A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2) Page 2

  “In there.” She held the door open and pushed him into it. “Hide! Don’t you make a sound or come out, no matter what you hear!”

  No sooner was he safely hidden than the heavy table was torn away as if it weighed nothing. The first orc burst into the kitchen and the cook bravely leaped at him, swinging the big butcher’s blade. It caught the monster in the shoulder, but the beast swung its bloody club and sent the cook back reeling, stunned, with a blow to the side of his head. Her mother lashed out with her axe, but the orc caught her arm and simply pulled her back, hurling her into the room behind him. She had barely disappeared from sight when she began to scream hysterically, terrible wordless screams like an animal. All the while, more orcs were pouring into the kitchen, and their powerful clawed hands reached out for the shrieking, terrified women defending themselves with their makeshift weapons.

  “Mother!” Isabel shrieked and she picked up the butcher knife that the cook had dropped a moment earlier. She chopped down hard, using both hands, but an orc blocked the metal blade with a chair it was holding, shoved her backward, then smashed the chair into her face. The force of the blow sent her flying backward and she struck the back of her head upon the wall.

  Darkness descended and she knew no more.

  When Isabel came to her senses, her first thought was that she must be damned and in Hell. A sharp pain seemed to be splitting her lower body in half while a dreadful pressure on her back was smashing repeatedly against her, forcing the breath from her and all but crushing her under its heavy weight. It took her one long moment to realize that she was not dead, another moment for the full force of the pain to hit her, and a third to realize she was no longer a virgin.

  The dreadful stench of the monster raping her filled her nostrils, along with the scent of something that she dimly recognized as smoke. For a moment, the shock of realizing what was happening left her paralyzed, and she lay there helplessly on her belly, pinned to the ground, her body rocked again and again by the beast ruthlessly violating it. Then her horror transformed into rage, pure incendiary anger, fury fueled by a boundless hate of a sort she had never even imagined could exist. As the orc thrust itself savagely into her again, she opened her mouth and screamed, as if she was already one of the damned and this was one of the ten thousand torments of Hell.

  Her throat-searing cry was met by an answering shriek that was deafening in her ear, and she felt whatever had been tearing her apart abruptly vanish from between her legs, leaving nothing but hollow agony behind. She rolled over and tried to scramble backward, away from her assailant, but her hands slipped in the blood of the dead women lying on either side of her, and she fell sprawling on her back. Only then did she realize she had been stripped naked.

  She was not alone. In addition to the huge beast that had been attacking her only a moment ago, there were four more orcs standing in the kitchen. They had been watching the other one violate her; perhaps they were even waiting their turn. Now they were howling and making other strange and terrible sounds, but their attention was not focused on her. They were pointing at her attacker, the naked one whose exposed, half-flaccid green member was slick and red with her blood. They were laughing at her attacker, she realized to her astonishment. They were laughing!

  She looked away, more horrified and humiliated than scared. It was at that moment she saw the little body lying in a large pool of blood in front of the broken cupboard door. It was Perrin; she recognized the tunic her brother had been wearing. Or rather, it was his body. His head was missing.

  Something broke inside her. Perhaps a dragon slumbering deep within her woke, or maybe a dark angel from some fiery nether region erupted from the void that only moments ago had been her soul. Whatever it was, she didn’t care. She no longer knew shame or fear or pain. She no longer knew who, or what, she was. Isabel was no more. She was rage incarnate, and there was no space inside her for either grief or sorrow, not with the burning hunger for vengeance that now consumed her. She rose from the floor, wearing nothing more than the blood that striped her legs, and she thrust out her hands at the monsters that were staring at her in curious bemusement.

  They did not stare long. Sorcerous fire exploded in the room, instantly engulfing all five of the orcs in green-and-blue flames as it blew out the wood-and-stone wall behind them. The monsters howled as the magical flames transformed them into running, screaming torches. The soulless creatures burned alive in the fire that consumed them as indifferently as they had murdered their innocent victims. She walked past the dead bodies of the servants and ignored the dying orcs as they thrashed about, devoured by the ravenous flames. The fire did not touch her, but seemed to bow down before her as she passed. Hell knew her for its own.

