The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Griswold smiled. “Surely you’ve seen all the fanciful downspouts and carvings, malevolent faces that spit rainwater out to the streets?”

  Hadrian nodded.

  “Those were our creations. Every one of them sculpted by my people. We made them fierce and grotesque as a means of embodying what they are—monsters. The archbishop thought they were fanciful—funny, he called them. What he didn’t know was that each one was sculpted ritualistically, and the shards were saved so that we could use them when necessary. If the day came when we were threatened again, we could breathe life into these decorations and send them to fight for us.” Griswold’s glare hardened. “The nobles have their soldiers, and we have ours. Ours sit upon their perches high above the city, awaiting the day when all debts will be paid in full.”

  “You can be really creepy, you know that?” Hadrian asked.

  “What exactly is a golem?” Royce asked. “Is it alive? Can it be killed?”

  “I’m not an expert on dwarven magic,” Mercator said, “but I know golems are sculptures brought to life. Creatures that are supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from.”

  “This one is made from stone.” Royce stared at the bronze doors with their detailed reliefs, nine framed images that told the life story of a grand city. “How do you harm stone?”

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The gallery echoed with the sound of drumming on the doors by what could have been a huge hammer. They both watched as the elegant images were distorted by dents, the metal puckering where it was struck.

  Mercator and Royce backed up.

  “Can’t burn it. Doesn’t have any blood, so slitting its throat is useless. Pretty much nothing sharp will be helpful . . .” Royce was thinking out loud as he scanned the chamber for a weapon. “What is this place?”

  “The Imperial Gallery,” Mercator said, bumping into a bust of a balding man. The sculpture toppled, fell, and shattered on the marble floor. She stared aghast at the ruined artwork. “The noble houses brought a lot of this stuff with them after the fall of Percepliquis. They keep the best pieces in their homes, and the rest is displayed here.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s an ancient weapon around that kills stone gargoyles?”

  Mercator flashed him a scowl that he guessed had more to do with the beating on the door than his poor attempt at humor.

  Hadrian would have appreciated it.

  Royce found a pair of hammers set on a display pedestal, one large, one small, both old and crude. He felt the weight of the heavy one, thinking it might be useful. “Why is it after us?”

  Mercator stared at the door. “It’s being controlled by Villar.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s one of the few people who know how. Erasmus Nym is dead, and Griswold is busy guarding your friend. It has to be Villar.”

  “So what does he want with us?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes darted back and forth in thought, then they widened. “Wait, you said no list of demands was found in the carriage?”

  “No one but you appears to know anything about a list.”

  Mercator placed a cupped hand over her mouth in disbelief. “The list wasn’t overlooked or blown away; he never left it. Everything makes sense now. Villar didn’t kidnap the duchess to seek concessions. He never wanted a peaceful solution. He was only placating me, pretending. And now—”

  The bronze door ruptured. A stone fist punched through. Claws reached in and began ripping the hole wider. The metal screeched as it tore.

  Mercator stuffed Genny’s note into Royce’s hand. “Take this to the duke.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She looked back at the doors and Royce couldn’t tell if she was scared or angry. Both maybe.

  “Stop him, I hope. He’s driving that thing, running it like a puppet. He can see and hear through it, so I can talk to him, reason with him.”

  The golem pushed in farther, and Royce dropped the hammer and sprinted for the stairs. The extra weight would only slow him down, and speed was what he needed now. He took the steps three at a time. Four flights up, he glanced back.

  Mercator remained in the middle of the main room next to a statue whose plaque read GLENMORGAN THE GREAT. The gargoyle had opened the hole to the size of a window, and it was pulling its body through, emerging like some hideous insect splitting a pupa sac.

  “Villar!” Mercator shouted. She had both hands up, palms out. “Stop! You don’t have to do this. I’ve talked to the duchess. She’s on our side and wants to help.”

  The creature appeared to be listening, or maybe it was merely having trouble getting through the ragged opening it had made. The bronze had left deep scratches across its stony skin.

  “I know you want your war, Villar. You think it’s the only way, but it isn’t. Genny can get the duke to change the laws, and they will force the guilds to change their rules. The duchess was already working on it. The very night you kidnapped her she was on her way back from . . .” Mercator stopped. “Oh, my Lord Ferrol.” She staggered as if from a blow. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew all along that she was working on a solution. That’s why you did it. You wanted to stop her. You needed to stop her.”

  The gargoyle cleared the door. Using its feet and the knuckles of its hands, the thing scrambled monkey-like across the room. It slowed down as it neared her.

  Mercator shook her head in disbelief. “Villar, how could you?”

  The golem hesitated for a moment, and Royce thought she had a chance, then the thing sank both sets of claws into her body. Royce was no stranger to violence. He’d seen—he’d performed—brutalities that many would label gruesome, even sick. He was as used to bloodletting as a butcher, and yet what he witnessed in that artifact-filled chamber unsettled him. It didn’t so much vivisect Mercator as tear her open like a cloth bag with poor stitching. Royce heard muscles shred and her bones make a greenwood-splinter sound. The Calian mir whom Royce had only begun to know, and thought he might like, died in an explosion of blood that splattered the statue of Glenmorgan and stained the perfect marble floor.

