Darkness Rising: Disciples of the Horned One Volume One (Soul Force Saga Book 1) (26 page)

B
aron Kannon’s
keep loomed dark and menacing where it sat on a cliff overlooking the border five miles away. Dark clouds gathered behind it, setting a gloomy scene. Surrounded on three sides by sheer vertical drops, the only way to approach the fortress was up a steep, winding path that ended at a high, crenelated wall.

The keep itself towered three stories high. A dozen arrow slits covered the front and sides. A dark-green banner with a golden bow embroidered on it snapped in the wind from a pole on the right-hand tower. The baron’s ancestors had chosen well when they built their home. Now the question was, would the current Baron Kannon make a wise decision and stick to his duty. Damien hoped so. If they could accomplish this mission without killing that was fine with him.

A soft breeze blew through the spruce, filling the air with the scent of evergreen. Damien breathed deep, enjoying the moment.

“It’s so peaceful here,” Lane said. She’d been a lot nicer to him since the battle with the Daggers. Was it pity or fear? He didn’t know or especially care. Whatever melted her icy personality, it was a welcome change. “You’d hardly guess a day’s ride south bands of murderers constantly gathered and plotted how best to kill and plunder our land.”

“At least they’re flesh-and-blood humans and not monsters or demons. Our soldiers can handle them. The problem is sometimes they try to cross in small groups that are hard to detect. That’s why the barons need to maintain their patrols.”

“Don’t worry,” Lane said. “I’ll convince them. I can’t imagine they’ll want to make an enemy of the kingdom.”

Lane didn’t know how right she was. “Any thoughts on your strategy?”

“Not yet. I need to hear all their complaints before I can figure out how best to address them.”

“I assume your mother warned you the barons might be dangerous.”

Lane nodded. “I think she’s overly concerned.”

“Either that, or we’re walking into a trap.”

“Does that worry you?”

Damien shrugged. “Not especially.” He’d welcome a trap. It would eliminate all the stupid politics. If they attacked he’d counterattack and they’d all die. Problem solved.

They started up the steep trail, letting their horses pick their own path. If any conventional army tried to attack this place they’d be cut to pieces by the baron’s archers before they ever closed on the keep. They reached the top without incident.

Two gatehouses bracketed a double set of portcullises. A guard stood behind the first portcullis. He wore mail and carried a sword at his waist. A dark beard streaked with silver marked him as a veteran. They reined in about four feet from the gate.

Lane pulled out her badge. “I’m from the diplomatic corps. The barons are expecting me.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re the last to arrive. Open the gate!” The inner and outer portcullises clanked up until they could ride underneath. “Go on in. Master Miles, the baron’s majordomo, is expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Lane went through first and Damien followed a moment later.

Damien nodded as his horse walked past, one soldier to another. The gate guard seemed competent. Hopefully the rest of the guards were cut from the same mold.

Halfway across the yard a pair of boys came running. Damien swung down, collected his gear, and handed his reins to a blond youngster about ten. Why was it always stable boys? You’d think there’d be a stable girl somewhere.

The boys led the horses and mule away as the double doors to the keep swung open. A man in his fifties with an oiled goatee and a long, forest-green robe strode out, his staff of office tapping on the stone. He came down three steps, paused, and bowed to Lane.

“Officer Thorn, welcome to Kannon Keep. I received word from your august mother, informing me of your assignment. I do so hope you can straighten out this business with the taxes and soldiers. My lord has been so terribly upset he hasn’t slept the night through in months.”

Lane plastered on a fake smile. “I’ll certainly do my best. After all everyone wants this matter cleared up as quickly as possible.”

Miles beamed. “My thoughts exactly. Follow me, please. Your bags will be brought up presently. We’ve arranged for you and your bodyguard to have adjoining rooms. I trust that’s convenient?”

The last was addressed to Damien and he nodded. “Perfect, sir. It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

Miles laughed. “That’s my job, young man.”

The majordomo led them inside. The doors opened directly into a great hall. A huge fireplace blazed with a tree’s worth of wood. A golden chandelier, its fifty candles unlit, hung from the ceiling. A second-floor balcony overlooked the hall. Miles guided them to a set of steps leading upstairs. A couple of twists and turns later they came to a pair of doors fifteen feet apart.

“Your rooms,” Miles said. “Should you need anything just use the pull rope and a servant will be along in short order. I’ll leave you to prepare for the feast.”

