TRAITOR BLADE
BOOKS 1-3
by
Richard Crawford
PUBLISHED BY:
Richard Crawford
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Copyright © 2011 Richard Crawford
LP20160823
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Book Two
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Book Three
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Epilogue
THE END
Prologue
A sliver of new moon shone in the night sky, a promise of good luck to the gullible. Baron Ludovico ignored the moon; only a fool looked for luck in the heavens. Instead, he climbed worn stone steps to prowl along the battlements of Castle Adumbra.
A sense of unease had drawn him away from the fire, out into the night. At first he headed towards the stables, thinking one of the horses must be cast or colicky, but all was quiet. Returning to the cobbled paths of the bailey, still unsettled, he felt the familiar urge to violence. He could not risk a dangerous brawl in his own hall among his knights. Since the loss of favor, he had few enough friends left.
His lips twisted into a snarl at the thought. He was lord of nowhere, master of nothing, thanks to King Ferdinand and his cronies. This ancient barony was the sum of his power. His hands curled to fists as he sought a target for his rage. But the bailey was empty. The ruined walls and fallen towers mocked him.
The castle was oppressive, half a ruin, set deep in the dark woods, with a domain of just three poor villages. He had always hated the place, but it was all he had left. Ferdinand had stripped him of his other titles and sent him here to molder and die. Despite pleas and promises, every powerful ally had deserted him. Once he had been strong enough to make them listen. Now, with only his brothers and a score of loyal knights left, there was no way back. Rage lay like ice in his gut. He would not let them win. He still had his family's loyalty. Ferdinand and all the rest of them would live to regret betraying him. The chill of rage spread from his stomach and ached along his bones.
Nothing eased the rage, though wine helped to calm the sting of regret and betrayal. Still, something held him away from the warmth of his hall; his gaze searched the shadows, swept across the battlements, and came to rest on the infamous North Tower. He saw a faint glimmer of light at the highest window. Before his exile, the castle had been one of his many homes; the least of his domains, visited occasionally to keep the steward honest, unimportant and left to rot into a state of poor repair. The North Tower was still half ruin. It had a bloody history. A century earlier, the fourth baron had killed his brother for the title; rumor said he had locked him in the North Tower and left him to starve. The servants said there were ghosts. No one went there, or not for any honest purpose.
After a moment's pause, he started across the bailey towards the tower. Likely, it was a couple of the servants using the deserted tower for an illicit tryst. He would send the boy on his way with a beating and take the girl for himself. Tonight the ancient stone would see more blood. A smile curled his lips at the thought.
He climbed the stone steps, anticipation filling him with feral strength. The door swung open at the touch of his hand. No locks or bolts; the lovers were too ardent for caution. The room was poorly lit. A single candle burned on the table. He wondered that he had seen the light from below. It was his last thought; what he saw wiped all else from his mind.
He saw the lovers among the shadows. The woman had her back to him. Hair pale as barley glinted and shimmered as it tumbled loose down her back. Shock held him still and dumb as a stone. Ludovico saw his wife and brother. He watched as his brother's fingers twined through her hair, as his lips sought hers.
Shock made Ludovico clumsy. He stumbled on the threshold. The door slipped from his fingers and clattered shut. Startled, the lovers broke apart and spun to face him. Anais's hair swung like a curtain across her body. His brother stood shirtless and unarmed.
Ludovico gripped the dagger in his hand. Possessed by a dark rage, he crossed the small chamber in easy strides, not hurrying.
"Wait…" His brother backed away, raising his hands in a futile gesture.
"Ludovico, no!" Anais caught his arm as he passed. She clung to him, pleading, but he pushed her aside and left her sprawled on the dusty stone floor.
He had eyes only for his brother. His head was full of this final betrayal. Without thought, he raised the dagger and slashed down. He heard Anais screaming. The rage possessed him. He hardly noticed when the screaming ceased, and Anais scrambled from the floor. He only sensed her movement, and thought she would run. He did not c
are.
The agony was sudden, a crash of splintering wood, the impact hard against his head. A stabbing pain in his neck. He stood for a moment, and then his knees folded and he fell into the waiting shadows.
####
When he woke he saw his body lay where it had fallen, sprawled, unmoving, against the chamber wall. The fingers of his right hand still loosely gripped the dagger. Blood grimed the nails and carved a lifeline groove across the palm: a different blood to that which spread beneath his fine lawn shirt and soaked his heavy velvet and silk robe. The two trails of blood pooled across the worn stone. Two bloods mingling to become one. His brother's blood. He looked towards his brother's body, slumped, half sitting, against the oak settle. He felt a moment of rage and then regret.
