Spectre Of The Black Rose tols-2

by James Lowder

  Cursing, she sidestepped a salt shadow as it slithered toward her foot. Sabak lunged at the oozing darkness, and it turned. The hair between the dog’s shoulder and along the ridge of his spine bristled as the black shape darted across the ground toward the hound’s paws.

  “Sabak, back,” Magda shouted, and the hound leaped out of the way.

  Vitorio, the first Vistana to join Magda’s fledgling troupe in Gundarak, drove a spear into the shadow’s center. The darkness paused, then flowed around the offending spearhead like water around a post.

  “Raunie,” he cried, “where have these come from? We’re nowhere near the mine!”

  Magda didn’t reply, for she had no answer. Salt shadows were denizens of Veidrava. Dark rites performed deep within the mine, in a chapel once known as a haven for hope, had resurrected the souls of the pit’s countless victims. Clothed in the mine’s eternal darkness, the shadows hungered for new flesh. They could not leave the dark; sunlight was fatal to them. How these lost souls had got so far from Veidrava was a mystery, one the raunie had no time to solve.

  The Wanderers had succeeded in drawing the shadows apart. The gypsies taunted the shades with the simple lure of their own warm flesh. Men and shadows turned in wary circles like dancers at some macabre ball.

  Magda concentrated again on conjuring Gard. As she understood the workings of its magic, the weapon resided in some hidden pocket, intangible but close to hand. It seemed now, though, that someone else had taken hold of it. She could feel the resistance, cold hands countering her own.

  “I am Kulchek’s heir,” Magda snarled. “Gard belongs to me!”

  With that she wrenched the weapon free. No sooner did Gard appear in her hands that Magda lashed out with it.

  Like a rock breaking the surface of a still pond, the blow from Gard sent ripples across the shadow’s form. The thing screamed, a liquid hiss that made Magda tremble. Another blow and the shadow detonated. Globs of darkness splashed in all directions.

  Where they struck flesh, the awful missiles burned. They withered grass, peeled paint from wood, and leeched dye from cloth. The fragments lacked the power of the sum. The disrupted shadow could not press its assault. The lumps and puddles only wriggled and oozed across the ground, slowly but steadily reforming into a lethal whole.

  Sabak pawed at the assembling pieces, delaying their merger for as long as possible. In quick succession, Magda shattered two more of the shadows. Each time the cudgel fell, the things let out agonized screams that chilled the Vistana to the core. Still, she felt hopeful. The Wanderers were holding their own against the creatures.

  “Mother, help me!”

  The cry came from the forest’s verge. There, at the very edge of the firelight’s reach, stood Inza. Two salt shadows had somehow escaped the Wanderers’ notice. They had the girl cornered, one on the ground, the second on a thick old oak. If she retreated back into the woods, it would be too dark to distinguish the salt shadows from the normal nighttime gloom. The shades would have her at their mercy.

  Magda hesitated. The others were tiring. They needed her help, too. But this was her daughter. Of all the ragtag troupe, only she was the raunie’s blood. Magda dashed across the clearing.

  She struck the shadow on the ground three times before it finally broke apart. The spattering ooze caught Inza full in the face, and the girl fell back against the tree. The shadow there slithered onto her hand. It wrapped itself around Inza’s fingers, pulsing up to her forearm before Magda lashed out again with Gard. The blow fell upon the part of the shadow that still clung to the oak. That one strike blasted the thing apart. From the sharp crack that rang out, drowning out the creature’s scream and Inza’s shrieks for help, Magda thought that she had cleft the tree.

  It was not the oak that had cracked, but Gard. Magda stared at the cudgel, tracing the hairline fracture that now ran the ancient weapon’s length. “Unbreakable,” she murmured, repeating a line from an old Vistani tale. ” ‘Only Kulchek’s own blade could cut the wood of Gard.’ “

  Magda was so caught up in considering the remarkable damage to Gard, she didn’t hear Vitorio’s cry of warning. The shadow he’d been baiting had broken away suddenly and was rushing toward the raunie. Three more followed, as if they’d realized the significance of that resounding crack.

  With a cry, Vitorio threw himself onto the shadow.

