The Archon's Assassin

by D. P. Prior

  Shader nodded. “You’re right, there. The little girl needs to rest.”

  Pete flopped onto the grass and pulled some supplies from his bag. Sandau lifted Saphra onto the verge and clambered after her, Rhiannon springing up behind.

  They sat facing the beacon, a pillar of fire rising to Araboth, black smoke roiling into the clouds. Pete had the spyglass in one hand, a hunk of bread in the other. Sandau shared out the water in metal cups, passed around the loaf for the others to tear a piece off. Rhiannon produced some cheese wrapped in cloth, and an apple for Saphra. The girl lay with her head on her mother’s lap, sleepy-eyed and miserable.

  “That’s gotta be him,” Pete said, passing the spyglass to Shader.

  There was a lone figure beside the beacon fire, hunched over a long staff—or was it a scythe? The back of Shader’s neck prickled, and a deeper cold seeped into his bones.

  “You mean, you don’t know him?” he said.

  Rhiannon snatched the spyglass and peered up at the hilltop. “Lit the beacon, didn’t he? What more do we need to know?”

  Sandau took his turn squinting at the figure. “Has to be him. Stoner said he was creepy, but not to worry. Important thing is, he’s on the ball. Hagalle can’t even take a shit without us knowing.”

  Saphra slapped him on the arm.

  “Excuse my Gallish,” Sandau said.

  Shader washed down a bite of bread with some water.

  Rhiannon was watching him, as if he had all the answers. Thing is, he did, at least in part. It was difficult to be sure from this distance, but he could have sworn it was the man who’d accosted him in the graveyard at Anderida; the man in the piebald mask he’d first seen as a child.

  Sandau tore off another chunk of bread and crammed it into his mouth, talking as he chewed. “Stoner says he’s some kind of hermit.”

  “Whatever he is,” Shader said, “he’s more than a hermit.”

  All eyes but Saphra’s were on him then.

  “Oh?” Rhiannon said.

  “If I’m right about this, I ran into him on the way to Hallow.” They didn’t need to know about his childhood sighting. That might be just a little too weird. “He said…” He looked out toward the beacon, but the figure was just a speck without the spyglass. “Said I was to seek him out. Here. He told me to come here.” He shuddered at the memory; couldn’t bring himself to say anymore. There were things Heredwin had said, warnings, prophecies that he could feel clawing at the back of his mind like a dog digging for a bone.

  Find the piper, catch the running man; b’ware the snares of beauty.

  Pete stood and brushed down his clothes. “Kill two birds with one stone, then.”

  The wolves are coming…

  A tense moment passed between them all, until Sandau said, “Two birds with one Stoner, you mean. Get it?”

  “Not funny,” Rhiannon said. “Not even half.”

  “I’ll take the two birds over Stoner any time,” Pete said with a leer.

  “Birdies,” Saphra said. She was staring up into the clouds. “Where are all the birdies?”

  “Too cold, honey,” Pete said. “Like me.”

  As they packed away the food, Saphra gave a big yawn, caught Pete’s eye, and then ran giggling toward the far-off beacon.

  “Hang on, honey,” Pete called as he slung his pack into place.

  More laughter, moving further away. Shader lost sight of her in the crepuscular light.

  They hurried after Saphra, following her shrill voice. No matter how much they called, how fast they walked, she always seemed to be getting away from them.

  Shader cast a glance at Rhiannon. Her eyes told him she was thinking the same thing: It was like following the wisp light through the quagmires of the Sour Marsh.

  “Saphra!” Rhiannon yelled, her anxiety sounding like anger to Shader’s ears.

  A cobalt flare ripped open the gloom. Saphra giggled once more, and then there was silence.

  “Saphra?” Pete said, though it was a whisper.

  A growl sounded from somewhere up ahead, answered by a chorus of unearthly howls that stopped them dead.

  “What the shog is that?” Sandau hissed.

  There was a soft scraping sound as Pete half-drew his sword.

  Rhiannon started forward. “Saphra!”

  Sandau put a hand on her shoulder, drew her back. He spoke through gritted teeth. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

  “I know!” She shoved him aside and ran into the darkness, voice growing shrill as she called to her daughter over and over.

