“We’re going to die here,” Ord said without emotion.
Beside him, Krystin fingered her locket, anger and frustration overriding her fear of death. The mysteries of her past would go unresolved. Standing in front of Krystin, Myrmeen stared at the gauntlet in her hand. Her body quivered as she slipped her left hand inside the glove and felt a sudden surge of energy rush into her body.
The soldiers of the guard stopped four yards away. Several had raised their faceplates, revealing their inhumanity. They were Night Parade beasts, using the armor to disguise their true appearance. The sight of the glove on Myrmeen’s hand made the soldier in the lead raise his hand and issue another command in their strange language.
The archers, she thought, and knew that within seconds she would be dead, her heart pierced by an arrow.
Instead, she heard the roar of thunder and saw a brilliant flash of light. Before her, the soldiers covered their eyes. She turned as the light, as bright and strong as an exploding sun, suddenly faded, and she saw that the archers had been incinerated. A hundred feet behind them stood three figures. One of them, a man, had red hair and spheres of flame for hands. Behind him were two others. Myrmeen recognized only one of them. “Lucius!” she screamed.
The mage’s hand was upon the throat of a tall, dark-haired woman. His features were contorted in pain and he struggled to maintain his concentration. Although he had no weapon, he had his spells, and Myrmeen guessed that he had spoken all but the last syllable of a spell that would, if completed, take off the woman’s head at the neck. Lucius’s clothing was soaked with his own blood and he barely had the strength to stand. By threatening the woman, Lucius had turned the fire lord into a weapon for the humans.
The red-haired man turned and raised his hands in the direction of the second battery of warriors, those dressed in the armor of the local guard, obviously intent on burning them. Then the flames that had consumed his hands suddenly died away. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he collapsed. Lucius stared at the doomed man in surprise. He had no idea what had caused him to fall like a marionette with cut strings. The woman Lucius held screamed and twisted out of his arms, no longer mindful of the mage’s threat. She knelt beside her lover, taking his head in her hands. Her flesh suddenly became dark, covered with thick black hairs. When she looked up, her eyes were no longer human, but large, multifaceted blood-red ovals, and her teeth were longer, sharper. She forced down the change and became human once more as she registered that her husband was alive but unconscious. She pointed at the soldiers who hesitated before the group.
“They are the ones who have deprived us of our homes!” she screamed. “They are the ones who have driven us into the light. Take them, damn you, and feed upon their souls!”
Near where the archers had been burned Myrmeen saw that the soldiers needed no further urging. She glanced back to where Lucius had stood and realized that the mage had vanished. Then there was no more time for conscious thought. The energy trapped within the gauntlet spread through her, infusing her with a rage that bordered on madness. She did not bother drawing her sword; she knew that the glove was all she needed.
Eight members of the Night Parade advanced on her, faceplates down to hide their deformities and protect their vulnerable flesh from the magic radiated by the gauntlet. Myrmeen was vaguely aware that there were others with her. From the edge of her vision she noticed Krystin and Ord, who battled the creatures that surged around her. Myrmeen thrust out her leg and tripped one of the creatures. She drove her hand through its chest, the armor collapsing inward to worsen the damage to its body. The monster shuddered once, then was still. Before Myrmeen could free her hand from the corpse, she looked up to see a sword descending at her neck. Another sword intercepted the first mere inches from her flesh, the impact strong enough to push the defending blade against her neck, leaving a small cut.
She looked up and saw Ord grimace as he kicked at the armored stomach of the monster that had almost taken Myrmeen’s head. Another creature flung itself at Ord, impaling itself on his blade as they both fell to the ground, the monster on top of Ord and still very much alive.
“Mother, save him!” Krystin shouted.
Myrmeen ignored the girl, even though she had heard the creature’s inhuman squeals and had seen it beat and claw at Ord, whom it had pinned down with its weight. Rage colored her thoughts, fueled by the gauntlet’s magic. Ord had nearly cost Krystin her life. Let him fend for himself.
