Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  She really did go into the orb with the Demon King. At least, most of her. She salvaged just enough to keep her body from dying outright, but she really did sacrifice herself. Everything that made her Tort went into the orb. What was left was little more than a memory, an organic recording in the flesh of her brain, with enough living energy to keep the playback running.

  “If I break that ball,” I asked, slowly, carefully, “and if I destroy the Demon King… can I get you back?”

  “What I am now—that which I am, within the structure of the sphere—is no longer me. It is a pattern of living energy, forged from my soul. Can you have your iron ore and your coal again if you break the sword you forged?”

  “I don’t accept that.”

  She patted my hand with her bony, withered one.

  “I know you don’t. But you will, eventually, because you must. You have eternity to do so. I will not last so very much longer. I live now only out of habit, and because I made my preparations long before. I will die, as all things must, and you will go on. You knew this would happen one day, even if you did not think it would be so soon.”

  “Is your apparent understanding and kindness also an habituated memory?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s comforting or not.”

  “You would prefer I loved you less?” she asked, gently.

  “I would prefer you were actually here.”

  “Alas, it is impossible. Moreso in that I must be going. It is well you have come, for some part of me once hoped to have this meeting. Another part hoped you would never see what remains. Regardless, you have come, and you shall be my guide.”

  “Hold it! If you think I’m going to kill you—”

  “What is left of me?”

  My comment was not appropriate to a PG rating.

  “I am too old for that,” she answered, mildly. “But whatever is left of Tort—whatever is left of who I remember I once was—surely you will not let it wander, weak and faded through the world, hoping to find its way?”

  “Can I have a moment to reflect on my self-loathing and my rapidly-rising hatred for the pyrrhic nature of my life choices?”

  “Take all the time you wish. If I must leave during your contemplation, I trust you will understand.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Tort. Old, withered, dying… Bizarre. I had intended to make her live forever, one way or another. At least, I always thought she would. There was always some way, some refinement on a spell, a transfer to an immortal body, even vampire blood as a last resort. Now she was gone, even though I was talking to her body and brain. This was vitality without essence, life without a soul. Anything I did at this point to help her live longer, even if I made her grow younger, would be useless—worse than useless. But even going the other direction and ending her biological life was more painful than I wanted to think about. It took me forever to realize how much I loved her and admit it to myself. Now that I have her here with me, she’s not really here, only her memories, and sending her on will lose even those. She’s the blood and bone of a scrapbook full of snapshots, and she wants me to burn them.

  I can’t keep her. It hurts too much. I can’t lose her. It hurts too much.

  No matter which way I go, I’m sticking my heart in a blender.

  What’s black and red and goes round and round and round? A vampire heart in a blender. Ha. Funny. Good joke. Everybody laughs but me.

  “When…” I began, and had to clear my throat. “When did you want…?” I trailed off, unable to finish the question.

  “When you are prepared. I do not have the will to end myself. I can only wait.”

  “This stinks.”

  “I know it does.”

  “All right. Can you do one thing for me?”

  “If you ask it.”

  “Then I’m asking you to ask me. You don’t have to do much, but I do need to hear you make the request.”

  “Dear angel, you remain forever yourself.”

  “Immortality problems.”

  “Very well. Please take me out of this life.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  I took her wrist in my hand, bit it, and let the blood flow into my mouth. It soaked into my undead flesh the instant it touched my tongue. Minutes passed as she bled out, slumping, her brain shutting down. I blinked.

  The Grey Lady stood next to me, slightly perplexed. I held a spark in my hands, tiny, little more than some dim star plucked from the fringes of the Milky Way.

  “It seems you have a tiny piece of someone. Shall I?”

  The voice behind me was unexpected.

  “No.”

  The Grey Lady looked startled.

  “This one is mine,” I heard.

  “Yours?”