  The thing shuddered at the impact, then curled back upon the old man. A dozen inky bands clamped around his arms, pinning them. The shadow slipped across his chest, his neck. Finally it swept onto the Vistana’s head and formed a seamless mask. Vitorio didn’t scream. He kept his teeth clamped shut against the shadow, to no avail. The ooze patiently seeped into his ears and his nose. When his lungs finally shrieked for air and his mouth flew open in a futile gasp, the rest of the shadow pulsed down his throat.

  The old man staggered to his feet. He tried to take a step toward the fire, but the shadow would not let him. “For my soul’s sake,” he pleaded, “destroy me!”

  From the steps of one of the vardos, a hulking figure emerged. Bandages held his fingers together and covered his ravaged ears. It was Bratu.

  The madman loped through the chaos and scooped up Vitorio. Arms that had held the man in innumerable bear hugs over the years now hoisted him high off the ground. A look of fathomless sadness hung upon Bratu’s face as he raised Vitorio up-and tossed the old man into the fire’s heart.

  Vitorio’s body was alight in an instant. He rolled in the fire, caught between the shadow’s urge to save itself and the Vistana’s desire to see the thing destroyed. Now that it had taken flesh once more, the salt shadow was vulnerable to those things that consumed the flesh, particularly fire.

  At last Vitorio collapsed into the coals. The man’s sigh of satisfaction was mingled with the wail of the shadow, having found form after so many years, only to have it stripped away. Bratu lingered a moment. It was unclear if he were saying a silent farewell to his friend or merely making certain the corpse would not escape the blaze. Finally, though, he turned his back on the carnage and disappeared into the woods.

  From her vantage at the edge of the fighting, Inza watched Bratu go. It was tempting to go after him, for the madman could have only one destination: the secret lair of the Whispering Beast. Once he set off on that journey he was lost to the tribe forever.

  A piteous barking drew her attention back to the camp. Sabak had finally got too close to one of the shadows. The thing was wrapped around a forelimb. Though he bit at it furiously, the hound couldn’t get a grip on the shadow. The darkness clung to his jaws, wrapped around his lolling tongue, then flowed down his throat.

  A shudder rippled through Sabak’s flesh, and a single yip of confusion escaped his muzzle. He turned circles-once, twice. On the third turn he stopped and faced the nearest Vistana. Lips pulled back in a snarl, he pounced. The woman managed a gulp of surprise before Sabak tore out her throat. The hound stood over her body in triumph. Blood dribbled from his jaws onto her white blouse.

  Magda howled with anguish, but noble Sabak had not finished his grisly work. He leapt from the corpse and charged toward the edge of the woods, toward Inza.

  Magda moved to block Sabak’s charge. If there were any of his faithful hound’s heart left untainted by the shadow, she might win him back. If not, she would be the one to end his suffering.

  As the raunie stepped toward her daughter, something cold seized her foot and she stumbled. By the time she regained her balance, the shadow that had grabbed her was almost to her knee. Another squirmed across the ground to join it. With all the strength she could distill from her rage and sorrow, Magda struck this second attacker. The creature exploded, but the victory came at a terrible price. As Gard struck the ground, it snapped with the sickening sound of a bone breaking.

  Magda clutched a fragment of the shattered cudgel as she fell to her knees, hacking at the shadow wrapped tight as a tourniquet around her right thigh. Each blow gouged another grisly runnel in
her leg and sent a crimson haze of pain across her vision. “The sea of blood,” she murmured. “The end so soon.”

  The fog before her eyes cleared just enough for Magda to see Sabak corner her daughter against a vardo. The hound lunged, but Inza didn’t flinch. With the coolness of a trained assassin, she sidestepped the attack and plunged her dagger into the top of Sabak’s head. The knife’s handle still jutted from the dog’s shattered skull when his corpse hit the ground.

  Magda wept tears of relief and sorrow. She scarcely noticed as another shadow crawled onto her crippled leg, and another. Finally she toppled to the ground. She could feel the dank coolness of the shadows’ touch as they crept across her back. The dark, liquid forms merged, forming a single band around her throat.

  The shadows did not intend to possess her form. They meant to destroy her.

  A single name escaped the raunie’s lips: “Soth.”

