Demonbane (Book 4)

by Ben Cassidy

  Two more ushers came towards them.

  “Gentlemen,” said the first, a tall man with a thin mustache, “I am afraid that the opera is in session. You will have to wait until the intermission to—”

  “We’re not here for the bloody opera.” Olan nodded towards the doors and sweeping staircases on the right side of the lobby. “We’re Ghostwalkers. There’s reason to believe this opera house is being utilized by a pagan cult. We’re going to look around.”

  Two more ushers wandered over, staring at them. The doorkeeper moved around behind him.

  “I assure you, sir,” said the first usher, putting special emphasis on the title, “there is nothing of that nature here. As I said, the performance has already begun. I cannot allow you and your…friends to wander freely through—”

  Kendril stepped forward. “Get out of our way, or we’ll cut our way through you.”

  The ushers all paused, taken aback.

  The music crescendoed, the air vibrating with the notes.

  Kendril squeezed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Now.”

  “Don’t take it too personally,” said Maklavir with a disarming smile. “He really is this vicious to just about everyone.”

  The ushers exchanged looks, then slowly moved out of the way.

  Olan gave a satisfied nod. “All right, backstage is probably our best bet. Hamis, take Tomas and Callen and investigate that passage over there.”

  The bearded Ghostwalker nodded, then motioned to Tomas and Callen. They began moving towards the doorway under the right hand staircase.

  “Wanara, you and—”

  Kendril’s blade leapt from its scabbard.

  The steel flashed in the white glow-globe light right before it tore open the chest of the mustached usher.

  The man fell back to the floor with a gurgling cry. A thin stiletto fell from his dying hand and rolled out onto the carpet.

  The lobby exploded into violence.

  Weapons appeared in the hands of the ushers and doorkeeper, and they threw themselves at the Ghostwalkers.

  Joseph’s rapier was out in a heartbeat, then thrust through the heart of the doorkeeper in another.

  Kendril blocked one clumsy blow with a knife, then slashed the usher’s throat open with one of his short swords.

  One of the ushers turned to run.

  Wanara whipped up her crossbow and shot him down before he reached the stairs.

  The singing pulsed out into the lobby, almost drowning out the sounds of the fighting.

  In seconds it was over. The bodies of four ushers and one doorkeeper lay sprawled on the floor of the foyer, their blood darkening the carpet in widening stains.

  “Great Eru,” breathed Maklavir. His hand was on the handle of his sword, still sheathed.

  Kendril kicked one of the bodies. “Well,” he said with a broad smile. “That’s certainly promising.”

  Bronwyn lowered her hood. “Nervous?”

  Mina clasped and unclasped her hands. “A little. I j-j-just don’t know w-w-what to expect.”

  Bronwyn gave a reassuring smile, and put her hands on the shoulders of the woman. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. We have the sacrifice now. Everything is in place. Once the blood has been shed, the veil will be torn, and Indigoru will come.”

  Mina glanced worriedly at Kara, tied to the cold stone altar just a short distance away. “B-b-but what about h-h-her?”

  “Mina,” said Bronwyn firmly. She put a finger on the woman’s chin and moved her face back. “We must make an offering to the goddess. You know that. It’s the only way. That thief will give her life, but it will be for the good of all of Vorten, for all of Zanthora.”

  Mina nodded. She looked down at the ground.

  “You’ll be beautiful, Mina.” Bronwyn lifted out the Soulbinder from underneath her robe.

  The dark red jewel twisted at the end of the golden chain. Despite the sputtering torches in the chamber, the gem neither sparkled nor glistened.

  “R-r-really?” Mina stuttered.

  “The most beautiful woman in all of Zanthora. Men will fight each other just to look at you.” Bronwyn lifted the chain over Mina’s head and dropped the pendant down around her neck. “Stay the course, Mina. We’re so close. The goddess rises.”

  Mina looked up. “The g-g-goddess rises,” she repeated.

  Bronwyn smiled. “Come. It’s time.”

  Kendril kicked the door.