  First Sandau, then Pete followed her. Shader cursed and brought up the rear, half-jogging, half-limping. A sharp exhalation of breath stopped him in his tracks.

  Even Rhiannon halted at that, and then she, Sandau, and Pete backed up till they stood with Shader.

  “What was that?” Sandau stared into the murky blackness. “How’d it get so dark?”

  Shader put a hand on Sandau’s arm for quiet. He shut his eyes, straining to hear.

  A deep panting, a low growl to the right. Padding feet on the soft ground, a snort and a whuff.

  “Who’s there?” Pete shouted. He pulled his sword all the way out and held it before him.

  “Saphra?” Rhiannon said, voice almost a whimper.

  More movement, this time from the left.

  “They’re circling us,” Shader said.

  A mangy stench carried on the wind.

  “Who?” Sandau said. “Who’s circling us?”

  “Wolves.”

  The first of Heredwin’s prophecies.

  Howling erupted from all around them.

  Shader made a fist around his prayer cord. Sandau drew his sword, and Rhiannon was lit by a dark haze as she slid Callixus’s blade from its scabbard. On instinct, the four of them backed into a tight circle.

  Shader could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Fancied he could hear the others’, too. His breath formed misty plumes in the darkness. He touched his fingers to his thigh, where a sword had hung for so long.

  “Come on!” Sandau yelled. “Show yourselves, you bastards!”

  A shadow pounced, snarling and roaring. A flash of yellow eyes, an exhalation of rank breath.

  Sandau stepped across Shader and swung his sword. There was a muffled thud, then Sandau yelped and fell. The ragged mass on top of him growled and ripped. Sandau screamed, dropped his sword, and started pummeling the beast with his fists. Rhiannon hacked into it again and again.

  Something moved behind Shader. He spun round as another shape hurtled out of the dark. Pete smashed his sword into its jaws. Shader fumbled his prayer cord and dropped it. He stumbled and turned, swayed and staggered. What could he do? Without a sword, what could he—?

  Rhiannon grunted and flew back. She hit the ground on her back but somehow flipped herself to her feet in the same movement and darted straight back at the beast savaging Sandau.

  Another creature loped toward the group, rising on two legs. It had the body of a man, only thickly furred, but its head was that of a wolf.

  Shader backed away and tripped, sprawling on top of something warm and wet. Jaws came at him, amid a blast of fetid breath. Before they found his face, they shuddered and emitted a pathetic whimper. The wolf-man crumpled to the ground, Callixus’s black blade skewering its eye.

  Rhiannon yanked Shader to his feet, left him reeling as she leapt to help Pete.

  Something glinted—Sandau’s sword, clutched in a death grip. Shader reached for it, froze at the sight of Sandau’s mangled corpse. Behind him, the air was battered with screams and roars.

  “Go! Now!” Pete cried.

  Shader was dimly aware of Rhiannon breaking off and sprinting into the night. Pete desperately tried to hold the two wolf-men so she could flee. He’d given up trying to penetrate their fur, and was using his sword like a club.

  “You, too,” he called over his shoulder. “Go!”

  Shader looked from Pete to Sandau’s sword. He knew he
had to act. Knew he had to—

  A wolf dashed at Pete’s right, the other at his left. As Pete swung at the first, the second closed its jaws on his hip. Flesh ripped, and Pete screamed and went down.

  Fire surged through Shader’s veins, burned red behind his eyes. He snatched the sword from Sandau’s grip. The hilt was sticky with warm blood.

  Calm settled over him as he strode toward the wolves savaging Pete. They looked up in unison and rose from their meal, growling, steam pluming from their jaws. One sprang at Shader’s throat, but the other bounded in the direction Rhiannon had taken. Shader dropped to one knee and rammed the blade into the beast’s neck. It whimpered and hit the ground with a thud.

  Pete coughed, words and froth bubbling from his mouth. “Help… her.”

  Shader set off into the dark, nothing to follow but the wolf-man’s snarling. He saw Rhiannon in the distance, the eerie haze of her blade standing out against the unnatural night. The wolf-man bore down upon her, gathered itself, and pounced.

  Shader lurched forward.

  Rhiannon screamed.

