The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  Sigfrid was shocked. The girl had flatly stated that the orphanage was a rookery—the biggest, boldest rookery he had ever heard of. He was torn between regret that the orphanage was not what it seemed and sharp pleasure that he had discovered the fact. The girl was within reach, gazing up at him trustingly, and Sigfrid reached out a strong hand and seized her arm. He pulled her toward him, covering her mouth.

  “Hey-ya, fox cub on the wrong end of the chase,” he told her.

  Twenty minutes later the little girl was in a prison cell. She was crying hysterically, and no one could get anything from her. Dagmar stared at the child, sympathy warring with contempt on her disfigured face. The youngster was a pathetic sight, but she was also, according to Sigfrid, a criminal.

  “Doesn’t look like a thief,” Dagmar commented. “But then again, they never do.” She glanced at her captain. Sigfrid’s handsome, freckled face was harder than Dagmar had ever seen it. “Why wasn’t she in the orphanage?”

  Sigfrid grimaced inwardly. He hated lying, especially to one of his sergeants, but no one except Tristan knew of his origins. It was safer that way. Also, he didn’t want to reveal the Paw of the Cat as the biggest, best-organized rookery that ever existed to anyone without first discussing the subject with Tristan. “Well, the Claws of Sehkmaa can’t find every wandering child in the city.” Not an outright lie, but a lie all the same.

  “True. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ve tried questioning her, but she’ll say nothing.”

  “Withhold food?”

  Sig shook his head. “No. Give her some good, hot food, and plenty of it. We’ll treat her well and see if we can’t win her over.”

  Dagmar smiled wryly. “I’ve met lots of men who take that tactic with women,” she joked, then faltered. Since her disfigurement a few weeks ago, such attentions had ceased coming her way.

  Sigfrid quickly changed the subject, sensing her discomfort. “I’m going to go check on a few things,” he said. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  “If she talks?”

  “Write down everything she says. And no visitors except me or Sir Tristan. No one. That includes so-called parents, siblings—no one is to see this girl.” He wanted to specifically exclude the Claws, but Dagmar was a sharp woman, and any attention might point out precisely what he wished to keep secret.

  Dagmar frowned but nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  She followed her captain’s orders to the letter. The child was given a thick beef stew, fresh bread and butter, and a glass of milk. The girl ate appreciatively, but not ravenously. Whatever rookery she called home obviously looked after her well.

  “Are you going to talk now?” Dagmar asked through the bars.

  The girl paused in mid-chew. She raised innocent-looking blue eyes to Dagmar. “Talk about what?”

  “Where your rookery is. Who feeds you. What you’ve done. No one will hurt you if you talk to us,” she added, wondering if that was what was worrying the child. “We’ll keep you safe.”

  Contempt and fear flitted across the girl’s delicate features. She made no reply.

  Dagmar tried periodically to engage the girl in conversation over the next few hours, but the child remained uncommunicative. The sergeant was startled when a light knock came on the door. She was even more surprised when she opened the door to see a tall, sharp-featured man wearing the cloth-of-gold raiment of a priest of Sehkmaa.

  “Good evening, Sister,” the man greeted her. His voice was soft, pleasant, but Dagmar took an instinctive dislike to the keenness of his gaze. The scar that crisscrossed the ritual three-claw slash of his rank also warned her not to trust this man, priest though he might be. He had clearly seen trouble before.

  “Good evening—Brother?” she hazarded, unsure as to greet the priest.

  “I have been instructed to comfort those imprisoned in your jail. Though I am certain they are not incarcerated without cause, you must surely see that the state of their souls concerns Sehkmaa, who looks after all his children.”

  Even without Sigfrid’s adamant warning, Dagmar would not have admitted this sinister-looking individual. “I regret, sir, that I cannot allow you in. This is not a public place, and with all due respect to your order, I can’t permit you to see our inmates.”

  The cleric’s jaw tightened, but his voice was unchanged. “As you will, lady.” He bowed, and with a rustle of his robes he was gone.

  She closed the door after him, wondering. Dagmar had stood guard duty at this hour before, with men in jail who needed spiritual guidance far more than this little girl. She made a mental note to inform Sigfrid when he returned.

