by JANRAE FRANK
The crowd quieted.
"What is it?" Jysy asked.
Jimi shook his head at her. "Our dog has found a warehouse with several dozen of them. Maybe more than that. The bodies will have to be burned once we stake them. So I want some of you vigilantes in the rear to fetch faggots and oil and fire. Lots of it. Meet us on the west end at the old cloth warehouses."
People started running back the way they had come, neighbors forming into packs in search of what Jimi required. They seemed to have decided that he was Guild and therefore in charge and to be listened to. Jimi signed his unit to follow and broke into a strong jog. He wondered how the other units were faring.
The warehouses flanked a stream that ran down from the mountain and passed under the walls of Havensword. A small bridge crossed the streams between two warehouses. The lower half of the two on Jimi's side were stone halfway up with an outer door that led into basements reached by a short set of steps beside another set that led into the main floor of the buildings. Barrels were stacked along the walls to either side with a coating of dirt suggesting they might have been abandoned for a long time. Jimi banged on one of the huge things with his hands and drew his fingers through the dirt. The top sounded hollow. But acting on an instinct, he squatted and banged lower. The wood there made a softer sound as if there were something inside. He drew a belt knife and slipped it under the top, prying it open. The wood creaked as the nails came out. Jimi realized his pulse was racing as he peered over the edge. For an instant his shadow kept the sunlight from the contents. His stomach seized up when he saw the body, but only for an instant as the dead face's eyes snapped open. Claws reached for him and Jimi's reflexes took over. He kicked the barrel as he snapped back in a solid strike that splintered the wood. The lesser blood screamed as sunlight covered it through the opened lid and the holes in the barrel. Jimi drew his sword, keeping away from it as the bright sun consumed it. The creature smoked and screamed, it seemed to take forever before it ended. He turned to find that Jysy and the four other knights who were with him were making similar discoveries. Karakin's people began to pull at the doors.
"No!" Jimi shouted. "Let us go in first. All of you check the rest of the barrels."
Hanadi came out of the shadows and backed the priest's people off with soft growls until the knights could get the doors open.
< I think we should consult Osterbridge, not simply go inside, > Hanadi cautioned Jimi.
"We'll be careful," Jimi replied, scratching between Hanadi's ears to reassure the hound. The intelligence of the two hounds impressed Jimi, but he was not yet certain whether to classify them as people the way he did the catkin.
"Jimi, could one of these things have gotten hold of Arruth? Could that be why she's gotten so crazy?" Jysy asked.
"I don't know. I doubt she'll let anyone close enough to find out."
"And she isn't talking."
The interior was dark and thickly coated with dust. The windows had been painted over so that no light could get in. Jimi's eyes had trouble adjusting to the lack of light. Then Jysy knelt, dragged a faggot of wood with an oil soaked cloth on the end from her pack, and struck a lucifer to light the cloth. The flame licked up, throwing a dancing illumination across stacks of long crates. Whiskey Lips crouched beside her, growling softly, and Hanadi joined them.
"How many can there be?" Jimi hissed. He shoved the top of the first crate off, surprised to discover it was not fastened down, and a ghastly face looked vacantly up at him still in the throes of the deep slumber of the lesser bloods. He pulled a stake from his belt and hammered it through. Blood splattered him and his stomach roiled.
< Osterbridge says to get out and wait for him. > Hanadi sent.
By then more people had followed them inside and covers were coming off the crates. Most of the undead were dying without a sound, but now and then a scream would be heard from the filthy corpses.
< Those are the older ones. There may be some who can wake. > Hanadi's voice became more insistent. < Osterbridge is right. Get out. >
Jimi began to open another crate. He had to get one more. The lid suddenly slammed in his face and he staggered back. The lesser blood was old and strong. It spun him around by one arm and twisted his head back by the hair as he went to his knees. Jimi pulled the long knife at his hip with his free hand, stabbing backwards. He felt it go home, but failed to free him since he could not pick his target. Only a heart strike or a broken neck would stop the thing. Abruptly it let him go, the body falling against him. Jimi pushed free and stood up to see Jysy withdrawing her blade from the dead thing's back. More loud screams were heard throughout the building and Jimi realized he had made a mistake.
