Earls of Iron: Part 6 of 6

Book One
Earls of Iron


A Fantasy Novel
by
Jason Norman Thompson
Part 6: 76,269-88,114 words
 
Chapter
Valentia’s Investiture

Count Aurumcutis Auduxoculus pressed his signet ring into the red blob at the bottom of the warrant and stepped back from the table.
With bright eyes and a slight smile on his face, Valentia looked upon the oval Signum Oculus that was impressed in the wax. All three documents had been signed, sealed and witnessed by his sponsor Nobles. He lifted the silver saltshaker and sprinkled fine black sand over the wet ink that glistened beside the seal.
‘Hail Valentia Ferrumanus,’ says Sieur Custos Pedester. ‘The Iron Hand of Power. First of that name, sixteenth Earl...’
‘Not quite,’ says Duke Tacitus Intuerius. ‘Fealty to the Sovereigns must be sworn. In person. First to King Rector Grandis the Third, Ruler of the Realm of Duramuros, and then, Crecerelle Mareschal the First, King of Reaumverd.’
‘It would appear,’ Marchionissa Ospres Aveugler says, ‘that you shall be taking a trip to Rexhortus, Valentia. There to bend the knee to your Liegelord, as so many have done before you.’
‘Two days travel, with a fast ship, fair winds, and swift horses,’ says the Count. ‘I leave for home on the morrow. You can sail with me aboard Nostos. Few ships can match her for speed. Although I daresay, Rector shall fete you for at least a month. Our king is no man’s fool, and he shall seek to learn all he can of you, Valentia, while he has you at Court.’
‘And Crecerelle shall doubtless detain you at Hirblason for thrice as long,’ says Ospres.
‘I cannot afford to waste that much time,’ says Valentia. ‘Nor do I intend to.’
Aurumcutis and Ospres laughed, while Tacitus regarded him with an expression of mild interest.
‘You have no alternative,’ says the Marchionissa. ‘Homage must be paid, loyalty avowed, before your investiture can be legitimized. Surely, you are aware of this stipulation?’
‘More of a tradition than a necessity,’ Valentia says. ‘Precedent has been set, by Earl Avunculus Nostrum in 1269...’
He reached down to his waist and unclasped the chain that secured the Clavis Mutare Claustra to his belt. The solid verargent Lockchanging Key was longer than his hand and as thin as a finger, with a rounded end fashioned in the shape of a fox’s head, while the tip split into two tines like a fork. As a key, the Clavis Mutare Claustra was remarkable, because neither prong featured any teeth.
Valentia tapped the key against the truesilver foxhead lock on the side of the Insula Libris. A high, clear musical note seemed to fill the room, and the clasp that protected the Book of the Isle sprang open like the jaws of a beartrap. Valentia opened the cover and leafed through to page one hundred and six. The date at the top read, Novumbarba 1403, and the page was filled with Capax Ferrumanus’s neat, cursive handwriting. Valentia ran a finger down the script, until he found what he sought, and read aloud from the text.
‘‘...and Earl Procurator Solucere in 1351. The Candidate may swear the Oath of Fealty to the three Sponsors, on a purely interim basis, with the Understanding that the Ascendant shall then present his Noble self to the appropriate Sovereign Powers, at a Time and Date deemed convenient to all relevant Parties, and no later than’...’
‘Precisely one year and one day from the date of Ascension,’ says Tacitus. ‘Thereupon to reiterate the inviolable Oath of Fealty.’
Valentia nodded and closed the book with a soft, heavy thud. The magical lock snapped shut, and he returned the Lockchanging Key to his belt. He then turned to look at the Duke, who wore an inscrutable expression.
‘It would appear,’ Valentia says, ‘that I am not the only student of history among this present, exalted company.’
‘I am no student,’ says Tacitus. ‘Merely a dilettante.’
Valentia smiled, and detected almost indiscernible twitches at the corners of the Duke’s eyes and lips.
‘Had I known what you intended, Valentia,’ Ospres says, ‘I would have been much less disposed towards the endorsement of your investiture. King Crecerelle is a man possessed of a most capricious temperament.’
Valentia fixed her with a level stare, and the Marchionissa looked away, but she continued to voice her disapproval.
‘I can only imagine the displeasure he shall feel, when my Sovereign learns of this break from the conventional observances. Furthermore, I am sure that his censure shall extend beyond you, as Ascendant, Valentia, to encompass all who have participated in this travesty. As his subject, I fear that I shall be forced to bear the brunt of his approbation. A most disagreeable prospect, I assure you.’
‘Much as it might pain me to admit the fact,’ says Count Auduxoculus, ‘I must concur with the Marchionissa. You have placed us all in a most untenable situation, Valentia. My own Liegelord, Rector, has a singularly volatile nature, and he has never been known to take a slight lightly.’
‘Or forgive one readily,’ the Duke says. ‘With that says, Queen Valeriana is my younger sister, and I might well be able to persuade her to assuage her husband’s infuriation. Yet I cannot do so, Valentia, apropos of nothing. I would need some assurances, and insight into the motivations behind your procrastination, to act as a salve for the King’s wounded pride.’
Valentia took up the Bastum Dominus Eligere and gripped it in his right hand. He clasped the Rod of Truth to his chest, and turned to his confederates with a frank and open expression on his face.
‘With the demise of the rest of Familia Ferrumanus,’ he says, ‘and the deaths of most of this Realm’s Nobles, Councillors, and Aldermen, Tellus Isle is in a state of disarray. Replacements must be found to fill those positions. Not to mention the loss of many retainers essential to the maintenance of the palace, from the High Seneschal to the lowliest chambermaid. As Earl, my first duty is to my people, and I simply cannot afford to abandon this Realm, my Realm, until these and other matters have been addressed and resolved to my satisfaction.
‘I therefore expect that it shall be several months, before I am able to depart the Realm, confident that she shall remain in capable hands throughout the duration of my absence. Once that is the case, you have my word, as a Nobleman, that I shall fulfil my obligations to the Sovereigns of Duramuros and Reaumverd. This, I do hereby swear, with a seven-fold oath, on my rank, my title, my Clan, my honour, my life, my blood, and my heart.’
Valentia switched the rod to his left hand, drew the Lightsword, reversed it, and dropped to one knee. He pointed the tip of the sword at his breast and bowed his head.
‘On this, the twenty third day of the third month, in the fourteen hundred and seventy third year since the ending of the Godswar, I do solemnly swear the Oath of Fealty to Rector Grandis, the Great Ruler. Third of that name, eighty fourth King of the Realm of Duramuros. High Lord Marshal of Rexhortus. I make this vow to the most senior Durian Noble here present, acting as Proxy for his Sovereign, Tacitus Intuerius, Silent Contemplation. First of that name, sixty seventh Duke and Lord General of Obsidianus.’
‘On behalf of my Liegelord,’ says the Duke, ‘I do accept this Oath of Fealty, and hereby bestow upon the Ascendant, Valentia Ferrumanus, the title, Earl of Tellus Isle, and military rank of Lord Brigadier. Arise, Peer of the Realm, and take up your Noble position. May your reign be peaceful and lasting.’
Valentia raised his head and stood. Tears of joy shone in his eyes and his face glowed with exultant delight. He blinked, nodded at Marchionissa Ospres Aveugler, knelt once more, and made his vows to her Monarch. She acknowledged his words, and conferred title and rank upon him with a shade less graciousness than the Duke had displayed.
When the young Earl stood again, tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks, and his smiling countenance almost looked pained. He cleared his throat and spoke in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice.
‘Words cannot express my happiness at this moment. I swear to you, Duke, Marchionissa, you shall not come to regret the faith that you have placed in me this day.’
‘I pray that is true,’ Ospres says.
Her tone and expression belied her words, but Tacitus was much less guarded in his response.
‘I do not doubt that, Valentia. Not for a moment. There is a greatness in you. The ability to achieve anything. I have seen that quality in others, and I perceive it in you. Try to fulfil your potential, and ensure that you never abuse it.’
Meekly, Valentia nodded his head, like a small boy receiving paternal advice. He sheathed the Lightsword, wiped the tears from his face, set the Rod of Truth on the table, and drew himself up to his full height.
‘Thank you, Tacitus,’ he says.
The two men clasped hands, and the Duke laid his left hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
‘All hail Valentia Ferrumanus,’ says Sieur Custos Pedester. ‘The Iron Hand of Power. First of that name, sixteenth Earl of Tellus Isle. Lord Brigadier of Aesfortis. Guardian of the People. Keeper of the Regalia Lucidus. Francus Ferox Vulpus. Free fierce foxes.’
Voices filled the chamber, as everyone hailed the new Earl of Tellus Isle. Sieur Pedester led the Guardsmen in a rousing cheer that was echoed by the others. Lascivia and his siblings gathered around Valentia, to hug and kiss him, and offer their congratulations.
The Earl waited until the accolades had subsided, and then he clapped his hands together and moved briskly to the papers that remained on the table.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘to business. To you, brother, I grant the Viscountry of Farina.’
Valentia handed his brother the scroll that confirmed his promotion, and passed another to his sister.
‘Alma, you are now Baroness of Torete. Sieur Custos Pedester, I raise you to the rank of Lord Warden, and bestow upon you the title of Lord, with a Demesne here in Aesfortis.’
He gave a third warrant to the grinning Guardsman.
‘The conditions regarding the future Baronetcy of Flumen are detailed herein,’ says Valentia. ‘Ten years’ service, loyal and true, as Lord Warden of the Earlsguard.’
‘I cannot thank you enough, my Lord,’ Custos says.
‘You earned these rewards. Now, I have a marriage contract that requires my attention. As do you, Validus.’
Valentia took up the goosefeather quill, dipped the sharpened tip into the inkpot, and put his name to his bond of marriage to Lascivia Ferrumanus.
‘It is almost time,’ he says, ‘for the Earl to address his people. Before they grow so restless that they decide to overthrow me. That would be almost too ironic for words.’
The Nobles greeted this remark with uproarious laughter, and Valentia responded with a rueful grin.


