Obsidian Ridge (5 page)

“Oh come now,” scolded Genevie. “Indulge an old woman with your stories of young love.”

Mariko lifted a simple, elegant emerald-and sapphire-colored robe and held it against her body, contemplating it. “You make me sound like some preening blueblood who can’t wait to be seen at the next royal ball.”

“Oh goodness,” said Genevie, “I doubt anyone would mistake you for that.”

“Thank you.” Lifting her dressing gown over her head, she slipped it off her shoulders and hung it on its hook. Then she began pushing her arms through the new robe. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

There was another knock at the door.

“This is a busy place this morning,” said the princess, rolling her eyes. “I’m not decent!” she shouted at the door.

“There is nothing you can show me that I have not seen before,” said her father from the other side. “But if you wish

to keep the king waiting, I understand.”

Genevie leaped to her feet, dragging the blankets along with her, quickly making the bed.

Mariko flopped the heavy fabric of her robe over her shoulders and popped her head through the opening at the top, letting the blue and green roll down her body like a flowing ocean wave. Crossing to the door, she pulled it open to see her father and his personal bodyguard, Quinn, waiting outside.

“Good morning, Father.” She gave a shallow bow as he entered her bedchamber.

“That’s no way to greet your father,” replied Korox, his arms open.

Mariko smiled and gave her father a warm embrace.

Crossing to the heavy table, the king scanned the room, letting his eyes come to rest on the handmaiden.

He grit his teeth. “Genevie, if you would, please.” He indicated the chamber door with his thick, open palm.

The half-elf looked nervously from the king to the princess. Then she bowed deeply and scurried out of the room. Quinn pulled the door shut behind her, staying outside in the hall and leaving the king and the princess alone in her chamber.

“What news?” asked the king.

“Not much.” Mariko shrugged. “I was followed.”

“By whom?”

The princess shook her head. “I don’t know. Whoever it was, I lost them by the docks.” “Where did they spot you?”

“Somewhere off the road, just west of the waterfront.” “Could have been an underworld sentry.” The princess nodded. “Quite possibly.” The king sighed. “Well, be careful tonight.” The princess smiled at her father. “You too.”

+++++

The king exited the princess’s bedchamber and headed down the hall. Quinn stepped into line behind him, brushing his blond hair out of his face as he followed just off the king’s right side. As they approached the audience chamber, a man appeared before them. He had a long, curled moustache and the hair on his chin was neatly groomed into a sharp, pointed beard. His eyes were rather sunken above freckled cheeks, and he grinned as the two men approached.

The king lifted his hand in greeting, but before he could utter a word, Quinn was in front of him, his sword drawn.

“Step back and state your business,” commanded the bodyguard.

The man didn’t flinch, holding his ground, still smirking. “Stand down, Quinn,” said the king in a low voice. “Vasser is expected.”

Quinn lowered his sword, but he did not sheathe it. He watched the newcomer with the steely gaze of a mother bear.

The king put his hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I need a moment.”

Pushing past Quinn, the king pulled Vasser into an alcove off of the main hall. The man whispered into the king’s ear, and Korox listened intently.

“Yes, I knew this,” said the king loud enough for Quinn to hear.

Vasser continued, and the king nodded a few times.

“I see,” he said. “That I did not know.” Then, after listening to the last of what the man had to say, he dismissed him. “Thank you. Please keep me informed.”

Returning to the hall, Vasser turned to Quinn and gave him a long, overly animated bow. Standing up, he straightened his beard, sharpened the tips of his moustache, and marched off down the corridor.

+++++

The slain body of Jallal Tasca lay lifeless on a flat stone slab. He had died several days before—of stab wounds through the neck.

“What do you think?” asked a woman dressed in a thick purple velvet robe. “Is he reaping the rewards of the Marketplace Eternal? Or is he straggling through the scalding streets of Dis with a devil on his back?”

“I do not know,” replied the wrinkled old man on the other side of the room. “Nor do I care.” He was skimming over the words scribbled on a scroll, squinting in the dim light. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Well, I hope it’s the Marketplace,” she said, unfolding a piece of waxed vellum and lifting a thin, sticky, foul-smelling slice of black flesh from its surface. Leaning over Jallal’s body, she pried open his jaw and placed it inside. Then she dropped a small leather pouch on his chest. “I would hate to think bringing him back to this world made his existence any easier.”

