***
After the race it seemed such an anticlimax here. Annise was all pumped up and ready for blood and battle as she’d burst through the door and leapt past the waiting guards. She’d knocked out the girl before she could be sacrificed. And now instead of the exhilarating flow of battle Annise was instead locked into this posture as rigid as stone. The air trembled and quivered with each low word uttered by the Moor. The darkness heard his summons and was seeping up through the cracks in the floorboards and oozing up over the window ledge. That would have been worrying enough if that was all.
The guards had been deflected by the arrival of her two companions, so they were out of the equation. However despite distractions and interruptions the Moor’s magicks were barely ruffled. His voice maintained a slow and steady tenor as he carefully enunciated the syllables of old Arabic, damned him! Annise felt the sweat trickle down her throat as she concentrated on weaving her own counter measures. The outstretched dagger began to shimmer with the lightest haze of blue sparks. She blocked out the rank oily aroma of the trickling darkness as tendrils spider silk thin waved towards her.
By all of Volund’s beloved the Aesir, who was this magicker? His skills were phenomenal. This trick with the possession by demon infused ink that was too damned clever. How come she hadn’t heard of it before? Surely the Convocation via Volund or the Council through that precocious bitch Marissa would have let her know that this possessor of deadly arcane talents was in England. Annise dismissed the annoying thought. It was a distraction and survival came before indulgent speculation.
One of the tendrils thickened into a cord and lashed towards her face. Annise didn’t move. Instead a blue spark leapt off her out–thrust dagger and cauterized the probe in a flash of acrid smoke. The stench almost set her to gagging, but instead she kept her poise. All her will was focused on the point of her dagger and slowly a coil of blue light spiraled out like an auger. Annise smiled. The Moor wasn’t the only one with tricks this night. Despite the frantic race through the Liberties of the Fleete, her will was strong and her reservoir of power still brimming from the earlier feeding at the chapel.
Whether the Moor was as prepared was yet to be seen. The pile of bodies in the bawdy house shed hinted of a more immediate source for arcane powers. She hoped that was so because the darting skeins of inky darkness were becoming more difficult to intercept. Damn, but Richard better get his truculent and moping arse moving! Annise felt her eyes begin to spill tears at the strain of both attack and deflection. Soon her limbs would start to tremble, then the pounding headache and after that it was the simple calculation of charge or flight. The drops of red stained water slid down her cheek. She could taste the salty sweetness on her lips. As the fluid dissolved on the tip of her tongue a savage tingling coursed through her body. Her teeth ached at the tempting taste. It urged action—leap, tear, slake the growing hunger.
Annise blinked. It was a distraction, all a distraction. She was stronger than that. The cramp in her fingers hinted otherwise but the Moor must be weakening, he must! The tight spiral of blue sparks was now less than a foot from him, having punched through several shielding silk thin but steel hard gossamers of darkness. Closer and closer, was that a flicker of fear crossing his cloaked features? Annise hoped it was, or else… Damn when was Richard going to do something!
***
As stalemates went Francis knew this one would be short. One of the javelin wielding guards would edge enough to the left, and they’d be had like deer in a drive and that would be it. His fallen angel agreed. It was keen to resume control, hungering for the fray and violence that gave release. Francis knew his limits. Keeping it in check was exhausting but at the right time, ahh that was it, the timing. First though they had to escape their ‘protection’. On that he had an idea.
***
God’s curse on it—that silly bitch Annise had let her foolish passions and impulses rule again! Richard frowned squatting behind the timber barrier and thoughtfully rolled the glass sphere in his hand. Only the one, that was it and from the mottled texture he knew it to be aqua fortis, the corrosive burning water strong enough to dissolve steel given time. But since only the single shot he had a wee conundrum—two guards and the Moor, thus three targets. That courtier was keen enough and damned near over keen in the race. And he didn’t have sufficient nouce not to charge through a door, not that the fault left Annise any better. Still he’d better chose, as by the prickling at his neck that Moor was a summoning up his dark beasties as fast as he could.
