Revenant Winds (The Tainted Cabal Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  Grogan chuckled mirthlessly. “Something ate them.” His jaw worked ceaselessly on the wad of leaves.

  “I believe you’re right,” Niklaus said.

  If Grogan hoped to disconcert him, he was going to be disappointed. A few old bones were nothing to be worried about. The sounds were most likely rats. Old corpses weren’t of interest to most creatures in the wild. Some, but not many.

  “Hurry up,” Grogan said. “I want to be done here and back with my wife and kids.”

  Niklaus glanced back along the ledge to see if the big man from the tavern was still following them. He was. Without Niklaus’s goddess-gifted vision, he would have remained undetected. Whoever the man was, his luck had run out. Although, Niklaus was curious about how he was tracking them. A puzzle.

  Grogan had already entered one of the musty tombs, brandishing an alchemical globe for light. Finished stone framed its entrance, carved with hieroglyphics and old script, denoting it had been built for a person or family of importance and wealth. Niklaus followed the guide inside the tomb and along a tunnel that turned right, then left. Stone coffins lay in niches in the walls, lids cracked and broken on the floor, their inhabitants long since taken or eaten.

  They came to a door made from saplings covered with tough hide. Grogan lifted it slightly and pushed it open, beckoning for Niklaus to follow him through. Inside, light shone from a number of alchemical globes set around a chamber. Columns supported the ceiling, and dark stone slabs lined the walls, carved with more hieroglyphs and arcane symbols. Niklaus peered at one wall and determined the symbols were a series of ten repeated again and again.

  On the ceiling were carved stars, some with fragments of yellow paint still attached. Toothless and superstitious spells to protect the dead from being plundered in this life and to protect their spirits in the afterlife. They hadn’t done much good, Niklaus thought.

  Three massive granite sarcophagi dominated the room, their lids lying haphazardly on the floor. Shadows lurked everywhere, but Niklaus could see the space had been furnished for human habitation. There was a chair, which Grogan deposited himself in, sighing with relief. He fingered through a pouch and took out another black-coated leaf, which he popped into his mouth.

  “Where is Valter?” asked Niklaus.

  “He’ll be here in his own time. Doesn’t keep much to a schedule. He doesn’t know we’re coming, so that’s why he hasn’t laid out his best silverware.” Grogan convulsed into a fit of laughter at his own wit.

  Niklaus ignored him and cast about the chamber. Three doorways led off it, though only one looked like it was regularly used: bones and broken pottery had been shoveled aside to create a path to it. To one side was a pile of straw covered with large pelts and a thick woolen blanket. An old table of grayed timber held one of the alchemical globes, along with an unlit lamp, several bottles of wine—one open, two unopened—and a number of books and writing implements.

  Niklaus held his hand over a pile of ash. Still warm. Beside it were the splintered remains of several wooden coffins. At least they’re serving some purpose for the living, he thought.

  Scattered about the floor were several wooden crates, recently built, containing an assortment of ancient daggers and axes, and parts of armor and helms, all rusted to brittleness. In one corner was a haphazard pile of bones—presumably belonging to the coffins’ occupants. Some still held rings and necklaces; clearly Valter hadn’t bothered to take them to sell, not that they’d be worth much. Some of the bones also showed tooth marks from something substantially larger than a rat. Bloody ghouls and Dead-eyes.

  A shadow emerged from one of the openings off the chamber—not the well-used one, Niklaus noted—and a thin, pale man clad in well-made but dirty clothes stepped toward them. He carried a basket filled with oddments in one hand, and in the other a shuttered lantern, which he placed on the table. He glanced at Niklaus and Grogan, who was nonchalantly picking dirt from underneath his fingernails with a knife.

  Straightening his metal-rimmed spectacles, Valter, presumably, scraped the top layer off the still-warm ashes and placed a few handfuls of crumbling wood on them. The tinder began to smoke almost immediately, then, when Valter blew on it, burst into flame. He threw some larger chunks of wood onto the fire. In the darkness of the tunnel Valter had emerged from lurked another man pointing a rather large crossbow at Niklaus.

