He and his escort settled in and waited for the signal. His team had one goal: save Camilla before the imperials reached her. Deeper in the jungle on the other side of the village from the hidden native force, the marines massed in their mail armor and heavy boots. Huffington hoped that their native guides were able to keep them quiet. Convincing Captain Donnely to wait until the battle was underway before attacking had seemed hopeless until the captain’s own marine commander backed the plan.
Huffington considered his task as he meticulously checked his weapons. They hoped that the poisons would weaken the demon, if not kill it outright. How the poisons might affect Camilla, no one knew. Huffington hated planning with so many unknowns. He worked with facts, trusting only those he had gathered himself. The only fact here that he was sure of was that his first concern was his master’s safety, not his happiness. He adjusted the firing mechanism under his sleeve, making sure that the poisoned dart was loose enough to fly easily. It was tipped with the most lethal poison in his bag, for if they had supposed wrong, and the demon wasn’t disabled by the poisoned arrows, then the woman his master loved would have to die.
≈
Emil Norris sucked in a sharp breath, and his heart leapt into his throat. Camilla…
“Father!” whispered Tim. Emil looked at his son’s soot-darkened face. “Relax! You’re fidgeting.”
Relax? How could he relax? They were about to attempt three simultaneous actions involving hundreds of warriors, each subsequent one hinging on the success of the previous. Donnely had forbidden Emil and Tim to accompany the troops, demanding that they stay with the boats, but Emil had predicted this, and arranged for Tawah and Keyloo to secretly guide them to a place where they could observe the action. They had also provided them with swords, just in case things went badly. Huffington had not been pleased, but there was no way Norris would stay behind when Camilla’s life was at risk. He tried to calm his nerves as he peered over the huge tree roots that sheltered them from unfriendly eyes.
Camilla stood at the center of the prostrate mob, a crimson pillar, radiating a horrible dark power. The cannibals cowered before her, their chants growing louder and faster with every pounding beat of the drums. As he watched, he recalled the words of her letter: “…the beast within me can feed and serve a noble, if not good, purpose.”
Revenge, he realized. Camilla is exacting revenge for their slaughter of the natives on Plume Isle. Camilla had seen it happen, had cried in his arms when her sleep was disturbed by nightmares, had confessed the guilt of her helplessness. Well, she was helpless no more. Then she looked up, and for an instant, as those smoldering black eyes swept over his hiding place, Emil felt the chill of death’s hand on the back of his neck. Then her gaze passed, and he breathed a ragged sigh.
The chanting halted abruptly as Camilla raised one pale hand from her side to point, and called out. The voice, so like yet unlike Camilla’s, thrilled across every nerve in Emil’s body. Memories of her voice—passionate whispers and murmurs of love—clashed with the cold hunger that rang out across the clearing.
Hands reached out to grasp the chosen victim, but apparently this one surprised them. The sacrifice, a tall, broad-shouldered woman, stood and shouted out, extending her arms. Two well-muscled men took her wrists, but the woman strode forward without resistance. The crowd murmured, backed away and knelt again, and Norris thought he saw nods of approval among them. This woman chose to meet death with pride and courage, unlike the sacrifice Tipos had observed. The three taller natives stopped before the smaller, yet infinitely more dreadful figure of their crimson queen. Without urging, the woman knelt before Camilla and tilted her head so she looked up at the night sky, exposing her throat. The two men released her wrists and stepped back.
The drums, though silent, continued to pound in Emil’s mind as the woman he loved stepped forward. Camilla cradled the woman’s face tenderly between her hands and smiled. She bent forward, a caricature of his memories of her leaning toward him for a kiss. It could have been me, he thought, unable to tear his eyes away, though his blood ran cold. He knew when teeth met flesh by the spasm that wracked the sacrifice’s body.
Now! Emil thought, and as if the hidden archers had heard his mental command, two arrows whistled through the night. Both dark shafts struck true, and Emil bit back a cry of triumph. The woman’s body jerked with the impacts, but the convulsions went unnoticed by the hungry demon.
