“Sadly, no. There is another,” answered the old chancellor as he untied the strings of his gown. “My part is to drive the stake that will send you to your death.”
“I had not considered that you were capable of manipulating the OSB. I must ask—what ties do you have with the invaders?”
“The Nobility’s defeat is inevitable,” said Chancellor Cornelius, stone-faced.
“Odd.” Greylancer arched a brow. “It is true that their science is superior to ours. However, we are in possession of a more fundamental and decisive advantage. We possess eternal life.”
“Provided that a stake is not driven into our hearts,” added Chancellor Cornelius. His voice spread over the chamber like a curse. “But we are also hampered by what you call a fundamental and decisive disadvantage, which the Privy Council and Ultimate Mind have pointed out will lead to our eventual downfall for hundreds of years—the degeneration of the Noble race.”
A certain sound reverberated inside Greylancer’s mind.
An indescribable yet certain echo of destruction.
“On the second day of the war against the OSB, the Ultimate Mind prophesied our defeat. That is to say our degeneration will be the cause of our fall three thousand years from now. Those are the words of the Sacred Ancestor himself, Lord Greylancer.”
During the dawn of the Noble civilization, with which Greylancer was unfamiliar, the Sacred Ancestor had vanished, leaving behind an enormous computer to advise the Noble leaders in his place. Kept inside the inner chamber of the Privy Council Ministry, this Ultimate Mind continued to bestow the Nobility with the words of the Sacred Ancestor to this day.
Greylancer sighted a gray swirl churning before his very eyes. A chaotic vortex that threatened to swallow the hollow wills of all mortal creatures great and small. Nay, even the wills of the immortal.
“A decision handed down by the Sacred Ancestor cannot be overturned,” the chancellor continued. “So we contacted the OSB through back channels and initiated negotiations. The aliens proclaimed that their interstellar conquest was the will of their god. That this conflict was about shedding a ray of civilization onto the ignorant masses whom understood nothing of their god.
“It was for this reason the OSB rejected our offer of truce, and so the war continued. But five days ago, a faction occupying a stronghold vital to the OSB conquest secretly declared their willingness to negotiate a cease fire. We reached a tentative peace agreement on the same day, one in which this planet will come under OSB rule.”
“That’s absurd!” The warrior’s cry thundered across the corners of the chamber.
“Exactly right. The Ultimate Mind had predicted that you would utter those very words. As well as another—Mayerling.”
“…”
“Of course, Mayerling knew nothing of our negotiations with the OSB. He had gotten wind of the plasma attack to exterminate the OSB enclaves and of the demand that the Frontier would be made to submit to the Privy Council’s control. Had he learned the truth, Mayerling would no doubt have said and acted in much the way you have. In that sense, his subjugation in accordance with the central government’s decision was a stroke of good fortune. And now, Lord Greylancer, you will follow him in death.”
No sooner had he said the word death than Chancellor Cornelius’s head detached from his body and shot up in the air. Kicking off the ground, the rest of his body followed.
Greylancer took aim and plunged his lance past the old man’s flowing robes and into his headless body.
3
The chancellor’s body reunited with his head some twenty meters in the air, despite the lance piercing clear through the chest.
Chancellor Cornelius smiled. “Do what you will, Lord Greylancer. This body is nothing more than an illusion with physical substance, which is why you do not see me submerged in my usual eutrophic fluid. Your lance is useless against me. This, on the other hand—” Sticking a hand in a pocket of his robe, the chancellor produced a small glass bottle.
A shot rang out. The bullet blew off the chancellor’s wrinkled hand holding the glass bottle, sending it skittering across the floor.
“Well now, this is a skilled servant,” said the chancellor, glancing at Gallagher with his rifle at the ready. “Alas, such shallow wit. Did you not see that the glass bottle was real? Now you shall go to hell, smelling the pleasant scent contained within.”
Greylancer felt his knees go weak. He crumpled to the ground, losing his grip on his lance. A sweet nectarlike scent began to fill the cavernous space. The scent brought down even the half-human Gallagher.
The liquid that had been sealed inside the bottle emitted the sweetest, most evil scent. One that would cause any Noble to fall into a stupor.
“Now then.” Chancellor Cornelius righted himself and, after withdrawing the lance tip from his chest, sidled next to where Greylancer lay. The chancellor, of course, was but an illusion.
He took out a white wooden stake and hammer from his pockets. Having physical substance, he was capable of handling solid objects.
The old man pressed the stake against Greylancer’s heart and raised the hammer high over his head. A spike driven into the heart would surely send a Noble, even Greylancer, to his death. Who would have guessed that such a mighty warrior would meet his end in this way?
No doubt Greylancer was as amazed. He was still conscious. It was his body that could not move. One Greater Noble would soon vanish from this moonlit world.
The chancellor brought down the hammer with all his might and suddenly stopped in mid-swing. With an elegance defying his wizened face, the old man leapt five meters and landed in a low crouch, shooting a suspicious look at the stone coffin resting on the bronze altar.
Stone grinding against stone, slowly the heavy lid of the coffin slid back.
