“Elves. Cinder?”
“She is half-elven,” Selric explained.
“Of course! That explains why she is so…”
“Lovely?” Selric interrupted.
“Why yes,” Mendric said, nodding his understanding. “She is beautiful.”
“Well we had passed some moorsmen earlier that day, so I raced back to them to ask for help, for Melissa could not track on the spongy turf on the far side of the river. The leader of the small group we had met, Ansorock, agreed to come with us and he led us across the moors and on Cinder’s trail. Several times on the journey we came under missile fire from nearby hills. But by the time Ansorock, Melissa and I reached the point of attack the snipers had fled and rather than track them, we kept on Cinder’s trail.”
“Probably smart. They may have been trying to divert you from your more important course,” Mendric said.
“Most likely. So we drove on and near sunrise we topped a mound and saw that we stood above the ruins of a great city, its white stones jutting out of the mists of the moors.”
“Fascinating,” Mendric sighed.
“Ansorock, who speaks our western trade language passably, broke down into sign language closer to his own tongue, which Fiona could roughly translate. He was giving us the signal for ‘evil’ and for ‘ogres’.
“Beastmen? Formidable foes indeed!” Mendric gasped, his eyes alight with interest.
“Ansorock quickly disappeared into the city and when he returned he assured us he knew where Cinder was being held and he pointed us to the building and we set off into the ruins. We approached the building, a sturdy structure which sat on a rise above a tight turn in the road as the way bent back around on itself in a tight turn, giving those inside a good stretch of road in each direction under their eye. As Dirk and Fiona rushed the building, under a rain of arrows, Mel, and I with my crossbow, shot back into the dark windows, but we couldn’t see anybody. One arrow stuck in Dirk’s cloak, fluttering behind him as he ran, but they reached the door safely, and Dirk began pounding it with his huge warhammer, while Mel and I rushed up. No one fired at us.”
“Did you check for movement behind you?” Mendric asked, being a gifted military strategist himself and he had, unlike Selric, proven it on an actual battlefield.
“No time,” Selric said, with a wave of his hand. “We rushed in the door but it was stoutly barred. Dirk drank the potion of strength we had gotten from Ponjess for that temple thief thing and he bashed the door in. When Dirk brought it down the missile fire in there was tremendous. I was nicked. Melissa took one through the thigh guard, the tip just barely penetrating the thick steel and grazing her thigh. Dirk’s breastplate that he had bought with his reward money, was dented by several shots since he decided to charge straight at them, far in front of us all. One shaft cut his ear; another inch and it would have pierced his eye, and he knew it.”
“The room was full of squirrelly men and rats the size of small dogs. Dirk was furious at being so close to death, and that was what saved him. He charged and swept all resistance from around the door, where they had tried to hold a line of spears against us. Melissa and I were dropping their archers left and right, while Fiona wove some spell and sent sparkling lights throughout the room, driving the rats crazy with fear. Even the men broke. Here’s the weird part; when we killed a rat, it changed into a man!”
“Shapeshifters!” Mendric cried. “Marvelous.”
“We were grand, Mendric,” Selric said. “It was as if nothing could harm us. Two dozen, at least, we drove from the room, killing most of their number there. Dirk was on those that fled like a hound after the fox. He met another five or six behind a rubble wall, but Melissa was already behind him, and shot two before they could jump him, and Dirk slew the rest. Fiona and I ran through the only other doorway, and apparently they expected their defenses to last a bit longer. A man, taller than the rest, was untying Cinder, who was covered in an abundance of gold jewels and a crown, from this throne-like chair in the corner set up on a dais. I ran over, but he avoided my swing and picked up a coffer spilling with jewels and dove down a hole in the floor.”
“Ahh!” Mendric sighed, slamming the table in frustration. “How could you miss?”
“Mel ran immediately to the hole and with the twang of her string we heard a scream,” Selric continued unabated. “By her look, we knew she’d gotten him. Fiona had finished untying Cinder who stood looking as if it all was an everyday occurrence. The hole where the rat man had jumped led to the great sewers and was full of ancient treasure that they must have gathered from all over the city.”
