by Marc Turner
“I know.”
“So why go on? Not for the coin, surely.”
Jenna looked away. “It’s not what I do. It’s who I am.”
The musician’s performance must have finished at that moment, for there was an eruption of applause and foot-stamping from the common room below. As the noise died away Luker said, “We’re not so different, you know. Kanon always believed in what the Guardians did. He had a cause. Not me, though. Makes me just another killer.”
“Then why did you come back? To Arkarbour, I mean.”
“For Kanon.”
“You didn’t know he was in trouble until you got here.” She paused, then went on. “Perhaps, like me, you have nothing else.”
Frowning, Luker gestured at the bottle in Jenna’s hand, but she shook her head and raised it to her lips. The blackweed and spirits were starting to take effect, for her eyes were glazed. Luker regarded her thoughtfully. “Wasn’t always like this,” he said. “When I traveled with Kanon, he had belief enough for both of us. I fought for him, not for the Guardians, not for the emperor. But when we went our separate ways, that’s when the doubts came. The Will’s a fickle thing. My power was beginning to fail near the end—no conviction in what I did. On its own, the will to survive can keep you going for only so long, and when that too starts to fade…”
“At least you still have Kanon.”
“Aye, there is that, I guess. But it’s only half the truth. Because like it or not, when I walked out on the Guardians, I walked out on Kanon too.”
Into the silence that followed came another burst of applause from below.
Then the window exploded inward.
Two black-clad men holding ropes swung into the room, and the storm came howling in behind them. As they touched down they released their ropes and drew throwing knives from the baldrics across their chests.
Jenna reacted first, flinging her bottle of spirits at one of the newcomers. It glanced off his chin, and his head snapped round. Luker made to rise, only for his feet to tangle in the legs of his chair. He toppled backward. Shit, shit, shit. A throwing knife sped toward him, and he seized the fallen chair by its back and raised it as a shield.
The dagger thudded into the bottom of the seat.
The man who’d been struck by the bottle drew a knife and sprang to engage Jenna.
Still holding the chair, Luker surged upright and charged the second stranger. The man drew a sword and swung it wildly. The blade shattered one of the legs, but Luker used the other three to pin his foe and drive him back. The stranger tried to set his feet, but Luker’s rush had caught him off balance, and a shove from the Guardian sent him screaming through the window. The chair followed.
Luker spun round.
Jenna had drawn a knife and now fought the first stranger. Luker considered going to her aid, but it quickly became clear his help wasn’t needed. Jenna’s thrown bottle had left a gash on her opponent’s chin, and with each passing heartbeat more cuts blossomed across his shoulders and chest as Jenna picked holes in his defenses. Luker had expected the juripa spirits to slow her reactions, but her movements were precise and unhurried. In desperation her opponent lunged with his knife.
Jenna turned her body to evade the attack, then continued the motion, stepping round to take her behind her enemy. Luker didn’t see her land the killing blow, but suddenly her assailant was clutching his throat. Blood bubbled out between his fingers, and he dropped his blade and pitched forward.
Luker exchanged a look with Jenna. No way that was all of them.
Over the growl of the storm he heard footsteps in the corridor outside.
He drew his swords just as the door burst open and a man threw himself through the doorway. Rolling expertly, the newcomer came up on one knee. In each hand he carried a small crossbow. Twin bolts of darkness flashed toward Luker.
He batted them aside with his blades.
A second figure entered the room: a Remnerol woman with olive skin and shoulder-length, flame-red hair. The one from the stables. She stood no taller than the Guardian’s shoulder, yet still managed to adopt a manner of looking down on him. Her hands came up, and streaks of fire flew from her fingers.
Not interested in small talk, it seemed.
Luker used his Will to fashion a shield and grunted as the sorcery struck it. The air about him ignited, the bed and chairs bursting into flames. Behind him, Jenna cried out, and there was a thud as she hit the floor. For a dozen heartbeats the magic continued to rage, lapping round the edges of Luker’s Will-shield. He grimaced at the touch of fire against his skin.
