The Stone Warriors: Nicodemus

by D. B. Reynolds

  Nico climbed to his feet and set about straightening his clothes before venturing to the kitchen. If he hoped to make a special request of Sotiris’s cook, he should look like what he was—a powerful sorcerer and landholder, born and raised the son of a king. Unfortunately, the shaking out of his clothes only served to make him aware that he hadn’t bathed in—he frowned—a very long time. Weeks, he thought. It was a wonder the servants had bothered with him at all.

  “Fuck.” Well, there was nothing for it but for him to ask the first servant he encountered where he could bathe. Maybe he’d use Sotiris’s own quarters. No doubt the accommodations there were of the highest quality and comfort. He considered for a moment whether the bastard would have set magical traps for the unwary in his own quarters. Was he that paranoid? Possibly, although the daily inconvenience of dealing with such traps would have been considerable. And for that matter, since Nico had penetrated his enemy’s tower, he could surely manage to invade his chambers, too. The idea gave him sufficient satisfaction that he decided to venture forth and give it a try.

  THE SUN WAS WELL into the sky by the time Nico was kissing a blushing cook on the cheek to thank her for the enormous and delicious breakfast she’d prepared for him. He was getting the clear impression from everyone he met in the halls—and especially the servants’ corridors— that no one particularly mourned Sotiris’s absence. Did they think Nicodemus was their new lord? He was beginning to believe they might, and it only made him feel more obligated to see to their futures, along with those of his own people. His personal assets, now combined with Sotiris’s, were considerable, but he would need to assign someone from his own staff to see to their distribution.

  He shook his head of the thought. He would do the best he could in the short time he had, but his first duty was to Antonia and his warriors. Bearing that in mind, he returned to Sotiris’s tower and began gathering materials. He’d examined his choices going forward while he’d bathed and eaten. Both activities had helped clear his thoughts, thus permitting him to see the alternatives more clearly. And he’d made a decision. He could linger in this world forever and never find the clear answers he required. But while he lingered, the people he loved would be suffering.

  Instead, he would gather what he could of Sotiris’s notes and workbooks, pack those which were the most recent and/or had been the most helpful to him thus far, and take them with him into the unknown future. He knew enough of the various theories regarding space and time that he wouldn’t be able to pack a wagon, harness a pair of horses, and trundle into the unknown. Everything he wanted to take would have to be on his person, and even then, some of the materials might be too fragile for the passage, since he might be tossed around, or land badly in whatever place and time he ended. He would have to select carefully, which is what he set out to do with what was left of the day. Before sunset, he intended to be on his way back to his own estate, where he would complete his arrangements as quickly as he could, and then leave this world behind, forever.

  The thought of leaving the only home he’d ever known should have been a sorrowful one. And it was, somewhat. But mostly, he found himself exhilarated at the prospect of seeing a new world, perhaps more than one. Would magic still prevail wherever he landed? The same men who hypothesized the existence of other worlds taught that there would be at least some magic in all of them . . . although they might only have been pandering to the wealthy sorcerers and other magic-users who supported them and their work.

  Nico was trusting their knowledge with his life, but even so, he had few qualms about the things he might lose along the way. If his magic didn’t work, his intellect would, and so would his charm, which had served him well in this world and would in the next.

  The only nightmarish thought that continued to haunt him was the possibility that among Sotiris’s papers that he was bringing with him— too many of which he hadn’t yet read—would be the one journal, the lone page or scribbled note, that would tell him where Antonia was and how he could find her. And that singular piece of information would be the one page or journal somehow lost during his transition to the next world.

  But lingering on that possibility would only freeze him in place until he’d read every book, every journal, every scribbled note in Sotiris’s tower—which would take decades or more that he simply didn’t have. Because in his heart of hearts, he believed it was necessary for him to leave as quickly as possible, if he hoped to end up in the same place Antonia and the others had been cast.

  NICODEMUS WAS uncharacteristically somber when he reached his own home that night. It was an elegant castle with white stone peaks, surrounded by orchards that still held the scent of the fruits they bore in the spring and fall. The air carried the first chill of winter, which was usually the case when he was returning home from battle. The winters in this part of the world were harsh, and not even Sotiris had been willing to fight both the elements and his enemies.

  Nico was more than tired when he climbed the stairs to his private tower. His heart lay like a stone in his chest, a burden to carry with every step. He knew he’d done everything right, everything possible, to retrace Sotiris’s evil spell. And that the best chance his warriors had was for him to follow his instincts, to leave immediately and . . . never return to this place, which was the only home he’d ever known. But his brothers, and then Antonia, had made it a true home. Not his father or mother, certainly, nor his older brother who’d tormented him his entire childhood until he’d learned to use his magic to fight back.

  “My lord.”

  The familiar voice, filled with worry, had him turning away from the stairs to face the man who was the true ruler within the walls of Nico’s estate. “Seneca,” he said, putting what little warmth he had left in him into the name. The manservant had been with Nico from his earliest years, and during that time, he’d been the closest thing Nico’d had to a father figure. “Everyone is well?”