  Of course. Valter wouldn’t survive out here without a bodyguard.

  “Who’s this?” Valter asked Grogan. “He has a sword. Two, in fact. I hate swords.”

  Not waiting for Grogan to answer, Niklaus stepped forward. “My name’s Niklaus. And I don’t like having a loaded crossbow pointed at me. Tell your man to stand down, and we can talk. Otherwise I’m leaving.”

  Valter shrugged. “What’s it to me if you leave? You came seeking me. Go, then. At least I can get back to my work without interruption.”

  “You’ve found a way down to deep ruins that few people have seen,” Niklaus said. “You’ve walked ancient cities, seeking their secrets. I’ve been told you’ve found something … special. And I want it.”

  Eckart wouldn’t tell Niklaus what it was, curse him, no matter how much he’d threatened the sorcerer. See for yourself, was all he’d said.

  Valter froze. “No one knows about that. No one could know. Who told you?”

  He wasn’t much good at subterfuge, Niklaus observed. A quick denial would have served him best. “Tell your man to disappear. This is best discussed in private.”

  “And Grogan?”

  “No one would believe him. Cravv addicts will say anything to get their next fix.”

  Grogan stared daggers at Niklaus, but said nothing.

  Valter bent his head to examine his toes. He mumbled to himself for a few moments, then looked up. “Very well.” He turned to the other man. “Jakub, go back, and bring the haul from today, there’s a good lad.”

  The man who thought himself hidden in darkness lowered his crossbow and disappeared down the tunnel.

  “I have a necromancer in my employ,” Niklaus said. “He sensed it when you took the item you found from its resting place. I’ve brought you a gift in exchange for it.”

  He took the grimoire he’d found from his pocket and held it out. Even from this distance, he saw Valter’s eyes widen. The demon stitched in silver thread on the book’s front cover was unmistakable.

  “A grimoire,” Valter breathed. “Where did you get this?” His tongue moistened his lips while his eyes remained greedily on the fell book. “They’ll kill you, you know. The … Tainted Cabal.”

  “I’m still alive. And no one knows I have it. Nor that it has passed to you.”

  Valter laughed nervously. “Grogan does.”

  Niklaus drew his short sword and plunged it into Grogan’s chest. The man groaned and clutched at the blade; it sliced deep into his hands. He glared at Niklaus, then fell slack. Black leaf juice and saliva trickled from his mouth and down his chin. As Niklaus withdrew his sword, the body slumped off the chair onto the dirty floor. He wiped his steel clean on Grogan’s shirt.

  “As I said, no one knows I have it, nor that it passed to you.”

  Cursing, Valter went to the table and poured himself a cup of wine. He gulped it down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “Ikel will want to know what happened to Grogan.”

  Niklaus shrugged. “He fell. Slipped from the path. It was a dark night.”

  “Truly, this place has its dangers,” said Valter, nodding. He held out a trembling hand. “The grimoire first, please. Then tell me what you think I’ve found. I can assure you, if you kill me, you’ll never find it.”

  Niklaus studied the insipid fool. The scholar’s quest for knowledge had made him weak. He heard sounds from the tunnel: the bodyguard returning.

  “This tomb,” he said, “was built to protect its inhabitants, though they were already dead. Already doomed. There was no afterlife for them with their useless spells and ca
rvings. They knew not the difference between mysticism and myths and reality.”

  Valter frowned. “They were ignorant. I am not.”

  “As any ignorant person would say.” Niklaus handed over the grimoire, which Valter snatched greedily, as if he feared it would disappear if he waited too long to claim the malevolent tome.

  “Study it well,” Niklaus said. “I will return to discuss what you’ve learned.”

  He knew that Valter would plumb the knowledge contained in the grimoire in the same way he had plumbed the depths of the ancient cities, searching for knowledge and artifacts. The Tainted Cabal had a unique perspective on immortality, and Niklaus meant to unravel their secrets. By obtaining the artifact from the scholar and using him to unravel the mysteries of the Cabal’s grimoire, Niklaus could kill two birds with one stone.

