Sourcethief (Book 3)

by J. S. Morin

  Though the graveyard was well tended with white and pink flowers growing between the graves, the graves themselves were freshly disturbed. Rashan had not been around when Loramar's works were demolished, so he did not know who had been interred in the graveyard near the Palace of Four Hills. He suspected that the cultists who kept the traditions of the Grand Necromancer had laid in a stockpile of willing slaves for the next necromancer to follow the old master's path.

  Aether around the graveyard was scant. The foul, dead aether that wafted from fresh corpses had long since faded from the place. Somewhere below, Axterion had told him, lay the only known crypt of Loramar's followers that the Imperial Circle had spared. Rashan was searching for the mausoleum that housed the entrance when a glimmer in the aether caught his eye. It was faint but he knew it to be a Source. Someone was playing hiding games, the old trick every child learned playing on the Academy grounds: hiding your Source by matching your draw with your own output of aether. Someone was trying that very trick not far from him.

  Rashan paused a moment, dismissing the shielding spell he kept by force of habit about his person. He stuck Heavens Cry into the soft soil of a bed of tulips and left it behind. "You want to see a champion at hiding in the aether?" he asked in a whisper. "Play against a demon."

  He stalked toward the mausoleum where he had caught sight of the stray hints of aether betraying a Source. The door was closed but worn. Many hands had handled it—too many for a common tomb. He ripped the door open, tearing it free of its hinges and tossing it aside. Within he saw a sickly Ghelkan cringe and turn away, raising his arms to fend off a foe he could not see.

  "Ah, I see the eyeless servants have not passed into history quite yet," Rashan said, looking into the vacant sockets that stared up in vain.

  "What manner of monster are you?" the eyeless man asked, crouching low and leaning against the wall.

  "I suppose your new savior failed to mention that I am a demon. A pity. There were already going to be so many nasty surprises for him even with all his minions prepared." Rashan reached down and grabbed the man by the throat. Primal instincts cause any man thus caught to grapple to free himself. As the man clutched at Rashan's hand, trying to pry loose fingers that dug deep enough to threaten his life, Rashan used the grip to haul him to his feet.

  There was a stairway down to the crypts below, and Rashan wasted no time in dragging his captive down them. The man gasped and sputtered and tried to get his feet under him, but Rashan kept up a pace down the stairs that made doing so impossible. The eyeless captive's heels bounced along at each step.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor was filled with eyes dangling like bloated grapes from their chains. "Quite the place you have here. I can only imagine the restraint Axterion must have needed to leave it standing. I would have gutted it with fire, caved the walls in and felt all the better for it." With a wave of his free hand, Rashan sent a wash of flames over the chains and burned them clean of their gory ornaments, which hissed and popped in protest.

  The eyeless man was trying to speak. Rashan eased his grip just enough for him to draw breath. "What is it you want here?"

  "To satisfy my curiosity, mainly. It is clear there is no necromancer here at the moment, so I plan to see what is here before I revert back to the plan I mentioned earlier," Rashan replied.

  "Grand Necromancer Jinzan will destroy you. Mark my words!"

  "Unlike you, I have actually met the Grand Necromancer. I have also met your Councilor Jinzan Fehr. Do not conflate the two. No one could gain that sort of mastery in less than a season. You sully my greatest victory by the implication," Rashan said.

  "No matter—"

  With a crack, Rashan cut the eyeless man's boast short. He dropped the corpse-worshipper's corpse to the floor.

  "I quite agree: no matter."

  The door at the end of the corridor was open and looked like it had remained so since being blasted into that state. Rashan stopped to examine the remnants of the wards that had once guarded it. "Kadrin work," he pronounced. "Most likely Axterion's doing. Loramar was an artisan in flesh and Source only, this is nothing like his crude rune-work."

  The insides of the crypt were ransacked, whatever treasure had been stored within plundered. The smears of blood on incompletely cleaned tables and floors told him that the looting had been recent, that the facility had been in use until a day or two before. Rashan shook his head. "I scared him off. I imagine 'Grand Necromancer' took his workshop onto his stolen airship and fled."

