by A J Callen
“And who is this traitor you serve? I demand you answer.”
Larce rushed forward and pointed his sword at Niclas’s head. “The days of the likes of you demanding anything from the likes of me are over. I’ll be the one making demands from now on and the first one is calling for your head on a pike, and your mouth stuffed with your noble cock and balls.”
Sir Razmig placed a hand on Larce’s shoulder and made him step away. “You must be patient, my lord, as is our King who has waited for so long. We all have our parts to play in the great unfolding and mine was to uncover the Sirin hideaway then deliver you here of your own free will.”
“I am sorry, Niclas. Please forgive me.” Euriel, her hands tied behind the back of her flowing amber gown, descended the staircase accompanied by two unfamiliar guards, each armed with loaded crossbows and a quiver of bloody bolts slung over their shoulders.
The sickly-sweet scented air, humid and suffocating, choked Niclas’s thoughts in a dreadful half-dream; there was so much confusion and revulsion that he was almost unable to comprehend the full implication of what he was seeing. “My lady, where are the others?”
Euriel stepped onto the floor and lowered her gaze, her tears glistening in the candlelight. “Dead, most of my friends and family… all dead in the tunnel.”
Niclas closed his eyes, trying to keep his reason floating above the sudden sickening wave of foul air straining his breath. This is my fault. Why didn’t I believe her completely when she first told me the truth?
Sir Razmig ran his fingers down Euriel’s long, auburn hair. “And the doomed creatures lucky enough to fly away will be caught in time, my lord, but until then we have an offering worthy of summoning our glorious King.”
Larce shoved Niclas in the shoulder toward the large diamond-shaped Palladian window on the far wall. It overlooked the manor gardens several stories below.
“Is Count Borodin dead too?”
Sir Razmig stepped away from Euriel. “The filthy foreign coward will be soon enough once we catch him. He has no way of escaping the island.”
“You are all mad, that is certain, but that does not absolve you of your treachery. You should have accepted my offer while you had the chance, yet I am still a fair man, Sir Razmig. You will be allowed to hang next to your master who would be King, once we have cut his name free from your bloody tongue.”
At the rush of footsteps from behind, Niclas swung around, dodging to one side, his hands raised to stop Larce from striking him on the head with a cudgel. “There’s nothing I’ll enjoy more than bringing you down a few notches before I’m finished with—”
The crossbow bolt struck Larce through one side of his neck and punctured out of the other. Blood gushed from the corner of his mouth and he toppled over on his face, hitting the floor hard.
“My apologies, my lord.” Sir Razmig handed the crossbow back to the guard. “I was uncertain if Larce could prove himself worthy of a higher destiny.” He glanced down at the dead man, the blood now pooling around his head. “Some are born in dirt and never rise from it, and there they remain until their dying breath.”
“And the question is, Niclas, are you one of them? Or, what are you?”
Niclas could not mistake the breathy and sensuous voice, yet when he gazed at the red-shrouded figure standing under the arched doorway, he was confused to see the proportions of a taller man. “Who speaks to me?” Niclas took a step closer, trying to determine the figure beneath. “Tarsilla? Is that you?”
The person lowered the shroud to their shoulders. “Why snare a single fowl and scare the rest away? If the hunter remains quiet and patient, he may cast his net wide and capture the entire flock in one fell swoop.”
Niclas recoiled, refusing to believe what he was seeing. The face… the face was that of… Bishop Jubert, yet one eye socket was nothing more than a blackened hole of jagged scar tissue.
“What’s the matter, Niclas? Am I not quite as beautiful as when we last kissed?”
Tarsilla’s voice, yet—but, how could this be? Where was her lovely face that Niclas had kissed so many times he had long since forgotten the number? “Whatever you are, you are not Lady Omarosa. Identify yourself.”
“How discouraging to hear the such hurtful words on your lips, Niclas. You look as shocked and disgusted as that peasant hunter who happened upon us in the woods.”
“Baerwald Flax? It was you he saw?”