Screaming, Myrmeen turned her back on Ord’s dilemma. She described a wide arc with her brilliantly glowing hand, forcing several of the creatures back, then she plunged the weapon into the back of another soldier’s head, this one approaching Krystin with a drawn sword. The creature convulsed as she withdrew her hand. Spinning, she realized that the monster Ord had impaled now was poised to crush his larynx with its heavy, misshapen hand. Her murderous thoughts cleared. She knew she had to help Ord, but too much distance separated them.
Krystin, closer by two yards, screamed a curse at Myrmeen and leapt at the creature’s hand. She grasped the monster’s wrist as she flipped in midair and yanked the hand in the other direction. There was a sharp crack as the bones in the monster’s arm snapped and the sword impaling it was dragged several inches through its gut. Myrmeen ran for them and punched her fist through the wailing creature’s faceplate. The beast shuddered and died quickly. Myrmeen dragged the body from Ord as another pair of creatures glanced at each other, hesitated as if evaluating their odds of survival, then ordered their comrades to retreat.
Myrmeen watched the creatures run. With considerable effort, Myrmeen forced the gauntlet’s flames to recede. The fighter helped Ord to his feet and Krystin sprang at her.
“Get away from him!” Krystin screamed. “You were going to let him die!”
Krystin shoved her mother out of the way and took her place beside Ord. Myrmeen knew there was no time to argue or explain; that would have to come later. She led the others from the field of battle. They passed through several winding side streets, then came to the place the group had designated as a rendezvous in the event that they were ever attacked. Shandower and Lucius had insisted on these contingencies whenever they left the safe house. They entered the boarded-up temple, and Myrmeen nearly wept when she saw Reisz and Shandower waiting.
“Give it to me,” Shandower hissed, pointing at the weapon with his remaining hand. The smell of burned flesh came to her suddenly and she realized that Reisz had made a small fire that they had used to cauterize Shandower’s wound.
Myrmeen looked down and saw her flesh beginning to melt, her skin fusing with the weapon. She yanked the gauntlet from her arm, restraining a scream as small sections of her flesh were torn away. Shandower grasped the weapon and threw it to the floor.
“It’s meant for the other hand,” Krystin pointed out as she saw Shandower slide his hand into the glove, “It won’t—”
There was an explosion of blue-white light and, when it faded, the gauntlet was snugly fit upon Shandower’s remaining hand. Somehow, the weapon had reconfigured itself.
“Lucius?” Reisz asked.
“I don’t know,” Myrmeen said. “I pray he survived, but his injuries were great. He vanished at the battle. We couldn’t search for him.”
“We also can’t stay here,” Shandower said. “You may have been followed.”
“We weren’t,” Ord said confidently. “I was checking the entire time.”
Shandower laughed bitterly. A few backward glances and the boy felt secure. Shandower had been deprived of the magic from the apparatus for less than an hour, and in that time he had been overcome with the old, numbing fears. For a brief time he was able to see the threat of the Night Parade for what it had been all along, an unstoppable nemesis, an enemy that he could hold at bay for a time but never destroy. Now that he had the gauntlet back, he realized he had been foolish to entertain such dark, hopeless thoughts. His nose itched, and he raised his hand to scratch it.
Myrmeen stared at his face and thought of the sensations that had coursed through her for the brief time that she had been empowered by the gauntlet: The magic had flowed through her, making her feel invulnerable, forcing away her fear and her doubts, helping her to focus on her single, driving goal, to destroy the Night Parade. Shandower was overcome by its power, she realized. If he had not been, he would have gone insane years ago.
Then she thought of Lucius, of the warm, caring man he had revealed himself to be. He would survive, she thought. He had to survive. Myrmeen shifted her gaze to Krystin, who held her arm where she had been wounded. Myrmeen went to the girl, pried her arm away from the gash, and realized that they were already risking infection.
“We have to clean and dress the wound,” Myrmeen said.
“I’m fine,” Krystin argued, looking to Ord for support. He shook his head and looked away. “Don’t treat me like a child. Erin lost his arm, and he’s not crying for help. I’ll live, all right?”
