Mourningbird

by Brock Deskins

Kiera looked up at the woman who towered over her. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “I—” Lysse started before snapping her mouth shut. Everyone who was anyone knew who she was. Even most nobodies would recognize her, and the question made her stumble over her words. “I am Lysse Dushane, daughter of Esmerelda Dushane, Duchess of Nibbenar! More importantly, I am someone who will destroy anyone who gets in my way.”

  “Well, I’m Felicity Aylmer, daughter of I don’t give a rammox’s hairy ass who you are, and I’m someone who will sneak into your bedroom and shave off your eyebrows while you sleep. So, unless you want to dance,” Kiera said, clenching her fists, “you and your posse of princesses better get out of my way before I stain my dress with more than just wine.”

  Lysse stood glaring down at the upstart girl until Red touched her shoulder. “Come on, Lysse, it reeks of lowborn trash over here.”

  Lysse let her friends guide her away but hissed over her shoulder, “You better watch your back, bitch.”

  “And you better watch your face, bitch,” Kiera replied, swiping a finger across her mask’s gold eyebrows.

  Kiera clomped up the stairs, glad she had worn her ass-kicking boots tonight. There was an increasing likelihood of her having to put them to good use before the night was over.

  ***

  Esmerelda was striding down the hall toward the meeting when a voice called after her.

  “Esmerelda, wait, please,” her cousin Adele begged as she hastened to catch up to her. “You’re going to speak with the others, are you not?”

  The duchess glared at the woman from behind her mask. “We have a meeting that I am told is of crucial importance to our security.”

  “I mean that you will talk to them about my Gilbert, won’t you? I deserve satisfaction!”

  Esmerelda cast her eyes up and down the hall, took Adele by the arm, pulled her down another passage and out onto a small balcony, and closed the glass doors behind them.

  “It is time for you to let this go!” Esmerelda snapped. “I have my own plans for that boy, and I will not allow your grief to disrupt them.”

  Adele’s eyes brimmed with tears and her voice shook. “You don’t know what it’s like, to lose your only child, to see his murderer walking around without a care in the world! I will not let it go, and if you care anything at all about family, you will help me avenge my son.”

  Esmerelda took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My plans for him are too important to our family and for our city to throw them away for the sake of your grief, but perhaps I can ease your suffering and give you the peace you obviously need.”

  A faint smile flickered behind Adele’s mask. “You can? How?”

  “I can send you to him so that you can be together.”

  Esmerelda raised her hands palms out. The arcanstones set in the gold bracers partially concealed by her gown’s long sleeves glowed bright enough to illuminate the terrace even through the heavy fabric. A dull thrum, like distant thunder, sounded and an invisible blow struck Adele in the chest, hurling her over the balcony.

  Adele hit the flagstones thirty feet below before she could utter a scream. Esmerelda looked over the railing to ensure the woman was dead. Satisfied, she turned away. One annoyance taken care of. Now to see to the other.

  She entered the room chosen to hold their meeting, passing several guards along the way. It appeared she was the last to arrive, which was her usual manner and should not draw any suspicions.

  “Forgive me for making you all wait,” the duchess said. “Adele caught me in the hall and refused to let me go until she voiced her complaint.” She looked at Bertram sitting next to his uncle. “She’s still quite upset with you. I told her to wait for me on the terrace and we’d talk after our meeting.”

  “Perhaps there’s something I can do to help her move on?” Bertram said. “Maybe if I apologized.”

  Esmerelda cocked her head. “An apology, from you? That would certainly be unexpected. I see your time as chief inquisitor has done you some good.”

  “I’m learning a great deal, about the city as well as myself.”

  “You’re certainly welcome to try, but the poor dear is still inconsolable. Let me speak with her after our meeting and I will let you know if she is open to the proposal.”

  “Yes, I would also like to see this put to bed,” Rastus said. “For now, we have much more important things to address.”

  “What’s this about, Rastus?” Zibaran asked. “Your message was rather cryptic.”

