by Walter Rhein
Eight.
Or seven.
Or six remained.
Again, Malik crept forward into the darkness until he came across a blockage deep down the hall.
A door.
He paused, but knew he could not wait. He did not have the time. He must go on. The advantage of surprise wasn’t going to last forever.
Straightening, he leaned back and kicked the door with all his force.
It swung open with a bang.
Two swordsmen were there, waiting for him with bared blades. They strode forward menacingly, and Malik crouched to meet them.
He waited as they came forward, step after step, their swords glistening.
When they were close enough to strike, Malik stepped aside. Lurching beside the door frame and exposing himself to attack, hoping, praying that Gerard’s sons had their bows drawn and ready.
He needn’t have worried.
Two arrows split the night, hissing as they went by.
The quivering shafts embedded themselves into the necks of the enemy with dull thuds.
The Nightshades dropped to the ground, incapacitated or dead, it made no matter.
Malik turned back and waved at the boys with his sword, gesturing for them to move out and regroup with their father. He squinted through the blowing wind and thought he saw blurry shapes moving, but he couldn’t be sure.
He turned back and began picking his way through the bodies, toward the open door.
Six, thought Malik.
Or five, or four.
He smiled.
These were the kind of odds he could manage.
But then a dagger swung up from nowhere and drove deep into his flesh.
Alec and Michael saw Malik wave and stood up without hesitation. The fight had passed them at this position, and they were eager to get back to where they could do some good.
The winds beat against them as they made their way between the trees. Their father was not far, but they were eager to get to him. It made them uncomfortable to think he was out there, alone.
“I don’t like moving away from that light,” Michael said gesturing back toward the flames and screaming to be heard over the blowing wind.
“What?” Alec responded.
“The light,” Michael replied. “It makes us sitting ducks.”
His words were cut off by a black arrow that struck him in the shoulder with such force that he was thrown backwards to the ground.
“Michael!” Alec shouted, but no sooner had the words escaped his lips than another arrow came out of the night and sent him tumbling.
The two brothers lay together, writhing in agony as a tall man stepped from the woods.
“Well, well, well,” the Nightshade said mockingly. “Just a couple of boys causing all this trouble.”
He slipped a dagger from a sheath at his belt.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he growled.
Malik cried out as he felt the bite of steel enter his thigh. He lashed out blindly with his sword, and the blade rang against the hilt of the knife. The wielder had already withdrawn his hand.
Malik shuffled backwards, looking for a wall to put his back against, something solid to support him. He still didn’t know where his attacker had gone, and the thought disturbed him.
“Methinks you’re the one we’ve been looking for,” a voice hissed.
Malik almost slipped in a pool of blood. He continued questing behind with his heels, seeking a solid support. As he moved, he reached down with his right hand and grasped the dagger that protruded from his thigh.
“You’ve caused us no end of trouble, you know.” The voice laughed. “You’ve caused trouble for most of Miscony, for that matter.”
Finally, Malik encountered something solid behind him. It felt like a wooden beam. He rested his weight against it and wrapped his fingers tightly around the hilt of the dagger. Clenching his teeth, he gave it a hard jerk, pulling the knife free. He stifled a gasp and tried not to think about the blood running down his leg.
“How many of you are there?” the voice continued. “You’ve done pretty well so far, I must admit.”
“No tears for your lost brothers?” Malik responded, turning in the direction of the voice.
The speaker gave a harsh laugh.
“Cutthroats and ruffians all of them. To be honest, I’ve often been of a mind to dispatch them myself.”
Suddenly a form lifted itself out of a cubbyhole near the door. Malik hadn’t seen it in the near dark.
The Nightshade smiled, his white teeth glinting in the fire light.
“None of them were in my class,” the Nightshade said, “I’m the best, you see.”
“And the last?” Malik asked hopefully. Maybe the blast had taken care of more of his enemies than he had thought.
“No,” the speaker replied, “the rest have gone outside to hunt your friends.” Malik’s heart sank as the speaker continued. “It’s all over, there’s just the little matter of cleanup to be resolved.”
He drew his sword and stepped forward.
“Let’s see if the Camden Guard is as good as the legends say.”
Malik slumped as if in defeat but he grasped his sword and the dagger tightly. This one was arrogant. That could be used. He wanted the battle over quickly.
The Nightshade picked his way over the bodies and through the flickering timber. His chatter stopped as he focused on the imminent combat.
He was still a few steps away when Malik struck out, thrusting hard and fast with his sword, a precise true cut aiming at his opponent’s neck.
The Nightshade was surprised, but he deflected the blow easily, watching the blade fly safely away with proud, confident eyes.
“Is that the best you—”
His words were cut off as Malik’s other hand, and the dagger it held, connected with the Nightshade’s throat. The impetus of Malik’s charge caused him to crash into his opponent awkwardly, and the two of them tumbled to the ground.
It had been a desperate ploy. Had the killing stroke failed to strike true, Malik would have been off-balance and exposed. But it hadn’t played out that way.
