Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “Down that alley, Father,” said Dag, nodding with his head, while reloading his weapons by the lantern’s light. “Who were they, Father? Did they bring the demons here to kill you?”

  “The tall man was not here to kill me, not this time. He was caught in the same ambush. As for the other—”

  “The Warlock,” said Sir Ander grimly, walking over to them. He glanced at the smoking remains of the demons. “So the Warlock and the Sorceress are now in league with the Devil. I’m not surprised.”

  “I am,” said Father Jacob. “What surprises me is that they know Henry Wallace—”

  “Wallace!” Stephano had been listening and he gave a start. “What was that you said? What about Henry Wallace?”

  Father Jacob regarded Stephano with interest. “Do you know him?”

  “Do you mean Sir Henry Wallace? The Sir Henry Wallace? Are you saying he was here?” Stephano demanded.

  “He was the tall man whose life your friend saved.”

  Stephano cast Dag a glance.

  “How was I to know?” Dag demanded.

  “You’re certain it was him, Father?” asked Stephano.

  “He is one person I am not likely to forget,” said Father Jacob dryly.

  “I came to Westfirth in search of Wallace,” said Stephano. “It is vital that I find him! Can you tell me where he might have gone?”

  Father Jacob rested his hand on Stephano’s forearm. “Listen to me, Captain. You are a brave man. You are a fine shot and an expert swordsman. And I say to you that if you see Sir Henry Wallace walking toward you, turn and run as fast as you can. Wallace is a dangerous, a deadly, an implacable foe. Don’t cross him. Don’t meddle in his affairs. If you came here to find him, leave immediately and pray you are not too late. Pray you are gone before he finds you.”

  Stephano was startled by the priest’s intensity.

  “I thank you, Father,” said Stephano, uncomfortable. “I will take your warning to heart. But it is important that I find this man.”

  Father Jacob glanced at Sir Ander. Stephano knew what they were thinking, that he was here on business of the countess. He could almost hear his mother’s name resonating between the two of them, and he smoldered with anger.

  “If you know of any way to locate him, Father,” Stephano said coldly. “I would take it as a great favor. And if Wallace does kill me, I absolve you of any responsibility.”

  Dag looked shocked. Even Rodrigo was mildly taken aback. Sir Ander only smiled, however, and said something quietly to Father Jacob.

  “I see,” said Father Jacob. “I suppose you are right.” He turned to Stephano. “I do not know where Sir Henry is and even if I did, I doubt he will be there long. He knows I recognized him. I pose a serious threat to him and whatever nefarious scheme he is plotting.”

  Seeing Stephano look downcast, Father Jacob smiled; albeit gravely. “If you insist, I can devise a means for you to track him. Wallace was carrying a leather satchel that was destroyed during the fight. He seemed very attached to it. Hand me that light.”

  He took the lantern from Rodrigo and flashed it around on the cobblestones. “Pick up those bits of burnt leather, will you, Monsieur de Villeneuve? Sir Ander, if you would fetch me the remains of that pistol I see lying over there. The gun that blew up after the green fire hit it. I will make use of it.”

  “For what?” Stephano asked.

  “I am going to make a compass,” said Father Jacob.

  “I know what direction north is, Father,” said Stephano. “We’re wasting time—”

  “No, we’re not,” said Rodrigo excitedly. “I know what he’s doing. Why do you need the pistol, Father?”

  “The presence of other constructs might interfere with my magic. The demon’s green fire erased the constructs that had been laid upon the gun.”

  “I didn’t think erasing constructs was possible, Father,” said Rodrigo coolly. He squatted down to get a better view. “Aren’t you talking heresy?”

  The priest glanced at him. “I see that we will have to build a special dungeon at the Arcanum to hold that mouth of yours, Monsieur.”

  Rodrigo grinned and watched as Father Jacob took up a bit of scorched leather and placed it on the flattened piece of metal. He touched the leather with his finger three times, at three different points. The priest set no construct or sigil, yet all three points began to glow with a soft golden light. Father Jacob drew a line connecting the three points to form a triangle of light.

  While Father Jacob was constructing the compass, Brother Barnaby came over to ask if he was needed. If not, he wanted to go back to the houseboat with Gythe and Miri.

