by Jon Sprunk
A spasm pulsed in Caim's chest, sudden and painful, as if his heart were trying to escape from his rib cage. He clamped down on the feeling and pushed it back down into the depths. He couldn't lose control. Not now.
Sword in hand, Ral advanced beside the cloaked man. Caim edged away. He could take Ral, but the stranger was a wild card. He didn't look like a fighter, but his movements were sure and quick. Caim didn't know if he could beat them both at once.
“I'll give you one last chance.” Ral sounded genuine despite the patronizing sneer plastered across his too-perfect face. “Join us and reap the benefits. You can be my lieutenant, elevated above the slime of this city. You'll have power, money, women—everything you've ever wanted.”
Caim didn't bother answering. Because of him Josey was going to die. She might be dead already, but he could still perform one last act as penance for his failure. He eyed Ral's guard, sword held off-center, ready to strike at any angle, but it left a lot of territory unprotected. Caim bent his knees. The pressure in his chest expanded, making it hard to breathe.
“Your words are wasted on this one,” the cloaked figure hissed. “Kill him and be done.”
“Yes,” Ral replied with a sigh. “Perhaps you're right, Levictus.”
Levictus. Caim allowed his rage to filter through his body, down through his arms and legs, and banish the tingles from his flesh. His vengeance had a name.
Caim feinted at Ral, but shifted in midstride. His suete knives stabbed, and aimed for the chest and gut of his father's killer, but they found only air as the cloaked man drifted away like smoke on the breeze, then flowed back with astounding speed. The black blades wove at Caim in a complicated pattern. It was a fighting style he had never encountered before. The man flitted like a hummingbird, first coming from the left, and then the right, faster than anything Caim had ever seen.
At the same time, something wriggled in his peripheral vision. He spared a glance and was almost spitted on the cloaked man's knives before he extricated himself with a fast parry-and-backpedal. Tiny blobs of darkness detached from the room's shadows. They ran down the walls like monstrous black tears. For a moment, he panicked, thinking he had lost control of his powers again. But he still felt the pressure, bursting to be free. The inky things resembled the shadows he had summoned before, but they were different in some ineffable way. Meaner, perhaps. He thought he could hear them hissing like a nest of asps as they crawled across the floor. He deflected a thrust from Ral's sword. When he looked down, the darknesses were all around him.
But where had they come from? A sibilant hiss made him focus his attention forward as the cloaked man launched a concerted series of attacks. Caim dodged and wove. He spun his blades in circles to disengage, and then stomped forward to press an attack, anything to evade the cloaked man's sinister weapons. It was him. Somehow, the stranger had called the shadows, and that meant…
Caim swallowed hard. He had never met anyone like him, someone who could also interact with shadows. If the cloaked man shared his abilities, what else might they have in common?
Caim hissed as a host of teeth, like tiny needles of ice, pierced his boots. He stomped on the floor to dislodge the tiny beasts, and received a nick across his left forearm as a black knife slipped past his guard. He jumped back before the next flurry of attacks could strike home.
Caim couldn't afford to examine the wound, but it burned like fire. He flexed his forearm as the sensation crept up into his shoulder. His side was beginning to throb from the exertion. Step by step Ral and Levictus backed him into a corner, away from the window. Something cold and revolting crawled up his calf. An image of his father's face, racked with pain, emerged from the depths of his mind. His mother was screaming. Caim dipped under a swipe and lunged, and his side erupted in agony, but he blocked out the pain and extended to his fullest range. Levictus knocked the thrust aside, but Caim's left-hand knife followed behind with a high slash. The cloaked man jerked back just in time to save his eyes. Instead, the knife's tip cut a gash across his face from mouth to temple.
He recovered faster than Caim anticipated and came at him fiercer than before. Dark red blood coursed down his cheek. Caim hopped away from the teeming darknesses and maneuvered closer to the bed. Caim glanced across the coverlets. Ral had circled around the other side. The killer had one foot on the mattress, sword poised to strike. A lamp of blown glass hung over their heads.
