by A. C. Cobble
The cabinets. He needed to find some chalk. Some chalk or… ash? They’d used ash before in the scrying ritual and the traps the Knives had fashioned at his estate. Would it work? Chalk or ash, he needed to buy time.
The cabinets, leaning precipitously from the battering the wolfmalkin had given them, were tilting alarmingly away from the wall as the next creature clung to them, shoving by its fallen brethren.
Oliver dropped his broadsword and ran forward, jumping and grasping the top of one of the cabinet units. He scrambled higher with his feet on the one next to where he was hanging. He shoved hard, pushing with his legs, rocking the heavy piece of furniture.
A clawed hand smacked against the wood, inches from his face, but he pulled harder, and to his relief, the cabinet toppled over, falling on the wolfmalkin and him.
He let go and fell to the floor as the giant storage unit collapsed over him, the top crashing against the opposite wall of the corridor, all of the individual cabinets sliding open and showering him with their contents.
Enraged howls erupted from where the wolfmalkin had been trapped, but the thing wasn’t stuck long. The cabinet unit flew back, bashing against the wall, smashing to kindling as the angry beast pounded it with arms and axe, shattered debris filling the hallway.
Stunned, Oliver crab-walked back, finding his broadsword as he moved along the floor, not seeing any chalk in the wreckage. He did notice Sam’s rucksack that she’d dropped by the doorway before entering the storeroom with the pentagram. She had to have something in there worth trying, he hoped. He snatched his broadsword and the pack, moving quickly. The two surviving wolfmalkin were forcing their way through the broken cabinetry.
The storeroom was near black, the tiny sliver of light punched through the exterior wall in the corridor doing little to illuminate the frightful battle that was taking place inside. Sam, grunting, cursing, and thrashing around, sounded like she was fighting frantically against herself. The shades made no sound at all.
Dropping the pack and falling to a knee, Oliver dug his hand inside, hoping to find something he could use. His hand closed on a cool, glass vial. Not the healing salves he’d seen her use. Those were stone. This was something else. He pulled it out and smashed it down on the floor, halfway between him and where he thought the pentagram might be.
The scent of lavender and sandalwood filled the room, doing nothing to stop the terrifying sounds of Sam’s battle with shadow or the wolfmalkin making their way through the corridor behind him. The little light he had faded, and he knew one of the creatures had passed the broken hole in the wall. Luckily, they probably couldn’t see him and wouldn’t know the layout of the storage room, but unluckily, he was out of ideas.
“Did you just break a bottle of perfume?” screeched Sam before making a sound like a raw slab of meat slapping down onto a granite table. She groaned and shrieked, “Stop messing with my perfumes and do something. Duke, we’re going to die in here!”
“Can’t you activate your tattoos?” he cried, rifling through her pack, finding more of the smooth glass bottles of perfume, yanking them out, and smashing them on the floor. “Why do you have so many of these?”
“Frozen—” snarled Sam, breaking her curse off as an explosive blast of air whooshed out of her stomach. Gasping, she called, “I can pay the price and gain strength, but I can’t see or feel these damned things! Swinging harder is not going to do any good if I don’t know what I’m swinging at. Take my kris, do something!”
He heard the skittering of sharp metal across wood. She’d slid one of her daggers to him. He couldn’t see where she was, but as the wolfmalkin behind lumbered into the storage room, a pale sliver of light appeared from the corridor, putting a faint gleam on the steel of Sam’s dagger.
He reached for it, picked it up, and stood. As hard as he could, he crashed her dagger against the edge of his broadsword, knocking several sparks free. He struck again and again, dashing sparks from the steel until one of them landed in the puddle of perfume at his feet and ignited it. The liquid burst into flame, casting the shades on top of Sam into stark relief.
She whipped through them with her remaining kris dagger, and Oliver pitched forward, stabbing through another, feeling motion behind him.