Camilla continued to feed.
≈
“Captain Donnely, sir!” whispered the boat boy, as he descended from a towering tree. Though not a marine, the boy was lithe and light and climbed like a monkey, and Donnely had thought he might be useful as a lookout and messenger. Apparently, his hunch had paid off.
“What?” the captain whispered back. “Did you see something?”
“I…I could see a bit through the leaves.” The boy’s voice was troubled, and Donnely squinted at him. The boy’s face glowed pale in the dark. “I thought I saw the…the lady.”
“Lady Camilla! She’s alive?” Donnely asked incredulously. He’d never have believed it.
“She is, sir.” The boy swallowed hard. “I think she’s eating someone.”
≈
Huffington tensed, his eyes fixed on Camilla, so engrossed in her meal that she didn’t notice the arrows that stuck out of her victim’s back. Unfortunately, the cannibals were not so distracted. The shouts of alarm that rose from their throats changed to cries of pain and anger as a hundred arrows flew from the jungle. Many of the savages fell bristling with shafts, but before the archers could even draw for a second shot, the cannibals charged, trampling the bodies of their fallen kin to engage their assailants. The Vulture Isle warriors met the assault, and melee was joined with shouts and the clash of arms. Razor-edged steel and obsidian met flesh, and men and women died.
Huffington shifted to the balls of his feet. Finally, he saw Camilla shudder, then drop the corpse and straighten. For an instant, he glimpsed the demon—black-on-black eyes, and a horrible maw fringed with hooked teeth—and rocked back on his heels in shock. Then there was only Camilla again. She opened her mouth to speak, her lips smeared with blood, eyes wide in shock, and she clutched her abdomen.
Camilla fell to her knees, and from her bloodstained lips issued a scream that evoked visions of the Nine Hells in Huffington’s mind.
For a moment the battle ceased, all silent save for that horrific keen. All eyes turned toward Camilla as her cry peaked, then faded. The silence was split by the wail of a conch horn, the signal to the imperial force to attack the enemy’s flank…and for Huffington and his team to rescue Camilla.
Huffington broke from cover with his companions and sprinted toward the fallen woman. The plan called for the way to be clear, for the cannibals to be busy defending themselves from the two-pronged attack of Vulture Isle natives and imperials, but several foes had turned back at Camilla’s cry, and now stood between Huffington and his goal. He ran with a dagger in each hand, parrying, slashing and stabbing like a street fighter with every step. He saw one of his companions fall to his right, and another to his left. Then there was a break in the crowd, and a flash of red—Camilla. He was almost there.
Huffington ducked under a sweeping club and planted his shoulder in a stomach. As he slashed low and spun away, he could see Camilla on the ground just ahead. He ducked a wild swing and dashed toward her. There was a cry from behind him, then something heavy snapped his head forward. Everything went dark and he was falling.
≈
Dear Gods of Light, please save her! Emil had stared, stricken, as Camilla fed, then at that inhuman scream. Now he watched, helpless, as she writhed in pain.
“Father!”
Tim’s shout snapped Emil’s attention from Camilla to where Huffington and his companions fought through the melee. Two of the warriors were injured
, and the others fought wildly to keep from being overwhelmed. Suddenly Huffington ducked and dashed forward beyond the protection of his comrades, and an opponent whirled to strike him from behind. The spiked club sent Huffington sprawling forward, and he hit the ground, unmoving. One of his companions stepped forward to deflect the killing blow, then stood guard over the body.
Norris leapt from his hiding place, sword in hand, before he even thought about what he was doing. He heard metal sing free of a scabbard behind him, and knew Tim followed. He plunged recklessly into the melee, parrying and shoving past opponents rather than engaging them. The cannibals were fighting on two fronts against the chaotic native assault and the precise lines of imperial marines. In the chaos, a single man and boy did not draw much attention.
