Spectre Of The Black Rose tols-2

by James Lowder

  He came at last to the tunnel from which the unearthly sounds originated. Human voices were not making the clamor, of that Ganelon was certain. He’d heard the cries of the dead and damned enough in the past few days to recognize them now. He was not surprised to find the uncanny sounds so close to the place he’d called home. Rather, he marveled that he’d been so blind to it before.

  Cautiously, he started down the tunnel. Before long, a faint blue glow suffused the rubble-strewn passage, and Ganelon extinguished the lantern he’d taken from the surface. He left it, still smoking, in an empty niche hewn into the wall.

  Ganelon did not notice the flowers carved around the niche, barely recognized the elaborate statuary of hounds and harts and other creatures that stood to either side of him as the tunnel opened into a broad hallway. The ceiling, which reflected the light of the torches in the hall as a sky-blue glow, scarcely drew his eye. Once the workmanship of these objects would have filled him with wonder. Now he only saw them as places to conceal himself from his enemies or places from which those enemies might strike at him.

  The weird cries echoed all around Ganelon as he crept from statue to statue, ever closer to the fire-lit room at the hallway’s end. Through the open arch, he glimpsed shadows wheeling across the walls. He expected to find a hundred men in there, all dancing in anticipation of the grim rite Azrael intended to perform. When he got close enough to get a better look at the room itself, though, at the melted benches and the scarred altar, Ganelon realized that these shadows had no mortal anchors. They were darkness incarnate, salt shadows, and they were celebrating the strife to come.

  It was only their sheer number, the combined clamor of hiss upon hiss that made the shadows’ voices heard. That same quality made it impossible for any of them to speak above the din or to raise a discernible alarm when Ganelon stepped into the Black Chapel.

  The floor was dark with massing salt shadows, but Ganelon’s footfalls sent them splashing back like so much fetid water. As in the Vistani camp, the lost souls recoiled from the dead flesh on his feet. They whirled about the vaulted room, curling over the repulsive statues lurking in the corners. In some places the most agitated shadows forced their bodies off the floor. They scurried toward Ganelon like misshapen spiders. Yet they could not bring themselves to envelop his death-tainted flesh.

  The altar stood ready for Azrael’s ceremony. A black cloth covered the stained and profaned block, while a chalice carved of ebony stood at its center. Around the cup were arranged bits of plants and animals. Ganelon opened the small bag of poppy seeds Malocchio Aderre had given him. Carefully he emptied a few into the cup, then secreted others among the bits of greenery and grue. He had returned the bag to his duffel and was considering what to do with the large vat that stood before the altar when a familiar voice made him stop short.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Ambrose.

  Ganelon turned to find the pudgy shopkeep standing in the mouth of a rough-hewn tunnel, which led from the chapel deeper into the earth. His face was pale, his eyes devoid of any of the good humor that had once shone in them. “What are you doing here?” Ambrose repeated.

  As Ganelon started forward, arms outstretched to embrace his old friend, he noticed the shadows teeming at the shopkeep’s feet. The darkness slithered up Ambrose’s legs and reached out with tendrils to caress him. “You’ve been touched by Death,” Ambrose said in a voice only vaguely like the one Ganelon remembered so fondly. “I can smell it on you.”

  “What happened?” the young man asked. A fist of grief closed around his heart at the sight of his friend so changed, so defiled. “How-?”

  “I claimed this body a long time ago,” the thing within Ambrose said. “It just took me some time to drown the last bits of that fat slob’s personality. He lusted after Helain, you know.” “No. I don’t believe it.”

  A vapid smile quirked Ambrose’s mouth. “It doesn’t matter what you believe. He lusted after her all the same. I tried to goad him on-Helain would have been quite a conquest-but he was too cowardly to let me guide him.”

  “You can’t even tell love from lust,” Ganelon said coldly. “No wonder Ambrose kept you at bay for so long.”

  The youth reached into his duffel for the crystal orb. Before he could close his fingers around it, Ambrose was at his side. The shopkeep’s quickness startled the young man, as did the savagery of his attack. The bag slipped from Ganelon’s grasp as the blows began to fall. Soon he was on the chapel floor beside it, curled tight against the relentless hail of punches and kicks.

