by A. C. Cobble
“Sounds good to me,” murmured Captain Ainsley.
“Look,” continued Oliver, “the manor is maybe a league and a half, two leagues from the town. If we arrived on the rail, we’d have to come through the village and then down that road. We’d be seen by any watchers Isisandra has in the place.”
“That’s true…” said Sam, looking at the map.
“But what if we use the airship as a distraction first?” he suggested, his fingers tracing over the map. “We could set down here and catch the rail. Captain Ainsley can continue on and lurk behind these hills. If Isisandra brought the airship down, Ainslely and the crew would be at minimal risk if they hugged the terrain. Isisandra would be forced to send her resources—”
“Which Ainsley would have no defense against,” reminded Sam.
Oliver frowned. “If we timed it just right…”
“I don’t know,” Sam frowned. She shook her head. “Duke, she’ll know where we are no matter what we do.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“If she has any material, she can scry for us.”
“Oh.” He slumped down, dejected, a wave of hopelessness washing over him.
“There’s only one way,” mumbled Thotham. “You want to face her. You have to go straight in. There’s no other way.”
The room was silent for a long moment as they sipped their drinks, looked at the map again, and came up with nothing.
Finally, Sam suggested, “Duke, perhaps you should stay behind with the airship. Thotham and I can go in. This is our purpose. You’re too important to risk on—”
Oliver laughed.
“What?” asked Sam.
“I’m the fourth son of the king,” said Oliver, “but I rule Northundon, which is nothing more than a pile of toppled rocks and ghosts. I don’t have any other official role in the government. The Company has a dozen cartographers, and every one of them works cheaper than I do. I’m not important, Sam. You are. You and Thotham are the only two we know of with the experience and knowledge to counteract what we’ll find in that place. You two are the ones who are indispensable. You two are the ones we cannot risk.”
“We have to risk—”
“The spear, girl,” rasped Thotham, interrupting his apprentice.
“No,” she said.
“You made your choice, girl,” responded the old priest, suddenly seeming more awake and pinning Sam with a glare. “We cannot attack from afar because of the possibility the sorceress could bring this airship down. Even if she couldn’t take us down, I’d advise against it because we don’t know who or what is inside. What if she isn’t there? What if hundreds of innocents are? A stealthy approach would have been ideal, but that won’t work now because you and the boy slept with her. That was your choice, your mistake. Now, it is time for me to choose.”
“We can contact Admiral Brach,” suggested Oliver. “He could be here in a few days with a thousand men. Surely, even a powerful sorceress cannot stand against that. We don’t have to do this alone.”
“Admiral Brach could certainly put enough men and airships into the field to defeat her,” agreed Thotham, “but what makes you think she’ll wait for them to arrive? We have reports her carriage passed through the village of Derbycross two days ago. How long before the girl thinks things over? How long before she decides to flee? We have no idea what kind of contacts she has, who would be willing to hide her or take her away from Enhover. It’s quite possible she’s preparing to flee now and only hasn’t left because she didn’t expect us to have access to an airship. Or perhaps she isn’t sure we’ve fully realized who she is. If Admiral Brach begins to muster the royal marines, all it will take is one ally left in Westundon, and she will vanish. Everything will have been for naught.”
Oliver winced at the old man’s assessment.
“You’ve both been foolish,” declared Thotham. “Learn from your mistakes. Do not compound them.”
“What do you suggest, then?” asked Oliver.
“We walk up to the front door. We kick it in, and we finish this,” declared Thotham.
The sails flapped outside of the cabin. They could hear the muted conversation of the sailors on deck, and the wind rushed by in a constant roar. Inside the room, though, it was quiet.
“Well,” said Oliver after a long moment, “I’m convinced.”
“Good,” said Thotham. “Now, if you could all leave, I need a nap. Wake me when we’re a half turn of the clock away.”
