With a heavy heart, Rook snuck quietly down into the basement lab. Galen was the only patient that remained here. Across the street a larger building had been converted into a makeshift hospital and everybody else had been moved there. Though relatively few remained who were injured in the fighting, the influx of people had brought a number of ill, especially from those living out in the tent city beyond the wall.
Diotus was mixing up some sort of tea and handing it to Kierza as Ertrael’s hand, glowing with Caliber light, caressed over Galen’s small chest. Beside Galen’s cot stood his older brothers, Jocab and Tomas. Galen lay still upon the cot, much as he had the last two weeks. His labored, wheezing breaths were easily heard across the room. Rook sighed. Listening to Galen’s pained breaths and seeing the worry in his brothers’ eyes almost made him long for the distraction of the Council again. Diotus took notice of Rook and walked over to him.
“Will Galen survive?” Rook asked quietly as Diotus came to his side. Kierza and Saint Ertrael tried to get Galen to take a sip of Diotus’s medicinal tea but Galen just shook his head and pursed his lips, refusing to drink. Jocab looked over his shoulder and cast Rook a bitter glare.
“It’s hard to say. It’s been some fourteen days and he’s not much better off.” croaked Diotus. “I don’t think he’ll ever breathe properly again. His chest and ribs were crushed. Ertrael healed the bones as best his powers could, but they were grievous wounds. The child should be dead. It’s something of a miracle he is even alive.” Diotus looked at Rook. “If we were in Duroton, I would say bring him to the Grimwatch. The Jinn there can rebuild bodies. But alas, I have neither the skill nor the equipment.” Diotus breathed out. “Still, he’s only five. He’s young and resilient. There is hope.”
Rook squirmed on his feet. Jocab released him from his hateful stare.
Diotus looked up at Rook. “You’ve always done the best you could. Remember that.”
Rook nodded silently, but didn’t exactly agree.
“I must return to my station across the street.” said Diotus, patting Rook on the back. “Galen is in good hands with Kierza and Ertrael. Go home and get some rest. You look tired.”
Rook watched as Galen swatted the cup from Kierza’s hand. The thick, brown liquid splattered on Ertrael’s breastplate and Galen blew a raspberry at them. Kierza looked up at Ertrael and the two laughed as she dabbed the spill from his armor with a rag.
Diotus turned to leave but Rook caught him by the shoulder.
“There’s something I never told you.” said Rook, not really looking at Diotus, just lost in the memory. “There was an old man. He appeared to me in the church when I was a boy. He held a cane that was sprouted with leaves. Through his chest was sunk a sword. He was bleeding from the wound, but somehow it was not frightening. He told me that he had come to visit me, because I had been given a chance to do great good or great evil. He said that all good needs is for one person to have the courage to cast light upon evil. He told me that one day I would stand up, and everybody else would stand with me.”
Diotus cast him a strange look. “That seems to have come to pass.”
“He also told me that when you look upon evil, you must not blink.” Rook cast his eyes to Diotus now. “But that day when I faced Ovid in the warehouse, I blinked. I am cursed, Diotus. Everything I do is tainted by the mark of the demon. Everything I have is his to take.”
Diotus looked at Rook and shook his head. “No.” he said. “He can only take what you feed him. But what you feed him, he shall devour.” Diotus turned and walked up the stairs.
— 30 —
Assassin
Lord Tarquin sat alone in the small chamber he called his study, a room carved from the stone of the mountain. The gaslamps on the walls illuminated the document he had upon the table. It was an old schematic of Brandrir’s arm, with the shaft of the broken Mard Grander used as its primary piston. It was clever of Brandrir to have hidden a piece of the ancient hammer within himself, and he wondered if the rest of the Mard Grander might be hidden within the bodies of Brandrir’s lieutenants. Tarquin tapped a finger on the document as he contemplated that last thought. As he did, a black portal opened beside him and the Ghost stepped out. Tarquin eyed the revenant as it glided forward and looked over his shoulder, eyeing the schematic hungrily.
“You did well to bring me Brandrir’s arm.” said Tarquin, reclining in his chair. He watched for a moment as the Ghost’s expressionless, iron mask stared at the paper. “Diotus.” said Tarquin at last, and the Ghost turned its head toward him. “It’s that name that caught your attention, wasn’t it?”
