“Lord and Lady Venarra.”
The pieces started to join up in Katja’s head. “Rodann blackmailed them with whatever you took from their house.”
“During the war, they supported the Mad King, Taikon, and funded some of the Chosen in the city. The documents I stole were rather incriminating letters. In return for their cooperation the Venarras persuaded their brother, the Chief Steward at the palace, to recommend the acting troupe. They were supposed to be this evening’s entertainment.”
Katja raised an eyebrow. “Supposed to be?”
“They all suffered terrible accidents and didn’t show up,” said Faith with a shrug of her shoulders. “More reliable entertainers have taken their place.”
“That can’t be all of the conspirators,” said Katja. “Where are Lord and Lady Kallan?”
“Mingling with guests, but soon they’ll be stuck at the banquet.”
“What about Rodann and Teigan?”
Faith frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve not seen her all night and he slipped away.”
“I saw him briefly, but not her. It’s not over. He won’t stop, you know that,” said Katja. “If someone threatened Queen Morganse in the palace, what would happen?”
“They would be detained or eliminated on the spot,” said Faith with absolute confidence.
“What if you couldn’t detain them? What if there were more than one, or the palace guards were absent or busy elsewhere?”
“We’d lock the Queen inside her chambers with trusted guards until the threat had passed. And before you ask, yes, the loyalty of her guards is absolute,” said Faith.
Something stirred at the back of Katja’s mind. An idea, like a dangling piece of frayed cotton, was teasing her, drifting in and out of her mind’s eye.
“Would anyone else be secured with the Queen in her chambers? Family? Friends?”
Faith pursed her lips in thought before answering. “Normally her cousin, the Duchess, but she’s not here tonight. Her children are also elsewhere.”
“No one else?”
“Half a dozen people from the oldest families.”
Something clicked into place in Katja’s mind and she pulled on the thread. An idea began to unfold and her mouth fell open.
Faith looked alarmed at Katja’s expression. “What is it?”
“Rodann’s patron is from one of the oldest families. If Queen Morganse dies, they will take her place on the throne.”
“But no threat has been made against her tonight. Not yet anyway.”
“And what about Queen Talandra? What happens to her in an emergency at the palace?”
Faith leaned forward across the table, a frown creasing her brow. “There would be a similar drill, except she’d be guarded by her own warriors. She’d be locked inside the east wing behind fifty of her own people.”
“Maker’s balls,” whispered Katja.
“What is it? What?” asked Faith.
Just then, someone burst into the room, throwing the door open wide. Before the guard spoke, Katja heard sounds of alarm from elsewhere in the palace. People were screaming, there was the sound of breaking glass and the scrambling of many feet.
“What’s happening?” asked Faith.
“All of the guests are panicking, running through the halls, trying to escape,” said the guard.
Faith turned away from Katja towards the door.
“Take me with you!” screamed Katja. “I can help.”
“Ma’am, what are your orders?” asked the guard.
Faith hesitated, caught between two worlds, but Katja could see her eyes were flickering as she ran scenarios through her mind. With a snarl she dashed back into the room, produced a dagger from inside a fold in her dress and slashed Katja’s restraints.
“Stay close,” said Faith over her shoulder before beckoning the guard to go ahead of them down the corridor. Katja stumbled to her feet and ran after Faith down the corridor towards the source of the chaos.
CHAPTER 42
Fray felt as if he were walking into the face of a storm. No wind stirred the rubbish on the streets and the hanging signs were still above his head. An invisible tornado raged along the street, flattening his clothes against his body. A vicious wind screeched past his ears, making them burn with the cold. The combined wail of tortured voices mixed with screeching metal made him wince and grit his teeth. Tiny daggers of ice pierced the exposed skin on his hands and face, but there was no blood.
Munroe was feeling it too, but she didn’t slow down. Fray forced himself to keep up as they marched forward. She was angry at leaving Choss behind, but he offered her no reassurances, nor made any attempt to calm her down. Fray had never seen anyone with such a strong connection to the Source and he needed that power to fight the Flesh Mage. Working together they at least stood a chance.
