“I’m impressed that you were able to defend yourself so well,” Deothen remarked to Priscinta as he examined the wound that had laid Mardak low.
“I was once a knight of the Sovereign Host,” said Priscinta through her tears. Her voice was raw with sorrow and, from what Deothen could tell, rage. “I am no stranger to such creatures.”
“It is too bad you couldn’t say the same of your husband.” The knight ran his finger along the length of the wound. The blow had nearly taken off Mardark’s head. The cut was clean. The vampire had carried no weapon. Such creatures usually preferred to kill their prey with their bare hands.
“No,” said Priscinta as she struggled to her knees, the cleaver still clutched in her hand. “He was a creature I knew far too well.”
Deothen nodded and then ducked to the side at the last moment. He knew that Priscinta had seen him examining the wound, that he knew of her guilt. He’d hoped she’d simply confess to him, but she apparently wasn’t going to make it that easy.
The cleaver in Priscinta’s hand glanced off the steel spaulder protecting Deothen’s right shoulder. Still kneeling next to Mardak’s body, he whipped about and planted the point of hiss word against the woman’s chest. She froze.
As the knight stood, his blade’s point still on Priscinta, he gazed at the woman. She had barely come out of the kitchen since the knights had arrived to break bread with Mardak. Her right eye was puffy and bruised from when Mardak had struck her earlier in the day. Her lip was broken and bleeding, but that wound was fresh. Fear warred with righteous anger in her eyes.
“It … it was the vampire,” Priscinta said, stumbling over her words.
Deothen didn’t need the favors of his god to know the words were lies. This had been a good woman, he could tell, and such deceptions did not come naturally to her. He winced to hear her continue on.
“It bent Mardak’s mind to its will,” Priscinta said. “He attacked me.” She fought back a dry sob. Madness danced in her eyes. “I had to defend myself.”
Deothen pulled back his blade but held it at the ready. Priscinta dropped the cleaver and sagged. She looked a great deal older than she had that afternoon.
“Did you fear these dusty remains might have done the same to me?” Deothen whispered.
Priscinta shrugged and looked away. A single tear ran down her bruised and beaten face. “We live in a strange and unknowable world. Who can say what is possible?” Her gaze fell on her husband’s corpse. Deothen could see that Mardak’s eyes were frozen wide in surprise, although they were buried blind under a patina of the vampire’s dust.
“Please don’t tell my son,” Priscinta said as she fell back on her knees, tears streaming down her face. She pleaded madly with the knight. “Isn’t it bad enough he’s lost his father?”
Deothen felt ill.
A single light burned in the front window of Kandler’s home as he approached it. No sounds came from within.
The justicar had left Burch and Sallah in the center of town to rally the townsfolk who had fled there. Burch had insisted on accompanying Kandler, but he had refused. “Esprë needs me,” he’d said to his old friend, “but Mardakine does too. Stand here for us both while I find her.”
The shifter had slapped Kandler on the back and wished him good speed as he dashed off toward his home.
The shutters on the front window of Kandler’s home swung loose and wide. The hook that normally kept them shut after dark had been torn from its mooring. Kandler stopped and listened. Still no sound, not even the sobbing of a girl.
Kandler crept up his front stairs and over to the window, which gaped as wide as a dragon’s maw. His sword before him, he poked his nose over the weathered, wooden sill. The lantern burning on the table in the center of the main room shed a flickering light on the scene. For a moment, the justicar saw nothing wrong. He blew out a long, silent sigh.
The sigh caught in his throat as the blood splashed across the room’s rear wall caught his eye. It looked like it had been flung there by a careless artist working with red paint.
Kandler grimaced and ducked back below the sill. He considered sneaking around the back, but there was no telling who was hurt or how much time she might have left. He drew in a deep breath, stood, and wound his way around to stand before the door. He launched himself and threw his shoulder right at the point he knew would shatter the latch, but the door did not resist. It smashed open and bounced off the wall behind it.