  It cracked open. Pieces of wood from the frame splintered out.

  Kendril went in, pistol leveled and ready to fire. Wanara was right behind him, her loaded crossbow tucked tight against her shoulder. Joseph and Maklavir came up behind her, their swords out and ready.

  A couple of servants stared at the brooding Ghostwalker who had just stormed into the passage, their eyes wide and their faces pale.

  To the left was a series of arched doorways, leading out into the main seating area for the opera house. A duet blazed into the corridor, filling it with the sweet serenade of lovers singing together.

  Kendril waved his pistol irritably at the servants. “Get out of here,” he snapped.

  The two fled without looking back.

  “Take Wanara and check backstage,” Olan called from the other side of the door. “We’ll head upstairs and clear the boxes.”

  Kendril fumed for a moment, unhappy at the thought of taking anything remotely like an order from Olan. He swallowed his pride, and nodded to Wanara. “All right, you’re with me. Joseph, Maklavir, stay close.”

  “But there’s a performance going on,” Maklavir sputtered.

  “Really?” Kendril asked sarcastically. He ploughed down the middle of the hallway. “That would explain the music.”

  Maklavir glanced behind them. Olan and the other Ghostwalkers had already vanished. “But it doesn’t make any sense, old chap. Where would a band of cultists hide in here? How could they possibly perform any kind of ritual in the middle of a crowded theater—?”

  “The ushers in the lobby were part of the cult. Chances are that everyone working here is somehow involved. Don’t trust anyone.” He stopped by a door leading backstage, then glanced back at the three people behind him. “Bronwyn’s close. I can smell her.”

  “Oh, well,” said Maklavir with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, “I didn’t know you could smell her. That changes everything.”

  Kendril pushed open the door.

  The chanting continued, low and ominous. The smoke from the torches stung Kara’s eyes. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, the icy cold stone pressing into her back.

  Above them, far above, came the dull hum of…music. It was singing, the sound of an orchestra, thrumming down through the ceiling and filling the chamber with its low buzz.

  Kara closed her eyes. Her teeth chattered. If she ever got out of this, she was going to wrap herself in as many blankets of fine Arbelan wool as she could, then sit next to the largest, greatest fire she could find.

  The chanting suddenly ceased.

  Kara opened her eyes.

  The cultists backed away from her, forming a loose circle around the altar. They bowed their heads. In the sudden silence the music from above became almost louder.

  It was a duet, a man and woman singing together, Kara realized.

  From an opera.

  Bronwyn lowered her hood. Her black hair spilled down onto her shoulders. She raised her hands. “Hear us, mighty Indigoru,” she said, her voice clear and strong amidst the gurgling water echoing off the walls of the room. “Hear us this night, we pray. We come to thee as humble servants, and ask that you meet with us on the night of the dark moon.”

  A rumbling chorus came from the assembled cultists, an eerie chant.

  Mina stepped up on the opposite side of the altar. Her hands were shaking. She looked around nervously. The Soulbinder was still around her neck.

  Bronwyn drew the dagger from her belt and lifted it high. “Now the curtain is lifted. Tear through the veil, mighty Indigoru
, we beseech you. Come and show us your power.”

  It was hard for Kara to think, hard even to breathe. She was so cold, colder than she had ever been before in her life, colder even then when she and her brother Torin had slept on the streets of New Marlin as children, or even during the great blowing snowstorms of the Howling Woods.

  She had to get out, had to find some way to get off this altar.

  It was now or never. Something told her that her life was measured in minutes.

  Kara loosened her hand.

  With trembling, numb fingers, she grasped the shard of pottery, then twisted her hand down until its edge rested against the ropes that bound her hand.

  Bronwyn raised the knife in both hands. “Come, O mighty Indigoru!”

  The witch’s voice was practically a scream.

  Kara started cutting.

  Kendril ducked around the edge of a massive piece of wooden scenery, painted to look like a castle wall. He hurried along in the dark of the backstage, cursing as he stumbled briefly over a coiled pile of rope.

