The Fighters: Master of Chains Page 4

  Liam disentangled himself from his brother's widow and turned to look down on his aging mother. He remembered what she had looked like when he was a child. Her curly locks had been a beautiful auburn. Her skin had been smooth and tan. Now, though, her bushel of hair was a salt-and-pepper gray, and her skin had bunched up in folds and wrinkles, transforming into a soft, pale whiteness.

  "Liam." She shook him. "Liam. What's wrong with you?"

  Liam looked her in the eyes. The same sadness that had consumed him upon seeing Samira at the door welled up again.

  "Ryder's gone."

  "I know that," she said, miffed. "But when is he going to be back?"

  Liam put his arms around her. "He's not coming back, mother. Ryder is dead."

  "What? Dead?" His mother shook her head. "What are you talking about? He can't be dead. Where is he?" She squeezed his arm tighter. "Stop fooling around and tell me what's going on here."

  Liam took a deep breath. "Ryder and I ambushed a carriage today ... a carriage from Zerith Hold." Liam stuttered a bit, not really wanting to recount the story. He already knew his mother's reaction. "It was... it was one of Lord Purdun's carriages. We were only after a letter, a treaty that was to be signed by High Watcher Laxaella Bronshield, the Baroness of Tanistan. But the carriage was a setup. We were attacked by more than a dozen of Purdun's elite guards."

  "But why?" His mother held her hands to her face.

  "Ryder and I are... were part of the local resistance."

  His mother let go of his arms. "The Crimson Awl? All those stories about bandits robbing Lord Purdun's coaches and mercenaries roaming around attacking his guardsmen ... that was you? Liam, why?"

  "Because we had to," said Liam. "Lord Purdun is an evil, evil man. He takes our crops, taxes our livelihoods, and imposes unfair laws." Liam had endured arguments with his mother on the topic before. They had never seen eye to eye. "But more importantly, he was in the process of putting together a treaty that could have ruined everything we've worked for, perhaps irrevoca­bly." Liam took a breath, holding up his hand to keep his place, making sure his mother didn't butt in, as she was wont to do.

  "The Awl is not a large organization," he continued. "We are all farmers or craftsmen. We don't have the means to fight a large-scale war. We've made progress against Baron Purdun and his guardsmen. Their numbers dwindle, and they have trouble recruiting new members. The people of Ahlarkham believe in what we are fighting for, and they refuse to help Purdun keep us down. But if Tanistan sent men as well, all of the work we have done would be lost. All our sacrifices would have been in vain."

  "And what about Ryder's sacrifice? Did he know about all of this?" his mother demanded.

  Liam nodded. "Ryder was our leader. The organizer. He planned most of the raids, and I helped him."

  His mother suddenly got angry. "What has Lord Purdun ever done to you?" She hit him across the chest. "You and your foolish notions of right and wrong. How many times has your father told you to keep your nose out of the baron's business? Now look at what you've gone and done. You've gotten your brother killed, haven't you? And we'll never get him back." She began to cry. "This is all your fault, Liam. All your fault."

  "No it's not, Angeline."

  Liam turned around to see Samira sitting up on the bed. Her eyes were wet with tears, but some of the color had returned to her cheeks.

  "Ryder knew what he was getting himself into." Samira stood up and placed her hand on Liam's shoulder, standing beside him in defense. "He knew the risks just as well as Liam did."

  "How can you say that, Samira?" said the matriarch through her sobs. "Your husband is dead."

  "I know that, Angeline."

  "Do you not grieve?"

  Samira wiped the tears from her eyes, the pain on her face turning visibly to anger. "How dare you say that to me. Of course I do. And so does Liam."

  Liam felt a calmness wash through him. Somehow, Samira could forgive him for what he could not forgive himself. How could she do that? Samira was an angel. That must be it. No other creature on the plane could have such love in her heart. No other creature would be able to see through her grief and not condemn the brother who lived for the death of the one who did not.

  Angeline stared at Samira for a long moment, seem­ingly piecing together the words she had just heard. Then she turned to her youngest son, now her only son.

  "And what of the rest of us?" she asked, glaring at Liam. "Samira may forgive you for Ryder's death, but your foolish little game has now put us all at risk."

