The Sword and the Sorcerer (15 page)

“For what? We’ll probably never get out of here alive!” Talon laughed. He had always resorted to humor or flippancy to cover up embarrassment.

“That may be true, sir—but far better to die as free men than to live as dogs!”

The surrounding prisoners and rebels nodded and murmured agreement.

Talon was enormously impressed by the old man’s dignity and courage. “Who are you?”

“My name is Estard Devereux. I was once Cromwell’s architect. After I built this very castle in which we stand the king had me incarcerated.”

Talon and Rodrigo exchanged flashing looks, both fired by the same idea.

“You say you built this place?” Talon asked with growing excitement.

“Aye. I was locked up five years ago to insure that the castle’s secrets would never be disclosed.”

Talon’s blue eyes blazed. “What secrets?”

Devereux smiled. In the comely form of this young warrior he saw the hope of revenging himself upon the outlaw king at last!

“Why, hidden passages, secret exits and the like,” he answered almost coyly.

Talon rested his hands on the architect’s frail shoulders, beaming. “Tell me all you know, my friend. I want to hear every delicious little secret at your disposal.”

FIFTEEN

lizabeth had returned with another tray of wine for Cromwell. She stood with her pretty head turned away from the heart-rending sight of Mikah, limp, bloodied and unconscious. Thank God he was out of it! How the young Prince had howled with pain as that hairless brute cranked the rack or whipped his balls with a wet towel! Conversely, how Cromwell had hooted and slapped his knees with laughter each time Mikah discharged blood from his mouth or nose. And how she wished Cromwell would get his slimy hand off her ass while he sipped his wine and leered at the poor Prince.

“How much more do you think the young buck can take, Verdugo?”

The proximity of hot coals and three hours of working over Mikah had coated Verdugo’s massive body with a sheen of sweat. “Not much, sire.”

Someone started impatiently pounding on the iron door, jarring Cromwell out of his warm, comfortable mood. The young wench’s ass felt good, the wine was strong and he had enjoyed the show Verdugo and Mikah had put on for him.

“A pox on whoever dares pound like that!” he shouted to the door.

“Open up, Cromwell! It’s me—Malcolm!”

Cromwell’s good mood was totally erased now. Malcolm? He had banished him from Eh-Dan ten years ago. His debaucheries with wine, drugs and little girls had scandalized the court, and he was privy to too many of Cromwell’s chicaneries and secrets at the time. “Let him in!” he ordered the guard by the door.

Thinner and even more ravaged by drugs and drink than Cromwell remembered him to be, Malcolm strode toward him with a jauntiness of purpose that he had never seen in his ex-chancellor before. His sunken, shadow-rimmed eyes were burning coals, glowing with some maniacal dream. As much as he had come to loathe this wreck of a human being Cromwell was curious to learn what had motivated him to return, knowing his neck was at stake.

“Hello, Titus.”

Elizabeth, Verdugo and the guard looked at Malcolm aghast. No one addressed the king by his first name, save the concubines who serviced his untoward pleasures and then only in private. The fact that Cromwell weathered this breach of court protocol without immediately punishing him was even more bewildering.

“What are you doing here? I thought I exiled you.”

Malcolm was either too drunk to care or he already knew who hung on the rack, for he ignored Mikah completely and defiantly thrust his bony face toward Cromwell.

“I attend the Royal Feast every year, Titus, and it’s that time again. But then, how would you know? You’re usually away from the feast killing and pillaging.”

“Don’t taunt me, Malcolm! Your life hangs by a slender thread here!”

Malcolm reached past Cromwell and brazenly tweaked Elizabeth’s large nipple through her diaphanous veils, ignoring the king’s threat. “I understand, Titus, that the kings of all the bordering nations will also be attending the feast tonight. May I ask why?”

Cromwell glared. Through some evil source the bastard had gotten wind of his plans! “No! You may not ask! Remove him!” he ordered the guard.

