by Lloyd, Tom
Gravity dragged him down hard, even with both hands tight around the axe handle it was almost wrenched from his grip. A sharp pain briefly flared in the wrist that took the brunt of his weight, but he refused to release his grip and a moment later he was just dangling above the rain-gully, legs swinging freely. With a grunt he raised himself to shift one hand above the next, then hauled as hard as he could to pull himself close enough to the balcony to grab its edge.
He hung another moment until the swing of his body under him slowed again, then shifted one bar closer to the wall to set his boot against the stone to use it for support. Within a minute he was crouched on the balcony and unhooking his axe from the bars of the rail, ready to enter the house itself. He tried the door that led off the balcony and was unsurprised to find it bolted, but nearby was a shuttered window with a simple latch that his knife could work open without difficulty.
This high off the ground, the window was big enough for even Daken to crawl though. He checked he couldn’t hear anyone coming to investigate then eased himself through and shut the window behind. In the darkness of an empty room Daken grinned. The hardest part was over; now he was inside their defences and undetected. The main part of the manor house was oblong and Daken stood at one end of that. If the hallway was as grand as he suspected it would also contain the main staircase, but in a house this large there would be servant stairs too.
He went to the door ahead of him and tried to see through the keyhole. The corridor beyond it was dark enough that he couldn’t make anything out. When he inspected the other door he saw it didn’t have a lock, just a simple latch. Clearly this was a disused suite of rooms, all connected to each other. He stowed his axe and drew his dagger again, easing the door open with the weapon ready. There was no one in the other room but it did have a few pieces of furniture, a large bed and looming wardrobe, all draped in dust-sheets. The next room was similar to the first except it didn’t have an exit onto the corridor, just a musty garde-robe in the back corner, so Daken returned to the second and waited at the door, listening for a long while before he opened it.
He found himself on a bare stone corridor that led off to the left and met another from which a faint light shone, while on the right it turned a tight corner a few yards away. He followed it that way and was rewarded with a narrow doorway covered by a long drape that led to a cramped servants’ stair. He walked slowly up to the third floor, his only illumination the moonlight that crept through a slit window halfway up.
There he found a similar corridor and stalked along it until it met the central landing. Somewhere down that he could hear the tap of footsteps walking slowly towards him. A single pair; walking with the measured pace of a guard doing a circuit inside their perimeter.
He transferred his knife to his left hand, pressing his back against the wall that hid him. His practised ear told him when the footsteps were just at the corner, two steps beyond the point where the anxiety of adrenalin screamed for him to strike. He was reaching just as the figure came within one pace – dragging himself around the corner as he brought the knife up. The guard flinched at Daken’s sudden appearance, but had no time for anything else before the knife-blade was at his throat, its edge pressed hard enough to break the skin.
‘Move or cry out and you’re dead,’ Daken whispered, his other hand around the guard’s which in turn clasped his sword hilt.
The guard was an average-looking man who could have been anything to Daken’s eyes. He was middle-aged and clean-shaven; not as battered or unkempt as most mercenaries but clearly no raw recruit either. After an initial moment of panic in the man’s eyes he grasped the situation with the clarity of someone who’d felt Death’s hand on his shoulder and recognised Daken wasn’t exaggerating.
He didn’t nod of course, standing perfectly still without replying but Daken could see he understood easily enough. Keeping the knife at the man’s throat he turned around him and put a hand to his back, pushing him towards one of the doorways off the corridor. The man realised what he was being asked to do and walked without complaint into the room.
‘Do what I say and there’s no need to kill you. Now, lose the sword belt.’
The man perceptibly sagged with relief that he wasn’t going to have his throat cut in the next few moments and fumbled to obey – taking care not to drop his sword and make any undue noise or do anything else that might annoy the white-eye with a knife at his throat. Daken took hold of the back of the belt and pulled it away from the guard’s unresisting grip.
‘Good. Now I’ll be tying you up soon enough, but first tell me where she is.’