  Blue and green flames danced on Isabel’s palms and encircled her wrists as she walked through the smashed beams of what had once been her family home’s front door. Outside, she saw more orcs and the flames leaped from her hands, again and again, and each time they set more of the monsters alight. She burned the orc that was violating her mother’s lifeless body lying on the grass. She incinerated the two orcs that were kicking her brother’s head back and forth between them. More flames leaped out from her hands and fell ravenously upon the four orcs that were attempting to hang her father’s mutilated body on a makeshift cross on the path that led to the village road. Victors no more, the monsters were instantly turned into screaming candles, as the cleansing fire remade what was meant to be defilement and degradation into a glorious pyre worthy of a brave and fallen warrior.

  She was an angel of death. She was a fiery avenger. She was pure, white-hot anger, and to look upon her was to die. The pain, the humiliation, even the terrible aching grief was gone, all of it burned away by the purgatorial flames of her boundless fury. She did not think and she did not feel. She burned with rage and the world burned with her.

  A group of orcs rushed towards her, their mouths gaping open, but she could not hear their howls. She heard nothing but the beating of her heart and the sound of blood rushing in her ears. She threw open her arms, now fully wreathed in flames, as if to embrace her attackers, and a great sheet of fire leaped out to envelop and engulf them. She did not exult in their shrieking deaths, she did not rejoice in their writhing agonies, she did nothing more than methodically scour the earth with the purifying fire that cleansed everything it touched.

  Then something flew past her. A moment later, a crossbow bolt slammed into her left thigh. She fell to the ground, crying out more in surprise than pain. She looked up and saw a big orc wearing leather armor pointing a sword at her. Behind him, more orcs carrying crossbows were taking aim at her. But the flames had not abandoned her, still they curled and danced about her arms. Even as the orcs loosed their missiles at her, Isabel stretched out her arm towards the orc with the sword, and the fire lashed out at him like a green-and-blue serpent striking.

  Three iron-tipped bolts hammered into her slender body in rapid succession, crushing flesh and bones as they passed nearly all the way through her, lifting her up before hurling her back down upon the ground. The flames vanished as she lay there, and so did the pain, but as the light spiraled away from her eyes, Isabel could suddenly hear the anguished howls of the burning orcs again. The sound brought a faint smile to her bloody lips. As Isabel died, she felt inhuman screams of monstrous agony lifting her up towards the clouds, as if the shrieking voices belonged to a choir of angels ushering her into Paradise.

  Theuderic

  His duty to King and country accomplished, Theuderic lay back on the feather-stuffed pillow and exhaled deeply. He eyed the girl with whom he’d been sporting, mildly surprised at the enthusiasm she’d shown. She wasn’t unattractive, merely younger, plumper, and more innocent than he tended to prefer when left to his own devices. He had no idea how old she was, but her breasts weren’t even proper woman’s breasts, they were still the soft girlish cones that defied gravity with the easy impunity of youth. He observed her birth was neither noble nor peasant;
she had the round, ruddy cheeks and ready smile of a shopkeeper’s daughter.

  A healthy girl with healthy appetites. He had suffered worse injuries to his dignity in the service of Louis-Charles, the fourteenth of his name. But there was something intrinsically absurd about a nobleman and a battlemage being put out to stud like a prized warhorse.

  He shrugged philosophically. Despite the ridiculous position in which the royal policy put him and the other mages, he couldn’t reasonably complain. It was a sensible policy, and indeed, in light of last year’s losses suffered by l’Académie, an increasingly necessary one too. After losing no less than six experienced mages, four of them Immortels, in Narcisse de Segraise’s failed attempt to ensorcel a dragon, the king would have put every maid in the kingdom to his mages’ swords if he believed the Church and the petty aristocracy would stand for it.

  “I trust you took no great harm,” he told the girl.

  “None in the slightest, monseigneur magus,” she said, looking rather like a well-fed cat in cream. She rubbed her belly complacently.