But his defenses held.
The Remnerol’s sorcery died away, and she lowered her hands. The flames eating at the furniture fizzled out as rain blew into the room through the smashed window. Luker hawked and spat. The sorceress looked surprised he was still standing, but as yet her mask of arrogance wasn’t showing any cracks. When she spoke, she had to raise her voice to make herself heard above the wind. “This is not your fight, Guardian. Step aside and you may live.”
Luker did not respond. Not taking his gaze from the two strangers, he crouched and felt behind him for Jenna’s motionless form. Her head was partway under the bed. His fingers probed her neck for a pulse.
The Remnerol spoke again. “Last chance. Step aside.”
Luker took a breath to quell the rage swelling inside him, for anger would only weaken his grip on the Will. He swayed as he pushed himself upright. Maybe he had drunk more spirits than he should have, but he was still too much for these Shroud-cursed fools to handle. Odds were they’d been expecting to find Jenna alone and were now regretting the timing of their attack, but it was too late to back out.
The sorceress’s hands came up. “You leave me no choice.”
Spears of fire battered Luker’s defenses, casting a wild glare all about and spraying flames like sparks off a grindstone. Sweat sprung to the Guardian’s brow. An overturned chair flickered to light again, and he kicked it across the room toward the sorceress. For the first time, a flicker of doubt showed in her eyes. Already Luker could feel the force of her assault waning. The bitch was a fire-mage. Without the sun’s energy to draw on, her power would soon fade.
My turn.
Gathering his strength, Luker pushed back with his pent-up Will. His counterattack carved through the sorceress’s waves of fire and slammed into the woman herself, making her stagger back against the wall. Before she could recover, Luker pulled back his right arm and flung one of his swords at her end-over-end. It took her in the neck, the point driving through flesh to clank against stone behind. She gave a gurgled choke and slid down the wall, leaving a smear of red.
Luker swung to face her companion. The man was clean-shaven and bald, and his left eye was half-closed in a permanent squint. For an instant he stared slack-jawed at the body of the dead Remnerol. Then his expression hardened as he turned on Luker. In one hand he held a scimitar, in the other a serrated dagger. The metal of both blades was blackened, and their tips wove an intricate pattern as he whirled them through the air.
Luker extended his right arm and reached out with the Will. The sword skewering the sorceress’s neck worked itself free and flew back to his hand.
His opponent advanced. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Luker attacked.
Their blades clashed. The stranger was fast, his weapons a blur, his footwork sure.
Luker had faced much better.
When the intruder’s scimitar next darted out, the Guardian caught it and allowed it to slide along his left blade, drawing his assailant closer. It was the opening Luker had been waiting for, but before he could take advantage, his foe made a clumsy attempt with the Will to drive him back. For the blink of an eye the Guardian was caught off guard, yet there was no more force in the attack than a breath of wind, and he pushed through it to launch a series of lightning strokes that had the stranger parrying frantically. Luker feinted with his left sword. As his opponent moved to bl
ock a strike that never came, the Guardian’s right blade flicked out and stabbed him through the heart.
Or where his heart would have been had the man not stumbled in attempting to evade the thrust. Instead of delivering a fatal blow, Luker’s sword took him below the left shoulder, and he staggered backward, his dagger slipping from twitching fingers even as his legs buckled. Luker let him fall, then kicked the scimitar from his hand.
“Wait!” the man said. “I have information.”
The Guardian slashed open his throat. “Nothing I don’t already know.”
Returning his swords to their scabbards, he crouched beside Jenna again. The sight of the assassin brought his breath hissing out. The skin of her face had been split by the sorceress’s magic, masking her features in blood. Curls of black smoke rose from her scorched clothing.
But her chest still lifted and fell, her heartbeat an irregular flutter.
Luker breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Matron, then turned at a creak and saw Chamery in the doorway. The mage’s look was guarded. “I sensed sorcery—”
Luker rose. “Heal her,” he cut in, gesturing at Jenna as he strode from the room. “If she dies, so do you.”