  Joseph, Maklavir, and Wanara followed.

  Several stagehands scurried out of their way, gaping at them in startled confusion.

  Kendril turned down a small flight of stairs, then headed down a hallway.

  A maze of backrooms and storage closets opened up before them.

  A woman dressed in an exaggerated Rajathan robe with a ridiculously large laurel on her head saw them and ducked back into her dressing room.

  Kendril stopped at an intersection of the hallways. He stared down each of the passageways for a moment.

  “It’s a labyrinth in here,” Joseph muttered. “It will take hours to search all these rooms.”

  Kendril scowled, looking down the right hand passage. “We don’t have hours. This way.”

  He started down the hallway, his gun held up as he walked.

  Wanara and Maklavir followed.

  “Wait,” said Joseph suddenly.

  The three stopped.

  The scout bent down on the ground of the left-hand passage, then stood up. He held up something in his hand.

  Kendril pushed past Maklavir and Wanara. “What is it?”

  Joseph turned the small object over in his fingers. “It looks like a tiny broken piece of ceramic.”

  Maklavir flapped his hands at his side. “How on Zanthora does that help us find Kara?”

  Joseph turned, looking down the passageway behind them. It ended in a plain wooden door at the end.

  “Because,” Joseph said in his soft drawl, “I’ve seen pieces of this same pottery before.” He tossed it down to the floor and stood up. “Back at Dutraad’s mansion.”

  Bronwyn lowered her head and brought the dagger flat against her chest, holding it with both hands. She nodded to Mina. “Step forward.”

  Mina nodded, licking her lips and glancing around at the ring of cultists nervously. “You’re s-s-sure this is s-s-safe?”

  Bronwyn smiled sweetly. “Of course, my dear. You do want to be beautiful, don’t you? To have men desire you?”

  Mina looked down quickly, her face blushing. “Yes.”

  Bronwyn extended her arm. “Then step forward, right next to the altar.”

  The noblewoman bit her lip for a long moment, then took two halting steps until she was right next to the altar.

  The knife glittered in the torchlight as Bronwyn raised it again.

  The chanting began anew, soft but persistent.

  Kara closed her eyes, ignoring the shrieking pain in her hands and feet, the icy chill that was seeping through her entire quaking body. She kept cutting at the rope desperately with the shard.

  And she prayed that in the darkness, no one would notice what she was doing....

  Kendril whirled around, his black cloak spinning behind him. He lowered his pistol. “Empty,” he said in disgust. “It’s a dead end.”

  Joseph wandered through the pile of crates, his eyes carefully searching and scanning.

  Maklavir leaned up against the wall by the door of the storage room and crossed his arms. “Perhaps we should backtrack.”

  Kendril made a face, then nodded. “Right. Back down that other passage.” He moved for the door, signaling to Wanara to follow. “There was another door behind the—”

  “Here,” said Joseph. He jumped around the side of a crate. “This wall. Look.”

  Kendril paused, and turned with a questioning look on his face.

  Joseph bent down and rubbed his fingers on the floor. “Scuff marks. On the wood here.” He looked up. “There have been people stepping around here. Repeatedly.” He put both hands on the side. “Kendril, help me out.”

  The Ghostwalker stepped over to the wall and looked at it skeptically. He heaved his shoulder against it.

  It didn’t budge.

  Kendril looked down at the bottom of the wall, straining to see in the near-darkness of the supply room. “There’s something here,” he declared. “A crack.”

  Joseph put his finger down by the bottom of the wall. “Cold air.” He straightened up. His eyes fell on a torch holder fastened on the wall to the right. He reached over, grabbed it, and twisted it to one side.

  Part of the wall swung open.

  They all leaned in to look inside.

  A short flight of stairs descended into darkness just inside the secret door. The whiff of raw sewage came from below, accompanied by the gurgle of running water.

  Maklavir pulled his cap down on his head. “Eru, not another underground temple,” he groaned.

  Kara couldn’t see.