  The slight emphasis she placed on his title informed him that the sparkle in her brown eyes had rather less to do with his masculine charms than her own ambitions. A clever shopkeeper’s daughter then. She wasn’t one of those misfortunates who would moan and bewail her fate for years, but rather, the sort of girl who produced the requisite pair of king’s bastards before her eighteenth birthday, then triumphantly settled into a marriage well above her natural station.

  He grinned. He liked survivors. She might be no more than a brood mare, but she was a worthy one. And moreover, he reflected with amusement, an eager young mare with a not entirely unsatisfactory ride. Feeling the vague stirrings of desire, he was just about to reach for her again when there was a series of three sharp knocks on the door.

  Never mind that. He threw her a rumpled blanket to cover herself and rolled off the bed.

  “Who is it?” he called as he slipped a blue robe over his head.

  “Leave off the trollop and open the damned door, de Merovech,” he heard an acerbic voice call. He recognized it immediately. Besides the king, there were only two men in the entire Kingdom of Savondir who would dare to address a royal battlemage in such a dismissive manner, and the voice was too high-pitched to belong to the king’s heir, the Duc de Chênevin.

  “Dress yourself,” he hissed at the girl. What was her name? He didn’t recall.

  “Mon seigneur!” she squeaked obediently, frightened at his tone, and began fumbling about the bed looking for the cotton shift she’d been wearing.

  Theuderic didn’t wait for the girl to cover herself. François du Moulin was not a man who brooked delay for any such petty niceties. He opened the door and bowed respectfully to the king’s chancelier, who was dressed inconspicuously in a nondescript brown cloak and a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face in shadow.

  “Monseigneur.” He assumed du Moulin did not wish to be openly identified and omitted the other’s title. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure.”

  Du Moulin’s dark, piercing eyes flicked over the still-naked girl and a faint smile crossed his thin lips. “I see you’ve managed to find consolation in the absence of the elfess.”

  Theuderic forced himself to smile. It was hardly a surprise that the king’s master of spies knew about his previous attachment. He bowed again.

  “I am but the humble stud-horse of His Majesty. De bon valoir servir le roi.”

  “Your keen sense of duty commends you.” Du Moulin glanced again at the girl, who was unsuccessfully attempting to don her shift, smooth it out, run her hands through her hair, and curtsy, all at the same time. “Deceptae dabunt odorem. I apologize for the interruption, mademoiselle, and pray that our dutiful servant of the king has gifted you with a child of stupendous talent. I fear I must claim him for labors rather less delightful, though no less arduous.”

  “Monseigneur!” she breathed, eyes wide with awe of the man who could so readily command a king’s mage. Her ankles weren’t bad, Theuderic reflected thoughtfully, despite the legs being lamentably short.

  “Come, de Merovech. We have much to discuss and too many ears abound in this place. I shall await you outside.” Du Moulin turned and stalked silently from the room, leaving the door open behind him.

  Theuderic sighed and bent down to collect his sandals. He slipped them on and blew a kiss to the girl.

  “Will you return, mon seigneur?”

  “As the king wills it, mademoiselle.”

  If the fates were generous, he would be back in her embrace tonight. Of course, if they ran according to the form he’d come to expect over the years, she’d bear his brat, and, most likely, another man’s, before he saw her again.

  Du Moulin was outside, looking over the academy grounds in what could only be considered a proprietary manner. Six young mages-in-training were chasing each other back and forth on the grassy quad in front of the bibliothèque, hurling harmless balls of sparks at each other. A pair of maids watched them, giggling and pointing.

  “Do you contemplate exchanging seats on the Haut Conseil, Chancelier?”

  “I imagine D’Arseille would find the notion amenable,” du Moulin said. Jacque-Rene D’Arseille, Grandmagicien of l’Académie des Sage Arts, was a man whose ambitions were not limited to the magical arts. “Nevertheless, as important as His Majesty’s breeding program may be to the realm, I suspect my abilities are more wisely focused elsewhere.”

