by Adam Carter
“Good, you’re here,” a middle-aged woman in a white blouse and red curls said as she entered the room. “Things are running along nicely. I was rather hoping it was going to be you I’d take; I’ve had my eye on you for some time, Mannin.”
“Thank you, mistress,” Mannin said, feeling a rush of pleasure that she was being recognised for something. “Is there anything specific you want, ma’am?”
“Oh, just a few things. How do you feel about Captain Wren, by the way?”
Mannin frowned. She knew the name, could even put a face to her, but she struggled to feel anything at all. It was as though she knew the woman, but did not think anything more of her than she thought of her armour. “Nothing, mistress. Is she important?”
“Not at all, no. And soon she’ll be dead, or exceedingly happy. Like you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Moya,” another voice said. Mannin saw another woman enter through different drapes. This one was older, somewhere in her seventies, but was still sprightlier than someone Mannin’s age. She was garbed entirely in black, which contrasted well with the mistress’s white, and did not look especially pleased. Mannin could not understand why someone wouldn’t look pleased in the presence of the mistress. The newcomer eyed Mannin with disdain as she noticed her. “This is the one?”
“It is, Baroness,” the mistress said. “Her former associates believe her dead, which is as I wished it.”
“And you’re sure she’s going to be of use?”
“Oh, she’ll be useful all right. Won’t you, Mannin?”
Mannin grinned, grateful she had been asked a question to which she knew the answer. “Oh yes, mistress. I’m going to be very helpful. Instrumental, in fact, in whatever you tell me to do.”
“She’s a bit too eager isn’t she?” the baroness asked.
“One can never be too eager,” the mistress said. “Mannin, who are you willing to kill in order to serve me?”
“Kill, mistress? Why, anyone you tell me to.”
“How nice,” the baroness said drolly. “Why didn’t you just kill them all when you had the chance? This isn’t about that soldier, is it? You’re not in love with him, are you?”
The mistress laughed at the very thought. “No, Baroness. There’s a reason I didn’t want them dead, and it shall become apparent when they return.”
“They’re coming back?”
“They’re heroes. Of course they’re coming back.”
The baroness did not look at all happy. “If you don’t kill them this time, Moya, I will.”
The mistress made a mock bow. “As you wish. This is, after all, your castle.”
“See that you remember that.”
The baroness marched back out the room and Mannin was glad. She did not like the baroness. The mistress approached her and Mannin tried not to smile too much because it was unprofessional.
“Now,” the mistress said, “I think it’s time you and I had a little discussion about your mission.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And Mannin listened attentively.
*
Canlin did not like the thought of entrusting the captain’s safety to Asperathes, especially since he was still not convinced that this was not all some elaborate ploy between the three fugitives. That Crenshaw was with him and Valok did not reassure him at all. The three of them were in a hamlet close to the castle, not doing much of anything. That was the thing which grated on Canlin’s conscience the most: that Captain Wren was at the castle risking her life, while Canlin was sitting in a small tavern pretending not to be a fugitive himself.
They were dressed in simple attire, which acted as adequate disguises, although Valok had insisted on casting a small spell to mask Crenshaw’s ruined right arm. The hamlet was so close to the castle that travellers frequently stopped there on their journey, so three strangers minding their own business in a tavern did not raise any eyebrows. How long they intended to stay there doing nothing was up for debate, although Canlin could see neither of his companions was very happy about it.
“Captain knows what she’s doing,” Valok said when Canlin brought the matter up again. “Let her play this out. When she wants us, she’ll call.”
“I trust the captain,” Canlin said, “but this wasn’t her plan.” He kept a steady eye on Crenshaw as he spoke, although the old soldier did not react. Canlin had been trying to provoke a reaction from him for some time now, but Crenshaw was not biting. Canlin did not even know why he was doing this, and every so often Valok kicked him under the table, but so far as Canlin was concerned anything was better than waiting. Starting a fight would not be something of which Wren would be proud, but since this entire situation was falling apart Canlin was of a mind to grab whatever victories they could; and beating down one of their original quarry did not seem a bad idea to him.
Again his mind returned to the possibility of all this being an elaborate ruse; again he said something to push Crenshaw over the edge; again the old soldier ignored him; again Valok kicked him.
The process had been going like this for over an hour. It wasn’t even as though they could get drunk.
“Of course,” Canlin said, “if Crenshaw was any sort of real man he would have seen the signs sooner in his woman and we wouldn’t have this problem now.”
Crenshaw ignored him …
Valok’s kick did not come. Canlin was disappointed. The rhythm of their conversation was the only thing keeping him sane. He opened his mouth to ask Valok why he didn’t fancy kicking him that time and saw the sorcerer was frowning. Instantly Canlin came to attention and took a quick look around. He could see no enemy in sight; in fact, there was no one at all. The entire tavern had emptied.
“This isn’t good,” he said quietly, resisting his instinct to leap to his feet.
“I think we’re about to be attacked,” Valok said back. “Crenshaw, wake up. Crenshaw.”
“Leave him,” Canlin said. “We have other things to worry about.”
