by William King
“I might. It might become a choice between dying swiftly and dying in great pain.”
“In the end, it’s all the same.”
The Guardian shook his head. “It might be eternities of agony before you pass over to the other side.”
Anders expected Gregor to shout with defiance again, but he merely shook his head slightly. Anders said what he had been angling for, all along.
“We can guide you there. We know how to find our way through. We spent enough lives doing so.”
“I think we can figure out anything you did,” said the fat man.
“You might get yourself killed in the process. And it might just be as slow and painful as the deaths you are threatening us with.”
Anders rather hoped they would try it and be caught by death, in the same way, most of the company had been. At least he might get some revenge from beyond the grave. That said, he would prefer to get it while he was still living. He was sure Gregor would as well, once he got over the venom.
“Tell us how you got there,” the tall, slim priest said. Anders looked at the Guardian, but Kormak did not contradict his companion.
Anders shrugged as best his binding let him and described their route in. They had come from the south, past Dhargon’s Beacon and into the Desert of Demons.
“Describe this Beacon,” the Guardian said. He clearly was looking for a distinctive sign post.
“Tall as a small mountain worked with similar runes to those in the lost city. Glowing runes on the side, visible at night from leagues away.”
The Guardian looked at the thin priest. He had the look of a man who had been told something they recognised.
“It sounds like Dhargon’s Beacon.,” said the priest. “It is a relic of the Elder Races. Sacred to some of the desert tribes. Shunned by most sensible people.”
“Interesting,” said Kormak.
Anders was not sure exactly what had happened, but he sensed that something had changed in the room when he mentioned the Beacon. Had he gone too far, given them too much of a clue as to what they needed? His stomach did a flip-flop. He expected to be put to death momentarily. Instead without saying a further word their captors left the room.
“Now what have you bloody well done, mate?” Gregor asked.
“I think I may have just saved our lives.”
“I certainly bloody hope so. I wouldn’t want to go through that again. It was like having wild dingoes gnaw my bollocks.”
“Now is not the time to chat about your hobbies.”
“Hah-bloody-hah!”
They fell silent, wondering what their captors were up to.
Chapter Thirteen
“You believe that pair of drunkards?” Orson asked. They stood outside the door of the cell once more.
The false Kormak smiled. “They are too scared to lie. I have been trained to weigh the words of men, and I felt truth in the one called Anders. He plans on doing us harm if he can, but he understands his best interests lie in cooperating with us. It is nothing less than the truth.”
“He might just be telling us what we want to hear,” Balthazar said.
“How could he know? And if he was doing that he would not have spun us the tale of monsters.”
“Perhaps he wanted to offer his services as a guide.”
“I see no reason why we should not accept them. At least until we find what we are looking for.”
“You think this is it then? This is what you were looking for?”
“I do.”
“I want to go with you,” Orson said. “I do not think it would be wise to stay in Maial.”
“Of course. We will have need of a fighting force if what the drunk says is true.”
“It sounds dangerous,” said Balthazar.
“Orson, you are a wealthy man, and you have warriors in your employ. Find some more.”
“We cannot trust any outsiders,” said Balthazar looking at Orson.
Orson said, “You are correct, and haste is of the essence. Send out the word to your secret brethren. We want all the fighting men we can assemble, and they need to be ready to go as soon as possible. We will need beasts and supplies. We will need to prepare.”
Balthazar said, “There are brethren in Helgarde on the boundaries of the Desert. They will help us if we can get to them.”
“I think we should not rush into this. We might have missed something.”
“If you would prefer to sit here and wait for the Guardian to come and get you, feel free, friend Orson,” said the changeling. “Provide me with some men and our prisoners and I will go ahead myself.”
The changeling had spoken very quickly. Was this what he had been angling for all along? Orson did not trust the assassin out of his sight. He sighed. He was afraid of the man, if man he was, but he also wanted whatever it was he sought. Finding it would give them something to negotiate with the changeling’s masters. Orson could envision a future fast approaching where he might need to seek refuge in Lunar lands.
“Very well. Let us go and seek this fabulous treasure. I only hope those idiots you captured know what they are doing.”
“We shall soon find out,” the changeling said.
Balthazar shot the false Kormak a look. “I will gather the secret brotherhood. We will meet you in the courtyard of the Temple of Xothak before dawn. There will be crowds there for the last night of the Masque of Death. They will cover our approach. There is a way of using sorcery to aid us. This is a most sacred night to the worshippers of Xothak, and the Temple is holy ground. There may yet be a way to salvage this situation using magic. The followers of the accursed Sun may yet be overthrown.”
“Good,” said the changeling. “Let us go and speak with our soon-to-be companions. Tell them the good news.”
Balthazar reached up and touched the keystone that would unlock the secret door to the Old City. It turned smoothly on its hinges revealing the tunnel behind. Orson wished the sorcerer had not done that. The changeling’s eyes had followed every move he had made.
Balthazar vanished into the tunnels. Orson wondered if he would ever see the sorcerer again.