The air rumbled above his head but, staring at the night sky, he saw no clouds, only a field of stars. He could feel a river of energy up there, something malevolent and cruel, flowing towards the Flesh Mage, but there was nothing to see. No lightning followed the thunder and then the rumbling changed pitch, becoming something he’d never heard before.
Fray and Munroe both stumbled at the same time. He fell to his knees while she toppled sideways and slumped against a building. Before she could ask, he felt it again, a powerful jab just beneath his navel, a pulling sensation as if someone were yanking on an invisible umbilical cord. He had felt something like this twice before. Once when Balfruss had defeated the Warlock all those miles away, and on the day his father died. Fray gagged and swallowed bile while he heard Munroe spattering the ground with the remnants of her last meal.
They were too late. The Flesh Mage had opened a portal, tearing a hole in the fabric of the world. Their bodies were instinctively reacting to something alien and didn’t know how to cope.
The assault on the senses continued and Fray sat back for a minute, trying to master his body and suppress the strange feelings.
As he looked up past the battered buildings, something seemed out of place.
“Maker protect us,” hissed Munroe. “Where are the stars?”
The stars were disappearing. Fray could still see the sky but something was spreading out across the night like a wave. Where it touched a star the light began to fade and then it was extinguished. A growing void of absolute darkness swelled above them in the night sky. The centre wasn’t far from where they huddled in the street, which meant they were close.
“We have to keep going,” said Fray, trying to get to his feet.
Munroe wiped her mouth with the back of one hand and stood, using the wall for support. She pulled him up and, leaning on each other, they stumbled along the narrow road like a pair of drunks.
The pain was still there, a dull throb somewhere behind his stomach, but Fray tried to ignore it. They rounded a corner and came to a square surrounded by houses on all sides. He felt Munroe stiffen beside him and Fray’s mouth fell open in horror.
The glass in every window around the square had been shattered. The stone paving slabs in the square had been gouged up and shoved to the edges as if by an enormous hand, revealing the earth beneath. Three concentric rings had been cut into the ground and a thick black liquid sloshed in the narrow channel of each. Fray didn’t need to see the cloud of flies or the pile of bodies in one corner to know what it was. He could smell the rot and blood.
Half a dozen metal spears had been embedded into the ground and arranged around the circles. An assortment of bones, talismans and seemingly random items had been tied to one. From another dangled the skin of a man, flapping gently like a flag, empty hands waving in supplication. On a third hung the skulls of animals and men, some recently killed, as they still had bits of hair and skin attached. There were other items scattered here and there, but Fray’s eyes were drawn to the thing at the centre of the circle.
The portal. It hung in the air, flickering and pulsing in time with the pain he felt in his bones. A purple tear in the f
abric of the world. Currently it was the length of his forearm, but Fray knew it would grow over time as the Flesh Mage fed it. Thin as a single hair and yet infinitely deep its mere existence screamed at him. One moment the portal was there and the next it seemed to vanish, but turning his head slightly he could still see it. The link to that other place, whatever lay through the portal, was tenuous. It required a huge amount of energy to stay open and nature kept doing its best to heal itself and close the wound.
“What do we do?” asked Munroe, holding a hand to her face to try and block out the stench of the decaying bodies. Fray could barely hear her voice above the phantom wind that moaned like spirits of the dead as it whistled through the broken windows.
“I’m going to try and disrupt it,” he shouted, knowing how that sounded. He’d never attempted anything like this before, unpicking magic so complex that he couldn’t even fathom where to begin. Even so he knew that the energy sustaining the portal had to go somewhere. There was a good chance the backlash would kill him and everyone else for a mile in every direction, but the alternative was far worse. The look in Munroe’s eyes told him she knew that as well.
“Do it,” said Munroe.
