Mistress of Death Read online

  Mistress of Death

  By

  Jeya Jenson

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mistress of Death

  Copyright (c) 2005 by Jeya Jenson

  Cover art and design (c) 2004 by Marianne LaCroix

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

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  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  Chapter One

  Dria sat naked on the cold floor, legs crossed, elbows splayed to either side of her slender body, palms pressed together. A chill lingered around the edges of the small stone cell, but she did not allow herself to think of the discomfort of the cold seeping into her bones and provoking goose bumps on her pale skin. That would be a weakness beneath her station. It would be human.

  I can’t give in, she silently warned herself. Soon I shall pass beyond this mortal coil…

  Attempting to empty her mind of thoughts regarding the long hours that stretched ahead, she opened her eyes. Because she was permitted no light, only darkness surrounded her, a shroud that mantled her more securely than any cloak. Unlike some, she welcomed the darkness, had embraced the chance to delve into its depths. Her reliance must be on her inner senses, not on physical ones. She was not here to look outward, but inward.

  Just as she was about to fall back into the litanies of meditation, the terrible screams began anew. She sighed, brow wrinkling with consternation and more than a little annoyance. “By the heavens,” she murmured, nearly grinding her teeth in her own frustration. “Are they such cowards that they cannot take a few days of confinement?”

  Since there was no one present to answer her question, she shook her head. At this moment, deep concentration was an impossible thing. The cries of other tormented souls continued to echo up from the depths of the prison, entering through her ears and digging themselves into her mind like worms crawling through damp soil. Some wept abjectly, begging the gods for forgiveness. Others screamed out words that had become less and less coherent as the days passed. Others still had lost the ability of speech, their words just one long stream of babbling nonsense.

  Knowing that it would do her no good to listen to the distant voices, Dria lowered her hands, palms up, to rest on her knees. Straightening her shoulders, she began to breathe out in a slow and steady motion, attempting to relax. The stone under her bare butt was less than comfortable. It was hard to resist the temptation to get up and stretch a little. Underneath her skin was that strange sensation, feeling as though tens of millions of little insects were marching through her veins. Restlessness. She was restless, and her limbs longed to run and jump and dance. Such would do her no good, however. She willed herself to remain absolutely still. She must learn discipline and self-control if she were going to be a worthy acolyte.

  Trying to focus and center her mind, she stared into the darkness, hardly allowing her eyes to blink. The minutes began to tick away, growing into hours as time passed by uncounted. For a long time, the wall in front of her remained a monotonous gray pool. And though she had expected the wall to act as a canvass that would usher in visions of great importance, to her abject disappointment, not a single one manifested.

  How can I see my future if it will not come? she thought, nearing panic.

  Blood going cold, her heart thudded dully in her chest. A lump began to grow in her throat, threatening to steal away her breath. Her mouth opened, but no sound passed her lips. The cries from the other cells grew louder and louder. Punished. She would be punished if she failed. She would not only be cast away from the cult, but she would also be cast out of her family, stripped of rank and turned out. She would be regarded as one dead—or worse, one of the neoni, the nothing people.

  If I beg, she thought wildly, perhaps our lord Xavier will see fit to sacrifice me to the greater glory of blessed Ouroborous. At least then, I could serve our father in some last, useful way.

  The little demons of doubt that had been circling her throughout the long days were suddenly set free in her skull, gnawing at her mind. Their sharp teeth and claws tore deep into the soft tissue of her brain, and their bellies grew fat as they glutted themselves on her self-doubt and fear. They never quite closed in for the kill for then the hunt would be over. No, oh no. They wanted to torment her some more, stalk her.

  A spasm of grief washed over her. She felt caged, locked in and shut out all at the same time. The doubts inside her head would not relent. She fell into a strange terror, too powerful to be abated by mere words of prayer. She had no choice as to her destiny and how she would use her power. That had been decided for her before she was even conceived. And while she felt a tremendous pride about the ceremony that was soon to commence, there was also a strange undercurrent of…fear. She was about to step into a world she’d only been told about, never witnessed with her own eyes. It was true she’d been taught, trained. But one could not know the whole truth until they had experienced it first hand. Her mentors had told her it would be the most joyous day of her life. But their teachings had not managed to stifle the forbidden whispers among the young acolytes, whispers that said it would also be the most painful and terrifying day of her life.

  Remembering the old whispers was weakening her resolve to be strong and brave. For some unknown reason, she could not stay the terrible fear in her soul that manifested itself in her churning stomach.

  The voices from the other cells grew louder. Some were directed towards her. She was well aware that some of the people who shared the dungeon’s cells with her were not doing so willingly. They were imprisoned for defying the teachings of the cult, for daring to question, using their own intellects and speaking their own minds. Some of them persisted in trying to converse with her through the iron bars between the cells, urging her to rethink the dark master she was soon to embrace.

  “How do you know the truth when you have only known one life?” many voices inquired through the long hours. “Can you make a correct choice when you have witnessed only one side? Your eyes will be opened if only you will listen.”

