by A. C. Cobble
The sharp blade cut through the fabric, exploding a cloud of black dust in between him and the monster, flinging the bag and the trailing dust into the fiend’s pale, tusked, pig face.
Oliver rolled away, holding his breath, blinking quickly to clear them of the black powder and the flashes of the lunar-lit underworld that it brought.
The powder drifted in the room, and the monster flailed its wings, trying to blow it away, but when the wings drew back to flap, it pulled in the cloud of powder toward its own face.
Oliver dropped his broadsword and covered his mouth and pinched his nose. He rose and stumbled away. The Colston-monster wasn’t quick enough and drew a surprised breath, sucking in the swirling powder that hung around it. Its eyes glazed, its frantic flailing slowed, and Oliver watched in amazement as a look of utter horror and hopelessness fell across the terrible face. The monster staggered, shocked by what it was seeing.
Oliver drew a breath of clean air then ran at the fiend, scooping up his broadsword on the way. He couldn’t count on the powder to finish it, and if it recovered, he was all out of ideas.
The Colston-monster, standing motionless, offered no resistance as Oliver slammed his broadsword into its gut, shoving hard on the blade as it pierced thick slabs of muscle and penetrated deep into the creature’s abdomen. Then, for good measure, he drew the blade back out and stabbed it into the side of the beast’s thigh, sawing with his sword, trying to sever the major artery he knew ran through the leg there.
A fountain of blood poured from the monster as he withdrew his blade. He stepped back, watching as it thrashed around, still in the throes of the powder, unable to see or sense him, and dying from the terrible wounds he’d given it.
Oliver turned and saw what appeared to be the shredded remains of one of the wolf-men down and unmoving in the middle of the pentagram. The second was whimpering and clawing at the stone floor, trying ineffectively to get to its dropped battle axe.
Sam was facing Isisandra, kris daggers held ready, when the younger girl stepped across the barrier of the pentagram, passing over the circular perimeter and then inside the center of the five-pointed star. The gold bands in the floor flared alight as she moved across them, reflecting a brightness that wasn’t in the room, bathing Isisandra’s face in the warm glow.
Oliver staggered up beside Sam, blood dripping from his wounds. It hurt. It hurt a lot now that the immediate danger of the Colston-monster was gone, but the marquess hadn’t struck him a fatal blow. He was still in the fight.
“You all right?” he rasped.
She nodded curtly.
“You ready to end this, then?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Oliver turned to face Isisandra who was calmly watching them both. “I told you this was over, Isisandra.”
“Come and get me, then,” she said.
Oliver and Sam shared a look then took a step forward.
“Stop, you fools,” warned Thotham, his voice weak and tight with pain. “Are you daft? Look at the wolfmalkin. That will be you if you cross the barrier.”
The old priest was on his feet, teetering. Blood covered the back of his robes, but his eyes shined with awareness. It wouldn’t be long before he was back on the floor, but for the moment, he was with them.
Oliver gripped his broadsword tightly but stopped his advance. He glared at Isisandra, trying to figure a way to get at her, but he felt… His amulet was burning.
“Spirits!” he cried, spinning from Isisandra to look behind them where a wall of shadow was coalescing along the edge of the room, blocking the mouth of the stairwell they’d come in. As Oliver turned, he realized the shadow wall covered half of the room. And it wasn’t a wall. It was a throng of shades, stepping from the living stone and advancing on them in a dark wave.
“This must be every soul s-she’s taken in here…” stammered Sam.
“They’re the weak ones, right?” asked Oliver. “We finished a bunch of them in the hallway above. There, ah, there are a few more this time…”
There were a lot more, he realized, patting his belt, wondering where his spirit-blessed obsidian dagger had gone. It was impossible to count the incorporeal shapes as they blended together and disappeared in the natural shadows of the room. There were a hundred… maybe more. Enough, he figured. Shaking himself, he raised his broadsword. He may go down, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight. As much of one as he could give.
