Updated 8/25/24

Part 6

Chapter 11 - 1860

Quorin

A vast meadow, lush and green, surrounded the small town of Caswell. The scent of wildflowers drifted on the warm breeze, a deceptive calm that belied the tension squeezing Quorin’s chest. He and his cousin, Rhaylth, were a mile into the forest, hidden among the dense foliage, waiting for their prey.

Quorin’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the road before them. This was just a winding trail worn wide by the increasing number of affluent travelers journeying between Farr Castle and Caswell. The route was growing popular, but Caswell was lightly garrisoned. It was the perfect spot for an ambush. Quorin felt a grim satisfaction at the plan he'd concocted. He made Rhaylth fell a tree across the path, a makeshift barricade to bring their target to a halt. It lay there now, an innocent-looking trap in the dappled sunlight.

As the faint rumble of a carriage reached his ears, Quorin’s pulse quickened. He signaled to Rhaylth, perched high above on a thick branch overhanging the path. His young cousin, scarcely out of boyhood, gave a curt nod and melted further into the shadows.

Quorin backed into the brush, his heart pounding in time with the approaching hoofbeats. The carriage came into view around the bend, its polished wood gleaming in the sunlight. Six powerful horses strained against their harnesses, their coats glistening with sweat.

“Whoa!” The old driver on top bellowed, pulling back hard on the reins, his weathered face twisted with effort. The liveried boy beside him, barely more than a child, grabbed the reins as well, eyes wide with fear.

Women screamed inside the carriage, their voices high and shrill. The horses, sensing the tension, snorted, ears flat, fighting against the reins, their panic infecting one another.

Quorin felt a flicker of impatience. This needed to be quick. No value in damaged horses. He watched as the carriage lurched to a halt, the driver and his boy frantically scanning the trees for any source of danger.

Rhaylth moved first, dropping silently from his perch, landing on top of the carriage. He pressed his sword to the back of the driver’s neck, just enough to draw blood.

Quorin watched with cold approval. The boy was learning.

Quorin stepped out of the bushes, a crossbow in hand, the tension in his chest easing slightly. He put on one of his many false voices, rough and unrecognizable. “Owt! Geyt owt!” he barked, leveling the crossbow at the carriage door. He saw the highborn passengers within, their faces pale with terror. “Owt! Ay’ll neyt ask ag’in!”

He glanced up at Rhaylth. The driver wouldn’t be a problem; the boy had him well in hand. But just as the thought crossed his mind, the old man moved, a flash of steel, a knife. Quorin’s heart skipped a beat.

Rhaylth reacted instantly, his sword slicing across the driver’s throat. Blood sprayed, dark and hot, splattering the carriage roof. Quorin felt a surge of disgust. This was supposed to be clean, quick—no mess. His cousin, though capable, was still too eager, too reckless. The man’s knife was no real threat to Rhaylth, his sword having ten times the reach.

The dead driver slumped forward, and the boy beside him froze, staring at his fallen master. Rhaylth turned his sword on the lad, blood dripping from the blade onto the polished wood.

Quorin’s gaze shifted to the women now climbing out of the carriage. Three of them, all dressed in colorful silks. His eyes immediately went to the one with the jewels—bright stones at her throat and glittering rings on her fingers. She was trouble, Quorin knew it the moment their eyes met. Her gray eyes burned with defiance, her back straight, despite the fear that must have gripped her heart.

Rhaylth’s attention wavered, his gaze lingering on her. Brown hair, fair skin, and a figure that was more dangerous to his young cousin than any weapon. Quorin scowled, sensing Rhaylth’s thoughts straying.

“Please don’t hurt us,” one of the other women sobbed, her voice trembling with fear.

The gray-eyed lady, however, stepped forward, her voice steady despite the terror around her. “Leave now, and I promise none shall be sent to hunt you down,” she declared. “Take my jewelry if you must, but leave us be. For I am Parynna Caswell, and should you place a finger on me or my ladies, your deaths are assured.”

Quorin’s mind raced. Parynna Caswell—so this was the wife of one of Earl Caswell’s sons. She had steel, that much was clear. Her words weren’t idle threats. Quorin knew that if they were caught, their lives would be forfeit.

The driver’s lad, spurred by his mistress’s courage, suddenly launched himself at Rhaylth. Quorin’s heart sank as he saw Rhaylth, distracted by the woman, turn too late. But his sword was quicker than the young servant’s desperation.

