by Tom Lloyd
‘Man wanted to live,’ he commented dispassionately, ‘until he heard what I wanted. Wasn’t expectin’ that.’
He dragged the body away from the door and considered his next move. Even loyal guards were rarely eager to sacrifice themselves in the faint hope of warning their master, and what did a mirror have to do with all this?
‘Startin’ to feel screwed over by my employer,’ Daken said softly, a grin once more creeping across his face. He sheathed the knife and pulled his axe out.
‘Now we’re on familiar ground. So there’s a mirror involved in this ritual – most likely they’re usin’ it as some sort o’ gateway. That and a blood sacrifice. Fucking daemon-worshippers; always eager with a virgin and sacrificial knife.’
He returned to the main passageway and cautiously headed down it. At the far end there was a solid balustrade beyond which a large wrought-iron chandelier hung. Only half its candles were burning but they were enough to cast adequate light around a central space that seemed to extend from ground level right up to the roof. Over the carved balustrade came sharp voices, several men talking over each other until a fist was thumped on a table and Daken heard a voice clearly.
‘Put the damn fire out, we can argue about who set it later!’ Daken’s grin widened a fraction as he heard feet scurry to obey. Unable to see any more guards on this level he crept forward and hid behind the balustrade as he decided his next move. He’d marked the stairways leading down to the first floor already, off to the left above where he guessed the shrine was. Flush against the back wall they came down from the sides to meet in the middle, the positioning making it clear they opened out to meet the lower stair at the second floor.
Almost on hands and knees he crept to the end of the balustrade and looked around the thick pillar at the corner. The way was clear to where the staircases met so he edged down the steps to the next corner, keeping hidden behind the balustrade with his axe at the ready.
‘Do you think it’s him, sir?’ a man said from the hallway below, younger than the first.
‘I don’t know,’ the other said with a sigh, ‘but we’ve warded this estate with everything Parain knows and double-checked it all – I don’t see how he could have got past all three layers of wardings.’
‘Could it be her?’
‘Don’t be stupid, man! She’s bound securely right there, go and check for yourself if you don’t believe me.’
That seemed to spark fresh panic in the younger man. ‘No! No, of course, sir – I know Parain has done his job.’
Two voices speaking frankly, Daken thought, tightening his grip on his axe handle. Sounds like that’s as clear as I’m likely to get.
Without waiting he straightened and jumped the short flight to a square half-landing, finding himself with staircases on each side leading down. In the hall ahead were two armed men dressed like campaigning knights, staring astonished up at him as he came. A third was at the foot of the right staircase, foot poised to ascend but similarly taken by surprise.
Daken kept on straight, one hand on the balustrade as he vaulted it to control his fall. As his feet left the landing time seemed to slow, Daken seeing the older, aristocratic-looking man reaching for his sword as the other recoiled from the shock. Then he caught sight of a fourth almost directly below and the Land speeded up again.
Twisting in the air, Daken managed to bring one knee up as he dropped. He crashed into the soldier’s shoulder and knocked him aside into one side of the archway below the balustrade. The man collapsed to the floor, but Daken caught himself on the other jamb, ending up in a crouch as he absorbed the shock of a ten-foot drop. Not bothering to turn towards the danger he drove forward, axe ready to catch any blow but none came. Three quick paces took him to an altar decked out in all sorts of arcane objects – charms, wreaths of half-a-dozen plants, all surrounded by painted symbols on every available flat surface. In the centre of it all stood a mirror, Daken guessed by the shape, covered with an altar-cloth bearing Death’s symbol.
‘No one move or I break the mirror!’ he bellowed, chancing a look behind him.
There were open archways on either side of the altar too, three ways they could come at him and he wouldn’t be able to cover them all. He kept moving, looking left and right with the axe held out before the mirror.
‘Stay your weapons!’ the old man roared as his companion started forward. ‘All of you – hold!’
Once he was sure they were going to keep to his order, the man composed himself with remarkable speed and addressed Daken directly. ‘Stranger, don’t do anything rash – breaking the mirror would be as dangerous to you as the rest of us.’
