Nightlord: Shadows

by Garon Whited

  No, thanks. I decided to let Tort examine them. She’s a professional; I’m just a dangerous amateur.

  The man missing part of his hand moaned and his eyes fluttered. I kicked him—it seems wrong to say “gently.” Lightly? How about “at less than full strength”?—in the head to quiet him again. The boot was fine; my foot felt as though I’d kicked something red-hot. Limping into a puddle didn’t help, but the boot protected my foot from the worst of it. Apparently, if I didn’t actually touch him, it wasn’t as bad; it was at least partly a proximity thing.

  I waited, wondering who sent them. This wasn’t professional; this was just a bunch of thugs for muscle with a magician running the show. They had no real plan, no real tactics, just some firepower and the willingness to use it. For most mortals, that would be enough, but they had to know what they were facing, didn’t they? Only a fool would try this at night! I couldn’t figure it out. What could they possibly have hoped to accomplish? That they would just get in a lucky shot?

  At night, in the rain, there was a shortage of passers-by; people weren’t out except by necessity. One of these, an older man pulling a handcart, came down the street. I’d seen several of that sort around town during the day. This one had a lantern overhead, bobbing on a pole as he walked. Raindrops diverted themselves to either side as they encountered his spell; he stayed dry.

  He paused when his lantern illuminated me and the bodies.

  “Good evening,” I offered.

  He stared at me for a moment before replying.

  “Good evening,” he allowed. “’Cept for the rain.”

  “Good point. Sorry, are we blocking the road?”

  “Ah… yes?”

  I dragged the unconscious, unprotected guys aside.

  “There you go.”

  He nodded wary thanks and started to go on by, then paused.

  “Are you the King?”

  “Yep.”

  He made a knee in the wet street and got up again.

  “Pardon, Your Majesty. Ain’t seen you but at a distance, and in armor. You don’t look hardly as tall as I thought you might.”

  “Size matters not,” I assured him. I held out my hand. He looked at my hand, then at me. I waggled my hand a bit to prompt him. He took my hand and made to kiss it; I shook hands with him instead.

  “There you go. Halar, King of Karvalen. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Nick. I’m just a carter, Your Majesty.”

  “A carter? What does a carter do? I’ve never had cause to hire one.”

  “Well, I cart things,” he said. I nodded and gestured for him to continue. “Well… uh… people want things moved, so I puts them on my cart,” he lifted the handles and wiggled the cart back and forth a bit in demonstration, “and I takes them where they wants ’em.”

  “Seems obvious, now that you’ve explained it. Only in town?”

  “Mostly. Don’t go out of town unless it’s awful dry. Wheels get stuck, see.”

  “Naturally. Although, with wider wheels…” I shelved the thought; now was not the time to redesign another piece of medieval technology. “Well, I’m sorry to have delayed you in the rain, Nick.” He shrugged.

  “I got nowhere to be in a hurry, and I got to meet the King.” He grinned. “You ain’t nearly so fearsome as people make out,” he added.

  “I like to think so. I can be much nicer than my publicity says,” I assured him.

  “Oh, you got lots of legends and songs what say you’re a right nice guy,” he said, carefully. “Fearsome, but that ain’t no bad thing for a Hero and the King.”

  “Actually, I try not to be all that fearsome. I like to think I blend in rather well.”

  “Can’t say as I’d argue, Majesty.”

  I heard approaching thunder, mixed with deep, brazen bells.

  “Ah, I hear my horse coming this way. It was nice to meet you,” I said. He picked up the handles of his cart, creaked and rattled away with it.

  Bronze, carrying Tort and my former captive, came to a clanging halt. The crystal on Tort’s staff was glowing again, shining with about a hundred watts of crimson light. She had her braid wrapped around her head and tied off in the back, somehow. Given her expression of grim purpose, I suspected it was her way of getting ready for serious work.

  “What is this?” she asked. She cuffed the guy off Bronze’s back with surprising force. “Answer me!”

  The guy groaned and picked himself up slowly; it was a long way to the ground.

