The Archon's Assassin

by D. P. Prior

  There were no footsteps, but Shadrak felt something enter the room. A cold thrill ran beneath his skin, and fingers of ice crept over the back of his neck.

  He waited, counting once more to his obligatory ten, and then he chanced a look.

  A ball of crimson flame hovered in the air above the headless bodies.

  Shadrak ducked down and raised the goggles. Whatever it was, it was kicking out a lot of heat. The blackness of the room was bathed with a flickering glow. Licks of orange, yellow, and red reflected from the weapons in the rack, limned the stone statue, bathed the bodies on the dais.

  Holding his breath, Shadrak peeked again. This time, he fell back, heart pounding, blood like the roar of a waterfall in his ears.

  It wasn’t a ball of fire hovering over the bodies. It was a skull. A skull with blazing rubies for eyes.

  He heard a clacking sound and looked again. Its jaws were opening and closing as it moved from one headless body to the next, considering.

  It circled behind them, and finally stopped directly above the armored colossus.

  Shadrak could see the armor clearly now: intricately fluted plate, its dark metal embossed with swirls and leaves that wound about its surface like a strangler vine. He didn’t doubt for an instant this was what they’d come for: the Liche Lord’s armor, crafted by the Cynocephalus in the bowels of Gehenna. Armor that rendered its wearer utterly invulnerable to attack.

  Slowly, purposefully, the skull started to descend. As it sunk onto the stub of neck protruding above the gorget, its jaws clacked maniacally, and then it pivoted once, twice, three times, as it screwed itself in place.

  Waxen skin seeped up from within the armor to coat the skull. Black dots pushed through its scalp, sprouting like weeds and forming a mane of dark hair that fell limply over the ornate pauldrons capping the shoulders. Almost immediately, the hair faded to gray, and then white, and yellowish stains streaked through it like the ravages of disease. Pallid hands textured like the water corpses floating in Sarum’s sewers came up to twist the head from side to side, making sure it was secure.

  Serpents writhed through Shadrak’s guts, and insects stung and bit beneath his skin. Waves of freezing air rolled off the armored figure, sent shivers deep into his bones. He pressed himself close to the floor, praying to Kadee not to let him be seen. He almost prayed to Nous, too, just in case, but then called out silently to the Archon instead. At least he might do something; might take pity and get him out of there.

  But nothing happened. The Archon’s pity was as empty as his own had been for the gargoyle. As empty, and as useless.

  Metal plates grated and squeaked. It was moving. Had it spotted him?

  He started to crawl on his belly to the statue by the door. Behind him came the chink of metal on stone. It was over by the weapons rack.

  He slid behind one of the statue’s tree-trunk legs, rolled to his knees, lunged for the door handle.

  There was a cracking sound—like the unbinding of arthritic limbs—and something cold grabbed the back of his neck, pinning him to the floor. He gasped for air, thrashed and twisted. He managed to wriggle onto his back, but fingers of stone curled around his throat. The dull eyes and implacable face of the statue glared down at him, and its leer now looked more of a self-satisfied grin.

  “Howzat?”

  The voice came from behind the statue, lisping, almost whispered, but with the force of thunder.

  Metal scraped on stone. One step, two steps.

  A shadow fell over Shadrak, and the same voice said, “No one laughs at cricket jokes these days. What’s the world coming to?”

  Shadrak’s heart lurched. Maggots wriggled up from his guts. The statue slackened its grip just enough for him to turn his head toward the voice.

  The armored man loomed over him, ruby eyes excoriating, blue-tinged lips twisted into a sardonic smile.

  “A homunculus.” He leaned on the hilt of the greatsword. Blue veins webbed the back of his hands. “And an albino. Surprised they didn’t dash your brains out at birth or throw you to the seethers. The worlds are full of surprises. I, for one, am surprised you triggered the ward on the door. Oh, the poison needle was just a bit of fun, but a magic sigil… Even a defective homunculus should have detected that. After all, it’s your people I stole the idea from.”

  He arched an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

  Shadrak squirmed beneath the stone hand, fingers straining for his belt-pouch. The statue hoisted him into the air by the throat. He kicked and gasped as the armored man leaned in close, his breath rank with rot and old damp.

