by James Duvall
“You know, the last time I saw someone that nicely dressed in the slums, someone was holding him for ransom.”
“Maybe he got lost?” Thabe shrugged.
“And found his way comfortably into a criminal's home? He'd been living there.”
“Come off it, Anthony.” Thabe said, exasperated. “Where's your mind headed with this?”
“Who else would go to the trouble of stealing a priest's bones from St. Penathor's crypt?”
Thabe looked up from his freshly filled mug just to get a look at Graham's face and see if he was serious. Graham did not give an inch. Thabe shook his head in disbelief and took a long draft from his stein.
“Anthony,” he said, looking him in the eye again. “You're arguing that a man's a warlock because a werewolf stuck a knife into the poor sod next to him.”
“Not exactly compelling, is it?” Graham asked, somberly.
“No Anthony, it's not,” Thabe said, shaking his head. “Any luck on the wolf hunt? Much more pressing than grave robbers, if you ask me. And I notice no one is...”
“Actually...”
“What? You think you know where it is?”
“She's holed up at St. Penathor's,” he admitted.
Thomas Thabe took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, whistling softly. He leaned back so far in his chair that it creaked and threatened to tip until it found support against the wall. Graham could see the disbelief in Thabe's eyes as he sat there in stunned silence, staring back at him across the table. Twice Thabe opened his mouth to say something without uttering a syllable. Finally he spoke.
“You're telling me there's a werewolf hiding in St. Penathor's? And you know about it?”
“I'm telling you and only you,” Graham said, pointedly. “Her name is Kaidira Nightsparrow. She's a member of the clergy and she declared Sanctuary.”
This was not the whole truth, but Graham found it hard to interpret crawling injured into the church as anything but a plea for help and in his mind that encompassed sanctuary, particularly for one of her ilk.
“I don't think I'd care to confess to her,” Thabe ruminated aloud, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Probably come straight through the wall, claws bared.”
“Wouldn't be the first time a priest kicked in the confessional door to get at you, Thomas,” Graham mused. Thomas forced a laugh, but his tightly pursed lips and the cold sheen of his eyes told of his anger.
“So how'd you find out?” he asked.
“She was hunting the warlock. Told me herself the same night we found those bones were missing. Warrick got a good piece of her. They've got her stashed away somewhere nursing her back to health. Father Harig will send a boy when she can talk to us.”
“You knew she was in the city?”
“Apparently she's been around for quite a while,” Graham said. He had tried to guess how long, but found the implications unpleasant. He wanted to believe this was her first time to return since the War of Ashes, but he was not a naïve man. “I don't know how long.”
“Clever, setting her loose on the warlock. Dangerous strategy, but if she's as ruthless as the wolves I've seen...”
“She's not like any I've seen,” Graham interjected. “Ever heard of a werewolf that keeps itself whole during the full moon?”
He had trouble believing it himself until the night he'd found her on the battlefield, tending to the wounded. Her eyes burning sapphire in the shadowy light of the full moon. Even with the curse brimming in her eyes she walked upright, still spoke with that calm clarity that pervaded her speech. Just as though it had been any other night, as though there were not cannons pounding at the walls and smoke filling the streets.
“Maybe she's not even a werewolf,” Thabe speculated.
“She's got the eyes, and I've never known anyone to call himself one that's not,” Graham answered.
“You trust her?”
“I do,” Graham said without hesitation.
“Idiot,” Thabe spat, reaching for his drink. His breath already stank of it. He spotted the wrinkles of concern over Graham's watchful, worried blue eyes. “And don't you get started on me. You're the one hiding werewolves in the church.”
“Thomas, you mustn't tell anyone.”
“Of course,” Thabe said, gruffly. “I'm a drunkard Anthony, not some beast. I'm your man; you know that. You should know that.” He lifted his mug and tipped it toward his friend, spilling some of the amber froth over the side. He drained what was left and slammed it down hard enough to send a lightning bolt-shaped crack spidering up the side. He stood quickly, shoving his chair back.
