And if Timothy could stop war by guarding Lord Malden, then he would guard Lord Malden.
Now if he could only figure out what troubled him about Harune Dustfoot.
He brooded as he lurked in an unobtrusive corner of the Hall of Triumphs, as Lord Malden pronounced his judgments and prepared for the campaign against the Dominiars. Harune reminded him of something, but what?
Lord Malden retired to his bedchamber, accompanied by his mistress Claretta. Timothy ensconced himself outside, wrapping himself in his cloak. His divinatory spell would awake him should anyone approach Lord Malden with hostile intent.
He dozed off.
A few hours later he sat bolt upright, heart racing. His fingers fumbled for the quartz crystal, and for a moment he thought someone had murdered Lord Malden. But the crystal remained cool, and Lord Malden was most likely asleep.
But Timothy found himself thinking about something else.
He remembered Skhath, the San-keth cleric that had nearly killed Lord Mazael a year ago. Skhath had masqueraded as a human knight for years, wrapped in a spell of illusion. When Timothy met him for the first time, he had sensed something vaguely wrong right away.
Later he had seen the illusion melt away, revealing the San-keth cleric riding a headless human skeleton.
And Timothy had sensed the same wrong note from Harune Dustfoot. The truth struck him like a blow, and he felt a fool for not seeing it earlier.
Harune Dustfoot wore a spell of illusion to mask his true appearance.
Timothy stood up, hesitating. He needed to find out the truth now, without delay. Yet someone had to stand guard over Lord Malden. But if Harune was a changeling, even Straganis himself in disguise, and Timothy managed to stop him…
He made up his mind. He went to the stables, borrowed a horse, bribed one of the guards, and rode for Castle Town with all speed. Another judicious bribe got the watchman to open the gate, and he galloped into Castle Town and reined up before the Inn of the Crowned Helm.
A few determined drinkers sat in the tables, a bored-looking barman gazing at them with indifference. Timothy hastened through the common room and up the stairs. His hand dipped into his coat, and he pulled free a copper tube, one end capped with a length of cork.
If Harune meant to fight, then Timothy would be ready.
He kicked open Harune’s door and sprang inside.
Harune sat at the table, writing something. He jerked to his feet in alarm, scrabbling for the short sword at his side.
“Don’t!” said Timothy, brandishing the copper tube. “Don’t even move. Do you know what this is?”
Harune’s eyes fixed on the tube. “Aye. A wizard’s war-spell.”
“I’ll use it if I must,” said Timothy.
Harune seemed amused. “If you use that, you’ll blast away the inn’s wall, and most likely perish yourself in the fire.”
“Who are you?” said Timothy.
“I told you before, you and Lord Mazael and Lucan Mandragon,” said Harune, “I’m just a merchant who works for the Cirstarcians from time to time…”
“Nonsense,” said Timothy. “You wear warding spells…”
“As I’ve already said,” said Harune.
“And one other spell,” said Timothy. “I didn’t recognize it at first, but I’ve seen such things before. A masking-spell, a spell of illusion. Harune Dustfoot is no more real than a wisp of fog. Who are you, really?” He gestured with the tube. “Tell me.”
Harune sighed. “You would not wish to know.”
“Tell me,” repeated Timothy.
“Understand,” said Harune, “that when I said I wished to help Lord Mazael, I spoke truly. I want to help him. If you…if he learns who I really am, I may not be able to help him.”
“You will tell me,” said Timothy.
Harune stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Perhaps it is the will of the gods.” He shrugged. “As you wish.”
Harune Dustfoot shimmered and disappeared.
In his place stood something else, something most definitely not human.
Harune Dustfoot was a San-keth cleric.
Timothy yelled and stepped back. He almost loosed the war-spell, almost blasted the San-keth to ashes. Yet something stayed his hand.
The San-keth had arms and legs. It looked, in fact, almost like a scaly man, albeit with a serpent’s head and a dangling tail. Timothy had never seen a San-keth with limbs, save for Straganis’s freakish carrier. In fact, the San-keth claimed to have been stripped of their limbs long ago.
