Shadow's master s-3

by Jon Sprunk

  They unlocked his shackles and carried him out. Caim tried to work up a little moisture, but his mouth was drier than sand. He couldn't help shivering as they approached the door to the torture chamber. He didn't know how much more he could take. Yet the soldiers passed by the heinous door without stopping. Caim held his breath, expecting them to turn around at any moment, but they kept going, pulling him along. He focused on moving his feet, keeping up with the soldiers' pace. It wasn't easy. He felt pathetically weak.

  They passed through an archway and down another hall with more doors. Faint sounds issued from behind some. Moans like the lamentations of the damned. How long before he started to make those same noises? How long would it be before he was beyond hope, crippled in mind and body? Used up and useless.

  The corridor ended at a wide doorway framed in large black stones. On the other side was a longer hall. The air was a little less stale. Instead of cell doors, side passages branched off at regular intervals. Caim tried to estimate how far they'd walked, but he had trouble making his brain function properly. Come on. Snap out of it. This is routine stuff. How far since the last intersection? He tried to remember. Twenty-three paces. Another pair of side tunnels arrived at the thirtieth step. He was still counting when the soldiers opened another door and ushered him inside. Caim tensed as they entered a long chamber with a high ceiling. It was as large as the Grand Hall in the Luccian Palace, but darker and gloomier, devoid of windows. Every surface was polished to a rich, black luster.

  Caim thought the room was empty until a figure separated from the penumbral shadows cloaking the wall. The swordsman wasn't wearing his helmet, but Caim recognized his armor and weapon. The warrior's features were leaner than he imagined, with the same dusky hue as Sybelle's.

  Caim flexed his fingers, wanting to hold his knives one last time before they finished him. Maybe he could goad this one into a duel. Better to die on my feet facing my enemy than on my knees waiting for the axe.

  The swordsman tossed a sleeveless gray tunic to the guards, and they put it on Caim none too gently. By the time they were done, the garment was stained with blood from his hand. The swordsman walked away, and the guards dragged Caim after him.

  They passed through a set of double doors made of dense, black wood, down another passageway and up a series of staircases that switched back on themselves several times. Caim gritted his teeth as cramps developed in his legs, but he walked under his own power, determined not to be dragged to his own execution. He lost count of the number of steps somewhere around five hundred, but finally they reached another hall. But it was only a foyer. More soldiers stood at attention at the far end. The blades of their poleaxes glimmered in the faint light, but did not move as the swordsman passed between them and pushed open a pair of massive bronze doors. Caim's breath caught in his throat as he stepped into a much larger chamber, and a powerful aura washed over him. It bound his limbs with invisible tethers and stole his wits like a hammer blow to the forehead.

  The chamber was magnificent, with great chandeliers of leaded glass. Thick pillars of black granite rose like charred fingers to the vaulted ceiling a hundred and fifty feet above his head. Accents of gold and obsidian adorned the walls. A great basalt throne, almost godlike in stature, rested upon a raised platform at the far end of the chamber. A man sat in the throne. He wore a wine-colored surcoat over deep gray robes, devoid of accessories or diadem, but Caim knew him for the monarch of Erebus. His head was shaved, his shoulders broad. But it was his eyes that drew Caim's attention. Flat, black, emotionless. They were like holes cut in a mask, revealing a vast power within.

  A crowd of people turned as Caim entered. He took them for gentry by their fine garb and jewels. Caim recognized the lady, Dorcas, from the palace, though she did not look in his direction. The others were shadow folk, too, but they numbered no more than a score. Caim struggled to shake off his captors. He wanted to face this creature standing on his own feet, but the soldiers held him easily. Then a moan echoed through the hall. Ten Northmen were spiked to a wooden framework erected against the left-hand wall. Blood dribbled from the wounds at their wrists and ankles and the dozens of cuts covering their hairy torsos. Three weren't moving, but at least half were still alive, their chests rising and falling in shuddering breaths.

