by David Gross
Chaney recognized Vox, Tamlin’s voiceless bodyguard. Because his friend Talbot had always hated the brute, so had Chaney. Old rancor was nothing compared to their current, common purpose.
The big man fought a holding action. He’d already dropped his big axe in favor of a pair of heavy, notched knives—sword-breakers. Each time his foe’s blade thrust toward him, Vox parried in an effort to catch Radu’s slender blade in the teeth of his own weapons. Even if he were not aware of the horrid effects of death at Radu’s hand, Vox was taking no chances. That he was fighting in pure defense suggested that he expected help from above.
Unfortunately, the mute couldn’t call for help.
Possessing the man would only distract him and hasten his death. Trying to do the same to Radu had already proven futile. Chaney simply didn’t have the power to overcome the assassin’s implacable will, especially when the man was so fully empowered by the spirits of the dead.
The same spirits that circled Chaney, moaning and pulling at him. What were they trying to tell him?
“Blast me for an imbecile!” Chaney cried.
He had failed to possess the assassin, but he’d tried it alone, without the obvious help that surrounded him. Chaney beckoned the other ghosts to follow him. As one, the wave of souls rose above Radu Malveen, and plunged into his body.
It felt like diving into churning ice water, but this time Chaney wasn’t paralyzed. Rather, he could feel his own touch on Radu’s arms and legs. It was like grasping the limbs of a life-sized marionette.
Except this puppet fought back. Chaney felt a black force struggling against his own will. It wrestled him for control of Radu’s limbs and sought to thrust him from his body.
He tried speaking through Radu’s mouth, but the most he could evoke was a low gasp. Instead, he jerked the man’s sword arm out of his defensive line.
Vox hesitated, apparently sensing a trick.
“Doo iiitt …” croaked Chaney through Radu’s mangled throat, then he kicked out, tumbling Radu’s body down on the stairs.
He looked up at Vox, imploring him with his borrowed eyes to strike before it was too late. The barbarian squinted, and for a moment Chaney thought Vox could see through Radu’s mask, even through his skull, into the ghosts that lay beneath the flesh.
The barbarian inverted his sword-breakers and plunged them into Radu’s belly. One of them sank so deeply that it bit hard into the stone stairs and stuck fast.
The twin wounds were exploding stars in Chaney’s brain. The pain threatened to overwhelm his will, to force him to retreat from this agonized body. He felt his hold on Radu wavering, but he struggled to hold fast. For an instant, he had never felt so powerful, so certain of his success. He watched through Radu’s eyes as Vox pulled free one of his sword-breakers and raised it for the coup de grace.
All at once, the other ghosts fled, leaving Chaney helpless and alone within Radu’s body.
“Cowards,” spat Chaney.
Radu’s lips didn’t echo his sentiment. Instead, he kicked Vox in the chest with such force that the big man flew backward into the slanting stone ceiling.
Even within his prison of bone and flesh, Chaney could hear the horrible crack of Vox’s skull against the stone—first against the ceiling, then again upon the stone steps. There he lay, as still as death.
Realizing he’d lost what sway he’d held over Radu’s body, Chaney tried to follow the treacherous ghosts in their escape. To his horror, he found he couldn’t move, nor could he exert the slightest influence over Radu’s movements.
He was trapped inside.
Radu gripped the sword-breaker that pinned him to the floor. With a grunt, he pulled it from his body. Chaney felt the nauseating agony of the aggravated wound. An instant later, he felt an infernal heat fill the cut, burning it away. The pain lingered, but Radu rose to his feet.
As he stepped over the body of his fallen foe, Radu sketched a quick salute with his blade. In the years Chaney had spent at Master Ferrick’s academy, he’d never seen Radu make such a gesture to a fellow student. In truth, none had ever come so close to stopping him.
Radu entered the cellars. He passed through the iron racks and beyond the tasting room, then he came to a room lit by torches.
Inside, all the casks had been moved away to make room for a freshly dug hole. The excavation had revealed a stone archway inscribed with arcane symbols. It surrounded not an empty space but a great plug of blue stone with veins of many colors. Before it stood Tamlin Uskevren, and before him stood a team of six men holding picks and shovels, who stood defensively before their lord.
