fall to their knees to worship the Goddess of Darkness who
grants eternal life!”
“Life purchased at the cost of others! Paladine will not
allow this!”
“And who is Paladine’s representative? You?” Mukhari
grinned evilly at the boy. “No matter. In two days the dark
moon will rise, and the celestial conditions for the making
of the elixir will be propitious.”
“You will not suceed – Sergeant Soren – ” Sturm began
shrilly.
The alchemist clucked his tongue. “He cannot help you.
Even now he lies trussed up in my dungeon. As for you, my
young lord, if you give me the slightest difficulty, I shall
order harm done to your mother and her maid.”
“You will not!”
“Nonsense, boy. You’re not in Solamnia. I am master
here.”
Sturm closed his hand around a smooth, cold object – a
flask. He hurled the flask at Mukhari and turned to run. The
aged alchemist dodged awkwardly. Mukhari, reached for a
braided bell cord. Hidden chimes rang. A concealed door
sprang open, and Artavash came in. Sturm rushed blindly
into her grasp.
“Take charge of him, my dear,” Mukhari said. “Only
don’t bruise him. I wouldn’t want him less than perfect for
processing tomorrow.”
“As you command, master,” said Artavash. She laid a
firm hand on his neck and guided Sturm from the room.
* On the stairs Sturm said, “So – so this was your plan all
along?”
“Why do you think my master had me scouring the
seas?” she said. “Other ships have come and gone, seeking
pure blood for Lord Mukhari’s work. Noble offspring are
hard to find; they’re usually well guarded. It was the
greatest stroke of luck that I intercepted your ship.”
Sturm didn’t feel at all lucky. He submitted without a
struggle as Artavash took him to her chambers. All the
while, even when she bound him to a heavy chair with
silken sashes, he was thinking, thinking. He batted the
feeling of helpless terror that gnawed at his mind. Soren a
captive, his mother and Carin hostages, . . . and himself. To
be bled dry, his life drained to further the evil work of the
Queen of Darkness . . .
He thought of his father, standing on the battlements of
Castle Brightblade with only a few loyal retainers while a
mob of madmen howled around them. Lord Brightblade
would meet the foe face to face, head to head, to conquer or
perish. It was the knightly way. It was the Brightblade way.
The tremors in Sturm’s limbs faded. In their place a heat
grew in his chest. He was angry. His father had trusted him
to take care of his mother, and he had failed! And who
would bear the Brightblade name back to their ancestral
home if not him?
“Be still, boy,” Artavash said. She tipped a clay cup to
her lips and drank.
“Lady Artavash?” said Sturm, his voice cracked with
emotion.
“What do you want?”
“Would you help me?”
She yawned and kicked off her sandals. “Don’t be silly,
boy.”
“All you need do is untie me. Then I’ll get Soren, and
together we’ll take my mother and Mistress Carin – ”
“You’re not going anywhere. Mukhari Ras has decreed
your fate.” Artavash sat on her high couch and leaned back
against the wall. She laid the naked blade of a shortsword
across her lap.
“How can you serve a man like him? H-he is a monster
who kills children!” said Sturm.
“Children die every day,” she said flatly. And with that,
young Sturm saw Artavash for what she was: a heartless
mercenary. Her only loyalty was to her paymaster.
She drained another cupful of wine, the last of many
that evening. “Now, go to sleep.” Artavash slumped over a
pile of pillows. Her hand went slack, and the clay cup rolled
out of it.
Sturm waited until her breathing was soft and regular
before he tried to shift the chair. The stout seat bumped
loudly on the bare stone floor. Sturm froze. Artavash
snorted and buried her face deeper in the satin cushions.
He gazed longingly at the sword Artavash had drawn,
now lying point out on the couch. If he could only reach it!