by A. C. Cobble
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 see 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, rolling 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.
Oliver winced then followed.
His mind went blank.
When he regained focus, he was seated next to Sam, little tremors rattling his teeth.
“That could have been worse,” remarked Thotham, standing over them, watching the open doors around the foyer. “I recommend you draw your weapons now.”
Oliver struggled to stand, pulling out his broadsword, and rubbing at an uncomfortably warm…
“The amulet!” he exclaimed. “It’s getting hot.”
Thotham nodded.
Sam held her kris daggers in her hands. She was poised to leap, but nothing appeared.
“There are spirits nearby, but they aren’t attacking,” stated Oliver. “Why?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?” replied the old priest. “Sam, lead us deeper. Duke Wellesley, you take the middle, and I’ll bring up the rear. Whatever happens, do not separate.”
Sam eyed two open hallways, each dimly lit, neither offering any apparent advantage that Oliver could see. They both led away from the foyer and curved gently so that after a dozen paces the corridors disappeared behind the wall. Apparently choosing one at random, Sam led them farther into the manor.
The hallway was lit by a single mirrored sconce reflecting the light of a burning wick. Tall, life-sized portraits of ancient Dalyrimples stretched down the hall. Each painting showed a single man or woman posed powerfully on the grounds around Derbycross. The family was old, and the row of portraits was meant to prove it. It was a challenge to visitors, surmised Oliver. The Dalyrimples had been there for a long time and would remain there for all time. Ahead of them, the hallway continued to curve, and all Oliver could see was rich, oak paneling and extravagantly framed portraits.
The amulet burned against his skin, but the light from the sconce, positioned at the apex of the curved hallway, showed no moving shadows, no people, nothing but corridor. The sounds of their steps were softened by plush rugs, and they advanced slowly, eac
h of them gripping their weapons, peering ahead.
The tension in Sam’s shoulders was obvious as they walked, tension he hadn’t seen since they’d stalked through the jungle on the island of Farawk. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her they were at her back, but by silent agreement, they no longer spoke. Whether Isisandra knew they were coming and could track their progress through the manor or not, they didn’t want to make it easy by giving themselves away. They would proceed stealthily as long as—
Oliver was slammed against the wall of the hallway, his body crashing into one of the life-size portraits of some centuries-old Dalyrimple, who then reached out of the painting, clutching at Oliver’s clothing and throat.
Shadowy arms wrapped around him, and he was spun to see a man-sized figure emerging from the painting across the hall. The creature, composed of pure shadow, swung a fist that cracked against Oliver’s jaw.
The amulet hanging around his neck burned against his skin.
“The dagger!” cried Sam.
Oliver dropped his broadsword and yanked a slender, obsidian dagger from his belt.
The shadow punched him again, and he stabbed the dagger into its arm. A cry, heard and not heard, echoed down the hall as the monster was absorbed into the spirit-blessed, black glass blade.
Oliver swung the dagger back behind him, catching the apparition that was holding him, and was satisfied to hear another not-scream. He staggered free and immediately confronted a third one of the picture-monsters.
Behind him, Thotham was cursing under his breath. The man’s spear whistled through the air as he thrust with it and thrashed around. Ahead, Sam was plowing through a wall of shadows, ducking and dodging as fists and feet pummeled at her. Her two kris daggers knifed through the throng, each strike bursting a picture-monster into nothing.
Oliver saw a haze pass between him and her and he rushed forward, swinging the obsidian dagger wildly and grinning when he felt it pass through something not quite solid and not quite air. In a moment, the barely perceptible sounds of the shadows’ screams faded, and only the three of them were left in the hallway.
“What in the frozen hell was that?” gasped Oliver, the dagger still in his hand, ready.
“Grave shadows, the weakest form of a summoning,” explained Sam, glancing at the portraits beside her. “They’re bound to representations of themselves in life, and even then, they are nearly insubstantial. They cannot get far and have little ability to touch anything other than a living being. They’re useless at manipulating inanimate objects.”
“Well,” mentioned Oliver, “we are living beings, and we’re walking down a spirit-forsaken hallway filled with these portraits…”
“There’s that,” admitted Sam.
“The summoning was weak,” agreed Thotham, “but so many of them… This girl has studied more than I would have expected for one just eighteen winters. She is strong and dangerous.”
“She was taught from birth,” remarked Oliver, gesturing at the lines of portraits. “Her parents were steeped in sorcery, and I suspect their parents and generations before them. This compound has been in family control for hundreds of years, and I just realized something about it.”
“What?” asked Sam.
“We’re walking the edge of a circle,” responded Oliver. “This hallway and the other form a circle. This whole place was built with sorcerous intentions. Generations of Dalyrimples residing here… I don’t know much about sorcery, but I do know you don’t create something like this without passing your knowledge down to your heirs.”
“Damn!” cried Sam, looking back and forth along the hallway.
“The governor and the countess were just continuing the family tradition,” speculated Oliver, “and so is Isisandra.”
“That’s not good,” murmured Sam.
“No, it’s not,” agreed Thotham. “That means we’re not just up against what the girl was able to prepare in the last few days. We also have to deal with whatever defenses her ancestors put in place. We’re not just up against her knowledge, but what the shades of sorcerers long dead have taught her.”
“Should we turn back?” asked Oliver.
“Probably,” replied Sam. Then, she started down the hall again.