“You awake?” Anders asked. The cell was very quiet. Somewhere in the distance water dripped. In the shadows, small red eyes gleamed. There were rats out there. How long had it been since their captors departed? He could not tell. He had drifted off into half-drunken sleep. He looked at one of the skeletons hanging on the wall. Who were you? he wondered. How did you get here? What happened here? Did this cell date back to the time of the Old Ones or did the Church build it for its own nefarious purposes?
“I am now,” said Gregor. “And I was just having a nice dream, Monika and Marketa were in the bathtub with me and soaping my back and each other’s . . .”
“How are you feeling? That poison looked pretty nasty.”
“I haven’t felt so bad since I caught my tadger in that brothel door in Kendravil. That wasn’t a lot of fun; I can tell you.”
“I believe you. The question is, how are we going to get out of this place?”
“I was hoping that you would tell me that. You’re the smart one.”
“Nice of you to finally admit it.”
“You think these guys are going to let us live?”
“For just as long as they think we have something they need.”
“That why you started babbling about Xanadar.”
“Yea. It seemed like the only way we were going to get out of this.”
“I’m glad you’re so confident.”
“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”
“We’re tied to chairs, in a dungeon someplace we don’t know. The people who have captured us have a whole Inquisition on their side. We don’t have any weapons. We’ve had the shit kicked out of us.”
“We still have our wits.”
“Then we’re doomed.”
“We would be if we were relying on yours.”
“You got a plan?”
“Give these guys what
they want till we get a chance to make a break for it.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s a start.”
“That’s your brilliant plan?”
“If you have a better one, I am all ears.”
“First chance we get we need weapons.”
“Might want to get free of these bonds first.”
“Bloody hell, I never thought of that, genius. Anything else?”
“Stick close together. We get a chance to run, we run.”
The chances of that happening were small, but Anders wanted to make sure Gregor got the message. They might only get one opportunity, and he did not want to miss it.
Anders knew he must have fallen asleep again. When he woke, the Guardian, and the fat priest were confronting him. A group of hard-looking men stood nearby. They were of a sort Anders knew very well—high-grade mercenaries by the looks of them, and well paid for their jobs, judging by the quality of their gear.
“Time to get up,” the Guardian said. “We are going to take a trip to Xanadar, and you are going to guide us.”
Anders did not know whether to be relieved or terrified. They were not going to be killed immediately. On the other hand, the prospect of going back to that haunted place did not delight him.
“You are going to the lost city?” Gregor asked. He was staring at the fat priest. “I hope you are better prepared than you look. We lost almost a company of hardened fighting men going in there last time.”
“Oh, forgive me, you are right,” said the Guardian. “How could I be so foolish? That means we have no need of your services, and we might as well kill you.”
Anders cursed Gregor and his mouth. He never knew when to shut up. The Guardian wore a vicious smile. Anders knew that he would quite happily kill them if the mood took him. Much as he disliked it, Anders was forced to speak. “It’s the way things are,” he said. “The place is dangerous, full of monsters and traps. We thought we were prepared, and we were not. We lost a lot of good men.”
“It’s just as well that we have you to guide us then,” said the Guardian.
“You’ll need more than that. You’ll need soldiers and supplies. Water. Food. You need to get across the wastelands, and they are bad enough. Haunted by sand demons and worse monsters.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what you think we’ll need and why?”
Anders began to talk. The Guardian was a good listener. After Anders had finished, he rose. “We will be leaving this place soon. I want you both to be ready to go and to make no trouble. If you behave well, you will be treated exactly like any other member of our expedition and take home a share of the loot. If you behave badly, your last days will be very painful. Do I make myself clear?”
“As air,” Anders said. Gregor said nothing. He merely glared around murderously. Anders knew that this was not going to be easy.
An urgent knocking sounded on the door. “Enter,” said the fat priest.
Lorenzo came in. His face was pale. “Master Orson, the house is surrounded.”
The fat priest raced out the door to see what was going on. The Guardian followed him.
Kormak looked across the street at Orson’s mansion. There was no sign of a celebration here. There was none of the abandoned air that uninhabited buildings had either. Kormak would have bet gold that there were people in there waiting.
Zamara lined up the marines. A group of them hefted an improvised battering ram. More of them carried thick cloaks to throw across the spikes on the walls.
“You think the sorcerer is in there?” Shahad asked. His arm had recovered from its numbness. The man seemed more nervous about facing another wizard than he had about facing a building full of armed men earlier. Kormak was not surprised. Magic had that effect on some people.
Frater Ramon studied the building but said nothing. He coughed blood into his handkerchief and looked embarrassed about it. He appeared exhausted by the simple act of walking from his home to this place.
Ezra and the rest of the Governor’s soldiers had cleared the street. There were no revellers here although some curious people watched from gateways and high windows. Kormak guessed they had not seen such a strong force of soldiers in this quarter before. They might see a lot more before the season was out.