  As much as she wanted to block out words urging betrayal, she presently found herself compelled to listen to the torturous entreaties. They instilled in her an element she’d rarely encountered. Doubt.

  “The Dragon will lead you like a sheep to the slaughter,” the voices continued to warn. “The blood of many will stain your hands, and even that will not be enough.”

  Dria shook her head and buried it in her hands. The struggle inside was so intense that perspiration dotted her forehead. Her mouth felt dry, her head bursting. Feeling as though their words had become a terrible perversion in her soul, as though she were being ripped in half, she attempted to cast the treacherous syllables out of her mind. It was not her place to question the will of the gods. The strength to ask questions and seek answers was not in her nature. She’d always been taught to be subservient, to neither question nor waver in her beliefs. But the splintered words of the disembodied voices around her continued to rise and fall in a persistent drone. Even now, their words li
terally caused her body to tremble.

  Breath catching in spasms, a little sob broke from her lips. “Is this part of the test?” she hissed out, barely daring to raise her voice above a whisper lest the wrong ears hear her. “That I should be so tormented?”

  “Ouroborous is a hungry god,” a single male voice shouted above the others. “When you can not give enough souls, he will take your own.”

  One tear and then another trickled down her cheeks. Confused, bewildered, her skull felt as though it was about to crack and shatter into a thousand shards. Suddenly the palms of her hands felt damp and cold, as though something had reached out of the darkness to touch her. Compelled to turn her head, she believed that she saw bloodied claws reaching for her…black cape, a demonic creature with red eyes glaring out at her from beneath a shadowy hood…

  Throwing up a hand to cover her mouth, Dria collapsed, crumpling to the floor. Close to sobbing yet knowing that would be the worst thing she could do, she kept her own cries stifled behind her hand as her whole body trembled with silent unreleased agony. She was tired, oh so tired. It would be easy to close her eyes. Rest. She desperately wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep.

  I’m so tired… But now was not the time to give into her exhaustion. Surely the end of her imprisonment must be nearing. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she realized with no little despair that in spite of whatever alternate desires she might evince for her future, she was destined to become a part of the legion.

  At my blessing and anointing, I was especially chosen by Xavier himself, she reminded herself.

  The thought seemed to help strengthen her. Repentant, almost martyred, Dria hardened her resolve and wiped away her tears. With new concentration, she got up off the cold floor. Pushing her back against the wall for support, she paused a moment to compose her mind. Refusing to think of the ceremony she must endure, she had a dread premonition that what she was about to do was wrong. But her heart and her emotions told her that she had neither self-choice nor free will at this point. Furthermore, she simply could not continue to fight destiny’s selection because it was not in the nature of her personality nor ultimately that of her soul.

  While she was not altogether satisfied with her rationale, it was the only way she could make sense of her place in this world. She knew that her trial was to be harsher than others were for she was to undergo a threefold transformation. She would go to sacrifice as an innocent maiden, a symbol of the continuation of all life. She would be robed in white, the representation of eternal youth, enchantment and seduction. On the altar of sacrifice, she would give her tender virginity to a priest especially chosen to service her and hopefully to conceive a child. Should his seed successfully be planted in her womb, she would assume her second role, that of Mother. The ripeness of all womanhood would be carried within her. At that time, she would be draped in green, the mark of spring, the richness and renewal of life. Upon the birth of her child, she would be transformed into the Dorcha, or Dark Priestess, for she would take into herself the energies of her own child’s soul. Thereafter she would be one of the Anam-myngh, a thief of souls. Through the rest of her existence, she would need fresh young souls to feed her hunger. The child she birthed must be surrendered to ensure the continuation of her race, sealing her own immortality. She would be complete. Anointed to serve the Dragon, the sacrifice of her first begotten child would prove her courage, faith and belief in the dark god she was to serve. At that time, she would take on the vestments of black, symbol of the night, of death—of resurrection. Many women were chosen. Few were brave enough to complete the three rituals. Fail, and she would herself be surrendered. She would never again bear a child until it was time for her to ascend into the netherworld of the afterlife.

  Chapter Two

  Deep inside the heart of the forbidden-to-outsiders lands, a stealthy figure was a barely discernable blur in the pale wash of moonlight filtering through a strange, almost luminescent mist.

  Close to the ground, his fingers splayed and pressed hard against the gravelly soil was the classically frozen position of the hunter on the prowl. A man in his later twenties, he was clad in tight leather leggings and boots, and a long-sleeved vested shirt overlaid with a simple tunic fashioned of a dark, coarse material and slit up both sides. Around his slender waist was a dagger in its sheath. A second, similar weapon was strapped to his left thigh within easy reach of his hand. Across his back was a heavy broadsword, also at the ready of his hand. His long blond hair was tied away from his face at the nape of his neck with a piece of leather thong. His white teeth showed, in what might have been a smile but was not. His lips were drawn back in a silent but determined growl that he dare not let issue from his throat, lest it reveal his presence to the two men in the distance that he watched through narrowed eyes.