“Feast?” Damien asked.

“Of course. The annual gathering always opens with a great feast. It is my lord’s honor to set the finest table. Never fear, there’s always plenty of leftovers for the guards and servants.”

Miles trotted off, his staff tapping away, no doubt to alert his master that they’d arrived.

“I need to clean up and change,” Lane said. “Did you bring something appropriate?”

“I think I have a clean tunic. I’m a guard, remember? I don’t need to dress up to enjoy the barons’ leftovers.”

D
amien stripped
off his travel-stained clothes and tossed them on the bench at the foot of his oversized bed. The room they’d provided was every bit as luxurious as The Golden Stag. White silk sheets covered the bed, and a glow-stone lamp of blown glass rested beside it on the far nightstand. A jug of water and a basin sat on the nightstand beside him. If this was how the barons lived he couldn’t see they had any room to complain about taxes. He’d pictured hard men living in rough forts surrounded by enemies. This place was every bit as nice as Uncle Andy’s castle back at the capital.

Damien filled the basin and cleaned up. The cool, clear water felt wonderful on his dust-caked skin. A soft towel hung from the drawer pull and he used it to dry off before tossing it in the pile with his dirty clothes.

Now the question was, had his change of clothes stayed clean in his rucksack? He dumped it out on the bed and sighed his relief at finding the black cloth free of dirt. Behind him the door creaked. He spun to find Lane standing in the doorway that connected their rooms, her face bright red. She was staring at him, mouth partway open.

He slung the tunic over his head. “Didn’t anyone teach you to knock? Some diplomat.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you had something clean to wear. I see you do.” She closed the door.

Damien shook his head, pulled on his pants, and buckled his sword on his back. Lane’s reaction was typical of people seeing his scars for the first time. He should be used to it by now, but it gnawed at him all the same. At least they didn’t bother Lizzy. Her being a demon, he suspected she’d seen a lot worse over the centuries.

Now all he had to do was wait for Lane to finish. He didn’t know how long that would take, but he suspected from the stories he’d heard from some of the masters about their wives that he should get comfortable.

L
ane shut the door
, her face burning. Why hadn’t she knocked? If Damien had opened the door on her while she was getting ready she would still be screaming at him.

She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to slow her racing heart. When she closed her eyes she could still see the scars on his back. If that was the result of his warlord training someone needed to do something about it. It wasn’t human to do that to a boy.

He wasn’t a boy anymore though. She tried not to smile when she thought of the hard muscle under his scars. Her face burned hotter.

Stop thinking about him!

Damien was a sorcerer and she hated sorcerers. He was her bodyguard, a killer assigned to keep her safe. Nothing more. She’d treated him badly and he probably disliked her anyway. He’d certainly been annoyed when she walked in on him.

Following his example she stripped and poured a basin of water. The water cooled her down and she sighed. What was wrong with her, anyway? They’d traveled together for two and a half months and she’d felt nothing but annoyance at having him tag along. Though he had come in handy at that grubby inn and later with the thugs, Lane could admit that.

And that story about his father! Lane shuddered to think anyone could treat their child so callously. If nothing else her mother had always loved her and showed her nothing but kindness. Maybe she felt some disappointment that Lane wouldn’t follow in her footsteps, but that never got in the way.

Lane had always been bitter about what she considered a miserable childhood. Now that she’d met someone that had an actual, horrific upbringing, Lane felt like a spoiled brat. She glanced at the door, half afraid she’d find him standing there watching her bathe and half hoping he would be.

Lane sighed and dried off. Another day or two more and this business would be settled and they’d part ways. Of course, Damien worked for her mother so she’d probably see more of him.

She dug a specially wrapped parcel out of her pack and found the seal intact. Good, no dust had slipped inside. Lane unwrapped the blue-and-silver gown and smiled. What would he think of her in this?

D
amien paced
, waiting for Lane to finish getting ready. The masters hadn’t lied, women really did take a long time. For a moment he was tempted to sneak a peek, it would only be fair, after all she’d seen him in just his small clothes.

He abandoned the idea at once. She’d kill him, sorcerer or not.

Lane knocked on the connecting door. Finally. “Come in.”