The central windows at the end of the Grand Council Chamber were set in hinged oaken frames. Two of his Guardsmen swung these tall doors open and Valentia walked out onto a long balcony that overlooked Palace Court. His appearance was greeted by a thunderous roar from the crowd gathered in the great plaza below.
The young Earl moved over to the wide marble balustrade at the edge of the balcony and spread his arms wide above his head. The verargent chalice and rod that he held glinted in the sunshine.
While the tumultuous throng subsided into expectant silence, the others emerged from the chamber behind. Lord Pedester and the Earlsguard held back, while Lascivia, Validus, Alma, Feroxos, and the five nobles of Foedus Verargent came forwards to stand just behind the Earl at the rail.
From his vantage point on the fourth floor, Valentia was able to pick out the other balconies spaced around the wings of the Earl’s Palace. Liveried criers stood on many of these, ready to repeat his words, that all the people might hear what he had to say.
Valentia drew a deep breath, and his voice rang out, loud and clear.
‘Hearken to me, Tellians, for I, Valentia Ferrumanus, come to you with terrible tidings.’
The young Earl paused, and waited until the criers had echoed his statement before he went on.
‘I bear the Bastum Dominus Eligere, that all might know the truth of what I say.’
There were murmurs from the throng, and the criers bellowed, ‘The Rod of Truth! The Rod of Truth! He cannot tell a lie!’
‘This day, in the Great Hall of the palace,’ shouted Valentia, ‘I bore witness to a dreadful slaughter.’
The people cried out in confused consternation.
‘My uncle, Suavis Ferrumanus, Earl of Tellus Isle, was foully slain.’
A great, discordant wave of sound arose from the multitude, as the news swept back through the square, and the people reacted with enraged howls and terrified wails.
‘As was my father, Feroxos, and most of my kinfolk.’
The Tellians yowled and bawled.
‘Almost every Noble, Councillor and Alderman lies dead.’
The outcry dwindled as the crowd’s initial shock turned to dismay.
‘They were murdered by professional assassins, disguised as servants and entertainers.’
With one booming voice, the populace groaned. There were agonized screams as the throng singled out the blameless performers in their midst and fell upon them like ravenous wolves. Some of the people bore weapons, but most used their hands, their feet, even their teeth. Their victims were torn to pieces.
Valentia lowered his arms and waited until the bloodthirsty mob had vented their rage on the hapless entertainers, and then he carried on with his address.
‘Those servants were, in turn, killed by my courageous Earlsguard.’
The host waved bloody garments and severed limbs in the air, as they yelled their approval.
‘All the guests died in the massacre. Only I, and a few of my loved ones were spared.’
The Tellians whooped and cheered.
‘My people, you came here for a wedding.’
A hush fell over the multitude.
‘I have heard that the bride has been murdered.’
Fresh cries of wrath filled the plaza.
‘Her betrothed, my cousin, Castus, waited in ambush with a gang of armed men.’
The populace voiced their incredulity, and many shouted, ‘No!’
Valentia brandished the rod in his hand.
‘Hear me! I can speak only truth!’
Their denials were silenced, and the people grew quiet.
‘The Bridal Party was wiped out, and Castus has fled the scene.’
While the crowd responded with fury, Valentia laid the Rod of Truth on the broad rail and drew forth the Lightsword. He tapped the blade with his finger to make it shine and touched the flat of the sword to his cloak of spun verargent. It too blazed bright, and Valentia held the sword aloft. The Tellians gasped in awe at the refulgent figure above them, radiant as a second sun, and they hung on his every word.
‘Castus planned the massacres. He had his whole family murdered, that he might become Earl. To save you, my good folk, from his wickedness, and deny that vile traitor his prize, I have been persuaded to claim the title in his stead. I name Castus Ferrumanus, and all who ride with him as Renegades.’
‘Renegades!’ hollered a voice in the crowd.
The cry was taken up and repeated, until the damning denunciation was chanted by thousands.
‘Renegades! Renegades! Renegades!’
‘For his crimes,’ cried Valentia, ‘I hereby condemn Castus the Renegade and his wicked accomplices to death.’
‘Death! Death! Death!’
The populace of Tellus Isle unleashed a vengeful roar that seemed to shake the Earl’s Palace to its very foundations. Valentia lowered the Lightsword and waited until their mantra had died away.
‘My people, to mark my Ascension to Earl, I come bearing gifts.’
On every balcony around the plaza, Guardsmen stepped into sight, laden with large leather sacks.
‘Go forth, my people, and celebrate!’
The Guardsmen reached into the sacks, pulled out gleaming handfuls of Silver Spheres, and cast the oblate currency out into the square. With joyful cheers, the multitude scrabbled for the silver.
‘Hail Valentia,’ the criers announced. ‘Earl of Tellus Isle.’
Gold rained down on the Tellians and they turned rapturous faces up to their new Liegelord to offer tribute.
‘All hail the Silver Earl!’
‘Valentia the Munificent!’
‘Long live Lord Valentia!’
‘Valentia! Valentia!’
‘Hail! Hail! Hail!’
The young Earl grinned, turned his face up to the sun, closed his eyes, and basks in glory. A few moments passed, and then he sheathed his sword, lifted his rod, turned on his heel, and strode back into the chamber. Long after the others had followed him inside, and the doors had been closed, Valentia could hear his subjects continue to praise his name with rapturous slogans.
Chapter