“You can’t hurt them with that,” reminded Thotham. Then, he tossed his spear to Oliver. The old priest flopped back onto his bottom without the support of the spear to lean on. He grunted as his rear impacted the stone. Looking up at Oliver, he suggested, “Try that.”
Oliver hefted the weapon, thinking back to his arms training twenty years earlier, the last time he’d used a pole arm like this. Well, he thought, the joke had always been to stab them with the pointy end. It should work now as well as then.
“Oliver,” called Thotham, his eyes locked on the duke. “Kill me.”
“What?”
“Don’t!” cried Sam.
The old priest didn’t look away. He didn’t blink.
“Don’t do it!” screamed Sam.
Then, she charged the legion of shadows, her daggers held low, ready to slash and hack her way through them. There were too many, Oliver knew. Far too many.
“Enjoy hell, Oliver,” chimed Isisandra from behind them.
Grunting, he spun and launched Thotham’s spear at her.
It whipped through the air and then smacked into a shimmering golden barrier. It bounced back, clattering to the floor.
The girl laughed, and Oliver cursed, rushing forward to collect the weapon.
“I own you,” crowed Isisandra. “I owned you the moment I bowed before you in that carriage. You just didn’t know it yet. It’s almost sad, really, that you have to die now. When you do, Oliver, I’ll own you again. Anytime I want you, I will summon you to me. I have your blood and your semen, Oliver. I can find you on the other side whenever I want, do anything I want with your shade. Will you enjoy that, Duke Wellesley, bowing before me for eternity?”
Her tinkling laughter followed him as he collected the fallen spear and raced across the room. If the girl was out of his reach, then at least he could help Sam.
She was surrounded, her kris daggers spinning and slashing, but there were too many of them, and as he watched, one of the shadowy shapes caught her arm. Rage suffused her face as she slashed at the figure with her free hand, but then that arm was caught, too, and her body was stretched. Barely visible shadows of fists and feet pounded her, punching her face, kicking her gut and her legs. She began to crumple underneath the beating.
Then, Oliver was there, plunging into the crowded shadows, his spear thrusting and slashing. He stabbed one of the apparitions holding Sam’s arm and it vanished. He nicked another one of the creatures, and it disappeared as well. He only had to touch them, he realized, and he laid about with the spear, holding it by the butt, sweeping it wildly, clearing out a dozen of the shadow-monsters in the space of a few breaths.
But more came, and Sam lay slumped at his feet.
Along the walls, he could see more and more of the shadow-men stepping out into the open, a dark tide bleeding out of the rocks. He darted forward and twirled the spear, forcing them back, banishing those that did not retreat. After clearing space, he bent and grabbed Sam’s vest with one hand and pulled her across the floor of the room.
She was holding her daggers still, but her face was battered, and he wasn’t sure she could stand. Her left eye was already swollen shut. Blood poured from her nose, and her clothing was torn and ragged where her attackers had pummeled her.
He made it to Thotham and let go of Sam. She slumped down beside her mentor, but she was moving, grumbling incoherently, trying to find her bearings. Her mentor was barely moving at all. He’d fallen onto his back, eyes heavily-lidded. He stared up at Oliver, blinking slowly, his jaw working silently, t
rying to speak. A pool of blood was spreading around the man from the brutal stab wound Marquess Colston had left in his back. It wouldn’t be long.
Silently, like shadow spreading across the floor as clouds obscured the moon, the apparitions closed on them. A hundred, two hundred, and they kept coming.
Oliver gripped the spear in his hands, feeling the intricately carved runes Thotham had painstakingly etched there. He glanced over his shoulder at Isisandra and cringed when he saw her face. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, it was as if the girl was sexually excited about their impending death, the thought of her lovers being torn apart by the ghosts of the countless men and women her family had butchered throughout the centuries.
She was evil. He saw that now. He understood. That evil had to be stopped at any cost. Finally, he truly understood the stakes of the game.
He turned from Isisandra and met Thotham’s gaze.
The old man nodded and attempted a smile, his teeth and chin stained red with blood.
Oliver thrust down with the spear, catching the old man in the chest and driving the hand-length steel tip deep into the old priest. Oliver withdrew the spear.
