NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  The Necrophage spun his void lance in his hands. “I am Dorian Aldana, son of the harbinger, bringer of death. You and your people will make fine slaves.”

  Tal’at’s face contorted in fury. “If you think to subjugate my people, then you know nothing of the Thuum. We do not break.”

  “Nonsense. Everything breaks eventually. One must simply apply the appropriate amount of pressure to the proper point.”

  Dorian launched into an attack, his lance probing for weaknesses in the Thuum’s defense. He found none. Tal’at wove his twin talwars through the air, deflecting the Necrophage’s lightning-quick thrusts. He conjured a wind that lifted him up and carried him several yards away. Dorian charged forward, devouring the space between them.

  Tal’at directed another gust into the onrushing Necrophage. Dorian crossed his arms in front of him and drew power from his soul stone. A shadow ward deflected most of the wind around him. He squinted his eyes to protect them from the blowing sand and charged ahead. The Thuum found himself on the defensive once more.

  “You are a capable fighter for one with such a short lifespan,” Dorian said as the pair clashed.

  Tal’at ignored the creature’s words, placing all of his focus on staying alive and, gods willing, killing this monstrosity.

  “I would almost say you were my equal, which is great praise considering that I likely have nearly a century and a half more training than you do.”

  Could this creature truly be nearly two hundred years old? If this harbinger was still alive, how old was it? Tal’at accepted at that moment that he was truly facing a demon. There was no other explanation. He had to triumph, or at least survive to warn his people.

  Another powerful wind answered the Thuum’s call, sending up a haze of sand that blew in a cyclonic pattern around the pair. Tal’at raised a shimmersilk veil over his eyes, the material woven into a fine mesh that allowed him to glimpse the world beyond while shielding him against the stinging, windblown grains.

  Tal’at waded into the heart of the microstorm, searching for the demon through the thick haze. The silk gauze shielding his eyes filled his vision with a sort of grid pattern that overlaid the world. His eyes flicked over every tiny square, looking for any sign of his foe.

  A shift in the air currents was all the warning he got before Dorian struck. Tal’at leapt away and spun around in midair, only managing to partially deflect the weapon striking at his back. Pain erupted across his flesh, radiating a cold so intense it felt like fire.

  “Did you think to thwart me with your little tricks?” Dorian asked, his tone mocking. “Whether shadow or sand, my people are most at home where the eyes cannot see. I grow weary of this game. It is time for you to die.”

  Dorian knelt next to Asim’s body and plunged a gold spike with a soul stone gripped in a skeletal hand at its end into the corpse. Asim shook and rose from the ground, but Tal’at saw no life in his eyes. Fear warred with his outrage at witnessing his friend’s desecration. Asim opened his mouth, and bloody, barbed tendrils spewed forth. Tal’at leapt away with a strangled cry and hacked at them with his talwar.

  The wind caller backpedaled farther, out of the mini storm he had created. Dorian and Asim followed him as he retreated toward the edge of the high mesa.

  “There is nowhere for you to run,” Dorian called out.

  Tal’at shifted his gaze between the ground far below him and the approaching monstrosities. “You proclaim your ignorance with such foolish words. As long as there is air, wind walkers are free.”

  Dorian ran at the Thuumian as he hurled himself over the edge. Tal’at spread his arms and legs, letting his clothing catch the air like a kite. The Necrophage cursed and sent a black bolt streaking after him. The shadow strike caught Tal’at in the back as he glided away. His body seized up and he began to fall like a wounded bird, but the wind walker recovered and used the last of his arcanstones’ power to create an updraft powerful enough to allow him to land, if roughly.

  Dorian could only stand and stare as the wind walker sailed away. He was little more than a white speck against the red ground when he finally touched down only to hobble away. Dorian violently ripped the soul stone from his puppet’s body and released it once more unto death. He was furious at seeing his enemy escape, but there was nothing to do about it now. It was unlikely the man would reach any of the major cities to give them warning and even less likely that anyone would take the savage’s words seriously.

