Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

focused on both it and the struggle to move forward. He

  finally drew it to him, lifted it to his throat, and sent it through

  the air.

  Nargoth !

  The room shook. Carter gasped and clutched his temple as

  a searing agony stabbed into his forehead. Momentarily, he

  could neither breathe nor see. When the world swam again

  into focus, he saw the Word had failed, and the failure brought

  him to his knees.

  “That which is opened by starlight is not so easily

  contained!” the poetess cried. “Why do you fight me? Give in.

  Give in.”

  Phra seized Carter’s arm, steadying him until he could

  regain his feet.

  A noise, louder than the battle, thundered out of the

  stairwell. Some disturbance had arisen behind the advancing

  anarchists. Carter did not have time to see more, as bullets fell

  thick around the company, forcing him to press close to the

  shield.

  Inch by inch they drew within a foot of the poetess, who

  stood implacable. Carter saw her with minute clarity: the green

  robe, the stitches of the sun sewn upon it; the green mist

  covering most of her face, leaving glimpses of hair or cheek or

  eye. A tiny lizard pendant, the same green as her garment,

  stared out with black, unwinking eyes from her collar. She

  held her hands up, palm outward, trembling as if she could

  scarcely contain the power.

  Carter stepped from behind Phra’s shield and struck with

  his Lightning Sword. An emerald, rectangular barrier appeared

  in the air between him and his adversary, blocking the stroke.

  Phra attacked from the other side, and the barrier parried

  again.

  “I am not so easily taken,” she exulted. “I am the spring,

  and you, the fading winter. Yield to the glories of the new

  season.”

  Carter drew back his arm and delivered a thunderous blow

  against the barrier. The noise of it reverberated through the

  chamber. Lightning licked its surface, but it held.

  “Lady Hantish!” one of the anarchists shouted. “We are

  attacked from below.”

  Carter thrust against the barrier again, his sword’s energies

  crackling across its surface. A tiny fissure appeared in one

  corner.

  “Phra, we must strike together,” Lord Anderson said.

  The astronomer nodded.

  The two men lifted their blades. Bullets sliced the air

  around Carter’s head as he made his play.

  They struck as one, starlight and lightning pouring from

  their swords. The barrier broke into shards, leaving the poetess

  clasping her empty hands. The mist around her face withdrew,

  revealing eyes filled with a tormented fever.

  “Fools!” she cried, her voice a puzzled agony. “I could

  have given you the stars!”

  They struck again, both together, cutting her down.

  With the Black Beast at his back, Doctor Armilus crawled

  on hands and knees along a dusty passage angling ever

  upward, so narrow he struggled at times to squeeze his great

  frame through. He brushed aside thick cobwebs woven by

  black widow spiders.

  An abominable end that would be, he considered, The

  Supreme Anarchist slain by half a thimble’s worth of poison,

  body never found, carcass left to rot in a secret passage.

  Where’s the drama in that? Glad I thought to bring my gloves.

  He thumped a spider from the center of her web, brushed

  aside the filaments, and crushed her with the butt of his pistol.

  The Book of Lore had revealed secret passages so old, even the

  Masters had forgotten them. In all likelihood, this particular

  way had never before been used. It would allow the doctor to

  bypass the stair leading into the Central Astronomy Tower,

  and take him past the Main Observation Hall into the upper

  chambers.

  Like much of what Armilus did, this was a gamble. Lord

  Anderson could sense that there were secret corridors in the

  Tower, and might have used the Word of Secret Ways to reveal

  them so he could set sentries to keep watch. If so, and if the

  guards were not too numerous, Armilus would try to eliminate

  them. He hoped it would not come to gunplay, however. So

  lacking in finesse.

  He came to a spyhole. Peering through it, he saw an empty

  corridor. A latch opened a hidden door in the paneling, and he

  rolled nimbly to his feet, gun at the ready. The Black Beast

  came to the opening, sniffed the air, and hopped down. The

  pair proceeded along the passage, which intersected a hallway.

  Down the length of this passage, Armilus heard the distant

  sounds of combat.

  He paused, momentarily confused. According to his

  infallible memory of the maps he had studied, there should not

  be a corridor at this point. It took him only an instant to

  realize, with a shock, that this was one created by the poets.

  He studied it. Both the walls and ceiling were carved oak,

  with scarab beetles, lizards, snatches of poetry, and runes

  throughout. Lambent light from tall braziers fell golden upon

  the boards, making the entire lane shimmer like a heat-mirage.

  He frowned, and as had become his habit, addressed the

  beast. “Magnificent! This took enormous power. Our

  opponents are immeasurably strong.”

  Fortunately, none of the poet’s people were at this end of

  the passage, else it might have ruined his plan. As it was, he

  wondered how it would affect the counter-attack Heit Nizzle

  was currently leading. A company of the doctor’s followers

  should already be engaging the rear guard of the poetry forces

  charging up the Central Tower stair. Neither Armilus, nor Lord

  Anderson for that matter, could have anticipated the poets

  creating a second front.