  Rashan raised his hands to begin burning out the crypt when a sudden thought made his lips curl. "Oh, he had best not run himself into Brannis's path. The last thing I need is for him to get that staff in his hands with time alone to ponder what to do with it."

  Flames roared forth all around him then, consuming all the scraps and remnants too insignificant to have been gathered in haste. Blasts of aether cracked the walls, sending shudders through the structure as Rashan backed out, destabilizing everything as he left.

  When he reached daylight once more, he found that Heavens Cry had been found. Another pair of the necromancer's lackeys had discovered it when he went below and had used the same aether trick to hide themselves while he was distracted.

  "You will die by your own weapon, demon!" said the young woman wielding it like a dowsing rod. She still had her eyes, though her male companion bore the tell-tale vacant sockets of Loramar's devotees.

  "Use it, destroy him!" said the other, backing away.

  "Draw in as much aether as you like, it works by channeling it through the blade," Rashan offered. The woman wielding Heavens Cry took a step back, eyes widening. "What? Are you surprised I speak Ghelkan or that I would tell you how my masterpiece works? I have nothing to fear from it or from you. Now either use it or hand it over."

  Rashan extended a hand for the sword but only advanced a single step before he felt the twinge of a fledgling pull against the aether. Heavens Cry belched forth a plume of noxious green vapor. The demon laughed aloud as it spread harmlessly around him. With a beckoning gesture, he used telekinesis to tug both adversaries toward him—into the fumes. A pair of screams cut the air as flesh burned. Rashan retrieved his blade.

  "Play with things you do not understand, and this is what you get," he said with a snarl. His comment was lost on the sword-thief, who was already dead.

  * * * * * * * *

  "Fine. I admit your plan worked, now take your people and flee the palace," Princess Shiann ordered. While many of Lon Mai's citizens had taken to the countryside, the palace staff and all the residents had remained.

  "This is madness. You can't stay put with him in the city," General Kaynnyn argued. She had to duck and lean around porters herding children and guards gathering supplies for an escape. "He's bound to come here when he can't find Councilor Fehr."

  Princess Shiann grabbed General Kaynnyn by the arm and locked gazes with her. Tiny sparks of aether made it appear as if flames flickered in her eyes. "Maybe if we stop running we will find that this one is fuller of lies than of legend. Trickery and fear are his weapons. Aether is aether and there will be five of us against just one of him."

  General Kaynnyn pursed her lips and clenched her jaw. Her eyes screamed that Princess Shiann was being foolish but, she kept silent and just shook her head.

  "My father is too old and sick to travel. I will not just abandon him here to the demon," Princess Shiann said. Turning from the Megrenn general, she snapped her fingers in the air. "To me!"

  Sorcerers in dusky blue robes peeled themselves from the edges of the room and fell into step behind the Ghelkan princess as she swept out of the room.

  General Kaynnyn stood fuming for a moment before leaving to find Councilor Fehr's family and Shiann's daughter.

  * * * * * * * *

  The door burst open, drawing Tanner's attention away from the window and the scene playing out below. He turned to see Stalyart—or whoever Stalyart's twin was—slamming the door behind him
. Stalyart's arms were piled high with a bundle of clothes.

  "Put these on and make haste," Stalyart said.

  "What's going on? It looks like everyone is leaving," Tanner replied.

  "Not everyone, but if you are wise you will be among them. Come," Stalyart said, forcing the bundle into Tanner's hands when he made no move to take them. "Get changed."

  Tanner took custody of a city guard's uniform. He found that it was wrapped around a familiar weight. Eschewing the disguise for the time being, he unwrapped his sword belt and found his own personal weapon ensconced safely within its sheath. He hugged it close before buckling it on.

  "I felt naked walking around here unarmed. Thanks."

  "Ghelk is counterattacking now that Jinzan has taken on the role of Grand Necromancer," Stalyart explained. "The people fear retribution once they gain the demon's attention. It has become a very popular time to visit relatives who live in the countryside. There is a wig in there too, to hide your dark hair."