  “What’s going on here?” Azrael snarled as he emerged from the tunnel. In his wake came Kern and Ogier. The two men carried a massive bucket filled to the brim with water from the Lake of Sounds.

  “A spy,” Ambrose said. “I don’t know who sent him.”

  Azrael took one look at the leg brace and snarled, “He’s Malocchio Aderre’s man, but he’s supposed to be dead.” With his iron-shod boot, the dwarf rolled Ganelon over. “Wait,” he said when he saw Ganelon’s face. “This fellow used to work at the store, didn’t he? He’s no spy.”

  “Yes, he’s from the mine, but the shadows won’t touch him,” Ambrose noted. “There’s something strange going on.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he is or why he’s here,” Azrael said. “It’s too late for him to stop the ceremony, and that’s all that matters.” He motioned to Kern and Ogier, who had just finished emptying the huge bucket into the vat before the altar. “Keep him out of the way.”

  To Ganelon, supported by Kern and Ogier, much of the ceremony was a blur of dark shapes and flashes of light seen through a haze of pain. Azrael chanted for what seemed like hours. The words burned in the air as he spoke them, then floated down to the vat’ of black water. They extinguished one by one with a hiss that was echoed by the salt shadows.

  As the last of the words drowned, the water began to churn. The salt shadows eagerly circled the vat. The stinking liquid followed their lead, spinning until a whirlpool formed in its center. At last, Azrael raised the ebon chalice. Ganelon gritted his teeth in anticipation; he said a silent prayer that he’d put enough poppy seeds there to kill the werebeast outright.

  Azrael overturned the cup. The poppy seeds scattered onto the chapel floor, unnoticed by the dwarf or his minions. The sight struck Ganelon like a blow to the gut. He bowed his head. His ragged sigh carried with it the last of his flagging hope.

  “I demand the power to remake this kingdom in my own image,” Azrael intoned. “I demand dominion over the people and the beasts and the land itself. They will be as my shadow, so they have no need of their own. Come to me, then. Fill my cup so that I may drink down all the darkness in the world.”

  The black water in the vat rose in a spout toward the overturned chalice. As it whirled, the salt shadows that had been circling so close darted in and out of the column. Ganelon, too, felt the pull of the vortex. It did not snatch at his hair or his clothes, though, but at his shadow. He could feel it being drawn away from him toward the altar.

  Azrael took the bits of flesh and flower from the stone block. As he tossed each scrap into the vat, he called upon the powers of darkness to grant him supremacy over the thing it represented: bird, tree, beast, and man. With the naming of each new sort of minion to the catalogue, the spout turned faster and faster, until it was little more than a black blur before the altar.

  Ganelon felt his shadow ripped from him. It tumbled across the cavern floor like a sheet of parchment in a hurricane, only to be drawn into the vortex. A sense of loss filled Ganelon’s heart, and a strange weakness washed over him. He slumped forward. Kern and Ogier, fighting the weakness wrought by the loss of their own shadows, let him drop to the cavern floor.

  From the Fumewood to the gray-walled elven city of Mal-Erek, from the Iron Hills to the farthest reaches of the Merchants’ Slash, all the shadows in Sithicus felt the summons. They struggled against it, but none were strong enough to ignore the call. One by one they fled
their source. Like ebon-hued arrows they darted over the land. Some poured into the pit at Veidrava. Most were swallowed up by the Great Chasm, where, by a circuitous path of caves and tunnels, they eventually descended upon the Lake of Sounds.

  Just to the north of Nedragaard Keep, along the cliffs of the chasm, Nabon the giant felt his great mainsail of a shadow billow, then slip away into the abyss. It was swiftly joined by those of the hundreds upon hundreds of corpses scattered in Nedragaard’s garden-graveyard. The poor fools had been caught by the skeletal warriors and the banshees before Inza opened the keep to the besieging army. Most of the casualties were turncoat Invidians, along with Onkar and his slow-witted ogre cohorts. Their shadows seemed almost grateful to abandon them.

  The keep provided no shelter from the dark rite. Ulrisch and his elves, Gerhard and his ragtag army of miners and farmers, all watched helplessly as their shadows fled. Alexi, Piotr, and Nikolas retreated to the keep’s lightless gatehouse, but the Vistani weren’t quick enough. Their shadows joined the rest as they slithered from the castle into the Great Chasm’s murk.

