by James Lowder
These were more phantom memories caused by the Cobbler’s graft, he realized. While Ganelon couldn’t recollect the incidents that spawned them, he did remember the Cobbler’s advice to him in the Fume wood: for these half-forgotten impulses to be useful, he needed to relax and simply let instinct take over.
“Neither fool nor imbecile, great lord,” he said, bowing as deeply as his leg brace would allow. “I am merely an obedient servant on a mission.”
“The only servants I tolerate in this land are my own,” Malocchio replied. “And you and this��� rabble are most certainly not servants of mine.”
“Perhaps we are,” Ganelon corrected mildly, “after a fashion.”
Malocchio kicked one of the madmen. “Only if the fashion this season is for mewling lunatics,” he snapped.
“The fashion is whatever you say it is.”
A slight smile quirked Malocchio’s lips. “Indeed.” He studied Ganelon for a moment, then said, “Come closer.”
As the young man hobbled forward, a light of recognition flashed in Lord Aderre’s dark, penetrating eyes. “Where did you get that brace?”
“A benefactor,” Ganelon replied. “He thought it would help me travel the hard road I have chosen for myself.”
The Invidian lord reached down and tapped the metal. “This is mine, forged in my keep, by my smiths. It was crafted for a friend.”
“I’ll return it, then,” Ganelon said. He began to undo the straps, adding, “Though a friend wears it still.”
“How so?”
“The one I serve is set against Lord Soth,” Ganelon said. “That gives us common ground for friendship.”
Malocchio snatched up one of the bags of roses, overturning it. “This petty theft gives me reason to know you as an enemy,” he snarled. With the toe of one black boot he kicked the petals. “Foes of Soth, you say? What use will these be in battling him? Do you hope to litter his path with them so that he trips and falls down the Great Chasm, perhaps?”
Ganelon finished removing the brace. His leg, free of the weight, felt odd. “I don’t understand fully,” he said. “I know only that the White Rose has a plan and that it will bring Soth to a reckoning for his crimes.”
“The White Rose.” Malocchio clasped his hands behind his back again and paced through the prostrate lunatics. “She really does exist?”
“I’ve seen her myself. She sent me after these roses. They play a part in some ancient sorcery she will wield against Soth. I believe she intends to time the spell so that it coincides with the siege of Nedragaard Keep.”
“What siege?”
A puzzled look crossed Ganelon’s face. “Why, your own. The Rose told me that your troops were even now moving against the keep.”
Malocchio swore bitterly. “Is the Rose part of the siege?”
“I don’t think so,” Ganelon replied. “She spoke as if it were something she had no part in.”
The black-clad man rushed to Ganelon’s side, lifting him from the ground. “Is this the truth?” he shouted.
Ganelon averted his eyes from Aderre’s face. It was frightening in its fury, marked with traces of the youth’s demonic heritage. “It is the truth until you tell me it is not,” said Ganelon meekly.
The phrase was one familiar to Malocchio’s underlings. The lord of Invidia slowly lowered Ganelon back to the ground. “Put the brace back on,” he said, “and tell me more about how you obtained it.”
Ganelon did as Malocchio demanded, relating the tale told to him by the Bloody Cobbler. It seemed clear to him as he spoke that Aderre had known and perhaps even valued the Cobbler’s victim. That fact could only work in his favor, Ganelon realized. Perhaps it might even afford him influence enough to see Helain and the others back safely across the border.
“Yes, of course they can go,” Malocchio said distractedly when Ganelon inquired after the fate of his mad soldiers. “In return for my generosity, though, you will remain here with me for a time. We have plans to lay and treachery to punish.”
The Invidian lord dismissed the lunatics with a wave. A few got to their feet, but Ganelon had to take out the Beast’s token and tell them to flee back to the White Rose before most would leave.
As Helain adjusted the small pack filled with roses for the long journey ahead, Ganelon took her by the arm and studied her face. Wrinkles creased the corners of those gorgeous blue eyes, the leavings of worry and despair. So, too, the frown that tugged at her mouth. These would vanish after the Beast doused the fire of guilt consuming her from within. She would be whole again, the Helain he cherished in his heart.