  Liam shook his head. "How?"

  "Do you think those guards are blind? Do you think Purdun is stupid?" Angeline threw her hands in the air. "As soon as he realizes even one of you got away, he'll send his men out looking." She stepped up right into Liam's face. "And when they come looking, they will be looking for you. And when they find you, we will all be in jeopardy."

  Liam put his hands to his head, rubbing his temples. He hadn't thought of that. "What do you want me to do? You want me to march to Zerith Hold and turn myself in?"

  Angeline opened her mouth, but Samira cut her off.

  "No. Absolutely not." She stared at Angeline until the older woman looked away, then she turned to gaze at Liam. "We've lost enough of our family for one day, I think."

  A tense silence filled the house, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

  Liam watched his mother, not knowing what to say to her.

  She watched him back, a stern look of disapproval on her face. Then the anger in her eyes faded, replaced by sadness, and she wrapped her arms around him. "You're right," she said, sobbing again. "I'm sorry, Liam. I'm sorry."

  Chapter 3

  Two hooded figures stood before the mausoleum in the ruins of the cemetery outside Dajaan. A jagged hole in the ground slowly closed, taking with it the eerie green glow, the thick wisps of fog, and the demon the two men had summoned. All that remained was an open archway and a dark passage leading deep into the stone structure.

  One of the men removed his hood, revealing a young half-elf with graying hair, ashen skin, and a long scaly ridge running from the back of his head down his neck and into his heavy robe. He wore a golden torque with five large oval rubies laid into its surface—the traditional symbol of power for the baron of Impresk.

  "I hope you're right about this," said the bejeweled man.

  The still-hooded man nodded. "I assure you, Lord Tammsel, the tomb offers all that you desire and more." He bowed and held his open palm out, as if offering the baron the tomb's entrance as a gift.

  The half-elf eyed the darkened opening to the mau­soleum. Then, adjusting his grip on his axe, he stepped forward and into the darkness. As he crossed the thresh­old, a torch came to life, filling the entrance with a thin, flickering light.

  The hooded man took the torch from its sconce. "This way, my lord," he said, indicating a flight of stairs leading down deeper into the tomb.

  The two men followed the low light down the dusty stairway. At the bottom they stepped out into a large room filled wall to wall with stone sarcophagi. The lids on all of them were ajar.

  Baron Tammsel stepped up to an empty sarcophagus. Not even the bones of the occupants remained.

  "It looks as though we are too late," said the baron. "This tomb has already been raided."

  "We are not petty thieves, my lord," assured the hooded man. He walked farther in, heading for a raised platform in the middle of the room. "We are here for a much greater purpose."

  The half-elf wearily followed his companion to the center of the room. There, atop a stepped dais, sat a beau­tiful coffin carved in the shape of a human woman.

  The hooded man took all of the steps in a single bound and lifted the torch, casting a weak circle of light over the entire coffin. The baron scanned the room, seemingly very uncomfortable in the bowels of the tomb.

  "The wisdom you seek lies inside this coffin," said the hooded man.

  The baron shook his head. "Something is n
ot right here." He squinted, peering into the far reaches of the room. But even with his keen eyesight, the darkness ran out too far for him to see all the way across. "I sense we are being watched." He turned a slow circle, still searching for something. "This is a place of great evil." He spun back to face his companion. "I do not know why you brought me here, but I no longer believe your stories of steel dragons and scrolls of ancient wisdom."

  Baron Tammsel backed down the steps, away from the dais, keeping his eyes on the other man. "I am leav­ing now."

  The hooded figure shook his head. "No, Lord Tammsel. You are not."

  The half-elf spun around, breaking into a run toward the stairs. The shadows on the walls began to shift, taking shape. Moving with a preternatural speed that far outpaced the swift half-elf, they blocked the exit.

  Lord Tammsel skidded to a stop, the dust on the floor rising into the air. The shapes before him were not made of shadow. They had only been using the darkness to conceal their presence. They hissed at him and moved closer. In the fading light Lord Tammsel could see their tattered flesh and jutting fangs.

  "Vampires," he said.

