The Azimar Archives Book One- The Book of Death

Mothlenor

Mothlenor eyed the women and young girls before him. They were battered and bruised. Many looked particularly abused, and he wondered briefly if Ferrand and his men had forced themselves onto more than a few of them during their long trek to the castle. It was the blondes, mostly, that looked the worst. Ferrand had a thing for blondes, it seemed. Their white dresses were tattered and dirty, and every last one of them were missing their precious veils. He could look each one fully in the eyes, and see the terror and anger reflected in them. It had taken quite a bit of effort, and he had lost several members of his King's Guard. But they were here, and he had done it without Hasani, that damned idiot. No matter, Mothlenor thought. He is dead, and his family will join him as soon as they can be found.

"How exactly did you manage to get so many of them to come peacefully?" Mothlenor asked. His voice echoed oddly around the stone walls of the dungeon.

Ferrand answered, watching the gathered Coven with his one good eye. "We got a bit lucky, and found the nursery." Ferrand's words were oddly slurred, and Mothlenor had to fight to keep the disgust from his face when Ferrand stepped to stand beside him.

"The nursery?" Mothlenor was intrigued.

"Where they kept all the babes and the youngest brats. All snug in their cribs." Ferrand replied, gloating.

Mothlenor watched Navara, and her clouded eyes pinched in a furious glare. But she said nothing. "Go on." He prompted.

"We told them that if they didn't stop with fighting us, we'd kill every darling in there." Ferrand crooned. "So they stopped fighting, and let us put those iron cuffs you spelled on them. They worked wonderfully, by the way. We haven't had any trouble from any of them while those cuffs have been on." Mothlenor only nodded, waving a hand for Ferrand to continue. He was sure the cuffs would work, but it was always nice to be commended for his work. "Then we loaded them all up into the wagons, locked them in, and killed the babes anyway." Ferrand sneered at the women before him, but none of them made a sound.

Mothlenor was irked at the idea of children so young being murdered. But they were Coven children, he reminded himself. He took a second look around the room, and noticed that even the youngest girl in the room was still old enough to be bedded. Barely.

"I've asked the Commander here to collect all of you so that you might pay for your crimes against my brother, the late King Areanath. You have been found guilty of-"

"Stop with the lies, Mothlenor." Navara cried. "You've had us brought here so that you can kill us all. We should have expected something like this from you, but then we can't see our own futures, can we?" Navara sneered up at him, the effect strengthened by her eerie dead eyes locking onto to his. "I suppose you already knew that, didn't you?" She suddenly spat at the ground, missing his foot by inches. She clung to the young woman beside her for balance, teetering slightly as she straightened. "Just say your worst and be done with it, you monster."

Mothlenor felt his temper flare up, but months of dealing with Nevina had given him the chance to grow accustomed to witches, and he kept his anger in check. "Very well. I'm offering you the chance for freedom, but this will be your only opportunity to accept. Either join me, and help me find a way to reverse the curse my brother has cast..." He paused, staring into Navara's eyes. "Or die down here, in the dungeons. Your choice. You have ten seconds."

There was an instant uproar, but it seemed to consist only of curses and threats thrown at him. There was no arguing amongst themselves, only outrage at his offer. He waited, counting down the seconds silently. Without a word, he turned, content to leave them all down there in the filth and the dark.

"Wait!"

He turned, searching the crowd for the one who had spoken up. They were all quiet now, stunned into silence.

"I'll go with you." It was the woman supporting Navara. Mothlenor recognized her as the same woman who had come with Navara to his study weeks before. She was young and thin, her brown hair tangled and dirty.

"Anna, no! You can't!" Navara clung frantically to the woman, but she freed herself from the witches claws.

"I'm sorry, Matriarch. But I'm not ready to die." She stepped away from the rest of the women, standing timidly beside him.

"Anyone else?" He paused, waiting, but the room was silent. "Very well." He turned and left, the woman hurrying behind him.

Once Ferrand and his men had left the room and shut the door, Mothlenor turned to his commander. Ferrand's face was still red and oozing, despite the weeks that had passed. And no amount of time, and no potion or spell could fill the hollow where his left eye had been. The sight of Ferrand angered Mothlenor, not only because half of his face looked like half chewed meat, but because he had somehow managed to let a dead man get away.

Mothlenor snarled at Ferrand, "Bar the door, nail it shut, and don't open it again until the smell reaches the floor above." He didn't wait for Ferrand to reply, and instead took the woman by the elbow and began leading her through the maze of tunnels to the castle above. "Anna, was it?"

"Y-yes," the woman stammered.

"Yes, my King." Mothlenor corrected.

"Yes, my King," Anna repeated, more forcefully.

"Can you See?"

"No." Anna shook her head, then quickly added. "My King."

Mothlenor frowned. He should have specified that he only wanted Gifted women, but it was too late to toss her back in with the others. "That's too bad."

"I'm Ungifted, but I am skilled in the arcane."

Mothlenor stopped, turning to Anna with an eyebrow raised. "How skilled? Show me."

Anna lifted her cuffed hands for him to see. "I can't..."

With barely a flick of his wrist, one of the cuffs fell open. "Show me."

Anna snapped the fingers of her free hand, and fire lit upon her fingertips. With a gentle wave of her hand, the fire writhed into the shape of a small bird, which then flitted from her fingertips to soar through the air around them. Mothlenor watched it for a moment, amused. Then with a wave of his own hand, the dark shape of a dragon's head emerged from the shadows the conjured bird cast on the wall, and with a silent snap of its jaws, the bird disappeared. Anna gasped, seeming very young for a moment, but Mothlenor only smiled down at her.

"Very good. You might be useful after all."

Anna gave him a small smile, which quickly disappeared when Mothlenor wrapped his hand around her wrist and snapped the cuff shut again. He took her by the hand, pulling her gently along beside him. "How old are you, Anna?"

"F-fifteen, my King."

So young, and so afraid. But there would be time to show her that he could be a generous man.

"What do you know about curses, Anna?"