Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  She looked surprised. “That is not part of our arrangement.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It just comes with the territory.”

  “What do you… ?” she trailed off, eyes widening.

  “Yep. I mean that you’re now a nightlord—or a nightlady, rather—and he’ll be coming after you, too.” I grinned and opened the door. “If I don’t succeed, you’d better hope I at least wear him down.”

  The look of dawning worry was just starting as I closed the door.

  Downstairs, there was a messenger waiting. I say a messenger; in actuality it was a musician with an instrument that reminded me slightly of a mandolin. He was providing chamber music for the lobby, even though the place was almost deserted. When he saw me, he bowed slightly and sauntered over, still strumming.

  “Good morn, lord Halar.”

  “And merry meet?” I hazarded. “Do I know you?”

  “Nay, lord, but the bard sends his greetings and his wishes for your lordship’s good health.”

  “Ah. Right.” I’d forgotten I’d asked Linnaeus and T’yl to find me if I wasn’t back by morning. “I’m headed to see him, in fact.”

  “As your lordship pleases,” he replied, bowing gracefully. He never missed a note. Maybe he was one of Linnaeus’ pupils.

  I went out front and patted Bronze for a minute. She nuzzled me with a very cold nose and I could feel she was glad to see me.

  A shout went up. I looked toward it and saw a priest pointing at me and screaming holy blue murder. While this didn’t bother me especially, I noted that other priests and several lightly-armored thugs were pouring into view.

  I’d left Bronze parked out front and someone had seen her. Or somebody in the Seven Roses had spotted me and blown the whistle. Either way, it didn’t matter; a bunch of holier-than-god types had lurked nearby and waited for me to come out to my horse.

  I swung into the saddle and Bronze turned as I did so, making it easy. She also kicked the lead thug in the head. There was a wet crunch. She kept turning, hooves lashing out to keep people back or kill them outright.

  Within one revolution, I had Firebrand out.

  “Light up!” I shouted, and Firebrand did. A gout of fire twice my height shot down the length of the blade like a rocket taking off. I swung Firebrand and the jet of flame around to clear some space; people screamed and fell back. Some fell down, smoking; some danced back, beating at their clothes.

  The priests were chanting. I hadn’t done anything about it to this point because they were too far away and I had more immediate concerns. Now, though…

  Whatever spell they were preparing was a doozie; there were four priests combining their efforts. While they weren’t as good at it as the sea-people, they were still building up a whopping great charge. Unfortunately for them, I studied magic after I studied electrical theory. A high potential can ground through any conductive path—I gestured, shouting, and did the equivalent of throwing a long coil of copper cable at their whirling, growing dynamo.

  Spells being constructed are delicate things. All that power shorted violently down the length of the cable—which I intended; that’s why I threw the whole thing, rather than hold on to one end. What I had not intended was for one end of it to be draped over a priest.

  He melted.

  He didn’t burst into flame or start to char. He liquefied. It looked like his body softened rapidly to the consistency of gelatin without losing either color or texture. Then he started to wobble and jiggle and slowly deform down to a halfway state between puddle and lump. It made me wonder what they had been trying to do to me!

  I’m going to get blamed for that, I thought. Bad PR. Not that I minded killing him—if I did; I hope I did. I wouldn’t want to think about him still being alive like that—but I didn’t like the idea of killing a priest while there were spectators.

  Firebrand turned off the stream of fire but remained lit. It asked, What spectators, boss? The honest citizens are beating feet like bastinado with cobblestones.

  I looked around. Some of the thugs were regrouping and the other three priests were reeling from the mental backlash of a disrupted spell. What few bystanders I could see were more like far-away-runners. Firebrand was right.

  “Good.” I kneed Bronze slightly and we charged the priests. I had Firebrand out, pointed at them, and they staggered in three directions. One we ran over, crunching. Another I beheaded. The third we cut in front of so that he slammed into Bronze’s flank. He lay there, staring up at us, eyes wide and half-mad with terror.

