by A. C. Cobble
Hanging from the back of the first wolfmalkin, she kept the pressure on the garrote and felt it pull tighter, the thin wire cutting into the monster’s neck, choking it and slowly slicing through the thick muscle protecting its airway.
A battle axe clanged to the floor, and clawed hands scrabbled to get underneath the wire of her garrote, but it was too late. The metal thread was already embedded in the thing’s flesh, and even if she lost her grip, it was twisted tight.
The second wolfmalkin fell against the side of the tunnel and slumped down, its axe in its lap, stunned confusion on its canine face.
She jumped free as the first creature collapsed to its knees, still futilely grasping at its throat. It fell forward, feet twitching, arms flopping uselessly. She waited, watching both creatures die, then cleaned her dagger and retrieved her garrote, unwinding the thin wire from the monster’s neck, wincing as she had to shift its head to free the weapon. Even dead, the wolfmalkin’s finger-length teeth made her cringe.
With weapons back in hand, she waited quietly, wondering if the falling axe would draw any attention, wondering if any shades would happen across the dead bodies and flee to their master.
So far, the apparitions had not seen her. Kalbeth’s work was holding up, but they could definitely see the dead wolfmalkin. Had William thought to instruct the summonings to alert him for something like that, or were they merely looking for living intruders? Shades, bound and forced to a sorcerer’s bidding, would not be inclined to go beyond their specific instructions, but there was no telling what he’d assigned them to do.
The huge wolfmalkin were too heavy for her to move alone, so one way or the other, she would find out soon enough.
Moving quickly, she crossed through the lighted intersection and walked back onto her path and into the darkness.
The Cartographer XXVI
“Master?” asked a shocked voice.
Another exclaimed, “You’re not—”
Oliver didn’t bother to hear what else the man had to say. He hurled the heavy glass fae globe at the face of one of the speakers and charged the other, lunging with his broadsword. The two robed figures didn’t have time to react. One of them caught the fae light in the face, the globe smashing against his chin with the sound of breaking bone. The other stared in surprise as Oliver’s broadsword pierced his chest, the steel driving deep.
The fae globe fell to the floor, and the thick glass cracked, releasing the dozen glowing green spirits. In the light of the frenzied flying creatures, Oliver saw a third masked and robed shape and barely danced out of reach as a dark blade slashed toward him.
He staggered away, yanking his broadsword clear and parrying another strike from the new attacker. The fae swarmed in the face of his assailant, blinding his opponent, slowing them, and Oliver lunged, stabbing the robed figure in the shoulder.
Wounded, his attacker retreated, but Oliver advanced, striking at the arm, the chest, and then the head of his opponent. His steel smacked hard against his assailant’s skull, and Oliver could see the life fading from his attacker’s eyes in the swirling dance of the fae light.
An arm wrapped around his neck, and Oliver realized the first man, the one he’d stunned with the fae globe, was not done. Oliver swung his head back, impacting the man on the chin and feeling the shattered bones there grind together. The arm around his neck went limp, and the man uttered a pathetic whimper.
Spinning, Oliver lashed out with his broadsword, burying the steel in the man’s neck. Eyes glassy from the pain in his jaw and the steel in his throat, the man rasped a final, pained groan and fell to the floor.
Glancing around, ready to fight, Oliver saw there was no one else in the corridor. Just him, the three motionless bodies, and the drifting shadows of the shades that had been following him. None of them were fleeing, rushing to tell his uncle what had transpired. Instead, they just floated nearby, watching.
Grimacing, Oliver knelt and cleaned his steel before sliding the blade into the sheath. He pulled the masks off of his attackers, seeing two men he did not recognize and a woman that he did. He knelt there for a long moment, looking at her red hair and scattered freckles. She had been attractive, a friend of Lannia’s. They’d danced together, once, at a gala years before. Had they done more? He couldn’t recall how the night had ended.
