by A. C. Cobble
Her tinkling laughter followed him as he collected the fallen spear and raced across the room. If the girl was out of his reach, then at least he could help Sam.
She was surrounded, her kris daggers spinning and slashing, but there were too many of them, and as he watched, one of the shadowy shapes caught her arm. Rage suffused her face as she slashed at the figure with her free hand, but then that arm was caught, too, and her body was stretched. Barely visible shadows of fists and feet pounded her, punching her face, kicking her gut and her legs. She began to crumple underneath the beating.
Then, Oliver was there, plunging into the crowded shadows, his spear thrusting and slashing. He stabbed one of the apparitions holding Sam’s arm and it vanished. He nicked another one of the creatures, and it disappeared as well. He only had to touch them, he realized, and he laid about with the spear, holding it by the butt, sweeping it wildly, clearing out a dozen of the shadow-monsters in the space of a few breaths.
But more came, and Sam lay slumped at his feet.
Along the walls, he could see more and more of the shadow-men stepping out into the open, a dark tide bleeding out of the rocks. He darted forward and twirled the spear, forcing them back, banishing those that did not retreat. After clearing space, he bent and grabbed Sam’s vest with one hand and pulled her across the floor of the room.
She was holding her daggers still, but her face was battered, and he wasn’t sure she could stand. Her left eye was already swollen shut. Blood poured from her nose, and her clothing was torn and ragged where her attackers had pummeled her.
He made it to Thotham and let go of Sam. She slumped down beside her mentor, but she was moving, grumbling incoherently, trying to find her bearings. Her mentor was barely moving at all. He’d fallen onto his back, eyes heavily-lidded. He stared up at Oliver, blinking slowly, his jaw working silently, trying to speak. A pool of blood was spreading around the man from the brutal stab wound Marquess Colston had left in his back. It wouldn’t be long.
Silently, like shadow spreading across the floor as clouds obscured the moon, the apparitions closed on them. A hundred, two hundred, and they kept coming.
Oliver gripped the spear in his hands, feeling the intricately carved runes Thotham had painstakingly etched there. He glanced over his shoulder at Isisandra and cringed when he saw her face. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, it was if the girl was sexually excited about their impending death, the thought of her lovers being torn apart by the ghosts of the countless men and women her family had butchered throughout the centuries.
She was evil. He saw that now. He understood. That evil had to be stopped at any cost. Finally, he truly understood the stakes of the game.
He turned from Isisandra and met Thotham’s gaze.
The old man nodded and attempted a smile, his teeth and chin stained red with blood.
Oliver thrust down with the spear, catching the old man in the chest and driving the hand-length steel tip deep into the old priest. Oliver withdrew the spear.
Ghostly ether trailed the spearhead, pale wisps that curled and grew on their own, billowing from the body of Thotham, streaming after the spear and then absorbing into the weapon.
Oliver looked up at Isisandra. Her mouth was no longer open in ecstasy but in shock. Her eyes were fixed on the tip of the spear and the vapor surrounding it. The shadows had paused, watching.
Shifting his grip, he looked at the weapon, suddenly wondering if there was something he had to do to make it work, to—
A ripple of spread from Thotham, darkening the lights in the room, blowing the fire of the braziers with an unfelt breeze, crawling across Oliver’s skin like a thousand pricks of a needle. The wisps of pale, white smoke surrounding the spear burned brighter, and suddenly, the flow of shadow reversed, and flickers of darkness flew by Oliver, soaking into Thotham’s body and disappearing. All of the shadow-monsters swept past, a breeze on his skin, leaving him with little bumps as the cold forms brushed against him. Water rushing down a drain, hundreds of the shapes sped by and sank into Thotham’s motionless form.
In moments, the lights brightened, and Oliver spared a quick glance around the room to see that the unnatural shadows were gone, replaced by normal, flickering spots of darkness from the fires. He breathed a sigh of relief then turned as he heard laughter.