The door swung open and his breath caught in his throat. Lane wore a blue-and-silver gown of fine silk that shimmered in the light of the lamp. The skirt fell to just above her knees, showing the curve of her calf. The neckline plunged just low enough to show off the tops of her smooth, freckle-dusted breasts.

“Wow.”

“You like it?”

“Very much. You look stunning. Where did you hide that outfit?”

She beamed. “Mom sealed it in a package with soul force to keep dust out and prevent wrinkles.”

Damien shook his head, stunned for the second time in as many minutes. How much skill would it take to weave a barrier that delicate and give it enough power to last ten weeks? He couldn’t even fathom how to begin such a casting.

Lane held out her hand. “Shall we head down?”

Damien took her hand and for reasons he didn’t fully understand, brushed a soft kiss across it. He let go and took up a position two steps behind her. “I’m your bodyguard not your companion, remember? Much as I’d enjoy it being otherwise, we both have to play our parts.”

She looked sad for a moment, but shook it off. “Right, let’s go.”

They left their fine suite behind. Damien placed an invisible strand of soul force across both thresholds. If anyone entered the rooms while they were gone he’d know. Lane glided along through the cool stone halls. She had to be chilly in that dress.

Ten men in fancy outfits, many of them with medals pinned to their chests, stood around chatting in the great hall. Servants in black-and-white uniforms mixed with the barons. They carried trays loaded with little sandwiches or full glasses of wine. Along the walls ten armed men stood, seeming at ease, though their eyes never stopped moving, constantly scanning for danger. To a man they had cold, dead eyes. Killers’ eyes.

Damien took a moment to study the gathered men and found several guards and two barons all had modest internal soul force. No surprise to find a few warlords in such a powerful gathering. Lucky for him all the guards were in their mid to late twenties and the barons older yet. No one would recognize him from The Citadel.

Conversation fell silent when Lane entered. Damien knew just how they felt. She smiled her fake smile, grabbed a drink from a passing servant, and headed toward the closest group of barons. Damien checked her drink with an invisible thread of soul force and found it free of poison. He sent out more threads, checking the rest of the drinks as well as the food.

He didn’t expect to find anything. It would be too risky to poison the food in this setting. A baron might grab something he shouldn’t. Satisfied that Lane wasn’t in any danger at the moment, Damien went to stand in an empty space along the wall.

The older guards eyed him, sizing up the youngest member of their cohort. They didn’t look impressed. That was fine with Damien. He didn’t care what they thought of him and if they believed he was weak they might underestimate him. He crossed his arms and settled in for what he hoped would be a boring evening.

His gaze wandered from Lane to the barons, to the guards, but always returned to Lane. In that outfit she drew the eye of every man in the room. Damien frowned. At least some of the barons had to be married. Where were the wives?

“Hey.” A big, broad-chested warlord sidled up beside Damien. He wore leather armor despite his soul force, whether to disguise the fact that he was a warlord or just because he liked the look Damien couldn’t guess. A claymore hilt jutted up beside his ear and he looked like he knew how to use it. A thick black beard covered his face and his left eye was missing. He had an imposing look which no doubt served him well in his chosen career.

“Evening. Which one are you with?”

“Baron Trasker.”

That focused Damien’s attention. If their information was correct and Trasker had hired the assassin his bodyguard could be a source of information, or a threat. “Which one is he?”

“The bald one with all the medals. You’re guarding the woman. She’s the king’s representative, right?”

Damien nodded, scanning the room for Trasker. There, chatting with Lane. Man, he did have a chest full of gold. How many wars had he fought in? He was a modestly strong warlord as well.

They seemed to be having a pleasant-enough chat. The baron didn’t look like the sort of person that would hire an assassin, not that you could really tell.

“Why’d they send someone so young to guard such an important diplomat?” the guard asked.

“Got me. I don’t pick and choose my missions. The higher-ups tell me where to go and I go. This job’s been a breeze. ten weeks of riding through the wilderness, camping under the stars with a beautiful woman, and no one trying to kill me. If it was summer instead of winter it would have been perfect. They can send me on as many missions like this as they want.”

“You don’t sound too attached to your charge.”

Damien shrugged. “I’m attached to getting paid. Anything happens to her and I’m liable to be out of a job.”

The bearded guard grinned. “You got the right attitude, kid. Name’s Sloan.”

“Damien.” They shook hands.

Miles emerged from a door at the rear of the hall. “My lords and lady, dinner is served.”