NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  “Go, through the blood portal!” Dorian ordered a score of his warriors.

  Twenty Ulec stormed onto the Tormentor’s deck through the grisly portal like maggots bursting out of a rotting carcass. The death of a single Ulec had allowed Dorian to get his soldiers onto Xebarria’s airship where they could wreak havoc. While his warriors were greatly outnumbered, Dorian was not yet finished. Nor was Kehlt.

  The stone in Kehlt’s abdomen began to shine, making the flesh around the wound glow a lighter shade of grey. His hands and legs twitched, his eyes opened, and he stood once more. There was not a hint of life in his black eyes, only death.

  Picking up a fallen macuahuitl, the undead abomination ignored the chaos around it and made straight for the hatch leading below decks. Only when one of the Tormentor’s defenders engaged him did Kehlt pause his relentless advance to dispatch those trying to bar his path. With no fear of injury or death, Dorian’s puppet was able to hew down anyone in his path despite taking what appeared to be numerous gruesome wounds.

  Xebarria thought her defense well in hand until one of her brother’s Ulec, the one that had dropped from the sky and had been used to create the blood portal, rose to its feet and began hacking its way across the deck.

  “Very clever, little brother,” she said as she unholstered her void lance and made to step into the fray.

  Seeing through his undead puppet’s eyes, Dorian watched his sister skip down the aftcastle steps two at a time, her void lance spinning in her hands.

  “Can you hear me in there, Dorian?” she asked, cocking her head to one side and grinning. “You do know you are going to fail, right? It is simply in your nature.”

  Dorian’s words ushered forth from his host’s mouth, slow and slurred. “Not this time, sister.”

  Xebarria lunged, her weapon leading. Dorian knew he would lose a protracted battle with his sister and focused all of his energy into a single assault he hoped would buy him enough time to do what he must to escape with his stolen airship and small army. The sticky blood oozing down his body and pooling around his feet lifted up in a reverse rainfall, the rivulets twining around themselves to create ropey tendrils that flailed around his body.

  Xebarria’s face flashed a look of surprise and a small amount of disgust as she rushed forward. Dorian deflected her thrusting spear with his macuahuitl. Fed by the blood and ichor still inside his body, the gruesome strands burst forth, wrapped around Xebarria’s wrists and torso, and flung her across the deck. Only a hasty grab at a hanging line kept her from being tossed overboard.

  Dorian wasted no time with his puppet. Even before Xebarria arrested her flight, he was moving it toward the deck hatch.

  “Stop her!” he shouted over his shoulder, his voice issuing from Kehlt’s mouth, before tearing the hatch from its hinges and leaping down into the Tormentor’s dark interior.

  Xebarria tried to give chase but found her way blocked by half a score of Ulec. She saw the grey head of the possessed Ulec vanish into the hull and shouted her outrage. Summoning the power of her soul stone, she conjured a shadow whip and lashed out at her nearest enemy. The smoky cord wrapped around the Ulec’s neck and choked the life from his body. Her void lance thrust out and took a second one in the chest, felling him instantly.

  The remaining invaders rushed her all at once. Taking a play from her brother’s book, she channeled life into the blood pooling around the warrior she had just killed. Bloody spears made of bone and petrified flesh erupted from the corpse like the spines of a thorn drake. Ulec fell dead or were crippled by deep punctures to their limbs and bodies.

  Xebarria set herself to meet the remaining half-dozen warriors, her eyes flicking between them and the hatch through which Dorian had escaped.

  ***

  The creature that was Dorian clambered through the hull, accepting the cuts and stabs delivered by crewmen remaining below decks, whose job it was to protect the precious wailers, and returned to them the death they deserved for attempting to thwart his desires.

  The airship shook under the thunderous impacts of ballistae shots. His warriors were all but defeated, so his vessel’s assault would inevitably kill more of their enemies than allies. The Ulecs’ duty was done regardless, or nearly so. The doorway leading to the wailing chamber lay just ahead. Dorian smiled as the last of the defenders fell at his feet.