  The night wore on. The girl slept, her stomach full and her head cradled on the softest blankets Dagmar could procure. Toward the middle of the night, Dagmar’s sharp ears caught the murmur of the girl’s soft voice.

  “I didn’t tell,” she said. Dagmar rose from her seat and went immediately to the cell, carrying her lantern with her. There was a sudden flurry of movement, and the girl cried out. A small, supple shape in the darkness leapt up from the child’s cot, and as it turned its head to glare balefully at Dagmar, the sergeant caught the glow of eyes in the orange-yellow light of her lantern. Hissing, the cat leapt upward to the small window that led up to the street.

  The girl sobbed hysterically, and as Dagmar hastened to her, she looked up with terror in her tear-filled eyes. Mutely, the child raised her hand. There was a nasty-looking scratch on it, no doubt from the girl’s recent visitor. Dagmar inspected it, frowning. The flesh around the bleeding scratches was rising.

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry,” Dagmar soothed. She set the lamp on the window ledge so that she could tend the wound. “It’ll be just—”

  She broke off, horror choking her. The girl’s body had started to hump over like an old woman’s. The young, soft skin of her face puckered before Dagmar’s very eyes, turning and twisting in on itself and exploding into pus-dripping boils. The girl’s cries escalated, and she writhed in pain and blind panic.

  Then the sound froze, cut off in midsob. The child’s beautiful blue eyes, staring out of the disgusting mask her face had become, went glassy. Her breathing hitched once, and then her eyes rolled back in her head. Her lifeless body fell forward into the arms of a horrified and baffled Dagmar.

  Carefully, Tristan measured the correct amount of saffron and added it to the small bowl of beef fat in front of him. The messy white mass took on a yellow hue as he mixed it. Now for the most important part of the concoction—a powder made of ground mushroom. It had cost Tristan a small fortune to obtain the fungus, but the spell in which it was used had come in useful on more than one occasion. He found the jar and uncorked it gently. One small spoonful of the precious material added to the mixture would, he hoped, render an ointment that would permit Tristan to see what, exactly, Malken really was.

  Concentrating utterly on his work, Tristan carefully measured a spoonful. He was about to sprinkle it into the mix when a pounding on the door violently startled him. The costly powder spilled over the table. Furious, Tristan strode over to the door and flung it open.

  Sigfrid was there, staring at him with barely suppressed excitement. “Tris, I’ve got to talk with—”

  “Damn it, I was in the middle of a spell! You’ve made me lose about three hundred gold pieces’ worth of material, and I have to start all over again!” Angrily, Tristan spun round to clean up the mess.

  Sigfrid, taken aback by Tristan’s words, hesitated. “I know you told me not to interrupt, but—

  Tristan was now carefully sweeping up the shards of broken glass and dull green powder from the table and the stone floor. “That’s right, and I expect my orders to be obeyed.” Hearing how the words sounded in his own ears, Tristan amended, “I’m in the midst of a vital experiment now, so important that … well, you couldn’t even imagine. In the future, leave a message with Guillaume. He’ll see that I get it when I’m not involved in this.”

  Sig
frid was hurt, angry, and confused. “Tris, I’ve got some information on—”

  Suddenly realizing what motive Sigfrid had in coming to him, Tristan flung up a hand in horrified protest. He had not yet drunk his tea, and was close to the end of the previous dosage’s limit. He couldn’t risk hearing something Malken might profit from. “No! Don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to hear it, not yet.”

  “Tristan!”

  Tristan shrank from the angry tone of betrayal in his friend’s voice. He tried to explain as best he could. “This experiment I’m working on will help in—in what we’re doing. Until I’ve completed it, I can’t—” he floundered “—clutter my mind with information.”

  “What’s going on? Where’s the man who took a chance on a young borderbreaker? Are you afraid to take risks now, is that it? I never thought I’d see the day when you were too self-centered to—”

  “Enough!” roared Tristan. Nights with too little sleep and tension-fraught days were beginning to take their toll, and Tristan’s store of tact was depleted. Nevertheless, he calmed himself with an effort. He extended his hand to his friend. “Bear with me, Sig, please. Trust me when I say I’ll be back out there, at your side, sword at the ready, the instant I feel I can. And trust me when I say that what I’m doing here is not only important, it’s vital. All right?”

