Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  There was no time. Leweth lashed out with his other arm, moving with an impossible speed that surpassed even Vani’s own. His hand contacted her square in the chest, and she flew backward, striking the stone wall with brutal force. She slumped to her knees.

  Leweth clutched the collar of Grace’s cloak, pulling her away from Falken. “Now, my lady, you will—”

  His words ended in a gush of dark fluid that poured out of his mouth. The steward stood rigid, eyes staring. Then his head toppled from his neck, striking the floor with a thud as his body came tumbling after.

  Grace struggled to comprehend what had happened. Then she saw the figure step away from the shadowed mouth of the staircase down which they had come. It was Elwarrd. He gripped a sword in his hand, its edge slick with blood. On his face was a peculiar expression: solemn, thoughtful.

  “You idiot!” the countess shrieked, her scarlet lips smearing in rage. “What are you doing?”

  “Saving you, Mother.” He moved toward her, sword raised before him. “Saving all of us.”

  The feydrim watched him with yellow eyes, but they didn’t attack. Elwarrd bared his own teeth in a sharp grin. He let his free hand run over their humped backs, tangling his fingers in their lank fur. They licked his hand with black tongues, whining and pissing on the floor.

  “You trained them well, Mother. They serve you, but they won’t attack me if I don’t hurt them, will they? They know I’m important. You taught them that much.”

  The countess stepped forward, reached past the sword, and slapped his face with a withered hand. “Listen to me, insolent boy. Everything I have ever done, I have done for you. The Final Battle comes, and it is the Master who will be victorious. I saw it when your father could not.”

  Elwarrd pressed his hand to his cheek. “So you killed him.”

  “He was weak. He did not survive the transformation wrought by the Gift. So I took the Gift upon myself. I did it for you, my son. And when I survived the change, I knew I could dedicate myself to make sure you rose high in the Master’s favor when the dark times came.” She clutched his shirt with bony fingers. “And now that time has come at last! All we must do is give this harlot, this witch, to Him, and He will surely reward us. There is no need for you to give up your heart. I did that for you, my son. I am your mother, and I have made every sacrifice for you. Now I ask only that you do this one thing for me!”

  Elwarrd hung his head, shoulders slumped, and the sword slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. The old countess clasped her hands, her expression exultant. Grace glanced at the others. Vani had regained her feet, and Beltan had pulled the knife from his shoulder. The wound was bleeding freely, but a swift glimpse with the Touch told Grace it was not serious. Falken gave them all a sharp look. If there was a time to act, it was then.

  Before they could move, Elwarrd lifted his head. His green eyes shone with sorrow, but his expression was hard. “Mother,” he whispered tenderly. “Beloved mother. You have done so much for me. But now there is only one thing I can do for you.”

  And with a gentle motion, he pushed her backward into the fireplace.

  The old countess gaped in surprise. Then, like a piece of magician’s flash paper, her black gown went up in a puff of flame. The fire licked at her, melting the white paint that masked her face and bubbling it away, withering and cracking her flesh.

  “My son!” came a piteous cry. Two shriveled arms reached outward from the roaring fire, and the countess stumbled out of the fireplace, groping for Elwarrd. She collided with one of the posts, and flames streaked up the wood. “Help me, my son!”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Elwarrd retrieved the sword, and with one clean swing he lopped off her head. The grisly orb rolled into a corner, still smoking, and her body fell against another post, setting it ablaze like the first. Grace jerked her head up. Flames ran along the wooden ceiling.

  “Go!” Elwarrd said to Grace, his voice hoarse as he shouted over the roar. “All of you. You have my leave.”

  Fear stabbed at Grace’s heart. She moved to the earl. “What about you, my lord?”

  “I will see to it these creatures do not follow you. But there may be others at the front door. Take this.” He held the sword out toward Beltan, and the knight accepted it.

  Panic blossomed in Grace’s chest like the fire. The heat was already almost unbearable. “But you can’t stay here. The castle is going to burn.”