The heavy edge of a battle axe caught his shoulder, gouging a shallow but painful cut through his flesh and sending an arc of his blood flying across the room. Oliver fell into a roll, losing his broadsword, awkwardly trying to come to his feet but flopping on his side instead.
The wolfmalkin was joined by its peer, and the two of them stood their full height, the fire on the floor casting their features in terrible relief.
Lying on his back, only Sam’s dagger in hand, he was all out of ideas. He admitted, “I couldn’t find any chalk.”
The Priestess XIII
“It’s not the chalk,” she growled through gritted teeth. “It’s the properties of— We’ll talk later.”
The first wolfmalkin advanced on Duke, who was lying prone on the floor completely defenseless. She jumped on its back and dragged the edge of her dagger across its throat. The creature, surprised at an attack from behind, stumbled.
Slipping off the massive beast, she shoved it, and the dying wolfmalkin fell onto the border of the pentagram, half in, half out. A soft thump emanated from the pentagram as the monster died, passing the barrier between life and death, reversing the flow of the pattern, sealing the edge of the design with its body. Sam turned to face the remaining wolfmalkin.
“Who sent you?”
The creature blinked at her.
Still lying on the floor, Duke asked curiously, “Can they understand the king’s tongue?”
“I have no idea. It was worth a try,” she muttered. Then, she attacked.
The monster, stunned by the death of its peers, wasn’t going to wait long before coming after them, so she didn’t give it time. She launched at it, swinging with her kris.
The wolfmalkin lurched to the side and then lashed out with the butt of its giant battle axe.
She dodged away, quickly realizing the wolfmalkin was twice her size, the axe ten times the size of her dagger. Not ideal conditions in the small storeroom.
Duke was still flopping around on the floor, trying to stand up like he was a boneless, dying fish.
In a flash of inspiration, or perhaps desperation, she tossed her dagger at the wolfmalkin’s face. The creature brushed her weapon aside. Yellow eyes glowing eagerly, it advanced on her, raising its axe, prepared to bring it down and chop her in two.
The moment the massive beast raised its weapon, she darted forward, trusting to speed instead of strength. She reached behind her back and swept out the knife she kept secreted there, whipping the blade around and burying it in the wolfmalkin’s knee, twisting the steel.
The wolfmalkin stumbled, whimpering in pain. Then, it crashed the haft of its axe against her.
She’d expected the attack and had stepped into it to avoid the sharp point of the weapon, absorbing the blow from the wooden shaft and flinging her body as she was struck, hoping to prevent what would otherwise be a bone-shattering blow. She was flung across the room, only her jump saving her. She tumbled across the floor before thudding into the wall. Pain radiated from her side and arm where she’d taken the strike, but she thought nothing was broken.
The wolfmalkin growled and stepped after her. It wavered and whimpered. It collapsed, falling onto the knee where she’d injured it.
Smiling, she stood.
“Take off its head!” she cried.
Duke, having just stood, blinked at her dumbly. He glanced down at her kris dagger, the only weapon he held.
The wolfmalkin didn’t know that, though, and tried to spin, anticipating an attack from behind.
She pulled her two poignards from her boots and darted forward, jabbing them into opposite sides of the wolfmalkin’s neck. The narrow spikes of steel drove deep. When she pulled them out and jumped back, twin spurts of blood followed her.
The creature fell down dead.
“I guess they can understand the king’s tongue,” she remarked.
“What?” asked Duke.
“Never mind,” she replied, eyeing the dying fire Duke had set on the floor. “We have to burn this entire structure.”
“We’re in the middle of the city!” cried Duke. “The damage would be—”
“Run and find the fire brigade,” she instructed. “I’ll start dousing the place with fuel.”
“But—” he started and then looked down at the bodies of the dead wolfmalkin, at the pentagram, at her.
“No one can see this stuff,” she insisted. “Sorcery is a scourge, a disease. We have to quarantine it. We have to destroy all of this. Think what sorts of secret knowledge the apothecary may have hidden in this place. We cannot risk someone finding it, Duke.”
