The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  Grief and horror clutched at his throat with remorseless hands. The pain was hard and sharp, permitting no release through healing tears. Numbly, Tristan turned the body over to hide the violated skull. He arranged Sigfrid’s hair, wiped the spatters of blood off the pale face. He’d never seen Sigfrid’s face so still. That, more than the blood and the splinters of bone, made the young man’s death real.

  Tristan had murdered his best friend.

  He sat down heavily, staring at his murdered friend with anguish sharpened by too many days of living on the edge of sanity. Malken had done this to him. Malken had not only murdered Ivaar, but had turned Tristan into a killer as well.

  “Too many have suffered for my inaction,” he said aloud. “It’s time. I want the one who started this. And then—” His blue eyes glittered with bridled rage. “Then I want Malken.”

  There was no time to bury Sigfrid. That would have to wait until later, Tristan told himself grimly. Later, there would be time for burials and mourning all that was lost, for allowing himself the luxury of feeling grief and pain. Now there was only preparation, and the knight threw himself into it utterly.

  He skimmed through his spellbooks, memorizing those he thought would be useful, and carefully prepared all necessary ingredients. He wished he could teleport into Kantora, but did not want to risk drawing attention to himself by using a spell, especially when Kal was fresh and could take him there in two hours.

  It was midmorning by the time he arrived in Kantora. The market was beginning to close down already. Fearful he had missed his opportunity, Tristan hastened forward, leading Kal through the thinning crowd. “Any nepata left?” he inquired, hoping he didn’t sound too anxious.

  The herbalist, a thin woman in her forties, checked her wares. “Plenty,” she said, to Tristan’s relief. “Not much call for’t, but them as needs it wants to ’ave it, I suppose.” She gave Tristan a large bunch of the dried, leafy plant. Tristan paid her handsomely, not waiting for the change. He hurried on to his next stop, the butcher’s. The large, jowly man shook his head in answer to Tristan’s inquiry.

  “Nay, sir, all choice pieces are gone. Naught left but bones an’ fat. Not even stew meat today. Come back tomorrow and—”

  “I’ll take some of what’s left.”

  The man frowned. Then he brightened. “Ah, for your hounds then? A good dog deserves a treat now and then. I’ll not even charge ye for it—ye’re taking waste off me hands.” At Tristan’s request, he cut the chunks of glistening fat into fist-sized portions and placed them in the wax-covered leather sack Tristan had brought. Despite the offer of free goods, Tristan insisted on handing the man some coppers for his efforts. As he turned away, a small gray cat regarded him steadily.

  A smile that had nothing of mirth in it touched Tristan’s lips. “That’s right,” he said to the little animal. “Go tell your master I’m here.”

  He mounted Kal and continued on until he reached the High Road. Across the street from the temple and the orphanage was a very well-to-do inn. Tristan tethered his horse here, paying for the privilege, and went inside. He took with him the bag of meat, the nepata, and a large flask. There were no customers yet, so he was undisturbed as he sat in a shadowed corner. He pulled out the flask, uncorked it, then crumbled the dry nepata into the bottle. Recorking it, he shook the mixture well, then took several gulps of the liquid. He gagged but managed to choke the mixture down. He had brewed it especially strong this time.

  He opened the bag of fatty meat and emptied the bottle inside, coating the chunks of white fat with the concoction. The innkeeper watched him with a hostile, confused look, but said nothing and brought a basin and pitcher for Tristan to wash his hands. The customer was always right—especially the customer who paid well, as Tristan now did.

  “I’m going to visit the temple of Sehkmaa,” said Tristan as he handed over two gold coins. “Keep an eye on my horse for me.”

  He reentered the bright midmorning sunlight. Tristan took a deep breath, crossed the High Road, and went into the walled courtyard of the Paw of the Cat. This time, a few curious children, little more than infants, looked up at him as he entered. Around them, lounging alertly, were many large and small cats.

  Tristan threw the animals chunks of the meat.