  Caim's bare feet shuffled across the cool flagstones as he was shoved forward. The anger of years past blazed inside him, suffusing his face with its fever. These were the people behind the attack on his father's estate. The aura of malevolence increased as he approached the tall dais, like an army of biting ants was crawling all over his body.

  Caim was stopped a dozen paces from the steps of the dais, where a pair of shadow warriors stood guard. A sharp blow to the back of his legs knocked him to his knees. He struggled to stay upright until the blade of a halberd forced his face down to the floor.

  “Finally, the feared scion.” The voice reverberated through the hall. “Does he have a name?”

  “Caim, Master,” the swordsman answered with a clipped accent. “Caim of the House Du'Vartha.”

  “Du'Vartha?”

  “He took his human father's name, Master.”

  “I see.”

  Caim relaxed his muscles as the blade lifted from his neck. He had to conserve his energy and be ready for any opportunity. He straightened up to a kneeling posture, both hands on his thighs. The Shadow Lord's face was lean and taut, especially around his eyes, like the skin had been stretched too far. “Do you know who I am, boy?”

  Caim worked his tongue around his mouth. “Where are the others?”

  A hard blow struck the back of Caim's head, and he dropped onto his hands. He sucked at the inside of his bottom lip as he sat up again.

  “I am Abraxus of the House Thargelia. I am told that you are my eldest daughter's child. That you have come all this way from the Southlands to kill me. Is this true?”

  “Where are Kit and Malig?”

  Armor clinked as the soldiers shifted behind him, but the Shadow Lord lifted a finger. “Who are these he speaks of?”

  A throat cleared on the dais, and a slim shadow man in a crimson brocade robe appeared beside the throne. Caim recognized him as the silent observer at his torture sessions. “Great Lord,” the official said, “the scion was captured with two mortals. A male and a female. Nothing of interest. They appear to have been his companions.”

  Nothing of interest? Through his pain-haze, Caim eyed the swordsman, who had seen Kit appear from thin air. But while Caim waited for the man to speak up, the Shadow Lord waved his hand. “Then deal with them, Lord Malphas. Now you, Caim, tell this court why you have striven so hard against your own kind, who only wish to dwell in this realm in peace.”

  Caim almost choked on his tongue. Peace? He wished he had enough saliva to spit. “You know nothing of peace. You're all a pack of conquering, slave-making monsters. Everywhere you go, people suffer.”

  “We are alone in this hostile world, surrounded by enemies. We must conquer or perish. That is the law of survival.”

  “Where is my mother?”

  The Shadow Lord frowned. “Ah, yes. Isabeth. She is here, of course. But she cared nothing for you. How could she? You are a mongrel. A mistake.”

  Caim exhaled until his lungs were empty. His gaze locked on the Shadow Lord's eyes. Ignoring his injuries and pains, he delved deep inside himself looking for any scrap of energy. He found a vein of power, far below where he'd ever searched before. In his mind, it pulsed like a white-hot wire. He tried to grab hold of it and aim it toward the throne, but it was like trying to catch a greased serpent, writhing out of his mental grasp. Finally, with beads of sweat dripping down his face, he had to give up.

  The Shadow Lord shook his head. “This one is no blood of mine.”

  At a signal from the robed official, the soldiers hauled Caim to his feet and marched him out of the hall. None of the nailed Northmen moved as he passed. Perhaps they were all finally dead.

  Caim held his co
mposure until the doors slammed shut behind him, and then he let his chin drop to his chest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The boom of the closing doors sent a tremor through the floor stones as Balaam watched the scion depart from the hall. The assembly whispered among themselves. Their words traveled through the hall. “The grandson…heir to the black throne…dishonored…death…”

  Balaam glanced around. There were so few of his kind left in the citadel, less than a score, but they had become strangers to him. Even the others of his clan were like odd creatures in a menagerie, and he was locked inside with them.

  Malphas cleared the chamber with a command while the Master sat silently and gazed at the doors at the end of the hall. Balaam stood with his hands clasped behind his back. When they were alone, Abraxus sighed. He looked fatigued. “He is strong. Stronger than I had reason to anticipate, considering his mixed lineage.”

