Authors: Jennifer Fallon
Warlord (61 page)
He wasn’t quick enough to get out of its way. The blade sliced into his right shoulder, sending a jarring bolt of pain along his infected arm. With the pain came the first metallic taste of fear as it occurred to Mahkas that not only could Bylinda do him serious harm with that ridiculous little table knife, she intended to.
“Guards!” he bellowed as loud as he could manage. The cry came out in a strangled whisper. It was a wasted effort. Bylinda could barely make out his words; even if they’d been there, a guard in the hall would have no idea his master was calling him, let alone realise he was in imminent danger. The only other person in the room, the only one who might have been able to talk some sense into his wife, lay unmoving by the fireplace, blood seeping from her cracked skull.
Bylinda smiled humourlessly when she realised he was helpless. “Nobody can hear you.”
Mahkas glanced over his shoulder at the door, wondering if he could make it out of the room before his wife caught him. He was in pain and bleeding from several small wounds, his arm was pounding and his throat felt as if it had been sanded with a rasp. Warily, he turned his attention back to Bylinda, thinking he might still be able to talk his way out of this. Bylinda didn’t usually defy him. This was Luciena’s fault. She’d poisoned his wife against him.
Changing his tack, Mahkas smiled at her. “If you give me the knife now, I won’t punish you too harshly,” he promised, reaching out to her again.
She shook her head. “You punish everyone harshly, Mahkas. Even your own daughter.”
“Leila had to be taught a lesson, Bylinda.”
“What about Darilyn?”
He hesitated, wondering what his long-dead sister had to do with this. “She’s been dead for twenty-five years.”
“You killed her, too, didn’t you?” Bylinda accused. “In fact, I’m not sure which is worse—that you strangled your own sister with a harp wire or that you took those poor little innocent boys in to find her body and let them grow up thinking their mother had killed herself in disgrace.”
Mahkas stared at her in horror.
How could she know that?
How could she know that?
“Luciena didn’t know why you killed Darilyn,” Bylinda continued, “but I can guess the reason. It was something to do with Riika, wasn’t it? Were you involved with her kidnapping, Mahkas? I remember Laran and you talking about it. I remember watching you, thinking how terrible it must have been for you to lose both your sisters like that. You sat there with a perfectly straight face and swore to your brother it was Darilyn who’d betrayed Riika, when all the time it was you, wasn’t it?” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t even seem angry. If anything, she seemed contemptuous of him. “Did you kill poor Laran, too, or was it just a little bit of serendipity that he got himself killed before he discovered the truth?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, woman.”
“How could you even look at those poor children after you murdered their mother, let alone bring them into our home and expect me to raise them?”
Mahkas was rapidly losing patience with this. “Give me that damned knife, woman, before I—”
“Before you
what,
husband? Beat me? I don’t care. You’ve taken the only thing I loved from me. There’s no greater pain I fear now. And you know the worst of it? You’ve made me guilty by association. Your crimes are my crimes, Mahkas, because I never tried to stop you.”
what,
husband? Beat me? I don’t care. You’ve taken the only thing I loved from me. There’s no greater pain I fear now. And you know the worst of it? You’ve made me guilty by association. Your crimes are my crimes, Mahkas, because I never tried to stop you.”
Threatening her wasn’t working, so he tried changing his approach again.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he crooned softly, moving a little closer. She had that faraway look in her eye again. He edged his way forward, thinking he could snatch the knife from her before she could attack him again. Once she was disarmed, he intended to beat her to within an inch of her life for this treachery. “Bylinda … darling …”
She stabbed him in the forearm this time, the knife in and out almost before he had time to register the pain. He cried out—a hoarse, useless, whispered cry nobody but Bylinda could hear.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” she said. “Being killed, a little bit at a time.”
“I swear, Bylinda,” he threatened, advancing on her angrily. “If you don’t stop this nonsense …”
The knife took him in the shoulder this time. Before he could stop her, she changed her grip on the knife and plunged it downward past his collarbone and into the jugular. Blood spurting over them both, Mahkas collapsed to his knees with the shock and stared up at her, truly afraid of her now.
“Bylinda …”
“You didn’t keep your oath,” she said, looking down at him unsympathetically as she pulled the knife out and almost casually changed the bloody knife to her other hand and plunged it into his right shoulder.
“You lied to Laran.”
Stab.
Stab.
“You lied to Travin and Xanda.” She stabbed him again. “You lied to Marla.”
And again she struck him, punctuating each accusation with her blade.
“You lied to me.”
Again the blade sliced into him, the pain searing through his body as she attacked his wounded arm.
“And you lied to Leila when you didn’t keep your oath.”
“Stop it!” he rasped, not sure if it was the stings of her little blade, the loss of blood, or the torment of her accusations that was driving him mad.