  For a long moment, the beasts merely stared. Tristan felt sweat beginning to dot his forehead. Then one black monster rose with liquid grace and strolled leisurely over to Tristan’s bait. It sniffed the fat for a few seconds. “Come on, you damned cat,” Tristan muttered beneath his breath. Then a pink tongue lolled. A moment later, the meat was gone. A few more plains cats entered the courtyard, drawn by the scent. Malken obviously kept them half-starved to ensure their obedience, for their ribs showed clearly. Tristan threw several more chunks of meat to the hungry creatures, then continued on.

  He strode boldly up to the door and tried to open it. It was locked, of course. Tristan spoke a few words in a harsh, guttural tone and tried the lock again. This time, it opened for him. “Rozalia!” he boomed as he stepped inside. “You won’t be able to hide from me! I know what you’ve done!”

  He had drawn his sword and was ready for an attack. Four Claws entered from the room to Tristan’s left. “Welcome to the Paw of the Cat,” one began in a deceptively silky tone of voice. His hard face belied the gentle greeting. “Good brother, put away your—”

  “I want Rozalia.”

  They exchanged glances. “I’m sorry, but she is not available.” Their hands crept to their swords. Tristan, tired of this interruption, stepped forward as if to go down the stairs. The men drew their swords, as he knew they would. He whirled with the speed and fury of one of their cursed plains cats. The first one he cut in half with a single strong stroke. The others drew back, then grimly pressed the attack. Tristan easily parried the blows. For all their size and malice, the men seemed strangely reluctant to actually hurt him. Their sword blows were more parries than thrusts—though in truth they had little opportunity to counterattack as Tristan bore down on them like a man possessed.

  One charged, stupidly attacking with the scimitar’s pommel as if to knock him unconscious. The fool paid for his misjudgment with his life as Tristan ran him through. As another charged with an oath on his lips, Tristan turned and maimed him. The remaining Claw shoved the wounded man at Tristan and fled past him down the stairs. Tristan whirled, intent on following. Noticing that Tristan had no armor, the dying Claw struck out desperately with his scimitar. The blade made contact with Tristan’s leg as he continued down, but it bounced off harmlessly with a clanging noise, as if Tristan’s limbs were composed of stone, not flesh. The priest groaned in surprise. Tristan smiled grimly. The spell had worked.

  “Rozalia!” he called again as he ran down the stairs, following the escaped Claw. He heard an angry noise behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was a plains cat. Without slowing, Tristan reached in his pouch for more tainted meat, tossing it back over his shoulder as he continued his descent.

  When two Claws met him as he turned a corner, he barely even slowed. A few quick strokes and they were sprawled on the floor, gasping as crimson seeped from their wounds.

  Others met him as he continued on. They were all poor fighters, and all again seemed frightened of actually hurting him. Tristan felt like a juggernaut as he plowed through the best Malken could send against him, easily defeating them and pressing on, crying Rozalia’s name all the time. At last he reached the bottom. It was cold this far below, and the torches that lined the hallways were vital for vision. The hall before him was lined with doors. He hesitated, wondering which to try first.

  The first door past the corner stood open. From within, Tristan could hear a frantic tinkling of glass. “Rozalia!” he called, and stepped inside.

  The Vistana woman stood in a room that looked like the herb garden of a madman. Jars, bowls, and bottles were everywhere. The floor and every available surface were covered by either bunches of dried herbs or pots of
growing fresh ones. Herbs hung from strings in the rafters. Dangling among the herbs like so many plants were the carcasses of small animals, strung up by their legs. Some were skeletal, with only a bit of leathery dried flesh holding the bones together. Others were freshly dead, exuding the sick perfume of rot. More than a few were still alive, blood dripping slowly from holes in their bodies into cups below that caught the precious fluid. A brew was bubbling in a cauldron placed on the fire, and Rozalia paused in stirring it to stare fixedly at Tristan.

  Fear flitted across her face like a bat at twilight, then it was gone. “What an unexpected surprise,” she said mockingly.

  Tristan ignored her tone of voice. “You did this to me,” he panted, slightly out of breath from his exertions. “Somehow you’re at the bottom of this. You did it!”

  “What do you mean? What did I do?” Her hand crept toward the dagger at her side. Tristan noticed, but did nothing. An instant later, the poison-tainted weapon was whirling through the air at him. He didn’t move. It struck him on the neck. While the blow caused a slightly painful pressure on his throat, the blade did not mar his skin in the slightest. Now Rozalia’s black eyes widened in fear, and Tristan’s smile grew.