  “Mademoiselle Gythe heard voices again, Father,” said Brother Barnaby, deeply troubled. “And . . . I have been hearing them, too.”

  Father Jacob paused a moment in his work to look at the monk. He did not ask any questions, but gave him permission to accompany the sisters. “Give Sir Ander the script containing the demon remains.”

  Brother Barnaby handed over the script with the mysterious object inside.

  “Dag,” said Stephano, seeing his friend gritting his teeth against the pain of his burns, “Go with Miri and Gythe and the brother. Keep your musket handy.”

  “And have Miri see to your back,” Rodrigo said loudly. “I hear that yellow goo is excellent for burns.”

  Dag cast Rodrigo a baleful glance, then went off with Brother Barnaby. Miri had her arm around Gythe. She walked slowly by her sister’s side, clinging to Miri and holding fast to Brother Barnaby’s hand. Dag walked behind, his musket in his hand. The clocks in the church steeples began to strike seven times.

  “Sir Ander, could you find me a sliver of metal from the pistol?” Father Jacob asked. “Just a small piece will do.”

  The knight quickly complied and handed his friend the metal splinter. Father Jacob wrapped the splinter in the bit of leather from the satchel and held it directly above the glowing triangle. A thin stream of light rose from each point and touched the splinter, which began to glow brightly and shifted its direction.

  “The priest could also use part of the fabric from Sir Henry’s coat for this spell,” Rodrigo was explaining to Stephano. “Anything that the person handled or wore on his body. The ‘needle’ makes the connection using latent magical energies—”

  “Of course it does,” said Stephano impatiently. “The question is, will it lead us to this man?”

  “It will,” said Father Jacob. “But the connection fades quickly, so make haste.”

  Father Jacob handed the device to the fascinated Rodrigo. Following the compass’ point, the four men walked swiftly to the end of the lane and found a trail of blood. Stephano had his pistol in hand, keeping watch for trouble. When they reached the alleyway, they came to a sudden halt.

  The light of the lantern shone on the body of a young woman, no more than fifteen or sixteen, lying dead on the street. Her throat was cut. Her blood ran in gruesome rivulets among the cobblestones. Rodrigo gasped and covered his mouth and turned away. Stephano gazed down in shock and horror.

  “The wraith!” Sir Ander exclaimed.

  “Poor child. The Warlock used her blood for his conjuration.” Father Jacob sighed deeply. “May God in His mercy take her to her rest.”

  He knelt beside the body and reached out his hand to close the staring eyes.

  “Did Henry Wallace do this?” Stephano asked, shaken.

  “No, Captain,” said Father Jacob, rising to his feet. His face was drawn. He seemed to have aged in the space of moments. “This is dark magic, blood magic—the work of the young man, the Warlock. He killed this girl, then drank her blood, and used her life force to create the wraith that attacked Sir Ander.”

  Stephano seemed stunned. “I can’t believe that anyone . . . Is that even possible?”

  “Sadly, yes,” said Rodrigo in muffled tones. He kept his eyes averted from the corpse.

  “We’ve seen this young man commit such murders before,” said Sir Ande
r, his voice burning with anger. “He seduces these young women and then makes them believe that by dying for him, they’re proving their love. You’ll note there is no sign of a struggle.”

  “Good God!” Stephano said softly. He swallowed hard.

  “There’s more blood down here, Father,” Sir Ander reported, flashing the lantern light about on the pavement. “Not the young woman’s. It might belong to the Warlock.”

  “How do you know it’s not her blood?” Stephano asked.

  Sir Ander squatted down. “See how the blood is smeared? Looks as if the person was shot in the foot. He was dragging his boot in his own blood. And here he trod in it. You can see bloody footprints. And so did Wallace. You can see faint traces of his footprints walking along behind. Probably holding a gun on the young man. I’ll follow them, see where they lead.”

  He continued down the alley, shining the light on the cobblestones.

  “I take it from what Sir Ander says that the two of you have been working to stop this Warlock,” said Stephano.

  “For many long months,” said Father Jacob.