As he pondered the courtier lent close and briefly whispered something. Richard shook his head and grinned. Well, well that was a new one. It did a soul good to meet a lad ever ready for a Bedlam mad scheme.
***
The guards were men imbued with the proficiency inherited by warriors, the sons of warriors all the generations back to when the Prophet’s armies swept into Affryca. They could kill a man in any one of a dozen casual methods—steel tipped javelin, dagger, sword, or plaited camel hair cord. They held few scruples over whoever their sworn master directed to die. The act was duty and honour as sweet as honey and dates. As for the defiled pork eaters here, they were less than sheep before their steel. The two in the corner didn’t trouble them overly much. This minute or the next and they would be slain. As for the demoness who’d burst in, she’d be meat for their master soon. So it was perhaps predictable what would happen when a pair of missiles were launched from behind the upturned table. It was the trajectory that had them startled for that vital second. Rather than at them both the small sphere, and a dagger endeavored to skim betwixt them, aimed straight for their master. Of course instinct and ingrained habits acted instantly, especially for warriors of the twentieth generation…and that perhaps was a mistake.
***
It felt so natural. His fallen angel had his body gliding over the table the very moment the dagger left his hand. Francis didn’t even have to aim. As anticipated the two guards shifted position to intercept the missiles, their attention distracted by the threat. Thus Francis was able to close the deadly distance, his sword held out in a lunge. The cloaked guard had deflected the thrown dagger with one javelin while the second moved to ward against the onrushing blade. His fallen angel screamed in exultation as the tilt of the blade slid easily past the iron barb in a brief squeal of steel and sparks. The blade point punched into the midriff with an easy grace backed by the momentum of Francis and fueled by the rage of his fallen angel. If the guard had any arcane protection for wounds or death now was the time to see. The blade and Francis continued moving forward and his shoulder struck the chest of his opponent. His sword though abruptly stopped as the quillion lodged hard with a thump against the punctured body. Francis heard the fellow’s guttural growl in his ear and felt the vainly clawing hands scrabbling at his back. Both bodies now acquired velocity… until the wall.
The protruding blade splintered the polished timber panel on its impact, while the arrival of the two bodies drove it deeper. The guard snarled and shuddered, hands twitching. Slowly Francis pushed himself away. He’d seen the seemingly dead rise too often this last week to be assured. The sword though stayed put pinning the body in place as it spasmed one last time and slumped. His fallen angel spun him around to view the field of battle, searching for its next victim and crying out in anger. Tugging the heavy dagger from the belt of the presumed dead guard it leapt into the fray.
***
Having one of those devilish glass spheres zip past her ear was not the distraction Annise wanted or needed. Her concentration wavered at the worst moment just when the spiral of power was touching the Moor. The glass sphere shattered on his shoulder, the impact setting the sorcerer back a pace. That wouldn’t have been so bad if it also hadn’t broken the link. Annise’s dagger flashed incandescent for a brief second and the charge arced all over the bed in crinkled bolts, setting off small smoldering fires. The Moor staggered backwards tearing frantically at his smoking cloak set alight by
the wash of energy. Giving up on the Arcane Annise vaulted over the bed, blade aimed at the Moor’s throat. It didn’t get there. In her assault Annise had naturally assumed a certain superiority of speed and strength. To her misfortune this wasn’t so. The Moor intercepted her attack. A large strong hand seized her arm and in mid passage flipped her over.
Slammed onto the floor on her back Annise was momentarily stunned. Then her body spoke to her of fractured bones and dislocated joints and jointly they all screamed their sudden and urgent protest. She gasped at the pain. It welled up and flooded her senses. Her vision tinged into the blacker version of red as a hand clamped around her throat and began to squeeze, choking off the flickering light. Deep inside Annise’s spirit raged in despair. This was all the fault of that eastern slut! Her hands though ignored the recriminations. They clutched at the clawing, strangling grip, while her legs thrashed, kicking at the weight of the Moor. No she wasn’t going to die like this, her spirit quailed. It thought otherwise.
