by Ben Cassidy
Kendril opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by someone else at the door.
“Sir!” the militiaman blurted. He saluted quickly and sloppily.
Dutraad growled impatiently. “Out with it, soldier.”
“Report from Captain Potemkin. He says the demon has appeared.”
Kendril and Dutraad both straightned.
“The Wobble, sir,” the man continued to stammer. “She’s…she’s killing our men.”
“I am amazed,” Maklavir moaned as he walked, “just how much time I seem to be spending of late underground. It’s really not a pattern I relish, I can tell you that.”
“I used to live underground, you know.” Kara walked beside him. She pulled up the oversize coat she wore. Large trousers were cinched at her waist with a belt hooked into the last notch, and brown workboots were on her feet. “Back in New Marlin. Those sewers were even worse than these.”
“Can’t you at least let me complain?” Maklavir adjusted the lantern he held in his hand, one “borrowed” from the carpet store. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Greslin and Ilsa followed a few steps behind them. They glanced fearfully at every shadow in the sewer tunnels around them.
“So,” Maklavir continued conversationally, “how are those clothes you found working out for you?”
Kara itched at her shoulder. “Terrible. They smell like sour wine, and they’re barely hanging off me. I’m not quite sure the blanket was that much worse.”
Maklavir gave the pretty redhead a lascivious side-glance. “I certainly liked the blanket more.”
Kara rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet you did. Do you even now where you’re going?”
The diplomat gave a broad shrug. “More or less. At least I have some decent light this time around. Makes things a little easier.”
“Just don’t get us lost.”
Maklavir gave her a charming smile. “Anything for three hapless ladies.”
Kara paused for a moment, then lowered her voice. “Maklavir?”
“Yes?”
Kara looked quickly behind her, making sure Greslin and Ilsa weren’t overhearing their conversation. “About earlier…I just wanted to say that what you did was very—”
Maklavir sighed, prepared for inevitable insult. “Very what?”
Kara put a hand on Maklavir’s arm. “Brave.”
“Oh.” Maklavir rolled back his shoulders and cleared his throat nervously. “I see. Well, I guess it was rather…” He made a face. “To be perfectly honest, Kara, I didn’t really think things through very well. I just…acted. Rather stupidly, too, I might add.”
Kara smiled sweetly. “I imagine that’s how most people end up doing courageous things.”
Maklavir shook his head disdainfully. “Well don’t worry. I promise I won’t make it a habit or anything.”
The redhead kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Maklavir turned to her in surprise. “What was that for?”
“For being brave.” She smirked. “Or stupid. Take your pick.”
Cannon shots rumbled through the night air like distant thunder. Long, forlorn lines of militiamen, lacking any kind of uniform other than a basic colored scarf tied around their arms, shambled through the dark streets and into the square past the burnt wreck of the opera house. Their faces were smeared with dirt and ash, and many were limping or hobbling on makeshift crutches for support. Bloody rags wrapped around wounds showed the injuries they had suffered.
But it was their eyes that distrurbed Kendril the most. They were the eyes of dead men. There was no life in them, no hope.
The battle was being lost up north by the bridge known as the Wobble. And he was stuck in this tiny little city square baby-sitting Baron Dutraad when he should have been up there with Olan and the others, battling against the demon Indigoru.
Kendril watched the lines of infantry filing by. No, he corrected himself, infantry was too strong a word to describe them. They were butchers, bakers, apprentices, tradesmen of all kinds for whom soldiering had only been a fun game to play on weekends. Now they were experiencing war at its most hellish. War in their own city, against their own neighbors. War against a demon incarnated.
A war of Despair.
Kendril squeezed the grip of his sword handle until he thought he would break it. He wanted more than anything to be up there, in the thick of it, then down here.
“Looks like things aren’t going well.” Joseph came up beside Kendril, and sank down beside him. “Any news from—?”
“I would have told you, Joseph.” Kendril’s voice was curt, perhaps too much. He tried to switch the topic. “How’s it going with all the wounded?”