  I turned to regard myself. Taller, darker, broader of shoulder, more fearsome in some way I could not define. The sword at his hip was a sharp-edged bar of fire, behind him, a gleam of glossy black and gold, horse-shaped, shot with fire-sparks. His shadow was a moving darkness, clinging to his shoulders. Something glinted in his void-like eyes, a darkling color seen only beyond the rim of the world.

  “Mine,” he repeated. “I claim her by the right of adoration.”

  The Grey Lady’s eyebrows went up, but she nodded.

  “She does adore you, even what there is of her.”

  “It is not her adoration that makes it my right,” he corrected. The Grey Lady’s eyes widened. She stepped back, inclining her head.

  “Far be it from me to stand in your way. I waive my claim, and gladly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There is very little of her to claim, you know. Are you certain you wish to waste the effort on…?”

  “It is a joyous responsibility,” he replied, “and a duty I willingly assume.” He held out his hands while the Grey Lady watched him, her expression changing into a thoughtful, even appraising look.

  “The others underestimate you,” she said, finally. And the Grey Lady was gone, leaving us in the twilit nothing. He gestured at me with his hands cupped together, ready to accept the faint spark of soul.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “You’re not a… what is it? A psychopomp?”

  “It’s complicated. I do escort duty for individuals, not wholesale like the Grey Lady does. Remember?”

  “I thought it was my job.”

  “You’re the door. I meet them once they’re through.”

  “That’s a metaphor for something afterlife-y and complicated, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but not a bad one. But I’m here, personally, because Tort is a special case.”

  “I agree. Now what do you mean?”

  “Think of it like saints, I guess. Maybe more like Valhalla. Most people go about their normal business of being dead. A few, on occasion, attract the personal interest of a god. Tort is one I take a personal interest in, because we love her.”

  “What will happen to her?”

  “That’s hard to describe. A poor approximation is this: I’m going to plant this tiny seed of her where it can grow and flourish. The actual process is complicated and possibly incomprehensible for physical entities, but I think this is a good description.”

  “The difference between ‘Turn the knob and see things in the box’ and ‘This is the electrical theory behind television’?”

  “Yes. Results rather than process,” he agreed.

  “Does this mean I might get Tort back?”

  “No, not exactly. Reincarnation is a tricky business and—surprise! —I’ve never done this before. Tort’s the first.”

  “But you’re sure you can do it?”

  “I am certain.”

  “And I’ll see her again?” I pressed.

  “I understand your hesitation. So here, let me make this simple for you: I absolutely guarantee it.”

  Maybe it’s weird, but I believed him. Instantly. Totally. Utterly. Perhaps this is how prophets feel when the Word comes down from O
n High and delivers a Truth. I’m not giving Tort up. I’m sending Tort on ahead so I can see her again. It’s not death. It’s picking her up at the airport next week.

  Is this some strange power of the energy-beings? Or is it a function of my energy-being copy, his total certainty resonating with me on some psychic level? More fundamentally, did it matter? It was my only option, so I had no real choice, but it also made me certain it was the right choice, which lifted a weight from my soul.

  “All right.” I held out my hands and opened them, letting the tiny, dim spark that was the last of my Tort settle into my energy-state-being hands. He closed his hands over her, lifted them to his face, and breathed into them. The light within brightened, shining between his fingers. He seemed pleased.

  “Told you,” he said, smugly. “I’ve got this. I promise I’ll take very good care of her until she’s ready to come out. As much care as you would, obviously.”

  “Then she’s in good hands,” I agreed. “Butterfingers.”

  “Do you see me using both hands?” he demanded, feigning hurt. “Do you see me treating her like she’s fragile? Do you?”

  “I do, and I appreciate it. Keep a close eye on her.”

  “Yeah, she’s tricksy. Now get going. You have to escape the house.”

  “That shouldn’t be a—wait, what?”

