The Grimoire of Yule (The Shadows of Legend Book 1)

by Adam Golden

  Belsnickel’s Collegium was a different animal. His boys were professionals, warriors bred to blood under the Legions’ eagles. Unfortunately for them, it had been Eagles belonging to the wrong would-be Emperor, and when old man Maximinius’ dreams of empire went down, they went down in a storm of blood and shit that ate his legions whole. Or would have if Belsnickel, enterprising company commander that he’d been, hadn’t seen the writing on the wall and managed to gather the remnants of his cohort, its pay chests, and escape the slaughter.

  Memories of the fighting that day, against more than just the enemy, still woke him some nights, but nightmares were a tithe only the living were called to pay, and in the end it was a price he was willing to pay. They’d cut their way through friend and foe alike, a hundred exhausted, battered, bloodied, and dispirited veteran troops, hunted and alone in a foreign land. From that humble beginning they’d built lives, families, and an empire that stretched well beyond Pylae, and every one of his boys would fight to their last breath to keep it.

  A breeze off the sea brought a momentary break in the haze of smoke and ash, and Belsnickel took the opportunity to take stock. The docks themselves were nearly empty, or so it seemed to him, used to seeing the place writhing with life. Everywhere he looked it seemed he could make out the twisting, bucking form of someone struggling against a bit of haunted cloth wrapped like a second skin around their head, or the screaming flailing form of someone who’d come too near one of the fires and burst alight. One of those, a dock worker by what Belsnickel could make out of his clothing, was shrieking like a doused cat, running in mindless circles just feet from the edge of the dock and relief. His hair had caught fire. His head was wreathed in flames.

  Belsnickel hefted his heavy torsion bow, pulled it tight to his shoulder, and depressed the trigger contact. The bow’s thick, heavy quarrel crossed the space between the two men in a blink and slammed into the suffering dock man like a battering ram. The poor bastard was lifted clear off his feet and blown backward, his hideous cries silenced.

  Belsnickel felt Vexin’s hand on his shoulder. When he looked over, the taciturn lieutenant was still looking out over the wharf, surveying the battle, his face hard as chiseled stone. “We should all hope for such a mercy,” was all he said.

  His boss opened his mouth to thank his old friend and paused when the sinewy old soldier stiffened. Vexin, a scout by training and trade, could track last week’s wind over a frozen pond and had eyes so sharp that some of the men joked he could see things that hadn’t even happened yet. They all took Vexin’s senses as gospel, and the officers had all learned to read the man’s signs. He’d seen something.

  “What?” his chief asked, reaching for another quarrel to feed into his beloved bow.

  “There’s movement in the smoke, not running, not civilians. It’s slow, methodical, half a dozen, maybe more. They’re all stretched out in a line, like they’re herding someone. There! You’ll see them in a second. All in black.”

  It took several long moments of strained staring before Belsnickel’s inferior sight managed to catch a glimpse of what Vexin had seen so clearly, and even then he saw only a piece. There was movement, quick. Someone running?

  Behind them came a figure moving more slowly, but with purpose. At first he thought it was one of those cloth creatures, that perhaps they could move like men on the ground? After a second he realized what he was seeing. It was a man, robed and hooded all in black. They might have been dressed like monks, but they moved like hunters.

  These were killers. Belsnickel knew the look, and he could make out the suggestion of others closing in around whoever they’d been chasing.

  “Alright, signal groups three and five to keep up the pressure on those flying things and have two and four start trying to contain some of these fires. I’ll bet Nex here,” he said patting his weapon, “against a clay coin that those bastards are the crux of this.”

  Vexin nodded silent agreement.

  “Get this group moving, quietly,” Belsnickel ordered. “They’re focused on whatever they’re chasing, keep it that way. Get the lads around them and we’ll take the whole lot.”

  Vexin put two fingers to his lips and blew a short sharp note that brought all eyes to him. The series of hand signals he’d worked out for use while tracking had evolved into a language that Belsnickel’s collegium spoke as fluently as their Latin or Greek. Within moments, orders were passing the length of the wharf and their group was moving.