Joseph sighed heavily. “There’s a never-ending stream. A lot of them are dying before we can get to them.” He glanced at the lines of dispirited troops. “They’re just boys, Kendril.”
“We were once, too,” the Ghostwalker responded pitilessly.
There was a drumbeat of gunshots off to the northeast.
Joseph lifted his head, staring at the red glow of the fires. “Vorten is lost, isn’t it?”
Kendril shook his head fiercely. “Not yet. Not by a long shot.”
The grizzled scout nodded. He looked down at the trampled snow, mixed now with mud and blood into a churned, slushy mess.
“I have to go after her, Kendril.”
“Who?” Kendril asked dully, even though he already knew.
Joseph didn’t bother to answer. “Maybe she’s already dead, killed in that fire, I don’t know. I suppose she probably is. I’ve been throwing myself into helping the wounded here, trying to forget about her, trying to tell myself that I need to focus on helping the people I can, but I—”
“You love her,” Kendril said flatly.
Joseph watched the orange horizon glumly. “I suppose I do.”
“Then go.”
“I don’t even know where to start looking.”
Kendril gave his friend a probing glance. “That’s not what’s stopping you.”
“No,” Joseph agreed. “I suppose it’s not. I guess I’m afraid that she’s already dead, buried in the ruins of that opera house, and that I couldn’t help her when she needed me the most.” He looked over at the darkened street heading east. “As long as I stay here, I guess I keep hoping that she’s just going to walk back into the square, perfectly fine.”
“I’m not walking, I’m limping,” came Kara’s sudden voice from behind them.
Kendril and Joseph both leapt to their feet.
Kara and Maklavir came towards them across the square. The red-headed thief was limping slightly.
“You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had,” she grumbled. “These boots are absolutely terrible. I have about three blisters just—”
Joseph rushed forward and caught her in a giant bear hug. “You’re alive.”
Kara closed her eyes for a moment, her head resting on Joseph’s shoulder. “I am.”
Maklavir coughed into his fist. “What about me?”
Kendril crossed his arms. “I’m not hugging you, Maklavir.”
The diplomat gave a broad smile. “It’s alright, dear boy. I know you’re still glad to see me.”
Joseph pushed back, his hands on Kara’s shoulders. “I thought…” he started to say. He shook his head. “Nevermind. You’re alive, and you’re safe.”
“Yes,” said Kara, growing quickly serious, “but there are a lot of others on the other side of the river who aren’t.”
Kendril glanced off to the east, where the continued sound of gunfire and battle drifted through the night sky. “We know,” he said grimly. “We’ve been able to hear the sounds of battle even—”
Kara stepped forward quickly and put a hand on Kendril’s arm. “Not battle,” she corrected. “Or not just battle, anyway.” She glanced over her shoulder to where Greslin and Ilsa were huddled in a corner of the square. “We found those two on the other side of the river.”
Jo
seph gave her a puzzled glance. “You were on the east side of the river? But how—?”
Maklavir sighed heavily. “Believe me, it’s a long story involving horrible smells, ruined stockings, and old carpets.”
Kendril gave a slow nod. “Thanks for clearing that up, Maklavir.”
“They’re taking women,” Kara continued. “Greslin says all the women, even the little girls.”
Kendril frowned. “What do you mean taking?”
“Carrying them off, alive, up to the Central Plaza. Greslin said there’s screaming coming from there, and chanting—”
“Great Eru,” Joseph breathed. “We have to get over there, do something to help—”
“Kara,” Kendril said, his voice so low that it sent shivers down his friends’ backs, “what kind of chanting?”
Baron Dutraad pulled his gloves on as he headed out of the fish store.
A nearby gendarme held the reins of his horse. He saluted as he saw the Baron.
Dutraad’s gaze swept over the assembled troopers on their mounts just behind his own horse. Most were wearing the red scarves of Count Idrimov’s regiment.