‘Don’t you be so sure o’ that,’ Daken said, still moving warily, ‘folk say I’m mad; ain’t one for takin’ the safest path.’
‘Fair enough,’ the old man said placatingly, before his tone suddenly turned sharp. ‘Takkar, back off now! Get back, do nothing without my order or I’ll kill you myself!’
Through the archway ahead of him, Daken saw a man’s shadow on the flagstones and put the edge of his axe to the covered mirror. As commanded, the man edged away again and Daken watched his progress by the way the old man turned his head. Satisfied the man was far enough away he relaxed a touch, but was quick to cut the old man off before he could speak again.
‘You keep ’em back – now I got a mission here, so bring me the girl and I’ll go.’
The old man cocked his head. ‘Girl?’
‘Aye, the one you’ve got prisoner.’
Both men exchanged looks, the older raising an eyebrow at his companion then giving a short bark of laughter. ‘Tell me, stranger, who sent you on this mission?’
‘Someone I met in the pub,’ Daken growled, his grip on his axe tightening at the man’s amusement. ‘Now enough out o’ you, where’s the girl?’
‘Ah, well – here with us, I suppose.’
The older man took a pace forward, making a show of keeping his hands raised and away from his weapons. Daken could see there was still a trace of laughter in his eyes, however concerned he was about the threat to the mirror.
‘Let me explain; my name is Marshal Sallin, my companions and I belong to an order of knights …’
‘Do I look like I want a fucking history lesson?’ Daken snapped, his white-eye soul starting to snarl at Sallin’s laughter. ‘You’ve got five seconds to stop giving me bullshit or the mirror goes.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ Sallin said hurriedly, ‘she’s in the mirror!’
Daken glanced back at it then checked his flanks again. The archways were empty – the only explanation was that he was stalling for time.
‘Look! Look for yourself.’
Sallin gestured toward the mirror and pointedly took a pace back to allow Daken time to do as he suggested. The white-eye hesitated a moment then jerked the altar-cloth off the mirror, revealing a large, flawless piece of glass surrounded by a thick gilt frame.
‘Well?’ he demanded. In the mirror he could see himself and little else. He angled it to see behind him and the knights hadn’t moved from their positions.
‘She’s there,’ Sallin assured him.
Daken was about to turn away when, in the reflection, a head peeked around the archway between him and the two knights. He whirled around and saw nothing, but in the reflection the head hadn’t moved. It was hard to make out in the weak light, but he could see it was indeed a girl, in the first flourishes of beauty. Her dark hair hung loose about her shoulders and her dress seemed to be composed of dozens of coloured scarves all woven together.
‘Well bugger me sideways,’ Daken breathed.
‘So you see,’ Sallin announced, ‘this is no simple kidnapping – nor are we the villains of this piece. Now, if you would be so kind, please take your axe away from the mirror and let us be about our task.’
‘Eh? Why? I was sent here to free the bitch, not worry about what happens to you after.’
He took hold of the top of the
mirror and lifted it off the altar, but when he tried to carry it away from the altar it was as though a steel-cord was attached to the back. Try as he might he couldn’t drag the mirror more than a yard from the altar, despite his prodigious strength.
‘Look up,’ said the younger knight, smirking.
Daken did so and discovered symbols painted onto the top of the altar room, a magical ward of some sort.
‘That’s right; you’re not taking her anywhere.’
Daken paused, the familiar growl of anger in his stomach intensifying. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually, ‘if that’s how you want it – fuck the lot o’ you.’
He set the mirror on the ground, leaning against the altar, and straightened up. The older man relaxed visibly, but then Daken swung his axe down through the centre of the mirror and shattered it.
‘No!’ both knights cried together, but the mirror had imploded under the blow and a thousand shards of glass dropped to the floor. ‘What have you done, you fool?’
‘Freed her,’ Daken said simply, his turn to smirk now. ‘That was my job, remember?’
