Page 25 of Crucible of Chaos

‘Kneel before me, Magistrate,’ Strigan commanded, the rumbling voice from deep in his chest conveying his intention to take control of the situation and administer his own justice. ‘Kneel, and I will have my wolves strip the clothes from your body. Upon the ample canvas of your flesh will the symbols of my reign be inscribed so that when we send you naked from this place, back to your broken castle with its brittle boy-king, all will know you as my property. In appreciation of this service, after we slaughter that ugly donkey of yours and cook him over the fire, I will leave you a haunch of his meat so that you do not go hungry on your journey home. That will bemygift toyou.’

Estevar appraised the smug scoundrel as a prospective duellist. Strigan was likely faster, and had a longer reach.Whereas I am exhausted, injured and barely in my right mind, he reminded himself. The only sensible course of action would be to soothe this self-proclaimed ‘Wolf-King’ before the conflict escalated any further, especially as the stab wound in Estevar’s side was mocking him relentlessly for his recent defeat. What his magistrate’s prudence judged a calamity to be averted, however, his duellist’s heart took as a challenge.

‘A generous offer, your Majesty,’ Estevar said. ‘Allow me to ponder it a moment.’ He began to turn away, then paused. ‘Although I must first correct you. Imperious is a mule, not a donkey.’

‘I’m certain he’ll be equally tasty as a mule.’

Estevar let that one pass, as he was quietly asking Caeda, ‘How adept would you say this Strigan is with a sword? He was a monk until recently, no? Surely Abbot Venia did not tolerate swordplay among his flock?’

‘A group of them practised in secret,’ Caeda whispered back. ‘Strigan and a few others would often challenge sailors visiting the island for sport. I used to watch the fights. I never saw him bested.’

‘Kneel,’ the Wolf-King commanded a second time, and from the edge of his eye, Estevar watched the tip of the rapier blade rise like the head of a snake.

‘A moment, your Majesty.’ Estevar again turned to Caeda. ‘But how able were these sailors of whom you speak? A drunken brute is hardly a challenging opponent for an adequately trained fencer.’

‘Strigan killed the captain of a war galleon once. The woman who’d been his second-in-command told me he’d fought dozens of judicial duels at court and never lost one–until Strigan challenged him.’

‘Kneel!’ the Wolf-King shouted.

Several of his followers were rousing themselves, preparing to drag Estevar to the throne.

‘Yes, your Majesty,’ Estevar acquiesced politely. ‘Forgive the rudeness of my delay. As my accent no doubt betrays, I am a foreigner, and so needed to consult with my colleague regarding certain regional customs which eluded my training as a Greatcoat. I shall attend you presently.’

He started towards the throne, his left hand loosening the rapier in its scabbard. Caeda grabbed his arm and hissed into his ear, ‘Do not risk it, you fool. Anger him and you’ll end up dead– and me his prisoner!’

‘Ah, little Caeda,’ Strigan said, as if he’d forgotten she was there. ‘I’d not dreamed I would find you still lurking on the island. Give me a moment to deal with this oily bearded oaf. Then I can give that luscious body of yours the attention it deserves.’

Estevar patted Caeda’s hand gently, then started his slow approach to the throne. He noted the hawkish way Strigan was watching him move.

He possesses a duellist’s eye, he realised, despair beginning to seep through the crevices left behind by his crumbling arrogance. ‘Might I plead for your Majesty’s wisdom and compassion, after all?’ he asked.

‘It is mymercyfor which you should beg, Greatcoat.’ Strigan extended his rapier and rested the blade on Estevar’s shoulder, then pressed down with the flat. ‘You may do so on your knees.’

‘Greatcoats don’t kneel to anyone,’ Caeda declared loudly. ‘Everyone knows that.’

A pity her admiration for the Greatcoats exceeds her concern for my wellbeing,Estevar thought, bending the knee to his enemy.

The tower exploded with laughter as Strigan’s drunken followers roared their approval at the sight of one of the Greatcoats–those supposedly indomitable sword-fighting magistrates famed for refusing to kneel even before their own monarch–doing so now for the Wolf-King of Isola Sombra.

Falcio would kill me himself if he saw me, Estevar thought.

‘Good,’ Strigan cooed at him as if he were a child. ‘That’s good. Now, plead for my benevolence.’ The rapier’s tip lifted the collar of Estevar’s borrowed shirt and slipped underneath. ‘But I warn you, Caeda is mine. I’ve had dreams about that little lass, my friend, dreams that would rouse a dead man’s cock.’ He chuckled. ‘Perhaps even Abbot Venia’s, eh?’

Estevar’s shoulders tensed, the shift in his muscles passing along the steel blade in Strigan’s hand.

‘Does that thought offend you, Eminence?’ Strigan sat back down on the edge of the throne. He lifted the hilt of his rapier higher, allowing the tip to caress Estevar’s spine while his other hand gripped Estevar’s jaw and tilted it upwards at a painful angle. ‘You want to know who murdered the abbot?’ The Wolf-King bared his teeth. ‘Here sits your killer.’

CHAPTER 16

THE GAMBIT

Kneeling before an enemy who’d just confessed to murder, Estevar’s impotent outrage warred with his investigator’s instincts. Strigan’s fingers were still holding his head, as if at any moment the Wolf-King of Isola Sombra might rip out his throat with his teeth. And yet. . . was that murderous intent Estevar saw in the younger man’s eyes, or bluster?

Strigan was clearly observant, for his own anger boiled over. ‘Youdoubtme?’ he demanded, spittle drooling from the corners of his mouth like a rabid dog. ‘I cut Venia’s head from his shoulders with the same blade resting on yours. I inscribed my sigils upon his flesh, branding him as one does cattle.’ He released Estevar’s jaw and turned to gaze upon his pack of slavish supporters. ‘Every night, the Bone-Rattlers bury his corpse. Each time, they dig deeper– why? Because I do not choose to allow Venia his rest. The magic that flows through me, stronger every day, forces his cadaver to rise up through the dirt so that all may witness the price of defying. . .the Sorcerer Sovereign of Tristia!’

Chaos rose like a tide: the lapsed monks started dancing wildly across the chamber, their howling approval a chilling, animalistic cry that sent a shiver through Estevar’s bones. Caeda was holding Imperious’ reins tightly to keep him from either bolting in terror or attacking the monks–either of which would result in the mule’s swift execution and roasting.

‘Well?’ Strigan asked Estevar, the tip of his rapier once again tracing his spine, ‘should you not be begging me for mercy now, Eminence?’ He leaned closer. ‘What’s that, Eminence? I’m afraid your piteous mewling escapes me.’

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