The Rivals Ch. 05: Orgy of Death

Author's note: This is the final chapter in the tale of Avilia and Sligh. Like the four chapters before, it's self-contained. Important events from earlier instalments are explained, so you don't need to have read the other chapters to understand what's going on.

Thanks to everyone who's read the stories. I hope you've enjoyed reading them as much as I've enjoyed writing them.

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Prologue: Bloodmark

This early in the morning, in this polite part of the city, the street was quiet. A slight chill hung in the spring air, as if winter was clinging on with cold fingers.

Sligh made his way swiftly to the tenement where he'd rented an apartment. The sounds of pursuit hadn't followed him beyond the great park. Likely, the soldiers were still searching for him there, or even in the black mausoleum.

Preparation, he thought to himself with a smile. Assume everything will go wrong, and plan how to move forward anyway. The chance of discovery had been an eventuality that he'd planned for. He couldn't have foreseen what had brought the searching soldiers into the park in the end -- the screams of a ghost reaching her climax -- but he'd brought enchantments to lead them astray, to disappear before their eyes, to glide through the air like a whisper of wind.

Costly, those charms had been, but he hadn't regretted using them. The bag with half the loot from the mausoleum was safely hidden. He didn't need money right away, and he could leave the gold and silver and gems where they were until the robbery was long forgotten.

At least, he corrected himself, he could if Avilia agreed. Half of the loot was hers, just as half the loot in her saddlebags was his.

Avilia was in fact the reason for his rapid pace. His own safety wasn't in doubt. Hers was.

He wondered, as he had several times already, where she was. He'd seen the two nameless rocs take off from the park surrounding the mausoleum, and the royal guard flying after. And then a third roc, Farflier, had launched into the air and sped away.

He didn't wonder whether Avilia was alive. The blow she'd taken to the head was a nasty one, and she'd been badly hurt. But he had to assume that she was safe, on her way to someplace where she could recover. They'd find each other.

Instead, he let his mind linger on the night's other events. It was clear now, beyond dispute, that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Not just from when she'd finished him off after Ispara's ghost had vanished, leaving him on the brink of his climax. No, it was most obvious from the way she'd flirted with him.

He recalled how she'd sucked on his ear. How her fingers had rested on his hand whenever they stood together. How she'd kissed him before he returned to the mausoleum to retrieve the last of the loot.

By the Skies, but just remembering was making him hard again. He needed to find her as soon as possible, to make sure she was alright -- and to spend a month fucking her if she was.

He reached the door of his tenement and opened it with a key he'd never used. He'd only been here once before, back when he first arrived in Arnhol. The apartment was rented under a different name than he'd used at the Priory. When he closed the door and started up the stairs, he left outside any trace of the man who'd robbed the Archduke's mausoleum.

His rooms were at the end of the corridor on the uppermost floor. Another unused key opened the door and he stepped inside. He knew instantly that someone was there.

"You should know better..." he began, then stopped.

A light appeared in the blackness. Not a lamp, not a glowstone. Magelight. It hung in the air, illuminating a robed figure.

"Perhaps I should," a woman's voice spoke from beneath the heavy cowl. "Still, it seemed worth the risk."

Sligh closed the door behind him. Caught unaware, unprepared, he had little chance of escaping from a sorcerer. "May I sit? It's been a long night."

"I'm sure it has." The woman moved aside, and he sat at the long table. The lamp stood where he'd left it all those months ago, with a small flask of oil beside it. He busied himself lighting it, then reached behind him for one of the bottles lying on the shelf.

"I have only one cup," he apologised as he poured himself a measure. "I wasn't prepared for company."

With the oil lamp burning, the woman let the magelight disappear. She stood silent, watching him from beneath her hood. He tried to ignore her and savour the warm liquid as it burned its way down his throat and into his gut.

This was one thing he hadn't planned for. Well, not beyond his usual paranoia. Did I miss any clues? he wondered. Was I so wrapped up in my smugness and thoughts of Avilia that I just walked into a trap?

He took another sip and went over every step of the way from the park to the tenement -- the advantage of having a well-trained memory. Nothing. There had been nothing to warn him that a sorceress was waiting for him here.

He looked up as she shifted impatiently. Mistake, mage. You're supposed to be in charge of the situation. He decided to make it count. "Sorry, I nearly forgot you were here. Please, sit. I'm sure you've had a long night too."

