Decimus Fate and the Butcher of Guile: (Decimus Fate - Book 2)

by Peter A Flannery

  ‘Don’t threaten me, wizard! You might have fooled me once, but now you really will die,’ he added with wicked glee. ‘Did you really think my son would have better protection than me?’ Here he glanced at the Tutor. ‘Your pet demon hunter might have bested my son’s Don’Sha’Vir, but even he is no match for two of the Don’Sha’Mort.’

  Even now, Fate did not seem overly concerned and Motina shifted position as she saw him reach up to the left shoulder of his robes. He took hold of something, although it was too far away for Motina to see what it was.

  ‘Ah, the arrogance of the rich,’ said Fate. ‘Always so confident in the protection they can buy, but no Alfredo, it is you who will die tonight.’

  Reaching out his hand Fate made as if to drop something then stopped as if an invisible force had caught hold of his arm.

  And now Motina sensed something else… the shadow of a dark soul over to her left. Quickly her eyes scanned for the source and there it was, a column of dark smoke that coalesced into the form of a woman dressed in sackcloth with a shaved head and a crude white cross drawn across the sunken features of her face. It was the leader of the Black Pact witches and she held her heron-skull wand at arm’s length as she slowly advanced on Fate.

  Lord Medici was clearly surprised by the sudden appearance of the witch, but he recovered his composure quickly and smiled.

  ‘You were saying?’ he asked of Fate. ‘Something about one of us going to die?’ He glanced at the Tutor as if he knew the man was doomed then, with a wave of his hand, he directed the Don’Sha’Mort to attack.

  41

  Evening the Odds

  The moment he felt the invisible force, Fate knew exactly what it was. The magic that held him had the distinctive signature of a witch; earthy and organic, not the polished energy of someone who had spent years perfecting their art. But the purity of this energy had been corrupted. What originally sprang from the living forces of nature was now poisoned and tainted by the befouling touch of the Daemonaria. And yet that connection to the demon realm made the magic more powerful, so powerful that Fate could not break free.

  Craning his neck around, he saw the leader of the Black Pact witches standing on the grass, arm outstretched and pointing at him with the bleached shard of a heron-skull wand. Fate tried to pull away, but his arm felt like it was trapped in a bed of hot sand. Cursing his carelessness, he glanced at the Tutor who adopted a defensive stance as the black-robed Don’Sha’Mort attacked.

  The two desert warriors came in fast, one throwing out a mental snare to pull the Tutor off balance, while the other cast forth a screed of magic shale that burned into the demon hunter’s armour, clothes and skin alike. And as they came, they drew their swords, two curved blades shining black and wicked sharp.

  The Tutor stumbled slightly from the pull of mental force. He squinted against the spray of burning stones, but other than that he remained composed. As soon as the Don’Sha’Mort appeared he realised there would be no time for a slow build-up of tempo, no feeling out an opponent before launching an attack. No, on this occasion he needed to explode into violence and that is precisely what he did.

  Fate had now seen the Tutor fight on a number of occasions and he was always impressed by the man’s speed and skill, but this was something more. In the fading light, the heart-stone in the pommel of the Tutor’s blade flared brightly as he charged forward to meet his opponents who seemed surprised by the fact that he had chosen to attack.

  The three combatants became a blur of rapid movement and lethal steel. Meanwhile, Lord Medici was screaming at the witch who still held Fate in her magical grip.

  ‘Kill him!’ he cried.

  ‘I can’t,’ hissed the witch. ‘He is trying to do something that has the touch of magic. If I let him go then he might succeed.’

  Focussing his mind, Fate tried again to move his hand, tried to let go of the tiny object he was holding. His willpower was far stronger than the witch’s, but without using his magic he could not break free of hers.

  ‘Sisters!’ cried the leader as she attempted to recall the other members of the coven. ‘If you have not yet completed the journey home, then return to me… return to me now.’

  Her voice was tight with the effort of restraining Fate while the Tutor continued to do battle with the Dan’Sha’Mort.

