by A. C. Cobble
Opening his mouth, William let the dagger fall from the grip of his teeth and caught it one-handed. He slashed at Oliver.
Oliver skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding the razor-edge of the blade. He raised his fists in a boxer’s stance and began to circle his uncle, uttering a continuous stream of mumbled curses as he eyed the tainted dagger.
The older man, flexing muscles earned from years of campaigning and maintained in the palace’s practice yards, circled as well, Ca-Mi-He’s blade held in one fist.
“Did you do that, or did…” William wondered, his voice trailing off nervously.
Oliver, guessing his uncle was referring to the suddenly missing spirits, didn’t answer. He certainly hadn’t done anything to get rid of them, and he wasn’t going to take the time to speculate on what did happen. Instead, he danced forward, punching a tentative jab at his uncle.
The old soldier swiped at Oliver’s hand, and Oliver barely pulled it back in time to avoid a deep laceration along his wrist.
He knew from years of arms training, when unarmed against a man with a blade, it was best to accept that you were going to get hurt and to charge in and grapple your opponent. Oliver’s old instructors would have demanded he launch himself into the face of the steel now, but he wondered if those old men, so confident in the practice yard, would take the same action when faced with the certainty of their own wounding. He wondered whether they would ignore the taint of the dagger, the stain of the underworld. He wondered what properties the weapon might have and what even a small nick might do to him.
At the moment, volunteering to get stabbed certainly sounded stupid.
William wasn’t going to let him make the decision, though, and his uncle advanced, blade held ready. Oliver punched, and William slashed. Neither one landed a blow, and Oliver began a cautious retreat across the rooftop of the druid fortress. Unable to look behind where he was walking, he offered a hope to the spirits that he wouldn’t trip over anything or bump against the waist-high battlement and go toppling over the side.
In front of him, behind his uncle’s approaching figure, were the three iron crosses and the copper bowl his uncle had dropped. Not much, even if he could get to them, but it was better than his fists and his wits, neither of which were doing any good at the moment.
He was younger and faster, and he knew his uncle had a bad shoulder from a wound he’d earned in the United Territories. Edging to his uncle’s left, Oliver forced the older man to turn. Then, Oliver lunged, faking an attack that his uncle defended by swiping across his body with the dagger.
Oliver sprinted around the older man, ducking as William unleashed a brutal backhand chop at him. The tip of the dagger caught the sleeve of his jacket, and Oliver shivered, thinking of how close the tainted steel had come to parting his flesh. Then, he was racing toward the copper bowl which he stooped picked up. He spun around, facing his uncle.
William laughed uproariously. “You stupid boy, why didn’t you just run down the stairwell we came up?”
Oliver blinked. Now that he was by the iron crosses, he saw they were situated in a narrow corner of the old fortress. On the other side of his uncle, he could see the dark opening they’d come through and hundreds of yards of open rooftop he could have run around in except now, he was pinned in one sliver which jutted out toward the river.
Still chuckling, his uncle advanced. “When I cut you, Oliver, do me a favor and catch some of your blood in that bowl?”
Oliver waited, letting his uncle draw close.
The former soldier was moving cautiously, certainty evident on his face, but he knew Oliver had been in a brawl or two. Even with the advantage of the dagger, William wasn’t going to take chances against his younger nephew. The prime minister touched a wrist to the golden bracer on his forearm again and, cursing, kept moving forward. Whatever he was trying to do, whatever spirits he wanted to call upon, they weren’t answering. He kept coming, though. With or without sorcery, William intended to end the fight.
Oliver retreated until his back hit one of the iron crosses, the cold of the metal bleeding through his jacket. He held the copper bowl in front of him, like it was some sort of shield.
“Perfect,” growled William.
His hand brushed against the golden bracer on his arm another time, and a flicker of concern crawled across his face, but it was replaced by fiery determination. The old soldier lunged, swinging the dagger at his nephew.