  She was cutting, rubbing the shard repeatedly against the rope tied around her wrist, but she couldn’t twist her neck far enough to see what she was doing. It was all she could do to keep her frozen fingers to hold of the tiny piece of pottery.

  It was harder than it had seemed at first to cut a rope off her wrist with a shard of pottery. Kara had no way of knowing if she had even started to split a single strand. The pottery shard was sharp, but it was no knife. There was no way of telling just how long it might take.

  And even if she did cut through the rope, what then? She would have one arm free, but her other hand and both feet were still bound fast. She couldn’t escape off the altar, couldn’t even really defend herself.

  So really, what was the point?

  Survival, she thought. Getting her wrist free was a chance. Not much of a chance, but a chance nonetheless. She hadn’t survived as long as she had by giving up. It wasn’t in her nature. She would fight to the last, claw any face that got to close, make them pay for killing her—

  If, that is, she was even cutting the rope at all. She was afraid to look. If she looked, the cultists surrounding her might follow her gaze and notice the subtle action of her wrist.

  So she kept rubbing the shard against the rope, trying to ignore the shaking cold that was seeping through her bones and making it hard to think, hard even to move.

  Mina looked down at Kara. “I’m s-s-sorry,” she whispered.

  The thief swallowed, hoping that in the shadowy darkness of the sewer outlet chamber Lady Dutraad wouldn’t notice what she was doing with the ropes on her wrist.

  Kara tried to answer, something snarky, something that would put Dutraad’s wife in her place.

  She couldn’t. She was too cold, too numb to even speak. Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably. She was cold, colder than she had ever been before. It was hard to think. Kara felt suddenly tired, almost drowsy. She hadn’t slept in so long. It would be so nice just to close her eyes, to drift off into a blissful, oblivious sleep….

  The chanting increased, rising in tempo as the cultists sang the incantation in unison.

  The words hurt Kara’s ears. She felt so tired, so cold.

  She closed her eyes and relaxed, just for a moment. A sweet, deliciously long moment.

  Kara jerked herself back to consciousness. Her body was half-frozen, shaking, but still there. She couldn’t fall asleep, couldn’t let herse
lf doze off. It was the cold. It would kill her if she let it.

  Then she realized.

  The pottery shard. When she had dozed off, it had fallen out of her hand.

  It was gone.

  Bronwyn stepped up to the altar. She looked across at Mina with a smile. “Are you ready?”

  The noblewoman nodded silently.

  Kara felt like screaming. She couldn’t even get her mouth to move.

  “Accept this gift, O blessed Indigoru!” Bronwyn lifted the dagger high above her head. Its sharp tip was pointed directly at Kara’s chest. “May this blood break the veil between your world and ours!”

  Mina closed her eyes, breathing rapidly. The Soulbinder around her neck seemed to darken, drawing in the faint light around it into a congealed shadow.

  Kara pulled as hard as she could on the ropes that bound her wrists.

  Nothing. She couldn’t even feel her hands any more.

  “Come to us!” Bronwyn screamed.

  It was over. Kara couldn’t fight any more. She was tired, so tired. She needed to sleep now, to close her eyes and just let the blackness take her into its welcome arms.

  The cultists gathered around, chanting eagerly as they strained to see what was going to happen.

  Bronwyn glanced down at Kara with a cruel, cold smile. “Goodbye, Lady Maklavir.”

  There was a flash and a roar, an echoing crack that filled the entire chamber.

  One of the cultists next to Bronwyn lurched forward as half his head vanished in a red puff of brains and blood.

  At the same moment another cultist whirled around, falling to the floor with a gasp of pain. Blood stained the top of his robe.

  All heads swiveled towards the sound of the gunfire, even as the cultists instinctively reached for the weapons they had hidden under their long robes.

  Kara managed to turn her head. There, floating in her fading vision like a black spectre was Kendril. He was coming towards her with both smoking pistols in his hands.

  Joseph was right behind him, his rapier drawn and shining brightly in the light of the torches.

  Kara smiled.

  Then her eyes slid shut and everything faded to a soft, welcoming blackness.