Court of Treachery (Empire of Blood and Malice #2)

1. Dimitri

1

DIMITRI

T he stench of carrion on the warm, moist air clogged Dimitri’s nostrils. Dimitri took shallow breaths through his mouth to avoid the worst of it. He resisted the urge to flinch away from the denizens prowling around them, darting forward and back to test the boundaries. Dimitri and Saradon turned with them, never revealing their backs to the scavengers surrounding them. The threat of their elven power kept the goblins at bay.

Saradon seemed unperturbed by the nature of their hosts. He stood tall and uncowed by the numbers that faced them, unbothered by the shrill chatter that echoed around the caves. It peppered their ears with harsh clicks and guttural shrieks that Dimitri wished he could silence, because they grated on his very bones. His head pounded. But it would not do to offend the goblin horde, for Saradon had brought him here to seek their help.

Dimitri wished he had never mentioned them. Never fed Saradon the information that they massed in rebellion against the dwarven kingdom of Valtivar. He had meant to seed instability in Tournai, not inspire Saradon to seek a new ally. They were even worse in person than he had feared, and for the first time, he wondered how any of the reports had ever made it back, for the goblins were not shy about their murderous intent.

How could these creatures be an ally? More importantly, how would they, a strife-loving species, bring a peaceful vision for Pelenor? Misgivings lurked in Dimitri’s mind, but he pushed them aside.

At the subtle beckon of Saradon’s curling finger, Dimitri stepped forward, bearing the small chest. A bribe. It had been easy to take from the king’s horde unnoticed, so trivial it was to Toroth. But the goblins’ shrieks intensified at the sight as he flipped the lid back to reveal a nest of cut and polished gems. Immediately, it was snatched from his grasp by warm and unpleasantly clammy hands. Knobby calluses and broken nails scraped across his skin in their haste. Dimitri clenched his jaw and forced himself to slowly lower his hands to his sides. He longed to recoil and cleanse himself, his skin crawling with the ghost of their touch.

Squabbling amongst themselves to touch the stones and carry the chest, they hauled it to the goblin pascha , their leader, biting and clawing each other out of the way. Torn, dark rags of mismatched leathers, skin, and furs fluttered about them as they fought. Like so much else of theirs, it seemed cobbled together with whatever scraps they found or took, having no protection against the seeping cold of the stone underfoot.

Dimitri wondered fleetingly how they coped, scrabbling around barefoot, before realising that he cared not—he just wanted to leave. It took four of them to lift the chest, so bowed and stunted were they. If they stood tall, they would have come to Dimitri’s chest. Their advantage laid in numbers and feral abandon, not in training or strength.

These goblins were bigger than the tikrit , the lowest goblins of all. Those thigh-high creatures hovered around the fringes of the gathering, as was their place, too lowly and puny to dare enter the presence of the pascha .

The pascha hissed with anticipation, showing his filed, yellowing teeth. “Ssssssspeak,” he growled as he scooped up handfuls of gems and let them flow through his splayed fingers. He spoke the Common Tongue with difficulty, as if his mouth struggled to form itself around the words. His sibilant voice echoed, and the host around them quieted at his orders, their attention shifting to Dimitri and Saradon. Shadows flickered on the wall, thrown by the huge pyre in the centre of the cave. It was a constant grotesque dance, the host’s shadows cavorting behind them, each form distorted on the rough-hewn stone.

Dimitri stirred and inclined his head, though not too much. The goblins needed no opportunity to think he and Saradon were weak or subservient. “Announcing Lord Saradon Ettrias Thelnar of House Ravakian.”

Hisses arose and the frenzy around them intensified, until a glare from Saradon and a guttural bark from the pascha silenced them.

“I know that name,” said the pascha . He bared his teeth at Saradon. “It cannot be. He is dead.”

“I was never dead,” Saradon said and stalked forward. He spread his hands wide and turned in a slow circle, inviting them all to look at him. “I am Lord Saradon, and I will take my dues. I bring my blade, as proof of my claim.” Saradon drew his sword with a metal hiss, holding it high. The slim, river-steel blade shimmered with its own glow in the dark cavern, and the ruby pommel blazed with a bloody light. The instant outcry of shrieking and chattering confirmed that the goblins indeed knew the legend of his blade that, before he had come to wield it, had slain many of their kind in the hands of his forefathers. “You will help me, and I will raise you from this pitiful hole in the ground to where you desire.”

The chatter crescendoed around them, the undercurrent of energy shifting from hostility to a thrill at the sight of that blade. Dimitri snuck a glance around the cave. It was much as their underground passage had been. Once great, carved, dwarven halls under the hills ruined by the vermin now inhabiting them. Pristine carvings had been battered and chipped away until they were unrecognisable, and the walls ran red with daubed blood. Whose, Dimitri did not care to dwell on.

