by Ben Cassidy
Maybe Eru hadn’t cursed him with perpetual life after all.
Shouts and hammering footfalls echoed from the corridor back to the main cavern. They sounded disturbingly close.
Bronwyn twisted, kicking her legs. Her foot caught the lamp and knocked it over.
The sound of shattering glass filled the chamber, and the light fluttered out. Darkness plunged over both Kendril and Bronwyn as they struggled.
No, darkness was too vague a word. It was blackness, almost near-total blackness. Kendril felt as if someone had thrown a heavy blanket over his face. While his eyes were closed.
He could feel Bronwyn underneath him, hissing and fighting. The dagger was still in her hand, even though Kendril couldn’t see it anymore. He increased his grip on her slender wrist, trying to ensure that she didn’t get a chance to attack with it.
Kendril felt a sharp, stabbing lance of pain in his left wrist.
Bronwyn had pushed the dagger downwards, and it had cut into his wrist.
This day just couldn’t get any better.
Kendril snarled, and bit back a grunt of pain. He wasn’t about to give the witch the satisfaction. He pushed her dagger hand all the way to the cold stone floor and pinned her legs down with his heavy boots.
Bronwyn screamed in rage and frustration, wiggling to get out from under him.
More shouts in the harsh language of the Jombards sounded from the corridor. The sound of running had ceased.
The darkness was undoubtedly both a blessing and a curse. It was causing the Jombards to hesitate. No one liked running blindly into a pitch-black cave when there was no way of knowing who or what was inside.
Still, Kendril’s time was running short, and he didn’t have the seconds to waste wrestling with Bronwyn. It was time to end this.
He twisted to one side, still holding the woman’s dagger hand down, and pressed the side of his right arm hard into her neck.
Bronwyn grunted a curse. She grabbed at his arm. Her body rolled desperately underneath him.
Kendril closed his eyes, keeping his arm tight against her neck. He balled his hand into a fist.
Within seconds, Bronwyn’s struggles started to grow weaker. She moaned. Her dagger hand stopped pushing against him. Her legs stopped kicking.
Kendril bit his lip, trying to ignore the stabbing pain from his hand. He had banged his knee against the stone floor again, too, and it throbbed with pain.
Just a few more seconds….
Bronwyn gave one last confused grunt, then went limp.
Kendril kept the pressure on her neck for a few more seconds, just to make sure she was really out. Then he rolled off her with a gasp. He felt the warm puddle of lamp oil as it soaked his trouser leg, and felt the pricks of broken glass.
An orange light flickered just out of sight around the bend. The near-darkness of the chamber lifted slightly, but it was still almost totally black.
The Jombards were still coming, and they were bringing light with them, probably torches from the fire.
That meant he had bought himself mere seconds.
Kendril closed his eyes, and mentally brought up a picture of the small chamber he was in. He had entered, fired his pistols, and dropped them to the cave floor. He could still smell the raw smell of gunpowder in the air. The firearms should be within feet of him.
The orange light from the chamber’s exit grew brighter. A barked command echoed down the tunnel.
Kendril scowled. He didn’t have much time. He scooted forward across the floor, patting his gloved hand in the darkness for his weapons.
To his side Bronwyn gave a low moan.
Even if Kendril had had something on hand to tie the woman up with, he didn’t have the seconds to waste. He could only hope that she would stay unconscious for the next few minutes.
Kendril’s hand landed on the warm barrel of his flintlock pistol. He grinned in the darkness, and scooped the weapon up. A quick exploration to either side revealed the other weapon.
Finally, something was going right.
The light at the tunnel brightened. Footsteps echoed down the stone passage. The Jombards were coming again.
Kendril reloaded the guns.
He had done it so many times before, both in the heat of battle and out of it, that he had often thought he could do it with his eyes shut. Now he essentially was. In the darkness he didn’t even try to see what he was doing, but moved by feel and habit.
The blazing torches came into view around the corner just as Kendril clicked the flint back on the second pistol. After the pitch-darkness of the cave the light was almost blinding.
