of Qabala’s militiamen. He was so intent on his pleasure he did not even notice their party. The maid looked up to them, and reached toward Qabala as if begging for relief.

Falares kicked the man in the chest and sent him sprawling. “Away with you! Make way for Queen Qabala Aeterna!”

The militiaman made a brief bow and caught his sobbing prize by the hair, dragging her farther up an adjoining road. Qabala watched them go, her lip curled in disdain. What right did a weak woman like that have to implore to her? She was much the same once, but had found the strength to rise above being a mere victim. The strong always rose.

Palehorse had greeted them with defiance at their appearance, two days past. The Qabalan Horde arrived to find the gates closed, and the United Guard and the City Watch posted along the walls. Little had they known the rats were already inside the walls.

Qabala surrounded the city and engaged in a feint against the south gate. As the undermanned forces of the late King Lahnen rushed to meet her assault, she sent up a smoke signal. Her people inside the city had responded in kind, creating a riot that drew the attention of the City Watch, while a force led by Lukas Kord stormed the North Gate, slaughtering all the sentries. He opened the way for Qabala’s men, who rushed into the city and took it from the inside, with casualties being too incidental to mention. The United Guard, however, had been eradicated.

Falares and her sabres cleared a path as they made their way to the city’s west end, where the Aeternica loomed over all the surrounding buildings. She passed a city square, where the remainder of the United Guard kneeled under the presence of her own soldiers. With their hands behind their heads, they awaited her judgment.

The main gate of the Aeternica stood wide open by the time her procession approached. Several men kneeled before her, the leader’s long silver hair hanging out from his blood-spattered half-helm. At a command from Falares, they rose. Qabala lifted the visor on her own helm to look upon them better.

The leader removed his half-helm, revealing an older man with crow’s feet encircling his pale, blue eyes. He met her gaze and he grinned. “My Eternal, Palehorse and the Aeternica are now yours.”

“Lukas Kord, you have done my people great favor,” Qabala said, “first with your information and assistance in the demise of Lahnen the Corrupt, and now for opening the gates of the capital, both of which have given us great victory while minimizing our losses. What would you have of me?”

The former watchman saluted and bowed his head. “My Eternal, when your coronation has come, I would be named a Dume-General, to forever protect your divine person and mete out swift death to your enemies, and to lend my wisdom to your decisions concerning the welfare of Yagolhan henceforth.”

“Then you shall have it,” Qabala said.

Lukas kneeled. “I thank you, my Eternal. Allow me to present this gift.”

He gestured, and one of his men came forward and emptied a sack at her horse’s feet. Her horse shied away a bit as a number of heads tumbled onto the cobblestones, some indiscernible through the coagulated blood.

“Once your signal went up, my people inside the castle acted swiftly,” Lukas said. “The prime minister and his loyal councilors also welcome you to our fair city.”

Qabala sniffed at the acrid stenches pervading the air, and glanced back at the smoke. “Hardly fair at the moment, your Constancy,” she said, using the formal mode of address for one who held the position of Dume. “If the castle is secure, I wish to be conveyed to my new chambers so I may make myself more presentable. There are battles yet to fight, and I must ensure the city is firmly in hand before that time.”

“Of course.” Lukas Kord led her procession through the gates of the Aeternica. Her own soldiers were already inside, and stood at attention as she passed through the bailey.

Qabala dismounted at the steps of the main keep. “Have those heads spiked and set on the ramparts,” she told Falares. “Then see that my things are brought to the royal chambers.”

Lukas and a tail of sabres escorted her to the great hall, where the throne sat empty upon a red-carpeted dais. “Shall you take your rightful place?” he offered.

“Not yet,” Qabala said. “I merely wish to gaze upon the thing I have fought for, for so long. When I hold godstone in hand and have my love Nerris by my side, only then will I sit the throne.”

“I heard tell Nerris Palada was the man sent to end King Lahnen’s life, and even now leads your forces against his son,” Lukas said.