The dwarves had abandoned it, albeit reluctantly, with the ebb and flow of their race’s dominion over the land as they chased the seams of mineral riches through the mountains. The goblins had been only too eager to seize the location and strip it of any association with its former masters. The dwarves had closed ranks to defend their remaining strongholds, abandoning the occasional tunnel network or spent mine.

The goblin’s location was but a small part of the dwarven realm of Valtivar, but the rift between the races ran deep. Ever had the goblins loved the caves and fought the dwarves for control of their territory. Inexorably, with their failure to present a unified force, and instead fractured by infighting amongst clans, they had been pushed back and, as in the case of the tikrit, enslaved by the dwarves for their own ends.

It was the only incentive Saradon could offer that they would have been tempted by. He had chosen wisely, as much as Dimitri disagreed.

The pascha bared his teeth in a feral smile. “You will take Valtivar with us?” Dimitri saw the greedy gleam in his eyes at the prospect.

“We will. After you help me take Tournai,” Saradon clarified. His tone was dark with the threat of revenge for those who had wronged him. Dimitri felt it, too. “As it should have been five hundred years ago, so it will be now. I will rule Pelenor. You may have Valtivar. I care not for the dwarves. Do what you will with their strongholds.”

Dimitri stiffened. He could not have heard him correctly. Why would Saradon make such a generous offer, one that involved the fall of their own, most desired kingdom? Surely Saradon would not ally Pelenor with their historic enemies.

The pascha clicked, hissed, and chattered in his strange tongue to his chieftains, who lurked behind him. They were all dressed in the finest garbs, taken and re-shaped from dwarves, men, and even elves, judging by the patterns on their robes. Dimitri swallowed his distaste.

“We will consider it,” the pascha said eventually. “Leave us.”

To Dimitri’s surprise, Saradon did not challenge the lack of respect, but turned on his heel without a further word and strode out, Dimitri quick to follow. Tikrit bounded through the wide halls, close enough to snatch at their heels, though they did not dare to, scattering away on all fours as soon as they got too close. The goblin-kin surrounded them, stampeding down the halls in chaos.

Saradon refused to be hurried. Dimitri matched his confident stride through the seething mass of bodies. Dimitri could bear the moist, fetid, rotting air no longer. It pressed down upon him like a physical force. As the first caress of outside air touched his cheek, he hurried forward until they burst through the shattered dwarven doors into the cool night air to breathe in deep, fresh breaths.

A heartbeat later, they raced side by side through the ether of the world. Dimitri had been unsurprised to learn that Saradon could travel as he did, unseen through the shadows of the world’s essence. Little surprised him about Saradon now… except his deal with the goblins. Had Saradon learned his skills at the same hands as Dimitri? Hands teaching arcane ways in a secret order that did not exist? One that had inspired Dimitri’s own dreams of defiance and creating a new order, but one that, in the end, he had been desperate to escape.

As they stopped, stepping from the void into Dimitri’s chambers in Tournai, the royal city of Pelenor, Dimitri turned to Saradon. “Lord Saradon, you cannot be serious about dealing with such…” He could not find a word that fit how lowly and scum-like the goblins were, how beneath either of their notice. This was not the new order he wanted to create.

Saradon barked with laughter as he grabbed a crystal tumbler and helped himself to the contents of Dimitri’s finest drink before he answered. “They are a means to an end. Fear not, Dimitrius.” Saradon sank onto a couch before the roaring fire, then beckoned for Dimitri to join him.

Dimitri drew closer but did not sit.

“For now, I must take my allies where I find them. And it will do us good to sow fear and discord. If the king thinks I have united the goblins against him, he shall hesitate in his own machinations. Yet the common people who know we act for them will be unperturbed by it.”

“You hope.”

Saradon shrugged. “It will be what it will be. No one will know of our involvement with the goblins until such time as it befits us. All Toroth will know is that his empire is threatened from within and without.” Saradon smiled at the prospect.

“What of afterward? After Toroth is gone and Pelenor is at peace? To what end does it serve us to have such bloodthirsty, unpredictable, hostile neighbours?”

“They shall not be hostile if we are allied with them. Of that you can be sure. Besides…” Saradon smiled a wolfish grin. “Who said they had a place in my peaceful lands?”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow. “You will betray them?”

Saradon shrugged. “Whatever it takes to ensure peace—for all lands. If there are even any goblins left after the battles ahead are won.”

Dimitri paused in thought, but he could not see how Saradon could ensure, by agreement or force, the goblins kept peace. He had a sneaking suspicion Saradon meant a far worse fate for the goblins. Would they decimate themselves for his cause? He could not see it. As much as Dimitri could not deny he would gladly see them eliminated, it niggled at his conscience. This was not the vision he sought to build. He was not so na?ve as to think that compromises would not need to be made—after all, nothing could be gained without sacrifice—but would it really require the alliance of such unsavoury creatures and the sacrificing of his principles to succeed?