  On the isthmus connecting the keep to the cliffs, Lord Soth and his minions had just begun to batter at the wards barring them from their home. The skeletal warriors turned sightless sockets to the ground and gaped as their shadows deserted them. One even fell to its knees in a vain attempt to catch the dark shape before it escaped.

  The shadow of Lord Soth, blacker than all the rest and burning with the cold of the grave, held out the longest. It clung to him like a frightened, frantic child. But the death knight would not be distracted. Vengeance was all that concerned him now. Even as his shadow slipped away and a profound lethargy settled into his limbs, he struggled to raise his age-tarnished sword to strike the wards again.

  The shadow of only one creature in all of Sithicus defied the awful summons, that cast by Inza Magdova Kulchevich as she stood upon the dais in Nedragaard’s main hall. The dark shape clung to the charm around her neck. Anchored by that bit of enchanted silver, which Inza had created with just this moment in mind, her shadow flapped around her like a cape in a maelstrom.

  Deep within the pit at Veidrava, Azrael did not notice that one missing shard of darkness. Neither did he sense the powerful magic resisting his incantation. He was too caught up in the spectacle before him. The stolen shadows swirled around the Black Chapel and merged with the vortex. Each new captive bit of dusk darkened the inky waters until, at last, they were a deep, profound black. Finally, the vortex rose into Azrael’s overturned chalice, distilling itself into a single cupful.

  Azrael righted the chalice. A silence fell upon the Black Chapel as thunderous as the cacophony it had succeeded. From where he lay on the floor, Ganelon looked up just in time to see the dwarf raise the cup to his lips and drink.

  In the stillness of the Black Chapel, as the bitter ebon ooze worked its way down Azrael’s throat, a voice spoke to the dwarf. “Terror will be all,” it promised.

  Azrael recognized the words instantly as those the dark had used time and again to describe Sithicus under his reign. The voice, too, was familiar. Free from any sorcerous masking, it was easy to identify Inza’s mocking tone. A frisson of dread crept up Azrael’s spine.

  “Yes, terror will be all,” she continued, “but you will be dead.”

  The awareness that he had been betrayed raged through Azrael’s mind. Inza had used the dark against him. She was the comforting voice at the Lake of Sounds. She’d told him of this rite and goaded him into revolt against Soth. Now she would claim his reward and snatch control of the realm from the death knight’s weakened grasp.

  A stabbing pain in his gut drew Azrael’s thoughts from Inza. He dropped the empty ebon chalice, which cracked and rolled away. All the captured shadows writhed inside him. Another lance of pain pierced the dwarf’s side, drawing black tears of misery from his eyes. The darkness trickled down his cheeks and slithered back into his mouth, eager to rejoin the corrupt mass roiling inside him.

  Ambrose and the others moved forward on unstable legs to aid their master. Like them, Ganelon hadn’t heard Inza’s threat, but he saw that there was a problem with the rite. He took advantage of the confusion to crawl to his discarded duffel, still heaped next to the vat.

  As he was rifling through the bag in search of the Cobbler’s blade, he felt a strong hand on his leg. He looked over his shoulder to find Ogier looming over him.

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” Ganelon pleaded. His fingers closed around the orb Malocchio had given him.

  Ogier’s lips curled in a snarl more fitting for a wolf than the gentle animal to which he’d been compared so often. “I think you got it backward,” he said, tightening his grip around Ganelon’s leg until the bones creaked. “You should be begging me not to hurt you.”

  “Helain,” Ganelon whispered.

  The wards Inza had raised around Nedragaard Keep were a dozen times more powerful than those Azrael had set at Veidrava. They were structured to withstand the might of the banshees, the skeletal warriors, and Soth. Once their shadows had been taken and their strength sapped, the death knight and his minions should have been powerless against them-but Inza had not reckoned on the might of Soth’s fury.

  When his sword proved ineffective, the death knight drove his armored fingers into the magical barrier. The enchantment fought against him, heating Soth’s gauntlets until the metal glowed white. As he widened the rift, sparks showered down upon him and lances of lightning flashed around his head. None burned as brightly as Soth’s eyes. “Vengeance!” he cried, and threw his entire being into the assault.