“Keep us and Guide us, and God save the king,” he muttered as he walked out the door.
***
The subtle ache in her leg kept Kaidira company through the night. She laid on the closet floor, looking up at the choir robes. The smell of fresh linen and old books was soothing, reminding her of better times. There was another scent, much more subtle, of cold stone and moss. It made her grateful for the blanket she'd been laid out on. She didn't need a window to tell it was the night out; the church was quiet and the flame of her curse had brightened in the past hours. Cool sapphire light poured from her eyes and brightened her little sanctuary in its soft radiance.
At some point she must have dozed off because she found herself coming around, wrested from her sleep by angry shouting; never a good sign in her experience. She sat up much too quickly and was reminded of her condition by the sharp protest of her leg. Slowly and deliberately she eased the door open and peered out through the narrow gap into Harig's dimly lit office: no one. So far so good. She slipped out and hurried to the office door, light on the pads of her inhuman feet.
A shadow fell across the door briefly and moved on, but not before making her heart leap into her throat. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded in her chest. Her leg throbbed in renewed ache as blood raced through it, awakening nerves she tried to will back to sleep. Whoever it had been, they had no interest in what was hiding in Harig's office. Kaidira could hear them running toward the steps. She edged toward the door on quiet paws. She could still hear shouting; time to disappear. She poked her head into the hallway and found it as empty and devoid of life as the crypts beneath her.
Harried by the thought of imminent discovery, Kaidira raced for the stairs. Halfway up she found she was trapped in the lower level.
“There is a werewolf here,” Sir Richard Longstrom was shouting in the vestibule, “and we are going to find her!”
His was a voice that Kaidira barely recognized. Carefully she slipped behind a pillar and peered out from the shadows. Richard was a knight, a tall man with dark hair, long and curly. Father Harig stood in the way, blocking Richard and his men from the stairs. Father Galford stood by him, out of breath and holding his side to keep his ribs from cracking beneath the force of his heaving lungs.
“This is a holy place,” Harig rebutted. He stepped up onto the dais and took his place behind the podium. Sacrys and Dakrym watched over him from above. He smiled up at their images. “St. Penathor's church is a sanctuary to all that seek it. You may not enter this house of worship with violent intent.”
Kaidira couldn't help but smile a little in spite of her pain. Harig was holding his own.
“Very well,” Richard said, he turned away from Harig to address his men.
“The good priest says we can't hunt werewolves here,” he said with a smile. “I suppose we can just wait outside for the monster to come out. Is that what you want, priest?”
Harig pointed to the door. “Sir, you may wait all you like.”
All at once Richard's face darkened. He turned quickly and drew his sword. “I think we've waited long enough...”
“Harig!” Kaidira shouted. Harig's blood spattered across the white stone floor. The old priest clutched at the weeping wound, his lips forming words without sound. As though unaware of the old man dying at his feet, Sir Richard's gaze was focused on the sapphire orbs that h
ad appeared in the dark of the chapel.
“Seize her!”
“Y-you killed Father Harig!” Father Galford said, pointing a trembling hand. He retreated into the chapel, holding his hands up. After a moment he seemed to find his courage and straightened up. “I will not let you take her. You have violated the sanctity of this holy place. In Ilsador's name I beg of you to leave.”
Richard advanced on him with dark intent. “The old man was harboring monsters. Do not make the same mistake, father.”
“This is a place of sanctuary! Take what is left of your honor, and go.”
Richard put his sword to the Father Galford's throat and looked to Kaidira with death in his eyes.
“I will kill him,” he declared to the dark, and Kaidira knew he meant it.
Galford sank to his knees with his hands clasped white-knuckle tight against his chest. “Please! Do not do this!”
“Come out of the shadows, werewolf,” Richard demanded. Kaidira stepped out, surveying him as prey. There was too much distance between them, she wouldn't make it to him before he ran Galford through.