He watched the light flicker and die in the Nightshade’s eyes.
“You talk too much,” he said finally, then he struggled to his feet in search of Father Ivory.
Alec watched the Nightshade approach, his heart quickening.
The dagger was long and curved with a hook at the tip. It was the kind of blade that was useful for taking the skin off an animal. Alec had no doubt that the weapon had been employed in that fashion with humans as well.
He fingered his side for his sword, but he had landed awkwardly and knew he wouldn’t be able to draw it in time.
The Nightshade leered over him.
Suddenly the dark figure’s chest exploded, his eyes widening as he stared down at the blade that had erupted from his body.
For two full seconds, he did nothing but open and close his mouth as gouts of blood spewed out into the snow. Then he crumpled to his knees.
Gerard withdrew his weapon quickly and offered his hand to his boys.
“That’s for Elmshearst,” he spat gruffly at the body.
“Malik’s inside,” Alec said, then groaned at the pain in his arm.
Gerard nodded.
“How many are left?” Michael asked.
“I hunted down two others,” Gerard said bluntly.
“Two?” Michael said incredulously.
Gerard’s eyes twinkled with affection.
“I didn’t want them tangling with my boys,” he said. “That kind of thought gives a man strength.” The veteran smiled and tussled his children’s hair like he had on so many autumn hunting trips. “You lads have done well,” he said, straightening. “Come on, there still might be one or two about, though those who remain will probably be more inclined to take their chances in the wilds after the whipping we’ve given them.”
Despite their wounds, Alec and Michael laughed.
“Damn,” he grumbled. “Careless again!”
The light still flickered behind him and the wood cracked and sputtered, but besides that ambient noise, the hallway was eerily quiet.
With every step, Malik probed cautiously around in the dark, looking for potential assassins in every nook and cranny.
There was nothing.
Only the door at the end of the corridor.
The door with light shining out beneath it.
Malik shuffled along. He made a lot of noise and wasn’t going to surprise anyone.
So be it.
They’d gotten as much as they could out of the surprise anyway.
With four agonizing steps, Malik reached the door. He didn’t have the strength to kick it open, so he reached down and turned the handle.
The door swung wide.
Malik took cover beside the door frame to avoid any attacks.
There was nothing.
Only silence.
Malik peeked around the corner.
The room was well lit. Sitting in the center was what was left of Father Ivory’s last victim. Despite all that Malik had seen in a thousand campaigns, he nearly retched.
The figure was tied to a chair and most of the skin had been flayed from his body. In addition, his abdomen had been cut open, and his entrails were splayed out on his lap and onto the floor. The face was a wash of blood.
Father Ivory stepped into view. His arms were bloodstained up to his elbows and he wore an expression of such self-satisfaction that Malik wanted to vomit again.
“You’ve seen my handiwork,” Father Ivory said coolly.
“Butcher,” Malik replied.
“Ah, so,” Father Ivory responded. He took a step forward and tapped his victim on the shoulder. The bloodied man gave a wet, bubbling sigh.
“He’s still alive?” Malik asked, astounded despite himself.
“For a little while,” Father Ivory said, “I made sure of that, I wanted you to see him when you got here.”
Malik’s face crunched up in confusion.
“Why?”
“I thought it would take the fight out of you. Don’t you see? This is your friend. This is the witch healer’s brother. It’s all over, you have no reason to fight anymore.”
Gerard lifted his two boys’ arms around his shoulders to support them as he walked and then lurched in the direction of the building.
“Dad, the light,” Michael said. “It’s how they got us before.”
“Can’t be helped,” Gerard replied, “I’ve got to get you two inside.”
The wind, which had momentarily died down, picked up again and almost propelled them onward. The three of them stumbled through the burning timbers that flickered and spat with the icy gusts. The flames were dying down quickly. Inside the corridor, they collapsed into a heap.
“Where do you think Malik’s gone?” Alec asked.
His question was answered by a gut-wrenching scream.
Malik howled in fury and stumbled forward, suddenly heedless of the pain in his leg. Father Ivory, despite his arrogance, despite his sense of superiority, skipped backwards in fear, but that wouldn’t save him.
The man had nearly killed Noah. Malik hadn’t recognized him because of all the blood.
Foolish child! How had he come to be here!
Why hadn’t he listened!
Why hadn’t he stayed where he was safe?
Malik’s blood ran like ice water through his veins. His fingers burned, the tips went suddenly numb.
“Lay down your sword,” Father Ivory commanded, reasserting himself. “I’m a member of nobility, you must obey.”
Malik’s eyes narrowed to slits and he limped toward Father Ivory.
The proud priest stood tall, one hand clutching his regal robes. The other pointed at Malik accusingly.
“I am willing to grant you a pardon,” he pronounced. “You were caught up in this mess, but it’s over. You can have a normal life. You can—”
His words were cut off as Malik’s swinging sword severed the priest’s hand from his wrist.
For a moment, Father Ivory could say nothing. He merely grasped the stump of his arm and opened and closed his mouth like a fish.