The Ghost remained silent, but returned its hollow eyes to the paper.
Tarquin chuckled. “You had no idea what this schematic was when you took it, did you? All you saw was the name of Diotus scrawled upon it.” Tarquin supposed it was a happy chance that the same Jinn who had killed Lord Ardur was the same Jinn who had made Brandrir’s arm. He also found it curious how the dead could cling to their anger; how feelings of retribution might transcend the mortal world. “Continue to serve me well and one day I will let you have your vengeance.”
Tarquin rolled up the schematic and placed it on a shelf among other books and documents. Then he walked over to a crude, iron pedestal in the corner of the room. Upon it was what he had taken from Brandrir’s arm. “But first you must help me find the rest of this,” said Tarquin, picking up the object. He marveled at the handle of the Mard Grander, turning the narrow shaft in his hand. It was as black and glassy as star-metal, but within it the light caught a rainbow sheen. Reds, blues, and yellows all moved and sparkled within the blackness the way colors play upon a slick of oil. “The power this thing holds.” said Tarquin. “But where is the rest, Brandrir? Where is the rest?”
A knock on the steel door of the chamber stirred Tarquin from his thoughts and caused the Ghost to stare in its direction. “Enter.” spoke Tarquin, placing the handle of the Mard Grander back on the pedestal.
The door squealed on its hinges as Lord Rodin, one of Tarquin’s Guardians, entered the study. “Commander,” said the armored man, bowing deeply. He had blue waves painted up the sleeves of his orange dragon armor. He looked at Tarquin and swallowed hard, averting his gaze slightly. “A new blacksmith has arrived from Byfrust. Hamir Hothbrook. Says he was sent here on orders by Councilman Balin.” Lord Rodin handed Tarquin a rolled parchment.
Tarquin broke the wax seal and unfurled the document, scanning it with a frown. It was an official order by Councilman Balin for Hamir to serve a duty to the Lands of no less than one year at the Dragon Forge. Tarquin looked up from the paper to see that Rodin had finally taken notice of the Ghost. Startled, the Guardian turned his gaze away from it. Tarquin’s lips curled into a smile. He tossed the document to the table. “Is there something wrong, Lord Rodin?” asked Tarquin.
“No, Commander.” The man shifted uncomfortably on his feet, still not looking Tarquin in the eyes.
“Then look upon your Commander when you address him.” said Tarquin.
“Yes, my Lord.” said Rodin, fixing Tarquin with his gaze. He swallowed hard. Then his eyes returned to the Ghost briefly. He seemed as if he were about to say something but then thought better of his words.
“Is there something else, Lord Rodin?” asked Tarquin.
“It’s… it’s just, the men worry.” said Rodin. He looked at the Ghost and his voice became no more than a whisper, “There are rumors that you are raising the dead, my Lord.”
Tarquin scowled at the man.
Rodin shifted on his feet and returned his eyes to Tarquin. “The men call them the Others.” said Rodin. “And the more who serve you, the more…” His voice trailed off as his eyes went to the floor.
“Go on,” said Tarquin, annoyed. “Out with it.”
“The more you become like them, my Lord.” whispered Rodin. He looked at Tarquin. “The me
n are worried.”
“Are they.” said Tarquin. He turned from Rodin. Upon the far wall was a mirror and Tarquin caught sight of himself in it. The left side of his face that had been withered when Celacia’s aura touched him was now scabbed and pocked with rusty iron as red as blood. Tarquin’s mechanical hand went to the necklace of iron fingernails around his neck. Where once there were three, it was now heavier by two. The five horrific things clacked as he thumbed at them.
“Shall I escort you to Hamir, my Lord?”
Tarquin turned back around to face Lord Rodin. “Tell this blacksmith that I shall meet him momentarily.”
“Yes, Commander.” Rodin bowed and then turned to leave. He stopped, nearly jumping out of his boots. Standing there were the rest of Tarquin’s revenants. Shade, with a red ‘X’ painted on its mask; Specter, with the bloody-looking handprint, and his two newest additions, Shadow and Phantom. Shadow had a red flame painted upon its iron mask; Phantom a skull and crossbones.