  I finished my blink. Tort was dead, but not dead. Not exactly, anyway. The withered old body passed away, but whatever remained, whatever there was of my Tort was… more than dead, but less than alive. Working on becoming herself again, perhaps, or someone new. Reincarnation is a tricky business, or so I’m told. I haven’t tried it, myself.

  Or have I? There’s an interesting question. Who have I been before I was me? And do vampires get to reincarnate? Sasha thought so.

  I picked up Tort’s body and laid her on the couch, arranging her carefully. It was hard to do. I could still see Tort’s face behind the lines and wrinkles. No matter how old she might be, I could always see the little girl who fell through the ceiling.

  Strange. Her pajamas’ spells were fading. The magic in them popped like bubbles in foam. Small bells tinkled with each one, sounding elsewhere in the house. Odd.

  I sat with the body for a bit, adjusting to the fact I found my Tort, lost my Tort, and would hopefully have my Tort again. Is this how religious people feel when they lose a loved one? The loved one may not be coming back, but they’re certain they’ll go to join them. It’s not a loss, just the other person going ahead before the one left behind catches up. No, the feelings can’t be the same. There’s a lot of weeping at funerals. I didn’t feel the need to weep; I know dying isn’t the end.

  The door came open and two large men entered. They wore partial armor—scale mail over their vitals, with rigid bracers and half-helmets—and carried enormous, curved swords.

  “Murderer!” one shouted, and they both charged me.

  Ah. Escape the house. Of course. I didn’t bother to notify the staff I was here to suck the life out of their mistress, nor why. How did they know she died? The magical pajamas and the bells? Possibly. Probably. Either that, or they assumed the filthy unaccompanied male was not to be trusted and spied on us.

  I wasn’t really in the mood to kill people. Looked at one way, I just killed Tort. Looked at another way, I just found out she sacrificed herself long ago to undo my stupidity. This was not a good time to bother me, what with being so busy with self-pity, self-recrimination, and a little self-loathing. It’s all about me. It always is, because of being so self-centered. See? Self, self, self, all self, all the time.

  Besides, technically, this was all a terrible misunderstanding.

  Still, they did burst into the room and try to hit me with swords. Firebrand was more than a little pleased, of course, and we did put out the fires caused by the melted armor. It would have been helpful if their blood could have soaked into the hot spots, but, well, that doesn’t happen around me. I had to settle for stomping out the burning rug and letting the hot metal cool on the stonework.

  A large bell sounded somewhere in the house. It wasn’t the tinkly, happy door chime. It was a much louder, much less happy-sounding clang-clang-clang!

  I looked around the edge of the door. No one in the upstairs hall. I peered out a little farther. There they were. Quite a number of servants were gathered at the base of the stairs. All of them were armed.

  Hell, they didn’t deserve to wind up as desiccated pork chops. On the other hand, I doubted they wanted any sort of explanation—just my head.

  The only other way out of the room was a small, square window in the outer wall. With some wiggling, I could probably fit through it. I shut the door, put a couple of chairs and bloodless corpses in front of it, and tested the window. The wall was thick enough to make it more of a tunnel than a window, but knocking the glass out was easy enough. I slid through the tunnel headfirst and looked around. Bronze had already parked herself underneath.

  Perfect. I backed up, put my arms through first, pulled myself out, and did a very neat somersault as I landed astride Bronze’s back.

  Two things of note.

  First, vampires recover from injuries supernaturally fast. We still suffer from wounds and dislike being injured because being shot, stabbed, or set on fire is painful.

  Second, leaping from the second storey to land astride your horse is a skill. Hitting your target isn’t too hard if the horse cooperates, but if your horse is flesh and blood, it’s likely to suffer injury. Equally, if not more important, is if you don’t land exactly right, I guarantee you’ll suffer injury, especially if you’re male and not wearing a cup.

  Be safe. Don’t try this at home. Jump down to the ground like a regular person and mount your horse in the usual manner.

