“Brother Barnaby, you should not be a witness to this sad scene. Go wait for us back at our lodgings.”
“I have a letter for Father Jacob, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, clutching a folded and sealed document. “It just arrived, forwarded to the Father from the Arcanum. And I have a message from one of the Bishop’s Own, who flew to Capione on griffin-back and needs to speak to Father Jacob most urgently.”
“The letter and the Bishop’s Own can both wait until we have finished here,” said Sir Ander, trying to find a way to keep Brother Barnaby from entering the horror-filled room. “Go tell the guardsman that Father Jacob will attend him shortly.”
“I already told him, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, sticking doggedly to Sir Ander. The monk smiled faintly. “You should know by now, sir, that you can’t get rid of me that easily. Father Jacob might need me.”
Sir Ander opened his mouth and shut it again. He knew he would be wasting his breath. Brother Barnaby was dedicated, body and soul, to Father Jacob. Sir Ander would not be able to remove the young monk, short of picking him up and carrying him out the door.
“Very well,” said Sir Ander testily. “But keep close to me and don’t touch anything!”
Brother Barnaby nodded and silently accompanied Sir Ander as the knight entered the bloodstained room. The cavernous chamber had no windows and was as shadowed as the hearts of those who had once inhabited it, or so Sir Ander thought. The soldiers ordered to guard the room were carrying torches, but even their flaring light could not lift the darkness that seemed to settle on the soul.
The soldiers pointed the way to the corpse. Sir Ander had brought a lantern fueled by a glowing magical sigil and by its light they located Father Jacob, on his knees on the floor of a small antechamber off the main room. Brother Barnaby stood gazing on the awful scene, his brown eyes moist with sorrow and wide with shock. Sir Ander looked very grim.
Father Jacob held his own lantern, magically enhanced to give off an extremely bright glow. He had placed the lantern on the floor near the corpse and was kneeling in the blood, studying the corpse with such intensity that he did not hear the footsteps of his comrades.
He sniffed at the cold lips and studied with minute care the victim’s robes. He peered at the soles of the boots and the hands clenched to fists in the agony of the death throes. He was careful not to touch the body, Sir Ander noted.
The knight looked down sternly at the corpse of the young man.
It is a sin to be pleased at the death of any man, Sir Ander thought, particularly one so young. He could not help but feel intensely relieved that this evil young man was dead, his reign of terror ended.
Sir Ander squatted down beside the body. “No trace of blood. How did he die? Poison?”
Father Jacob did not answer. He was frowning, lost in his reflections. Sir Ander, accustomed to the priest’s ways, patiently repeated the question.
Father Jacob roused himself and said abruptly, “Something damn odd about this.” His voice was deep and resonating and although Father Jacob had lived in Rosia twenty-five years, his Freyan accent was still pronounced.
Sir Ander repeated his question a third time, and, since he finally had the priest’s attention, he added in rebuking tones, “Brother Barnaby is here. He came to see you.”
“I have a letter for you from Master Albert Savoraun, Father,” said Brother Barnaby. “And the grand bishop sent a messenger saying he has urgent need of you.”
Father Jacob snorted and with that snort dismissed the letter and the grand bishop. The priest continued to study the corpse.
Father Jacob Northrup was in his early forties. His brownish hair, shaved in the traditional tonsure, was starting to go gray. He was clean-shaven, of medium height, though he seemed taller to most people, perhaps because he was muscular and well built. He had been a prize-winning pugilist in his youth and was still fond of the sport. He wore the black cassock that marked a member of the Arcanum and a black, stiff hat made of felt. He would have been termed handsome, for he had a strong jawline and fine nose, but for his eyes, which were gray-green in color and glittered with an intensity most people found disturbing.
“When Father Jacob looks at you, he sees you-sees all of you, whether you want him to or not,” Sir Ander often said.
Father Jacob’s face was marked with the trials of his life; deep lines marred his brow, wrinkles webbed his eyes. He was thin-lipped, and when he smiled, the smile could be either charming or a prelude to doom.