  “I’d like a name, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  Shadrak tried to say, “Shog you,” but he choked instead. Stone fingers squeezed, and his airways started to constrict.

  “Perhaps, as your host, I should go first. Blightey. Otto Blightey. I have a thousand-and-one titles, but we can dispense with them. There. Now you.”

  Blightey gave a slight nod, and the statue let go.

  Shadrak landed in a crouch, then immediately put a hand to his throat. He wheezed and coughed, made sure he could still breathe, then said, “The Liche Lord. I know who you are.”

  “Not one of my favorites,” Blightey said. “I’ve always found ‘Liche Lord’ somewhat melodramatic. You know, the locals here call me Prior. I like that. It’s both quintessential and ironic. The kind of paradox truths are made from.” He lifted one hand from the sword hilt and waved his fingers at the statue. “Good boy. Back to your post. I don’t think our visitor is going to be any trouble.”

  Shadrak was already raising his pistol.

  “Are you?” Blightey snapped.

  The pistol slammed home in its holster before Shadrak knew what he was doing.

  “I do so like these artifacts of Ancient-tech that crop up all over the place,” Blightey said. “Utterly ineffectual against this armor, and even if it weren’t, the body is not my own.”

  “Wasn’t aiming at the armor,” Shadrak growled.

  “Ah, head shot,” Blightey said. “Very sensible. But equally futile. The best of the best have tried to destroy this old noddle,”—he tapped his head—“but even the Archon”—Blightey enunciated the name as if he knew; knew Shadrak was working for him—“gave up trying and dumped me in the Abyss. Not a good move. There are things I had access to there I will be eternally grateful for. A trifle boring after a few centuries, but all in all, not as bad a destination as they’d have you believe; not once you put the frighteners on a few principle demons.”

  Shadrak reached toward a belt pouch, found himself grabbing his crotch instead.

  “Now, now,” Blightey said. “Less of that, if you don’t mind. It’ll make you blind.”

  “Where’s Ludo?” Shadrak said, snatching his hand away.

  “Did you know it means ‘I play’ in Latin?” Blightey said. “No? Don’t they teach Latin in homunculus school anymore? Oh, of course, you didn’t go to homunculus school, did you? You’re a reject. But never you mind, we’re all rejects here, one way or another. You could even say, I’m the ultimate reject.” He gazed up at the ceiling and touched his forehead, chest, and both shoulders, then grinned widely at Shadrak, as if he’d made some private joke.

  Every instinct screamed at Shadrak to get out of there, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. Paralysis held him in its invisible grip, prevented him from reaching his weapons, for all the good they would do. He began to shake, felt the urge to plead well up from inside him, but he wasn’t giving Blightey the satisfaction. He fought against it with a lifetime of threats and intimidation.

  “I said ‘where’, you shogger. I don’t give a rat’s arse about the meaning of the scutting name.”

  “My, you are testy,” Blightey said. “I can see we’re going to have lots of fun together. Your friend—I’m assuming you are friends; or is it more than that? It wouldn’t be the first time a consecrated Nousian has succumbed to the temptations of the flesh. Indeed, only hours ago I witnessed for
myself how fickle are a holy man’s claims to celibacy.” Blightey’s eyes flashed scarlet, and a frown crossed his face. He banished it in an instant. “No? No romance? Do you mean to say this friend of yours is truly holy? How novel. How stimulating. And what a fitting subject for our first bout of fun together.

  “Yes, he’s here. Bold of him to come knocking at the front door, so to speak. Courtesies like that intrigue me. Most visitors don’t make it past the barbican. Trips and traps, you know the sort of thing. You can never be too careful. I was just making a start with him when you set off the ward. Poor chap must be freezing down there without any clothes on. Come on, you can lend me a hand. I’ve not clapped eyes on a homunculus in donkey’s years. I just love all that conniving. I’d almost go so far as to say I find it invigorating.”

  Blightey crossed to the door Shadrak had tried to flee through, and held it open. “After you.”

  Shadrak tried to resist, but his legs had a life of their own.