  At first it looked like the demon hunter would be overwhelmed, but the mystic warriors had never faced a Hadean blade before. Normally they would add magical attacks to the physical assault, but now they needed to channel power into their swords to prevent them from being cloven in two by the Tutor’s glowing blade. This effectively negated their magical powers, levelling the confrontation and turning it into a competition of martial skill, a quality in which Alexander Teuton excelled.

  The exchange between them was fast and brutal. For all his skill, the Tutor struggled to counter the attacks from two deadly opponents. It was only a matter of time before one of those curved blades found its way through his defences so he went on the attack once more. With a series of kicks and vicious sword cuts he closed on one Don’Sha’Mort and slammed the pommel of his sword into the side of the nomad’s head. The blindfolded figure stumbled backwards, the arcane symbols branded in his skin flaring with light as their unholy magic resisted the force of the blow.

  The second Don’Sha’Mort now took the opportunity to attack, but once again the Tutor was too fast and, with a rapid cut, his sword sliced down across the nomad’s face and chest. The glowing blade nicked the Don’Sha’Mort’s jaw and cut a gash into his neck and chest. The nomad fell onto his back, his free hand trying to staunch the flow of blood from the mortal wound on his neck.

  And then several things happened at once…

  The Tutor dropped his sword as the first Don’Sha’Mort struck his arm with a bolt of magical force…

  Three more columns of smoke rose up from the ground as three more witches appeared on the lawn…

  And the leader of the witches smiled as she realised that victory was now theirs.

  ‘Heal the Don’Sha’Mort,’ she commanded one of the witches. Then… ‘Lend me your strength,’ she told the remaining two who drew their wands as they prepared to give the leader enough magical energy to kill Fate.

  And through all this, Fate continued to struggle against the force that held him fast. To one side, he saw one of the witches kneel beside the wounded Don’Sha’Mort. Using her wand, the woman opened a rift into the Daemonaria before untying the dark crystal spheres from her belt. Despite his own predicament, Fate felt sick. He knew that the faeries inside those crystals could be traded for healing powers from the demonic realm.

  To the other side, Fate saw that the Tutor had now lost his sword to a bolt of magical force.

  Such a blast of magic would have broken the demon hunter’s arm were it not for the tattoo on his chest. Beneath his black leather doublet, the enchanted tattoo shone brightly as it absorbed the deadly magic. The Tutor had no time to retrieve his sword as the uninjured Don’Sha’Mort attacked him once more. The assassin aimed a downward blow and, with no sword to block it, the Tutor reached up to catch the mystic’s arm. The two figures now grappled for dominance and the Tutor might have prevailed, but then the Don’Sha’Mort’s body flared with magical flames as his entire body was engulfed in a burst of immolation. The demon hunter tattoo might allow the Tutor to resist the magical flames for a few seconds, but any longer and his flesh would begin to burn.

  Seeing all this, Fate clenched his jaw in frustration. If he could not release the object he was holding they were both going to die. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he tried to open his fingers as he forced his hand down towards the ground.

  The leader of the witches gave a hiss of effort as she began to lose her grip on Fate.

  ‘Sisters, help me!’ she cried and Fate’s body froze as the two remaining witches added their strength to her own.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ cried Medici. ‘Kill him now!’
>
  The leader’s withered lips drew back in a snarl as tendrils of black smoke suddenly rose up from the grass at Fate’s feet. The dark smoke spread up Fate’s body before streaming into his eyes, nose and mouth. His vision darkened and his breath was choked off as the smoke filled his lungs. With just seconds of consciousness remaining, he made a final effort to open his fingers, but now the power of three dark witches was focused on him and there was no way he could break free.

  Meanwhile, the dark sister trying to heal the injured Don’Sha’Mort was kneeling between the assassin and the rift that glowed with the angry light of fire. Taking one of the crystal spheres, the witch spoke the words of a spell, trading the life-force of a faerie for the power to heal the Don’Sha’Mort. Putting one hand on the assassin’s chest, she crushed the sphere to reveal a small male faerie. Grasping the tiny body, she thrust the faerie into the demonic flames, gasping with pain as she snatched her hand back from the rift from where a high-pitched scream of anguish could now be heard.

  And there it was…

  The Tutor struggled, Fate began to fade, and a faerie writhed in agony as Varna Motina struck.