Kendril stood and moved forward. He brought both pistols up.
There were four Jombards. Two held torches. All of them had weapons. They came forward cautiously, jabbering to each other as they went.
Kendril calmly aimed and shot the two in front.
The twin flashes of the pistol lit the cavern like lightning. The blasts were deafening in the confined space.
The two Jombards flew back into the darkness as if they had been struck by invisible fists.
Kendril shook the smoke from his pistols and stepped back towards where he had dropped his swords. For a moment he was out of view from the two other Jombards.
Cries of alarm and panic came from the tunnel.
Kendril smiled. Good. Chances were, with the torchlight directly in their eyes, the poor fools hadn’t even seen Kendril fully before he had fired at them. He holstered his pistols, and snatched up the swords from the ground.
The first Jombard came into the cave with a scream. He had a sword in one hand and a wooden club notched with iron spikes in the other.
Kendril barreled straight towards him.
The Jombard gave out a bellow of pure rage and swung his sword at Kendril’s head.
Kendril parried, and swiped with his second sword at the Jombard’s mid-section.
The barbarian jumped back. He howled as he stepped across the broken glass of the lantern.
A second Jombard came into the cave, holding a torch in one hand and an axe in the other.
Kendril turned. He blocked another clumsy attack and then slashed his sword across the first Jombard’s face.
The man screamed. He dropped the club and clapped his hand to his bleeding face.
Kendril pivoted just in time to deflect a hasty attack from the second Jombard.
The barbarian snarled, then came at Kendril again, using the blazing torch like a weapon.
Kendril dodged back. He kicked the battered lantern out of his way.
The torch weaved back and forth. The brilliant flame burned Kendril’s eyes. He barely managed to beat off an attack from the man’s axe.
The first Jombard came at Kendril from the side with a scream of pure rage. Blood stained half his face and his shoulder as well.
Kendril dove, skating around the edge of the stabbing longsword. He let the Jombard’s momentum carry him past, then finished the man off with a savage thrust to his neck.
The Jombard collapsed in a heap to the floor.
The second Jombard jabbed his torch straight at Kendril’s face.
Kendril darted out of the way, then struck with his second blade at the Jombard’s arm. He felt the sword connect and cut deeply.
The barbarian screamed. He dropped his torch.
Keeping his wits about him, Kendril leapt back.
The floor exploded in a pool of liquid flame, hissing to life from where the fallen torch had fallen in the lantern oil.
The Jombard gave a cry and fell back. His bare feet were burning, and he stamped them wildly on the ground to put out the fire.
Kendril crossed quickly around the blaze, carefully to keep his own boots and trousers away from the dancing flames.
The Jombard was so busy trying to put out the fire that he never saw Kendril’s blade until it was too late.
There was no time for a celebration. Kendril dashed over to Bronwyn, and dragged the unconscious woman aw
ay from the flames. Part of her robe had started to catch fire. Kendril stamped it out with his boot.
He hadn’t gone through all this just to watch Bronwyn burn to death.
Kendril looked up, but was relieved to see that Tomas’ fallen form was well clear of the fire. Hopefully when the Ghostwalker woke up he would finally be free of Bronwyn’s spell.
The oil fire put out a choking black smoke that was quickly filling the small chamber. It was already seeping out into the open corridor, however, and from there Kendril guessed it would dissipate harmlessly out into the open air. Tomas and Bronwyn were both low to the ground, so they should be fine for now.
Kendril coughed. His eyes burned from the mix of gunpowder and oil smoke, but he couldn’t stop now.
He flipped Bronwyn over onto her stomach, pulling her arms behind her back.
She moaned again, but didn’t move.
Kendril tore off the sash around her waist, then began to tie her wrists together.
“Ghostwalker,” a voice hissed from across the room.
Kendril shot to his feet, surprised.