As his enemies closed in, Caim leapt up onto the bed. He batted aside a cut from Ral and swung his other knife in a high arc as he dove from the bed to the tinkle of shattering glass. He landed behind his opponents, hit the carpet in a soft roll with a grunt, and spun around as he came to his feet. Burning oil rained from the ceiling. The bed's fine covers went up like tissue paper. In seconds the fire spread to a drapery on the wall and up the ceiling.
The cloaked man wheeled like an angry serpent as his shadowy minions flew across the room. Caim dove through the open window. He caught hold of a shutter as his legs cleared the sill. He hung there for a moment. Then, the silvery blur of a throwing knife sped past his face.
He let go and the pavement rushed up to meet him.
“Get down!”
Josey slid under the table as Kas tore the spear down from its mounts. Its steely head shone with an oily glint. He rushed to the door just as the latch broke and a mob of Sacred Brothers poured inside.
Kas skewered the first Brother through the door. As the soldier fell, Kas whipped the spearhead around and stabbed another through the arm. Bright spurts of blood splashed on the floor. For a moment Josey saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe the old man could fend them off. But as Kas yanked his weapon free for another strike, the press of bodies shoved him back. His spear seemed a pitiful weapon against so many swords.
Josey screamed as something crashed through the window. A heavily built soldier with thick arms and a scraggly yellow beard crawled over the sill. She reached up onto the table for something to use as a weapon. Her fingers found a smooth, cool surface. She grabbed the half-empty bottle and hurled it at the invader. It struck him on the arm and broke, drenching his uniform in wine. The Brother yelped and clutched his elbow. Heartened, Josey reached for more ammunition. She threw plates and cutlery, but he batted the missiles aside and leapt at her. He caught her by the ankle. She kicked and screamed as he reeled her in like a fish on a line.
Kas staggered in the middle of the room. Blood streamed down his clothes from a host of wounds. He plied the spear with failing strength until a blade smote him across the brow. He stumbled to the floor with a gasp.
Josey shivered in the embrace of her captor. Wine from his soaked arm wetted her dress. His horrid breath whistled in her ear. He chuckled and took liberties in the placement of his hands as he hauled her to her feet. She squirmed and tried to bite him, and was rewarded with a sharp slap across the face.
“Now, none of that, Josephine,” a voice spoke from the cabin's entrance.
A shudder seized hold of Josey as Markus stepped into the cabin. Bandages peeked from underneath a striking new uniform: a white jacket and pants with golden insignia along the sleeves and stiff collar. It was the uniform of the grand master of the Sacred Brotherhood. Why is he…?
Josey's questions fled at the hideous sight of his face. The flesh of his sunken cheeks was rippled and crusted black. Drool leaked from the wet sores where his lips had been; they pulled back in a terrible grimace as he stood over Kas. The big man's eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused. Blood seeped between the fingers clutching his ample belly.
“Another valiant defender,” Markus said. “You seem to collect them like pets.”
“Leave him alone! Take me, but let him be.”
Markus held up a gloved finger as the Brothers surrounded Kas. “Don't waste your breath. There's no rescue coming for you this time.”
While their brethren stomped the old man with their hobnailed boots, two soldiers drew long daggers and approached Josey. A scream hovered in Josey's breas
t as the sharp instruments came toward her, but she refused to release it. She was a princess, heir to the throne of Nimea. She wouldn't debase herself with pleading or crying. She would show them how a lady of imperial blood could die.
Markus straightened his cuffs. “Do you like my new look?”
Josey hurled her most defiant glare at him over the shoulders of the soldiers. “How much gold did it take to convince you to betray your oath?”
“Times are changing, Princess,” he said. “You would be wise to change with them.”
“Go to hell.”
He chuckled as the knives sliced off her clothing. “I was too kind before on the waterfront. This time, I'm going to take my time and enjoy it.”