Chaney had known Tamlin Uskevren since he was a boy. He’d last seen Talbot’s older brother almost a year before. Since then, Tamlin’s handsome features had grown leaner. He had been a youth prone to slouching, and leaning on mantles and in doorways, but he stood tall as he faced the intruder. His eyes were as hard and as brilliant as emeralds.
“Please, my lord,” said one of the workers. “Flee, while we hold him off.”
He was a young man with a face still too smooth to want shaving. He watched Radu Malveen’s slow approach, and his hands trembled upon the haft of his weapon.
Radu nodded toward the lad in acknowledgement of his brave speech. Chaney knew he would be the last to die, after he had seen the fate of his fellows.
“No,” said Tamlin. He drew his sword and raised it to a steady guard position. In his left hand he fiddled with a ring of keys, rubbing one of them like a prayer bead. His gaze never left the assassin’s eyes, and his expression remained assured. “Stand down. No one else will die in my place tonight.”
“But my lord!” the young man protested until one of his elders drew him away by the arm.
“Run, you idiot!” Chaney screamed.
He knew perfectly well that no one but Radu could hear him, but he couldn’t bear to remain both useless and silent.
“Leave us,” Tamlin ordered. “I presume our visitor has no objection?”
Radu nodded. He stepped to the side, allowing the workers to pass. They filed out slowly, past the assassin, then they beat a hasty retreat.
“Well spoken, Lord Uskevren,” said Radu. His voice had faded to the rustling of dry leaves. He bowed slightly and raised his blade.
“Who sent you?”
Radu cocked his head in a disapproving gesture.
“It was worth a try,” said Tamlin, “but I see you’re a professional. I don’t suppose you’re open to a counter offer?”
Radu took a step forward and raised his sword.
Tamlin stepped to the side, holding his guard high and to the center. When Radu mirrored his motion to cut him off, Chaney suspected Tamlin had been attempting to run past, toward the wall. Perhaps there was a hidden escape there.
Too bad Radu wouldn’t let him try it.
Tamlin made a shallow feint toward the intruder’s thigh. The trick didn’t fool Radu, and his guard never wavered.
The assassin attacked. His first feint lured Tamlin’s guard outside, and he thrust again. Tamlin barely recovered from the first false thrust in time to parry the second—at a cost of a searing cut on his shoulder.
Tamlin retreated a step, then two more. The man followed him, maintaining their distance with a dancer’s grace.
“At least let me lead,” quipped Tamlin. “It’s my house, after all.”
The assassin replied with another attack, this time beating Tamlin’s blade before cutting under his guard and pinking his thigh.
Tamlin fell back, stumbling over the loose stones of the excavation. His opponent allowed him to recover before advancing once more.
“Don’t you dare toy with me, you beggar!” Tamlin bellowed.
Briefly, Chaney thought of Talbot’s mocking imitations of the boys’ father. In anger, Tamlin sounded much the same.
Radu and Tamlin heard the clamor on the steps at the same time. Help was coming, and the assassin could no longer afford to taunt his prey. Tamlin knew it, and he m
ade a hasty retreat—right into the open hole.
He fell hard on his back, the air whooshing out of his lungs. To his credit, he held his blade firmly upward, anticipating Radu’s leap after him. He even kept the keys in his hand, and Chaney saw a blue gleam from the largest one.
Tamlin’s defense was far too weak. Radu beat the blade aside as he landed lightly atop the unearthed archway. In the same motion, he thrust his blade neatly through Tamlin’s heart.
Chaney winced as he felt the slight grating of stone as the blade passed through Tamlin’s body and chipped the stone plug beneath. Blue light surged up from the buried artifact, so bright that Chaney could see Tamlin’s skeleton beneath his flesh. In the next instant, it wiped away his sight, and a high keening took away his hearing. He felt a flash of agony so brief it might have been ecstasy.
Then he felt nothing at all.