Idrimov himself was missing. His home was over in the east of Vorten, in the Merchant’s Quarter just past the Central Plaza.
“How many?” Dutraad asked. He eyed the frightened-looking militiamen who were lined up behind the small unit of cavalry.
The gendarme held his salute. “Eighty-two men, sir, last count. Sixteen mounted.”
Dutraad’s mouth curled into an angry snarl. It was barely a company. Looking over the men he could see a blaze of different-colored scarves, denoting officers and men from various regiments. Many had bandaged wounds and looked to be barely standing. Some had no weapons. It was a travesty. Certainly no way to fight a war. The moment shooting started he fully expected at least a third of these boys to run. The rest would undoubtedly have to fight an uncertain chain of command, taking orders from officers from other companies and regiments.
It was a recipe for disaster.
Dutraad hesitated a moment longer. He turned and mounted his horse.
Kendril came out of the blackness of the square, materializing like a ghost from the darkness. “Dutraad,” he said, “I need men. Every man who can stand on two feet. We have to cross the Central Bridge right now.”
“Certainly,” said Dutraad, his voice thick with sarcasm. “How many would you like? A company? A regiment? I’ll put them all under your command.” He turned, and motioned to a cavalry lieutenant.
The man saluted back, and began to lead the line of troopers off towards the north of the square.
The ragged militiamen began to wearily march behind the cavalry, their faces turned towards the ground.
Kendril dashed forward and grabbed the bridle strap of Dutraad’s horse. “Baron!” he shouted, “this isn’t a game! You need to push east right now, before it’s too late—”
Dutraad turned his horse, pushing Kendril away a couple steps. “Don’t lecture me, Ghostwalker!” he roared. “We’ve lost the Wobble. Cultists are pouring through into the Shackles. The south bridge is close to crumbling as well. I need to plug the gap now or we’ll be flanked, do you understand—?”
“I understand just fine!” Kendril shouted back. He watched the lines of soldiers disappearing to the north with growing desperation. “It’s a trick, Dutraad, a diversion! Indigoru is trying to spread our forces out, take our attention off the Central Plaza—”
“Then she’s doing a bloody fine job of it.” Dutraad reined his rearing horse in. “The demon is in the Shackles right now! We’re losing men up there, losing ground. And your precious little Ghostwalkers haven’t been able to kill Mi—” he stopped, his face torn for a moment, “the Seteru.”
Kendril shook his head furiously. “None of that matters. They’re killing women by the hundreds in the Central Plaza right now. They’re sacrificing them—”
Dutraad lifted his head as an explosion sounded far to the north. The light flashed amidst the orange glow of the fires for a brief moment. He swung his head back to Kendril. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Ghostwalker, but there are people dying all over the city. I can’t abandon the Shackles just to rescue—”
“No, not killing,” Kendril repeated emphatically. “Sacrificing. They’re trying to tear a hole in the curtain between the Void and our world.”
Dutraad gaped at Kendril. “Have you lost your mind? You’re making no sense.”
Kendril gestured up towards the night sky. “It’s still the new moon. The barrier between the Void is at its thinnest. Indigoru is trying to tear a hole in the veil that separates the Void and our world right here in the Central Plaza. That’s why she’s sacrificing hundreds of women. She’s using the blood to create a Void gate, a rift that will open the Void into the heart of the city—”
Dutraad snorted angrily. “I don’t have time for your religious nonsense. We’re in the middle of a battle—”
“That’s what Indigoru wants!” Kendril cried. “She wants us confused, distracted, paying no attention to what’s happening in the plaza. If she opens a gate there, the battle’s over.”
Dutraad turned his horse back towards the northern street. “Nonsense—”
“Listen to me!” Kendril thundered. “You think one demon in Vorten is frightening? If that gate opens there will be thousands of demons and creatures of the Void pouring into Vorten. From here they’ll swarm over all Zanthora. We have to throw everything we have at the Central Plaza and stop it right now.”