  The Necrophage looked out over the wasteland. One direction was as good as another, so he set off walking. Death was coming for Eidolan, albeit far slower than it had planned.

  CHAPTER 15

  Reto Vanos paced in the foyer outside of Duke Rastus’ office, doing his best to contain his ire. For a man of Thuumian heritage, it was a challenging task. A small bell affixed to the wall behind an attendant’s desk rang. The young man seated behind it stood, opened the door, and gestured for the commandant to enter.

  Rastus looked up from his desk, its surface covered in documents. “Reto, good to see you. I would ask how my nephew is getting on in his new position, but this unexpected visit likely answers that question for me.”

  Reto sat heavily into a chair before the duke’s desk at his invitation. “Are you aware of his recent arrests?”

  “I am.”

  “What am I supposed to do about it?”

  Rastus spread his hands, palms up. “Why must you do anything about it?”

  “They are highborn. There are rules!”

  “There are indeed, one of them being not to make such an ass out of oneself that it draws undue attention.”

  “The person who is going to get attention is me if I allow these people to go to trial. What happens if they are convicted?”

  “I’ve read Bertram’s reports. I’m quite sure they will get convicted.”

  “Then what, they get sent to the mines? Will they be publicly executed? How do you think the others are going to react? I’ll tell you how, by removing me from my office if not my head from my shoulders!”

  Rastus tried to placate the man with a smile. “These people were careless. One must cull even the strongest herd at the first sign of disease. No one is going to the mines, much less losing their heads, especially you. The others will see that they overreached themselves and got burned, and they will correct their actions on their own. This is mostly a self-balancing system. It is what I and my forefathers have worked so hard to create.”

  “What am I supposed to tell the people your nephew has locked in my jail?”

  “Tell them the truth. They made mistakes and they will have to pay for them. Some will pay hefty fines and have their businesses embargoed for a time. A few will lose their masks, but I will make sure that their families are able to recover. It will hurt, but they will survive. That is how justice works.”

  “For the wealthy,” Reto scoffed. “I just hope for Bertram’s sake that he accepts your form of justice. I would hate to see a repeat of what happened to the last inquisitor who did not.”

  Rastus’ face darkened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Mention that tragedy in my presence, or anywhere else, again and I will personally liberate your shoulders from the oppressive burden placed on them by your bulbous head. Conner Rey was an exemplary inquisitor, and no man should have suffered as he did.”

  The commandant’s bravado fled in the face of Rastus’ anger. “Yes, sah. I apologize. Bertram’s actions have me concerned for the welfare of the city and I let my anxiety rule my mouth.”

  Rastus leaned back in his chair and smiled once more. “Glad to hear it. Now, are you going to be able to work with Bertram?”

  “He makes it extremely difficult, sah. He usurps my authority at every turn and openly ridicules me.”

  “In what way?”

  “He has undone certain gendarme traditions, instituted entirely new rules of conduct, and—” Reto’s face flushed “—told me that I was so low on the social ladder that I could identify every
mask wearer by the smell of their farts…sah.”

  Rastus cleared his throat to quell the laughter building up inside. “Has he challenged you to a duel?”

  “No, sah.”

  “He did promise to be on his best behavior. I’m glad he is keeping his word. If he should challenge you, I would recommend that you not accept. I still need you in your position, Reto.”

  Recognizing the dismissal, Reto stood. “Yes, sah.”

  The commandant left angrier than when he had arrived. He was Thuum, and Rastus’ suggestion that he choose cowardice in the face of a challenge struck his very core. The fact that Bertram was still little more than a boy made the wound to his pride all the more grievous. However, the duke was not wrong. Bertram’s skill with blade and musket was uncanny, and it was not a fight he welcomed, particularly given the boy’s status, which would only grow over time.

  “Reto, darling, may I walk you out?” a woman asked as she entwined her arm around his, not bothering to wait for a reply.