  Krysten, Duchess of Glisteran, pulled the cream puff away from her mouth and said, “Yes, I barely cleared the debarkation ramp before I had to turn around and return here.”

  Esmerelda snorted. “Ramp? I just assumed they hoisted you in and out of your airship with nets and cranes like so much cargo.”

  “Sahmas, please, we do not have time for bickering,” Rastus said before things got out of hand.

  The two women exchanged hateful glares as Rastus continued. “Several weeks ago, a battle broke out in a warehouse between a group of mercenaries acting as merchants, two or three different gangs, the gendarme, and one as of yet unidentified individual. It is this individual that prompted me to call you all back, as I believe he may pose a threat to us all.”

  “How can one man threaten an entire city, much less all of them?” Zibaran asked.

  “Because he may not be a man at all, not as we define them anyway. I have received information that this…creature is some sort of sorcerer.”

  Esmerelda spoke over the rulers’ and officers’ subdued muttering. “The sorcerers are long dead. Who says this man is a sorcerer?”

  “Someone I trust enough to—” Rastus started to say.

  “Nimat,” Bertram blurted out. “You all know who she is, the self-proclaimed underlord.”

  Krysten said through a mouth full of pastry, “Surely you cannot believe the word of a criminal who lives under the ground like some skitter lizard.”

  Farelle broke in before Rastus could reply. “Nimat knows more of what is happening on the streets than anyone. I would not discount her so quickly.”

  Rastus nodded at the man. “He’s right. Think of her what you will, but she sees this creature as a threat, not just to herself, but the city, and she knows her future and ours are inexorably linked. Bertram has headed the investigation into what this thing, called a Necrophage, is and what he might be doing. Bertram, tell them what you have discovered thus far.”

  Bertram shuffled the reports in front of him despite not needing them. He knew word for word what they said. “During the altercation over the arcanstone, I personally witnessed this Necrophage use power unlike anything I had seen before. It also wielded a lance made of void steel with masterful proficiency. He not only staved off attacks from me and a squad of gendarmes, but from Nimat herself, who possesses a similar power of her own.

  “Days after that skirmish, two individuals stormed our naval flagship, fought their way to the powder magazine, and destroyed it. I have discovered corpses with their skins flayed off. Nimat claims that this creature is able to wear these skins and pass himself off as those from whom he stole them.”

  Faces paled to nearly match the white porcelain masks concealing them.

  “This sounds more like a horror story used to frighten children,” Krysten said. “Even if it is true, it is one monster in one city. While I sympathize with your plight, I do not see the threat to us all.”

  Rastus replied, “We believe this creature’s presence is but a prelude to a full-scale invasion.”

  “On what evidence do you base this?” the corpulent duchess asked. “The word of a criminal?”

  Zibaran cleared his throat. “Shortly after returning to Vulcrad, a nomad delegation sought an audience. They told me that one of their rover bands had discovered what appeared to be the wreckage of two airships destroyed in mutual combat. One was likely from Nibbenar, the other was…foreign. When they went to salvage the wreckage, two creatures dres
sed in black, wielding dark magic and void-steel lances, attacked them. While they were able to slay one, only the rover leader, a wind caller, survived the encounter. I had dismissed the tale as barbaric mythology. However, they had a name for these creatures. Necrophages.”

  Esmerelda pressed her delicate hands against the tabletop and stared down at them. “One of our airships was destroyed some two hundred miles northeast of the city by an unknown vessel, but definitely not of our design. The captain of the ship that found it described bodies that, while largely destroyed by scavengers, were not human with the exception of four men who appeared to be nomads.”

  Rastus snapped his eyes toward one of the naval officers standing against the wall. “Get me a map!”

  The man hastened to obey, rifled through a pigeonhole cabinet, selected a large, rolled parchment, and spread it out on the table.

  “Show me where your people found those ships,” Rastus said.

  Esmerelda played her eyes over the detailed map and jabbed a finger atop a high mesa. “I believe it was around this area here.”

  Zibaran nodded. “That sounds like the region the nomads described.”