  It almost seemed he smiled. “Please, my lady. If you truly do care for me somewhere in your heart, let me do this. Let me do this one noble thing in my life.” He gazed at the charred husk of the old countess. “She denied me my chance to be a knight, and my chance to be a man.” His sea-green eyes locked on Grace. “Don’t you deny me this, my lady.”

  Anguish filled Grace—as well as understanding. She hesitated, then leaned toward him and kissed his brow. Without waiting to see his reaction, she turned away. In the ED, she had always known when to let a patient go.

  “Come on, Grace,” Falken said, taking her arm, pulling her toward a doorway. Flames filled half the kitchens now, turning the place into an inferno. “We have to go.”

  Numb, Grace let the bard pull her forward. They ran down a long corridor as flames raced behind them and hot cinders rained from above. They dashed up a smoke-filled stairwell, then came to the front door of the keep. They glanced around, but if there were any feydrim lurking, they were invisible for the smoke. Grace could feel a great wind as air was sucked into the keep through the doors, feeding the greedy fire. Everything within the keep’s stone walls was made of wood. The whole structure was going to burn.

  Clutching one another, they stumbled through the doors into the night. They raced down the steps, away from the inferno, to the bailey below. Only when they came to a halt did Grace look back. The keep burned atop its hill like a great torch, sparks rising to the stars.

  “Thank you, Sir Elwarrd,” Grace whispered.

  Beltan let out a grunt. “I think we just found the rest of the countess’s feydrim.”

  Grace turned around. They were clearly visible in the firelight: a dozen lanky forms scattered around the bare ground of the bailey, their maws open in frozen snarls, their fur matted with dark blood.

  Vani knelt beside one of the creatures. “It was a sword that slew this creature.”

  “This one, too,” Beltan said, standing back up.

  Falken raised a hand. “Listen.”

  After a second Grace heard it: the pounding of hooves against hard ground. There was no point in running; they could never move fast enough on foot, and the barren moor offered no cover. Moments later, the black horses came pounding into the bailey, forming a circle around the four.

  Grace craned her neck to look up at the massive horses. The beasts wore black armor on their breasts, just like their riders. Black helmets covered the faces of the knights, and in their hands were black swords. Their shields were crimson, emblazoned with the symbol of a black crown encircling a silver tower.

  Beltan held the sword before him, but his shoulder still bled, and the sword wavered in his grip. Vani’s hands were raised, ready, but she couldn’t stand entirely straight. Leweth’s blow had bruised her ribs badly.

  Falken moved in front of Grace. “What do you want?”

  One of the knights spurred his horse forward. Grace knew if he stood on the ground, the man would tower over even Beltan. He seemed almost to burst out of his armor. His jet breastplate was marked with three silver crowns. She supposed he was their leader. With his sword, he pointed past Falken, toward Grace. She could see blood on the tip of the blade.

  “She’s the one we want.” His voice was deep, echoing inside his helm. “You know what to do, brothers.”

  And Grace could only watch as the circle of dark knights closed in.

  PART THREE

  THE WHITE SHIP

  33.

  Travis sat in a rickety chair on the front porch of the Bluebell, Miss Guenivere curled
up on his lap, and watched dark clouds roll in from the west.

  Summer laid claim to the mountains now. The Fourth of July had come and gone, and just about every afternoon thunder-heads built up on the shoulders of Castle Peak, filling the valley with the distant booming of Indian war drums. Most days the clouds kept close to the old mountain, but sometimes, as the afternoon wore on, the clouds would reach out over the valley and—with a crack like a dynamite blast—down would come a torrent of raindrops so big and so cold, each one made you think of snowmelt lakes under lonely skies.

  For ten minutes the rain would pound against the tin roofs of Castle City, loud as a herd of mule deer, turning gritty avenues into red, rushing creeks. Then, as suddenly as it started, the rain would cease. The clouds would roll down the valley; the sun’s rays would reach through thin mountain air, lapping at the puddles. And both earth and sky were left as green and vivid blue as the flowers that grew in the shade next to the boardinghouse, and from which the establishment took its name.

  Sometimes, as he sat there on the porch, Travis wished the rain could wash away all of his worries, just like it washed the dust from Grant Street, and give him a clean beginning.