The lavish sarcophagus was supposed to contain only Mayerling’s mortal remains.
But surely a corpse turned to dust had no hands with which to grip the sides of the coffin, nor a body to raise to a sitting position. The shadowy figure alighted from the coffin and fixed its gray eyes on the old Noble.
“Mayerling?” shouted Cornelius in disbelief.
“Regretfully no,” answered the man. “I am Shizam, a swordsman only recently serving under Lord Mayerling. It is an honor, Chancellor Cornelius.”
“How dare you appear before me, human! Begone!”
“That will not do, I’m afraid. My master has tasked me with protecting the Noble Greylancer,” said the swordsman, glancing down at the warrior struggling still to regain his senses.
There was a sound of steel rattling against steel as Shizam gripped the hilts of the two swords strapped behind his back and lunged. The illusory Cornelius produced a sword of his own. Clang! Clang! the swords rang out.
“The sound of your sword betrays your skill,” said the swordsman. “Best you leave your head at my feet.”
“Shizam, was it? Just how do you propose to behead this illusion before you?”
The swordsman answered quietly, “Streda…”
“No!” Cornelius flinched. “You practice—” The old Noble leapt back and hurled a stake. The second flash of steel—the sword in Shizam’s left hand—struck down the projectile.
Chancellor Cornelius landed on his feet and threw back his head. Actually, his head fell away entirely. The first flash of steel—the sword in Shizam’s right hand—had sliced across Cornelius’s neck before Cornelius could even see the blade.
While the fall echoed across the cavernous chamber, Shizam plunged his sword into the old Noble’s heart.
After watching the man’s body swirl and dissolve into thin air, like paint mixing into water, Shizam ran to Greylancer’s side.
“Are you all right?”
“I will live…The effects of the evil incense is wearing off.”
“I am glad you will recover.”
“What has happened to Chancellor Cornelius?”
“The Chancellor has met his doom,” answere
d Shizam.
“But the man before you was an illusion.”
“I possess the Streda skill.”
Greylancer arched a brow. “I have heard of this skill developed to kill Nobles. Is it effective against apparitions?”
“Yes. The moment I struck down his apparition, his physical form—wherever it might have been—also took its last breath.” Shizam answered quietly, though with no small hint of pride. Suddenly, he felt two icy daggers penetrate his body.
Still lying on his side, Greylancer stared at the swordsman. “Perhaps you wish to match swords with this Noble.” When Shizam did not answer, he growled, “Speak.”
Even in this circumstance, nay any circumstance, Shizam was never one to refuse a duel. Take on all comers—it was the cardinal rule of swordsmen.
Seconds passed before he finally answered, “I accept.”
“Never mind,” said Greylancer, shaking his head. “You have already lost the battle of wills. Damn that Mayerling. Why did he order you inside the coffin? Surely he did not harbor a vendetta against me.”
“That I do not know. Only that he was sure you would come and that I was to come to your aid if something should go awry.”
“Awry indeed. What did you know, Mayerling?” Greylancer jumped to his feet like a spring-action toy and approached Gallagher, who was also beginning to stir. He commanded, “After me,” and strode toward the way out of the catacombs.
Watching the gunner writhing as he struggled against the effects of the evil incense, Shizam let out a sigh and with heavy steps went to Gallagher’s aid.
†
Leaving the troop withdrawal to Yunus and the others, Greylancer rushed back to the Capital with the gunner Gallagher in tow.
The western sky rippled with the last traces of daylight. The Noble night was just beginning.
Greylancer hurried directly home.
Though the blinds and shutters were shut, a faint light pervaded the mansion. The property was not shrouded in complete darkness. This was another peculiar Noble custom. Aside from their coffins, the Nobility did not demand absolute darkness from the rest of the world.
Many, like Mayerling, elected to recreate night by simulating the moon and stars.
“Laria!” Greylancer shouted upon entering the parlor.
Three shadows appeared. They were guardroids tasked with protecting their masters while the vampires slept in the light of day.
“Is something the matter?” asked the humanoid steward, to which Greylancer replied with a swing of his lance.
The steward and the guardroids were sent hurtling across the room where they crashed in a pile, sparks flying until they fell motionless.
“Clear the way, worthless machines.”
Greylancer headed for the grand staircase, whereupon a voice called down, “Didn’t anyone teach you that a warrior must always keep his wits about him?” Atop the gently curving staircase stood Laria, wearing a turquoise gown.
“You wear it too, Laria?” he asked, referring to the time-deceiving incense. Laria had invented it.
“Courtesy is golden even with whom we are most familiar. Silence is golden even at home. Isn’t that so, Brother?”
“I have something I must ask.” Greylancer kicked the ground. The sight of the giant easily weighing a hundred kilograms lofting upward might have even been called beautiful.
When he landed at the top of the staircase, however, Laria was on her way down. Taking the stairs one step at a time, she appeared to glide down in one fluid motion. “You dare mock your brother?” Greylancer jumped over the railing after her and landed at the foot of the staircase.
Brother and sister faced off in the center of the parlor like mortal enemies.
“I was very nearly turned to ash at Mayerling’s castle. I smelled something—a familiar fragrance similar to the time-deceiving incense.”