Oliver blocked it with the bowl, the metal ringing as steel struck copper. Again, William thrust, and Oliver blocked, the tip of the dagger coming uncomfortably close to his fingers gripping the edge of the bowl.
Oliver was pinned against the iron cross, and William feinted and then struck low. Oliver had been waiting for it. He dodged to the side and snapped the bowl down on his uncle’s wrist, cracking the rim against the bone of William’s hand.
Yelping, William involuntarily dropped the dagger.
Oliver swung the bowl backhanded and smashed it against his uncle’s face. The older man stumbled back. Oliver cracked him again, using the copper bowl like a club, beating William over and over with it until one strike too hard knocked the bowl from Oliver’s hands.
William was reeling back, cursing, gripping his bracers then raising his hands to box, panic in his eyes.
Oliver advanced and jabbed at his uncle with his right fist then swung a quick hook with his left, catching William on the side of the head. Two crosses, a jab, and another hook and William staggered away, blinking, trying to shake his head.
Jumping after him, Oliver grabbed his uncle’s bare shoulder, swung him around, and shoved him, smashing William face-first into the arm of one of the iron crosses.
Crying in pain and clutching his head, blood seeping through tight fingers, William fell to his knees.
Oliver kicked him, catching William in the chest and sending him staggering back to fall against the battlement surrounding the rooftop. Oliver pounced, punching his uncle like the man was one of the stuffed boxing bags the marines kept in the practice yard. He pounded his uncle while the man helplessly tried to hide behind his gold-covered forearms.
Oliver felt his knuckles crack painfully against the metal. He cursed, shaking his fist, and hooked William’s arms aside with his left hand. He punched him in the face with his right fist, catching the prime minister square on the nose. Oliver felt the fragile bone crunch beneath his blow. Breathing heavily, Oliver stood, glaring at William.
The older man sagged against the wall, his hands clutching the raw stone. His breathing was heavy, and his head was down. Blood leaked from where his scalp had been split by the copper bowl or the cross, and it poured from his broken nose. Half-a-dozen other scrapes and cuts dribbled blood, masking his face crimson.
Oliver saw William could no longer summon the energy to defend himself. The prime minister had practice and muscle leftover from years before, but he didn’t have his nephew’s vigor. He was done. Oliver knew it, but to be safe, he reached down and tore off the man’s golden bracers, tossing them over the edge of the rooftop.
William, blood dripping from his chin onto his bare chest, looked up at Oliver.
“What do you know of my mother?” Oliver demanded. “Where is Lilibet?”
His uncle smiled bitterly at him, baring blood-stained teeth. “Ask the other.”
“The other? Who is the other?” cried Oliver.
Suddenly, behind him, Oliver felt a cold, malevolent presence.
“O-Oliver,” stammered William, his knuckles white from gripping the stone wall, his voice hoarse with fright. “Don’t let it… don’t let it take me.”
Oliver turned and saw nothing, but he felt it. On the stone floor, fifty yards away at the entrance to the rooftop, brilliant white hoarfrost formed as something approached.
“Oliver,” babbled his uncle, his voice a harsh whisper in the cold night air, “I’ve prepared myself for a binding. It can invest itself in me. Ca-Mi-He will be in our world, in the flesh
!”
Instinctively, Oliver spun and lunged at his uncle. He had no way of dealing with whatever was coming for them. Ca-Mi-He, if his uncle was telling the truth. There was nothing Oliver could do about that, nothing he could do to fight such a powerful shade from the underworld.
But there was something he could do about his uncle.
Oliver dove forward, sliding on his knees to crash against the older man. He wrapped his arms around William’s legs and then hurled himself up, shoving to lift his uncle, tossing the man like a heavy sack of potatoes over the battlement of the ancient druid fortress.
With a startled scream, William flipped over and fell into the night air.
Bitter cold assailed him, and Oliver’s muscles locked. On the battlement in front of him, large crystals of ice formed instantly in front of his eyes. William’s terrified scream was followed by a whistle and a burst of frozen air as something, a shade, swept by Oliver.