Fray had started to draw in his magic when Munroe shouted a warning. As he turned towards her something flew past his face, narrowly missing him. Across the square a woman in a green dress was flanked by two thugs, one of whom was desperately trying to reload his crossbow. The other pointed his crossbow at Munroe.
Fray recognised the woman as Dońa Jarrow. The jackal with the loaded crossbow pulled the trigger, but Munroe made a sweeping gesture with her left arm and he jerked to one side, the bolt missing them both. Before either jackal could reload, Munroe screamed at the woman, flinging out her hands. The thugs screamed in unison. One clutched his chest and toppled over while blood fountained from the other’s throat. They dropped dead and Dońa Jarrow turned and fled.
“I’ll keep them busy,” said Munroe, running after Dońa Jarrow.
“Wait!” shouted Fray but she didn’t seem to hear him.
Suddenly alone in the square with the portal, Fray felt the weight of responsibility bear down on his shoulders. The pressure threatened to drive him to his knees but he forced himself to take a step closer to the portal, then another.
Stretching out with his mind to the sound at the edge of his perception, Fray embraced his magic. The world convulsed around him and a flood of new colours and sensations rushed in. Even though he braced himself for the onslaught the intensity was overwhelming and he staggered back a few steps and fell to one knee. The portal remained unchanged, a purple scar on the world that flickered in and out of existence. Everything else around it was dramatically different. Before, the river of power in the sky had been invisible, but now Fray could see black pulsing veins running through the clouds. A huge net had been spread out across the city and all threads flowed down to converge on the portal. More energy, red and sickly, also trickled into the portal from the three circles and talismans. Despite everything, it still wasn’t enough. The portal was barely staying open, which gave Fray a glimmer of hope.
He reached out towards it with his magic and immediately drew back as the edge of his senses touched the portal. The unnatural feelings inside his body grew more intense and the squirming swelled, twisting and turning like ripe maggots burrowing through his flesh. Mewling like an animal in pain, Fray stretched out again, touched the portal and this time he felt something. A shape. Like a giant knot of corded rope that was constantly untangling itself. Every second the rope sheared and peeled back, threads stretched past their bursting point. And with every pulse of energy a fresh knot appeared, holding the rift open for another second. Fray tried to imagine the knots coming apart more quickly and desperately tried to apply his magic.
A scream drew his attention, snapping his focus away from the portal, as a man was dragged into the square. The person who held him was horribly familiar by his absence of light and colour. Everything else in the square was brightly coloured and suffused with energy, but the Flesh Mage’s body held only darkness. An endless abyss filled him that would never be satisfied.
Before Fray could stop him the Flesh Mage slit the man’s throat, holding him above the third circle so that his blood joined with the rest. The outer circle flared more brightly at the fresh sacrifice and the portal pulsed in response. The Flesh Mage dropped the corpse then turned towards the portal, raising his hands. Finally he noticed Fray and shouted something but his words were lost in the gale. Purple light leapt from his fingertips into the portal, which began to writhe and twist. The churning in Fray’s guts became shards of glass. It felt as if he were being ripped apart from the inside as the Flesh Mage fed even more power into the rift. Fray felt as much as saw the tear in the world stretch longer and he screamed in response. Half as tall as a person, the rift still hung in the air, making every part of him ache.
Reaching out with his senses Fray seized hold of the squirming knot that tethered the portal to the world and frantically tried to tear it apart. The Flesh Mage saw what he was doing but couldn’t move to intervene. Power still flowed out of him as a conduit so each of them remained tethered to the portal, one trying to force it open wider while the other tried to pull it apart.
For every small knot that Fray severed, two more seemed to grow over, fixing the portal more tightly to this place. The Flesh Mage was too strong. Without Munroe to help him there was no way for Fray to stop it.
Movement at Fray’s eye corner caught his attention and a flicker of hope turned to fear as a dozen thugs came into the square, each dragging a squirming victim. Their life-blood was added to the rest before the thugs finally noticed Fray and turned towards him with their bloody weapons.