Isisandra was still there, her look of surprise and horror replaced by amusement.
“That was your final play, Oliver?”
He looked down at the spear and then at Sam. She was struggling to rise on one knee, her daggers still in hand, but she looked confused and lost. He didn’t think she’d seen that Thotham was dead.
Isisandra walked closer to him, still within the bounds of the golden pentagram.
“Did you think that by killing him, his soul would carry me away as well?” she asked. “I’ve heard the knives of the council are capable of such magic, but if that had occurred, what do you think would have happened to you, Oliver? You would have been taken, too.”
She smiled at him, and he flushed. She was right. He hadn’t quite considered that.
“Either his spell did not work, or he arrested it to protect you,” purred Isisandra, licking her lips, coming still closer. “Do you think you killed him in vain?”
Oliver looked down at the tip of the spear, smeared with the old priest’s blood.
“His soul is mine, now,” claimed Isisandra, stopping a dozen paces away, still within the circle of the pentagram. “Should I summon him from the underworld and force him to attack you? He died in this room, so it would be rather easy to locate and command him. That would be a delight for me, watching the old man’s shade strangle the life out of you. Almost as pleasant as doing it myself.”
He felt a tremor in the spear and frowned at it. He thought about the ethereal mist that had sunk into it then looked up to meet Isisandra’s eyes. “If you want to strangle me, come and do it.”
She smirked.
“You’re afraid to step outside of your barrier, aren’t you?” accused Oliver. “Such a powerful sorceress, so scared.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “If I stepped outside of this circle, you could kill me. A big powerful man killing a little girl. You’d do it, though, I am certain, or Samantha would. You’re foolish to think I am scared, though. Behind this barrier, you cannot touch me. Nothing you do can penetrate my shields. This barrier is invested with material from your body and hers. Neither of you can cross it and live. There is nothing you can do, Oliver, except die. What would you like to play with in the short time you have remaining? Shall I conjure more of the wolfmalkin or perhaps something a bit nastier… No, I know. I think the priest himself. It’s fitting, don’t you agree?”
Oliver hefted the spear, staring at the girl just a dozen paces away, and said, “Let’s see what he thinks about that.”
Then, he flung the spear at her again.
Isisandra’s laugh was cut off in a screech of surprise as the spear impacted the golden barrier formed by the pentagram and burst through it. Gold light cascaded like it burst from a firework. The room was bathed with the glow. Sparks and bolts of lightning crackled, instantly defining a dome around the circle, which the spear sailed through unimpeded.
The weapon caught Isisandra in the shoulder, spinning her and sending her tumbling to the floor. Her body knocked the weapon out, ripping her flesh as the sharp tip tore free, spraying an arc of blood across the stone floor, across the lines of the golden pentagram.
Oliver stared, mouth agape, as the crackle of lightning and flickering golden sparks formed a spectacular barrier between him and Isisandra. Hissing energy sparked around where her blood marred the golden pattern. He stepped forward then paused, raising his hand to block a growing heat from his face.
The Priestess XVII
Sam stared in horror as Isisandra’s body was spun from the impact of Thotham’s spear smacking into her flesh. Thotham’s spear. It had broken the barrier the girl had erected. Sam struggled t
o her feet, blinking, trying to clear her vision before finally realizing one eye was swollen shut.
Isisandra crashed to the floor, the spear clattered free.
Sam didn’t have to look to know. Thotham was dead. Duke had killed her mentor.
The nobleman stood half a dozen paces from her, staring in shock at the cascade of golden light spilling up from the floor, pouring out of Isisandra’s circle. He turned to her, a question in his eyes.
“You cannot pass, but perhaps I can,” she answered.
She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She allowed the pain to bloom along her collarbone, her tattoos flaring with the same, glowing agony she’d felt earlier. She let it burn from her neck, to her shoulders, and then down her arms. She slid one of her kris daggers into the sheath, feeling the warmth in her arm and hand as the tattoos burned. Reaching into a pouch on her belt, with her bare hand, she grasped the golden ouroboros they’d brought from Archtan Atoll.