She stiffened at that. With the lamp burning, he could see that beneath the heavy cloak her form was slim. Her voice had sounded young, and she'd spoken with precise accents. Upper end of society. The very top. Now, who do I know of that fits-- Skies! Her?

She started talking again. "You are no doubt wondering how I found you. It should be obvious. I know everything about you. I know, for instance, that you have been calling yourself Brene here in Arnhol -- except to rent this apartment, of course."

If she'd thought to surprise him she'd be disappointed. That was the least she'd know about him. No, she's trying to take back control. He let her continue. It was always good to let the other person do the talking.

"Before that, you were Goodman Pover. Seducer of the wealthy ladies of Strolmund." Her tone made it clear what she thought of that practice. Her disgust was perhaps a little overstated though, Sligh thought. Is someone tired of the constraints of court life? he wondered. He also wondered whether this might provide him with an opening.

He sat and watched her. From the shift of her shoulders he could tell she was building up towards a momentous announcement. He wasn't disappointed.

"But your real name," she leaned forward over the table, "your real name is Mezler, Master of the University in good standing -- or you were. Tell me, have you thought about the Lady Lesla lately? It's Duchess Lesla now, you know. Imagine what might have been."

He raised his eyebrows, then deliberately let his gaze slide from her face to linger on her chest. A small smile on his face was all it took to send her back upright. He ignored her remarks about his real name. They were wrong, anyway.

"Duchess, you say?" He hadn't heard that news. Old Gharre must have died quite recently. The Duke had survived the assault on Elring Castle, and managed to force a truce with Zuellen. "How did that happen?"

"Her father... passed away. Quite the ambitious young woman, Lesla has become. And you could have been her consort, if you had played your cards right."

Another clue, if he'd needed one. His affair with Lesla wasn't common knowledge. Even Gharre hadn't found out until it was too late. "Oh well," he replied. "But perhaps I had my sights set higher." He looked at her with all the calm he could muster. "An Archduke's granddaughter. An Emperor's cousin. A--"

She gave a sudden hiss. A hand came up, red flames dancing across the fist. "How did--?"

"Wrong question, Princess." He didn't know what the right question was, but he was firmly in control now. He rose, poured himself another measure and began to stride around the small room, ignoring the threat. After a moment the flames went out and she lowered her hand.

"Let's play your game," Sligh began. "You are Princess Terena. Your friends call you Tella. You are Archduke Nemez's only granddaughter, through his first wife. And here you are, calmly talking to the man who tried to rob his mausoleum." No point in admitting that he'd succeeded. Unless the Prior inspected the tomb and pointed out the hidden passages, no-one would know he and Avilia had plundered the shrine of Nemez's second wife.

The sorceress -- Princess Terena -- seemed at a loss. Even with the hood of her robe still covering her face, Sligh could tell she was floundering. He went on.

"Talking, not dragging me off in magical chains. So you want something from me. I take it you heard about me from Lesla. Very well, take off that robe and we'll fuck."

That wasn't what she wanted, of course, but it was another seed planted in case he needed it. And to admit that he didn't know why she was here would mean handing control back to her.

As he'd expected, she stiffened and took half a step back. "You are disgusting! How Lesla could ever--"

"Very well, then you want me for politics." That was always a safe bet. "And you call me disgusting?"

Her shoulders didn't quite slump, but it was clear that the fight was slipping out of her. Sligh wasn't really surprised, and in a way he felt sorry for the girl. She'd been clever to track him, and must have been proud. But she'd been outmanoeuvred, and she seemed to know it.

"Sit," he told her, trying to sound kind. "Have a swig from the bottle and tell me what you want. Who knows, maybe I'll decide to help you after all, without any threats."

As soon as he spoke the words he knew that now the mistake was his. Her head came up sharply. "You will help. Because if you don't, I'll feed you to your precious riding-lizard. And then I'll send it to the Arena for the Death Games."

Cursing inwardly, Sligh took a gulp from his mug. He might be able to escape from this sorceress, or seduce her into letting him go. But if she knew about Zretha, if she was prepared to harm her... He'd do whatever Terena wanted, as long as his lizard was in danger.