A Jombard stood just inside the doorway. He was well-built, his chest and arms muscled and solid. He wore something around his neck, a leather strap from which some kind of wooden tube or vial hung. A wolf-skin was thrown over his shoulders and up over his head. He stared at Kendril with wild eyes. Oddly enough, he held no weapons at all.
Kendril readied his own weapons and gave a smile. “Just you?” he said, knowing the Jombard probably couldn’t understand him. “All right, then. Bring it.”
The fire had blazed down, but it still simmered, filling the cavern with a dull red light and reeking clouds of black smoke that clung to the ceiling.
The Jombard tore the vial and strap from his neck. “The Great Fang comes,” the man said. His words were broken and heavily accented. “Fire, death come you.”
Kendril gave his swords a twirl. The blades hummed through the air. “Trust me, it’s not the first time I’ve faced down fire or death.”
The Jombard pulled the top off the wooden flask. He tipped it back and drank the contents.
“I’ve had about enough of this,” Kendril said. He moved forward.
The Jombard lurched, grabbing at his stomach. He bent almost double, crying out in ghastly pain.
Kendril stopped, genuinely confused.
“Blood of the Great Fang,” the Jombard gasped. “The Wolf god comes.”
Kendril felt an inexplicable chill crawl up his spine. The Jombard’s voice had grown suddenly deeper, with an almost inhuman tinge to it. It sounded like the growl of an animal.
The Jombard roared. The bellow was bestial, primal. He raised himself up to his full height.
Kendril felt cold ice in his stomach. It wasn’t possible. He blinked the stinging oil smoke out of his eyes trying to see clearly in the orange half-light of the dying fire.
The Jombard was bigger. Taller. Hair covered his chest and arms.
No, not hair. Fur.
The Jombard growled. He flexed his impossibly huge arms out to either side. Claws glinted where fingers should have been. Yellow eyes glowed dully in the darkness of the cave. The barbarian’s head had changed. It was elongated, stretched out into a muzzle.
Kendril took an involuntary step back.
In front of him was an eight-foot tall werewolf.
Chapter 12
Joseph grabbed Maklavir. He dragged the hapless man back towards the gate.
The gendarmes charged forward. The one in front gave a cry and lowered his cavalry saber.
Joseph had seen what one of those weapons could do when used by a rider from the back of a horse, and the result wasn’t pretty.
“Perhaps we could—” Maklavir began to stammer.
Joseph didn’t bother to hear the man out. He kicked the iron gate open and threw Maklavir into the garden.
A shout came from the other side of the garden. More gendarmes, probably tracking them from the back patio of the Sanitarium.
They were trapped.
Maklavir backed up. The sword shook in his hand. Even in the darkness, his face looked white as a sheet. “I say, where do we go now?”
Joseph looked around, his breath hissing out white into the night air. The gendarmes would easily jump the iron gate and be in the garden in seconds. If there was—
His eyes fell on the white stones. The path that led out of the garden between the two hedges.
Joseph made his decision immediately. There was no time for discussion or debate. “That way!” he said. He grabbed Kara by the hand, then pointed down the white-stone path. “Move!”
Maklavir crinkled his nose. “Are you quite sure? I don’t think that—”
“I said move!” Joseph was already running. He pulled Kara along behind him.
The clattering of hooves and neighing of horses grew louder by the second. Garbled voices came through the hedges on the other side of the garden.
Joseph ran for all he was worth. He didn’t even look to see if Maklavir was following him. If the man wanted to stand around and debate a time like this, that was his problem.
Joseph barely made it past the first hedge before the dark shape of a horse came crashing over the waist-high iron gate and into the garden.
Maklavir scrambled around the edge of the hedge, right behind Joseph and Kara.
There was no way to know if the mounted gendarme had seen them or not. If he had, they would undoubtedly know very soon. Besides, there were only so many ways out of the garden behind them.
Joseph ran, his hand still grasping Kara’s. Despite the coldness of her skin, it felt good to touch her again.
The path tilted sharply downhill, running between two high hedges. Joseph ran as fast as he dared in the darkness, glad that the white path was relatively easy to see.