If she reaches the Beast, Ganelon thought sadly. The words of Inza’s curse were always fresh in his mind; he could not help but wonder if, by sending Helain off, he was not fulfilling it somehow. His direction, his hand, would be her doom.
“Tell her to go back to the Beast,” Ganelon said suddenly to Malocchio. “Lord Aderre, please be the one to tell this woman to go.”
Malocchio smirked. “Can’t bear to do it yourself? Very well. Run along, girl. Deliver your flowers.”
She turned, but Ganelon held her hand in his for an instant longer. “I only wish one thing, dear heart, and that is for you to remember me.”
Helain’s blank expression was too much for Ganelon to bear. He released her hand and bowed his head. Mournfully he watched her hurry off-then stop and turn back to him.
Slowly, eyes fixed on her lover’s face, Helain returned. Without saying a word, she took Ganelon’s hand and placed in it a perfect red rose. She smiled down on the bloom, then at Ganelon. He fixed that smile in his memory, letting it linger in his thoughts even as she hastened over the hills and disappeared into the forest beyond.
“Now that the wench is disposed of,” Malocchio noted glibly, “we can discuss what it is I require of you.”
“Yes, lord,” Ganelon replied in a subdued tone.
“What do you know of Veidrava?”
“The mines? I know them like the veins on the backs of my hands.”
“Fine, fine. You will go there and be the agent of my wrath against that treacherous beast Azrael. I want you to kill him, if possible.”
Ganelon laughed bitterly. “Is that all, lord?”
Malocchio did not bridle at the grim joviality, for he knew the last laugh, as always, would be his. “Azrael must be made to pay for his betrayal. Those troops you say are now marching toward Nedragaard were never meant as more than a diversion. They were supposed to stay close to the border, to buy the little monster time in which to perform a rite to oust the death knight from the throne. He would take over Sithicus, hand over Magda and her Vistani as thanks for my help, and the world would be a better place.
“He’s obviously got something else in mind. He must have bribed my men, purchased an army he could not hope to raise in Sithicus.” The Invidian frowned at Ganelon. “What’s your concern? You may speak.”
“How am I supposed to challenge Azrael?” The youth held up his empty hands. “I don’t even have a sword.”
“A blade will do you no good against a thing like Azrael,” Malocchio noted. He reached into his black cloak and brought out a small bag. “This, however, will make his twisted little brain boil in his skull.”
Ganelon undid the drawstring on the silken bag. The pouch contained nothing more than poppy seeds.
“Slip enough of the seeds into his food, his drink, and he will be the Sorrow of Sithicus no more,” Malocchio said brightly.
Aderre reached into his cloak again and produced a clear crystal orb. He rolled it in the palm of his hand, letting the sunlight flare upon its flawless surface. “This will be of use to you against his minions at the mine.”
“What does it do, lord?”
“Azrael surrounds himself with creatures of the living dark, salt shadows and the like. This is a conduit for their opposite.” He held it up to the sun. The orb flared brightly, almost as brightly as the sun itself, before resuming its appearance of mundane glass.
“You need only speak a single word to activate it.”
“What is the word?”
“Whatever you choose,” replied Malocchio, “though you’ll want it to be a word you won’t forget.”
“Helain,” Ganelon replied softly.
The smirk returned. “The wench again.” Malocchio murmured something as he passed his fingers over the orb. It darkened for an instant before he dropped it into Ganelon’s outstretched hands. “I think you’ll be able to remember the trigger.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Ganelon said as he tucked the orb and the seeds into a pouch. “Why are you trusting me with this task?”
“Your dearest Helain,” the black-clad youth said. “The rite Azrael hopes to perform will destroy her-and everyone else you love in Sithicus. He’ll gain control of their shadows, and they’ll be his slaves. I’m certain you can imagine what Sithicus would be like if that were to happen.”