For a long moment, he stared at her. Finally, he admitted, “You’re right.”
“Half a turn of the clock, then I’ll start the fire,” she said. “Keep them from fighting the blaze until we can be certain the inside of this building is good and charred.”
“You don’t want to brave that cold outside to make it to the fire brigade?” he questioned.
“You’re the duke,” reminded Sam. “They’ll listen to you.”
Grunting, he turned and left, cursing as he shoved his way through and climbed over the debris and dead bodies in the hallway outside.
As soon as he’d made it into the front room, she removed a small vial of fae light from her rucksack and shook it, bathing the room in a low, green glow. Then, she started to search. She yanked drawers out of their cabinets and tossed the contents on the floor. She rapped on the walls, listening for the hollow thumps of hidden compartments. She rifled through goods stored in the room. Finally, she stepped on a floorboard that creaked differently from the others.
Grinning, she knelt down and pried the board up with one of her daggers. Inside was an iron case. Muttering under her breath, she hauled the heavy container up and flipped the lid open. It was empty. Whoever had killed the apothecary had taken the time to ransack his secret storage. Whatever knowledge the man had hidden was gone now, but someone had known it was there.
She threw the container back into the hole and dashed to the front room. There, by the light of her vial of fae light, she sorted through the former apothecary’s desk, looking for his record book, the tome every shopkeeper kept, accounting each purchase. When she found it, she flipped it open and saw that dozens of pages had been ripped out.
Cursing, she slammed it shut, glancing around the room. She stood a moment, realizing that there had been clues they could have collected, but now it was too late. There had been an avenue for investigation that they’d completely ignored.
Finally, she opened the book again, tearing out more sheets of paper, wadding them up, preparing to start a fire. She didn’t have time to continue searching the place. Duke would return with the fire brigade soon enough. Given the empty secret compartment and missing pages in the ledger, it was likely there was nothing dangerous left in the building, but just in case, she’d still burn it down. Better safe than sorry.
She was standing outside watching the flames lick at the doorframe at the front of the building when Duke arrived back.
“Where’s the fire brigade?” she asked him.
“Coming, I hope,” he said. “I realized when I got there I had no reasonable explanation for how I knew this building would be on fire. How was I going to explain why I was lurking around a place that had just recently been the site of a murder and now was the site of an arson? I found a drunk outside of the nearest pub and paid him to go inside and alert the brigade. I waited until they were gathering their supplies, and then I left. We’d better hide or get out of here soon, because I have no intention of relating all of this to my brother.”
She nodded. “That’s smart. I didn’t think of that.”
They stood there for a moment, watching the fire grow, waiting for the clanging bell of the fire brigade.
“I suppose we won’t be able to scry for my mother, then,” he said after a long moment, pain and frustration tightening his voice.
“It’s probably for the best,” she replied. “Duke, if they were able sense your vision and set a trap for us here, then they may be able to do the same if we scry. We wouldn’t be able to defend ourselves, then. It’s too dangerous. There are too many things that could go wrong.”
Grimacing, he asked, “Back to the palace, then?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied, thinking quickly. “Someone may have spied us there, right? If we return to the palace, they will not hesitate to try again. If they’re willing to unleash wolfmalkin within Westundon, what else will they do? It’s best if we stay hidden and find a place no one will think to look.”
“Not your apartment, then, or any of my estates.”
“I have an idea,” she said.
The Cartographer XV
“So this is your patron?” asked the odd woman, eyeing him up and down.
“He is,” acknowledged Sam.
“And you haven’t slept with him, yet?”
“No,” answered Sam, frowning at the other woman. “We’re working together. He was the one in Derbycross, remember? I told you about that.”
“I remember,” said the woman, still eyeing Oliver. “Of course I remember. How could I forget?”
Sam grunted.
“Nice place you have here,” said Oliver. “It’s, ah, cozy.”