CHAPTER 24
THE VANES
Sunlight gilded the crests of the clouds, yet the black belly of the storm still rumbled after each flash of lightning. Everywhere they flew, the storm rushed toward them.
“Castle Stormweather,” said Cale.
He spied the titanic edifice at the very heart of the storm. Its massive cluster of gray spires pierced the clouds a few miles away. Above them wheeled griffon-riding sentries.
Shamur nodded grimly and urged their mount lower until the griffon’s wings brushed the clouds. Her cheerful mood had waned during their flight from the elven armada, and neither of them had spoken since their departure. They were saving their strength for what lay ahead.
Once cloaked by the mists of the storm, Shamur gave Ripper his head. The griffon dived into the clouds, plummeting so quickly that Cale briefly feared the creature meant to kill itself and its riders. The wind pressed him into the high back of his saddle. He felt the flesh on his face rippling as they fell ever faster through the darkness of the storm.
Just before Cale thought he might lose consciousness, the griffon veered to the left, gradually decreasing the angle of its descent. It dived briefly once more, guided by instinct, and quickly rose up, flapping its wings to brake its speed. They emerged from the cloud cover, and Cale caught his breath as he saw how close they had come to the castle.
Ripper dropped easily onto the roof of one of the stronghold’s spires. In the center of the landing stood a stable with a peaked roof. Even in the high wind, Cale could smell the musty odor of a bird coop mingling with the musk of big mammals.
A pair of attendants in heavy padded armor ran out to take Ripper’s reins. When they saw who had returned the griffon, they reached for their truncheons, hesitating only when they saw Cale pointing an arrow at them.
“Tether the griffon, but don’t alert the others,” said Cale in the common tongue.
The men understood and obeyed.
Once Shamur had dismounted and stood behind the men with a drawn blade, Cale climbed down and removed the attendants’ weapons, keeping one and throwing the other over the roof’s edge.
“Who else is up here?” he asked.
“Four wounded from the harrying teams, along with two guards,” reported one of the men, nodding toward a stairway adjacent to the stables.
“Anyone else?”
The man shook his head.
“Where is Thamalon Uskevren?” demanded Shamur.
The attendants looked back blankly.
“A stranger to these parts,” said Cale. “We know he’s here.”
One of the men nodded in comprehension then grimaced. He glanced back over his shoulder, toward the highest of the castle’s spires.
“The … Vanes,” he said reluctantly. “You’ll never make it up there. Only the Vermilion Guard is permitted—”
“That’s enough,” said Cale. “Can you take care of these two?”
Shamur nodded and said, “First let’s feed Ripper, boys, then let’s find some rope.”
Despite her cavalier tone, Shamur’s eyes were lined with concern. She hadn’t liked the sound of these “Vanes” any more than Cale had. She prodded one of the men with the point of her sword.
“Back here in fifteen minutes,” said Cale.
The attendants had answered quickly enough and seemed frightened enough to be telling the truth, but Cale couldn’t count on that. Cautiously, he descended the steps to the guardroom. Lying on the stone steps, he crept down far enough to peer into the room below.
He saw two guards, both of whom had doffed their helms and set aside their breastplates and pauldrons. One of them sat at a table along one wall, rinsing bandages in a basin. The other carried a hot cauldron carefully into another room. Through the open door, Cale saw three occupied cots and inferred that there were at least three more in the room.
He got back to his feet and considered the two weapons in his hands. The sword was more certain, and he didn’t have time to waste. Still, neither of the men was his assigned target, and he had no reason to believe that either of them was particularly despicable. Seeing them tend the wounded only aggravated Cale’s qualms about killing them.
He made his choice and slipped quietly down the stairs, pausing only for an instant to scan the rest of the room. Satisfied that it was empty except for the men he had seen, he stepped behind the guard with the bandages and rapped him sharply on the head. The man fell forward, his arm knocking the basin off the table. Cale lunged forward and caught it just before it would have shattered on the floor.
“You all right in there?” called the other guard.
Cale heard the man set his cauldron on the floor and begin returning to the room. He stepped to the side of the door and pressed his back against the wall. When the guard came through, Cale shut the door behind him with one hand while raising his truncheon to strike.
