“Tell us how to get to his rooms.”
Corran listened as the servant gave directions, squaring what was said with the floorplan he had memorized. “How many guards at his doorway?”
“Two.”
“All right. How many inside?”
“None.”
“What’s the layout of his apartment?” Mir asked.
“There’s a parlor inside the front doors. The bedroom is behind that. No one but the Lord Mayor is allowed in there.”
Trent eased open the door at the end of the hallway, and in the dim light, Corran could see a butler’s pantry. He set down the tray and returned with a napkin, which he rolled up and stuffed into the servant’s mouth. Then Trent unbuckled the man’s belt and used it to tie his wrists. A tablecloth served to bind his ankles.
“Make any noise, try to summon help, and we’ll come back and kill you,” Mir said. It was a lie, but the servant blanched and nodded. Trent closed the door behind him, and the three men exchanged a relieved glance. Corran saw Calfon peeking out from the stairwell, and gestured for the others to catch up.
“We know where Machison is,” Mir said when they regrouped. “Let’s do this and get out of here.”
Illir and Ellis stayed below to ensure their way out remained clear. Calfon, Ross, and Tomor would guard this stairway, keeping their route open. Mir, Trent, and Corran all had their own reasons for wanting to see Machison dead, although Corran had claimed the first strike.
He moved through the corridors alert and tense. Just another hunt for a different kind of monster. His heart quickened and all his senses felt painfully alert. As they neared the turn to the Lord Mayor’s quarters, he signaled for the others to wait.
Bows were unwieldy indoors, but still best for a silent strike at a distance. The wide hallways helped. Bowstrings thrummed and the guards dropped, blood bubbling from their throats. Corran ran to scout the connecting corridor, but it was empty.
Alert for traps, he turned the knob to Machison’s chambers, unsurprised to find it locked. He pressed an amulet Rigan had made for him against the lock, and heard the bolt slide back of its own accord.
Corran and Mir opened the doors slowly. A shuttered lantern provided enough light to make out the furnishings of the parlor, and to assure them that no one was inside. Corran gestured, and the two hunters dragged the dead guards inside. That got rid of the bodies, but they could do little to hide the bloodstains on the floor.
Mir took up a position outside the doors, and waved Corran and Trent on. Corran slipped noiselessly to the door to the bedroom and gently tried the knob. Locked.
Cursing silently, Corran again withdrew the amulet Rigan had given him, which he said would open any door. The bolt drew back and the lock opened with a quiet click as the double doors inched open. Trent’s bow was ready, arrow nocked, and Corran had a sword in one hand and a knife in the other. They burst into the room.
A four-poster bed dominated the room. On the nightstand sat a pitcher of water and a darkened lantern, and at the foot of the bed, the rug lay in a heap. To the left, on the other side of the room, Lord Mayor Machison stood in the middle of a green, glowing circle, surrounded by shimmering runes and guttering candles. The chamber stank of old blood and stale sweat. Too late, Corran realized it might have been wise to bring a witch with them.
“You can’t hurt me.” Machison’s voice was low and even, angry but not afraid.
Trent let his arrow fly. It bounced harmlessly against the phosphorescent shimmer rising from the circle to the ceiling. The Lord Mayor smiled. “I told you it wouldn’t work.”
Now that he stood face to face with the man, Corran’s anger dulled to a low hum, replaced by a cold determination. Mama. Papa. Jora. Kell. Bant and the hanged hunters and the dead witches. He’s as guilty for their deaths as if he had murdered them himself. Tonight, he dies.
The runes at the quarters of the circle flared, the light almost blinding. Machison did not even bother to draw a weapon, though Corran was certain any man desperate enough to invoke death magic for protection would certainly be armed.
“I don’t care what magic you’ve meddled with,” Corran said. “We’re going to kill you.”
“You won’t be the first to try.” Machison’s smile was infuriating.
They couldn’t afford to linger. Someone would notice the missing guards even if the hastily-mopped-up blood did not catch their attention. Corran doubted that a palace this size would truly be deserted for long, even in the middle of the night. It would only take one servant on a late night errand, one guard carrying a message, to sound the alarm.
