Spectre Of The Black Rose tols-2

by James Lowder

  Gesmas wheeled the horse about and spurred it to a gallop.

  With the clomping of his mount’s hooves, the clatter of his tack and his leg brace, and the near-deafening thunder of his own heart filling his ears, Gesmas shouldn’t have been able to hear the other riders-but he did.

  The approaching hoofbeats thudded across the valley like the slamming of coffin lids. Their terrible sound heralded the arrival of two horsemen, who appeared atop the rise just as Gesmas started up the hill. The world seemed to slow, time itself shuddering to a halt at the sight of the twin horrors. Fleshless hands curled around the reins of horses that shook off wormy clots of meat with each step. Armor that seemed more tarnish than metal clattered against bare ribs. Open-faced helmets framed visages of bone. Their mouths gaped wide in mirthless, rictus grins.

  Gesmas did not need to turn his horse again to direct its retreat from the skeletal horsemen. The animal wheeled on its own. Eyes wide with terror, it barreled back toward the bridge. The riders followed. For all their preternatural slowness, they somehow gained ground on the spy quickly.

  Given a choice, Gesmas would have faced the riders before Azrael. He had a particular dread of creatures like the dwarf-or the thing the dwarf was supposed to be, if the stories he’d heard were to be believed. Malocchio’s generals, too, had warned him against tangling with Azrael. He was unpredictable, the sort who might turn a simple act of espionage into an excuse for open warfare.

  Gesmas could only hope that the stories were exaggerations, for there was no stopping his horse now. It recognized the stench of the grave emitted by the dead riders.

  “Fate favor me,” Gesmas said, then kicked his mount into a full charge.

  Azrael’s iron-shod boots struck sparks from the stones underfoot as he ran to meet the assault. He balled his thick-fingered hands into fists in front of his face. Then his arms went slack, trailing loosely to his sides like broken wings. Claws burst from his fingertips. His heavy-footed gait became more certain, swifter. Fur sprouted in unpleasant gray-and-black tufts from his face and bare arms. A scream that was equal parts ecstasy and anguish blasted from his lips. The dwarfs entire frame convulsed, the bones of his skull grinding into a new configuration-a terrible mixture of dwarf and giant badger.

  The transformation completed itself just as Azrael reached the near end of the bridge. An instant later, horse and rider were upon him.

  Gesmas directed his mount’s wild flight as best he could, hoping to drive Azrael aside or perhaps even trample him. For the briefest of instants, it appeared that he would escape.

  Azrael fell to his back as the horse bore down on him. The mount leapt forward, and Gesmas gasped. The way stood open. The border and safety beckoned at the bridge’s far end.

  The elation that sight engendered was shortlived. Even as the spy turned his head, hoping to glimpse the battered form of the werebeast, his horse collapsed beneath him. The unfortunate animal screamed once, then crumpled. Gesmas pitched forward. The saddle, its straps somehow sheared, and the saddlebags flew with him. They landed in a snarl at the center of the bridge’s span.

  As he raised his head from the stones, Gesmas glanced back at his fallen horse. The animal had been split from breastbone to tail. The carcass lay atop Azrael, who struggled to free himself from the grisly tangle. The werebeast’s claws were thick with gore, the fur on his monstrous face matted with blood. Azrael expelled a grunt of anger, a horrible sound matched only by the thunder of the approaching skeletal riders.

  Gesmas started to crawl. From his wrist, he plucked a small locket. The filigreed silver gleamed softly, just as it had the day Malocchio Aderre had given it to the spy. Now, in his hour of greatest need, Gesmas pressed it to his lips and invoked the charm it carried. “Lord Aderre, aid me!” he called. “I have what you want. I have Soth’s history.”

  He looked to the far end of the bridge. There, shrouded in the gathering gloom, stood Malocchio Aderre. Clad in black, he could have been cut from the darkness itself. He crossed thin arms over his chest impatiently. A breeze stirred his wild mop of black hair, uncovering his eyes for a moment. The dark orbs glittered brightly in a pale white face. “Give it to me,” he cried. “Quickly.”