“The bow was shaking in his drunken hands and the little whore, Xonsu, having served her consecrated purpose, was almost dead. He let loose a single arrow then fled for his life. Though he could not see our shrouded faces at night Sir Razmig knew his... and from where he drew his water.”
“Are you going to poison me then too, my lady, if that’s what you are? What do you want from us?”
“Why not ask the Sirin bitch? Do as she says of your own free will and you may yet join us, Niclas.” The impostor thrust Euriel toward him and the two guards raised their crossbows.
Niclas grabbed Euriel by the shoulders. “I do not understand everything but I believe in what you have shown me. We are alive for a reason and you must tell me what that is.”
Euriel’s dark eyes looked into his, transfixing him. “She is becoming Choldath, a demon, though her shape-shifting power is not yet completely formed. Her body and soul struggle to retain something of who she was, but… it is only a matter of time. If Anthor Koldrin manifests fully in our world, then all who have given their souls to him will be granted their deepest heart’s desire.”
Niclas turned to the shape-shifting thing before him. The face of Bishop Jubert twitched and shifted as though there was something burrowing through the flesh underneath. The skin contracted and expanded in painful, exaggerated contortions. He bent forward screaming, clutching his sides, and when he slowly rose once more it was the alluring countenance and body of Tarsilla.
She unfastened the ties on the shoulders of her shroud, revealing her curvaceous body dressed in a flowing white tunic opened down the center to her waist. “Am I more familiar and appealing to your eye now, Niclas?”
“Tarsilla… if this is really you, then you will not harm me nor this innocent woman. Please talk to me. I am your oldest and closest friend and I see now that your suffering is great.” Niclas held out his hand. “Sail with me to Avidene. Our physicians and healers are the most gifted in all the known world. Let me help you seek a remedy for this strange affliction.”
“Is that what you think this is?” Tarsilla laughed, a high pitched, snorting cackle that Niclas had never heard before. “My affliction is my barren womb, to die childless without flesh and blood heirs to my name. All I desire is for Geffry to be by my side once more.”
“Avidene has many orphans, my love, though I wish it was not so. You may choose as many as you desire and they will be overjoyed to—”
“No! Are you not listening to me?” She stormed toward him. “I don’t want the discarded imps of filthy whores and peasant girls. I want my own children and I want Geffry.”
Niclas shuddered. Tarsilla’s malady had cursed her flesh in some inexplicable way yet the corruption of her reason was all the more terrifying to behold. “If only our prayers could make it so, yet that cannot be, Tarsilla. You know that, dearest.” Niclas stepped closer. “Please, let me help you. Tell your men to lower their weapons and let us sail together for Avidene at once.”
“Together? That is what I desire above all else.” Tarsilla stared at him, her eyes distant as though seeing something not of this world. “And we will be together again, soon.”
Misty vapors rose from the floor. They drifted and swirled, congealing into the form and aspect of a young boy, a will-o-the-wisp holding his vapory arms out toward Tarsilla.
As she reached toward the phantasm, tears shimmering in her eyes, it dissolved, and all was back as before.
Niclas stepped back from her. It was said that sometimes madness might spread as a contagion, but these were no mere momentary lapses o
f reason nor hallucination. Niclas had never believed in dark sorcery but something unholy was at work in the unseen depths of the night.
Tarsilla looked down and massaged her womb.
“Soon, Geffry will not be alone—for, no longer barren, I will have as many children as I desire.” She drifted toward Niclas, her feet never seeming to alight on the floor. She ran her long, cool finger down the side of his face, continuing down his chest, and finally, cupping his manhood.
“How would you like that, Niclas? To father my noble children, princes of the coming race, and still have such a ravishing mistress unchanged in your eye while others wrinkle and wither to dust and bone?”
Euriel stepped in front of Niclas, her head raised in obstinate defiance. “No human child will ever come from your cursed womb. What you bring forth will be an abomination. That is the damnation your false king trades for your soul.”