CHAPTER 6
THE DARK of the night was almost total, the moon and stars hidden behind a veil of cloud. Romany raised her hood against the drizzle that misted the air. Earlier she had spent two bells combing the city for a building with its roof intact before settling for the remains of a house that was sheltered by the drooping branches of a wolsatta tree. With nowhere to sit, she was forced to clear rubble from the ground—her! A high priestess! Then, sitting cross-legged on the newly exposed tiled floor, she had found it impossible to get comfortable. Her back ached abysmally, and every few moments some unseen piece of debris would clamor for attention beneath her posterior.
Her stomach grumbled. The Spider had warned her there would be no food or drink in this place, even suggesting she should be grateful for the chance to shed some of the excess weight she was carrying! True, the goddess’s sorcery meant Romany would not need provisions during her time here, but didn’t the Spider understand there was more to eating and drinking than mere sustenance? The priestess’s mind wandered. Sweetmeats from Balshazar, a glass of chilled Koronos white wine … Then again, even if such delicacies had been available, the prospect of having to serve herself was too offensive to contemplate. No servants! What other unpleasant truths had the Spider kept from her?
More than enough time had now passed for greed to weave its spell on Mayot, but Romany was minded to let him fret a little longer before returning to the dome. Let him think she had flown, and with her any chance of him gaining mastery of the Book. The more anxious he became, the more likely he would be to seize a second chance when it was offered. Such an odious man! A part of Romany hoped he declined her assistance, for he would soon come to rue his stubbornness when he stood alone against Shroud’s disciples. Of course, even if Mayot accepted her aid, the Book’s power would serve only to delay the inevitable, for against the Lord of the Dead there could be no victory. Romany gave a contented sigh. A downward spiral to oblivion. All she had to do was ensure Mayot took the first step on that precipitous road. Ultimately her victory over Shroud in this game would be no less a victory over Mayot himself.
The priestess put such thoughts aside for now. She had begun the task of weaving a web of sorcerous threads across Estapharriol and the forest beyond. It was proving to be a frustrating exercise, for the tendrils of death-magic emanating from the Book warped whichever parts of her web they touched. To the north she had observed scores of Kinevar settlements, some abandoned, others being evacuated. The Book’s death-magic had infiltrated the creatures’ sacred glades, blighting the trees and poisoning the river. Romany stroked her chin. Strange that they had chosen to flee instead of striking at Mayot, but then no doubt the Kinevar were too witless to determine the cause of their plight.
A handful of leagues to the south and east of Estapharriol, the forest was thronged with spirits—all that remained of the people who had once inhabited Estapharriol and the settlements round it. The Vamilians. Dead for millennia, yet seemingly cursed to wander the land for eternity. They must have been able to detect her ethereal presence, for their hollow gazes followed her as she passed among them on the threads of her web.
And in the midst of the spirits, cutting through the forest in a gentle arc … The White Road. Clear of leaves and roots, it glowed white even when the moon was hidden behind clouds. There was magic here, Romany sensed, buried deep beneath the ground as if the road had been constructed along some ancient axis of power. The sorcery had a primeval flavor to it, unquestionably older than the Vamilian civilization, perhaps even than the Forest of Sighs itself. Whatever its origin, the spirits must have been drawn to it—why else did they not dwell in the cities where they had once lived?—and yet it appeared none of them were able to set foot on the road itself. Intriguing. She would have to remember to ask the Spider about it when they next spoke.
Not that I’ll get an answer.
From the north and west came a twitch along the priestess’s web. Not so much a twitch, in fact, as a tremor. Frowning, she followed the threads to the source of the disturbance.
And stiffened. A rider beset on all sides by a howling tangle of spirits. The stranger’s horse was black as Shroud’s soul, and its hooves were shod in a metal that burned with white fire. Eyes rolling, it snapped its teeth at the Vamilians all about. When it reared, its flashing hooves cut a swath of destruction through the spirits in front of it.