The anger was fading from him, and it no longer seemed important. The chamber blurred in his gaze. He felt himself begin to slip away, leaving his body sprawled against the chamber wall. It hardly seemed to matter. He could feel the pull: beyond the walls, dark night and cold stars were waiting for him.
A thread of awareness remained, focused on Anais She crouched against the wall near his body, but turned away, shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Nearby, a lute lay shattered, the slivered wood matted with his blood and hair. Anger rippled through his essence at the reminder of her betrayal.
He yearned towards her, uncertain whether he wanted comfort or revenge. He watched as she pushed away from the wall to stand, trembling. She turned, gulping back tears. Then she went to his brother's body. Her hair spread like a cloak around her shoulders as she opened her arms to gather the body to her.
He watched her tears fall. Slumped against the wall, among pale shards of broken wood, his body lay ignored. Her tears fell for his brother. Gathered up, tenderly, his brother's body rocked in the comfort of her loving arms. A final treachery.
The shadows darkened, and he felt the spirits gather around him. He felt their hunger. Beyond the walls the cold stars and oblivion. But the sight of his brother's body in her arms forged a rage that held him to this tiny room high in the North Tower. Cast out of his body, he was trapped, as a prisoner is bound by iron, a sorcerer snared by enchantment. His spirit was bound by this betrayal. Voiceless, he cried out for revenge, right and wrong forgotten as the rage unfurled within him.
And the shadows came to his call.
Chapter 1
Mariette let the heavy robe slip from her shoulders until it trailed on the floor behind her, a river of crimson velvet dark as blood. Beneath it, she wore a fine linen shift, near translucent in the candlelight. Her hair tumbled loose across her shoulders. She walked across the polished wooden floor barefoot and silent, holding her breath.
The man seated at the desk did not hear her. Head bent, his gaze was fixed on the map and papers spread before him. A stand of candles, dwindled to stubs as the night faded towards morning, illuminated his face. Soft brown hair curled to his shoulders, and a hint of stubble showed along the line of his jaw. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the lines of fatigue around his eyes. Some sound must have escaped her because he looked up.
A moment's disorientation and then, shamefaced, he reached to draw her into his arms. "Mariette, you should be asleep." He was studying her face, reading her as only he could. Still holding her gaze, his fingers traced the line of her robe to cup her breast.
"As should you, my love," she said softly, restraining all impatience, as if she coaxed their son. "You will solve nothing tonight." His fingers brushed her nipples, but his touch was cold and she shivered. "Come to bed, Hugo."
He pulled her close and pressed his warm tongue to soothe where his cold fingers had offended. Stubble pricked her skin. His voice was muffled. "I cannot, there is too little time."
She caught him by the hair, dragging his head back so he must face her. "You cannot take all of this upon yourself." A ragged breath held back some of her fear, or perhaps it was fury. "You have other duties. Petition the King for help."
He met her gaze. "It is my duty. On my honor, you know I cannot rest while they raid my lands killing innocents."
"Honor." She made the word sound like a curse. "You will gain nothing studying maps all night, unless you have the second sight." She loosed her grip on his hair and moved away, pulling the robe up round her shoulders. "This is not honor. It is obsession and foolish and dangerous in a hundred ways." Her voice was harsh in her ears. She turned away from him and crossed to the fireplace, staring down into the flames.
Silence, then the scrape of his chair as he rose to follow. He came to stand close behind her.
"A hundred ways?" There was a smile in his voice.
"Don't mock me."
"You're shivering." He stepped closer, drawing her into his arms. After a moment, his hand slid beneath the robe.
"Hugo…" She stopped his hand with a touch. But why else had she come? She arched back against him and laid her head against his chest. His lips were soft against her neck as he drew the robe from her shoulders. She guided his hand to her breast, ruthlessly drawing him into a contest where duty could not win. "Not here," she said, and caught his hand to lead him.
He laughed. "Temptress, you are determined to have me in your bed."
"I only claim a wife's due." It made her shiver to hear him laugh; it was so rare now. As if this was a battle she had already lost. She would not surrender. With each step, she drew him away from the table, away from the maps and the vicious spur of duty and honor. If only he would rest for a while. Holding her breath, she led him towards the door, but as she reached for the catch, she heard footsteps, the stamp of spurred boots hurrying closer. It was a sound that filled her nightmares.