A gurgling cry escaped the lad as he fell, blood bubbling from his lips.

“Blast!” Quorin cursed under his breath, stepping back to keep both the women and the top of the carriage in his line of sight. This was unraveling. Rhaylth was too easily swayed, too green for a job like this.

Rhaylth’s growl broke through his thoughts. “Let’s see ’em, all ov ’em.”

Quorin’s irritation flared. “Shet et, Rhaylth. We wuntz thar biden. Thet’z al.”

But Rhaylth, in his anger, dropped his false accent. “Quorin, you drecksa! I told you not to use my name.”

Quorin’s blood ran cold. The fool had assured their deaths with two notable murders—murders not assigned or approved by the Order. He startled as Parynna Caswell stepped forward, her defiance now an open challenge. Without thinking, Quorin lashed out, the butt of his crossbow connecting with her temple. Enraged by losing control, he kicked her in the gut as she lay crumpled on the ground, unconscious.

Irritated and desperate to finish the job, Quorin barked orders to Rhaylth, who got down from the carriage and advanced on the other two women.

Rhaylth pointed at the girls clinging to each other. “Strip. We want the fancy clothes.”

The women hesitated; their fear palpable. Quorin’s patience was wearing thin. He rolled his eyes, his voice sharp. “Geyt en weth et.”

Reluctantly, they began to undress, their hands shaking as they dropped their fine garments onto the dirt.

Rhaylth’s gaze was drawn to the unconscious lady on the ground, his lustful thoughts clear in his eyes. “Her too,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

Quorin watched, feeling a deepening sense of unease as Rhaylth bound the women. Quorin ransacked the coach, gathering their valuables, he ignored their sobbing, his mind focused on the task. This was supposed to be a simple robbery, not a bloodbath. Not whatever Rhaylth was turning it into.

When Quorin emerged from the carriage, his arms full of loot, he froze. Rhaylth was taking advantage of the unconscious lady, his pants around his ankles. Rage and panic surged through Quorin as he heard the distant sound of hoofbeats.

“Blast! Hear that. Stop your rutting. Geyt they ‘orses,” Quorin shouted, his voice betraying his fear.

Rhaylth scowled but obeyed, pulling up his trousers as he hurried to the horses, his eyes lingering on the bound women. Quorin quickly tied the sack of stolen goods and tossed it to Rhaylth, who caught it with a pout. They both fled into the trees, Rhaylth casting one last, longing glance at the women.

Quorin’s heart pounded in his chest as they mounted two of the horses and rode away, the sound of approaching riders growing louder behind them. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Rhaylth was a liability, and Quorin knew he had to fix this before it got any worse. The thrill of the ambush was gone, replaced by a cold, gnawing fear.

“Best if we leave Caswell. We’ll sell all this in the next town and catch a few more travelers. Then we need to lie low.” Quorin glanced back and frowned. Rhaylth was trailing behind. “Keep up Rhay-Rhay!”

Once far from the trail, they rode north.

The idiot! Or should I be cursing myself? That was a lady of Caswell I injured and he had his way with. Perhaps I should have killed her. Killed all of them. At least that way, there’d be no witnesses.

Damn fool and his lust. If he’d kept his eyes on the carriage drivers, he wouldn’t have needed to kill them.

“Rhaylth, catch up! Those approaching will come upon the carriage at any moment. They’ll not treat us kindly if we’re caught. They could even…”

…send us to Melazera’s dungeons.

As they followed the Freis River north, they came to a village with a small market. A merchant bought the horses, another the jewels. Quorin pondered on the fate of his reckless cousin for days. Deep in the woods, he stopped, turned, and looked at the youth. He wondered if Rhaylth would do better on his own.

Then they mounted the horses they’d kept and turned east. A short way beyond, they’d stay at a black-robe lair he’d been sent to once before. There they’d be safe. The Order protected its own.

I’m not yet done with the Order. They are still useful to me.

The Warrior

The room was dark, lit only by a few candles and a brazier that glowed red hot. The Warrior savored the rich odor of burnt flesh, offerings from the six local heathens. They bowed before an altar, seeking his blessing. He and the demon remained in the unseen realm.

The heathens chanted their repetitious prayers as one of them cut another small animal into chunks on the altar.

“Where have you been? I have been waiting for you for over an hour.” The Warrior touched the forehead of each of his worshippers. Each fell to the ground, lying in bliss. “Did you finish your tasks?”

