Shadow’s Lure

by Jon Sprunk

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  She glanced at the ceiling, wondering why the river hadn’t deluged the tunnel, but it looked like only a portion of the rock above their heads had fallen. Then she saw the heap of dirt and rubble filling the passageway. Hirsch and Captain Drathan had been walking just a few paces in front of her, along with Sergeant Merts and her guardsmen. Now they were gone. Josey crawled to the rock pile. Shards of stone ran between her fingers as she started to dig. They might still be alive underneath, trapped in a pocket of air.

  Hubert’s hand settled on her shoulder. Josey tried to shake him off, but he pulled her away. He was saying something, but it took a moment to sink in.

  “They’re gone, Josey. They’re all gone.”

  She leaned against him as heavy sobs shook her body. More people dead, because of her. Life had been so simple once; she longed for those days with a thirst like she’d never known. Wiping her eyes, she stood up straight. They weren’t out of this yet.

  One lantern remained, sitting upright on the floor. A minor blessing. She picked it up as Volek climbed to his feet. The major’s armor was dusty and pocked with dents, but he seemed unhurt. Another piece of luck, but she would have traded a score of Crimson Tigers to have Hirsch back.

  “All right, gentlemen.” She forced her voice to steadiness. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re heading back to the last fork and taking the other tunnel. We’ll keep working our way back until we find the other side of this blockage.”

  Hubert glanced at the major. “Majesty, what if there is no way around?”

  “There is. And we’re going to find it.”

  Volek picked up his sword and brushed the dirt from its guard. Hubert nodded with a sigh of resignation.

  The major led them back down the tunnel. The silence seemed more oppressive without the others, the darkness more ominous. Josey couldn’t keep herself from glancing over her shoulder every few steps. The emptiness behind her pulsed like a living thing. At any moment she expected an ambush.

  When they reached the split, the major turned into the unexplored branch, but Hubert drew Josey aside with a glance. His left arm was pressed against his side.

  “Majesty, I believe we should leave. We can return later with more—”

  “No. We are going to find the others, and then we’ll all leave together.”

  His eyes searched her face. “They’re dead. No one could have survived.”

  “We’re going to make sure, Hubert. That’s the least we can do.”

  With a small nod, he followed after the major. Josey quickened her pace to keep up. Major Volek waited at the next fork. Josey pointed to the right-hand tunnel, hoping it led in the right direction.

  After a few dozen paces, Josey caught a whiff of an unpleasant odor, faint at first, but it grew fouler the farther they walked. Wrapped up in her thoughts, Josey didn’t notice Major Volek had stopped until she and Hubert came up beside him at the entrance of a long cavern. The floor sloped away from the entrance, its contours smoothed as if by the passage of countless feet. She looked down where the major’s gaze had settled.

  Two bodies lay at their feet, a woman and a young boy. If not for their pale waxen skin and perfect rigidity, they might have been sleeping, but Josey knew they were dead at first glance.

  When did I become an expert on death? Is this Caim’s doing, or the price for wearing the crown?

  The stench was overpowering. Josey held a sleeve across her face and breathed through her mouth as she looked deeper into the cavern. Horror crawled up her throat at the sight of more bodies. Scores of them. Men and women, many of them stripped nude, their limbs tangled together like a jumble of discarded dolls. Her insides quivered at the sight. So many people. My people.

  Hubert bent down over the nearest corpse. “This must be the assassin’s larder.”

  Feeling like she was observing from miles away, Josey watched Hubert inspect the body of a young woman. Long strands of brassy hair lay tangled around her slender neck. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, still in the bloom of youth. Scraps of a red dress clung to her torso. Ragged gashes shone against the alabaster of her throat.

  Major Volek gestured with his sword. “We should keep moving.”

  Josey started to agree, but then Hubert lifted the girl’s hands. They were bound with rope, as were her feet. He turned the girl’s head to the side. A ghastly mark had been seared into her cheek. Josey knew the mark—a rounded upside-down teardrop. The demon’s horn. A cold spot formed in Josey’s chest.