He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. When he opened them, he glanced up and saw the fae still swirling around. In Enhoverian air, they should have quickly expired once released from their glass prison, but if anything, their glow was burning brighter than before. When he stood and continued up the spiraling slope of the pathway, the fae followed him like the shades did, the glow from the tiny life spirits illuminating the way ahead.
When he reached the top of the spiraled ramp he stepped out into an open room, blinking in the startling light of a dozen burning braziers. They lined a room that was covered in thick carpets, couches, and tables. The far end was open air. Beyond the stone pillars that framed the opening, he could see the twinkling lights of Southundon. Standing in the center of the space was his uncle.
Turning as Oliver entered, William Wellesley crossed his thick, scar-covered arms. He was shirtless. His pale skin gleamed in the firelight. Dark tattoos twisted across his skin, snaking like smoke from his shoulders down his arms. Oliver couldn’t tell if it was flickering shadow from the fires or if the ink itself was moving, slithering across his uncle’s naked torso like shades trapped behind glass. On his forearms, clasped by the opposite hands, he wore shining golden bracers. The bands gleamed liked he’d just finished polishing them, and even from a distance, Oliver could see intricate designs etched into the metal.
“I’ve always loved this view of the city,” said William, his voice calm and steady. “It’s nearly as good as the one up top.”
“I knew it would be you,” growled Oliver.
“When?” wondered the prime minister. “Raffles and Yates claim they did not give me up.”
“They did not,” responded Oliver. “I knew it would be you when we were led here. Who else would build a nest in a place such as this? It had to be you. That you were friends with the two of them, that you were the one who led the expedition against the Coldlands… it all fit.”
William nodded, his fingers tapping on his golden bracers. “Friends, I’m not sure I would… You said you were led here?”
“We followed the taint of sorcery,” said Oliver, stepping toward his uncle, hoping he could get close enough to attack the man. “Hathia Dalyrimple’s dagger, the one you and your partners killed her for.”
“Ah,” said William. From behind his back, he drew a long, curved dagger. The firelight reflected on the steel, mirroring the shine of his golden armbands. “That priestess was able to sense this? I am impressed.”
Oliver smirked, still edging closer, trying to distract his uncle. “We followed your movements to the Coldlands and met one of their elders, one you failed to eradicate so long ago. He gave us a device that we followed here. The guilt of Northundon, William, the unnecessary slaughter in the Coldlands, how do you live with it? Lilibet was like a sister to you. I was young, but I remember that much.”
His uncle snorted. “You were too young, and you don’t remember. Your mother may have been kind to you, but you were the only one. Neither I nor Edward shed a tear when we heard she’d been lost in Northundon. You came to talk, so ask me your questions. I am curious what you want to know.”
“You sacrificed her for what? For what, William?” demanded Oliver. “You were destined to be prime minister at my father’s side. What did Northundon’s souls buy you? That is why I am here. I must know. Where is my mother, and what did her death buy you?”
His uncle frowned. “Northundon’s sacrifice? I did not sacrifice Northundon, nephew. As to where your mother is, I do not know. She did not care for him, you know? Your father was only a means to an end, for her. That is why she was in the north so often, to get away from Edward. It was years before
I gained enough skill in the dark art to discover she had not died in Northundon. I could barely believe it when I found her soul had not breached the barrier to the other side. By the time I found out, I could only assume she had fled the attack from the Coldlands. Like a coward, she must have seen those sails on the horizon and ran. I wish I knew, but I have no idea where she fled to. I promise you this, if I find her, I will kill her.”
“The Coldlands,” growled Oliver. “They did not attack Northundon. They came to liberate it from you. I met their elder, he told me everything!”
“A sorcerer you found in the wilderness told you this?” William snickered. “Where do you think I learned the secrets that I know? What I’ve spent studying the last twenty years, they already knew. I tell you true, I had nothing to do with Northundon or with Lilibet’s disappearance. If this shaman told you that, it must have been so you’d come looking for me, to grant them vengeance. An unfortunate coincidence if that’s what led you to discover our plans.”