The woman pulled back the sleeves of her robe then opened the pouch. Turning it over, she sprinkled the contents on the dead man’s chest. A hundred tiny diamonds scattered across his pale skin.

Tossing the leather pouch aside, the woman spread the twinkling stones on Jallal’s ice-cold flesh. Closing her eyes, she began a prayer to the goddess Waukeen.

“Take this wealth, goddess of trade, protector of bounty. And return to us the life that was taken from this good merchant.”

Not one for long prayers, the woman bowed her head. “In coin we trust.”

Her hands flaring with golden light, magic seeped from her fingertips, first surrounding the tiny diamonds then spreading over the dead man. The warm glow enveloped the entire stone slab, throbbing once, twice, then coalescing into something more solid.

A short burst of light consumed the tiny diamonds, replacing them with large golden coins covering Jallal’s body.

Each had on its surface the profile of a beautiful woman, her face angular, uplifted, and strong. Her hair flowed around her, wisps of energy, power, and wealth. And on her brow rested a simple tiara of gold and precious stones.

Then Jallal’s body began to transform. The limbs, already strong in life, grew thicker and more powerful, the feet turning to hooves. The fingers, thin and smooth, became rough and covered with hair. The face, round and flat, protruded ever so slightly, the cheekbones spreading, the mouth expanding with sharpened teeth, and the beard disappearing, leaving only the smooth skin beneath. And on the forehead, two tiny horns jutted forward—the mark of a minor demon.

Jallal Tasca coughed, sending a pile of coins jingling off the stone slab and onto the floor. Taking in another breath, the revived man coughed a second time, struggling with lungs that had not been used for nearly a tenday.

“Take your time,” said the old wrinkled man, still not looking up from his scroll. “You’ve been away from this plane awhile.”

Opening his eyes, Jallal sat up, sending the remaining coins tumbling to the floor. He poked at his new, stronger body, testing his skin and bones for solidity. His fingers traveled up his neck until they found the place where the four blades had punched through. There were no holes there now, only thick, purplish scar tissue piled up in smooth lumps.

His fingers continued on to his face, probing its new shape and the sharpened teeth. Finally, Jallal felt the horns, and he pulled his hands away, recoiling in fear.

“What have you done to me?” His voice was rough and scratchy.

“I have brought you back from the dead,” the woman said, not at all pleased with the man’s tone. “And given you a gift.”

Jallal looked at his hair-covered hands. “I’m—” He cleared his throat. “I’m… I’m in your debt,” he said, resignation in his voice.

The woman nodded. “Yes. Yes you are.”

Still perplexed by his new form, Jallal continued to examine himself. “What is this… this… gift you have bestowed upon me?”

“You have consumed the flesh of a ghour,” explained the old man, “a demon who was in the service of an abyssal lord.”

“I see,” replied Jallal.

“The effects are different for everyone,” continued the old man. “You seem to have received a physical manifestation.”

Jallal spun himself so his legs dangled off the side of the slab. Then he rubbed his temples.

“I—” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much. The storehouse. The Claw coming out of nowhere…”

“That’s very common,” said the old man, finally rolling up his scroll and crossing over to the slab. “Your memory will slowly return, now that you draw breath again.”

As if on cue, Jallal seemed struck by a sudden thought. He grabbed the woman by the arm. “My brother! Where is Pello?”

The woman pulled her robe from his grasp, irritated by his groping. “Your brother is alive.”

Seeing the woman’s anger rising, Jallal recoiled, realizing his error. “Matron, forgive me.” He bowed as best he could while seated.

The Matron nodded, smoothing out the velvet on her sleeve where it had been ruffled. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, Matron.” Jallal pulled his naked frame off the stone slab and dropped to his knees in supplication. “Thank you, Matron.”

“Yes, yes,” she replied. “We don’t have time for all of this. Your brother has been sent to the Cellar.” “The Cellar! But how?”