  "Aw, really? This is all sneak and blend in? I hate that slinking stuff. Can't we just fight our way out in the night?" Tanner asked.

  "The time is the time, just like the tide says," Stalyart said. "Enough talking. Dress yourself."

  "Why are you helping me, anyway?" Tanner asked as he stripped out of his Kadrin clothes. "Aren't you worried about crossing your necro-pirate friend?"

  "He is not here and I have a more pressing alliance to make right now. Perhaps with a mutual dependence we might find our situation more amiable."

  "So, trying to make nice on the other side? Fine, I'll buy that one." Tanner pulled the guard uniform over his head, and squirmed his arms into the sleeves. "Think it'll work?" he asked.

  "There are a great many people all rushing about—"

  "No, I mean getting on my good side," Tanner said with a grin.

  There was shouting outside the room, but the Ghelkan was all gibberish as far as Tanner was concerned. But it was angry gibberish, and with a sword belted at his side, he drew it without a second thought.

  A moment later the door burst open and five palace guards entered. They were all armed, but none carried their weapons in hand. There was a frantic conversation as Stalyart stepped between Tanner and the new arrivals, all in Ghelkan. By the gesturing, Tanner surmised there was some explaining to be done over why he was now armed and dressed in a uniform of the Lon Mai city guard.

  Tanner let his sword dangle loosely in his hand and held his other out wide in a gesture that said "I have no idea what I'm doing here." He approached the group slowly, walking up to stand beside Stalyart. The guards eyed him warily but their attention was on the fast-talking smuggler. Nevertheless, weapons were being drawn, though with little urgency.

  "Hey, I'm just going along with this," Tanner said. The guards paid scant attention to him but he continued on anyway as they babbled back and forth with Stalyart. "I had just needed some fresh clothes while mine went down to the washerwomen."

  There was still no sign that the guards were able to understand him, but they kept one eye to him while they continued arguing with Stalyart.

  "Step back," Tanner said, not altering his conversational tone. "Make it quick."

  Whether Stalyart trusted him or had no better option, the twinborn smuggler took two rapid steps backward. Tanner lifted his blade and had it in the nearest guard's throat before any of them brought their own weapons up to defend themselves.

  "I hope you know what you are doing, Mr. Tanner," said Stalyart as he drew his own sword.

  Tanner said nothing in reply. Instead he concentrated fully on the four remaining guards who suddenly decided he was worth much more of their attention than the word-slinging friend of Councilor Fehr. He used the body of the dying guard as a hazard to the footing of his opponents and kept it between himself and them.

  The guardsmen's swipes were tentative, probing. Tanner had seen it all before. It was endemic of knights who had never seen real combat, something in the head that kept the practice-yard heroics from translating into a real fight: the fear of death. Tanner feared death as much as the next man but had long since inured himself to the idea that it was going to hang over him in every battle. Letting the thought of it preoccupy him just made it more likely to happen.

  He slapped a Ghelkan sword aside, taking a measure of its length and sending it into the way of another of the guards. He had an advantage of reach but only by a handsbreadth. He was more interested in the fact that none of the Ghelkans seemed to know how to fight in close quarters as a group. Tanner kept his parries quick and safe, always guiding the Ghelkans' blade into each other's way whenever possible. The Ghelkans were not stupid and began to spread out.

  Tanner spared a glance back at Stalyart to see whether his flank would be defended, but saw that his companion held well back. Knowing that there was only so long he could hold four men at bay once more than two of them reached him at once, Tanner took the offensive.

  A quick feint drew his rightmost opponent's sword out wide and a quick slash at his wrist sent his sword falling from limp fingers. Tanner stepped in close and used the unarmed man to shield himself from the rest. With only one flank to worry about, Tanner pressed his advantage. He timed a thrust by the next nearest guardsman, and surprised the man by meeting the attack with a thrust of his own. Tanner judged the distance such that he put less than a handsbreadth of steel into the guard's throat as the tip of the dead man's blade blew a rush of air just under his chin.