  Backing up, he turned to see that the coffin on the dais lay open, and a female human—or what had once been a female human, now skeletal and decayed—stood beside the hooded man and looked down at Tammsel with great interest. Arrayed around the steps, several dozen slavering thralls clawed at the air, hissing and exposing their fangs.

  Lord Tammsel let out a low growl. Dropping his axe, he pulled his arms out of his long sleeves, revealing two sets of powerful dragon claws. With a quick slash, the half-elf, half-dragon tore away his robes, exposing the elven chain beneath.

  "I know not what treachery this is," growled the baron, "but I assure you, I will not go down without a fight."

  The woman on the dais laughed, a sound like teeth chattering together. "You were right, Montauk," she said, placing her hand on the hooded man's shoulder. "He is full of fight."

  The man pulled back his cowl. His pale skin seemed even paler so deep in the mausoleum. And his hair, tied back in a ponytail, looked like a slithering snake, writh­ing over his back in the flickering torchlight. He smiled. "You are too kind, my mistress."

  Lord Tammsel growled again, a deep rolling sound from within his chest. His eyes narrowed. Then he charged the door and the stairs leading out of the tomb.

  The entire room seemed to lose air as the vampires and their spawn let out a collective hiss. They gathered in a tight group in front of the door and closed in behind him from the dais. The half-dragon, half-elf baron leaped into the air and came down in the middle of the vam­pires' blockade.

  The tips of his outstretched hands ripped into the first spawn in his path. The creature let out a wail as it was torn in half, shredded by Lord Tammsel's powerful claws. He turned on another, ripping its head from its shoulders with a single swat.

  His enemies attacked back. A fist slammed into his shoulder, spinning Tammsel to one side. The blow tempo­rarily dazed him, but he managed to shake it off, bringing his hand up in time to block another fist meant for his jaw. A pair of teeth bit down on his arm. Jerking away, the baron lifted the vampire off its feet, its fangs still clenched against his elven chain.

  With a mighty roar, Tammsel hurled the undead from his arm, sending it flying into half a dozen of its brethren. They fell to the floor in a hissing pile of fangs and claws. He'd managed to make a small opening, and he took advantage of it, stepping toward the fallen foes and into the gap.

  One step closer to the door, Lord Tammsel fought on. Grabbing hold of a vampire spawn with both hands, he pulled the creature toward him and sank his teeth into its face. Shaking his head, the Baron of Impresk bit the spawn's face right off its head and the spawn fell away, unable to see.

  With a satisfied purr, Tammsel spat the rotting flesh from his mouth and came on guard again. He took another step, closing in on the door. His life was nearly saved. The prize of freedom he sought was near, and it filled him with new strength.

  There were only a handful of undead between him and the doorway. Taking in a deep breath, the half-silver dragon shook his head back and forth, blowing out all of the air in his lungs. A gust of super cold spread out, catching a half-dozen vampire spawn in a maelstrom of freezing breath. The bile and mellifluent fluids that held them together turned to ice. Their slumping skin turned hard and fell from their bones. Collectively the quickly freezing beasts let out a wail, then they went silent, either stopping in their tracks or falling frozen to the ground.

  Without hesitation, Tammsel dived into the new gap, moving within just a few steps of the way out. He reached for the next in his way, but something caught him from behind and spun him around. Looking back at the dais, the baron could see the circle of undead closing in. The vampires he had knocked down were already back on their feet.

  They seized him, clasping his arms, legs, shoulders, and head. Though he struggled, the undead piled on. Their hands scratched at his skin. Their fangs clanked against his armor. Slowly the tomb disappeared from his view, replaced with dead gray flesh and shadow.

  The onslaught was more than the baron could take, and he sank to his knees. Twisting under the pile, he grit­ted his teeth and growled, struggling for one more look at the door. He reached, his claws grasping around in the stale crypt air. His fist shook as his body was pummeled, over and over again, until he finally stopped moving. His hand fell limp to the floor.

  The pile of spawn climbed off his corpse, leaving the older, more deserving vampires to lap up the fresh blood.

  Montauk looked down on the former Baron of Impresk, a smile on his face. "Goodbye, Tammsel."

  The woman standing next to him placed her hand on his shoulder. "I trust his replacement has been put into place."