  Belsnickel fixed the hook on Nex’s body to the embossed leather sling he’d made for her and slung the big weapon onto his back. He relieved one of the men closest to him of his short, wide-bladed infantry sword, hefted it for balance, and nodded. The boys could do the shooting, he was getting in close. This had been an expensive day for him, and the bear-like gang boss had a mind to make sure those responsible paid an equally high price for their visit to Pylae.

  —

  The world had gone mad. Lightning spiderwebbed across a sky dark as midnight. Sizzling bolts of white fire fell five or six at a time, pounding the wharf again and again like the blows of some demented God’s hammer. Everywhere they landed, whether they hit wooden dock or black clad man, the devastation was total.

  Heavy planking exploded into clouds of jagged shrapnel, and men were blasted into showers of pink mist and charred meat. Screaming whirlwinds of grit, gore, and shards of shattered dock scored the flesh like the kiss of a rasp and pulled grown men from their feet.

  Belsnickel couldn’t tell how many of his men were still standing. He doubted it was many. Now and then he thought he caught the shadow of a call, or perhaps a scream, but he couldn’t be sure. In the maelstrom of smoke, ash, and noise, his isolation was nearly total. His fine silk shirt and trousers were in shredded, bloody tatters, and the flesh beneath felt little better. He didn’t ignore the pain, he welcomed it and let it drive him. He still gripped the sword he’d borrowed, and Nex’s reassuring weight still thumped at his back. He was relatively sure he was still moving toward the bastards he meant to kill. He welcomed the pain. It made what came next easier.

  As though that thought manifested, he came upon the enemy. A form seemingly made of black wool materialized in front of the old soldier so abruptly that Belsnickel nearly crashed into him. His momentum was translated into a thrust of his sword, which landed like a heavy punch to the back of the other man’s neck. The wide blade slammed through the robed man and he sagged forward bonelessly. A savage kick in the back freed the blade and Belsnickel’s head swiveled, searching.

  There!

  A flash of movement. Another one to kill.

  The crime lord roared and swung the short sword in a savage chop that took his target in the join between neck and shoulder and split him open to the opposite hip. His heavy boot slammed down on a still-hooded head as he wrenched his weapon free. He was blowing like a horse run too hard for too long, his massive chest heaved, as his face and arms spattered in the warm blood of other men.

  At another time it might have sickened him, but the blood rage had him gripped hard and there was only the thrill of it now. He found another, just visible in the bedlam, and threw himself forward with another wild roar.

  This one wasn’t caught nearly as off guard as the others, and Belsnickel’s savage cut was stopped dead as it met the blade of a knife held by an unbending arm. The big man’s rage was blended with shock. His enemy was robed like the others, but the frame wasn’t nearly large enough for such strength, unless . . . Magic.

  The thought stoked Belsnickel’s rage like the bellows of a forge, and he rained blows down on his enemy as fast and hard as he was able.

  The little warlock moved like a snake, twisting and writhing away from each strike. His short knife licked out to keep the bigger man back and off balance.

  The undulating movements were like nothing the former heavy infantry soldier had ever seen, he couldn’t counter, and he was tiring quickly. This twisty little bastard was going to beat him. Be
lsnickel growled in wordless frustration and charged. He felt the knife score his chest. It was deep, but he was on the other man and the wound was forgotten.

  Thick, powerful hands took hold of the smaller man’s robes and then the hidden enemy was over Belsnickel’s head. The monk, or whatever these things were, struggled manfully with more of that unnatural strength.

  Belsnickel almost lost his grip.

  No! This one didn’t get to get away.

  The big man heaved his victim’s weight forward with all his strength and smashed him into the ground with devastating force. There was a sound like the wet splintery snap of green wood breaking, and his enemy went limp. Belsnickel heaved the dead weight up again and threw it as hard as he could into the cyclone of destruction that surrounded him. As soon as the corpse was out of arm’s reach he lost all trace of it, but he hoped he’d struck one of the dead man’s compatriots.

  The knife came from behind, and if it hadn’t been for the poor visibility it easily would have taken him in the heart rather than the shoulder. As it was, the big gang boss let out a strangled scream and fell forward, wrenching the knife from the hand of the black-clad killer who’d nearly ended him.