‘But?’ The older man drew his sword and turned in a circle, as though expecting an attack from behind. ‘Where is she?’
Daken moved forward, clear of the archways and the men backed off. He saw four in the hall and more lingering in a doorway ahead. Each one had their weapons drawn now but none seemed to be focused on him.
‘What’s happened?’ howled someone from down the corridor behind the newcomers. ‘What have you done?’
‘The mirror’s been broken,’ Sallin said briskly, sounding now like a commander giving orders. ‘What does it mean, Parain?’
The man, clearly a mage, forced his way out past the soldiers and into the hall. ‘Mean? It means she’s bloody free!’ He pointed at Daken. ‘Who in Ghenna’s name is that?’
‘Someone who don’t like bein’ pointed at,’ Daken snarled.
‘Never mind him,’ Sallin demanded, sounded increasingly worried now, ‘define “free” – she’s not here with us, why hasn’t she appeared.’
Parain looked around wildly for a moment then composed himself. ‘I, ah, the wardings, that’s why. Nothing can incarnate within the grounds, her spirit is here but she’ll be without form and vulnerable still.’ He brightened. ‘We can still do the ceremony! If we can trap her again, that is – we need to find where her spirit’s gone.’
‘Where could it go? Another mirror? I’ve not seen many here.’
‘Or into a person, she could possess their body still.’
Sallin turned slowly towards Daken. ‘But we’ve all been warded against her touch. She only has one option there.’
‘What the fuck are you all on about?’
Sallin started to chuckle. ‘Take off your coat!’
‘What?’
‘Take your coat off,’ Sallin repeated, unbuttoning his own tunic and pulling his shirt up. Underneath were more strange blue tattoos, markings on his skin like those on the men Daken had killed earlier.
With one hand he did as Sallin suggested, unbuttoning his coat and lifting the segment-mail shirt underneath. A blue light was playing over his skin, tracing a strange path he couldn’t feel. As he watched the light began to intensify and then he felt it, sharp and hot enough to make the white-eye hiss with discomfort.
Parain laughed abruptly, a high nervous giggle that broke off as soon as Daken glowered at him. His darkening mood didn’t stop Sallin from joining in to the laughter however and Daken’s nostrils started to fill with the hot smell of rage.
‘You came to save her!’ Sallin explained, beckoning forward his men. ‘Unfortunately for you, we’re the only ones who can save you from her!’
The old man started towards him, sword raised. ‘The mirror didn’t matter for our ceremony – it was only the vessel to be broken when we banished her from the Land! Some damn-fool white-eye will do just as well, I assure you.’
Daken moved without replying, his axe flashing through the air to chop through the nearest man’s sword arm. On the backswing he turned and buried the weapon into the next, barrelling on to batter another aside and find himself within reach of Sallin.
With the deftness of his kind the white-eye brought his axe around to catch Sallin’s rapier with it, hooking the thin weapon and twisting it out of the way. Always moving he dragged the old man closer to him and smashed his forehead into the knight’s nose, feeling the crunch and spurt of blood on impact.
He turned and tossed the wailing knight towards the next attacker, bowling that one over while he freed his axe again. The rest hung back a moment, spreading out around the hall – seven, eight of them, all looking nervous but all armed.
A scratching sensation like a cat’s claws began to work at his chest and stomach, but Daken ignored it. The laughter echoed in his ears, Sallin’s and a girl’s mingling to further enrage the blood-crazed white-eye. One of the knights advanced a cautious step and something snapped inside Daken. The white-eye howled and charged.
Outside, at the broken stretch of wall where one torch was burning low, faint sparks of blue light began to prickle the night air. In response, on the other side of the warding, the darkness seemed to fold inward upon itself and from the boiling mass of night a figure stepped forward. His yellow eyes flashed as a cruel smile crossed his face. Taller now, his skin was smooth and pale – unnatural and timeless under the weak moonlight.
‘Litania, my little trickster,’ the God said softly. ‘Did the nasty men mistreat you?’