“Are you going to kill me?” said the creature, its voice unlike Harune’s.
“What are you?” said Timothy.
“I,” it hissed, “am Ang-kath.”
Timothy frowned. “What is that?”
The creature told him, at some length, and then said, “I think you should take me to see Lord Mazael at once.”
Timothy lowered the copper tube. “I think you’re right.”
The air shimmered. The creature vanished, Harune Dustfoot reappeared, and followed Timothy from the Inn of the Crowned Helm.
Chapter 8
1
Daggers in the Night
Mazael lay asleep and dreamed:
He stood in the High Court, before the bronze statue of the first King Roland. The statue’s head had been hacked off, its sword shattered, and lay in jagged shards at Mazael’s feet.
Atop of the statue’s broken neck rested Lord Malden’s severed head, the eyes bulging in shock and horror. Blood trickled down the stone, dripping to the ground. Rachel’s head had been impaled on the broken sword, her features bruised and mutilated.
Mazael turned, his hands tightening into fists.
The sky burned like a dying fire, streaked with ashen clouds. Gutted corpses hung from Knightcastle’s walls, staining the stones with blood. Vultures wobbled overhead, bloated with dead flesh. The air hung heavy with smoke and the stink of rotting flesh.
The Old Demon before the Hall of Triumph, glaring at him. Something red and bloody dangled from his left hand.
“You,” snarled Mazael, drawing Lion and stalking forward.
The Old Demon laughed at him. “No words of greeting for your father, my son?” The bloody thing swung from his left hand. “No words at all?”
“I’ll kill you,” said Mazael, raising Lion.
The Old Demon’s eyes flashed like coals. “Miserable little fool. You could no sooner kill me than you could extinguish the sun. Ten thousand years from now, your bones will have moldered to dust, but I will still live.”
Mazael did not slow, did not lower his blade.
The Old Demon snarled, revealing jagged, filthy fangs.
“Then look!” snarled the Old Demon, lifting the bloody thing, “look at what your future holds!”
He flung the bloody sphere at Mazael. It bounced off Lion and rolled away, spinning in a veil of red hair, and came to a stop.
Morebeth’s bloodshot, dead eyes gazed up at him.
“Do you see?” whispered the Old Demon, black robes scraping against the ground like dead skin against a coffin. “You remember the first one, do you not? Romaria, that was her name? She died for you. She died because of you. Your sins, my son, your fault. And your new betrothed,” his face twisted into a grimace of hate, “she will die because of you. Every woman in your life will die because of you, and you will see them suffer before you die.”
“Did you come here to talk,” spat Mazael, tearing his eyes from Morebeth’s tortured face, “or to fight?”
The Old Demon laughed. “Your defiance is futile. You betrayed me, my son. So I will see everyone you ever love die. And then, only then, when despair has crushed your feeble soul, when you beg me for the mercy of death, will I lift my hand to kill you.”
“No,” said Mazael. Lion burned in his fist, the blade writhing with white flames. “Not if I kill you first.”
The Old Demon laughed. “Blind fool. Do you even see the death gathering around you?�
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Mazael said nothing, Lion blazing.
The Old Demon grinned. “You don’t, do you? Fool. Tell me, my son, since you are so much wiser than your father. Do you see the betrayals that surround you? The treachery? The lies, the deceit?” One hand cupped and closed like a noose wrapping around a neck. “Your death comes for you like a wolf in the night and you do not even see it. It will spring from the darkness and take you, and you will just have time to choke on bitter tears before you die.”
“Every word you’ve even spoken has been false,” said Mazael. “Why should I believe you now?”
The Old Demon’s smile turned crooked. “Your arguments grow trite.” His breath rasped through his flaring nostrils. “You don’t believe me? Then go. Go and see, my son. You will see that I am right. And before you die, as they rip the heart from your chest, you’ll hear me laughing.”
The earth shook, and the towers of Knightcastle fell, dust and ash rising up in a colossal plume…
###
Mazael jerked awake, sweat oozing down his face and arms.