The justicar’s eyes darted about the room as he entered it. The stove was cold, as it always was at this time of night. Some of the furniture had been overturned. The table blocked his view of the bottom of the bloodstained wall. He barged past it, and he found a small body there, crumpled across a broken, toppled chair.
Kandler reached down with his free hand to pull back the girl’s dark, matted hair, although he already knew what he would find. Norra’s eyes were frozen wide with fear in a face still puffy from weeping most of the day. Blood trickled from her mouth and nose. It was too late for her.
A mixture of relief, terror, grief, and shame washed over Kandler. He was thrilled that the body hadn’t been Esprë’s, but that meant that his daughter was still out there somewhere. He mourned Norra, but the guilt over his relief colored that emotion.
The justicar lay Norra down on her back and tugged her eyes closed with the palm of his hand. He could do this much for her now at least. She might have given her life defending Esprë. He only hoped her sacrifice would not be in vain.
Kandler held his breath and listened again. A floorboard creaked low and soft in the back of the house. He recognized the noise. He heard it every time he stood next to the footlocker at the end of his bed.
His sword in hand, Kandler crept along the main room’s back wall until he reached the door to his chamber. The door itself was a thin slab of wooden planks held together by a pair of crossbeams. It cleared the top and bottom of the frame by a few irregular inches. A dim light shone under the door, but as Kandler watched it went out.
Kandler raised his sword and kicked in the door. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The shutters on the room’s sole window flapped open in the stiffening wind.
“Esprë?” Kandler whispered. As the words left his lips, he regretted them. If the girl popped out at him without warning, though, he feared he might kill her by reflex.
“It’s all right, sir,” a voice growled out of the darkness at him. A thin and wiry silhouette stepped partly from the shadows. “She’s safe.”
“Burch?” Kandler lowered his blade an inch. Something about this wasn’t right. Sir? Burch never called anyone sir, even knights. “Where is she?”
“I sent her to Norra’s house, sir.”
Kandler let loose a false sigh of relief. “Thank the Silver Flame,” Kandler said, his mind racing. Who was this creature that looked something like Burch, at least in the dimly lit room? Where was Esprë?
“Come on,” Kandler said. He lowered his blade as he spoke. He needed this creature alive. “Let’s go get her.”
The justicar turned and stepped out of the room. As he walked into the light in the main room of his house, he heard the shifter step up behind him, just as he’d hoped.
Kandler reached back and grabbed the shifter by the arm. He spied a long, silvery knife in the creature’s hand, and he knew that it had been meant for his heart, probably to be stabbed in from behind and up under his ribs.
Rolling forward, Kandler hurled the lighter creature over his shoulder and into the room, slamming him onto his back. The air whooshed from the creature’s lungs, and Kandler pounced on him before he could recover.
The justicar kicked the creature in the ribs, once, twice. He felt the bones there snap under his assault, and he smiled. This creature was behind Esprë’s disappearance, he was sure, and he wanted him to hurt for it. The third time Kandler kicked, though, the shifter grabbed his foot and twisted hard.
Kandler crashed to the ground. He landed
on his sword arm but avoided slicing himself on his own blade, which went skittering from his hand. Frustrated at himself for letting his foe get the better of him, he lashed out with his free foot and booted the shifter in the nose.
The shifter let go of Kandler’s foot and scrambled for the door. The justicar knew that if the creature reached the darkness outside of the house he might never find him, and then Esprë might be lost to him forever. He wasn’t going to let that happen.
Kandler leaped to his feet and grabbed the nearest thing at hand—a frying pan hanging from a nail on the wall. He hurled it, and it caught the creature flat in the back.
The shifter tumbled down the front stairs of Kandler’s home and into the night. Kandler had hoped the creature would trip on the porch or, better yet, fall back into the house. He cursed his luck and rushed forward, his heart pounding in his ears. The justicar dashed out the door and leaped down atop the creature, trying to crush it beneath his bulk.
Kandler fell on the shifter with all his weight. He felt the satisfaction of a rib or three cracking under him as he landed squarely on the creature. The shifter let out a high-pitched yelp.
