Distant Worlds Volume 1 Page 29

  The soldiers nearest Aziell drew back at his passing and even the king himself seemed unnerved by his brother’s presence. No man dared to speak as he rode up alongside the king to take a closer look at both Serafima and the bloody mess of metal and brains that had until recently been the head of General Origthar Grender.

  “It appears you will need to find a new pet, brother,” Aziell said. Though Serafima could not see the eyes within the deep shadow of his cowl, she felt them fall upon her as certainly as a dagger stabbing through her breast.

  “I am no longer amused by this whore of a she-devil, Aziell!” King Shadorn said. “Let us send her heathen head back to her bastard subjects on a pike to warn them of what end comes to those who dare oppose the might of T’zaladar!”

  A slight smile tugged at the corners of Aziell’s lips.

  “That would be rash, brother,” he said. The necromancer turned to the king and pointed to the remains of the Rostogovian warriors. “Look around you. Surely you see that her people possess no fear of death? Slaughter them until you rot and your palaces crumble if you so wish, but it will avail you nothing.

  “But clap them in irons and slam them in cages; then, my brother, they will know what it means to live in fear of your power.”

  The pale prince slid from the saddle of his ebon steed and took a step toward Serafima. She held her sword aloft, ready to spring upon the sorcerer if he made any sudden movements. His eyes, however, betrayed no fear of her.

  Neznan, on the other hand, seemed to grow more uncomfortable by the second. He dismounted and placed a hand on Aziell’s arm.

  “My lord,” he said, “I don’t think—”

  The necromancer’s free hand shot to Neznan’s arm and a sound foul to the ear escaped his lips. Neznan’s eyes widened and then he screamed. The pale prince released him and the traitorous noble staggered back, his afflicted arm dangling uselessly at his side.

  “Indeed, Neznan Ravulavich. Thought does not become you,” Aziell said.

  “M…my arm!!” the traitor said, his voice a pitiful wail. “S…so…c…c…cold…”

  “The feeling will return momentarily.” The necromancer pointed at the terrified man. “But lay a hand on me again and I promise you it will hang limp at your side for as long as your worthless lungs draw breath.”

  Neznan, still clutching his numb arm close to his body, nodded and gave the pale prince a wide berth. Were she not so unnerved by the necromancer’s sorcery herself, Serafima would have been quite amused by the traitor’s humiliation.

  Aziell moved closer to her, but was astute enough to stop just beyond her reach. King Shadorn hung back several feet behind his brother; whether he was afraid of Serafima or his sibling was difficult to tell. His eyes wandered occasionally to the belittled Neznan.

  “What do you suggest, Aziell? That we take her alive? That is madness! The bitch has already cost me my best commander and nearly slew me as well! I’ll not see to it that she has a second opportunity!”

  “Be still, dear brother,” the necromancer said. “Would not the capture of a warlord so feared by both your allies and enemies win you great renown? Who will dare challenge your will after you drag the mighty Serafima of Rostogov, the She-Wolf of the North, through the gates of great T’zaladar in chains? Men in the farthest reaches of these lands will then know to fear the name of Lorzikai Shadorn, King of T’zaladar.”

  The king considered that a moment before a smug grin swept across his face.

  “Yes, quite so, brother! But I doubt that any man in the Legion would dare attempt subduing her,” he said. “How am I to carry her back to T’zaladar in triumph?”

  “Leave that to me, dearest brother,” the pale prince said. He stepped closer to Serafima and reached for something inside his cloak. Nothing in his movements betrayed fear or uncertainty even though the eyes of those around him were clouded with doubt. In most men, Serafima would mark that as a sign of a fool or a madman, but in Aziell Shadorn she saw something else, something uncomfortably familiar.

  Despite her fatigue, she showed no signs of hesitation or lack of energy as she flung herself toward the necromancer. Her blade would have hewn him from shoulder to midsection had he not stepped aside with the grace of a well-trained swordsman. His hand flashed out and cast a cloud of dusty powder into the air. Serafima felt the dust slither into her nostrils as she drew breath and recoiled at the queer sensation that spread throughout her body. Before she could raise her sword again, her vision blurred and her legs buckled. She collapsed at the feet of the necromancer and he calmly knelt beside her.

  “A noble attempt, your highness, but I am afraid we must clip those fearsome talons of yours for the long journey to T’zaladar,” he said. Serafima grit her teeth as the most painful headache she’d ever experienced tore through her skull.

  “Bonedust,” Aziell said, “ground from the bones of wretches who escaped justice only to find their way back to the noose another day. A single breath is enough to subdue the strongest of men for a week.”

  Serafima tried to reach for the pale prince’s throat, but her mailed hand was far too sluggish and heavy to be of any use. The necromancer leaned closer, only a few inches from her ear.

  “We shall soon meet again, your highness,” Aziell said as she finally passed out in the bloody soil.

  Serafima’s body ached. Cold metal shackles hoisted her arms aloft and her bare skin scrapped against the rough stone wall behind her. She had been there for at least a day, but perhaps it had been longer; there was no way of knowing, hanging there as she was in the total darkness. The air was cold and damp; it smelled of rotting flesh.