The guard made a puzzled sound. ‘Her?’ A moment later Daken heard him gasp. ‘The mirror? You’ve come to free her?’
The white-eye sensed the change in his prisoner immediately; body tense, lungs filling. Without thinking he wrenched back with his dagger, cutting deep into the guard’s throat as he moved back. The man turned half around, hands rising as though to reach for Daken, but the movement was never completed as a spray of blood followed the knife and he crumpled to his knees. Daken took another step back and caught the dead man by the arm, easing him down while trying to avoid the worst of the blood flowing out over the wooden floorboards.
‘Man wanted to live,’ he commented dispassionately, ‘until he heard what I wanted. Wasn’t expectin’ that.’
He dragged the body away from the door and considered his next move. Even loyal guards were rarely eager to sacrifice themselves in the faint hope of warning their master, and what did a mirror have to do with all this?
‘Startin’ to feel screwed over by my employer,’ Daken said softly, a grin once more creeping across his face. He sheathed the knife and pulled his axe out.
‘Now we’re on familiar ground. So there’s a mirror involved in this ritual – most likely they’re usin’ it as some sort o’ gateway. That and a blood sacrifice. Fucking daemon-worshippers; always eager with a virgin and sacrificial knife.’
He returned to the main passageway and cautiously headed down it. At the far end there was a solid balustrade beyond which a large wrought-iron chandelier hung. Only half its candles were burning but they were enough to cast adequate light around a central space that seemed to extend from ground level right up to the roof. Over the carved balustrade came sharp voices, several men talking over each other until a fist was thumped on a table and Daken heard a voice clearly.
‘Put the damn fire out, we can argue about who set it later!’ Daken’s grin widened a fraction as he heard feet scurry to obey. Unable to see any more guards on this level he crept forward and hid behind the balustrade as he decided his next move. He’d marked the stairways leading down to the first floor already, off to the left above where he guessed the shrine was. Flush against the back wall they came down from the sides to meet in the middle, the positioning making it clear they opened out to meet the lower stair at the second floor.
Almost on hands and knees he crept to the end of the balustrade and looked around the thick pillar at the corner. The way was clear to where the staircases met so he edged down the steps to the next corner, keeping hidden behind the balustrade with his axe at the ready.
‘Do you think it’s him, sir?’ a man said from the hallway below, younger than the first.
‘I don’t know,’ the other said with a sigh, ‘but we’ve warded this estate with everything Parain knows and double-checked it all – I don’t see how he could have got past all three layers of wardings.’
‘Could it be her?’
‘Don’t be stupid, man! She’s bound securely right there, go and check for yourself if you don’t believe me.’
That seemed to spark fresh panic in the younger man. ‘No! No, of course, sir – I know Parain has done his job.’
Two voices speaking frankly, Daken thought, tightening his grip on his axe handle. Sounds like that’s as clear as I’m likely to get.
Without waiting he straightened and jumped the short flight to a square half-lan
ding, finding himself with staircases on each side leading down. In the hall ahead were two armed men dressed like campaigning knights, staring astonished up at him as he came. A third was at the foot of the right staircase, foot poised to ascend but similarly taken by surprise.
Daken kept on straight, one hand on the balustrade as he vaulted it to control his fall. As his feet left the landing time seemed to slow, Daken seeing the older, aristocratic-looking man reaching for his sword as the other recoiled from the shock. Then he caught sight of a fourth almost directly below and the Land speeded up again.
Twisting in the air, Daken managed to bring one knee up as he dropped. He crashed into the soldier’s shoulder and knocked him aside into one side of the archway below the balustrade. The man collapsed to the floor, but Daken caught himself on the other jamb, ending up in a crouch as he absorbed the shock of a ten-foot drop. Not bothering to turn towards the danger he drove forward, axe ready to catch any blow but none came. Three quick paces took him to an altar decked out in all sorts of arcane objects – charms, wreaths of half-a-dozen plants, all surrounded by painted symbols on every available flat surface. In the centre of it all stood a mirror, Daken guessed by the shape, covered with an altar-cloth bearing Death’s symbol.