  Hubert fingered the red fabric. “She was a whore.”

  Josey tried to imagine what the girl’s life must have been like to sell her body at such a tender age, and then to be marked like livestock and murdered in this fashion. It was unbearable.

  “How did she come to be down here?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.

  Hubert stood up. “Exile is still a common punishment for those convicted by the Church’s magistrates. Perhaps the assassin hunts outside the city and brings his victims back here to feed.”

  Josey took off her cloak and draped it over the girl’s corpse. “From this day on, no citizen of my realm shall be punished by the canonical courts without the crown’s consent.”

  Hubert nodded, but his eyes were deep in thought. The major grunted. Holding up the lantern, Josey walked past the men. She wanted this to be over. The sooner, the better.

  As she picked her way through the charnel pit, Josey searched out the dimensions of the cavern and any possible exits. Chalky rock formations studded the ceiling in several places. While the left-hand wall was relatively straight, the wall to her right curved away. Deep shadows swathed the area beyond.

  Hubert came up beside her. His face was paler than before and covered in sweat. She nodded forward, and he moved ahead while she held the lantern’s light on him. A faint sound whispered in the dark. Josey turned and spied something emerging from around the bend of the wall. A person. Invisible hands closed around her windpipe. She lifted the lantern higher. Broad, coarse features came into focus. Scuffed boots and a shabby coat. Could it be…?

  Josey rushed over to Hubert as he raised his sword and put a hand on his arm. “Master Hirsch?”

  With a rasping sigh, the adept staggered into the light. His coat was covered in rock dust. He had lost his hat. Dirt matted his hair, and his left eye was swollen shut.

  Josey pushed past Hubert. “Where are the others? Captain Drathan? His men?”

  The adept shook his head as he shuffled closer. “Gone. Your Majesty.” His voice creaked with the strain of saying even that much.

  Josey froze. Something was wrong. The adept’s gait was choppy and slow, which was to be expected. He looked like the entire city had fallen on his head. His shoulders were bent forward like an old man’s, but there was a strange cast to his eyes.

  Josey handed Hubert the lantern, which he took with his bad arm. “A tragedy, Master Hirsch. But thank the heavens you survived.”

  A stale odor emanated from the adept’s clothes as he staggered up to her. Josey lifted her arm in an embrace. His breath was hot on her neck as she pulled him close.

  When you’re faced with danger, don’t wait for an opening. Strike hard and fast, because you won’t get a second chance.

  Josey punched upward. The adept went rigid against her. She staggered into Hubert, who hissed through his teeth as he caught her. The adept swayed, his features running like melted wax as he clawed at the glowing stiletto lodged in his throat. Josey looked into eyes turned jet black, and panic seized her limbs. But the assassin collapsed on the uneven floor. Gasping and mewling, it retreated to the wall, where it stopped, no longer resembling Hirsch at all. It had shrunken to a rail-thin frame wrapped in glistening gray-black flesh, with tiny ears close against a hairless scalp, a flat nose with a single nostril, and gaping jaws filled with curved fangs.

  Hubert pulled Josey away. “How did you know?”

&n
bsp; She released the breath she had held pent-up inside her. “Master Hirsch never called me by my title. And the smell. He reeked of death.”

  As Hubert started to turn away, he fell to his knees in front of Josey. She thought he had tripped until she saw the dark stain spreading across the back of his jacket. A large boot lashed out of the darkness to kick the lord chancellor to the ground.

  Josey backed away as Major Volek loomed before her, his face half in shadow. The illuminated half was as grim and gray as the stone of the cavern. He had donned a tabard over his armor. Its deep crimson cloth was almost black in the dim light, the golden circle emblazoned on the breast shimmering like a sullied halo. A spasm seized Josey’s chest. We’ve been a pack of fools.

  Volek said nothing, but the truth stared at her from his eyes, mirror-smooth orbs devoid of emotion. His sword, dripping with Hubert’s blood, swung toward her. Josey retreated faster.