  Kneeling beside the body, he began to pray. Rodrigo bowed his head. Stephano didn’t want to pray. He wanted to lash out, hit someone—God, maybe.

  Sir Ander was not gone long. He waited for Father Jacob to finish his prayer to make his report.

  “The bloody smear of the Warlock’s trail ends at the canal. Wallace’s prints continue down the street. Maybe he threw the young man into the Breath,” Sir Ander said hopefully.

  “I doubt it. Wallace took him hostage. If he’d wanted to kill him, he could have just shot him. With all the barge traffic, Wallace probably dumped him in a passing boat. There is something between Wallace and the Warlock, that much is clear.”

  “The Sorceress,” said Sir Ander. “We know she spent time in Freya.”

  “I fear you may be right, my friend,” said Father Jacob. He paused, then said, “And I believe I know how she and Wallace might be connected. We long suspected he had something to do with the attack on the Defiant.”

  Father Jacob started to stand, caught his foot in the hem of his cassock and staggered. Stephano reached out his hand to steady the priest. He was eager to start on Wallace’s trail, but there was something he needed to say first.

  “What will happen to this young woman?” Stephano asked, gesturing to the body.

  “Sir Ander and I will take care of the poor child,” said Father Jacob. “There is a convent nearby. The nuns will tend to her until we can learn her name and give the sad news to her family.”

  Stephano coughed, cleared his throat. “After seeing this . . . Well, um, I may have misjudged you, Father. I’m sorry if I’ve been . . .” He paused, uncertain.

  “An ass?” Rodrigo suggested.

  Stephano flushed. “Not exactly the word I was going to use in front of a priest.”

  Father Jacob smiled. “I understand, Captain—perhaps better than you think. May God go with you.” He held out his hand.

  “And with you, Father,” said Stephano. He accepted the priest’s handshake.

  Sir Ander lifted the young woman in his arms, cradling the lifeless body as gently and tenderly as a father. Rodrigo drew a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket and laid it over the cold, pale, blood-smeared face. Father Jacob gave both Stephano and Rodrigo his blessing and told them to take the lantern.

  “We walk with God’s light,” said Father Jacob, as he fell into solemn step alongside Sir Ander.

  Stephano waited to see them safely on their way with their sorrowful burden, then turned back to the business of tracking Sir Henry.

  “I’m amazed,” said Rodrigo. “A priest blessed you, and you didn’t sneer.”

  “Because I have a feeling we’re going to need it,” said Stephano. “Let’s see if that compass-thingamajig works.”

  The compass worked, apparently, for it led them down the alley in the same direction as the faint trail of bloody footprints. When they came to the end of the alley, the compass indicated that Sir Henry Wallace had continued along Canal Street. Rodrigo walked on, delighted with his new toy, then stopped when he realized Stephano wasn’t with him.

  “Hey,” he said, glancing around. “What are you doing? Father Jacob warned us that the magical connection wouldn’t last long.”

  Stephano stood in the darkness that seemed thick and heavy with evil, hard to breathe.

  “You heard what Father Jacob said about this man, Wallace,” said Stephano. “The priest was serious. My mother calls Henry Wallace the most dangerous man in the world. She told me I should quit looking for him. Even she’s afraid of him.”

  The two were quiet, somber.

  “My mother does pay well,” said Stephano.

  “And on time,” Rodrigo said with a deep sigh. Looking down at the compass, he pointed. “Wallace went that way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  In a city where “watch your back” means you get stabbed in the chest and you can’t even trust your own shadow not to kill you if the money’s right, the Blue Parrot is known for offering privacy, respectability, damn fine brandy, and a rear exit.

  —Dag Thorgrimson

  THE COMPASS LED RODRIGO AND STEPHANO down Canal Street. They turned left onto the Street of Saints, where the compass led them straight to an exclusive bordello known as the Dovecote. The trail ended on the walkway outside the bordello’s ornately carved and gold-leaf-trimmed door as they discovered when they walked past the house and continued down the street about a block. The compass did not react.

  “He must have taken a cab,” Rodrigo said, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  “I don’t think so,” said Stephano. Turning around, he studied their location. “Cabs don’t frequent this street, at least not this early. He came here for a reason.”

