Prince of Magic (25 page)

Sian was among those who scrambled, and as he did so, he felt an unexpected pride. Had he ever criticized Ariana as being too weak for this destiny? Had he ever called her a mere girl who was unfit for the prophesy which named her?

She was a general as fine as any other, and the men who followed this general would die for her if need be. They loved her, each and every one of them. They would be legend before this war was over. Whether they lived or died, whether they won or lost, they
would
be legend.

White hat and all.

It was days before they reached the first village, and by then the soldiers were more than ready for combat. Ciro rode his horse down the center of a narrow, dusty street, and watched. This could not rightly be called combat, he supposed. His soldiers were, well, his soldiers. The villagers made for poor opponents.

What Ciro observed was rather like watching an unfair sporting event. His legion consisted of armed hunters; the villagers were the helpless prey. His soldiers were wrestlers of bears; the villagers were large, helpless, drugged rabbits. There was no hunger to compare to that of a man without a soul. Ciro knew that hunger, but at least he had a way to assuage it for a spell. His legion did not. They possessed the hunger, but not the ability to take another soul. They tried to quench the maddening appetite with the screams of those they terrorized, with blood, with the fear they created and enjoyed so well.

Fynnian's soldiers were ruthless, but they did not possess the hunger of Ciro's Own. Did he even need Fynnian's men? Perhaps eventually he would need their numbers, but those he called his Own were special. They alone could terrorize all of Columbyana.

The screams of the villagers did not affect Ciro at all, though he noticed that the man who rode at his side, his spineless wizard Fynnian, occasionally flinched. He did not mind watching one of his soldiers cut off the head of a screaming villager, but when one of Ciro's Own decided to take a taste of a kill, Fynnian turned his head away.

Fynnian was a fool. He thought Ciro didn't know what he'd done, and why, but through the Isen Demon, Ciro knew everything. He knew that Fynnian had chosen him because he thought him weak, and also because an infected prince would offer access to the highest position of power in Columbyana. He knew that Fynnian had used his beautiful daughter to bind the future emperor to him. Perhaps his trickery had been effective in the early days. Perhaps it had even been necessary. Now that Ciro had his army, he no longer needed a wizard who planned for the rise of darkness and then did not have the stomach for it.

Ciro's eyes were drawn to a public inn. They were drawn there by a light he recognized very well, a light which shone so brightly it overpowered the lamplight and the flames from many torches. His stomach rumbled, and he smiled. There. It was there, awaiting him.

He stopped before the inn and dismounted easily, leaving Fynnian to see to both horses. The wizard did so quickly, and then he followed Ciro into a large public room, where several of those who had been infected by the Isen Demon had congregated.

Fynnian cringed as he realized what had happened.

Ciro's personally called soldiers had dragged many of the villagers here for the sole purpose of torture and eventual death. They enjoyed their work. They fed on the fear they created. It was a poor substitute for their lost souls, but it satisfied them for a while.

One older woman remained untouched. She trembled and cried and prayed—silently and aloud—and her eyes were closed tightly against the heinous scene before her. The soldiers had instinctively known that this one was meant for their leader. The demon himself had spoken to them, instructing that the old woman not be touched. Not only had they not harmed her with their blades or their teeth, but her prim white nightdress was not stained with even a drop of blood. She remained completely pure.

The light of her soul shone as brightly as Rayne's. This woman before him was no beauty, and she had lived many years, which showed on her face in wrinkles and sagging skin. Her scraggly hair was gray. Her bosoms drooped.

But Ciro didn't care about her appearance. He cared only about the light. Was he finally strong enough to take a pure soul? There was only one way to find out.

The woman he sought had been bound to a post at the foot of the stairway that led to the second floor. Her arms were trapped behind her back, and her legs were lashed to the rough wood of the pillar. Her head was down, her eyes squeezed shut.

Ciro walked toward her slowly. She did not know he was coming. She did not know that anything had changed until the noises that had filled the room began to fade. His soldiers watched. Their victims died or else enjoyed a moment's rest while the man or woman who tortured them turned their attention elsewhere. There was a touch of hope revealed as the old woman's head snapped up and her eyes opened wide, but when she saw Ciro coming toward her, she knew there was no hope. Not for her or anyone else in this village.

He grinned at the woman with the pure soul, but she was not soothed by his expression. Instead, she shuddered and screamed.

Ciro grabbed a handful of wiry gray hair, which was not yet entirely silver but working its way in that direction. Looking at her closely, he realized that this woman had probably once been beautiful, but her best years had passed long ago. All that remained of consequence was her soul, which was pure and white and strong. Very, very strong.