The entrance of Machelli, Cromwell’s new war chancellor, shifted everyone’s focus from Malcolm to him. He had that kind of impact on entering a room, irrespective of how many people were in it. His compelling presence was based on more than just his physical appearance, which with dark suave features, coal-black hair bobbed across a noble brow, piercing black eyes and the whiplike grace of the way he carried himself, was arresting by itself. The charisma he cast was an intangible mix of willfulness, cunning, the potential of evil and yet disarming charm.

As Machelli swept into the Torture Chamber, smoothing out his short black linen cape over a royal tunic edged with gold thread, he wholly ignored Elizabeth and Verdugo but stopped short of the king to appraise Malcolm with unconcealed contempt. “What scum is this?” he asked, pointing a finger at Malcolm as if he were a pile of excrement.

Cromwell was delighted. Machelli was even more cynical and sharp of tongue than Malcolm.

“Why, he’s your predecessor, Machelli—a little the worse for wear, perhaps, but your predecessor nonetheless.”

Machelli looked at Malcolm again and then smiled at the king foxily. “Is this what is to become of me?”

“Worse, if your interests are not mine.” A king remained king by inspiring fear in his subjects.

Malcolm had brooked Machelli’s slights in cold silence. But the fury in his eyes left no doubt that he hated the man who now held his former position.

The guard Cromwell had told to usher Malcolm out of the Torture Chamber belatedly snapped to attention and courteously pushed Malcolm toward the gaping door. His general principle was never to be unkind to a nobleman if he could help it, for one never knew when he might be in the king’s favor again. “If you please, General Malcolm.”

But Malcolm balked at being ejected and shoved the guard’s hand off his arm. “I know why you’ve brought the kings here!” he yelled accusingly at Cromwell, as if he and the king shared a nefarious secret.

Cromwell examined Malcolm carefully. The scoundrel knew something. He had to find out what. He motioned to Machelli, Verdugo and the guard to exit.

“Leave me with this sot.” He tried to avoid Machelli’s probing eyes. Damn! Now Machelli was suspicious!

“A pleasure to meet you,” Machelli addressed Malcolm sarcastically, on his way out, the guard and Verdugo following him.

“And close the door!” Cromwell shouted.

Except for the three half-dead prisoners in a cell at the back of the Torture Chamber and Elizabeth and Mikah, Cromwell was now alone with Malcolm. Mikah was still unconscious so he didn’t have to worry about him. As for the tasty slave girl, she was too scared to ever dare tell anyone what she heard here.

Cromwell whisked another gleaming goblet of wine off the tray she held and confronted Malcolm. Their faces were bathed in a reddish glow from the hot iron stuck in a pot of burning coal next to them.

“What do you want, Malcolm?”

“Half the kingdom.”

On the surface Cromwell acted as if the demand was the most absurd one he had ever heard. But inwardly his entrails churned with redoubled alarm. Malcolm would never have brazened such an outrageous demand unless he really knew why he was assembling the kings at the feast tonight. “Half! Ha! What sword do you think you hold over me that would be worth half my realm?”

He tried to hide his rapid breathing by taking another gulp of wine and then resumed speaking, all the while only too uncomfortably aware of the gleam of triumph in Malcolm’s dissipate eyes. “You’re bluffing. You don’t have anything over me. The kings are here to celebrate the tenth anniversary of my conquering Eh-Dan, and to sign a treaty of peace. And that’s the only reason for this glorious occasion, period.”

Malcolm laughed in Cromwell’s face. “Bullshit! They’re here because they’ve watched you vanquish Swavia, Goth and Castul. By signing your ridiculous treaty—which we both know is a worthless piece of paper—they hope to avoid the same fate.”

“So? Nothing sinister or unusual in a bit of statesmanship, is there?”

Malcolm brought his drawn face close enough to Cromwell’s to see the broken blood vessels under his eyes and on his beaky nose.

“Titus, the so-called treaty is only bait to lure them here for a more monstrous reason. And you and I know it.”

There was no more point to playing games with Malcolm. He had it figured out correctly. “I’m astonished you can still think after all these years of dissipation,” he said ominously.

Elizabeth listened to the terrible tone in their voices, petrified. She didn’t understand the meaning behind the words but there was no questioning the hate for each other.