"Out! Out! Everyone out!"
Whiskey Lips jumped onto Jimi's shoulders. The crates still blocked his view of the other two knights and those parishioners who had entered behind him. A few of Karakin's people who had followed with Jimi and Jysy were already going down beneath their attackers even as they turned to retreat.
"The windows, Jimi," Jysy said, her voice desperate. "Break the windows."
Jimi glanced up, wanting the biggest window possible as Hanadi and Jysy tried to keep the undead from him. He unlimbered a bolas and sighted a skylight. He was not certain that he could put it that far and with enough force to carry the weights through it. Then he decided. The bolas whirled three times and then went up. Glass shattered and he covered his face with his arm, ducking his head. Light filled the warehouse. The undead caught in the rays of glorious gold fell to the ground, their bodies smoking. Those not slain retreated into shadows. The knights and the parishioners fled from the building.
He looked about him. Several of Karakin's people were bleeding and sat with their frightened, angry eyes fixed upon the warehouse. One of the knights was missing. "Menalaiyes?"
"Still inside. They got him, Jimi," said a student, her eyes betraying utter horror.
"I'm going back," Jimi said. "Break all the windows."
Jysy picked up a rock from the street and threw it through a window. Soon everyone was breaking windows. They could hear the undead inside screaming. The light would force them back into their crates.
Jimi started into the building when a tall mon hailed him from the street and he came out. Osterbridge looked the battered vampire hunters over and scowled. "I told you to wait."
"I should have listened... We didn't all get out. Menalaiyes is still in there."
"Then I'll get him, and bring this thing down."
* * * *
"The manifestation called you a sinjin," Alora said as they neared the warehouses, moving close to her so that their words would not be overheard.
Isen nodded. "You know what that is?"
"I'm probably one of the few. Queiggy told me the story when I was little."
Isen considered that. "He knows many things."
"Then you are a descendant of Grand Master Chamche and Alysinjin?"
Isen stared at her. "Do you know what that makes me?"
"The branch clan."
Isen looked uneasy at that. "You must not tell anyone. Only the Patriarch knows."
"I swear that I will not. Yet, now I am worried that I should never have allowed you to come with us."
"It is fit that I fight."
"And your father is a prince?"
"Yes. Now let us speak no more of it." What Isen did not add was that her father was the last prince of the blood. The rest had been slain thirty years ago.
Brundarad emerged from the shadows of the tall building. < You are ordered to wait. No one is to go inside until Osterbridge and Jimi arrive. There has been a death among you. >
"Then we will wait," Alora responded grimly, her face hardening into a mask as she wondered which of her friends had died.
"I'm going to the other warehouses where Osterbridge is," Isen said, and took off running before Alora could stop her.
* * * *
Osterbridge kept to the sunlit portions of the warehouse, walking dow
n a long aisle of crates, looking for the lost student. He turned a corner and saw the young mon lying twisted, half in shadow and half out. A lesser blood had hold of one leg, sucking from there. Osterbridge came quietly up and brought his sword down hard across the back of the vampire's neck before the lesser blood realized he was there. Only then did he squat and wipe his sword before sheathing it. He turned the student over. The youth was dead. The knights had suffered their second loss.
He rose with the youth's body draped across his shoulders, and carried him out. "I'm sorry, Jimi."
Jimi's eyes dropped. "I should have listened. I should have waited."
Osterbridge laid the dead student on the ground. His voice turned harsh, harsher than it had ever been before in his life as he said, "Yes. You should have." Then he pitched his voice, "From now on, everyone listens to me!"
Hanadi came to his side and stood growling at the rest.
"Alora's gone to the second warehouse," Jysy said.
"Same orders, Twizzle. Tell them not to go in. Tell them we already have a dead knight. Tell them I'll have them up on charges if they go in."