Tarsilla swung her arm so quickly that it was a mere blur of motion. She struck Euriel across the jaw sending her reeling across the floor. “You coo just a little too loudly, my little dove. My children will be the most handsome and beautiful that have ever walked the earth, while the seeds of yours die with you and your kind.”
Tarsilla grabbed Niclas by the throat and effortlessly hoisted him off the floor. “Did you bring the book?”
Gasping for breath and momentarily stunned by her strength, Niclas grabbed at Tarsilla’s hands, trying to break her grip on his throat. But she was stronger than any man.
“I didn’t hear you, my love. What did you say?” she asked, a grin spreading across her face as he writhed and flailed.
Niclas felt himself going limp, unable to breathe, his choked reply barely heard. “No… I need more time… to understand.”
“Oh, but the time for understanding is over.” Tarsilla shrieked and threw him across the floor, sending him tumbling to Euriel’s feet. “Sacrifice the Siren bitch of your own free will and spill her blood on the earth. Join me then as my consort and we shall be rewarded when our king is crowned, before the storms of winter come.”
Niclas coughed, gasping for breath. He raised himself to his feet, rubbing his throat. “Is that the reason? Is that why innocent people like Xonsu died? Because you have deceived yourself with dark magic and blindly believe the prophesy of an old book?”
Tarsilla closed her eyes for a few moments. “The blood of the few will save and purify the blood of the many, for the one, true king is merciful.” She stepped toward him. “Imagine, Niclas, a life everlasting, one without war, strife, famine, and disease, where each shall be granted their deepest heart’s desire. That is the gift he offers. Who would not willingly surrender their imperfect soul for such a perfect world?”
Through the open gilded glass doors, Niclas glimpsed a shadowy movement near the end of the faintly-lit hall.
Niclas had never been a man of faith, yet he had never felt more drawn to it then at that moment. “Imperfect always, yet free. The world you speak of is tyranny and I will not barter my soul to save myself from what we are.”
“I hope you will reconsider, my lord.” Sir Razmig readied his sword at his side. “We will be princes of the new realm with legions of sworn warriors at our command. All the world will know the power and the glory of our new King. Noble men such as you and I will conquer and rule in his name if you but do as her Ladyship asks.”
“That is what your false king barters for my soul?” Niclas asked. “He offers nothing but a pitiless world of despair and suffering without end and I will not help unleash its tortures upon the innocent people of my kingdom.”
“And who are the truly innocent among us?” Tarsilla enquired. A faint, wistful smile lightened her hardened face for a moment. “You always were a dreamer, Niclas, and you know that dreamers are always the first to die.”
Chapter 12
Daggers and Demons
Tarsilla motioned to Sir Razmig. The obedient knight advanced toward Niclas, his sword rising in his hand. “I respect your honor, my lord, but the winter that fast approaches cares not for the old ways and will not spare the noble heart.”
Niclas stood in front of Euriel, blocking her from the first sword or crossbow strike. “You are a sworn knight of the realm. What of your honor and oath to protect the innocent, you treacherous bastard?” Niclas shifted on his feet, anticipating how the less experienced knight might deliver his strike.
If he could dodge the first blow and wrestle him in front of Euriel, their bodies might shield her for a few moments before Tarsilla’s crossbowmen struck. That could mean the difference between life and death. Give her time to change, and she might yet escape.
Sir Razmig had just raised his sword to strike when the first longbow arrow plunged into his shoulder and spun him around, forcing him to drop his sword. He fell to the floor on his chest.
What happened? Niclas grabbed Euriel and pulled her to the floor.
Tarsilla’s crossbowmen pivoted toward the open glass doors.
One was struck in the center of the forehead before he could release his bolt, the second just managing to let loose a moment before being slain by an arrow—first to the throat then the chest in rapid succession. The gush of blood rushed to his lungs and he vomited a vibrant stream of red in front of him, before dropping hard to the ground.
The two remaining guards stationed either side of open glass doors pressed their backs to the wall and moved slowly away in opposite directions, lest they meet the next volley. One stood by the small chain winch used to lower the candelabra. Both remained silent and still, waiting for their attackers to reveal themselves.