  And what would you do with a new start, Travis? Stay here in Castle City, in this century?

  In a way it was tempting. He liked living at Maudie’s, and he had his job at the Mine Shaft. What was more, Jack Graystone would be arriving in town soon. He imagined Jack coming to see him as he worked at the saloon, wanting help carrying brass lamps or moth-eaten chairs or whatever unwieldy load of antiques he had just bought. It would be like old times.

  Too old, Travis. You don’t belong here. You don’t own the Mine Shaft. You can’t stay at Maudie’s because she’s going to die soon. And they’re going to hang Sareth.

  He waited all afternoon, but the rain never came that day. Just the clouds and the thunder, filling the air with a buzzing energy, like lightning about to strike.

  At five o’clock, the smell of frying fish drifted out the front door of the Bluebell. Guenivere yawned and hopped down from Travis’s lap, no doubt in search of Maudie and a few morsels of rainbow trout. Travis reached into his pocket and pulled out the scarab.

  The spider jewel crawled across his palm, probing with delicate gold legs. The ruby set into its abdomen glistened, as red as the single drop of blood he knew remained inside the scarab. That blood could transport them back to Eldh using the gate artifact safely hidden in the rafters up in their room. But what other wonders might be worked with it? Sareth said a single drop of blood from the god-king Orú was as powerful as the blood of a thousand sorcerers. And Travis had witnessed the transformation that consuming the blood of the scarab had wrought upon the Mournish man, Xemeth.

  But what good had that power done him? The demon had drawn Xemeth in, consuming him. Orú himself was shackled by his own priests. Despite his power—or perhaps because of it—Orú had fallen into an endless slumber, and his priests had preyed upon him, drinking his blood to gain magic, storing the crimson fluid in scarabs like this one. Maybe, in the end, power was simply a prison. Or a death sentence.

  His right hand tingled as the scarab crawled across it; he could feel the symbol embedded in his skin. It was invisible now, but the moment he spoke a rune it would glow bright silver.

  And what about your power, Travis? Will it be your own undoing in the end? Or a world’s?

  Before he could answer that question, a stoop-shouldered figure approached along Grant Street and walked up the steps of the front porch. It was Durge, and he was bleeding.

  Travis jumped to his feet and slipped the scarab into his pocket. “Durge, are you all right?”

  There were small cuts on the left side of Durge’s craggy face, and a bruise was forming along his cheekbone.

  “It’s nothing,” the knight said in his somber voice. “A bottle thrown by some troublemaker, that’s all. It struck me as I was returning to the jail with food for Sareth, and it was my own fault I was not quick enough to duck. I told Sir Tanner there was no reason I could not continue my day’s work, but he ordered me to return here, and I am bound by my oath to obey him.”

  Travis knew the stoic knight would never admit he was hurt, and no doubt Tanner had known the same. “The sheriff was right,” Travis said, taking Durge’s arm and steering him toward the door. “We’d better have Lirith look at you.”

  They found the witch with Maudie in the kitchen.

  “Lord above!” Maudie cried when she caught sight of Durge. “Mr. Dirk, what’s happened to you?”

  Lirith moved swiftly to the knight. She reached her hands toward him, then hesitated. Durge gave a stiff nod, and Lirith touched his cheek, examining him with gentle fingers.

  The witch opened her eyes. “No bones are broken, so that is well. But there is glass in some of the cuts. We must get it out, or the wounds will not heal.”

  They seated Durge at the kitchen table. Maudie boiled a pair of tweezers, and once they cooled, Lirith used them to pluck slivers of glass out of Durge’s cuts. Her motions were deft, and it was not in the knight’s character to complain, but all the same he flinched each time she drew out a sliver.

  “There are going to be scars,” Lirith said, dabbing at the wounds with a cloth, cleaning them.

  Durge winced. “Perhaps it will result in some improvement in the character of my countenance.”