  Montauk turned toward the woman, bowing. "Yes, Mistress Shyressa. Our man has assumed his identity and taken control of Impresk. He's been ruling the barony for more than a tenday now, and everything goes according to plan."

  Shyressa nodded her approval. "Well done." She lifted a sack of gold from inside one of her sleeves and handed it to the ponytailed man. "For your good work."

  Montauk took the sack and bowed once again. "Thank you, my lady."

  The vampires on the floor were tearing large chunks of the dead baron's flesh from his bones and throwing them to their spawn. The half-elf, half-dragon's blood covered the flagstones and the faces of the undead sur­rounding his corpse.

  Shyressa smiled as she looked upon the carnage. "How many of the other barons of Erlkazar do we need to replace before we have them all?"

  At this, Montauk balked. Casting his eyes to the ground, he cleared his throat. "There is only one, my lady."

  Shyressa's smile faded. "And who would that be?"

  Montauk steeled himself to deliver the news. "The baron Lord Purdun, my lady."

  Shyressa touched her shoulder, remembering the wound she had suffered when last she had encountered Baron Purdun of Ahlarkham. "And?"

  "And everything is on schedule."

  The vampire mistress glared at the human standing beside her coffin. "That is what your predecessor said five years ago."

  "Yes, my lady," replied Montauk.

  "Perhaps it is time I took a personal interest in final­izing our plans."

  "Mistress, please," begged Montauk, "allow me the time to complete the plan I have already set in motion."

  "Where are you now, Montauk? How close are you?"

  It was Montauk's turn to smile. "It won't be long," he said. "Already I have arranged to personally take control of the Crimson Awl. A well-timed tip to the elite guard has effectively beheaded the organization, leaving the climate right for me to move in and take power." Montauk rubbed his hands together. "If we cannot replace Baron Purdun with one of our own agents, we will discredit and overthrow him by organizing the peasants against him. I will become the new hero of the people, giving them back the land and cutting their taxes.

  "Once P
urdun's been removed from his position, the farmers will want me to be their new leader. To keep the peace, we will have the other barons of Erlkazar, who are all under our control, petition the king to appoint me as the new baron of Ahlarkham." He took a deep breath, his smile widening.

  "And once we have control," Montauk continued, "we can begin our plans of secession. Each of the five baronies in turn will remove itself from Erlkazar, forming inde­pendent countries. After that, it's only a small matter of starting a war over territory, and the entire region will be in turmoil."

  Shyressa nodded. "I do not want to deprive you of your fun. Still—" the ancient vampire waved her hands over her body, conjuring a blood-red cloak that covered her lithe frame— "I think I'll come along to see for myself just how well this plan is coming together."

  Montauk bowed again. "As you wish, my lady."

  She stepped down off the dais, coming up behind one of the spawn feasting on the remains of Lord Tammsel. "Let's bring a little gift for Lord Purdun." She reached down and stroked the hair of the undead man before her.

  The minion looked up at his mistress, blood covering his face.

  "You'd like to be reacquainted with your old friend, wouldn't you, Menrick?"

  The vampire spawn dropped the bone he'd been gnaw­ing on and turned to hug Lady Shyressa's legs.

  "That's right," she said, enjoying the adoration from her beloved follower. "I thought you'd like that."

  Chapter 4

  "Wake up, you pig-slopping bastard!"

  A wave of water hit Ryder in the face, and he sat bolt upright.

  "Wha...Where am I?"

  "Shut up, you," came the same voice.

  Ryder wiped the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. He was sitting on a soldier's cot in a cold, dank stone cell. A pair of weak torches, one on each side of a single door, lit the room. Four men—all but one wearing the jade green and royal blue uniforms of Lord Purdun's elite guard—surrounded him. The fourth held an empty bucket.

  Unlike the others, this one sported a dirty white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and a worn leather vest over the top. His head, face, and exposed forearms, all completely hairless, shined in the dim torchlight. A handful of scars crisscrossed the man's cheeks and forearms. Ryder recognized him immediately—Captain Phinneous. He was notorious among the Crimson Awl. Ryder had heard some of the older members tell stories about Phinneous around the campfire. Ryder never believed them. No man could be that cruel. Ryder's lips curled up into a grimace. Guess now he'd know for sure if the tales were true.