  Sig almost literally swallowed his anger. “I’ll try, Tristan. I’ll try.”

  Sigfrid had come home after his frustrating encounter with Tristan to be met by a tense and tired Dagmar. He had not even dismounted before she hastened up to him with tragic and strange news of the death of the little prisoner. Now, back at the prison cell, he stood before the tiny corpse. Keeping his leather riding gloves on, he gently drew back the blanket Dagmar had used to cover the girl.

  The child’s face was an obscenity, a violation of her prettiness. Her little body was bent nearly double, and a hump had appeared on her shoulders. The twisted features were ghostly white. Blue lips were pulled back in a horrible grinning rictus, and her eyes were wide.

  Steeling himself, he began his examination. First, he checked the scratches on the hand—the hand that looked more like the claw of a harpy. The swollen flesh around the scratches was a shade of angry red, fading to black. He bent over her face and pulled back her eyelids. Her pupils were enormous, and the whites had taken on a distinct yellowish tinge toward the outer corners. Gently, he felt her neck, then moved an arm with an effort and felt the armpit. He discovered lumps in both areas that were hard as rocks. Sigfrid quickly covered the dead child again. Stripping off his gloves, he went to the basin to wash his hands.

  “You were right. It’s poison, but not just that. There’s some kind of magic involved to, uh, contort her like that. We’ve got a murder on our hands—and a pretty horrible one too.”

  Dagmar shook her golden head slowly. “Who would want to kill a child? And what kind of sick mind would think of poisoning a cat’s—” Her eyes flew open in comprehension. “You don’t think the Claws of Sehk—”

  Sigfrid whirled and clamped a still-wet hand over her mouth. With his lips barely an inch from her ear, he whispered, “I don’t know anything for certain, and I don’t want you voicing any opinion on it, either. This incident is between you and me. If you want to help, then help me bury that child swiftly. Until we know what caused her death, we shouldn’t let anyone see her. Wear your gloves and wash your hands. I’m no expert on poisons, so let’s not take any chances.”

  “Captain, you look exhausted,” said Dagmar. “You go home and get some sleep. It won’t take me too long to bury her by myself.”

  Sigfrid was exhausted, but he shook his head. “There’s a murderer out there who attacks after dark. I won’t let—”

  “A soldier go about her duty in an official manner? Come on, sir, the cemetery’s locked at night, and I’ll have my sword. The killer’s attacked lower-class, helpless women. He’ll leave a lady with a sword well enough alone. This case has really taken its toll on you, and I want to help.”

  “And it hasn’t taken a toll on you?”

  Dagmar’s hand fluttered to her lacerated face. Her beautiful eyes went hard. “Don’t you see? I want to solve this as much as you. Go on home. Please.”

  Dagmar was an excellent swordswoman, one of the best he had. He had feared for her safety when she had posed, unarmed, as a prostitute—what was it, less than a month ago? And he had been right—her ruined beauty was mute testimony. But as long as the young sergeant could carry a blade, she could handle most attacks. Still, it was best to be safe.

  “I’ll go home, but I don’t want you out there alone. Take someone with you—any of the guards you trust to not ask questions. And wear some armor, too.”

  Dagmar smiled. “You sound like someone’s mother.” Then, suddenly worried about her flippancy, she added formally, “Captain, sir.”

  Sigfrid laughed, made a deprecating gesture, and left.

  Dagmar did put on some armor, a chain main shirt that would turn most blades—and, she thought grimly, the claws of a plains cat. Wearing gloves, as Sigfrid had instructed, she wrapped the deformed corpse in a blanket and placed it in one of the small wagons assigned to the guards. She was in luck. A friend of hers was one of the four guards on duty. Renfred—big, strong, capable, tactful—would be an excellent choice.

  “What’s in the blanket?” asked Renfred. His plain face indicated mild curiosity. Dagmar drew a second blanket over the corpse.

  “Something I have to deliver tonight. Captain’s orders. I’ve also been instructed to have someone accompany me. Care to come?”