In moments, Emil was at Huffington’s side. The man’s head wound was bleeding freely, but he was already moving and groaning. His two companions lifted his arms to help him stand, but Huffington’s legs seemed disinclined to support his weight.
“Huffington! Are you all right?” Emil realized the stupidity of the question the moment it left his lips. Of course he wasn’t all right; he had a four-inch gash in his scalp, and his eyes were unfocused.
“Milord, I…” Huffington shook his head and blinked, but still looked groggy.
“Don’t move him,” Emil ordered the two native warriors, and received blank looks. Blast! he thought. He’d forgotten that most of the Vulture Isle natives spoke only their own language, a language of which he knew not one word.
“Tim!” he said. “Tell them not to move Huffington, and watch over him.” As Tim began delivering the message, Emil glanced around, a wild notion forming in his mind. He withdrew a kerchief from a pocket and pressed it to his secretary’s bleeding head wound. “Hold this, Huffington! Just rest here. Tim and I will go for Camilla. We’ve got to reach her before the imperials break through.”
“Milord, please…” Huffington said as he plucked at the count’s sleeve and struggled to prop himself up, but one of the native warriors gently pressed him back down.
“Father! Now!” Tim tugged at his arm, and Emil saw their opportunity. The cannibals had split, and the center of the village was open. Camilla lay alone.
They dashed forward, leaping over fallen bodies and discarded weapons. Camilla lay on her side, vomiting up gouts of blood. Her body twisted and quaked, writhing in agony, inhuman shrieks issuing from her mouth. Disregarding the gore, Emil knelt and lifted her by the shoulders. He brushed back her fiery hair, but the face he beheld was not Camilla’s. Eyes like orbs of obsidian, black and deadly, leered at him in hatred and hunger. Her mouth twisted with contempt, and she cursed him in a language no human would ever speak. Her hand grabbed his arm with inhuman strength, her nails piercing his shirt and the flesh beneath.
“Camilla!” he cried, shaking her shoulders. “Camilla, it’s Emil!”
“Emil?” Her features cleared, her eyes, fading to their normal blue, focused on him. “Emil! Go—!” Her words were lost as she convulsed and retched up another gout of dark blood.
“I’m here,” he said, holding her shoulders tightly and trying to ignore the pain in his arm. “You’re going to be okay.”
Camilla looked up again, her face a mask of grief, her eyes now cloudy. “Emil! They’ve poisoned me, just like they did before! You’ve got to help me, or I’ll die! You’ve got to give me blood!”
“Blood?” He gaped at her, and darkness flickered across her features.
“Careful, Father!” Tim warned from behind him. “I don’t think—”
“Blood!” the demon shrieked. In the span of a heartbeat, Camilla’s face, the face he loved, the mouth he longed to kiss, transformed.
Her eyes flooded black, and her lips stretched impossibly wide, revealing bristling rows of hooked black teeth. Her grip on his arm tightened, pulling him down, but he had a good grip and pushed against her shoulders. That horrible maw snapped at his throat, the teeth gnashing together, but he managed to hold her at bay. Just as he thought her grip was weakening, a horrible black tendril, like a forked tongue tipped with claws, snaked out of the maw and wrapped around his neck. The hooks bit into his skin and pulled him closer. The demon’s foul breath washed over him, the stench of rotting blood, and the grip strangled his cry of alarm. He fought to breathe, but his elbows began to buckle.
Emil’s vision began to blur, then something thrust between his face and the demon’s. An unearthly shriek shivered the air, and he felt his face spattered with a thick, burning liquid. The tendril fell away, the grip on his arm loosed, and Camilla thrashed backward, arching and writhing in his grasp. The black tendril still protruded from her mouth, but now it whipped about in an effort to dislodge the poison-laden arrow that Tim had thrust through it.
“Father!” Tim shouted, and Emil released Camilla, allowing Tim to pull him away. Together they stood staring as the woman they loved thrashed on the ground.