On the road beyond the village of Flumen, Mendicus shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare and peered at the approaching dust cloud. While the fast-moving riders were too far away to make out details, he counted thirteen, and guessed that they were a Deathsquad. The Bloodletter watched them with a sullen expression on his angular face. He had hoped to reach Aesfortis without meeting any other members of Fraternity Obitus.
In the twenty minutes since he left Serpere, Mendicus had considered his superior’s orders. The instruction to report little of what had happened, and not mention the rampaging bear or Serpere’s losses, was bound to land him in trouble. His only hope was that whoever was coming did not ask too many questions and force him to lie.
His heart sank when the riders came close enough for him to recognize Deathlady Nuntius Mors in the lead. When Mendicus had first joined the Guild, Nuntius had tried to seduce him, but he had rebuffed her, in the mistaken belief that her advances were some kind of secret test. Ever since, the Deathlady had done all in her power to make the Bloodletter’s life a misery, and Mendicus avoided her like a plague.
With a snarl of pain, Mendicus hauled on the reins and the carriage skidded to a halt. Inside, Odium yelled and unleashed another stream of profanity. The approaching riders slowed to a canter, then stopped before the coach and sat their mounts without speaking. Uncomfortable under the inscrutable scrutiny of so many deadly women, Mendicus swallowed and shifted in his seat.
‘My ladies,’ he says. ‘If you seek my master, Serpere Sinuosus, he can be found in Gentiana Wood, just a few miles to the west.’
Deathlady Nuntius Mors nudged her steeldust gelding forwards, until she was level with Mendicus’s seat, whereupon she sprang up to sit beside him.
‘Dear Mendicus Petulans,’ she says, ‘it has been an absolute age since I saw you last. Why, I was almost beginning to believe that you might be avoiding me.’
Before he could respond, Mendicus felt her hand squeeze his thigh. Her fingers slipped upwards, until they were resting lightly upon his crotch. She brought her face close to his, so that their lips were almost touching, and gazed into his eyes.
‘That would vex me,’ Nuntius says, ‘and you would not want to see me vexed, would you, dearest Mendicus?’
He blinked and shook his head. The Deathlady smiled and her fingers began to manipulate him through the material of his trews. Mendicus felt himself stiffen at her touch and his cheeks reddened.
‘Oh, my sweet,’ she breathed, her voice sensual and husky, ‘you blush so prettily. Has something unsettled you?’
Mendicus heard giggles and titters, and he cast a glance at the Deathlady’s companions, to see wide smiles on their faces and amusement gleaming in their eyes. He gasped and turned to face Nuntius again, as she gripped him more tightly and her attentions became more vigorous. Her breath was warm sweetness on his face. She ran her tongue along her soft full lower lip. Mendicus groaned.
‘It would be such a shame,’ she says, ‘if I had to kill you, love of mine.’
She gripped him, hard. Mendicus grunted. Despite the pain from his broken collarbone, his hands tightly clenched the edge of the seat.
‘A terrible shame,’ says Nuntius, ‘because you are mine, and mine alone. Still, I could always use Manstiff. That’s a poison distilled from essence of mandrake root and a few other choice ingredients.’
The Deathlady pressed herself against him and gave a little shudder. Her hand began to move slowly.
‘Manstiff paralyses the victim,’ she says. ‘Death is slow, often taking up to an hour, and truly painful.’
Mendicus felt her other hand brush the nape of his neck, then move up to tease at his hair. She caressed him more swiftly again, her strokes firm and sure.
‘There is one interesting side-effect, however,’ the Deathlady says, ‘for Manstiff makes a man hard. Very hard. And, even though unable to move, he shall remain that way until the moment of death. Utterly helpless. Completely at the mercy of his killer, or anyone else who should happen to be around.’
Nuntius’s hand moved furiously now. Her eyes shone with lust and her face was flushed; her expression one of intense concentration. Mendicus groaned and she ran her tongue along the side of his neck.
‘Hmm,’ Nuntius says, ‘but I want you for more than a mere hour, my sweet love. Much, much more.’
She parted her lips, gripped his hair, turned his head and kissed Mendicus long and deep, and then she bit his lip, hard enough to draw a bead of blood. He jolted and went rigid in his seat.
‘Ah,’ Mendicus says, ‘aah-aah-ah.’
Nuntius gave a little murmur and pulled away from him with a smile. She removed her hand, raised her fingers to her lips, and slowly licked them. Mendicus reached for her, but she moved away with a laugh and swung down onto her horse.
‘Farewell, my love,’ she says, ‘and remember that you are mine. You belong to me and no other.’
The Deathlady wrinkled her nose, grimaced, and looked into the coach’s interior. The stink of gore hung heavy within, for the seat that the unconscious Nefas Adversarius lay upon was soaked with blood from his severed arm, and a dark viscous layer coated the wooden floor. It glistened like fresh varnish. Nuntius met the other passenger’s eyes.
‘Deathlady Mors,’ says Odium.
‘Odium Flebilis the Killer,’ Nuntius says, with a nod at the prone figure of Nefas, ‘he’s bleeding to death. What happened here, little sister?’
‘We was attacked by a bear. A monstrous beast. It were under the control of that accursed Huntlady.’
‘Calma Taiscealai? The one who accompanies Castus Ferrumanus?’
‘Aye, Deathlady,’ says Odium. ‘It killed ten and wounded more.’
With grunts and groans, the Killer hauled herself into an upright position, poked her head out the window, and pointed to the west, where a tendril of dark smoke drifted up in the distance.
‘That’s the funeral pyre,’ Odium says, ‘just beyond Gentiana Wood.’
‘Ah,’ says the Deathlady, ‘I was wondering what was on fire.’
‘That bloody bear killed me horse and me legs got broke when it fell on me.’
‘I see,’ Nuntius says. ‘Well, I hope that my dear Mendicus is treating you well, little sister? Ministering to your wounds and affording you all due compassion and care?’
‘No, Deathlady,’ says Odium. ‘He’s acting in a most capricious manner. Cruelly taking advantage of me incapacitated state, using it as an opportunity to inflict unnecessary pain.’
‘Mendicus,’ Nuntius called. ‘Get your arse down here. Now.’
The Bloodletter, who had been feeling drowsy and content, bolted upright at the Deathlady’s summons. Mindful of his injury, he awkwardly made his way down from the driver’s box and walked over to Nuntius’s horse. She reached down, caressed his cheek, and then clamped her hand upon his broken collarbone. In agony, Mendicus yelled and tried to pull away, which only served to cause him even more pain. Helpless, he ceased his futile struggles and stood acquiescent, with his face drawn, brow beaded with sweat, eyes wide and teeth gritted.
‘Listen to me, my love,’ says Nuntius, ‘and listen to me very well. Upon my return to Aesfortis, I shall make it my business to seek out my little sister, Odium Flebilis.’
The Deathlady twisted her hand. Broken ends of bone ground together and Mendicus screeched like a flayed cat.
‘And if my little sister does not tell me that you treated her well throughout the remainder of her journey to the city, then the poison that I shall be obliged to dose you with shall be much less pleasant than Manstiff. On this, my love, you have my word. Understand?’
She gave his collarbone another squeeze for emphasis. Mendicus grunted and eagerly nodded his head.
‘Yes, Deathlady. I promise to treat her well. I swear it on my soul.’
‘Treat her better than that. As if she were your very own mother.’
‘I will, Deathlady, I will.’
Satisfied, Nuntius nodded. She raised her hand, twirled it around her head, and kicked her gelding into a canter. Her sister assassins of Sorority Peremptorius heeled their mounts and streamed past the carriage to catch up with their leader, whereupon they burst into a gallop and thundered along the road.
With many gasps and winces of pain, Mendicus hauled himself back up onto the driver’s box. Just as he grabbed the reins, about to move on, he heard Odium call up to him from below.
‘Oh, Mendicus, sweetie, can you fetch me a wee drink of water?’
‘Is there none in your canteen?’
‘Aye, but it’s gone all warm and stale. I’d so much rather have cool and fresh. I can see a little brook, just off the road, there. D’you see it, blossom?’
Grumbling under his breath, Mendicus climbed back down to the ground. Odium proffered her waterskin out the window. He snatched it from her hand and stalked off towards the nearby stream. Odium sniggered and settled down into her seat.
Chapter

