Princeps’ Fury

“Sixscore?” asked the Vord queen. “Too slow.”

Lady Aquitaine nodded. “Brencis,” she said, “it’s time for you to tell me how the collaring is accomplished.”

Brencis closed his eyes. His body tensed and twisted again, though this time it was obviously not in pleasure. His face twisted into a grimace, and he said, through gritted teeth, “I. Will. Not.”

“Brencis,” Lady Aquitaine chided, “you’re going to hurt yourself. Tell me.”

The young man ground his teeth and said nothing. A trickle of blood suddenly coursed down from one nostril.

Lady Aquitaine did not move for a long second. Then she rose, and said, calmly, “Very well. Another time. You may remain silent.”

Brencis gasped and almost seemed to melt into the earth. For several seconds, the only sounds were his panting sobs of release from agony.

“I’m sorry,” Lady Aquitaine said, turning to speak to the Vord queen. “The standard collar I fitted him with can’t match whatever it is he does to alter the bonding process. I can’t compel the secret from him.”

The Vord queen tilted her head slowly to one side. Dark, glossy black hair fell in gentle waves from beneath her hood. “Can you not cause him to fit himself with this same collar?”

Lady Aquitaine shook her head. “He is collared already, my lady. A second such crafting wouldn’t take.”

The queen tilted her head the other way.

“It would have no effect on him,” Lady Aquitaine clarified.

The queen blinked slowly, once. Then turned her gaze past the sobbing Brencis.

To Rook.

“Why was this one pleased when he resisted?” the queen asked. “She restrained a smile. The facial indication of pleasure, is it not?”

“It is. Though there are nuances of meaning to smiles that can become complex,” Lady Aquitaine said. She looked past the subjugated Brencis to Rook, who also lay prostrate, her face downward. “A young woman. Perhaps she has attached herself to his future. Encouraged him to remain silent, so that he could preserve all the power he could.”

The Vord queen considered that for a moment, and paced silently toward Rook, standing over her. “So that she could benefit herself.”

“Correct.”

“Individuality is counterproductive,” the queen said, her voice calm. Then her form blurred, and Amara saw a gleam of dark, green-black chitin at the tips of the pale queen’s fingers as they ripped half of Rook’s throat away.

Amara’s heart all but stopped at the sheer, sudden viciousness and speed of the attack. She had to fight down a scream, and with it the impulse to fling herself to the wounded woman’s defense.

Rook made a sound that was more of a wet, wheezing gasp than any word. She rolled partly onto one side in reaction, her arms and legs thrashing weakly. Blood rushed from the gaping wound in her neck.

The Vord queen stood over the dying woman with a mildly interested expression on her face, staring down at her with unblinking eyes.

“What,” the queen asked, “is Masha?”

Lady Aquitaine looked on impassively, her expression remote. Even so, she averted her eyes from the dying woman and said, “It is a female proper name. Perhaps her sister or her child.”

“Ah,” the Vord queen said. “What is Countess Amara?” Her head tilted slightly, and her unsettling, faceted eyes glittered in the light of torches and furylamps. “A woman. Ungroomed.”

Lady Aquitaine’s head snapped around toward the queen abruptly. “What?”

The queen looked up at her without expression. “Her mind. There is an increase in activity preceding death.”

Lady Aquitaine hurried to Rook’s side, reaching down to turn her face slightly to one side, and her eyes widened in recognition. “Bloody crows.” She looked up at Brencis, and snapped, “Healing tub, now.”

She clamped her hands over the gaping wound in Rook’s neck, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve… Crows, the wound is…” She looked up and snarled, “Brencis!”

“What are you doing?” the queen asked. Her tone was politely interested.

“This woman is an agent of Gaius Sextus,” Lady Aquitaine said, her voice tight. “She might have information that-” She broke off suddenly, shuddering.

“Dead,” the Vord queen said, her voice clinically detached. To punctuate the word, she lifted the scoop of bloody flesh she still held in the taloned fingers of her hand and nipped off a small bite. A spot of Rook’s blood, still hot, sent out a wisp of steam into the cool night air as it smeared the Vord queen’s chin.

“What did you see about Amara?” Lady Aquitaine asked.

“Why?”

“Because it could be important,” Lady Aquitaine said, frustrated exasperation hidden in her words.

“Why?”

“Because she, too, is an agent of Gaius,” Lady Aquitaine said, rising a bit unsteadily from the body. “She and Rook have worked together before and-” Her eyes narrowed abruptly. “Amara must be here.”

Amara felt a surge of terror join the helpless rage and sickened pity in her breast, and pushed them both aside to call upon Cirrus. Borrowing swiftness from the wind fury, she drew back her arm and flung the stone knife at Lady Aquitaine, the weapon letting out a sharp crack like a whip as it tumbled toward her with an almost lazy grace to Amara’s fury-heightened senses.

Amara’s aim was true. The heavy stone knife hit Lady Aquitaine just right and center of her chest, upon the form of the quivering Vord… thing that crouched there. The knife, furycrafted from heavy granite, would have made a poor tool, its blade too dull to be of everyday use, but for its intended task of parting the flesh of a single victim, it more than sufficed. The sheer mass of the thing made its tip as deadly as any arrow or blade of steel, especially at the speed with which Amara had thrown it. The knife plunged through the Vord creature as easily as through a rotten apple, and continued on to the flesh beneath, cracking bone with moist snapping sounds, hurling its target from her feet and to the ground.

Amara gritted her teeth at how badly wrong the plan had gone, but there was no help for that now. Brencis had gone ru

Amara’s feet were perhaps seven feet from the ground when she felt hands like stone wrap around the ankles of her soft boots. Desperately, she called upon Cirrus to bear her up with even more force, even as she drew her steel dagger from her belt and twisted to thrust it down at her attacker with the instant, blindingly swift violence of trained instinct.

Yet as fast as she was, the Vord queen was faster.

She released one of Amara’s legs to spread the fingers of one pale hand wide. Amara had time to realize that the queen’s hand was still wet with Rook’s lifeblood, as the tip of her dagger pierced the queen at the center of her palm.

There was no more reaction than if Amara had thrust her knife into the ground. Without any expression beyond one of steady concentration, the Vord queen twisted her wrist, the knife still trapped in her flesh, and tore it from Amara’s grasp. Amara kicked one leg, trying to get loose of the queen’s remaining grip as they continued to rise from the courtyard, albeit slowly, but the Vord’s grasp was inhumanly strong. Her alien eyes glittering more brightly, the Vord queen swarmed up the length of Amara’s body, hand over hand, and Amara felt the tip of her own dagger thrust twice into her flesh in hot bursts of tingling pain.

Then an iron bar pressed against her throat, and her vision darkened.

Amara struggled wildly, but it was useless, everything spi