“Father, you should send Brother Barnaby away,” said Sir Andrew.
“And why should I do that?” Father Jacob asked irritably.
“Because there is no need for this young monk to have to witness such carnage. Bad enough we should have to see it ourselves. I’ll have nightmares for a week and I’ve seen men blown apart by cannonballs and never flinched. But this… They were so young…”
Father Jacob glanced about the room, then returned his frowning gaze to the corpse. Sir Ander sighed and gave up. He knew from long experience that when Father Jacob looked at this room, he did not see the tragic ruin of young lives or think of the terror and pain these young ones must have endured. To Father Jacob’s analytical mind, the dead youths were nothing more than factors in an equation he had been given the task of solving. And right now, judging by his furrowed brow and tight lips, he was not having much success.
“I’m missing something,” Father Jacob said, frowning in perplexity and frustration. “Missing something…”
He pushed himself to his feet and stood with his head lowered, deep in thought. When a soldier came up and seemed about to interrupt the priest in this work, both Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby hurriedly intervened.
“ ‘How did he die?’ ” Father Jacob muttered. “You have a knack, Sir Ander, for hitting the very center of the target. ‘How did he die?’ A most intriguing question.”
He bent back to examine the corpse and Sir Ander, who was growing stiff from squatting, stood up. His knees made popping sounds and he grimaced. He was fifty years old and though he was in excellent condition physically, he was at the age where his bones were starting to creak.
“So very young. So very sad,” said Brother Barnaby. Murmuring the prayer for the dead, he reached down his hand to shut the staring eyes.
“Don’t touch!” Father Jacob cried, striking the monk’s hand with such force that Brother Barnaby stumbled and nearly fell. The young monk shrank back in dismay.
“Really, Father, there was no need to hit him!” Sir Ander began angrily.
Father Jacob looked up at the soldier who had arrived with a question.
“Get your men out of here,” Father Jacob ordered. “And take Brother Barnaby with you!”
“Sir, our captain’s dead,” the soldier began. “I’m not sure-”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn who’s dead!” Father Jacob shouted. “Get your men out of here! Set a guard on the door. Don’t let anyone in.”
The alarmed soldier hastened off to convey the priest’s command. The troops obeyed with alacrity, all of them thankful to leave that chamber of horrors. Since the door had been blown apart and battered down, the soldiers took up their positions in the hallway outside. In his haste, the soldier had forgotten about Brother Barnaby, who had retreated to the shadows, hoping Father Jacob would not notice he was still around.
The monk’s efforts failed.
Father Jacob glowered. “Brother Barnaby, I said you were to leave.”
“I will leave when you leave, Father,” Brother Barnaby said quietly.
Father Jacob muttered something, then motioned with his hand. “If you insist on staying, Brother, walk over to that wall and stand there and do not move! Sir Ander, remain near. I may need your services.”
Father Jacob knelt on the floor beside the corpse, being careful not to touch it. He passed his hand over the young man’s chest and spoke words that were harsh and ugly, the language of dark magic, sounding like a screeching bat, a cawin
g crow. His face, mild and benign, twisted and contorted. Brother Barnaby shuddered and looked away. Sir Ander felt the hair prickle the back of his neck. His gut tightened. He placed his hand on his sword’s hilt, ready for whatever might come.
Father Jacob continued to pass his hand back and forth over the dead man’s chest and then he stopped. He made a gesture of summoning and spoke a word of command.
A viper reared up from where it had been lying coiled beneath the robes on the corpse’s chest. The snake’s hooded head faced Father Jacob. The viper’s tongue flicked out of its mouth. The snake hissed at Father Jacob and seemed to want to strike, but the priest held it in thrall with his magic. The viper’s head swayed back and forth, its slit eyes fixed on Father Jacob.
“You must cut off the head, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob coolly. “Quickly, man! I cannot hold sway over it much longer.”
Sir Ander swallowed his inborn revulsion of all things that slithered on the ground and drew his broadsword from the scabbard slowly, trying not to make a sound that might cause the viper to attack. He held his sword in his hand, estimating the stroke.