  Armilus grimaced. He would have preferred to lead the

  attack himself, especially considering that Nizzle, having

  traveled all night to bring the doctor the iron box of

  Dimension, was exhausted. But Armilus could depend on the

  man; the devils that drove the count would never allow him to

  do less than his best. Besides, the business at hand required a

  certain boldness, a bit of flair. He couldn’t be everywhere at

  once.

  The beast growled, and Armilus shook his head to clear it.

  He must hurry if his plans were to go well. It had been a risky

  business from the start, menacing Lord Anderson’s son,

  draining the man’s resources when he desperately needed to

  stop the Poetry Men. The fanatics were the dangerous variable,

  one the doctor had underestimated at the beginning, even as he

  had used their threat to obtain The Book of Lore . But shifts in

  power between factions always suggested opportunities for

  advancement, and if Armilus could succeed in his plan, he

  would be able to nullify both the Master and the poets. Even if

  he failed, his truce with Anderson could not but help the

  anarchist cause. Flexibility was so important in such

  circumstances.

  Despite the echoing gunshots and the cries of the wounded

&
nbsp; and dying, he strode past the poets’ corridor with almost

  casual calm, until he stood before a large painting of nymphs

  frolicking in a wood. Depressing the bottom corners of the gilt

  frame caused it to pop open, revealing another secret passage.

  With the beast at his heels, he slipped inside and closed the

  door behind him, walling himself into absolute darkness.

  After a bit of fumbling he struck a match, revealing a small

  chamber with a wooden ladder leading upward. As he began

  his ascent, the beast followed by transforming its paws into

  hands. Armilus mentally added this previously unknown talent

  to his list of facts concerning the creature.

  The match burned his fingers before he was halfway up the

  rungs, causing him to growl and fling it away, but having

  already spied a circular trapdoor overhead, he did not light

  another. It lifted with the turn of a handle. He had to contort

  his frame to force his bulk through the narrow opening into the

  upper room where Carter and Phra had looked at the stars.

  After giving a cursory glance at the glass dome with the

  three-dimensional star field, he withdrew from his jacket

  pocket a small magnifying mirror, the iron box from the

  Quadrangle of Angles, and a silk handkerchief adroitly

  removed through the charms of the Contessa du Maurier from

  the vaults of a minor prince of Moomuth Kethorvian. After

  studying the room, he recognized the required mechanism, a

  telescope of unusual design, with four sets of eye-pieces. He

  scanned his memory for the list of operating instructions from

  The Book of Lore , and after several moments of meticulous

  fiddling, found the star he sought, a blue sun in Arcturus.

  Using the mirror, he reflected the starlight from the lens onto

  the silk handkerchief. Where the image touched the cloth, it

  glowed the same color as the star. For precisely two minutes,

  as judged by his pocket-watch, he allowed the rays to fall upon

  the silk. He placed the handkerchief within the iron box of

  Dimension, realigned the telescope to its former settings, and

  hastily returned the mirror and box to his pocket.

  The beast gave a low growl. Turning, he discovered two

  women at the doorway. One he assumed to be the

  astronomer’s wife; the other—Lizbeth Anderson—he had seen

  years ago.

  “Who are you?” the taller woman demanded. “What are

  you doing here?”

  “Ah,” Armilus said, touching his hand to his bowler. “You

  must be Blodwen Phra.”

  “I am.”

  “Allow me to present my card,” the doctor reached into his

  pocket and produced his pistol. “It is not my inclination to kill

  women; however, in this particular case, unless I am permitted

  to leave, I must make an exception.”

  Blodwen stepped between the doctor and Lizbeth. “Pass

  then. Whatever you have done, my husband will ensure you

  answer for it.”

  Armilus gave a slight bow while the animal at his feet

  growled. “No, beast,” the doctor ordered. “These are too

  lovely to be slain, and it makes no difference whether Lord

  Anderson knows I was here. We have a pact.”

  The hound whined in its longing to destroy, and with some

  satisfaction Armilus noted the fear the creature brought to the

  women’s eyes—its dreadful darkness, its horribly intelligent

  gaze, its musky scent filling the room. They would have a

  story to tell, at least.

  Gun raised, Armilus led the animal past the women toward

  the trap door. The beast growled again, as if in prelude to an

  attack.

  “No!” Armilus cried, so violently both Lizbeth and

  Blodwen jumped. “I said no ! You cannot have these! It fits no

  plan of mine.”

  The creature slunk to the doctor’s feet. He opened the trap

  door and ordered it down.

  “Adieu, good ladies,” he said.

  “How did you know of that door?” Blodwen asked.