Her muscles clenched involuntarily and her vision swam.
Jaw locked, she breathed through her nose. Her other hand still gripped her dagger. It radiated heat. Her eyes snapped open, and she strode forward, leading with her dagger, punching through the shimmering golden barrier.
It was like walking into a wall of a thousand razor blades, each one slicing her but barely slowing her. She concentrated, letting the cascade of pain fall across her body, from her dagger hand, over her tattoos, and then down the other arm and into the ouroboros. It was agony, but she lived. It was a minor irritation compared to the pain she felt inside. Her mentor, a man who had been the father she’d never known, was dead.
The sharp pain of the barrier faded, and she opened her eyes, letting go of the ouroboros.
On the floor, Isisandra was dragging herself with one arm, a slick trail of blood showing she’d only made it a yard. Her eyes were filled with panic, and she mumbled and gasped, possibly trying to utter some rite, summon some creature, but sorcery was an art of preparation, and she wasn’t prepared for this.
Sam kicked her, knocking the girl over onto her back.
With her one good arm, Isisandra reached for Thotham’s spear and yelped when she grasped the shaft and it burned her.
Sam stepped over the girl, straddling her, then sat down, letting Isisandra’s fists beat against her legs, her sides. From her back, the girl’s strikes did nothing. They felt like nothing compared to the beating the shadows had given her, the pain of crossing the barrier, the ache in her soul that Thotham had sacrificed himself to kill this weak, helpless creature. Duke had delivered the blow, but Isisandra was the reason the priest had to die. Isisandra was the cause of this pain.
Sam slammed her open hand down on Isisandra’s good arm, pinning the girl beneath her.
“Your mentor, he is the one who stabbed Thotham in the back?” she asked the sorceress. “The man we killed?”
Isisandra glared at her, her teeth bared in animalistic hatred, but she did not answer.
“Of course that was him,” said Sam. “I doubt you care that he is dead, but I hope you do. I hope that there is still some trace of humanity within your black soul. I hope you feel some sorrow at his loss.”
Isisandra spit at her.
Wordlessly, Sam placed her dagger at the girl’s breast and slowly shoved. Locking eyes with the sorceress, she pushed the sinuous dagger deeper, taking her time, letting Isisandra feel the pain as the steel slipped into her, each undulating edge cutting wider as the blade sank into her skin.
The girl thrashed, fighting to escape the implacable point of the dagger, but she couldn’t fight Sam’s strength. She couldn’t wiggle away.
Finally seeing panic enter the girl’s eyes, Sam leaned on the dagger, letting her weight drive it all the way into the girl’s heart. She held it there, watching the life fade from Isisandra’s eyes. Then, Sam stood, yanking out her dagger and stumbling clear.
The shimmering golden light was gone, its power faded with the death of the summoner. The four braziers still burned with natural flame, and the bodies still littered the floor. Off to one side, the injured wolfmalkin uttered a pained whimper.
Sam ignored it, for the moment, and stooped to collect Thotham’s spear. She walked to kneel beside her mentor.
“I am sorry,” murmured Duke, coming to stand beside her. “I-I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It is what he wanted,” she replied, not looking up to see the nobleman’s face.
Duke breathed a sigh that she imagined was relief.
“It’s not what I wanted,” she added. “There had to be another way. Another… some other way.”
They emerged from the underground cavern like prisoners released from a cell after a decade of confinement. They blinked, shielding their eyes from the light of the rising sun. It streamed through the windows of the manor, showing them a wealthy but abandoned home. Sheets were hung over much of the furniture to protect it from dust. The place was empty, all of the servants apparently meeting their end in the sorcerous chamber below. There was food in the larder of a quality that they would expect for the staff. They found little in the way of fine wine and spirits, which Sam thought was deeply disappointing, and that was it. The rooms they took to be Isisandra’s and her parents’ were nearly empty with only few items of clothing and no personal effects.