Further to the west, Nuntius’s second, Deathdancer Furia Inchoatus, spurred her chestnut gelding forwards, until she rode beside the Deathlady.
‘Tell me, darling,’ says Furia, ‘why do you torment the boy so? Why not just have him, if that is what you desire?’
‘Men are like horses,’ Nuntius says, ‘and must be broken before they can be ridden. When I finally decide to make Mendicus mine, his fear of me shall be so great that he shall be more than just eager to please me. He shall worship me as a goddess, and the man shall be utterly mine. Forever.’
Furia grinned and nodded.
‘It would seem,’ the Deathlady says, ‘that Serpere has made a right royal mess of things.’
‘How so, sweetling?’
‘Half a Deathsquad lies slain, as many are injured, and, I suspect, his quarry has managed to elude him.’
‘The fool.’
‘I always knew that his boundless arrogance would prove to be his undoing. It is, however, unfortunate that his ineptitude also makes our task more difficult.’
‘Fear not, dearheart,’ says Furia, ‘Castus cannot elude us for long.’
‘Hmm,’ Nuntius says. ‘Remember the first rule: never underestimate your opponent. This Huntlady who rides with Castus seems a worthy adversary. Nor should we disregard the young man himself, or his other companions. We shall not repeat Serpere’s mistakes.’
‘Never, my petal. Yet, we are on an island. Where can they hope to run to?’
‘Where else but the coast, to cross Lake Solala and seek refuge in another Realm? I would hazard Reaumverd, home to young Castus’s murdered fiancée, Gensor Sanglys, but we shall need to find their trail, just to be sure.’
Furia nodded and Sorority Peremptorius rode on until they came to the sheltered hollow where Castus and his Nabbing Gang had camped that morning. The women dismounted and gave the area a quick search, before riding on to Gentiana Wood. Nuntius reined in at the edge of the forest and the whole Deathsquad halted.
‘Vitae, Latus, Petra,’ she says, ‘follow the treeline north and scout for any sign of Castus and his companions having left these woods. Fames, Lugubris, Rictus, you three ride south and do likewise. They cannot hide among the trees forever, nor do I believe that they would be stupid enough to try. The road comes out of the forest a few miles to the west. When you reach it, join the rest of us. We shall be in the woods.’
The six women rode off at a slow walk, intent on the ground at their horses’ hooves. Nuntius produced a speculum from a pouch at her belt and tapped its bright surface with the opal set in a ring on her forefinger to open a channel for mental communication with Serpere Sinuosus, and then she held the verargent disc to her forehead.
‘Deathmaster, we have reached Gentiana Wood. Where are you now?’
‘About two miles in, Deathlady, at an abandoned cottage. I have found their trail.’
‘We shall join you soon. Await our arrival.’
‘I’ll send one of my men onto the road to meet you.’
‘Very well.’
Nuntius ended the psychic discourse, replaced her speculum and heeled her mount. Her sister-assassins followed her under the trees.
A little later, Nuntius and the others dismounted and led their horses off the road and into the trees, following Mendax Studium, until they came to the abandoned croft. Upon their arrival, Serpere strode out of the cottage and into the clearing where the remnants of the two Deathsquads under his command loitered. Nuntius rode right up to him, leapt down from the saddle and marched into the empty home.
‘Get in here,’ she says.
Serpere sauntered inside and slammed the door shut behind.
‘We’re wasting time,’ he says. ‘We have their trail, just out...’
‘You are a waste of time,’ says the Deathlady. ‘What in the name of all that is sacred and profane happened to Concilium Fatalis and Collecta Clandestinus? Your Deathsquads have been decimated. Explain. And don’t you even dare try to prevaricate.’
‘First, that poxy Huntbitch drove most of our horses off, delaying our progress until we could retrieve them, and then we were ambushed by a bear that she had under her command. A berserk beast. It butchered half a dozen and wounded more. I lost Caedere. So do not attempt to berate me for incompetence or recklessness. You hear me, Nuntius Mors? I simply am not in the mood. No one could have expected what happened. Not even you, Deathlady.’
‘That is one of the things about you that affords me almost constant amusement, Serpere. How you are simply too stupid to recognize your own stupidity, or even begin to plumb its not inconsiderable depths. This time, however, your idiocy has cost many lives and jeopardized the execution of our contract. And as for your precious Caedere, the responsibility for her death rests squarely on your shoulders.’
‘You dare...’
‘Dare?’ Nuntius says. ‘Dare is it? I would end you, now, and be done with it, were it not that we have more pressing concerns at the moment. But believe me, Serpere, there shall be a reckoning. You shall be held to account and made to answer for your complacency, your negligence. That inevitability has merely been postponed.’
‘Whatever you say,’ Serpere says. ‘Now, are we just going to stand about here all day, blathering? Or will we get after Castus and his little friends, before they can get off this puking island?’
The Deathlady fixed him with a long level look and he responded with a bug-eyed arrogant smirk.
‘You go ahead,’ she says, ‘if that is what you perceive as the wisest course of action. I shall remain here and await the rest of Sorority Peremptorius.’
Serpere nodded and, without bothering to ask where Nuntius’s absent companions might be, he spun on his heel and stormed out the door. It slammed behind.
Nuntius looked around the cottage’s single room and noticed the places where objects had been removed from dusty shelves, the empty tool racks, and other signs of the building having been thoroughly scavenged for anything of use. While she observed these details, the Deathlady considered how Serpere’s vanity would likely lead to more deaths among those under his command. While lamentable, that would be an acceptable loss if it served to further accentuate Serpere’s failings and make his position even more untenable than it already was. She spotted scuff marks on the floor, indicative of some kind of altercation, and wondered whether they might be interpreted as a sign of dissension among the members of Castus’s party. Dismissing such speculation from her mind, the Deathlady went outside, where she instructed her colleagues to attend to their mounts, and then began to groom her own steeldust gelding.
While she brushed her horse’s coat with long smooth strokes, Nuntius watched as Serpere mustered his diminished cohort and they rode off behind the cottage. For a moment, the Deathlady considered offering the Deathmaster some words of caution before he ventured deeper into the woods, but she decided not to. If Serpere wasn’t shrewd enough to gauge the perils inherent in his actions for himself, then he had no right to be leading others. The more damning the testimony she delivered upon his eventual appearance before the Guild Council, the better her chances of ensuring that he was never again granted command of a Deathsquad. She resolved to press for a reduction in rank, but refrain from demanding his death. Despite his failings, Serpere was an accomplished and skilful assassin.
Chapter

A Guardsman closed the balcony doors and the five Nobles of the Truesilver League had their servants gather the documents that detailed the shares in Tellus Isle’s verargent mines that Valentia had bestowed upon them.
The young Earl removed the seven Regalia Lucidus from his person, laid them out on the table, and instructed his Earlsguard to have the family heirlooms, along with the Insula Libris and other paraphernalia, removed to his chambers. The soldiers gathered up the Artefacts, stowed the other items in the chest, and went out.
Karl Awn Thwart and Thane Thirle Snike approached Valentia with their retainers in tow.
‘With your permission,’ says Awn, ‘we will take our leave of you now, Earl Ferrumanus.’
‘We face a long journey home,’ Thirle says, ‘and are grateful for your hospitality.’
While the Northmen spoke, Valentia noticed that Duke Tacitus Intueri, Count Aurumcutis Auduxoculus and Marchionissa Ospres Aveugler were huddled together at the other end of the long table. Although their voices were pitched low, it was apparent from their earnest expressions and emphatic gesticulation that they were engaged in an impassioned debate. As Karl Awn Thwart half-turned and beckoned one of his retainers, who shuffled forwards, to be joined by one of Thirle’s men, the Earl’s attention shifted back to the Northerners.
‘This is Marram Wald,’ says the Karl. ‘He shall remain here to oversee my interests at the mine in the Spina Mountains, if that is acceptable to you, Earl?’
‘Certainly. I shall see that he is appointed suitable quarters here in the palace.’
‘Ah,’ says Awn, ‘no. If you don’t mind, I would rather have him accommodated on site, that he might better perform his duties with greater diligence. Aesfortis offers too many distractions, and I would fear that Marram here might be tempted to neglect his responsibilities in favour of other, more pleasurable pursuits.’
‘I see,’ says Valentia. ‘Very well, then. Consider it done. And I assume that your man shall carry out a similar function, Thane Snike?’
‘Aye,’ Thirle says. ‘That he will. Dachs Kronen will watch over my mine.’
‘As you wish. I shall make the necessary arrangements forthwith.’
‘You have our thanks,’ says Awn. ‘Fare well, Earl Ferrumanus.’
‘Good speed, Karl Thwart, Thane Snike,’ says Valentia. ‘May you have fair winds, fleet steeds, and a swift voyage home.’
‘May peace and prosperity thrive in your Realm, your home, and your heart,’ says the Karl. ‘And those of your friends and kin, all the seasons of the year.’
‘Aye,’ says the Thane, ‘I say the same.’
The Northmen left the room with their servants and bodyguards, bound for the ship that would ferry them across Lake Solala on the first stage of the journey back to their respective Realms. Duke Intueri approached Valentia, followed by Aurumcutis and, after a momentary hesitation, the Marchionissa.
(INSERT: DETAIL OTHER MEMBERS OF TRUESILVER LEAGUE LEAVING TO EXAMINE THEIR VERARGENT MINE HOLDINGS IN PERSON)
‘Then we had best make our way to the Grand Audience Chamber,’ Valentia says. ‘Before the candidates become restless and decide to revolt.’
Laughter rang out as he turned, motioned to Lady Lascivia and his siblings, and left the room with his wife by his side and the others behind.
‘Custos,’ he says over his shoulder, ‘have Marram Wald and Dachs Kronen escorted to the mines and arrange for suitable lodgings to be made available to them.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ says Custos Pedester.
The newly-elevated Guard-Captain of the Earlsguard motioned for four of his men to hold back, along with the Northmen’s representatives. As he began to issue instructions, Valentia’s voice floated back along the corridor.
‘And join us when you are done there, my friend. I would have you by my side.’
Chapter