  “I think the evidence backs up Nimat’s words,” Rastus said. “This other airship was not of Eidolan design, nor were its crew human.”

  “Then where did it come from?” Krysten asked.

  Zibaran said, “The Thuum spoke of these Necrophages as an old enemy driven across the sea by the highlords before the Great Tempest came into being.”

  “There has been a notable decrease in the tempest’s fury,” Esmerelda confirmed. “The storm has moved at least thirty miles away from shore over the last several decades. We’ve even begun fishing again near the coastline.”

  Rastus nodded. “If one ship managed to get through, then more could be following.”

  Esmerelda shook her head. “I have arcanists whose sole purpose is to study that storm. None of my people, even the most reckless and foolhardy, would fly into it. It’s certain death even now.”

  “Obviously not that certain,” Zibaran countered.

  Rastus held up a hand. “It may be that we have some time to prepare, but to do nothing is courting disaster.”

  “What do you propose?” Zibaran asked.

  Esmerelda said, “Obviously we’ll need to divert the bulk of our naval assets to Nibbenar and place them under my command.”

  “And leave the rest of the cities undefended?” Krysten asked heatedly.

  “Why should you take command?” Zibaran asked. “Strategically, you strike at an enemy’s manufacturing heart.”

  “Or their food,” Krysten said. “You can starve people into submission faster than you can beat them into it. People fought with rocks and sticks long before steel and airships came into being!”

  “Sit down, you cow!” Esmerelda shouted. “You’re the last person to talk about starving.”

  Rastus stood and shouted over the verbal melee that erupted. “We do not know where they will strike first or when, but we do know where they are now! That crash site was closest to Nibbenar, but the creature chose Velaroth, the hub of this empire.”

  “You just don’t want to relinquish control of the fleet!” Esmerelda snapped.

  The meeting devolved into a cacophony of shouting and posturing. The airship officers tried to add their own voices to the debate, but they went unheard or ignored over the leaders’ squabbling.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lieutenant Grahame Stacy kept his unblinking eyes fixed straight ahead as he walked down the hall, his steps wooden, almost marionette-like. He resisted the urge to scratch at the slender spike lodged in the base of his neck and hidden beneath his uniform’s collar.

  A soldier, the furthest from the door and the first of four the lieutenant would need to pass, held up a hand. “Sah, the duke is in a meeting and is not to be disturbed.”

  Grahame stared at the man as a voice echoed in his head. “I have urgent news regarding the flagship’s destruction and of the person behind it,” he said, repeating the words Dorian whispered in his mind.

  The guard paused a moment before nodding. “Follow me, sah.”

  The man rapped soundly upon the door three times before opening it. A brief flurry of heated words escaped the open portal before cutting off.

  “What is it?” Rastus snapped.

  “Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace, but the lieutenant says he has information about the Ardent Anvil’s destruction and the one behind it.”

  “Show him in and close the door.”

  The soldier gestured for the lieutenant to enter and closed the door behind him. Rastus pressed a button, and arcanist runes set around the door glowed briefly, ensuring that their voices would not carry beyond the closed doors.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Rastus asked.

  He glanced around the room, giving his puppetmaster a clear view of what lay beyond the doors. “You are right to fear him.”

  “What are you saying, man?”

  The young naval officer ignored his liege’s question and pulled a striker from his pocket. He fumbled with a button on his coat, pulled out a short length of quick fuse, and ignited it.

  Bertram shouted, “Everyone get down!”

  In a rare display of universal acknowledgement, the city rulers dropped to the floor. Bertram heaved against the thick table, sliding it over the top of those on the far side, and flipped it onto its side. He ducked down behind it just as the powder hidden beneath the lieutenant’s jacket exploded.

  The explosion blasted the doors off their hinges, sending them crashing into two of the soldiers stationed just beyond them. Dorian sprinted around the corner behind which he had been hiding, his void lance gripped in one hand, his other wreathed in black flame. The two guards who had escaped the blast turned toward the detonation, heedless of the fact that death bore down upon them.