Ganelon could imagine. That horrible thought drove him on through sleepless nights and exhausting days as he trekked back across the border, through the Fumewood, and on to Veidrava. At the same time, Inza’s curse taunted him. If, as she had promised, everything he held dear would perish by his own hand, was he returning to the mine to save Sithicus, or to destroy it?
Fourteen
Nabon’s daydreams had once been simple. In them the giant wandered faraway hills, to places familiar and places fresh. Beyond that, their content was inconsequential. Freedom was all.
Freedom was, of course, something Nabon no longer possessed.
That theft darkened the giant’s fantasies. He dreamed now of roaming the land, but not in idle explorations. Nabon ranged the Sithican wilds in search of the one who had first ensnared him: Inza, a Vistani girl with hair as black as her soul and a viciousness in her heart the likes of which the giant had never seen in all his wide travels.
Deep in the Fumewood, Nabon had responded to her cry for help but found himself set upon by the girl instead. With a cudgel of unbreakable wood she shattered first one kneecap, then the other. As he lay on the ground, howling in pain, she beat him unconscious.
The greatest indignity of all was the purpose the assault served. Inza had captured him and broken his legs so she could barter him to Azrael for a mere dagger. The dwarf had been given the blade by Malocchio Aderre as a symbol of their recently forged alliance. Inza wanted it, and Nabon was the substantial price she was willing to offer.
Azrael was wont to torment Nabon with this tale on nights the giant slacked in his ceaseless toil. Nabon loathed the dwarf and wished him harm more times than he could remember, but his chief hatred was reserved for Inza. Had she not preyed upon his kind nature, he would never have fallen into Azrael’s hands. Worse, the Vistana had hunted Nabon only after hearing stories that lauded the giant’s gentleness of spirit. That, Inza explained as she hauled him to the salt mine that first night, made him the perfect slave.
With the mine shut down, the men all shuffling off to war, Nabon passed the time in a fitful drowse. He envisioned himself inflicting his revenge upon the girl in myriad ways, but only after he had pursued her through the Sithican wilds. The chase made the kill all the more satisfying. In those dreams, his footfalls shook mountains and sloshed rivers from their banks. His legs were whole. He was free.
One morning, in the quiet moments before dawn, he awoke to find the dream had become reality. At least parts of it, anyway.
The pain was gone. The shrieking ache of mangled flesh and broken bones had left his legs. He squinted into the darkness, reached down with trembling hands. It was true. His legs were sound again. The shackles that had pinned him to the filthy floor were broken.
The joy in Nabon’s heart was overwhelmed an instant later by a terrible dread. This had to be a trick. Surely Azrael lurked in the darkness. Worse still, maybe Inza was there. When he moved, when he got the first fleeting taste of freedom after his long imprisonment, they would descend upon him. This time they’d cut off his legs and rob him of any hope at all.
The giant cowered against the wall of his lightless, stinking prison.
“No need for that,” came a soft voice from the darkness.
A lantern glowed to life. Its light revealed a figure dressed in pale clothing, a fine cloak, and a wide-brimmed hat. He removed the mask that concealed his features. The friendly smile on that handsome face made the giant gasp. It had been so long since he’d seen such a sign of goodwill that he scarcely knew how to respond.
“You really are free,” the Cobbler said, “and well shod for the road that awaits you.” He held the lantern toward the giant’s feet. “Tell me, how do they feel?”
Nabon let his eyes trail down his legs. The wounds had all but vanished. The only traces of his abuse were some faint scars. Around his ankles, though, he could detect some heavier puckering. He ran his fingers over the marks. They were like the stitching that joined a sleeve to a coat or held together the pieces of a shoe.
“They’re much bigger than the ones I normally make,” the Cobbler noted casually.
He leaned close to admire his handiwork. It had taken the Cobbler much of the night to dress the giant’s feet. The work had required much more from the Vistani corpses than the soles of their feet, but the magic had taken hold. That much was obvious from the way Nabon’s bones had knit. The boots didn’t look half bad, either.
“She betrayed them too,” Nabon said softly as he ran his fingers over the leather. “Her own people.”
The Cobbler smiled more broadly. This was clearly the best match he had ever made.