  He kicked in the hatch and charged into the room where three score of Ulec sat tethered to benches by strands of grotesque lines that bore a striking resemblance to umbilical cords. Only instead of sustaining the bodies, they drained life away and fed it to the airship.

  Dorian urged the animated corpse to hack at the slaves and fleshy cords with his macuahuitl. The airship shuddered as if wounded and Dorian felt himself grow lighter as it fell before the pilot compensated for the sudden loss of power and regained control, however temporarily.

  Catching his balance, the Necrophage returned to hewing into the helpless creatures who, if they could have done anything other than mournfully wail in agony, would likely have thanked him for their release. The Tormentor dropped again and listed to port. Dorian grabbed hold of an umbilical cord with his free hand to steady himself until the ship righted.

  He raised his weapon once more, but a sharp pain stabbed into his back and a spear burst from his chest. Dorian felt himself lifted from his feet and driven forward until he met the far bulkhead face-first, his sister’s furious screams ringing in his ears the whole way.

  Pinned to the bulkhead, Dorian laughed a gurgling sound as he gargled his own blood. “You are too late, dear sister. The damage is done. Your ship is sinking even as we speak.”

  A third of the wailers lay dead with half the remaining having had their umbilicals severed. Those still connected to the ship would inevitably die just trying to guide the vessel back onto the ground without crashing.

  Xebarria leaned close and spoke into his ear as he tried to turn his head to look at her. “Perhaps, but whether you die here, in the tempest, or at the sorcerers’ hands, I still get to rejoice in your death.”

  “All will be rejoicing when I bring news of the sorcerers’ demise and am hailed the hero who took back what was ours.”

  “You will fail, little brother, just as you always do. The storm will tear you apart and the sorcerers will grind your remains into pulp. People will only speak your name when they are recounting our kind’s greatest fools.”

  “I have beaten you, Xebarria, and your bitter words are like honey to my ears.”

  She reached her hand around Dorian’s host’s body, thrust her fingers into the wound he had created, and tore out the soul stone. Kehlt crumbled to the deck, released once and for all unto death.

  ***

  Dorian gasped, stumbled, and sat heavily on the deck near Jasso, who was still gripping the airship’s controls.

  “Dorian, are you all right?” he asked.

  Dorian nodded and struggled to his feet. “It was a brutal experience, but worth it.” He looked back over the airship’s aft rail and saw Xebarria’s vessel sliding farther away with every passing moment. “We have done it, Jasso. No one can stop us now. Not my mother, my sister, that damnable tempest, and not the wretches across the sea. The world is ours.”

  Dorian took the depleted soul stone from around his neck and set it in the pommel tines of a dagger. The prongs, shaped like skeletal fingers, closed about the stone and held it fast. He beckoned to one of his Ulec to approach and thrust the blade into his heart. Accepting his master’s desires and his lot in life, the warrior did not resist as his soul was viciously torn from his body and forced into the stone.

  The Necrophage cast the corpse over the side of the airship and placed the soul stone pendant back around his neck. He could have pulled life energy from the ship to recharge the stone, but that took time, and one less Ulec was not going to make a difference when it came to the conquest of the old world.

  CHAPTER 11

  Chief Inquisitor Willard stepped into his o
ffice and halted at the sight of a man hunched over several files covering the top of his desk. “Who are you? What do you think you are doing going through my files?”

  The man turned about with the casual ease of a person who had no concern for the fact that he was invading the office of Velaroth’s chief inquisitor. “This is no longer your office, nor are these your files. Both now belong to me.”

  Willard ascertained the man’s identity by the stylized mask he wore. “Sah Bertram,” Willard exclaimed with a hasty bow. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “I am the new you, only vastly improved.”

  Willard stood with his mouth agape, unsure how to answer.

  “I am taking over your position effective immediately.”

  Willard swallowed and tried to regain a measure of command. “You have no authority.”

  “I have all the authority I require.”

  “On what grounds?” Willard demanded.