Shouts came from the garden behind them, along with the whinnying and stamping of horses. Another gunshot rang out.
Eru only knew what they were shooting at. All Joseph knew was that he had to get Kara out of here, had to get her to safety. At this point nothing else mattered.
The hedges came to an abrupt end.
Joseph stumbled out into a wide open space, and felt the sudden panic of being exposed. It was silly, of course. The darkness hid them far better than any hedge ever could.
Maklavir came up next to Joseph, panting heavily. “Oh, bother.”
It was a river. The bank was mere yards away from where they stood. Ice clung close to the shores, and the steady gurgling of water could be heard even over the shouts and cries that came behind them. Several large trees loomed in the darkness, right up against the riverbank.
Joseph let go of Kara’s hand and stepped almost to the edge of the water. It was hard to see, but he could see enough to know that the water was moving fast and the river was wide. It was probably one of the many branches of the Inersa River that flowed through Vorten.
The water would no doubt be cold, and deep. Swimming for the other side seemed like certain suicide.
Joseph turned, his breath ragged in the cold air. He lifted his sword. “Maklavir, take Kara and swim for it. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
Maklavir lifted an eyebrow. “I see you’ve taken a page out of Kendril’s book of strategy.”
“I mean it, Maklavir,” Joseph snapped. He glanced back up at the white path, then pointed his sword across the river. “Get Kara to the other side.”
“Have you completely lost your mind?” Maklavir glanced down at the crust of ice that clung to the bank. “Even if we made it we’ll freeze to death for sure.”
“I don’t have time to argue.” Joseph half-turned. He felt the overwhelming temptation to hit Maklavir with the sword in his hand. “We don’t have a lot of options. It’s the river or the gendarmes.”
“What about the boat?” Maklavir asked with deliberate calm. He pointed to a rowboat that was gently bobbing a few yards away. In the blackness of the clouded night it was almost inv
isible.
Joseph clenched his teeth. He was equally torn between the rush of relief at Maklavir’s find and the heat of his anger at the man’s superior attitude. He turned and dashed to the boat.
It looked to be in one piece. It was floating, at any rate, and was big enough for three people.
Joseph swung around and grabbed Kara. He pulled the unresisting woman down into the boat.
Maklavir stepped tentatively down into the rocking vessel, gathering up his cape. “Good Eru, who leaves their boat uncovered at this time of year? This is probably covered with grime and dirt, not to mention—”
“Tuldor’s beard, Maklavir, are you for real?” Joseph felt for the rope that tied the boat to the shore. “Just get in the Void-cursed—”
Two gendarmes emerged from the hedges. One held a lantern, and a sword was in his hand. The other held a wheelock carbine.
Time had just run out.
Joseph’s hand closed on a thick, knotted rope. There was no time to find where it was tied and undo it. They would have to push-off the old fashioned way. He grabbed the rope and began sawing at it furiously with his sword.
The gendarmes looked around them, scanning the riverbank.
Even with the darkness and undergrowth, it would only be a matter of seconds before they spotted the boat.
Joseph kept cutting away, feeling strands of the thick rope peel away as the blade sliced through it.
The gendarme with the lantern looked in Joseph’s direction. He shouted and pointed.
The second gendarme snapped back the lock on his musket and raised it to his shoulder. “Stop in the name of the King!” he yelled.
Joseph didn’t stop.
He sliced through the last bit of the rope, feeling it come apart in his hands. He jumped up, grabbed the boat with both hands, and pushed it out into the water.
Then he jumped.
The sharp bang of a gunshot sounded in the night.
Joseph felt a red hot flash of pain tear across his shoulder. He crashed into the bottom of the rowboat.
The craft wobbled uncertainly. Cold water splashed in from the sides.
“Steady on!” Maklavir cried. He grabbed at the gunwales as the boat tipped.
Joseph rolled in the bottom of the boat, grabbing at his shoulder. He could feel warm blood soaking through his greatcoat. It hurt like a line of fire across his shoulder blade.