  I pointed Firebrand at his right eye. Firebrand rippled with flames that looked like they might drip from the point.

  “Go back to your masters,” I said. “Tell them I am not hunting them. But if they hunt me—or even allow anyone to hunt me—I will teach them the mysteries of death. Do you understand me?”

  He nodded, eyes fixed on Firebrand.

  Bronze wheeled about and we went thundering away.

  Heading back to my room was probably asking for trouble. Instead, I made a few turns and slowed to a walk. Then we headed straight out of Carrillon. If they were going to be so bold as to attack me in the street, fine—let them catch me first. I rode through the gates at a walk, alert for ambushes. Nobody tried anything, although a few people pointed and a few more stared.

  Because I’m a nightlord? Or because they think I’m a hero? I wish I knew.

  Outside, I asked, “Ready for a run, girl?”

  Bronze tossed her head in affirmation. I thumped her with my heels and held on for dear life.

  There’s an old joke in my world.

  “How do you spot the happy biker?” “How?” “He’s the one picking bugs out of his teeth.”

  I wished I had a helmet. Or goggles, at least. Bronze is quieter than a motorcycle, at least as fast, and goes over terrain that would destroy the shocks on almost any vehicle. Still, if you’ve never had a bug pretend your forehead was a windshield… don’t. I can’t recommend the experience.

  Spring is in the air; the bugs are coming out. It’s inconvenient to say the least.

  We paused that afternoon outside Telen so I could clean up a bit in a small creek. Once that was out of the way, I got out a crystal—how many of these things have I gone through? I can’t recall—and hunted for Linnaeus.

  I saw him on a stage somewhere, singing. Behind him, there were instruments floating and playing themselves.

  Bad time. I hung up and looked for T’yl.

  T’yl was much harder to find. It took some effort, but I really wanted to know what the two had come up with. T’yl was in a workshop, seated, and apparently explaining something. He paused when he came into focus, looked in my direction—or seemed to—and held up a hand in a gesture that begged a moment’s wait. He set up a mirror between himself and my point of view… and I had the strangest sensation. I’d describe it as like a bug crawling up your arm, except this felt as though it was crawling up my eyes, if that makes any sense.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, greeting me. His voice sounded like it was between my ears.

  “Nice trick,” I answered. “I’ve never seen that done.”

  “You have done me the courtesy of paying a call; can I do less?”

  “Oh. You can do that?”

  “If you refer to your spell that prevents detection and location, know that by reaching to me with a scrying orb you have given me a channel through which I may reach you.”

  “Oh. I learn something new every day.”

  “I am pleased to further your education. How else may I be of assistance?”

  “I was wondering what you and Linnaeus cooked up while I was out.”

  T’yl smiled. “You once suggested it might be profitable to disseminate the truth of Tobias’ activities by displaying them in every city, town, and village. While I and others possess the power to do so, we lack the characteristics of showmanship necessary to give such a display the proper impact. Linnaeus has such talents.”

  �
��Sounds like he’s going to be busy, then.”

  “Indeed. Linnaeus’ efforts will be multiplied by those of his profession in whom he places trust. I will work with Linnaeus. Other magicians who agree with our cause will work with minstrels of Linnaeus’ selection.”

  Sounded good to me. A professional bard—or minstrel—with a magician to add special effects ought to make for an interesting show.

  “So what are we telling everyone? That Tobias needs to be hung by the neck? Or just beaten with soggy noodles?”

  “Linnaeus has outlined a program for us. His mastery of the art of swaying opinion is remarkable.”

  “Yes, I gathered. But what opinion are we shooting for?”

  T’yl paused to find a sheaf of papers. “Let me see. There are several points that must be addressed, according to Linnaeus. First, the fact the Church is not entirely truthful. Second, your kind are not necessarily evil. Third, Tobias is dealing with the powers of darkness. And, last, you yourself are battling him on the side of the light.”