  She heard the sound of approaching footsteps before she saw the dim light come into view. As the light grew brighter, she saw the iron bars that locked her inside the crude cell and the pools of stagnant water at her feet. A partially decayed corpse hung from the shackles only a few feet away from her.

  At length, two figures emerged from a winding staircase and came to the gate of her cell. The first was ugly and widely built; he held a crude, rusty lantern aloft and wore a serrated T’zaladarian sword at his side. The other was tall and slender, his body wrapped inside a black cloak. The ugly brute hung the lantern on a nearby hook and stepped closer to the bars while sniffing at the damp air. His narrow, deep-set eyes were totally white. Serafima recalled the rumors that the dungeons of T’zaladar were kept in complete darkness and the guards found their way through the winding corridors by scent and sound alone.

  “Open the gate,” the cloaked figure said.

  Serafima recognized the voice and as the guard opened the gate, she wondered if it would have been better for her to die in battle before her capture.

  “Leave us.”

  When echoes of the blind guard’s footsteps at last faded, the figure removed his hood to reveal his face. It was younger than she’d expected, but the glassy, black eyes of Aziell Shadorn carried the burden of knowledge enough for a thousand lifetimes.

  “I see you have awakened,” the pale prince said. “Good.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Why, you are in the great city of T’zaladar, your highness,” he said, “in the deepest dungeon of my dear brother’s palace, to be precise.”

  “How long?”

  “You’ve been here for but a day,” the necromancer said. “The Black Legions and my brother the king linger a few days behind us. I feared the enchantment that caused you to slumber could lose its potency before the Legions reached the walls of the great city. It was my council that convinced the king to send his prize to T’zaladar ahead of him.”

  Aziell stepped closer and lowered his voice.

  “I am pleased to have this time alone with you, away from the prying eyes of my dear brother and his devoted hounds. Tell me, your highness, did you spend your sleeping hours dreaming of vengeance? Does the thought of driving a sword point into the black heart of that coward Neznan of Valinsk fill your breast with flame?”

  It did.
Her lip curled at the mention of the traitor’s name, but she did not answer the necromancer.

  “Or perhaps you dream of wrapping those killing hands of yours around my neck, eh?”

  Serafima grunted and looked away.

  “My apologies, your highness,” the necromancer said. “I did not come here to mock you, but had hoped instead that you might entertain an offer. There is a matter of grave importance to the Empire that concerns both of us quite intimately.”

  Despite her better judgment, Serafima’s interest was piqued by such a grandiose claim and she gave the pale prince her attention.

  “You see, your highness, my brother is not a wise man, but he is a ruthless one and as you know, a man can compensate for many shortcomings through sheer cruelty. He has little talent for strategy and even less for the subtleties of kingship. It is a sad truth that the wise are often forced to serve the ambitions of those too weak of mind to council themselves. Such men understand only conquest and rape. The world lies at my dear brother’s feet, yet he has not the wits to see that its secrets and majesty could be his. A predator sees only a stag to be slaughtered, a woman to be ravaged, or a purse to be looted. He does not understand the nature of power, only his own unbridled lust for it.

  “The annals of history are filled with men like my brother and when his aimless orgy of destruction has at last burned out his fate will be no different than theirs. All they have built is ultimately turned to ash by the hand of another and their spirits are left to wander the darkness of oblivion alongside the countless souls sacrificed in the vain pursuit of their own personal glory.

  “I have no desire to share my brother’s destiny. He will never understand anything beyond the most base of human pleasures, but I yearn for something more. Too many of my years have already been lost to my brother’s schemes of blood and murder. I wish to leave this place behind me, for T’zaladar is no place for a man who lacks a lust for war.”

  Serafima shook her head.

  “Why trouble me with your woes, wizard?” she said. “If you want to end your life, then loosen these chains and I will choke it out of you. Otherwise leave me here to dream of revenge in peace.”

  Aziell smiled and laughed.

  “Well spoken, your highness. I am pleased to hear that defeat has not dulled your wits.”

  “You spoke of an offer before,” Serafima said.

  “Indeed. I will release you from this dungeon, your highness, but in return for your freedom, there is something you must do for me.”

  Serafima knew that it was foolish to bargain with a sorcerer, especially from a position of weakness. But she also knew that if she refused, she might never have a chance of escaping her cell.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “There is a chamber in the upper towers of this palace; a chamber that my dear brother cherishes above all others. Within this chamber there is a cauldron that burns with a heatless, unnatural flame. It is a relic from the ancient kingdom of Vanthos, the work of a people so wicked that the gods themselves scoured their civilization from the earth. The cauldron is used to control those who are otherwise beyond control by placing a powerful curse upon them. The flame will burn only those who have been cursed by its sorcery, so though it would scorch my flesh to touch the fire, it will not harm you. I desire the object that burns inside this cauldron. If you bring it to me, then I will grant you your freedom.”

  “How can you be so sure I won’t flee this place instead of running your errand for you?” Serafima said.