“I can still do a great many things,” Malcolm replied threateningly.

Cromwell’s mind was a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts. One, however, adumbrated all the others. He could not and would not let this burned-out wretch sabotage the opportunity to expand his kingdom beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. “Half is too steep for your silence.”

“Really a bargain, Titus, when you consider the stakes.”

“But you know nothing!” he shouted, knowing the opposite was true.

“I was your war chancellor and general for many years, Titus. I know you inside and out. Essex, the nobility, the neighboring kings . . . none of them could ever begin to fathom the depth of the treachery you have in mind for them. But I—”

Elizabeth saw the flash of Cromwell’s dagger before Malcolm felt the blade tear through his abdomen into his stomach, where Cromwell twisted it twice before leaving the dagger buried there.

The tray slipped from Elizabeth’s hands to the floor as she watched, horrified. Malcolm stumbled backwards to the wall and slid to the floor clutching the dagger lodged in his stomach. The pain was so sharp it choked back his screams. But he did manage to eke out, “Cromwell—you bastard!” A river of blood gushed from his midsection to cover his twitching legs.

Elizabeth remained frozen, incredulously listening to Cromwell laugh at the man who only seconds ago so blatantly taunted him.

But Cromwell’s grotesque pleasure was shortlived. Two Black Klaws burst into the Torture Chamber and threw themselves down on their knees before the king, acting as if they were oblivious to the man bleeding to death with the king’s dagger in his stomach.

“Sire!” the stouter of the two soldiers shouted. “The dungeon guards are dead and the prisoners have escaped!”

“The gods are pissing on me!” Cromwell thundered, smashing his fist into the other hand. “This too I know is the work of the sorcerer!”

“Losing control, Titus?” Malcolm weakly snickered.

Cromwell swung around and savagely used his foot to push the dagger deeper into his stomach.

Elizabeth squealed at the squishy sound. Malcolm’s eyes closed and he died.

Cromwell faced the Klaw who had spoken. “You gather as many men in the castle as you can and meet me at the main tunnel. And you,” he nodded to the other soldiers, “come with me!”

Outside the Torture Chamber Cromwell spotted another Black Klaw walking from the latrine at the opposite end of the corridor. “You there!” he yelled. “Kill everyone in the Torture Chamber! Now! On the double!” Neither torture or the fear of death had extracted from Mikah Xusia’s whereabouts or his assumed form, so there was no point in letting him live any longer. As for the slave girl or the other prisoners in the Torture Chamber, they had all heard too much of what had transpired between Malcolm and himself.

Obediently, the Black Klaw Cromwell had delegated to do the killing drew his sword and ran into the gloomy Torture Chamber as the king marched away to roust more men.

Inside the rocky chamber of horrors, the Black Klaw chillingly surveyed the instruments of torture; the iron hand crusher, the tongs for ripping out tongues, the tightening iron mask in which so many heads had been crushed like eggs, the assortment of barbed and spiked whips, and the dreadful cross-rack where now hung the tortured and battered body of an unconscious young man. And then he saw the scantily clad young woman lurking in the shadows, her luminous dark eyes fearfully trained on the glittering sword in his hand.

“Do you come to kill me, sir?” she mournfully asked, her tempting breasts heaving in a swirl of revealing veils.

“Fear not,” Talon assured her, whipping off his helmet and disdainfully tossing it against the smoke-begrimed wall. “I’m not one of them!”

Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief and detached herself from the shadows. “Who are you, then?”

“A friend of the Cause.” He quickly used his sword to cut Mikah’s bindings and caught him as he fell forward, still unconscious. With one heave he slung the lacerated prince over his massive shoulders and, sword still in hand, moved out of the Torture Chamber, beckoning the girl to follow.

“Come with me!”

SIXTEEN

t was no easy task for thirteen dog-tired rebels to incessantly dodge a castle full of Black Klaws searching for them. Yet, thanks to the architect Devereux’s knowledge of every labyrinthine inch of the castle’s layout, including hidden rooms and secret passages known only to him and an esoteric few, for the past hour, since they broke loose from the dungeons, they had been able to do just that.