  Blue-white light played upon the invisible barrier, revealing its form as a gigantic dome. Soth drove the rift even wider, and a tear stole up from the ground to the dome’s peak. With a sound like every tree in the Fumewood splitting from root to crown at the same moment, the barrier tore open. A faint radiance lingered for a moment, a ghost of the sorcerous wall. Then that, too, faded.

  Soth pushed himself forward, moving as much by instinct as any conscious thought. He strode through the breach in the keep’s outer shell, stalked through the bailey to the double doors leading to the main hall. Elves and men cowered at his passing, but he paid them no heed. His only interest was the woman who had betrayed him, the faithless Vistana.

  Not so with his minions. The skeletal warriors and the banshees set about slaughtering every trespasser that crossed their paths. The massacre continued until the bailey was choked with the dead and dying, and the besiegers who thought Nedragaard Keep impossible to invade learned that it was even more difficult to escape.

  The Knight of the Black Rose found Inza in the main hall. She was crouched before the throne like a cornered animal. Her green eyes narrowed to slits when she saw the death knight and heard the clamor of battle in the courtyard. She drew Novgor, the ever-sharp dagger of Kulchek the Wanderer, and brandished it. “This will shear your thorns as readily as any rose’s, giorgio? she warned.

  Soth paused. With an edge of mocking laughter in his voice, he said, “An ill considered admission, witch. If the blade is enchanted, the Measure allows me to use my own magic to even the fight.”

  With one finger, Soth traced a symbol in the air. The glyph hung there, glittering with a fire the same hue as the death knight’s burning gaze. Before it could speed toward Inza arixi deliver Soth’s gift of agony, though, a single white rose slashed down from the gallery and dispersed it.

  “I don’t think Vinas Solamnus had creatures such as you in mind when he wrote the Measure, Loren,” the White Rose said. She stood in the musicians’ gallery overlooking the main hall, the Bloody Cobbler on her left, the Whispering Beast to her right. “Your mocking references cannot stain that most treasured code of knightly virtue. In making them, you only demean yourself further-if that’s possible.”

  Soth did not reply. He stood and waited as the Rose descended the curving stairs. As she did, the Beast slipped over the gallery’s rail and dropped down onto the rotting t
hrone behind Inza. The Vistana turned, ready to lash out with Novgor. The sudden pressure of a silver shoemaker’s knife at her own throat made her freeze.

  “Nice blade,” the Cobbler said cheerfully. His wounds and bruises had healed, it seemed, at least those that were visible. His face was hidden behind his pale mask, but Inza could hear his voice clearly enough when he added, “Put it away before I lop your head off.”

  At the center of the hall, by the wreckage of the triple-ringed chandelier, Lord Soth bowed stiffly to the White Rose. She returned the courtesy with an equally artificial curtsy.

  “I never thought to see you again, Isolde,” said the death knight.

  The White Rose nodded slightly, only a hint of a sad smile visible in the darkness of her hood. “Nor I you, my husband.”

  The orb in Ganelon’s hand flared to life, radiating light that cut through the Black Chapel like a thousand shining scythes. The bodiless salt shadows curled under the blaze of sunlight. Their perpetual hiss became a gasp of pain, a statement of agony rivaled only by Azrael’s intermittent howls.

  A look of surprise flashed onto Ogier’s face. It was much the same as the expression of good-natured bewilderment his friends had seen there all his life-so close, in fact, that it made Ganelon’s heart ache to see it. That baffled look was the first thing the light melted. The big man’s white curls were next, just before the rest of his shadow-tainted flesh burned away.

  Kern, too, burned under the orb’s intense light. Ganelon caught a glimpse of him as he scrambled from behind the altar. He might have been using Ogier to shield his escape from the chapel, but Ganelon knew somehow that the soft-hearted cynic was trying at the last to push the big man from harm’s way. The ashes of the two friends mingled on the dirty chapel floor.

  Only Ambrose withstood the light long enough to speak. The bitter, hate-filled face of the thing possessing him softened. For just an instant, the kindly man Ganelon had loved so dearly returned. “Clever boy,” he said in his wheezing voice. Then Ambrose was gone, consumed by the sunlight.