Besides him Morebeth sighed, hair sliding over the pillows.
It looked to be almost midnight. Mazael stared into the gloom, but saw nothing. He strained his ears, but heard only Morebeth’s slow breathing.
He sat for a moment, fists clenched.
It had just been a dream.
But dreams of the Old Demon were never just dreams.
Mazael rolled out of bed and dressed. He bucked on his sword belt and took a pair of sheathed daggers. His armor sat on a stand in the corner. He began to don it, pulling on the gambeson and hauberk, fumbling with the bindings of his cuirass.
“Mazael?” Morebeth sat up, holding the blanket close. “It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing?”
“Trouble’s coming,” said Mazael.
He felt Morebeth’s stare.
“I don’t know how,” said Mazael. “I just do. Something’s going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”
Morebeth stood, wrapped herself in a red gown, and lit a candle. “Then you had better be ready, hadn’t you?” She glided to his side, pushed away his hands, and began doing the straps of his armor. “Put on your gauntlets while I do this.”
“Thank you,” said Mazael.
Morebeth said nothing, her slim fingers working the straps.
###
Adalar slipped through the night, his cloak wrapped tight.
He stopped before the door to the Dominiars’ quarters, knocked, and waited. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the door opened a crack, and Adalar felt unfriendly eyes digging into him.
The door opened, revealing a scarred Dominiar Knight. He scowled and beckoned Adalar forward. They passed through the darkened corridors and came to a torchlit hall. A half-dozen Dominiars stood around a table, grim-faced and silent.
“Squire,” said Sir Commander Amalric. He wore black plate and a black cloak with the silver star of the Dominiar Order. “Welcome. I am pleased you came.”
“Sir Commander,” said Adalar, bowing.
“These,” said Amalric, gesturing with an armored hand, “are my most trusted knights.” The men turned cold, flat eyes towards Adalar. They all looked like experienced killers. “They have served me well for many years. We will need to rely upon them during the troubled times ahead.” He paused, fingering his sword hilt. “Have you heard the dark news?”
Adalar nodded. “Lord Mazael has betrothed himself to Lady Morebeth.”
“He has,” said Amalric.
“Can you not stop her?” said Adalar. “You’re her brother, her only male kin. Can’t you forbid her from marrying Lord Mazael?”
“I could,” said Amalric, rubbing his sword hilt. The hilt, wrapped with worn leather, had seen much use. “But she wouldn’t listen to me. She never has, after all.” His dark eyes met Adalar’s. “Our time grows short. If Morebeth has convinced your Lord Mazael to marry her, then her hold over him is strong. Very soon, she will ask him to kill Lord Malden, and he will be deep enough in her thrall to obey. Perhaps even tonight. We must act at once. Show us the Trysting Ways, squire. Show us how we can save Lord Mazael from my wretched sister.”
Adalar nodded and walked to the featureless stone wall. He examined it for a moment, then pushed a stone block. Something clicked, the floor shuddered, and a portion of the wall swung aside.
Amalric’s knights looked startled.
“You can find the triggers like this,” said Adalar, pointing at part of the wall. “In direct light, they don’t look like anything. But if you look at it from the side, you can something that looks like a rose. That marks the door triggers.”
“Cunning work,” murmured one of the knights.
“Good,” said Amalric, nodding. “Show us more.”
Adalar nodded, and led the Dominiars into the Trysting Ways.
###
Sir Roger Gravesend squatted in the darkness, sharpening his sword. The rasps echoed off the damp walls of the stone vault.
“Soon!” shrieked Calibah, brandishing a torch, her reptilian eyes reflecting the fire. “Soon the hour will come! Soon we will slaughter the heretics and the apostates and the unbelievers in their beds! They shall know the stern justice of the San-keth, and we shall be the instruments of great Sepharivaim’s wrath!”
Two dozen changelings stood around Calibah, cheering in bloodlust.
Roger felt a tense eagerness. For weeks they had skulked in the shadows, hiding in Castle Town’s warehouses, in the labyrinth of forgotten passages riddling ancient Knightcastle, in the surrounding wilds and woods. Things had almost fallen apart when Lord Mazael caught them at the Lord’s Wood, but they had managed to escape.