Shuffling his feet slowly, Oliver had advanced to within a dozen paces of his uncle. “Do not lie to me.”
William shrugged, his heavy shoulders rolling with the motion, the gleaming dagger held loosely in one hand. “What would I gain from lying to you?”
Oliver frowned. “What would you gain from telling me the truth?”
With a laugh, William admitted, “You make a fair point. Believe me or not, I had nothing to do with Northundon. Back then, I had no knowledge of the dark path outside of the blind fumbling the societies engaged in. It was only during the war that I discovered real truth. Our men uncovered a trove of artifacts and scrolls. When they were brought to me, I recognized them for what they were. I sent trusted lieutenants on the hunt for more. I recruited those I needed and killed those who had learned too much. I found a Church scholar with a thirst for ancient secrets and a young merchant who had access to a global network of agents. We formed a partnership, you could say, and we spent the last two decades preparing. You nearly ruined those plans, but I managed to salvage the situation. Our work, not so different from what the Coldlands tried to do in Northundon, will continue.”
“I will stop you,” declared Oliver.
“No, no, you won’t,” assured William. “I allowed you up here because I was curious what you’d say to me. It seems they tricked you, nephew. The Coldlands attacked Northundon, not I. You saw the aftermath from the deck of the same airship that I did. I was in Southundon when the attack occurred. We spoke that day, Oliver. Don’t you remember?”
Oliver frowned.
“They tricked you so that you would stab me in the back,” continued William, shaking his head. “You might have done it, had you not bothered with the churchman and the merchant first. Now, I’m afraid it’s too late. You know too much, and this can end only one way.”
“If you don’t know where my mother is, then who does?” cried Oliver.
“I don’t know. I can’t tell you anything about her.” William glanced down at the dagger in his hand and then back to Oliver. “I can tell you this. Whoever gave you the means to find me is the same one who sacrificed Northundon. A Coldlands shaman or someone made up to make you think they were. This dagger is tainted by Ca-Mi-He. That’s the same spirit that enshrouds Northundon, both in this world and the other. Whoever you encountered in the Coldlands, whoever facilitated Hathia’s contact with the great spirit, and your mother, they’re all tied together. But not to me. For all I know, Lilibet is the one who did it. Without sorcery, how else could she escape while everyone else died? Think about that, Oliver.”
“You claim you are not a sorcerer?” Oliver sneered.
“No, I am exactly what you think,” responded William coolly. “My hands are stained with blood, and within the next week, I will spread that blood like an ocean across Enhover. I am evil, nephew, if you want to call me that. I am what you think, but I am not the one to answer for Northundon.”
Oliver reeled, stunned by what his uncle was telling him. He tried to disbelieve it, to find reasons his uncle would lie, but there were none. William was right. He’d been in Southundon when the Coldlands sailed. Oliver had seen him there. Besides, the man was admitting to a plan to sacrifice Middlebury. Why lie about Northundon but not that? What did William have to gain from it?
“Who…” asked Oliver.
“I wish I knew, boy, I really do,” remarked William, true concern in his voice. “The Coldlands making one last desperate gambit for revenge, your mother, someone else? Whoever they are, there is another on this dark path. I’ve no doubt they tracked your movements here. When I’m done with you, they’ll come for me. Twenty years ago, they had direct contact with the great spirit. Twenty years ago, they achieved power I can only dream of. I’m afraid I won’t survive a direct confrontation with them, not yet at least. One result of your foolish quest to find me is that I must flee. But before I do...”
Oliver raised his broadsword and assumed a fighting stance.
“I’m sorry, boy. I did like you. You’re the best of your father’s brood. It’s unfortunate it has come to this.” William raised the dagger, aiming the tip of the shimmering steel blade directly at Oliver.
Behind the prime minister, Sam sprang out of hiding, streaking directly at William’s back, her kris daggers held wide, ready to plunge into the unsuspecting man’s throat and side.