  “Alas for the talent-blessed mademoiselles. How fortunate that mine are so well-suited to them.”

  “You don’t miss your elf girl? She was a rare beauty.”

  “She was bony.” Theuderic shrugged dismissively, if deceitfully. He knew du Moulin far too well to give him anything the man might one day use as a weapon against him. “And, more to the point, she is not here.”

  “I read the report of your brief. I couldn’t help but notice that you said nothing about the young Amorran general’s similar attachment when you gave it to the Comte de Ilyois. Was it because you thought it might draw unwanted attention to your own?”

  Theuderic didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. He was a head taller than the other man, nearly three decades younger, a battlemage and a combat veteran. He had slain more men than he could count with earth, wind, fire, and steel, whereas du Moulin had probably never once stained his soft, long-fingered hands with anything more than ink. And yet, there was something quietly powerful and frightening about the king’s elderly conseiller that had nothing to do with his ready access to the throne.

  “Do you doubt my loyalties, monseigneur Chancelier?”

  “I harbor no doubts about them at all.” Du Moulin tore his eyes away from the young mages and glanced up at Theuderic. “I am fully aware of how your loyalties are divided. You are of the Écarlatean nobility, are you not? And you are close to the widow of the Duc d’Aubonne, the Comtesse de Domdidier, as well.”

  “I am acquainted with the lady.” Dear God, what idiocy has Roheis been dabbling in now? “One might even go so far as to say well-acquainted.”

  “Might one? Might one also say you were lovers? Speak truthfully now. This is no time for reticence, de Merovech, even on so delicate a matter.”

  “I am afraid not. The Lady Roheis is among the most charming in the realm, to be sure, but regrettably, I have never had the pleasure.”

  Du Moulin sniffed. “You disappoint me. That would have been most useful. I suppose… no, at this point, an unexpected romantic pursuit would appear to be suspicious.”

  “You would have me seduce Roheis Desmargoteau?” Theuderic said disbelievingly. “As well ask me to teach a bird to sing, or a fox to hunt!”

  “She is the rich widow of a powerful man, she was a paramour of the late prince, and she is known to have a considerable number of questionable acquaintances. Moreover, she is a dyed-in-the-wool Écarlatean. There are growing noises of instability in the Grand Duchy, and she is, at the very least, near
the heart of it. What do you know of Saint-Agliè?”

  “The comte? Little enough. I have met him, of course. A diffident man. Not without charm, but one to keep his own counsel. He seems to have made a strong impression on the Lady Roheis.”

  “Indeed,” du Moulin said, looking thoughtful. “They have been all but inseparable of late. De Merovech, if I were to ask you to choose between crown and duchy, what would you say?”

  Did the man take him for a fool? Even if he had been a traitor to the crown, he was hardly fool enough to declare himself one to the most dangerous member of the Haut Conseil. “I should say what I said earlier, Seigneur Chancelier. One might even go so far as to call it my motto. De bon valoir servir le roi!”

  “I thought as much,” du Moulin sighed wearily. “I ask you about the crown, you answer with the king. So it is with many whose natural loyalties are less divided than your own these days.”

  Realization struck him. He thought he understood why the Chancelier had come here, had come to him. If he was correct, then it was a very deadly and dangerous game du Moulin was playing. To conceal his emotions, Theuderic looked back at the young mages still playing their game on the grass, although one had now separated himself from the others. He was standing over the two maids and juggling three balls of red-golden flames in an attempt to entertain them. Or, to put it more precisely, impress them.

  In such small and seemingly simple acts are the destinies of kingdoms made and unmade, he thought.

  “Has Étienne-Henri been implicated in his brother’s death?” He still could not bring himself to speak Charles-Phillippe’s name, so great was his grief. “Some have suspicions of him.”

  “No.” Du Moulin’s voice was decisive. “Much to my own surprise, that is one act that cannot be laid at the Duc de Chênevin’s door. The Red Prince’s death has been investigated thoroughly. It was the misfortunes of war, nothing more.”