He watched numbly as she unfastened her cloak and threw it over the back of a chair. Dark hair spilled loose. "Since we are no longer dissembling, I can remove this. I am, as you guessed, Princess Terena, granddaughter of Archduke Nemez." She sat gracefully.

Beneath the heavy garment she wore a slim-fitting dress of dark blue that clung to the full bosom, the slim waist. The skirts were split, Sligh noticed, for ease of movement. Intricate patterns were picked out in silver -- real silver, he suspected -- along the narrow sleeves and across the bodice. Here and there he saw the shimmer of an exotic jewel.

Her face was beautiful, in an artificial way. The shape was perfectly symmetrical, the caramel skin was perfectly smooth, the lips, the nose, the brows were all perfectly shaped. The best that magic and the wealth of an Archduchy can buy, Sligh thought to himself. Presumably the body under the dress was just as perfect. It was about as erotic as a Second Empire vase. Less, to a scholar with an interest in the Early Empires.

A slender hand reached for the bottle, a cool eye inspected it. Then she lifted it to bright red lips and took a swig. Sligh's eyebrows shot up. Not such a dainty little girl after all, it seems.

He watched as she placed the bottle back on the table, then he decided to sit on the final chair. She glanced at him, contempt clear in her gaze, then began to talk.

"Today my grandfather's tomb will be sealed, to keep out graverobbers." Her thoughts on that ancient profession were apparent from the sneer in her tone. "In a week's time, the Council of Electors will meet in Taridhol, in the Imperial Palace, to decide who to put forward to succeed him. They will present their choice to the Emperor, who always follows their recommendation. By rights, it should be my mother, and my brother after her. No, I am not interested, even if the Electors could be persuaded to choose a mage."

Sligh could understand that. Spell-slingers tended to be distrusted. Their usefulness was never denied, and most rulers had one as an adviser. Even so, ever since the collapse of the Fourth Empire a stink of corruption had clung to anything involving magic. That was one reason why he kept his own dabblings private.

"But my grandfather married a second time. A scheming harlot, called Ispara. He doted on her, and she betrayed him."

Sligh could have told her differently, but he didn't. Ispara in death couldn't wait for old Nemez to join her. True, her ghost had been easily fooled, but her feelings had seemed genuine.

Terena took another drink from the bottle, smaller this time. Keep drinking, Sligh silently encouraged her.

"Ispara had a son. My grandfather was overjoyed, of course. A son, and at his age! He named him after himself, refusing to believe that she'd been lying with other men, that she was foisting a cuckoo onto him." Terena shrugged. "Like I said, he doted on her, and was pleased to have a son. What he expected that to bring him I could not say. He was too old even then to teach the boy to ride a pony."

"How old is the younger Nemez now?"

She glared at him. "He recently turned twenty. My uncle, he claims, though a handful of years my junior. He is despicable."

"But he's a rival for the Council's nomination, is that it? You think he's despicable, but others find him charming, capable, handsome. It sounds like he and I have a lot in common. And others see him as a suitable candidate for the Archducal seat."

The look in her eyes was venomous. "He has wealth. He has bought votes. And yes, he has charm, at least superficially. He uses people. He would be an awful Archduke."

"And this is where I come in," Sligh interjected. "Politics, as I suspected. You want me to make sure the Electors vote the right way. And you're giving me a week to get to Taridhol and arrange it?"

But she was shaking her head. "The Council of Electors would resent the interference, and if it came back to me my mother would suffer. No, what I want from you, what you need to do so that your lizard doesn't die screaming in the sands of the Arena," she leaned forward, bright eyes fixed on his, "you need to kill the bastard."

He almost gaped. He'd killed before, when it was inevitable, a matter of life and death. But assassinate someone? A person, living and breathing, full of life and hopes and dreams and family and friends, all ending on his blade at the whim of an ambitious noblewoman?

"You can't make me." His voice was hoarse. "You--"

"Oh, but I can." There was a triumphant look in her eyes now. Triumphant, and gleeful. Her hand shot out suddenly, fingertips together, and pressed into his chest.

A dull pain spread through him, emanating from where her fingers touched him. His eyes widened as he realised what she was doing, and he tried to pull away. His body refused to respond to his mind's urgent commands, though, and all he could do was stare down.