Could he take it?

He held the woman in place as he pulled her head back and touched his teeth to her neck. Her pulse was quick and strong, and the blood beneath would be as sweet as that of a child when he tasted it. But what he wanted most, what he craved, was her soul. It was
his
.

He bit into her, and blood filled his mouth. The soul he desired was so close he could almost taste it. So close he could almost
take
it. But she fought him. The soul did not flow into him as he wished. It only took a moment for Ciro to realize that he was not yet strong enough to take what he desired.

With renewed vigor, he tried again. He bit deeper, and reached for the woman's soul. It was right there, teasing him, flitting away from him, refusing to flow out of the old woman and into his empty body.

Ciro lifted his head and looked into the old woman's dying eyes. "Give me your soul, woman," he whispered. He wasn't yet strong enough to steal a white soul, but with permission, surely he could take it from her. He moved his mouth closer to her ear. "Offer it to me now."

She shook her head.

"I will make your death a quick one, if you offer me what I want." He spoke the words softly, into her ear. "Say it aloud. Say, 'I give you my soul, Prince Ciro.'"

Again she shook her head, and she whispered, "No."

Ciro sighed, and licked a few drops of blood from the tear in her throat. She didn't have much time left to live, which meant she didn't have much time left in which to offer him what he craved. She was not going to give him what she wanted, not to save herself.

He smiled at her, quite genuinely. "Give me your soul, and I will spare those in this village who are not already dead."

Her dying eyes flickered for a moment, and Ciro thought perhaps he had won. And then the old woman glanced beyond him to the bodies of the dead and dying which surrounded her. He saw the moment when she realized that it was too late to save anyone.

Her eyes met his, and surprisingly, she returned his smile. "Devil, man, beast… whatever you are, whatever you have become… you can take my life, but you cannot have my soul." She closed her eyes, and in spite of the horrors that surrounded her, in spite of the fact that she was dying, her expression transformed into one that was oddly peaceful. She tilted her head back and offered him what was left of her throat.

Angry, Ciro took it. He drank every drop of her sweet blood. He gnawed at her throat as he had in the early days, tasting flesh long after she was dead. Tasting flesh long after he felt the soul he craved slip away from her, and from him. He ate until his mouth and his stomach were filled, and yet he was still hungry.

He turned away from the dead woman to find his soldiers, the ones who were tied to him and the demon, watching. Many of them were covered in the blood of their victims. Others wore no more than a splatter of blood here and there. He would have taken one of their souls to quench his thirst, but they had none left. The victims of their violence were either dead or nearly so, and he had no desire to touch their wounded bodies and take a battered soul.

He wanted so much more.

Ciro walked toward Fynnian.

"Did you?" the wizard asked breathlessly. He was curious and excited and afraid. Had the monster he'd created reached new heights? Was he powered by the ingestion of a pure soul? The others in this room knew of the failure, as they were connected, but Fynnian did not. He did not feel what Ciro, the Isen Demon, and those joined to them felt as one. "Did you take it?"

Without changing his footstep or his facial expression, Ciro grabbed Fynnian's shirtfront and pulled the old man to him. Without ceremony, without a word, he buried his teeth in the wizard's throat. Fynnian fought, but it was no use. He tried to plead, to beg for mercy, but Ciro barely heard the words. He took the tainted soul he needed into his own body, took enough blood to ensure that Fynnian would not survive the feeding, and when that was done, he dropped the wizard's almost-dead body onto the floor of the inn.

Ciro walked out of the building feeling somewhat better. Not as well as he would have if he'd been able to take the old woman's soul, but still… a bit better. He was stronger. He grew stronger with each passing day. The day would soon come when nothing could stop him.

Two of his most loyal soldiers followed him out of the inn. "Next time, leave a few children alive, at least for a while," Ciro said. If he'd had young ones to barter with, the old woman would've gladly offered her soul in exchange for their lives. It was not the same as taking that which was not offered, but it was a start. With the power of a pure soul added to those he had gathered over the past few months, he would be significantly stronger. He was certain of it. "We've taken everything we can from this village," he said as he mounted his horse. Beyond the partially opened door, he saw one of Fynnian's fingers twitch against the blood-spattered wooden floor. "Burn this building," Ciro said as he led his horse away. He surveyed what was left of the village, the site of his legion's first battle and the site of his latest defeat. He had so wanted to be able to take that soul for his own, but the night was not finished, and he had tasks yet to accomplish. "Burn it all."