  Bertram grabbed a stack of files from the desk and waved them in the man’s face. “You have enough evidence to convict scores of criminals on charges of embezzling, racketeering, murder, rape, human trafficking, black marketing, larceny, drug manufacturing and distribution, violations of nearly every law ever written! And yet none of the principal architects ever saw a courtroom much less were sent to the mines or punished in any way.”

  Willard stiffened his spine and jutted his chin forward. “I have numerous convictions to my name, sah. I do not have to entertain such accusations.”

  “Sure, you’ve sent many men to the mines or gallows, men who can’t afford to bribe a magistrate or witnesses. I am speaking of criminals of higher stations, the purveyors of organized criminal activities that are at the heart of this city’s rot.”

  Sweat began to bead on Willard’s brow and he swallowed nervously. “Sah, the highborn have always enjoyed a certain amount of…privilege when it comes to the law. It is widely accepted that they give back to the city more than they take, unlike the common rabble who are purely parasitic.”

  Bertram stepped toward the former inquisitor and glared into his eyes. “Haven’t you heard? There are no more highborn. Not since my great-great-grandfather Jareen personally cast them down after their divisive caste system nearly destroyed the world.”

  “Well, perhaps the highborn are gone in name, but—”

  “Get out. Be glad I am in a gracious mood and assume you are merely incompetent instead of complicit. There are few things I despise more in this world than a man who swears an oath and breaks it.” Bertram rested his hands on the hilt of his sword and the butt of his pistol. “Unless of course you feel I have wrongly accused you and wish to challenge me for your honor.”

  Willard spun on his heel and bolted through the doorway. Bertram grinned as he listened to the clacking cadence of the fleeing man’s boots against the floor. He picked up several files from the desk and left the office. There was so much he needed to resolve that he scarcely knew where to begin.

  There were several people who the new chief inquisitor could arrest with little trouble, and he arranged the files in his hands accordingly. He hailed a passing cabriolet and ordered the driver to take him to Highborn City, or Liberty as it was properly named. Bertram chose to go by way of Freedom Gate.

  The route took him the long way through Midtown despite there being a gate nearer to the courthouse. Bertram preferred going through Midtown despite Liberty’s smoother roads and thin traffic. Midtown was Velaroth’s true hub around which the highborn and lowborn districts revolved. It was often the best place from which to gauge the city’s heartbeat.

  Bertram gazed out at the passing citizens through the two-wheeled carriage’s bench seat as it navigated the streets and heavy pedestrian traffic. “Driver, hold up.”

  Bertram hopped from the cab before the carriage rolled to a stop and hastened toward three gendarmes who appeared to be having a tense encounter with an older man wearing a flour-dusted apron in front of a bakery. The old man appeared to finally relent and passed a purse to one of the gendarmes, whose grey cloak trimmed in red marked him as a sergeant.

  “What transpires here?” Bertram called out as he approached.

  The sergeant hastily slipped the purse into his cloak and cocked his head. He knew by the black uniform and short red cape that the man was a chief inquisitor even if he did not recognize the mask.

  The sergeant leaned down from his towering height and squinted into the mask’s eyeholes. “Inquisitor Willard, is that you?”

  “One of my many great fortunes is that I am not he. I am Bertram Velarius. I relieved Willard Pearce of his duties for gross incompetence. Now, I will ask once more, what transpires here, sergeant…?”

  The faces of all three uniformed men blanched and the two lower-ranking gendarmes took a step back. The sergeant stood to his maximum height, topping Bertram by a full head.

  “Sergeant Owen Randolph, sah. Me and my boys were just conducting some official business.”

  “What official business requires an honest shopkeeper to hand over what I assume was good coin?”

  Sergeant Randolph shuffled his feet and cast a nervous look to his men. “Just collecting the gendarme special protection tax, sah.”