Trent flicked his wrist and a knife flew from his hand, aimed for Machison’s heart. The point stalled at the green curtain of energy and dropped to the floor.
“You can’t cross the barrier,” Machison said. “I’m safe in here.”
Corran and Trent exchanged a glance. “Do it.” Corran ordered.
Trent dug into the rucksack for the wineskin of oil, and then grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the nightstand, soaking the mattress and sloshing the liquids liberally on the bed curtains, the draperies, and the carpet.
“Are you insane?” Machison roared. “You’ll burn with me!”
Something familiar, yet tainted, tugged at the edge of Corran’s senses. “Wait,” he told Trent as the man moved to light a candle from the banked embers in the fireplace.
Corran had none of Rigan’s witch powers, but the grave magic of all the Valmondes who had ever been Wrighton’s undertakers flowed in his blood, along with the legacy of his mother’s Wanderer heritage. Long experience banishing unruly spirits and chanting over the bodies of the dead had attuned him to the singular magic of their craft. And it was a twisted echo of grave magic that Corran felt when he extended his senses toward the sickly green glow of the warding circle.
His gaze fell on the elements that worked the protection. Through the shimmering curtain of power, he saw a small shriveled corpse and a dead man’s hand, along with what looked like finger bones. Dried blood caked the floor and the candles. An iron knife lay next to the corpse’s hand. The glowing sigils were perverted versions of the runes Corran and Rigan marked to afford the dead safe passage to the Golden Shores, and he recoiled from them instinctively, knowing their essence to be infernal.
“I know how to beat you.”
Machison stared at him, loathing clear in his expression. “You’re not a witch. You’re not a Wanderer. You’re nothing but trash.”
“No, I’m an undertaker. A hunter. And my mother’s people—they were Wanderers.” Corran smiled as he saw fear in Machison’s eyes at the last. “My brother has heard the confessions of the dead. They accuse you. They told us the truth about who’s been controlling the monsters and making people disappear. Your guards killed our brother the night they went after the Wanderers, and I’m here to get justice—for Kell, and for all of them.”
He turned to Trent. “Cover me.”
Trent gave a curt nod and raised his bow.
“The dead convict you,” Corran said, closing his eyes and focusing on the souls of those from whom the blood had been harvested, on the spirit of the owner of the severed hand, the ghost of the stillborn child, the person whose bones had been taken without permission, the corpse burned into ash. He did not attempt to summon them against their will, but asked for their help, reminding them of how they had been misused.
The spirits came. One by one, they materialized outside the green fire of the circle, regarding Machison with dark, baleful eyes. Kell was not among them. “Don’t you want to come out and meet them?” Corran taunted the Lord Mayor. “They’ve come for an audience with you.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Machison said, a smile creeping across his lips. He closed his hand around his amulet, and lightning flashed from the green curtain, blazing through the spirits. Whenever the energy touched a ghost, the spirit vanished with a shriek.
Corran dove for the pitcher of water on the
night stand, and sluiced the liquid across the floor to erase the circle of protection. A bolt of energy struck him and he went tumbling across the room. Corran’s shoulder burned and a shock ran through his body, making his heart skip a beat, freezing his chest for a moment so that he could not draw breath. Panic filled him as he gasped and the room spun. His back and head throbbed from the force of hitting the wall. Gritting his teeth, Corran pushed himself up to stand.
Trent had managed to stay out of the way of the arcing energy, and he grabbed the bellows from beside the fire, before crawling back towards the circle. He set the nozzle against the floor and pumped hard, scattering the line of salt and aconite.
The ghosts rematerialized on the other side of the warding. Machison kept his grip on the amulet, but Corran saw the toll the borrowed magic took on the man. A pained expression crossed the Lord Mayor’s face. Guess he never asked his blood witch where the energy came from that makes the amulet work. It looks like he’s just started to figure it out.
The sickly green glow of the warding dimmed and the ghosts rushed towards the Lord Mayor.
This time, the energy that crackled in response was a feeble echo of the first attack. Trent adjusted the angle of the bellows and pumped it once more, just as Machison gathered his waning magic for one last salvo. A single brilliant arc lanced from the curtain of green fire, striking Trent squarely in the chest and throwing him hard enough against the far wall to crack the plaster. The hunter slid down the wall just as the air from the bellows drove the spilled water across the floorboards, dislodging the last of the salt circle.