Deathdealer Vitae Vorare reined in her roan gelding and her companions, Lifetaker Latus Delinquare and Petra Phases the Slayer rode up to join her. A clear trail ran from the treeline through knee-high grass and into the surrounding hills. The three women looked to the northeast, where they saw a small group of tiny specks moving up a distant slope.
‘It looks like they are making for Aesfortis,’ says Petra.
Vitae reached into a saddlebag, produced a spyglass, and trained it upon the distant figures.
‘Only six, with horses, and no women,’ she says. ‘The Huntlady must have led the others in a different direction. I would not expect her to leave so clear a trail for anyone to follow.’
‘We could always catch up with these pillocks,’ Latus says. ‘Find out whether they know which way the others went.’
‘No,’ says Vitae. ‘Ride back to Nuntius with the news. Petra and I shall ride on to seek sign of the Huntlady.’
‘As you wish.’
Latus turned her mount and kicked it into a gallop. Vitae and Petra rode on northwards.
Chapter

In the meadow behind the cottage, Serpere Sinuosus rode up to join Mendax at the head of the double column, where the trail of their quarry split in two. To the northeast, a narrow swathe through the bright flowers indicated that a small detachment had broken away from the main party, whose passage had cut a more clearly-defined path north-westwards.
‘At a guess,’ Serpere says, ‘I would say that some of the snivelling little brats went running home to their mammies.’
‘Yes,’ says Mendax. ‘Should we have some of our team follow them?’
‘To what end? Let the cravens run. Should we need to find them later, we will. Lord Bratling and his pet Huntwhore are our priority right now. Lead on, Deathdancer.’
Mendax twitched the reins and the column moved on. Serpere waited until half the riders had passed and then resumed his position at the centre of the line. Moments later, they delved into the hushed dim world of the woods.
Chapter

With a muttered curse, Deathlady Nuntius Mors snapped out of the meditative trance that she had slipped into while grooming her mount and considering the fate of Serpere Sinuosus.
‘Oh, Nuntius, you fool,’ she says.
Her steeldust gelding rolled his eye at her and snorted.
‘I know,’ she says, ‘where is my bloody horse sense?’
Her horse gave a soft whinny.
‘Yes, yes, I hear you,’ says the Deathlady.
Nuntius smiled, told her sister-assassins to remain where they were, and walked to the rear of the cottage. She followed the narrow track that led into the sunny burial glade, and saw the trail that first Castus and his band, and then Serpere and his had taken. It was obvious to Nuntius that the Huntlady had led her wards north-westwards, and that they would have emerged from Gentiana Wood in that direction. The Deathlady berated herself for having allowed thoughts of Serpere to distract her from making this discovery sooner. She turned and sprinted back to the front of the croft, where she sprang up into the saddle.
‘Mount up,’ she says.
The women obeyed without question, and then Nuntius led Sorority Peremptorius back to the road, where she turned to address the hindmost.
‘Harenga, follow the road westwards out of these woods and wait for the scouts that I sent south to arrive. When they do, lead them north. We shall meet up with you.’
Lifetaker Harenga Invidiosus knuckled her forehead, bowed in the saddle, then turned her gelding to hurtle off along the path.
‘Sisters!’ Nuntius cried. ‘We ride!’
She spurred her horse eastwards and her Deathsquad galloped behind.
Chapter

Vitae reined in her bay gelding at the swift little stream that her comrade, Petra, had just crossed. She dismounted and walked closer to the brook. Vitae hunkered down to examine a faint wet hoofprint on a rock that jutted above the rushing water, which had almost dried under the warm vernal sunshine. Vitae kicked off her moccasins, hitched up her white linen dress, stepped barefoot into the creek and moved upstream in a crouch. She soon found a scratch on another stone, where an iron horseshoe had scraped the surface, and a small clump of ferns that had been crushed by a heavy hoof.
‘Wait up,’ she called to Petra. ‘There is a trail here.’
While her companion rode back towards her, Vitae discovered further signs of a large party’s passage along the streambed.
‘What have you found?’ asks Petra.
‘They went this way,’ Vitae says. ‘Ride back the way we came and inform Nuntius. I will go on.’
‘Would it not be quicker for me to follow the trail our quarry made through the woods to get here?’
‘No. Skirt the treeline, as before.’
Petra flicked the reins and her piebald gelding crossed the brook.
‘And Sister, on your way back,’ says Vitae, ‘think about why I want you to avoid the woods. I expect the correct answer when I see you next.’
‘Traps and snares,’ says the younger woman. ‘The Huntlady is bound to have set some on her way through the forest.’
‘Very good, Sister.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
Petra jabbed her heels into the horse’s flanks and sped away. Vitae returned her attention to the streambed.
Chapter