  The gargoyle showed fangs and pointed teeth, grinning its delight. Then, as tears of blood ran down stone skin, that grotesque monkey-face tilted up. No more encouragement was required. Royce resumed his rapid climb.

  The window on the top floor was his goal, his exit, the broken one Villar had shattered the night before.

  Reaching the top floor, Royce once more spotted the suit of armor standing against the wall, still holding its long spear. Behind him, the gargoyle was climbing the steps. Royce listened to the crack of stone on marble as if someone were clapping rocks together.

  Glass from the window still lay on the floor. Outside was the wall, the leap to the cathedral, and a trip across rooftops that Royce had made once already. Except this time, he would be the prey, the one who would slide down slate shingles and fall into the river. Maybe he, too, would survive. No . . . that sort of thing happens to other people, not me. He wasn’t Villar, and he wasn’t competing with a mir. With Royce’s luck, the thing would embrace him in a bear hug, they’d hit the river, and he’d be dragged to the bottom.

  . . . supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from.

  Remembering what had happened to the bust that Mercator had knocked off its pedestal, he grabbed the spear. Jerking it free of the armor, he positioned himself near the balcony’s railing. Hope this works, he thought even though he suspected it wouldn’t.

  I’ll still have the window, he consoled himself. If I survive that long.

  Royce held the spear low, not in front, not braced against himself, just at his side. He didn’t want to slam the beast head-on. Royce was certain if he tried that, the gargoyle would splinter the spear—or more likely drive it from his hands. He didn’t want to stab the thing. He wanted to do what Hadrian had once achieved when facing an indestructible foe. Worked once, might work again. But th
eory and reality were often distant relatives. After seeing what the golem had done to Mercator, Royce was less than confident. Watching a person being torn apart had that effect.

  I don’t have Hadrian’s luck.

  The gargoyle’s head rose above the steps as it climbed. Its wings spread wide like the hood of a snake before a strike. It spotted Royce, and its eyes widened, the mouth displaying more teeth. Stone teeth, stone face: Every inch of it was craggy and coarse and covered in rivulets of blood. The creature broke into a charge.

  The spear didn’t give the monster the slightest pause. It didn’t try to dodge, didn’t shift or slow. The gargoyle appeared bemused, even joyful. Royce couldn’t have had a more accommodating enemy, and he imagined the golem felt the same way. As they came together, Royce planted his rear leg and held tight to the pole, then as they collided, he gave ground to prevent the gargoyle from jarring the spear from his hands. The impact was nonetheless powerful, and the tip broke. Royce fell back, dodging to one side while pushing against the stone beast, acting as a lever instead of an impediment. The golem’s course altered, only two feet to one side, but it was enough.

  Shoved off balance, all its weight slammed into the balcony’s railing. A man would have hit the balustrade and slid or bounced off.

  . . . supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from. It may have wings, but stone can’t fly.

  The heavy body of the charging gargoyle shattered the rail, and over the edge it went, crashing through the suspended body of the dragon, shattering the whole exhibit and sending it all to the floor four stories below.

  A bang, deep and solid, echoed off the walls, bouncing back and forth twice.

  Shatter, you miserable figurine! This half thought, half wish filled Royce’s mind as he peered over the edge. He hoped to see a burst of plaster, as when Mercator had overturned the bust. Four stories down lay a mess of broken dragon parts and the torn body of Mercator, her blood draining through a large crack in the checkered marble floor that marked the impact crater of the golem.

  The gargoyle hadn’t been pulverized. The creature was on its knees in the center of the cracked floor.

  No, not Hadrian’s kind of luck. Royce then noticed that the golem hadn’t escaped unscathed. Part of it was missing. Its left arm lay on the floor a few feet away. The gargoyle looked at it mournfully. Then the fanged monkey-face once more fixed its stare on Royce. This time it added a hiss.

  Great, I’ve made it angry. Well, angrier.

  The golem ran for the stairs, and Royce raced for the window. Already knowing the route was his one comfort. The map was still engraved in his mind, which allowed Royce to move with speed and confidence. Poking his head out, he saw the street below. The avenue throbbed with a mass of people, some of whom wore uniforms and held torches. Bodies lay in a line, marking the golem’s path to the gallery.

  Ducking past the remaining broken shards and out the window, Royce climbed up the wall. He wished he’d brought his hand claws, but he hadn’t had them the last time and had managed just fine.

  But I was the hunter then. Being the prey is a different matter.

  Royce had been chased before. He never cared for it, and usually the hunt ended when he managed to gain enough distance to turn around unseen and don the role of huntsman once more. That wasn’t going to happen this time.

  How do you harm stone?

  He’d broken its arm by dropping it from a height.

  Perhaps taking a tumble from higher up?

  Reaching the roof of the gallery, he looked back. Nothing but a single sheer curtain fluttered, blowing out through the broken window by an errant wind. Is it possible the thing lost interest?