  Even if he had not recognized the woman’s voice, her black mourning mask and the emblem set into its surface gave her identity away.

  “Sahma Adele, you sound well.”

  “Thanks in no small part to your dear, sweet nephew consoling this old woman in her darkest hour.”

  “You are hardly an old woman, unless you think me an old man.”

  “Distinguished is what men are called. It is such an unfair system. Speaking of unfair, I hear Bertram has insinuated himself in the gendarme and is making a spectacular ass of himself.”

  Reto grumbled behind his mask. “That is one way to look at it.”

  “Indeed, much as a duel is one way of referring to murder.”

  “What he did to your son was beyond unacceptable.”

  “And yet he will go unpunished thanks to the law he so loudly and self-righteously claims to uphold. That is, unless someone holds him accountable…”

  Reto cast his gaze around the hall. “What are you saying?”

  Adele shrugged. “I am just saying that Bertram shows no hesitation in sidestepping the rules of our society to see that justice is done. I simply agree with the sentiment, a sentiment equally applicable to all no matter their station. Darynn and my son Gilbert were very good friends, and he is as eager to see Bertram made to pay for his crimes as I am. He just needs a little encouragement, some small token to know that the gendarme will not come seeking retribution for it. A man in your position would have no trouble casting some sand in the wind of any investigation that might come about should anything unfortunate happen to our future ruler.”

  “What you are asking—”

  “Was I asking for anything? I did not hear any request being made, just the loud musings of a grieving mother. Can you imagine what it would be like in this city if Bertram took over? By the twin gods, the gendarmes would be run ragged chasing after every petty criminal who lifts a purse. Not to mention the turmoil he would cause in Liberty. If he arrested every masked citizen who bent the rules, we would suffer an economic collapse. You’re a shrewd, not to mention a fantastically virile man, so how much of your wealth is invested in highborn businesses?”

  Reto took a deep breath. Bertram’s actions had already unsettled enough important people that the value of his investments had noticeably slipped, and he was not a wealthy man. His brother had reaped the lion’s share of their father’s inheritance, and he counted on his ventures to see him comfortable upon his retirement. He certainly would not achieve that on a gendarme’s salary, even a commandant’s.

  He patted the woman’s hand which was clutching his arm. “The gendarme is a hazardous occupation, my dear. We often face the worst of what society has to offer. Who can say what might happen to an officer, or even an inquisitor, during his tenure.”

  The pair reached the palace doors leading outside.

  Adele released Reto’s arm. “I am glad we had this conversation. I see now where Darynn gets his compassion.”

  Reto ducked his head and sought out the gendarmerie coach he had used to travel to the palace.

  ***

  Marlowe McCallum stepped away from the airship tethered to the ground by a dozen lines attached to metal spikes driven into the ground. The storm had mostly passed by now, but a strong wind continued to stir up the dust and sand. They had been near the edge of it, and Marlowe thought they could have kept flying, but Captain Campbell had not wanted to risk his precious cargo and ordered them to anchor and ride it out on the ground.

  No one knew what it was that had brought them out to the middle of the wastes to barter with a bunch of Thuum nomads. He knew it took up a lot less space than the gold and powder they had traded for it. It was also valuable enough to warrant stowing in a void-steel blast box, a chest whose interior was techno-scribed so as to explode and destroy the contents, and likely the airship as well, should anyone attempt to open it other than the box’s owner.

  It was damn mysterious, but whoever had hired them to retrieve this prize had paid him and the rest of the crew three times their normal rate for mercenary work. It was good money for a simple courier job, and he wasn’t going to complain despite the unease he felt whenever he was near the captain’s cabin. How Campbell slept with that thing close by he couldn’t guess. Maybe he didn’t, given the increasing shadows appearing around his eyes.

  “Hey, Marlowe, where you going?” a fellow mercenary, named Tye, called out.

  Marlowe shouted over his shoulder, “I’m going to take a piss. You want to come hold it for me?”