  “Good points,” I agreed. “What’s he think a good time frame will be?”

  “Time frame?”

  “How long will it take? Before we see any real shift, I mean.”

  T’yl shrugged. “I do not know. He says the will of the people is a fickle and ever-changing mistress.”

  I’m sure there are political analysts and spin doctors at home who would swear to that.

  “Okay. Now, on another note, what can you tell me about a magician named Melloch?”

  T’yl frowned. “He is not one of ours.”

  “As in ‘on our side’?”

  “Yes. He worked with the Hand. He may still. I do not know.”

  “Good start. Go on.”

  “I have met him but once, and I do not like him.”

  I sighed. “Thank you. I’m planning on killing him. Now, is there anything in particular I ought to know about him?”

  T’yl’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Why am I going to kill him? Because he and a bunch of his magician friends grabbed me and tried to use me for immortality experiments. Specifically, my blood. They caged me, beat me unconscious, and stole blood from me. When I resisted, they left me to starve. Now I have a rough idea of where he is and I’m going to pay him a call. But, before I kill him, I plan to find out where Tobias is—apparently, this Melloch knows. If he tells me straight up, I might not even hurt him. I kind of hope he’ll be less than forthcoming, though.”

  “I see. Well. He is a heavy man, perhaps a few inches shorter than yourself. He favors brown or black robes and is fond of spells that change distances. He is an expert on the Mage’s Door.”

  “Any way you can show me what he looks like?”

  T’yl gestured and spoke a word. The image in my crystal changed into a picture. I’ve seen that face before. Stocky, brown-robed, carrying a staff, wearing a belt full of odd bits and pieces.

  It was the magician who had met with Shada and myself, that night. The one who had proposed to have an alliance. I’d never seen him ag—wait! Before that, in the keep in Telen! An older man, almost old enough to be the father of the image in the crystal… and a younger version of him, young enough to be a son, had been in that keep when I was captured…

  Now I knew that face. I’d seen him three times, each time at a different apparent age. In Telen, on the road with Shada, and while locked in a magic circle. I hadn’t realized it was the same guy any of the three times, of course; I expect people to stay the same age. But these people, stealing youth from others, bounce up and down the human age range.

  “Son of a bitch!” I said. T’yl reappeared in the ball.

  “Is there trouble?”

  “For him,” I replied, darkly. T’yl looked at me strangely, almost as though he was worried. “Any idea why he might be in Telen?” I asked.

  “He is the expert on the Mage’s Door,” T’yl pointed out. “Perhaps he intends to use it.”

  “Maybe. All right. Thanks. At least I know where to start looking for him.”

  T’yl’s eyes widened. “But… the Mage’s Door is in the compound of the Hand.”

  “Tough luck for them,” I replied, and closed the connection.

  Telen has some good pasturage around it, along with some hills. I figured a little roaming around ought to find me a farmstead with pigs, or a herd of something. What I found was a kid with a dog, minding a flock of sheep. His eyes widened as I rode up to him.

  “How many sheep do you have here, boy?” I demanded.

  “T-twenty-two, sir,” he stammered. I guess a shepherd would be able to count.

  “Whose are they?”

  “Sedgewick Woolspinner, sir.”

  “And you are?”

  “Hadrick, sir.”

  “Where is this Woolspinner?”

  The kid pointed back at Telen.

  “Hadrick,” I said, “I want you to go to mister Woolspinner and tell him that, if he’ll send word to Linnaeus the Bard in Carrillon, he’ll be paid for twenty-two sheep. After that, I want you to get outside the walls and get as far away from Telen as possible.”

  “Milord? Why?”

  “Because you’ve got no business being anywhere near a war. Have some silver as earnest money. Here. Now get going.”

  He accepted the coins, called the dog, and got going. I watched him until he was out of sight. Then I turned my attention to the sheep. I spoke a spell, brief and to the point, laying a webwork of sleep over them all. I’m a poor shepherd; I didn’t want them wandering off.