“The sewer tunnels were spectacular, Mendric: large, perfectly square and straight. It’s hard to believe that an ancient people had built them, especially a nomadic one. We eventually stumbled onto the sewer level entrance to the large tower Ansorock had pointed to where he knew the beastmen were. There must have been twenty of ‘em in the structure. Most we caught alone, but there were two guard points and the fighting there was fierce. They had even more relics and we gathered everything up. That’s where I found this gold brooch for mother,” Selric said, holding up the beautiful, flawless piece.
“Great gods!” Mendric exclaimed. “That’s sounds fun. I’m going one of these days with Arikson and Mendel, and Endros Danber. Frego wants to go, and probably a priest from the Temple of Aurus, and a few other guy’s from Sellore’s. No women in my party. So how did you get home? Did you go to that other city?”
“Ansorock took us with him back to his homestead. But no, we didn’t go on any farther. Ansorock hinted strongly that we shouldn’t go there. I guess it is sort of sacred to his people. We owed them that much so we came home. So, like I said,” Selric continued, “we went with Ansorock and spent two days there. It seems that this family lived in scattered homes across the north moors. In all, they have seventeen members who meet and move around all the time. That was just their clan that we had met. Their extended family consisted of some seventy-odd other family units which made up their tribe.”
“At first they seemed barbaric, but when we talked to them, we realized that as people descended from Thegoric’s own, they had retained much knowledge and still forged exceptional blades. Quite handy craftsmen, actually. We invited them to Andrelia when they feel ready to learn some of our ways.”
“Melissa and Dirk made up on the way home. I think Mel decided that she’s not going to wait for him anymore, so there’s no reason to be jealous, and the journey back was without excitement, and except for the harried caravans, we saw very little traffic on the roads.”
“Well, it seems that you had a passable adventure,” Mendric said with a nod of self-disappointment.
“Most passable,” Selric agreed. “Now, I guess, it’s time to settle in for another winter. I dread the thought of another boring snowy season.” Both men were silent, then Selric added: “Well, I’m going down to Bessemer’s and pick out everyone’s gifts. Come with me and you can pick your own,” he said, slapping Mendric’s arm. “That way, you’ll be able to see our haul.” With that, they rose and walked out.
Several figures lurked around the doorway, many cloaked. They approached at the sound of the opening door, but withdrew when they saw that it was the Stormweather lads emerging. The figures were patrons, waiting for the festhall to open, cloaked to keep family and colleagues from seeing them patronize a pleasure house. Selric recognized many, regardless of their disguises, and greeted them by name as he walked by. Their response was usually mumbling and coughing, followed by a quick exit to the nearest alley or doorway.
“That’s not good for business,” Mendric said.
“Business is good enough that we can have a laugh,” said Selric. And they did. Mendric turned up the collar of his expensive robe while Selric pulled the hood of his worn adventuring cloak up over his head. It was cold for mid-autumn, especially since the sun had gone below the rooftops, leaving most streets in shadow. The city seemed tired. People were lethargic, as i
f nothing was serious enough to cause emotion in them. City life was slow during a normally turbulent season and there was an air that something was very different.
“By the way,” Mendric said after more than a block of walking. “There’s a party in two days at the Briganston’s.” He watched Selric out of the corner of his eye.
“So? I grew tired of those affairs long ago and I don’t think I’ll go to any, not for a while.”
“I hear Justin Briganston has asked Angelique von Yelson to be his personal guest.” He raised his brows. “I don’t think you were expected back for some time.”
“That little weasel,” Selric muttered. “I mean, it’ll be easy. I’ll go. It has been a while since my last.”
“Good,” Mendric said. “Find a date.” They walked a few more blocks and Mendric spoke again. “Do you remember Alistair Duncan?”
“From Sellore’s?” Selric asked. Mendric nodded. “Yes, why?”
“I spoke to him a few weeks back,” Mendric said, lowering his voice and looking over his shoulder. Selric did the same, but in his hood, had to turn all the way around. “Stop it!” Mendric said, not appreciating his brother’s humor. “Alistair has been with the watch since he left us four years ago. He’s a sub-constable and oversees a section of the Dock District...”