Its rider was covered from head to foot in the most battered suit of armor Romany had ever seen. He—for it was surely a man—wore a plumed helmet with a horizontal slit for the eyes. Through it the priestess saw crackling blue light, as if a lightning storm raged behind the faceplate. The same infernal glow played across the man’s sword, and where the weapon fell the spirits seemed to dissipate. The spectral forms were throwing themselves not at the man but at his blade, Romany realized. They seek oblivion. A fate that the rider appeared only too happy to dispense. The priestess could feel him drawing on the tendrils of death-magic in the air to fuel his slaughter. She pursed her lips. Only one of Shroud’s minions would have the power to deliver such finality to the dead.
Retreating from the apparition, she fled back to her body along the strands of her web and opened her eyes. The knight was only a few leagues from Estapharriol, and the spirits would not detain him for long. Maybe his coming was a blessing, she told herself, for Mayot would surely have to see sense now and accept her offer of assistance. And yet even if she were to unlock the secrets of the Book, would the old man be able to harness its sorcery before the knight arrived?
So little time!
Romany clambered upright and set off for the dome.
It took her half a bell to retrace her steps to Mayot’s lair, stumbling and cursing in the gloom. Inside, the building was silent but for the susurrant whisper of waves, softer now that the wind had dropped. Nothing stirred on the dais. Had Mayot fled? No, as her eyes grew accustomed to the blackness she saw the mage’s outline on his throne. She’d half expected to find him pacing up and down, anxiously awaiting her return, but instead he just sat there, still as a corpse. Halting at the foot of the steps to the dais, she called out, “I have come for your decision, my Lord. It is time.”
“Your time perhaps, woman,” Mayot said. “Not mine.”
The priestess ground her teeth together. If he calls me “woman” one more time … “A servant of Shroud is coming. Surely you have sensed his approach.”
“And you assume I need the power of the Book to defeat him? You forget, I am a necromancer. The death of the forest releases energy I can draw on. I am in my element here.”
“As is your adversary.”
“Then, if it is a confrontation he seeks, we should be well matched.”
Romany shook her head in disbelief. Was the old man really such a fool? She c
ould not make out his expression in the gloom, but his voice revealed no quaver of fear. He truly thinks he can win. “And if you are victorious?” she said. “What of the next disciple Shroud sends, and the next, and the next?”
“What of them?”
Along the strands of her web, the priestess could sense the knight nearing the outskirts of the city. There was no time to play out the rest of this game as she would have liked. She would have to try a different tack. “Enough of this,” she said to Mayot, her tone hardening. “Even if you are capable of single-handedly defeating Shroud’s army of servants, this is your last chance to accept my offer of aid. Or had you forgotten the Book of Lost Souls? Decline now, and I walk away. The Book’s secrets will forever remain out of your reach.”
“Indeed? It occurs to me, woman, that you need my help in this as much as I need yours. If I refuse you, whatever scheme you have dreamt up will fail.”
Romany was grateful for the darkness that covered her frown. “The difference is in the stakes we have wagered. My life does not hang in the balance.”
“It also occurs to me,” Mayot continued as if he had not heard her, “that I stand to lose whichever course I choose. If I destroy this disciple, I make the Lord of the Dead my enemy.”
“Then give up the Book, old man,” Romany said, her voice dripping scorn. “Grovel at the feet of Shroud’s servant, if you must. Just stop wasting my time.”
The mage did not respond.
The priestess spun on her heel and headed for the exit.
Mayot’s voice drew her up as she reached the mouth of the passage leading out. “Wait. What price your help if I accept it?”
“We have no time—”
“What price, damn you!”
Romany bridled at his tone. “No price, my Lord. As I have already said, my aid is freely given.”
“There is always a price.”
The priestess kept her silence. Mayot’s last comment had been spoken so softly she suspected it was not meant for her ears. She held her breath, sensing the old man’s decision wavered on a knife edge. A wrong word from her now and the game would be over before it even started. Imagine the indignity.