A dark red glow pulsed once, twice, three times before seeping from Terena's fingers into his chest. It gave one final pulse, then slowly faded, and Terena withdrew her hand.

"A bloodmark," Sligh managed in a whisper.

"So you recognise it." She seemed amused. "That saves me the trouble of explaining. All you need to know is that either Nemez dies by the morning of the Election, or you do."

I. A journey through desolation

South and east of Arnhol, beyond the carefully cultivated estates, a vast empty countryside separated the city from its larger cousin, the Imperial capital of Taridhol. Farmland gave way to scrubby woodland, which in turn became a featureless plain before rising to meet the foothills of the Trada mountains.

It was a lawless country, despite being so close to the centre of power. Successive rulers had sent soldiers into the wasteland to keep the road clear, with only limited success, and no lasting effect. The patrols returned to their barracks, leaving behind them corpses impaled on stakes and swinging from makeshift gibbets, and immediately the vacuum was filled with new robbers, rapists and murderers.

Travel across the plain was rare, as a result, and limited to the old Third Empire road that ran as straight as possible between the hills and crags. It was a venture usually reserved for units of soldiers and heavily-guarded caravans. A pair of travellers astride an eight-legged riding lizard for instance would raise eyebrows, although the words being muttered seemed to fit right in.

"Fuck you, Sligh." The woman was slim, with short, spiky hair and an angry look on her face. Her hands were staying conspicuously away from the short spear strapped to the saddle by her leg, and from the bow-shaped sheath slung on her other side. "Fuck you for dragging me into this mess. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

The man she was talking to was sitting behind her, leaning casually against the tall back of the saddle. He seemed unaffected by the woman's words, and by her anger. He gazed calmly over her shoulder at the half-score men and women arrayed before them, shabbily dressed but armed with spears, axes and bows.

"No-one made you come," he replied softly. "I appreciate your company, Avilia, but--"

"Shut up, won't you?" she hissed back. "We're going to die here, and you're going on about appreciation. Fuck you, Sligh, fuck you!"

A short, wide-shouldered woman with iron-grey hair and a scarred cheek stepped forward from the rank standing across the ancient road. "If the two of you are quite done, how about you climb down from that great monster and hand us your belongings? No-one wants any unpleasantness."

"Unpleasantness?" Avilia spat back. "You're going to rape us and kill us, and you don't want any unpleasantness?"

The other woman gave an evil leer. "It won't be unpleasant for us. Now, let's start by you throwing down your weapons."

Avilia glared back, her mind racing. Perhaps she could reach the pair of heavy daggers strapped to Sligh's thighs--

Sligh spoke up, interrupting her thoughts. "How about you step aside," he called, loud enough for the whole group to hear, "and let us continue on our way? No unpleasantness for anyone."

The bandits' leader stared, then glanced over her shoulder at her band. "You hear this one? He wants to spare us the unplea--"

Sligh's hands gave a twitch on the reins and suddenly the great riding-lizard shot forward. The woman's cry of surprise mingled with Avilia's, before cutting off abruptly as she was trampled beneath four rows of sharp claws.

"Left, Zretha!" Sligh called as men and women scattered before her. The lizard's long tail whipped to the side, smashing into the chest of a man with a raised bow. He flew back until he hit a boulder and collapsed in a heap, his spine at an unnatural angle.

Then Zretha was through the line, bowling bandits aside as if they were nothing. One woman was caught under her claws and was dragged along for a dozen paces before her bloody body finally fell free.

Avilia found herself pressed against Sligh's chest from Zretha's forward surge, but her anger at him was forgotten. She'd seen the riding-lizard's speed once before, but she was stunned and exhilarated by her acceleration and power, her casual strength.

In moments the remaining bandits were left behind, together with the cries of their surprise, fear and agony. A lone arrow arched up, but it fell short of Zretha's dust.

Avilia's heart pounded in her chest. Nothing could compare to the feeling of soaring high above the ground on Farflier's back, of course, but the encounter had left her with a new appreciation of the giant riding-lizard.

The ground flashed beneath the clawed feet, feeling only inches away. She could see blood, and even a piece of flesh, where Zretha had caught the bandit woman. The wind was cool in her face, warmer than it was when she was on Farflier's back but similar nonetheless. She felt it against her teeth as her lips drew back in a fierce grin.