“That you do,” a young woman’s voice declared. Canlin could not believe what he was hearing and overturned his chair as he excitedly bolted to his feet. “Mannin!”
Mannin was leaning against the bar and looking far more confident than he had ever known. She was also happy, deliriously so, and Canlin never trusted happy people.
“There’s something wrong here,” Valok warned.
“You mean because she died or because she’s happy?”
“Mannin,” Valok said, “what happened with the mist?”
“It wasn’t harmful,” she said. “It helped me understand how the mistress thinks. She really is a wonderful person, you know. We’ve been wrong about her this whole time.”
Canlin slowly curled his fingers about his axe. “Are you talking about the baroness or Moya?”
“Silly,” Mannin chided. “Please come back with me. The mistress will bring such joy to all of you, I just know she will.”
“Is there anything you can do for her?” Canlin asked the sorcerer.
“I don’t know. This isn’t just a glamour, Sergeant. Incantations I can remove, but this is something more.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” Crenshaw said, joining them at last. “Mannin’s dead and the spell’s brought her back to life. You remove the spell, you remove her life.”
“He could be right,” Valok said.
“So we kill her,” Crenshaw finished.
“Back,” Canlin ordered, raising his axe. “You’re not going anywhere near her, Crenshaw. Mannin may be many things, but she’s one of my soldiers.”
“Fine. Then you kill her.”
“No one’s killing anyone,” Valok said. He took a step towards her and waved his fingers before her face. She did not react other than to widen her smile. “I really don’t like this,” he said. “I’m going to have to take her to a greater authority than me. Maybe one of the masters can remove the spell on her and keep her alive at the same time.”
“Fine,” Canlin said. “Mannin
, go with him. But don’t dally, Valok. We’ll need you back here for whatever the captain has planned.”
“Believe me, I know. I’ll drop her off and hurry back while they look after her.”
Mannin’s laughter was as sweet as sugar dipped in honey. “You are a pair, aren’t you? But you mean well. I’m not going anywhere, Sergeant. I’m right where I need to be.”
There was something threatening to her words, or at the very least insidious, although her tone remained as jovial as ever. Canlin was wary of approaching her, wishing he knew what she was doing there. Moya would not have banished them only to send someone to kill them, surely. That made no sense at all.
“Why do you need to be here?” Valok asked the obvious question.
“Because I was told to be.”
“And what were you instructed to do here?”
“I wasn’t given any specific instructions. I just have to keep you in this room while the green cloud seals off all the exits. Then you’ll be like me, and we can all be happy together.”
“We’re under attack,” Canlin shouted, bolting for the door and drawing to a halt. Already the green mist was seeping its way under the door, and outside the windows he could see it creeping up the glass. He imagined the entire building was being enveloped, and if the cloud was travelling up it meant their only means of escape would be from the roof.
“Move,” Valok said, having reached the same conclusion. “Up the stairs, go.”
Mannin released a deep sigh and Canlin grabbed her, forcing her to run with him. He did not know what a second exposure to the mist would do to her, but could not believe it would be very pleasant.
They barrelled up the stairs and reached the upper storey in moments. Canlin could see the cloud was on the verge of overtaking them, for it already had its hold upon the windows, like some bizarre climbing weed. They continued to run, for there was a ladder leading to the roof, and clambered out together into the fading light of day. At the edges of the roof he could see the wispy tendrils snaking their way over.
“Why are you running?” Mannin asked, sitting down defiantly. “Life under the mistress is better than marching through the mud and constantly cleaning our weapons.”
“You’re a soldier, Mannin,” Canlin snapped, “so start acting like one.”
“I have this,” Valok said and began to voice the incantation Canlin recognised as one of levitation. The mist flooded over the side of the building and ran towards them like a river having broken its boundaries.
“Any time you’re ready,” Canlin urged.
With a deep sigh, Mannin lay on her back and placed her hands behind her head.
“Seriously,” Canlin said, “get that spell working. I love a last-minute escape as much as anyone, but we need to go right now.”
“I’m trying,” Valok said, his hands thrusting without effect. “There’s something blocking me.”
“The mist,” Crenshaw said. “We need to carve it up.”
“Carve up mist?” Canlin asked. If he was going to die, he would much rather have been in the presence of Wren than this idiot.
“Please stop fighting it,” Mannin said. “It’s your doorway to a great life.”
Canlin clutched his axe, not knowing what he could do with it but feeling reassured nonetheless by having it in his hand. “Options, Valok.”
The sorcerer swore in frustration. “I can’t do anything with this block in place. I don’t understand how, though. Unless Moya’s down there in the street, I can’t see how she’s managing to focus her magic like this. Even the mist has to be coming from somewhere.”
Canlin looked about, but there was nothing on the roof. Just the three of them and Mannin.
Mannin.
He looked down to where she was lying. “Mannin, what are you doing here? Truthfully, what are you doing here?”
Her eyelids fluttered open and Canlin recoiled as he saw a green mist swimming in her eyes. “I told you, Sergeant. I’m here to make sure you all succumb to the mist, to make you all as happy as I am. The mistress is good, the mistress is kind. She only wants what’s best for all of us.”