Kandler threw his arms under the shifter’s then reached up and laced his fingers behind the shifter’s head. The creature thrashed about, trying to slip free, but Kandler just squeezed his arms together harder. This creature was his only link to Esprë, and he was never going to let go.
The shifter thrashed about like a wild animal, struggling to get free from Kandler’s hold. The justicar pressed his elbows together, trying to force the fight from the creature. “Where is she?” he growled. Even to his own ears, he sounded desperate bordering on mad.
The creature in Kandler’s arms became both taller and broader. Its teeth morphed into tusks, and its skin grew rough and leathery. From the smell alone, Kandler didn’t need to turn his foe around to know he was now holding something that looked almost exactly like an orc. The thing let loose a stomach-wrenching snarl.
Kandler pulled his elbows back nearly a foot, bending the orc’s arms back nearly to the breaking point. Then he bore down and forward, slamming the thing’s face into the ground. He felt the orc’s snout smash into the crater’s hardened floor. One of the creature’s tusks broke off and stabbed it in the face. The creature yelped in pain. Kandler felt the blood pooling around his arms.
“I’ve dealt with your kind before, changeling,” Kandler said. “I won’t let go.”
The justicar felt something tickling about at the base of his brain. His fingers started to go numb. It reminded Kandler of his youth in Sharn, the wondrous City of Towers. Once, at a friend’s birthday party, a performer had asked him to come onstage to help out with a trick. The little gnome had reached into Kandler’s brain and stunned him silly for a moment. He hadn’t realized what had happened until he’d come to a moment later and saw everyone laughing at the way he was drooling down his shirt.
Afterward, Kandler had asked his father what had happened. “That was a psion, son,” the old man had said, his huge paw of a hand on the young Kandler’s shoulder. “They use their brains to mess with ours. You can’t trust them for a second.”
Still a bit confused, Kandler had asked his father what he should do if something like that happened again. The old man just flashed his son a rueful smile. “Me?” he said with an ironic laugh, “I’d kill him. But that’s not for you, son. I’m just a soldier. You’ll be better than that.”
The efforts of the creature in his arms brought all the shame and confusion back into Kandler’s head, and he used those emotions to force the tendrils from his mind. He found the outrage blazing in his heart and centered on that, shoving the invader back. He bore down harder and ground the orc’s face into the dirt. What was left of its tusks scraped against the rocky floor.
“Get—out—of—my—head!” Kandler growled. He pounded the orc’s face against the ground to punctuate each word. The sensation in the justicar’s head vanished.
Kandler snorted down at the creature in his arms. “If I feel an inkling of you in my brain, I’ll snap your neck.” To emphasize his seriousness, he squeezed the creature’s neck between the heels of his hands, and the fight slid out of it.
The creature in Kandler’s arms slimmed down and grew shorter. Its hair lengthened, and its skin became smooth and pale. Its shape changed too, and Kandler realized he was now holding a woman.
“You’re quite the warrior, justicar,” the changeling said through lips now unbroken by an orc’s shattered tusk. “It’ll be a sad day when I have to kill you.”
“Where’s my daughter?” Kandler said. The creature’s bravado hadn’t unnerved him, but he struggled to keep his desperation about Esprë’s safety from his voice.
The changeling snickered as best she could. “If I tell you, you’ll kill me.”
Kandler slammed the changeling’s face into the ground again. “If you don’t talk, I’ll kill you for sure.”
“You’re bluffing,” the changeling said. She morphed into something softer, sweeter—a slim lady elf with long, blonde hair.
It was the scent of her hair that informed Kandler instantly that he was holding the form of his wife again—the dear, deceased Esprina. For a moment, his grief over her death threatened to flood him, but he shoved it back. He hadn’t been with his wife when she’d died on the Day of Mourning, and he’d spent many long, empty nights since wishing he’d had one last chance. This wasn’t her though, and that thought made him angrier than ever.