“You’re too close to the snake. I don’t want to cut off two heads instead of one,” said Sir Ander softly.
“I don’t dare move,” said Father Jacob. “If I do, I will break the spell that is holding the viper in thrall.”
Sir Ander drew in a deep breath. “Then when I swing, you must pull your head back. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” said Father Jacob.
Brother Barnaby was softly praying.
“Put a prayer in God’s ear for me, Brother,” said Sir Ander and, using a backhanded stroke, he swept the blade through the air.
Father Jacob lunged sideways. The blade whistled past him and sliced through the viper, severing the snake’s head from the body. The head flew off onto the floor. The snake’s body fell, twitching, on top of the corpse.
“A Tissius viper,” said Father Jacob, eyeing the snake with interest. “Comes from the Kharun Dir Desert. Highly poisonous. Brother Barnaby, could you find me a sack? I should like to take the corpse back to the yacht to study-”
Sir Ander coughed and jerked his head.
Father Jacob looked up at Brother Barnaby. The young man leaned against the wall, shivering. Father Jacob’s expression softened.
“I am sorry you had to witness this, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob with a sigh. “And I am sorry I struck you. But if you had touched the corpse, the viper would have bitten you. Death would have been inevitable and most painful.”
“I understand, Father.” Brother Barnaby gulped. He looked ill, but he stood steadfast. “Please do not apologize. I will find a sack-”
“Thank you, Brother, but never mind,” said Father Jacob in regretful tones. “I wouldn’t have time to dissect it anyway.”
Sir Ander drew his handkerchief and carefully wiped his blade. He thrust his broadsword back into the scabbard and tossed the handkerchief in disgust onto the floor.
“Why did the Warlock plant the snake on himself?” asked Sir Ander. “Just to have the sadistic pleasure of knowing that he could still kill after death?”
Father Jacob was staring with perplexity at the corpse. “I’m not certain that was the reason. From what I know of him, the Warlock, though young, is highly intelligent. His actions are always purposeful. Reason and logic guide him.”
He looked more closely at the corpse, then he said urgently, “Tell the soldiers to start searching the area.”
“What are they searching for?” Sir Ander asked, puzzled.
“For the Warlock, of course,” Father Jacob snapped impatiently.
Sir Ander had no idea what the priest was talking about-the Warlock was dead on the floor. But Sir Ander had been with Father Jacob for ten years and he knew that questioning him now would only further aggravate him. He trusted the priest implicitly and although the Warlock was most certainly dead, he went to tell the soldiers to conduct a thorough search of the building and the surrounding area for the Warlock.
The soldiers looked at Sir Ander as though he was crazy, but he was a Knight Protector and they were bound to obey. They walked off slowly, muttering among themselves. They wanted to leave this place, go back to pick up their dead. Sir Ander didn’t blame them. A mug of cold ale in some noisy tavern where people were carefree and laughing seemed like Heaven to him about now.
“They’re searching for him,” Sir Ander said on his return. “Though they have no idea why.”
“They won’t find him,” Father Jacob remarked, talking to himself more than his companions. “He had his escape route all planned. A brilliant young man. He could have done great things in this world. For such a mind to be corrupted…”
Brother Barnaby was bewildered. “I don’t understand, Father,” he said hesitantly. “Isn’t this dead man the Warlock?”
In answer, Father Jacob placed his hand on the young man’s cheek and, with a sudden jerk, ripped off the blond mustache. Brother Barnaby flinched and gasped in shock.
“It’s not real, Brother. Spirit gum,” Father Jacob said succinctly, holding up the mustache. “The sort used by actors.”
He tore off the blond beard, then twitched aside the collar of the red robes to reveal the breasts, bound in strips of flannel, of a young woman.
Brother Barnaby hurriedly averted his eyes. The young monk took his vow of celibacy seriously. Sir Ander drew closer to get a better look, then he remembered the snake and kept his distance.
“Oh, it’s quite safe now,” Father Jacob said. “The poor child will not hurt anyone anymore.”