***
To Francis the next stage of the battle was as if viewed from outside his body. He watched the bound and leap across the room, the glazed eyes, the foam fletched lips pulled back tight, exposing the snarling teeth of his fallen angel. He didn’t even feel the impact as his fallen angel smashed into the hunched figure of the Moor, knocking the sorcerer off Mistress Athyney. The two bodies tumbled across the floor grasping and gouging, their passage terminating below the windows. Francis watched bemused as his fallen angel smashed an elbow into the Moor’s face. He even heard the cracking of the cheek bone. The Moor snarled out some foreign oath, and using the wall as an anchor, kicked Francis away and pulled himself upright as he thrust out his right hand as if clawing the every air. Francis knew the kick in the guts must have hurt but still his fallen angel fielded the pain, as wheezing, he staggered upwards.
To his clearer sight as an observer, the Moor wiped the blood from his battered face and smiled. And he started to speak. Francis didn’t understand the language. That was irrelevant. Even past the blocking of his fallen angel he could feel the air in front of him congeal to the thickness of tar. Breathing became difficult as small threads of darkness endeavored to enshroud his face like a black clinging spider web.
Francis shuddered back into his body. His fallen angel hadn’t retreated or relented—instead it granting a sharing. It was the ultimate of bizarre. Francis felt like he had two sets of eyes and four hands. No matter. He stepped forward as the ethereal limbs grappled with whipping ropes of darkness. In the meantime he swayed and dodged at the command of his second vision. The Moor appeared puzzled by his progress, and his outstretched hand clutched at the gathering darkness urgently. Still Francis strode slowly forwards though it felt like wading through tar. His fallen angel roared in his skull now! The heavy knife lashed out in a clear arc, unimpeded by the darkness and Francis felt the juddering snap as it cleaved through the Moor’s wrist bones. The hand, still flexing, spun across the room and smacked into the wall with a meaty thunk. Shocked at the blow, the Moor pulled the spouting limb close and threw himself backwards. The small diamond panes of leaded glass shattered as his weight fell against it. Shrouded in his cloak and darkness he vanished from the room.
The twin visioned rage faded as Francis leant against the wall hugging his bruised muscles and gasping for breath. To his front Mistress Athyney was cautiously rolling over, coughing up her lungs. As for the scene of Richard’s combat, he must have won because he was wiping his sword on the cloak of the second guard. So they were all alive, even Agryppa who’s flustered grimace was visible peering into the room.
Francis staggered over to the large bed. The curtains had been drawn back revealing by dim candlelight the supine figure sprawled over the coverlet, arms thrown wide. He paused and wiped the trickling blood out of his eyes. Only the saints could tell where he’d got that. This close it was difficult to see if the Moor had been at his dread work with the devil’s own ink. Summoning Mistress Athyney for her arcane skills may have helped, although she looked in too poor a condition to spark a candle. Dreading the news that the fiend had worked his evil magicks Francis bent over the still figure. The bearded face appeared asleep in deep repose as the poets would have it, though to have slumbered through that fracas hinted at something deeper than nature’s healing balm. Risking all Francis grabbed the ewer and splashed the contents over the sleeper.
With a sputtered snort the body jerked into life and shot upwards, groping for the traditional dagger under the pillow. Francis held his arms clear, hands open. “My Lord Earl, forgive my waking you but I’ve urgent news of peril to your life.”
The bearded face of the Earl of Devonshire frowned as he shook the wine from his hair and Francis suppressed a sigh. This was going to be the devil’s own task to explain and it had been too damned a long night already.