  As he charged her, she reacted quickly. She heaved the table over, effectively blocking him. Small bloodied corpses and vials of various foul substances crashed to the floor around Tristan. Fumes rose up, making him cough and gag. Desperately, the gypsy flitted past, trying to reach the door. Tristan was swifter. His right hand shot out and grabbed her long braid of silky black hair.

  Rozalia shrieked. “Malken, help me!” she cried out, writhing.

  “Not this time. I’m in control now,” Tristan hissed. He yanked hard. Hair ripped out of her scalp, but enough held that Tristan could drag her back toward him. She twisted like a wild thing and managed to turn around and face him. Shrieking like a banshee, Rozalia raised her hands, using her sharp fingernails as weapons. The spell Tristan had cast to harden his skin would protect him, but it was only good for a certain number of attacks. If Rozalia was clever enough to coat a cat’s claws with poison, Tristan had little doubt she had done the same with her own nails. Anger filled him, and he swung with his sword. It sliced cleanly through her wrist, and her hand, fingers still writhing wildly, soared through the air.

  The woman screamed in pain and horror this time. Blood pumping from the severed wrist sprayed Tristan’s face with warmth. Shocked, staring at her nub of an arm, she was easy to catch off balance. Tristan had her pinned beneath him in an instant. He shoved his knee between her breasts and pressed down, bringing his bloody sword to her throat.

  “Now maybe you’ll listen to me. I know what you’ve become. And I know what you’ve done to me. You brought Malken into this world with your hate and evil, and now you’re going to take him out the same way. If you value your life at all, darkling, remove the curse you put on me!”

  For a long, agonized moment, Rozalia didn’t respond. She only continued to stare at her blood-pumping arm. He leaned on her more heavily. Any more pressure with his knee would shatter her breastbone. At last, groaning, Rozalia turned up her black eyes to him imploringly. Tears of absolute fear spilled down her tawny skin. She batted at him ineffectually with her bleeding stump of an arm.

  “I can’t!” she cried.

  Tristan’s brow darkened dangerously. “You murdered your own father and your own people cast you out for your crimes and arrogance! The herbs and magic you now use to poison you once used to heal.” He pressed the blade closer to her throat. Her eyes widened through tears. “I will kill you if you refuse me.”

  “You giorgio bastard,” she wailed, “I don’t know how!”

  He believed her.

  He believed her and was enraged at her lack of power before the evil her own hatred had wrought. Fury swelled and burst inside him, and he ground his knee into her chest with a savage cracking sound, and at the same time he brought his sword slicing down on her throat. He would never know which injury killed her.

  He rolled off the corpse, glancing around the ruins of her arcane magics. He spied—and on a sudden impulse seized—an empty glass bottle. Quickly he uncorked it and dipped it in Rozalia’s blood. She wouldn’t aid him in life, but her life’s blood would help him raise enough power to complete his spell. When the bottle was full of hot, red fluid, Tristan corked it and shoved it into his pouch.

  The next instant he was on his feet and racing down the corridor. As he tore up the stairs, he heard a shriek. It was quickly followed by another, and another, until a vast cacophony of pain rose and swelled inside the Paw of the Cat. Thumping noises and the savage growls of plains cats punctuated the human screams. Tristan smiled grimly to himself. His plan was working beautifully.

  One great cat had its jaws buried in the throat of one of Malken’s Claws. Four others, out in the courtyard, were feasting on the unrecognizable forms of the orphans. In the nursery, cats were knocking over cribs and devouring the helpless infants. More than a half dozen of the beasts had escaped and were racing down the High Road, attacking virtually anything that moved.

  Tristan had not given the cats poison. He had given them the same concoction he himself used to block Malken. Now the famished giant cats were free to sate their appetites. Tristan sped like one possessed out the door. He raced across the street, noting with grim pleasure the destruction the cats were leaving in their wake. The area was chaos now, almost more frantic than the day when the cats had appeared during the parade. This time, they had no master tugging on a leash. This time, they were in truth ravenous wild beasts. Tristan had seen to that.