Ghostly ether trailed the spearhead, pale wisps that curled and grew on their own, billowing from the body of Thotham, streaming after the spear and then absorbing into the weapon.
Oliver looked up at Isisandra. Her mouth was no longer open in ecstasy but in shock. Her eyes were fixed on the tip of the spear and the vapor surrounding it. The shadows had paused, watching.
Shifting his grip, he looked at the weapon, suddenly wondering if there was something he had to do to make it work, to—
A ripple of sensation spread from Thotham, darkening the lights in the room, blowing the fire of the braziers with an unfelt breeze, crawling across Oliver’s skin like a thousand pricks of a needle. The wisps of pale, white smoke surrounding the spear burned brighter, and suddenly, the flow of shadow reversed, and flickers of darkness flew by Oliver, soaking into Thotham’s body and disappearing. All of the shadow-monsters swept past, a breeze on his skin, leaving him with little bumps as the cold forms brushed against him. Water rushing down a drain, hundreds of the shapes sped by and sank into Thotham’s motionless form.
In moments, the lights brightened, and Oliver spared a quick glance around the room to see that the unnatural shadows were gone, replaced by normal, flickering spots of darkness from the fires. He breathed a sigh of relief then turned as he heard laughter.
Isisandra was still there, her look of surprise and horror replaced by amusement.
“That was your final play, Oliver?”
He looked down at the spear and then at Sam. She was struggling to rise on one knee, her daggers still in hand, but she looked confused and lost. He didn’t think she’d seen that Thotham was dead.
Isisandra walked closer to him, still within the bounds of the golden pentagram.
“Did you think that by killing him, his soul would carry me away as well?” she asked. “I’ve heard the knives of the council are capable of such magic, but if that had occurred, what do you think would have happened to you, Oliver? You would have been taken, too.”
She smiled at him, and he flushed. She was right. He hadn’t quite considered that.
“Either his spell did not work, or he arrested it to protect you,” purred Isisandra, licking her lips, coming still closer. “Do you think you killed him in vain?”
Oliver looked down at the tip of the spear, smeared with the old priest’s blood.
“His soul is mine, now,” claimed Isisandra, stopping a dozen paces away, still within the circle of the pentagram. “Should I summon him from the underworld and force him to attack you? He died in this room, so it would be rather easy to locate and command him. That would be a delight for me, watching the old man’s shade strangle the life out of you. Almost as pleasant as doing it myself.”
He felt a tremor in the spear and frowned at it. He thought about the ethereal mist that had sunk into it then looked up to meet Isisandra’s eyes. “If you want to strangle me, come and do it.”
She smirked.
“You’re afraid to step outside of your barrier, aren’t you?” accused Oliver. “Such a powerful sorceress, so scared.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “If I stepped outside of this circle, you could kill me. A big powerful man killing a little girl. You’d do it, though, I am certain, or Samantha would. You’re foolish to think I am scared, though. Behind this barrier, you cannot touch me. Nothing you do can penetrate my shields. This barrier is invested with material from your body and hers. Neither of you can cross it and live. There is nothing you can do, Oliver, except die. What would you like to play with in the short time you have remaining? Shall I conjure more of the wolfmalkin or perhaps something a bit nastier… No, I know. I think the priest himself. It’s fitting, don’t you agree?”
Oliver hefted the spear, staring at the girl just a dozen paces away, and said, “Let’s see what he thinks about that.”
Then, he flung the spear at her again.
Isisandra’s laugh was cut off in a screech of surprise as the spear impacted the golden barrier formed by the pentagram and burst through it. Gold light cascaded like it burst from a firework. The room was bathed with the glow. Sparks and bolts of lightning crackled, instantly defining a dome around the circle, which the spear sailed through unimpeded.
The weapon caught Isisandra in the shoulder, spinning her and sending her tumbling to the floor. Her body knocked the weapon out, ripping her flesh as the sharp tip tore free, spraying an arc of blood across the stone floor, across the lines of the golden pentagram.