  Bertram tilted his head down and tapped a finger against his mask’s chin, the nail making a distinct ticking sound against the porcelain. “You know, I am very familiar with taxes. There’s the excise tax, income tax, import tax, sales tax. I think there’s even one folks call a piss tax, all of which goes toward paying for certain services, like sanitation in the case of the piss tax. But for the life of me, I cannot recall a gendarme special protection tax. Please, Sergeant, remind me as to the purpose of that particular tax, considering that part of all those other taxes go toward your pay.”

  Sergeant Randolph swallowed the lump in his throat. “It…it’s a voluntary tax that prioritizes the protection of those who pay it to the gendarmes.”

  Bertram leaned his head back and chuckled. “Oh, it’s a protection tax. You see, we call it something else where I come from. You do know where I come from, right, Sergeant?” Bertram turned the man by his shoulder and pointed. “I come from that huge palace atop the hill. I’m sure you’ve seen it. It’s rather hard to miss. Do you know what we call it up there?”

  The sergeant’s face split into a broad grin, misunderstanding Bertram’s jovialness. “What’s that, sah?”

  Every trace of humor vanished from his voice and eyes as Bertram laid a hand on his pistol. “Extortion.”

  Sergeant Randolph held his hands up. “Whoa, no, sah, not extortion. Like I said, it’s all voluntary to buy special services.”

  “Really, voluntary you say?” Bertram turned toward the nervous baker. “What happens when you opt not to pay this protection tax?”

  The baker licked his dry, craggy lips. “I get robbed and my place gets busted up.”

  “By whom?”

  The man inclined his head. “By men sent by them most often. Sometimes by themselves saying I ain’t up to code.”

  Bertram turned back to the sergeant. “It does not sound very voluntary to me.”

  “We—we all do it…most of us.”

  “Not anymore,” Bertram replied, his voice low and dangerous. “Give the man back his money.”

  The sergeant reached into his cloak pocket and shoved the pouch into the baker’s hand with a metallic clink.

  “Now, hand him your pistol.”

  “My wha—? But it’s my own. It cost me a month’s wages!”

  “And I have no doubt that you have stolen more than that from this man and others over the years. Now, hand it over. Shot and powder too.”

  Fury replaced Randolph’s look of fear as he surrendered his pistol and powder.

  The baker looked at the burden in his hands and asked, “What do I do with this?”

  Bertram pointed at the pistol’s various parts as he spoke. “The next time someone comes into your shop demanding money, you cock the hammer back,
point this end right between their eyes, squeeze the trigger, and blow their brains all over the wall like you just stomped on a raspberry-filled tart.”

  “B-but what about the gendarmes?”

  “Especially if it’s a gendarme. No harm will come to you, you have my word.” He turned his eyes toward the seething sergeant. “Jareen Velarius decreed that everyone has the right to defend themselves, their family, and their livelihood. He killed every highlord and highborn who sought to oppress and abuse those they thought beneath them and I will do no less.”

  The baker bobbed up and down several times as he backed toward his shop. “Thank you, sah, thank you! Wait here, I have something for you.”

  “What am I to do now, sah,” Randolph asked, his voice thick with scorn.

  “I know it might be beyond your abilities, but I expect you to do your damn job,” Bertram snapped, and shoved all but one of the files he held into the sergeant’s hands.

  Randolph flipped through the folders and his jaundiced eyes went wide. “These are all highborn!”

  “Weren’t you listening, sergeant? Jareen and his rebels killed all the highborn. Those are but wealthy criminals. I’m sure you know what a criminal looks like, assuming you own a mirror. Of course, judging by your appearance, I realize that the answer is most likely you do not.”

  “If I arrest them they’ll have me drummed out of the gendarme!”

  “If you do not, I will have you dropped into a box with a rope around your neck. I expect to see them all in the gendarmerie cells by this evening. You and your men are dismissed, Sergeant. Oh, and Sergeant, be sure to spread the word that the protection tax is no more. Yours is the only warning any of them will get.”

  The baker reappeared bearing a small pie as Sergeant Randolph and his men rushed away. “Sah, please accept this as a token of my thanks, mine and all of the shop owners who have to pay the gendarmes.”