  The necromancer smiled.

  “Because, your highness, you are in the belly of the beast. Even you cannot hope to escape from this palace, much less this great city, with your life. But if you agree to do as I ask and succeed, I will spirit you away from this city to wherever you wish.”

  “Wherever I wish, eh?” Serafima said. Seductive thoughts of vengeance pulled at her as she weighed the pale prince’s offer.

  “Do we have an accord?”

  “Release me,” she said, “and I will do what you ask.”

  “Very well,” Aziell said, “but I must warn you of what keeps watch over the Cauldron of Vanthos.”

  Serafima dropped to her knees when the necromancer unlocked her shackles. Her body still ached painfully.

  “Eat this, it will help your body forget its pain,” he said, offering her a piece of what looked like fruit. She did as he said and shuddered at the tingling sensation that rushed through her body. Her muscles ceased to ache and the pain of her wounds receded. When she got to her feet, the pale prince held out a sword and a small vial of oddly colored liquid.

  “Now, listen closely,” he said. “The Cauldron of Vanthos is guarded by a creature known as a nargaul. Once it was a man, but its spirit has been poisoned by the armor it now wears, armor forged from the bones and souls of murderers. Even the finest steel cannot hope to pierce it. When you face the nargaul, coat the surface of your blade with this potion. It will begin to evaporate as soon as it is exposed to the air, so you must strike quickly.”

  Serafima nodded, then took the sword and the strange potion. Aziell produced a small roll of cloth and handed it to her.

  “This will help you find your way to the chamber. Now, go, before one of the guards returns.”

  “See that you remember your half of the bargain when I return, wizard,” Serafima said before she disappeared into the darkness of the dungeon’s corridors.

  Serafima crept up the winding staircase that led to the uppermost peak of the palace’s northern tower, her keen ears straining to pick up any sound ahead. It had been easy for her to make her way through the palace thanks to the map Aziell provided for her, which showed the opulent building’s secret doors and hidden passages. She had managed to reach the upper levels without being spotted; slinking through the palace’s many shadows until she at last reached the tower that housed the chamber the necromancer had spoken of.

  As she moved up the staircase, Serafima identified the heavy breathing of three men just around the next bend of the stairs. She paused and crouched low to the steps, readying the sword Aziell had given her. Although it was reasonable to assume that the men guarding the entrance to such a vital area would be among King Shadorn’s finest guardsmen, Serafima did not expect difficulty dealing with them. It was the guard inside the chamber, the sorcerous thing that that was no longer a man, that commanded the bulk of her concern.

  Serafima rounded the last bend of the stairs and charged the three heavily armored men who stood before the imposing iron door. Her flashing blade slipped through the seams of the nearest man’s armor and opened the veins of this throat before he could reach for the blade at his side.

  The two remaining guards scarcely had time to unsheathe their serrated swords before Serafima was upon them. They swiped at her clumsily in their heavy armor and she darted under their blows to strike at their most vulnerable points. One soldier collapsed in agony, his hamstrings severed and the other reeled from a crushing strike to the back of his neck. So great was the force of the blow along the guard’s spine that the sword snapped just above the hilt. She quickly snatched up one of the blades at her feet and finished off the guard she had already crippled.

  Serafima searched the bodies of the guards and found the key that fit the complex locking mechanism of the massive doors. She counted herself fortunate, for the doors were so heavy and the lock so intricate that it would have been impossible for her to either force them open or bypass the lock. The doors themselves were expertly balanced by their huge hinges and swung open with ease.

  The chamber she stepped into was much larger than she’d expected. Its walls and floor were of black marble and the ceiling was concealed somewhere in the thick shadows above her. The glassy stone made it difficult to determine the room’s dimensions and she couldn’t see the far wall opposite the doors from where she stood. A row of marble columns adorned with gold stood on either side of her ran the length of the room and the only source of light was the
large flame that burned in a cauldron near what she guessed was the middle of the room. Aside from the sound of her footsteps, the room was silent.

  Serafima reached down to her belt for the vial of oddly colored liquid that Aziell insisted was her only hope for defeating the guard within the chamber. She took it in her hand and scanned the room for any signs of movement, but could see nothing. For a moment, she wondered if the necromancer had been mistaken, for he admitted that he’d never entered the chamber himself. Then she caught a scent that was out of place in the sterile room followed by a faint, but familiar, whistling sound.

  It was only Serafima’s feral reflexes that saved her from being hewn by the heavy sword that lashed out at her from the shadows. She dove to the hard floor and rolled to her feet, sword brandished at her assailant. As the nargaul stepped into the dim light, Serafima nearly gasped. Its armor was indeed forged entirely of human bones and even the torchlight seemed to shirk away from it. Sharpened bones protruded from it like spikes and the whole suit rattled as the foul thing moved. The helm had been patched together from at least five separate skulls, with teeth, eye sockets, and jawbones arrayed in haphazard fashion. From deep within the helm’s numerous sockets, something glowed with a hideous malevolence. Each partially formed mouth moved independently and emitted its own mad, incoherent babble.