Orson, Kormak thought. He had suspicions about the man since his voyage on the Pride of Siderea but who would have guessed he sat the centre of such a web.
He wondered if there was some connection between Orson and the shapeshifter. Was it possible that the two were the same? If it was the case, how could he have failed to spot it? He had spent a lot of time in the merchant’s company aboard the ship.
Zamara gave him the thumbs up sign and a confident grin. He looked as if he was enjoying himself. Kormak turned to Rhiana. “Sense anything?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. No magic of any sort I can feel. Does not mean it’s not there.” She looked significantly at the Frater Ramon
He shook his head. “There are the usual wards that any wealthy merchant would have in place—protections against the Old Ones, against scrying, against curses and other things. They are well made, as far as I can tell. And if they are underground in the cellars, just the weight of earth and stone would block any magical signatures.”
Kormak looked at Zamara. “We are none of us getting any younger. Tell the men to batter down the door.”
Through the slit in the shutters of the upstairs sitting room, the changeling watched the soldiers gather. The Guardian had not wasted any time moving against them. It was to be expected. The servants of the Holy Sun were ruthless and driven to the hunt. He could afford to be no less.
He counted the number of troops. There were at least twice as many as Orson employed and those were just the visible ones. The changeling doubted that was an accident.
Still, they were in a strong position. Providing the Guardian did not decide to burn them out. He would not have put it past the man. The Order of the Dawn had a great belief in the purifying powers of fire.
He pulled out the stiletto and began to apply poison from his selection. “We may have to fight,” he said.
“Yes,” said Orson, studying him closely for a moment before turning to look out the window again.
The changeling felt the power of the geas settle on him. He needed to get out of here, and he needed to complete his mission. At all costs, he must avoid dying now. He turned to Orson. “Is everything ready?”
The fat man nodded. “As it will ever be. My household troops have got their instructions. They are to hold the mansion for as long as possible.”
“Their loyalty is commendable.”
Orson nodded. “They have been with me since the beginning. They would die for me.”
“They are going to.”
“I would not say that too loudly. Some of them might hear you.”
It was time to begin to clean out this nest of vipers. He had got all the aid from Orson he was going to. This was probably the last time they would be alone for a while. “Then there’s only one thing left to do,” the changeling said.
“What’s that?”
He struck at Orson with the stiletto. The fat man was much quicker than he looked. He snatched his arm away so fast that the weapon only scratched his arm. The changeling smiled. It would be enough for his purposes.
Numbness spread from the cut in Orson’s forearm. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He lashed out with one ham-sized fist, but the changeling eluded his blow easily. He let himself fall forward with all his weight, forcing the shapeshifter against the wall. His bulk pressed against the changeling and he brought his hands up around its throat. His right arm refused to respond, but his left one worked well enough. He got the changeling by the throat.
“Treacherous bastard,” he slurred. “I’ll break your neck.”
The changeling lashed out a blow at his stomach, but Orson turned and it glanced off his ribs. His opponent jabbed at his leg with
the stiletto, numbing it. Orson lifted him one-armed, using all his bear-like strength.
The changeling tried to tear his hand away from its throat.
Poison, Orson thought. He was going to die. Well, he would take the changeling with him. He closed his hand and began to crush his opponent’s windpipe.
His foe braced his feet against Orson’s chest and kicked. The strength of his legs broke Orson’s grip. It propelled Orson backwards, tumbling him to the ground. The changeling hit the wall and slumped to the floor. Orson hoped he had broken his foe’s neck but no such luck. The false Kormak began to rise, a murderous glitter in his eyes.
Orson forced himself upright. The numbness was spreading along his arm, and he felt himself growing weaker. His breathing was heavy. His heart pounded against his ribs.
The changeling closed the gap between them. Orson reeled towards him, one arm outstretched, the other hanging numbly by his side. He tried to sweep his enemy into his grasp, but it ducked.
Orson felt another pinprick of pain in his left arm. It too began to go numb although not at the rate his right arm had. It seemed like there was less of the drug left on the needle, possibly only a residual dosage.
The changeling had recovered from his earlier surprise at being attacked. It unleashed a rain of blows at Orson, all aimed at his stomach and chest. They hit with the force of a battering ram, bruising him.
Orson leapt at his foe, trying to body check him. The changeling eluded him. Orson thrust sideways with his left leg. His kick caught his opponent on the leg. It was a solid blow, and he hoped it would slow the shapeshifter but no such luck. It merely sent him crashing into the table.
The changeling recovered almost immediately and lashed out with his foot to trip Orson and send him sprawling. Another blow smashed into Orson’s back. He tried to rise but this time, he could not. The effect of the poison was too great. The changeling hoisted his limp body aloft.
“What are you doing?” Orson mumbled. The words came out faintly, but the changeling heard him.
Orson felt something loop around his neck. It was a heavy leather belt. He felt himself being hoisted up and saw the belt being looped over the chandelier. Drawing on it from behind the changeling lifted him. It was a lot stronger than it looked.