“Go!” he said, still whispering.
Riltana lunged for the far door, beneath the grim wall of urns. Chant pushed Jaul ahead of him. Demascus wasted a moment to quietly close the door they’d entered through, casting about in his mind for some method of obscuring their passage or obliterating their scent. He came up with nothing. His memory was doing its best blank-slate impression. Useful skills from previous incarnations only flowed when he worked himself up into an echo of the Sword of the Gods. He frowned. He’d rather avoid doing that unless absolutely necessary—he didn’t trust himself. That version of himself. When he was the Sword, his joy was at its zenith. Existence was too fluidly wonderful, where everything and anything seemed possible. Even doing something wildly at odds with common sense and his own goals. Right now, he had to focus on getting everyone to safety. Then, maybe, he’d unleash the Sword on the vampires …
He skirted a black cauldron that smelled of feet and rotten earthworms. He steadied a clay jar Jaul accidentally set wobbling as he passed. The moment Demascus touched it he realized it was a funerary urn. The name inscribed on it read, “Kurwen, Master of Dark Spells.”
He snatched his hand back. The last thing they needed was to sensitize yet another necrotic threat to their presence. He took it as given that the ashes of dead “Dark Spell” wizards should remain undisturbed.
The next chamber was another decomposing sitting room, vampire free and empty of any other obvious threat. Riltana was already across it and easing open the far door. Demascus winced when Jaul stumbled over a chair, which produced a scratchy squeal as it slid three feet across the dusty floor.
They all stopped, faces taut.
“Just go!” said Demascus.
Riltana ducked into the exit closest to the curved wall. Demascus followed, and they entered cramped quarters overflowing with junk. They carefully picked their way through a morass of tapestries, rugs, and heaped rags that smothered a collection of broken swords—It didn’t matter what the contents were. Nothing jumped them. The next two shadow-swathed chambers proved equally nerve-wracking on entry, but ultimately unthreatening.
Finally, they burst into the room where they’d first entered the castle. The scribbled door marker was swallowed once again by an open portal that looked out into a corridor composed of spider silk. The woman with scarlet nails stood smack in the middle of the opening, blocking their exit and using the point of her black iron sword as a hinge-stop in the door to prevent it from closing. She cracked a fanged smile at him. By all that was holy and sovereign, he thought, I really really hate vampires.
“What an interesting set of paths you’ve discovered. An entrance to the fabled Demonweb! House Norjah will thank you for showing them the way. Ordinarily, they might even pay you a finder’s fee.”
“Listen,” said Demascus. “We’ll give the painting back. It was a mistake.”
“You mean paintings, plural,” said the vampire.
“No, we took … I mean, Riltana took just one.”
“Two of the Whispering Children from the collection went missing the night we chased this one,” the vampire pointed at the windsoul.
He shot the thief a look of surprise. She’d stolen two?
“I only took one!” insisted Riltana.
The woman’s predatory smile widened. “Liar. You know what happens to liars, my dear?”
“They get pudding?” said Riltana.
The vampire screamed, “Return to me, hunters! They’re here!” The vampire pulled her sword from the hinge. The door slammed in their faces.
A bolt from Chant’s crossbow thudded into the frame a bare instant before the door closed on it, preventing it from shutting completely and trapping them in the dark tower with the vampires. Demascus’s shoulder hit the door a moment later. He smashed through the opening, back out into the Demonweb. The swinging door knocked the red-nailed woman backward, giving Demascus time to draw his weapons. Vampire screams funneled through the opening behind him. The hordes had heard their mistress and were hurtling back from wherever they were in the darkling dimension.
