His only hope lay in the knife at his belt. His vision was already growing dark around the edges. He didn’t have much time left.
His fumbling fingers found the knife’s hilt. Drawing it, he plunged it deep into Hawk’s belly, working the blade up and into the man’s chest, aiming for the heart. With satisfaction, Mikkan felt the blade slide across bones. That should do it, he thought, trying to push free with the last of his strength.
“You can’t kill me that way,” Hawk said, grinning down at him. “I’m already dead, you see.”
That grinning death mask was the last think Mikkan saw before darkness took him.
Twenty-Three
“Is it plague?” Harlmut asked softly.
That was just what they needed now—an outbreak of disease to kill Hawk and ruin their chance of freeing King Graben. The scullery maids who’d found old Mikkan’s body had fled the kitchens shrieking in terror. It reminded him of his childhood, when the Gray Death had swept through Grabentod, killing one of every three adults and two of every three children. He shuddered.
“No,” Mari said shortly. She and Candabraxis continued to examine the old guard’s body, now stretched out on a table in Candabraxis’s workroom.
“Then what?” he prompted.
“His blood is gone,” Candabraxis said, stepping back and wiping his hands on a clean white cloth. He met Harlmut’s gaze. “But that didn’t kill him.”
“Aye,” Mari said. “He was strangled, sure enough. See these bruise marks on his neck, Regent?”
Harlmut peered at them, then frowned. “Strangled, then his blood removed? How can that be? And why?”
“Magic,” Mari breathed. She glanced at Candabraxis, who nodded curtly.
“There’s no wound on the body to show such blood loss,” the wizard said. “If I didn’t know better, I would say the Hag has begun her revenge.”
“The Hag …” Harlmut felt his fear turn to anger. “Perhaps I should have expected retribution for stealing Hawk from her.”
Candabraxis shook his head. “But there must be another explanation. Yesterday I drew a protective rune around the castle. The magic worked perfectly. It should protect us from outside sorcery. None of the Hag’s minions would be able to pass through the castle gates.”
“Then how do you explain this?” Harlmut indicated the body.
“I don’t know,” Candabraxis said, frowning. “I must study the matter.”
“Do so,” Harlmut said. “Plague or magical attack … this cannot be allowed to happen again.”
Later, in the royal audience hall, Harlmut discussed details of the Hag’s camp with Captain Evann and Orin Hawk. A runner burst into the chamber.
Instantly, Harlmut leapt to his feet. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Sir!” Gasping, the man drew up before him. “A ship—from Drachenward—coming now—”
Harlmut nodded. “I believe,” he said to Hawk, “an ambassador has arrived from your people. Captain Evann, if you’d be so good as to meet him at the docks?”
“Aye, sir,” Evann said with a grin. “That I will.”
His Eminence, Duke Leor of Drachenward, waddled slowly down the gangplank as though he owned Grabentod. That was the only way to enter an enemy state—with all due ceremony. He had little expectation of success here. Nobody in Drachenward’s court believed the mad claim that Grabentod had rescued Orin Hawk from the Hag. After all, Drachenward’s army had been trying for years without success.
Fifteen men-at-arms followed behind him. All wore dress uniforms, but Leor knew their true mission was to protect him. If this were some ruse designed to trap or kill him, they would make Grabentod pay dearly for it.
Leor’s chest gleamed silver and gold with his fifteen medals for military prowess. He had won them forty years ago, in his youth, in various campaigns against goblins, orogs, and neighboring states. At age forty, after his retirement to life in court, he had steadily gained both weight and influence. Now, weighing four hundred pounds, he had the king’s undivided attention. In fact, the king had personally dispatched him to lay these absurd claims to rest.
Leor’s black boots shone with a mirrorlike polish. Every bit of his uniform, from the imperial red pants and shirt to the gold epaulets on his shoulders and the high red-plumed helm, had been neatly pressed, creased, or brushed to optimum effect.
His steady gaze took in the small group of untidy men who had assembled to greet him on the dock. Rabble, all of them. He strode forward, looking to the one in front—a large, barrel-chested man with a short black beard and piercing gray eyes. That had to be their leader, he thought.
“I am Duke Leor,” he announced with a slight bow.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” the man said with a leering grin. “I am Captain Terrill Evann, one of the king’s men.”
“You aren’t the regent?” Leor demanded. Somehow it wasn’t surprising that they didn’t know proper diplomatic protocol.
“No,” Evann said. “Regent Harlmut asked me to meet you and escort you to Castle Graben. Rooms are being prepared for your stay.”
Leor glanced around. No coaches or carriages seemed in evidence. Did they expect him to walk through the streets like a commoner? Well, so be it—the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could get home. Already he hated this little kingdom of pirates.
“Very well,” he said, keeping his tone carefully noncommittal. No sense antagonizing them. If they didn’t know what they were doing, he would use that to his advantage later. “Please, lead the way, sir.”
Without a word, Evann turned and began to hike toward the castle above. Leor’s honor guard fell in around them.
Fifteen minutes later, puffing and near exhaustion, soaked in sweat despite the cold, Leor reached the castle gates. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, and he thought he’d be sick. He struggled to keep his composure. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. He should have asked for a coach. They would have provided one if he’d insisted. It would have been far more dignified than arriving huffing and blotchy-faced.
Evann escorted him to the audience hall, a dingy little room less than a third as large as he’d expected. A thin, pinch-faced man sat on the low throne, waiting for him. Four guards stood in attendance.
“We are pleased to welcome you to Grabentod,” the man said formally. “I bid you welcome to our land in the name of King Graben.”
“On behalf of Drachenward, I accept your welcome,” Leor said, studying the regent. Here, at least, was a man who knew some manners. “I am Duke Leor.”
Harlmut inclined his head slightly. “I am Harlmut, regent for King Graben.” He rose. “Please, let us retire for a more informal meeting. We have refreshments waiting.”
“Ah?” It defied protocol, but Leor wanted a drink very badly right now, and a chair would have been doubly welcome. “Of course,” he murmured. He motioned for two of his men to accompany him.
Harlmut showed them into a smaller room just off the audience chamber. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, and bright tapestries hung on the walls. He took all this in through the briefest of glances, because his eyes had fastened on the table in the center of the room.
There, spread out in a delightful series of artfully arranged platters, were delicacies he normally enjoyed only on the highest holidays in Drachenward. Anuirean summer wines and sweetmeats … truffles from Grevesmühl… oatcakes soaked in syrup from Aerenwe … and a dozen more such treats. He finally selected a small spiced cake and bit into it. Softer than any he’d tasted before, sweet as honey, with a strawberry paste at its center, it sent him into paroxysms of delight.