The cold rolled away, chasing over the edge of the battlement.
Barely audible, William’s body thumped on the ground far below.
Oliver staggered back. In front of him, the stone of the battlement cracked with cold, fissures forming in the raw rock. Hanging in the air, steps off the battlement, the presence returned. Oliver felt pure terror in his bones and stumbled into one of the iron crosses, stopping there and leaning against it, waiting for what was next. The presence moved closer, seeming to crouch in the crenellations of the battlement, ice webbing down the short wall and across the rooftop.
Oliver was paralyzed. His body would not respond to his commands. He could do nothing but look at… at nothing, but it was there. The spirit was there. He could feel its weight on the world like a rock laid atop him. Pinned, he could do nothing but wait.
Sam burst out of the entrance to the rooftop, racing across the icy stone and skidding to a stop in front of Oliver. Her daggers were in her hands, but she made no move to attack. He supposed it wouldn’t have done them any good. No mere swipe with an inscribed blade was going to banish this spirit. Instead, she simply stood there, drawing herself upright, and waited.
The presence rose, towering half-a-dozen yards tall, invisible but apparent. It moved down from the battlement onto the rooftop, the hoarfrost signaling where it was going, and it stood, looking at them.
“What the frozen hell is that?” gasped Oliver.
Sam just shook her head, evidently speechless.
Oliver moved to stand beside her, clenching his fists, feeling foolish for trying to stare down something he couldn’t see, wishing he had some weapon to hold, though, against an insubstantial opponent, he knew it would be an empty comfort.
“Hells it’s cold,” gasped Sam, her breath billowing from her mouth.
Suddenly, she cried out and doubled over, clutching her stomach where William had stabbed her. Her daggers clattered to the stone, and she fell to her knees.
Oliver knelt beside her, putting an arm around her and a hand on the stone rooftop to steady them. He looked up, a snarl on his lips, a hope to the spirits in his heart, but there was nothing there, nothing to shout at, nothing to defend Sam against. Just the terrible cold and the raw, physical sense of dread.
Warmth soaked from the stone of the ancient druid keep into his hand, crawling across his skin, passing from him to Sam. Warmth, like hot water pumped through a pipe, cycled through him, pouring into her.
She looked up, staring toward the presence, a scowl on her face.
He stayed crouched, touching the stone of the old fortress, touching her, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the shade to move in and kill them.
Slowly, like watching the sun crest the far horizon, he felt the pressure of the spirit fade, and the unnatural cold passed. Warmth pulsed through him and then returned to the world. He didn’t move, though, not knowing if the thing was truly gone or if it would come back.
They stayed like that, silent, for a long moment. Then, Sam gathered her daggers and stood, sliding the sinuous blades into their sheaths. “I think it’s gone.”
He stared up at her.
“What?” she asked.
“How, ah, why aren’t you dead?” he asked, rising beside her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… I saw him stab you. That dagger sank to the hilt in you, Sam.”
She shrugged, looking around. Near the iron crosses, she saw the tainted dagger his uncle had wielded, and she picked it up.
“I had some of Ivar’s ointments left,” she claimed. “For a moment there, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. Thought I was going to die, but… I didn’t. It still hurts something awful, but I managed to get up here.”
“I’m glad you made it,” he said, his gaze darting between the tainted dagger in her hand and the bloody tear in her vest and shirt. “Ivar’s mixture was more potent than what Thotham used?”
“What happened up here?” she wondered, not answering his question.
“He was going to sacrifice me,” replied Oliver, shaking his head and looking around the rooftop of the fortress. “He was ready to plunge that blade into my chest. Then, all of a sudden, it was like his shades were banished. They just disappeared, and I was free. We fought, and I won. I was asking him… I was trying to question him when… something, I guess, came up that ramp. He said it was Ca-Mi-He.”
“I felt it, too,” murmured Sam. “I can’t explain it, what that was, but Ca-Mi-He… Yes, I think that’s correct. I think somehow, the spirit manifested. It’s not here physically, but it’s no mere shade like those we’ve battled before. I need to read, to research…”
“William claimed the spirit could invest in him,” added Oliver, “so I tossed him off the roof.”