  He glanced at the statue on his way out. It was still once more, nothing but inanimate stone.

  “Come along,” Blightey said, following Shadrak onto a landing with stairs leading down at the other end. “Let’s not keep him waiting. I had the impression he wanted to give me a serious talking to, you know, about the error of my ways, the limitless mercy of Ain, that sort of thing. Last person who tried that was some itinerant friar or other, centuries before the Reckoning. I was young. I was heartless. But he had gumption, I can tell you. Poor fellow was still blabbing about forgiveness around the bloody tip of the spike protruding from his mouth. Well, maybe not blabbing. Gasping and frothing, more like. Let’s just hope, for your friend’s sake, that age has mellowed me.”

  THE MOAT

  Nameless glared up at the curtain walls either side of the barbican while he waited for Albert to pick the lock. In his experience, outer doors like these, heavy and iron clad, were usually barred from the inside, but the poisoner had to have his own way.

  Rhiannon watched over Albert’s shoulder, as if she could hurry him up through force of will. She had the black sword out and ready, eager for the fight; eager to make up for what she’d failed to do. It looked an evil weapon to Nameless, little better than the false Pax Nanorum.

  “No sign of them still,” Galen said. “I don’t like it.”

  Nameless felt his looming presence behind; stifled the impulse to turn. He had nothing to fear from the dragoon. Did he?

  Ekyls growled, maybe in agreement with Galen. The savage prowled about the crest of the hill they’d climbed, an open invitation for who or whatever was inside to come out and fight.

  For once, Bird stood with the group, rather than taking off and doing his own thing. Nameless didn’t know whether to be thankful or concerned. He was a shifty shogger, to be sure, like the rest of his cursed race.

  “Guess they didn’t like the taste of my axe last time round,” Nameless said, doing his best to sound grim and dour. Let on he was worried, let on he was suspicious, and it might be all the encouragement these so-called friends needed. Nothing like the scent of blood to reveal hidden intentions.

  Galen grunted. Likely, he’d seen through the ruse. He’d been there, back at the forest of spikes; knew what really happened. Truth was, Nameless was relieved the black-garbs hadn’t come streaming out of the barbican a second time. Relieved, but also bewildered. Why hadn’t they come? There’d been no end to them before. What if they were holed up inside, waiting for the companions to enter, and the doors to close behind them?

  “How long’s this going to take?” Galen said.

  Albert cursed under his breath. “Hold on. It’s no easy matter, a lock this size.” He rummaged about in his pack for a bigger pick.

  Rhiannon tutted, and that drew a scathing look from the poisoner.

  “There are wards on the door,” Bird said. He was staring at the wood, eyes flicking left to right, as if he were reading.

  “Do I need to care?” Nameless said.

  Bird made a series of sweeping gestures with a claw-like hand, and muttered incomprehensible words. When he’d finished, he said, “No. They are gone.”

  Albert stepped back from the lock. “Voila.”

  “Eh?” Galen said.

  “It’s Gallic for, ‘You may thank me for my brilliance.’”

  Galen put his shoulder to one of the doors, but it didn’t budge.

  Nameless pressed his gauntleted hand to the wood and shoved. It flew open as easy as a tent flap.

  “See,” Albert said. “No bar. Told you.”

  “But there’s a portcullis just inside,” Nameless said. A wrought-iron lattice from ceiling to floor, and whatever mechanism opened it somewhere on the other side.

  Albert sighed and shook his head.

  Done with wasting time, Nameless strode up to the portcullis and took a grip low down, as if he were dead lifting. Still not used to the power of the gauntlets, he heaved a bit too much and sent the portcullis flying upward with a clash and a clang. He half-expected it to come crashing down again, but when he looked up, he could see the metal was buckled beyond repair and lodged in the vertical grooves cut into the walls that housed it.

  “Who needs wards with subtlety like that?” Rhiannon said, but if she objected, she didn’t let it stop her from striding ahead.

  The barbican opened up onto a courtyard that formed a snow-capped island around the keep. The outer walls blocked what little sunlight eked its way through the cloud cover, and threw long shadows over the ground.