  He had shed his stolen skin in the hall as it felt like an ill-fitting suit, and donned his black garment, which he had used to create the old man’s paunch. Tonight was about instilling terror, and for that, he would have the survivors see the true face of Death.

  Dorian flicked his hand forward, coiling his shadow whip around the man’s neck. He jerked him back while lunging and ran him through with his lance. The second guard spun about and raised his musket. Dorian’s whip snaked out again and slapped the weapon aside. He darted in, stabbed his lance through the soldier’s breastplate, spun behind him, and jabbed him in the back with the other end of his weapon before kicking out and knocking the dying man to the floor.

  The Necrophage sauntered into the destroyed chamber and surveyed the damage. The room was filled with smoke. Charred bits of paper hung in the air as they drifted down, their edges glowing. The drapes, books, and scraps of paper fueled several small fires and cast an orange glow throughout the chamber. He spied three men lying near the walls, one writhing and moaning.

  Dorian thought his audacious plan had met with unmitigated success until he saw movement behind the overturned table. Bertram leapt up, his pistol in hand, and fired. The Necrophage moved with uncanny swiftness, throwing himself from the shot’s path, wincing inwardly as the ball hissed past his ear.

  The other city leaders climbed to their feet along with two of the naval officers who had managed to seek refuge behind the table before the explosion. Several of them drew pistols, the others, blades. Dorian found himself greatly outnumbered, but he was far from afraid. Cutting the heads off the Hydra was just going to take a little longer.

  Dorian filled the room with black fog, casting it further into darkness. Several people cried out curses as it stole their sight. The Necrophage, unhindered by the abyssal miasma, leapt into battle. Blue light flared from the arcanstones set in Bertram’s sword handle as well as Esmerelda’s bracers and struck back at the unnatural darkness. The inquisitor barely managed to block the thrusting void lance before it pierced his heart.

  Rastus and Zibaran swung their pistols to draw down on the creatu
re, but Dorian threw himself to the floor and rolled out of the circle of light cast by Esmerelda’s bracers. The two naval officers and Bertram’s father Farelle moved around the table, their swords held at the ready.

  Dorian struck from the darkness, darting inside the light’s outer rim. His void lance slipped past the naval commander’s hasty block, taking him in the throat. He retreated just as quickly into the shadows. Farelle and the remaining officer stood so close their shoulders touched.

  Hearts hammered in the defenders’ chests, their fear palpable. The Necrophage’s pale face appeared in the darkness even before the thrusting void lance became visible, like a ghostly visage hanging in the air. The officer managed to deflect the strike, allowing Farelle to go on the offensive.

  The Thuum representative wove his void-steel blade in a dizzying display of swordsmanship even Bertram had to respect. The only thing more impressive was Dorian’s ability to dodge and parry not just his father’s vicious assault, but that of the officer.

  Dorian leaned back and let the officer’s sword slide harmlessly past his neck. He deflected Farelle’s simultaneous thrust with a one-handed parry of his lance. The Necrophage sent a black tendril snaking around the officer’s right ankle and tripped him onto his back. He stabbed down at the man and pinned him to the floor like an insect on a cork board.

  Farelle tried to take advantage of the opening and lunged in, sword leading. Dorian grabbed his lance with both hands and leapt into the air. Farelle’s attempted strike left him off balance and vulnerable. Dorian, his body parallel to the floor like a black flag blowing in the wind, kicked out with both feet and sent the man sprawling.

  Dropping back down, Dorian ripped his lance from the floor and the dead man’s body, flipped through the air, and stabbed the Thuumian warrior through the chest as he struggled to regain his feet.

  “Father!” Bertram screamed as he raced around the table with Rastus and Zibaran closing from the other side.

  Bertram’s sword rang against Dorian’s lance in a flurry of rage-fueled blows. Dorian thought he recognized the young man from the warehouse fiasco and knew him as a formidable opponent. He would need to neutralize him quickly, or at least deal with his allies. The two dukes rushed to Bertram’s aid, but both men were past their prime, their movements slowed as much by age as the concussive force caused by the explosion.