Kandler ground the changeling’s fine features into the crater floor and flexed his muscles, pulling her arms back to breaking. He knew what had happened. The creature had pulled the image of his long-dead wife from his mind and transformed into her, hoping that the presence of his beloved would break his will. In that, she’d made a horrible, perhaps final mistake.
“Don’t you dare use her against me,” Kandler snarled, his ferocity surprising even him. “Last chance, then you die. Where is my daughter?”
The changeling cried out in pain but didn’t say a word.
“I’ll break your back and leave you for the zombies,” Kandler said. “Read my mind, psion. Tell me if I’m bluffing.” He forced aside any doubts he might have had about this course of action, and he hoped it would be enough.
Kandler flexed again and felt the changeling’s arms start to pop. She yelped as she morphed back into her natural form. “All right!” she said. “All right!”
Kandler eased up on his hold, but just barely, enough to let the creature talk. “Where is she?”
“The others have her,” the changeling said through gritted teeth, her cheek still shoved against the ground. “The vampires. She’s in the main square.” The battered changeling started to laugh. With Kandler’s weight on her, it came out weak and shallow and set off a fit of coughing.
Kandler leaned over on the changeling so he could look in her pale, empty eyes. “What’s so funny?” he asked, although he knew he wouldn’t like the answer.
The changeling smiled. “I’m in telepathic contact with the vampire who has your daughter. With just a thought from me, he’ll rip out her throat. Get off. Now.”
It was Kandler’s turn to be afraid.
Kandler got to his knees, the changeling still in his grasp. For a long moment, he considered killing the creature then and there. If he was quick enough about it, she might be dead before she could even think about Esprë. It was impossible from this angle though. He could choke the changeling to death, but it would take too long. He loosed his hold and shoved the creature to the ground.
The changeling dusted herself off as she made her way to her knees. She winced at her cracked ribs and turned to look up at Kandler. The creature’s face looked like a moon in the dim light spilling out of the house, soft and distant, yet still strongly feminine. The scratches and cuts on her rounded cheeks and on her thin slash of a mouth disappeared as Kandler watched. Her blank, white eyes seemed to glow softly in the darkness. She spoke as she
started to her feet
“Now let’s see who’s in charge he—”
Before the changeling could finish, Kandler lashed out with his boot and caught her across the jaw. The blow stunned her, he saw, but it did not put her out. She reeled backward. Desperate to save Esprë, Kandler pressed his advantage, never giving her a moment’s respite. He brutalized her with foot and fist, beating her until she stopped resisting, until she stopped moving.
Kandler grabbed the psion by the front of her tunic and hauled her toward the beam of light stabbing from his home’s front door. Pinkish blood dribbled from her battered face. Her breathing was shallow but steady. He tossed her aside, picked up his sword, and dashed back into town.
With any luck at all, Kandler figured he would reach Esprë before the changeling regained her senses. He considered killing her there and then, but he feared he might need her later. Also, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to kill her in cold blood. Taking a life in the heat of battle was one thing. Executing a helpless foe was something else altogether.
As Kandler sprinted toward the town square, he heard clashing swords and screams of terror and triumph up ahead. Someone had tossed more kindling on Shawda’s still-smoldering funeral pyre in the main square, and the flickering light reflected off the low-hanging tendrils from the Mournland that were always reaching out over the Mardakine crater.
The justicar turned a corner, and battle lay before him. Men and women of Mardakine fought toe to toe with more of the tall, dusty figures dressed in ill-fitting armor forged in the fires of Karrnath. Their bones rattled as loudly as their swords as they clashed with the desperate townspeople.
“For Cyre!” Rislinto thundered, silhouetted against the flames. One of the strongest men Kandler had ever known, the warrior-turned-blacksmith bore a dwarven warhammer instead of a blade, his long years at the forge having made his skill with such a tool a second nature to him.
As Kandler ran to Rislinto’s aid, the blacksmith’s warhammer fell again and again, crushing undead flesh and snapping bones. “We lost one home!” the bearlike man thundered. “We won’t lose another!”
Marked for Death: The Lost Mark, Book 1 Page 8