Oliver cursed and collected his broadsword, sliding it into the sheath and rubbing his jaw where the shadow-man had socked him. He gripped the hand-length obsidian dagger in his fist as he hurried after Sam.
The Priestess XV
She knew Duke and Thotham would fall in behind her, watching her back, so she focused ahead. She’d been stupid not to see it. The nobleman was right. They were walking around a circle. As she kept going, she realized it was now a closed circle. She picked up her pace, watching as more portraits, more mirrored sconces, and then more portraits, and another sconce, and more portraits rotated into view around the curve.
“Ah, Sam…” worried Duke from behind her. “I think… I think something is wrong.”
She stopped, glancing back behind them then ahead. Duke was directly behind her, appearing confused and scared. Thotham was still in tow, but the man looked like he was barely paying attention to their surroundings.
“Thotham,” she hissed. “We’re stuck in the circle somehow. We keep walking around and around.”
He blinked at her.
“We have to break out of this, but…” She stabbed down the hall with one of her daggers. “It’s just more wood-paneled hallway ahead and behind us. I think we should have passed the way we came in two or three times by now.”
Without word, Thotham hefted his spear then thrust it into the face of one of the portraits. He yanked it out, spun, and then stabbed another portrait on the other side of the hall.
Psychic shrieks filled Sam’s head, bringing a grin to her face. She darted ahead, slashing her sinuous daggers across the canvases, splitting them open and banishing the spirits that resided within. In moments, the light from the closest sconce flickered and then went out.
She clamped her teeth down on one of her daggers and pulled out the small vial of fae light she was carrying in a pouch. She shook it, stirring up the fae and brightening the light.
The hallway looked the same, but ahead of them, she saw a break in the paneling. A stairwell down, she guessed. She glanced back at Duke. “Anything?”
He nodded tersely, holding the obsidian dagger in one hand, the other clutching his shirt, where the amulet he wore was surely uncomfortably warm.
“Down we go,” she said. She led the party to where, as she suspected, a flight of stairs penetrated into the belly of the manor.
She entered the dark tunnel, her breath coming quickly, her heart racing. She was surrounded by unornamented stone blackened by centuries of smoke. Stairs covered in red carpet turned purple from the blue light of the fae descended out of her vision. One, two, three flights of stairs… they kept going down. The air grew cool and damp, but instead of the rich scent of soil or the wet stench of condensation on stone, it smelled like the copper tang of blood.
The carpet grew slick under her boots and she lowered the light to see spots of mold and mildew where the moisture and long years had eaten into the fabric. Soon, it disappeared entirely, revealing plain rough-hewn stone beneath. She held out a hand to steady herself against the wall then recoiled when it seemed to writhe beneath her fingers.
“A lot of souls have been killed down here throughout the years,” murmured Thotham from behind.
“The amulet is cooling,” whispered the duke. “Is that… Do you think…”
“There are spirits above us but not below… for now,” said Thotham, his voice echoing eerily past her. “That does not mean there will not be or that we won’t find something worse. Stay alert.”
Sam didn’t bother to respond. She didn’t need a warning to know to stay alert.
They continued down the tunnel until below her, she saw the flickering light of fire outlining an opening at the bottom. They were eight, nine flights of stairs below the
manor. The air was crisp, the smell of blood permeated the space, and now, she was detecting the stink of something awful burning.
Duke placed a hand on her shoulder, and she realized she had stopped. She started down again, each step drawing closer to the opening of the tunnel, giving a broader view of what lay below.
A room, or perhaps a cave, was well-lit by multiple fires burning out of sight. A floor of some black stone shined wetly in the firelight. It was inset with a thick gold band. As she got closer to the opening, she realized the band was a twenty-yard-wide circle with a five-pointed star inside. Giant braziers burned with man-high flames at four of the points. At the apex of the star, opposite the entrance to the chamber, stood Isisandra.
She was clothed in flowing, black silk robes. A silver circlet bound her hair. In the center, dangling on her forehead, the circlet held a small pentagram. Her lips were blood red — hopefully from paint — and she gazed with calm disdain as Sam stood in the threshold of the tunnel.
“Anything?” asked Sam quietly.
“Nothing,” responded Duke.
“Don’t—”
“Let me guess,” replied Duke sardonically. “Don’t walk onto the giant pentagram?”
Sam stepped into the room, her eyes fixed on Isisandra, but taking in the rest of the space out of the corners of her vision. One wall held hulking shelves filled with books and mechanical devices. There were two work benches, a scattering of chairs, lamps, and rugs were strewn as if it was a country gentleman’s library. The other wall held matching tables except instead of books, they were topped with steel manacles and coated with blood. On the wall, brackets were fastened where captives could be held until needed. Racks of implements hung beside the brackets. Whips, pincers, saws… Sam fought a wave of bile as she saw a heaping pile of mutilated flesh, bone, and viscera tossed casually to the side of the gore-stained tables.
“Sorry,” remarked Isisandra, noting the look. “It seems I’m all out of servants to clean up the mess.”
Cautiously, Sam entered the chamber, seeing the ceiling far above and guessing the room was originally a cave located beneath the manor. Centuries ago, it must have been excavated for the family’s dark experimentation. The girl offered a humorless smile as Duke and Thotham entered as well, spreading out, the giant golden pentagram separating them from her.