“On your knees,” he commanded.
Kaidira hesitated. Richard prodded at his prisoner's throat, eliciting a sharp cry of fear and pain. Kaidira dropped to her knees slowly, favoring her wounded leg.
“Let him go,” she demanded. The knight's men surrounded her, spears at ready. She gave them a cold look and bared her teeth, giving them something to consider should any think to get their courage up.
“That's a good girl,” Richard said.
He knelt by Galford's side and peered into his panic-stricken face. “You look absolutely dreadful.”
Richard stood and offered the trembling priest his hand.
“Yes... yes, its been a very long night,” Galford answered numbly, reaching for it.
“You are relieved of your duties, ” Richard said, and drove his sword through the man's chest. Kaidira felt an old anger brewing within her as she could only watch as the life flowed out of Father Galford. Inside she screamed for him, wailed and thrashed and raged. Outside she watched with trembling hands, quivering lips, and watery eyes as his blood mingled with dear old Harig's and together they stained the grout with testament to their murders.
Perhaps Dakrym will wait a few seconds for me, Kaidira thought. She imagined getting her claws into the knight's throat and tearing until there was little left but gurgling and blood and bone. Her jaws slavered for his blood. His glorious, glorious blood.
A growl rumbled up into Kaidira's throat as he drew close to her. The blood of priests still dripped from his sword.
“Monster!” Kaidira spat. Richard stopped in his tracks and put his hand to his chest.
“Me?” he asked, taken aback. He looked back and forth at his men, feigning hurt. Both of them chuckled.
“This is the king's justice. What horrors those men inflicted upon this city by letting you loose upon the innocent. No doubt they hoped your reign or terror would drive their flock back to them in droves. They were the monsters, and were dealt with as such. You should thank me, I am going to do you the service of freeing you from this cursed existence. With one little swish of my blade I will release you from your suffering; more than your god ever did for you, werewolf. Try to think of this as redemption, you ilsadorians like that idea don't you?”
Kaidira did not answer, just growled and lowered her head. The moonlight coming through the stained glass windows cast a faint shadow of Richard on the floor behind him. Kaidira watched, waiting for her moment. With two spears at her back he would need to be closer, it would have to be the last possible instant.
“Let's be through with it, shall we?” Richard asked, stepping up to her. The sword in the shadow swung up, and Kaidira followed. She lunged in to fill the void, slashing at her would-be executioner's throat. Her wound had made her slow and her prey narrowly ducked away, avoiding the fatal blow. A second, desperate strike caught the retreating knight across the temple, slashing crimson trails across his eye. He screamed in pain and fell back against the wall. His sword clattered to the ground at his feet. For an instant her eyes fixed on his vulnerable frame and the unclaimed sword that had murdered her friends, but Richard's men were upon her and the adrenaline was beginning to fade, her leg throbbed in protest.
“Kill her! Kill her!” Richard shouted over and over.
As Kaidira hit the bottom of the steps she could still hear his furious cries. Behind her the soldiers watched from atop the stairs, arguing as she left St. Penathor's behind her.
“Well? after her!” One hissed at the other.
“Someone should stay for Sir Richard! He's hurt!” the other protested. “You go!”
For a moment they stood at impasse, glaring at one another and then looked up at the fleeing werewolf. She was almost gone. Somewhere in the silence they reached an unspoken truce and both returned to the chapel to tend to the wounded knight.
Kaidira found refuge in the hay loft of a quiet stable. Through the window she could see the church's steeple rising above the city. Her sanctuary had become a tomb for the men that had protected her, and tonight the solitude felt like desolation. She would remember their sacrifice, and she would remember Richard Longstrom, but tonight she hung her head, and wept.
***
Anthony Graham surged through the palace halls like a storm through a rocky canyon. The roar of his approach gave little warning for all to make way, lest they be caught up in the fury of his tempest. For once, Sir Thabe was hot on his heels pleading for cooler heads, but Graham would hear none of it. He gave the courtesy of a knock at General Tamlin's door, pounding his gauntleted fist like thunder.