  Renfred’s answer was to heave his bulk into the seat beside her. “No questions,” she said quietly as she shook the horses’ reins and the wagon lurched forward.

  “None asked,” replied Renfred.

  They moved down the streets, nearly deserted at this hour, until they reached the city gates. A guard opened the locked gates, and they continued on.

  The city cemetery was near the royal mausoleum. It was divided into several sections, with one area especially for criminals. It was here that Dagmar went now. Like the royal mausoleum, the cemetery had its own locked gate. Dagmar opened it, and she and Renfred drove the horses inside.

  The light cast by Dagmar’s lamp seemed very feeble against the looming darkness. Row after row of mounds stretched away into the night. None of these graves had markers; Nova Vaasa felt criminals did not deserve them. Dagmar thought of the little girl, a lively, pretty child; too young, really, to understand the evil vortex that had sucked her down and then abandoned and destroyed her. A shiver went through the soldier.

  “Cold?”

  Dagmar laughed, a hollow sound. “Just a chill.”

  Renfred shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s an eerie place, a graveyard at night.”

  They found a space and set about their grim task. Dagmar had brought pick and shovel, and the work went quickly. The cemetery was silent, and when Dagmar paused to wipe sweat from her brow from time to time, she scanned the area with sharp eyes. She felt certain she could have dealt with any threat that came her way, but Sigfrid had been right. It wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, she liked the comfort Renfred radiated. At last it was done. Dagmar packed the earth down with a shovel while Renfred carried the rest of the tools back to the wagon, waiting a few yards away.

  The horses suddenly neighed, a shrill sound that startled Dagmar. She drew her blade instinctively and heard Renfred trying to calm the panicked animals, but the beasts tore their reins free and bolted, the wagon jolting furiously behind them.

  It was then that the cat launched itself at Dagmar.

  For a second, Dagmar was frozen, the memory of the horrible night not so long ago paralyzing her. Then the reflexes of a trained soldier took over. Before the black plains cat could descend on her, Dagmar attacked. Grasping the sword with both hands, she swung with all her strength at the animal. Steel bit into flesh and sliced. The cat’s attack cry turned into a w
ail of pain. It hit the freshly dug grave hard, its limbs thrashing uselessly. In the light from the lantern, Dagmar could see that she had nearly sliced the animal in two.

  Ignoring its dying convulsions, Dagmar, still grasping her dripping blade, ran after the fleeing horses. She didn’t see Renfred’s body until she nearly tripped over it. He was sprawled facedown on the earth, and for an instant Dagmar allowed herself to hope he had merely been knocked unconscious. Turning the body over, she saw that she was wrong. Renfred’s throat had been sliced open.

  The cooling sweat on her body mixed with the chill of fear. Dagmar looked around, trying to make out a shape in the darkness. “You sneaked up on Renfred, but I know you’re here. Come out!” she cried, her voice, strong and steady, betrayed no hint of the growing terror that was creeping through her.

  Silence, save for the rasping breath of the dying plains cat. Then that, too, ceased.

  Dagmar, every muscle tense, waited. Nothing. “Show yourself!” she called again.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. When she whirled to face it, she saw only shadows cast by the light of the torch. The shadows moved. They separated themselves from the natural, harmless shadows and advanced toward her. Two, three, five—frantically Dagmar swung her sword. It sliced through the air, harming the black, insubstantial shapes not at all.

  They reached her swiftly, and the moment their cool blackness touched her, she felt weak, as if every ounce of energy had been sucked out of her. The sword fell from her suddenly numb fingers. The shadows groped hungrily along her body, and her knees buckled. She moved feebly in the dirt, but was having trouble even keeping her eyes open.

  “That will do,” came a voice. Her lids felt heavy, but Dagmar forced them open. A man, wearing a death’s-head mask, peered down at her. At his command, the shadow creatures backed away slowly, reluctantly.

  The man knelt and touched Dagmar’s face with a gloved hand. She found to her anger and horror that she lacked the strength to even turn her head. The fingers, knowing and surprisingly gentle, traced the scars. Tears of frustrated outrage poured from Dagmar’s eyes. It was the only gesture her enervated body could make in protest.