Sam blinked at him. “You threw your uncle over the battlement?”
Oliver ran his hand over his hair, feeling the leather thong at the back. “I didn’t know what else to do. I figured if he was dead, the spirit couldn’t invest in him. Like the footmen, you know? Once we struck them down, the spirits fled. Are we… are we safe?”
She shook her head, glancing at the empty air where the spirit had hung. “No, not safe. Not at all. But maybe, for now, we are. William might have been right, Duke. If he prepared a binding with the dark trinity, it’s possible some other spirit could use the design and fill the pattern he had created. Ca-Mi-He might have been able to take over him, to control William like a hand within a glove. If that spirit had been here physically, I don’t think there’s anything we could have done to stop it. I don’t think there’s anything anyone could have done. Throwing your uncle off of this rooftop might have been the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I couldn’t reach the dagger,” said Oliver, still looking at it in her hands. “If I could have, maybe… I don’t know. I could have used it.”
Sam tucked the blade out of sight behind the back of her belt. “It’s probably for the best that you didn’t. The dagger was tainted by the great spirit, remember? It was… It’s for the best, Duke. I think I should study this later, when we’ve gotten out of here. The shades are gone, but there could still be wolfmalkin, grimalkin, people… We need to leave as quickly as we can, get help from your father, and come back in the daylight to clean this place out.”
“What do you think happened to the spirits?” wondered Oliver. “How did… how did Ca-Mi-He, or whatever that was, how did it get here? Where did it go?”
She shrugged, glancing over her shoulder at where the presence had disappeared. When she looked back at him, her face was blank. “I don’t know.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know,” muttered Oliver, hugging himself in the cold night air.
Sam only nodded.
Drawing himself upright, feeling the scrapes and bruises he’d gotten, Oliver said, “There were acolytes in the keep. I killed three of them. I think they had prisoners as well, but… I think they’re gone. I don’t, ah, I don’t feel them here, in the keep.”
“You don’t feel them?” questioned Sam,
a skeptical look on her face.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just think they’re gone, or dead. We should look, though, to be sure.”
“Of course,” agreed Sam. “It’s possible the acolytes, the wolfmalkin, whatever your uncle had here, felt that presence and fled. Duke, it’s possible that when they ran, they didn’t leave any captives alive. Anyone still breathing had a chance to identify them. I wouldn’t have left witnesses if I was them.”
He grunted. “We have to look. Then, we have to speak to my father.”
A door slammed, shocking him awake. Startled, he sat forward in the chair, blinking blurry eyes, his hand reaching instinctively for the half-empty glass of whiskey on the table in front of him.
“Drinking, Oliver, really?” questioned King Edward. “It’s just two turns after dawn.”
“It seemed appropriate,” muttered Oliver, covering a yawn with a fist and then taking a slug of the whiskey.
“A physician, perhaps, might make more sense?” wondered his father, looking with concern at his youngest son. “Shall I call for one?”
“I’ve had worse,” remarked Oliver, poking tentatively at a painful bruise on his face. “I’m just tired now. I’ve been up nearly a full day, I think. A lot of hiking in that time.”
“Your Captain Ainsley demanded to see me yesterday evening,” said his father. “She was a little tipsy, and claimed you were going into that old dump of rocks across the river to battle a sorcerer. Does this have anything to do with the frantic messages I’ve been getting on the glae worm filament from Philip? Many of those had to do with you, and then suddenly he stopped communicating. What happened last night, Oliver?”
“Uncle William,” said Oliver quietly, his gaze on his nearly empty whiskey glass instead of his father. “He was part of a cabal of sorcerers, along with Director Randolph Raffles and Bishop Gabriel Yates. They had a plan to sacrifice Middlebury, to bind a spirit known as the dark trinity. They said it would have given them immense power, perhaps even eternal life.”