“You heard true,” Qabala said. “When he brings me the head of the last of the Y’Ghans, he will remain with me as my consort and Dume-General.”

“It will be an honor to serve with such a man,” Lukas said. “I am most eager to meet one of the Thrillseekers.”

Would Nerris consent? Not for the first time, she wondered what she truly meant to him. She sensed, even while they were making love, that he held something back. But she needed Nerris. Because she loved him, yes, for the legitimacy his name would bring to her regime, certainly. But also for her task to come. No matter what, she must make him hers.

That night, Qabala lay in bed, dressed only in a linen shift. Sleeping in the same room where Nerris had killed King Lahnen gave her a perverse kind of pleasure. The Y’Ghan family sigil painted on the doors to her chambers had been blotted out. There would be time enough to have her own sigil added, but it would have to wait until later. She glanced through reports from her men and new officials, asking her for appointments which would be necessary to return the occupied city to a state of normalcy. Meeka’s petite form stirred beside her, naked under the down-filled coverlets.

There was much to do before she set out to spring the trap she had devised for Prince Lahnel. The men had been given their leave to pillage and rape this day, reward for a well-fought campaign, but on the morrow they must be put back on their leashes. She was not Lahnen the Corrupt, to grant her friends the highest favor and forget the plight of the rest of the people. She had shown them her ire when crossed; now it was time to extend her hand and help them to their feet again.

The door opened and Falares entered, stopping to salute. Qabala sighed. The man still had not learned to knock. “My Eternal, Meznas is without and begs leave to attend you straightaway. He says he has information about the movements of Prince Lahnel and Dume Rhonor.”

“Send him in.” Qabala prodded Meeka until she awakened. “Leave us.”

Meeka yawned and nodded. “Yes, my Eternal.” She slipped from the bed and pulled on a robe.

Qabala caught Falares staring at the girl, but his gaze immediately snapped back to hers. “Down with you, cur,” she said. “Haven’t you had your fill this day? That one belongs to me.”

Falares bowed. “Of course.”

He followed Meeka from the chamber and Qabala put on a dark robe, belting it at the waist. She brushed her hair back into place at the mirror and left the bedroom, heading for the sitting room at the end of the hall. Falares was already there when she entered, along with Meznas.

Meznas was a menista, which was what the cultists called their priests. He was a tall, bearded man who had come to pay her homage after Nerris departed for Gelnicka.
“Come into your power and my children will surely find you,”
she remembered the Pale One telling her all those years ago. They finally had. Meznas had spent his adult life unifying the various sects of religious bands known collectively as the Cult of Eversor.

The cult had once been a powerful force during the years of Yahd the Conqueror’s war, but suffered major casualties in the fighting. Afterward, those who remained had fallen into disarray. King Lahnen turned them out from Palehorse once he ascended the throne, and a lack of strong leadership led to their deterioration. They had splintered into separate sects and wandered the backwoods of northern Yagolhan, their obscure religion outlawed by the crown. They had scarce been heard of since.

Until Meznas united them into a formidable unit, that is. Their doctrine was hateful, their practices reviled, but that did not stop Meznas from becoming the Grand Menista. The cultists were not soldiers, and not as influential as they once had been, but his people were proving valuable for rooting out information on her enemies.

“My Eternal,” he said, “I bring news.”

“Is it the battle?” Qabala asked. “Has Prince Lahnel pushed through Nerris’s forces? Or has Dume Rhonor begun his march?”

Meznas shook his head. “Neither, I’m afraid. My people caught one of his spies west of here. Lahnel has played you false. He sends Lord Bosmick to distract you and disguise his true intent. Not five days past, Lahnel boarded a ship in Hesmuth. We believe he is bound for Lesta. He does not intend to meet you in the open field right away.”

Qabala sat down on a cushioned divan. “Then Nerris—”

“Is walking into a trap,” Meznas said. “Gelnicka is swarming with loyalists and remnants of the United Guard who fled south from your battles in the northern moors and Ryvetsk. Petaka Bosmick plans to lure your forces into the village and spring his trap while Lahnel consolidates his hold on southeast Yagolhan and raises a new host. By spring, you will have two strong enemies on either side of you.”