The column of assassins trotted through the woods. The trail that Castus and his friends had left had been so easy to follow that Serpere had ordered his riders to increase their pace from a slow hack. He hoped that this would help them to gain some ground on their prey.
At the head of the group, Mendax held his hand aloft, signalling that the others should halt. They reined in their mounts. Ahead, the trail ran straight between two dense spiny thickets of hawthorn trees for some fifty paces.
‘What’s the damn hold up?’ shouted Serpere.
‘This would be the perfect site for an ambush,’ Mendax says.
Serpere gave a derisive snort, ‘If the Huntbitch and her little litter of misbegotten curs are feeling that suicidal, let them come. We’ll put them down like the dogs they are.’
‘And what if there’s a trap?’ the Deathdancer asks.
‘We have been delayed long enough already,’ the Deathmaster says. ‘Ride on. Full gallop.’
Mendax yelled, spurred his mount and charged forwards, with the others at his heels. He emerged in a wide clearing without incident, and two more riders joined him.
Without warning, thorny branches whipped across the exposed faces and arms of the other assassins in the column. There were wails of shock and outrage.
Rapere Abducere screamed as his right eye was punctured by a sharp spine. The Snatcher tumbled from his mount and hit the forest floor. He managed to roll to the side and avoid the hooves of the horses behind him.
Moments later, the troop had passed through the hawthorn thickets to congregate in the glade. Mendax leapt to the ground and walked over to Mali and Rodere, the assassins who had been just behind him. He spotted a length of ivy, tangled around a fetlock of Rodere’s black mare. Closer inspection revealed that the vine had been twisted around a length of thin brown cord to camouflage it among the foliage on the forest floor.
‘Agh!’ Nescius hollered. ‘Uuh-aah! It burns!’
The young woman grimaced in pain and pressed her palm to an ugly, jagged laceration on her cheek. Others began to cry out. The Deathdancer ignored their plaintive complaints. He pinched the taut length of cord between finger and thumb and followed it to a hawthorn tree that had a small neat notch carved out of its trunk. Mendax spotted a little wedge of wood on the ground nearby, and saw that the twine was tied around a thorny branch. He moved closer and noticed that the thorns had been smeared with a thick greenish-white paste. Someone had set a simple trap and the assassins had ridden right into it.
Mendax watched Rapere stumble to his feet, a bloody mess where his eye had been. The unfortunate man clamped his hand over the wound and staggered towards his comrades, whose wails of misery had increased in volume and intensity. Rage swelled in the Deathdancer then, and he suppressed an almost overwhelming homicidal impulse: Serpere’s rash impatience had caused another catastrophe. Murder in his eyes, Mendax turned to glare at the Deathmaster.
Serpere regarded the shallow gash on the back of his right hand, plucked a thorn from his sleeve, and sniffed at it. His face screwed up at the acrid reek of the crud that had been spread on it.
‘Mali,’ he called. ‘You know more about poisons than I do. What in the Void is this muck?’
Unharmed by the trap, the twenty five year old blonde-haired Butcheress rode over. She took the thorn from her leader, touched the tip of her tongue to the pale substance that coated it, and spat on the ground.
‘Mouthfroth,’ says Mali Acetum. ‘Mashed blackstalk toadstools and the sap of tanglethatch weeds. It debilitates the victim when it enters the bloodstream, inducing nausea and weakness. In about forty minutes, an hour at most, anyone affected will start to foam at the mouth. Hence the name. A few minutes after that, the victim will pitch a fit and choke to death. The agony is says to be excruciating.’
Throughout Mali’s clinical account, Serpere’s face grew steadily paler, as did those of the others who had been poisoned.
‘I take it,’ the Deathmaster says, ‘that there is an antidote?’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Mali.
The assassins breathed a collective sigh of relief. Mali ran a hand through her cropped blonde hair.
‘Unfortunately,’ she says, ‘the ingredients are exotic. Bladderwort root, essence of chrysanthemum, powdered belladonna, vulture blood. Certainly, I have none of those, though the Deathlady might.’
With a snarl, Serpere delved into the pouch at his side and took out his speculum.
Chapter

Lifetaker Latus Delinquare leaned forwards in the saddle and pointed to her right.
‘There it is,’ she says, ‘just up ahead.’
She had rejoined the Deathsquad mere minutes beforehand and rode beside Nuntius at the head of the column. The Deathlady fixed her gaze on the trail that ran into the nearby hills until she reached it, whereupon she reined in and her sister-assassins followed her example. Nuntius produced her speculum and established a link with Mancus Lineamentum in Aesfortis.
Deathlord, six of Castus Ferrumanus’s companions are en route to the capital.
Presumably, none of the principal targets, else you would not have contacted me.
Yes. I believe that Castus and his kinsmen are making for the coast. These others are of little consequence.
Nevertheless, they warrant observation. We shall put them under surveillance, upon their return to the city.
Nuntius felt the opal ring on her finger grow warm, but she ignored Serpere’s attempt to contact her and continued her dialogue with the Deathlord.
My thoughts exactly, Mancus. Apply some not-too-gentle persuasion. Coerce them into betraying Castus and acting as our agents, should he manage to escape the island, which seems entirely possible, given how badly Serpere has bungled his mission.
Very well. Anything else?
Yes. Deathmaster Sinuosus has damaged the Guild.
How many dead?
Seven. Eight wounded. Three on their way back to the city. One of those is unlikely to survive. I shall furnish a full report for the Council’s consideration, upon my return.
Good. Fare well, Nuntius. Death awaits all.
Death awaits all.
The Deathlady tucked her speculum away. With a wild cry, she jabbed her knees into the gelding’s flanks and the women sped along the outskirts of the woods.
A short while later, Nuntius saw a rider approaching, whom she readily identified as Petra Phases. Her sister-assassin was soon within shouting distance.
‘What news?’ Nuntius yelled.
‘Vitae has found their trail,’ cried Petra.
She joined her leader at the head of the column and the assassins continued their journey northwards.
‘How far?’ the Deathlady asks.
‘Two miles, at most,’ says Petra.
‘Excellent.’
They rode in silence for a spell, until Deathdealer Vitae Vorare was sighted, stood beside her horse by the stream. When her comrades had reached her, the Deathdancer pointed to grey mountains that loomed to the northeast and addressed Nuntius.
‘Sixteen riders. They followed this streambed for some distance, then crossed some pastureland and took a track that heads into the Scandere Peaks.’
‘Good work, Vitae,’ says the Deathlady. ‘Vanus, ride on around the forest until you find Harenga and the others, then bring them here. I shall inform Serpere Sinuosus of the news.
Deathdealer Vanus Quidditas spurred her grey gelding and galloped away to the west. Just as she took her speculum out of its pouch, the opal ring on Nuntius’s finger became warm. She held the speculum to her forehead.
Serpere. I was just about to contact you.
I tried reaching you ten minutes ago.
I was communing with Deathlord Lineamentum…
Never mind that. We’ve been poisoned. Nine of us, myself included. Mouthfroth. Have you an antidote?
Not at the moment, but I can brew a batch. We have found Castus’s trail. Join us here.
The Deathlady then projected an image of her location, emphasising the brook and the mountains.
Find the stream and follow it north, Serpere. Stop for nothing, or you are all dead.
Aye. I know.
Nuntius broke off contact and then she re-established the link with Mancus.
Deathlord, the situation here has worsened dramatically and warrants a tactical shift. I shall be returning to Aesfortis forthwith and require passage to Reaumverd.
Very well. I shall make the necessary arrangements personally. Can you complete your mission, Deathlady?
Of course. I shall consult with you, upon my return. Death awaits all.
Death awaits all.
Nuntius replaced her speculum in its pouch and then she dismounted and told her sister-assassins to build a fire. She rummaged in her saddlebags until she found a small leather sack and an iron kettle, which she filled with fresh clear stream-water. The Deathlady then had her second, Furia, cut twigs and construct a simple frame. Once the fire was lit, Nuntius suspended the kettle over the flames. She then opened the sack, removed several tiny pouches, and settled down on her haunches to watch the water boil.
Chapter

On the first floor of The Weary Wayfarer inn, Deathlord Mancus Lineamentum threw open a door and stalked into a large dormitory. Narrow cots lined either side of the long room, but there were only four junior assassins present, three young men and a girl, engaged in a game of dice. When they saw their superior enter the room, the gamblers jumped to their feet.
‘Some of Castus Ferrumanus’s companions have decided to desert him and return to the city,’ Mancus says. ‘I expect them to enter Aesfortis through either the South Gate or the western one. I want the four of you to disguise yourselves as commoners, split up, go to the gates, and keep an eye out for their arrival. Stabber Abolere Carotides, I am appointing you as Squadleader for this mission.’
‘Aye, Deathlord.’
‘There will be six in their party,’ says Mancus, ‘though only a few of them are of any interest to us. Ignore any servants and Guardsmen, but follow Castus’s young friends. Separate if you must, but do not lose track of your quarry. They will doubtless attempt to go into hiding, so ensure that you remain undetected and find out where they go to ground. Once you have done so, return here and report their locations directly to me, and no other. Understood?’
The young Bloodletters nodded and began to prepare for their mission.
‘One more thing,’ says the Deathlord. ‘Whatever happens, avoid any direct confrontation, should any of you be spotted. I will be most vexed if that occurs, however, should any of your targets be harmed in any way, then all of your lives shall be forfeit. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Deathlord,’ chorused the four.
‘Good,’ Mancus says. ‘Now, make haste. I have another pressing matter to attend to, so, should I still be absent upon your return, wait for me right here.’
With that, he turned, went out, and slammed the door behind. The Deathlord descended to the ground floor, walked across the inn’s common room to a side-door, and went out into the adjacent stableyard. Four Bloodletters loitered in the cobbled yard. Stabber Phrenesia Dissecare and Bloodletter Culter Vellere are dressed in the rough garb of stablehands while Stabbers Praeter Fastidium and Halitus Elidere each wear a striking footman’s uniform of black and gold. Mancus commands them to prepare the coach for travel and the pair set about their task with alacrity.
Soon after, an impressive black carriage with gold chasing and fretwork clattered out of the stable with the two assassins perched on the driver’s box and came to a halt beside the Deathlord. Tortum leapt down and opened the door. With a nod of acknowledgment, Mancus got into the coach and sat.
‘The docks,’ he says.
Tortum closed the door and climbed back onto the seat, whereupon Assalire cracked a whip over the heads of the blinkered team-of-four and the carriage rattled out into the broad street.
Chapter

(VALENTIA OFFICIALLY INSTALLS COUNCILLORS, ETC GRANTING POSITION TO LOYAL RETAINERS & THE LIKE).

