by Walter Rhein
His brain throbbed as he thought, but he persisted in scouring his memories. And then it came to him.
Nightshades.
“Welcome,” a voice cried out, and Noah snapped to attention.
The voice was familiar. It had a tone that Noah could never forget.
The last time he heard it was when his father had died.
The last time he had heard it was when his father had burned.
“You,” Noah sighed weakly through a watery gaze, as the tall priest stepped into the light.
Father Ivory noted the hatred in the boy’s voice and laughed.
“Yes, me,” he responded, “your lord, Father. Do not forget it and there may yet be some hope for you.”
Noah coughed heavily and then spat in Father Ivory’s direction. The wet wad went wide and the proud priest watched it smack against the floor with disdain.
“Tsk, tsk,” he mocked, “that’s not a good way to begin our relationship.”
Noah said nothing. Could it be that the priest did not remember him? Could it be that Father Ivory didn’t know who he was?
As if guessing the young lad’s thoughts, Father Ivory laughed again.
“Oh, yes, I know you. I remember you and your twin sister. I remember your sinful father. Thank Lightbringer I arrived in time to save him.”
Noah lurched against his bonds.
“You saved no one, you murdered him!”
“Murder?” Father Ivory replied bemused, “murder is what common peasants do to one another in dark alleys. Look at these hands.” He held up his silky smooth fingers that had been treated with expensive oils from far-off lands. “These are the hands of a nobleman. Such hands are not capable of murder.”
Father Ivory turned to a tray of instruments at his side and began picking through them carefully.
“In a way, however, I do owe you something,” he said. “You see, I’m a much different person than the one you met all those weeks ago. It’s rather amusing, really, the changes a man can undergo in such a short amount of time.” He paused and glanced at Noah, but saw that his audience was unreceptive to his reflections. “You don’t understand what I mean, do you?” he asked.
He watched Noah for a few minutes before turning back to his tray of implements.
“No matter. The work is the same.”
After a moment, he turned to Noah holding a long, narrow knife with a jagged edge. Noah began to squirm in his seat, but Father Ivory was completely indifferent.
“You understand,” he said, “I would have been incapable of doing what I’m about to do at our first meeting. But my pursuit of you and your sister has changed me. Lightbringer has shown me what I can become. He has shown me what you are and, more importantly, what I am.”
He pulled a stool up to Noah’s side and poked and prodded at Noah’s arms and chest experimentally. Noah writhed in fury and frustration beneath the touch, and icy sweat began to pool upon his brow.
“We started with beatings you see,” Ivory said, speaking as if he were at a simple dinner party. “At first I just stood and watched as the Nightshades hit the peasants until they renounced you—well, I suppose it’s more appropriate to say they renounced your sister.” He laughed at the reflection. “We had to quell the mythology. You probably don‘t know it, but you really did cause a problem for us.” He inclined his head and reflected to himself for a moment before continuing. “Peasants’ minds are prone to fantasy, it’s simply not good for them. They begin by questioning the order, then by questioning their place in the world, and they finish by questioning Lightbringer. Their very souls are at stake!”
In a lightning motion, Father Ivory’s hand clasped down on Noah’s face. Noah squirmed, but the priest’s grip was like iron. He found himself panting, his hands clenched and unclenched convulsively.
“I just watched at first.” Father Ivory smiled. “Then I allowed myself a few blows when the Nightshades had already finished most of their work. After that, I began to experiment with earlier and earlier stages of the interrogation.” He paused and looked heavenward, an expression of true peace crossing his face.
“That’s when I heard Lightbringer’s voice. I heard his word with every tingle of excitement I felt as my knuckles broke the skin of all those low-born sinners. Do you understand me? I felt him, and with every advance I made, with every new punishment that I invented, I felt him more!”
Father Ivory lifted the knife. For a moment it reflected the light of the lantern and sparkled.
The two of them sat together, eyes locked upon the instrument.
Then it descended.
Down, down, down.
Into Noah’s flesh, entering the forearm, right below the elbow.
It stung like an insect, but unlike an insect it kept burrowing and burrowing and burrowing and could not be swatted away.
The agony was pure and terrible.
Father Ivory inhaled a long, rapturous sigh.
“You see,” he said, his voice quivering, “Lightbringer!”
But Noah could not hear him over the sound of his own screams.
Malik watched the old man approach the hut. The blizzard gave them cover, and even at a distance of only ten yards, he and the others were nearly invisible. He wouldn’t have even been able to see the old man, skipping from shadow to shadow, except that Malik knew exactly where to look.
Sixteen, Malik thought to himself as he followed the old man’s progress.
Sixteen highly trained opponents.
It was too many, but what choice did they have?
The old man neared the building. He had said it had been a communal hall before the Nightshades had come. It was the finest structure in all of Pinehill.
“But I’ll set it alight without a second thought.” The old man had laughed. “As would any other citizen of this town, to pay back those cursed Nightshades!”