‘No one move or I break the mirror!’ he bellowed, chancing a look behind him.
There were open archways on either side of the altar too, three ways they could come at him and he wouldn’t be able to cover them all. He kept moving, looking left and right with the axe held out before the mirror.
‘Stay your weapons!’ the old man roared as his companion started forward. ‘All of you – hold!’
Once he was sure they were going to keep to his order, the man composed himself with remarkable speed and addressed Daken directly. ‘Stranger, don’t do anything rash – breaking the mirror would be as dangerous to you as the rest of us.’
‘Don’t you be so sure o’ that,’ Daken said, still moving warily, ‘folk say I’m mad; ain’t one for takin’ the safest path.’
‘Fair enough,’ the old man said placatingly, before his tone suddenly turned sharp. ‘Takkar, back off now! Get back, do nothing without my order or I’ll kill you myself!’
Through the archway ahead of him, Daken saw a man’s shadow on the flagstones and put the edge of his axe to the covered mirror. As commanded, the man edged away again and Daken watched his progress by the way the old man turned his head. Satisfied the man was far enough away he relaxed a touch, but was quick to cut the old man off before he could speak again.
‘You keep ’em back – now I got a mission here, so bring me the girl and I’ll go.’
The old man cocked his head. ‘Girl?’
‘Aye, the one you’ve got prisoner.’
Both men exchanged looks, the older raising an eyebrow at his companion then giving a short bark of laughter. ‘Tell me, stranger, who sent you on this mission?’
‘Someone I met in the pub,’ Daken growled, his grip on his axe tightening at the man’s amusement. ‘Now enough out o’ you, where’s the girl?’
‘Ah, well – here with us, I suppose.’
The older man took a pace forward, making a show of keeping his hands raised and away from his weapons. Daken could see there was still a trace of laughter in his eyes, however concerned he was about the threat to the mirror.
‘Let me explain; my name is Marshal Sallin, my companions and I belong to an order of knights . . .’
‘Do I look like I want a fucking history lesson?’ Daken snapped, his white-eye soul starting to snarl at Sallin’s laughter. ‘You’ve got five seconds to stop giving me bullshit or the mirror goes.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ Sallin said hurriedly, ‘she’s in the mirror!’
Daken glanced back at it then checked his flanks again. The archways were empty – the only explanation was that he was stalling for time.
‘Look! Look for yourself.’
Sallin gestured toward the mirror and pointedly took a pace back to allow Daken time to do as he suggested. The white-eye hesitated a moment then jerked the altar-cloth off the mirror, revealing a large, flawless piece of glass surrounded by a thick gilt frame.
‘Well?’ he demanded. In the mirror he could see himself and little else. He angled it to see behind him and the knights hadn’t moved from their positions.
‘She’s there,’ Sallin assured him.
Daken was about to turn away when, in the reflection, a head peeked around the archway between him and the two knights. He whirled around and saw nothing, but in the reflection the head hadn’t moved. It was hard to make out in the weak light, but he could see it was indeed a girl, in the first flourishes of beauty. Her dark hair hung loose about her shoulders and her dress seemed to be composed of dozens of coloured scarves all woven together.
‘Well bugger me sideways,’ Daken breathed.
‘So you see,’ Sallin announced, ‘this is no simple kidnapping – nor are we the villains of this piece. Now, if you would be so kind, please take your axe away from the mirror and let us be about our task.’
‘Eh? Why? I was sent here to free the bitch, not worry about what happens to you after.’
He took hold of the top of the mirror and lifted it off the altar, but when he tried to carry it away from the altar it was as though a steel-cord was attached to the back. Try as he might he couldn’t drag the mirror more than a yard from the altar, despite his prodigious strength.
‘Look up,’ said the younger knight, smirking.