  Armilus gave a slight smile. “Wonderful, the things you

  can learn by reading. Good evening.”

  He exited, pulling the door closed behind him, hurrying

  down the rungs in case the women found a weapon to use

  against him.

  When he stepped out of the secret panel, back into the

  corridor, the sounds of battle had died away, leaving only the

  noise of the wounded and of soldiers crying orders. Not

  wishing to be seen without his followers to support him, he

  ignored the corridor created by the poets and followed the

  secret passage to the small room below the Main Observation

  Hall, where he found Nizzle, haggard and triumphant, giving

  orders to another anarchist.

  “Doctor!” Nizzle cried, in high exultation. “You have

  arrived. Excellent! We caught them between our forces and

  Lord Anderson’s, exactly as you planned. Both poets were

  slain. The Radicals did not surrender as logical men would

  have done, but fought to the very last, shouting snatches of

  poetry and incoherent slogans. It was a magnificent slaughter.

  We are preparing to depart to avoid any difficulties with the

  White Circle Guard, who may lack the proper degree of

  gratitude.”

  “Wait. There is someone upstairs I want to see. Come

  along.”

  “Is this wise?” Heit Nizzle asked, following behind. At his

  gesture a handful of anarchists joined them.

  Upon reaching the chamber above, Armilus called across

  the room. “Ah, there. Master Anderson!”

  “Doctor,” Nizzle protested. “The Master himself! We—”

  Armilus raised his hand for silence. “Be calm. Keep your

  place.”

  Lord Anderson turned and approached the anarchists.

  Immediately, several members of the White Circle Guard took

  positions around him. The doctor strolled leisurely toward

  him, halting only when they were ten paces apart.

  “What do you want?” the Master asked.

  Armilus gave his slight smile. “I trust your casualties were

  low?”

  “Much lower than they might have been.”

  “We have been allies this day, Lord Anderson,” Armilus

  said, “exactly as I told you. Seeing you standing there, I

  cannot help but admire how imposing you look—tall,

  dignified—so different from the young man who returned

  from exile when I was but a junior member of the Council.”

  “If you are looking for thanks, you will receive none.”

  “Hah!” the doctor boomed. “Exactly right. We both

  understand our own motives. I’m simply making an

  observation. It seems to me that the anarchists have shaped

  you. We haven’t meant to, but we have taken you through the

  fire and produced fine work. Exactly the opposite of our

  intentions.”

  “I trust I have done the same for you.”

  “Touchè. Worthy adversaries have that effect.”

  “Do you have a point?”

  “Only this. I did what I promised. Through it, we both

  achieved victory. It is worth the sacrifice. Remember that. We

  can be friends for a time.�
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  “We are never friends,” Anderson said.

  Duskin appeared beside the Master, pistol raised, but Lord

  Anderson pushed his wrist gently down.

  “Carter,” Duskin said, “do you know who he is? This is

  our chance!”

  “This is not the time.”

  “But—”

  “No !” Lord Anderson said, lips taut.

  Armilus gave a tight, satisfied smile.

  “Remove yourself from the Tower of Astronomy,” the

  Master ordered the doctor. “You have free passage. If any of

  your men remain by the turning of the hour, they will be shot

  on sight.”

  The doctor placed his hand on his stomach and gave a half-

  bow. “As you wish.” He turned to his followers. “Heit Nizzle,

  assemble the men. Let us be off.”

  The anarchists formed loose ranks and departed, Nizzle

  hurrying them along with many a backward glance. Armilus

  followed slowly behind, the Black Beast at his side.

  He had enjoyed that small exchange. Besides reinforcing

  Anderson’s promise, addressing the Master with familiarity

  had raised the doctor’s prestige before his followers. It had

  also placed a shade of suspicion on Anderson himself in the

  eyes of his minions. One never knew when a slight detail like

  that could pay off.

  The doctor whistled off-key, then addressed the beast. “A

  good day, overall. A very good day, though I think I must soon

  find a way to kill one of these Poetry Men.”

  “That … could … be … done,” the beast replied.

  Armilus, eyes wide in amazement, hand suddenly

  trembling, took a full minute before responding.

  As soon as the anarchists had departed, Carter turned away

  and nearly walked into Storyteller.

  “Master Anderson.” The minstrel looked unusually grim.

  “I saw you go down during the fight,” Carter said. “Are

  you injured?”

  “Not by any bullet. Like yourself, I am tuned to the

  Balance. The appearance of the new corridor ran through me

  like hot coals, but I am spry as a pup now.”

  Carter studied the man’s face. A shadow of pain behind his

  eyes suggested Jonathan was not as well as he pretended.

  “It struck me hard as well,” Carter said. “I suppose being

  aware of the Balance for so many centuries—”

  “That’s right, Master Anderson, but there are always

  troubles. Right now I am troubled by what the Supreme

  Anarchist meant by his peacock gloating.”