“You see that?” Malik asked. “That’s reality. Welcome to the real world.”
He chopped again.
For a moment, the fingers of Father Ivory’s second severed hand still clutched the arm he had been holding. Then the hand swung back and forth lazily as the fingers lost their strength, before the whole grizzly amputated limb dropped suddenly to the ground with a thud.
Father Ivory watched it in horror.
“But … but…” he said, incapable of grasping the situation.
Malik was content to try and teach him.
He swung again; this time Father Ivory’s arm was gone at the elbow.
Another swing.
Another piece of arm dropped to the ground.
Swing.
The blade bit deep into the left shoulder.
Swing.
Now it bit deep into the right.
The tall priest suddenly collapsed backwards against the wall. His feet kicked uselessly against the planks.
“Do you understand yet?” Malik said simply. “Do you understand?”
Father Ivory only looked up at him, his eyes staring blankly past the lean warrior.
That was always the way it was with nobility, Malik reflected. They were all so deserving of death that when you finally gave it to them, you found not an ounce of satisfaction or release.
He decided to stop playing.
With a lunge, he drove his sword deep into Father Ivory’s belly. The impulse of the thrust brought him face to face with the dark priest.
Father Ivory gasped, and Malik smelled his foul stink. Hot blood poured from the priest’s wound and scalded Malik’s hand. Yet, the expression on Father Ivory’s face was still mocking and still serene.
“You’ve lost, you foolish peasant, don’t you see?” He smiled, his white teeth stained red with blood. “Who will you follow now, knowing that one of your ‘divine champions’ has been cut to pieces?”
Malik twisted the sword in range and frustration.
Father Ivory winced.
His anguish brought no joy to Malik, for he knew the priest’s words were true.
Gerard and his two sons entered the room to see Malik pushing the limp body of Father Ivory to the ground while extracting his sword.
“God” Gerard gasped, turning his attention to the tortured form sitting in the chair. He lifted his blade resolutely, a sad look in his eyes, “I’ll put him out of his misery.”
Malik reached up and grasped Gerard’s arm with a steel grip.
“It’s Noah,” he said, gesturing weakly at the form.
“Noah?” Gerard said confused. Then he looked again and his eyes widened in horror. Alec and Michael peered around their father to have a look and both of them promptly vomited.
“Is Jasmine here as well?” Gerard asked, grasping at straws. “Can she save him?”
Malik shook his head weakly, and then paused, an idea sparking in his mind. He dropped his sword and leaped to Noah’s side. He grasped the young boy’s mangled arm.
“Noah,” he cried, “can you hear me?”
The mound of agony and blood made a muffled grunt.
“Noah,” Malik cried again, “your sister has the power, perhaps you have it, too. Have you ever tried?”
Noah made a helpless cough. Blood sprayed Malik’s face.
Malik exhaled in frustration and began to push Noah’s intestines back into his body. Tears streamed down his face as his hands were quickly soaked in blood and gore.
“You’ve got to try, Noah. Concentrate. Feel the warmth.”
“Noah!” Malik yelled, shaking the still form desperately. “Do it now!”
Noah lolled again, his neck not strong enough to hold up his head.
Malik clutched him tightly, his fingers squeezing in desperation.
He felt the heat of the boy’s lifeblood pumping through his hands.
The heat of life.
The glow!
All at once, it happened. Malik felt a searing warmth from the young boy’s arm, the same heat he had felt on the several occasions Jasmine had healed him. A bright glow consumed Noah and lit up the room.
Malik stepped back, almost stumbling as the pain from his wounded leg flared up again.
Before their eyes, Noah’s flesh resealed. The blood dried up on his skin, and the expression of agony he wore softened into one of peace. After only a few seconds, Noah was before them and whole.
He opened his eyes.
“Malik,” he whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t stay with Jasmine.”
Noah’s restoration provoked an almost inhuman cry from the corner of the room. Snapping his head to look, Malik was shocked to see Father Ivory huddled in the corner, clutching his mangled abdomen like a rat.
“No,” he said with a spray of spittle and blood emanating from his mouth. “No, he’s dead, I carved him … I…”
Seeing he had left his work unfinished, Malik made to stand and finish the job, but a hand touched his shoulder and stopped him. Looking back, Malik saw it was Noah that restrained him.
Malik gazed at Noah questioningly, but the lad’s eyes never met his. Instead, the boy stood slowly, ceremonially, and walked to the groveling Father Ivory.
“What?” the wounded priest sputtered from his blood-drenched corner. “Do you come to mock me, peasant?”
Noah said nothing, he merely continued walking, still bathed in a sort of internal glow that seemed to illuminate the room.
“I renounce this,” Ivory continued, “I deny it, I forbid it!” He spit, but the sloppy wad didn’t come close to soiling Noah.
The closer he came to the broken priest, the more the proud man’s resolve seemed to weaken. Step by step, Noah advanced, and there was something impervious about his progression. It seemed as if he were an instrument of the gods, some avenging angel come to wreak vengeance against the vile people of the world.