  “Why, you sneaky, underhanded, little . . .” The big man gasped as he pulled himself up, swaying drunkenly, and turned to face his would-be assassin. “I’m going to pull your head off for that one,” he wheezed.

  This attacker was as completely shrouded as the others, not a single trace of the person under the robes could be seen, and yet Belsnickel got the distinct feeling of a smirking, dismissive arrogance emanating from him. Perhaps it was something in his stance, or perhaps the criminal leader just wanted an excuse to hate the unseen enemy. He didn’t suppose it really mattered.

  He pulled in a ragged breath, preparing himself. This one’s knife was still bobbing about in his shoulder, and the slash to his chest was oozing a steady sheet of blood. He felt dizziness threatening. This fight had to end quickly or it would end badly for him.

  The damned faceless bastard was just standing there, waiting. His knife was down, held at his side, forgotten, as though he were completely at ease.

  “We’ll see how smug you are with your head up your own arse!” Belsnickel snarled as he threw himself forward, going for his latest enemy’s throat with his bare hands.

  The robe never twitched, there wasn’t so much as a flutter of heavy black cloth. The hidden enemy was apparently unmoved by the looming threat of Belsnickel’s impressive bulk barreling down on him.

  The big man actually felt his fingertips brush fabric and, just as he began to exult in impending victory, all light and air were snatched away. Belsnickel hit the ground with all the force and grace of a fresh hewn oak.

  He couldn’t breathe. Frantic fingers clawed at his face and found only tightly bound fabric. One of those damned shroud creatures had him! Panic clutched his heart. He was going to die. How many had he seen today? Scores? Hundreds? None of them had fought their way free. He’d tried to cut a few loose himself. They’d all died.

  The gang leader writhed and twisted frantically as he clawed hopelessly at the hexed sheet that was slowly strangling the life from him. His world shrank. He was blind and deaf to all but the pounding of blood in his ears. He knew he should calm himself, to slow his breathing, but he couldn’t. Each gasp came faster, each breath more shallow. Yellow halos of light blazed before his blinded eyes.

  In a moment he’d be dead. His men would be alone, unguided and unprotected, if any of them even still lived. A lifetime of regrets flooded him, he remembered the faces of family, of long dead friends, of women he’d known, he felt . . . hot.

  At first it was dim, something he hardly noticed. Maybe that was what suffocating to death felt like, how was he to know? The heat grew with every second, hotter and hotter until it felt as though his head were on fire.

  Fire.

  Perhaps, could it be? Fleeting hope evaporated in a wave of blinding agony as the heat around the big man’s head became torturous. Belsnickel flopped and thrashed like a dying fish wishing death would hurry and take him. Tears of agony rolled down blistered cheeks and an endless stream of howling screams ripped from his massive lungs.

  Screams.

  He could hear himself screaming. The shroud must have been burnt away. Why couldn’t he see? He was blind. Belsnickel fought back the pain and the panic, and pried at his eyes with careful, ginger fingers. The skin was burnt and crusty, but slowly it gave way and wane pale light seeped through.

  He was alive! He could see, and breathe, and God above he hurt. His chest heaved as his lungs filled and emptied themselves greedily over and over again. The air smelled like charred hair and burnt meat. It was the smell of his own head roasting, he realized. There was noise and motion; the world started to slide back into place. There was fighting around him. The big man shook his head. The pain was incredible, but slowly he managed to push the worst of it down and move enough to look around.

  Belsnickel was shocked to see that he’d been moved somehow, he was now lying on the very edge of one of his docks, inches from rolling into the sea. A pair of men stood between him and the rest of the wharf, and between their legs he could make out the flaming forms of at least four fallen robes, and what looked like a heap of burning cloth.

  Who?

  Whomever it was, they’d obviously fought off the creatures and burned off the one killing him. He owed them, owed them everything. He tried to call out, but his throat was so dry that nothing but a broken croak issued forth. One of them turned and Belsnickel felt himself gape. It was the aristocrat. The one with the snarling manservant.