“We must send relief to Nerris’s regiment at once.”

Meznas shook his head. “My Eternal, a force that size will never make it in time. I implore you, let me send word to my people. A lone rider can reach them in two days if he rides hard. We are not soldiers, but we can fight if need be, and are well versed in blood magic. And we are close.”

Qabala slammed her fist into the cushions. “Very well. And Nerris wished to spare these people. But that time has passed. Send your people, Meznas. Raze Gelnicka to the ground and let it stand as a monument for those who would deceive me.”

“At once.” Meznas bowed.

“How have you found out this plan?”

“A man was caught spying on Commander Palada’s forces,” Meznas said. “He has been sacrificed to the Tattered Man. He gave us knowledge of Prince Lahnel’s absence. A second man, a woodwitch, was caught not far from here, and he informed us on Lahnel’s new strategy. He claims to be an old friend of the family.”

“Have him brought to the great hall,” Qabala said to Falares. “I would speak with this woodwitch.”

Falares left to find the man, and Meznas followed Qabala and her guards to the great hall. Qabala had known a woodwitch once. Earth Clerics, they liked to call themselves. They worked magic through the earth itself and everything which grew from it. The one she remembered had been a drunken sot of a man. The people in the village of Verchak worshipped him as if he spoke for Yala. But the woodwitches prayed to one of the spirits of nature, some deity named Ghom... or was it Gobe, maybe? She couldn’t remember.

When her foster father began to take her into his bed, she had appealed to the woodwitch for help, hoping his influence over the village would force them to put an end to it. But the man had called her a harlot, blaming her for her father’s sickness. He never took his eyes from her after that, and she couldn’t figure out why.

Until the night he visited her house. The woodwitch had won a sizable bet of some kind, and gave the money to her father. Her father was too jealous a man to let him have her all to himself, so he told the woodwitch they would take her together. That was the night everything changed for her. That night, she killed for the first time.

She stood at the foot of the dais in the great hall as her guards dragged in the Earth Cleric. He was balding, with short, brown hair, and his brown robe hung from his chubby torso in tatters. Falares flung him down at her feet and he stared up at her, spitting blood from his mouth. Bruises and swelling marred his countenance, one eye involuntarily shut from the blows.

“What is your name, woodwitch?” she asked.

“Surnal,” the man said.

Qabala smiled. “Ah, the great Surnal Listan. Prince Lahnel’s spiritual advisor. Had he not forsaken Yala, the goddess of his ancestors, his war might be going better at the moment, wouldn’t you say?”

“Many say it was Yala who led this nation to ruin decades ago,” Surnal replied. “Prince Lahnel follows his heart. And it seems he has fooled you. Soon, Lord Bosmick will deal your forces a considerable blow, and come spring Yagolhan will be free from your pretensions.”

“How do I know that everything you told Meznas is true? Is this another deception?”

“I’ve told it true,” Surnal said bitterly. “I’ve betrayed my rightful king to his enemies. Would that I had perished under the question.”

“We beat, burned, whipped, and tortured him,” Meznas said. “No man would have held out that long for a deception.”

“And what of you, Meznas?” Surnal asked. “No man would treat another as you have me. What does that make you now, follower of Eversor? How many have you sacrificed to the Tattered Man? What will be your reward when the world comes unhinged?”

Meznas ignored him. “This man has been trying to gather his woodwitch friends to fight my people, my Eternal. I beg you, give me leave to make an example of him.”

“We will make an example of all woodwitches,” Qabala said, remembering the man from Verchak. “But this one will stay under guard in the dungeons for now. I don’t blame him for trying to fight you, Meznas. Your people have given the Yagols much reason to hate you over the years. Still, it was the Cult of Eversor who came to my aid and not the woodwitches.”

Surnal met her eyes, torchlight gleaming off his balding brow. “So you would unloose these abominations on our kingdom, Qabala?”