Spectre Of The Black Rose tols-2

by James Lowder

  Ganelon overturned the now-empty wooden plate. “You said you were going to cut out his tongue if the Invidians hadn’t beaten you to it. What do you care about him?”

  “There is punishment and there is torture,” Inza said. She impaled a millipede on the end of her dagger and watched it squirm. To be lost from the tribe is torture for poor Bratu. We would have kept him safe with us, even after justice was meted out.”

  Ganelon missed the grim looks exchanged by the other Vistani, who knew that Inza had proposed a far different fate for Bratu. Instead, the young man had his eyes fixed on the matted pine needles that had been his blanket. “It should be obvious that I had no fire to share with Bratu,” he said. “I offered him help, but he couldn’t hear me. Did the Invidians cut his ears off, too?”

  “He harmed himself,” Inza replied distractedly. “You haven’t told me your cause for being here, giorgio. Maybe you’re a spy, too.” She gestured at the leg brace. “They only make those in Invidia. Your price for betraying your homeland, perhaps?”

  “I’m looking for Helain,” Ganelon said. “I should be going if I’m ever going to catch her.”

  Inza gave the man a knowing smirk. “Ah, the sick girl from the store. She finally heard him, eh? It was only a matter of time.”

  “Heard who?”

  His look of puzzlement was too genuine for Inza to think him a liar. “The Whispering Beast,” she said. “Just like Bratu, she answers the Beast’s call.”

  Ganelon stood and brushed off the borrowed cloak. “Nonsense,” he snapped. “The Beast only speaks to those who lie and cheat. Helain is nothing like that.”

  The coarse laughter of the Vistani men fanned Ganelon’s anger. He turned on them. “What would any of you filthy wretches know of honesty?”

  Inza wrapped a hand around Ganelon’s wrist and eased him back to a seat beside her. “If we are all liars, giorgio, then you should pay all the more attention to what we say. Liars have to know the truth well enough to avoid it.” She lifted the cloak back to his shoulders. “No one is saying that your Helain is like Bratu, you know. It might just be guilt that drove her to him. Sometimes that’s enough.”

  “Guilt about what?”

  She shrugged. “It only matters that you find her before she gets to the Beast. Once she’s in his hands-” The Vistana mocked a shudder. “Horrible. And there will be no way to find her. His lair is hidden.”

  The words of the Bloody Cobbler came back to Ganelon then: “The place where she is heading is the first thing in the hills touched by the morning sun.” That place, he realized with a terrible certainty, was the lair of the Whispering Beast.

  Inza leaned close and lifted Ganelon’s chin with one finger, positioning his face so that their gazes met. The young man could feel himself slipping into the green depths of her eyes. He realized distantly that those eyes were very much like the Fumewood. Both had a certain intolerant lushness to them. For all they seemed full of life, they were actually choked with death.

  “Something brought you here,” she said softly. “You couldn’t have kept pace with her, not with the brace, not pausing to sleep at night. How do you know where to look?”

  “I don’t know. I’m following her trail.” Inza gave a subtle signal. “I told you before that liars must be acquainted with the truth,” she said. As a pair of callused hands clamped down on Ganelon from behind, the girl added, “We’re also quite aware when we’re being lied to.”

  The Vistana lifted Ganelon and locked him in a bear hug. The young man dug back with his elbows. Both connected, but the Vistana didn’t flinch. The kick from Ganelon’s braced leg drew a howl of pain, but his captor didn’t release his hold. If anything, the blow made him squeeze harder.

  Dagger in hand, Inza stood before Ganelon. “Who told you how to find the Beast’s victims?” she shouted into his face. When he refused to reply, she rested the blade on his earlobe. “Who told you?”

  The slightest twist of her wrist, and his earlobe dropped to the ground. When he’d stopped screaming and struggling, she placed the blade against his other ear. “We move to the eyes from here.”

  “The Cobbler,” Ganelon hissed.

  The answer shocked Inza into silence, but only for a moment. “You’re lying” she snapped. The dagger’s point pierced the lobe and continued into the corner of his jaw.

  “A few nights ago,” Ganelon said through gritted teeth. “He gave me the brace then, too.”