  He and his men had been taking the pair to what would have been an unceremonious drubbing over the head followed by a quick robbery and a quicker drowning when the world went mad. They’d saved him? The man smiled as though he could hear the thoughts of the man he’d rescued, and then whipped about urgently as though at some noise Belsnickel couldn’t hear, scanned the sky for a moment, and launched a ball of blue fire from his hand!

  After a moment, a heavy bit of black sailcloth crashed flaming into the ground in front of them. Both men looked near to toppling over with weakness, both were bleeding and burnt in places, though Belsnickel bet he’d take the prize for worst for wear without great difficulty.

  Sorcerer!

  The word blasted like bells in his head. That one was a sorcerer, or a demon or . . . Belsnickel didn’t know what else. Something unnatural obviously, some sort of . . . something! Monster? Savior? He and his man were fighting the creatures that were destroying his city, they’d obviously just saved Belsnickel’s life but . . . The big man felt cast about, overwhelmed. His carefully ordered sense of the world was fractured.

  He saw movement beyond the two men, and his mind latched onto it, desperately trying to distract itself with something it could understand, something it could cope with. It was low, on the ground, not more of those fabric monsters, more robes? He couldn’t tell. Whatever it was there was more than one. Belsnickel dragged himself up onto his elbow for a better look.

  There! More movement on the left this time.

  Men, moving carefully. The robes were getting cautious. Too many burned friends to take their enemy lightly perhaps? The aristocrat and the fighter were still dealing with the enemy in front of them. Maybe they’d already seen those approaching? After all, they had magic.

  Belsnickel recognized them too late. The bowmen materialized as though out of thin air, and the battered gang boss couldn’t fill his lungs for the warning yell before the first arrows slammed into the two men who were standing guard over him.

  The squat little man with the heavy knives clocked the attack first and dove for his master. A pair of hard shot shafts took him in the back as he threw himself at the aristocrat. The bodyguard’s weight knocked his master backward. The aristocrat’s heels struck Belsnickel’s still prone body, and both men tumbled in a heap off the dock and into the murk of the wreckage-strewn bay.r />
  Belsnickel roared for help as he dragged his exhausted, ruined body to the edge of the dock.

  “Come on, damn you! Help me find them!” Vexin reached him first and the wiry hard-bitten old scout dragged him back from the edge, his face aghast as he rolled his beloved commander over to inspect his wounds.

  “Sweet merciful Christ!” Belsnickel’s second breathed, as he took in what had to be a gruesome catalogue of the crime lord’s ruined face.

  “Save them . . . in the water . . . find . . .” Belsnickel panted, desperately trying to order the rescue, but his body was spent; all of the effort, panic, fear, and shock crashed down on him as his men started to gather around him.

  “Find them . . . save . . .” The last words came out a slurred whisper and then the dark smothered out all the urgency, the regret, and thankfully, the pain.

  III

  Growing Pains

  Blood Ties Bond Tight

  The room was stifling, not hot exactly but definitely too warm to be comfortable. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the cloyingly sweet smoke that poured off the clients’ pipes. He was getting dizzy, it was hard to breathe. There was a quality of dampness to the whole place that made everything seem to stick to everything else, and made him feel coated, polluted. He tried to shrug off the prickling on his skin, to shake loose the places where his clothing stuck. He shivered, it felt as though bugs were crawling on his skin. He was used to sweat, but this wasn’t work sweat, not the clean sweat of wholesome exertion, this was different, unclean.

  God, he hated this place, hated it’s dim smoky light, he hated the lewd, garish orgy of shadows that played on every wall and surface. Most of all he hated the noise. There was so much noise: the soft delirious sighs that leaked from the lips of those slumped on couches, careless of all but the thick smoke which oozed from their rented pipes, the wailing, begging cries of those who’d spent their last and were being torn away from the oblivion they needed, the hollow, melodramatic moans of dead-eyed whores who rocked, teased, and undulated above or below clients sick with a different need. A symphony of sickness, desperation, and perversion assaulted his senses. How he wished she’d bring someone else, why did she always pick him? Why was it always him?