“She can’t be more than fifteen!” Sir Ander knelt down to gaze with pity at the youthful face. He sighed and said quietly, “Elaina Devroux.”
“Yes,” said Father Jacob. “Sad news for the viscount and his lady wife.”
“He murdered her and then disguised the body so that we would think it was him,” Sir Ander said grimly.
“He did not murder the girl, though one might say Elaina Devroux perished the day she fell victim to him and his cult,” said Father Jacob. “Note the expression on her face. The young woman died in a drug-induced state. The juice of the poppy, if I’m not mistaken. She dressed with care, even to binding her breasts to make herself appear flat-chested. She put on men’s boots, which are too big for her.”
He looked at the rigid, pale face with its strange and terrible smile. “The beard and mustache are made of real human hair and were applied by someone who knew his business. Such a disguise required careful planning and forethought. She must have agreed at the outset to sacrifice herself for the Warlock should that become necessary. The Warlock was her lover. She ran away from home, to go to him and to the opium he fed her.”
“How do you know she was taking opium?” Sir Ander asked.
“When her parents first found her, wandering aimlessly about the city, they thought her ravings were the result of ‘demonic possession.’ In truth, the seizures were brought about by the removal of the drug to which she had become addicted. I have seen the same behavior among patients in the infirmary who were given opium in honey for the pain of broken limbs. In some instances, when the opium is taken away, these patients appear to have been seized by demons.”
The priest drew back Elaina’s robes and pointed to two small marks on the young girl’s neck.
“That is how she died. When the Warlock placed the viper on her chest and covered it with her robes, she knew that it must eventually bite her.”
“But why would she do such thing?” Brother Barnaby asked, his voice soft with dismay.
“To give the man she adored the opportunity to escape, of course,” said Father Jacob. “He needed time to evade our pursuit and this poor child provided it.”
“He escapes, leaving her and everyone else in his cult to die. I hope he rots in Hell!” Sir Ander said savagely. “He was warned in advance of our coming.”
“Yes,” Father Jacob said and he added bitterly, in sudde
n anger, “As if we needed more proof than the fact that I walked into his trap and now eleven men are dead!”
“But who could have warned him? No one knew except you and me and the viscount…”
Sir Ander saw the grim look on the priest’s face. “The viscount? You can’t be serious! Why warn the very person he wanted us to catch? His soldiers were the ones who died in the assault.”
“I doubt that he meant to,” said Father Jacob. “We will probably find he has a servant in the pay of the Warlock.”
The priest rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. “We are not dealing with a lunatic, Sir Ander. We are dealing with a young man who is operating with a purpose, a young man with someone even more intelligent behind him.”
“You are talking about the Sorceress. But what purpose can there possibly be in torturing and murdering people? Other than”-Sir Ander glanced askance at Brother Barnaby and lowered his voice-“for sadistic sexual pleasure…”
“That is part of it, certainly,” said Father Jacob. He glanced about at the room, at the corpses in the alcoves. “But I believe it has more to do with the terror these gruesome crimes generate among the populace. Unlike most criminals, who seek to hide their crimes, this young man performs his openly. He wants people to know what he is doing. This entire part of the country has been in a state of panic for weeks, what with the discovery of mutilated bodies in farmers’ fields and a missing viscount’s daughter. All designed to awaken public interest and outrage and draw attention to the Warlock. Even my arrival feeds into this frenzy.”
“But why?” Sir Ander asked, bewildered. “To what end?”
“I very much fear, my friend, that the Warlock wants me to look at him because he does not want me looking at something else.”
Father Jacob stood for long moments lost in thought, then he roused himself.
“Well, we have done all we can here.” Father Jacob glanced at Brother Barnaby and his voice softened. “I believe you should say the prayer for the dead, Brother.”
Sir Ander and Father Jacob bowed their heads and folded their hands as Brother Barnaby, his face soft with sorrow and compassion, knelt down to close the staring eyes and say a prayer for all the souls lost and wandering in darkness…
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