  Gesmas snatched up the saddlebags, stuffed to bursting with scraps of parchment and folios of notes about the Lord of Sithicus. As the spy raised the satchels above his head, the world went suddenly silent. Azrael’s growls and the awful thunder of the dead riders, even the dull murmur of the river-all quieted at the same instant. A soft, unpleasant sound quickly filled the void. It was a voice, as deep and bleak as a bottomless chasm. It shook the soul and froze the blood. Gesmas found himself paralyzed.

  “What do you hear?” shouted Malocchio Aderre, but his servant could not answer. The droning of the voice had become a song, a dirge of shattered faith and forsaken love. It was the tale of Lord Soth, sung by the thrice-cursed knight himself.

  The words of that dire song gathered along the border, but would not pass beyond. They coalesced into thorny stems that reached high into the sky. With each new verse of Soth’s lament, the stems stretched upward, swelling at the tops with tightly dosed buds. Then the song grew discordant, the story confused. The orderly row of stems tangled. The thorns tore at each other, and the wounds they left wept thick, viscous tears.

  Gesmas felt the song take root in his mind. The melody sent tendrils deep into his thoughts, seeking out memories the spy had carefully walled off. They tapped into his most ghastly deeds, the morbid and horrific reflections that surrounded them, and drank of their vileness.

  The urge to expel that poison overwhelmed Gesmas, and he himself began to sing. His crimes-and those of every other soul within the spectre-haunted land-created a dreadful harmony that swelled the buds atop the tangled stems. Finally, when no more voices could be added to the chorus, the flowers opened.

  Black roses. Their petals blotted out the sky and filled the world with the fragrance of corruption.

  Two

  Countless pairs of hungry, hunting eyes followed the passage of Azrael’s open-air carriage as it careened along the road to Nedragaard Keep. Nothing sprang from the night-cloaked forest or slithered up from the noxious mires that bordered the way. The creatures that stalked the Sithican wilds knew the distinctive sound of the dwarfs trap. The two-wheeled carriage was armored in the teeth of Azrael’s fallen enemies. Tusks and fangs and molars chattered nervously at every bump in the road, warning away anyone or anything that might mistake Azrael for a common wayfarer.

  Not that many travelers frequented the byways of Sithicus. The land’s three main cities-Mal-Erek, Hroth, and Har-Thelen-were largely self-sufficient. The elves who inhabited those gray, joyless places shunned trade, even with their own kind. A plague known as the White Fever, which had swept back and forth across the land like a reaper’s scythe for more than two decades, only made the cities more insular. That didn’t slow the sickness. It ravaged town and farm alike, sometimes carrying off a single soul, sometimes an entire village.

  As Azrael’s trap hurtled through a crossroads, it encountered one of the more visible signs of the White Fever’s presence in Sithicus. The horse’s I hooves and the studded wheels shattered bones and sent up a cloud of pale, choking dust. The crossroads were white with the sun-bleached remains of plague victims. Even isolated intersections such as this held the scavenger-picked leftovers from a dozen or more corpses. During major outbreaks, so many bodies choked the larger crossroads that their moaning, writhing mass halted all but the heaviest wagons. The ways remained blocked until scrounging animals picked the carcasses down to more easily trampled heaps.

  Not long after the plague’s arrival in Sithicus, superstitious farmers had initiated the practice of tying the sick and dying at the meeting of two roads. The bodies were staked out with each of their four limbs pointing down a different path, in hopes of confusing the plague spirits that supposedly carried the disease. The more sophisticated townsfolk labeled this practice sheer foolis
hness. They believed that the White Fever spread by sight, since the victim’s eyes bulged grotesquely in the hours before death. The townsfolk, too, left bodies at the crossroads, but they didn’t stake them out. They beheaded the afflicted, then bundled the head in a burlap sack and placed it atop the corpse’s chest. In recent months, the two groups had adopted each others’ safeguards, so that now the dying were beheaded and their remains splayed in four directions.

  “I’m the only one to survive it,” Azrael said as the trap lurched over a skull. He turned back to grin triumphantly at his captive. Over the grim chattering of the trap, he added, “I fought the White Fever for three years. It finally gave up back in ‘thirty-six. The plague has slaughtered hundreds, thousands, but it couldn’t kill me.”