  The death knight emerged from the mundane shadows cast by the fire. He drew his sword, blade dark with the blood of a hundred slaughtered foes, and scattered the salt shadows before him. The damned souls cringed at his passing. They could not bear the touch of his dead flesh, and the unearthly cold that radiated from his form, the eternal ache of the grave, withered them like orchids in a blizzard.

  The Knight of the Black Rose fell to one knee beside Magda. With his gauntleted fingers he tore away the shadows from her throat. They writhed in his grasp until he crushed them, leaving only a fine ebon dust that whispered through his fingers.

  “I gave you my word,” the death knight said. “I am here.”

  “Not soon enough,” she rasped, “but that is my fault.” Magda closed her eyes and held her hand to her savaged throat. The fingers came away bloody. “I am through.”

  Soth dropped his other knee and cradled Magda’s head in a fashion that was almost tender. He raised her so that he might hear her swiftly fading voice. “I go to my ancestors,” she said, “or, rather, they come to claim me. Such is always the way, great lord. The past cannot be denied.” “Perhaps,” he murmured.

  “But it need not be a trap.” The raunie looked up at the Wanderers, who stood in somber array behind Soth. Inza was there, too. The girl’s green eyes were hard, her face an unreadable mask.

  “My child will help you prove that,” Magda continued. “Swear you will protect her as you vowed to protect me.”

  The death knight bowed his head. “As master of this cursed land, you have my word.”

  “In return, I lift the curse my grandmother laid upon you on the night you entered these dark domains,” Magda said. A fit of coughing took hold of her, and it was a moment before she could speak again. “For killing my family, Madame Girani damned you never to return to your home, though it always be in view. For vowing to preserve my family, I remove that curse and wish you safe journey.”

  Had Soth’s withered heart been able to beat, it would have thundered in his chest. “Can you grant me passage from this place?” he asked.

  “No,” Magda said. “But there are others���” Her eyes fluttered closed, and she reached up a trembling hand to the death knight. In her bloody fingers she clutched a single white rose. “She comes for you.”

  With that, Magda Ilyanova Kulchevich died. Lord Soth plucked the rose from the corpse’s fingers. As he took that fragile bloom in his hand, something marvelous occurred. A white moon joined unseen Nuitari in the nighttime sky. Its lovely light shone down on Sithicus, bathing the land in a radiance that made everything seem at peace, if only for a little while.

  “Solinari,” the death knight whispered. “The white moon of Krynn.”

  The people of Sithicus interpreted the moon’s appearance in myriad ways. Some thought it a harbinger of doom, others a sign that the time of troubles had ended. To Soth, though, the meaning of that pale white orb was clear. He was one step closer to home.

  “What will you do about Malocchio?” Inza asked, interrupting Soth’s musings.

  The death knight regarded the girl coolly. “You think him responsible for the assassins?”

  “Who else could it be?” Inza looked to the other members of the troupe. They remained silent, just as she had expected.

  Soth didn’t notice. He had started across the camp, to the spot where Sabak’s corpse lay. A salt shadow protruded from its open mouth, struggling to free itself from the body. The death knight withdrew the dagger from the hound’s skull. Quickly the shadow slithered up the nearest vardo’s wheel and into the open window.

  “Whose wagon is this?” Soth asked.

  “Mine,” Inza replied. “As is the knife.”

  Soth studied the dagger for a moment. “Impressive,” he said as he handed the weapon to her. He presented it handle first. As the girl took it, the blade’s needle point scored the fingers of the dead man’s gauntlet.

  Soth did not ask for permission to enter the vardo; like all things in Sithicus, the wagon was his property.

  He was startled to find the interior so similar to the cluttered wagon kept by Madame Girani. A high stack of manuscripts collected dust in one corner. A cloth-covered table held a heap of trinkets and small boxes crammed with charms. Cages housing all manner of strange birds hung from the rafters; they chittered and chirped nervously at the death knight’s passing.

  “Why would the shadow hide here?” Inza asked from the doorway.

  Soth tossed aside the carpet covering an ornately carved chest hidden toward the back of the wagon. Salt was scattered on the floor all around the box. “Because this is where it, and all the others, had been hiding for days,” Soth rumbled.