  “All but you, my lord. I look at you and know you need rest. Real rest. And some good food.”

  He grinned half-heartedly. “Sotiris’s cook is a genius. You should bring her here.”

  “Bring her here? What of Sotiris? The reports we received had him still alive when last—”

  “Alive, but well gone into another world, I believe. Never to return.” He sighed deeply. “As I will soon be, my friend. Our enemy cast a deadly spell which I am left to somehow undo. I must follow him, Seneca. And I doubt either of us will ever return.”

  Seneca appeared stricken by the news. “Never return,” he said slowly. “But you are victorious, these lands—all of them now—are yours to rule.”

  “Victory . . .” Nico repeated, as if tasting the word. “It is dust on my tongue, Seneca. He’s taken my lady Antonia, and my brothers. Damian, Kato, Gabriel, Dragan . . . they’re all gone.”

  “Dead,” Seneca breathed.

  “Worse even than that. Cast into a living hell to suffer until I can somehow find their individual prisons and free them.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  “We were betrayed, old friend. Antioch sold his soul and his honor to the enemy, providing Sotiris with possessions from the very men who’d trusted him most, even called him friend. The items he stole were of little value to others, but of great personal value to each of the four warriors. Sotiris then used those treasures to personalize the powerful and heinous spell which sucked them from this world and into another, where they are even now suffering a terrible fate.”

  “Antioch? But why?”

  “Money to buy his family a farm.”

  “He never mentioned—”

  “No, not to me or the others either, I’m sure.” Nico’s gaze hardened when he met Seneca’s eyes. “It’s a farm he’ll never enjoy, a family he’ll never be a part of now. He’s naught but mud on the battlefield by now.”

  “I don’t understand such disloyalty to
a lord like yourself. If he’d come to you . . . . Ah, but he didn’t, and the die is cast.” His expression was one of horror when he looked up at Nico. “But . . . Lady Antonia? Surely Sotiris would not—”

  “No, not with the others, I don’t believe. But beyond that . . . I cannot find her.” It took every bit of strength he had left not to surrender to despair.

  “But . . . your lands, this estate, and the others . . . . What will happen to them. To . . . us?”

  “Everything I have is yours.”

  “My lord!” The manservant was aghast. “I am not—”

  “You are a decent and good man, and more family to me than those who gave me life. You will do well and right by the others. My trust is yours.”

  Seneca looked from side to side as if searching for something that would make sense of what his master was saying. “When?”

  “Tonight. There is no benefit in waiting. I will pack a few things and be gone.”

  “Will you . . . . My lord, will you share a meal with us before you go?”

  Now that the decision was made, Nicodemus didn’t want to delay a moment longer than necessary. Having told Seneca of his plans, and having passed to this good man the burden of ruling the estate, Nico wanted to throw Sotiris’s journals into a backpack, along with a few necessary supplies and journals of his own, and leave. But it was fit that he end his life in this world by sharing dinner with the men and women who’d served him so well for so long.

  “I will,” he told Seneca. “But make it within the hour. Instinct is telling me that I have no hope of following Lady Antonia and my brothers if I delay beyond that. The alignment of worlds may shift without regard for my needs.”

  “Right away, then, my lord. I will see to it.” Seneca started away, but stopped when he pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Forgive me,” he said, holding it out to Nicodemus. “This came for you in the midst of battle, which I thought a curious thing. But with what you’ve told me . . . perhaps it is significant.”

  Nico almost didn’t want to touch the envelope. He recognized Sotiris’s writing, and knew it wouldn’t contain anything good. Nothing Sotiris touched had ever been good. But Nico couldn’t afford to ignore it, either. It would be very like his enemy to taunt him with some small piece of knowledge, some obscure clue as to the whereabouts of his people, and how he could find them across the many worlds. He took the envelope, which was worn and wrinkled, as if it had been stuffed into someone’s pocket for too many days.

  “When did this arrive?” he asked.

  “Yesterday eve, my lord. The messenger was a young boy, and not one I recognized. It was, in fact, my impression that he’d been paid only to deliver this one thing.”

  “Last night,” Nico murmured to himself. Sotiris had fled long before that, but if it was as Seneca believed, the boy could have taken far longer to deliver this missive than would the usual messenger.

  “Thank you, Seneca. I will join you and the others in the kitchen very soon.”

  He continued up the stairs without further comment. What he’d said to Seneca was true. The sense inside him that time was running out was growing more urgent with every breath. He almost regretted agreeing to sit down to a meal with his staff, but the promise had been made. He would pack everything he intended to take with him before meeting the others, and leave immediately after.

  Leave, he thought to himself. This would be a very different sort of leave-taking than any before. He wouldn’t ride through the gates and travel the nearby road. Rather, he’d cast a spell and hope the fates were kind, which was always a chancy thing.