  The girl paused again and regarded the brace more closely. After a moment, a look of recognition crossed her face. “Well, well,” she said finally. “You have some important friends, giorgio. Tell me what I want to know, and you can count me one of them.”

  “I can’t tell you what the Cobbler said.”

  “Won’t tell me,” Inza corrected. “You’re capable of doing so, at least right now.”

  “I swore an oath. I can’t break it.”

  Inza raised the blade again. “You’d be surprised at what you can do, given the proper motivation.”

  As she brought the knife down, Ganelon didn’t struggle. He went slack. To compensate for the sudden weight in his arms, the Vistana holding him jerked backward. The moment he did, Ganelon pushed up with his legs.

  Instead of slashing Ganelon’s face, the blade struck the Vistana’s arm. It was a glancing blow that should have left nothing more than a scratch. But the dagger Inza carried was enchanted by magics older than the Vistani themselves. Its steel bit down to the bone.

  Ganelon crashed to the ground and was immediately set upon by the other Vistani. They kicked him and pummeled him, blackening his eyes and loosening more than a few teeth. The man who had been holding him tried desperately to stop the bleeding from his slashed arm. His attempts proved as futile as Ganelon’s hopes of escape. Before long he had slumped against the log, his lifeblood flowing into the dirt.

  Only Inza remained calm. Once Ganelon had been subdued again, she cleaned her dagger’s blade and walked slowly to where he lay pinned to the ground.

  “I swore on my love for Helain,” he cried. “I will not betray that.”

  “Of course not,” Inza said. She lifted the dagger, positioning the blade so that it would catch the sun. The flare of light struck Ganelon full in the face. At the same time, she focused her eyes on his.

  When his eyes cleared, Ganelon found himself stretched out within a beautiful bower. Vines curled around him, caressing him and shading him from the sun. The leg brace was gone, as were his wounds and the terrible chill that had clung to him since the meeting with the Cobbler. He was safe here. Nothing could harm him, not the Vistani, not the beasts of the Fumewood, not even Lord Soth.

  He marveled at that sensation of utter security. It was one he had experienced before only rarely and only in Helain’s arms.

  “As it should be,” a cool voice said. “You are only truly safe with someone who loves you absolutely.”

  Ganelon shifted, looked up, and was startled to find Helain cradling his head in her lap. The taint of madness was gone from her face. She smiled down on him in perfect contentment. One hand rested upon his cheek. The other was entwined in her red hair. How vibrant that hair was, a bright flame against the forest’s deep green. Her eyes sparkled like two still pools reflecting the first morning sunlight as she said, “You freed me.”

  She bent to kiss him. As she did, her tresses flowed around his face. Ganelon’s senses reeled. He breathed in her perfume and hugged her fiercely. They lingered there as the morning became afternoon and the afternoon dwindled to twilight.

  Finally, Ganelon broke the embrace.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” he sighed as he pulled back a little to study her face.

  Hugging him again, this time more playfully, she replied, “Believe it. You have yourself to thank. Only you could have saved me.”

  “You’re really here.”

  Helain mocked annoyance and pushed him away. “If my method of proving that isn’t sufficient for you, sir, I
suggest you find another lap to rest your head upon.”

  “It is far beyond sufficient,” he said, laughing. “It’s just��� I think I must have lain here too long. I’m having a hard time recalling exactly what happened.”

  “Oh, come now,” Helain scoffed. “Surely you remember finding me in the lair of the Whispering Beast.” At his blank look, she said, “You’re starting to worry me, love.”

  A wave of dizziness washed over Ganelon. Disoriented, he put his hand to his eyes. “I remember the Cobbler helping me. You’re right-”

  Helain took his hand from his eyes and pressed it between her palms. Her brow furrowed with concern. “Why don’t we start at the beginning, from when the Cobbler told you how to find me. That will help you put things back together.”

  Ganelon tried to sit up, but Helain held him fast. “Rest,” she said. “Please, love.” A shadow of worry stretched across her face, making her blue eyes appear green.

  As green as the bower.

