Deathbringer/Lifegiver

Chapter 2

         The carriage jumped and bounced along the Old Highway, jostling Lazla and her servant. She glared at the man. He was becoming less useful by the day. He was staring out the window, grinning stupidly and prattling on about the countryside. The sorceress tried in vain to reposition her cramped legs and wished she could send him off on an errand. Any errand would do, just to get him out of her sight. He had become too comfortable in his position, a mistake she would not soon repeat.


         The sorceress interrupted his ramblings. “Be a dear and ask the driver if he could stop, would you Cedrick?” Her sickly sweet words showed no hint of her thoughts.


         “Sure thing,” he said, and barked orders to the driver. No “madam”, no “my lady”. Lazla marked it as one more item of an ever-growing list of slights.


         The driver stopped near a river, grown swollen by the spring rains. Cedrick hopped out of the carriage and, almost as an afterthought, helped Lazla out. Making a show of stretching her legs, she meandered over to the bank of the river, out of sight from the driver. She glanced back at her servant, head lowered and eyed flashing from under thick brown lashes. Cedrick followed, openly ogling her. Silly man, he thought she wanted a quick romp, but even that had outlived its usefulness. She chuckled to herself. He probably imagined that she loved him, that she longed for his affection. Lazla was young-looking, slim and attractive. The comforts he provided were not a scarcity for her.


         She leaned against a tree, hands behind her body to make her cleavage protrude farther. The old tricks worked the best sometimes. Taking his cue, Cedrick moved in on her, one hand snaking around her waist. She allowed him a clumsy kiss.


         “I don't know if we should, Cedrick...”


         He swallowed her words with another kiss and his other hand slid down her bodice. She could feel the hardness in his trousers pressing against her. She became aroused and decided he could prove useful for a few more minutes yet.


         Lazla made love to her servant with a newfound passion, the knowledge of her plans bringing her even more heat. With a grunt from Cedrick and a moan from the sorceress, the deed was done and they lay sprawled in the grass, the man exhausted. Lazla lay an arm lazily across his chest, tracing patterns on his torso.


         “I will so miss this, my dear.”


         “What do you mean?” Cedrick chuckled,  “I'm not going anywhere.”


         Lazla continued tracing patterns through the sheen of sweat. “Oh, but you are...” with a word and a flick of her wrist, she closed the rune on the man's body. He began to gasp for air, his lungs collapsed.


         She got up and dressed, kicking away his hand as he feebly attempted to grab for her. He was dead already, it was just a matter of time before his body caught up with circumstance.


         The carriage driver looked puzzled when Lazla climbed into the carriage and ordered him to drive without her servant yet aboard, but he knew better than to ask. The sorceress stretched her legs out, luxuriating in the free space. She dozed through the rest of the journey.


         The carriage drove well into the night and arrived at its destination a few hours before dawn. All was quiet in the Duchy of Elwynn. Except for the occasional stray cat or dog, the streets of Elwynnshire were deserted. They rode through the town and began to descend the hill to the Bourgemont estate. A few hundred yards before the gate, the driver stopped and Lazla got out. She disappeared as she walked into the shadows, blending with the night.


         The guards at the gate were startled to see a woman appear before them. So surprised, in fact, that they never raised an alarm, never cried out until their windpipes were crushed beyond their ability to carry sound. The footman, unlucky enough to be on the grounds with his young lover at the time, only knew of Lazla's presence after he was watching his lifeblood drain from a hole in his chest where his heart used to be. His lover died quickly, but just as painfully.


         The sorceress quietly dispatched the doorman and anyone else between her and the nursery. Her dress was bathed in blood as she approached the ornate ironwood door. The Lady Bourgemont slept in the nursery, propped up in a chair by her daughter's tiny bed. The little girl was no more than eight. Her face was a study of peace as she slumbered. One tiny hand held onto a stuffed horse.


         Silent as death, Lazla approached the lady, speaking runes under her breath. When she reached the prone noblewoman, she touched one finger to her forehead, releasing the magic. The Lady woke long enough to look into the eyes of her murderer, then slumped in the chair, a trail of blood tracing its way from her ear down the slim line of her neck. Satisfied, Lazla scooped the sleeping child into her arms and left.


         The child awoke as the carriage began descending the hill. Sleepy-eyed and confused, she saw Lazla and smiled.


         “Are you my new mommy? I dreamed about you.”


         “Yes dear,” said Lazla, glad for her forethought in planting the vision in the child's head. “Sleep now, you'll be at your new home soon.”


         “Where's my old mommy and daddy?”


         “They're resting, dear,” she said, casting a quick glance back at the flames engulfing the estate. “They send their love...”








         What good deeds could I have done to deserve such a perfect son? Thought Tym as he drifted off to sleep. Nicholas, cradled in the crook of his arm on the small cot in his shack, snored lightly, his dark, unkempt hair falling over his face. He was sturdy, with promise of being strong and tall when he grew to manhood. Tym often thought of how his son would be then, what conversations they'd have, the hunts they would go on. A dream of himself and the adult Nicholas talking of the hermit's old accomplishments filled his mind as unconsciousness took him.


         He never heard the intruder enter, though he was a light sleeper who started at the slightest out-of-place sound. But this intruder was very good at not being heard.


         Ardwynn had the kind of face that made determining an age impossible, but the ice-blue eyes underneath his bushy gray eyebrows belied the wisdom of one who was ageless. His sinewy body was well-worn and honed from years of physical exertion, but his surefooted stride revealed no weariness of bones or soul.


         He regarded the two sleepers with regret. The bond between them shone through even the dark corners of this dank hut. Had the child not been who he was, the separation of the two would seem cruel, unnecessary. But Ardwynn knew how to listen, and the winds, the leaves, the very ground he walked on, proclaimed the coming crisis and told of the Deathbringer.


         He didn't look like much at the moment. He could just as easily have been some bastard-born whelp scratching out an existence. His adopted father's love for him was painfully obvious, even in slumber. Ardwynn had spent many months probing the mind of the man, getting the information he needed for this night. Along the way, he found the memories of hurts almost beyond human capacity to bear. In Tym's mind he saw villagers, flinging curses at his wife. The witch, they called her. They clawed at her, beating her to death then continuing to beat her until there was nothing left but bone fragments and blood on the cobblestones.


         He saw the same villagers, murdering Tym's son in their ignorance, trying to cleanse the village from the evil infestation that was his family. Ardwynn knew the chilling sorrow and silence afterwards in the swamp, where Tym ran in hopes of making plans to avenge them. But rage was replaced by the struggle of survival, and before long, he was only a shell of who he was, a stranger in his own sagging body.


         Ardwynn laid a hand on the man's head, like a father soothing a son in a fitful sleep.


         “I cannot change what happened back then, my friend,” he said, though the man could not hear. “I can only keep away the pain of losing this second son. Sleep on until morning, and forget.”


         Nicholas, also deep in slumber, never stirred, not even when Ardwynn sat him in the saddle. His head rested lightly against the man's chest as they rode.


         As the sun bathed the morning mists of the swamp, Tym stirred in his shack.


         “Strange,” he mumbled to no one, “I dreamt I had a son again...”