Hugo heard it too. He came to a halt. For a moment they stood, two arms' length apart, their hands still clasped like a frail bridge between them. Then, as the door was flung open, she let his hand go and reached to pull the robe round her body.
"Hugo, we have word..." Jaime came through the door like a charging bull and stopped dead at the sight of her. "Mariette, I'm sorry."
"Jai." She nodded in cold greeting. He was not sorry, just impatient. Despite the hour, he was dressed in mail, booted and spurred, with sword and gauntlets at his waist. Hugo's young cousin was wild and mad for the fight. Along with honor and duty, he was her enemy in this. She wanted to scream at him to go away, but already Hugo was lacing his shirt, looking round for his sword.
"What news, Jai?" he asked.
"The raiders have been spotted."
She retreated to the fire and turned her back on them. Her fingers fumbled with the robe's intricate buttons.
"Where?" Hugo asked.
She heard the eagerness in his voice and wanted to scream in fury. When had she become such a coward?
"Heading towards Courbet, no more than an hour since."
Papers rustled as Hugo searched the desk for the map he wanted. "Five leagues and they have an hour on us," he said. "Are the men mounted and ready?"
"Yes, and eager for the chance to rid the demesne of these sons of bitches."
To her ears, Jai sounded like a madman. This was wrong; the raiders were never seen. Thoughts spun through her head like a whirlwind, and she had to brace a hand against the mantle to steady herself. If she fainted now would he even notice? Fury at the thought kept her upright.
"This is wrong, the raiders have never been so careless before," she said.
Hugo shook his head. He grinned at her with a sort of wild triumph. "We are better prepared. We have dozens of men watching, and a relay of scouts. It was only a matter of time before we caught them." There was a thread of Jai's madness in his voice. "The luck of it is they have ventured too close. We will have them tonight."
"Finally, a chance to pay the bastards in kind." Jai stood with one hand gripped tight around the hilt of his sword.
It was as if he had brought thunder and lightning with him; she knew the storm he raised was unstoppable.
"Hugo…"
"A moment, my love." He look
ed to Jai. "Call my squire. I'll join you soon." When Jai was gone, he turned to her.
A moment was all she had of him. "Don't go," she said. "Let Jai lead the men." She felt no shame even as she saw the change in his face.
"Saints of mercy, Mariette, you know I can't."
"Won't, more like. You're as eager for this hunt as he is." She jerked her head toward the door. "He has the excuse of youth. But you would leave me a widow, Francis without a father, for the pleasure of the hunt and the pride of victory. That is what matters to you." The words escaped her, shrill as the cry of a terrified bird.
"No," he said, too softly. "These brigands kill, Mariette; viciously, like a fox they slaughter and despoil without need. One day they might strike here at Montmercy. I do this to protect Francis. Think on it, Mariette."
"No." It was hard to speak as her lips curled in a snarl of grief. "That is just your excuse."
He caught her shoulders and shook her. "Enough!" His grip eased and he touched her face. "Mariette, you have sent me off with courage and good heart a hundred times. This is no different."
"But it is."
"So you have the second sight now." He was smiling at her.
The fury died suddenly before his smile. It was hopeless, and she could not send him away with hard words. "Be careful, or I will kill you." She tried to smile and match him.
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the palm. "Be waiting, temptress."
And he was gone.
Mariette walked through the silent castle and settled, shivering, in a window seat. The courtyard below was lit by a dozen torches. It looked like a vision of hell. She saw Hugo and his men, down on one knee as they prayed, and she watched as they rose, rippling from his lead, to mount their horses. To her, the cheers and clatter of hooves seemed subdued in the dawn light. When they were gone, the last man passed from her sight, she left her seat. With no hope of sleep, she went instead to her son's room and settled in a chair to watch over him. At least she would keep one of them safe tonight.
####
The village of Courbet lay in the spur of a dogleg valley. Nestled in the fold of the hills, the houses spread out from the stone-bound water well at its heart. Above the village, the valley slopes were cloaked with trees, and today, even in the dawn light, the autumn leaves were bright yellow, red and gold, rich as a newly hung tapestry. Courbet had a few more than two dozen houses and sheltered three score people, fifteen good milking cows, one old plough horse, numerous chickens and a flock of yellow-eyed goats.