They waited until dark and then swept wide west of the village of Derbycross. On the horizon, it was a burning ember glowing on the black blanket of the landscape. Isisandra’s estate was invisible, hidden behind the folds of the rolling hills, which they hoped made them invisible to her as well. They knew where the place was from the map, and the closer they could draw without a direct visual path, the better.
Captain Ainsley brought the ship in low, hanging ten yards above the turf. The sailors helped toss thick hemp lines over the gunwales, and Oliver, Sam, and Thotham swung over the edge. Wrapping arms and legs around the rope, they slid toward the ground.
Halfway down, Thotham lost his grip and dropped, landing with a thump in the grass.
Oliver and Sam descended quickly and went to check on the old man.
“I’m all right,” he groused, getting slowly to his feet and brushing his robes off. How he could see any grass clinging to them in the dark, Oliver did not know.
When it appeared he was all right, Oliver said, “Let’s go.”
He’d memorized the map, though it was by an unknown cartographer, so the quality was suspect. Placement of an estate should be simple enough, though, so he hoped it was sufficient for them to find the manor. As they trotted across the grass, he saw there wasn’t much else out there, so even without the map, surely they’d stumble across it.
“What is that?” hissed Sam.
They paused, listening. Low sounds in the distance. Animalistic. Oliver gripped his broadsword but did not draw it yet. Light could reflect off the polished steel, so until they knew they were discovered, he would keep it in the sheath.
“That is the sound of sheep bleating,” groused Thotham. “Have you two never been in the country?”
Muttering to himself, Oliver started off again, leading the small party through the hills of Derbycross. Above them, the sky was shrouded in thick clouds. Around them, the hills were barely visible lumps, the black silhouettes merging with the black night. To their right, they could see the glow of the village, and when they crested a hill, they could see it in full. It was a small enclave with two dozen buildings, no walls, and only a scattering of lights just an hour after full dark. Country people, early risers. That or they couldn’t afford to keep the place lit.
A league northwest they hoped to find Isisandra’s manor. They would take their time scouting it from afar, if they were able, then plan the assault.
She was inside. Oliver could feel it, and based on their reports of the carriage trip, there were only a few men with her. The manor itself likely had only a small staff to maintain the place, as the family rarely visited. There was no need for the legions of servants who would fill the kitchens, clean up after the family, and wait on them. They expected eight or nine people inside the estate, no more.
It seemed a bit foolish, for three to be assaulting nine and one of those a sorcerer, but Sam and Thotham had displayed supreme confidence they would be up to the task. Oliver had seen Sam fight, so he was sure she at least could hold her own.
“It’s not mundane swordplay we need to worry about,” she had advised while they were back on the airship. “It’s what the girl is capable of.”
“Maybe she’ll be asleep when we arrive,” Oliver had said, hopefully.
“She’s a sorceress,” Thotham had reminded. “I know there haven’t been sorcerers around Enhover in years, but surely you’ve heard stories. What about those stories makes you think approaching at midnight is the way to catch a sorcerer unaware
s?”
Oliver and Sam had locked gazes and shrugged. The man was right, but they couldn’t very well swoop in on the airship in the middle of the day and hope no one saw them coming. Night belonged to the sorcerers, true, but it was also the only time to travel over the empty landscape around Derbycross unnoticed. They had to deal with the situation as it was presented.
If she scried them, Isisandra may be able to sense their presence, but she’d have to scry to do it. There was no point making it easy for any mundane sentries she might have in her employ.
The bleating of the sheep kept them company as they ranged over the open hills, until finally, Sam caught Oliver’s arm.
“There,” she whispered.
He followed her pointed arm as best he could in the dark and saw a pinprick of light in the distance. It was still a quarter league away, but it couldn’t be anything but the manor.
“If we can see her, she can see us,” warned Thotham.
“Do you have your amulet on, Duke?” asked Sam, her voice barely rising above the sound of the wind and the sheep.
He clutched at his shirt where a silver rune-etched hexagram hung. Sam and Thotham had claimed it would grow warm in the presence of underworld spirits, but now, it was the same temperature as his skin.