  “He is an untrained abomination,” Malphas said. “Forgive me, my lord, but that is all the more reason to execute him immediately. So that his deviancy and the threat he poses to your empire will die with him.”

  The Shadow Lord gazed down from the throne. “What is your opinion?”

  Balaam considered his words carefully. There was something in Malphas's expression he did not like, something predatory. Is this what we have become? We surround ourselves with slaves and servants, but are we all just tools like this scion, to be used and discarded? “He is dangerous, Master.”

  Lord Malphas began to nod in agreement, until Balaam continued, “But I counsel you not to slay him out of hand.”

  Malphas sniffed, but the Shadow Lord asked, “Why not? Do you believe he could be one of us?”

  “No, Master.” Balaam groped for some reason to defend the scion's life. What shall I say? He fights well, and with honor, which is more than I can say of everyone in your court. “But he may be the last of your line. With one of your daughters departed, and the other-”

  Abraxus waved his hand. “I will not be swayed by the virtue of blood alone. Are you sure he cannot be convinced to join our conquest?”

  “Quite sure,” Malphas said before Balaam could reply. “I attended his interrogation personally. Believe me, my lord. There is nothing of your greatness in him.”

  Balaam considered challenging those words. He had tested the scion in personal combat. He knew the man's mettle better than anyone else in Erebus. But then he thought of Dorcas. If he crossed Malphas and lost, who would care for her? “Master, I do not agree.”

  Malphas stepped to the edge of the dais platform, where he towered over Balaam. “The court is grateful for your efforts in capturing this enemy, but be mindful of your station, Talon.”

  Balaam felt the muscles in his arms and legs contract as cool detachment filled him. His gloves creaked. But Abraxus stood up. “Prepare the scion for execution. Tomorrow at the high diurn.”

  Malphas bowed. “Yes, Master. I shall see to it myself.”

  Balaam lowered his head and kept it down until Abraxus had departed. When he looked up, Malphas was gone as well. Taking a deep breath, Balaam turned toward the doors. Why did he care if the scion was put to death? The man was nothing to him. But then he recalled the execution of Lord Oriax.

  This is not the empire we once knew.

  Balaam pulled the hood of his cloak down over his eyes as he opened a portal to a place far away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Kit muttered one of Caim's favorite curses as her hand slipped.

  She sat, naked as the day she was born-the humiliation of that was something she would not soon forget-trying to pick the lock of the golden cage in which she'd been placed. The room around her was large and fancy, but with hardly any furniture except for her cage. Her hand shook as she bent the copper wire and jammed it back into the lock.

  She didn't remember much of her sojourn back to her grandmother's retreat. She had been in the garden, running from…something. She vaguely recalled a pair of yellow eyes, and then a sharp pain in her chest. The next thing she knew, she was falling into Caim's arms, and he caught her!

  Kit sighed as she relived the memory. Touching Caim, being held by him, had affected her more than she thought it would. But then she had been pried from his arms and…and…darkness. She awoke here, caged up like an animal, being pawed by an old shadow man with large, black eyes. She had nearly spit in his face when he told her that she was his slave, but she didn't. Because he, Lord Malphas, had known at once what she was, or what she'd been. The way he looked at her, devouring her with hungry eyes, made that abundantly clear. So she remained quiet and demure until he left.

  For a while she sat in the cage and stewed, but then her anger turned to motion as she searched everything she could reach through the bars, which wasn't much. But the leg of a decorative table had yielded a short length of pliable wire. Picking a lock had always looked easy whenever Caim did it; just push in the tool and move it around until the lock popped open. Yet she'd been working on it for the past candlemark with nothing to show for her efforts except cramped fingers and fraying nerves. With a sob, she tossed down the wire and buried her face in her hands.

  She could only imagine what Caim was going through, all alone without her. Had she made the wrong choice becoming human? If she were still Fae, she could find him in a heartbeat. Now she was locked away with two hundred and twenty-seven paces of stone ceilings and corridors between them.