Then he turned and re-entered the warehouse. With this many undead, he would have to take some chances. The sunlight gave him a path. Vampires sat up in their crates and howled at him from those patches that had not come under the light. Osterbridge came to a spot where six feet of darkness separated him from the stairs to the basement. He needed to reach those stairs to start this. The creatures crept closer, observing the length of steel in his hands. Osterbridge opened one of his pouches and took a bottle out. It contained two chemicals separated by a fragile blown glass wall in the middle. He grinned at the feel of the glass in his hands. If they took him down, he would be taking them with him. Osterbridge had several more of them – Iradrim Fire. He dashed through the dark patch to the stair and hurled it into the stairwell. Instantly he threw himself rolling across the dark space. The basement exploded, tossing up chunks of flooring and belching flames. Osterbridge staggered to his feet, stumbling toward the exit. More and more flames came up. The vampires were shrieking. He had been right to assume there would be more in the basement. Claws caught his leg as he stepped into a pool of shadow. He drew his knife and plunged the runed blade through the thing's heart, stopping it with a twist. His leg hurt with each step and he was half-stumbling by the time he reached the door. Then he turned and pulled a second bottle from its padded wooden case in his bandoleer. The bottle flew high into the middle of the warehouse, turning end over end, the sunlight shimmering on the glass.
"Everyone down!" Osterbridge shouted and flung himself clear as the ground floor went up in flames.
"You're bleeding," a gentle voice said and soft hands pressed a folded cloth to his leg wound.
He looked into Isen's strange eyes that made him think of swans in flight as he sat up. "It's nothing. Forget it."
She ignored his comment, dipping another cloth into a bucket of water someone had brought and washed the blood from his face. He had not even noticed the shards and splinters that had torn through his clothing, cutting his body and face. Osterbridge did not know how young she was, but he felt certain that she was far too young for what he was feeling right then as she touched him.
"Aren't you supposed to be with Alora's group?"
"Yes. She sent me to bring you to the other warehouse."
"Then let's go." Osterbridge stood up. The leg responded to his weight with a sharp pain, but he was determined that no one would go in without him at their head.
One of Karakin's people came forward. "We will carry your lost one to the temple."
"You have my thanks." Osterbridge started walking. He had never expected to find himself in a leadership position with anyone. That was for people like Yahni and Jajinga. They would have helped these young people and these hapless folk they were trying to protect. But they were gone, and with the Guild pulling itself back because of the suspected betrayal at the top, there was only him. So he would try to make their spirits proud of him.
Isen kept pace with Osterbridge, striding along right beside him.
Osterbridge looked down at her as they walked, thinking she was about the prettiest little lady he had ever seen. "How old are you?"
Isen grinned, running her tongue over her lips. "Sixteen, going on seventeen."
Knowing she was of age, emboldened Osterbridge. "Would you like to have dinner and a drink with me at the Music Chamber when we're done with this?"
"Yes."
Dear Mother,
I think a silent mutiny has begun. None of the Guildsmyn were sent to investigate a rumor of vampires in the Poor Quarter. Instead the knights went. That's the students I told you about. A single Guildsmon led us. Two shadows hounds and several catkins went with us. We destroyed two warehouses filled with undead. It was both frightening and exciting.
Thank you for the coming of age presents. I especially like the blades you sent me. They will see a lot of work I think.
That Guildsmon, his name is Ceejorn Osterbridge. He's very handsome and valiant. He's been taking me to dinner and dances and other places. I think I'm in love with him.
Your daughter,
Isen
My Dearest Daughter,
I trust you to be more wise in love than I was. Choose a worthy mon, not a rich one. Do not allow your head to be turned, as mine was, to my shame, by baubles and witticisms. Judge a mon by his deeds, not his words. Had I chosen wisely, I would be with you and your father in Havensword, not in the wilderness with my regrets.