  Bronze didn’t mind, although she did express some concern at the peculiar noise I made when I hit. Since I was leaning far forward, somewhat curled up, she latched on to my head and shoulders with her mane. This kept me in the saddle while my regeneration repaired the damage. She accelerated silently away from the house, civilization, and any likely source of pursuit. Which meant, of course, cross-country.

  A minute or so later, after my abused anatomy and psychology finished recovering, I took a good look around. To be fair, Kamshasa gets a bad rap as a desert country. It’s not a desert, or not all of it. The province of Kashmanir is quite nice around the civilized regions. It actually turns to jungle fairly suddenly if you’re far enough north, away from the desert. This is helpful in hiding from prying eyes.

  Bronze wanted to know if I was feeling well enough to go home.

  “I think I can manage. Pull over and I’ll build a temporary arch.” Bronze obligingly came to a silent halt.

  I dismounted and regarded the deep imprints of her hooves. It was a good thing we were leaving. Tracking Bronze is like following the trail of a heavy tank. There’s another thing I should work into her magic items: Something to reduce her hoofprints. Come to think of it, maybe something to damp down her dust cloud in dry areas, too.

  I put together a quick spell. It sucked up dust and dirt, leaf-litter, twigs, bits of vine, whatever was handy. This swirling mass formed into a temporary archway. When the spell expired, the bits would fall or blow away. For now, though, it gave me something to use as a portal. I concentrated on my enchanted gate in the geode room, flushed, and waited until everything snapped into place. Bronze and I were through the gateway in nothing flat and the vision of Kamshasa shredded behind us, disappearing into the becrystaled wall behind my arch.

  I settled to the floor, next to the arch. It’s been a bad week. I tried to lean against a rather pointy wall. That didn’t work, so I stretched out on the floor.

  Bronze lowered her head and breathed hot air into my face. I rubbed her nose. She wanted to know what I wanted to do.

  “I’m thinking of wallowing in self-pity for a while.”

  Bronze thought it wasn’t a good idea. She nibbled at my hair while nuzzling me with a ho
t, metal nose.

  I’m with her, Boss. You’ve been oscillating between angry, afraid, depressed, and generally wishy-washy ever since you came back from being snatched by a ghost.

  “As I understand it, the ghost was caught by Thomen and used like a post-suicide bomber. Johann snatched me only after I was electrocuted.”

  Fine, ever since you were snatched by Johann.

  “Technically, it’s ever since I was tortured and used by Johann.”

  Firebrand made a rude psychic sound. Bronze had a big horselaugh.

  My point is, you haven’t been yourself since then! Make up your mind on what you want! What do you want? Or do I need to get Seldar to hit you again? The first one seems to be wearing off.

  “I wanted to sort things out with Tort.”

  Right. Did that.

  “Not exactly.”

  Either she’s gone or she’s in the hands of a god, right?

  “Well… he’s not exactly a god. He’s—”

  Shut up. He can do things you don’t know how to do with souls and the afterlife and other stuff. He’ll do for these purposes. So you can miss Tort all you want and maybe be pleasantly surprised in a hundred years. Great. In the meantime, what do you want? You’ve thrown away a kingdom—

  “I don’t think I’ve ‘thrown away’ a—”

  I told you to shut up, Firebrand repeated. You’ve given away a kingdom. You’ve said goodbye to everyone you care about, now including Tort. You sent Mary—the one person your ego could stand to cry on—

  Bronze snorted.

  You don’t count, Firebrand snapped at her, then directed its attention to me again. You sent Mary, the one other person your ego could stand to cry on, into another universe. You discovered what you needed to find out about Tort. Two things are left: to take bloody, murderous vengeance on the man who abused, tortured, and used you, then find your nasty ball and destroy it. Or have you changed your mind again?

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” I protested. “I’m still going to kill Johann. And his amped-up relatives. Eventually. But I’m emotionally tired from… okay, everything.” I sighed. “I need a vacation.”