The Priestess XXIV
She patiently watched the scene unfold in front of her. William Wellesley, Enhover’s prime minister, a distant successor to the throne, was spewing out his plans like some sort of mad villain on the stage. Evidently, family ties complicated things for him as well as Duke. The men held real affection for each other, and it appeared neither one of them wanted to be the first to admit the truth. They were going to have to fight, and one of them was going to die.
There was no other way out of the scenario. William was a sorcerer, and Duke was hunting and killing sorcerers. Bloodshed was the only resolution. She just had to wait for her moment.
“I’m sorry, boy. I did like you. You’re the best of your father’s brood. It’s unfortunate it has come to this,” declared the prime minister.
Then, he pointed the curved dagger at Duke. His arm was steady, the gleaming golden band on his forearm shimmering in the light of the fire. The steel of the dagger blade seeming to quiver, thirsting for blood.
Did the dagger have powers? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t wait a moment longer. She attacked.
She sprang from behind one of the huge, burning braziers, leaving the heat of the blaze for the cold of the open air. Beads of sweat froze on her forehead as the passage of time seemed to slow to a crawl. Her two daggers were held steady in firm grips, arms wide, prepared to plunge steel into the sorcerer’s unguarded flesh.
Behind her, she felt the swirl of the shades that had been stationed at the narrow chute she’d climbed through. They noticed her as she plunged past, but they were too late. Duke’s recollection and hastily drawn maps had been correct. She’d climbed up some sort of staff entrance to the room, narrow and circumspect, the perfect place to stage an ambush, and William had helpfully strolled right in front of her.
The world crept by, carpets passing beneath the achingly slow steps of her feet. The firelight flickered at quarter speed, reflecting on the brilliant shine of the tainted dagger that had started all of this mess.
Then, William Wellesley turned, moving quickly, while she and the world moved slow. She opened her mouth to curse, but she didn’t get the chance. William closed with the confidence of an old soldier, a man who’d spent years on the battlefield and decades sacrificing victims. He stabbed his dagger into her gut.
Agonizingly slow, she felt the tip of cold steel pierce her skin. She felt the razor edge slice flesh as the blade dug deeper, each inch gradually cutting into her, driving deep from her momentum and William’s thrust. He grinned at her, not hurrying, letting her impale herself on the blade.
Long moments passed, and all she coul
d think of was the incredible pain of the steel plunging into her, stabbing deep and slow until she wondered that it hadn’t burst out of her back yet.
Then, she was by him, and she felt William shove her away, catapulting her into a dreadfully slow tumble. Spinning in the air, she saw Duke, a dozen steps away, his mouth hanging open. She heard a high-pitched drone that might have been a shout. Duke’s broadsword was rising, his foot creeping through the air as he charged toward her, moving like he was running in cold honey.
Suddenly, her shoulder cracked against the floor, and she sped up, smashing into another brazier across the hall, the hot metal scalding her, a shower of embers cascading down over her. She rolled away, her hands clutching her gut, feeling the gush of blood that poured from the terrible puncture. Her daggers were forgotten on the floor. She could only think of the one that had stabbed into her, spilling her blood in a six-yard-long fan across the floor.
Looking down, she saw the wine-red fluid pumping around her fingers. The slick, crimson digits doing nothing to stop the furious flow.
“Sam!” cried Duke.
Through tear-filled eyes, she saw him running to her, one arm reaching out, like there was something he could do.
“Your uncle, you spirit-forsaken fool!” she cried through gritted teeth.
The Cartographer XXVII
“Your uncle, you spirit-forsaken fool!” Sam rasped, her voice barely audible through her pain.
Oliver turned to face William and saw the older man was merely watching him, shaking Sam’s blood from the horrific dagger clutched in his fist. The old soldier knocked his two golden bracers against each other. Oliver struggled to comprehend what had just happened, the blaze of motion he’d seen, the—