Malik watched him now. His anger had given the old man strength. He slipped through the biting wind and the growing drifts with the bladder of oil slung effortlessly over his shoulder.
Ten yards, that was all he had to cover.
Ten measly yards.
The distance could be insurmountable in a battle situation. Even common soldiers were known to defend mere inches with tooth and claw. And these were the Nightshades they were up against, Malik reminded himself. What were they capable of?
Sixteen… Too many.
Malik shook his head and tried to banish the doubt that grew there. It didn’t serve him, and besides, the dice were already cast.
The old man crept.
Nine yards… Perhaps Father Ivory’s force had grown complacent in their domination?
Five… If a Nightshade arrow was going to take him, it would be now.
Three… Still nothing!
And then the old man was there, crouching against the wall. He unslung the bladder of oil from his back and squeezed it, the thick liquid spraying on the wall. Even from ten yards’ distance, Malik could see the man’s bright teeth as he smiled going about his work.
“Let’s burn the bastards!” the old man cried eagerly, then waved his stump of a hand with euphoria.
Malik watched as the man shuffled in the darkness. The oil glistened in the low light, oozing down the wall in gelatinous chunks.
“Easy does it,” Malik whispered under his breath, hoping against hope their luck would hold out a few minutes more. “Careful … careful.”
The old man continued his work, splashing the liquid liberally. Malik was just starting to believe they would get through the first stage without incident when, inexplicably, the old man rose to one knee and flung the whole bladder onto the roof. The bladder landed with a clatter and the oil continued to seep from its open end, dripping down to mingle with the pine shingles. The old man turned in the direction of the woods where Malik and the others were hiding, a huge, defiant smile on his face.
“The old fool!” Malik whispered, knowing the clatter was going to alert their enemies.
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“Be ready,” he hissed to Alec and Michael, wishing he could alert Gerard, whom he had placed farther on, “they’re coming.”
The old man stood and began walking back into the woods, the insane smile still glinting in the night. Then, he inexplicably stopped in his tracks and his expression changed.
“Come on,” Michael whispered desperately in silent encouragement, but Malik knew what had happened. He drew his bow, waiting for the line of fire to clear.
The old man dropped to his knees, and then fell forward, a black arrow protruding from his back.
Behind him, standing in the doorway to the building, crouched a Nightshade, scanning the darkness for other foes. He was using the door frame as cover, and looking about quickly to avoid presenting a target, but, unfortunately for him, he had allowed himself to fall into a repetitive rhythm of duck and glance.
Malik counted it out, and, when the time was right, let loose his own arrow.
It flew true, taking the furtive warrior in the eye. The body slumped forward into the snow. Alec and Michael looked over at Malik in awe at the shot, but Malik signaled them to keep their eyes on the door.
“Let two more come,” he whispered holding up his fingers. “Two more and then light it.”
He crouched in the darkness and moved back from the position of the others, in the direction of Gerard.
Fifteen, he thought to himself.
Fifteen… Too many.
Again he shook his head and focused on the battle at hand.
The Nightshades would not come pouring out of their retreat to confront their unknown attackers. They would use a different exit and try to flank their opponent. Gerard would have a chance at one, maybe two. The attack should be enough to keep them bottled inside.
Bottled up until the fire came.
Malik knew that nobody was so well-trained that they weren’t thrown off when confronted by a wall of fire.
Nobody, he hoped.
The lean warrior’s eyes descried the darkness as he made his way through the shadow and the drifts. In only a few moments, he saw the veteran soldier kneeling dutifully. As Malik approached, he saw Gerard lift himself to one knee and loose an arrow.
Fourteen, Malik counted in his mind, not bothering to verify the kill.
Fourteen… Still too many, but getting better.
A flicker of a smile crossed his features which instantly disappeared as Gerard settled back into position.
Movement! Behind the grizzled fighter, Malik had seen something in the trees.
The Nightshades were out of their hive already, attempting to flank them.
Malik stopped and knocked an arrow. The distance was too great and the wind continued to howl around him. He saw only shadow, could not make out the form or features of his enemy, but he knew they must be there.
He squinted, marking the bounce of the distant branches, taking note as to the natural way the shadows lay and moved.
The wind was from the north, the light was from the moon. The tree limbs bounced north to south, anything that moved only south was the shadow of the enemy.
His eyes roved back and forth across the stained landscape, the wind stinging his eyes. He looked for something, anything that was out of place, something that felt wrong since his eyesight was sorely limited.
His peripheral vision caught an image and he spun and loosed without even verifying the target.
He crouched and watched, taking a better look at what his instincts had signaled as dangerous.
A dark bush.
A waste of an arrow?
Malik waited.
In the distance, a body tumbled over into view, an arrow piercing the Nightshade’s throat.
Thirteen.
Malik smiled.
Lucky thirteen.
He crept forward to Gerard.
“I almost shot you before I thought it through,” the veteran warrior muttered. “What were you aiming at?”
“The darkness,” Malik admitted. “I got lucky, but they’re flanking us. Kills?”
“Two.”