“Tell the rest of my Guardians that I shall hear of no more whispered rumors about me or my servants.” said Tarquin. “Tell them that there is a worse fate than death that awaits those who are disloyal to the Dragon Forge, and that is all they need know.”
“Y-Yes, my Lord.”
Like an iron curtain the revenants parted for Lord Rodin and Tarquin watched as he made a quick exit. Then Tarquin looked upon his servants and chuckled. “The Others. I like it.” His flesh hand rubbed at his cheek. It felt rough, hard and cold wherever the iron scabs were. He huffed. He motioned with his hand to his revenants. “Come. Let us meet this blacksmith.”
The five revenants followed Tarquin through the narrow halls and down the steps that led out onto the floor of the Dragon Forge. There, hundreds of workers labored to keep the smelting of scrap metal and ore in full swing. All around great machines rumbled and thundered. Steam billowed from them, cloaking the skull in an eerie fog, diffusing its roaring fires into a soft, orange glow that lit the massive chamber.
Ahead, Tarquin saw Tabar in his leather apron welcoming the newest blacksmith and his entourage of apprentices and helpers. Hamir was a short and stocky man with black hair and a beard. He was much younger looking than Tabar or any of the previous smiths. Tarquin scowled. He didn’t hold much hope for this man, but wondered what credentials he had that Councilman Balin thought it fit to send him here.
Tarquin strode toward the new arrivals when he was wracked by a tremendous impact that blasted a hole wide open in the center of his breastplate. Tarquin fell backward, hardly aware of what had just happened. Laying on his back, he found himself staring up at the maze of rusty ductwork hundreds of feet up. For an instant he caught the gleam of green goggles in the shadows of the catwalks and he came to a sudden realization: He had been hit by a bolt-thrower, but the surrounding machinery had drowned out its blast. Tarquin rolled just as a fiery flash ignited in the high walkways. A second later and a hole was blown open in the floor where he had been laying.
The revenants encircled Tarquin protectively as he struggled up to his feet. He looked at his chest, half expecting to see blood and mangled flesh. But he had been lucky. The shot had torn a huge hole in his steel breastplate right over his heart. However, his mechanical left arm had a thick, steel plate that affixed over his shoulder and came down over his chest. That plate was fractured, but the bolt had not penetrated it.
Tarquin growled as he ripped off his ruined breastplate with his mechanical hand, exposing his bare chest and torso. As one, his revenants all drew long, black daggers and stared up at the ceiling. The Ghost was about to walk through a portal when Tarquin caught its shoulder. “No!” he barked. “This one is mine!”
Tarquin unsheathed Whisper and swiped his thumb over the activation rune. An instant later and he was up on the rusty catwalks, hundreds of feet above. Here, everything was in darkness and shadow. Beneath him the glowing steam around the skull lay like a fiery abyss. Above his head, massive pipes and ducts of rusty steel ran this way and that, and huge ventilation fans rumbled and roared, blowing hot breath as they spun. At the end of the catwalk Tarquin saw a cloaked figure. Its face was concealed behind a veil of black fabric, though its green-lensed goggles stared at Tarquin as it frantically worked to reload a long, narrow sniping rifle.
Tarquin charged forward as the gun barrel was raised to him. He waved his sword and disappeared and then reappeared directly behind the Jinn just as fire erupted from the muzzle and the loud JINK echoed off the steel ductwork.
The Jinn spun and fired again, but Tarquin knocked the barrel aside with Whisper. The deadly projectile punctured a pipe in the ceiling a few yards away and it squealed as it sprayed clouds of steam. The rusty catwalk shook as the Jinn leapt backward from Tarquin, dropping the rifle before whipping a volley of daggers from its sleeve. Tarquin flourished his sword, casting aside two of the knives but a third struck his mechanical arm, sparking off of it. Tarquin fixed the Jinn with his eyes and scowled. With a growl he charged forward, flourishing Whisper in deadly motions.
The Jinn drew a large pistol from his pocket and raised the barrel. Just before Tarquin was on him, it fired and the Jinn leapt from the catwalk, swinging on the grappling line it had just shot. The Jinn swung around and landed on top of a large, rusty duct and began running, its footsteps echoing within the boxy construction.
