Эдо ван Белком - Lord Soth

He’d foolishly allowed himself to think again.

He took another breath, this time making sure his mind and body were hardened by resolve to complete his mission, a resolve stronger and colder than any steel could ever be.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed, he told himself. Nor would it be the last.

He raised the battle-axe over his head again, and quickly brought it down with a mighty stroke, cutting through the body of the sleeping maiden and splintering the hard wooden boards of the bed she lay upon.

Her eyes opened in horror, but no sound escaped her lips.

If she’d been lucky, she hadn’t suffered.

The assassin turned from the ruined and bloodied corpse, and left the house as quietly as he’d entered.

When he stepped outside, the sweat soaking his body cooled like ice upon his skin.

It chilled him.

To the bone.

He silently slipped from shadow to shadow to a spot just outside the village where there was a fresh horse tethered to a tree waiting for him. He mounted it easily and in seconds both horse and rider were off, riding west across the plain toward Dargaard Keep.

He stopped only once during his ride.

When he came upon a small creek, one of the dozens of tributaries feeding the Vingaard River, he brought his horse to a stop at the water’s edge. Unlike the waters of the Vingaard River itself, the water here was shallow and slow moving. However, the creek’s bottom was quite muddy and the water murky, making it another desirable spot in which to rid himself of the murder weapon.

As he did earlier that night with the warhammer, he tossed the battle-axe into the creek. After it smacked the surface it was almost immediately gone from view.

And now, for the first time that night, he let out a long, deep sigh of something resembling relief.

The deeds had been done.

He remounted and allowed his horse to walk slowly for several minutes as both horse and rider tried to catch their breath. Then, at the call of its rider, the horse suddenly charged forward in a gallop.

After several hours, as the first rays of dawning sunlight just began to creep over the horizon, he came upon a small and simple cottage at the northernmost foot of the Dargaard Mountains. There was light inside the cottage and, judging from the smoke rising out of the chimney, a roaring fire in its hearth.

He pulled back on the reins and the horse gratefully slowed to a walk. He guided the horse into the stable, covered it with a blanket, provided it with small amounts of food and water, and then headed for the cottage.

He knocked three times and waited for someone to answer the door.

Two men sat by the fire in the small wooden cottage, one rocking in his chair, the other still and silent, as if in deep meditation. The cottage was small, perhaps even cramped, but because they were using it for just this one clandestine meeting, it was more than adequate for their purpose.

Although the flickering light of the fire was dim, the physical similarities between the two were obvious. Both were big men, tall and heavy-boned, suggesting they were formidable fighters. Their facial features were almost identical, and judging from the square jaw, the prominent brow and high cheekbones, the only real distinction between the two was the passage of time.

The older man had salt and pepper hair—somewhat thinned up top and around the edges—and a full beard which had been blanched white by years of worry. By contrast the younger man’s hair was a thick dark shock hanging down over his shoulders in curls, and his pitch black mustache was stylishly long and tapered. He appeared as yet untouched by life’s more weighty burdens.

Beside their ages, the only other difference between the two men could be found in their eyes. The elder’s eyes seemed old and tired, the color of dead embers the morning after a fire. In comparison, the younger man’s steel-gray eyes were sharp and piercing despite their being set deeply into the dark sockets under his brow. And even though his eyes were slightly obscured in shadow, they still had the appearance of being mysteriously alight from within—some might even say, blazing.

Suddenly the younger of the two sat upright in his chair. As he listened carefully to the sounds of the night outside, he could just make out the hoofbeats of an approaching horse.

Slowly the elder rose from his rocker, moving to the hearth to stoke the fire.

In minutes there came three sharp knocks on the door.

The younger man hurried to the door and opened it. A man dressed in the guise of a thief stood in the doorway, his body leaning against the jamb for support.

“Well?”

“It is done.”

Hearing the words, the younger of the two men, a Knight of the Sword named Loren Soth, breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Well done, Caradoc. You have served me well. Please, come inside now and rest for a while.”

The older man, Knight Soth’s father, Aynkell Soth, busied himself with the fire to make it appear as if he were unconcerned about the other’s arrival.

Caradoc stepped into the cottage and began disrobing, tossing his cloak upon the hearth. It hissed and sizzled as his sweat evaporated from the cloth, then all at once it burst into flames. His shirt and britches followed, the blood of his victims burning in colorful shades of orange and blue.

Without another word, Caradoc began dressing himself in his more comfortable—and familiar—knightly garb. In addition to being a Knight of the Crown, Caradoc was also the younger Soth’s steward, or seneschal, serving his master with unwavering loyalty.

Knight Soth returned to his seat and watched his most loyal steward finish getting dressed.

“Any problems?” he asked. “Did anyone see you?”

“There was a drunkard behind the Rose and Thistle, but I never revealed my face to him.”

Soth nodded. “And the weapons?”

“A warhammer and a battle-axe, making the deeds appear to be the work of renegade dwarves.” A pause. “Both weapons are currently resting beneath some very cold and very dark waters.”

“Excellent,” Knight Soth said. “You’ve done well.”

Aynkell Soth returned to his rocker and looked up at his son for the first time in hours. “Yes,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly devoid of emotion. “Now when you take over rule of Knightlund, you can be certain that no other heir will come forward to lay claim to it.”

Knight Soth looked at his father for several seconds before speaking to him in a voice that was dripping with contempt. “It seems to me that as a bard and a milkmaid, neither of the two products of your affairs would have been of the type inclined to claim it.”

“Perhaps not,” said Aynkell Soth. “But if they had known of their lineage, known of their birthright, then perhaps…”

“It’s of little consequence now,” Caradoc said flatly. “They are both dead.”

“Yes,” said Aynkell, nodding. “Thank you.”

“For what?” asked Caradoc, doing nothing to stop his voice from rising in anger. He was loyal to Knight Soth, not to the knight’s father, who was nothing more than a second-rate clerk and first-rate philanderer. “For the murder of your own flesh and blood, the half-kin of my master?”

If the elder Soth was surprised by the young man’s impertinence, he did not show it. “Why? For the removal of the black marks upon my soul,” Aynkell answered, his voice still strong, still confident.

“The black marks might have been removed from your soul,” said Knight Soth, “but they are not gone. They have merely been transferred. The black marks that were once upon your soul, are now upon mine. The full weight of my father’s sins are now mine alone to bear. What a lovely gift to receive scant months before my wedding day.”