  It had taken the housekeeper several frustrating minutes to clamber over the wall before scrabbling down on the other side. Her thin arms were not long enough for her to reach the ground and she twisted an ankle as she landed among the bushes inside Medici’s grounds.

  Cursing her frailty, she pushed her way through the bushes and limped onto the lawn where she could see the Tutor wrestling with the Don’Sha’Mort who was now covered in a skin of dark flames. She saw Fate still frozen in place, his body wreathed in clouds of dark smoke. And finally she saw the witch kneeling beside the wounded Don’Sha’Mort. She saw the foul woman break the crystal sphere before placing a faerie into the furnace heat of the demonic realm. Motina heard the cry of unspeakable pain as the faerie’s life-force was converted into healing energy. The cut in the Don’Sha’Mort’s neck closed up with unnatural speed and the witch rejoined her sisters as the wounded mystic got back to his feet.

  Horrified by all the evil on show, Motina drew the thin piece of hazel she was using as a wand. She knew the green stick could not withstand much power, but it was all she had. Drawing in the natural forces from all the plants and animals in Medici’s garden she bound that energy to her own and channelled it through the soft fibres of her wand.

  A twisting shaft of light shot out of the wand which split and burst asunder in Motina’s hand. It was all the wand could handle, but it was enough. The burst of light struck the leader of the witches in the shoulder, burning her dress and searing the withered flesh of her face. With a scream of pain, the leader staggered to the side, her dress and face smoking from the force of Motina’s spell.

  Recovering quickly, the leader turned to see where this attack had come from, as did her three dark sisters standing close by. All four witches stared at Motina who stood her ground as she met the fury in their sunken eyes. The four witches immediately recognised Motina as a magic-user from Karuthia, one of the few who had escaped the genocide that they had helped to commit. Their faces were filled with hatred and arrogance. They were four, all strong and hale, and each with a heron-skull wand, while the housekeeper was small, frail and wandless.

  And yet Motina smiled.

  She smiled, and a fierce fire burned in her small black eyes.

  ‘Oh, Tu niekšinga ir be krūtų paršavedė,’ she said in Karuthian. ‘Leisk man supažindinti jus… su Likimu.’

  Which, roughly translated meant…

  ‘Oh, you vile breastless sows. Let me introduce you... to Fate.’

  At this, the four witches looked round to see that Fate was no longer frozen with his arm stretched out, no longer straining to release the thing he held between his finger and thumb. The sorcerer was now kneeling on the grass. The black smoke still lingered around his body, but his dark eyes glittered with gold as he pushed the tiny parasol of a dandelion seed into the earth of Medici’s lawn.

  ‘NO!’ screamed the leader of the witches as the air was suddenly filled with the scent of silver celandine.

  With the witches now focused on Fate, Motina hobbled past to see if she could save the faerie. Throwing herself to the ground she reached into the rift from where the screams of the tortured soul still pierced the evening air. The intense heat burnt Motina’s arm, but she did not pull away as she searched for the tiny form of the Diminutia. Finally, her fingers closed around something more delicate than a fledgling wren and she withdrew her arm, the skin of which was now blistered and burned. Ignoring her own pain, Motina cradled the tiny faerie to her chest and summoned all the healing power she could muster, hoping against hope that this desperate soul had not endured too much.

  Even as Motina slumped back from the rift, so the lawn bucked with a pulse of power and the four witches stared at the spot where Fate had planted the seed.

  ‘What?’ cried Lord Medici. ‘What’s happening?’ and then he looked on in horror as a whirlwind of dandelion seeds suddenly erupted from the ground writhing and twisting until they dissipated to reveal the tall figure of a man, or rather a faerie that looked like a man. Dressed in dark green robes that swirled like smoke, the figure took a moment to take in his surroundings as a dozen pale blue orbs appeared in the air around him.

  It was Carduus, Lord of the Thistleblade Sword. When he first appeared he wore a smile of dark amusement. However, as he absorbed the scene, his expression changed to one of anger. Eyes of liquid silver began to glow like white-hot steel and a low growl rose in his throat as he looked at the dark spheres hanging from the witches’ belts. His gaze then shifted to the Don’Sha’Mort, one now standing after being healed, and one covered in flames as he grappled a demon hunter with deep blue eyes. The frown on the faerie lord’s brow deepened as he recognised the Don’Sha’Mort as men who had been empowered by the sacrifice of faerie souls.