Tarsilla shrieked and launched herself across the floor, smashing Niclas aside like a child. Grabbing Euriel, she yanked her in front like a shield and thrust the tip of Niclas’s boot dagger to Euriel’s throat. “If those are your friends, my love, tell them to throw out their weapons and enter slowly, hands raised or I will turn your Queen’s white throat red.” Tarsilla nodded to the guards to ready themselves.
“Don’t listen to her, Niclas,” Euriel pleaded. “Tell them to kill her while they have the chance. Another will take my place.”
“No. Not while there is still a chance.” Niclas stepped toward Tarsilla. “Your rage is your grief. I know it well. The pain will not leave you but the wound will heal once you stop this needless suffering.” Niclas held out his hand. “Give me the dagger and end this madness now. You suffer a dark curse that must be lifted if the world is ever to see a smile on the face of that beautiful woman I loved all those years ago.”
Tarsilla lowered the dagger slightly, her face softening, pensive with the memory of old sadness. “Why did you forsake me, Niclas? The King is coming to make the sun set upon this world, and you and all your kind will never cast a single shadow upon its face again.”
“You are deceived, my lady. What the false king promises cannot be, for it brings only the damnation and ruin of all.” Niclas took a step closer. “You torment yourself with grief for something that is not your fault. Geffry is gone.”
Tarsilla fixed her cold, black eyes on his. “Then let the skies break upon the earth and seas boil with blood if it returns my only child back to me.”
Several more arrows shot through the open door, striking Tarsilla in the arm and leg. Her shrill, agonized cries filled the Great Hall as Euriel bit down on her arm and broke free of her grip.
The bastard nearest the winch slashed the chain, bringing the huge candelabra crashing down onto the wood table, overturning oil lamps, flinging small flames and sparks against the draped walls.
Within moments, the drapes bloomed in flames, their fire spreading to the tapestries and rugs, fanning the blaze steadily around the whole perimeter of the Great Hall. Every fabric was alight, small and separate dancing fires teasing and skipping until they joined up to become a single, writhing mass of orange and red.
Fragments of burning tapestries and curtains glowed brightly like fireflies, filling the air with lit showers of fire before f
alling softly to the ground, only to seek out and set alight the long rugs.
“This way Niclas! Hurry!” Count Borodin, Uray, a bow slung on his shoulder, and four of the Governor’s personal guards rushed through the open glass doors, swords and axes raised, swiftly overpowering and slaying the last of Sir Razmig’s men without suffering a single wound themselves.
Euriel pointed her trembling hand at the shroud heaped on the floor, the flames inching toward it. “You must kill her before she escapes!”
Niclas could no longer see Tarsilla’s face or arms, yet there was a large form beneath the shroud, a form that was flailing and struggling to escape.
Uray stepped toward them, his bow raised and arrow notched, dodging the whipping flames, searching for an opening. “Move away now!”
A demonic, snake-like head, part Tarsilla, part creature of nightmare, reared up, its pitiless black eyes staring down at Niclas. It grinned, revealing a row of twisted spike teeth and hissed. “You will know these sweet lips again, my love, when I feast on yours.”
The creature crawled out from underneath the burning shroud, its serpentine body scuttling on fast-moving insect legs toward the far wall leaving a greenish, putrid-smelling and shiny trail.
Euriel grabbed Niclas’s dagger from the floor and threw it, striking the creature’s hind quarters, slowing its escape.
The thing from the abyss screeched louder and propelled itself through the air toward the large diamond-shaped Palladian window.
Uray loosened his arrow and narrowly missed its squirming back as the creature crashed through the glass and released its most deafening shriek.
Euriel faltered and leaned against Niclas for support. “I’m weak and I don’t know how long I can remain as I am. You cannot speak to any of what you have seen, Niclas. Swear to me that you will protect my secret until the sign is revealed to you.”
“There’s no time. This way.” Niclas yanked on her arm but she stood fast, unmoved.