“You didn’t keep your oath.”
She struck him again and he collapsed even further, on his hands and knees now, his back exposed to her. He felt the blade bite yet again, this time close to his spine. He could taste salty blood in his mouth and fear on his breath.
“Why … why are you doing this?” he cried, still not able to fully comprehend her cold, unrelenting rage.
“For Leila,” Bylinda told him calmly, raising her arm to strike again. “I’m doing this for Leila.”
T
he palace was asleep when Damin and his small band of invaders entered the reception room through the slaveways. Damin chose the upstairs exit from the slaveways because at this hour of the night, it was certain to be empty. The last thing they needed was to stumble over a squad of early rising slaves taking care of the ashes in the hearth of one of the more commonly used rooms downstairs.
he palace was asleep when Damin and his small band of invaders entered the reception room through the slaveways. Damin chose the upstairs exit from the slaveways because at this hour of the night, it was certain to be empty. The last thing they needed was to stumble over a squad of early rising slaves taking care of the ashes in the hearth of one of the more commonly used rooms downstairs.
They stepped into the cavernous hall, hurrying across the polished parquet floor with footsteps that sounded far too loud for comfort. When they reached the entrance, Damin halted everyone with a hand signal, and then he turned to face them.
“I’m guessing Mahkas will be in his bed at this hour,” Damin told them softly. “So that’s where I’m headed. Wrayan, I need you to find Xanda and Luciena. Starros and Kraig, ladies, you’re with me. Luc, you and your people are with Wrayan.”
The thief nodded. “What do we do if we encounter any resistance?”
“We won’t,” Wrayan assured him, but he was looking at Damin when he answered. Damin understood immediately. Between his magical powers and his status in the Thieves’ Guild, Wrayan feared very few men. Besides, once they found Xanda, his cousin would be able to order any Raiders left in the palace to lay down their arms with a good expectation of being obeyed, even without Wrayan’s magical assistance.
“And if we find Mahkas?” Wrayan asked.
“You come and get me. I’ll deal with him.”
The thief looked relieved that he and his men weren’t going to be held accountable for the death of Krakandar’s regent, regardless of how much everyone thought he deserved it.
Nothing more was said as the intruders left the empty room and turned in opposite directions down the corridor. Damin made no further attempt to conceal his presence. He strode through the darkened halls as if he owned the place. It was bad enough that he’d had to enter the palace by skulking through the slaveways. He didn’t intend to skulk any more. Certainly not in his own home.
“Where do you want to look first?” Starros asked softly as he caught up with Damin’s long-legged stride, looking around with concern. He would have been much more comfortable if they were skulking, Damin thought. Kraig, Barlaina and Lyrian, on the other hand were looking around with open curiosity as they followed him through the palace.
“We’ll start with the bedrooms,” he announced, making no attempt to lower his voice. “If what you’re telling me about Mahkas being ill is correct, he may well be sound asleep in his bed.”
Starros glanced at Damin sceptically. “Are we taking odds on that?”
They took the stairs to the next floor without encountering a single soul. Damin had wandered the halls of Krakandar Palace any number of times as a boy, but he had never before experienced such an eerie feeling of emptiness. It was as if the life had been sucked out of the building, leaving only an empty shell, haunted by painful memories.
The wing of the palace that housed the sleeping quarters was just as deserted as the rest of the building. Damin passed his own room, the one he’d shared with Starros as a child, Leila’s room, the bedroom the twins had always called their own, the oddness of it all tugging on his memories of this place. He’d never seen this passage devoid of guards before. Never seen it plunged into darkness like this: Not a lamp was lit, not a single soul seemed to be in residence.
He hesitated when he reached Mahkas’s room at the end of the hall.
“Is this where we will find your uncle?” Kraig asked.
Damin nodded. Immediately Lyrian and Barlaina began to reach for their weapons.
“He’s a sick man and he’s probably asleep,” Damin informed them with a frown. “Let’s not get too excited, ladies.”
“You remain calm if you wish, your highness,” Lyrian suggested tartly. “In my experience it’s the
probablys
that usually require weapons. Besides, did we not come here to kill this man?”
probablys
that usually require weapons. Besides, did we not come here to kill this man?”
This bloodthirsty need to inflict violence on someone—anyone—was an alarming tendency he’d noticed both women appeared to be suffering from, ever since he’d removed the slave collars and returned their own clothes and weapons after they’d left Lasting Drift. Everything was far too black and white in Lyrian’s world, and he really didn’t have the time to explain all the various shades of grey to her. Damin looked to Kraig for a bit of support, confident the prince would understand why he couldn’t risk Lyrian and Barlaina bursting into Mahkas’s room and slicing him into little pieces just for fun.
Kraig seemed to understand what Damin wanted of him. “You must not harm this man,” he ordered his bodyguards. “It is Prince Damin’s right alone to butcher this pretender.”