“You’re controlling the mist?” Canlin asked. “Mannin, are you controlling the mist?”
“Directing it, Sergeant, not controlling. Only the mistress controls. But you’ll soon see.” She brightened at the thought. “You’ll soon be like me. You’ll all learn to love the mistress.”
“Canlin,” Valok said, “kill her.”
“What?”
“It’s the only thing which will break the connexion. Sever the block and the mist should disperse. At the very least it will mean I can lift us out of here.”
Canlin stared at Valok, then at Mannin lying peacefully on the floor, smiling at him. “I’m not killing her, Valok.”
“Crenshaw, you do it.”
Crenshaw had been hurrying to and fro across the roof, trying to find a weak point in the mist’s attack, but there was no such place to be found. Upon hearing Valok’s command, he started forward with his sword, but Canlin threw himself between them.
“She’s already dead,” Crenshaw said. “That mist killed her a long time ago.”
“Just like Moya’s already dead?” Canlin shot back. “If this was Moya lying on the floor, what would you do?”
Crenshaw’s eyes narrowed. “Just kill her, Sergeant.”
Valok lowered his arms, for it was useless to try his spells any longer. The two men stood there staring at Canlin, waiting for him to make his decision. If he did not act, they would all die, and Valok and Crenshaw had exhausted all possibilities. It was down to Canlin.
As a soldier he had always been forced to make the hard decisions. He had lost soldiers before, far too many for him to be happy about, but never had any of his soldiers died by his own hand. Canlin was a difficult taskmaster, but that was the job of a sergeant. He was not meant to be liked, but he liked to think he was respected. No matter what his soldiers thought about him, though, he could hold his head high and say he had always done what was best for his people. As with Captain Wren, he was a patriot, and he loved his regiment just as much.
Mannin lay back on the roof and got herself settled. “You can do what you feel is right, Sergeant,” she told him sweetly. “But you also have to live with yourself afterwards.”
Canlin hated what he was being asked to do, hated more the fact he could think of no alternative. If they were all enveloped, they would not only die but return as the zombie Mannin had become, subservient to a mistress they should have been fighting. Canlin could never let his regiment down, but he was not going to be killed and resurrected, only to be sent out to fight Wren. He had visions of his hands about the captain’s throat, her eyes pleading, her lips forming a single word.
Why?
He would never harm Wren and would kill anything and anyone who dared to make him.
Rage filling his being, Canlin screamed as he brought his axe up high and slammed it down into the roof. Instantly the mist bulged and began to dissipate in the air, no longer clinging to the building, no longer so thick.
Canlin’s heart pounded, his breath came short and he could not look down. He did not know how long he remained that way, but as something touched his arm he jumped. It was only Valok.
“You did well,” the sorcerer said. “You saved us all, Arno.”
His fingers creaked open and the axe fell from his grasp, clattering at his feet. He was aware that his sweaty hands were shaking and wished the entire day had been a terrible, dreadful dream.
His eyes fell upon Mannin at last, for the sake of his sanity he had to see her. Her smile had not faded, but seemed to have become more sincere. It was as though she was back to her normal, jovial self and was thanking him for what he had done.
As his gaze concentrated on the blood pumping from her throat and the spattered gore about her head, he put it down to wishful thinking, for Mannin would never smile again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Asperath
es knew his companion did not want to be with him, but that was fine since he did not much want to be there either. So far as he saw things, they had two shots at Moya – his and Crenshaw’s – and if they both failed none of them would be around to see what kind of a mess the world became. Approaching the castle, Asperathes had not been entirely certain that Moya would just allow them in, but as they were met at the main gates by an entire regiment he felt it a little late to change the plan now.
“I want you to know,” Wren said quietly aside to him, “that I wish I could have thought of a better plan than this.”
“Trust me, I wish you had as well.” To the soldiers, he said, “Good evening to you, fine gentlebeings. What a glorious day to be entering your city. Do you know, on our way here we passed two people who looked remarkably like us, heading in the other direction? What are the chances, eh?”
“You’ll come with us,” the woman at the head of the regiment said.
“If only people would take me seriously,” Asperathes sighed. He noted the look of derision the captain gave Wren, and how Wren turned her eyes from the glower. He had thought Wren had a thicker skin than that but unfortunately there was little time remaining in which to grow one.
“Keep your hands where we can see them,” the captain continued, “and follow. If you make any moves we don’t like, you die.”
“Actually no,” Asperathes said. “If the baroness wanted us dead we’d be dead.” It did not benefit them to mention that Moya was the true power here. “You have orders to bring us to your mistress alive, and since that’s also how we want to get there, lead on.”
The captain did not seem pleased with being spoken back to in such a way, probably because everything Asperathes had said was true. She turned on her heel and marched off, her regiment closing in upon Asperathes and Wren in order to herd them further into the castle.
“You shouldn’t antagonise people,” Wren whispered harshly. “They’re just doing their jobs.”