  Faced with just two remaining opponents, Tanner relaxed. One of the two turned to the other and said something; the other replied with a single word and an emphatic shake of his head.

  "Stalyart, get your stuff packed up. We're about ready to go," Tanner said without turning back to look at his "rescuer." He heard the steps behind him as Stalyart circled around.

  The final two guards separated to keep out of one another's way. That was all Tanner had been waiting for. He rushed the one on his right, turning to keep the other in his field of vision. He beat the man's sword aside, waited for the overcompensation on the recovery, and followed up with a thrust to the man's gut.

  His blade was freed as the guard crumpled to the ground, trying to staunch the bleeding with a layer of leather in the way. The last guard standing—the one who had seemed to prompt his companion to retreat a moment ago—began to back toward the door, eyes wide and blade held pointed at Tanner.

  Tanner sighed as the same trick worked twice in a row and he made quick work of the last guard.

  Tanner watched Stalyart put his blade to two of the wounded as he made his way to the door. "Decided to wet your sword a bit?"

  "There is no point in allowing loud suffering to draw yet more attention to our departure," Stalyart replied. He wiped his blade clean on the bedsheets before leaving the room.

  Outside Tanner's cell, the spires of the palace were connected by covered stone bridges. Tanner walked out onto the covered stone bridge and looked down, then to Stalyart and the heavy coil of rope he had picked up from by the door.

  "You gotta be joking," Tanner said. Stalyart smiled and began tying an end around one of the supports to the bridge’s roof. "I'll be gutted before I climb down from here. I'd rather take my chances fighting my way down through the main spire."

  "Yes, you did rather well just now with your blade. For all your boasting, I had expected more style from your efforts," Stalyart said as he continued his work.

  "Style gets you killed. So does getting your blade shoved so far through some poor grunt that you can't get it back out in time to defend yourself. You nick and poke and maim and do whatever you can to keep blades out of your soft bits," Tanner said. "None of that matters though if we smash against the ground like overripe gourds."

  "Mr. Tanner," Stalyart said. "I know a thing, or perhaps a great many things about knots and rope. I trusted your blade to finish those guards and I stayed clear of you as you worked. Now trusts must be traded. We are taking my way down and we will not fall."
Stalyart began tying the other end of the rope about his waist and legs and did something with the slack in between that left a loose knot between the harnesses and the extra rope.

  "What's all this for?"

  "It will slide out slowly as we descend," Stalyart explained. He took a shorter length of rope and lashed himself to Tanner's back. Stalyart plopped something atop his head as well. "And if we do not attract enough attention getting down in this manner, it might avail us to draw no more." Tanner reached up and felt the coarse hair of a wig.

  Stalyart climbed onto the railing and offered a hand to help Tanner up. Tanner clasped it with reluctance.

  When Tanner climbed up beside Stalyart, he felt his legs go weak beneath him. If not for being tethered to Stalyart he might have fallen back down. His trepidation was short-lived as Stalyart overbalanced them and sent them both sliding down to the ground with nothing but air to all sides.

  Tanner's scream was cut short by a hand clamped over his mouth.

  "Really, Mr. Tanner ..."

  * * * * * * * *

  Rashan dragged Heavens Cry across the floor as he went, the tip scratching a trail down the tile mosaics. He had been wandering the main spire of the palace for an hour and more with no sign of anyone worth killing or even parleying with.

  "How is anyone supposed to find anything in this place?" he muttered. "Round rooms everywhere, doors pointing off in every which direction, no sense of symmetry or pattern. I wish we had kept maps of it; this place seems like it was built just to confuse unwelcome visitors ..."

  Rashan pondered his own words a moment. The walls were runed and lightly infused with aether—enough so that he could not see through them. What if there is more to it than that?

  He walked to the nearest wall and set about testing a brand new theory, one that explained his predicament far better than a simple trick of architecture. He took Heavens Cry and tried to stab it into the wall, which shook. Protective wards fought back against the phenomenal pressure of all of his demonic strength concentrated in a rune-forged point. He added a bolt of aether, and the ward shattered.