  “Never mind him,” I advised. “Check out this guy.”

  Tort shifted onto her staff and floated down. Her eyes widened as she examined the golden glow and the crossbow bolts. Then her eyes narrowed in anger. She hopped down to stand on one foot, gestured with her staff. Too late, I saw the power run down the staff and leap; lightning crackled from the jewel in the staff and the smell of burnt meat was suddenly strong despite the misty rain.

  “Wait!” I shouted, too late. Tort stopped the instant I spoke, which was good for the other four, but the guy with the glow was now the guy slightly on fire. He sizzled and steamed in the wet.

  Tort turned to me, looking mortified.

  “My angel?” she asked. “Should I not have done that?”

  “I really wanted to ask him some questions,” I admitted. Tort winced.

  “I am so very sorry,” she apologized. “I did not… I thought…” She hung her head. “I am sorry, my angel.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I told her. “We still have the others.”

  “As you say. Will you permit me to discover everything they know? Or do you wish to do it personally?” she asked. “I would be most pleased to do so for you, my angel, in part apology for my hastiness in slaying your would-be assassin.”

  “I do want them questioned, yes,” I affirmed. “Do I have a professional inquisitor? Is that a thing around here?”

  “I will do double duty until one can be appointed,” Tort assured me. I believed her. Judging by her instant hatred and violent reaction, there might be a vicious streak in her. Possibly a rather wide streak.

  I was naturally curious about what they knew. On the other hand, if the choice was to watch Tort flay someone alive or have an awkward visit with my daughter and her goddess, I choose the visit. I really don’t like torture. Call it a quirk; I’ll kill someone so fast they won’t know they’re dead until five minutes after they get to Hell. I don’t like to kill someone slowly, and I won’t kill someone who doesn’t—in my opinion—deserve it. Or ask for it.

  Of course, there’s a difference between doing something disgustingly awful to a person and making someone believe I’ll do it. Make a threat both terrible and believable and you may not have to follow through. I don’t have a problem with lying to some unlucky captive if it means I don’t have to do nasty things to him.

  “Okay. Find out all you can. But this one,” I pulled my first prisoner to his feet, “is to be treated as a guest, unless he tries to escape.”

  “What happens if I try to escape?” he asked. I looked at him for a long moment. Opening his mouth at that particular time showed very poor judgment, in my opinion. His previous job was another example. This did not leave me with a positive impression of his brains.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jaret.”

  “Jaret, I can see your soul. You remind me of weasels and rats and you’ll sell me out if you think you can get away with it. So be nice, tell the truth, and then you’ll be on your way with all your fingers, toes, and other body parts.” I pulled him close and whispered in his ear, “Lie to her, or to me, and you will find that an amazing amount of your body can be eaten by insects without actually killing you. Do we have an understanding?” His face changed color in the crimson light, going a ghastly shade of pale.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he whispered, then repeated it more loudly.

  “Good. Wait here.”

  I hurried down the street and found Nick, who had almost made it home for the nig
ht. A fresh umbrella spell and a gold coin are more than enough to haul four unconscious people and a charred corpse across town. He’d have done it for just the coin, I’m sure, but the rain was picking up and he looked a little weary.

  While Nick and Jaret loaded up the cart, Tort worked over the holes in my outfit, repairing the damage. Then she flew alongside the cart while Jaret helped Nick haul the sleepers. I took Bronze and continued to the Temple of Flame.

  At least now I wouldn’t get lost.

  I knocked on the door again. I reflected that I kept visiting in the dead of night. Why show up at midnight? Because I’m afraid of being roasted while Sparky is at the height of her power? Or just because everything else needs to be done during the day, and I haven’t made time in my schedule for a visit? To be fair, Amber and Tianna visit me almost every day out on the training grounds, but that’s not as personal and social as I’d like.

  Amber answered the door, looked at me for a moment, then opened it wider and stepped aside. I took it as a cue to come in. I did so and used a quick spell to dry myself off. No need to drip everywhere.

  “Good evening,” she offered. “What can I do for you?”