That was one more than Malik had seen, bringing the total down to twelve.
“Good, but it’s going to get harder now.”
“Aye,” Gerard replied, “that’s a fact.”
Their attention was drawn by an explosion of flame. Gerard swiveled his head to look, but Malik, slightly craftier, sent his gaze into the woods to see what the light would reveal.
Instantly he saw two more bodies, frozen, stupefied that their cover had been so unceremoniously ripped away.
Malik launched two more arrows.
Two more bodies littered the earth.
“Ten,” Malik said out-loud this time. “Ten minus however many your boys managed to take out with that blast.”
Too many, the voice said again in the back of Malik’s mind. But this time he shrugged it away with a laugh.
Gerard turned to Malik with a grin, but the lean warrior already stood, his sword in his hand.
“Time to go to work with the blade,” he stated simply, “give me as much cover as you can!”
“That I will,” Gerard replied.
Malik sprinted toward the living flames.
Noah took a deep rattling breath.
He couldn’t scream anymore, he didn‘t have the strength.
His throat was raw. With each exhalation, he spat blood.
Father Ivory had been working on him for an eternity. It could have been an hour, it could have been fifteen minutes. Noah lost perspective of time.
I can’t look down, Noah thought to himself.
He could feel the wounds in his arms.
He could feel the blood running down his chest.
He could feel the throbbing pain.
But he hadn’t looked at what Father Ivory had done to him, and he didn’t want to.
Looking made it real.
He didn’t want it to be real.
“How are you feeling, my defiant little friend?” Father Ivory cooed. He wasn’t even making visual contact with Noah anymore. But Noah could feel Ivory’s eyes caressing his body. The sadistic priest was admiring the work he had done, soaking in every agonized, shuddering breath.
Bastard!
“How are you?” Father Ivory said again, and this time there was a hint of anger in his voice at Noah’s lack of a response. “Answer me,” he commanded.
“I’m—” Noah started, but the door swung open.
Father Ivory, who had been leaning over Noah, leaped to his feet and covered himself as if he had been caught bathing.
A Nightshade stood in the door, his eyes darting this way and that, taking in the scene.
“Why have you interrupted me?” Father Ivory demanded furiously, somewhat regaining his composure.
“There is a disturbance outside,” the warrior responded.
Father Ivory relaxed, his arms dropping down once again to his sides. He fingered his cutting knife playfully.
“Handle it,” he snapped.
“But sir—” the Nightshade protested, but Father Ivory cut him off.
“I’m busy here, handle it! Such things are your concern!”
Without further argument, the Nightshade snapped to attention and turned away, slamming the door behind him.
The calm resumed, Father Ivory looked at Noah and smiled.
With a catlike motion, he suddenly swung his arm in a casual swipe.
Noah felt a sting across his brow.
Blood streamed into his eyes.
He wanted to lift his arms to wipe it away, but he couldn’t move.
Nothing moved.
Nothing worked.
From his brow to his abdomen there were inch-deep cuts.
Blood pooled everywhere.
His young body was being torn apart.
“How do you feel?” Father Ivory said again, and this time Noah looked up into his tormentor’s face.
The tall priest stood erect and proud, his features gleaming with perspirat
ion and a kind of erotic radiance.
And although Noah tried to be strong, he felt his will brake as he met the priest’s gaze.
This man had destroyed him.
This man had cut him down to nothing.
Noah dropped his head in shame, the life flickering out of him.
“Yes,” Father Ivory said. “Yes.”
Malik charged at the flames as if he were assaulting the portals of hell.
Ten, he thought to himself, fingering his sword in his hand. The cold bone was comforting. Ten enemies, maybe less, maybe only eight or nine if that blast took down a couple.
Eight or nine…
The flames framed the hole in the wall and cackled and spit hungrily into the night.
Malik charged through.
The oil had done its job. The old man’s act of tossing the intact bladder on the roof had been a good one. Bits of furniture lay destroyed in the entryway from the blast of ignition. Too bad the scheme had cost the old man his life.
Ten, he thought again.
Maybe nine.
Or eight.
The inside of the building was a contrast of light and dark. Flames danced among the shadows. There were plenty of places to hide. Plenty of man-sized holes all around him.
Malik paused.
The Nightshades could be waiting…
Waiting for him to get close…
Malik spun and thrust with three successive jabs, sending his blade deep into the blackness of the surrounding shadows.
The first two strikes encountered only air, but the third met a jarring resistance.
Malik withdrew his blade carefully.
Blood flickered on the tip.
A body slumped from the crook in the wall.
Nine, Malik counted, slipping into the vacated hole.
Or eight.
Seven if he was lucky.
He pressed his back against the wall and slipped farther into the meeting hall.
Shadows engulfed him, caressed him, protected him.
Deeper, deeper, deeper he went.
There was a whooshing sound by his ear.
He dropped into a crouch.
An arrow!
But before he could sort out what had happened, another body fell before him. Another Nightshade dead. Either Michael or Alec had seen the man from outside.