  Nameless had to jog to keep pace with Rhiannon, who headed straight for the bridge that crossed a narrow moat encircling the keep.

  The courtyard was deserted, and there was no movement atop the walls. Even the perimeter towers seemed devoid of life. The black-garbs had known there were intruders amid the forest of spikes the day before, and Shadrak had seen shapes on the walls through those goggles of his. The fact there was no one in sight now only served to make Nameless paranoid. He felt like a mouse walking into a trap, with Ludo as the cheese to bait him.

  He slowed as he reached the bridge and angled a look at the moat below. He’d always been nervous around water, because he couldn’t swim. He’d never learned back in Arx Gravis; his ma had died before she could teach him, and the training of infants was woman’s work for dwarves. Besides, the only significant body of water had been the Sanguis Terrae and the canals it sent like veins throughout the lower levels of the ravine city. According to the Annals, its source was deep down in Gehenna, and shog only knew what kind of effluent floated up with it from the realm of the homunculi.

  The moat oozed black. A large fin broke the surface and arced back under. On the other side of the bridge, Nameless could see more fins circling, and once or twice, stubby snouts bristling with serrated teeth burst free of the tar.

  “Keep up,” Rhiannon called from the far side. She was already in front of the door to the keep, a slab of stone three times her height and wide enough to drive a cart through. At its center was a massive carving of a lion’s head, jaws parted not in a roar but a scream.

  Nameless focused on that image of anguish so he didn’t have to think about the moat and the things swimming within its murk.

  Galen passed him, as urgent as Rhiannon to find Ludo. He’d have seen it as a failing, too. After all, he’d been charged with the adeptus’s protection long before she had.

  Ekyls followed on his heels, and Albert was next, practically skipping over the bridge as if it were on fire.

  Nameless risked another look down at the dark sludge, found himself imagining what it would be like to be ripped apart by those jaws. He lurched, and steadied himself with a hand on the railing. The bridge juddered, and for a moment, he thought he’d misjudged his newfound strength again. He could have sworn he heard mocking laughter, the distant roll of thunder. There were voices, too: whispers, snide remarks; people talking about him. They coalesced into a single voice, calling out his name.

  “Nameless!”—It w
as Galen. “The bridge!”

  The surface beneath Nameless’s feet shuddered, and then he heard it crack. A line appeared between his feet and started to widen as the bridge split in two, each section dropping away toward the moat. He lunged for the side nearest the keep, reached for Galen’s outstretched hand… and fell.

  THE LIMITS OF MERCY

  Ludo was spreadeagled naked on a rack, head toward the ceiling, streaks of blood smearing his forearms and shins. He twisted his neck as first Shadrak and then Blightey entered. His eyes widened at the sight of the Liche Lord’s armored frame, and then he frowned in confusion.

  Seeing the adeptus like that brought home the full horror of Shadrak’s helplessness. Even if Blightey permitted him to draw a weapon, what would be the point? Even if he could have penetrated the Liche Lord’s armor, the skull was all that was left of Blightey, and that was invulnerable. The body was as expendable as an old coat. Destroy that, and the skull had already shown it could fly. And if it needed another set of arms and legs, it had plenty more headless bodies waiting upstairs.

  First rule in any situation, Shadrak reminded himself, trying to reclaim an iota of professional calm: locate the exits.

  There was a door on the far side, opposite the one they’d entered from. He gave it only a cursory glance; didn’t want Blightey to know he’d seen it. It was bound to be locked, and even if it wasn’t, he suspected his legs wouldn’t obey his command to flee.

  Beside the rack holding Ludo, a thing like a man stood. It was flayed head to toe, nothing more than blood-slick muscle and sinew. Tatters of flesh failed to hide the pulsating black heart in its warped and twisted ribcage. Bloodshot eyes bulged from mushy sockets, perpetually terrified.

  It dipped its grotesque head at Blightey and backed away, trailing crimson across the flagstones. Gore dripped like melting wax from its fingers, and Shadrak made the connection: the blood smears on Ludo’s limbs were not his own; they were the marks from where this thing had touched him, held him down, and stretched him out.