  Valter hastily stuffed the grimoire into his shirt as his bodyguard stepped into the chamber. Jakub carried a sack slung over one shoulder and his crossbow in his other hand. He was only a young man, barely ready to shave, but he had wise eyes. He’d seen much violence, surmised Niklaus, for one so young.

  “The … ah … what I’ve found,” began Valter, “it is unique. I wonder how you know of it?” He looked at Niklaus expectantly.

  “It suffices that I know. No more questions.”

  Eckart’s progress was slow, but he had found a way to track perturbations in the veil, if only across a short distance. The necromancer had sensed the artifact being unearthed and had felt its power. And had known the artifact was a flawed, but still valuable resource he required to experiment with crossing the veil. Furthermore, he’d discerned the faint trace of another object to the north. Curiously, this aligned with the fresh task Matriarch Adeline had proposed to Niklaus: protecting some squalid village in the north from Dead-eyes.

  “I don’t know what it does,” Valter said nervously. “I don’t know its true value.”

  “Are you trying to bargain after accepting the grimoire? That wouldn’t be wise.”

  As Niklaus expected, Valter backed down. The scholar chuckled nervously, then gestured to Jakub. “Retrieve the object,” he said shortly.

  Jakub frowned, but did as ordered. He thrust his arm deep into the pile of discarded and gnawed bones and drew out a cloth-wrapped bundle. He handed it to Valter. Bone dust lifted from the cloth as Valter unwrapped the parcel, and he waved it away.

  Niklaus saw a glint of metal that quickly dulled, as if drawing the light into itself. The object was a mask, with two empty sockets for eyes and a wide-open mouth, but there its resemblance to humanity ceased. Tiny scales were worked into the face, with small horns dotting the cheeks and chin, while finger-length horns sprouted from the top. It was almost demon-like, though perhaps its creator had seen only drawings, not a live demon. Despite its age, not a spot of rust marred the hideous visage. Valter turned the mask over, and Niklaus saw that its inside surface was covered with sharp spikes the length of a fingernail.

  “As you can see,” Valter said, “I haven’t tried to wear it.”

  When Niklaus took hold of the mask, a chill wave swept through him. He heard something: a weird droning of insects, with unintelligible words weaving in and out of the rustling. A force tugged at him, not physically, but latched onto his soul, as if contorting his very being …

  He flapped the cloth to rid it of more bone dust and rewrapped the mask. For a heartbeat, the world stopped, and the shadow fell from his soul.

  “Where did you find it?” he asked.

  “A long way down. The third city underneath us. There’s …” Valter hesitated.

  “More artifacts? I care not for anything else.”

  “It’s part of a set. At least, that’s what the writings speak of.”

  Niklaus blinked. Possibilities exploded in his mind. “Writings?”

  “The chamber where we found the mask was protected by sorcerous wards, and the floor covered with script. It spoke of an ancient champion, a being who stood against a mighty enemy.” Valter wrung his hands. “Possibly a wraithe, though it could have been one of the Tainted Cabal or a summoned demon. There really is no way to tell.”

  “Were there any other details?”

  Valter nodded eagerly. “There was a name, or at least I think it’s a name. Mert-no-Carysut. It’s Skanuric and roughly translates as ‘divine metal’. The mask must have been crafted from a fallen star.”

  Slowly, Niklaus nodded. A competent translation, but incorrect. Valter’s mistake was one of time. As the centuries passed, texts were damaged or lost, or mistranslated. Current scholars translated “mert” as metal, though at its root, in earlier dialects of Skanuric, it meant “armor”. Armor of Divinity.

  Niklaus breathed deeply to calm his racing heart. He’d seen a reference to divine metal once before, in a fable that told of a hero who’d donned a suit of ensorcelled armor to battle the gods in their own territory. And lost.

  “Metal of divinity, to be exact,” he said, going with Valter’s mistranslation. The scholar didn’t need to know what he’d stumbled onto.

  “Yes, indeed. You are well educated.”

  “I’ve picked up a few things over the years. Thank you,” he added abruptly. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

  “Er, Grogan …”

  Really, do I have to think of all the details?

  “Have Jakub throw him over a cliff.”