“I know that,” Selric said with a chuckle, as if he had reason to know the fact from personal experience.
“...He was nervous, almost scared, when I talked to him.”
“About what?” Selric asked. “He was one of the best instructors at the House.”
“It seems some of the constables believe that there is something preying on citizens, targeting mostly women. Many of the younger wardens believe it just coincidence. But those with more experience think otherwise. And disappearances have been rising for almost two years.”
“Bogey stories,” Selric said skeptically. “I can’t believe it from Alistair. He must have lost his wits. He’ll be telling you it’s the Gronga next.”
“No,” Mendric pressed. “The last several months it has picked up. People feeling shadows and pure, unadulterated fear from no apparent source...horrible mutilations.”
“What?” Selric asked with increasing apprehension. “Vampire? Werewolf?”
“Something like that, but darker. It leaves little or no trace and some deaths have been from great strength...people cut clear in half in some cases. Alistair tells me that they are allowed to tell no one about any of it, and the elders are on the verge of resigning their positions so that they can warn the populace. But they’ve been warned that if they tell, they will be executed for treason.”
“How did you find out?”
“Alistair was drinking and, you know, we’ve been friends, good friends, since before he worked at Sellore’s...since...well, you know. I’ve never seen him drunk before. I tell you, he was shaken. He actually shuddered when he described some of the deaths. He was in The War and we saw more death than most: magical explosions and giants ripping people apart, even a dragon. He should not be upset about some simple murders. He’s worn down from hopelessness, I suspect.”
“Or cracked, I think is more likely,” scoffed Selric.
“Just try to be a little more careful. The whole city seems to be growing darker. People do notice their friends’ disappearances and deaths. They’re talking and fear is spreading. Can’t you feel it? The whole city is affected. It’s like something is sapping energy from the very stones. Even the lamps seem dimmer.” Selric stopped and looked around the familiar street he had passed a thousand times and it did look different to him, but he attributed the dark air and seemingly growing shadows to the fact he had just returned from the wild. “The King has to do something about it and soon.” Selric’s mind went back to Sonya, his friend who had been murdered in her bed while he was away, and her death sounded just like these others. Perhaps this dark intruder was more than the Gronga.
He made love to her. Cinder was on her hands and knees as he moved behind her, his hands holding her hips in place. He moved faster and faster, increasingly vicious. He seemed to grow, and even to her, one who found pain exciting, it hurt. But when she tried to pull away, he wrapped an arm under her belly and locked Cinder’s tender buttocks against his stomach. She dug painfully at his arm, but found no leeway. He was a large figure, draped in shadow and looming over her. With his other hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair to keep her in place, like a horse guided by black, silken reins, and his strength forced her head back as he pulled viciously. She glanced against the pressure, felt the arm beneath her release, and saw it bring a blade forward.
Cinder scrambled but could not escape his grasp. She felt the cold steel touch her burning neck and she screamed, opening her eyes to see the kind face of Danson Garnet looking back at her. She was cold and wet.
“What’s the matter, Cinder?” he asked, hugging her sopping, trembling frame. She finally breathed: one long, slow inhale.
“I had a terrible dream,” she said, clinging to him. He held her for several minutes before he spoke.
“I have to go,” Danson said softly.
“No!” Cinder screamed, then relaxed, obviously trying to control immense distress. “No, not yet. Please stay.” She ran her hands over him nervously.
“I told my wife I was gambling tonight. Most places are closed now. I’ve got to go.”
“No. I want you to love me,” she said. She really did not, but she could not be alone, not yet.
Danson looked at Cinder in disbelief. “I don’t think you do,” he said, understanding her need, “but I’ll lie with you.” And he did. Soon her trembling stopped and her breathing relaxed and she dozed off to sleep. Danson rose and left quietly, and Cinder woke again without any memory of the nightmare.
9
The stone slab ground slowly open and the Fiend slid inside, shutting the portal behind It and dropping the battered woman on the dirt floor. Victoria wiggled within her bonds. It bent over her and cut her free and she tried to crawl, scampering into the corner and sitting with her back to it, her arms folded before her. She looked across the room: there behind this shadow of a creature was a shimmering, yet gloomy, man. Bixby Goreman, once traitorous silversmith, now haunted apparition, studied her trembling body. He, like the Fiend, felt her fear.