On an elevated dais at the other end of the vast, lofty chamber, several steps led up to a broad platform, in the centre of which stood the Earl’s Curule, a high-backed throne of solid gold, inlaid with ivory and embellished by intricate carvings of fabulous creatures. To either side, the Curule was flanked by six smaller silver and ivory thrones. Vibrant with colour, bright banners and rich tapestries adorned the walls, and the airy vaulted ceiling bore a brilliantly-executed fresco that depicted a picturesque scene of bucolic bliss, which incorporated elements representative of all four seasons of the year: vibrant Vernalis, sunny Aestas, fruitful Autumnus and chill Vertere.
Chapter

Crouched low in the saddle, Deathdancer Mendax Studium led the column through Gentiana Wood at a breakneck pace. Branches lashed at the heads, backs and limbs of the riders, and more than one horse stumbled over concealed rocks and roots, although none of the speeding mounts took a fall.
Mendax caught a glint of light out of the corner of his eye, yanked the reins, and veered his mount to the left. Small glittering objects flashed by him and he heard wrathful shouts from the ranks behind. Horses collapsed to the ground, pitching their riders from the saddle, and the column descended into chaos, as the assassins who followed swerved their mounts or jumped them over the flailing limbs of the fallen animals. A few horses were hit by the thrashing limbs, causing them to stumble and go down as well. Mendax winced as he heard the sharp dry crack of snapping bones. Assassins milled about, yelling, as they tried to discern what had happened.
The Deathdancer urged his mount through the disorderly press and dismounted beside those who had been struck down by the bright projectiles. He saw that iron caltrops had pierced the flesh of both riders and their mounts alike. The stricken assassins writhed about on the forest floor and gave vent to agonized shrieks. Serpere appeared at his second’s side, his handsome face dark with fury.
‘For lust’s sake, Mendax. What now?’
The Deathdancer ignored him and looked up and to the right, where he had first peripherally perceived the missiles. A stout branch vibrated, a small wooden bowl affixed to its end and a snapped length of twine dangling. Another trap.
Afoot, Mali the Butcheress joined the two men, her green eyes narrowed in annoyance, her lips a thin grim line. At their feet, Rodere Vitiosus’s convulsions ceased. Blood erupted abruptly from the young Bloodletter’s ears, eyes, nose and mouth. He gurgled and expired. Mali knelt to examine the corpse. She eased a caltrop from his neck and sniffed at the dark tacky fluid that coated its four sharp points. She stood and swept her hand out, palm down, at waist height.
‘Mind where you put your feet,’ Mali says.
Save Mendax and Serpere, those who had dismounted or fallen from their horses gingerly backed away from the area where the iron missiles lay on the ground.
‘Bloodyeye,’ says Mali Acetum. ‘Rowanberry juice, adder venom, stag beetle ichor, ground hibiscus petals. No antidote, no cure. Just swift, certain death.’
To confirm her dire prognosis, blood burst from the facial orifices of Nescius Moribundus and Bestia Furiosus, who then uttered death rattles and lay still.
‘We have no time for this!’ roared Serpere. ‘Mount up! Ride on!’
To ease their suffering, Mendax and Mali slit the throats of the three horses that had been poisoned.
‘You two, take the lead,’ says the Deathmaster, ‘and find that bloody stream, before we all end up like them.’
He pointed at the bodies. Just then, the half-blind Rapere Abducere screamed. Thick yellowish foam oozed between his lips. He stiffened, went limp, flopped from the saddle and landed in a boneless heap. His body went rigid and then he began to judder and jerk, and make retching noises. With a hiss of ire, Serpere flicked his wrist and a throwing knife slammed into the Snatcher’s throat, putting an end to his struggles.
Two horses had broken legs and, once their riders had despatched the unfortunate beasts, they were obliged to ride double on Rapere’s chestnut gelding. The eleven surviving assassins moved back into formation and sped onwards.
Several minutes later, Mendax and Mali spotted the brook and the column followed them into the rushing waters, rather than traverse the dense tangled undergrowth that lined the banks. Water splashed from hooves in scintillating sprays, as the assassins continued their desperate dash through Gentiana Wood.
Chapter

(SECTION CONCERNING Mancus’s booking passage for Nuntius & co on the Nereis under Xulonic Captain Maxilla Pellucidus to reach Estanche, Reaumverd).
Chapter