“Inza orchestrated the attack that took their lives,” the pale-clad figure confirmed. “She paid the murderers in advance, with money stolen from the gypsies’ own vardos.”
“But why?”
“The slaughter gave her a reason to call upon Lord Soth for aid,” the Cobbler replied. “She needs to be inside Nedragaard Keep for what she has planned.”
Nabon stood. He wobbled a bit at first and bashed his head upon the Engine House’s beams. He soon got his balance again, though. When he did, he offered a quick but sincere thanks to the Cobbler, then bulled his way through the huge building’s back wall.
The Bloody Cobbler was chuckling to himself as he emerged from the rubble into the morning sunlight. The smile didn’t abate, even when he found Azrael standing before him. “You’re fortunate he didn’t wait around to hammer you into the ground like a tent peg,” the Cobbler said.
The dwarf’s face was so colored by fury that even his bone-white mustache and sideburns seemed tinged with crimson. He let the jugs and candles he’d been cradling in his arms crash to the ground. “I still needed him,” he rumbled. “Now I’ll have to climb down to the chapel.”
“You could use the exercise,” the Cobbler replied calmly.
Azrael’s stubby fingers sprouted thick black claws. The bones of his face shifted, grinding into a profile that reflected both dwarf and badger. “Who do you think you are to challenge me here?” Snarling, he locked one hand around the Cobbler’s arm.
“You’re wasting your time,” the pale-clad man said lightly. “I can leave any time I want.”
“Not from here you can’t,” Azrael said. He pushed the Cobbler against a pile of shattered timber.
It was then that the Cobbler noticed the items the dwarf had dropped into the dirt. A thick black sludge oozed from the shattered bottles. It stank of salt and of sorcery. Concern stole across his handsome features. He reached for a shadow in the rubble, expecting to enter it. His fingers met solid wood. The way was blocked.
As swiftly as he could picture it, a pale leather case appeared in the Cobbler’s hand. Before he could extract one of his knives, though, Azrael batted the entire thing from his grasp. The silver tools scattered.
“I sealed the place off,” Azrael said. The Cobbler’s lost smile was on the werebadger’s lips now, all pointed teeth and malicious glee. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The beast reac
hed down for one of the silver scalpels.
“You can’t kill me,” the Cobbler said defiantly, “even with that.”
“Oh, good,” Azrael replied. “That will make this a lot more interesting.”
In her two days at Nedragaard Keep, Inza had grown insensitive to the smell of death. The whole place reeked of it, from the web-choked dungeons to the top of the shattered tower. That was hardly a surprise. Skeletal soldiers patroled the battlements. Banshees howled through the corridors. Death had never frightened Inza, though, and the walking dead held no special place in her nightmares. Despite the lingering fetor of decay-perhaps even because of it-she found the castle much to her liking.
Soth had abandoned her soon after they arrived. They stepped into the shadows at the battlefield and emerged an instant later within Nedragaard’s circular throne room. Soth informed Inza that she was free to roam the keep-at her own peril, of course-but that he had more important business elsewhere. He left her standing in the darkness.
Since then Inza had marched through every hall and explored every room of Nedragaard Keep. The inspection was long and largely tedious. The castle revealed little about its master that the Vistana didn’t already know.
Now, at last, Inza had returned to the hall from which she had started her explorations. She lingered at the triple-tiered chandelier that lay in a heap at the room’s center. The damage to the floor, flagstones shattered by the chandelier’s fall, was both ancient and recent. Soot and melted wax from a fresh blaze masked far older scarring.
Inza found the juxtapositions unsettling. It was like standing in two times at once, suspended precariously between the past and the present. “Better to keep your gaze fixed on the future,” the Vistana muttered. Unconsciously she tugged at the fine silver chain hanging around her neck and fingered the small black charm dangling from it.
She then made her way to the dais, with its warped and moldering throne. Her lips curled in a moue of distaste at the sight of the worm-eaten wood. It could be salvaged, she supposed. The rotting lumber might be reinforced with strips of metal. The joints could be joined more tightly with pegs or nails.