The phosphorescent shimmer winked out.
Smoke filled the room, rank with the smell of a funeral pyre. Machison gave a feral cry and launched himself at Corran, and Corran closed with him, kicking aside the trappings of the warding.
“Cur,” Machison spat. Corran parried, narrowly fending off Machison’s advance.
“Murderer.” Corran watched for an advantage. Despite his age and paunch, Machison could move like a coiled snake. Corran gasped as the man’s blade slashed down his forearm, soaking his sleeve with blood.
“You’re no match for me, boy. Kneel and I’ll make it quick.”
“Go to the Dark Ones.” Corran ignored the pain and thrust forward, scoring a hit to Machison’s thigh.
The Lord Mayor cursed and returned a string of attacks with the deadly grace of long practice, and all Corran could do was hold off the worst of the blows. Rage and pain sent him back at Machison, wielding his sword two-handed, making up for the training he lacked with the unpredictability of his strikes.
To Corran’s satisfaction, his blade bit into flesh more than once, opening gashes on Machison’s face, chest, and arms. The ghosts did not try to interfere, but drew back to the shadows, silent observers.
Corran stumbled, and Machison stepped forward, sliding his blade under Corran’s guard, sinking the point into his side. “You’re losing.”
Corran gasped, but he managed a backhand slash that opened a cut across Machison’s ribs deep enough to reveal bone. “You’re bleeding.”
They circled each other like bloodied predators, panting for breath, eyes wide with pain. Sweat ran down Corran’s face, mingling with blood. Machison paled, but he gave no indication of faltering.
“All this, and for what?” Machison’s voice was thick with contempt. “You won’t escape. Maybe I’ll let Blackholt have you for a while. What should it be? Drawn and quartered, or flayed alive?”
“Dark Ones take your soul.” Corran’s mouth was dry, and his words slurred. He was fuelled by anger alone now, but as long as he could stand, he would fight.
For Kell, for Jora, for all of them.
Machison came at him with a flurry of strikes which Corran managed to deflect. The Lord Mayor sent him sprawling with a roundhouse punch to the jaw, landing him amid the debris that had been the circle of protection. He caught Machison with a kick to the knees as he fell, sending the Lord Mayor onto his ass.
Corran licked the blood from his lips, tried to ignore the ringing in his head, and nursed a loose tooth with his bleeding tongue. With a growl, he pushed himself to his feet, one hand swiping through the salt and aconite as he dragged himself to his feet.
Machison was already standing, bloodied and wounded, but swaggering. “Admit that you’re beaten.”
“Not yet.”
With the last of his strength, Corran surged toward the Lord Mayor, hurling a handful of the salt mixture into the man’s eyes, blinding him for a moment and sending Machison’s swing wide. Corran lunged, angling his sword to take Machison in the heart. Machison’s arm swung to block the blow, letting the blade sink bone-deep, then he jerked back, tearing the sword from Corran’s blood-slick grip.
Corran rammed Machison with his shoulder, taking them both to the floor, and slammed his opponent’s wrist against the wood until he knocked Machison’s sword from his hand. Corran was younger and fit, but Machison was heavier and experienced. Corran raged at him, drawing from the well of anger that was all he had left, each bonejarring hit signed with vengeance. Kell. Jora. Jott and Pav and Bant. Mama. Papa. Dilin. The Wanderers. Even the murdered witches from Below.
He landed more blows than he missed, but Machison was still scrabbling to get free. The Lord Mayor dug his thumb into the open wound in Corran’s side, giving him the opening he needed to wrestle Corran onto his back and straddle him, pinning him.
Blood filled Corran’s mouth and ran from his ears and his nose. One eye was swollen shut, his lip split. Everything hurt, and blood soaked his clothing.
“Time to end this.” Machison’s meaty fist smashed into Corran’s jaw, snapping his head to one side. The Lord Mayor’s hands closed around Corran’s neck, throttling him. Corran’s hands clawed at Machison’s arms, trying to break the grip, but Machison had the weight advantage. Corran’s right hand fell away, dropping to the floor. The world faded, but he heard a dull clink as his hand thumped against the floorboard, and in desperation, he reached toward the sound.