Despite the odds stacked against him and Gorraxi, Choss drew his punching daggers and prepared to fight for his life. As regret welled up for all the things he should have said, mostly to Munroe, he struggled to find the calm he needed.
The old anger that he’d learned to master so many years ago started to well up inside. It had been born of a young man’s rage at the world when he found out it didn’t work as he expected. Layers of frustration and disappointment at those closest to him had kept the fire hot for years. He’d used that anger as he was growing up and then, later, against his own father. Choss felt no regret about what he’d done, but it was the last time he’d let it take control.
“Remember how far you’ve come,” said Gorraxi, sensing his distress. “Remember the long road that brought you to this moment. Remember the hours you trained that cannot be counted. Remember the sacrifice, the blood, the pain. Remember.”
Her words brought up many memories of practising in the ring, training and sweating and forcing his body to the limit. Choss sank down in the cool place inside and all of his emotions drained away.
The jackals approached with caution, fully aware of who he was and what Gorraxi had done to Daxx. Despite the berserker effects of the drugs and the odds in their favour, Choss could see they were afraid. None of them wanted to be the first to attack as there was a good chance they would die or, at least, be horribly maimed. Finally one of the jackals found the nerve to attack as he charged forward with an inhuman howl.
An arrow burst the man’s right eye, embedding itself in his brain. He managed two steps before dropping dead. Everyone turned to stare at eight newcomers, more jackals, but none of them looked familiar.
“Who the bloody—”
“The Butcher sends his regards,” said a scarred Morrin woman with a pair of hand-axes. She tipped her head towards Choss and the others lined up alongside him. Two of the eight were archers, who spread out to the far corners of the square.
To everyone’s surprise, even her own sister’s by the look she was giving her, Dońa Parvie laughed. “It doesn’t matter. Either way this city will be ours after tonight. Kill them. Kill them all!” she screamed at her people. Whether it was her voice or the venthe burning in their blood, they charged
towards Choss and the newcomers.
While the others around him shouted in defiance at Dońa Parvie and her people, Choss remained silent. To his right Gorraxi was also silent and perfectly still, a reassuring presence whose loyalty was never in doubt.
Choss studied his opponent as she approached, a gangly local woman with a short sword and dagger. When she attacked he parried two quick slashes then retaliated, scoring a line across her forehead. As blood ran into her eyes, Choss stabbed her twice in the chest and quickly stepped back. The wounds were fatal, but she didn’t notice and he had to slice open her stomach, spilling entrails onto the ground before she slowed down. Even as she tried to stuff the pink coils back inside her body she snarled at him. Choss stabbed her in the heart and stepped over the corpse.
Something whistled towards his head. By the time he started to react some part of Choss knew it would already be too late. But the fatal blow didn’t land. He felt a rush of air by his ear and saw a bright spark as steel collided, then he was shoved to one side. Spinning around he saw Gorraxi had saved him again, blocking the sword and retaliating with an intensity her opponent could not match. For all of the man’s obvious strength and bloodlust the Vorga seemed to dance around him before ending it quickly with a slice across the thigh. The jackal stumbled back then fell onto his arse, staring in bewilderment at the pool of blood beneath him.
The archers picked off two more and the scarred Morrin and her allies made short work of the rest. Soon only the sisters and their two bodyguards were left. When they realised the odds had suddenly become stacked against them Dońa Parvie turned on her sister.
“This is all your fault. If you hadn’t been so fucking greedy!”
“Me? You’re the one who agreed to the deal without me.”
Dońa Parvie looked as if she would argue but then pulled a dagger and threw it at one of the Butcher’s people. The jackal went down with a blade in the eye and both sisters attacked with vicious ferocity. Choss and Gorraxi held back, letting the others deal with the wretched sisters. Cornered and with nothing to lose they fought hard but were eventually overcome by sheer numbers.
Bloodmage Page 38