“You see my lord it’s like this…”
***
Chapter 22: A Strange Resolution—Westminster
Annise glided down the shadowed hallway, her head held high, as Richard steadily paced behind every inch the loyal retainer. Her passage through Westminster was one of the deepest satisfaction. Via whatever informal routes rumour had spread amongst the court servants of her part in foiling the practice of foul sorcery and mischief. Some as she passed responded with due deference, while others had the jerky nervous movements of fear. It was hard for Annise to decide which she preferred more. That was until she’d passed the scowling liveryman with a strip of grey through his hair and the Cardinal’s badge upon his breast. He didn’t bother to hide his loathing or the gesture to banish witchery. Annise, affronted at his open contempt, marched straight up and struck him across the face knocking the Cardinal’s man into the wall. Richard muttering something about bloody impulsive women and helped the man up. Ahh the sweet tingle of triumph. Annise bestowed upon the angry servant a gloating smile as Richard continued his ministrations. The fellow finally shook him off and quickly turned away muttering and cursing. Thus her spirits were singing as Bottoph’s grovelling obeisance bowed her into the private court chambers of the Master of the Toils.
As expected Francis Bryan was waiting, though he too seemed blessed by Lady Fortuna’s favour. Gone was the dull doublet and hose of a few days ago. Now he stood in full court attire, a dark green fur edged gown of the finest scarlet cloth and underneath a puffed and slashed doublet of black with red linen revealed in the slits. For a moment she was taken aback. She’d not seen him in full court splendour. The tailors by their craft had emphasized the spread of his shoulders while the colours set off the dark glow of his eyes in the warm candle light. Annise caught her breath as she made a respectful curtsy. She hadn’t quite expected this display or the resulting sudden rush of…passion, or was it affection? No, that couldn’t be so. The courtier had saved her from the Moor, but that was purely the practicalities of battle no more.
“Mistress Athyney, welcome. Would you care for some sack? It has a particularly fine flavour.” At a simple wave from Francis, Bottoph scuttled across and made a tolerable effort at courtly serving.
Annise blinked in surprise. She’d gained the impression the other day that Master Bryan’s servant was the clumsiest of rogues and couldn’t be trusted to empty a piss trough without a play at cozenage. She accepted the proffered cup of Venetian glass and sipped. Her eyebrows arched up in surprise. This was excellent wine, not the usual thin and vinegary offerings she’d tasted in London!
At her expression Master Bryan returned a very sly smile. “I told you, my lord Devonshire is a generous patron. This offering is from his personal cellar.”
Annise nodded slowly. It appeared that the earl was a man who paid his debts. Around the Royal Court that was worth remembering.
Before she could answer the droll tones of Richard filled the room. “So he liked ye sae much he paid fo’ ye new finery as well?”
Master Bryan gave her retainer a distinct wink, which fuelled a sudden anger in her stomach. Damn him. Retain
ers weren’t supposed to speak in the presence of their betters. “Richard! Go amuse yourself with some penance. I’ve heard Westminster is excellent for creeping,” she snapped.
“Oh aye, it may be but I’ve a mind ta see what passes fo’ card play in these forlorn parts, since I’m nay required. Anyway penance is fo’ after sin, nay afore.” Her retainer took his dismissal casually, giving a simple shrug and a friendly wave as he sauntered out of the door.
Annise was prompted to strike out at the display of insolence, but reason and decorum stayed her anger. At least the fool wasn’t going to be listening at the door. A flicker of polished fingers from Master Bryan similarly dismissed his servant Bottoph, who managed both speed and obsequious grovelling in his departure. So thus they were alone, and in the long pause of silence after the door eased shut both of them appeared to spend the interval examining the contents of the room rather than a closer inspection of each other.
Eventually Francis cleared his throat and coughed. “Ahem, I take it you’ve heard the results of the coronal inquest from Dr Agryppa?”
Annise gave a tight smile at the mention of her new master. Being bonded to a fool was never pleasant. “Only that it was settled.”
“Ah…oh yes, I’d forgotten, Agryppa hordes knowledge like a miser.”
The grimace of distaste was fleeting but Annise saw it clearly. The doctor of devices may have gained servants and an ally, but the cost… hmm. Well therein lay a chance.
Master Bryan recovered from his slight pause and continued. “Wolsey was forced to call Gwen’s death an act of murder, and her slayer the Moor, who in his heathen fashion drugged her and savaged her body. Then unsatisfied with his crimes he pursued another girl of the court to work his mischief on her.”
Darkness Divined (Dark Devices) Page 16