  He threw open the box. The shadow hung on the underside of the lid like some monstrous spider. It dropped onto the salt heaped in the chest, trying to bury itself. Soth snatched the thing up and slowly crushed it.

  Inza crowded close. The chill of Soth’s presence didn’t seem to bother her in the least. “How did Malocchio hide the shadows in there?” she said.

  Soth slammed the chest shut. “It wasn’t Malocchio who sent the assassins. It was Azrael.”

  Seven

  Azrael should have realized something was wrong when the voices at the Lake of Sounds went suddenly silent.

  When it happened, the dwarf was listening to the dark describe what his kingdom would be like. There were other things he should have been tending to-the hunt for the White Rose, eavesdropping on Soth or the Wanderers-but those were tedious, empty pursuits compared to the construction of the new Sithicus, even if only in his mind.

  As always, the dark had been describing his realm with the stolen words of others:

  “You’ve never seen such a look of terror.”

  “It will be easy to get her to leave.”

  “All of this needs to be cleaned up.”

  “It was Azrael”

  Somewhere at the back of his mind, the dwarf dimly recognized that last voice. He had no time to identify the speaker, though. A hush had settled over the lake, a fear-thick pall that seemed to make the purple twilight tremble. Azrael’s white brows knitted together in consternation. “What’s going on?” he murmured.

  The question had not died upon his lips when the answer came. A hand gauntleted in ancient, fire-blackened armor gripped Azrael’s shoulder. “Traitor,” said a hollow voice. The word reverberated across the still, black water. A heartbeat later that sound was joined by the dwarfs groan as he slammed against the cavern’s salt-crusted wall.

  “Mighty lord,” Azrael gasped, scrambling to his knees before Soth, “what have I done to offend you?” Soth did not answer, merely traced a symbol in the air. The glyph hung there, burning with the same orange fire that lit the death knight’s eyes. It appeared an instant later on Azrael’s forehead. The brand flared, then vanished.

  The dwarf stiffened, and a strangled cry of agony rasped from his throat. Rivulets of blood trickled from his snout and ears.

  The death knight clamped his hands to either side of Azrael’s head and lifted the dwarf from the ground. S
lowly, he began to tighten his grip, pressing his palms together like the jaws of a vice. Azrael howled in pain. With fingers ending now in a badger’s thick black claws, he tore at Soth’s arms. “Mercy,” he cried.

  “You showed Magda no mercy,” Soth replied coolly. In his hands the dwarf’s face shuddered, bones sliding into their hybrid configuration. In response, the death knight shifted his thumbs up from Azrael’s cheeks to the dwarf’s tearing eyes.

  “I did it to protect you!” The werebeast thrashed like the captured animal he was. He clawed at Soth’s helmet, kicking his armored chest “She’d joined the Thorns,” he snarled. “Allied with the White Rose. She was plotting to destroy you!”

  Soth’s grip went slack, and Azrael dropped to the cavern floor. He writhed there for a time, retching from the pain. The ringing in his skull made him claw at his temples. Finally he slumped back against the cavern wall.

  “Proof,” Soth said. “Convince me of what you say, or you will die.”

  “After the meeting with Aderre, Magda went off alone into the Iron Hills to find the White Rose,” Azrael replied. He wiped the vomit from his muzzle. “She must not have thought you capable of protecting her. Or maybe she had been in league with the Rose all along.”

  “Conjecture,” Soth rumbled.

  “No,” Azrael said quickly. With one clawed hand he indicated the vast and silent lake. “This place allows me to eavesdrop on her and on almost anyone in the land. Magda wouldn’t speak of her mission to her people, or tell them she doubted your ability to protect her, but she whined about those things incessantly to that flea-ridden hound of hers as they traveled to the hills.”

  “What did the White Rose say to her? What was their plot against me?”

  Azrael shifted uneasily. “I, uh��� cannot hear the White Rose’s voice, or that of anyone within her presence.”

  “Feh,” Soth snorted. “You stall for time.” His sword scraped from its scabbard.

  “Magda was carrying a white rose,” Azrael offered desperately. “It was a symbol of her allegiance. The flower can be grown nowhere in Sithicus but the Iron Hills, in the territory controlled by the Thorns. That’s proof she met with the rebels.”