Laria’s face turned ashen. “How can…Brother, are you certain?”
“No questions, Laria. The answer I seek is simple. Who else is in possession of the time-deceiving incense?”
As might be expected of the sister of the Noble Greylancer, Laria quickly regained her wits. “Varossa…he’d asked to make some enhancements to it.”
CHAPTER 10:
THE FIERY CHARIOT
1
Even after noticing Greylancer enter the marble dome, Varossa did not falter from the task at hand. Whenever he was engrossed in his work, the eccentric weaponsmith was prone to forget not only his master’s visage and name, but also his severe disposition.
Varossa dipped an iron ladle into a massive cauldron and examined the molten steel contained within it. “Damn it!” He dipped into the cauldron again and scooped up another spoonful. This time he nodded, muttered, “Good,” poured the orange liquid into a trough, and watched it ooze ten meters into a small tank below. “Well now.” Satisfied, the old man removed the heat-resistant goggles from his face and began to descend the stairs toward Greylancer.
Swirls of smoke rose up from his asbestos vest and gloves.
Removing his gloves, Varossa came down the flight of stairs and started at the sight of his master standing but an arm’s length away. “My lord, when did you return?”
“Just now, on urgent business.”
“Is that so,” muttered Varossa indifferently. “Might your business be with me?”
“That is why I’ve come. You know about the time-deceiving incense?”
“Why of course. Miss Laria’s idea was a stroke of pure genius—albeit the idea alone was hers.”
“You were in possession of its formula during a period of five days about six months ago. Did you give anyone the incense or its formula during those five days?”
Varossa blinked twice before the question registered in his mind. “Did I, you ask?”
“Yes.”
“To anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Laria’s invention?”
“That’s right.”
“On my life. No one.”
“Will you swear by the Sacred Ancestor?”
“Yes, by the Sacred Ancestor.” Then Varossa tilted his head upward in an affected manner and said, “Now, wait a minute…”
Seeing this, Greylancer continued, “Very well. Can you think of anyone who might have had access to the incense during the five days it was in your possession?” The air around them seemed to turn crimson under the glow of Greylancer’s eyes. “Varossa?” urged Greylancer.
“I cannot say.”
“Hmm. You are aware of the penalty for your answer?”
“My lord, I should like to take leave of my duties. I pray there will be no error in the payment of my wages. There were two such errors in my five thousand years of service, though I overlooked the slights in the past.”
“Fine. Go where you will. But after my business is done.” Greylancer took a step forward.
Varossa reached into his coat pocket and scattered something on the floor. What it was exactly was indiscernible.
A brick wall about five meters square burst forth from the ground and shot up between the men.
“Any fool can conjure a steel compression wall. But a brick wall took a bit of work.” Varossa watched the wall disintegrate before his very eyes. “Alas, brick is not terribly effective.”
“Do not fool with me, Varossa.” Greylancer drew back his lance.
The weaponsmith threw down another object at his master’s feet.
This time, a stone wall shot up from the ground. The center slid open, revealing a stone corridor.
“Come inside,” Varossa’s voice echoed from within.
One swing of Greylancer’s lance was capable of destroying such a contrivance.
Yet the warrior remained motionless, his lance lowered at his side.
Varossa was using him as a guinea pig for his latest invention—that much was clear. But Greylancer kept his temper in check, knowing that this longtime weaponsmith was burning with desperation, risking life and deat
h at this very moment.
“Enter, my lord,” the voice said, more a command than request.
Greylancer’s eyes glowed blood red. The Noble entered the corridor, leaving behind the burning afterglow of his eyes.
Varossa waited for him ten meters ahead, a mere ten paces away by Greylancer’s gait.
When he was but a step away from where Varossa stood, a stone wall shot up before him. No, it was Greylancer that had turned a corner. Yet he had experienced the sensation of walking in a straight line toward his prey. Varossa stood and waited ten meters ahead, as before.
“A maze,” muttered Greylancer, seeing through the trick. If the contrivance were set at an entrance, any intruder would wander for an eternity inside an endless labyrinth.
But this was no time to admire the weaponsmith’s handiwork.
The Noble warrior unleashed the might of his lance upon the rock faces on either side of him.
The walls came crumbling down with one blow. Greylancer stepped over the smoky rubble and stopped before Varossa. “A decent contraption, but it suffers from your personal taste. You need only make the walls sturdier.”
“I’m delighted by your most tedious remarks,” Varossa said, bowing slightly. When he raised his downcast eyes, the silver tip of the lance was pointed at his nose. The weaponsmith shuddered. “I cannot reveal the name, my lord. You will have to strike me dead.”
Greylancer muttered, “Very well,” and drove the blade through the weaponsmith’s throat.
†
Upon his return, Greylancer found Laria waiting for him at the mansion.
“What are you doing?” he asked his younger sister. “Go get some rest.”
“I can’t help but feel something terrible is about to happen. Was it cloudy outside?”
“When I first arrived, yes.”
He knew not what the weather had to do with Laria’s premonition.
Noble V: Greylancer Page 16