  Niklaus turned his back on Valter and Jakub and stumbled across the chamber, clutching the mask. He drew a deep breath of the tomb’s musty air into his lungs. The mask. The Armor of Divinity. He needed time to think. He had to get out of here.

  He turned his back on Valter and Jakub and stumbled across the chamber.

  “Wait!” Valter cried. “When will you return?”

  Niklaus ignored him. Outside, he stopped and leaned against the cliff face. For some reason, he felt dread and longing, an ache in his chest and groin. After searching for centuries, he’d stumbled across a path to his goal. A smile stole across his face.

  The man who’d been trailing him emerged from behind a tree. He was bigger than he’d seemed in the tavern: over seven feet tall, and muscled like he wrestled lions for a living. His arms and neck were ribbed with ritual scarring, and his eyes were sinister glinting spots of blue in the darkness. A massive sword dangled from one overlarge hand; it glowed with an unearthly green hue and had serrated edges.

  Niklaus saw leprous bodies heaped about the base of the tree. It seemed his follower had run into a pack of ghouls, enough to take out half a dozen men. Yet he still stood.

  “The Tainted Cabal have decreed you are to die.” The words were roughly spoken, as if pulled from the man.

  “Oh, come now,” Niklaus said. “I hardly inconvenienced them, and that was years ago. Don’t tell me they’re still looking to even the score? After all this time? Or perhaps this is about what happened the other night?”

  “The Cabal know you killed their demons, and they remember your previous slights. They have long memories.”

  They had to have scryed it was him who’d killed all those demons. Or perhaps Missa had talked? If so, she was probably dead. “And are short on brains, it seems.”

  The big man remained silent.

  Niklaus had expected as much. The warriors the Cabal sent to do their dirty work were usually devoid of humor or conversation. Whatever demonic sorcery was used to control them corroded their minds, but they were deadly all the same.

  He placed the mask on the ground out of the way, then released his chest-harness clasp. The goddess’s sheathed sword swung down to his side. There was always an obstacle in his way. He dealt with one, and ten more appeared.

  “You know what my father said?” he asked the Cabal’s warrior. “No? He said a good big man will always beat a good little man. But he was a fool in so many ways.”

  The green-hued sword lifted, then came toward him with blinding speed as the assassin leaped across the space between them. Niklaus ducked and rolled, comin
g to his feet in time to draw her sword and deflect another slash of the massive blade. Sparks flew.

  Niklaus moved, too quick for the man to counter. He stepped inside his long reach, drove her sword deep into the Cabal’s servant’s guts, ripped upward to disembowel him, and danced backward before the assassin had time to register what had happened.

  A few faltering steps, and realization dawned. Long-fingered hands clutched at his bloody intestines as they slid free. The assassin’s sword clattered to the ground, and a mewl escaped his lips as he stumbled to his knees.

  He looked at Niklaus in horror. “I … I was promised …”

  Niklaus flicked his blade and cut through the assassin’s neck. Crimson spurted, splashing the dirt. The huge man’s eyes rolled into his head, and he fell face forward with a thump, like so much dead meat.

  As always, Niklaus’s eyes were drawn to her sword as the blood coating the blade seemed to evaporate or was absorbed, leaving the metal immaculate. A thrill coursed through his body at the confirmation she still watched over him. He remained hers, chosen.

  And one day, she would be his.

  So the Tainted Cabal wanted him dead. But by sending this oaf, they obviously had no idea who they were dealing with. And it would be months before they realized their assassin had met an untimely end. Niklaus was confident there wouldn’t be any more attempts on his life, at least from the Cabal, in the short term. They might know he’d stolen the grimoire, but the death of one of their twisted minions was no mean feat. That should give them pause.

  He bent and picked up the mask. One piece of the Armor of Divinity. Even just this fragment had secrets to reveal to a sorcerer competent enough. Eckart? Or someone else?

  And if the other pieces were lost, could they be forged anew?

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Gathering of Strangers

  IT WAS A STRANGE sensation, the warmth and serenity Aldric felt when he used the gifts his god had given him. With every healing, the memories of his childhood came back. Sorrow intermingled with the joy of the god’s power flowing through him.