  Gesmas only nodded. Scars on the dwarfs face matched those left by the pustules characteristic of the Fever’s second stage. A prolonged battle with the Fever might also explain why Azrael had been described as stooped with age in some of the older stories Gesmas had heard. The disease leeched the color from the flesh and the hair, making the victim look ancient before his time. Two decades ago, when the plague was still obscure, its effects might have been confused with old age.

  But Azrael had not told Gesmas about his triumph over the White Fever to clarify his understanding of Sithican history. The story was intended to underscore the hopelessness of his situation. The dwarf was really saying: If Death itself couldn’t best me, what chance does a spy with a twisted leg have?

  The reminder was unnecessary. From the moment Gesmas had come to his senses, he’d recognized the dire nature of his plight. Rust-rime iron shackles clamped his hands behind his back. A rope looped through a metal ring on the carriage floor bound his feet. He could not stand, could maintain his balance enough to sit up only when Azrael slowed the horse-which had occurred only twice in their dash along the lonely road. When Gesmas managed to survey his surroundings, he found the two dead riders trailing at just the right distance to intercept him should he manage to get free of his shackles and the carriage.

  The spy’s instincts offered no clever vision of escape. The place had blinded his extra-sight, veiled it like the black moon Nuitari veiled certain stars as it made its way across the night sky. The utterly corrupt could view Nuitari’s face. For the rest, the only way to “see” the ebon orb was to seek out what it concealed.

  Gesmas stared hard into the velvet dome of the night. The constellations were all strange to him, but after a time he perceived a void where it seemed there should be stars. “Is the moon full tonight?” he asked, knowing that his captor would offer some sort of answer, even if it had nothing to do with his question. Azrael seemed to dislike silence.

  “From the things you confessed in the song,” the dwarf replied, “you should be able to see for yourself.”

  Gesmas could still taste the dirge’s poison in his mouth, though he couldn’t recall anything clearly from the time the song started to the moment he realized he was a prisoner, already miles from the border. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I told you before, I’m no one. Just a bard collecting local stories.”

  Azrael whipped the horse furiously, though the beast could not have traveled any faster had it been graced with wings. “You’d be better served by a different tale than that,” he said. “No bard I’ve ever met believed himself to be ‘no one.’ Besides, what storyteller is important enough to make Malocchio Aderre appear with a single shriek for help? I don’t really care about that. But what I can’t tolerate ��� ” Without warning, the dwarf kicked backward with one foot. The iron-soled boot struck Gesmas in the chest. “I can’t tolerate modesty.”

  Azrael’s voice lacked the faintest trace of anger, which unsettled his prisoner even more than the attack. “You confessed to some pretty gruesome deeds,” the dwarf continued, as if the conversation were occurring across a cozy dinner table. “There aren’t many with your tolerance for bloodshed. I could have used you. Why, I’ll wager you’ve never lost a night’s sleep over any of it-the assassinations, the torture���”

  “I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of.”

  “Who mentioned anything about shame? Pay attention,” Azrael said flatly, then kicked Gesmas again. “Shame is even more useless than modesty.”

  Gesmas groaned and shrank back as far as his shackles would allow. The burning ache in his side told him that the last blow had cracked a rip.

  “You should realize that you’ve put yourself in this sorry position. Calling on Aderre got Soth’s attention, which is no small feat these days. What really grabbed his interest is this.” Azrael used the butt of his whip to rap the worn saddlebags at his side. The leather satchels still bulged with the notes Gesmas had gathered.

  “They’re only stories,” Gesmas said, wheezing softly from the pain.

  “Only stories-ha! That’s all that matters in Sithicus! Soth has barely moved his armored ass off his throne for fifteen years. All he does is brood about the turns his story has taken. And the more he brood, the more marvelous this place becomes.”

  Gesmas could hardly agree with Azrael’s choice of adjectives to describe the current state of Sithicus. As Soth retreated into his own mind, the domain and its inhabitants suffered greater and greater torments. The White Fever was only the first, most persistent trouble. Within a year of the plague’s arrival, the wild elves of the Iron Hills began to stage raids against their civilized kin, sowing chaos for its own sake. Even now, the horizon to the east flickered red from a huge fire; yet another farm on the outskirts of Har-Thelen had fallen to the feral elves.