Josey gasped as she was lifted onto the table, the rough wood abrading her naked skin. Calloused hands pried apart her legs and exposed her intimate parts for all to see. She kicked and connected with something squishy. A gloved fist smashed into her mouth. Blood dripped from her lips, but she smiled through the pain. Let them do their worst. She wouldn't go quietly.
But a cold worm twisted in Josey's belly as Markus appeared over her. The scars on his face oozed clear pus.
“Don't worry, girl. I was told to return you alive and unharmed. We're not going to hurt you.”
He unbuckled his trousers. “Just a little tickle.”
Josey screamed as a lance of red-hot pain penetrated between her thighs. Golden starbursts filled the black space behind her clenched eyelids. So lovely, they carried her away from the horrors of the waking world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ral spewed profanity with a vengeance as a troupe of table dealers from the gaming room downstairs battled the flames burning his suite. The blaze was under control, but it had reduced his rooms to a burnt shambles. Everything reeked of fire and ashes. Damn Caim! He had the Horned One's own luck. The sorcerer was gone as well. Good riddance to both as far as he was concerned. They could kill each other for all he cared.
As Ral paced across charred carpet, he considered Vassili's papers, tucked inside his jacket. He hadn't been able to make out everything on those yellowed pages, but what he understood spelled out dire implications, not only for the Church, but for the entire country. The archpriest had been involved in dirty dealings, even by his standards. Trucking with sorcery, deviltry, regicide…Vassili hadn't just wanted to rule Nimea; he had wanted to spread the Church's influence throughout the entire world. What boldness! In the end, the archpriest's sin had not been a lack of ambition, but trust in the wrong persons. Ral wouldn't make that mistake. He didn't trust anyone, especially his new ally. But knowing what to expect from the sorcerer—secrets, lies, and eventual betrayal—was better than trust. It was a certainty upon which to base his decisions. To rule an empire. It could be done, if he was bold enough.
Ral stopped beside the sideboard table. The wooden boxes had survived the fire with a few singes, a minor miracle for which he was almost prepared to bend knee and offer a prayer of thanks. He had seen for himself the kind of power a symbol could hold over common folk. Give them a hero, especially one raised from their own ranks, and they would follow him to the gates of Hell. Everything was almost in place. When Markus returned with the prize, they could proceed to the final phase of the plan. The last throw of the dice. Ral could barely contain his excitement.
A centurion of the Sacred Brotherhood, a grizzled veteran with more gray in his hair than blond and deep lines crisscrossing his face, appeared at the door and saluted with a fist pressed to his heart.
“The surrounding streets are clear, sir. But I sent a squad after the culprit.”
Ral turned over his left hand. The tower-shaped blot gleamed on his palm like a patch of wet ink. He had tried washing it with lye, brine, vinegar, and bourbon, but so far the stain proved indelible. More to boot, in the fight with Caim he could have sworn it had started to tingle, barely noticeable in the heat of the melee, but a strange sensation nonetheless.
“Recall them. Are we prepared for Master Arriston's return?”
“Yes, sir. I have Brothers posted at the Market Gate to receive him and the package.”
“Good. Have them brought to Celestial Hill as soon as they arrive. We're going to the palace.”
“As you command.”
At the centurion's command, thirteen Sacred Brothers entered the suite. Each left carrying a wooden box. A jaunty tune played in Ral's head as he glanced down at his hand. The mark rippled with the supple contractions of his tendons. A noble mark. Perhaps he would use it in his new family crest, a black tower on a field of white. It had a touch of elegance to it.
He looked around the room for the last time. The mural of Dantos was singed beyond recognition. The hero now appeared to be disappearing into a black void, his love forever beyond his reach. Ral didn't intend to return here ever again. In fact, he would try to forget his time spent here. Rising stars had no need for memories of the earth below.
He hummed as he walked out of the suite.