Nuntius Mors and her sister-assassins of Sorority Peremptorius sat in a ring around the crackling campfire. Acrid steam billowed from the concoction in the kettle. The women conversed in low voices. All conversation ceased and they rose as one when the sound of riders approaching along the streambed could be heard from within the woods.
Shortly after, the Deathdancer and the Butcheress burst from the trees, with the rest of the cohort hot on their heels. The group rode up out of the brook and clustered around Nuntius. Aided by the sister-assassins, those who had not been poisoned helped their comrades to the ground. Three of them had become so ill that it had been necessary to strap them to their saddles in order for them to remain mounted.
Deathmaster Serpere Sinuosus half-fell from his horse’s back and staggered towards the Deathlady. He flung his arm out to point at the steaming kettle.
‘I take it that’s the antidote?’ Serpere says.
Nuntius nodded, wrapped a strip of linen around the handle, and set the iron kettle on a flat-topped rock for its contents to cool. With a snarl, Serpere clenched his fists and stalked towards her.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘what are you waiting for? Bloody dose me.’
The Deathlady ignored his demand, grasped the handle of the wooden spoon that protruded from the kettle, and gave the brew a vigorous stir.
‘Now, Nuntius, you pox-ridden whore!’ roared Serpere.
Silent as spectres, four of the sister-assassins glided close to him. Hands on the hilts of their sabres, they says nothing, but stared at the Deathmaster with lethal intent.
‘Sit down, Serpere,’ Nuntius says, ‘before you fall down, man.’
A scowl darkening his features, he obeyed. The Deathlady lifted the kettle and a wooden cup, then went over to the three most severely-affected assassins, each of whom had begun to foam at the mouth. She half-filled the vessel, pinched the first victim, Tenius Plagiarius, by the nose, and poured the lukewarm potion into his open mouth. He gagged, gulped, and lay down with a sigh. Within heartbeats, the Butcher had drifted off into a slumber. Nuntius repeated the process with the next two, Lupus Spleneticus and Cutis Vacare, and then dosed the remaining three poison-victims with antidote.
When she at last came to Serpere, his green eyes rolled wildly in his head, sweat glistened on his brow, his face was a drawn mask, and flecks of yellow foam had gathered at the corners of his mouth. He spluttered and coughed as the Deathlady administered the bitter remedy, and then he sank back into the grass with a low groan of relief. Nuntius handed both kettle and mug to Furia, who took them to the creek and rinsed them clean.
Mendax and Mali walked over to the Deathlady, who folded her arms across her chest and paced to and fro in agitation.
‘There are only eleven of you left,’ Nuntius says. ‘Eleven out of twenty-five. That means Serpere got fourteen of you killed. Fourteen! And, were it not for me, another seven would be dead. Never in the history of Fraternity Obitus have so many of our members been lost in the execution of a contract.’
‘He sent three of our injured back to Aesfortis in a coach,’ says the Deathdancer.
‘Pah!’ says the Deathlady. ‘I encountered them on the road, and Nefas Adversarius was on his last legs then. Is that supposed to be some kind of consolation? Only twelve dead, instead of fourteen?’
‘No, Nuntius,’ Mendax says. ‘Of course not.’
‘Of course not,’ Nuntius stopped walking and pointed at Serpere. ‘I should have let him die here. It would have been no less then he deserved… but the contract must take precedence, and we need him yet. Damn the man’s eyes. Damn his pride. Damn him.’
While she spoke, her sister-assassins extinguished the fire, gathered up their gear, and checked their mounts’ tack.
‘Well,’ the Deathlady says, ‘at least the others shall live, though they shall be debilitated for a while. Now, I have considered the direction that our quarry have taken in their flight, and concluded that they are bound for the coast, there to take passage across Lake Solala to the Realm of Reaumverd.’
‘I suspected as much,’ Mendax says. ‘I take it that they headed north, into the Scandere Peaks?’
‘Yes. Follow the stream and you shall find the spot where they left it and cut across open country to take a track into the mountains. Furthermore, given how they are being led by Huntlady Calma Taiscealai, I would surmise that their ultimate destination is most likely Vivecole, deep in Noisbois Forest.’
‘That makes sense,’ Mali says. ‘It’s the School of Healing, so, if they get there, they will be safe, even from us.’
‘I know,’ says Nuntius.
Five riders hove into sight to the west, and the sister-assassins called greetings to Harenga, Vanus, Fames, Lugubris and Rictus; those who had ridden south on a scouting mission when Sorority Peremptorius had first arrived at Gentiana Wood, and the two who had been sent to retrieve them. Upon their arrival in the camp, the Deathlady mounted her steeldust gelding. Her companions swung into the saddle and arrayed themselves in a double column, facing eastwards. Nuntius looked down at Mendax and gave him a tight-lipped smile, to which he responded in kind.
‘Deathdancer Mendax Studium,’ she says, ‘with you, Butcheress Mali Acetum as my witness, I am hereby invoking my powers as Deathlady and second in rank of our Guild to officially relieve Deathmaster Serpere Sinuosus of his position and instate you as Squadleader, Mendax, with Mali as your second. These positions are granted on a temporary basis, for the duration of our current contract. Do you both comprehend and agree to these terms?’
‘Yes, Deathlady Nuntius Mors,’ Mendax and Mali intoned.
‘Very good,’ Nuntius says. ‘Now, I would counsel that you have the poison-victims strapped to their mounts and resume the pursuit of our quarry forthwith. Harry them hard, nip at their heels, but maintain some distance. Given the weakened state of your force, you are not to engage with them under any circumstances whatsoever. Is that understood, Mendax?’
‘Aye, Deathlady. We have one small problem, though. Eleven riders and only ten horses. Is there any chance that you could loan us one of yours?’
‘No. We shall be returning to Aesfortis, there to take ship to Estanche and cut Castus off before he can reach Vivecole. There are horse pastures a mile to the north. Steal what you need there.’
‘Very well.’
‘Unless further disaster befalls your Deathsquads, you should be able to drive young Castus and his company straight into my hands. Allow them no respite. Oh, and relieve Serpere of his speculum and rings. The opal is for me; the amethyst is Mancus. Keep in touch.’
Mendax nodded, ‘Deathlady Mors, it shall be as you say. And you have my gratitude. Our situation would have been dire indeed, were it not for your timely intervention, expert assistance and sagacious advice.’
‘Good man. Fare well, Deathdancer, and you. Little sister. Until next our ways meet in the World. Death awaits all.’
‘Death awaits all,’ Mendax says.
With that, Nuntius rode to the head of her column and led her Deathsquad off with a wild yell.
For a few moments, Mendax and Mali watched as the sister-assassins dwindled into the distance, and then the Deathdancer turned and strode off, issuing orders to those of his comrades who were still capable of carrying out his commands.
Chapter

Some twenty miles to the north, on a narrow path that wound up along a pass through the Scandere Peaks, with a rugged looming cliff face to the right and a sheer drop of many hundreds of paces to the right, Huntlady Calma Taiscealai slowed her bay gelding from a canter to a trot, then a hack. She called a halt and her horse came to a stop. The Huntlady twisted around on her mount’s back to address the others.
‘Rest here for a while,’ she says. ‘Have some food. Our enemies shall most likely have found our trail by now, so I want to see exactly how far behind us they are.’
With little room on the path to dismount, the others remained ahorse, pulled bread, cheese, fresh fruit and flasks of watered wine from their saddlebags, and began to enjoy their repast.
Calma faced forwards once more, closed her eyes, and sent her awareness questing out.
In a little while, the Huntlady relocated the eagle that she had employed earlier. Calma insinuated her consciousness into that of the bird of prey and sent it winging southwards, until she approached the northern boundary of Gentiana Wood. From on high, far beyond the range of any mundane missile weapon, she espied the Deathsquad of female assassins riding east and the bedraggled remnants of Serpere Sinuosus’s cohort. Upon seeing how drastically their numbers had dwindled, and that many of the surviving assassins were being lashed, semi-conscious, to their mounts, she felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Doubtless, her Apprentice, Siorai, had been responsible for the killers’ most recent tribulations.
Calma relinquished her hold over the eagle and opened her eyes. She dismounted and edged along the path, moving down the line of tired horses and taking a moment to channel Earth energy into each beast, before moving on to the next. She was sparing with her powers, careful not to exhaust them, because the high path beneath her feet was solid stone, which blocked her ability to draw upon the power of the Earth and replenish her expended puissance.
The Huntlady came to the servants at the end of the column and looked back down the trail, where she spotted a lone rider speeding along the precarious path, apparently oblivious to the precipice. Calma recognized her Apprentice’s mare and smiled as she finished reviving the weary horses.
Presently, Scout Siorai Coillseilg reached the end of the line, her mount’s chest heaving after the hard run to catch up with her companions. She swept a hand through her short black hair and grinned at her Mistress.
‘As you instructed,’ Siorai says, ‘I set several traps along our route through the forest.’
‘Yes,’ says Calma, ‘I know. Between my bear and your traps, many have been slain, while others are wounded or incapacitated, including their leader, Serpere. Fabulous work, Siorai.’
‘Only incapacitated?’ says the Scout. ‘I used Mouthfroth and Bloodyeye.’
‘They must have had an antidote for the Mouthfroth,’ her Mistress says. ‘Either that, or the ingredients to make one.’
The Scout pursed her lips, pensive, and the Huntlady used her power to reinvigorate Siorai’s exhausted mare. The others craned in their saddles with triumphant grins on their faces to offer enthusiastic thanks and congratulations to the young woman, who beamed and lowered her eyes demurely. Calma allowed them a few moments to glory in the victory over their opponents.
‘I do, however, bear more worrisome tidings,’ the Huntlady says.
Smiles became frowns and faces creased in consternation.
‘I saw another group of assassins,’ Calma says, ‘all of whom were women dressed in white. Presumably, they had joined with the original band of murderers, but were riding eastwards, probably back towards Aesfortis. I can only surmise what their intentions might be, but would hazard that they may have guessed at our ultimate destination and are planning an attempt to intercept us en route to Vivecole.’
Groans of dismay greeted her portentous words.
‘Do not surrender to despondency, my friends,’ she says, ‘for all is not lost. Far from. We must, however, redouble our efforts to elude those who hound us, and I believe there is a way to improve our chances of improving that. Once again, I must ask all of you to place your trust in me.’
‘Of course, Huntlady,’ Castus says.
The others voiced their agreement and Calma responded with a slight smile and a nod, and then she moved back up the column to where her gelding waited.
‘Very good,’ she says and mounted her horse. ‘Ride on.’
Her mount broke into a brisk canter and the others followed, every moment bringing them closer to the western shore of Tellus Isle…
TO BE CONCLUDED