“Nothing,” he responded.
“I know there’s nothing right now,” hissed Sam. “I just wanted to check to make sure you had it and that you were paying attention. When we get in there…”
“Of course,” agreed Oliver.
“Let’s keep moving,” advised Thotham. “If she attempted to scry for you today, she’ll notice you’re closing on her position. Assume she knows we’re coming, and let’s not give her any more time to prepare.”
Oliver moved off again, crouching low then realizing it was almost pitch-black and standing upright again. His feet moved confidently on the gently sloped hills, the autumn-thin grass only coming mid-calf on his boots. He could hear Sam and Thotham moving behind him, their steps falling softly on the turf, their breathing even. There was something…
“Look out!” he cried, pitching forward.
He felt the shape soar over him where his head had been moments before. Sam gave a startled cry, and Thotham grunted. An ear-piercing shriek broke the quiet of the night. Oliver scrambled, trying to draw his broadsword from a prone position. As the cries warbled, and the high-pitched shriek faded, he gave up.
“That was a big one,” remarked Thotham calmly. He added, “It’s safe, for the moment.”
Oliver stood, brushing himself off, straining in the dark to see what had leapt at him.
Her voice cracking, Sam asked, “What just happened? What was that?”
“Grimalkin,” explained the old priest. “Well, it’s certain she knows we are here now. That shriek could have been heard a league away. We should move.”
A small amount of light bloomed near his feet, and Oliver saw Sam had uncovered a tiny vial of fae light. It revealed a hulking, black cat that was dead at Thotham’s feet. The priest was leaning on his spear.
“How did you get that?” she wondered.
“I slipped it from your pack the moment the thing sprung at us and then kicked your legs out from under you. You didn’t seem prepared.”
“I-I don’t… There was no time,” stammered Sam.
“There wasn’t?” asked Thotham, glancing down at the cat. “We’re almost out of time for our lessons, apprentice, but there’s always time if you’re prepared. We’re approaching the only active sorceress known in Enhover over the last twenty years. You don’t think she’ll be ready for us? Every step we take, from here until it’s over, assume something will come at you. You do that, and you might survive this.”
Thotham spun the spear, the blood of the grimalkin flinging off into the dark of the night. Then, he stopped, pointing the sharp tip of the spear toward the manor. “Shall we?”
“Done with your napping?” asked Oliver.
Thotham chuckled. “I’m stretched thin, boy. Half gone, half here. I’m conserving what energy I do have for when I need it. When I don’t, no, I am not done napping.”
Oliver helped Sam to her feet, and they continued on, the light of the manor resolving into two flickering torches flanking a tall door in a wall. They stepped onto a wide dirt path that led to the doors. Gravel crunched underfoot as they got closer, and lines of hedges appeared bracketing the road.
“Why does a manor in the heart of Enhover, overseeing only a peaceful hamlet, need such tall walls?” asked Sam. No one answered her. “Right, of course. How do we get through?”
“Try the door. It may be open,” suggested Thotham. “Since we haven’t seen another grimalkin drawn by the death cry of the first, that cat was probably out on its own, meaning they haven’t sent anything at us yet. They want us inside.”
Oliver swallowed nervously. Gaze darting to the shrubbery on either side of him, to the top of the wall, and then the door, he moved forward. He pushed the door and it rattled. Moving, but not far. He hissed, “This door is quite heavy.”
“We’ll wait,” advised Sam.
Sighing, Oliver gripped the edge of the huge door, just slightly ajar, and put a boot against the wall. He tugged, dragging the giant slab of wood and iron. He pulled until there was a yard of clearance. Then, he stopped, shaking his hand where the iron edge had dug into his skin.
“I’ll go first,” offered Sam, and she peered through the opening before darting into the interior of the manor’s walls.
Oliver followed, and Thotham brought up the rear.
All was quiet.