  “Forgive my language,” Maudie said, “but that’s a bunch of bull droppings, Mr. Dirk. You have a fine face. It’s strong and thoughtful. Why, I’d even daresay it’s noble. And that’s a long sight better than handsome any day. I bet you have a sweet woman waiting for you somewhere—don’t tell me you don’t. And you’ll be a damn fool if you keep her waiting much longer just because you think she deserves someone better-looking.”

  Durge turned away, but not before crimson colored his cheeks along with the deepening bruise.

  After that, Travis and Lirith helped Maudie set supper on the table while Durge went upstairs to change out of his bloodstained shirt. They talked little during the meal; Travis was keenly aware of the trio of miners who sat at the table. But once the men were gone—off to the saloons—Maudie made it clear she wanted to hear the full story of what had happened to Durge.

  There wasn’t much more to tell. Durge hadn’t seen who threw the bottle, and if anyone else had glimpsed the perpetrator, they hadn’t volunteered the information. Not that this surprised Travis. The furor over what had happened in the Mine Shaft on the Fourth of July had quieted in the week since, like a pond after a rock is thrown in, but a current of anger still flowed beneath the surface. The people of Castle City had been denied a lynching, and that didn’t sit well with them. Even so, it might all have been forgotten if it hadn’t been for those who kept dredging it back up, making sure the people remembered their outrage.

  “Have you seen the Castle City Clarion today?” Travis said to Durge. The knight shook his head.

  Maudie banged a hand on the table. “I’ve told you, I won’t tolerate that dirt in my house!”

  A few days ago, Maudie had collected all of the newspapers in the Bluebell and burned them out back. However, one of the miners had left that day’s paper in the parlor, and Travis had found it before Maudie. He ran up to their room, retrieved the newspaper, and returned, unfolding it on the table. Maudie turned away, refusing even to look at it, but the others leaned close, reading the top story.

  SHERIFF CONTINUES TO HARBOR MURDERER

  Further proving Justice has no provenance in this town—at least not within the office of the Law—our own Sheriff, bound by an oath to serve and protect us, instead serves and protects a known fugitive within the very jailhouse the citizens of this town built with gold from their own pockets. This fugitive—one Mr. Samson of unknown and dubious extraction—was seen by many on the Fourth of July murdering one of our town’s finest young men, Mr. Calvin Murray, in cold blood.

  Even if the laws of Colorado require that this murderer be held
until the arrival of the circuit judge two weeks hence—and by no means is it clear the laws do indeed demand this in such an extraordinary and egregious working of malice—certainly the laws do not require that the prisoner be kept in such a grand state, as would better befit a mining baron in the Silver Palace Hotel than a drifter and a man-killer.

  Yet witnesses of the highest reliability report the prisoner sleeps on a soft bed, drinks fine whiskey, and has only to snap his fingers to be brought expensive meals of steak and potatoes by the town’s own Deputies. Tell us, citizens, if you are eating so well yourself these days. —The Editors.

  Travis sighed. “I think we know now why someone threw a bottle at you, Durge. Didn’t you say you were taking Sareth his supper when it happened?”

  “A man must eat,” Durge said. “There is no kitchen at the jail, so we buy his meals from Mrs. Vickery’s restaurant, as she gives us a good price. But by any estimation, Mrs. Vickery is not a skilled cook. I don’t believe she knows how to prepare aught save beef and potatoes.”

  Travis glanced at Maudie. “And didn’t you send a feather bed to the jail?”

  “It’s old, and it’s lost half its feathers,” Maudie said. “But I was worried about Mr. Samson sleeping on those bare wooden benches. He isn’t well.”

  “And you gave Durge whiskey for him, didn’t you, Lirith?” The witch’s brown eyes flashed. “It was not for Sareth’s amusement. It is a distillation of herbs to ease his breathing. The alcohol provides a base for the elixir, nothing more.”

  “So it’s all true, then.” Travis folded the paper, hiding the article. “And it’s all right here.”

  Lirith clenched her hands into fists. “How can they make the truth sound so...so horrible?”

  “They’re good at their job,” Travis said. “And their job is selling papers.”

  Durge stroked his mustaches. “What I wonder is how the writer of these words learned all of these things. I believe I should like to talk to the owner of this newspaper.”