  Men he intended to kill.

  Nostrils distending, his face mirrored the seething thoughts alive in his skull. His was the face of a man with demons riding on his shoulders—a man at the top of his physical resources. The knowledge that his hand would soon bring an end to other men’s lives bothered him not a whit. In Sclyd, the law of this desolate land was to kill or be killed. His fingers clenched harder at the ground.

  Ardan did not plan to die this night.

  Through the many days of travel to reach this place, his body was already beyond exhaustion. Some primeval drive had taken over and his body was no longer its own master. He knew his objective, knew what he had to do and why he had to do it. In simpler words, he was prepared to walk into the maw of hell. What’s more, he expected to emerge alive and unscathed.

  Body taut with anxiety, knees aching from his prolonged crouch, palms riddled and raw from the grind of tiny sharp stones, Ardan held his position. Pain was easy enough to put aside when one’s mind was focused.

  His eyes raked the landscape again, memorizing every detail. The sight sent a wave of righteous hatred and rage coursing through his blood.

  To most eyes, Xavier D’Shagre’s territories appeared to be an inhospitable wasteland, a desolation of enormous skies and acrid nothingness, a land long abandoned and left to linger and wither. But if one looked onward, they almost always learned that they had been misled. It was true that this part of Sclyd was a harsh and bleak land. But it was neither totally hostile nor abandoned. There was water here and no land lacking water is completely wasted. There were mountains and rivers. Less than five miles away, the ever-changing blues and grays of wind-rippled waters were cut into by the smooth dark crowns of cypress and the rich greens of pine trees, even the startling sight of farming acreage, an oasis against the harsh aridity that seemed to creep over much of the land.

  Perhaps the impression that only death inhabited this land came from the great stone wall looming ahead of him, rising out of the low level ground mists to cast a giant shadow. The wall was massive, stretching for miles on end. Seeing it, one knew without doubt that they were soon to enter the territories of the Archpriest. The wall had been erected centuries ago, using slave labor. Built of gray granite quarried by hand and borne by horseback, many lives had been sacrificed in the building of the defensive wall. A diabolical symbol of the sorcerer’s devious inner mind, the wall served as more than a settlement’s fortress. It served as a warning of what would happen to enemies who failed.

  Ardan had been lurking since the twin suns had set, slowly making his way closer to the wall. A panther on the prowl, he knew that entering the forbidden territory could cost him more than his life. It could cost him his soul. But he was willing to take the risk. At this point, he was a man who had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

  Going lower to the ground, he began to slither forward, using elbows and knees to propel his body closer to the targeted area, feeling more sharp rocks biting into his flesh. He maneuvered fast but with stealth, well practiced in the art of moving under an enemy’s eyes. He had to get closer. Guards patrolled this perimeter heavily on foot and horseback. He would have only a few minutes t
o kill these two guards and get his own men past the wall before the corpses were discovered and an alarm sounded. His men, a contingent of thirty, were waiting for his signal. Horses and weapons at the ready, they were a small but fierce fighting band. He doubted the abilities of none. He would trust every single man with his life; indeed, he already had many times, just as he had covered their asses more than once. They were all prepared to die for what they believed in, a collective will that Ouroborous’ legion must be conquered once and forever.

  And if wishes were horses, all men would ride, Ardan thought bitterly.

  The contemplation of large masses of collapsed masonry did not rank among Ardan’s favorite pastime as he slithered among the ruins. It was inconceivable that any ruins anywhere else in Sclyd could match these in the wild, rugged yet somehow breathtakingly beautiful desolation. There were mounds of scattered stone twenty feet high, great ruined pillars that had supported the arches that seemed to reach even higher. Beyond the great wall, which had never really been intended to keep people out but to put fear into them, lay the actual settlement—a city that had literally been carved into the face of low-lying mountains. There were strange paths made into the rock, some natural, some not. Though crippled by war, the city still functioned, the sole purpose of its inhabitants to serve and protect Xavier. By the cold moonlight and surrounded by a blanket of mist, it was a most chilling and awe-inspiring sight.

  Since the last war had wound down to its unsatisfactory conclusion, it had fallen into partial ruin, great portions of it had been knocked down by invading forces. But their efforts had not succeeded in destroying it completely. Still, the wall stood, hulking and immobile, as fierce and defiant as the sorcerer who had commissioned it. The wall of punishment, many called it. Indeed it was, for between the columns and arches still standing were the corpses of those who had been crucified—their bodies nailed to wooden crosses and hung on its face for all to see. Often the victims were alive, but they usually did not survive long. Between the harsh, glacial cold of the winters and the blazing hot summers most succumbed to their injuries within hours. The less fortunate could linger for days, weeks even, their piteous moans and heart wrenching cries for help went unanswered. In Sclyd the gods answered no prayers, gave no mercy. Even after death, the victims were not taken down. Their bodies were left to decay, food for the hungry carrion. A vast vista of bones littered the base of the wall.