He frowned, thinking the phrase
butcher this pretender
was a little extreme, but the prince’s words seemed to have the desired effect. The women looked quite disappointed they were to be denied the opportunity to shed some blood and reluctantly returned their knives to the tooled leather sheaths they were wearing.
butcher this pretender
was a little extreme, but the prince’s words seemed to have the desired effect. The women looked quite disappointed they were to be denied the opportunity to shed some blood and reluctantly returned their knives to the tooled leather sheaths they were wearing.
“Actually, why don’t you two go with Starros and check the other bedrooms?” he suggested. That would keep them occupied and lessen the opportunity for butchering pretenders. “Just don’t kill anyone without asking first.”
Starros looked at the two women a little warily, and headed back down the hall with them, leaving Damin and Kraig standing outside Mahkas’s door.
Damin hesitated, afraid of what he might find.
“You have come this far,” Kraig said. “Don’t falter on the brink of victory.”
“Is it victory to kill a sick old man in cold blood?”
“Compassion is something one can only afford when one is through being ruthless, Damin.”
The prince smiled faintly, not at the Denikan’s words so much, as how similar he sounded to Elezaar. Physically, the handsome big Denikan and the deformed little dwarf had nothing in common, but in every other way they were soul mates.
“Then let’s go butcher the pretender, shall we?”
But he got no further than putting his hand on the latch before Starros called out urgently from down the hall.
“
Damin
! In here!”
Damin
! In here!”
Abandoning Mahkas’s room, Damin and Kraig turned and ran, following the young thief’s cry into the next suite down the hall. Bylinda’s room.
When they burst through the door, Damin discovered Lyrian lighting all the candles she could find in the room.
Mahkas Damaran—the man he’d come here to remove or kill—was lying on the floor near the settee.
At least, Damin assumed it was Mahkas. It was hard to tell with all the blood.
“It would appear someone has already butchered the pretender for you,” Kraig remarked, staring down at the body.
Whoever had killed Mahkas Damaran had stabbed him over and over again until there was little left but a bloody carcass. He’d been stabbed so many times it was impossible to guess which of the hundreds of blows might have killed him. The rage, the pain behind such a vicious attack left Damin gasping.
“Luciena!”
Damin looked up and discovered Starros bending over his adopted sister’s body, which lay lifeless and broken by the fireplace, the pool of blood under her head glistening in the candlelight.
“Dear gods! Is she …” he began, hurrying over to them, almost afraid to complete the question.
Starros shook his head. “She’s alive. Help me.”
Mahkas temporarily forgotten, Lyrian and Barlaina hurried to Starros’s aid and together, the three of them lifted her gently onto the settee. Damin stared at her limp form, guilt warring with concern.
It was his fault Luciena had stayed in Krakandar with Xanda.
“Are you sure she’s … there’s an awful lot of blood.”
“Head wounds always bleed profusely,” Barlaina informed them, pushing Starros out of the way so she could tend to Luciena. “Bring me more light.”
Lyrian hurried to comply and Starros stepped back as he found himself superfluous in the face of the Denikan woman’s competence. Damin watched Barlaina working, wondering if it was Luciena who had murdered Mahkas so brutally.
And what might have driven her to it.
“Damin.”
He glanced over at Kraig, wondering at his odd tone. The Denikan was standing by Mahkas’s body, pointing to the floor.
With the additional light, a series of small, bloody footsteps were revealed, leading away from the corpse. Curiously, Damin picked up a candlestick and followed them. They led, not out into the hall, but into the bedroom.
Had Mahkas’s murderer come and gone through the slaveways?
He opened the bedroom door and found it undisturbed. The bed was made, the entrance to the slaveways in the dressing room off to the left still firmly closed.
The footsteps led to the open window.
Was it an assassin, then,
Damin wondered,
who finally ended Mahkas’s life?
Damin wondered,
who finally ended Mahkas’s life?
The curtains billowed in a faint wisp of breeze and Damin caught sight of someone moving out on the roof. He put the candle down on the table by the door and walked over to the window, wondering if the assassin was still out there.
Were they so close on his heels they’d disturbed him in the act?
He pushed the curtain aside and froze when he realised the figure standing on the edge of the sloped roof was Bylinda Damaran.
He turned to Kraig. “Find Wrayan,” he ordered softly, thinking if he couldn’t get his aunt back from the edge, then Wrayan might be able to force her back magically.
Kraig glanced out of the window, saw the figure perched on the edge of the roof and nodded. He was gone from the room by the time Damin climbed out of the window and began to make his way cautiously towards the edge of the roof, high above the paved courtyard of Krakandar Palace, where the blood-splattered figure of Bylinda Damaran stood, perched at the very edge of oblivion.
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