The hiding grated on Roger. Calibah’s endless preaching wearied him, and he wanted to kill her. He wanted to kill all the changelings. Sometimes he wanted to fall on his sword and escape the misery of his life.
But, by Sepharivaim, he wanted to kill Mazael Cravenlock. And Calibah hinted that tonight, they might make their move.
The whetstone scraped against the sword blade.
“The blood of the unbelievers!” Calibah shrieked, slashing with the torch, “will stain Knightcastle’s walls!”
Something moved in the darkness. A vile stench struck Sir Roger’s nostrils. He gagged and scrambled to his feet.
A ghastly shape, a mixture of spider, human torso, and scorpion tail creaked into the light. Straganis’s head swiveled back and forth, his body grafted to his unnatural, alchemy-spawned carrier.
Calibah fell to her knees, as did the other changelings. “We await your command, great one,” she whispered.
Straganis’s tongue flicked at the air, dulled eyes glistening. “The word has come from our ally, my servants. The time has come. Tonight, the unbelievers will perish!”
The changelings cheered, and Roger found himself grinning.
###
Morebeth tied off the last strap and stepped back. “Now what will you do?”
For a moment Mazael felt foolish. Lord Malden would never believe him. Maybe the entire thing was just a fancy of his imagination. But dreams of the Old Demon were never just dreams.
And Lucan would believe him, and Trocend, and Timothy, if Mazael could but find them. If the San-keth meant to strike tonight, then Mazael needed their spells to battle Straganis’s arcane might.
“I have to find Brother Trocend,” said Mazael, stepping towards the door. “And extra guards for Lord Malden, Sir Garain….everyone, I suppose.” He paused, glancing back at her. “What will you do?”
Morebeth shrugged. “I may as well remain with you. I suppose I am as safe with you as anywhere else. And I doubt I am important enough to assassinate.”
Mazael’s jaw worked. “They… might kill you just to get to me, now that we are pledged.” He could not bring himself to tell her everything, could not tell her that the Old Demon might kill her out of spite, and cursed himself for his cowardice.
Morebeth smirked, eyes
glittering. “Let them try.”
Someone knocked at the door.
“Answer it,” whispered Morebeth, picking up a dagger.
Mazael nodded, loosened Lion in its scabbard, and threw open the door.
Timothy stood in the doorway, looking worried.
Behind him waited Harune Dustfoot.
“Timothy?” said Mazael. “What’s going on?”
“Lord,” said Timothy. He glanced at Morebeth. “Lady.” Morebeth gave him a gracious nod.
“Lord Mazael,” said Harune, bowing.
“My lord,” said Timothy, “there’s something I’ve learned that you should know at once.” He hesitated. “It…it will probably anger you. But I only ask that you don’t kill Harune until he’s finished speaking.”
Mazael frowned. “What? What’s happening?” Was this the doom the Old Demon had planned?
“I must tell you something,” said Harune.
###
Adalar pointed towards a narrow staircase that spiraled upwards into the gloom. “There. And that stairwell leads towards Lord Malden’s room.”
Amalric nodded. “Good. Very good. Lord Mazael will pass this way when the madness takes him.” He beckoned. “This way. We must return to our guest quarters before anyone notices us here.”
Adalar nodded and fell into line behind Amalric. The Dominiar Knights filed behind him, hands on their sword hilts. They walked in silence, save for the occasional creak of armor, a scabbard tapping against a wall.
“Quiet,” hissed Amalric. Every now and again Adalar started to point out the path, but Amalric silenced him. He remembered everything Adalar had told him. It made Adalar uneasy. He had expected to show Amalric the door to Lord Malden’s chambers.
Instead, he had shown Amalric half the Trysting Ways.
Why did Amalric need to know so much?
They turned left, filing down a narrow passage. The torches in the knights’ hands flared and flickered.
“Wait,” said Adalar. “Sir Commander. This isn’t the way back to your chambers.”
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