  He didn’t read the letter immediately, but set about gathering whatever notes and journals he thought would be most useful in his new life. It was a guessing game, since he had no idea where he’d end up. But even sorcery had immutable rules. So he packed what he could, and then stood for a moment simply breathing in the scent of his library, scanning the shelves and titles, trying to commit them to the prodigious memory which was the tool of a truly powerful sorcerer. He doubted these same tomes would exist wherever he ended up, but one never knew. If travel between the worlds was possible, albeit rare, then he might make the occasional fortuitous find in a market stall or library.

  His final, and most important, task was to gather the various elements of Sotiris’s spell. He had to be precise in this if he wanted to reach the same destination. The physical elements weren’t the same. He didn’t need the personal items Antioch had turned traitor to provide, since he was the only one making the transition. He didn’t even need anything of his own, beyond whatever he was taking along. The crucial aspect had been figuring out which parts of Sotiris’s spell had been responsible for selecting the ultimate destination for the unwilling warriors, then duplicating and incorporating those elements in his own spell. For all that, the task hadn’t taken long, once he’d located and understood the spell itself. The most critical aspects were straightforward sorcery, and for that, Nico needed only himself.

  Before he left his rooms to join his household staff for dinner, he rested on the same sofa where he’d first sat talking to Antonia, and opened Sotiris’s final missive.

  Nicodemus,

  The fates have favored you once again, if you are alive to read this. If they were bound by logic or simple good sense, they’d have abandoned you long ago. But the outcome of this battle is no longer in play. Or so it would seem. Even the fates can be fooled if a sorcerer is smart and powerful and motivated by sufficient hatred that the impossible is no longer out of reach.

  Your storied warriors have gone where you will never find them. Their lives will be eternal and filled with the agony of endless imprisonment. Every moment they suffer will strengthen the hatred they feel for your arrogance in having ripped them from their lives to serve yours.

  Ah, but you are clever enough to have discovered this by now. I will grant you that much intellectual discipline, if not respect. But that is not my final gift to you. No, I reserve that to my treacherous Antonia, who in violation of nature and obligation betrayed me to serve you. I would like to believe she was the victim of ensorcellment on your part, but likely, she was simply weak, as seems to be the curse of all women.

  You are no doubt desperate to discover her fate. Is she imprisoned in the manner of your warriors? Does she still live at all? Shall I tell you, my old enemy? And if I do, will you spend your life and power searching for her? That could prove a useful distraction for me, but far too easy a punishment for her. No, I have stolen far more than her freedom. I have stolen her very self, everything that has made her the unfaithful bitch she became. Sweet Antonia lives in the same world as your warriors, though perhaps not the same time. She has no knowledge of herself, no memory of you, or of the world where she was born. Her magic remains, though she cannot use it. The outward beauty that hides her treacherous heart will never fade. She has become a pretty porcelain doll who sits in a child’s playhouse and neither knows nor cares anything of the world. Her only memory is of me, but even that is as shallow as she deemed it by act and devotion.

  I have granted her eternal life. Eternal, meaningless, empty life. Which is more than she earned with her betrayal. But lest you think me utterly unfeeling, I give you one more task, Nicodemus. Find her, claim her, and her “self” will be restored. Where shall you look? When shall you look? And whom shall you seek first? Your warriors or the woman?

  One final note, Nicodemus Katsaros. I am not done with you. Wherever you go, I will be there, inflicting pain on anyone you dare to love, while I watch you scurry through the worlds searching for the past. That is my promise to you.

  The pompous bastard signed the hateful missive with a wax seal and the scrawl of his full name . . . Sotiris Dellakos.

  Nico tossed it to the floor, certain he could feel evil sliding off the paper, clinging like oil to his fingers. He wanted to rip it to shreds
and burn the bits, but instead he picked it up, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his pocket. Sotiris was just vicious enough to have concealed some necessary bit of information within the text, hoping Nico would lose any chance of finding Antonia by following the impulse to destroy the hateful letter.

  Antonia lived. That was all that mattered. That she didn’t know herself, that she had no recourse to her magic . . . he couldn’t understand how a man who should have cared at least some small measure for her could inflict such punishment. At least he’d let her live, even if he’d done it to further her punishment. There was a chance, and Nico was a powerful sorcerer. Which meant chance was always in play.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Nicodemus Katsaros stood in his tower room for the last time. He didn’t linger for a final, sentimental perusal of his library. He had a purpose, and it was no longer in this world. Picking up the backpack which held everything he was taking with him, he began chanting the spell that would cast his fate to the mists of time, and the shifting reality of worlds. He would find his warriors. He would find his Antonia. And then he would find Sotiris. And he would kill him.

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  1824, Paris, France

  NICODEMUS ARRIVED on a city street with a burst of magical energy that he quickly tried to contain, for fear it would draw every magic user in the vicinity to his location. He knew Sotiris had been to this place and time, because he’d replicated the other sorcerer’s spell to get this far. What he didn’t know was whether Sotiris was still here. He’d prefer to avoid confronting the enemy sorcerer until he was in full control of his powers. He also needed to discover exactly where and when he was before he did or said anything to anyone. It would be too easy to insult the wrong person, or say the wrong thing, and end up captured or dead.