“Chant, Jaul, Riltana, get out of here!” he yelled. He deflected a slanting neck slash from the vampire’s black iron blade with an outward sweep of his white sword. He followed up with a backhand slash of his red-runed sword to her neck. The vampire easily clanged her blade into his while simultaneously shifting to his left. Her blade came down again, this time toward his extended arm. He flinched more than retracted his arm, and her attack only managed to cut a thin line through his armor instead of lopping off a limb. She was moving too fast! Faster than a human or genasi or any mortal creature could. Maybe even as fast as him, when he was able to summon the ghost of his office. He reached for that feeling of sublime jubilation—
Her front kick was like a shot from a ballista fired from the vampire’s hip. When it connected with his stomach, he staggered and dropped one sword. The vampire howled with hungry anticipation, but then Riltana and Chant were between her and the deva. Riltana’s short sword flashed. Chant fired what appeared to be a continuous volley of quarrels. And the woman snarled as she dissolved in a frenzy of a hundred black wings. She re-formed several yards into the temple, glaring with burning eyes. Jaul scurried out of the portal, a cacophony of predatory calls breaking on him like waves. He yanked his father’s quarrel from the frame and slammed the door. The pursuing screams instantly ceased.
“Way to go!” Demascus told Jaul. The hunting horde caught on the other side would find it difficult to open a portal reduced to a childish scrawl on wall and wainscoting. The deva retrieved his dropped sword. The vampire’s shockingly strong kick had winded him, but that didn’t matter. The scales were balanced again. Without her horde, she could be beaten. He’d beat her before, in his own house, with just Riltana to help him.
“Give up!” he told her. The red-nailed woman hadn’t moved. Demascus imagined he detected concern lining her brow. But she wasn’t stupid; she must realize that without her army of minion bloodsuckers, she was unlikely to beat the four of them fresh from rest.
“What?” said Jaul. “You’re going to let her survive? We should take her down. She’s all alone!” The young man brandished one of his scarlet knives, making slashing motions in the air.
The woman said, “Come try me, child,” and stared across the intervening space at Chant’s son with naked appetite.
Jaul blanched, then looked at Demascus, as if the deva would side with him. Demascus suppressed a sigh. If Jaul didn’t learn to temper his emotions, he’d not live to see his twentieth year.
“No,” said Demascus. “I’d prefer House Norjah as an ally, not a foe. This is not our fight. And I want to see what Norjah knows about a friend of mine who lured Riltana there …”
“But—”
“Jaul, stow your sails. It’s up to this harpy whether she wants to survive or make a deal with us.” The windsoul swung around to regard their foe across the room.
The vampire’s snarl gradually smoothed away. “You think you could stop me from leaving if I wished? I can become smoke, or mist, or a flock of bats.” Though she no longer displayed her teeth, her eyes still flashed death.
“Maybe you could,” said Demascus. “But listen. You’ve been hunting down this painting for a while. If you flee now, you’ll have failed for a second time. You have a chance to come away from this with some measure of success—we’ll give back the painting we have, if you intercede for us with your house.”
The woman sneered. “I don’t make decisions for House Norjah. Lord Kasdrian does … for now. And he is unlikely to deal fairly with those who’ve thieved from him. But …” The woman rubbed her chin. “Perhaps I could put in a good word for you. He’s oath-bound to listen to me. I am Lady Ascension, of the Rune Court.”
“Rune Court?” said Chant. “What’s that? Wait, is that something to do with the Twisted Rune?”
Demascus had never heard of either. But he didn’t much care what they were, unless they could sw
ay Kasdrian. The vampire gave the pawnbroker only a leering smile in answer. He shoved his swords into his belt. “Very well, Lady Ascension, let’s …”
A sound he realized he’d been hearing for a little while finally vaulted into his consciousness. A sort of low, thrumming noise. “Anyone hear that?” he said.
Lady Ascension glanced at the tunnel floor.
“I do. The webs are vibrating. The Demonweb has noticed we are not drow …”
Everyone looked down. The interweaving fibers in the passage were moving! Distorting, sliding, and swelling, as if many things were pushing through the layers into the tunnel.
“Retreat!” she yelled. “To the entrance.” Jaul needed no prompting—he’d started moving while everyone else looked down. Chant and Riltana jumped, but wasted no breath asking for explanations. Demascus followed, glancing over his shoulder.
Lady Ascension thrashed in place, as if caught in a spider web. The flooring around her feet bubbled up, disgorging hundreds of many legged ebony spiders that swarmed the vampire to her waist. Ascension’s form pulsed between pale skin and formless smoke. Each time her body lost definition, it was hauled back to solidity by some unseen force. A force, Demascus suddenly recognized at the core of his being, which was divine. It was the unconscious regard of Lolth herself, reacting to a transgression in her world web!