“Come in,” Charles Tamlin called from inside. He sounded miserable.
The knob half-turned twice, and then the entire door buckled and exploded into the office, showering its stunned occupants.
Graham's sword came out the moment his wild eyes fixed on Sir Richard Longstrom at the far end of the room. It was perhaps the only place in Camden where he might survive the morning. For just a moment Graham had the satisfaction of seeing fear in Richard's eyes.
“No, no, none of that,” Sir Thabe said, desperately seizing Graham from behind and trapping his sword arm down before the man could sprint across the room and hack Richard into so much bloody meat.
“Release me!”
Tamlin's mouth had been moving, but no sound was coming out. He looked in disbelief at the shattered door and then up at the best of his knights, quivering in rage with his blade arm flailing. “Sir Graham! I will have your immediate silence!”
The room became quiet, but only for an instant. A great cloud of dust had coughed up around the fallen slab of broken wood. It hung thick in the air, visible in shafts of morning light coming in from the open windows.
“General Tamlin, I have come for the life of the heretic and murderer, Sir Richard Longstrom.”
“You will do no such thing,” Tamlin said with calm certainty. Graham's eyes pleaded with him as though his old friend was twisting a dagger in his gut, placed there by Longstrom. “Control yourself, Anthony.”
“Two priests dead on the floor of St. Penathor's chapel, butchered by that man! Who, General, is the one out of control?” Anthony was shouting now, seething as he waited for a response. There was silence for a moment as Tamlin bought a few more seconds. He gave Richard a dirty look, then turned back to Anthony.
“Last night's events were...” he started, choosing his words carefully, “regrettable but-”
“Regrettable?” Anthony spat. “The cold-blooded murder of two respected members of the clergy, one of them over seventy years old. He was a harmless old man! This is well beyond regrettable. This is murder! Sacrilege!”
“Father Harig was harboring a werewolf that attacked a visiting dignitary,” Tamlin stated, raising his hands for quiet.
“They were not even armed, needlessly cut down by that heathen,” Anthony shouted, pointing his still-drawn sword at Richard
.
“You know,” Richard said, rubbing his chin. He turned his one good eye to meet Anthony's fiery gaze. “In a certain light, their blood is on your hands, Anthony, not mine.”
Thomas scarcely managed to hold Anthony back as the distraught paladin surged toward Sir Richard again. If he couldn't kill Richard, he could at least make him wish Anthony had.
“Thomas! Thomas you have to stand with me on this!” Anthony protested, wresting free.
Tamlin heaved a weary sigh. He raised his hands for silence again. “Richard, if you speak out of turn again, I'm going to order Thomas to let Anthony go, and I don't think he'd have much trouble finishing off what that accursed girl left of you. Anthony, steady yourself man. I will speak, and you will listen. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Graham said with stiff composure. Sir Thabe saw fit to release him. Graham sheathed his sword and smoothed his uniform, then curled his hand into a fist at his side.
“This could have gone differently Anthony,” Tamlin said. He reached for his desk and held up a silver cross, stained with blood. “Khaebus took this from the werewolf that attacked him, and your men said you went to the church that very night. Then I send Sir Richard to investigate and find that lo and behold, there's a murderous werewolf hiding in St. Penathor's. Perhaps you are blinded by your faith, but I must rely on men, not Ilsador and his Keepers, to protect Camden from its enemies.”
Anthony seethed. “Our enemies dine at our king's table!”
“Perhaps you are not familiar with the idea of a 'king,'” Tamlin lectured in a weary tone. Anthony Graham's protests about the king's choice in company had become commonplace enough that he could already envision how the rest of the conversation would normally play out. “Whomever the king deems to be an enemy is an enemy and a friend, a friend. Do you understand, Anthony?”