“No guards rushing to meet us,” whispered Oliver. “That’s a good sign, right?”
“Not if she killed them all and captured their souls to power some terrible ritual she is now preparing to unleash on us,” responded Thotham.
Oliver ran his hand over his hair, checking the leather thong that kept it tied back, then crept forward, flanking Sam, looking at the giant stone edifice that rose behind the perimeter wall.
The grounds between the gate and the building were sparsely planted with grasses like they’d been crossing and low-maintenance hedges. Lazy gardening, thought Oliver, but he supposed the owners of the place cared nothing for the exterior. There was a reason they had an estate such as this, so far away from anything.
Like the front gate, lit torches braced the doors to the manor, and inside, they could seem dim lights. No people, though, and the outside was dead quiet.
“This is really creepy,” breathed Oliver.
“Wait until we get inside,” tittered Sam.
Moving carefully, they crossed the yard, passing wide of a silent, stone fountain then ascending the steps to the manor. Again, nothing jumped out at them. Nothing happened at all.
Sam peered at the door, checking the handle, listening to see if she could hear movement on the other side. Then, she turned to Oliver and shrugged.
He frowned at the torches. Someone was there. Someone had lit the brands, but whoever it was, they didn’t seem concerned about strangers entering the compound.
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the handle of the door, twisted it, and shoved it open.
From outside, he and Sam glanced inside.
Oliver grimaced.
Spread from one side of the marble foyer to the other was a thick band of blood. It looked as if it had been painted from a giant broom.
Beyond the blood, the room looked as Oliver would expect any formal entry to a country estate would look. There was a table in the center with a giant, empty, crystal vase where flowers from the gardens outside would be displayed if the Dalyrimples had grown them. The walls were decorated with expansive landscape paintings of the manor, the village, and the surrounding hills. Sconces were hung with lamps, illuminating the room in a warm glow, and that was it.
“It’s safe to go inside,” said Thotham before adding unnecessarily, “Don’t step in the blood.”
“Thanks,” murmured Oliver, rolli
ng his eyes and walking into the foyer, peering around suspiciously. The house was as quiet as the grave.
“Spooky,” said Sam, hesitantly tiptoeing ahead to look at the giant swath of blood. “What do you think this means? The blood looks fresh. Surprisingly fresh.”
Thotham, teetering across the floor, using his spear as a cane, stepped beside her. “It’s a warning, obviously, but surely they do not believe we’ll turn back just because of this.”
“You were right earlier,” asserted Oliver. “None of these doors are locked and we haven’t faced heavy resistance yet. She wants us to come in. She wants us to… What about underneath that blood? Could there be something under there that would, I don’t know, trap us?”
Sam unhooked a water skin from over her shoulder and unstoppered it. She bent and slung a stream of water across the blood, washing a hand-wide strip of it clear.
Scrawled underneath the blood was a line of script drawn in black paint.
Thotham knelt and held out a hand for Sam’s water skin. He spread the water, washing more blood away from the script. “I suspect this goes in a circle around the entire manor. When she had sex with you two, did she collect any blood?”
Oliver coughed and looked away.
“It was… a little rough,” admitted Sam.
Sighing, Thotham stood, flipped his spear, and slid the point through the blood and black paint, the steel tip scratching loudly across the marble floor. “I can break the pattern, but we don’t have time to eradicate the entire thing. This is likely to hurt.”
“Hurt?” asked Oliver. “Are you sure you can handle—”
“It won’t hurt me,” interrupted Thotham. “I’m not the one who had sex with a hostile sorceress. It’s going to hurt you, though, badly. You should live.”
“Should?” questioned Oliver.
Thotham only waved them forward, and Oliver watched as Sam stepped over the blood barrier. Halfway across, her body spasmed, and she fell to one knee on the other side, convulsions rocking her. She didn’t entirely collapse, though, and he heard her gasp and cough. She wasn’t dead.
“Anytime you’re ready,” mentioned Thotham.