His hand closed over cool iron. Corran brought his arm up with all his remaining strength, angling the blade through Machison’s back, between the ribs, hilt deep—a killing strike.
Machison jerked back as blood poured from his mouth and splattered across Corran’s face and chest. The pressure eased on Corran’s throat, and he brought his arms up inside the Lord Mayor’s reach, pushing the hands away. Gasping for air, Corran shoved the dying man away and into the center of the ruined warding.
Machison’s breathing gurgled wetly. “Toloth. Should have known… you’d bet against me.”
Corran stared into the darkness at the edge of the room. He could see the ghosts much better now. Probably because I’m almost dead myself, he thought.
Well done.
The voice made Corran startle, and he looked around the room, fearing someone had entered. Instead, he saw the spirit of an old Wanderer woman standing at the forefront of the crowd of apparitions. She gave him an approving look. Your blood calls to me, telling me you are kin. Eshtamon was right to favor you. I feel his hand on you. Blood calls to blood. Just like the sigils we left in the city, before we fled or died, cursing the Lord Mayor, praying for vengeance. The sigils’s magic stirred tonight, awakening the curse.
“He had it coming,” Corran panted. “For killing Kell and Jora, and all the others.” He looked to the ghosts that crowded behind the Wanderer. “He’s all yours. Enjoy yourselves.”
He turned away, trying to shut out the last, terrified scream that tore from Machison’s throat as the spirits swarmed over him and took their vengeance.
The spirits left as abruptly as they came, their need for revenge sated. Corran lay face up on the floor, wondering how much more blood he had left in his body.
“Looks like I missed the party.” Trent knelt beside him, but the levity in his voice died as he looked over Corran’s wounds. “Gods, Corran. I’m so sorry—”
Corran grunted, cutting him off with a
gesture. “Thought you were dead. Glad I’m wrong. Help me up.”
“I figured I would have to carry you out of here.”
“Not leaving,” Corran said, trying to turn on his side to raise himself. “Got to help Rigan. So give me a damn hand up or get out of my way.”
“You’re bleeding from a dozen wounds. By all rights, you shouldn’t still be breathing. And you want to fight?”
“No, I want to make sure Rigan gets out of here in one piece.” Corran’s voice was hoarse after the damage Machison had done to his throat. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth, smearing blood.
“You’re a fool.”
“Didn’t say you had to come with me.” He met Trent’s gaze. “Set the fire. We need to go.”
Trent turned toward the oil-and-whiskey-soaked bed and tossed the lantern onto the sheets. Flames blazed, licking at the bed curtains. Cursing under his breath, Trent crossed to where Corran struggled to get to his feet, trying to figure out the least painful way to help him up. “I’ll get under your shoulders and lift. On three—”
Corran growled as Trent hauled him upright.
“Get the others,” he said. “Rigan’s in the dungeon. Let’s go.”
Chapter Forty
“HE KNOWS WE’RE here.” Rigan whispered.
Aiden’s mouth set in a grim line. A hastily-healed cut above his eyebrow was one of many reminders of the fight to secure the stairway, and a trail of dried blood marked the side of his face. Rigan knew they’d both have bruises to show for the fight, since they had elected to reserve their magic for the real battle, and not tip their hand to Blackholt until absolutely necessary.
Rigan glanced at the still bodies of the guards that lay bound and gagged in the shadows to one side of the passageway. A few steps away, Elinor spread out her potions on the smooth stone floor in the small alcove of a sentry station. She chalked sigils as she laid down a circle of salt and aconite, but did not yet complete the line, unwilling to trigger a flare of power that might alert Blackholt to their plans.
She set out a chalice, a crudely-made stuffed poppet, and a mortar and pestle, and then laid out the materials for the night’s work— garlic, turmeric, red pepper, castor beans, sweet clover, apple seeds, crab’s eye, belladonna, and a flagon of wine. Next to the items lay a long thin knife with a razor-sharp blade imbued with Elinor’s magic.
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