  “I thought I’d drop by to say hello. I was also hoping to have a conversation with Sp—with the Mother of Flame.” Amber seemed surprised.

  “I’m sorry? You want to talk with Her?”

  “That’s right. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Well, everyone who knows has been giving me the runaround on what happened to my son. Apparently, the Mother of Flame was involved in some way. It’s been bothering me that nobody will tell me, so I’m going straight to the source.”

  “Perhaps now would not be the best time,” Amber said, not looking at me.

  “Why not? Is it because it’s nighttime?”

  “Well…”

  “Mommmmmm!” echoed in to us.

  “Excuse me,” Amber said, and hurried farther into the building. I waited and pretended to be patient. Unfortunately for her, I have supernatural hearing at night. I have to ignore background noises most people never hear. Conversations all along the block. Heartbeats in the same building. Breathing out on the street. Clouds scraping together. That sort of thing.

  “Is that Grandpa? I heard his horse outside.”

  “Yes. But you are supposed to be in bed.”

  “But I want to see!”

  “No. Maybe tomorrow. He’ll be out there with his knights again, I’m sure.”

  “But he never comes to visit us!”

  “Bed. Ready for. Get.”

  “But Mommmmmmm!”

  “No! Get upstairs! Now!”

  I’m not sure how feet on steps can sound disconsolate, but they did.

  Amber came back into the entry room.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Won’t you please come in and sit?”

  “No, but thanks. I’d rather just have a word with the Mother of Flame and be on my way.”

  Her expression went through a number of changes. I could almost read her mind. I was being unfailingly polite and extremely understanding. I did deserve to know what happened to her brother, my son. She really didn’t want to be the one to tell me. Still, this wasn’t going to just go away.

  “All right,” she said. “All the supplicants are gone and things are quiet; that’s good, since I’m sure you want to have a private talk. Am I right?”

  “Oh, I guess that depends on what she has to say.”

  “Indeed. Well… now?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  She closed her eyes and concentrated. Her hair caught fire, then became fire. It lengthened, like a waterfall of flames, all the way to the floor. Her skin took on a yellow glow, like sunlight, and she opened her eyes. They were eyes, but they were eyes of white fire, with blue flames dancing with the iris should be.

  “You wished to speak with Me,” said a voice I recognized. It was Amber’s voice, but the timbre, inflections, accent… it was someone—someThing—speaking with her mouth. This did nothing to diminish my belligerent feeling.

  “Yes. I’ll cut straight to the chase. I had a son and a daughter by Tamara. I’m very pleased that Amber is alive and well, but I want to know what became of my son.”

  “He served Me well.”

  “A religious career is no bad thing,” I allowed, keeping my voice level. “I understand he’s dead. When did it happen? How did it happen? Where?”

  “He died on your mountain, shortly after his birth.”

  I waited, staring into the eyes of flame. I repressed the feeling that Sparky was trying to annoy me. I doubted she would bother. On the other hand, she was being annoying.

  “Go on,” I said, finally.

  “That is all,” she said. I took a deep breath, let it out. It wasn’t a biological requirement; just an emotional one. I was still not in the best of moods, and I was trying to keep a lid on my temper. But the lid was leaking.

  “If you insist,” I said, “I will go straight to the mountain and command the stones to speak. Or you can just tell me. But you are evading the question. You’re trying to not tell me something. What is it that you don’t want me to know? Or do you just want me to work for it and find out somewhere else?”

  “You are insolent.”

  “Audacious, maybe,” I admitted, snappishly. “I haven’t been disrespectful, just not too terribly respectful; I found out what you did to Zirafel. Likewise, you haven’t been too terribly helpful, cooperative, or reasonable, so my attitude isn’t the only factor, here.”

  “I disagree.”

  “And I’m not getting sidetracked,” I said, refocusing on the whole point of the conversation. “My son, remember? When, where, how, and why? Give me details.” Then I added, “Please.”

  “I will not be questioned.”

  “You already have been. You refuse to answer. Why is that? Or should I just assume whatever I want?” I think I managed to sound curious, rather than demanding. I may be wrong.