Daken did so and discovered symbols painted onto the top of the altar room, a magical ward of some sort.
‘That’s right; you’re not taking her anywhere.’
Daken paused, the familiar growl of anger in his stomach intensifying. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually, ‘if that’s how you want it – fuck the lot o’ you.’
He set the mirror on the ground, leaning against the altar, and straightened up. The older man relaxed visibly, but then Daken swung his axe down through the centre of the mirror and shattered it.
‘No!’ both knights cried together, but the mirror had imploded under the blow and a thousand shards of glass dropped to the floor. ‘What have you done, you fool?’
‘Freed her,’ Daken said simply, his turn to smirk now. ‘That was my job, remember?’
‘But?’ The older man drew his sword and turned in a circle, as though expecting an attack from behind. ‘Where is she?’
Daken moved forward, clear of the archways and the men backed off. He saw four in the hall and more lingering in a doorway ahead. Each one had their weapons drawn now but none seemed to be focused on him.
‘What’s happened?’ howled someone from down the corridor behind the newcomers. ‘What have you done?’
‘The mirror’s been broken,’ Sallin said briskly, sounding now like a commander giving orders. ‘What does it mean, Parain?’
The man, clearly a mage, forced his way out past the soldiers and into the hall. ‘Mean? It means she’s bloody free!’ He pointed at Daken. ‘Who in Ghenna’s name is that?’
‘Someone who don’t like bein’ pointed at,’ Daken snarled.
‘Never mind him,’ Sallin demanded, sounded increasingly worried now, ‘define “free” – she’s not here with us, why hasn’t she appeared.’
Parain looked around wildly for a moment then composed himself. ‘I, ah, the wardings, that’s why. Nothing can incarnate within the grounds, her spirit is here but she’ll be without form and vulnerable still.’ He brightened. ‘We can still do the ceremony! If we can trap her again, that is – we need to find where her spirit’s gone.’
‘Where could it go? Another mirror? I’ve not seen many here.’
‘Or into a person, she could possess their body still.’
Sallin turned slowly towards Daken. ‘But we’ve all been warded against her touch. She only has one option there.’
‘What the fuck are you all on about?’
Sallin started to ch
uckle. ‘Take off your coat!’
‘What?’
‘Take your coat off,’ Sallin repeated, unbuttoning his own tunic and pulling his shirt up. Underneath were more strange blue tattoos, markings on his skin like those on the men Daken had killed earlier.
With one hand he did as Sallin suggested, unbuttoning his coat and lifting the segment-mail shirt underneath. A blue light was playing over his skin, tracing a strange path he couldn’t feel. As he watched the light began to intensify and then he felt it, sharp and hot enough to make the white-eye hiss with discomfort.
Parain laughed abruptly, a high nervous giggle that broke off as soon as Daken glowered at him. His darkening mood didn’t stop Sallin from joining in to the laughter however and Daken’s nostrils started to fill with the hot smell of rage.
‘You came to save her!’ Sallin explained, beckoning forward his men. ‘Unfortunately for you, we’re the only ones who can save you from her!’
The old man started towards him, sword raised. ‘The mirror didn’t matter for our ceremony – it was only the vessel to be broken when we banished her from the Land! Some damn-fool white-eye will do just as well, I assure you.’
Daken moved without replying, his axe flashing through the air to chop through the nearest man’s sword arm. On the backswing he turned and buried the weapon into the next, barrelling on to batter another aside and find himself within reach of Sallin.
With the deftness of his kind the white-eye brought his axe around to catch Sallin’s rapier with it, hooking the thin weapon and twisting it out of the way. Always moving he dragged the old man closer to him and smashed his forehead into the knight’s nose, feeling the crunch and spurt of blood on impact.
He turned and tossed the wailing knight towards the next attacker, bowling that one over while he freed his axe again. The rest hung back a moment, spreading out around the hall – seven, eight of them, all looking nervous but all armed.