Rhapsody: Child of Blood

38

Gerald Owen burst through the door of Haguefort’s library.

“M’lord—”

“I see them, Owen.” Stephen Navarne was standing at the eastern window, staring ruefully out at the panoramic view of his lands coming to light with the dawn.

The newly built rampart was swarming with moving bodies, men locked in deadly conflict, under a banner of black smoke that rose eerily from behind the great stone wall.

From the shells of each guard tower, recently erected and not yet complete, hung at least one body, sometimes more, twisting endlessly in the wind generated by the attack. Lord Stephen watched, stone-faced, as a falling victim slammed into one of the hanged men, sending the corpse spinning into the wall.

“What in the name of the Creator is happening?”

Owen bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees, red-faced from the exertion of running.

“They attacked just—before dawn,” he gasped. “Burned three closest villages, and the eastern guard post. Got the—stables, too.”

“And the soldiers? What happened to the eastern barracks?”

Owen’s red face paled. “In flames, m’lord. No one—got out, best as we can tell.”

“Sweet All-God.” Lord Stephen strode out of the study and into the dining room, stopping before the southern window. The scene was much the same, though the wall seemed to have held better on this front. He glanced over his shoulder at the portrait of his family, then turned to Gerald Owen again.

“All right, Owen, pay close attention. I want you to take my entire personal guard retinue and get Melisande and Gwydion out of here. Go through the tunnels to the wine cellar and out through the western stables. Take Rosella with you, and try not to alarm them all unduly. Head for Llauron’s; send word to Anborn on your way.” Owen nodded and started for the door.

Lord Stephen leaned his head on his forearm, unable to look away from the scene of carnage.

“Owen?”

“Yes, m’lord?”

“One last thing before you go: summon the quartermaster and tell him to bring my gelding ’round. In the absence of the soldiers from the eastern barracks, I’m going to have to rally the villagers to their own defense.”

Owen’s words were filled with pain. “M’lord, the attackers are the villagers.”

“Well, you’ve finally seen fit to come and report, have you?” Gittleson sat back, fascinated at the upcoming exchange, but afraid to draw undue attention to himself. It was dangerous enough being the only witness.

The man beneath the gray mantled cloak bowed stiffly, then took down his hood. A cocky smile wreathed the handsome face, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

“We’ve lost the House,” he said cheerfully.

The air in the small room became suddenly warmer, and Gittleson found himself breathing shallowly, trying to escape notice.

The red-rimmed eyes of his master were firmly fixed on the smirking Rakshas, however. When he spoke, a moment later, his voice was measured, with a hint of threat below the surface.

“Despite your limited capacity to reason, I assume you know that this is a very bad setback,” he said dryly. The Rakshas nodded, his red-gold curls catching the light. “Then why are you grinning like an idiot?”

The Rakshas dropped into a chair and swung his legs up over the arm. “Because of who we lost it to.”

“Don’t play games with me, toy. Who was it?”

“I have no idea.” The Rakshas sat forward suddenly, a wild look in the crystalline blue eyes. “But there were three of them.”

Gittleson recoiled as his master rose.

“What are you babbling about?” The cultured voice dropped to a menacing whisper.

The Rakshas’s voice was warm and rich as honey. “Look, I may not be the most acute thinker, but even I can count. There were three of them, a woman and two men, I think, though I only got a glimpse of one close up. Ugly as sin. They drove us out of the House, took down my troops around me. And at least one of them seemed to have as much control over fire as I do.”

“Impossible.”

The Rakshas shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Where are these three now?”

“Couldn’t say exactly.” The Rakshas stretched out, hands behind his head. “They were headed east last time I knew, towards the Krevensfield Plain.”

“Canrif.” The word was a whispered hiss. Gittleson, in his corner, shuddered at the sound. “They’re heading to Canrif.”

“Perhaps.”

The red-rimmed eyes turned suddenly, fixing their gaze on Gittleson. He could feel the blood drain from his face.

“Gittleson, I may have need of your services shortly.”