“He was sentenced by the king for trafficking in Elixir,” said the old man.

“A rather overzealous punishment if you ask me,” added the Matron. “But perhaps we can use it to our favor.”

“Forgive me, Matron, but how will my brother’s imprisonment work in our favor? He is all but dead to us in the Cellar. There is no way in or out. We’ll never get him back.”

The Matron smiled. “You are wrong.” She placed her hand on top of his head, stroking his horns affectionately, as if he were her favorite pet. “The king, the senators, and the head of the Magistrates all have access to the Cellar.”

Jallal let out a sigh of relief. “I see.” He stood up, seemingly regaining his composure. “So it is only a matter of time.”

The old man let out a damp, raspy chuckle. “He catches on quickly.”

The Matron nodded to the old man. “Now you see why I wanted your help in bringing him back.” Turning to Jallal, her gaze spoke for her.

“I owe you my life,” said Jallal. “Whatever you desire, if it is within my power, you shall have it.”

The old man came around the stone slab, a white robe draped over his arms. Its chest was adorned with the image of the goddess Waukeen—the same image as was on the gold coins that now littered the floor.

The Matron took it from him and handed it to the naked Jallal. “I want you to kidnap Princess Mariko.”

Taking the garment, he covered himself. “As you wish.”

Then, from the folds of her own robe, the Matron produced a flared sword, wrapped in a polished wooden sheath with inlaid golden runes along the edge.

“You may need this as well,” she said, thrusting the blade into Jallal’s hand. “In case you meet your friend.” She touched the purple scars on his neck. “The Claw.”

+

The sun had set over the Snowflake Mountains some time ago. The last rays of light disappeared as a blanket of darkness pulled up over Llorbauth. Princess Mariko made her way to the easternmost courtyard.

As she did, she passed the statue of her mother, and she ran her hand along the polished stone plinth that held her high above the ground. Her father had erected the statue within the last year, in memory of the queen’s passing. Mariko could feel the powerful anti-magic auras that emanated out of the stone. Her father had found a way to cast every protective ward imaginable on the carving of his deceased wife. Nothing magical at least would ever defile her. While Mariko’s mother had been taken prematurely, her memory would last for eternity.

Lifting her hand, the princess continued on into the courtyard. The buildings that surrounded this open bit of land were often unused. Built as the last phase of Klarsamryn, they were meant to hold foreign dignitaries and their entourages when they came for diplomatic visits. Years ago, when Erlkazar was a young nation just getting on its feet, there were many such meetings. But now that King Valon Morkann’s crown had passed to his son, Korox, stability had been achieved. King Korox had united the kingdom in a peaceful accord by anointing his fellow Crusaders as the

rulers of the other four baronies. There were fewer concerns from the neighboring kingdoms these days. And they stopped trying to butt into the daily matters of the newest nation in the region.

As such, this made a perfect location for the princess’s nightly rendezvous with the Claw. If there was any reason for the buildings that looked out on the courtyard to be occupied, certainly she would know. Tonight the buildings were all deserted.

The day had been cloudy, which meant the night was quite dark. This suited the princess fine. Her dark leathers would blend into the shadows.

“You’re early.” The words came from behind her.

“Am I?” she asked, recognizing the Claw’s voice. “Or are you late?”

“Let’s just say we’re both right on time and leave it at that.”

Princess Mariko turned around to look into the mask of the man she had fallen in love with. “Not in the mood to argue with me tonight?”

“Not in the mood to lose an argument tonight.”

“You’re a smart man.”

“I have my moments. Where are you tonight?”

The princess grew serious. “I’m hearing about a lot of activity down near the docks again. I’m going to go check it out. See if I can get more than I did last time. And you?”

“I’m going south, to Ahlarkhem. I have business with Captain Beetlestone, of Lord Purdun’s army.”

“Be on the lookout for vampires. My Watchers tell me there is some recent activity near the ruins of Dajaan.”

“I have heard that too, but it’s not the undead that worry me. It’s the threats on the king’s life.”

“That’s the reason I’m going to the underbelly of Llorbauth—to see if I can uncover anything about the assassination threat.”

The Claw opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again and looked away.