  “This was all a trap,” she said. “Does the prelate know?”

  The major approached with measured steps. Josey looked around for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. Her knife, still stuck in the jerking assassin, was on the other side of the chamber. There were no rocks in sight larger than a robin’s egg.

  “How much is Innocence paying you?”

  She flinched as her back touched the wall. There was nowhere to go. Her mind devised a dozen stratagems and rejected them all. She needed a weapon. She needed Caim. This is your fault, damn you, Caim. You left me and you left our baby. Rage poured through her, mixing with the terror. She had to fight.

  “I won’t insult you by offering money. I just want to know the truth before I die.”

  He stopped a pace away from her. “It isn’t a matter of money.”

  “What then, Major? What gift or favor is worth the life of your empress?”

  Volek’s cheek muscles twitched. “You are not my empress! The True Church is the only authority in this world. You’re just a petty despot dragging this country into the sewer.”

  She clenched her fists. “I am the lawful heir of Emperor Leonel. I—”

  “You are a harlot and a usurper!”

  “And you will be a murderer, Major.” Josey looked around for something to help. But there was nothing. She was alone. “Is that how you want to be remembered? As a common criminal?”

  “I will be the greatest patriot in history.” Flecks of spittle clung to his lips as he raised his weapon. “You have betrayed the Faith and your countrymen. And for that you shall di—”

  A flash of incandescent brilliance filled the cavern an instant before the floor tilted under Josey’s feet. She shielded her eyes and fought to stay on her feet as a colossal roar battered her ears. The major stooped over her, his sword swinging back. Then he was gone, swept aside by a barrage of crashing boulders.

  When the earthquake stilled, Josey coughed and waved her hands to clear the air before her eyes. There was no sight of the major beneath the landslide of stone and gravel. A vast hole gaped in the far cavern wall. Hirsch stood on the other side, lowering his hands as he leaned on Captain Drathan. The two of them looked like hell, but she’d never been happier to see anyone.

  Then Josey remembered Hubert. Peering through the pall, she lurched across the rubble-strewn floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Caim’s knees slammed into the floor as he and the shadow warrior landed in another corridor inside the ducal palace. He rolled away and put his back to the wall. Quick glances in both directions indicated he was alone.

  The shadow warrior was dead.

  Caim scooted over and lifted the helmet’s visor. In the long, narrow features underneath he could see a vague resemblance to the witch. And to his mother. But the dusky skin paled before his eyes, becoming thin like old paper. Shadows flitted in the hollows of the warrior’s eyes, deepening as his body melted away, the armor crumbling into flakes, until only a patch of greasy ash remained. Caim got up. A handful of shadows wriggled up his arms, their touch cooling the burning cuts.

  The corridor arrived at another intersection. To either side were smaller hallways, but Caim ignored them for the set of wide double doors in front of him. Heavy oak with hinges set into the frame. If they were barred, it would take a team of men with a battering ram to break through. Caim didn’t have a team anymore, and he was short on siege weapons. But he had something else.

  The sword pulsed as he pointed it at the portals. Before he could form the command, the shadows poured down his arms and along the length of the blade, and flew at the doors. They washed across the wooden panels in a great black wave. Holes appeared in the wood; brass handles and hinges fell to the floor with heavy bangs.

  The black sword nearly yanked Caim off his feet. He dug in his heels, and the blade’s hum rose to a whine. All right. Just this once.

  The pull lessened for a moment. Taking that for acquiescence, and wondering at his own sanity for trying to reason with the thing, Caim allowed himself to be led through the doors.