“You’ll live, both of you will, because I’m going to see that you get help,” Myrmeen said.
“There’s a healer I trust,” Shandower said softly, “not far from here. We should see him before we leave the city. It seems we have stirred up too great a storm for even the Harpers to weather.”
Suddenly, Myrmeen heard a scurrying in the shadows. She drew one of her blades and flung it in the direction of the sounds. A tiny squeal came from the temple’s ruins. She walked past the overturned pews to find a dying rat in the corner. Shoving her boot against its quivering body, Myrmeen withdrew her knife.
Had she looked up, she would have seen a familiar pair of red eyes that she had glimpsed many times in nightmares.
“Rats,” Myrmeen said. “They’re everywhere.”
The figure clinging to the ceiling moved carefully, making no sound as it crawled out through the broken skylight and vanished into the cold, clean air of twilight.
Lord Sixx had been watching the battle from a distance. All had not gone according to plan, but he had made the best of a steadily deteriorating situation. The humans knew they had been found out, and so their attacks against his people’s lairs would end. This might have been enough to solidify his standing with his subjects, but the perpetrators had survived, and only their blood would answer the need he shared with his people for retribution.
There were easier ways to deal with them, of course, than the ones he had chosen so far. With the mage dead, they would be much more susceptible to his spies. All he had to do was find them in one place and have Imperator Zeal unleash his power upon them, as he had the archers during the battle.
Sixx grinned. Zeal had killed a half dozen of his own kind to protect his lover’s life. He had made his personal allegiance very clear. If Lord Sixx had not used his own power to put Zeal down, he would have taken out the false members of the local militia, too. According to the stories Sixx had overheard concerning the battle this day, if Zeal had been a rival for his power, unwittingly or not, he had just lost his standing.
There were more pressing concerns for him to think about. He knew the Slayer’s identity. His name was Erin Shandower, and many had seen his face. The man had been grievously injured. It was more than likely that he would retreat to the where he had secreted the apparatus. Sixx had driven the man to ground and would follow him as he went. Sixx found this course of action preferable to a direct confrontation with the man who had felt the energies of the apparatus circulating within his own body as if it were his life’s blood.
Following would be difficult. The Night Parade would be expected. He felt like a fool for having allowed Alden to reveal himself. An ally within their ranks would prove invaluable just now.
Sixx thought of the girl. He remembered the distant manner in which she had treated the Lhal woman and the curse the girl had hurled at Myrmeen when the woman had not tried to save her Harper friend. She obviously was falling in love with the boy, though she had not yet admitted that to herself. The girl had proved herself in battle, and, more importantly, she had proved herself to be human. Alden had been an outsider. They would not expect betrayal from one of their own.
Ideas were forming in his mind when Tamara returned to him and told him what she had overheard at the temple. Alden had remained behind to continue the surveillance. Suddenly, Lord Sixx knew exactly how to manipulate events so that everybody would get what he or she wanted—everyone except the Harpers, who would die, but not before revealing their secrets to him. When this was over, his agents would track them across the Realms if need be and end their threat before it could even begin.
Fifteen
Myrmeen had hoped that Shandower would lead them to a cleric who could heal the torn flesh of her daughter’s arm with a few simple spells. Instead, he had taken them to a run-down little house where they had suffered through a battery of questions from an obese, white-haired woman who wore a dowdy dress fifteen years out of style. Only when they had answered all her queries were they allowed access, despite Shandower’s and Krystin’s obviously severe wounds. Krystin had withdrawn into the shadowy world of her emerald locket.
Downstairs, the physician, a battlefield healer that Shandower once had given the money to retrieve his failing practice, cleaned and dressed Shandower’s stump. The healer was in his late fifties. He had a hawklike nose, fine gray eyebrows, a heavily lined face, bushy white hair, and hands that were unusually long and thin. He had been ordered by the local officials to stop practicing medicine after he had refused to pay a tariff on his services. To all appearances he had retired, but he maintained a small practice in his cellar, behind a false wall. It was in that musty chamber that he was busy treating Shandower while the others waited upstairs.