There once was a man who danced with Death…
Levictus stepped from the shadow of a sagging oak tree and onto a carpet of soft loam. Night seeped between the boles of the ancient grove. The sweet promise of its power beckoned to him like a lover's perfume.
His cheek burned through lines of blood congealed along his jaw. He had attempted to pursue the one who injured him through the city, but finally lost the man somewhere in the labyrinthine alleyways.
With a curse, he seized one of the shadows crawling under his robe and tore it open. Its minuscule death shriek rattled the dying leaves on nearby trees as he stuffed its gelatinous body into his wound. Murmured spells halted the bleeding and set the flesh to mending. This man, Caim, was a devious foe, but only a man after all. He would be dealt with before long.
Levictus strode across the uneven ground. Moldy stones and fallen pillars of an old sacellum studded the earth under the canopy of interwoven branches. Built as a temple in Nimea's pagan past, the site also marked a fault point, a weakness in the fabric between realms. It was here, less than a league from the city walls, he had discovered his budding powers as a young man, here he taught himself how to access those abilities with sacrifices of small forest creatures and, eventually, larger victims. Later, Vassili, ever the supportive mentor when he wanted something, had supplied him with proscribed texts to further his education in the black arts. Now the archpriest was dead and he, a man remade in the torture cells of the Holy Inquest, manipulated the strings of an empire.
He went to the stone altar at the temple's center, the very spot where he had made his fateful pact so many years ago. The memory of that night was seared into his brain. He had sought to avenge his family, but what he summoned in his ignorance went beyond anything he had ever imagined. He had seen things that night he couldn't forget, no matter how he tried. By the following dawn, he'd been a changed man.
He ran his hands across the weathered stone and drank in the power permeating the temple, let it fill him to completeness. He hadn't been back to this place in years, but now he needed to make contact again. It was time to unleash the full measure of his powers upon those who had tormented him.
Raising his voice to the night, he began to chant. Shadows screamed as they were consumed in the sorcery. The wound ceased to bother him. In its place arose a wave of ecstasy far beyond any earthly pleasure. It raced through his body like lightning as his paean to the forces Beyond soared into the sky.
Above the altar, a window of nothingness opened.
He braced himself as a frigid wind erupted from the rift and stood firm, resolute in the powers at his command, even as a figure appeared in the aperture. Harsh words resounded from the void. They grated on his ears like gnashing mountains, like the grinding of the world's bones.
“Levictus. Long has it been since your last communication. Is this the manner in which you pay homage to the Lords of Unrelenting Dark?”
Levictus knelt on the broken ground. “I have summoned you t
o—”
His voice broke into a hoarse scream as a jet of black flames lashed out from the portal. Levictus dropped to the ground, wrapped in their searing embrace. When the flames departed, he was curled into a tight ball.
The figure leaned closer to the rift. A dark gown clung to voluptuous curves. Cascades of midnight hair framed eyes that glowed like the pits of hell.
“Such as you do not summon us,” she intoned. “You are a servant, a slave of the Shadow, to be used in whatever manner we require.”
Levictus pulled himself back onto his knees. The pain was subsiding. He held his hands up to the moonlight, expecting to see a mass of charred flesh. Instead, there was only smooth, healthy skin.
He genuflected before the altar. “Forgive me, mistress.”
“Tell us why you have reached across the Void this night.”
“I require…I ask for another infusion.”
“You dare? You, to whom the Lords of Shadow have granted more power than any mortal in a thousand years, to whom the secrets of the Dark were laid bare? You dare to demand more?”
Levictus dared to lift his gaze. The words, so long withheld, poured out of him in a rush. “I do not demand. I merely beg for the strength to serve your will. Othir, the jewel of the empire, lies under the sun like a great, bloated whore, spreading her cancer to every land. I would tear down her scabrous walls and scatter her people to the four winds. I would bring the Shadow to this place and extinguish the light of Nimea forever.”
The emissary's head tilted so that her hair fell across her face, hiding her dusky features. “What you desire is possible, but there is a danger.”