The guard was no mere stable hand, however. Sensing the motion behind him, he ducked his head forward and kicked backward, striking Cale in the hip and groin. He spun in the same motion, reaching for his sword as he opened his mouth to shout for help.
Cale thrust the truncheon into the man’s open jaws, choking him and smothering his alarm. The unorthodox attack shocked the guard into clutching for Cale’s weapon rather than using his own.
Cale pushed forward, forcing the man’s head back as he reached for his sword arm. He caught the man’s wrist and twisted, turning him to face the ground, and removed the truncheon in the same motion. The man coughed and gasped for breath. Cale knelt on his back and rapped his head once. The man stopped moving, but his breath continued to come in struggling little wheezes.
Satisfied that the two men would remain unconscious a while longer, Cale bolted the door to the sick room, and he turned to his main task.
A little less than three minutes had passed since he’d left Shamur.
“You’re late,” said Shamur. She stood beside the same griffon. Cale knew there hadn’t been time to remove the beast’s saddle, but the lather had been wiped from its tawny coat.
“I had a hard time choosing the right color,” Cale replied.
Shamur looked at the bright red armor Cale had lugged up from the guardroom and laughed. Cale wasn’t sure whether she or he was more surprised at his banter. It was a great relief to jest after all his brooding on the journey to the castle, and it reminded him again of his friend Jak Fleet. The wise-cracking halfling always helped Cale shed some of the gloom that naturally gathered around him.
“At least this way they won’t shoot us down on sight,” Cale said.
He began putting on the armor and immediately realized it would never look convincing on his tall, gaunt frame. Even had it been made to fit him, Cale thought he would never prefer metal armor to his familiar black leathers. At least in them he felt he could breathe.
Despite her height and her decidedly feminine shape, Shamur looked far more convincing as a Vermilion Guardsman once she tied her hair back and donned the helmet.
They finished their disguises by securing the long capes to their shoulders. Cale added the short sword to the l
ong sword at his weapon belt. Once they found Thamalon, he wanted his master to be armed.
“Ready?” asked Shamur.
Cale nodded and said, “Are you prepared? This Sorcerer sounds even more dangerous than Marance Talendar.”
“Wizards fear me,” said Shamur. “Just don’t get between us.”
“If he is there, my lady, perhaps it would be best—”
“Shamur,” she corrected him.
“Shamur,” he said. “Let me deal with the Sorcerer. If Thamalon is up there, he will need you.”
“Yes,” she said, “that would be best.”
Cale was surprised that she didn’t argue the point, but he didn’t wish to question this small good fortune.
They mounted the griffon and took to the sky. Shamur urged Ripper to climb, and they followed a rising spiral up to the central tower of Castle Stormweather. They spied three other griffon-riding teams circling above the high tower, and Shamur kept a safe distance from them.
A dozen or more courtiers stood upon the tower surface, their fine clothes damp from the surrounding storm. They held palms over the mouths of their goblets to protect them from the drizzling rain. Servants coursed among them, refilling cups and offering hors d’oeuvres. Despite the weather, they chatted cheerfully as they observed the spectacle above them.
Ugly posts of rusty iron rose from the edge of the tower at the four corners of the world and their children. At each of the eight points swung the metal blades of a gigantic weather vane, each facing the next as the wind swirled around the tower. Beneath each vane stood a red-armored guardsman, a sword at his hip and a long spear in his hand.
Strapped to four of the wheels were corpses, one so long rotting that its body flopped where its arms had pulled away from their sockets. Bound to a fifth was an elf whose brown skin had burned to gray flakes in the wind and sun. Two of the wheels were empty, but lashed to the last of them was Thamalon Uskevren.
He couldn’t have been on the rack for more than a few hours, a day at most. His eyes were closed, but his head lolled against the spinning of the wheel. The cold had drained the color from his face, and his clothes were damp with rain and sweat. Except for the blood at his wrists, where his wire bonds chafed his skin, he appeared unwounded but for profound privation and the torture of the elements.