Lady Ascension was lost. As they soon would be, too.
The deva didn’t cry warning to the others already sprinting to the portal. Yelling would only draw attention and guarantee their doom. They were farther ahead and might make it to the exit, because they hadn’t been delayed by watching a vampire be destroyed with poisonous spiders. It was he who was most in danger of being caught next by the arachnid tide. The sourceless light of the Demonweb offered no shadows to accelerate through, bypassing the space in between. It was all down to a final sprint. But the sticky flooring grasped at him more implacably with every step. The woven mouth of the tunnel itself was constricting like a throat trying to swallow down a pesky bit of supper.
Then web walls split open on either side, disgorging a fresh flood of eight-limbed horror.
He sprinted through it. A forest of lofting web strands glittered in the corners of his eye. Lords of light! Ignore the contracting tunnel. Forget the spiders. Just go. You’re a stone cast from a catapult, tearing through sheet after sheet of gauzy sails, to finally crash through—
Demascus shot out of the orange haze of the exit portal into a dim courtyard filled with dusty debris. A discontinuity he hadn’t noticed on entering the Demonweb momentarily staggered his footing. Instead of skidding to a graceful stop, his toes caught on a piece of flooring jutting through the dust. He fell on his face. His palms and cheek stung with abrasion from the slide. His legs quivered with dull exhaustion. But no webs had caught him, nor had he been bitten. Lying face down on the floor with just some scrapes and aches, he counted himself lucky beyond words. He turned his head to the side and saw a familiar pair of boots.
Riltana’s cheerful voice said, “See, Chant? I don’t make this stuff up. Can you imagine a worse time for some shuteye?”
House Norjah was rooted in Airspur’s steep, south-facing cliffs. It enjoyed an unobstructed view of the Throne of Majesty and, beyond that, the northern cliff line. The structure’s noble veneer gave nothing away; Demascus doubted the neighbors suspected the place hosted a nest of vampires. A nest somewhat depleted, of course; he wondered what portion of Norjah’s strength was represented by the horde trapped in the shadow tower dimension?
Demascus tugged the bell pull, a chain ending in a brass wolf-head sculpture. A sound distinctly unlike a bell thudded through the structure of the manor. The storm had lessened its fury, but rain still drizzled down from the sky. If they were forced to flee back outside, would the clouds give vampire pursuers enough shade to hunt their quarry without fear of burning up?
“We can still turn around and leave, you know,” said Riltana, eyeing the closed door. “The storm’s almost spent. With the Demonweb roused against intruders, we can’t follow the drow and oni to their destination; shouldn’t we head out to the island where Queen Arathane told us to go? I mean, really, this is just a sideline—”
“A sideline trying to kill us!” said Chant.
“Not trying to kill you, idiot,” she snapped. “Me. And, well, probably Demascus now, too …”
“Exactly,” said Demascus. “This situation needs to be dealt with. I don’t want to be ambushed again while I’m investigating a secret drow incursion of Akanûl.” And, he didn’t say, find out how Madri is mixed up with House Norjah. Why’d Madri send Riltana here? How did Madri even know enough about Riltana’s love life to send her after the painting of Queen Cyndra? And just what was Madri, a ghost? Someone pretending to be her? He suspected she was indeed the real deal, if reduced to a vengeful spirit bent on stalking him. And pulling strings behind the scenes to yank the rug out from under him so he would fall and never get back up. Just like I did when I killed her, he thought.
“Last time I was here,” said Riltana, “I entered through the servant’s quarters.”
“We’re not here to sneak in,” he said. He tugged the bell pull again.
After a span of several moments, something clicked and the door opened.
Behind it stood a genasi hardly older than Jaul.
“Greetings. I am Ethred Norjah. What’s your business?” The genasi was dressed in the livery of a manservant, but introduced himself as a family member.
How does that work? wondered Demascus. Normally noble sons and daughters weren’t pressed into service in their own residences.