  He had nearly reached the other side of the High Road when he saw that his plan had perhaps worked too well. His horse Kal was fighting for its life. Neighing shrilly, the tethered animal managed to land a blow on an attacking cat’s skull. But two more animals were streaking toward it with horrible speed, black-furred incarnations of death. They sprang, silently, gracefully, and Kal went down in a spray of blood from the throat.

  One of the cats looked up from its feeding and drew its blood-slicked dewlaps back from its teeth. Its green eyes narrowed as the beast’s gaze fastened on Tristan. He saw the knotting of its shoulder muscles as it gathered itself to spring on him. Tristan closed his eyes and stilled himself as best he could. He formed a picture of his sorcery chamber in his mind’s eye, concentrated, and spoke the words.

  He disappeared just as the cat exploded into action. It landed, confused and yowling in disappointment, not on its prey but on the hard-packed earth of the inn yard. Hissing, it swiveled its ears in the direction of the screams from the tavern. Soft flesh would be inside. The cat forgot its disappointment and ran for the inn’s windows.

  Tristan materialized in his magic room. Withdrawing the vial of Rozalia’s blood from his pouch, he hastened to the tray that bore the rotting entrails and the mummified hands of the king. Trembling, he uncorked the vial and sprinkled Rozalia’s blood over the gruesome ingredients, closed his eyes, calmed himself, and chanted the words he had found in an ancient tome during his research. Over several minutes, he felt the power of the spell building. Finally, opening his eyes, he turned to the mirror and demanded, “Show me Malken!”

  He watched, devastated, as the mirror merely misted over, as it had done so many times before. Exhausted, his nerves raw and ragged and his injuries paining him, Tristan collapsed onto the floor. The spell simply was not strong enough.

  He went again over the list of ingredients. What was the old Vistana saying about magic—“The greater the goal, the greater the sacrifice.” Tristan knew he would gladly give his life to defeat Malken, but he couldn’t be certain his death would make a difference. His eyes fell on Sigfrid’s corpse. For love of Tristan, Sigfrid had, unwittingly, sacrificed himself. Hope flickered in Tristan’s breast, faint as a candle flame. Here was the sacrifice.

  “You wanted to stop the killing too, Sigfrid,” he said, rising with effort to his feet. He pulled his dagger, honed to
razor sharpness, from his belt. Stumbling, he crawled over to where Sigfrid lay. “Forgive me, old friend, but you’re gone now. You can still help me stop him, though. Together, as we have always been, we’ll destroy the bastard.”

  Steeling himself, Tristan cut easily through Sigfrid’s clothing, laying bare the chest. Tristan grimaced, then plunged his dagger into Sigfrid’s flesh. Sharp though the dagger was, Tristan grunted with the effort it took to slice open the body. Sigfrid’s blood had started to congeal. Tristan swallowed hard, then reached inside. He groped for a moment, and then his searching fingers found his friend’s heart. His left hand closed gently on the organ and his right cut it free.

  If he had had any doubts that he was doing the necessary thing, they vanished at once. The heart of his friend suddenly grew hot in his hand. Unbearably hot. Tristan rose, slipping a little in the blood that had dripped, and staggered to the table. The heart was burning now, and beginning to glow with a white-hot radiance. Blood from the struggle with Rozalia trickled down his arm. Droplets of red sizzled as they touched Sigfrid’s heart.

  His voice harsh, he rasped out the words of the spell, clutching the heart and holding it over the other ingredients. The heart began to pulse with a magical life all its own, growing brighter and brighter until Tristan had to squint. As he finished the final words of the incantation, the heart caught fire and burned to pieces in Tristan’s gore-covered hand.

  He turned to the mirror. “Show me Malken!” he cried, and almost wept when the mirror shimmered and Malken’s nightmare face, twisted with rage, appeared.

  He glared at Tristan, murder in his eyes. “Best me on my own ground, would you, Tristan?” snarled the fiend. “You can’t destroy me. Haven’t you figured it out?”

  Tristan was not distracted by Malken’s taunts. He took the cane, the cane that had taken Sigfrid’s life, and brought it crashing down on Malken’s face in the mirror. Malken shrieked as the cane approached, throwing up his hands as if to shield himself. The mirror shattered with a violent, discordant sound, and shards of glass flew everywhere.