Victoria looked around and spied, right above her, two dangling manacles. With a gasp she crawled away again. Neither monster tried to stop her, and she reached the ladder with short-lived relief. Quickly she darted up, but as she lifted the trapdoor at the top of the ladder, she was seized by two tremendous hands from below. She screamed as the door banged back down into place and she was hurled across the room and against the wall. Victoria couldn’t help but let out a pain-filled moan as she hit with enough force to knock out her breath and bash her senses. As she shook her head clear, she noticed that her tattered pants lay nearby and she picked them up, hugging them to her as she began to sob with hopeless, encroaching fear. But Victoria soon regained her composure, biting back her tears and bolting this time to the door through which she had been brought. She dropped her pants as she used her hands to try and pry the heavy door open, but she found no leeway there.
She was seized from behind in a great hug, Its hard body pressed tight behind her. Victoria reached up behind her to try and claw Its eyes or pull Its hair, but the Fiend spun Victoria in the air like a helpless doll and slammed her to the floor with little effort, then brought Its mass down atop her. Victoria let out a painful gasp as she hit, then another desperate cry as It fell on her. Her face was driven into the earth, and dirt made its way into her mouth as It pressed heavily against her, slowly rooting her, inch by inch, across the floor.
Bixby watched Victoria’s seemingly tiny body writhing beneath the Fiend with no chance of freedom; like a fly in the web of a giant spider. She was soft, white, and beautiful, dwarfed by Its hulking, dark and grim shape. She gasped, sobbing in pain and unable to relieve it in the least. Then Victoria ce
ased her struggles, giving up, resigned to her fate, her strength then gone. As the Fiend opened her throat with Its dagger, Bixby moved closer, feeling Victoria’s spirit ebb out of her tortured body and her terror pass away as her trembling stopped and her blood flowed freely onto the ground and the evil spirit slowly began to grow in might.
The Stormweathers arrived at the party in two carriages; the boys with their ladies in one, the older men and Violet in the other. “You know,” Selric said to his brother, “I wonder why Grandfather doesn’t ask old Widow Petrovich to these things? They dance with each other, and I know they see one another on the side, but still they come alone.”
“I have no idea,” Mendric replied. “Why don’t you ask him?” he asked, stepping down into the courtyard with a grin.
“I think not,” said Selric, and they both laughed. Selric helped Fiona out of the carriage. Long silver earrings nearly reaching her shoulders dangled against her elegant neck, their glitter and brilliance enhanced by the fact that her short hair did not hinder sight of them. Selric admired her flowing yellow gown, decorated with silver patterns and sewn with silver thread. She was radiant and so skilled in etiquette that, unlike Cinder, she would be able to, through wit and deviousness, fool even the most astute skeptic to her heritage. Mendric’s escort was Danielle Foster: a tall, buxom auburn-haired beauty from one of the lesser noble families who were constantly hoping to marry a daughter up the ladder of society. Mendric was always accompanied by a beautiful woman, or two, from Andrelia’s best families, while Selric sought ladies from any walk of life.
“You do look wonderful,” Selric told Fiona. “And that neck...” he said, bending close and kissing, then softly biting it. Fiona smiled.
While Cinder was beautiful in any clothing whatsoever, and Melissa looked best in simple things, Fiona shone greatest in expensive finery, like a regal princess. Her bone structure, the way she carried herself, her charisma and overpowering personality gave her a noble air, and she actually seemed more beautiful, as if meant for all the finest things. During discussions, she never faltered or uttered a faux pas. She never giggled, but laughed silently. Fiona could mingle and discuss military tactics with lords, philosophy with wise men, religion with priests, and usually best them all, or at least leave them thinking that she had. And Fiona always maintained an aloofness about her, an aloofness that all nobility admired. Fiona was dismissive when asked her background, and her lack of pride and absence of bragging and name-dropping led others to believe she must have been well-born, indeed.
By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) Page 26