  ‘And what do we have here?’ he asked in a dark and menacing tone.

  ‘This is private property!’ cried Medici with the arrogance of a man who had not yet realised that all his wealth and power suddenly meant nothing.

  Carduus looked at him with utter contempt before switching his gaze back to the witches and the Don’Sha’Mort.

  ‘I think it’s time we evened up the odds, don’t you?’ he asked of no one in particular, and then he gave a sigh as the twelve blue orbs assumed their faerie form, transforming into the warrior sprites known as Lannari. ‘It would appear the demon hunter has lost his sword,’ said Carduus and four of the Lannari flew down to lift the Hadean Blade from the ground. ‘And maybe we should give him a little space so he can face his opponent man-to-man, or man-to-monstrosity, as appears to be the case.’

  The smile in the faerie’s eyes was dark and mirthless as green vines now snaked up from the grass to pull the burning Don’Sha’Mort away from the Tutor who drew a breath of relief to be free of the flames. Then he opened his hand as the Lannari held out his sword.

  ‘I’m sure the demon hunter would like to conclude this combat himself,’ suggested the faerie lord.

  ‘Indeed, I would,’ answered the Tutor and a touch of warmth crept into Carduus’s eyes.

  ‘Then my daughters shall dispatch the second abomination, while I destroy four murdering whores who despoil the very idea of what it means to be a witch.’

  The faerie lord turned back to the witches then staggered as three bolts of shadow-force punched into his body while a fourth attack summoned a swarm of faerbane flies, the bite from which could be deadly to faeries.

  Strong as they were, the shadowy bolts of energy seemed to have little effect on Carduus. The faerie’s swirling green robes simply absorbed the attacks, only darkening slightly as the harmful energy was dispersed. As for the flies… they formed a dense cloud that flew straight for his face, but Carduus merely lowered his brow and uttered a single word.

  ‘Sruthán,’ he said in the language of Faerie… burn.

  The swarm of faerb
ane flies instantly ignited, each one glowing brightly for a second before falling to the ground in a shower of black ash.

  ‘Withdraw!’ cried the leader of the Black Pact witches as she realised this enemy was beyond their power to defeat. The other three witches needed no further command and the ground at their feet grew black as each of them began to disappear within a rising column of smoke.

  ‘I think not,’ said Carduus and reaching out his hands he appeared to take hold of the three escaping witches, his fingers curving into claws as if he could snag their souls in his grasp. Fearing for their lives, the witches increased the power of their inter-planar spells, straining to break free of the faerie’s grip.

  Seeing that Carduus was occupied with her three sisters, the leader decided she had just enough time to end the life of a magic-user who had escaped the Karuthian purge. As her own column of smoke curled about her body, the leader raised her wand to aim a lethal spell at Motina who was still cradling the injured Diminutia.

  The deadly curse was forming in the witch’s throat, but it failed to reach her lips as Fate stabbed her with a dragon-handled dagger. The witch’s sunken eyes went wide, black and empty as the pits of hell and then the veins beneath her skin shone white as her link to the demonic realm was cauterised.

  All the power she had bought with the suffering of others was suddenly expunged. She turned to look at Fate, her face contorted with rage, but the sorcerer was not intimidated. With one swift motion, he whipped the blade of his dagger across the woman’s throat. She collapsed in a heap of sackcloth and withered flesh, her blood spilling like fine black sand from the ragged gash on her throat.

  To either side, her three sisters were being slowly pulled down to the ground where the grass of Medici’s lawn seemed to have melted away to reveal a dense tangle of crimson-stemmed brambles. But these were no ordinary brambles… these were rubus carnivora, a dangerous plant from the Wilderlands of Faerie. Their barbed stems hooked the unwary, digging deeper and tighter as one struggled to break free. And thus the victim would be held; bound by hooked cords, slowly dying until their decaying corpses broke down to feed the soil in which the carnivora grows.