A girlish laugh broke the night air. ‘I think they’re paying for it now, Father. And all I wanted to do was play; these mortals have a poor sense of humour.’
‘Yet you’ve marked the white-eye? His kind are unlikely to change that opinion.’
‘Oh Father,’ Litania trilled, ‘but I like this one and I’ve always wanted a pet. Can I keep it? Please?’
THE MARSHAL’S REFLECTION
The case I present to you now is not one I was involved in myself. Rather, I hardly touched upon events and did nothing myself, but it remains an undeniable curiosity. The pertinence I leave to your fancy.
I had been retired several years when, one morning, my son-in-law arrived at my door in perplexed mood. The city was enjoying the last few weeks of a fine and gentle summer as it eased its way into autumn. The season had been peaceful and balmy, free from scandal and mystery for a change. That summer, to place it in the reader’s mind, was the last-but-two before the shadow of war came to Narkang. Not long enough for me to forget the vital details, but I fully admit the words are my own rendering.
As Brandt was admitted to the veranda I noticed immediately the state he was in. Normally meticulous in his appearance, Brandt’s hair was unkempt, his clothes dirty and crumpled, while his eyes betrayed a lack of sleep.
‘My boy, whatever is the matter?’ I exclaimed upon seeing him this way. ‘Come sit down. Danc, fetch some wine and food.’
While my manservant bustled out I directed Brandt – by then Commander Brandt Toquin of the City Watch – to a seat, and prised the bundle of papers from his grip to set them down on a table.
‘Sir …’ he began, in his distraction slipping back into the routine of my assistant that began when he was but fourteen winters.
‘Ah Brandt, enough of that! You forget your station’s higher than mine ever was. Take a moment to breath there. I’m in no rush, and I expect this case will wait another minute.’
He looked up and nodded. Straightening his jacket and smoothing back his hair restored some of the composure that characterised the man in my eyes. I settled myself back into my chair and started things off as I saw them, affording him time to get his thoughts in order.
‘So let me guess the facts I can. There has been a death, possibly more than one since single deaths are generally simpler. You’ve hardly slept so I assume the victim held office, rank or title – title being the most likely. You look like you’re being harried by your superiors and that won’t hap
pen often to a brother of Suzerain Toquin. Lastly, you’ve a puzzle that requires a different direction, so this was no jealous lover or assassination.’
Brandt smiled and nodded, helping himself to the rosehip tea I’d been drinking before speaking.
‘I’d be impressed if that one-handed crony of yours hadn’t been at the watch-house yesterday. But you’re right; there is something I need a twisted mind for.’
At that I joined his smile. His superiors on the City Council had often commented that my company over his formative years had produced rather less of the tractable public servant some had once hoped for. During one well-publicised argument with the Council, my influence had been described as that of a ‘twisted mind’.
‘We have two dead, early two nights past. A marshal named Tirelir Calath and his wife, who happens to be niece to Count Antern. You can imagine that the Watch is rather anxious to find more answers than we have currently.’
I sat back with a sigh, my world feeling a little darker and colder. I had scant love for Count Antern, but a great deal of respect. His niece was an attractive and gracious woman as far as I could remember. The two were recently married and children expected soon; a union born purely of love and one I had found a joy to behold on the single occasion I had seen the couple together.
‘I know little of the marshal, other than his family is from Inchets. They’re wealthy, but I don’t believe Marshal Calath is a man of politics or trade – a man with less conflict in his life would be hard to find.’
It was, in part, a lie. I had met the marshal on numerous occasions, though only ever in passing. We were both members of a private gentleman’s club, one that Calath used only infrequently and such time as he did spend there was passed in the extensive library. I knew some of his activities, many of the club members being academics who gossip worse than watchmen, but nothing that seemed applicable to murder.
‘Well we can find no evidence of a suitor for the Lady Calath – Lady Meranna – no evidence of very much, to tell the truth. At present we don’t even know how the killer entered the house. There is something I think you’ll recognise, but perhaps you should read these reports first.’