Dutraad spun in his saddle. “If I push on the Central Bridge, it means abandoning the north and south. We’ll lose the city.”
“If you don’t,” Kendril said ominously, “then you’ll lose the city anyway.”
Dutraad stared at him for a long, hard moment, then turned his horse and trotted after the militiamen that were disappearing into the dark streets leading north.
“Idiot,” Kendril seethed. He turned back towards the edge of the square.
Joseph, Kara, and Maklavir stood disconsolately nearby. Hamis sat against the wall of a half-destroyed building.
Joseph raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Dutraad’s departing form. “Did he—?”
Kendril shook his head in answer to the unfinished question. “He doesn’t believe me.”
Maklavir clucked his tongue. “Well, it’s not like you’ve given him much of a reason, too, old boy. You and your friends haven’t really been on the best of terms with the good Baron.”
Kendril turned and looked down the eastern street. “We don’t have a choice. We have to make it to the plaza and stop that ritual.”
Hamis nodded painfully. He pushed himself up to his feet, then snatched his greatsword up into both hands. “Agreed. I’m with you, Kendril.”
“And me,” Joseph said softly.
“Me too,” said Kara. “Just find me a decent bow and a quiver of arrows, and I’ll be fine.” She looked down at her feet. “Actually, I decent pair of boots would be nice, too.”
Maklavir stepped forward as well. “Me too.”
Kendril stared at him. “You?”
“Oh, yes,” said Maklavir somberly. “You probably didn’t know, but my one great desire has always been to die miserably, screaming as creatures of the Void eat me alive.”
Kendril actually smiled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“All the same,” said Maklavir, a new note of misery coming into his voice, “you’re going to make me come along anyways, aren’t you? I can already see where this is going. It’s just like back in Balneth, when you dragged me along with you to find a bloody secret entrance to some catacombs that you didn’t need me for anyways. I think you keep hoping I’ll just get killed.”
“And yet,” Kendril mused, “you’re still alive.”
“I signed my death warrant the day I stayed in that inn in the Howling Woods instead of running for my life,” Maklavir moaned. “So let me guess. You need me to guide you and the others t
hrough the sewers, right? To sneak under the river and launch some kind of sneak attack on the enemy?”
“Actually,” said Kendril lightly, “I would only need Kara for that.”
Maklavir stopped for a moment, pondering. “Well…I suppose that’s true.”
“But that’s not what we’re doing,” Kendril said.
Kara looked up from her feet. “We’re not?”
The Ghostwalker shook his head. “No. We can’t afford to lose our bearings in the dark, much less try to find our way to the Central Plaza after we emerge. Time is of the essence.”
Joseph uncrossed his arms. “What’s the plan, then?”
Kendril holstered his pistol again. “We’re going straight across the bridge.”
Chapter 18
“Halt!” A gendarme stepped out into the street, a carbine raised to his shoulder. “Who passes?”
Kendril raised his gloved hands. “Friends of Vorten. Where’s Lieutenant Gradine?” He nodded towards the battered brick building of a cutlery store. “There?”
The gendarme hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Kendril nodded grimly. “Take me to him, gendarme.”
The man shouldered his carbine, then waved them into the store.
The room was large, with windows looking out onto the boardwalk along the western side of the Inersa river. The windows had been shattered, and glass covered the floor. The far wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, and the broken remains of furniture covered the floorboards. Some of the larger pieces of wooden shelves and cabinets had been pushed up against the windows.
A half-dozen gendarmes were in the room. Three were sitting on a circle on the floor, playing cards by the guttering light of a single candle. Two others were lounging against the far wall, talking quietly. One gendarme stood by the windows, peering cautiously out as he smoked a pipe.
“Mr. Kendril.” Lieutenant Gradine got to his feet and nodded towards the Ghostwalker. “Welcome to the front lines.” He eyed the group behind Kendril curiously. “Are these your…friends?”
“Yes.” Kendril stepped up towards the windows and glanced out from behind a curtain.