  Kit choked back her anguish as she realized she could feel Caim's presence. She looked down at the floor. That's where he was, exactly two hundred and twenty-seven paces away. Best of all, she knew he was alive, knew it down deep in her newly solid bones.

  Rejuvenated by this knowledge, Kit took up the wire and started on the lock again. Once she was free, she would track down Caim, break him out, and they could flee. She blew a stray strand of hair from her eyes and squinted down into the lock. Just hang on, darling. I'll find you.

  Kit was jiggering the wire back and forth in the lock when footsteps echoed outside the room. She snatched out the wire and slipped it under her leg as her new “master” entered. Kit watched Lord Malphas take off his outer robe, and a burly Northwoman came to take it away. Then the shadow man looked at Kit until she squirmed. She had stared into the eyes of snakes and wolves and some really big monster fish that prowled the seas, but this man's look disturbed her. It wasn't lust for her naked body, which she could have handled. It felt like he was peeling off her skin with his eyes.

  “Jai asta raelano, mei hai?” he asked. You're a long way from home, aren't you?

  Kit's breath left her lungs. Her native language sounded foul coming from his mouth. She sat in her gilded prison and shivered, glad for once for the bars between them. After a few minutes, he went to another wing of the suite and left her alone.

  Kit let out the breath she'd been holding. Forcing her hands to be steady, she took out the wire and got back to work. On her next try, something clicked. With one eye on the doorway, Kit lifted the latch.

  The door of the cage swung open.

  Kit waited with one hand on the bars, listening for any nearby movement, but all was quiet. Telling herself to be brave like Caim, she slipped out of the cage and went to the front door. She could have cried with joy when the latch opened. The hallway outside was empty. Kit thought for a moment. If she left now, there was no turning back. Her absence would be noted and a search was likely to ensue. How fast could she get to Caim? She had no way of knowing.

  With a deep breath to calm her nerves, Kit grabbed a yellow silk duvet from the back of a chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. She could do this.

  She stepped through the door, pulled it closed behind her, and hurried down the cold stone corridor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Armenis of Freehold. Dalros Vicencho. Fur-Furio Three-Finger. That duelist from Mecantia with a lisp.”

  The names echoed back to Caim as he dredged them up from his memories and spoke them aloud. A
list of all the men he'd killed. Some he didn't have names for, but he remembered exactly how they'd looked when they died. So much blood. I'm a killer. It's the only thing I've ever been good at.

  Shackled once more to the wall, he stared up at the lights. He was tired down to his bones, but he couldn't sleep. I'll be dead soon. Then I can sleep forever.

  “Chiel-No, what was his name? Chellish the Mad. Yes. Edric Klapsur.”

  Caim looked up to the shackles holding his wrists to the wall. Blood had run down from his right hand and formed a crust around that cuff. He tugged, but it was too tight and the metal didn't have any play. And even if he managed to slip out of the stocks, where would he go? The door was solid iron-he'd seen that in his comings and goings-and locked from the outside. They'd taken everything except his smallclothes. Well, old boy, I think this might be the end.

  How would they do it? Beheading? Draw and quarter? That seemed a little extravagant for the quiet man sitting in the black throne. Maybe they'll send someone down here to slice my throat and be done with it.

  He was about to resume his list of names when he caught a flicker of movement in the far corner of his cell. Had the lights dimmed? Though no shadows existed anywhere in the tiny room, he couldn't see into that corner. It was just a grayish haze.

  It's him. He had been waiting for the swordsman to return since the audience with the Shadow Lord. He wasn't sure why, but something in the warrior's gaze had made Caim think that they shared some kind of connection. Yes, we're both killers. We know our own. “You just going to stand there and look at me?”

  When there was no answer from the misty corner, Caim yanked at his shackles and cursed. “You want to cut my throat? Then do it already!”

  Caim fought his bonds and shouted until he was breathless, slumped against the wall, but his efforts evoked no reply. With a grunt, he looked down at the floor and kept his gaze there while the blood throbbed in his eardrums. After a few minutes he looked up. The haze was gone. He was alone again. Or maybe I'm going fucking crazy down here.