  “That will be enough from you!”

  “And not enough from you,” I noted. My mouth continued, before I could stop it, “Are you afraid to tell me?”

  Amber—well, her body—gestured. A wall of flame like an incendiary shockwave blasted toward me and I raised my arms in a reflexive defensive gesture. The rudimentary magical shield I raised may have done some good, but I couldn’t tell for sure. The blast flash-fried my forearms and hurled me back against the door. The impact didn’t bother me, although it bothered the door; my forearms stung like hell as the skin flaked away into ash. Ruined the sleeves, too.

  Odd. The door was on fire, but all that happened to me involved a little cooking of the forearms. I looked down at myself. Not a scorch mark to be seen anywhere else.

  Why am I not dead? Or, rather, why am I not a bunch of ashes drifting slowly to the floor?

  “Ow,” I said, lowering my arms. My forearms itched as the skin regenerated.

  Amber’s face looked amazed. Flaming eyes wide, mouth open, hand still hovering where it had completed the gesture. The Thing operating her was as much taken aback as I was.

  “That,” I said, “was uncalled-for.”

  She did it again, harder, and held it as a continuous stream instead of a single blast. I sensed it coming and braced for it again. The first one hurt. The second one burned my arms down to the bone; it was agony. But it was still just my forearms. The majority of the rocket exhaust splashed in front of me, opened up like some incandescent flower, roared around me. It burned completely through the door in seconds, but I stood there, leaning into the fire’s roar, and screamed right back into the flames until they subsided.

  I lost my temper a little bit.

  Well… maybe more than just a little.

  Okay, maybe I lost my temper the way you sometimes lose your keys: an hour of solid searching doesn’t turn them up. I don’t think I was unjustified.

  I stood there in the doo
rway while my arm bones shed their ashen outer layer; muscle, skin, and tendons itched abominably as they grew new layers. I can’t grind my teeth; they lock together, these days. I can clench my jaw with the best, however, and I know my eyes narrowed. I’m not sure what my expression was, but the look on Amber’s face was one of slack-jawed, wide-eyed horror.

  With my tendrils, dark lines of power drawn from whatever force that moves me, I reached out; they erupted forward, a volcano of darkness, a flood of emptiness, shooting back along the same path the flames had, like fires in reverse. I speared, not Amber, but through her, past her, beyond her, along the conduit the led to the Thing that manipulated her body like a puppet.

  This was no thin line of magical force drawn by some magician a thousand miles away. This was a pipeline, a direct connection to something not on this plane of existence. A doorway. A gateway. A hole in the universe leading to somewhere else. In the greater Scheme of Things, it was a small hole, just large enough for a spiritual hand and arm, perhaps, to manipulate a puppet. To me, in my scale, it was a tunnel for a six-lane highway.

  Metaphorically, I grabbed that arm and pulled. Then I reached farther back, clawing along it with wave after wave of black, hungry lines of power, like a thousand jellyfish strands, all writhing farther and farther, stabbing and stinging, drinking and draining, shredding their way along, clamping on, spearing in, and clawing their way up toward the shoulder, toward the torso, toward the heart and the throat.

  I don’t see much of a difference between the Things that live beyond the Edge of the World and the Things that claim to be the gods of this world. About the only difference is that the ones claiming to be gods taste better.

  This Thing was bright and shining, a star from the firmament drawn close, and I drank from it. I attacked it. I seized it and yanked, pulling it hard to keep it from getting away, sinking spiritual fangs into it to drink everything from it that I could tolerate. Tendrils seethed with power, sizzled with it, but a million burning, screaming throats still swallowed the life-stuff of a so-called goddess.

  Sparky screamed and it was good. My soul rejoiced with a terrible satisfaction to know that I made her scream in pain. Better, scream in pain and fear. She was surprised, startled, amazed, shocked… and, best of all, hurt. This filled me with a terrible elation, a joy like blood and fire. I twisted and yanked on the metaphorical arm even as my tendrils stabbed and writhed up over the shoulder, reaching deeper, reaching for what passed for her heart and soul.