Your Mother,
Alysyn St. Jon Dulac
CHAPTER TWELVE
ACCUSED
Mohanja had gone to the Temple immediately upon learning about the discovery of the lesser bloods in the warehouses near the Poor Quarter, hoping that they had found something to link it to Yahni's death. What bothered him was that it had been on the west side, as opposed to the east side of the city where Derryl found Maya's brother. It also made an ache in his chest that here, in the most sacred heart of their faith, it had been students, citizens, and a handful of aging priests, guided by some oddly trained cats and a pair of large dogs who had gone up against warehouses full of undead. It should have been the Guild and the guard. He placed his foot upon the first step of the palace entrance when he remembered standing on the Tower of the Winds, shouting Hanadi's name and hearing the hounds howling back. Had he imagined it all? Had he imagined that single moment of hope? Could those dogs have been shadow hounds? Certainly some of the descriptions matched, but some of the descriptions – which were garbled in the way the unschooled eye, coming from many accounts, tended to become – did not. Eshraf sent them out, therefore Eshraf would know. Therefore, he would confront Eshraf and the sooner the better. If only Mohanja had not allowed himself to become the voice of Takhalme, parroting the Grand Master's words back at people as if he had believed them in those first days. That was what had cost him his people's trust. No matter how hard he worked to win them back, to protect them, they refused to trust him. Mohanja started back to the temple. He had to convince Eshraf to tell him if the dogs were hounds.
The midnight hour had passed, and Mohanja knew he would be dragging the Patriarch from his bed, but a desperate urgency was upon the mon, and he could no more stop himself than take wings and fly. He heard footsteps in the regular patterns that suggested the usual movements of late night guards making their rounds. He started to ignore it and, as result, had only a heartbeat to react, when he realized they were rushing at him.
A tremulous light from some of the upper floors of the temple, scholars and priests working in the late hours, threw weak patches across the ground, strengthened here and there by the lamps along the walks. Most of the green lay in shadow, pools of dark beneath the trees and the sculptured bushes, the benches and tables. Six ran toward him down the path, wearing guardsmyn uniforms, their swords ready. What the hell did this mean? Treachery?
Well they would find him harder meat t
o chew than they had poor Yahni. They had fed on the young Guildsmon for weeks. Mohanja's lips curled so far back from his teeth that his gums showed, and he laughed at them. He whirled his heavy steel pike as if it were a lighter mon's stick, and then the nearest of the charging guardsmyn said something that so startled him he almost missed his strike.
"Our god demands your death, Guildsmon."
A cold chill raced over the big mon's body an instant before the axe head at the tip of the pike caught the guardsmon in the midsection, splitting his chain, spilling his entrails over the weapon, and carrying him into his fellows. Mohanja jerked back, freeing his weapon with several heavy shakes, retreating in careful, half-crouching steps toward the temple, seeing now the eyes among the trees reflected in the lamplight, dozens of them. Lesser bloods screamed their hunger. If he turned his back to them they would pull him down before he could reach the doors.
"Get him! Kill him. That's good, strong blood. You're hungry, aren't you?" shouted a voice from the trees.
Even through muffling cloth, the voice sounded familiar, a mon's voice, yet Mohanja could not be certain.
"The Master of Blood is here!" shouted one of the guardsmyn.
"He ordered the hunt. Don't you wish vengeance?" The Master of Blood demanded.
Hah! Had I ordered the hunt, we'd have found all your foul nests, Mohanja thought as he retreated three more long backwards strides while the voice whipped them up and then they came at him. The niceties of combat learned in youth generally disappeared in the hard scrabble of melee. The horde of lesser bloods came at him in a rush while the five surviving guardsmyn held back as if they feared the creatures might find them food as well. Initially Mohanja counted for a dozen, striking with the spinning pike like a staff; yet while he struck to one side, the creatures would fasten with teeth and claws to his arms and legs from the other side. They sucked down his blood in greedy pulls. Mohanja screamed, whirling and throwing himself against the temple, breaking the creatures' necks, killing them with the impact. Lights were suddenly being lit throughout the building. The treacherous guardsmyn fled. The master of the lesser bloods called off his creatures as the temple doors opened and a troop of armed priests emerged led by a bishop who swiftly established a magically warded perimeter, while two priests began to examine Mohanja.