Tarquin cursed and waved Whisper. An instant later and he was on top of the duct, just in front of the Jinn. The Jinn skidded to a stop and threw something to the ground before Tarquin had a chance to engage. Tarquin leapt off the duct as an explosion rocked it, lighting up the spiderweb of pipes and catwalks in a ball of fire. As Tarquin fell he waved Whisper and once again reappeared atop the duct, right behind the Jinn.
Seeming to sense Tarquin behind, the Jinn leapt off the duct and landed on a narrow, rusty catwalk a few feet below. Tarquin jumped down after it in pursuit. The catwalk branched off in a couple directions and Tarquin waved Whisper as the Jinn feinted right. Tarquin appeared where the Jinn would have been had it not scrambled in the other direction. Tarquin cursed as he saw the Jinn jump up onto a ladder and then leap off onto a network of huge pipes, disappearing into the shadows.
With a wave of Whisper Tarquin appeared on the pipes. There were four of them, each a good four-feet in diameter and they were all strapped together by steel bands, creating something like a roadway between huge ducts on either side. Fiery light seeped up from between the pipes, illuminating the shadowy maze that Tarquin found himself in. He looked around but didn’t see anything, nor could he hear anything above the tumult of the roaring fans above and the heavy machinery below.
Cautiously, Tarquin moved forward with Whisper out defensively. Ahead, the pipes bent around a corner that was obscured by the huge ducts. He pressed himself against the hot, rumbling wall of the duct and peered around the corner. About fifteen-feet away there was a rusty ladder leading up. Tarquin turned the corner, but as he did something dropped down onto the pipes behind him.
Tarquin spun, getting his sword up just in time to deflect a dagger strike. The Jinn stabbed down at him again, but Tarquin bent low and turned, coming up on the Jinn’s side. He swung Whisper around but the Jinn tumbled beneath the strike and past him.
As the Jinn came up to its feet and turned to face Tarquin, it clicked its heels together to deploy serrated blades at the tips of its boots. The Jinn threw its dagger and Tarquin turned to the side, narrowly dodging it. The Jinn spun in with a kick and Tarquin stumbled backward as its bladed boot cut him across the belly.
Cursing, Tarquin moved in, swinging Whisper around. The Jinn flipped backward, avoiding the strike, and tossed something to the ground before running toward the ladder. There was a flash of blinding light and a cloud of green, noxious fumes engulfed Tarquin. Holding his breath, he waved Whisper and appeared on the other side of the toxic cloud and scrambled after the Jinn who was already up the ladder.
; The ladder led up onto a network of narrow catwalks and Tarquin raced down them, quickly catching up. As he came upon the Jinn he saw it reaching into its robe for something. He waved Whisper and appeared right above the Jinn, tackling it to the ground as he landed.
Now on top of the Jinn, Tarquin saw the gleam of a knife in its gloved hand. With his mechanical hand, Tarquin grabbed the Jinn’s wrist and then flipped it around to the dagger-hand, causing the Jinn’s wrist to be twisted and wrenched. It screamed and dropped its blade as the bones in its wrist cracked and snapped. Tarquin now held his dagger-hand to the Jinn’s throat, and with his flesh hand tore the black veil and green goggles from its face. The Jinn wailed as a wet suction released the goggles from its eyes. With them, thin, copper wires slick with blood were pulled out from its empty eye sockets.
Tarquin’s lips furled in anger as he came to recognize the face. “Ganomir.” he growled.
The Jinn clenched his eyes shut, blood oozing out from them. Long, gray hair with a few streaks of black fell out from his hood now. He panted to catch his breath, but the old man did not struggle against Tarquin. “I didn’t want to believe it true, but now I have seen it.” said Ganomir. “You make debt upon the Lands, Lord Tarquin. And your face—what have you done, my Knight? What have you done?”
“Who sent you!” barked Tarquin, bashing the old man’s head against the grated steel of the catwalk. “Who sent you!”
“You may kill me, but do not think you have won, Lord Tarquin.” said Ganomir. “You dabble in forbidden magic, and for it you will pay a far worse price than I would have dealt you.”
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