  “I’ll pass. Don’t shake it too much or you might attract dune drakes, and the captain says we’ll be lifting off soon, so make it quick.”

  Marlowe made a rude gesture over his shoulder and disappeared between a stand of rocks. He could cut a man’s throat in the middle of a crowded bar, sit back down, and finish his drink without a second thought, but he could not go to the bathroom with people watching. He envied those who could relieve themselves over the side of the airship whenever they felt the need. A shy bladder was damn inconvenient.

  “Don’t piss on a skitter lizard!” Tye shouted from the airship. “They take it as a challenge.”

  The pressure that was building up and was an instant from release vanished. “Goddam it, Tye, shut your damn gob!”

  Marlowe flexed his knees, willing the flow to come. He let out a moan as his stream spattered the rocks and his bladder began to empty. He felt more than heard someone nearby. He spun about, trailing an arc of urine before it abruptly cut off. One hand dropped to the hilt of his sword as his eyes sought out any sign of life through the gritty haze.

  “Tye, if you’re screwing with me, I’m going to skin you alive.”

  Something moved behind him, but a sharp pain stabbed into his neck, paralyzing him before he could turn about. “What an ironic choice of words,” Dorian whispered in his ear.

  The dark figure moved to stand in front of the mercenary who could do nothing but track him with his eyes. Dorian held up a short knife with a wide black blade etched with techno-scribings.

  “That is exactly what I am going to do to you.”

  Marlowe could not so much as utter a protest as the pale man stripped him naked. Not even when the Necrophage ran the knife through his flesh with the deftness of a master were his lungs able to form the scream that rang in his mind, but his paralysis did not prevent him from experiencing every agonizing second. He prayed that he would pass out, but the soul stone stuck in the base of his skull refused him even that minor mercy.

  He looked on in horror as the pallid, man-like creature discarded his black robes and stepped into his skin as if it were a new suit. Despite Marlowe being shorter than his killer, his skin fit Dorian like a custom-made glove, his body shrinking and adding girth where needed to accommodate his new appearance.

  The soul stone around Dorian’s neck glowed throughout the entire process until the cuts he had made in the flesh stitched together without a blemish. Dorian sniffed and winc
ed at his own smell and cast Marlowe a look that showed he disapproved of the man’s hygiene.

  Putting on the mercenary’s clothing, Dorian stepped back and thrust his void lance into the man’s chest, absorbing his essence to replenish the depleted soul stone set in his weapon. He would need to take another soul to refill the stone hanging around his neck as well as the one he had liberated from Jasso’s corpse, but there would be plenty of time, and opportunities, once he boarded the airship.

  Thanks to the magical nature of his skinning, he had not spilled a drop of the man’s blood during the entire excising. Dorian concentrated on his soul stone, gleaning as much information as he could from the spirit trapped inside. He focused past the inaudible, mournful keening and picked up numerous surface thoughts and memories. It was not much, but he knew his name was now Marlowe and that he was a mercenary tasked with delivering something to Velaroth.

  He frowned, wishing their destination was Nibbenar as that was the city closest to his own and the one ripest for conquering, but the destination may no longer matter. There was something aboard that airship calling to him. Perhaps not to him, but he could “hear” its voice like the call of a siren, drawing him in. Whatever it was, he needed to possess it.

  “Marlowe, quit playing with yourself or we’ll leave you behind!”

  Dorian sought out the voice in the trapped soul’s memory. He cleared his throat, loosening his vocal cords to best imitate Marlowe’s. “I told you to shut your gob! I’m coming!”

  The Necrophage drew the sword hanging at his hip and cast it aside despite it being a decent blade, made of good steel and well balanced. The techno-scribings etched into his void lance’s black surface glowed and the weapon morphed into a sword that fit the scabbard he wore.

  Dorian spotted a man standing near a loading ramp that was sticking out of the airship like a lolling tongue. He assumed the man was the one called Tye. He was a little shorter than the skin Dorian wore and a few years older, but his scruffy appearance and lowborn disposition was similar.