  The sky flashed cobalt, and Shader shielded his eyes from the glare. In an instant, the blackness returned, fading swiftly to the gray of dusk, the last glow of the setting sun limning the tops of the surrounding hills.

  The wolf-man loped away toward a tangled copse. Shader struggled after it, but it picked up its pace and was soon lost to sight.

  He stopped where the ground had been torn up by heavy paw marks and a smudge of footprints. There was a pool of blood on the grass, spatters dotting the ground all the way into the trees. Appalled that the thing was feasting on Rhiannon’s corpse, Shader swore he’d slice it into pieces while it still breathed.

  The blood trail dried up within the copse. He hacked his way through dense foliage, scoured the fallen leaves. He called her name from tree to tree. Called for Saphra, too; tried telling himself he cared whether she lived or died. Tried telling himself she was a child, that she needed him.

  He searched until he could search no more, then he backtracked to where he’d last seen Rhiannon; where the wolf-man had pounced and blue light had lit the sky. What did that mean? What did the darkness mean, too? And wolf-men, in Britannia?

  He glared up at the distant peak of Firle Beacon and wondered. The wolves are coming, Heredwin had said. Aristodeus won’t take no fer an answer. Was that it? Was this his sick way of goading Shader to fight? If it was, he’d gotten it wrong. All those years of mentoring, and he still didn’t understand: No meant no, and if the philosopher was behind this, there’d be hell to pay.

  He made his way back to the site of the initial attack. Pete was lying against the body of a wolf-man, clutching a bloody rag to his hip. His face was black with dried blood. There was a jagged gash beneath his eye. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a wheeze and a rattle.

  Shader removed his coat and wrapped it around Pete’s shoulders.

  “Is she…?” Pete rasped.

  Shader sighed and shook his head. Was she dead? He had to assume so. Dead or missing. There was something going on, what with the light in the sky, but the outcome was still the same.

  “Can you walk?”

  Pete struggled to his feet, holding the rag in place and wincing. “Where…?”

  Shader looked up at the silhouetted outline of the beacon, its pillar of flame now a dying smolder. It was nearer than Hallow; maybe the best chance Pete had. He just hoped Heredwin had some skill with healing, if, that is, he had the inclination to help them. It’s what he’d said, though, wasn’t it? You’re going to need my help.

  Judging by his wounds, Pete didn’t have much time. If and when Heredwin gave his help, he was going to have some explaining to do—at the point of a blade, if necessary.

  Shader scowled at the implication. It hadn’t taken him long to throw off his priestly pretense. And how it had happened! It was as though he didn’t have a choice. As though fate or destiny or whatever it was hounded him perpetually, just waiting for a moment of weakness, a good time to strike.

  No, not fate or destiny, Shader quickly corrected himself. It was something far more insidious than that. Someone altogether more familiar. Because the more he thought about it, the more he realized there could be no other explanation for what had happened.

  THE LAVA VENTS

  Mount Sartis, Aethir

  “I’m not leaving the ruddy horse, and that’s final!” Galen’s cheeks were as red as his jacket, and his eyes bulged from overburdened lids.

  Beatrice scraped the parched earth with a hoof, shook her head and nickered.

  Misty vapor streamed from the floor of the cave mouth, heavy with sulfur.

  Shadrak patted his pockets, adjusted his baldrics, stroked the hilts of daggers, the grips of pistols. He rolled his neck, easing out the tension. If someone didn’t shut the mustached twat up, and soon…

  All this delay, all this time pratting about reminded him why he preferred working alone.

  Nameless was looking down the throat of a winding channel that had been burnt into the mountain by lava. Its surfaces were blistered, dripping with rock. A stalactite twisted from ceiling to floor. Brought to mind the tormented uvula of Jal Crimson, the cocky merchant Shadrak had done some dental work on.

  “Stupid white,” Ekyls snarled. “Horse tell you this place no good.” He tapped his temples. “You no listen?”

  Galen blew into Beatrice’s nostrils; patted her flanks. “When I want the opinion of a savage, I’ll bloody well ask for it.”

  Ekyls hissed, baring jagged yellow teeth.

  Galen stiffened and glared, one hand on the hilt of his saber.