“Do you think the pascha will accept your proposal?” Dimitri asked eventually.

Saradon’s response was instant. “Without a doubt.”

“And if they do not?” Dimitri’s voice was brittle. So much was at stake. Too much to trust creatures such as the goblins.

Saradon’s sly smile curled up once more. “A willing subject is far more biddable, but whichever way they choose, they shall serve me.”

A prickle ran down Dimitri’s spine. Saradon would bind the goblins to him using dark magics if they did not choose to serve him. It could not be so. Dimitri had seen the visions of a green and pleasant Pelenor, prosperous and free from corruption. This did not match that.

“Surely the moral goal of our crusade will be enough,” Dimitri suggested, keeping his tone light. “We do not need to bind others to our cause through force.”

Saradon almost snorted out his fine wine. “You would trust a goblin’s conscience? Come now. Do not be a fool. I am not na?ve enough to hope for such things. I was foiled once before—I shall not see it done again. I will do anything it takes to succeed, and I shall take no risks, for there will not be a third chance.” Saradon stood, drained the crystal glass, and nodded to Dimitri as he set it upon the table. “Return to court, Lord Ellarian. We both have work to do.” With that, Saradon vanished into the ether.

For a long while, Dimitri stared at the spot where Saradon had stood, as the flames died in the fire before him and the lamps burned out, wondering at Saradon’s plans—and what he did not know of them.

That evening, King Toroth’s unceasing tirade at Raedon, master and general of the Winged Kingsguard, continued. Dimitri slunk back into the shadows, for it would not do to catch the king’s ire himself. Raedon’s hunched shoulders and bowed head said he had long given up on trying to protest his position.

Dimitri smirked. He had foisted blame upon the Kingsguard for the Dragonhearts’ disappearance. It would only appear so. The Kingsguard had faced Aedon and his companions in the vaults yet failed to stop them. To his relief and glee, Dimitri had not been connected to any of it. To the disappearance of the Dragonheart—or to Harper’s vanishing. In the king’s ire, he had quite forgotten about her. Dimitri pushed away the ache that sat in his chest at the thought of Harper. The one that told him how painfully vulnerable he was to the threat of her allure. How she had challenged and fought and excited him—and how she could have damned him. She was gone. She could not incriminate him. That was what mattered, he told himself firmly.

The king had seized the first poor fool he could punish for the loss of his greatest treasures. For Raedon, general of the Kingsguard and the most fearsome warrior in the king’s service, the failure and the punishment were his to bear—and Dimitri shouldered none of it. Dimitri did not know what the king would do to Raedon, so angry was he, nor did he care. Raedon was an even bigger ass than his brother, Aedon, the king’s former golden boy. Maybe Toroth will exile Raedon, too , he thought hopefully. Mind, there would only be another jumped-up, arrogant prick to fill his place. There always was when it came to falling in and out of the king’s fancy.

Toroth’s face reddened and spittle flew from his mouth as he stormed around the room, gesticulating wildly with vicious jabs of his fingers. “ Get out !” he thundered. Raedon, after the briefest of bows, fled. Dimitri melted farther into the darkness. He did not wish to be the king’s next victim.

Only Dimitri knew what had truly happened. That Aedon had burned through the stolen pile of Dragonhearts, using up their stores of magic to save his companions until only two were left in their possession—the one they had stolen to cure the village’s sickness, and the one he had taken to raise Saradon. The rest remaining in the compromised vault had been removed and taken somewhere so secure, Toroth would tell no one of it.

Dimitri suppressed a grudging respect for Aedon and his ability to control such magics. He had tenacity, that was certain, and was resourceful, but Dimitri still resented that life had bestowed such powerful capabilities and privilege on Aedon.

No one knew Dimitri had let Aedon and his companions walk free, either. Why had he done it? If he were being honest with himself, it was because of her . Harper. He had allowed himself to grow overly familiar until compassion stung him. Nothing would have pleased him more than to abandon Aedon to his fate, but she had stopped him. Stopped him even thinking of it.

For a moment, he saw the tall, winged Aerian warrior, Aedon’s companion, standing on the parapet before him, with Harper clutched in a burly arm. Exhausted, afraid, yet defiant. Her eyes wide, but the set of her mouth so determined as she stared him down. He still thought of her more than was good for him. Who she was in all of this. There was no chance it could be coincidence, but with the work yet to do, he could not dwell on it. All the same, he regretted not keeping a watch on her. Now she was… heavens knew where.

Dimitri pushed away all thoughts of her, Aedon, and his band of outlaws, and allowed himself to savour the moment, and the maturation of his plans and long-held wishes to topple the establishment. All the moving parts were about to align. He allowed himself a smug grin.