Duke carried Thotham’s body up and without speaking. They took it outside, beyond the walls of the compound, where he would not have to rest within the terrible structure.
Sam looked down at him and leaned on his spear, exhausted. Her eyes were fixed on it, but she did not see the body. Instead, she felt the spear, the curling, archaic script that had been etched there, the hardness of the wood, and the warmth that emanated from the weapon.
Thotham was gone but not entirely. She drew a deep breath, feeling the fresh air fill her lungs, feeling the carved wood as she slid her palm along it.
They stood there for half an hour, not speaking, before she finally looked up at Duke and offered, “I forgive you.”
He blinked at her like it hadn’t occurred that he should seek forgiveness, but she chose to ignore that. Instead, still clutching the spear in her hands, she turned to the manor. “We have to destroy it. Every stick and every brick in this place could be tainted. We have to make sure nothing is taken from here. Nothing can leave which might impart some small piece of knowledge to anyone else.”
Duke nodded. “Captain Ainsley has an airship filled with explosives.”
“That should suffice,” agreed Sam. “We’ll need to carry them down into the chamber below. We have to do it ourselves. No amount of explosives will penetrate that deep if we bomb it from above, and it must be done. That chamber must be destroyed, Duke. No one else should see what is down there. We cannot risk them taking a souvenir, finding an entrance to the dark path.”
The nobleman grunted, obviously not relishing the thought of lugging giant bombs down the ten flights of stairs but also realizing the wisdom of her comments.
“Signal the captain, then,” she instructed, “and I’ll take a look around the property. It appeared Isisandra conducted the bulk of her sorcery below in that chamber, but it’s possible she left some other items elsewhere.”
“Items we will destroy, right?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Sam,” said Duke, turning to face her. “You are right. The artifacts, the knowledge in the books here, it is too dangerous to risk spreading. We will destroy everything that we find. We’ll make sure no one sees it again, including us.”
“Duke, we already discussed—”
“Sam,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I am saying this as a duke, a son of the king of Enhover. Whatever we find, we will destroy.”
She stared at him, considering arguments about how important the artifacts could be for study by the Church, how it might give them an advantage against another sorcerer, but none of it mattered. He was right. She nodded, and he offered her a small smile.
/>
“I’ll find some wood to burn,” he said then led her back inside the manor.
While Duke smashed furniture and piled it outside to make a fire to alert Captain Ainsley, she walked slowly through the empty rooms they’d only given a cursory glance at earlier. The geas of the endless hallway and hidden doors had been broken with the death of Isisandra. In the light of the new-born day, she could see what they had missed the night before.
As she went, she was shocked at how little evidence of life she found until she considered the chamber below. The Dalyrimples couldn’t risk that kind of evidence remaining in Derbycross while they were in Archtan Atoll. Whatever servants they kept at the country manor would be their most loyal. There could not be many they would trust with the secrets the estate held.
She paused, halfway up a stairwell, and frowned.
Their assumption was those servants had all been killed, but what if they had not? They would need to obtain a list, if such a thing existed, of who worked there. She started walking again, considering the impossibility of identifying the mutilated corpses below and how difficult it would be to even determine how many of them there were. Flesh and bones had all been torn, smashed, and demolished in Isisandra’s sorcerous rites. If some members of the Dalyrimple staff escaped, they would never be able to tell from the evidence left in that chamber.
She found nothing of interest inside of the house. Isisandra did not live in the place, and nothing in the building was hers. Her parents’ rooms were just as barren. Sam knew they operated in the chamber below. That was why they came to the estate when they did, and she’d already examined the items there.
Sam stepped outside the back of the manor, drawing a deep breath of fresh air… and a hint of blood. She sniffed again then spotted a black vehicle parked just inside of the carriage house, a carriage from the city of Westundon, if she wasn’t mistaken.