  Eerie cold enveloped him as he stepped across the entryway. His breath misted in the frigid air. The walls of the octagonal great hall were buttressed with thick wooden pilasters at each corner, rising to a vaulted timber ceiling. In the center was a wooden throne. Caim assumed the man in fine regalia sitting in the chair was the duke—the late duke, for he was clearly dead. Dozens of bodies lay around the throne, male and female, all headless. Caim had seen many awful things in his lifetime, things that had made him doubt the inherent goodness of mankind, but the severed heads floating in lazy circuits around the throne turned his marrow to ice. Lord Arion lay at his dead father’s feet. What had brought the young lord to this end? Then Caim saw the cocoons hanging on the walls, more than a score of them, shaped like men wrapped in black shrouds. He spotted the tufts of Keegan’s unruly hair sprouting from a casing. Some of the men moved, a little, but many remained still. Caim took a step toward the nearest cocoon and halted as four dark shapes glided from the shadows of the room. A voice whispered from the darkness.

  “All these years, I thought you were dead.”

  Caim braced himself as the witch walked out from behind the throne, radiating power like a miniature black sun. She strode over to the nearest cocoon and paused a moment to touch it. Muffled cries issued from the bubble of shadows. The man within the grim prison struggled for a moment, and then hung still. Her fingertips came away reddened with blood, which she put to her lips as she smiled at Caim.

  He tried to take another step into the chamber but found he could not move as the cold infiltrated his body. His limbs were locked in place, his lungs frozen in midbreath. Everywhere the chill spread, sensation vanished. He didn’t want to know what would happen when it reached his heart. Caim strained with every muscle, but the paralysis held firm. And the shadow warriors circled nearer.

  The witch gave him a smile that bordered on seductive. “And when Levictus reported your presence in the south, I hoped he would kill you and save me the trouble.”

  A soft glow sparkled beside him.

  “Caim,” Kit whispered, almost too soft to hear. “It took me forever to get through all the energy laced around this place.”

  He wanted to tell her to get away before it was too late, but he couldn’t talk. He widened his eyes as far as he could and darted them back and forth between her and the witch, but Kit just hovered in place. Think of something, Kit. Distract her—anything!

  Kit flew up next to him and ran her hands across his chest, like she was swatting at cobwebs, but nothing happened. There was a flicker of shadow, and then the witch was standing before him. Her eyes were so black he could not tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. They seemed to yawn wider as she placed a finger on his chest. A stabbing pain cut through the layers of his clothing to penetrate his skin.

  “I warned Soloroth about you, but he was always too headstrong to heed me. Sickening, how he allowed himself to be conquered by an untrained half-breed like you.”

  Kit ducke
d out of sight. Caim hoped she had some kind of plan.

  “Pathetic,” Sybelle said. “But my sister was a weak-minded fool, always adopting helpless creatures. And here you are, a stain on our family. One I intend to cleanse away for good.”

  A cloud of tiny darknesses descended from the ceiling. Caim tensed as their minuscule fangs chewed through his clothes. He strained harder against the power holding him in place. If he didn’t escape, he was going to die, slowly, painfully. He tried to bite down on his tongue to elicit some feeling, anything.

  “Fight her, Caim!” Kit whispered, as if he weren’t.

  He called to the shadows. He felt them along the walls of the great hall, lining the cracks in the high ceiling, but none answered his summons. He tried again, and the sword quivered in his hand as a sudden pressure filled his chest. His heart thudded, once. And then again, sending warm blood flowing through his body. The cold retreated for a moment. If he could just move an inch …

  A roar ripped through the chamber. The shadow beast. Caim pushed harder and felt a crackle along his spine. Something bit him on the shoulder, but he didn’t stop. With a final push, the paralysis shattered like a crust of ice covering his skin. The moment his arm was free, Caim swung at the spot where the witch had been standing, but the black blade cut only air. Then his grunt became a hiss of pain as the shadows tore into his flesh. He tried brushing them off, but they were everywhere. He stomped on the ground and swung his blades. Then the stinging bites vanished and the darkness lightened. Hundreds of shadows—maybe thousands—fluttered in the air like demented moths, colliding in the air and falling to the floor. His shadows had come to him after all.

  As the pall lifted, Caim looked around. Kit was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the shadow beast, but he didn’t have time to find out why as four shapes glided toward him. He ducked under the curved blade of a sword-staff rushing at his throat. Rolling across his shoulders, buds of agony blossomed from the wounds along his back, but he was alive. For the moment.