Crouched down under a low rafter, he looked around at the tattered couch, a single iron pot by the fireplace, a narrow cupboard, a table piled with cheap jewelry, a thin carpet spread across the floor, and not much else.
“I’ve grown to like it,” said the woman. She turned to Sam. “Come with me.”
Without responding, the priestess followed the strange woman into another room, and they shut the door. Oliver stood in the center of the sitting room, staring in confusion. Then, as noises of passion began to seep out from behind the barrier, he frowned and looked around the room again. He didn’t see a drop of ale. There was a half-empty bottle of wine, but that would not get him far. Thank the spirits, the girl lived on the top floor of an inn with a well-stocked pub below.
As the noises behind the door grew louder, he decided he was going to need it. He unhooked an iron key from beside the door, stepped into the hall, locked the door, and tucked the key into his coat pocket. The woman, Sam’s old friend, didn’t seem like she’d be needing it anytime soon. Stomping down the hall and down four flights of narrow stairs, he found the pub and ordered an ale.
Someone had tried to kill them. Their enemies had set a trap in the apothecary’s building, knowing Oliver and Sam might go there. He needed time to think. He sipped his drink and did just that.
The wolfmalkin and the shades made it obvious they were facing another skilled sorcerer, and it was clear that whoever it was, they were no longer content to remain in the shadows. Their opponent could call upon untold horrors, perhaps even worse than they’d faced in Derbycross. Then, they had been prepared. They had Thotham. Now, they were alone, and anytime they made themselves known in polite society, he’d have to be looking over his shoulder. Even a trip to warn his brother of what was happening would be fraught with danger, for both them and Philip. If the sorcerer they sought was willing to kill a duke, Oliver doubted they would hesitate to kill a prince. King Edward could only get so outraged, after all.
No, thought Oliver. Running to his family, requesting their help, might make the situation worse. The royal marines, the airships, they could only act on available intelligence. They could only confront enemies they knew. The Crown’s resources be worthless against an unknown sorcerer, and while they flailed, people would die.
He and Sam needed information. They needed to find out who their adversary was. There was only one lead he could think of, one avenue they hadn’t yet fully explored. He ran his hand over h
is hair, feeling the knotted leather cord at the back.
Had it been a dream or something more? He didn’t know, but they had to find out. They had to go to Northundon.
The Priestess XIV
Kalbeth’s head was cradled in Sam’s lap. They were naked in the women’s bed, and Kalbeth was looking up at her. Sam wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake, coming back to the Four Sheets Inn.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” said Kalbeth, as if reading her mind.
“I didn’t plan to,” admitted Sam.
“The man out there, he’s the Duke of Northundon, a son of the king?”
Sam shifted and felt Kalbeth’s long black hair slide across her bare skin. “He is.”
“I did my research after you left,” remarked her friend. “I looked into the competition, you could say.”
“I’m not sleeping with him,” assured Sam.
“I believe you,” replied Kalbeth, offering a bitter smile, “but you are spending time with him, more time than you ever spent with me.”
“It’s not like that,” insisted Sam.
Kalbeth sat up. “I know it’s not sexual, Sam. Maybe it never will be. That doesn’t mean the man isn’t taking you away from here… from me. He can give you things I cannot. He can show you places I’ll never see. He can—”
“We’re hunting sorcerers together,” snapped Sam, catching Kalbeth’s chin in her hands and stopping her. “Last I was here, I told you what they’d done. I told you the horrors I’d seen. What would you have us do, ignore it? He’s the Duke of Northundon, as you said, the son of the king. He has a responsibility to the empire. I’m the only surviving Knife in Enhover. I’m the only one trained to do what is necessary. Kalbeth, we’re the only two capable of facing this threat. We have a responsibility!”
“What about the royal marines, the king’s army?” argued the woman, pushing Sam’s hand from her face.
“They cannot fight what they do not know,” responded Sam. “There are things we can do that no one else can. There are things we know that no one else does. We have to try, do we not?”