Then again, Demascus supposed, normally noble houses were not shot through with vampires. The bylaws and traditions of a secret vampire house probably had more than a few oddities, beyond the obvious bits about nightlife and grave dirt. And anyway, Ethred apparently hadn’t yet been brought into the fold; the cloudy light wasn’t bothering him in the least. Instead of burning to a crisp, he only squinted when a shaft of sunlight broke through the overcast and fell into his eyes.
“We’re here to see Kasdrian,” Demascus announced.
“Impossible,” snapped Ethred. “Lord Kasdrian is indisposed. You’ll have to make an appointment. And maybe not even then. I don’t recognize you. Come back in a tenday.”
“Not going to happen, blister,” said Riltana.
Ethred glanced at the windsoul. His eyes widened. “You’re the one who took the paintings!”
“Listen,” said Demascus, “We’re not on your stoop selling sugar cakes. We’re here because we just witnessed Lady Ascension fall. We have one of your stolen Whispering Children; we’d like to return it. So go tell Kasdrian or whoever you need to that he damn well better get indisposed!”
Ethred wiped his brow. Maybe he’s younger than Jaul after all, Demascus thought. The Norjah genasi looked behind him into the darkened foyer, swallowed, and said, “Come in. Wait here. I’ll … um, I’ll get someone.”
They entered a paneled room fitted with a single lantern burning on the side wall. Strawberries, apples, and pomegranates dripped in languid profusion from a smorgasbord of platters on a long table. Demascus breathed in the heady aroma.
Ethred shut the door and drew the bolt. Then he tugged three times on a leather cord dangling from the ceiling. Demascus strained to hear a distant bell or some other kind of reaction, but sensed nothing. And he saw no obvious exits. Apparently, Ethred disliked the lack of response. He tugged three more times on the pull, faster this time, as if he was desperate.
“I don’t like this,” said Chant.
Demascus agreed. He rounded on Ethred. “Explain to me exactly what’s going on, because otherwise we might jump to conclusions.”
“I summoned a … senior member of the family, as you asked. If I’d tugged just once, or cried out, or remained silent, this room would now be flooded with … countermeasures.”
The charm in Demascus’s hair, the one his prior incarnat
ion had been given by Oghma, gave a tiny shiver. Ethred was lying.
“What’s he mean by countermeasures?” said Jaul.
“He means,” the pawnbroker said, “poison gas, a pit beneath our feet, maybe a volley of arrows from hidden archers. Something like that. You probably saw similar in Raneger’s private rooms.”
Demascus interrupted, “A senior family member, Ethred? Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
The genasi licked his lips and his eyes darted. “The countermeasures—you’d already know if I’d activated them. They’re a torrent of flesh-eating scarabs that pour in from those high vents. They eat anything alive or dead. Except they’ve been conditioned to avoid anything that smells of the Norjah bloodline.”
“Don’t overestimate the beetles’ discretion,” a new voice said.
Ethred jerked his gaze to the ceiling, and he gasped.
The formless voice continued, “We’ve lost more than a few of the family to scarab frenzy. Bear that in mind next time you signal for their deployment, young one. Lucky for our guests, and maybe lucky for you, I was awake and monitoring the entrance. The beetles will go hungry for a little while longer.”
“You little rat-snuggler!” Riltana yelled at Ethred.
Ethred ignored the windsoul. His wide-eyed regard was riveted on the empty ceiling. “Forgive me, Lord Kasdrian!”
With a whisper, the cramped ceiling swung sideways to reveal a vast, arch-supported chamber. Candles in the thousands twinkled in niches that climbed the chamber’s curving walls. Bats chased fluttering shadows high above the windowless expanse. The entrance foyer in which they stood was revealed to be a lowly pit. A figure in porcelain-white robes lounged on a prodigious stone chair—as much sarcophagus as furnishing—that was perched on the pit’s edge.
“Lord Kasdrian?” said Demascus. He stilled his instinct to reach for his weapons, his Veil, or a sliver of shadow.
“That’s me,” said the figure. His features were hidden beneath a white hood, but faint red glimmers marked his eyes. “And you’re Demascus, newcomer to Airspur and friend to Riltana the windsoul. Perhaps you should pick better friends. Have you come to collect the reward I posted on her and spare your own life?”
Sword of the Gods: Spinner of Lies Page 14