Myrmeen sat beside Krystin, trying to think of something to say to her. That’s your whole problem, she thought. Stop trying and just do it. Say whatever comes into your mind. You’re certainly not going to offend her.
Myrmeen cleared her throat and said, “Even if you’re left with a scar, that’s not always such a terrible thing.”
Krystin did not look up from the emerald locket.
“They can be marks of courage. I have several myself, each with its own story to tell.” Myrmeen wondered if she was talking to herself. Krystin had honored her earlier promises regarding her theft at the Blood-Stained Sword: She had excavated and returned the remaining portion of gold to Myrmeen and confessed to the depository’s owner, thus ensuring that criminal charges would not be filed against the former employee who had retrieved the gold for her.
The one thing she had not done, however, was return the locket. Strangely, it was her tenacity that had made Myrmeen begin to look beyond her own anger at the child’s actions and start to wonder what it had been about the object that had driven the girl to such lengths.
Earlier that day, before they had left for Heaven’s Lathe, Lucius had casually examined the locket and pronounced that it contained no magic. The object was nothing more than a chunk of metal whose seals were fused, its secrets hidden within its dented and cracked surface. Myrmeen had not excused Krystin’s actions, but nearly losing the girl in battle, and her efforts to save herself, had awakened a sense of compassion that she had been forcing away for a long time.
“You did well, Krystin. I am proud of you and I will no longer doubt your abilities in a fight. Can you hear me?”
The girl nodded.
“Have you nothing to say?” Reisz added.
“Thank you,” Krystin said absently. Her attention clearly was focused on the locket, her brow furrowed and covered in sweat. In frustration, Krystin allowed the locket to fall to her chest as she looked down at the gash in her arm. She felt nothing at all. Her body and mind were completely numb.
The rickety steps leading up from the cellar creaked several times, and the door opened. Shandower emerged and said it was Krystin’s turn. Myrmeen had planned to
go with her, but Krystin politely asked her to remain behind. She went through the doorway alone and descended to the cluttered cellar. The basement had become a dumping ground for old furniture, journals that had become damp and yellowed with age, toys that children born to loving and affluent parents would possess, and crates stuffed to bursting with old clothing, pots and pans, and more. A tarnished suit of armor rested in the corner, propped against the wall. A doorway that at first had not looked like an entrance was open, and orange light stretched out like a welcoming hand.
Krystin entered the small room. She saw a table with a white sheet thrown over it and several cabinets that were filled with herbs, vials of colored liquids, trays, and knives of every size and shape. The old physician—his name had not been given—stood with his back turned to Krystin. He was hunched over something on the small counter that had captured his attention. Krystin began to feel frightened as she recognized the distinctive smell of blood in the room.
The doctor turned, and Krystin felt her heart shrivel. His face was not human. Her thoughts slipped back to the night Alden first revealed himself to the Harpers and gained their trust. Alden had seen this man in Pieraccinni’s chamber and had described him vividly. Krystin found him even more disturbing in real life. His face contained three sets of eyes, one set above and below the normal set. Lord Sixx reached up and tore off the long white smock he had been wearing. It was splattered with blood that she had thought belonged to Shandower and now realized had belonged to another. Before she could scream, a figure leapt from the shadows behind her and placed his cold hand over her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Alden whispered.
Lord Sixx advanced and clamped his powerful hands on her shoulders. Alden withdrew as Sixx forced her back to the table, where he lifted her up and slammed her down with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. As Krystin tried to regain her breath, Alden secured her to the table with straps that had dangled over the sides. When she had been safely bound, Lord Sixx placed his hand over her mouth and ripped the locket from around her neck. The chain snapped, leaving a light welt on her throat. Krystin struggled to bite the flesh of his palm. As she tried to move her head from side to side, Krystin saw the healer’s body in the corner of the small chamber, which was lighted by a pair of oil-burning lanterns. The man had been butchered. She tried to cry out, but her screams were muffled against his hand.
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