“Dear Gods,” Emil muttered, resisting the urge to go to her. She writhed and screamed, but there was no way for him to relieve her suffering. Then he noticed his sword lying on the ground and realized that there was indeed a way for him to end her pain. He snatched up the blade, the bronze hilt cold in his hand. With a single stroke he could end Camilla’s torment, and send her soul to rest in peace. He gripped the weapon with both hands and raised it high, tears stinging his eyes. He blinked hard to clear his vision, and prepared for the final blow.
“Father, wait! Look!” Tim grasped his arm and pointed. Emil blinked again, and stared in shock.
The disgusting black tendril flopped on the ground, its struggles weakening, unable to dislodge the arrow that transfixed it. Black ichor oozed from the wound, and the arrow’s wooden shaft smoldered. The demon’s teeth clacked futilely against the hardwood, but they were made to rend flesh, and could not snap it. Camilla’s pale hand feebly grasped the black tendril as if to wrench it out.
“The poison’s working!” Emil said excitedly. He cast about, but Tim was ahead of him. The boy wrenched the second arrow free of the sacrifice’s corpse and held it out to his father, who snatched it and turned back to Camilla. The demon’s tendril still writhed, and the arrow shaft was nearly eaten through by its caustic blood. Emil smashed one booted foot down on the wriggling thing, then jammed the arrow into it, working the poisoned tip deep into the black flesh. It wriggled fiercely, and Camilla’s torso arched and bucked, but Emil kept his foot firmly planted, twisting the tip of the arrow deeper.
Suddenly, both the demon’s tendril and Camilla stopped struggling. She lay so still, her face so pale, that Emil feared she was dead. The black demon flesh began to shrivel, withering and melting into a mass of viscous goo.
Tim grimaced at the noisome black mass that flowed out of Camilla’s mouth. He dropped to one knee beside her. He reached out to touch her, then looked up at his father, his eyes bright with tears. “I don’t think she’s breathing.”
Emil collapsed to his knees beside her, and cautiously placed a hand to her neck. Her skin was cool, but he felt a faint tremor under his fingertips. Her heart yet beat, but it was very fast and very weak.
“She’s alive, but I don’t know…if she’s not breathing…” Emil took a breath, stifling a sob.
“Roll her onto her stomach, Father! There may be a way to get her breathing.”
“What?” he asked, even as he helped shift Camilla into a prone position. “How?”
“Captain Feldrin told me how they do this to sailors who fall overboard.” He straddled her legs and pushed hard on her lower back: once, twice. With the third push, a torrent of vile fluid issued from her mouth and spread across the dirt beneath her cheek. “Hold her head, Father. Don’t let her choke.”
Emil complied, and Tim pressed again, harder. More viscous fluid spilled forth, and Camilla’s back heaved reflexively. She coughed, dragged
a ragged breath into her lungs, and coughed again.
“By the Gods, she’s alive!” Emil cried. Tim moved, and they rolled her onto her side. Emil gently lifted her head and cradled it in his lap. He used his sleeve to wipe the blood, bile, and gore from her face. Her features were pale and still, but peaceful and as beautiful as he remembered.
≈
Captain Donnely gazed around in satisfaction. Though he had had doubts in the beginning, the action had progressed quite nicely. The attacking troops had suffered only a handful of casualties, while the cannibals’ scarred and tattooed bodies littered the clearing. Some had fled into the jungle, and a few pockets of resistance remained, but those were being quickly overwhelmed by his marines and the Vulture Isle warriors. He had to hand it to these natives; they were grand fighters, and he had to admit that he couldn’t have done it without the pact negotiated by Count Norris. One more glance at the carnage-littered clearing, however, brought Donnely’s blood to a sudden boil.
“Count Norris!” he roared as he strode, bloody cutlass in hand, toward where Norris sat holding the body of the unfortunate Lady Camilla. “I told you that under no circumstances were you to participate in this engagement! What in the Nine Hells are you doing here?”
Scimitar War Page 18