  The clangor of pots and pans broke the spell of the moment, as Albert led Quintus the mule between them.

  “For once, Ekyls may have a point,” he said, nodding toward the tunnel. “These lava tubes are roiling with noxious gas; not good for the old nag’s lungs.”

  Galen gripped Beatrice’s bridle. “What about the mule? What about the rest of us?”

  “Poison gas like this is no worse than flatulence to Quintus here,” Albert said, rubbing the mule behind the ear. “And the rest of us”—he pursed his lips and scanned the group—“are hardly thoroughbreds.”

  Shadrak’s shirt was damp with sweat, his cloak heavy with it. Even here, so close to the entrance, his breathing was growing labored.

  Keeping close to a tuberous wall, he started to creep ahead. If they wanted to stand there all day and argue, then shog them. He wanted this over and done with. Besides, the racket they were making, the fire giant would be on them in no time, and they’d never even hear him coming. Shadrak didn’t intend to be there when that happened.

  Behind him, Galen continued to complain. “I sweated blood to bring her to this infernal world, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave her here as goblin fodder. It is a principle of honor, don’t you know—”

  “Honor’s not all it’s cracked up to be, laddie,” Nameless said. “Stay with the horse, or come with us. Makes no difference to me.”

  “Last chance,” Shadrak said over his shoulder.

  “Now look here,” Galen protested, but there was defeat in his voice. “Oh, for goodness sake. What is the point of talking with you people? Blackguards, the lot of you.”

  Ludo put a hand on his arm and muttered something in his ear.

  Galen sucked in a deep breath and let it go in a huff.

  Ludo nodded encouragingly then stooped to study some rocks as Galen tethered his horse outside. “Fascinating.”

  Shadrak turned back. “What is it?”

  There were intricate patterns in blue and green across the surface of the stones. Higher up, bright pink shapes tattooed the wall with the intricacy of a spider’s web.

  “Mineral deposits, at a guess.” Ludo stood and straightened his cassock.

  Albert bent down and sniffed at the patterns, dabbed at one and tasted it. He made little smacking noises with his lips and rubbed his thumb an
d forefinger together. “Useless,” he muttered, “Utterly useless.”

  The flapping of wings echoed along the tunnel as a large raven alighted on the rocks. It gave a long, drawn-out squawk, and the air around it shimmered. There, where the raven had perched, stood Bird, swathed in his cloak of feathers, black eyes glinting as he said, “Bug shit.”

  Ludo raised a bushy eyebrow and let out a breathy “Ah!” He wagged his finger, as if commending a clever pupil.

  Albert puckered his face up and reached for a waterskin.

  Shadrak’s eyes rested on Bird, noted how his clothes were already fading to reflect the gray of the tunnel walls. The little man was proving a bit of a mystery; much more of one than Shadrak liked, or could usually tolerate.

  The black eyes rolled toward him, met his gaze. Bird gave an awkward smile, then quickly looked away.

  ***

  The tunnel wound downward at a gentle gradient, its scabbed and noduled walls smoldering and glowing like dying coals. High above, there were broad shelves of sagging rock leading to twisting vents and natural steps.

  The passageway narrowed to a vertical cleft, through which Nameless and Ekyls pushed the mule, while Albert pulled on the reins from up front. They emerged into a chamber like a hollowed-out column, its heights peppered with tunnels of varying sizes.

  “Looks like the inside of a tree,” Ludo said.

  “It is.” Bird stroked the wall; pressed his ear to it.

  Shadrak could see it now: the perfect mold of an enormous tree, its wrinkled bark now permanently pressed in stone. The tunnels were nothing more than the impressions left by its branches.

  “Magma surrounded the tree,”—Bird waved his hand to take in the chamber—“cooled at the edges, and burned away the wood and sap.”

  “Incredible,” Ludo said. “The outer layer forms a crust around it and preserves the shape.”

  Shadrak scurried down a gully made by the tree’s roots and entered a tube of reddish rock that snaked into the distance. Ludo clambered after him, coughing and spluttering.

  Shadrak’s mouth was dry, lungs burning from the acrid air. He waited until Albert brought the mule alongside, and took a long draft from a waterskin.