“Yes, my Lord.” The demon cowered, hiding from the dark angel’s scowl. “Caileagh Melazera was late. However, I have relayed your wishes to her in visions and I checked on all my other hosts in Farr. Following the female that met with Caileagh, I came to Caswell. There I encouraged one of my black-robe hosts to rob her carriage, so Caileagh now has an excuse to  help her. She got roughed up quite bit, but should otherwise be fine. The driver and a boy were killed though. The man called Quorin blames his cousin for his rashness.”

Still scowling, the Warrior paced. “I suppose your tardiness was productive, so I’ll let it go unpunished this time. Return to Caileagh Melazera so that she remains focused on her tasks, but get her to Caswell to follow up on your new endeavor.”

The demon bobbed lower and lower as he backed away, then scurried out of sight as a lesser angel strode into the room. “Great one, we have another rite to attend. They gather in Fairness Crossing.”

“I know, Panther. My followers grow.” His rattlesnake smile spread wide. “Let’s see what treats they have brought me.”

Chapter 12 - 1566

Gaelib

Gaelib Melazera stood rigidly before the throne, his face a carefully crafted mask of indifference. His hands, hidden beneath the folds of his robe, twitched with the urge to clench. If he allowed even a flicker of emotion, he knew he would scream. The vast, echoing chamber seemed to mock him with its silence, the royal court’s earlier chatter now a fading memory.

This should have been the culmination of moons of meticulous planning. Everything had been orchestrated down to the last detail: the ruin of a duke who’d refused to be bought, the subtle corruption of courtiers, the bribery of wives and mistresses with lands, baden, and gems. Every opposition had been neutralized or delayed, so no inconvenient truths could spoil his carefully laid arguments.

Gaelib’s gaze traced the path King Edal had walked mere moments before. The king had nodded at all the right moments, frowned precisely when expected. He had praised the craft of the legislation, a document so carefully worded that its true intentions were buried deep beneath layers of benign phrases. For an agonizing heartbeat, as the king approached with the scroll in hand, Gaelib had allowed himself the briefest flicker of triumph.

The king had risen from his throne and strode forward to put his royal sigil on it, he had lifted the scroll so all could admire it… then tossed it into the fire.

“This is unnecessary,” King Edal had said, his tone as calm and final as a tomb’s seal. “Our current law covers these situations already.” The words had been delivered with such effortless authority that Gaelib had felt a wave of helpless rage wash over him, a fire that now smoldered in his gut.

Gaelib’s jaw tightened as he relived the moment. The parchment had curled and blackened, its edges glowing orange as it was devoured by the flames. The scent of burning paper lingered in his nostrils, a bitter reminder of his failure.

He longed to kill someone. To savor every whimper, every plea for mercy, and syllable of muffled begging drawn out over hours until their voice broke from the strain. But not just anyone—a special someone, someone whose death would be a message. Yet, that indulgence would ruin everything. The thought of it made his hands tremble with restrained desire, a gnawing need that clawed at his insides.

A faint rustling broke through his dark reverie. Gaelib blinked, realizing that King Edal had asked him something. He hadn’t heard a word. One of his underlings nudged him urgently, eyes darting toward the monarch.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” Gaelib’s voice was smooth, practiced. “I was considering the implications on the nation’s finances as you have, so wisely, chosen not to implement the proposed law.”

King Edal’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of displeasure in the otherwise serene expression. “While We appreciate your grasp of such intricacies, Royal Steward, We require your attention in the here and now. Calculations are to be done when the Royal Court is not in session.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Gaelib bowed low, teeth clenched, the motion precise and controlled, even as resentment curled in his chest. How much longer would he need to play this charade? Soon, very soon, he promised himself, he would sit on that throne. And when that day came, the king would no longer be any trouble.

“Rise,” King Edal commanded, his voice brooking no delay. “We asked you for the latest expenditures on the army and the breakdowns of the costs, by garrison.”

Gaelib straightened, his movements fluid as he handed three scrolls to a waiting herald. The documents, meticulously prepared, were conveyed to the monarch, who hardly glanced at them before dismissing the court.

“The Royal Court is in recess,” the Senior Herald announced. “Go now and do your best for king and country!”

The command sent a ripple through the assembled courtiers. Gaelib, his posture ever the model of loyalty, remained bowed longer than the rest. He did not rise until every noble within his peripheral vision had done so, ensuring that King Edal had indeed left the chamber. His behavior had been noted before, praised for its devotion, a display that only deepened the bitter satisfaction in his gut.