  As green as the creeping vines that were even now encircling his legs.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ganelon felt panic rise. “No!” he shouted

  With trembling hands he grabbed Helain by the shoulders and began to shake her. She shouted for him to stop, but it was too late. Streaks had begun to appear in her hair, the crimson tresses quickly darkening to the black of ravens’ wings. Her eyes gave up their facade of blue. They were the green of serpent’s scales and just as emotionless.

  “Enough,” Inza said. She slumped forward, exhaustion withering her young face. As in the dream, the day had run its course and night once more perched upon the Fumewood. “Your heart may resist me,” she said wearily, “but there are other ways to break you, other agents to impose my will upon you.”

  Inza nodded to one of her tribesmen, a grim-faced man of middle years named Alexi. Like most of the Wanderers, he’d been left without a family by the butchery Duke Gundar inflicted upon the Vistani in his domain. After joining with Magda, there were few creatures of the night he had not faced. In all the world, the only thing that truly frightened him was the girl who now led their caravan.

  At Inza’s signal, Alexi pulled Ganelon up from the ground and brought him to the small cook fire the gypsies had started. There was no smoke, and the logs seemed to burn readily enough. Ganelon wondered numbly if the Vistani had some sort of magic that made the wood more compliant. Perhaps they’d hauled wood with them somehow.

  “You don’t have to hang on to him,” Inza said. “Find a decent tree and pin him to it.”

  “As you wish, raunie? Alexi said.

  It took only a short time for the Vistana to bind Ganelon to the trunk of a large, moss-covered tree. As he did, another of the Vistani made a show of setting a trio of large metal pokers in the cookfire’s coals. Inza supervised silently, her form bathed in the fire’s glow. “I will have what I want from you,” she said to Ganelon. “Make no mistake. I always win.”

  The young man snorted, displaying a bravado he most certainly did not feel. “Hot pokers? Isn’t that a bit primitive for the Vistani?”

  “Oh, those are only my reserve tools,” Inza said cheerfully.

  The raunie reached into a hidden pocket in her cloak. With a smile of satisfaction, she withdrew a small, ornate box, and presented it in her palm. “One last chance, Ganelon, before I loose this on you.”

  “I will not dishonor myself or my love for Helain,” he answered simply.

  Inza gave the young man a last thoughtful look before she placed the tiny box on the ground and opened it.

  A soft black shape slid out of the box. It expanded as it slithered forward, its saline stench overpowering every other odor in the camp. Ganelon gaped at it for a moment before the shock wore off and the horror set in.

  He closed his eyes and conjured an image of Helain. It would be the last time he could envision her with the same passion in his heart. The shadows knew nothing of love and did not tolerate such emotions in their slaves.

  The gasps of the Vistani and Inza’s loudly uttered curse made Ganelon open his eyes. The shadow pooled at his feet. Tentatively, it extended a tendril toward his boots, then recoiled as if burned. The thing was like a dog rooting after a bone that it knew was near but remained tantalizingly out of reach. Finally it grew frustrated and slithered back to its box.

  With a cry of frustration, Inza grabbed one of the pokers from the fire. “The Cobbler’s plied his trade on you, hasn’t he?” She looked to the other Vistani. “He has a dead man’s soles. The shadow can’t see him.”

  With her free hand she snapped the box shut and tossed it to Alexi. The man cringed as he caught the captive soul but did not drop it or put it down. Secretly the raunie smiled. Her mother never inspired such unswerving, unquestioning loyalty. Magda’s kind heart had always interfered.

  That weakness had never plagued Inza. In fact, she intended to demonstrate to this maddening mine rat just how cold her heart really was.

  “I’ll never give in,” Ganelon proclaimed as Inza came close. His fear was gone. The salt shadow’s defeat had vanquished it. The young man knew that he was going to die, but he knew, too, that he would not break his oath.

  Ganelon heard it first in the hissing of the poker as it approached his face. A voice whispered to him. The susurrus spread to the pine trees and the cookfire, gathering strength. Just before the iron touched flesh, the whisper exploded into an unearthly howl that drove the steaming poker from Inza’s hands and scattered the Vistani like frightened birds.