  If the tavern talk Gesmas had heard in his travels was to be believed, a leader had gathered together the Iron Hills bands into an army set on driving Soth from Sithicus. This warlord was known only by a symbol: the White Rose. Some within the domain saw the White Rose as a savior. Most understood that commoners would little concern a warrior powerful enough to threaten Lord Soth. These wise folk kept to their own business and hoped any war that broke out would be a brief one. Each new day of Soth’s neglect undermined those hopes a little more.

  The mere presence of Azrael’s escort, dead men astride decaying mounts, marked Sithicus as different from all the places Gesmas had explored on his missions for Lord Aderre. Necromancy and creatures that cheated the grave were factors to be countered in all those places. There were wild, disreputable yarns in some of the kingdoms hereabouts that identified a particular nobleman or general, or even the domain’s ruler, as a monster-a vampire, werebeast, or sorcerer of the most vile sort. The world, at least according to these macabre tales, was full of malevolent powers and corrupt souls.

  Some of these legends were true, though few who knew their veracity lived for long. Enough were obviously false-drunken inventions or misinformation spread by the tyrants themselves-to allow the peasants in most domains to delude themselves about their strange and sinister environs. In Sithicus, though, the unnatural was so conspicuous, so brazen in announcing its existence, that Gesmas wondered how anyone slept at night.

  If Azrael were to be believed, the only thing Sithicans truly feared was him. “I’m their only nightmare,” he said whenever the conversation touched upon the horrors of the place.

  The third time the dwarf offered up that bit of braggadocio, Gesmas couldn’t hold his tongue.

  “What about the Whispering Beast?” he asked. “Or the Bloody Shoemaker?”

  “Cobbler,” Azrael corrected with a snarl. “The Bloody Cobbler. They’re both bogeymen, children’s stories.”

  Gesmas almost repeated Azrael’s own comment about the importance of stories in Sithicus, but thought better of it. It was foolish and unnecessary to provoke a response. The tension in the dwarf’s shoulders, his white-knuckled grip on the reins, told the spy that his captor was lying. It was the same sort of fearful reaction the names had provoked in all but the most reckless locals, and even they would not offer much about the creatures beyond a line or two of fractured ve
rse. That the Beast and the Cobbler frightened a thing like Azrael, a bogeyman in his own right, was reason enough for Gesmas to wonder at their power.

  Before the prisoner could summon the courage to ask again about the two horrors, Azrael slowed the carriage to a relatively sane speed. Gesmas levered himself to a sitting position. Groaning at the pain from his ribs, he peered out of the trap.

  The road here skirted the Great Chasm, so close that the wheels kicked stones into the rift. The vast scar ran for nearly one hundred miles, north to south, through the heart of Sithicus. It gaped as wide as five miles across in some places, narrowing to less than a mile only at its ends. Light wouldn’t penetrate the chasm, even when the sun shone directly overhead. Only sickly, leafless trees grew along its perimeter. They thrust up from the earth like sorry scarecrows to warn travelers away from the rift. With good reason.

  The darkness of the Great Chasm quivered with excitement at the approach of the trap and the dead riders trailing it. Each hoofbeat sent a ripple across the gloom. The rattle of tusk and fang from Azrael’s carriage was answered deep within the murk by a famished gnashing of teeth.

  Gesmas noticed none of this, though he was an observant man. His attention had been drawn to a more astonishing sight: Nedragaard Keep.

  A peninsula like the cupped hand of a giant turned to stone held aloft Soth’s ruined castle. Granite crags rose up on three sides, fingers picketing the keep from the chasm’s greedy darkness. The marvel sheltered within that stony grasp resembled a massive stone rose. The domed central tower had been designed to approximate a tightly closed bud. On all sides, latticework bridges led from the main keep to landings opened like leaves. But the rose that housed Lord Soth was blighted. The crimson-tinged stones had been blackened by some ancient blaze. The walls had been breached, the bridges and landings shattered.