  The answer came when the window’s remnants burst outward and fell, along with portions of the frame and a few stones of the wall. More screams erupted below. Arms went up. Fingers pointed. Men shouted, “Up there! There it is!”

  The gargoyle wasn’t as nimble as it had been when descending the cathedral—climbing was clearly harder to manage with only one arm. Brute force now replaced grace. It fearlessly launched itself up from the sill, one clawed hand creating its own handhold, gouging out mortar like soft dirt. Rear claws did the same, then punched up again—stone muscles propelling it amazing distances in single thrusts.

  Royce didn’t like the ease with which it followed nor the power it displayed. Mercator’s death remained fresh in his mind, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near those claws. Taking a cue from the previous night, he pulled slate shingles free and threw, hoping he might make the golem fall. Royce’s aim was better than Villar’s, and he struck the beast three times: once in the head, twice in the body. The slates shattered. The gargoyle didn’t notice.

  How am I going to make it fall again? The question was pushed aside as he realized it didn’t matter—not yet. He needed to get higher. Royce resumed his flight.

  Running out along the gable, he jumped the gap between the gallery and Grom Galimus, landing on a stony lion’s head. Below him, he heard the crowd cheer with excitement. As he scaled the cathedral’s pier, Royce realized how futile the effort was. Even if he got away from the golem, reached the duke, somehow convinced him his wife was alive, and persuaded the man to concede to Mercator’s demands, Hadrian might still die. The issue of Nym’s death hadn’t yet been addressed. If Hadrian’s luck provided him the means to slip free of that noose, Royce just might kill him anyway.

  They were up six stories now.

  Is that enough? No, I need to go higher.

  After Royce reached the flying buttress, obtaining additional height was no longer an issue. He ran up its angled length, and the world below dropped away as he climbed several stories as quickly as ascending stairs. Reaching the high balcony just below the cathedral’s eaves, Royce saw it as a death trap. Too narrow to pull another spear stunt, even if he had one. Up there the golem would have all the advantage. Facing the thing on the steep roof of Grom Galimus wasn’t to Royce’s liking. The peak was equally dangerous for both. The battle odds would be even: each had a good chance of falling. Royce was never pleased with a fair fight, but fair was better than certain death. They were about two hundred and fifty feet up, and he guessed his odds of surviving a fall, assuming he could hit the water, were one in a hundred.

  Villar had managed it. Hadrian could probably pull it off as well, but I don’t have his kind of luck.

  Royce saw it as a last resort.

  Reaching up, he grabbed the eaves, scowling at the row of gargoyle faces that glared down at him. Each one, he now realized, was grinning. I really hate these things.

  Royce was breathing hard, his clothes stuck to his skin, and as he pulled himself up, he realized his muscles were weakening. Stone, he guessed, doesn’t get tired. As he reached the roof, the wind greeted him with a familiar blast of cold air. He replied with a grunt and a scowl as he was forced to remember that spring, while very near, hadn’t yet arrived. The chill sent a shiver through him and whipped what was left of his cloak over his shoulder.

  Below, he spotted the golem racing up the buttress, wings extended like an acrobat’s balancing pole. When crouched and seen at a distance on the walls of buildings, the gargoyles appeared small. Up close, the creature was eight feet tall.

  This isn’t going to end well.

  Royce shimmied up the ribs to the fence-like peak of the roof where he would make his last stand. His options were limited. He could try to climb the bell tower as Villar had considered doing, but there was no more benefit in it now than before. He could climb down the other side of the cathedral and hope the golem would follow and fall the way Villar had. Already tired, Royce knew if anyone fell it would most likely be him. Each step inched him toward exhaustion while the gargoyle showed no sign of weakening.

  The thing lost its arm! If I lost one after falling four stories, I’d quit. It hasn’t even slowed down!

  Royce had to make a move while he still had the strength. The golem was one-handed now an
d needed both feet to stand on the roof, so it couldn’t rip him apart as it had Mercator, the thing would have to resort to slashing, biting, or crushing. But without a spear, without a weapon, fighting the golem would be suicide, except . . .

  Royce pulled Alverstone from the folds of his cloak. Moonlight gave its blade a luminosity that was pleasantly eerie. Royce had few possessions; the dagger was his most prized for two reasons. The first was that it had been a gift from a man who’d shown him kindness and saved his life. The only one to do so—until Hadrian acted the fool on the Crown Tower. The second was that the blade was remarkable. He had no idea how it had been created. The weapon had somehow been forged in secret in that infernal pit that was the Manzant Prison and Salt Mine. The one good thing to come out of there. No, Royce corrected himself, not the only good thing. The dagger wasn’t the real gift he’d received; it was but a symbol, the embodiment of something more. The gleeful, thieving assassin who entered that salt mine wasn’t the same as the one who’d crawled out. As Royce straddled the peak of Grom Galimus waiting for the arrival of the golem what he held in his hand wasn’t a dagger; it was what it always had been—hope.

  He didn’t wait long. The gargoyle leapt onto the roof and once more grinned with delight to find his prey waiting.

  With his other hand holding on to the decorative iron fins along the roof’s peak, Royce braced in a crouch, facing into the howling wind.