If they wanted to believe it, so much the better.

Gaelib scribbled a quick note and passed it to a runner, a supposedly deaf man he had taken pity on. He watched the man scurry off before turning to leave the Great Hall, his entourage following in a tight formation. The walk back to his offices was more of a parade, with Gaelib at the center. He could have chosen rooms closer to the hall, but he preferred the distance. It reduced the number of unexpected visitors, giving him ample warning of those who did come.

Back in his offices, time blurred as Gaelib threw himself into work. He ordered his scribes to duplicate notes, sent runners to retrieve information the king had requested, and oversaw the handling of original documents with a scrutinizing eye. Two scribes had their fingers broken for minor errors—sufficient to release some of the tension coiled within him, though not enough to quell it entirely.

Satisfied that his subordinates would continue their tasks without further supervision, Gaelib withdrew to his private office. The heavy door closed behind him with a solid thunk, the lock sliding into place with a satisfying click.

The ‘deaf’ man was already waiting, his posture one of careful deference.

“How did King Edal know?” Gaelib’s voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet. “What tipped him off?”

“If you will forgive me,” the man replied, removing his wig and the prosthetic ears that had so effectively dissuaded others from paying him any mind, “I warned you there was a risk if you tried to pass this as a single law.”

Gaelib’s hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt. “I do not forgive,” he hissed. “Passing it in three parts would have taken two years or more. How else can this be done?”

“For it to be unassailable? It cannot.” The man’s tone was firm, unyielding. “And passing it in parts could expose us further. No, we cannot approach this law again for at least a year, maybe three.”

“That is unacceptable!” Gaelib’s eyes burned with fury. “You forget who you are talking to. I am Gaelib Melazera, Lord of Lorness and Royal Steward. Nothing is beyond me.”

The man stood, adjusting his collar with deliberate slowness. “I shall see myself out the back way. Or do you wish to lose the river of gold flowing from the Lockes? Even you do not have enough baden, oh Lord of Lorness, to oust a king on your own.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “What’s the matter with you? You’re Lorness’ Earl. Why not use that title? Or does your family still smart from Locke’s elevation to Duke… three generations ago?”

The man’s words cut deep, but not as deep as Gaelib’s blade. The dagger flashed out, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The man’s eyes widened in shock as blood spurted from his throat, his hands clawing at the wound.

He collapsed, gurgling as his life drained away. Gaelib watched, his anger dissipating into a cold, calm satisfaction, the pool of blood expanding like a halo. The sight of the man drowning in his own blood was a balm to his frayed nerves. Yes, this was what he needed—a reminder of his power, a demonstration of the Warrior’s favor. However, the waste of his blood will displease Caileagh.

Gaelib stepped over the corpse, his mind already shifting to other matters. The dead fool had spoken of rivers of gold as if they were vital. How little he knew. Gaelib had already diverted royal funds into so-called charitable ventures, projects that lined his pockets as much as they built houses, roads, and warehouses. If ever discovered, he would simply point to his ledgers, all in perfect order, showing the coin dispersed as commanded by the king. The builders, carpenters, and thatchers? Their failures were not his concern. Besides, their properties, seized by the Crown, would be bought by his agents for a pittance.

No, the loss of some southern fools who had supplied him baden was nothing.

But, perhaps the dying man had a point. Without the laws Gaelib had counted on, his plans would have to slow. Patience—always patience. But not for too long. There was a more direct path to the throne. Prince Sagen was not ready to rule, something King Edal had admitted in private moments.

What if the king’s death was hastened? Not by old age, but by something more… deliberate? Caileagh had whispered of slow-acting poisons, concoctions that could make the strongest man wither. It was a thought that tantalized Gaelib, a possibility that sent a thrill through him.

Or, perhaps something more savage?

He moved to the cabinet, pouring himself a glass of thick, honeyed wine. The drink, prepared by his devoted wife, often brought him the most vivid visions. As he sipped, his eyes fixed on the last flickers of life in the dead man’s body, an idea began to take shape.

What if…?

The thought was interrupted by a sudden surge of clarity, a word from the Warrior searing into his mind. Send Caileagh to Caswell with an appropriate letter to your friend Drake.

Gaelib smiled slowly, his mood lifting. Yes, the day was indeed improving. He swirled the wine in his glass, savoring its deep, rich color and hint of saltiness.

“I do love a puzzle,” he murmured to the empty room, already anticipating the next move in his deadly game.