  “To the Dovecote? You can’t be serious,” Rodrigo said, carefully tucking the compass in an inner coat pocket. “He’s been ambushed by demons, involved in dark magic and the murder of a young girl. A priest from the Arcanum knows he’s in Westfirth, and Wallace decides to go play slap and tickle?”

  “If he’s a member, he would ask the doorman if he—”

  “—could make use of their carriage,” Rodrigo finished, catching up with his friend’s thinking. “That makes sense. I wonder if Dag’s friend is still the owner?”

  “We have the priest’s blessing,” said Stephano. “Let’s see if it’s worth anything. Do I look presentable?”

  “No,” said Rodrigo, twitching Stephano’s long coat in place to hide the fact that his trousers were grimy and blood-stained and shaking his head over the sorry state of his friend’s shirt. “But, then, you never did, so no one should be surprised.”

  The two retraced their steps back to the bordello and walked down the paved path that ran from the street to the entrance. The grounds were pleasant. They walked beneath the overarching limbs of graceful poplar trees and through a rose garden. The house was quiet at this time of evening with only a few lights in the windows. The women would be dressing, putting on their jewels and powder and perfume, preparing for the night’s work. In the back rooms, the owner would be preparing the tables for baccarat, dice, and other games of chance. The doorman stood in a well-lighted portico adorned with tubs of geraniums and lilies. He had been keeping an eye on the two gentlemen and, as they ascended the stairs, he advanced to meet them. He was a shortish man, almost as wide as he was tall with broad shoulders, arms thick with muscle, and no neck. He touched his hand to the brim of his hat.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said polite, but firm. “I fear you have made a mistake. This is a private club, for members only—”

  “Thomaso,” said Rodrigo warmly. “Don’t tell me you have forgotten old friends?”

  “Monsieur de Villeneuve!” the man exclaimed, looking at them more closely. “And Captain de Guichen! God bless my soul, but it is good to see you both. And to think I tried to send you away!”

 
He shook his head ruefully, then gestured toward the door. “Come in, sirs, come in. Maudie will be so pleased. We were talking of you only the other day. We can never forget, Captain,” he added, his voice growing husky, “what you and your Cadre of the Lost did for us. We would have been the ones who were lost!”

  “I take it no one else has tried to run you out of business,” Stephano said, wincing slightly as Thomaso engulfed his hand in a grip that was a bit too heartfelt.

  “No, sir, no. Thanks to you and your friends. How is Dag? He didn’t come with you?”

  “He’s a trifle indisposed,” Rodrigo said. “Nothing serious.”

  “Ah, I see.” Thomaso grinned and looked wise. “Send him round when he recovers. Now, do come in, sirs.”

  “Sorry, Thomaso,” said Stephano. “Maybe another time. We’re looking for a friend of ours. We’re afraid he may be in trouble. He would have stopped by here in the last hour, perhaps asked for a ride—”

  “You must mean Sir Robert Beauchamp,” said Thomaso. “Your fears are right, Captain. Sir Robert said he’d been attacked by thieves.”

  Stephano and Rodrigo looked at each other.

  “The assassins found him,” said Rodrigo in grim tones. “Maybe we’re too late!”

  “I fear we are,” said Stephano. “Was Sir Robert badly hurt?”

  “Just a gash on his hand,” said Thomaso. “He didn’t stay long. He asked if we could give him a ride to his lodgings. Sir Robert’s a member of long-standing. Of course, I was happy to accommodate him.”

  “Just to be sure this is our Sir Robert, could you describe him?” Stephano asked.

  “A tall gentleman, well-spoken,” said Thomaso. “Freyan exile. Came here after the war. That’s about all I can tell you, Captain. I’ve never seen the man’s face. Like many of our members, he always wears a mask.”

  “Well, it seems he’s safe for the moment,” said Rodrigo.

  “Yes, but for how much longer,” Stephano argued. “The hounds are on his trail—”

  “If only we knew where he’s gone,” Rodrigo said helplessly. “We could warn him.”

  Thomaso looked from one to the other. “Generally such information is kept in strict confidence, but seeing that it is you, Captain, Sir Robert asked the driver to take him to the Blue Parrot.”