  I drew my dagger and dismounted. If I can create a blizzard in a low-magic world, surely I can create a thunderstorm in this one. A doozie of a thunderstorm.

  A sheep doesn’t have as much vital force as a cow. A cow doesn’t even have as much vital force as a human being, even though it’s larger. But I had twenty-two sheep to work with and a bunch of rocks in my pockets: the spells I’d prepared and hadn’t used. I could salvage some of that power.

  The spell I wanted now was going to need a lot of extra work done to it. Aside from calling up a storm, I was going to need mundane triggers and controls to use it at night—like the gravity-shifter I’d used to go up a mountain, but more sophisticated by far. That would take a while to improvise.

  The sun was well on its way to the horizon. I hurried. I recalled the spell I’d used to summon up a blizzard and began drawing on the grassy ground with my dagger. That was slow going.

  Let me do that, boss.

  “I didn’t want to use you for cutting sod.”

  I don’t like it either, but you’ll be at it all day—and you don’t have much of it left, boss. Please, let me.

  I wiped the dagger and sheathed it, drew Firebrand. It took on a glow like metal straight from the forge. Together, we sizzled and charred our way through a large diagram of power.

  “Thanks, Firebrand.”

  De nada, boss. Am I going to get to kill something else, soon?

  “Sheep,” I replied.

  That’s it?

  “And anyone who tries to stop us. I’ll make a special effort to use you for that.”

  Thanks, boss.

  I have a vampire-filtered dragon-spirit in a sentient sword, and it’s a homicidal maniac. Go figure.

  Once we had the diagram done, I picked up the sheep, one by one, and arranged them along the perimeter. The diagram was larger than the one I’d used before; it’s hard to carve small diagrams and symbols in sod. Besides, I didn’t have an assistant to hand me sheep. I would work my way around the perimeter of the diagram, building up a charge as I went, until I reached the starting point and released it.

  I also found myself a stick, trimmed it into a wand, and stuck it in my belt. That would be the mundane tool for guiding and directing the upcoming weather. If I did it right.

  The details are of no real interest. Feeling up into the sky and into the ground for the patterns of the weather. Moving heat into and out of masses of air. Chanting, skewering unc
onscious sheep with a fiery sword, that sort of thing. I did it, pumped the power through my will and the wand, and aimed it at the heavens. Then I waited and watched the sky.

  It wasn’t a long wait. Within minutes, a haze started, high up. It started to visibly thicken into clouds, tinged orange and gold by the low rays of the sun. A greenish-yellow cast started to creep into the air.

  I got out canvas and blankets from the saddlebags. I wish I had body bags left. Pity they’d all been on Bronze when she broke me out of a magic circle. I got into the shade of some bushes on the hillside. I rolled up tightly in several layers and Bronze started kicking dirt over me. It was the best we could do.

  SATURDAY, MARCH 18TH

  I unrolled from my undead fajita and shook off the dirt from my coverings. I packed them back in the saddlebags with difficulty; the wind snatched at them and held them out like flags. Once I had them put away, I went back to the bodies of the sheep. Waste not, want not. I drained what blood was left in them like squeezing toothpaste out of a tube.

  The temperature had dropped sharply enough for me to notice. It began to rain, hard and sideways with the wind. The clouds were thick and black and churning like boiling mud. Flashes of inner lightning were almost constant, making the clouds both beautiful and ghastly.

  Good.

  We went through the hills until we had a good vantage point. The Hand compound was also on high ground, mostly above the rest of Telen.

  Which made it a target. Now, where was that room with the door?

  I drew the wand from my belt and pointed at the room, or where I believed the room to be. In response, hidden cloud-lightning flickered above. I slashed upward from the fortress I’d jumped out of, so long ago.

  A thick line of blue-white light twisted up, exploding from the structure. It blasted part of the roof into oblivion. Flaming debris whipped away on the storm-wind and rain poured into the hole.