  Of all the people in the little camp, only Ganelon saw his rescuer clearly. It reached from the shadow trailing behind the tree to which he was bound and pulled the young man in. At the sight he screamed until there was no breath left in his lungs.

  Inza saw only the thing’s gangly arm, covered with matted hair, pluck away her victim. Ropes, still knotted and looped, sagged on the tree trunk where they had held Ganelon fast a moment before.

  There was no time to lash out with blade or blaze, but the raunie’s hatred offered up this parting blow: No love, no light, but that which causes pain. Everything you hold dear will perish by your own hand.

  That curse, swift as a vengeful thought, followed Ganelon into the darkness, just as it would hound his every step for the rest of his life.

  Ten

  “It’s time,” Azrael said cheerfully. “I want you and your little friends down in the pit right now. They’re almost done loading the crates. Make certain they don’t leave anything behind on the landing, then get started on that other business we discussed. Understand?”

  Ambrose did not respond. As the dwarf tromped out of the store, the shopkeep got stiffly to his feet. “You heard him,” he said to Kern and Ogier.

  The two miners exchanged puzzled looks. “What about the wine?” Kern asked. He held up a half-full bottle of Chateau Malaturno. Its twin stood empty in front of Ogier. “We’ve enough left for one decent toast. After all the trouble I went through to get this stuff, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

  Ambrose missed Kern’s unsubtle jab. The shopkeep had never looked into finding the bottles for Kern, despite his initial offer to do so. As a result, Kern paid twice the wine’s worth in order to fulfill his debt to Ogier.

  “‘Sides,” that white-haired stalwart now chimed, “you said we was going to do another job for Azrael. That meant we wouldn’t have to lug crates with everyone else.”

  “That special duty is still yours,” Ambrose said rather sadly.

  “A mysterious errand for the homicidal dwarf, and we get to cart boxes besides,” noted Kern. He held his empty glass up in salute. “Only a true friend would set us up with that kind of deal.”

  Ogier elbowed the smaller man. “Leave him be. He’s doing the best he can.”

  Still glowering, Kern filled his glass to the brim, then did the same for Ogier. He went to top off Ambrose’s mug with the remaining wine but found that the shopkeep hadn’t touched a drop that had been poured for him. With
a shrug, Kern handed the bottle to Ogier. The big man put it to his lips and drained it in two gulps.

  Kern raised his glass again, this time in earnest. Solemnly he said, “To absent friends, who leave us shadows until their return. May it be soon.”

  Nodding his approval, Ogier tipped back his glass. After a moment’s hesitation, Ambrose raised his mug. “Friends and shadows,” the shopkeep said flatly.

  The statement was no more cryptic than anything Ambrose said these days. Ever since the night Helain and Ganelon disappeared, he’d been acting strange. Kern dismissed it as the man’s way of mourning. In his own childlike fashion, Ogier noticed a deeper change in Ambrose. His voice was stronger now, missing the wheeze that had softened every word he’d uttered since the accident. He was more forceful, too, even cruel. Ogier knew that this was not the stuff of mourning. The murders of those politskae had changed him. Something grim and loveless had taken hold of Ambrose’s heart.

  Faces flushed from the wine, the three made their way from the store up to the mine. A hundred torches lit the grounds around the pit. Workers from both shifts carried boxes from the lift and loaded them onto heavy wagons, then trudged back for another load. The entire process was supervised by Azrael’s Politskara. They were everywhere, silver axes at the ready. Whatever Azrael had the men unloading from the mine, it was more valuable than salt.

  The dwarf clearly thought so anyway. He’d shut down the mine so everyone could focus on the task of moving the heavy crates. It was an unprecedented event, one that disturbed the workers more than the sudden appearance of the white moon. That was beyond their understanding. They knew what the work stoppage meant: lost wages, maybe even lost jobs. Worse, there were rumors that the mine was going to close down for good. To men with no other skills, that meant starvation and hardship as deadly as any creature lurking in the woods.

  As Ambrose and the others got close to the lift, they could see apprehension, even fear, etched on every miner’s face. It was not merely concern for their lives and their livelihoods that weighed heavily on the men. They were frightened for their souls.