Oliver stared, mouth agape, as the crackle of lightning and flickering golden sparks formed a spectacular barrier between him and Isisandra. Hissing energy sparked around where her blood marred the golden pattern. He stepped forward then paused, raising his hand to block a growing heat from his face.
The Priestess XVII
Sam stared in horror as Isisandra’s body was spun from the impact of Thotham’s spear smacking into her flesh. Thotham’s spear. It had broken the barrier the girl had erected. Sam struggled to her feet, blinking, trying to clear her vision before finally realizing one eye was swollen shut.
Isisandra crashed to the floor, the spear clattered free.
Sam didn’t have to look to know. Thotham was dead. Duke had killed her mentor.
The nobleman stood half a dozen paces from her, staring in shock at the cascade of golden light spilling up from the floor, pouring out of Isisandra’s circle. He turned to her, a question in his eyes.
“You cannot pass, but perhaps I can,” she answered.
She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She allowed the pain to bloom along her collarbone, her tattoos flaring with the same, glowing agony she’d felt earlier. She let it burn from her neck, to her shoulders, and then down her arms. She slid one of her kris daggers into the sheath, feeling the warmth in her arm and hand as the tattoos burned. Reaching into a pouch on her belt, with her bare hand, she grasped the golden ouroboros they’d brought from Archtan Atoll.
Her muscles clenched involuntarily and her vision swam.
Jaw locked, she breathed through her nose. Her other hand still gripped her dagger. It radiated heat. Her eyes snapped open, and she strode forward, leading with her dagger, punching through the shimmering golden barrier.
It was like walking into a wall of a thousand razor blades, each one slicing her but barely slowing her. She concentrated, letting the cascade of pain fall across her body, from her dagger hand, over her tattoos, and then down the other arm and into the ouroboros. It was agony, but she lived. It was a minor irritation compared to the pain she felt inside. Her mentor, a man who had been the father she’d never known, was dead.
The sharp pain of the barrier faded, and she opened her eyes, letting go of the ouroboros.
On the floor, Isisandra was dragging herself with one arm, a slick trail of blood showing she’d only made it a yar
d. Her eyes were filled with panic, and she mumbled and gasped, possibly trying to utter some rite, summon some creature, but sorcery was an art of preparation, and she wasn’t prepared for this.
Sam kicked her, knocking the girl over onto her back.
With her one good arm, Isisandra reached for Thotham’s spear and yelped when she grasped the shaft and it burned her.
Sam stepped over the girl, straddling her, then sat down, letting Isisandra’s fists beat against her legs, her sides. From her back, the girl’s strikes did nothing. They felt like nothing compared to the beating the shadows had given her, the pain of crossing the barrier, the ache in her soul that Thotham had sacrificed himself to kill this weak, helpless creature. Duke had delivered the blow, but Isisandra was the reason the priest had to die. Isisandra was the cause of this pain.
Sam slammed her open hand down on Isisandra’s good arm, pinning the girl beneath her.
“Your mentor, he is the one who stabbed Thotham in the back?” she asked the sorceress. “The man we killed?”
Isisandra glared at her, her teeth bared in animalistic hatred, but she did not answer.
“Of course that was him,” said Sam. “I doubt you care that he is dead, but I hope you do. I hope that there is still some trace of humanity within your black soul. I hope you feel some sorrow at his loss.”
Isisandra spit at her.
Wordlessly, Sam placed her dagger at the girl’s breast and slowly shoved. Locking eyes with the sorceress, she pushed the sinuous dagger deeper, taking her time, letting Isisandra feel the pain as the steel slipped into her, each undulating edge cutting wider as the blade sank into her skin.
The girl thrashed, fighting to escape the implacable point of the dagger, but she couldn’t fight Sam’s strength. She couldn’t wiggle away.
Finally seeing panic enter the girl’s eyes, Sam leaned on the dagger, letting her weight drive it all the way into the girl’s heart. She held it there, watching the life fade from Isisandra’s eyes. Then, Sam stood, yanking out her dagger and stumbling clear.
